It really depend on the place, time and context, assassinations happened but they were not popular, cold murder was a casus belli for external powers (the Danish king annexed the German sovereign county of (a vassal of the emperor not the Danish king) because the count was under suspicion of having murdered his older brother), a nobleman or royal falling in battle not murder, the same being massacred afterward casus belli.
The Dukes of Fernau, for now.
It really depend on the place, time and context, assassinations happened but they were not popular, cold murder was a casus belli for external powers (the Danish king annexed the German sovereign county of (a vassal of the emperor not the Danish king) because the count was under suspicion of having murdered his older brother), a nobleman or royal falling in battle not murder, the same being massacred afterward casus belli.
Exactly why I'm in search of the spectrum. Outright assassination > consequences at the state level. A noble in an actual battle > completely fair game. A battle becomes a sacking of a poorly-defended town, killing the ruler (at whatever scale) > grey area?
The problem is that it depend on whether they think he was killed in battle or killed in the mob up. Of course it also depend on the country doing it, the Russians can get away with far more because they’re seen as semi-barbarians. But the question is also why you would do it, most political assassination in Europe usually served to get rid of threat, a captured nobleman or royal is not a threat but a potential asset.
Of course a royal murdering one if his own nobles is not something foreigners will care about, but the other nobles will very much care about it,
OTL, the entire Kettler gene pool was imprisoned by Sweden for two years. I'll have to dig into a source for whether any Courland nobles might have been low-key happy at that. The particular family that Jakob's father killed a member of, resulting in his exile and removal from ducal office, might be interesting to look at (historically, not fictionally).
TTL, the more extreme Catholics in Poland or elsewhere might regard Jakob as a heretic for his embrace of non-Catholic heathens.
Sweden might see Jakob's embrace of Jews in particular in a negative light, but that might be less "principled" than the Polish stance above, even if it conveniently aligns with their political interests.
Russia TTL doesn't seem to have as plausible a reason to get such blood on their hands, even if, as you say, it might be seen as less exceptional for them. Not enough Old Believers are in Courland for a heresy-based justification yet.
And Prussia, they're presently family. Despite recent diplomatic incentives.
Fun times. Perhaps I can have a little game of Whodunit with an alternate-alternate history here.
49. Libau and the Baltic, October-November 1655.
The Fleet, the Flight - part four
Then followed days of impatient tension. Libau waited for an attack that kept not coming.
The fast but woefully incomplete news by semaphore was reinforced by slower but more thorough news brought by rider: a Swedish army had invaded from Riga, and had effortlessly taken all land on the right bank of the Aa (or Lielupe) river, up to where its tributary the Eckau (Iecava) met it a mere two miles north of Mitau. Upstream of there, Sweden seemed to hold the entire right bank of the Eckau at least as far upstream as the town of Gross Eckau, which was by now already a Swedish resupply station. It was a sensible spot, lying with 14 miles of both Mitau (to the West) and Bauske (to the South). It didn't take particularly good military intelligence or scouting to know those would be the towns likely to put up the biggest fights.
Then news came that Mitau was under siege. Then news stopped coming.
And Libau waited for the news that wasn't coming.
- - -
And in some ways, life continued almost as normal. Craftsmen crafted, teachers taught, shipwrights wrought ships. Goods were bought and sold, though only goods in hand. Those who had other countries to live in left by ship, some to Königsberg in Prussia, more to Kolberg in Brandenburg. Some who were simply afraid walked the old Amber Road down the coast toward Memel.
Courland kept most of its ships on the Baltic home, or patrolling near to it. They were ready to defend, but no Swedish fleet came to defend against, at least not to Libau and Windau. Courland's northernmost point was Cape Kolka, reaching north between the Gulf of Riga and the rest of the Baltic to point toward the Estonian mainland beyond the northeastern horizon. There was little of significance on the coast, economically or militarily, save the ability to see passing ships. Sweden took the mostly Livonian coastal villages east of the cape in one day, then the villages west of it the next, cutting off Courland's ability to see what ships passed between Sweden and Riga.
- - -
Conversations from Windau to Libau to Polangen invariably included lines like these:
"Will the Duke fight the Swedish fleet?"
"Do you think it could be too hot in Tobago?"
"I heard Sweden made a new version of the Vasa warship and we won't fight until our nautical minds figure out the weakness that will sink it like the first Vasa."
"Our Duke's just being kind to the foreigners down in Libau, to give them rides home before he destroys Sweden. We'll be fine."
"I have family in _______, and no one has heard from ______ in a week."
"Surely our ships are better than their ships?"
"Can you teach me how to use your pistol?"
"My brother left on the first group of ships headed for Flekkerøy and the colonies. I'm thinking of getting on the next group."
- - -
Jakob heard it all. First hand. Second hand. From his inner circle. From people whose names he did not not know. He stuck to what he did best - he managed Courland's affairs. those were, chiefly:
The second would have been simpler without Martin's inspired second-guessing. Sending serfs, peasants, and aspiring landowners to the colonies had been done before, and would only have been different this time due to greater numbers and the possibility of the Swedish navy intervening. After Martin's encouragement, a surprising number of skilled tradespeople preferred the colonies to life under Swedish occupation. Mostly, established masters preferred to remain in Courland or in Europe, liking their prospects for advancement in skill or prestige or wealth. But some apprentices and less-proven masters were now signing up for colonial misadventure. Smiths, foundry workers, glassworkers, kiln-makers, shipwrights, priests and rabbis, money lenders, merchants and others were also interested in facing the challenge of establishing their trades, far from home. Some who studied astronomy or botany or medicine saw new frontiers of knowledge for their field as well as new challenge for themselves. Broadly, all these people needed merited somewhat nicer accommodation at sea than serfs and peasants did. Jakob agreed this was a happy problem to have, but as Martin made it, Martin had to handle it.
The answer was some quick repurposing of the largest of the ZK boats, already fully ready to sail, but still having the installation of its guns and gun deck construction completed. Martin cancelled the installation of half the remaining guns and had hammocks put in instead. This largest of the ZK iterations was designed to test how much you could minimize crew size while maximizing sail area. Fewer cannons meant a little more comfort for a few dozen voyagers. The expected lateral stability of the ZK also meant that while it took only a little more than its fair share of books, it had more than its share of installed tables. As the ship was modified and loaded (in two days), the dockworkers nicknamed it "the library" - but the name that stuck was Kurlands Arche - Courland's Ark.
Leaving Martin to solve the problem he somewhat created left Jakob freer to handle the third: Courland's defence. With so few soldiers, it was already true that the men stationed at Mitau and Bauske were not going to receive reinforcements. Semigallia was on its own. Jakob wasn't even going to defend Courland's old capital at Goldingen, if battle were to come there. He limited his defence planning to what was reachable by sea, from Windau in the north to Polangen in the south, and Libau between them. Nothing else had enough chance at success to merit consideration.
"My Duke, this will end in sieges of Windau and Libau, which will last until attrition in your navy exhausts your ability to resupply them."
"No, my good man. We will abandon even Windau and Libau if it can prevent that attrition. The capacity to resupply with five more ships is worth more than the capacity to delay conquest by five more weeks. My son's choice of metaphor was harsh, but apt. For all my failings to hold on to the land, an Ark can preserve the Duchy. Courland is in the hands of ships already."
- - -
Those ships, and the coast that had build them, kept waiting for Swedish ships to come.
Instead, all the normal traffic came. Merchants thought to sell powder or guns at a better price, though Courland was still making its own in quantity. Letters came and went, especially went. The trade of autumn grain continued, the rhythms of nature unaffected by man's sense of doom.
And a messenger came from Copenhagen, via Visby. And not just any agent, but Count Valdemar from Flekkerøy.
"Jakob, I am here at the King's urging to speak to you of Swedish plans Denmark has lately become aware of. And dear King Frederick chose me so you'd receive the news from someone familiar. How long since Sweden invaded? 16 days? And still not a sail in sight of Libau. Nothing in Gustav Horn's plans is ever an accident. If anything is left to chance, it is only because that chance may swing events further in Sweden's favour. Sweden intends to take your entire Duchy, Jakob. You are no fool, you know they can. You could probably tell me how much of it they've taken already. They will drive all what was of Kettler out of the land and into the sea, finishing here. Why? If you remain here, they know they can defeat you handily on land even if you might defeat them at sea. And you would be captured or killed.
"But! - you say - surely to pinch me between army and fleet would be more efficient! And this may be militarily true. So why do you still see no Swedish sails? Because should they face you at sea - you, personally, I mean, not Courland's navy in general - they might send you to the bottom of the Baltic instead. Or you and your entire family. They need only know which ship to focus on. And why do they await this chance of the Skipper Duke actually playing the skipper? Because they know of your new deal with Prussia and Poland. That news travelled fast, Jakob. Poland wanted it known at how low a price it had kept its vassals in the fold. But here's the thing... should you family go down, down, down to the bottom of the Baltic, Sweden doesn't have Courland's frustrating neutrality and commercial derring-do as a thorn in its side any more. I'm sure Gustav Horn has every confidence he can sway your brother-in-law to Sweden's side. Ah - the sudden pallor on your face all but confirms you think the same. Can you divide your family, Jakob? Squirrel them all separately away - especially the boys - with various friends all across Europe? Or just take your chances against Sweden's fleet and test whether you might all escape together, to rebuild Kettler prestige from, where.... Amsterdam, or Edinburgh perhaps? Wait too long, and your whole Duchy will be lost, ending in your capture or death. Control the timing of when you face Sweden on the Baltic, and you stakes rise to pyrrhic victory at sea or an extinguished Kettler line."
