“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.”
“Not if you and John O’Neill had gone together. The prat may be insufferable, but he’s a competent captain and a bear in a fight. Together, the earls of Tyrconnell and Tyrone would have been invincible.”
“Gaelic bluster, O’Rourke. Don’t start believing the tales we tell to keep our spirits up during these long years of exile and waiting. Yes, I wanted to go. Yes, I wanted to lead. Yes, I agreed to Owen’s and Father Conry’s plan to create Ireland as a republic and to renounce any claim to preeminence. But unless wild luck had smiled on that project-instead of the death’s head which has loomed over all our others-the only result of an invasion led by both O’Neill and O’Donnell would have been the loss of the last two royal Irish heirs that the English are really worried about.”
“So your godmother was willing to let O’Neill to take the lead, and get himself strung up…”
“…in the unlikely event the invasion occurred at all; yes.”
“And you she saved out of love.”
“That-and practicality.”
“What practicality was that?”
“O’Rourke, how much trouble has our regiment had living side by side with the Walloons, even the Dutch?”
“Other than the occasional argument over the price of provisioning, none.”
“And O’Neill and his regiment?”
O’Rourke nodded; he saw Isabella’s logic now. “One incident after another. He’s been hard- and high-handed from the start, right down to this very day.”
Hugh nodded back. “Precisely. So if Isabella had to depend on mercenaries-and in particular, us Wild Geese-to protect her realm, she needed at least one loyal leader that enjoyed the trust of the locals and was not wholly subject to the manipulations of Madrid, nor the intrigues of her sworn enemies.”
“In other words, she needed you. And us. Well, now I understand the past a little better, but I’m still in the dark regarding the present.” O’Rourke lifted his mug. “So tell me, why skulk back into camp? And why not one word of what you’re planning next? What’s afoot?”
Hugh leaned forward. “For the nonce, O’Rourke, this is just between us.”