"I know how to tell time, sailor," rasped the admiral. "And I don't recall asking for your opinion. Just send it. If the President loses some sleep-"
He bit off the next words. Serve the bastard right, all the sleepless hours he's caused me. He realized, even if still only dimly, that he was going to have to stop calling Mike Stearns the bastard. Even under his breath.
"Do as you're told."
"Yessir." The sailor hastened to comply.
Two hours later, the sailor's eyes were no longer bleary with sleep. Indeed, by now he was downright astonished. Not so much by the content of the messages flying back and forth-most of which he barely understood to begin with-but simply by the fact that it was happening at all.
Nobody's gonna fucking believe this. Not even about the Old Man, much less Mrs. Pruneface. And she's doing most of the talking.
By dawn, it was over. The radio operator, now too tired to be astonished any longer, handed over the final transmission from the President.
WILL SEND PROPOSAL TO EMPEROR. EXPECT HIM AGREE ALSO. U.S. INFLUENCE HIGH RIGHT NOW. SUSPECT VERY HIGH.
COMING UP MYSELF, AS YOU SUGGEST. AGREE THAT WITH CRISIS LOOMING, APPEARANCE OF UNITY AS ESSENTIAL AS FACT ITSELF. WILL BRING VERONICA DREESON, IF SHE AGREES. PROBABLY WILL. TOUGH OLD BIDDY. APPROVES HIGHLY OF MRS. SIMPSON ALSO.
"That seems to be it, sir."
Simpson passed the message over to his wife, smiling about the last two sentences. He'd suspected it was true, as hard as it was to believe. Granted, Veronica had married Henry Dreeson, the mayor of Grantville. However, she was also the grandmother of Gretchen Richter-and Richter's dislike of the Simpsons was well-known.
But Veronica Dreeson had wound up traveling with his wife, when Mary had finally moved up from Grantville. Having established a school in Grantville, Veronica had been bound and determined to set up a branch of it in the new imperial city. Odd as it may have been, in the days of their shared journey up the rivers, the two women had discovered they had several things in common. First, firm convictions on the subject of child discipline. Second, a passion for setting up schools. Third-probably most important-the mutual esteem of tough old biddies.
Mary, new to the city herself and-it was obvious to Simpson now, looking back on it-mired in a quiet, deep depression, had still done what she could to help Veronica's project. Apparently the experience had left Veronica with as high an opinion of Mary as Mary had of her. Which, given the new situation, probably boded well for Veronica's ambitions.
Mary smiled also, reading the message. But, by the time her husband rose, the smile was gone.
"That's it then, Mary. We've done all we can. It's late-early, I should say. We need some sleep."
"No, John." She shook her head firmly. "There's still one last message to send. And this is not a message that can be sent to 'Mr. President.' It's a message that has to be sent to Mike Stearns. Our son's brother-in-law."
She took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. "If you can't do it, I will."
Simpson sighed. Then, turned to the radio operator.
"Last message. Address this one, 'Dear Mike.' " Simpson almost laughed, seeing the man's efforts to keep a solemn face. They'll never believe this in the barracks. What, sailor, you think I don't know that you'll gossip about the Old Bastard?
"Dear Mike," he dictated. One glance at Mary told him not to try compressing the language for the sake of transmission brevity. "Mary and I would much appreciate it if you would do what you can…" He groped for the words. Then just said, quietly: "We'd like our son to speak to us again. We miss him. Thanks, John."
The reply came back immediately.
WILL DO MY BEST. MY WORD ON IT.
"As much as I can ask," said Simpson quietly, handing it over to Mary.
"He'll keep his word," she said. Even confidently.
"Oh, yes. He's quite good at that, actually."
On the way back to their house, walking much faster in the light of daybreak, Simpson spoke only twice.
"I still don't like the man."
"Of course not," replied Mary, matter-of-factly. "What is there to like? Yes, he'll keep his word. But, beyond that…"
Her breath steamed in the cold morning air. "He's crude and uncouth-he is, too; his language is vulgar beyond belief-I hate the way he panhandles everybody, shifts his language to suit the crowd-fancy here, as good-ole-boy as you could ask for over there-ruthless as a snake; just as brutal, too, when it comes to infighting. Devious, manipulative, a backroom horse trader and wheeler-dealer with the scruples of a carnival huckster fleecing the crowd-I could go on and on."
She took a long, slow breath, steaming into Germany's autumn. "But I won't, John. Not any more. And the reason I won't is because I majored in history in college. And there is this little nagging voice in my head that is reminding me how much proper society detested another president the United States once had. And for exactly the same reasons. He was a crude bumpkin from the sticks, with a low sense of humor-and undoubtedly the most capable politician the country ever produced. I think it was the last part they hated the most. Couldn't forgive, anyway."
Simpson's knowledge of history was, in general, not the equal of his wife's. But there were some exceptions, especially when it came to American history. Given Simpson's own brown-water experience in Vietnam, he'd read a great deal on the Civil War. He'd been mainly interested in naval history, of course, especially the use of gunboats on the interior rivers. But, obviously, studying the Civil War involved constantly running across a certain famous politician.
"You can't be serious," he protested. "How can you possibly compare Mike Stearns to-to-"
She just gave him a sideways stare. He never did finish the sentence.
Part VI
Those dying generations
Chapter 38
The last few miles were the worst.
Eddie Cantrell was quite certain he'd never been so exhausted in his entire life. He stood watching as the long, worn-out column reached more or less level ground south of Wismar at last and rubbed his eyes wearily.
Thank God Gustavus' canal-building crews had begun their efforts by hacking out a roadway (of sorts) to parallel the channel's course from Lake Schwerin to Wismar Bay! Without that, the entire trip would have been impossible… or, at least, so difficult trying to make it wouldn't have been worth the effort. He'd been this way once before already since Becky's warning had reached Grantville, but this time was different. Very different.
Louie Tillman's Chris Craft groaned past him on its improvised cart, fiberglass hull lurching as the clumsy wooden wheels found every uneven spot in the muddy, crudely graded roadbed. A long line of horses stretched out in front of it-thirty or forty of them, he couldn't really remember which in his exhausted state-and harness creaked as they leaned into it. Nor were they the only source of motive power. Scores of men, virtually all of them civilians from Wismar, conscripted for the task by the small garrison of Swedish troops Gustavus had left in the city, heaved and grunted right alongside the draft animals.
That launch had a dry weight of just over three tons. Intellectually, Eddie had known all along that 17 th -century Europeans were accustomed to moving such weights by brute muscle strength. After all, some of their heavier artillery pieces weighed at least half again as much. But that knowledge had been dry and theoretical, harvested from histories of events long past. Even now, after two years here, he hadn't been prepared to see something the sheer size of Tillman's launch moving, however slowly and clumsily, under nothing but the power of straining muscle and sinew.