Ring of Fire III (6 page)

O’Donnell was smiling. “You’ve a great future as a confidential agent, O’Rourke. A veritable master of undercover work.”

“Funny you should mention undercover work, m’lord. Years ago, when I was courting Maureen Hennessy on the sly—”

“Spare me the tawdry details, reprobate. Now, about getting a few companies of the regiment over to France: here’s the hitch—”

“There’s just one?”

“Very well: here’s the
first
hitch in that project: the companies joining me in Amiens must transfer over the border in one group.”

“But the archduchess is seeing to that, no?”

“She’s seeing to each unit’s release from service, yes. Moving ourselves and our gear: that has to be up to us. And we have to make the transfer without any Spanish-owned equippage.”

“Well, that will make the regiment look like the beggar’s army on parade, but I can put a good face on it. We’ve enough of our own equipment that if we spread it out one weapon per man, there’d only be a few empty hands. And we’ll keep those few in the middle of the formations. Also, we can march the swords and pieces separately to make it all look intentional—if absurd.”

“Good. Then there’s the approach to the border.”

“The French know we’re coming, right?”

“Yes, but the lads need to understand their weapons will have to go into French hands during the march to Amiens. And they won’t like it.”

“They don’t have to,” grumbled O’Rourke.

“That’s the tick, O’Rourke: I’m sure there’ll be no problems with you in charge of—”

But O’Rourke leaned far back. “In charge? Me? Not by Christ Almighty’s toenails, m’lord.”

“Who better to be in charge?”

“Someone who’ll be with the regiment, sir.”

“And so you shall be.”

“With respect, I shan’t. I’ll be with you.”

“With me? Now see here, O’Rourke—”

“ ‘O’Rourke’ me no ‘O’Rourkes,’ Hugh O’Donnell. You’ll not be leaving me in France to tend a bunch of turnip-pullers while you sail into high seas and perdition.”

“Sergeant O’Rourke, you are a man I can trust and a man who enjoys the respect of the entire regiment. You
will
see our men safely over the border, and then through their stay in France.”

“With respect, sir, I will not. There’s many as can baby-sit them better than I. Shane Connal is the one you’ve been grooming for this kind of work. Most of the men will hear and heed his voice almost as if it were your own. And m’lord, if fair speech is required in dealing with our French hosts, then let’s speak plain and admit I’m not the man for that. But Shane’s got your way with words and manners—and he’ll oversee a just and proper succession of your title here, should something ill befall us out there.”

Hugh considered the arguments. “You rehearsed that speech earlier, didn’t you, O’Rourke?”

“I thought I might have occasion for words such as those, m’lord. I figured a man of genius like yourself often lacks a bit in the common sense department; he might leave his right hand at home if the right hand wasn’t determined to stay attached all by itself.”

Hugh smiled. “You’re a pain in my neck, O’Rourke.”

“And other parts of the body as well, I’d wager.”

“Another bet you’d win. Now, for our trip to the New World, we’ll need about a half of a company for the landing and defense—as well as repelling pirates, if we’re unlucky. Recommendations?”

“I’ve been thinking about just that, m’lord, and the men that seem best suited to those purposes—”

O’Donnell clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I trust you, O’Rourke—in all things. Go get your list—and while you’re at it, fetch Shane Connal from the blockhouse, as well. Let’s not keep him in the dark on this any longer.”

O’Rourke rose quickly. “In a trice, m’lord.” And he was out the tent flap in a rush.

He had gone half the way to the blockhouse when a suspicion began to churn in his gut. Bt the time he had turned and sprinted back up the low rise to the commander’s tent, his misgiving had become a certainty. Pulling the flap aside, he burst into the dim interior.

One orderly looked up from his tasks, startled.

He was the only person in the tent. Of course.

O’Rourke smiled and shook his head; it was sad to think that after all these years, he was still so easily conned. He should have seen it coming: O’Donnell would want to slip out of the camp as stealthily as he had come in. And he’d have—rightly—known that O’Rourke would have had none of that: two guards, at least, to escort one of the last two princes of Ireland. But O’Donnell had given him the slip.

