“For all we know, they ain’t gonna go through with it,” Carlton said. “Maybe they got more TNT under this here Tabernacle Park, and they’ll blow us and them to kingdom come instead of giving up.”
“Samson in the temple,” McSweeney murmured. But the big Scotsman shook his head. “No, I cannot believe it. Samson worked with the Lord, not against Him. I do not think Satan could steel their souls to such vain sacrifice.”
“The whole damn state of Utah is a sacrifice,” Paul said. “I don’t know what the hell made the Mormons fight like that, but they did more with less than the damn Rebs ever dreamt of doing. Only way we licked ’em is, we had more men and more guns.”
Here and there, people who were not U.S. soldiers picked through the remains of Ogden. Women in bonnets and long skirts shoved aside wreckage, looking for precious possessions or food or perhaps the remains of loved ones. Children and a few old men helped them. The spoiled-meat smell of death hung everywhere.
A few men not old also went through the ruins. Most of them wore overalls, with poplin or flannel shirts underneath. Their clothes were as filthy and tattered as the soldiers’ uniforms, and for the same reason: they’d spent too long in trenches.
“If looks could kill…” Paul said quietly. His companions nodded. The Mormon fighting men no longer carried weapons; that was one of the terms of the cease-fire to which their leaders had agreed. They stared at the American soldiers, and stared, and kept on staring. Their eyes were hot and empty at the same time. They’d fought, and they’d lost, and it was eating them inside.
“My granddads fought in the War of Secession,” Carlton said. “I seen a photograph of one of ’em after we gave up. He looks just like the Mormons look now.”
They tramped past a five-year-old boy, a little towhead cute enough to show up on a poster advertising shoes or candy. His eyes blazed with the same terrible despair that informed the faces of the beaten Mormon fighters.
The women were no different. They glowered at the victorious U.S. troopers. The prettier they were, the harder they glared. Some of them had carried rifles and fought in the trenches, too. Soldiers who won a war were supposed to have an easy time among the women of the people they’d defeated. That hadn’t happened anywhere in Utah that Paul had seen. He didn’t think it would start happening any time soon, either.
But the Mormon women didn’t aim that look full of hatred and contempt at the Americans alone. They also sent it toward their own menfolk, as if to say, How dare you have lost? Even the Mormon fighters quailed under the gaze of their women.
Carlton pointed ahead. “Must be the park.”
Most of Ogden was shell holes and rubble. Tabernacle Park was, for the most part, just shell holes. The only major exception was the burned-out building at the southeast corner. It had been the local Mormon temple, and then the last strongpoint in Ogden, holding out until surrounded and battered flat by U.S. artillery.
Captain Schneider was already in the park. He waved the men of his company over to him. Pulling out a pocket watch, he said, “Ceremony starts in fifteen minutes. General Kent could have got himself a fancy honor guard, but he chose us instead. He said he thought it would be better if soldiers who’d been through it from the start saw the end.”
“That is a just deed,” Gordon McSweeney rumbled-high approval from him.
“Congratulations again on your medal, sir,” Mantarakis said.
Schneider looked down at the Remembrance Cross in gold on his left breast pocket, won for rallying the line south of Ogden after the Mormons exploded their mines. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. “I shouldn’t be the only one wearing it, though. We all earned them that day.”
Under his breath, Ben Carlton muttered, “Damn fine officer.” Paul Mantarakis nodded.
Here came Major General Alonzo Kent, tramping along through the rubble like a common soldier. He waved to the veterans gathering in front of the wrecked Mormon temple. “Well, boys, it was a hell of a fight, but we licked ’em,” he said. He wasn’t impressive to look at, not even in a general’s fancy uniform, but he’d got the job done.
And here came the Mormon delegation, behind a standard-bearer carrying the beehive banner under which the Utah rebels had fought so long and hard and well. Most of the leaders of the defeated Mormons looked more like undertakers than politicians or soldiers: weary old men in black suits and wing-collared shirts.
