Bring the Jubilee

by Ward W. Moore

  Bring the Jubilee

  Ward W. Moore

  Trapped in 1877, a historian writes an account of an alternate history of America in which the South won the Civil War. Living in this alternate timeline, he was determined to change events at Gettysburg. When he's offered the chance to return to that fateful turning point his actions change history as he knows it, leaving him in an all too familiar past.

  From the Inside Flap

  “[WARD MOORE IS] ONE OF THE BEST AMERICAN WRITERS.”

  —Ray Bradbury

  The United States never recovered from The War for Southern Independence. While the neighboring Confederacy enjoyed the prosperity of the victor, the U.S. struggled through poverty, violence, and a nationwide depression.

  The Industrial Revolution never occurred here, and so, well into the 1950s, the nation remained one of horse-drawn wagons, gaslight, highwaymen, and secret armies. This was home for Hodgins McCormick Backmaker, whose sole desire was the pursuit of knowledge. This, he felt, would spirit him away from the squalor and violence.

  Disastrously, Hodgins became embroiled in the clandestine schemes of the outlaw Grand Army, from which he fled in search of a haven. But he was to discover that no place could fully protect him from the world and its dangerous realities….

  “The Civil War has been often rethought, most effectively in Ward Moore's Bring the Jubilee.”

  —Donald E. Westlake, The New York Times

  #42 in the Millennium SF Masterworks series, a library of the finest science fiction ever written.

  ‘Seminal… concise and elegiac.’

  Encylopedia of Science Fiction

  ‘A classic alternative world story.’

  Brian Aldiss

  ‘One of the best American writers.’

  Ray Bradbury

  Ward Moore

  BRING THE JUBILEE

  Science Fiction Masterworks Volume 42

  For Tony Boucher and Mick McComas who liked this story

  What he will he does, and does so much

  That proof is call'd impossibility.

  TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

  It is always the puzzle of the nature of time that brings our thoughts to a standstill. And if time is so fundamental that an understanding of its true nature is for ever beyond our reach, then so also in all probability is a decision in the age-long controversy between determination and free will.

  —The Mysterious Universe By James Jeans

  INTRODUCTION

  It is a never-ending source of entertaining discussion among those who are fascinated by the great events of history: “What if… ?” Throughout time, and the great events of Man, it has often been said that what has occurred was determined by the Fates. Or perhaps each decision that resulted in some great achievement, heroic and everlasting, in fact hinged on plain dumb luck.

  Students of the Civil War often notice these peculiar and intriguing occurrences more readily than the historians from whom they learn, possibly because it is the job of the historian to ignore the “what if” and focus instead on what was. And often, the more endearing charms of history are pushed aside by these very students, in pursuit of a higher test score.

  There have been countless debates on the outcome of significant events: What if… Stonewall Jackson had lived? Would his presence at Gettysburg have turned the tide in Lee's favor? Even those who were there at the time felt his absence. What of the “lost orders” of Lee, found by chance by scavenging Federal soldiers, who surely valued the cigars around which the papers were wrapped more than the papers themselves? Yet, at least one of them had the wisdom to show the papers to an officer, who in turn went to General McClellan. Thus was the Battle of Antietam fought at all.

  But these are documented, discussed, and debated because the events were monumental, the results clear and defined. For each of these, how many were never discovered at all, never noticed in the mundane day-to-day lives of the anonymous soldiers and civilians? Even those, the insignificant events that no one ever sees, determine history. There is no sense of fate, or even luck, for the character who lives in the time, or perhaps well after the time; who exists in a world that has been made for him, in circumstances decided by others, and by events of long ago. That person simply lives in the world around him, absorbing what is there, what courses are open to him, what opportunities there may, or may not, be. For him or her, dwelling on what might have been is an exercise in frustration, because what is was decided long ago, by events long forgotten, or long misunderstood.

  Hodgins McCormick Backmaker is as unlikely a protagonist as you can find. He is born into a dismal time and a dismal place, created by the historical decisions of two generations prior. He lives in a world far different from our own, an age shaped by the outcome years earlier of the War of Southron Independence.

  And the South is independent. They won the war. And thus, the Southern states have prospered; a great many “what ifs” have gone their way. Hodge Backmaker spends his youth in the dismal decay of the North, a land void of prosperity, opportunity, and joy. And in this land, Hodge is clearly not a man who has exhibited great capacity, or even the inclination, to change his own fate. But to his credit, he will try to move beyond what has been decided for him, to make some effort to seek something in a world in which he does not seem to fit.

  If we believe we are here for a purpose, that each of us possesses a duty to perform in one certain way, one certain task, then how are we to understand what that task is? Are we ever to be aware if we have succeeded? And, if we do not succeed, will anyone suffer but ourselves? Or, is the failure a success? Perhaps your grand purpose is not to succeed. Churn these questions through your mind and find, as does our hero, that the answers are elusive at best, that the questions themselves may become destructive.

