Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(7)

“So as not to besmirch the names and honor of my kind patrons—who ensured I kept my own titles when my sires died—I regretfully announce my resolve to take leave of their service, that I may better serve my native country and kinsmen. This decision in no way signifies any deficiency or decrease in the love and esteem in which I hold my many benefactors. I have naught but gratitude for their innumerable kindnesses, and I depart their service heavy with the sorrow that I shall surely never know the like of their love again.”



And, given the many contexts (and pretexts) that had gone into the making of Hugh’s current situation, he reflected that his words were true enough on all counts. The persons who had truly been his surrogate family—Archduchess Infanta Isabella; Sister Catherine, prioress of the Dames Blanches; Father Florence Conry of St. Anthony’s—had been generous, compassionate, even loving. And of his more distant benefactors—the careful Philip, his recidivistic court, and its hopelessly blinkered courtiers—he could only say that their “love” had indeed been unique. No group of “benefactors” had ever stood in such a strange and often awkward relationship to its dependents as had the Spanish crown to the relatives of the exiled Irish earls O’Donnell and O’Neill.

Three days later, Hugh was finally able to bring himself to fold the letter and press his seal down deep into the pool of red wax that bled across the edge of the top sheet.

The following morning he posted the letter to his patrons and lieges, sought permission for a leave of several weeks, received it, dashed off a missive to the McCarthys that might or might not arrive before he did, and set off for his second visit to Grantville, alone.

He had arrived at their fateful yet welcoming front door six days ago. He had ventured back out beyond it a few times, but had spent most of the days—and nights—reading. Reading reading reading. And when he was not reading, he was making notes, comparing accounts, examining how the dominoes of polities and personalities had fallen during what the up-timer histories called the Thirty Years’ War. Judging from how current events had already veered dramatically away from those chronicled in the up-timer books, Hugh quickly concluded that although the current wars might or might not last as long as Thirty Years, they would have an even more profound and lasting effect upon the map—and life—of Europe. And, no doubt, the world beyond.

But ever and again, he would find something that reminded him of how his late arrival to Grantville and its histories had allowed him to follow the fateful track of that other future just a few months too long. Too long for his wife, his son, and at least a hundred of his regiment who had been lost fighting for the interests of a Spanish king who, it was now clear, would never fight for their interests.

And on this, the sixth night of his stay, while sitting in the worn living room of Don McCarthy, these specters of regret had been gathering within Hugh once again as Michael McCarthy, Jr., had emerged from the kitchen with the dreaded “white lightning” that the up-timers seemed to consider divine nectar. He had found himself recalling all the faces that had come to swear allegiance under his banners, and which were now buried in the loam of foreign fields.

He broke out of his silent reverie without preamble. “I could no longer command a unit that bore my name like a lure, so as to attract the cultchies—the simple country boys—like bees to pollen.”

The McCarthys did not comment as the first round of moonshine was poured out, but he felt their eyes.

“It was hard watching them die in foreign service, far from home, dismally used. But I could make myself do it, so long as I was able to believe we were purchasing the good opinion of our Spanish allies, that we were securing their permanent regard for our honor and character, as well as skill on the battlefield. And that, therefore, Philip would finally be moved to act—if only to keep faith with the promises he had made to men of such quality and integrity.” He took a look a small sip of the white lightning. “What a fool I was.”

Michael Sr. responded in a low, steady voice. “Hugh, you were brought up by good people to be a good man, and true. But nations—even those ruled by kings who claim to prize honor and loyalty—cannot keep faith with those same virtues. It’s in the nature of nations to make promises they don’t keep. Unfortunately, no man can know beforehand which of the promises made to him will turn out to be the worthless ones.”

Hugh heard the attempt to take the onus off him. He shrugged it off. “I was gullible—in this and other matters. I was not merely a child but a simpleton to believe the initial priestly rubbish about Americans as the spawn of Satan himself. If I hadn’t put such faith in Philip’s court clerics, I might have thought for myself and come here earlier. I might have read my own future—and in it, seen and avoided Anna’s death in childbirth.”