But Maarten Tromp knew that trying to shelter him was futile. Here, in the New World, the saying had it that there is no peace beyond the Line—the “Line” being the longitudinal divider known as the Tordesillas Line, west of which all territory was claimed by Spain. So there was no safe place for Willem van der Zaan in the Caribbean, and he might as well start learning the bloody trade into which he’d been born so that he had the best chance of surviving long and uncrippled. And at least he wouldn’t be forced to do so under the command of a captain too rash, too timid, too uncertain to maximize the lad’s chances of coming through that most difficult of all trials: the first battle. There, everything was new, and terrifying, and the novices died in windrows for one reason above all others: the shock that paralyzed them for one, fateful second. For in that second, as they stood gaping and horrified, they were easy targets for the grizzled veterans who knew that killing a neophyte now meant one less seasoned opponent to face later on.
Tromp looked around the room, where his own collection of grizzled veterans were already comparing notes on sailing conditions farther down the Caribbees and tactical contingencies for handling the different numbers and kinds of enemies they might face. They were, Tromp conceded, probably the very best grizzled veterans in the world.
But, even so, were they enough?
Overlooking Pitch Lake, Trinidad
For the second time that day, Hugh came to the crest of the northern lip of the bowl-like depression that cradled their objective. And again, as he looked down upon it, he wondered: I left kith and kin for this?
Pitch Lake was wrinkled, its uneven folds sagging over upon folds in some places. It was as if an immense black peat bog had grown the hide of an elephant. The foliage around the bitumen expanse was low scrub, although on the modest northern overlook, it was mostly grass with a few trees bent sideways by the prevailing winds. The northern coast at their backs chased around to the west and then down south, the shore keeping a constant distance of about one-and-a-half miles from the tarry bowl. In the west, a forest rose up at about the halfway mark, whereas to the direct south and east, low grass and occasional trees crowded the lake more closely, rising into tall bushes and then true jungle canopy after only one hundred yards or so.
Hugh took in the total tactical picture. Good: this vantage point offered clear sightlines in all directions. And since this overlook backed on the north shore—the deepest water and closest coastal approach to Pitch Lake—it confirmed Hugh’s first instincts. “We build the stockade here,” he announced with a nod.
Morraine came to stand next to him. “Very good,” he said. “But then, you hardly need my approval.”
Next to him, St. Georges had his mouth open to object—
Morraine held up a hand. “I am in command on the sea; Lord O’Donnell commands on the land. These matters are his affairs. At most, we can offer our opinion and advice.”
“Both of which I welcome, Captain.”
“For now, I have none.” Morraine stepped back with a slight inclination of his head. “I will leave you to your command, Colonel.”
“Very well.” And as he turned to address the challenges of this venture, Hugh had an image of himself waving one last farewell to Anna’s grave-swallowed coffin. There would be little time for dwelling upon the past, now. He turned to the business at hand.
“O’Rourke, establish four watch posts. One near the north coast, overlooking the anchorage. One at treetop to watch the west coast, one to watch the edge of the eastern forest, one at the south compass point of the lake. All in brush, all under cover, all in direct line of sight to this spot.”
“Signaling mirrors?”
“Yes, and double muskets for all. Three day-watches. But we’ll pull the outposts in at night.”
“No night watch in the outposts?”
“O’Rourke, are you familiar with these jungles?”
“No, m’lord.”
“Well, neither are the rest of us. But our enemies are quite familiar with the lay of this land, and so any men we leave out during the night will never see their killers coming. And we won’t know our lads are gone until they fail to signal at the appointed time, or we’re under attack by those who killed them. Now, let’s get those outposts set up.”
O’Rourke agreed with a frowning nod and swung away, roaring names as he went. “Brown, Garvey, Finan, O’Halloran, Hanley—”
Hugh turned to Michael, who was studying the area intently. “Michael, would you mind supervising my engineer, Doyle, as we lay out the camp?”