  As we follow young Mr. Backmaker along his journey, we may learn that our curiosity, our attempt to understand our own path, may only be satisfied when the path is already behind us, when the deed is done. And what follows is a new path, one that may reach far beyond ourselves. It may be a path that changes all things, all history, and the lives of everyone yet to come.

  Confusing? Possibly. But this is not a story of history; it is the personal tale of one young man, who may yet learn that the question is not “What if… ?” but “What if I…”

  Jeff Shaara

  August 1996

  I. LIFE IN THE TWENTY-SIX STATES

  Although I am writing this in the year 1877, I was not born until 1921. Neither the dates nor the tenses are error—let me explain:

  I was born, as I say, in 1921, but it was not until the early 1930s, when I was about ten, that I began to understand what a peculiarly frustrated and disinherited world was about me. Perhaps my approach to realization was through the crayon portrait of Granpa Hodgins which hung, very solemnly, over the mantel.

  Granpa Hodgins, after whom I was named, perhaps a little grandiloquently, Hodgins McCormick Backmaker, had been a veteran of the War of Southron Independence. Like so many young men he had put on a shapeless blue uniform in response to the call of the ill-advised and headstrong—or martyred—Mr. Lincoln. Depending on which of my lives' viewpoints you take.

  Granpa lost an arm on the Great Retreat to Philadelphia after the fall of Washington to General Lee's victorious Army of Northern Virginia, so his war ended some six months before the capitulation at Reading and the acknowledgment of the independence of the Confederate States on July 4, 1864. One-armed and embittered, Granpa came home to Wappinger Falls and, like his fellow veterans, tried to remake his life in a different and increasingly hopeless world.

  On its face the Peace of Richmond was a just and even generous disposition of a defeated foe by the victor. (Both sides—for different re
asons—remembered the mutiny of the Unreconstructed Federals in the Armies of the Cumberland and the Tennessee who, despite defeat at Chattanooga, could not forget Vicksburg or Port Hudson and fought bloodily against the order to surrender.) The South could easily have carved the country up to suit its most fiery patriots, even to the point of detaching the West and making a protectorate of it. Instead, the chivalrous Southrons contented themselves with drawing the new boundary along traditional lines. The Mason-Dixon gave them Delaware and Maryland, but they generously returned the panhandle of western Virginia jutting above it. Missouri was naturally included in the Confederacy, but of the disputed territory Colorado and Deseret were conceded to the old Union; only Kansas and California as well as—for obvious defensive reasons—Nevada's tip went to the South.

  But the Peace of Richmond had also laid the cost of the war on the beaten North, and this was what crippled Granpa Hodgins more than the loss of his arm. The postwar inflation entered the galloping stage during the Vallandigham Administration, became dizzying in the time of President Seymour, and precipitated the food riots of 1873 and '74. It was only after the election of President Butler by the Whigs in 1876 and the reorganization and drastic deflation following that money and property became stable, but by this time all normal values were destroyed. Meanwhile the indemnities had to be paid regularly in gold. Granpa and hundreds of thousands like him just never seemed to get back on their feet.

  How well I remember, as a small boy in the 1920s and '30s, my mother and father talking bitterly of how the war had ruined everything. They were not speaking of the then fairly recent Emperors' War of 1914—16, but of the War of Southron Independence which still, nearly seventy years later, blighted what was left of the United States.

  Nor were they unique or peculiar in this. Men who slouched in the smithy while Father shod their horses, or gathered every month around the post office waiting for the notice of the winning lottery numbers to be put up, as often cursed the Confederates or discussed what might have been if Meade had been a better general or Lee a worse one, as they did the new-type bicycles with clockwork auxiliaries to make pedaling uphill easier, or the latest scandal about the French emperor Napoleon VI.

  I tried to imagine what it must have been like in Granpa Hodgins's day, to visualize the lost past—that strange bright era when, if it could be believed, folk like ourselves and our neighbors had owned their farms outright and didn't pay rent to the bank or give half the crop to a landlord. I searched the wiggling crayon lines that composed Granpa Hodgins's face for some sign that set him apart from his descendants.

  “But what did he do to lose the farm?” I used to ask my mother.

  “Do? Didn't do anything. Couldn't help himself. Go along now and do your chores; I've a terrible batch of work to get out.”

  How could Granpa's not doing anything result so disastrously? I could not understand this any more than I could the bygone time when a man could nearly always get a job for wages which would support himself and a family, before the system of indenture became so common that practically the only alternative to pauperism was to sell oneself to a company.

  Indenting I understood all right, for there was a mill in Wappinger Falls which wove a shoddy cloth very different from the goods my mother produced on her hand loom. Mother, even in her late forties, could have indented there for a good price, and she admitted that the work would be easier than weaving homespun to compete with their product. But, as she used to say with an obstinate shake of her head, “Free I was born and free I'll die.”

  In Granpa Hodgins's day, if one could believe the folktales or family legends, men and women married young and had large families; there might have been five generations between him and me instead of two. And many uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, and sisters. Now late marriages and only children were the rule.

