Blood and iron ae-1

by Harry Turtledove

  "Have it your way, sir," Pound said with a broad-shouldered shrug, and then, a moment later, another one. "It's the law of the land, I suppose. But if I were king-"

  "If you was king, I'd get the hell out of here faster than my old man got out of Poland," Izzy Abblebaum broke in.

  The gunner looked aggrieved. He no doubt thought he'd make a good king. He'd done a fine job of commanding one barrel after Morrell got "killed." That didn't mean he could run roughshod over the world leading a brigade of them, even if he thought it did. Checking a gasket, Morrell reflected that nobody could do too much roughshod running in the USA; the Constitution kept such things from happening. If it sometimes left him frustrated… he'd just have to live with it. 'This lifter is shot," he said. "We have a spare part?"

  "With this budget?" Applebaum said. "Are you kidding? We're lucky we've got the one that doesn't work." Morrell spent a long time pondering that, and never did straighten it out.

  Nellie Jacobs felt harassed. Once Edna got Merle Grimes to pop the question, she hadn't wasted a minute. She'd said, "I do," and moved out. That meant Nellie had to try to run the coffeehouse and keep track of Clara-who at two was into everything-all by herself Either one of those would have been a full-time job. Trying to do both at once left her shellshocked.

  Every once in a while, when things got more impossible than usual, she'd take Clara across the street to Hal's shop to let her husband keep track of the kid in between half-soling shoes and occasionally making fancy boots. On those days, she ended up tired and Hal exhausted instead of the other way round.

  "Now I know why God fixed it up so that young people have most of the babies," she groaned after one particularly wearing day. "Folks our age don't have the gumption to keep up with 'em."

  "I wish I could tell you you were wrong," Hal answered. He looked more like a tired grandfather than a father. He wasn't Nellie's age; he was better than ten years older. Having Clara around seemed to be making both her parents older still at a faster rate than usual.

  "Shall I make us some more coffee?" Nellie asked. "It's either that or prop my eyelids up with toothpicks, I reckon."

  "Go ahead and make it," Hal said. "You always make good coffee. But I do not think it will keep me awake. I do not think anything will keep me awake, not any more." He sighed. "And she sleeps through the night so well now, too."

  "I know." Nellie would have groaned again, but lacked the energy. "If she didn't, I wouldn't just be tired-I'd be dead."

  "I do love her-with all my heart I love her," Hal said. "But you are right-she can be a handful. Two handfiils, even. I will be very glad when she stops saying no to everything we tell her."

  "You mean they stop saying no?" Nellie exclaimed in surprise more or less mock. "Hard to tell, if you go by Edna."

  "Edna is fine," Hal said. "There is nothing wrong with Edna. You worry about her too much."

  "I don't think so," Nellie said in a flat voice. "If you knew what I've been through-if you knew what I've put myself through for her…"

  "They are not the same thing," Hal said.

  "Huh!" was the only answer Nellie gave to that. After a while, she went on, "Merle's going to find out about Nicholas Kincaid. You wait and see. That kind of thing won't stay under the rug."

  Her husband shrugged. "You are probably right. I cannot blame Edna for not wanting to talk about it, though."

  "Not fair to tell lies," Nellie said. Then she remembered Bill Reach, almost five years dead now. She remembered how the knife had felt going into him. And she remembered Hal could not, must not, find out how he'd died. The only difference between her case and her daughter's was that she had a better chance of keeping her secret.

  "It is not a lie that intends to hurt," Hal said, and Nellie had to nod, for that was true. She let him win the argument, which she didn't always do by any means.

  The next morning, the past rose up and bit her. She should have expected such a thing, but somehow she hadn't. A ruddy, handsome fellow in an expensive suit came in, looked around, and said, "Well, you've done the place up right nice, Widow Semphroch. Likely looked like a tornado went through it at the end of the war, but you've done it up right nice." His Confederate accent was thick enough to slice-she guessed he hailed from Alabama, or maybe Mississippi.

  "Should I know you, sir?" she asked, her voice cool but resolutely polite: business wasn't so good that she could afford to anger any customer, even a Rebel.

