Like Clockwork © Steven R. Southard Rotterdam : early August, 1653
“Admiral Tromp, distinguished guests, ladies, and gentlemen, I know how to break the English blockade.” Basking in the excited murmur he had caused, he looked out at the gathering of people lining the pier, a mix of sailors and townspeople. While he would have preferred to astonish them with a lengthy description, the storm clouds massing to the west forced him to keep things short.
Admiral Tromp stroked his chin as a breeze stirred his gray hair. “Ram, you say? What sort of ram?”
De Son untied the after mooring line and tossed it to the pier. Loosening the forward line, he called down through the open hatch, “Release the paddlewheel brake! Ahead half speed!” He grasped the steer-board linkage and gazed forward as if he already glimpsed a squadron of English warships on that bearing.
“I'd rename it the Rotterdam Pier .” “The French should stick to wine, and leave ships to us Dutch!” Several people started to walk away, but not before one of them spit on the craft, and two others thumbed their noses at de Son. He noted with special dismay that the woman who'd drawn his attention numbered among those now departing. “It's just a temporary difficulty,” de Son shouted, inwardly praying for a miracle. “My men will get the boat going in a moment.” He could not understand what had gone wrong, after they had tested the paddlewheel with such success. But he knew that somehow the boatyard workers had blundered, and it would cost him a fortune.
### “Away with you, whoever you are!” The knocking on his door began anew. Michel De Son grumbled and brought the candlestick with him as he struggled through a drunken fog to answer the door. Who could it be this far into the night ? Who even knows that I'm staying at this inn ? he wondered. Cracking open the door, he peered into the hallway. “Mr. Cuijpers?” One of the men from the boatyard that had helped build his vessel, the brawny Dutchman appeared ghostly in the flickering candlelight. His drooping shoulders and baggy eyes suggested extreme fatigue, but he flashed a wide smile upon seeing de Son. “I've already paid you, Cuijpers.” The shipwright shook his head. “I'm not here for money, sir. I bring news.” “Not at this time of the night. See me in the morning.” De Son started to shut the door. “My news cannot wait until the morrow.” Cuijpers pushed the door one inch toward open. “We mended your boat.” De Son again pushed against the door. “I don't have time for jests, either.” Especially those that remind me of my most embarrassing failure. The Dutchman countered the push and widened the gap.
De Son eyed the man's face through the door crack. Cuijpers' eyes blazed with an inner intensity that shone through his evident exhaustion. “Even if you did so, it's too late. Since the Navy has sailed, there are no authorities to demonstrate the boat to. In any case, the boatyard will disassemble her in the morning, under orders from Admiral Tromp.” “Ja, I know this, sir. That is why you must come with me to the boatyard tonight.” De Son snorted. “Are you mad? I'll not go down to the boatyard in the middle of the night! There's no purpose in that.” Moreover, I'm so drunk I can barely stand , he thought, shoving with his shoulder against the door. Cuijpers wedged his boot in the gap, and frowned. “I do not understand you, sir. I tell you that your boat is ready for action against the British, and you won't come to see it?” De Son eased off his pressure on the door, since Cuijpers seemed both stronger and more sober. As the Frenchman backed into the room his foot bumped into some empty bottles, sending them rolling. “Come in, come in, Cuijpers.” He sighed and gave a welcoming gesture. “Allow me to explain. Your Navy paid me to build one boat. On the day that boat needed to work, it couldn't even leave the pier. They're not going to pay us to build more. Do you not understand that?” Cuijpers remained in the doorway. His eyes could not have missed the wine bottles on the floor, along with the tied sacks of de Son's belongings, lined up and ready for his intended departure the next morning. “All that's needed is one working boat, sir, and we have that. With that one we can sink a hundred English ships a day. You said so.” De Son laughed. “I said that to make the Admiral want to buy more boats. A hundred ships...” he laughed again with his head tilted back, and had to grab a bedpost to steady himself. At last he sat on the bed to settle the dizziness in his head. The earnest intensity vanished from Cuijpers' eyes, replaced by a weary disappointment. “I suppose you lied, also, about hating the British as much as we Dutch do.” “Why should I hate the British? They've done nothing to me. After all, this isn't my war. If the Britons paid me, I'd sell my boat to them .” He swept his hand to indicate the sacks on the floor. “When I leave tomorrow, I may even head for England .” Cuijpers bared his teeth and curled his lips downward in a sneer. Both hands started to clench slowly into fists, sending tense ripples up the muscles of his arms. “My brother Goswijn died fighting at the Battle of Portland. My family starves while the British blockade keeps food from getting through. Three months ago, I heard of a man with an answer--a miraculous boat that could sink the English galleons. He will save us, I thought. And I could build it for him.” His eyes bored into de Son's skull. “Now I find that you care nothing for us, so long as you can count the gulden in your purse.” He took a step into the room. Backing onto the bed, de Son said, “I'm sorry about your brother, Cuijpers. Perhaps the boat works now, as you said. But I'm an engineer and you're a shipwright. What more can we do? There is no crew to operate the boat.”
