He could see that lights were still on where Pat lived, which had been Andrew’s home until the presidency forced him to move back into the White House. Reaching the porch of his home, he felt a wave of nostalgia. It was where they had raised their children, and it was in that front parlor that they had held the wakes for the ones who had died. How many evenings, he thought with a smile, did we sit on this porch, the children playing in the New England-like town square? The few men left of the 35th Maine and 44th New York would often gather here in the evening, drinking lemonade spiked with a touch of vodka, laughing about the old days, remembering comrades lost. The tales kept growing, enlarging in memory through the years until it seemed that they had once lived and fought in a golden age.
The children would frolic in the front yard, sometimes stopping to listen, other times wandering off to play tag around the statue dedicated to the memory of the fallen, or dance around the bandstand where, on summer evenings, light waltzes and traditional Rus tunes would be played.
He turned back to the task at hand, lifted the heavy eagle brass knocker, and let it drop.
No answer. He rapped again, several times. Finally he heard a mumble from the parlor. Knowing what it meant, he opened the door and walked in.
Pat was sprawled out on a sofa. Andrew was glad Kathleen was not along. She’d had the sofa specially made, patterned after the designs popular back on Earth just before they had embarked on “their journey.” It was a beautiful piece made with dark walnut and upholstered with a light green silk. Pat, dusty boots still on, had his feet up over the side, an empty bottle of vodka on the floor next to an overturned spittoon and another bottle, which was lying on its side, half empty. The place stank.
Bleary-eyed, Pat looked up and frowned. “Get the hell out and leave me alone,” he growled.
Andrew, without saying a word, headed for the kitchen. A low fire still glowed in the wood stove. Picking up a handful of kindling, he tossed it in, found some tea in the pantry, and set a kettle to boiling.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He looked up. Pat stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily against the frame.
“Getting you sobered up, damn it,” Andrew snapped.
“What for? Now leave me alone.”
“How long have you been on this drunk? Two days, three?”
Pat grinned foolishly. “I don’t know.”
“We’ve got things to go over.”
“Let it wait till morning. I’m tired.”
“A wire came up from Bullfinch an hour ago. There’s a report of smoke from ships being sighted inside our boundary. It might mean they’re coming a hell of a lot quicker than we expected. Bullfinch is sending up an aerosteamer now. It will be out there by dawn.”
“So?”
“Pat, if they’re inside our boundary, as defined by the treaty, that means Cromwell was right and we’re at war.”
“Cromwell. God damn his soul.” Pat turned, staggering back to the parlor. Andrew could hear a bottle clattering and followed.
Pat was standing by the parlor window, bottle up, ready to take another drink.
“Drop it, Pat.”
Pat looked over and smiled, but there was a light in his eyes that Andrew knew well.
“Drop it, Pat,” he said slowly.
“Are you going to make me, Andrew darlin’?”
“If I have to.”
Pat laughed, tilted his head back and started to drink.
Andrew strode across the room and struck the bottle away. It slammed against the window, shattering a pane.
Pat turned with a roar. Grabbing Andrew by his shirt, he slammed him up against the wall. “No one, not even you, stops me from a drink,” he cried.
Andrew remained motionless. “Let go of me, Pat,” he said softly, “I’ll fight you, by God, if you want, but let me take my jacket off first.”
Pat looked at him, wide-eyed. The front door out in the hallway was flung open, and two of Andrew’s bodyguards rushed in, one of them with pistol drawn.
“Get out!” Andrew shouted. “Get the hell out of here!”
“Sir?”
The two stared at them, obviously terrified, with their charge pinned to a wall by a drunk senator.
“I told you to get the hell out of this house!” Andrew yelled, his voice nearly breaking. “Wait out in the street until this is over.”
The two looked at each other, a few words were whispered, and they backed out the door, not bothering to close it, and waited on the porch.
“Are we going to fight, Pat?” Andrew asked.
Pat let go of him, and Andrew, without waiting for a reply, fumbled with the buttons of his Lincolnesque longtailed jacket. He let it fall to the floor and raised his one hand and balled it into a fist.
Pat stood stock still and then turned away, shoulders beginning to shake. Within seconds he had dissolved into sobs.
Andrew came up to his side, put an arm around his shoulders, and led him back into the kitchen, settling him down in a straight-back chair next to the stove. He found two mugs and poured out the boiling tea. Clumsily holding the mugs in his one hand, he kicked another chair over to Pat, sat down, and offered him one.
Pat, face covered with his hands, continued to sob. “Come on, old friend, drink some of this.”
Pat looked up, face red from crying and far too many years of drinking. “And you with one arm wanting to fight me, no less.”
“Because I’m your friend, Pat.”
That started the tears again.
“I’m ashamed of meself, Andrew darlin’, ashamed I am.” He slipped into such a heavy brogue, Andrew was not sure of what he said next.
Finally he looked up at Andrew and, surprisingly, made the sign of the cross. “May the saints damn me forever if I ever touch you again in anger.”
“Just drink the damned tea,” Andrew said wearily. He almost preferred Pat belligerent rather than sunk into a maudlin display of Irish drunkenness.
Pat did as ordered, half draining the scalding brew, then finishing the rest while Andrew sipped his own. He sat back and waited for the effect. A long minute passed. Pat stood up, staggered out onto the front porch, and got sick. After a long while he came back, features pale, and Andrew tossed him a towel. Wiping his face, he dropped the towel onto the floor and sat back down while Andrew found another cup and refilled it. This time Pat drank more slowly.
“It’s my son, you know,” Pat finally said. “The fact that he did what Cromwell said. I still can’t believe one of me blood would do such a thing.”
“Our children, Pat, sometimes one never knows.”
“Your own boy? I’m sorry. Any word?”
Andrew shook his head. “Hawthorne said he’s sending up a couple of extra aerosteamers to patrol out toward their last known location. I told him not to do anything special…” and his voice trailed off.
“The whole frontier’s exploded. Fifth cavalry was completely wiped out, their fort overrun. Fourth and Seventh are in a running fight, retreating. The only thing that saved them was two aerosteamers. The Bantag got one of them, but the gatling fire kept them back long enough so the regiments could ford a river and get the hell out.
“There’s going to be an uproar in Congress when it opens in another eight hours. The Chin are talking about forming up their own militia, going out, and massacring any Bantag they find. One of the Qarths, old Kubazin, is staying put, says he’s keeping his land. I want him left alone; he’s staying within the treaty agreement, but the Chin want to go and kill him and everyone else.
“Pat, it’s chaos out there and it starts up here come morning. A fair number of senators are claiming the whole thing is a mad mistake and are looking for someone i. blame.”
“You,” Pat croaked, looking down glumly at his tea.
“I can stand that. If the Kazan are indeed coming, in another day or two that song will change. But then it will be a different tune-how we weren’t prepared, how we somehow provoked the attack, how the Republic is finished and will never work.” His voice trailed off as he looked at Pat, realizing that while he had been pouring out his woes, his friend was still dead drunk and consumed with his own anguish.