Six. This was his latest conclusion and still a bit tentative, but he was now almost certain that in order to accomplish any of his goals he—and Kristina; without her it would be impossible—had to accept that the future belonged to democracy and not monarchy. He’d read some of Scaglia’s writings and agreed with him at least that far.
The Americans had had a peculiar sport, of which he’d watched videotapes. “Surfing,” they called it.
Needless to say, Ulrik had no intention of half-freezing in the Baltic and risking his life on a flimsy little board. But stripped of the physical aspect and transformed into a political metaphor, “surfing” was exactly what he and Kristina would have to do for the rest of their lives. Ride the ever-growing, thundering waves of German nationalism and democracy toward the shore; understanding that they did not and could not control it. No one could, really. But they could learn to surf well. They—their children; grandchildren—could reach the shore safely. And if they did it well enough, help many other people to get their safely as well. Perhaps entire nations.
The union of Kalmar had reached the dock, been tied up, and a gangway laid. Admiral Simpson started to come across.
“What did you say?” asked Kristina.
Ulrik realized he’d been muttering. “Ah…”
“He said, ‘and here comes the big one.’ ” Baldur was grinning. He’d spent hours discussing these issues with Ulrik. “But he’s quite wrong. This is just the outrider wave. The big one will be riding into Magdeburg.”
“What is he talking about?” She glared up at Ulrik. “You’re keeping things from me again, aren’t you? And you promised you wouldn’t!”
So. Once again, Baldur Norddahl demonstrated his perfidious, foul, treacherous nature. On the brighter side, once again Kristina dispelled any fears that he might have dimwitted children.
Chapter 17
Luebeck, USE naval base
“Please, have a seat.” Admiral Simpson gestured toward a comfortable looking divan with four equally-comfortable-looking chairs clustered around a low table. The ensemble was located in one half of what Ulrik took to be the admiral’s office. Part of his suite, rather. He could see other rooms connected to it, in one of which he spotted an up-time computer perched on a long desk.
The walls were decorated with paintings, but they were seascapes rather than the usual portraits. Three of them were representations of sailing vessels underway.
The variation from custom in the decor was a subtle reminder of the differences between the American and down-timers. At least, down-timers who could afford to commission art work in the first place. For such down-timers, the art’s purpose was in large part to remind anyone who looked—perhaps themselves, first and foremost—of their lineage. To a very large degree, though not always and not entirely, it was that ancestry which explained and justified their present status.
Americans also cherished their ancestry, Ulrik had discovered, but the logic behind that esteem was often peculiar from a down-timer’s standpoint. He’d been struck, for instance, by the fact that several Americans with whom he’d discussed the matter claimed—with great obvious pride—to number a “Cherokee” among their ancestors. In one case, a “Choctaw.” Curious, Ulrik had looked up the references and discovered the Cherokees and Choctaws were barbarian tribes who’d been conquered by the white settlers of North America. Conquered, and then driven entirely off their land into the wilderness.
All Americans who could do so—which many couldn’t, since they were the product of recent immigration—boasted of their polyglot lineage. Father’s side is mostly Polish, but with some Irish mixed in there. Mother’s side is part-Italian, part-Pennsylvania Dutch—those were actually Germans, not Dutch—and part Scots-Irish.
Something along those lines was what you generally heard, where a European nobleman would stress the narrowness of his line. Its purity, to look at it another way.
Not royal families, of course. There simply weren’t enough of them to avoid constant marriages across national lines. But that simply reinforced the status of royal blood as a special category of its own.
For the up-timers, the pride they took in their lineage had very little to do with their present status. That was defined almost entirely by their occupation. Indeed, it was considered a mark of honor for a man to have achieved a high position without the benefit of family patronage, although such patronage was certainly common and not derided.
So, John Chandler Simpson’s walls had paintings of ships and the sea on them. As well he might, given the ships in question. Ulrik had enjoyed this second crossing of the Baltic in an ironclad even less than the first. The warships were tolerable enough in calm waters, if you could ignore their acrid stench. But any sort of rough seas—and it didn’t take much, for a sea to be rough for an ironclad—made them thoroughly unpleasant. On two occasions, Ulrik had begun to worry that they might sink.