###
They entered the boatyard and came to the pier, the site of de Son's debacle nearly a week before. There floated the Rotterdam Boat, visible only as a dark, wooden mound in the moonlit waters. The flat upper platform, only two feet above the water's surface, lay shorn of all previous embellishments. “What have you done, Cuijpers?” De Son saw many changes as he leapt aboard. “Where are the railing, mast, and flag?” “We removed them. Out in the rough waters of the North Sea , you'll not want to steer while standing on top, shouting down orders though an open hatch. As for the flag, I suppose the English will find out soon enough whose side we're on.” “Very well,” De Son could understand the wisdom of these modifications. “What is this?” He pointed to a box-shaped protuberance jutting from the craft's centerline, at the forward end of the platform. It contained a glass disk in each vertical face, and rose almost to the height of de Son's knees. “That is-—I'll explain it when we get below,” Cuijpers said. “And the paddlewheels must be inside these,” de Son pointed to two bulging wooden enclosures on each side at the amidships point. “Ja. Twice as many paddles biting the water. Rademaaker added those,” Cuijpers said. “But the biggest changes are below. After you, sir.” The Dutchman gestured to the hatch. De Son opened the rectangular hatch, noting that it stuck slightly, and went down the ladder. With the central paddlewheel removed, along with its enclosure, he expected plenty of open space. Instead, lit by bulkhead-mounted candles, the boat's interior contained a maze of large, spiral clockwork springs, ratchets, linkages, and operating levers. These filled most of the available space, leaving meager room for the crew. De Son felt like he had entered a large clock. “We added some springs,” Cuijpers said, as he descended the ladder to stand beside de Son. “Thirteen more than the original two. Lüscher did all that work himself. He was an apprentice clockmaker in Switzerland before coming to work at our boatyard.” He smiled, and his voice held more than a tinge of pride. De Son shook his head. “Where did you find all the metal? And wood? How did you pay for it all?” “It's a shame, really,” the Dutchman winked, “what they leave laying around in boatyards at night. Oh, here's where the Captain--you, sir--are to stand.” He pointed to a wooden box. De Son stepped up and found that his head fit into the protuberance he'd seen topside. He could look through the round, glass windows ahead, astern, and to either side. Through them, he saw the moon-lit pier area and glass-smooth river. He ducked his head back inside the boat. “We moved the steer-board control handle inside, too,” Cuijpers said. “It's there on your right, and the brake for the wheels is on your left.” In the dim light, de Son detected motion. Another man stood near one of the forward mainspring levers, wiping sleep from his eyes. De Son looked about, and saw, around the edges of the clockwork mechanisms, four more workers. A couple of them yawned. He recognized them as shipwrights who had helped build the boat, but did not recall their names. “Rademaaker, Bezuidenhout, Lüscher, Salgado, and mac Fearghuis await your orders, sir,” Cuijpers said. De Son guessed from the sounds of their names that the latter three had immigrated from Switzerland , Portugal , and Ireland , respectively. He had grown accustomed to the international flavor of Dutch society. The booming Netherlands economy had attracted many foreign workers, but now under the crushing English blockade immigrants suffered alongside Dutch-born citizens. He looked in the crewmen's faces and saw drooping eyelids and visible bags beneath their eyes. These men are exhausted , he realized, working on his boat at night, then at their jobs during the day, each day for almost a week. “Thank you, men,” he said, stepping down from his pedestal to their level on the deck. “I owe you more than I can say for your efforts to make the Rotterdam Boat work. You need rest, and you shall get it soon. But first, let us test out this Sea Thunderbolt and get it away from this pier. Otherwise, they will dismantle her in the morning.” De Son checked that the springs appeared to be wound tight. “Cuijpers, cast off the mooring lines.” “At once, sir,” the Dutchman climbed the ladder. De Son waited until Cuijpers returned, then mounted his pedestal. “I'm releasing the paddlewheel brake.” He gripped the lever on his left and eased it forward. The power of fifteen wound springs, each the diameter of a man's height, conveyed by chains and gears to a central transverse shaft, caused the shaft to turn. A churning, sloshing sound reached them from outside the vessel, evidence that the paddlewheels rotated freely. The Rotterdam Boat slid forward, and de Son adjusted the steer-board to guide it out into the