Darryl snorted. As if he’d be likely to have fond thoughts about English kings and noblemen!
Tom grinned. “Coal to Newcastle, I guess, saying that to you. And the ‘harrowing of the glens’ after Culloden happened in the eighteenth century, during the so-called Enlightenment. So you can just imagine what this century’s royalist revenge would have been like. As it was—ha!—after the Restoration, the silly buggers dug up Cromwell’s body and beheaded his corpse.”
Darryl made a face. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. That’s a big part of Cromwell’s reputation, of course. The English establishment had their own big grudge against the guy, over the next few centuries, so they were hardly likely to object about what the Irish nationalists did to blacken his name.”
Tom thought for a moment. “Other than that, from what I can determine, all the legends about Cromwell’s ‘butchery’ are just that. Legends. The truth is, Darryl, that Cromwell was known to be merciful, as they count such things in this day and age. He generally offered good terms to towns which surrendered—and kept his word. His soldiers, in Ireland as they had been in England itself, were the best-disciplined troops in these islands. Probably anywhere in Europe, in fact, except for maybe Gustav’s Swedes. Like Gustav, Cromwell would hang a man for plunder or rape or murder.”
The thick shoulders made that somewhat awesome movement that did Tom for a shrug. “I’m not trying to pretty him up, Darryl. He was a hard man, like I said. And ‘merciful’ by the standards of the seventeenth century isn’t all that merciful. You know that as well as I do. He’d execute the officers of a garrison that fought too long, for instance. Did that more than once. But I can’t see anywhere in the books I read where he did it out of any ingrained viciousness. He had a revolution to fight and win, and he was damn well going to do it. If that meant shooting or hanging some royalist officers to encourage those in the next town to surrender faster, he’d do it. And . . . just as with Sullivan’s campaign up the Hudson, it worked. Nine months and it was all over. He took ship for England and never came back to Ireland for the rest of his life.
“He traumatized the Irish, sure enough. But it was mainly just because his campaign was so decisive and effective. And I think as the years went by—the centuries, actually—the Irish read back into the memory of that frightening military campaign everything that happened later. But . . . come on, Darryl. Fair’s fair. Blaming Cromwell for the Irish potato famine and the cold-blooded shooting of James Connolly and Bloody Sunday and the men behind the wire and all the rest of it makes as much sense as blaming George Washington for the massacre at Wounded Knee.”
Darryl wasn’t going to let go that easily. “Well, yeah, sure. But don’t tell me there isn’t any connection.”
“Of course there’s a connection. If Cromwell hadn’t crushed the Irish rebellion in 1650, maybe the potato famine wouldn’t have happened. Then again, maybe it would have. Hard to say for sure. But cause and effect isn’t that simple, Darryl. I can’t remember the terms any longer—been some time since the course on philosophy I took in college—but there’s a difference between a direct cause and something that sets up the conditions for it.
“And why am I telling you this?” Tom snorted. “Darryl, cut the bullshit. You may not have studied philosophy in college, but I know you’ve rebuilt plenty of engines. So don’t pretend you don’t understand the difference.”
Darryl didn’t argue the point. He did understand the difference. Any good car mechanic understood it. The reason your piece-a-junk car’s not running is such-and-such. The reason your car’s a piece-a-junk in the first place is because you’re a sorry goofball who never bothered to change the oil.
“Aw, hell,” he sighed. “I just don’t know what to think any more.”
Tom smiled. “Well, you’re hardly alone in that. Neither do I, most of the time. But . . .” He paused, breathing in and out for a few seconds. Then, continued in slow and soft words.