Eric Flint: Ring of Fire III

Almost no face was turned towards him: they were toward O’Donnell, who sat very still, eyes lowered. He spoke to the doctor without looking up. “Owen Roe is right, Shane, when he says there’s no fault of yours in this. There are some things you can’t fix.” He looked up at the surgeon and smiled. “Not yet, that is.”

Connal nodded-and O’Neill swallowed hard: looking at O’Donnell’s smile, he could see-could almost feel-how much that had cost the earl of Tyrconnell. But Hugh kept that expression in place for a long moment, only allowing it to dim when he asked, “Dr. Connal, can you shed any light on our Franciscan visitors? Were they here to save our souls by hastening us to our reward?”

A few snickers underscored the surgeon’s answer. “Not unless the Franciscans are sending disguised mercenaries to carry out their holy work, m’lord. And desperate ones, too, to take such a job as this. Judging from the grooming and the gear under the habits, I’d say most of them were part-Spanish mercenaries-mixed-bloods, born in the Lowlands-and the rest Germans or Walloons. Some may have been simple cutthroats: no military gear on those-and not even a hint of third-rate camp hygiene. Dirty as pigs and twice the stink.”

Owen nodded and looked at O’Donnell. “So who do you think sent them?”

“I don’t know-and right now, there aren’t enough hours or facts to puzzle it out.” He stood. “I’ve stayed too long. But before I go, I feel I must tell you all this: the tercios are dead.”

Owen recoiled as if struck-in fact, felt as if he had been. “What fine, parting words of encouragement for all the men, Sir O’Donnell. I’m not sure the earl of Tyrone will agree to disband his tercios on your say-so, though.”

“Owen, I’m not talking about the existence of our regiments. I’m saying that the concept of the tercios — of that kind of warfare-is dying on its feet. The first victories of the USE are just initial freshets of proof: soon, it will be an inarguable flood. The new muskets-and now, Turenne’s breechloaders-are changing the battlefield. And those who do not learn to change with it will be the first to die upon it.”

“So this is the reason for all the hide-and-seek I saw when I came in?”

“The up-timer manuals call it ‘close quarters combat.’ Or, ‘CQC.’ ”

“And the USE forces train to use these tactics?”

“No, their equipment isn’t right for it, yet-and there aren’t enough up-timers who can teach them, either. But some special units-like Harry Lefferts and his group-use a simplified version. Granted, it seems their ‘CQC’ is based more on ‘movies’ than training manuals. But we can choose to do it right. We’ve got the discipline-and now the manuals-to genuinely learn these tactics, and then use them once we get our hands on enough revolvers and double-barreled weapons.” O’Donnell paused, looked around the ring of faces focused on him. “And if we want to be the victors instead of the vanquished, we must start learning these tactics now-before they are used upon us.”

O’Neill made as sour a face as he could. “They look more like tomfoolery than ‘tactics.’ ”

“And so they might, but this is just one of the ways in which war is changing-and each change will spawn more. New weapons, new training, new skills, new organization: before long, we’ll be revising everything we learned as our stock-in-trade. But we have to do it, even if it goes against our grain.”

“Heh. It doesn’t seem to go against your grain, Hugh.”

O’Donnell nodded somberly. “I suppose it doesn’t-not any longer. I’ve read their unit histories and accounts; I’ve seen up-timer military ‘documentaries’ that show how they-and before long, we-will wage war. Trust me, whether or not we’re comfortable with it, our tactical doctrines must change.” He looked around the tent. “And change is never easy. Never. Particularly not when one has to make many changes, and all at once.

“And that is what is sure to happen here in the Lowlands. Soon, you will all have a choice to make. And it can’t be long in coming, because Fernando is running out of money with which to pay you. So, before that day comes, I counsel you: think upon your oaths, and listen to your hearts. Task them to answer this one, simple question: where is your loyalty? To Philip and Olivares or to Isabella and Fernando? To a distant king’s coin, or to each other? For rest assured, that choice is coming-for each and every one of you.”

O’Donnell stepped from behind the table, crouched down as if he were going to scratch a battle plan on the ground-but what it did was put him at eye-level with even the lowliest man in the room. “Always remember this, lads. We Wild Geese-we’re all birds of a feather. We’ve been harrowed, but never broken-because we’ve always stuck together.”

O’Neill wanted to sneer, but he couldn’t-partly because O’Donnell hadn’t parsed the old saw as doggerel, so it hadn’t sounded trite. But mostly because he could see-could feel-all the men around him respond to the elemental honesty that shone out of Hugh’s eyes. O’Neill wished he could look away, could be somewhere else-anything, just so he wouldn’t have to see the indictment of his own clan laid out so plainly before him. The O’Donnells were leaders, always had been. They could touch hearts at a gesture, bond men to them with a whisper. Obversely, every O’Neill of note had made his name as a fighter, an intriguer, often a shrewd manipulator who might even conspire with an enemy, if it served his ultimate goals. They were renowned, feared, even respected-but never admired or loved. And that, Owen admitted, was probably the real reason behind the prickly hauteur of the Tyrones: a jealous envy after the natural nobility that they lacked.

Owen cleared his throat. “You’ve given us much to think about, Lord Tyrconnell. I wish you safe travels-and Godspeed. And now, I should be going.”

O’Donnell straightened up. “And I’ve stayed longer than is safe. Until we meet again, Owen.”

Who nodded, wanted to say-something-but could not decide what it should be. So he simply added a second nod and let a potentially bonding moment slip by.

Just as he had all his life.

O’Rourke made sure that Preston’s tent was empty except for two orderlies, who stayed busy-and distant-moving gear to the newly completed blockhouse. When O’Rourke indicated that the young soldiers were out of earshot, O’Donnell muttered, “There’s one person in particular who’ll now be watching all of what you do here. Very closely.”

“Who?”

“Isabella-my aunt.” The earl paused, looked down. “Returning the honors I had from Philip was a shame, but leaving her service-that was a hard, hard step to take.”

O’Rourke poured a small mug of half-beer for himself. “Huh. Now that’s something I never did understand, m’lord.”

“What?”

“Why you always doted on the Infanta, and she on you.”

“Well, she’s my godmother-and has looked out for me since I was a babe.”

“Mebbe. But she also derailed the Killybegs invasion in 1627, and when at first she couldn’t scuttle it herself, she insisted that it be led by John O’Neill-with you to be left behind in the Lowlands. Just the opposite of what Philip had called for.”

“Oh, that. You misunderstand. She didn’t pass me over.”

“No? What would you call it, then?”

“She was protecting me. I was twenty-two, green as could be, and yes, Philip was going to put me over John-who’d no doubt have found some excuse to put me in my grave once we were in Ireland. Besides, she wanted me where she thought I’d do the most good.”

“You’d do the most good here? Was she mad?”

O’Rourke looked away from the gaze Hugh fixed on him. “No, she was not mad. She remains amongst the most astute political minds of this era. She knew that if Philip did send us to invade Ireland, we would be underfunded and undersupplied. As it was, the closest we came to readiness-eleven boats waiting for a few thousand of us-would still have been suicide.”