  "Name's Alderford, ma'am-Camp Hill Alderford, major, CSA, retired," he answered. "You might not recognize me out of uniform, and I used to wear a little chin beard I've shaved off on account of I've gotten a lot grayer since the war. But I had some of my best times in Washington right here in this coffeehouse, and that's a fact. Now that I'm in town again, I figured I'd stop by and see if you and the place made it through in one piece. Right glad you did."

  "Thank you." Nellie didn't remember him at all. A lot of Confederate officers had spent a lot of time in the coffeehouse. She wondered if more of them would start paying visits. If they do, they'd better have U.S. money, she thought. Since she didn't want this one to go without spending some cash, she said, "Now that you're back in town, Mr. Alderford, what can I get you?"

  "Cup of coffee and a ham sandwich," he answered. He must have been thinking along with her, for he added, "I won't pay in scrip, and I won't pay with Confederate banknotes, either."

  "All right." She got him what he'd ordered. While she was serving him, she asked, "What are you doing in Washington now?"

  "Selling cottonseed oil, ma'am, cottonseed oil and cottonseed cake," Alderford said. "Cottonseed oil brings a dollar a gallon, near enough-a U.S. dollar, I mean, and a U.S. dollar brings enough Confederate dollars to choke a mule. Two mules, even." He bit into his sandwich. "That's good. That's mighty good. You always had good grub here, even when things were lean."

  That was to keep you Rebs coming in so I could spy on you. Nellie almost said it aloud, to see the look on his face. Reluctantly, she kept quiet. Word would get around, down in the CSA. If more ex-officers stopped by, she wanted them in a mood to spend money, not to burn down the coffeehouse.

  Clara had been amusing herself in what had been a storeroom before Nellie filled it with toys and a cot to keep the toddler either busy or resting. Camp Hill Alderford smiled to see her. "That your granddaughter, ma'am?" he asked. "Reckon your pretty daughter found somebody else after what happened to poor Nick. That was a hard day, a powerful hard day."

  "Mama," Clara said, and ran to Nellie. She was shy of strangers, especially men with their deep voices.

  Alderford's eyebrows rose. Nellie nodded. "She's my daughter, too," she said. "I got married again after the war." And I got a surprise not so long after I did. "And yes, Edna finally did get married, just a few months ago." She started to add that Merle Grimes was a veteran, too, but didn't bother. Men of the proper age who weren't veterans were few and far between.

  "Well, I'm happy for you," Alderford said. He beckoned to Clara with a crooked index finger. "Come here, sweetheart. I've got a present for you."

  "You can go to him, Clara," Nellie said. But Clara didn't want to go anywhere. She clung to Nellie's skirt with one hand. The thumb of the other was in her mouth.

  "Here, I'll give it to your mama," Camp Hill Alderford told her. She watched with round eyes as he reached into his hip pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a brown Confederate banknote. "Here y'are, ma'am."

  It was beautifully printed: more handsome than U.S. paper money. That wasn't what made Nellie gape. She'd never seen, never imagined, a $50,000,000 bill. Gasping a little, she asked, "What's this worth in real money?"

  "About a dime." Alderford shrugged. "Five cents next week, a penny the week after that." He paused. "Maybe we'll be able to start setting our house in order again if we get to stop sending you-all reparations. If we don't, Lord knows what we'll do "

  "I haven't got anything to do with that," Nellie said. She hoped Congress wouldn't let Pres
ident Sinclair cut off Confederate reparations. As far as she was concerned, the weaker the Rebs stayed, the better. What was the first thing they were likely to do if they ever got strong again? As far as she could see, head straight for Washington was the best bet.

  "I know you don't," Camp Hill Alderford answered. He held out his cup. "If you'd fill that up for me, I'd be obliged."

  "I sure will," Nellie said, and did, after detaching Clara from her skirt. Alderford was the only customer in the place; of course she'd get another nickel out of him. She kept looking at all the zeros on the bill he'd given her for Clara. A sigh escaped her. If only it were U.S. green instead of C.S. brown!

  The bell above the door chimed. Nellie looked that way with a smile of greeting on her face-someone else to spend money. But it wasn't: it was her son-in-law. Alarm ran through her. "Merle!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here this time of day? Why aren't you at work?" Why did you have to come in when this goddamn Reb amp; here?

