1633

Tom smiled. 'That's actually from a Scot tune, but it's appropriate enough. The Scots in this day and age aren't much better than the Irish. Which, of course, is why the English have usually been able to run them ragged too.'

Darryl sighed, and wiped his face.

'For Pete's sake,' said Tom, 'you don't have to look as if I'm asking for your family heirlooms. I'm not asking you to give it all up, Darryl. There's no need to. It's not as if I'm any fan of England's policies in Ireland over the centuries. And if we were in the days of the Men of '98, we'd be playing in a whole different ball game. But we're not. Wolfe Tone won't even be born for another century. At least. So… are you willing to listen, for a change? To me, at least, if not Melissa?'

'Yeah. Shoot.'

Tom paused, marshaling his thoughts. 'What Cromwell did in Ireland, for those nine months, was crush a rebellion allied to King Charles that threatened the revolution he was leading. He carried out the campaign the way the man did everything. I told you once before, he was one of the greatest generals of his day. And he didn't have any time to waste, because he needed to get back to England as soon as possible. So, he went through Ireland like a thunderbolt. Mostly, it was a string of sieges. None of the Irish rebels-who were mostly English Catholic settlers, by the way, not Irishmen the way you mean the term-wanted to face him in the field. Don't blame 'em. Nobody did, after Marston Moor and Naseby, except maybe Prince Rupert.

'Speaking of whom…' Tom's eyes moved back to the Thames and grew a bit unfocused. 'Hm. I wonder what'll wind up happening to him, now? Hell of a guy, Prince Rupert. He's King Charles' nephew, by the way. Thirteen or fourteen years old, right at the moment, if I remember right.'

' 'Bout Cromwell,' gruffed Darryl.

'Yeah. Well, anyway, it was all over within nine months. There was another bad massacre at Wexford in October. About two thousand people died. Some of them were civilians, including women and children fleeing the town, who drowned when the boats they were in capsized. But it doesn't seem that Cromwell himself ordered that massacre, the way he did at Drogheda. From what the historians can figure out, his troops ran into resistance inside the town after the garrison was supposed to have given up, and ran wild. On the other hand, there's also no evidence that Cromwell tried to stop it, or gave much of a damn afterward. He was a hard man, no doubt about it, even if he wasn't deliberately cruel. And he had good reason to be, frankly, because if the royalists had won they would have been a lot more savage than he was. Don't ever believe any of this crap about the sweet English aristocracy, Darryl. Take a look at what the English did to the Scot Highlanders after Culloden, you don't believe me.'

Darryl snorted. As if he'd be likely to have fond thoughts about English kings and noblemen!

Tom grinned. 'Coal to Newcastle, I guess, saying that to you. And the 'harrowing of the glens' after Culloden happened in the eighteenth century, during the so-called Enlightenment. So you can just imagine what this century's royalist revenge would have been like. As it was-ha!-after the Restoration, the silly buggers dug up Cromwell's body and beheaded his corpse.'

Darryl made a face. 'You're kidding.'

'Nope. That's a big part of Cromwell's reputation, of course. The English establishment had their own big grudge against the guy, over the next few centuries, so they were hardly likely to object about what the Irish nationalists did to blacken his name.'

Tom thought for a moment. 'Other than that, from what I can determine, all the legends about Cromwell's 'butchery' are just that. Legends. The truth is, Darryl, that Cromwell was known to be merciful, as they count such things in this day and age. He generally offered good terms to towns which surrendered-and kept his word. His soldiers, in Ireland as they had been in England itself, were the best-disciplined troops in these islands. Probably anywhere in Europe, in fact, except for maybe Gustav's Swedes. Like Gustav, Cromwell would hang a man for plunder or rape or murder.'

The thick shoulders made that somewhat awesome movement that did Tom for a shrug. 'I'm not trying to pretty him up, Darryl. He was a hard man, like I said. And 'merciful' by the standards of the seventeenth century isn't all that merciful. You know that as well as I do. He'd execute the officers of a garrison that fought too long, for instance. Did that more than once. But I can't see anywhere in the books I read where he did it out of any ingrained viciousness. He had a revolution to fight and win, and he was damn well going to do it. If that meant shooting or hanging some royalist officers to encourage those in the next town to surrender faster, he'd do it. And… just as with Sullivan's campaign up the Hudson, it worked. Nine months and it was all over. He took ship for England and never came back to Ireland for the rest of his life.

'He traumatized the Irish, sure enough. But it was mainly just because his campaign was so decisive and effective. And I think as the years went by-the centuries, actually-the Irish read back into the memory of that frightening military campaign everything that happened later. But… come on, Darryl. Fair's fair. Blaming Cromwell for the Irish potato famine and the cold-blooded shooting of James Connolly and Bloody Sunday and the men behind the wire and all the rest of it makes as much sense as blaming George Washington for the massacre at Wounded Knee.'

Darryl wasn't going to let go that easily. 'Well, yeah, sure. But don't tell me there isn't any connection.'

'Of course there's a connection. If Cromwell hadn't crushed the Irish rebellion in 1650, maybe the potato famine wouldn't have happened. Then again, maybe it would have. Hard to say for sure. But cause and effect isn't that simple, Darryl. I can't remember the terms any longer-been some time since the course on philosophy I took in college-but there's a difference between a direct cause and something that sets up the conditions for it.