Valdemar declined most of Courland's hospitality and was back at sea the same day. He wanted to be out safely ahead of any naval battles. Messages for Copenhagen, Flekkerøy, and the colonies travelled with him.
- - -
That night, Jakob imagined news of this invasion reaching Tobago. The first word would reach them in perhaps four weeks: someone was invading, we don't know who. In five weeks, a ship might come with more news, or it might be a ship that didn't come from Europe, or the right part of it. However much news stalled crossing Courland, updates would find Tobago in little spurts between even more accentuated pauses. Perhaps in 12 weeks some nation's warships would simply conquer Tobago, and that would be how news of Courland's fate would be transmitted and translated across the Atlantic.
He found that future straightforward and therefore painfully plausible. Then he imagined the fate of a Tobago that instead received news of Courland's fall from Couronian warships, come flying the black crayfish flag, there to remain in Tobago's defence....
And because Jakob was tired, he then pictured a ship docking at Tobago, lowering a long ramp, down which walked all the animals of the world, two by two.
The vision was gone as quickly as it came. His mind's eye didn't have enough of a sense of what Tobago should truly look like, in the end.
Then followed days of impatient tension. Libau waited for an attack that kept not coming.
The fast but woefully incomplete news by semaphore was reinforced by slower but more thorough news brought by rider: a Swedish army had invaded from Riga, and had effortlessly taken all land on the right bank of the Aa (or Lielupe) river, up to where its tributary the Eckau (Iecava) met it a mere two miles north of Mitau. Upstream of there, Sweden seemed to hold the entire right bank of the Eckau at least as far upstream as the town of Gross Eckau, which was by now already a Swedish resupply station. It was a sensible spot, lying with 14 miles of both Mitau (to the West) and Bauske (to the South). It didn't take particularly good military intelligence or scouting to know those would be the towns likely to put up the biggest fights.
Then news came that Mitau was under siege. Then news stopped coming.
And Libau waited for the news that wasn't coming.
- - -
And in some ways, life continued almost as normal. Craftsmen crafted, teachers taught, shipwrights wrought ships. Goods were bought and sold, though only goods in hand. Those who had other countries to live in left by ship, some to Königsberg in Prussia, more to Kolberg in Brandenburg. Some who were simply afraid walked the old Amber Road down the coast toward Memel.
Courland kept most of its ships on the Baltic home, or patrolling near to it. They were ready to defend, but no Swedish fleet came to defend against, at least not to Libau and Windau. Courland's northernmost point was Cape Kolka, reaching north between the Gulf of Riga and the rest of the Baltic to point toward the Estonian mainland beyond the northeastern horizon. There was little of significance on the coast, economically or militarily, save the ability to see passing ships. Sweden took the mostly Livonian coastal villages east of the cape in one day, then the villages west of it the next, cutting off Courland's ability to see what ships passed between Sweden and Riga.
- - -
Conversations from Windau to Libau to Polangen invariably included lines like these:
"Will the Duke fight the Swedish fleet?"
"Do you think it could be too hot in Tobago?"
"I heard Sweden made a new version of the Vasa warship and we won't fight until our nautical minds figure out the weakness that will sink it like the first Vasa."
"Our Duke's just being kind to the foreigners down in Libau, to give them rides home before he destroys Sweden. We'll be fine."
"I have family in _______, and no one has heard from ______ in a week."
"Surely our ships are better than their ships?"
"Can you teach me how to use your pistol?"
"My brother left on the first group of ships headed for Flekkerøy and the colonies. I'm thinking of getting on the next group."
- - -
Jakob heard it all. First hand. Second hand. From his inner circle. From people whose names he did not not know. He stuck to what he did best - he managed Courland's affairs. those were, chiefly:
- evacuating foreigners who desired evacuation, because that was honourable;
- sending or preparing to send anyone who wished to the colonies, because that was profitable;
- planning to defend Libau and Windau by land and sea.
The second would have been simpler without Martin's inspired second-guessing. Sending serfs, peasants, and aspiring landowners to the colonies had been done before, and would only have been different this time due to greater numbers and the possibility of the Swedish navy intervening. After Martin's encouragement, a surprising number of skilled tradespeople preferred the colonies to life under Swedish occupation. Mostly, established masters preferred to remain in Courland or in Europe, liking their prospects for advancement in skill or prestige or wealth. But some apprentices and less-proven masters were now signing up for colonial misadventure. Smiths, foundry workers, glassworkers, kiln-makers, shipwrights, priests and rabbis, money lenders, merchants and others were also interested in facing the challenge of establishing their trades, far from home. Some who studied astronomy or botany or medicine saw new frontiers of knowledge for their field as well as new challenge for themselves. Broadly, all these people needed merited somewhat nicer accommodation at sea than serfs and peasants did. Jakob agreed this was a happy problem to have, but as Martin made it, Martin had to handle it.
The answer was some quick repurposing of the largest of the ZK boats, already fully ready to sail, but still having the installation of its guns and gun deck construction completed. Martin cancelled the installation of half the remaining guns and had hammocks put in instead. This largest of the ZK iterations was designed to test how much you could minimize crew size while maximizing sail area. Fewer cannons meant a little more comfort for a few dozen voyagers. The expected lateral stability of the ZK also meant that while it took only a little more than its fair share of books, it had more than its share of installed tables. As the ship was modified and loaded (in two days), the dockworkers nicknamed it "the library" - but the name that stuck was Kurlands Arche - Courland's Ark.
Leaving Martin to solve the problem he somewhat created left Jakob freer to handle the third: Courland's defence. With so few soldiers, it was already true that the men stationed at Mitau and Bauske were not going to receive reinforcements. Semigallia was on its own. Jakob wasn't even going to defend Courland's old capital at Goldingen, if battle were to come there. He limited his defence planning to what was reachable by sea, from Windau in the north to Polangen in the south, and Libau between them. Nothing else had enough chance at success to merit consideration.
"My Duke, this will end in sieges of Windau and Libau, which will last until attrition in your navy exhausts your ability to resupply them."
"No, my good man. We will abandon even Windau and Libau if it can prevent that attrition. The capacity to resupply with five more ships is worth more than the capacity to delay conquest by five more weeks. My son's choice of metaphor was harsh, but apt. For all my failings to hold on to the land, an Ark can preserve the Duchy. Courland is in the hands of ships already."
- - -
Those ships, and the coast that had build them, kept waiting for Swedish ships to come.
Instead, all the normal traffic came. Merchants thought to sell powder or guns at a better price, though Courland was still making its own in quantity. Letters came and went, especially went. The trade of autumn grain continued, the rhythms of nature unaffected by man's sense of doom.
And a messenger came from Copenhagen, via Visby. And not just any agent, but Count Valdemar from Flekkerøy.
"Jakob, I am here at the King's urging to speak to you of Swedish plans Denmark has lately become aware of. And dear King Frederick chose me so you'd receive the news from someone familiar. How long since Sweden invaded? 16 days? And still not a sail in sight of Libau. Nothing in Gustav Horn's plans is ever an accident. If anything is left to chance, it is only because that chance may swing events further in Sweden's favour. Sweden intends to take your entire Duchy, Jakob. You are no fool, you know they can. You could probably tell me how much of it they've taken already. They will drive all what was of Kettler out of the land and into the sea, finishing here. Why? If you remain here, they know they can defeat you handily on land even if you might defeat them at sea. And you would be captured or killed.
"But! - you say - surely to pinch me between army and fleet would be more efficient! And this may be militarily true. So why do you still see no Swedish sails? Because should they face you at sea - you, personally, I mean, not Courland's navy in general - they might send you to the bottom of the Baltic instead. Or you and your entire family. They need only know which ship to focus on. And why do they await this chance of the Skipper Duke actually playing the skipper? Because they know of your new deal with Prussia and Poland. That news travelled fast, Jakob. Poland wanted it known at how low a price it had kept its vassals in the fold. But here's the thing... should you family go down, down, down to the bottom of the Baltic, Sweden doesn't have Courland's frustrating neutrality and commercial derring-do as a thorn in its side any more. I'm sure Gustav Horn has every confidence he can sway your brother-in-law to Sweden's side. Ah - the sudden pallor on your face all but confirms you think the same. Can you divide your family, Jakob? Squirrel them all separately away - especially the boys - with various friends all across Europe? Or just take your chances against Sweden's fleet and test whether you might all escape together, to rebuild Kettler prestige from, where.... Amsterdam, or Edinburgh perhaps? Wait too long, and your whole Duchy will be lost, ending in your capture or death. Control the timing of when you face Sweden on the Baltic, and you stakes rise to pyrrhic victory at sea or an extinguished Kettler line."
Valdemar declined most of Courland's hospitality and was back at sea the same day. He wanted to be out safely ahead of any naval battles. Messages for Copenhagen, Flekkerøy, and the colonies travelled with him.
- - -
That night, Jakob imagined news of this invasion reaching Tobago. The first word would reach them in perhaps four weeks: someone was invading, we don't know who. In five weeks, a ship might come with more news, or it might be a ship that didn't come from Europe, or the right part of it. However much news stalled crossing Courland, updates would find Tobago in little spurts between even more accentuated pauses. Perhaps in 12 weeks some nation's warships would simply conquer Tobago, and that would be how news of Courland's fate would be transmitted and translated across the Atlantic.