river. “It works,” he whispered. Then he shouted out, “It really works!” The energy of the spiral springs seemed to flow through him. All vestiges of drunkenness now gone, he felt powerful, invincible, as his creation paddled into the Waal River . He heard the creaking of levers and the clicking of ratchets as the men kept the springs wound tight. In the craft's design, de Son had also arranged a means of shifting the connections between springs and shaft so that the paddlewheels could move the boat backward as well as forward. Under de Son's direction, his crew tested this operation and found it required almost a minute to engage the reversing gear, and the same amount of time to shift back. Through the viewing ports, he saw they had attained a position downstream of the town and off toward the river's right bank. Here they would be out of the path of any ships that might traverse the Waal during the night. “Relax, men. I'm engaging the brake. Cuijpers, drop the anchor.” He looked over his worn out crew, who gathered near him. “I can ask no more of you tonight. The Rotterdam Boat has passed its testing. I shall be pleased and honored to serve as your Captain.” He looked at Cuijpers, who managed a smile. “Now, let us rest until dawn.” ### De Son let the men sleep until mid-morning, though he burned with excitement and anticipation, and had barely rested himself. He knew they must travel several miles downstream on the northwest-flowing river before reaching the delta where it emptied into the North Sea . Once there, he hoped to seek out and engage the enemy. After they had breakfasted on buttered bread and apples and passed a wooden cup of jenever around, de Son spoke to them. “Thanks to all of you, we have a working vessel. But now we must push her to her utmost. Out in the North Sea , two fleets are massing, maneuvering for position, preparing for battle. Admiral Tromp's brave squadron of ships will attempt to pierce the line and defeat the blockade created by the Royal British Navy. I think it's time to end English domination of the seas. I think it's time for someone to bloody a few British noses.” His accustomed enthusiasm returned, tempered by a hard-learned realism. “I think Admiral Tromp, and all Dutch people, would rejoice if some of these blockading ships got sent to the bottom. I think eternal glory awaits whomever can smash that wall.” He glanced at Cuijpers, who nodded. “And finally, I think we're the ones to do it. Do you agree with me?” “Ja!” all of them shouted. He smiled and cupped a hand behind his ear. “What was that?” “Ja!” they shouted louder, and the syllable resounded within the narrow, wooden confines of the Rotterdam Boat. De Son smiled. “Then let's get underway. Man your posts. Weigh anchor, Cuijpers.” Soon the Rotterdam Boat sped along once more to the chuff-chuff-chuff sound of the paddlewheels. De Son steered downstream, encountering only a few fishing boats-—evidence of the blockade's strangulation of trade. On occasion, small craft would come near, the fishermen evidently curious about the strange, low, moving mound of wood. De Son evaded them all with a velocity none could match. Hours went by. They passed the mouths of many tributary streams and cruised past several peaceful villages, walled by dikes against the temperamental river. In the distance on each shore, windmills turned in the steady breeze. De Son alternated the men on breaks, to relieve them of the constant strain of working the levers that rewound the springs. They practiced mock attacks, moving for short bursts at the maximum speed, then reversing direction to back away from the imagined British warship they had just “smashed” with the ram. The waves grew higher and more chaotic around noon as they approached the river's mouth, where the Waal discharges into the North Sea . Ahead lay a vast expanse of agitated water; white-capped breakers advanced in a timeless rhythm to crash upon the rocky coast. Cuijpers reached up and shut the hatch as one wave sent a few gallons in, dousing out a candle. He approached the pedestal where de Son stood. “The North Sea ?” he asked. “Yes.” “Sir, if the rumors be true, Admiral Tromp's fleet was bound for Texel Island to join Admiral de With's forces. So I'd recommend turning right, Captain, and keeping the coast in sight, but not too close.” De Son nodded, operated the steer-board, and brought the vessel around to the right. The going became rougher as the vessel rolled in the troughs and crests, surging and stalling as it fought, then yielded, to the oscillating sea. In the rear of the boat, Rademaaker became sick, his vomit mixing with the bilge water that sloshed back and forth. The burly Dutchman shook it off and bent to his task, pushing his lever to wind the coiled springs. After two hours, de Son caught himself dozing, and upon waking heard the other men