ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  “Tax?” Junior asked, without thinking.

  “Included,” said the clerk. “And here, this is included too.” He reached into the dynamite box, came up with a yellowed leaflet entitled Safety precautions in handling explosives, and stuck it into the bag. “You be careful now,” he said.

  “Sure will,” Junior replied.

  Chapter Nineteen

  President Buddy Bourque reached into pocket and pulled out his ever-present roll of Tums. He peeled one off and popped it into his mouth.

  “Hey Buddy,” said Kooter Barnes, “you got one of those things for me?”

  “Sure do,” Bourque said, tossing the roll to his Vice President, “help yourself.”

  Barnes did just that, making a face when he started to chew. “Dunno how you can stand this stuff,” he said.

  “The spearmint ones are better than the peppermint,” Bourque said. “You got a nervous stomach?”

  “Are you kidding? Considering the meeting ahead of us?”

  “Kooter, I’m surprised at you. You’re one of the steadiest folks I know. Nothin’ much fazes you.”

  “Trying to convince the governors to approve reunion fazes me,” Kooter replied.

  “Don’t you worry. It’ll all work out just fine.”

  “How much talkin’ do you want me to do in there?”

  “I’ll do the talking, Kooter. You just nod sagely—in the affirmative, of course—and every once and a while, if you see anyone doubtin’, say ‘Exactly,’ or ‘I agree,” or ‘Good point.’ All I ask is that you speak with conviction.”

  “I always speak with conviction, Buddy. Even when I’m not quite convicted.”

  Roy Pickett walked into Bourque’s office. “All right,” he said, “the last one just arrived. Ten little injuns waiting for the two of you in the big conference room, so curious they can hardly stand it.”

  “Who was last to arrive?” Bourque asked.

  “Lawrence Baptiste.”

  “Baptiste? hell, he’s the closest one,” Kooter said. “How far up the road is Jackson, anyhow, 200 miles?”

  “About 170. But he insisted on driving.”

  Bourque sighed deeply. “Ten governors, one of them living here, eight of them flying in and Lawrence Baptiste in his ’67 Dodge Charger.”

  “Someday,” Kooter said, “we’re gonna be scraping him offn the highway.”

  “That would be a terrible loss.” Pickett said.

  “Easy now,” Bourque said. “Spread big enough?”

  “Not much tablecloth showing,” Pickett said. “Anyhow, they’re chowing down big time.”

  “Good. Let’s give ‘em another five minutes. I want ‘em stuffed and docile.” He peeled off another Tum and gobbled it down.

  “I picked up the photos,” Pickett said.

  “How do they look?”

  “Well, I’d say frightening is the best word,” Pickett said.

  “I don’t know if I can wait any longer,” Kooter said.

  “Okay,” Bourque said. “Let’s go.” He stood and walked to his office door, then paused, a hand on the door frame.

  “Forget something?” Kooter asked.

  Pickett studied the President. “You okay, Boss?”

  Bourque kept hold of the door frame, taking a couple of breaths. “It’s passing,” he said. “I’m okay.”

  Kooter didn’t hear the interchange. “You ready?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.” Bourque said.

  A few minutes later, President Bourque strode into the big conference room, followed by Kooter Barnes, Pickett trailing behind, respectfully, carrying some file folders. Only two of the governors noticed the arrivals. The other eight were too busy gorging themselves on shrimp, chicken fried steak, Virginia ham with country gravy, butter beans and deep-fried okra.

  Bourque and Barnes strolled around the table, shaking hands, squeezing shoulders, massaging egos, and took seats at the head. Ten curious faces were now studying them.

  In a back corner of the room, the CSA’s recording secretary, a thin, grey-haired lady of indeterminate years, sat at an audio recording machine. Sensing that the proceedings were about to begin, she pressed the record button, and straightened up the stack of blank tapes piled on the table.