One of them stepped past the standard-bearer. “General Kent? I am Heber Louis Jackson, now”-he looked extraordinarily bleak as he spoke that word-“president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I have treated with your representatives.”
“Yes,” Kent said: not agreement, only acknowledgment.
The Mormon leader went on, “With me here are my counselors, Joseph Shook and Orem Pendleton. We make up the first presidency of the church, and are the authority in ultimate charge of the forces that have been resisting those of the government of the United States. And here”-he pointed to the youngest and toughest-looking of the Mormons in his party-“is Wendell Schmitt, commander of the military forces of the Nation of Deseret.”
“The Nation of Deseret does not exist,” General Kent said in a flat voice. “President Roosevelt has, as you know, declared the entire state of Utah to fall under martial law and military district. He has also ordered the arrest of all officials of the rebel administration in the state of Utah on a charge of treason against the government of the United States of America. That specifically includes you gentlemen here.”
“Pity they’ll shoot them or hang them,” Gordon McSweeney whispered to Mantarakis as Heber Jackson bowed his head. “They should be burned.” He touched the nozzle to his flamethrower. Mantarakis hissed at him to be quiet; he wanted to hear what the Mormons said.
Wendell Schmitt took an angry step forward. “The terms you set us were already hard enough without that, General. The Constitution-”
“Does not apply here, because of the president’s declaration,” General Kent interrupted. “You people put yourselves beyond the pale when you hopped into bed with the Confederates and the Canadians. Now that you have made that bed for yourselves, you shall be made to lie in it. You tried to destroy our government here. You failed. We will destroy your government here. This surrender will let the common people of the state survive. If you reject it, we will destroy them, too, and turn Utah back into the desert it was before they came.”
“And call that peace,” Joseph Shook murmured. It sounded like a quotation, but Paul didn’t know what it was from.
General Kent evidently did: “If you like, Mr. Shook. But you Mormons will not joggle our elbows again while we are fighting this bigger war, and you will not disturb the peace in the USA once we have won the war.” He opened an attache case and took out a sheet of fancy paper. “Here is the formal instrument of surrender. Before we affix our signatures to it, I am going to summarize its provisions one last time, so that we have no unfortunate misunderstandings. Is that agreeable to you?”
“Hard terms,” Heber Jackson said softly.
“Having fought us tooth and nail for a year, you cannot expect a kiss on the cheek now,” Kent retorted. He fumbled in the case again, this time for a pair of reading glasses. “‘Item: all troops in resistance to the government of the United States’…Well, we’ve done that; they laid down their arms when you asked for the cease-fire.
“‘Item: all firearms in Utah to be surrendered within two weeks. Penalty for possession after that time is death.
“‘Item: any act of violence against soldiers of the United States shall be punished by the taking and execution of hostages, not to exceed ten for each soldier wounded or fifty for each soldier killed.
“‘Item: all public gatherings of more than three persons are banned. This includes churches, vaudeville houses, picnics’-you name it. ‘Violators will be fired upon without warning by soldiers of the United States.
“‘Item: all property of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is
forfeit to the government of the United States in reparation for the cost of suppressing this rebellion.
“‘Item: gatherings in private homes to worship in the fashion of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Days Saints shall be construed as public gatherings under the meaning of the previous item, and shall be dealt with like any other public gatherings under the terms of that item.
“‘Item…’” He droned on and on. After a while, Paul stopped paying close attention. The Mormons had tried to break away from the USA, and they were paying a heavy price for it. In effect, they had broken away, and were being treated not as a state returning to the Union but as a conquered province. As far as he was concerned, they’d earned it. He’d been in Utah most of a year, and nasty strangers had been trying to kill him the whole time.
One of General Kent’s aides unfolded a portable table and produced a pen and bottle of ink with which to sign the instrument of surrender. “May I say something before I set my name there?” Wendell Schmitt asked.