'And why am I telling you this?' Tom snorted. 'Darryl, cut the bullshit. You may not have studied philosophy in college, but I know you've rebuilt plenty of engines. So don't pretend you don't understand the difference.'

Darryl didn't argue the point. He did understand the difference. Any good car mechanic understood it. The reason your piece-a-junk car's not running is such-and- such. The reason your car's a piece-a-junk in the first place is because you're a sorry goofball who never bothered to change the oil.

'Aw, hell,' he sighed. 'I just don't know what to think any more.'

Tom smiled. 'Well, you're hardly alone in that. Neither do I, most of the time. But…' He paused, breathing in and out for a few seconds. Then, continued in slow and soft words.

'Here's what I think about all this, Darryl. I think we ought to avoid making the mistake all these goofy kings and cardinals are making. I don't think we can 'read history' any better than anybody else.'

He gave Darryl a glance. 'You with me so far?'

'Yeah, sure. I agree.' And he did, too. That much he could say firmly.

'Then why don't we start by forgetting all about some guy named 'Oliver Cromwell'? Who lived in another universe, and did this-and-that when he was a man in his forties and fifties, under the conditions of another world. Why don't we concentrate instead on the man we know, a little bit, at least-in this world that we've been busy as bees trying to change. The man who's squatting in a cell not far from here. How's that grab you?'

Darryl thought about it, for a moment. 'Okay. I'll buy that.'

'Then let's consider that man. A man in his early thirties, who's done nothing so far in his life except irritate his king in a parliament a while back, raise a family-raise 'em well, too, not even his enemies ever tried to claim Cromwell wasn't a good family man-and led some dirt-poor fenmen in their fight against a bunch of land-grabbing rich gentry in his part of England. Who now finds himself in a dungeon because a genuinely foul and treacherous and stinking-rotten king of England is scared of what he might do years from now. Filled with grief because his wife and son were murdered before his very eyes. You got a problem with that man, hillbilly?'

The clarity came with relief. 'Hell, no. My kinda guy.'

'Yeah, that's what I figured. Mine too. To hell with 'predestination,' Darryl. A man is what a man does-what he does. And there's an end to it.'

'I'm with you on that. All the way.'

Darryl stuck out his hand. Tom's big one closed over it. For a moment, a son of Appalachian coal miners made the power salute with a scion of one of Appalachia's wealthiest families. But Darryl missed the irony of it completely. Tom Simpson, too, had long since become his kinda guy. And Darryl, whatever his other faults, was one of those country boys who didn't look back.

'So. We gonna spring him, then? For real?'

'That's the plan.' Tom shrugged. 'Whenever we decide to spring ourselves, anyway. Won't be for quite a while, though, if ever. Mike told us to stay put till we hear otherwise. If nothing else, we're a source of valuable information. Besides, winter's coming. I don't know about you, but speaking for myself-'

Tom grinned wryly, and gestured with his head toward the fireplace which dominated the room. It was a big fireplace. A king-sized one, actually. In real and actual fact, not the fancies of Madison Avenue. Three hundred and fifty years earlier, King Edward I had warmed his bones before its flames.

Darryl made a little thumbs-up. 'I'm with you there, too. Screw winter. Spring's when a young man's fancy turns to wine, women and taking it on the lam.'

Tom smiled and clapped Darryl on the shoulder. Fortunately, he didn't put much into it. 'So. Any other questions?'

Darryl's brow wrinkled. 'Well, yeah, now that you mention it. I mean-I'm not objecting, you understand-but, uh, given what you just said, why are we planning to spring the guy? It's a bit risky, and if he's nobody in this universe-' Darryl's lips tightened. 'Not that I'm worried about the risk. Piss on these sorry English bastards. But…'

Tom's smile was now serene. 'I said I didn't believe in predestination, Darryl. I do, on the other hand, believe in personal character. So does Melissa.' He gestured with his thumb toward the Chapel Tower, where Cromwell was immured. 'And that man has character coming out of his ears, don't think he doesn't.'

The smile faded. 'Here's what I do know about the man called Oliver Cromwell, Darryl. His deeds are one thing, the man who could do them, another. And in that other world, he wasn't just a great general. He was also a devoted husband and father. A man who, by the standards of his time, was tolerant on matters of religion. It's not an accident, you know, that Cromwell was the first ruler of England in centuries who considered removing the ban on Jews. Who, once he became dictator of England-more because of circumstance than because of any lust for power-ruled as much as possible with the consent of others.' A brief flash of teeth. 'Well… some others. He gave royalists short shrift. Still, he was no autocrat, Darryl. Ruthless he might be, when he felt it necessary. But he was never given to tyranny for its own sake.'

Tom paused, studying Darryl. Not for the first time, Darryl was struck by the big man's eyes. An odd shade of gray, they were, pale rather than slate. He'd inherited them from his mother, Darryl knew. Darryl had never cared-not in the least-for the supercilious look he'd always thought he detected in the mother's eyes. Icy, her eyes were. But in the son, the color was simply very clear. Darryl trusted those eyes.

'He rattled you, didn't he?' Tom asked. 'Shook you some.'

Darryl swallowed. 'Yeah, he did. He just… I dunno. Hard to explain. He just always seemed so calm, like. No matter what I said or did to him.'