Chapter 22
Government House
Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe
“Have a seat,” said Mike Stearns, gesturing toward the large couch in what the prime minister of the USE liked to call his “chat room.” He’d found that for some purposes—and he judged this to be one of them—having a conversation in a more intimate setting had better results than meeting people in his office. All the more so since he’d had his office decorated with portraits which, whatever their justification in political terms, would be viewed askance by his two current visitors.
Mike McCarthy and Mike McCarthy, Jr. had known Mike Stearns since he was born. The elder McCarthy had been a coal miner who’d retired just before the Ring of Fire and had then volunteered to come back to work to help get the town’s coal mine up and running again. Born in 1935, he was old enough to remember once-obsolete ways of mining coal which were getting a new lease on life under the changed conditions.
He’d voted for Mike Stearns when he ran for president of their local United Mineworkers union. And while Mike hadn’t had as much contact with McCarthy, Jr., he wasn’t that much different from his father. Neither McCarthy was likely to consider a portrait depicting Mike as a seventeenth-century courtier attending on his monarch with a sword belted to his waist as anything other than ridiculous.
No, better to meet with them in the chat room, which had landscapes on the walls rather than portraits and whose couch and armchairs were down-time replicas of up-time furniture. They were more comfortable than the chairs in his office, even leaving aside the one whose front legs were cut slightly shorter so as to make sitting in it something of a strain. Mike had that one brought out whenever he had to entertain a guest he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible.
The two McCarthys looked at the couch he’d indicated, and then at the two men already in the room. One of them was sitting in one of the armchairs; the other was watering down a glass of wine at a side table. Both of them were wearing clothing which, though not precisely uniforms, clearly marked them as professional soldiers. Officers, judging from the quality of the fabric.
“This is something of a private matter, Mike,” said the younger McCarthy.
“Yeah, I figured as much. But if the subject’s what I think it is, you’ll want both of these fellows to sit in.” Stearns nodded toward the man sitting in the armchair. “He’s Anthony Leebrick, formerly a captain in the English army. The Irish fellow making himself a drink is Patrick Welch, also a former officer in the English army. I might mention that since their escape from England—they were falsely accused of plotting to assassinate King Charles—they’ve both accepted commissions in the army of the United States of Europe.”
“Oh.” The two McCarthys glanced at each other. The elder of them cleared his throat. “So you would have met Darryl McCarthy, who’s my son”—he hooked a thumb at McCarthy, Jr.—“and his half-brother. And the—ah—”
“Other guy,” furnished McCarthy, Jr.
Patrick Welch smiled. “Cromwell, you mean.”
“Yeah. Him.”
Welch held up his glass. “Would you care for one? Or perhaps something stronger?”
“I’ve got whiskey,” Stearns said. “I’m afraid none of it’s Irish, though. I drank my last bottle of Jameson’s a couple of years ago.”
The older of the McCarthys headed for the side table. “A shot of whiskey’d probably do me good. Under the circumstances. You want one, son?”
“No, thanks,” said the younger McCarthy. He sat down on the couch and looked at Welch. “Irish, are you?”
“Indeed.” There followed a stream of words in what Stearns presumed to be Gaelic.
McCarthy looked discomfited. “Sorry, I don’t know more than a few words in your—our—language, and I didn’t really catch much of that.”
Having poured himself a half-glass of whiskey, his father turned away from the side table. “What he said—I think—is that he was born and raised in Leinster near Dublin, but has lived most of his life outside of Ireland.”
As he lowered himself onto the couch next to his son, he gave Welch an apologetic look. “Sorry. Your accent’s not what I’m accustomed to when it comes to Gaelic.”
Leebrick spoke, for the first time since they’d entered the room. “In answer to your question, we spent quite a bit of time in the company of your son Darryl and Oliver Cromwell in the course of our escape from the island. About two months. We parted company at Newcastle. We sailed to the Continent, bringing Cromwell’s children with us, and your son and the rest of the party went on to Edinburgh. I presume they’re still there although I can’t say for sure.”