He found that future straightforward and therefore painfully plausible. Then he imagined the fate of a Tobago that instead received news of Courland's fall from Couronian warships, come flying the black crayfish flag, there to remain in Tobago's defence....
And because Jakob was tired, he then pictured a ship docking at Tobago, lowering a long ramp, down which walked all the animals of the world, two by two.
The vision was gone as quickly as it came. His mind's eye didn't have enough of a sense of what Tobago should truly look like, in the end.
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Poor Kettler.
you're an incredible writer btw, ive thoroughly enjoyed the style of this timeline. may courland live forever!
you're an incredible writer btw, ive thoroughly enjoyed the style of this timeline. may courland live forever!
That's almost tear-to-the-eye stuff, right there. But it is certainly interesting to consider that those running colonial enterprises off in Europe would know their colonies mostly as stories, ledgers, and the occasional ink sketch. Maybe some would have sent bona fide painters in this epoch - something I should look into. But either way, surely Courland is going to be out-artisting everyone, soon. Outshining other nations' colonies in all what ways that don't matter to other nations, but still, shine is shine.
Thank you so much - it makes all the difference to read positive responses from people I'm managing to entertain (and learn from!).
-
Our next episode is number FIFTY. And it should hardly need a spoiler alert for me to say that Kettler family members will sail across the Baltic. It will take me a while to strike a new balance between core story and peripheral events as so much is upended here. But I know we will have at least the following coming up:
- the siege of Mitau
- the battle of Bauske
- some Jakob correspondence
- probably Edinburgh
- possibly the Economic Historian Blog, if I get a better handle on the stuff I was dissatisfied with in the conversation between Martin and Master Zelig above.
That's what i thought about, really, mostly parallel-ing it with João VI of Portugal arriving in Brazil, he found here so beautiful and different that he simply didn't want to go back to Portugal at all, lol. He just returned there when the military started the 1820 Liberal Revolution, by then, Portugal had been at least partly liberated for almost a decade. What scaried me the most was when i noticed that he became kind of the first european King to actually step on one of its colonies, like, the King of France never stepped on Saint-Domingue, nor the King of Spain ever held court on New Spain or Peru. It's kind of wild if you think about it.
50. Libau and the Baltic, November 1655.
The Fleet, the Flight - part five
The moment any remaining sailors, shipwrights, mathematicians, or numerous smart-asses without relevant knowledge all shut up about the ZK boats being less trustworthy than any more normal vessels was the moment Jakob placed the greatest possible trust in them: Courland's Ark was to carry Duchess Louise Charlotte, nine months pregnant, across the Baltic to Copenhagen. Martin, lately dubbed der Archegraf, would be the only family member with her.
This because Jakob had chosen flight over fight. Mostly. To continue his line, a ship with either himself or one of his sons had to reach Copenhagen, or at least get beyond Sweden's reach. Jakob's three daughters were to sail with him, while Martin, Joachim, Frederick and baby Charles would each be assigned a separate ship. There was only a little choosing to be done regarding routes: the direct path was to head fairly straight at Bornholm. This would take them well south of Götland, perhaps the one time the local Danes might prefer not to have the Duke's ships take their routine stop there.
Near Bornholm, it was a guessing game as to whether Sweden had massed ships at or around Kalmar and Öland to the north, or in Swedish Pomerania to the south. Or both. no other mainland Swedish port was of consequence - ships harrying them from the north would either be at Kalmar or at sea. Any ships in ports further north were ships that would have to pass near Kalmar or Öland, only later. Then came the only meaningful decision: to sail between Bornholm and Skåne meant having Denmark to both port and starboard, though at only seventeen miles across, the passage would be an obvious place to engage them for battle. To instead sail south around Bornholm would give them more space to evade any ships they might encounter - the passage was more than twice as wide - but the coast to the south was Swedish Pomerania, where other ships might easily hide. The route was also a little longer.
Imagine a perfect world in which the wind changed to be directly from astern no matter how your ship turned. Imagine all your ships sailing perfectly in this perfect world, as fast as they could, with no mistakes. In this perfect world, the ship most perfectly made for speed with the perfectest sailors sailing perfectly would race from Libau to Copenhagen in just over 24 hours.
Next, consider the ways in which the real world is less perfect. Speed was not the foremost consideration in most Couronian ships' designs. Sailors performed better with rest. And late fall winds in the Baltic averaged out to southwesterlies, that is, they most often came from the southwest - somewhat more hindrance than help on a Libau-to-Copenhagen journey. But: they might blow from west-by-northwest, or from the south, or anywhere between. And the when the winds were stronger or stormier, they had a stronger tendency to come from those directions. And it certainly added challenge to a sailing race to have it interrupted by cannon fire from Swedish warships.
All told, Courland needed its sailors well-rested, but could expect to need to offer them extra rest en route. It needed its ships starting in peak condition. Wind, on the other hand, was a matter for religion and sailors' experience to solve.
- - -
The bulk of Courland's fleet sailed west by southwest, in no particular haste. The general goal was to get halfway to Bornholm and sleep almost as far from land as it was possible to be in the Baltic. A few faster ships, with both more ability to sail into the wind and more experienced crews, roamed ahead, behind, north and south of the main fleet. These served as scouts If Sweden chose to come at them in the open sea, the Courlanders could expect to be better-rested, better-supplied, and hard to surprise.
Among those sailing further north was Courland's Ark, for two reasons. First, the crew wanted to properly test the ship - it had never before been beyond sight of the shore. Flanking duty required it take on extra speed and tack more. Second, and rather more importantly, Louise Charlotte was, finally, having contractions. It felt prudent to go nearer Götland, just in case. Her Calvinism made her stoic: God already knew the outcome of both her labour and this journey, after all. Her Jewish midwife and Catholic doctor, for their parts, preferred to have a plan B.
As did Martin. Martin was in no way in command of Courland's Ark. But he was one or two perfectly-aimed cannonballs away from being the owner and ruler of this fleet. He was also the best sailor in the Kettler family. He understood as much as any non-sailor, non-shipwright outside the Academy how the design of the ship was supposed to be able to outperform conventional ships. All told, he could talk with any sailor of any rank on board, intelligently and without undue distraction. It may have also helped those conversations that this ship's crew were all native Courlanders.
Most often, Martin ended up talking to the captain, Raphael Rimat, and reporting to him what he'd been picking up from the sailors. He preferred the purposefulness of that to his mother's company. (His mother probably preferred her midwife's company at this point, too.)
"Captain" Martin casually saluted, "that last tack felt very quick. Your crew seems quite comfortable."
"Graf," Rimat saluted back, smiling, "Yes. I think we're getting the hang of her. In the end, for all this ship's quirks, having just a few really big sails and rigging them fore-and-aft really keeps things simple. The work of sailing your Ark is really classic sailing. We all sailed like this when we learned. This ship's extra size just requires a few more of us to handle her right."
"So the crew have it easy, so long as they stay coordinated. How about yourself?"
"Sailing in a straight line is a simple thing for me, too. We gather speed slowly, but once it's gathered, we have speed in abundance. My challenge is working out how to lose a minimum of speed when we tack."
"Are you judging that by feel, or by comparing our progress with that of the Crocodile to our port?"
"Always by feel. The feel is what you rely on when you make decisions. But when we can see her, the Crocodile's position helps... calibrate me."
Martin thought the relationship between captain and ship sounded like a more relatable version of how adults described marriage. The thought didn't go further, his mother was getting louder again, and he hadn't visited her in an hour.
"AAAAAaaaaangh. Ohhhh. Martin! Where are we?"
"If you drew a line from Danzig to Götland, and another from Libau to Kalmar, we would be where the lines meet. The Crocodile is likely 20 or 30 minutes' sailing nearer Danzig, the heart of the fleet another 20 or 30 minutes' sailing nearer Danzig than them."
"Still no... aaangh... Swedish ships?"
"No, mutti. Now that the sun has set, we will draw closer together and wait out the night. Unless you need to go to Götland."
"I've managed this eight times before. I can give birth on Bornholm or on this ship if I have to."
Martin looked at the doctor, the midwife, and his mother's face, and knew no one would contradict her. He nodded, left, and told the captain he could stop cheating toward Götland and get closer to the Crocodile for the night.
The purpose of pausing for the night was to have a well-rested crew for the critical second day. Louise Charlotte's cries kept most everyone up until nearly midnight. Then, Ferdinand Kettler's newborn cries took over. But not for long: the boy born on the Baltic took well to the breast. Then most of the thirty souls aboard Courland's Ark enjoyed a sleep whose contended, hopeful quality made up for its lost quantity.
- - -
"Ship!"
Martin climbed the foremast, telescope in hand. Courland's Ark lacked a crow's nest, but getting a little higher still could mean getting a better view. By the time he had raised the glass to his eye, the sailor in the bow had seen the ship's colours.
"Sweden!"
Martin saw three masts. He looked harder, trying to steady himself better despite his perch. Square-rigged, maybe a jib. Was that hull pretty broad? Hard to tell. He climbed down, visited the man in the bow.
"I saw square rigging and a fat hull. Can you confirm?"
"Ja. She's meant for carrying big loads, that one. She'll have guns, but she probably carries soldiers most often."
