1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Thomas North tapped the Hibernian beside him, who left his position at the ruined windmill and fell back toward the black-hulled llaut that had raised its black sail. Back there, North also heard the sound he had been waiting for: the cough and steady growl of the extra motor that they had brought as an emergency back-up for the dirigible, now reverted to its original function: a small outboard motor.

A little more than half a mile to the northwest, the initially angry flames marking the Castell de Bellver had died down to occasional gutterings. From north and south, Spanish units were converging on the roads that led to the lanes that devolved into the cart tracks that wound up the slopes upon which the burning fortress was perched. What they would find when they got there was hard to estimate. On the one hand, there hadn’t been that many flammables on hand, even counting the containers of fuel jettisoned by the dirigible. But, on the other hand, the castle was sealed and the Spanish had no way to get in to fight the conflagration. Given time, the wooden floors and beams and fixtures would catch fire, too-if they hadn’t already.

“Colonel North, we’re ready.” It was Grogan’s voice.

“Very well, Grogan. Back aboard, now.” North followed the Irishman closely, and together they waded out to the llaut. They were hip-deep when they pushed it off the sandbar that its keel was barely kissing. As Ohde opened the throttle of the outboard slightly, North and Grogan hauled themselves over the side, receiving a hand from the waiting crowd hunkered low in the boat.

“No oars?” wondered Jeffrey, shivering.

“No, lad,” muttered O’Neill, his leg out straight and stiff. “It takes a trained rower not to splash like a jumping fish-and if there’s any light to be caught, you can be sure the Spanish would see it shining off the blades of the oars. And I think you’ll agree that, just now, silence is all important.”

Jeffrey bit his lip and nodded, looking over the bows.

The rest of them followed his eyes to the squat, blunt outlines of Fort San Carlos. Still under construction, this was a fortification in the modern style: low, sloped, thick walls, modern gun mounts-a far more ugly, and far more dangerous, structure than Castell de Bellver.

They stared at it as they approached, passing within four hundred yards. Everything was in their favor at this point: the almost lightless night, the black of the hull and the sail, the sound of the waves drowning out the persistent low growl of the engine-a sound which, whatever else the local down-time ears might make of it, would not signify “escaping boat.” But they knew right enough that Dame Luck was a bitch goddess who refused to play favorites-because she didn’t have any. So until they had passed out from beneath the cannons of the fort…

A musket fired into the night. They saw the flash, but could not tell, so far away, if it had been aimed at them, or just more generally out into the bay. After a few seconds, there were two other shots, one of which plippshh ’ed into the swells twenty yards astern. But after that nothing.

Had it been a nervous new recruit firing at shadows? Had someone seen them, but not in time to bring any of the fort’s impressive cannons to bear? Had it been a trial shot-meant to excite the response of suspected amphibious infiltrators who might fear themselves discovered? Or was there some other explanation?

They could not tell, and they would never know.

Which was, of course, the very fiber of uncertainty that comprised the bulk of all war, and was even more characteristic of it than the death and destruction for which it was rightly infamous.

Using the lee of mountains to cover their long, altitude-sustaining burns, Virgilio brought the balloon under the clouds once they were safe in the uninhabited uplands north of the valley lake known as the Torrent de son Boronat, where they dumped half a dozen empty fuel containers overboard. Then they wound a bit farther to the north, staying high, often in the clouds, and estimating their progress and position by maintaining close running estimates of airspeed, heading, and wind.

After thirty minutes at twenty-two miles per hour, Miro ordered the burner be left alone and began to watch for the ground as the airship slowly lost lift. After five minutes, they came down through the lowest tier of clouds and discovered they were slightly lower than they thought, and only three miles away from the west coast of Mallorca. Which meant they were only six miles away from their ultimate destination: the oddly sloped island called Dragonera.

As they continued to lose altitude, it became evident to the occupants of the gondola why this island was called the Dragon. Although they were approaching its relatively smooth, southern side, its northern extents soared up dramatically. Creating a combined cliff top and crest that did invoke scenes of a sinuous dragon arising from the depths.

Virgilio conferred closely with Miro, now, whose experienced local eye guided them toward the level ground a few hundred yards north of the accessible part of Dragonera’s coast, the inlet known as Es Llado. If the nearby watchtower had seen the airship, there was no sign of it; not even Harry’s keen eyes could determine if the tower was occupied at all.

