Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(93)
Tromp looked slowly sideways at Floriszoon. “No, he will be helping you.”
For a moment, the young captain’s face was blank as he worked through the unexpected inversion of syntax. Then his eyes went wide as the implication hit. “But Admiral, Jochim Gijszoon is an old hand with coordinating the actions of jachts. The oldest, in fact.”
“Which is precisely why I don’t want him leading our scouting efforts. He is too valuable to put at the tip of the spear when we are maneuvering to secure the wind gauge.” The gathered men nodded solemnly at this bit of wisdom that was only one half the real explanation, which they all implicitly understood from Tromp’s indirect announcement of Floriszoon’s promotion over Gijszoon.
Yes, Gijszoon was the oldest hand at leading the jachts, but was arguably slightly too old a hand. Years made some men more bold because they became more certain of themselves and their methods. Not so Jochim Gijszoon. Ever since the news of Dunkirk had arrived, he had acted like a man haunted. He had lost many—indeed, almost all—of his old friends that day, and although his seamanship and leadership skills were undiminished, he had become increasingly cautious, to the point where he was unwilling to take necessary, or at least, advisable and advantageous risks. And if that was an unfortunate trait in the captain of a slower, larger ship, it was a disastrous trait in the captain of the smaller, faster jachts, whose job it was to scout ahead, lure targets to the main body, and out-race adversaries to secure the wind gauge for the rest of their fleet when battle was finally to be joined. The light cavalry of the seas, leading the jachts was not a job for the faint of heart or the skittish, and unfortunately, Jochim Gijszoon had become both.
With characteristically unflappable focus on the practicalities of an upcoming mission, van Holst looked up from the map. “So. We do not know what we must do at Trinidad. But surely Schooneman shared some hint of the means whereby we may learn of the objectives that our ships are to pursue there?”
Tromp looked van Holst in the eye. “No. I do not have such information.” He didn’t give his captains time to formulate the questions he himself would already be asking—stridently—in their place. “I know how this sounds. I had the same reaction. But remember and consider the significance of this detail: the French are not making best speed to Trinidad, but are trailing another ship. Which sounds very much like Richelieu’s modus operandi. Something is afoot which he wishes his men to observe, perhaps wishes them to take advantage of, but which he does not wish them to initiate themselves.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning,” Simonszoon put in, “that while Richelieu may be interested in Trinidad, Richelieu is not the primary actor. He is positioning himself to observe and react, not attack.”
Van Holst threw out wide hands in exasperation. “But then whose flag is taking action on Trinidad? The Spanish already own it. The French are observing, not acting. The English aren’t in the game anymore. Our forces are too crippled to make such a move. So who’s left? Who is moving on Trinidad?”
“Who wants oil the most?” mused van Walbeeck.
The gathered captains exchanged glances as van Holst asserted. “The up-timers, the USE. As I conjectured.”
“And you might well be correct. Let us not forget that this news comes to us via Jakob Schooneman, who has coordinated with the up-timers in the past. But all this is still just guesswork.”
Gerritsz shook his head. “All this obfuscation worries me.”
Tromp nodded. “Me too, Hans. However, we may be sure of this: whoever is taking action on Trinidad either prefers, or needs, our presence there. And unless Schooneman is lying, Prince Hendrik prefers, or needs, us to be there also. So we go.” He leaned away from the chart-table. “Not so different from the missions of our forefathers, after all. Sail into the unknown, lay hold of the opportunities that chance puts before us. Except this time, it seems to be a matter of certainty, rather than chance, that such an opportunity exists on Trinidad.”
“Yes,” agreed van Holst, “but these ‘opportunities’ are not going to be wrested from feckless, ill-armed natives. We are set to beard the Spanish lion in its den. And that lion is likely to resist effectively and tenaciously.”
“That, too, is true,” Tromp agreed, and restrained a quick, unbidden impulse to glance at Little Willi. Protective instincts died hard, and right now, they were shouting loudly in Tromp’s ear: leave him behind, here in Oranjestad! Don’t take him into battle! Don’t bring another innocent with you, only to be gobbled up by death’s greedy maw while you escape those fangs yet again!