"So, definitely military. Kalmar to Pomerania?"
"Ja."
Off to Captain Rimat.
"Captain."
Raphael Rimat kept looking through his telescope. "Graf."
"Fat hull, three square-rigged masts. Transport, probably some cannon."
"Agreed."
"Likely slower than us in a straight line, likely can't sail as close to the wind as us, but probably loses less speed tacking than us."
Rimat lowered his scope, but his gaze stayed in the same direction: west. The wind was coming from a little south of southwest, and Courland's Ark was sailing a little north of due west, about as close to the wind as she could. To make Bornholm, she would tack between sailing westward and sailing southward unless the wind changed. The Swedish three-master was sailing something close to south-by-southeast.
"Yes on all points. If she keeps her course, she only needs to slow down to engage us. Then it's guns. Then we race or its more guns."
"Captain - "
"Graf."
"I don't like the look of a gunfight." Martin looked to port for the Crocodile. It was out of sight, probably letting the heart of the fleet know they'd seen nothing. When they came back, they would.
"They likely only see us, if we can't see even the Crocodile. But if they keep heading south, they spot everyone."
"I suspect you're about to ask about drawing them away from the heart of the fleet. Which would be a sound tactic if I didn't have aboard the heir to the duchy, the Duchess, and the son your father hasn't met."
"SHIP!" came the call from the bow, again. "Another one! Smaller. SHIP! That's three. Five!"
"He'll keep counting higher, captain. Better they chase us than find the others... if you think we can distract them."
"You don't like a gunfight, but you like a game of cat and mouse, stimmt?"
"Only duty to Courland, captain. We do whatever best helps Courland's people and economy continue in its colonies. My mother, baby bother and I are part of the risk. Worthwhile if the main fleet has a safer journey."
"But safer by how much?"
"As you said, Captain: 'Always by feel.' They have likely only spotted us so far. So we have this chance to improvise. Do it, and save the fleet. Don't, and when my father's ship sinks, I'll officially point out you should have, with full benefit of hindsight. Captain."
"Graf." Rimat raised his glass to scan the rising number of ships to the west. "You just want to see this ship sail for all it's worth."
"Of course. Captain." He saluted. "As do you."
The moment any remaining sailors, shipwrights, mathematicians, or numerous smart-asses without relevant knowledge all shut up about the ZK boats being less trustworthy than any more normal vessels was the moment Jakob placed the greatest possible trust in them: Courland's Ark was to carry Duchess Louise Charlotte, nine months pregnant, across the Baltic to Copenhagen. Martin, lately dubbed der Archegraf, would be the only family member with her.
This because Jakob had chosen flight over fight. Mostly. To continue his line, a ship with either himself or one of his sons had to reach Copenhagen, or at least get beyond Sweden's reach. Jakob's three daughters were to sail with him, while Martin, Joachim, Frederick and baby Charles would each be assigned a separate ship. There was only a little choosing to be done regarding routes: the direct path was to head fairly straight at Bornholm. This would take them well south of Götland, perhaps the one time the local Danes might prefer not to have the Duke's ships take their routine stop there.
Near Bornholm, it was a guessing game as to whether Sweden had massed ships at or around Kalmar and Öland to the north, or in Swedish Pomerania to the south. Or both. no other mainland Swedish port was of consequence - ships harrying them from the north would either be at Kalmar or at sea. Any ships in ports further north were ships that would have to pass near Kalmar or Öland, only later. Then came the only meaningful decision: to sail between Bornholm and Skåne meant having Denmark to both port and starboard, though at only seventeen miles across, the passage would be an obvious place to engage them for battle. To instead sail south around Bornholm would give them more space to evade any ships they might encounter - the passage was more than twice as wide - but the coast to the south was Swedish Pomerania, where other ships might easily hide. The route was also a little longer.
Imagine a perfect world in which the wind changed to be directly from astern no matter how your ship turned. Imagine all your ships sailing perfectly in this perfect world, as fast as they could, with no mistakes. In this perfect world, the ship most perfectly made for speed with the perfectest sailors sailing perfectly would race from Libau to Copenhagen in just over 24 hours.
Next, consider the ways in which the real world is less perfect. Speed was not the foremost consideration in most Couronian ships' designs. Sailors performed better with rest. And late fall winds in the Baltic averaged out to southwesterlies, that is, they most often came from the southwest - somewhat more hindrance than help on a Libau-to-Copenhagen journey. But: they might blow from west-by-northwest, or from the south, or anywhere between. And the when the winds were stronger or stormier, they had a stronger tendency to come from those directions. And it certainly added challenge to a sailing race to have it interrupted by cannon fire from Swedish warships.
All told, Courland needed its sailors well-rested, but could expect to need to offer them extra rest en route. It needed its ships starting in peak condition. Wind, on the other hand, was a matter for religion and sailors' experience to solve.
- - -
The bulk of Courland's fleet sailed west by southwest, in no particular haste. The general goal was to get halfway to Bornholm and sleep almost as far from land as it was possible to be in the Baltic. A few faster ships, with both more ability to sail into the wind and more experienced crews, roamed ahead, behind, north and south of the main fleet. These served as scouts If Sweden chose to come at them in the open sea, the Courlanders could expect to be better-rested, better-supplied, and hard to surprise.
Among those sailing further north was Courland's Ark, for two reasons. First, the crew wanted to properly test the ship - it had never before been beyond sight of the shore. Flanking duty required it take on extra speed and tack more. Second, and rather more importantly, Louise Charlotte was, finally, having contractions. It felt prudent to go nearer Götland, just in case. Her Calvinism made her stoic: God already knew the outcome of both her labour and this journey, after all. Her Jewish midwife and Catholic doctor, for their parts, preferred to have a plan B.
As did Martin. Martin was in no way in command of Courland's Ark. But he was one or two perfectly-aimed cannonballs away from being the owner and ruler of this fleet. He was also the best sailor in the Kettler family. He understood as much as any non-sailor, non-shipwright outside the Academy how the design of the ship was supposed to be able to outperform conventional ships. All told, he could talk with any sailor of any rank on board, intelligently and without undue distraction. It may have also helped those conversations that this ship's crew were all native Courlanders.
Most often, Martin ended up talking to the captain, Raphael Rimat, and reporting to him what he'd been picking up from the sailors. He preferred the purposefulness of that to his mother's company. (His mother probably preferred her midwife's company at this point, too.)
"Captain" Martin casually saluted, "that last tack felt very quick. Your crew seems quite comfortable."
"Graf," Rimat saluted back, smiling, "Yes. I think we're getting the hang of her. In the end, for all this ship's quirks, having just a few really big sails and rigging them fore-and-aft really keeps things simple. The work of sailing your Ark is really classic sailing. We all sailed like this when we learned. This ship's extra size just requires a few more of us to handle her right."
"So the crew have it easy, so long as they stay coordinated. How about yourself?"
"Sailing in a straight line is a simple thing for me, too. We gather speed slowly, but once it's gathered, we have speed in abundance. My challenge is working out how to lose a minimum of speed when we tack."
"Are you judging that by feel, or by comparing our progress with that of the Crocodile to our port?"
"Always by feel. The feel is what you rely on when you make decisions. But when we can see her, the Crocodile's position helps... calibrate me."
Martin thought the relationship between captain and ship sounded like a more relatable version of how adults described marriage. The thought didn't go further, his mother was getting louder again, and he hadn't visited her in an hour.
"AAAAAaaaaangh. Ohhhh. Martin! Where are we?"
"If you drew a line from Danzig to Götland, and another from Libau to Kalmar, we would be where the lines meet. The Crocodile is likely 20 or 30 minutes' sailing nearer Danzig, the heart of the fleet another 20 or 30 minutes' sailing nearer Danzig than them."
"Still no... aaangh... Swedish ships?"
"No, mutti. Now that the sun has set, we will draw closer together and wait out the night. Unless you need to go to Götland."
"I've managed this eight times before. I can give birth on Bornholm or on this ship if I have to."
Martin looked at the doctor, the midwife, and his mother's face, and knew no one would contradict her. He nodded, left, and told the captain he could stop cheating toward Götland and get closer to the Crocodile for the night.
The purpose of pausing for the night was to have a well-rested crew for the critical second day. Louise Charlotte's cries kept most everyone up until nearly midnight. Then, Ferdinand Kettler's newborn cries took over. But not for long: the boy born on the Baltic took well to the breast. Then most of the thirty souls aboard Courland's Ark enjoyed a sleep whose contended, hopeful quality made up for its lost quantity.
- - -
"Ship!"
Martin climbed the foremast, telescope in hand. Courland's Ark lacked a crow's nest, but getting a little higher still could mean getting a better view. By the time he had raised the glass to his eye, the sailor in the bow had seen the ship's colours.
"Sweden!"
Martin saw three masts. He looked harder, trying to steady himself better despite his perch. Square-rigged, maybe a jib. Was that hull pretty broad? Hard to tell. He climbed down, visited the man in the bow.
"I saw square rigging and a fat hull. Can you confirm?"
"Ja. She's meant for carrying big loads, that one. She'll have guns, but she probably carries soldiers most often."
"So, definitely military. Kalmar to Pomerania?"
"Ja."
Off to Captain Rimat.
"Captain."
Raphael Rimat kept looking through his telescope. "Graf."