The landing was rough, the gondola scraping along the ground before enough of the heated air could be vented and the envelope began settling. Under Miro’s and Virgilio’s supervision, and with Harry’s and Connal’s trained assistance, those passengers that could began the process of breaking down the airship. The nosecone and partial back spine were separated and removed from the envelope, which was then hastily folded. The engines were dismounted, the rest of the gear packed and distributed to individuals. Miro was constantly checking his watch; the Atropos ’s away boats were due within ninety minutes, and they had to have the entirety of the airship broken down and ready to move.

In order to ensure that they had not, and would not, be spotted, Miro dispatched two of the group to keep an eye on the dark-windowed watchtower and the half dozen cottages of seasonal fishermen who worked the local waters. He chose Harry Lefferts for his extraordinary senses-including the sixth sense that always seemed to warn him of danger a moment before it became manifest-and, with some reservation, Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas, whose knowledge of Spanish military protocol was just as great as his ability to possibly deflect or at least confuse inquiries, if they were discovered by locals.

Sitting in the scrub only seventy yards from the cottages and fifty yards inland from the rocky southern shore, Harry was wondering how to start a conversation with a recent mortal enemy when Castro y Papas solved the problem for him-but in a most unconventional and unexpected fashion.

“I owe you an apology, Harry Lefferts.”

“You do? I don’t even know you.”

“No, not exactly. But you have seen me-or my handiwork-before.” When Harry remained silent, the hidalgo explained. “I refer to Rome. The courtyard of the Palazzo Giacomo di Mattei. I was in command there. I had the up-time shotgun. It was I who killed the man commanding those who attacked that part of the palace complex.” His head drooped slightly. “It was hardly an honorable way to kill an opponent. That is the nature of war, I suppose-but I have long felt that our ambush upon you there was-well, particularly cowardly.”

Harry felt the sea air rushing in his open mouth; he shut it. “It was you? You were the guy in the window of Frank and Gia’s room?”

“I was.”

“And so you knew that I was-”

“That you were in the belvedere atop the building near the Ghetto? Yes: who else but you would have been there?” He looked Harry in the eyes; there was much regret, but also much resolve in his stare. “I understand if you wish to satisfy the honor of your friend, the man I shot so many times in the courtyard, for his death was not befitting his station. I gather he was a man of some import.”

Harry nodded slowly. “You might say that.”

“Of course, we must wait until we are in a safe place before I may give you satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction?”

“I refer to a duel, Senor Lefferts.”

Harry considered. “A duel, huh?”

“ Si — yes; that is how affairs of honor are usually settled.”

“Well, I have a different way. But as I understand it, if I challenge you, then you get to choose the weapons, right?”

“That is true, but I am willing to waive that, in this case. I feel that my misdeed is such that-”

“Lissen, I don’t need to hear any more. Here’s the challenge: whichever one of us can drink more toasts to Johnnie-eh, my friend-he has to buy all liquor we’ve swilled. Deal?”

Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas was silent for a long time, frowning deeply. “You are challenging me to a…a duel of drinking to the death?”

“No, no. Jeez, you hidalgos are a real serious bunch, aren’tcha? Look: you seem like an okay guy. And there’s been enough killing as it is-too much. So let’s toast my friend with wine and spirits until one of us can’t lift a glass anymore.”

Castro y Papas looked long and hard at Lefferts. “You are mocking me.”

“Damnit, Don Vincente, I’m not in the mood or place to do any mocking. Look: if I had been doing my job properly, I’d never have walked into your trap. But I was too sure of myself and my friend paid for that with his life.” Harry looked away for a moment. “A lot of people paid for that with their lives. But it taught me a lesson-one I might not have learned any other way. So, yeah, you pulled the trigger-but I set up the target. You were just a soldier with a gun who had set a good trap.”

Castro y Papas looked either like he was going to spit or crydamn, these Spaniards can get so intense! — but then said, “Very well: I accept your terms, Senor Lefferts-and will happily toast your friend, whose name was-?”

“Eh…we’ll talk about that later. That’s a name to be shared in a safer place, okay?”

“Yes, this is acceptable. I must tell you, though, that the plan you speak of-the one which foiled you in Rome-was not of my design. I would not lay such a dishonorable trap, using a pregnant woman as bait.”

“So, who did plot that ambush then?”

Castro y Papas smiled. “Yet another name for a safer place, Senor Lefferts.”

