1633

He fell silent, while he switched the batteries. They'd recharge the old ones in their suite in St. Thomas' Tower, using the same pedal-operated generator that powered the radio. The batteries in the walkie-talkie were probably still good, but Darryl had no way of knowing how often the English would allow him back into the cell.

'Tell me, if you would,' the prisoner said softly, 'the nature of your grievance.'

Darryl scowled. He made no reply, at first. But then, as he sprayed the cell, began a recitation of the reasons for his anger. By the time he finished, even Darryl was wondering how coherent the explanation was.

'So,' mused the prisoner. 'Killed half the Irish, did I? Odd, that. Are you familiar with the island? In this day and age, I mean.'

Darryl said nothing. His scowl deepened.

The prisoner nodded. 'I thought not. I've never been there myself, you understand. But 'tis a well-known place. Full of hills and rocks and little valleys-and precious little in the way of roads. So I am wondering, a bit, how I managed such a fearsome slaughter. How many years did I spend at the task, hunting down all those Irish that I might slay the half of them? And what, exactly, was my purpose in doing so? I've not much use for the Irish, mind you. I'll not claim I love that priest-ridden folk. But I've no fierce animosity against them, either. And it does seem like a great deal of effort for no conceivable good end.'

Finished with the cell, Darryl moved over to the prisoner and squatted next to him. 'I dunno. I'll find out. Now lift your arms and stretch out your legs. This stuff ought to be sprayed under your clothes, too. Especially wool like you're wearing. Keep your mouth and eyes closed and hold your breath.'

He started to continue with an assurance that the DDT wouldn't actually poison the man, but the prisoner followed his orders with no hesitation. Darryl found the man's calmness unsettling. It rattled him some.

After he returned to their suite in St. Thomas' Tower, and put away the spraying equipment, Darryl handed the used batteries to Gayle. Then, he studied Melissa for a moment. As usual, Melissa was sitting on one of the couches reading a book. If nothing else, their imprisonment had given her the opportunity to study texts which would have turned any historian of her time green with envy. The earl of Strafford had been gracious on the matter of giving her access to his own considerable library. Not directly, of course. But he always brought some books on his periodic brief visits.

Darryl did not appreciate the man's courtesy. Not in the least littlest bit. 'Black Tom Tyrant,' damnation, was not supposed to be gracious.

He dismissed, with almost no thought at all, the notion of asking Melissa. She'd inevitably accompany the facts with a lecture. Darryl was in a bad enough mood already.

His eyes ranged down the room, falling on Tom Simpson. The big army captain was standing by one of the windows overlooking the Thames. He was alone. Rita was probably taking a nap, as she often did in the early afternoon.

Darryl made his decision and walked over to stand next to him.

'Weather's clearing,' Tom grunted.

Darryl wasn't interested in the weather. Not the world's, anyway. He was preoccupied with the storm front moving through his own heart.

'How long was the son-of-a-bitch in Ireland?' he demanded. 'I know you've been reading about him.'

Tom swiveled his head and looked down at Darryl. A little smile came to his face.

'What's the matter, Darryl? The real world not matching your blueprint?'

Darryl glared at the river. The sun was out, now, so the Thames had no difficulty at all in glaring back.

'He was in Ireland for nine months,' said Tom. 'Landed near Dublin in August of 1649. Less than a month later, he took the town of Drogheda and ordered most of the garrison massacred after they refused to surrender once the walls had been breached. That's the incident that's most notorious during his campaign. But-cut the crap, Darryl, you've been living in the seventeenth century for two years now; you know how it works-by the standards of the time that was no war crime.'

Darryl kept glaring, but said nothing. By now-long since, in fact-Darryl understood the realities of 17 th -century combat. The tradition went back well into medieval times. Once the walls of a fortified town were breached, the garrison was expected to surrender. Further fighting was pointless, after all, since a besieging army which could manage a breach could certainly take the town. The garrison had now proven its courage, well enough, and any further bloodshed would be on their hands.

If the garrison did surrender, quarter was given. If they didn't…

Tom had read to him, once, the passage in Shakespeare's Henry V where the consequences of refusing to surrender after the breach were spelled out. In very graphic detail, by King Henry V to the defenders of Harfleur. Darryl could still remember the phrase naked infants spitted upon pikes.

Harfleur had surrendered.

'The truth is, Darryl,' said Tom softly, 'by the standards of the time, Cromwell was actually considered to be a merciful soldier. The garrison was put to the sword, yeah, but the civilians were spared. You know damn well that, more often than not, a full-bore massacre follows. In fact-how's this for a little irony?-the only actual Irish in Drogheda lived in a ghetto, which Cromwell's men didn't touch. The garrison he massacred was made up of English Catholics. Settlers, most of them, who'd been grabbing land from the Irish themselves.'

Darryl's lips tightened. Another precious little certainty gone. Damnation.

Tom's great shoulders moved in a little shrug. 'Drogheda's still an atrocity by our standards, of course. But you really can't judge one period of history by the standards of another. And, however savage it was, Drogheda didn't hold a candle to Magdeburg. Which, you might remember, was a massacre carried out by Catholic soldiers.