“Go ahead,” General Kent told him. “If you think anything you say will change matters, though-”
“Not likely,” the Mormon military commander broke in. “No, what I want to tell you is that terms like these will come back to haunt you, years from now. You’re sowing the seeds of hatred and bloodshed that will grow up in the days of our grandchildren, and of their grandchildren, too.”
“Do you know what?” General Kent said. “I don’t care. Teddy Roosevelt doesn’t care, either. And if they have to, Mr. Schmitt, my grandchildren will come in here to Utah and blow your grandchildren sky-high all over again. If more damn fools like you come to power here, that’s just what will happen. If you people are smart enough to realize you’re fighting out of your weight, it won’t.” He folded his arms across his chest.
Biting his lip, Wendell Schmitt signed the surrender document. So did the three men who made up the first presidency of the Mormon Church. Last of all, so did General Kent. His aides took the Mormon leaders into custody. The Mormon standard-bearer handed the beehive banner to one of those U.S. aides. With deliberate contempt, the American soldier let it fall in the dirt.
“It’s over,” Ben Carlton said.
“Yeah,” Paul agreed. “Now we either get to stay here for occupation duty, with everybody hating us like rat poison, or else they ship us back to fighting the Rebs or the Canucks.” He laughed ruefully. “Sounds like a bully time either way, doesn’t it?”
Anne Colleton cranked to life the engine of the battered Ford they’d given her. The motorcar shivered and shuddered like a man with the grippe. It sounded as if it would fall to pieces at any moment-it was about as far a cry from her Vauxhall roadster as an automobile could possibly be.
She didn’t complain, not any more. She’d had to move heaven and earth to pry the Ford out of Confederate officialdom. It would, with luck, get her back to Marshlands, which was all she wanted for the time being. God only knew where the Vauxhall Major Hotchkiss had confiscated was now. That might well have been literally true; Hotchkiss himself, she was given to understand, was dead, killed along with so many others in the death throes of the Congaree Socialist Republic.
“Anyone want to ride with me?” Anne asked, not for the first time. None of the women with whom she’d shared a refugee tent for so many months made a move toward her. The bayoneted Tredegar with a full clip she’d laid in the middle of the seat probably had something to do with that.
“The officers say you’re asking to get yourself killed-or else somethin’ even worse-if y’all go into that country now,” the fat woman named Melissa declared. By her tone, she looked forward to that prospect for Anne.
“I’ll risk it,” Anne answered. “I’ve always been able to take care of myself, unlike a lot of people I can think of.” Being on the point of leaving gave her the last word. She hopped into the Ford, released the hand brake, put the motorcar in gear, and put-putted away.
Going was slow, as she’d known it would be. The Robert E. Lee Highway had been one of the main lines of Confederate advance, which meant the Red Negro rebels had defended it as well as they could, which in turn meant the artillery had gone to work, which meant what was called a road was in many places anything but. Anne was glad she’d managed to get her hands on several spare inner tubes and a pump and patches.
Not many trees along the road were standing; most had been blasted to tinder. Those that did stand often held ghastly fruit: rebels captured and then summarily hanged. Ravens and buzzards flew up from them as the noisy Ford rattled past. The stench of death was everywhere, and far stronger than the hanged bodies could have accounted for by themselves. Anne wondered if the fronts between the CSA and USA were full of this same dreadful reek. If they were, how did the soldiers endure it?
In a field by the side of the road, Negroes were digging trenches that would probably serve as mass graves. From a distance, the scene looked almost as it would have before the Red uprising began. Almost, for the couple of whites who supervised the laborers carried rifles: the spring sun glinted off the sharp edge of a bayonet.
Anne bit her lip. Putting Humpty-Dumpty back together again in the CSA wouldn’t be easy. If whites had to get labor out of blacks at gunpoint, how were they supposed to fight the damnyankees at the same time? And if they offered concessions to make Negroes more willing to go along with them, wasn’t that as much as saying the Reds had been right to rise against the government?
