Van Walbeeck turned mild eyes upon the gathered contingent of councilors. “Any other observations on the matter?”
The quiet, careful Servatius Carpentiere, shrugged. “There will be much unrest among the colonists, particularly since the Politieke Raad approved your recommendation to prohibit raising tobacco.” His voice was apologetic. One of Tromp’s most stalwart supporters, Carpentiere was raising an issue that clearly had been pressed upon him by the colonists, but would certainly play into the hands of the admiral’s detractors.
Musen lost no time wielding it as a rhetorical weapon. “You see, Admiral? Your own hand-picked advisers from Recife foresee problems with your decisions. First you prohibit the further acquisition of slaves. Then you urge the growing of cane sugar, which involves immense amounts of labor, in place of tobacco, which is much easier to grow and harvest. And which was why most of us came to Oranjestad in the first place.”
Tromp nodded. “Yes. That is true. And when you came, tell me: what did you plan to do with the tobacco?”
Haet, not seeing the trap, blurted out, “Why, sell it, of course!”
“Where?”
“Back in—” and he stopped.
Tromp just nodded again. “Exactly. ‘Back in the Provinces.’ Or ‘Europe.’ It hardly matters where, specifically. The problem is that those markets are an ocean away from us here, and our own ports are unreachable, due to the Spanish. What few ships remain sheltered in smaller harbor towns are merely jachts which have no reason to brave the swells of the Atlantic. And even if they knew we still existed here, ready to trade, what of it? Yes, jachts are fast, nimble ships. But useless for freighting smoke or anything else in bulk. So tell me, mijn heer Haet, given the changes since you arrived here, where, now, would you sell your tobacco?”
Musen smoothly changed the footing of his side’s argument to a less disastrous posture. “Even if that were to be true, Admiral—cane sugar? The most labor-intensive crop in the New World?”
“And the only one for which we have any local use,” replied van Walbeeck. “What else would you grow for high profit? Cotton? The labor is almost as bad as cane but, again, there’s the same problem: where would you sell that cotton? The fact that drives all our choices is this, mijn heer Musen: we no longer have access to markets. Our ships cannot come here safely, and we cannot spare any to undertake the equally perilous voyage from here to Europe. And what’s more, any regular commerce between us and our homeports would only tell the Spanish—or others—where to find us, where to hunt us down and exterminate us.
“So we grow sugar. We may eat it ourselves, and we may make rum—which has local value even to the natives, in these parts. And which we may further refine into disinfectants and a flammable fluid. And if we cannot grow so much because we have no slaves? Well, first, we have no shortage of able-bodies without tasks to occupy them. And so we will learn that you do not need slaves to grow cane, and thereby set the pattern for creating a durable local economy which is not based upon slavery.”
Haet looked as though he might spit. “I did not come here to work like a dog in the fields. I came here to get rich.”
Tromp nodded. “Yes. But apparently fate had other plans.”
Jehan de Bruyne rubbed his chin. “Or perhaps it is Maarten Tromp that has had other plans.”
Tromp kept his head and voice very still. “I assure you, mijn heer, that being defeated by treachery at Dunkirk, and seeing the Dutch fleet reduced to three dozen hulls, was not any plan of mine. And it is that outcome—that and no other—which forces these changes upon us. You wished to be rich? Fair enough. I wanted to return home, to my wife and children. As do many of us who fled to Recife.” He stood. “What men want is of little matter to the will of God and the hand of fate. I suggest we focus on a new want that we should all share: the desire to stay alive long enough for our own countrymen to find and succor us. Because that outcome is by no means certain.” By no means, indeed. “Now, mijn heeren, if we are quite done, I have arrangements to make for the fleet. About which you shall be informed shortly. Good day.”
The envoys from both the Politieke Raad and the original colonists’ Council nodded their way toward the door they had entered through. Van Walbeeck rose to go as well, but Tromp motioned him to stay in his seat with a down-waved palm.
When the rest had left, Jan cocked his head like a quizzical spaniel.
Tromp sighed. “Stay and hear what I tell the captains. Someone will need to report it to the Raad and Council. And the rest of the colonists, too.”