  "Edna just telephoned me from the doctor's office," Merle Grimes answered. "Since you don't have a telephone, I figured I'd come over and tell you the news-you're going to be a grandmother."

  "Oh," Nellie said, and then, "Oh," again. She would have been more excited about the news if she hadn't been afraid Camp Hill Alderford would start running his mouth. "Won't you get in trouble for leaving your job in the middle of the morning?" she asked, hoping to get Grimes out of the coffeehouse as fast as she could.

  But he shook his head. "My boss said it was all right. We're pals-we were in the same company during the war. Small world, isn't it?"

  "Isn't it just?" Nellie said tonelessly.

  "Congratulations, ma'am," Alderford said. He turned to Merle Grimes. "And to you, too, sir. Children make everything worthwhile."

  "Er-thank you," Grimes said. He couldn't help realizing Alderford was a Confederate-and probably couldn't help wondering why a Confederate spoke as if he knew Nellie so well.

  Nellie decided to take that bull by the horns: "Mr. Alderford was Major Alderford during the war, and used to stop by here a good deal."

  "Oh," Grimes said, not in surprise, as Nellie had, but more for the sake of saying something. He had a way of holding his cards close to his chest. Nellie had trouble telling what he was thinking.

  "That's right," Alderford said. Nellie sent him a look of appeal to keep him from saying any more. She hated that; she hated asking any man for anything. And she feared the ex-Rebel officer wouldn't even notice, or would notice and decide to pay back some damnyankees for winning the war.

  But Alderford never said an untoward word. He set coins- U.S. coins-on the table and went on his way. Nellie let out a quiet sigh of relief. She'd got by with it. But if more Confederates came to visit, could she keep on getting by with it? One more thing to worry about, she thought, as if she didn't have enough already.

  Lucien Galtier reached out and pressed the starter button on the dashboard of his Chevrolet. He'd bought the automobile in large measure because it had a Frenchman's name on it; a Ford would have been easier to come by.

  The engine coughed before coming to noisy life. The motorcar shuddered under him, then settled into a steady vibration different even from the motion of a railroad car, the closest comparison he could find.

  His feet were still clumsy on gas and clutch and brake. Charles and Georges had taken to driving more readily than he, which infuriated him. "I will learn to do this, and to do it well," he muttered. He did not talk to the automobile, as he had to the horse. He was talking only to himself. He knew it, and felt the lack.

  He stalled the motorcar the first time he tried to shift from neutral up into low gear. Naturally, Georges had taken the moment before to come out of the barn. As naturally, Lucien's younger son laughed at his father's fumbles, and did not even try to keep that laughter to himself. Galtier called the automobile several names he would not have used on the horse even in the worst of moods. Then, still wishing he had not bought the machine, he started it once more and succeeded in driving away.

  As he drew near Riviere-du-Loup, he came up behind a horse-drawn wagon-one very much like that which he had driven himself up till a few weeks before. The cursed thing crawled along at a snail's pace. Galtier squeezed the horn bulb again and again. The stupid farmer sitting up there like a cowflop might have been deaf. He refused either to speed up or to pull over.

  At last, seizing an opportunity, Lucien shot around him. "Mau-vaise calisse!" he shouted, and eked out the malediction with gestures. The other farmer smiled a smile that, to Galtier, proved his feeblemindedness. "Some people have no consideration," Galtier fumed. "None whatsoever." He never once thought how he had behaved when driving a wagon rather than a motorcar.

  Traffic in Riviere-du-Loup was far heavier than he recalled from the days before the war. Automobiles had been rare then, with most people traveling by wagon or carriage or on horseback. Now everyone seemed to have a motorcar, and to drive it with a Gallic disdain for consequences that matched Galtier's own. He cursed. He shouted. He waved his arms. He blew his horn, and blew it and blew it. He fit right in.

  Finding a parking space was another adventure, one made worse because the streets of Riviere-du-Loup had not been designed with the automobile in mind. A good many motorcars were parked with two wheels in the road, the other two up on the sidewalks-sidewalks were none too wide, either. At last, Lu-cien imitated that example.