  “Good afternoon, gennelmen,” Bourque said in his best good ole boy voice, “I’m sure you all are mighty curious about why I’ve invited y’all to come and pay me a visit.”

  They reacted with smiles, nod and expectant expressions.

  “Well, it’s a very serious matter or I wouldnta fetched y’all,” Bourque continued.” As you know, we’ve been up North, conferring with the new President of the North American Union”

  “Very friendly talks, by the way.” Barnes put in.

  Bourque stopped speaking and looked toward Timothy Claxton, the wizened, white-haired 83-year-old governor of Alabama, who was trouble keeping his eyes open. He blinked a few times, then nodded off, awakening with a start. Then the cycle repeated itself. Bourque regarded him with disapproval, causing Kooter to get up, walk down to Claxton and whisper in his ear. The old man suddenly became alert.

  “During our visit,” Bourque said, “We became privy to some very disturbing information. Our very good friend Presidente Garcia is apparently building amphibious landing craft by the hundred. They’re filling up a small lake near the Gulf coast. Canadian and NAU photo analysts are convinced it’s an invasion fleet.” He paused, to let his words take effect.

  “Did you say ‘invasion fleet?” The question came from Jason Gatewood, the young, dark-haired governor of Arkansas with the movie star looks and, if the gossip was to be believed, the keeper of at least one boyfriend.

  Kooter supplied the answer. “That’s what he said,” he responded.

  “That’s what the photo analysts believe,” Bourque said. “The vessels appear to be troop carriers capable of transporting about 100 soldiers and depositing them on any low shoreline—for instance Virginia Beach, the Outer Banks, Myrtle Beach, Hilton Head and most of Florida, not to mention the Gulf beaches. Roy, would you pass out the satellite photos?”

  Pickett opened his folder and passed the pictures around. The governors studied them as if they understood what they were looking at and gave each other grim looks.

  Ben Hightower, governor of North Carolina, a twitchy, birdlike man, asked a nervous question. “Do y’all really think Garcia is going to invade us?”

  “Can y’all think of any other reason he would be mass-producing landing craft?” Bourque asked.

  “Seems like the obvious conclusion to me,” Barnes said, supporting Bourque.

  Hightower rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t you make eyes at me, Ben,” Bourque said, annoyed.

  “What do we hear from our intelligence people?” This time, the question came from Curtis Babineaux, the governor of Louisiana, and a true Southern gentleman, a man who loved his cornpone a great deal and his Southern Comfort even more. “They confirm anything?”

  “The only thing we’ve been getting from our Mexican agents is silence,” Bourque said. “Too much silence.”

  The Governor of South Caroli na, Daryl Burgess, Col. Burgess as he preferred to be known, hoisted himself into a standing position. “We must call out the reserves,” he said. “We must reinforce the coastlines. I volunteer for command duty.”

  Bourque exchanged glances with Pickett. They’d talked about putting Burgess out to pasture, but it was too late now. “Daryl, we don’t really have any reserves. At least not armed ones. And I don’t know exactly how we could reinforce the coastlines. We’re pretty thin at sea, you know.”

  “Don’t have the fleet we once did,” Kooter added.

  Burgess nodded, as though this was the answer he’d expected. He sat down.

  “I wish I could tell you that was the only bad news I had to deliver,” Bourque said. “Unfortunately, there’s more. The Germans have called in our loans. Our GDP didn’t meet their requirements. We have thirty days to come up with $
20 billion, and of course, that’s just a partial payment.”

  “What’s that you say, 30 days?” Timothy Claxton asked, confused.

  “Yes. And another $20 billion 30 days after that,” Bourque said.

  “We don’t have the money,” Kooter said.

  “Like he said,” Bourque agreed, assuming a grave expression.

  Alex Webb, the governor of Tennessee, famous for his blond pompadour , raised a timid hand. Bourque nodded to him to go ahead. “Well, I don’t know, the invasion. The loan. You’re scaring us. What are we gonna do?”