McCarthy Senior took a deep breath. “Oliver Cromwell’s kids. In Grantville, now, staying with the Masons. We heard.”
The tone of his voice added the commentary, what the hell is the world coming to? Mike Stearns had to struggle not to laugh out loud. He couldn’t keep from grinning, though.
Seeing the expression on his face, the elder McCarthy scowled. “Dammit, Mike, it’s not funny. For Pete’s sake, we’re talking about Oliver Cromwell.”
“Actually, we were talking about Cromwell’s kids. The oldest of whom—his name’s Robert, by the way—is fourteen. The youngest kid’s name is Henry. He’s five.”
His voice lost all traces of humor. “You want us to string ’em up, or will you settle for having them tossed in jail?”
“Dammit, Mike…”
“Dammit, what?” Stearns gave McCarthy a look that fell just short of being a glare. “Let’s cut to the chase. I assume the reason you wanted this get-together is because you’re twitchy as all hell over your son hanging out with—how’s Cromwell reckoned by you folks? Ireland’s worst devil? Second worst?”
McCarthy Jr. smiled, a bit crookedly. “It depends who you talk to. Me, I never figured Cromwell ranked higher than third worst devil. Which is still way up there.”
“You have to do something about it, Mike,” said the senior McCarthy.
“And just what do you propose I do? I have no contact with any of the people in Scotland except intermittently by radio. And while you could make a case that Darryl is under my authority, since he’s still officially being paid as a soldier even if he hasn’t collected that pay for a year or so, I have no authority over Cromwell whatsoever.”
He ran fingers through his hair in a gesture that mirrored the exasperation in his expression and his tone of voice. “Assume for the moment that I gave Darryl the order to break off all contact with Cromwell, and assume that Darryl obeyed the order. Is that really what you want?”
By now, Welch had taken a seat in an armchair. “I liked the fellow,” he said. “Cromwell, I mean. For whatever this Irishman’s opinion is worth.”
“So did I,” said Leebrick. “Granted, I’m English myself.”
The older McCarthy now scowled at Leebrick and Welch. Who, for their part, bore up under the burden quite well. Leebrick shrugged. Welch satisfied himself with draining half his glass of watered-down wine.
Getting no satisfaction there, McCarthy transferred the scowl to Mike Stearns. Who scowled right back at him.
“Grow up,” he said. “Unless he gets killed, Oliver Cromwell is a political fact of life. Keep in mind, though, that the Cromwell we’re dealing with is a man in his mid-thirties, not the man in another universe who led the invasion of Ireland in his fifties. A man in his mid-thirties, moreover, who’s probably going to marry an American woman and one of whose close associates is an American of Irish descent. Unless you’ve abandoned Catholicism and taken up with Calvinists, you don’t hold with predestination.”
He glanced at the younger McCarthy, who held up both hands in a gesture signifying hey, don’t look at me. As Mike Stearns had suspected, this was mostly the older McCarthy’s doing. Everybody in the McCarthy clan was an Irish nationalist, but only the patriarch was really obsessed with the issue.
He looked back at the father. “Mike, you have no idea where Cromwell’s going to wind up, or what he’ll wind up doing, in this universe. So like I said, grow up. If Darryl’s got enough sense to realize he’d do better to try to shape Cromwell, why can’t you? Who are supposed to be the older and wiser head, not that you’re displaying any evidence of it at the moment.”
There was silence in the room for about thirty seconds. Then the older McCarthy got to his feet. “I guess you’re right. Not that I like it any. Thanks for giving us some of your time. I know you’re busy.” His son rose also, but didn’t say anything.
After they left, Mike turned toward the two British officers. “And what do you think?”
