Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(20)
O’Donnell heard the unasked question in the silence. “We apologize for taking the liberty of seeking you at your place of work, and with no proper application for an audience. But our circumstances and the import of our proposal are both such that this direct approach seemed best, if regrettably brusque.”
“I see. Which explains much, Lord O’Donnell, since you could certainly have asked one of your correspondents for a thoroughly adequate introduction.” Or could have used them to bypass me altogether, Turenne observed silently. “Unless I am misinformed, your seal is well-known to the pope and Philip of Spain.”
Hugh nodded. “It is.”
“Yet here you are, on my doorstep, without any of the letters of introduction which would have assured you of immediate audience, and spared you the distasteful experience of being searched and examined like a common highwayman.”
The American answered. “Had Lord O’Donnell secured those letters, he would also have alerted those same persons to our meeting with you.”
Turenne nodded and looked at the displaced earl. “Lord O’Donnell, if I am not mistaken, you have been in the court, and then direct service, of Archduchess Infanta Isabella of the Spanish Lowlands, since you were two years of age. Have you now chosen to seek service elsewhere?”
The Irishman’s face took on a melancholy expression. “I had little enough ‘choice’ in the matter, given what the histories of Grantville have shown me.”
“I can sympathize, sir. My own career was changed as a result of those documents. Cardinal Richelieu advanced me on the strength of deeds I had not yet performed, and now, never can, for that history has been irreversibly changed. Is it the same with you?”
“According to their books, I am a dead man in seven years.”
Turenne felt his stomach contract, suddenly cold. “Mon Dieu—Lord O’Donnell, my apologies. I had no idea, or I would not have spoken with such insouciance.”
O’Donnell waved aside the apology. “We all have different fates. And that was mine if I remained in Spanish service. And probably the fate of many hundreds of my countrymen, as well. And all for naught.”
Turenne had read a précis of the European histories that had arrived with Grantville. “Sir, again you have my sympathies, but I must also be frank. I see no promise that the new history we are now embarked upon will make France any more ardent a supporter of Irish interests. Given the recent combination of our fleet and England’s to defeat the Dutch, I must sadly project that there might even be less reason for hope.”
“I do not place my hope in France, Lord Turenne. I place it in you.”
The surprise of those words left Turenne both baffled and a bit wary. “Me? Why me?”
But it was McCarthy who answered. “Because, Lord Turenne, your nationality isn’t what’s important in this case. What’s important is that you obviously understand, really understand, the kind of changes my town has brought to your world.”
“Your opinion flatters me, Monsieur McCarthy. But then why is the earl of Tyrconnell not joining his banner to that of your USE, and Grantville in particular? It is the very embodiment of those changes.”
“Which is probably why that’s not the wisest choice for Lord O’Donnell. His former liege King Philip isn’t exactly a fan of ours, and vice versa. Besides there’s the matter of his men’s Roman Catholicism.”
Turenne nodded. Of course. Many of O’Donnell’s “Wild Geese” were extremely devout Roman Catholics, and most had been driven from their lands to make room for resettled Protestants. Their religious fervor and grudges would be a poor fit for the USE, which, despite its lopsided polyglot of different faiths, was founded upon the strong military spine and current leadership of the Swedish Lutheran Gustav Adolf. “So then, Mr. McCarthy, I suppose it is your presence which is the greater mystery. As I understand it, you still retain your post as a Senior Instructor at Grantville’s Technical College. If I also understand correctly, I would be a fool not to detain you on the spot and make your future freedom contingent upon your helping us with any number of mechanical challenges that my researchers currently find insurmountable.”
McCarthy smiled. “But you won’t do that.”
Turenne kept himself from bristling at the American’s self-assured tone. “Oh? And why not?”
“Well, first, it’s not the kind of man you are.”
“Indeed? And just how would you know what kind of man I am?”
“I know about the letter you wrote to Mike Stearns last year, expressing regret that your men killed Quentin Underwood during their raid on the oil field at Wietze.”