Reaching St. Matthews took her more than twice as long as she’d thought it would, and she hadn’t been optimistic setting out from the refugee camp. By the time she got to the town nearest Marshlands, she found herself astonished she’d made it at all. She was also filthy from head to foot, having repaired three punctures along the way.
St. Matthews shocked her again. It wasn’t so badly smashed up as some of the territory through which she’d driven; the rebellion had been dying on its feet by the time Confederate forces reached the town, and the Reds hadn’t fought house to house here. But St. Matthews was the town she knew best: in the back of her mind, she expected to see it as it always had been, with whitewashed picket fences, neatly painted storefronts and even warehouses, and streets lined with live oaks shaggy with moss.
Most of the fences had been knocked flat. Two of the four big cotton warehouses were only burnt-out wreckage. Some of the live oaks still stood, but the artillery bombardment before the assault on the town had put paid to most of them. It would be a hundred years before saplings grew into trees that could match the ones now ruined.
Anne’s eyes filled with tears. She’d kept trying to think of the rebellion as something that, once defeated, could in large measure be brushed aside. Negroes working under white men’s guns had gone a fair way toward telling her how foolish that was. The blasted oaks, though, warned even more loudly that the uprising would echo for generations.
A gray-haired white man in an old-fashioned gray uniform shifted a plug of tobacco from one ill-shaven cheek to the other and held up a hand, ordering her to stop. “What the-blazes you doin’here, lady?” he demanded. “Don’t you know there’s still all kinds o’ bandits and crazy niggers running around loose?”
“What am I doing here?” Anne replied crisply. “I am going home. Here is my authorization.” She handed the militiaman a letter she had browbeaten out of the colonel in charge of the refugee camp.
By the way this fellow stared at the sheet of paper, he couldn’t read. That she had it, though, impressed him into standing aside. “If’n they say it’s all right, reckon it is,” he said, touching the brim of his forage cap. “But you want to be careful out there.”
“I intend to be careful,” Anne said, a thumping lie if ever there was one. She put some snap in her voice: “Now kindly give that letter back, so I can use it again at need.”
“Oh. Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” Where her grimy appearance and this beat-up motorcar hadn’t convinced the militiaman she was a person of quality, her manner did. He handed the le
tter back to her.
The road from St. Matthews to Marshlands was not so heavily cratered as the highway up to town had been. By the time the rebels abandoned St. Matthews, they’d pretty much abandoned organized resistance against Confederate forces, too. But that thought had hardly crossed her mind before she heard a couple of brisk spatters of gunfire from the north, the direction of the Congaree swamps. Not all the Reds, it seemed, had given up.
Woods blocked any view of Marshlands from the road till not long before a traveler needed to turn onto the lane leading up to the mansion. I am ready for anything, Anne told herself, again and again. Whatever I see, I will bear up under it.
Coughing and wheezing, the Ford passed the last trees. There, familiar as the mole she carried on one wrist, was the opening into that winding lane. Just before you turned, you looked along the lane and you saw…
“Hell,” she said quietly. She’d been hoping the place had survived, but it looked like a skeleton with most of the flesh rotted away. Altogether against her will, tears blurred her eyes. “Jacob,” she whispered. If Marshlands had burned, her brother must have burned with it.
By contrast, the Negro cottages off to one side of the great house looked exactly as they had before the Red uprising began. A couple of men were out hoeing in their gardens; a couple of women were feeding chickens; a whole raft of pickaninnies were running around raising hell.
After a little while, her eyes left the vicinity of the mansion and traveled out to the cotton fields. Her teeth closed hard on the soft flesh inside her lower lip. If anyone had done anything with the cotton since she’d left for Charleston all those months before, she would have been astonished. Was that what the Red revolution had been about-the freedom not to work? Her face twisted into an expression half sneer, half snarl.
If the rest of the plantations in what had been the Congaree Socialist Republic looked the same way, a lot of planters were bankrupt, busted, flat. She wasn’t; she’d invested wisely ever since Marshlands came into her hands. Most people, though, couldn’t see past their noses. And, speaking of seeing…
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