"Fat hull, three square-rigged masts. Transport, probably some cannon."
"Agreed."
"Likely slower than us in a straight line, likely can't sail as close to the wind as us, but probably loses less speed tacking than us."
Rimat lowered his scope, but his gaze stayed in the same direction: west. The wind was coming from a little south of southwest, and Courland's Ark was sailing a little north of due west, about as close to the wind as she could. To make Bornholm, she would tack between sailing westward and sailing southward unless the wind changed. The Swedish three-master was sailing something close to south-by-southeast.
"Yes on all points. If she keeps her course, she only needs to slow down to engage us. Then it's guns. Then we race or its more guns."
"Captain - "
"Graf."
"I don't like the look of a gunfight." Martin looked to port for the Crocodile. It was out of sight, probably letting the heart of the fleet know they'd seen nothing. When they came back, they would.
"They likely only see us, if we can't see even the Crocodile. But if they keep heading south, they spot everyone."
"I suspect you're about to ask about drawing them away from the heart of the fleet. Which would be a sound tactic if I didn't have aboard the heir to the duchy, the Duchess, and the son your father hasn't met."
"SHIP!" came the call from the bow, again. "Another one! Smaller. SHIP! That's three. Five!"
"He'll keep counting higher, captain. Better they chase us than find the others... if you think we can distract them."
"You don't like a gunfight, but you like a game of cat and mouse, stimmt?"
"Only duty to Courland, captain. We do whatever best helps Courland's people and economy continue in its colonies. My mother, baby bother and I are part of the risk. Worthwhile if the main fleet has a safer journey."
"But safer by how much?"
"As you said, Captain: 'Always by feel.' They have likely only spotted us so far. So we have this chance to improvise. Do it, and save the fleet. Don't, and when my father's ship sinks, I'll officially point out you should have, with full benefit of hindsight. Captain."
"Graf." Rimat raised his glass to scan the rising number of ships to the west. "You just want to see this ship sail for all it's worth."
"Of course. Captain." He saluted. "As do you."
You were clearly getting too used to my languid river-cruise pace through the preceding 49 episodes and their low action. 😏
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51. The Baltic, November 1655.
The Fleet, the Flight - part six
The wind was coming from the wrong direction, just as it needed to be.
Raphael Rimat had a few problems to solve, and twelve sailors and two Kettlers to influence his decisions as captain.
"My lady, Graf." Louise Charlotte chortled at the Captain calling her son that. She realized just as quickly that the shortening of Archegraf was as much a mark of esteem as dry wit for Rimat. "I would welcome your thoughts before I choose our course. Quickly: the wind is still from the southwest. Any path to Bornholm will require tacking between southward and westward sailing. The Swedish ships are downwind of us to the west to begin. We have not spotted the Crocodile since nightfall, so I assume the Swedish fleet and ours are not aware of each other yet."
"My son tells me you intend to draw these ships away from the fleet?"
"Stimmt. But there is another possible problem there. On the one hand, it would be better if our ships knew what we were doing. On the other hand, to get near enough to inform them would risk their discovery by Sweden."
"Martin? You've had opinions on everything. What do you say?"
"Take the chance, manage the risk."
Louise Charlotte gave the captain a profoundly tired look. "I don't take decisions today, Captain. I'll only manage opinions on ones that sound particularly bad. This isn't such a one. I wish you and your crew the best winds and fortune while I attempt a full day of sleep interrupted only by being my baby's milk-cow for want of a wet nurse on board."
Dismissal could hardly be clearer. Martin and the captain left the cabin for the deck. Raphael immediately shouted orders to his first mate: "Starboard tack! Stay close to the wind! Now!"
Then he spoke to Martin, all while watching the crew at work.
"We will sail south in search of the Crocodile, close to the wind. Should we see her, we try to signal her with a semaphore and hope they confirm the signal back to us. We want them to head south and around the south side of Bornholm. We stay close to the wind in hope of staying between the Swedish ships and ours, even if we are a little slower for it."
"You're testing your speed against theirs while close-hauled."
"Stimmt. Once we either have the Crocodile confirm our signal or else abandon the attempt to signal them, it's a port tack. Then your cat-and-mouse game begins."
"The game is... to be the ship that tacks the least?"
"In a nutshell. We want to cross the Swedish line at the greatest possible speed. Once past it, we want to not shipwreck ourselves in Blekinge or Skåne. Any ship that has to tack before we do is one less cat in play. And we will have to tack - if the wind doesn't force us to, the coast eventually will."
"Captain Raphael Rimat duels a Swedish fleet, with the coast of Blekinge and Skåne as his chosen weapon."
"Graf." He paused. "Martin. There is an efficient... starkness to your thinking that would make you a fine captain, in another life if not this one."
"Captain Rimat, Danke. I intend to be many things in this life, so let's just keep us all alive."
- - -
It was harder for Martin to keep his fear at bay when the decisions were made. Influencing the captain's decisions was the only thing he could contribute. When he could no longer contribute, he could only watch events unfold and compare them to the plan. Since speaking about Noah's Ark in Libau, he found others looking at him differently. He was an inspiration, a motivation. Not like his father was. His father had stature, and accomplishments. People were glad to be a part of his plans, because those plans usually made things better for people. Martin had no plans the public knew of. But now they knew he had insight, and vision something like his father's. People were grateful and emboldened by Martin's attention.
On the deck of Courland's Ark, he gave it freely. Sometimes to help, sometimes for something to do.
- - -
The easy part of the plan went well. They turned south on their starboard tack. Rimat chose more speed over sailing closer to the wind, hoping to compensate for the slow acceleration of Courland's Ark. The Swedish ships followed in no great haste, seeming mostly to focus on raising or trimming sails to better have their fleet's speeds match.
The Crocodile was about where they'd hoped, and got close enough to signal with flags as well as frames. (There were also gestures waving the Crocodile off, but there was no agreed way to communicate acknowledgment of those.) The Crocodile tacked to get out of sight as quickly as possible, then headed for the main fleet.
Courland's Ark tacked began its game of cat and mouse with a change of plan. Rimat called for a port tack and sailed north instead of west. It would be a foolish course to maintain for long, as it took them toward Kalmar, precisely where any extra Swedish ships would be coming from to join the hunt. Rimat was testing to be sure they were taking up the chase. In so doing, he was pulling Kalmar's ships away from the Duke's.
The wind held, and they were flying on it. So were Sweden's ships. This was the fastest many aboard had ever sailed, including some on the small crew.
They changed course toward Götland. The wind was now fully astern. Sweden followed. Rimat called to reef the sails a little, slowing them to better help Sweden's slower ships keep pace with its larger ones.
At the next tack, the game began in earnest. Changing course told the Swedes this was not a race to Götland. Heading east toward... Libau, perhaps? Some captains might see a trap in that. Rimat let them consider that, and changed course again, to south-by-southeast.
This was fairly close to the wind, slowing them down. It was the cats' turn to lead the game. Would they match the heading, or sail further from the wind - faster - in an attempt to intercept? Sweden chose both. Two brigantines took the faster line, the other ships - 7 of them, now? - kept paralleling Rimat's course.
As the brigantines drew closer, Rimat called for full sail again, tacked closer to the wind, but managed to maintain speed with the sails no longer reefed. The brigantines split: one went for more speed, farther from the wind, the other stayed closer, gradually slowing. The former crossed behind Courland's Ark, aspirationally firing cannons. The latter kept slowing the closer Rimat went to the wind. In short order, two cats were out of the game. The mouse continued.
The captains of the other Swedish ships now had more of the measure of this strange ship flying Courland's black crayfish on raspberry red. More importantly, they saw that the true race was in the direction of Bornholm after all.
- - -
Rimat was reluctant to let the Swedish ships out of his sight. After holding course southward long enough to be confident the brigantines would not catch him after the next tack, he set course a little north of due west. The wind was now almost directly from the southwest. About every quarter hour, he nudged their course a little toward the northwest, then a little more. He wanted to see his adversaries. He wanted to see whether they'd spread out enough to not repeat the brigantines' mistake. They had.
The Kalmar ships had spread out in a purposeful line from northeast to southwest, tacking in unison to head for Bornholm. They were presently heading a little south of southeast. Still sailing close to the wind, Courland's Ark was not moving at any great speed, but the ZK's poor acceleration was mitigated by avoiding turns altogether. Instead, each northward nudge added a little speed, liminally.
Martin looked at Rimat after one such nudge. "For the feel, Captain?"
Rimat permitted himself a smile, but said nothing. Then changed the pattern. The northward nudges came five minutes apart now. They sailed nearly west-by-northwest, picking up speed. And more speed, as they neared the Swedish line. But, critically, not the front of that line: a big square-rigged galleon.
Rimat waved Martin over. "We could have stayed closer to the wind. We would have met that leading galleon's guns at low speed - she would only need to gently tack to rain shot on us are we passed by. Instead, we cross between the other ships at higher speed."
"Ships with less impressive guns, I assume?" Rimat only nodded.
"Ready cannons!" Two night shift sailors and the two soldiers on board went to the man the mere four cannons Martin hadn't had removed. "Chain shot. Target the lateen sails and rigging. Go! Sailors, ready to change course - we go astern of the second carrack instead of in front of both of them."
Astern of the second carrack meant the biggest gap in the line. As their course changed, only some Swedish ships adjusted, presumably more interested in seeking more Couronian ships in the direction this single annoying ship had distracted them away from. This was bad for Courland, but otherwise better for Courland's Ark.