  “Easy does it, Alex,” Bourque said. “You sound like your roof ain’t nailed on tight.”

  “But that’s a good question, isn’t it, Buddy?” This was more of a dig than a question. It came from Andrew Carrington, Virginia’s arrogant, aristocratic governor, a handsome, silver-haired man of about 60, with a cultured accent, not just governor, but the owner of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. He was dressed in his usual white linen suit. “And I think I know the answer. I’m wagering it has to do with your recent visit to Washington, D.C., Mr. President. Am I right?” Again, the taunting tone, the sly smile.

  “I think we have a clairvoyant in our midst,” said President Bourque, with a patronizing smile of his own. “As long as you’re reading my mind, Governor Carrington, would you like to supply some details?”

  Carrington was not discouraged. “Well, why not?” He put his fingers to his noble forehead, swami-like, and smiled that disdainful smile of his. “I foresee that you asked the new nigra President of theirs if he might kindly lend us $50 billion dollars or thereabouts, and send a fleet of warships to protect our coast from Mexican invaders. Am I right?”

  “And just why would President Callaway agree to such a request?” Bourque asked.

  “Perhaps he has fallen victim to your charm,” Carrington theorized.

  A few of the governors laughed uncomfortably.

  “Unfortunately, Governor Carrington, even if Callaway agreed to do that, your fix wouldn’t do the job,” Bourque said. “It’d be a temporary solution to a permanent problem. Suppose the NAU gave us money. Billions. How long would it take before we on the edge of bankruptcy again? Suppose Callaway agreed to send the NAU Navy to protect our coastlines. Would his successor be equally cooperative?”

  “Doubtful,” Barnes said, on cue.

  Carrington frowned. “I do hope,” he said, “that you are not about to tell us that you have found a way to solve our problems forever.”

  That inspired one of Bourque’s grandest smiles. “Governor, I couldn’t have put it better myself. That is exactly what I am about to do. President Callaway and I, with the help of our Vice Presidents, of course, have agreed on a way to permanently box in Garcia and to solve our financial problems not just for the present, but for as far into the future as anyone can see.”

  He paused, taking an inventory of the baffled faces at the table and enjoying himself.

  “Gentlemen, President Callaway and I—and our Vice Presidents---have agreed to explore the possibilities of reunion.”

  It was as if someone had pressed the mute button.

  Carrington tried a little laugh, but it proved not to be contagious. The rest of them, less bold, simply stared at Bourque, stunned.

  “Reunion,” Bourque said again, rolling the word around in his mouth and getting all the juice out of it.

  “Impossible,” Carrington said, weakly.

  “Ridiculous,” said Governor Burgess.

  “Excuse me,” said Tennessee Governor Alex Webb, smoothing his pompadour with his right hand, “but are you suggesting that the Confederacy dissolve and let itself be reabsorbed into the Union?”

  “I’m suggesting that we join hands and hearts with the rest of America,” Bourque said. “I’m suggesting that we allow our federal government to die a natural death and that, as states, we become an integral part of a stronger, more prosperous and, let’s face it, freer nation than our own.” He glanced at Kooter Barnes.

  “President Bourque is making good sense,” Barnes volunteered promptly.

  Jason Gatewood, puffed out his manly chest and raised his hand. Bourque pointed at him. “Well, Mr. President, what about our laws? And our customs?”

  “We would, of course, conform to the Constitution and the federal laws of the North American Union,” Bourque said. “In all cases, in every way. And they, in turn, would revive and enlarge our Social Security and Medicare, equalizing it with the rest of the NAU.”

  “That’s a good point,” Barnes said. Bourque bestowed a smile on him. Then, suddenly, his smile faded. He reached into a pocket, hand shaking slightly, and found his roll of Tums, downing two of them.

  “What about the schools?” asked Mississippi Governor Lawrence Baptiste, a man in his early fifties, but dressed like he was twenty years younger, in a suit jacket with no lapels and bell bottom trousers. “Will they have to be integrated?”

