So, my journey has had a less than auspicious outset. All that careful planning of others for naught, because some pirates saw something they wanted. Once I finally felt safe in my makeshift raft, I understand why. I took but one chest with me from the sinking ship. There were far more than that. When I finally finish picking the elaborate lock, I could see the value. The ship wasn’t just transporting weaponry, but payroll. And more than a year’s worth, if my estimates prove correct. Assuming I survive this and make my way to civilization, relocating and reestablishing myself here may be done more easily than I once believed. Even if I am likely nowhere near where my friends’ friends are awaiting the package’s arrival.
Even rationing out my food, it takes me until I am near done with my final can to see land. A beautiful beach and cliff face. From the rough size, I figure this is an outer island of some kind. Hopefully there’s someone living on it who owns a map of some kind. I would like to know where I am. Not likely, but perfectly possible.
The mast doesn’t so much land as it does beach about seven toises from the shore. Just enough to be an irritating distance to wade through the water. Climbing out from the beached crow’s nest, I walk to shore, soaking my clothes entirely in the process. I’m exhausted, but I need to find somewhere safe and memorable to hide the money. Whoever sent the privateers will be searching for survivors, and having that much money on me would be trouble. Taking only a handful of gold out from the box, I head north around the bay to a discolored portion of the cliffs. Sliding the small chest into a break in the cliff, I mark it by taking the vines around it and weaving them together to cover the crack. Looking about, I estimate I’m roughly an arpent from where the mast initially beached, and about fourteen toises from the nearest point. Assuming the mast moves not, finding the chest once again should be easy. Finally, climb up the cliff to gaze across the island. It is truly beautiful. As the sun sets, I can see the faintest outline of a larger island to the west. It does not seem like people are here, though. Finding myself growing overwhelmingly tired, I head inland to what seems to be a comfortable stretch of grass. Lying down, I let myself succumb to exhaustion.
When I awaken from my slumber, before I even open my eyes, the hair on the back of my neck is standing at attention. It’s a sort of sixth sense, passed down from generation to generation, trained into us from a young age. There are unfriendlies surrounding me. Rolling over, continuing to feign sleep, I grip the nice, though likely dulled, French blade, using my body as cover. Keeping my eyes closed, I listen to them.
These are trained soldiers. They aren’t talking, but I can hear them breathing. Calm, even breaths. As though the act of surrounding sleeping men is a common occurrence for them. I smell gunpowder, so at least one of them has a firearm trained on me. They also do not want to startle me awake. Likely they suspect I have a gun or two of my own. But they aren’t killing me. They want something. Without knowing where I am, or what colors these people are wearing, I’m not sure which language to use. Given the state of colonies in this part of the world, I figure I’ll go with the safe bet. Slowly, I sit up and say in Spanish, “So, what do you want?”
I chose wrong. They start shouting at me. It takes a moment for my brain to process it fully. It sounds Germanic. They say something about moving, and I’m pretty sure they’re unhappy. Not Franconian, nor Bavarian, else I’d understand it much better. I finally get it when he calls me an ass. That’s a word I’m familiar with in almost any European language (and some others, too). Dutch. Why does it have to be Dutch? I’d almost rather it be Frisian. I clear my throat and, in Hessian, say, “I hope you understand me. I don’t want trouble, but I can’t speak or understand Dutch.”
Always undersell yourself and abilities, that’s a lesson my mother taught me. They start talking to one another. I can’t tell exactly what they’re saying, but they seem to be conversing about me, and whether I am who their boss is looking for. I also catch the name Jan, in relation to their boss. Odd, that they would be on a first name basis with a commander. Finally, one of them says back in Palatine, “Get up and Follow.”
They lead me away from where I slept, to the northeast. There, at the shore, a boat is docked. Not what I expect, though. It seems to be a merchant vessel. I head down to the shore at gunpoint. A man comes out to greet me. Younger than I expect, with ambition behind his eyes. This man is the group’s leader, the Jan they were referring to. And he’s got a future ahead of him. Call it a gut feeling.
He says something to me in Dutch about ships and guns. Then after a brief conversation with his men that seems to be roughly about how I am a fool who doesn’t speak or understand Dutch, he starts up again in a very formal and courtly German. “Apologies. I did not realize you did not understand the language.”
“I did not tell you,” I reply with a thin smile.
He smiles thinly right back. “It was the strangest thing,” he begins, “We come this way looking for some friends of ours, and instead we find you.”
I shrug. “Oops. Looks like you got lost.”
He shakes his head at me, still smiling. I get the distinct feeling this smile is not meant to comfort me. “I do not believe so. See, that mast in the harbor flies the flag of the ship we’re looking for.”