'And for that matter,' he continued remorselessly, 'you might also want to remember that when the Irish rebellion started in 1641, the rebels slaughtered thousands of Protestants.'

'They shouldn't have been there in the first place!' snapped Darryl.

Tom eyed him for a moment. 'Yeah, maybe not. But you might want to consider the fact, Darryl-if, just once in your life, you can tear yourself away from self- righteousness-that any American Indian can say exactly the same thing about the whites they massacred from time to time in America. But if that ever stopped your ancestors from grabbing the Indians' land, it's news to me. It sure as hell didn't stop mine.'

Darryl was back to his silent glaring at the river. The Thames didn't seem to care much. He was starting to regret having asked Tom the question.

The regret deepened, as Tom pressed on.

'Oh, yeah. God, there's nothing in the world like a self-righteous hypocrite. Let me ask you something, Darryl. You know this much history. What do people call George Washington? Huh?'

' 'Father of Our Country,' ' mumbled Darryl. He dredged up another loose fact. ' 'First in peace, first in war, first in the hearts of his countrymen.' '

'Well, not quite. Yeah, that's what we call him. But do you know what the Iroquois call him?'

Darryl's eyes widened. The thought of what the Iroquois might call George Washington had never once crossed his mind, in his entire life.

Tom chuckled. 'About what I figured. Well, Darryl-me-lad, the Iroquois call him 'the Town Burner.' That's because, during the American Revolution, the Iroquois were allied to the British. Can't blame 'em, really. They knew if the colonists won, they'd be pouring onto Indian land even worse than ever. So good old George Washington threw another coin across the river. He ordered an army under the command of General Sullivan to march into Iroquois territory and crush them. Washington's orders were just that explicit, Darryl. 'The immediate objects are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements.' I remember the exact words, 'cause I was struck by them when I read the history as a teenager. I admired George Washington. And I still do, by the way. But I've also got no use for people who try to sugarcoat stuff like this, when it's done by the 'good guys.' The difference between the good guys and the bad guys isn't always that easy to separate, especially when you look at things in isolation. And it depends a lot which angle you look at it from.'

He paused, considering the tight-faced young man standing next to him. 'It's a pretty close parallel, actually, as these things go in history. Washington was leading a revolution against the English crown, and he needed to secure his rear. So he did, the way the man did things. Decisively, effectively, and ruthlessly. It worked, too. Sullivan pretty well destroyed the Iroquois as a nation, and drove most of them out of New York. And that's basically what Cromwell did in Ireland. The Irish were King Charles' 'reservoir,' if you will. That's the role they played in those days-these days-for the English monarchy. If the English commons get uppity, just bring over an Irish army to squelch 'em. That was the threat posed to the English revolution-and Cromwell ended it.'

'It's not the same thing!' protested Darryl. 'Those were Injuns! Wild savages!'

The moment the words went out of his mouth, Darryl regretted them. Not least of all, seeing the way Tom's huge shoulders bunched. But he was relieved to see the man's hands remained clasped behind his back. He'd seen those same hands bend horseshoes, on a bet.

'Don't piss me off, Darryl,' growled Tom. The huge captain was now glaring at the river himself. 'This much I'll say for my old man-my mother, too. They never tolerated racist shit. That much of their upbringing I don't regret at all.'

'I didn't mean it that way,' mumbled Darryl. 'Hell, Tom, you know I'm not-'

'Oh, shut up, will you?' Tom's glare faded, and he sighed. 'Darryl, I know you're not a racist. Although, I swear, sometimes you can do a damn good imitation. But, since we've descended into this little pit, I'm not going to let you off lightly.'

He jerked his head toward the east. 'What in the hell do you think your precious Irish are, in this day and age? Huh? You think Ireland in 1633 is the land of poetry? James Connolly giving socialist speeches before he leads the Easter Uprising?'

Darryl said nothing. Tom's chuckle was dry as a bone. 'Fat chance. We're a long ways off from William Butler Yeats and James Joyce, Darryl. Much less James Connolly and his Irish Socialist Republicans. Today-right now-the Irish are every bit as much 'wild savages'-your words, not mine-as any American Indian.'

Mercilessly: 'It's an island full of superstitious illiterates-sorry, Darryl, but they are 'priest-ridden'-whose main export is probably mercenary soldiers. Who have a particularly bad reputation, by the way, for savagery. Ruled over-wherever the English haven't grabbed the land-by the sorriest pack of mangy clan chiefs you'll ever find. Frankly, comparing them to the Iroquois is an insult to the Iroquois. The Iroquois managed to pull together a real confederacy. More than your precious Irish have done! Every one of those so-called 'kings'-and you've got hundreds of them-isn't anything more than a sheep-stealing bandit with delusions of grandeur. The reason the English rolled right over them for centuries is because they could always find one Irish so-called 'king' eager and willing to sell out any other at the drop of a hat.'

He stopped, challenging Darryl to contradict him.

But Darryl didn't even try. His romanticism about Ireland was deep, but…

That, too, after all, was part of the nationalist tradition he'd been brought up in. 'Such a parcel of rogues in a nation,' he half-muttered, half-sang.