"If you're not crew, this is where you get below."
- - -
Then came fear.
Fear when you could do something about what you feared is the easiest to handle - you do something, and that focus steadies you. Fear when you could see or hear what you feared was next-best - you give your full attention to it, and that focus steadies you. Fear when you are without agency, influence, or perception of what you fear is to be reduced to nothing but your nerves, awaiting your fate.
Instead of waiting with his mother, his baby brother and his mother's midwife in what would normally be the captain's quarters, Martin joined the other passengers below decks. Some stared blankly at the wood separating them from drowning or cannon shot. Some stared at each other. More stared at Martin.
He found he was counting a beat in his mind, perhaps measuring time or distance. He realized it might help others. He held his hands forward and silently counted numbers on his right knuckles and fingers, as the Gambian Semaphores did.
One, two.... he raised his hands between beats, snapping them downward again on the beat, as though hitting a drum.
Seven, eight, nine... nine was the hardest number; his left hand had to hold his other fingers back while extending only the knuckle of his ring finger.
Twenty-five, twenty-six... his left hand freed his right pinky for twenty-seven.
Sixty-six, sixty-seven... the world was a wooden room, floating above the Baltic, holding anticipation, silence, and the hands of a 14-year-old.
Seventy-nine, eighty. Martin had finished the range of this finger-counting, with all four fingers extended. He held up his right hand, then folded his fingers into a fist.
"If our speed remained steady, we are already within range of their guns."
That thought hung in the air while every mundane sound of a sailboat at sea was amplified into the most terrifying version of itself. Martin slowly resumed finger-counting.
One, two... the sound of not cannons, not firing.
Nineteen, twenty... heartbeats, creaking wood and the silent movements of Martin's hands.
Fifty-four, fifty-five... was a sea grave as quiet as a grave on land?
Sixty-one, sixty-two... human silence from above answered their human silence below deck.
Seventy-nine, eighty. The number sequence completed once more, Martin again raised his hand and made a fist. Anticipation in the room was now a smell.
"We are beyond where the Swedish line was when we started."
Some faces showed confusion. Some showed nothing. If some began to seek eye contact again, was that a flickering symptom of hope?
Again:
One, two....
Ten, eleven...
Forty....
Footsteps, descending. Martin shook his hand to relax it.
"Captain."
"Graf. The Swedish ships let us pass. The captain of a Carrack saluted us for giving them a good chase 'for such a curious vessel' as he put it. They save their powder for our main fleet, should they catch them."
Withheld emotions were no longer withheld. The little wooden room floating above the Baltic erupted in tears, joy, embraces, and the palpable thawing out of human heartbeats.
- - -
Courland's Ark sailed directly for Copenhagen, tacking only to avoid skerries off the Skåne coast.
The Couronian fleet ably fended off a dozen ships pursuing them from Pomerania, but the Kalmar ships did not reach it to threaten it from both sides. All told, only three Couronian lives were lost in that battle.
Only a single ship did not arrive at Copenhagen. No one knew precisely what fate had befallen the Crocodile.
The wind was coming from the wrong direction, just as it needed to be.
Raphael Rimat had a few problems to solve, and twelve sailors and two Kettlers to influence his decisions as captain.
"My lady, Graf." Louise Charlotte chortled at the Captain calling her son that. She realized just as quickly that the shortening of Archegraf was as much a mark of esteem as dry wit for Rimat. "I would welcome your thoughts before I choose our course. Quickly: the wind is still from the southwest. Any path to Bornholm will require tacking between southward and westward sailing. The Swedish ships are downwind of us to the west to begin. We have not spotted the Crocodile since nightfall, so I assume the Swedish fleet and ours are not aware of each other yet."
"My son tells me you intend to draw these ships away from the fleet?"
"Stimmt. But there is another possible problem there. On the one hand, it would be better if our ships knew what we were doing. On the other hand, to get near enough to inform them would risk their discovery by Sweden."
"Martin? You've had opinions on everything. What do you say?"
"Take the chance, manage the risk."
Louise Charlotte gave the captain a profoundly tired look. "I don't take decisions today, Captain. I'll only manage opinions on ones that sound particularly bad. This isn't such a one. I wish you and your crew the best winds and fortune while I attempt a full day of sleep interrupted only by being my baby's milk-cow for want of a wet nurse on board."
Dismissal could hardly be clearer. Martin and the captain left the cabin for the deck. Raphael immediately shouted orders to his first mate: "Starboard tack! Stay close to the wind! Now!"
Then he spoke to Martin, all while watching the crew at work.
"We will sail south in search of the Crocodile, close to the wind. Should we see her, we try to signal her with a semaphore and hope they confirm the signal back to us. We want them to head south and around the south side of Bornholm. We stay close to the wind in hope of staying between the Swedish ships and ours, even if we are a little slower for it."
"You're testing your speed against theirs while close-hauled."
"Stimmt. Once we either have the Crocodile confirm our signal or else abandon the attempt to signal them, it's a port tack. Then your cat-and-mouse game begins."
"The game is... to be the ship that tacks the least?"
"In a nutshell. We want to cross the Swedish line at the greatest possible speed. Once past it, we want to not shipwreck ourselves in Blekinge or Skåne. Any ship that has to tack before we do is one less cat in play. And we will have to tack - if the wind doesn't force us to, the coast eventually will."
"Captain Raphael Rimat duels a Swedish fleet, with the coast of Blekinge and Skåne as his chosen weapon."
"Graf." He paused. "Martin. There is an efficient... starkness to your thinking that would make you a fine captain, in another life if not this one."
"Captain Rimat, Danke. I intend to be many things in this life, so let's just keep us all alive."
- - -
It was harder for Martin to keep his fear at bay when the decisions were made. Influencing the captain's decisions was the only thing he could contribute. When he could no longer contribute, he could only watch events unfold and compare them to the plan. Since speaking about Noah's Ark in Libau, he found others looking at him differently. He was an inspiration, a motivation. Not like his father was. His father had stature, and accomplishments. People were glad to be a part of his plans, because those plans usually made things better for people. Martin had no plans the public knew of. But now they knew he had insight, and vision something like his father's. People were grateful and emboldened by Martin's attention.
On the deck of Courland's Ark, he gave it freely. Sometimes to help, sometimes for something to do.
- - -
The easy part of the plan went well. They turned south on their starboard tack. Rimat chose more speed over sailing closer to the wind, hoping to compensate for the slow acceleration of Courland's Ark. The Swedish ships followed in no great haste, seeming mostly to focus on raising or trimming sails to better have their fleet's speeds match.
The Crocodile was about where they'd hoped, and got close enough to signal with flags as well as frames. (There were also gestures waving the Crocodile off, but there was no agreed way to communicate acknowledgment of those.) The Crocodile tacked to get out of sight as quickly as possible, then headed for the main fleet.
Courland's Ark tacked began its game of cat and mouse with a change of plan. Rimat called for a port tack and sailed north instead of west. It would be a foolish course to maintain for long, as it took them toward Kalmar, precisely where any extra Swedish ships would be coming from to join the hunt. Rimat was testing to be sure they were taking up the chase. In so doing, he was pulling Kalmar's ships away from the Duke's.
The wind held, and they were flying on it. So were Sweden's ships. This was the fastest many aboard had ever sailed, including some on the small crew.
They changed course toward Götland. The wind was now fully astern. Sweden followed. Rimat called to reef the sails a little, slowing them to better help Sweden's slower ships keep pace with its larger ones.
At the next tack, the game began in earnest. Changing course told the Swedes this was not a race to Götland. Heading east toward... Libau, perhaps? Some captains might see a trap in that. Rimat let them consider that, and changed course again, to south-by-southeast.
This was fairly close to the wind, slowing them down. It was the cats' turn to lead the game. Would they match the heading, or sail further from the wind - faster - in an attempt to intercept? Sweden chose both. Two brigantines took the faster line, the other ships - 7 of them, now? - kept paralleling Rimat's course.
As the brigantines drew closer, Rimat called for full sail again, tacked closer to the wind, but managed to maintain speed with the sails no longer reefed. The brigantines split: one went for more speed, farther from the wind, the other stayed closer, gradually slowing. The former crossed behind Courland's Ark, aspirationally firing cannons. The latter kept slowing the closer Rimat went to the wind. In short order, two cats were out of the game. The mouse continued.
The captains of the other Swedish ships now had more of the measure of this strange ship flying Courland's black crayfish on raspberry red. More importantly, they saw that the true race was in the direction of Bornholm after all.
- - -
Rimat was reluctant to let the Swedish ships out of his sight. After holding course southward long enough to be confident the brigantines would not catch him after the next tack, he set course a little north of due west. The wind was now almost directly from the southwest. About every quarter hour, he nudged their course a little toward the northwest, then a little more. He wanted to see his adversaries. He wanted to see whether they'd spread out enough to not repeat the brigantines' mistake. They had.
The Kalmar ships had spread out in a purposeful line from northeast to southwest, tacking in unison to head for Bornholm. They were presently heading a little south of southeast. Still sailing close to the wind, Courland's Ark was not moving at any great speed, but the ZK's poor acceleration was mitigated by avoiding turns altogether. Instead, each northward nudge added a little speed, liminally.
Martin looked at Rimat after one such nudge. "For the feel, Captain?"
