A Lineman for the Country, snippet 1

by Dave Freer

    The Thuringen Gardens was, as usual, dense with people. After collecting his first priority at the bar, Dougal Lawrie looked about for his second priority: something to sit on that wasn't a saddle. The only empty spot he could see was at a small corner table with a solitary American at it. Folk had taken all the chairs but one away from that table. Dougal could tell that the man was an American by the teeth and the horn-rimmed spectacles. Well -- what you could see of the teeth. He had a moustache that would have looked fine on the hind end of Shetland pony.
    Dougal's blue eyes took in the scene. It was a case of stand or sit over there. He decided that the rotund morose-looking fellow was either a fighter or, more likely, a windbag. Well, the former didn't worry him, and he'd always found that he could shut up a bore.
    He walked over to the small table. "I'll be sitting here then," he said. No point in delaying a fight if there was going to be one. He was tired. It had been a long ride from Halle to Grantville. He'd been on the road for two days. Then he'd had to stand around while Colonel Mackay read the messages, and hope to heaven he wouldn't be sent off again tonight. Anyway, with beer at that price he wouldn't be staying long. Grantville was boom town and bar prices reflected it.
    The solid occupant nodded. "Can't stop you."
    Dougal had none of Lennox or Mackay's awe for these 'Americans'. Some of them were doughty fighters, to be sure. Their firearms and devices were near miraculous. But he, Dougal Lawrie, was a Supplicant, like the rest of the Clann, even if he had somewhat lapsed in his church-going these days. Too much respect bordered on worship. The covenant made it clear: Worship was due to God and no one else. And after all these years in foreign wars: respect was something you earned. If this American got too talkative he'd give him short shrift. Anyway he had things to think on, and he was looking forward to just relaxing. Being a dispatch carrier in troubled times and places meant most of your attention was focussed on the countryside. There was no chance to let your guard down. He'd done that once. Damned near been killed for his stupidity.
    After a few minutes of silence the American said: "Well, aren't you going to tell me how wonderful our guns are?" The American's accent was particularly impenetrable, but Dougal was good with languages.
    Dougal took a pull at his beer. "Nae. They canna ride dispatches." That should shut him up. He wanted to drink in peace and not sing praises to the wonder of sniper rifles. He'd heard enough of it in the barracks. The average trooper didn't understand that it took more than guns to win wars. It took the movement of men and materiel. And that rested with men and horses.
    The slow smile spreading over the face of the American told him he'd guessed entirely wrong. "Well, maybe you Scots aren't all damned fools."
    This was fighting talk, even if it was said with a hint of a smile. Dougal tensed. "We're no' stupid. We leave being fools to the susunnoch." These Americans spoke English of a sort but they did not have the Gaelic. The American wouldn't even understand the insult.
    The American took off his glasses. Placed them carefully in a pocket. "Watch your mouth, sonny. You Scots are more Saxon than I am"
    Dougal's eyes narrowed. "Mo chainnt?" Seeing the American was obviously trying to decide whether "my language?" was an insult or not, he continued. "You don't have the Gaelic do you? Canan uasal mor nan Gaidheal."
    The American snorted. "No. I don't speak your damned language. I'm no good with foreign languages." But he'd subsided somewhat. "Ma just used to call someone a Sasanach when she was mad at them. I asked what it meant once. I guess it stuck because she used it pretty darn often."
    "So your mother was a Scot? What Clann?"
    The American shook his head. "Ma was Irish. Came to the US during the troubles. She had no time for the Scottish." He tugged at his horse-tail moustache. "Well. She didn't have much time for anyone."
    "Irish, eh? I served with a couple o' the Wild Geese. None of them could drink."
    The American took out his glasses again. Polished them and put them on. Drained his glass in one long moustache-foaming draft. "Really? 'Zat so? We'll have another round then, will we?"
    Dougal drained his. "Aye. So long as you don't talk all the time. I have nae had a time when I could take a drink in peace for three weeks. And belike yon Mackay will have me off to Halle in the morning again."
    The American was already waving his tankard at the barmaid. When she came over Dougal realized this was another old feud... To work in the Thuringen Gardens you had to have a pretty fair grasp of English. Even the German customers tended to mix in a fair amount of English. It was a source of pride. Showed you were an old hand around here. Lawrie was willing to bet button-nose Hildegarde spoke English without effort. "Was willst Du, Du verdammtes rundes Schwein?" Her comment was a source of some amusement with the miners at the next table. It was apparent that the American understood not one word.
    "Two beers," he said grumpily, holding up two fingers and pointing at the empty stein.
    She looked at him with perfect incomprehension. Wie Bitte? Was?"
    Dougal looked at his empty tankard. It was obvious that this game could go on until a man died of thirst. "Mach das zwei Krüge. Und wenn Du sie schnell bringst, erzähle ich deinem Freund nicht dass Du diesem Amerikaner Augen machst." One of the reasons Dougal Lawrie did so much dispatch riding was that languages came easily to him. It made simple things like haggling for stabling or asking directions easier, and the receiving of oral replies a lot safer.