Again.

O’Rourke went over to stand by the table they’d shared but two minutes earlier. He rested his hand on the back of his earl’s chair. And smiled:

See you in Amiens, old friend.

Falser Messiah

Tim Roesch

Lost in Grantville, 24th of Av, 5394

(T minus 5 hours and 43 minutes)

“I am not the Son of God!” he screamed at the library.

At least he thought he was screaming in the direction of the library.

With eyes red with tears, Shabbethai Zebi ben Mordecai spun about, glaring at the world which was suddenly bright and out of focus, frightening and repulsive. The world he could not wait to see each morning and wept over as he closed his eyes every night was suddenly wrong.

Or, maybe, he was wrong.

Memories came; out of focus, silent, out of any order.

He remembered his mother crying on the dock in Smyrna as he left on a ship, a real ship, with his father and elder brother.

His mother had not waved at him.

He remembered how eager he was to learn everything and show his father what he had learned and how hard it was, all of a sudden, to get his father to simply look at him.

There was the trip to this magical place, Grantville. Here, he had forgotten how often his questions went unanswered, his small discoveries went unnoticed, how often his father and elder brother seemed to talk quietly to each other and occasionally looked at him as if he had done something wrong.

Here was the town of Deborah and an entire community of Jews who lived and worked amongst non-Jews and not once, not even once, had he heard a single bad word or seen an evil look directed at any Jew, and how exciting it was and how he wanted to ask questions.

No Sabbath had ever been so beautiful as his first in Deborah. Never had he sung the Torah so fervently, so fervently he did not remember, until now, how his singing caused so much silence.

“Why, Abba?” he whispered, sniffing. Grantville had been a magical place and now it felt like it was burning and he was the fire. “Abba!”

No answer. No one looked at him. They told him what to do and where to be and conversations stopped when he entered rooms and there was arguing but never did anyone look him in the eye or ask him how his day went or what new and magical thing had he learned today.

Silence.

Even the other children viewed him with suspicion. Games ended when he joined them. Meals were quiet and even during prayer he felt he prayed alone.

So, as he had learned in the schools in Smyrna, the Jewish ones with dour old men who were quick with a harsh word to those who seemed inattentive, he went to answer his questions. He went to the library at Grantville.

He listened and heard his father and his elder brother and rabbis, learned men, arguing about him, about little Shabbethai Zebi and how his name was in the library, the great library in Grantville.

In a place where Jews could move about freely, it had been simple for him to go to the library.

And now?

Silence.

He tried hard in the silence of the library to translate an entry in a book, an entry that had his name in English.

A girl saw him and, miracle of miracles, she spoke Greek and this English that not even his own father could understand well, let alone read, and she had told him.

“You are the Messiah? You are the son of God?”

What was he to do? What could he do?

The silence shouted at him as he ran from the library and out into the streets of Grantville.

Shabbethai Sebi: Son of God. Messiah.

“I am not the son of God!” Shabbethai shouted, though his voice had less strength. He spun about looking for something familiar, something to hold onto, something not silent.

Grantville was not silent but its voice was not familiar to him. There were people and magical things called “cars” and horses, and children screaming.

Shabbethai sniffed and looked about, hunting the source of the screaming.

There had been a time when he had screamed like that, screamed with the pure joy of play and running and jumping.

Now, since that last view of his home in Smyrna and his mother standing motionless, crying on the dock, there had been silence.

“I am not the Son of God.” Shabbethai tried to smile, tried hard and the smile almost came to his face. His steps began tentatively, slowly but soon he was running again, running as if he was being chased or, maybe, he was chasing something.

He ran toward the sound of screaming, away from silence.

Grantville Public Library, 24th of Av, 5394

(T minus 5 hours 1 minute)

Julie Drahuta trudged up the steps of the Grantville Public Library.