Rimat permitted himself a smile, but said nothing. Then changed the pattern. The northward nudges came five minutes apart now. They sailed nearly west-by-northwest, picking up speed. And more speed, as they neared the Swedish line. But, critically, not the front of that line: a big square-rigged galleon.
Rimat waved Martin over. "We could have stayed closer to the wind. We would have met that leading galleon's guns at low speed - she would only need to gently tack to rain shot on us are we passed by. Instead, we cross between the other ships at higher speed."
"Ships with less impressive guns, I assume?" Rimat only nodded.
"Ready cannons!" Two night shift sailors and the two soldiers on board went to the man the mere four cannons Martin hadn't had removed. "Chain shot. Target the lateen sails and rigging. Go! Sailors, ready to change course - we go astern of the second carrack instead of in front of both of them."
Astern of the second carrack meant the biggest gap in the line. As their course changed, only some Swedish ships adjusted, presumably more interested in seeking more Couronian ships in the direction this single annoying ship had distracted them away from. This was bad for Courland, but otherwise better for Courland's Ark.
"If you're not crew, this is where you get below."
- - -
Then came fear.
Fear when you could do something about what you feared is the easiest to handle - you do something, and that focus steadies you. Fear when you could see or hear what you feared was next-best - you give your full attention to it, and that focus steadies you. Fear when you are without agency, influence, or perception of what you fear is to be reduced to nothing but your nerves, awaiting your fate.
Instead of waiting with his mother, his baby brother and his mother's midwife in what would normally be the captain's quarters, Martin joined the other passengers below decks. Some stared blankly at the wood separating them from drowning or cannon shot. Some stared at each other. More stared at Martin.
He found he was counting a beat in his mind, perhaps measuring time or distance. He realized it might help others. He held his hands forward and silently counted numbers on his right knuckles and fingers, as the Gambian Semaphores did.
One, two.... he raised his hands between beats, snapping them downward again on the beat, as though hitting a drum.
Seven, eight, nine... nine was the hardest number; his left hand had to hold his other fingers back while extending only the knuckle of his ring finger.
Twenty-five, twenty-six... his left hand freed his right pinky for twenty-seven.
Sixty-six, sixty-seven... the world was a wooden room, floating above the Baltic, holding anticipation, silence, and the hands of a 14-year-old.
Seventy-nine, eighty. Martin had finished the range of this finger-counting, with all four fingers extended. He held up his right hand, then folded his fingers into a fist.
"If our speed remained steady, we are already within range of their guns."
That thought hung in the air while every mundane sound of a sailboat at sea was amplified into the most terrifying version of itself. Martin slowly resumed finger-counting.
One, two... the sound of not cannons, not firing.
Nineteen, twenty... heartbeats, creaking wood and the silent movements of Martin's hands.
Fifty-four, fifty-five... was a sea grave as quiet as a grave on land?
Sixty-one, sixty-two... human silence from above answered their human silence below deck.
Seventy-nine, eighty. The number sequence completed once more, Martin again raised his hand and made a fist. Anticipation in the room was now a smell.
"We are beyond where the Swedish line was when we started."
Some faces showed confusion. Some showed nothing. If some began to seek eye contact again, was that a flickering symptom of hope?
Again:
One, two....
Ten, eleven...
Forty....
Footsteps, descending. Martin shook his hand to relax it.
"Captain."
"Graf. The Swedish ships let us pass. The captain of a Carrack saluted us for giving them a good chase 'for such a curious vessel' as he put it. They save their powder for our main fleet, should they catch them."
Withheld emotions were no longer withheld. The little wooden room floating above the Baltic erupted in tears, joy, embraces, and the palpable thawing out of human heartbeats.
- - -
Courland's Ark sailed directly for Copenhagen, tacking only to avoid skerries off the Skåne coast.
The Couronian fleet ably fended off a dozen ships pursuing them from Pomerania, but the Kalmar ships did not reach it to threaten it from both sides. All told, only three Couronian lives were lost in that battle.
Only a single ship did not arrive at Copenhagen. No one knew precisely what fate had befallen the Crocodile.
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I'm halfway tempted do take the Dungeons & Dragons approach and roll a d20 a few times to determine which professions the colonies will now get less of.
Looking above, I see all I wrote about the flanking ships was that they were faster ships, better able to sail into the wind, and with more seasoned crew. In my mind, it's entirely reasonable to expect those ships to be more heavily biased toward sailors and away from colonists.
Still, I'll consider the question. We have a correspondence chapter coming up in Copenhagen or Flekkerøy.
The Crocodile was an OTL Couronian ship. Ah, the casualties of alternate history.
52. Copenhagen , November 1655.
Polite Refusals
Dear Frederick William,
We have fled Courland. All members of the family are well in Copenhagen, including your sister and our new son, Ferdinand, born at sea. By the time you read this, we will likely be in Flekkerøy, or Scotland, or beyond. Our castles likely continue to hold in Bauske, Mitau, Goldingen, Libau and Mitau. But everywhere it is surely only a matter of time before the gains of my reign are either lost, or Sweden's.
All the gains save the colonies and the fleet. We lost a single ship at sea only - if you should find the Crocodile limping to sea at Kolberg or elsewhere, please give its crew hospitality.
Frederick III has politely but firmly denied my request to bide my time in Flekkerøy while war ravages Courland and Semigallia. Sweden has Gothenburg to harass Flekkerøy by sea, and Frederick will not refuse them passage through the Øresund lest it become a pretext for Sweden to declare war on Denmark as well. He might fear more that Sweden should bring a land war along the Norway coast. If I truly value neutrality, he said, I must avoid actions or choices that could draw Denmark into war as well. I laughed bitterly at that.
They expect war to come, as I suppose I did. May they be readier for it than I could be.
You should also know that our inheritance agreement was cited as a Swedish reason to attack. If Sweden finds you easier to deal with than me - may you use that to your advantage.
There is so much I have to write, to so many, so I will end here. Send any replies to my embassy in Copenhagen, or else to Flekkerøy.
JAKOB von KETTLER
- - -
Dear Anne Sophie,
While I very much appreciate your enjoyment of my stories of our Baltic crossing, I do not think your father would choose me as your fiancé in Courland's present circumstances. I am young, and you are younger still. I hope you enjoy this small model of one of our ZK boats. May you remember Courland's Ark and me as you see it float.
MARTIN von K
- - -
My lord Charles Ferdinand,
I write as Poland's loyal vassal to inform you that the Duchy of Courland and Semigallia has been invaded by Sweden. The enemy came overland from Riga to Mitau, the enemy came over sea to battle us in the Baltic. As my son and heir Martin might put it, the seed of Courland survives, and so Courlanders, including masters Courland has attracted, trained, or grown, have consented to enrich its colonies (and in so doing, themselves) while we await restitution in our homeland. We are surely not yet overrun, but Courland may be hard-pressed in present circumstances to provide you even the troops promised in our vassalage agreement. For that, I beg your forgiveness. In diplomacy, I hope you shall champion us. In battle, which is surely coming for Poland as well, I hope we shall find ways to supply you in your own time of need.
I shall maintain Flekkerøy as the European end-point of our colonial trade. I do not yet know where I will bide my time myself. But if you should need to get word to me, send it via Flekkerøy, my lord.
JAKOB von KETTLER
post scriptum: my son, born at sea in our flight, bears your middle name. May Ferdinand Kettler have your strength.
Dear Frederick William,
We have fled Courland. All members of the family are well in Copenhagen, including your sister and our new son, Ferdinand, born at sea. By the time you read this, we will likely be in Flekkerøy, or Scotland, or beyond. Our castles likely continue to hold in Bauske, Mitau, Goldingen, Libau and Mitau. But everywhere it is surely only a matter of time before the gains of my reign are either lost, or Sweden's.
All the gains save the colonies and the fleet. We lost a single ship at sea only - if you should find the Crocodile limping to sea at Kolberg or elsewhere, please give its crew hospitality.
Frederick III has politely but firmly denied my request to bide my time in Flekkerøy while war ravages Courland and Semigallia. Sweden has Gothenburg to harass Flekkerøy by sea, and Frederick will not refuse them passage through the Øresund lest it become a pretext for Sweden to declare war on Denmark as well. He might fear more that Sweden should bring a land war along the Norway coast. If I truly value neutrality, he said, I must avoid actions or choices that could draw Denmark into war as well. I laughed bitterly at that.
They expect war to come, as I suppose I did. May they be readier for it than I could be.
You should also know that our inheritance agreement was cited as a Swedish reason to attack. If Sweden finds you easier to deal with than me - may you use that to your advantage.
There is so much I have to write, to so many, so I will end here. Send any replies to my embassy in Copenhagen, or else to Flekkerøy.
JAKOB von KETTLER
- - -
Dear Anne Sophie,
While I very much appreciate your enjoyment of my stories of our Baltic crossing, I do not think your father would choose me as your fiancé in Courland's present circumstances. I am young, and you are younger still. I hope you enjoy this small model of one of our ZK boats. May you remember Courland's Ark and me as you see it float.