  If it hadn't been for the war… This was the basic theme stated with variations suited to the particular circumstance. If it hadn't been for the war the most energetic young men and women would not turn to emigration; visiting foreigners would not come as to a slum; and the great powers would think twice before sending troops to restore order every time one of their citizens was molested. If it hadn't been for the war the detestable buyer from Boston— detestable to my mother, but rather fascinating to me with his brightly colored vest and smell of soap and hair tonic— would not have come regularly to offer her a miserable price for her weaving.

  “Foreigner!” she would always exclaim after he left; “Sending good cloth out of the country.”

  Once my father ventured, “He's only doing what he's paid for.”

  “Trust a Backmaker to stand up for foreigners. Like father, like son; suppose you'd let the whole thieving crew in if you had your way.”

  So was first hinted the scandal of Grandfather Backmaker. No enlarged portrait of him hung anywhere, much less over the mantel. I got the impression my father's father had been not only a foreigner by birth, but a shady character in his own right, a man who kept on believing in the things for which Granpa Hodgins fought after they were proved wrong. I don't know how I learned that Grandfather Backmaker had made speeches advocating equal rights for Negroes or protesting the mass lynchings so popular in the North, in contrast to the humane treatment accorded these noncitizens in the Confederacy. Nor do I remember where I heard he had been run out of several places before finally settling in Wappinger Falls or that all his life people had muttered darkly at his back, “Dirty Abolitionist! “—a very deep imprecation indeed. I only know that as a consequence of this taint my father, a meek, hardworking, worried little man, was completely dominated by my mother who never let him forget that a Hodgins or a McCormick was worth dozens of Backmakers.

  I must have been a sore trial to her for I showed no sign of proper Hodgins gumption, such as she displayed herself and which surely kept us all—though precariously—free. For one thing I was remarkably unhandy and awkward, of little use in the hundred necessary chores around our dilapidated house. I could not pick up a hammer at her command to do something about fixing the loose weatherboards on the east side without mashing my thumb or splitting the aged, unpainted wood. I could not hoe the kitchen garden without damaging precious vegetables and leaving weeds intact. I could shovel snow in the winter at a tremendous rate for I was strong and had endurance, but work requiring manual dexterity baffled me. I fumbled in harnessing Bessie, our mare, or hitching her to the cart for my father's trips to Poughkeepsie, and as for helping him on the farm or in his smithy, I'm afjaid my efforts drove that mild man nearest to a temper he ever came. He would lay the reins on the plowhorse's back or his hammer down on the anvil and say mournfully:

  “Better see if you can help your mother, Hodge. You're only in my way here.”

  On only one score did I come near pleasing Mother: I learned to read and write early, and exhibited some proficiency. But even here there was a flaw; she looked upon literacy as something which distinguished Hodginses and McCormicks from the ruck who had to make their mark, as an accomplishment which might somehow and unspecifically lead away from poverty. I found reading an end in itself, which probably reminded her of my father's laxity or Grandfather Backmaker's subversion.

  “Make something of yourself, Hodge,” she admonished me often. “You can't change the world"—an obvious allusion to Grandfather Backmaker—"but you can do something with it as it is if you try hard enough. There's always some way out.”

  Yet she did not approve of the post-office lottery, on which so many pinned their hopes of escape from poverty or indenture. In this she and my father were agreed; both believed in hard work rather than chance.

  Still, chance could help even the steadiest toiler. I remember the time a minibile—one of the small, trackless locomotives—broke down not a quarter of a mile from Father's smithy. This was a golden, unparalleled, unbelievable opportunity. Minibiles, like any other luxury, were rare in the United States, though they were common enough in prosperous countries suc
h as the German Union or the Confederacy. We had to rely for our transportation on the never-failing horse or on the railroads, worn out and broken down as they were. For decades the great issue in Congress was the never-completed Pacific transcontinental line, though British America had one and the Confederate States seven. (Sailing balloons, economical and fairly common, were still looked upon with some suspicion.) Only a rare millionaire, with connections in Frankfurt, Washington-Baltimore, or Leesburg, could afford to indulge in a costly and complicated minibile requiring a trained driver to bounce it over the rutted and chuckholed roads. Only an extraordinarily adventurous spirit would leave the tar-surfaced streets of New York or its sister city of Brooklyn, where the minibiles' solid rubber tires could at worst find traction on the horse or cablecar rails, for the morasses or washboard roads which were the only highways north of the Harlem River.

  When one did, the jolting, jouncing, and shaking inevitably broke or disconnected one of the delicate parts in its complex mechanism. Then the only recourse—apart from telegraphing back to the city if the traveler broke down near an instrument—was the closest blacksmith. Smiths rarely knew much of the principles of the minibiles, but with the broken part before them they could fabricate a passable duplicate and, unless the machine had suffered severe damage, put it back in place. It was customary for such a craftsman to compensate himself for the time taken away from horseshoeing or spring-fitting—or just absently chewing on an oat straw—by demanding exorbitant remuneration, amounting to perhaps twenty-five or thirty cents an hour, thus avenging his rural poverty and self-sufficiency upon the effete wealth and helplessness of the urban excursionist.