“Harry.”

“My apologies. Senor Harry.”

Oh, fer chrissakes… “Yeah, fine; I can live with ‘Senor Harry.’” They nodded at each other, and Harry had the feeling that something had changed, separately, in both him and in Castro y Papas. He had no guess what that something might have been for the Spaniard, and truth be told, didn’t have a much better guess of what change had begun in himself, but it felt vaguely like a resolution of some kind, of a mistake owned, a debt paid, a new door opened. Harry shrugged and put the incipient revelation on the same shelf where he had left almost all the others he had experienced since he had been about seven-but this time, he resolved to take it down and study it as soon as he got to a safe place. Which kindled a small, unusual flame of quiet pride somewhere in his chest. He smiled, liking the sensation, and looked out to sea.

— Where he saw, at the same instant Castro y Papas did, two specks on the far southern horizon: the away-boats from the Atropos.

Harry dug an elbow into the hidalgo’s ribs gently. “Hey, lookit who’s early for a change. C’mon, Don Vincente; let’s tell the others our ride is here.”

Thomas North watched as the other ships of the flotilla headed away and were swallowed by the dark. And he smiled. Try to catch us now, you Spanish bastards.

When the black llaut carrying his troops had cleared Palma Bay and reached the rendezvous point, she had blinked a signal lamp into the darkness. A quick flash responded, marking the precise position of the Guerra Cagna, which then relayed another signal to the west: far off, a light had winked back. That was the Atropos, confirming she had received the signal that announced both the safe return of North’s team at the rendezvous point and that the dispersal of the smaller ships would commence as soon as his men were on the Guerra Cagna.

That transfer was a quick affair. Although there were no Spanish in sight, and they were moving at night, the little flotilla was still in sight of the shore and lighthouses (which was what had made a nighttime sea rendezvous possible in the first place). Consequently, they were not too far away from where the Spanish would begin their pursuit. The flotilla’s object was now to split up and give their pursuers the same problem that the enemy had given Lefferts and North in Rome with multiple carriages: the need to chase a number of tantalizing leads simultaneously, thereby diffusing their search resources.

North’s smile widened. Your turn to play “find the pea,” you bastards. He looked back at his men, crowded on the deck of the Guerra Cagna. Some of them would later be tasked to tend to the oars if the pursuit got close, although they had also taken on the up-time motor from the black llaut. That local ship, along with the Bogeria, was heading due east and would not be part of the shell-game the rest were preparing for the Spanish. Instead, both ships would be swapped at a modest loss for equivalent hulls-probably on the northernmost Balearic island of Minorca-thereby removing these local boats from the area in which inquiries might be made, and hulls identified.

The other four ships now turned to follow their preassigned compass headings. The Guerra Cagna was to head southeast. Although a swift ship, she was carrying the heaviest load and was the largest, and so needed to veer in a direction that also gave her a head start to her actual destination.

Aurelio’s Minnow — currently under the command of one of his seemingly innumerable relatives-would head due south, aiming her pert, responsive prow at Algeria. And the Zora would head southwest, directly opposite the course her master most wanted to go, but the crew of the little gajeta was eager for the bonus connected with the job, and this was their final obligation. Although the Zora ’s crew would not be paid until they returned to Venice, they would leave the Rialto with enough money to support their families for half a year-more, if they were frugal.

North felt the Guerra Cagna come around to take the freshening southwest wind over her beam. That maneuver-positioning a ship sideways in relation to the wind-was still a novel experience for him. Having grown up around square-rigged vessels, for the most part, he remained surprised-and rather enchanted-by the almost mystical versatility of the lateen rig. Although inferior at getting speed from a following wind, they excelled at using a wind from over their waists. But they made reasonable headway with breezes coming from almost any quarter, able to sail so close to the wind that they could still make progress by tacking back and forth across a head wind.

This aspect of the lateen sail aided all the ships, now. For the Guerra Cagna it meant a maximally effective wind was already running into her two sails. North could already feel her speed picking up, and suspected that her master was going to need to slow her down so as not to overshoot their new loiter point, some ten miles southeast.

For the Minnow, her close-hauled heading meant less speed, but being light, she needed less wind; she’d still make the ten miles to her own new loiter point comfortably. And even thought the Dawn was sailing straight into the wind, the skilled crew of that hull was doubtlessly tacking to-and-fro to make decent progress. If she didn’t make enough headway, no matter. She could take a more westerly heading for a while, and in bringing her prow out of the wind, she would make better speed to her own new loiter point.