MARTIN von K
- - -
My lord Charles Ferdinand,
I write as Poland's loyal vassal to inform you that the Duchy of Courland and Semigallia has been invaded by Sweden. The enemy came overland from Riga to Mitau, the enemy came over sea to battle us in the Baltic. As my son and heir Martin might put it, the seed of Courland survives, and so Courlanders, including masters Courland has attracted, trained, or grown, have consented to enrich its colonies (and in so doing, themselves) while we await restitution in our homeland. We are surely not yet overrun, but Courland may be hard-pressed in present circumstances to provide you even the troops promised in our vassalage agreement. For that, I beg your forgiveness. In diplomacy, I hope you shall champion us. In battle, which is surely coming for Poland as well, I hope we shall find ways to supply you in your own time of need.
I shall maintain Flekkerøy as the European end-point of our colonial trade. I do not yet know where I will bide my time myself. But if you should need to get word to me, send it via Flekkerøy, my lord.
JAKOB von KETTLER
post scriptum: my son, born at sea in our flight, bears your middle name. May Ferdinand Kettler have your strength.
Indeed! I have been managing to keep up even if not to comment, and am still feeling a bit of whiplash: at first this timeline was growing like a garden, now it's sailing like one of those newfangled ZK ships in a stiff breeze. And it's clearly not over yet.
This is a marvelous timeline, thank you so much for writing it.
53. Edinburgh, November 1655.
Matchmaking and Gardening
"Jakob, you have been so farsighted in so many ways. You've said since I've known you that the nobles' resistance could lead to the duchy falling too easily to an invader. How did your farsightedness not look to what might come after?"
The only farsightedness Jakob might lay claim to at the moment was the literal distance he could see from atop Arthur's Seat, up which he, Louise Charlotte and their elder three children had taken a hike. They were accompanied by numerous attendants, so many of whom considered this their last opportunity for a long walk for a while. Baby Ferdinand was with his wet nurse, the remainder of his siblings, and attendants of their own.
Jakob sighed. "Louise, I am guilty of looking more toward the futures I was trying to draw us toward, and not enough toward the futures it was my duty to prevent. I have failed so many of my subjects."
"Don't claim alone a failure whose blame is shared with others." Jakob only shook his head, staring out to the northeast. However beautiful the Scottish landscape, he had eyes only for the sea. "It is time you cast your thoughts in new directions, my Duke."
"Oh?" His attention stopped drifting at her decisive tone. Louise Charlotte had both a talent and, in her view, a responsibility to draw out the best of her husband's vision and planning. "Charles Stuart advises you not to wait out your war in Scotland while his own is unresolved here. Frederick the third of Oldenburg refuses to let you bide your time in Flekkerøy, though your lease remains otherwise welcome. Sweden has made staying in the Baltic unsafe. All this is clear to you already, you've been wondering what makes an existing safe place. I ask instead, how can you make a new place safe?"
"Hastily marrying Martin to the daughter of a prince with a large army and a good port? Perhaps pledging Louise Elizabeth's hand to the same prince's son?"
She swatted him, playfully. "I was intending a serious conversation with you, but I'll happily play this game for a moment if it lightens your mood. All right. Let's start down this very hill. How do you like the sound of Henrietta Kettler, née Stuart, Duchess of Courland and Semigallia and Princess of the British Isles?"
"I advised her father against making matches too young, once. I'd be a hypocrite to request the opposite now. Still, a better match than Anne Sophie, née Oldenburg."
"Save that little Anne Sophie broached that match to Martin already. She'll probably have a little Martin Kettler doll in her doll house after our stay in Copenhagen."
"Are there teenaged Radziwiłłs of the right age?"
"Which branch?"
"Wait, never mind. You said you needed a port."
"If their army can come down to defend us, we could keep Libau going as our port."
"Fine. But... the Radziwiłłs of influence have no children of suitable age, and any with children and without influence wouldn't help our cause. Oh! I have one. Maria of Orange!"
"Maria... she's what, thirteen? Good Calvinist stock. Fine ports. Worthy alliance. Well worth a letter or an ambassadorial visit to ask."
"Gah!" - she swatted him, playfully - "the moment you treat such a game seriously, it stops being fun."
"My darling wife, you did lighten my spirits with it, and I thank you for it."
"My dear husband, I'm afraid the game had a point to it. There is no place better than any other for biding your time in exile from Courland. Don't make yourself miserable by staying as near as possible to what you've lost, when letters and emissaries are all you have to reach it. Letters and emissaries can be sent equally well from Visby, or from Amsterdam, or beyond."
"A thought like that ends in a proposal. Out with it."
"Odd of you to put it like that, as it relates of a proposal you made to me, and my parents, so long ago."
With the Scottish lowlands and the North Sea extending beautifully all around from their high vantage point, Jakob's gaze took in nothing so much as his wife's lively face, still lovely at 38 years old.
"You promised me gardens on three continents, my lord. I never thought I'd see or personally tend to any but the European ones, if I'm honest. But perhaps it's time you took me to see the others."
"Jakob, you have been so farsighted in so many ways. You've said since I've known you that the nobles' resistance could lead to the duchy falling too easily to an invader. How did your farsightedness not look to what might come after?"
The only farsightedness Jakob might lay claim to at the moment was the literal distance he could see from atop Arthur's Seat, up which he, Louise Charlotte and their elder three children had taken a hike. They were accompanied by numerous attendants, so many of whom considered this their last opportunity for a long walk for a while. Baby Ferdinand was with his wet nurse, the remainder of his siblings, and attendants of their own.
Jakob sighed. "Louise, I am guilty of looking more toward the futures I was trying to draw us toward, and not enough toward the futures it was my duty to prevent. I have failed so many of my subjects."
"Don't claim alone a failure whose blame is shared with others." Jakob only shook his head, staring out to the northeast. However beautiful the Scottish landscape, he had eyes only for the sea. "It is time you cast your thoughts in new directions, my Duke."
"Oh?" His attention stopped drifting at her decisive tone. Louise Charlotte had both a talent and, in her view, a responsibility to draw out the best of her husband's vision and planning. "Charles Stuart advises you not to wait out your war in Scotland while his own is unresolved here. Frederick the third of Oldenburg refuses to let you bide your time in Flekkerøy, though your lease remains otherwise welcome. Sweden has made staying in the Baltic unsafe. All this is clear to you already, you've been wondering what makes an existing safe place. I ask instead, how can you make a new place safe?"
"Hastily marrying Martin to the daughter of a prince with a large army and a good port? Perhaps pledging Louise Elizabeth's hand to the same prince's son?"
She swatted him, playfully. "I was intending a serious conversation with you, but I'll happily play this game for a moment if it lightens your mood. All right. Let's start down this very hill. How do you like the sound of Henrietta Kettler, née Stuart, Duchess of Courland and Semigallia and Princess of the British Isles?"
"I advised her father against making matches too young, once. I'd be a hypocrite to request the opposite now. Still, a better match than Anne Sophie, née Oldenburg."
"Save that little Anne Sophie broached that match to Martin already. She'll probably have a little Martin Kettler doll in her doll house after our stay in Copenhagen."
"Are there teenaged Radziwiłłs of the right age?"
"Which branch?"
"Wait, never mind. You said you needed a port."
"If their army can come down to defend us, we could keep Libau going as our port."
"Fine. But... the Radziwiłłs of influence have no children of suitable age, and any with children and without influence wouldn't help our cause. Oh! I have one. Maria of Orange!"
"Maria... she's what, thirteen? Good Calvinist stock. Fine ports. Worthy alliance. Well worth a letter or an ambassadorial visit to ask."
"Gah!" - she swatted him, playfully - "the moment you treat such a game seriously, it stops being fun."
"My darling wife, you did lighten my spirits with it, and I thank you for it."
"My dear husband, I'm afraid the game had a point to it. There is no place better than any other for biding your time in exile from Courland. Don't make yourself miserable by staying as near as possible to what you've lost, when letters and emissaries are all you have to reach it. Letters and emissaries can be sent equally well from Visby, or from Amsterdam, or beyond."
"A thought like that ends in a proposal. Out with it."
"Odd of you to put it like that, as it relates of a proposal you made to me, and my parents, so long ago."
With the Scottish lowlands and the North Sea extending beautifully all around from their high vantage point, Jakob's gaze took in nothing so much as his wife's lively face, still lovely at 38 years old.
"You promised me gardens on three continents, my lord. I never thought I'd see or personally tend to any but the European ones, if I'm honest. But perhaps it's time you took me to see the others."
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If so, that feels appropriate to me. If the reader feels whiplash, I've done my job to help them feel what the characters in the story are feeling.
....which I'm afraid I'm going to echo by delaying some of the Baltic storytelling for a bit. We will find out what's happening in Semigallia only nearer when "the exiles" do. I swear, there are about four small future episodes in this timeline that I see the broad strokes of as clearly as day. Two I'm impatient to tell, but they're too far off to do so, the other two could have been written last week, but it felt wrong to do so.
Thank you.
This feels as good a time as any to more publicly thank @Talus I of Dixie for nominating The Dukes of Fernau, for now for the 2024 Turtledoves (I already did so privately). I'm grateful be nominated and even more grateful to not finish dead last in the poll. In my mind, for having taken so long to set up the truly divergent part of the story, which we're only getting to now, would make this timeline a little less deserving of votes than I sincerely hope it will be a year from now. By then, there will be rather more payoff for all the investments in making our alt-Courland viable, investments you
How many months and chapters this tale will need as I eagerly add to what I've been learning about 17th century Africa and transmogrify it into story, I don't know. I suppose it depends on what episodes demand more of my attention and time.
I am so glad you're all here.