The day hadn’t been that long. It was just that it was Friday, the end of the week, and her thoughts had been on the weekend until the phone call.

The work of a social worker slash police officer who specialized in child welfare in a town filled with seventeenth-century Germans and twentieth-century Americans—West Virginians, to be more precise—meant her work was rarely finished, weekend or no weekend.

If there was a minor problem or a major one and if it involved children, which it often did, Julie was called in. She had earned a reputation of solving difficult and delicate problems, of translating cultural languages and norms from one century to another, from one religion to another, from one family to another.

Julie’s Flying Mom Squad, made up of Protestant, Catholic, Lutheran, and even Jewish mothers, multiplied her effectiveness but it also kept her on call twenty-four/seven.

Of course, what had truly brought her to the attention of almost everyone were the Pascal children; Blaise and his sister, Jacqueline. Their father had sent them to Grantville to protect them from their historical notoriety. Who would protect Grantville from them?

Julie Drahuta, of course!

The Pascal children were reminders to every up-timer just where and when they were. Blaise showed up in religious texts, math texts and almost every encyclopedia had an entry about him. Heck, even she knew of Pascal’s Triangles before the Ring of Fire.

Blaise embraced twentieth-century tech with a passion that was frightening, if not life-threatening. Jackie liked to write and learn languages.

Were there more children hiding in the history books? Hopefully they would go somewhere else. The Pascals were enough.

It was Jackie Pascal who had called her. The girl’s problems rarely required police or fire intervention. This was why Julie didn’t bring backup with her as she trudged up the stairs.

Tina Jones, an assistant librarian, met Julie at the front door to the library; snapping Julie out of her daydreaming about the impending weekend and the relative dangers of the Pascal children.

Julie knew that the circulation desk was a throne to Tina and for her to come out from behind that desk meant something serious had occurred, something more serious than a misshelved book or an angry scholar who felt that his dignity had been assaulted because a child was often asked to translate for them. Jacqueline was really, really good at languages.

“What’s up?” Julie smiled. Julie rarely smiled when she was happy. This situation had the makings of unhappy written all over it.

“It could be nothing, nothing at all. Or it could be everything. I don’t know what to think.” Tina Jones was the one Jacqueline Pascal went to for permission to use the phone to call Julie away from her nice, neat and tidy “end of the week” thoughts. Jackie’s first two words over the phone were the words that brought Julie to the library.

“Officer Drahuta.”

Jacqueline only called Julie “Officer” when it was real serious.

“I have done something bad. Come quick. Oh, come to the library. Please.”

“Jacqueline is quite upset.” Tina’s voice shook Julie out of her thoughts.

“What did she do, Tina, misfile a romance novel, again? Was she loudly critiquing Chaucer or Melville?” Julie smiled. “Remember that time she was reading that Barbra Cartland novel? I thought we’d have to call the EMTs for a mass cardiac event.”

Tina Jones, library aide, averter of eyes when Jacqueline Pascal roamed the stacks of books far away from the children’s section, was not smiling. She was fiddling with her necklace, the one with the silver cross dangling from it.

“I hope it is nothing.” Tina hurried across the library’s main floor to the reference section. “I hope Jackie is wrong. She’s only eight. Maybe she’s imagining things. I hope she is. She does have an excellent imagination. Some of the books in this library will be authored by that girl, someday.”

Julie followed Tina to a far corner of the reference section. There, before a large study table crowded with books, some open, some closed, stood Jacqueline Pascal. The girl was standing straight, as if asked by a judge to stand and hear judgment.

“Have you been in ‘that’ section of the library again, Jacqueline?” Julie asked, smiling. Jacqueline loved historical romances. Worse, she seemed to be able to memorize entire passages and repeat them in at least four languages, loudly. Worse, she knew exactly what she was reading.

“No.” Jacqueline looked over at the table and lifted a large book. It was a volume from the Encyclopedia Britannica. There were other volumes from other encyclopedias on the desk as well. Jacqueline opened the book she had picked up and held it against her chest, the entries facing Julie.