gasping for breath. The candles' flames had shrunk and some had gone out. He struggled to focus his mind, which seemed to function at a crawl, thought by thought. How wonderful it would be to sleep , he mused. No, something is wrong. What? I could just lie down and shut my eyes for a moment. No, there's something we need, something I must do. Something about air. He heard Salgado collapse to the deck. It's the air. Stale air inside. Fresh air outside. There's something I can do. Something about the hatch . He stepped off his pedestal and stared at the hatch. He looked down and saw Isaack Cuijpers lying on the deck, bilge water washing over him. Lüscher lay beside him, unconscious, but wheezing. They're all asleep. I should sleep too. No, the hatch. First, open the hatch. Then sleep. He pushed up on the wooden square, but it did not move. He tried again with as much force as he could muster, and it gave way, flying up and open on its hinges. Wind blasted in, followed by a column of water. Energized by the fresh air and bracing chill of the seawater, de Son turned the boat to a temporary heading with the current where they could leave the hatch open without taking on water. He woke the crew and put them to work bailing water and relighting candles, then had them resume their labors. Isaack Cuijpers stood beside de Son and spoke in his ear. “You're truly a Captain now, sir. You saved us all. And that's worth something, Ja?” Something more than mere money, he means . “Yes, Cuijpers. It's worth something.” Even so, de Son felt like he had acted without thinking at all, not at all indicative of a commanding leader. “From now on, I shall refresh the air every hour or so.”
###
Awakening to the sound of cannon fire, de Son scrambled to the platform and gazed about. A large crowd of people lined the shore, but not to gawk at the strange Rotterdam Boat anchored nearby. They pointed out to sea, where two vast armadas clashed. Above thick clouds of smoke rose rectangular white sails, moving in complex formations, while red flashes of cannon blasts appeared through the haze. Offset by distance, the booms sounded at frequent intervals. Cuijpers joined de Son, as did the remainder of the crew. “Scheveningen. This is my home, Scheveningen,” de Son heard Bezuidenhout say, looking at the village.
“It is our time at last, men,” Captain de Son said, glad that they did not have to go all the way to Texel Island after all. “Let's go sink some English ships.” Within minutes they left the inlet and entered the rough surf of the North Sea . De Son steered for the center of the battle. As they neared the fray, he could see more details through the glass view-ports. The smaller galleons, those flying orange, white, and blue flags, seemed scattered and in disarray. Some drifted, their masts dragging or missing. One sank while he watched. The larger ships bearing the union jack moved and fired with precision, more often attaining the superior position from which to launch broadside attacks. De Son picked out one enemy ship, sails loose, almost stationary. She had apparently slowed to engage a Dutch ship on the side opposite from de Son. An easy target , he thought. Ducking his head so he could see some of his crew, he shouted, “We shall now attack our first British ship. I am releasing the brake all the way. Ramming speed! Push those levers, men! Push for the Netherlands !” Enjoying their cheers, Captain de Son moved the brake lever back. The Rotterdam Boat surged through the sea. The crew struggled to keep the springs wound, and the shaft spun the wheels more rapidly than ever before. Mine is the fastest boat in all the world, de Son thought. He aimed for a point just forward of the target, leading it a little. As they neared, the huge galleon seemed to loom over them. What am I doing? Our craft is a mere mullet assaulting a whale . De Son shook off the spasm of fear and adjusted the steer-board. He wished then that he had left plans for the Fulmen Maris design with some trusted person ashore, in case... He saw crewmen at the ship's gunwales reacting to his presence. They pointed; they aimed their rifles. Too late. The Sea Thunderbolt struck the galleon just aft of amidships in a jarring collision. The diminutive Rotterdam Boat pitched downward and came to a sudden stop, sending everyone aboard sprawling. Captain de Son sprang to his feet first. “Cuijpers, engage the reversing gear!” De Son took the time to duck down and peer around his craft's interior. The husky Dutchman toiled despite a bright red cut on his scalp. Lüscher lay on the deck, not moving. As soon as we're clear, I'll tend to the men , de Son thought. He peered through the view-port as his craft backed away from the target. The galleon floated stationary, her sails limp, and her hull leaning toward him. It appeared slightly lower in the water than before.
|