Welch shrugged. “I’m not one of the godly, and I’ve never thought predestination made a lot of sense. But I doubt if any Calvinist in the world, except the most doctrinaire, is all that sure about predestination any longer. In their hearts, whatever they may say in public. The Ring of Fire pretty well knocked that apple cart over, I’d say.”
Leebrick chuckled. “Like all Irishmen, he’s ever the optimist. I am quite sure the world is still full of Calvinists who are certain that whatever is to be is foreordained. But I don’t think Oliver Cromwell is in their number any longer, if he ever was. Or at least—he’s a very smart man, don’t think he isn’t—he figures that God’s plans aren’t fathomable by men, including the divines.”
“Especially the divines,” said Welch.
After they returned to Grantville, the two McCarthys began the long walk from the train station to their house, which was located some distance outside the limits of Grantville—although not as much of a distance as it had been before the Ring of Fire. The town had grown a lot over the last three years.
When they reached one of the last intersections before passing into the countryside, McCarthy Senior stopped abruptly.
“Tired, Dad?” asked his son. “We can rest a bit.”
The elder McCarthy didn’t seem to hear him. He was peering down the street they’d reached.
After a moment, his son understood the meaning of that intent gaze.
“I’m not sure…”
“C’mon, let’s go. I need to—I don’t know. See it, I guess.”
He began walking down the street, heading toward a green and white house some distance away. As they approached, they could hear the squealing sounds of young children playing in the back yard.
“Dad…” said Mike, Jr., sounding very uncertain.
The front door of the house opened and a woman came out. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties and had a very determined expression on her face. She came down the steps to the house and strode over to the low gate leading into the front yard. By then, the two McCarthys were within ten feet of her.
“Is there going to be a problem?” she asked.
Mike Junior shook his head. “No, Vickie. We—ah—my dad…”
Vickie Mason looked at the elder of the pair. “For Christ’s sake, Mike, they’re just kids. I already checked ’em to see if there were any horns, hooves or tails. Didn’t find a one.”
Mike Senior grimaced. “Yeah, sure.” He looked around, as if searching for something unseen. Then, sighed.
“I guess we’ll be going.” He started to turn away.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Vickie. “You don’t get off that easy.” She unlatched the gate and swung it wide open. “Come on in. I’ll introduce you to the three youngest. The older boys—that’d be Robert and Oliver—are off with Arnold.”
McCarthy hesitated.
“Come. In,” Vickie commanded.
“This is Elizabeth. This is Bridget. And that’s Henry.”
Elizabeth was half-hiding behind her brother Henry, who, for his part, was half-hiding behind his older sister Bridget. None of the three Mason children were present. The youngest of them, Heather, was sixteen and presumably at school today. Neither her brother Derrick nor her sister Kelsey seemed to be around either.
The girl named Bridget was less shy than her two younger siblings. She advanced toward the McCarthys and stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said. “I’m Bridget Cromwell. I’m eleven years old.”
Mike Senior leaned over and solemnly shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Michael McCarthy, Senior. I’m sixty-nine.” He nodded to his left. “This is my son Mike McCarthy Junior. He’s forty-five.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Are you related to Darryl McCarthy?”
“My son,” said Mike Senior. He hooked a thumb at his son. “He’s his half-brother.”
Bridget clapped her hands. “Oh, how delightful! I like Darryl. He’s funny and he was always nice to us.”
“Never thought I’d see the day when Darryl was the most levelheaded McCarthy around,” muttered Vickie Mason, just loud enough for the two Mikes to hear her. “Goes to show we do live in an age of miracles.”
Then, more loudly: “Anything else, gentlemen?”
Mike Junior shook his head. “No, no. We were just leaving. Nice meeting you, Bridget.”
Once they were a couple of blocks away, Mike Senior said: “I feel like a damned idiot.”
His son smiled wryly. “Well, sure, Dad. We’re Irish. We just have to hope Darryl knows what he’s doing.”
A block later, Mike Senior said: “You do realize how crazy that sounds?”