I smile. “If I recall correctly, they may not be your enemies right now, but the French are hardly your friends.”
Jan laughs. “I never said they were,” he replies coyly.
“That you didn’t,” I reply. I shake my head, “I believe I met your friends. They weren’t too nice.”
The smile on Jan’s face fades. “They weren’t meant to be.”
“They also were either uninformed or less than intelligent.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they destroyed that ship you were looking for.” I smile, looking around at the men. Well provided for and well fed. This man wanted the guns for some reason. Not the payroll, necessarily. “I would bet that you told them about the prize they would want, and not what you were looking for.” I shrug and add, “Though that’s only my uninformed opinion.”
He looks around at his men and gestures for me to follow. He also shifts his language to French. “So you aren’t from the pirates, what were you doing on the French ship?”
“They were pirates, not privateers. Interesting,” I say back in French, not answering his question. “Your people do not know what you’re doing?” His men, who are following at a distance, clearly don’t fully grasp what we’re saying. So he doesn’t want his people to know, either.
“It is best that they don’t. Now answer my question.”
I sigh. “Hiding, for the most part.”
“Why would someone stow away on a military vessel?”
I shrug and grin. “Why would someone have pirates rob one?”
“So the ship was destroyed?” he asked.
I nod. “One of the pirate’s volleys must have lit the powder, and they both went up in flames.”
Jan shakes his head. “That’s too bad.”
“What would you want with the ship?” I ask, hoping being upfront would be the right way to approach this man.
“I have plans for next steps. But the Republic and the Company, their focus is elsewhere right now. So, to do what I have planned, I’ll need resources.”
“And so, you wish to borrow others’ resources. Clever. But you keep yourself separated to keep the war elsewhere.”
“That is the idea. There was an added bonus to it, but that is not important,” Jan claims. “So, what do you want?”
“Freedom. And quiet.”
“And what if those two come to be mutually exclusive?” the man in charge asks.
He’s right, often in these more chaotic parts, chaos is the source of freedom. But chaos is also, often, loud and attention drawing. That said, there are plenty of ways to embrace the chaos without drawing the attention to yourself, necessarily. “Let’s just say, my family’s definition of quiet is somewhat different than most.”
“Your family?” he muses, “And who might that be? Anyone I know of?”
“No,” I reply.
“In that case, I’m Jan Claessen, of the Dutch West India Company. And you are?”
I pause, thinking about how much I should tell this man. He’s clearly well educated, but my family is good at staying on the fringes of knowledge, changing our name every so often. “Emile de Bigorre. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Well, Emile. What would you do, were you in my position?” he asks.
I shrug. “That depends on your end goal,” I answer honestly.
“How so?” he muses.
He’s clearly judging me, my mind and thought process. I take a moment to clear it out and piece together the answer before I start to speak. “Taking the weapons means one of three goals. Founding something that will be contested, taking something that is guarded, or protecting something that is threatened,” I begin my reply. “The third option isn’t likely, because that would be urgent and your demeanor is not one of urgency, which leaves the other two. If you seek the latter, I would tell you that it is a fool’s errand. Open force against entrenched force will always be bloody and rarely be successful. There are other methods of ending resistance. As far as the former, I would suggest waiting for another opportunity. Perhaps even sowing the seeds of distrust so that that opportunity might come sooner.”
“An interesting mode of thought. How might I make the opportunity come sooner, though?”
“The English, French, and Spanish all have spies in one another’s governments, as well as your own, right? This is not doubted. If the Spanish are the ones to find the French ship of weapons so close to their colonies, they will likely make assumptions. And the French, in turn, will make assumptions about who sank the ship. And assumptions breed fear. And fear leads to a feeling of insecurity, which countries tend to prefer rectifying to letting stand.”
“I may just well do that. Where did you learn all this?” he asks me. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Wait, let me guess, it’s a family secret.”
“Something like that,” I reply with a smile.
“We have much to prepare for. For now, you are coming with us down to my humble estate near our trading post on the Surrenant. Unless you wish to stay on this empty island.”
I smile at him. “Civilization would be good, though I wonder, would I be a prisoner or a guest?”
He shrugs. “What truly is the difference?” he asks.
Smart and with vision. This man might prove quite useful. “I will travel with you. I may, in time, have a proposition for you as well.”
“What sort of proposition,” he asks as we turn to head back to his ship.
I shake my head. “The kind I won’t talk about until I am ready,” I answer.
He sighs and switches back to court German. “Well, if you will be traveling with us, you’ll be doing tasks on the ship. And I suggest you brush up on your Dutch. The trip will be incredibly boring if you do not.”
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