  When he got out, money jingled in his pockets. Some of the coins were from the USA, a few from the Canada of before the war, and some from the Republic of Quebec. As they were all minted to the same standard, merchants took one lot as readily as another. A newsboy was hawking papers on a street corner. Galtier gave him a couple of pennies-one, a U.S. coin, said ONE CENT on the reverse; the other, an issue of Quebec, featured the fleur-de-lys and announced its value as UN sou-and took a newspaper.

  FRANCE IN CHAOS! shouted the headline. He read the accompanying story as he walked back to the automobile. Police and soldiers had turned machine guns on rioters in Paris furious about the worthless currency and about the country's forced subservience to the German Empire.

  The reporter didn't seem to know what tone to take. Germany was the USA's ally, and so was also the ally of the Republic of Quebec. But the Quebecois sprang from French stock, and nothing would ever change that. The ambiguity made the writer take almost no tone at all, but set forth what he'd learned from the cable as baldly as if it were going down in a police blotter.

  Galtier sighed. He didn't know how to feel about France's troubles, either. He wished she were not having such troubles. But if the only way for her not to have troubles was for her to have won the war… Galtier shook his head. "Too high a price to pay," he murmured.

  He would not have said that during the war. He shrugged. He'd had the same thought many times before, in many different contexts. The world had changed, too. Taken all together, the changes pleased him. He would not have said that during the war, either.

  When he knocked on the door to the house where Nicole and Leonard O'Doull lived, his daughter answered almost at once. Tagging along behind her was little Lucien. Staring gravely up at Galtier, he asked, "Candy?"

  "No, no candy today, I regret," Galtier answered.

  His grandson clouded up and got ready to cry. "You know you aren't supposed to do that," Nicole said, and, for a wonder, little Lucien didn't. Nicole smiled at Galtier. "And what brings you here today, Papa?"

  "Nothing much," he said grandly. "I was just out for a drive in my Chevrolet, and I thought I would stop in." Was that how a gentleman of leisure should sound? He didn't know. He'd never met a gentleman of leisure.

  "Ah," Nicole said. "You have the motorcar here, then?"

  "Here in Riviere-du-Loup, yes. Here in my pocket"-Galtier peered into it, as if to make sure-"here in my pocket, no."

  Nicole wrinkled her nose. "It certainly isn't hard to see sometimes where Georges comes by it," she remarked.

  "Comes by what?"
Galtier demanded. He was perhaps a sixteenth part as annoyed as he pretended to be.

  His daughter knew as much. "Will you let me drive your new motorcar, Papa?" she asked.

  "What's this?" Now Galtier's surprise was genuine. "How is it that you, a girl, a woman"-he added that last with the air of a man granting a great concession-"can drive a motorcar?"

  "Leonard showed me, Papa," Nicole answered, very much a woman and very much a woman of the new century. "It isn't very hard. I've driven our Ford any number of times. It's a handy thing to know, don't you think?"

  "What if you have a puncture, and your husband is not there?" Lucien asked.

  "I fix it," she answered calmly. "I've done it once. It's a dirty job, and not an easy job, but I know I can do it again."

  "Do you?" Galtier muttered. Nicole hadn't yet mentioned her driving to Marie or to Denise. He knew that for a fact. If she had, his wife and his next eldest daughter would have been nagging him to learn to drive, too. With Charles and Georges always wanting to go courting or just gallivanting around in the machine, where would he ever find time to use it himself if his womenfolk were taking it, too?

  "Yes, I do." Nicole answered the question he hadn't quite aimed at her, and answered it with arrogant confidence a man might have envied. "And so, may I drive your automobile?"

  Thus directly confronted, Lucien found no choice but to yield. "Very well," he said, "but I will thank you to be careful of the delicate machine-and of your delicate father as well."

  Nicole laughed, for all the world as if he'd been joking. She reached down and took little Lucien's hand; evidently, she was not afraid to trust his life to what she knew behind the steering wheel. Galtier's heart had not pounded so since the war crossed the St. Lawrence. Nonetheless, he led her to his mechanical pride and joy.

  She slid into the driver's seat, but then stopped in consternation. "Everything is different, Papa!'" she exclaimed. "On the Ford, the spark knob is on the left side of the steering column, the throttle on the right. I have a lever on the floor to my left for the emergency brake and clutch release and the pedals on the floor seem different from these, too. On the Ford, they are the high- and low-speed clutch, the reverse pedal, and the foot brake."