North looked east; no glimmers on the horizon, yet. Good, he thought, we’ll make it to the new loiter points just in time to give the Spanish something new to chase. Why hunt down enemy ships alone, when you can hunt both a ship and an enemy balloon together? Yes, each Spanish pursuit boat-too separated from its mates to signal effectively-would certainly press on alone if they believed themselves poised to also capture the mysterious airship that had attacked the Castell de Bellver. And that is exactly what Lefferts’ and Miro’s escape plan would lead them to believe.

North’s smile became unpleasant. “Happy hunting, you bastards,” he muttered toward the distant lights of Palma.

From the stern of the Atropos, and with the Llebeig running in from the southwest, Miro watched the mizzen’s lateen fill nicely. The Atropos herself had left Dragonera behind shortly before dawn, heading due north, almost out of the sight of the coast, and taking good, but not best, advantage of the Llebeig. With the yard mounted on the same side as the wind from that angle, the lateen was unable to work to optimum effect on that leg of their journey.

But that brief sacrifice was worth it, for ultimately, Aurelio brought the Atropos over hard-a-starboard and into a due east heading. From this angle, the Llebeig came full into the lateen, the yard being on what was now the leeward side of the mast. The xebec seemed like a suddenly spurred horse, leaping through the swells with speed that, according to the up-timers, they associated with powered boats or racing yachts.

That speed had been central to the overall escape plan: if the Spanish had not found the Atropos by the time it left Dragonera, it was very unlikely they ever would. Heading away from shore also meant heading directly away from potential pursuit. And now, with the wind at the most optimal position for the xebec’s rig, there was quite probably not a single ship in the Balearics that could overtake them. This was one of the two reasons Miro had been willing to take the risks necessary to seize the xebec in the first place: it not only had a large enough stern to support balloon operations, but it was also the fastest get-away ship in the Mediterranean.

Miro leaned into the wind. Hours ago, the flotilla’s four swiftest boats-each readying one of the large kongming lanterns that Meir had purchased for him-had, at the same time, gone to their new loiter points well south of Palma. There, with the first hint of graying in the east, they lit the lamps and sent them aloft, each tethered to its ship by a silken string.

Each lantern had been a flickering airborne lure, visible to one or maybe two of the Spanish chase ships. Being unable to communicate with the others as their search pattern carried them farther apart, the Spanish had been almost sure to follow whichever enemy ship-and-balloon combination they first espied. With the enemy barely visible upon the horizon, each Spanish captain would reasonably believe that he-and only he-was chasing the right ship: the one towing the balloon that had been seen during the attack on Castell de Bellver.

And right about now, if Miro guessed the position of the sun correctly, those captains would be discovering the final trick that had been played upon them: that the separate balloons they had each been chasing had been released from their tow ships at least half an hour earlier. And, more distressingly, that the balloons had actually been nothing more than aerial lanterns, common in the Far East but quite unfamiliar in the Mediterranean-and, as they had now learned, very misleading as to their size and range, particularly when seen at a great distance and against a uniform backdrop such as the sea. Miro smiled; there was a satisfying irony in having misled those captains by giving them exactly what they had expected to see-since that was just what the Spanish had done to the rescuers in Rome.

Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, Miro noticed that they had come back in sight of the shore; the dark gray coastline swept up higher to the north. The Atropos ’ course would parallel those peaks-the barren Tramuntana mountains that marched across the top of his home island like a wall-all the way until they reached the dramatic northeast promontory known as the Cap de Formentor. From there, the Atropos would maneuver to rendezvous with the Guerra Cagna and the Minnow, and let off a quick series of radio squelches that would signify “all well, hostages rescued, team returning.” But even then, Miro would not presume they were safe-not until they reached the Ligurian coast, just north of the Golfo de Spezio, from whence they would relaunch the dirigible toward Brescia, one hundred and five miles inland and safe behind the Venetian border.

However, Miro conceded, leaning back against the taffrail and enjoying a sudden dappling of sunlight through the light overcast, it was reasonable to indulge in at least a small amount of satisfaction, even before they arrived in Italy. After all, the rescue plan that Harry and he cobbled together had worked. Miro smiled. In fact, it had worked quite acceptably.

Quite acceptably, indeed.