  “I’m not going to have any kin of mine going to school with nigras,” said Curtis Babineaux, the governor of Louisiana.

  “You talking about your white children or your half-breeds?” Kooter Barnes inquired snidely. Baptiste found another direction in which to look.

  “He has a point,” Governor Claxton said. “I don’t want my children sitting next to nigras.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that Tim,” said Kooter Barnes. “It’s been a good thirty years since you had school age children. Leastwise any you’ve owned up to.”

  Claxton didn’t have a reply.

  “What about restaurants?” asked Ben Hightower anxiously. “I don’t know that I can force myself eat in the company of nigras.”

  “Unless they’re serving you, you mean,” Pickett said, and found all of them staring at him as if they’d forgotten he was there. “Just an observation,” he said with a little smile.

  “Maybe this is a day to keep your observations to yourself, Roy,” Bourque suggested, not unkindly.

  “Will we be able to keep our positions as governors?” Hightower asked hopefully.

  “Well,” Bourque said, “that’s possible—but not likely. In a few months, there’ll be new elections, supervised by the NAU. Y’all can all run if you like. Or, y’all can retire with a very handsome pension. Your legislative leaders will be offered the same deal.”

  Hightower considered this. “Will blacks be voting in this election?”

  “Yes, of course,” Bourque said. “and serving on juries and enjoying exactly the same legal rights as white people.”

  At that moment, two pretty big-haired serving girls began passing out hearty slices of pecan pies, and daubing them with dollops of genuine whipped cream. Gatewood, who, for smokescreen reasons, had made a practice of coming on to any unattached woman he encountered, made a few crude comments, which the girls effortlessly laughed off. Then he and the others turned to their pie and appetite momentarily took precedence over conversation.

  Governor Claxton, who apparently had a powerful sweet tooth, was the first to finish. “I just thank God I won’t be around to see this happen,” he said. “That’s one of the privileges of age.”

  “Timothy, I’m afraid you may be wrong there,” Bourque said. “Callaway’s going to want an answer from us very quickly and if we can both get our people on board, this whole thing could happen in a few weeks.”

  Barnes piped up again. “He’s right.”

  “We must find another way then,” Carrington said. “We cannot let the Confederacy end this way. We owe it to our ancestors…”

  “And to our descendants,” said Baptiste.

  Bourque leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Come to think of it,” he said, “there is one other way out of our problems…”

  Carrington interrupted. “And you were keeping that from us? Why?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure how eager you were to learn Spanish and start going to Mass, Andrew. I didn’t know if you were ready give up grass-fed beef and G
ulf shrimp and adopt a diet of favor of tacos, enchiladas and burritos. But if you are, there is another solution.”

  “Very funny,” Carrington said.

  “I wasn’t joking with you, Andrew,” Bourque said. “Or do you need to take another gander at the landing craft photos?” He motioned to Pickett to give Carrington the photo folder, but Carrington waved it away.

  “I don’t know, Buddy, I just don’t know,” said Justin Babineaux. “I could see a military alliance. That would make sense. But reunion? Giving nigras the vote—and everything else? I just can’t get my head around that.”

  Bourque nodded. “I understand where you’re coming from, governor. You’re talking about ancient values, values I also hold sacred. . I’m on your side on this one. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, especially without much warning.”

  He let his words sink in and, to a man, the governors nodded in agreement.

  “But there is another way to look at it,” Bourque went on. “We’ve all known, and for a long time, that we’d eventually have to give our colored brothers full citizenship. Just between you and me and the doorpost, we all know that we’ve been enjoying a position of power that we really didn’t do anything to earn, and if we’re big enough to admit it, we do not deserve. We don’t like to think about it—I don’t like to think about it—but it’s just an accident of history. We coulda been the slaves, not them.”

  He surveyed the faces in front of him. They were still nodding, although reluctantly.

  “And there’s another thing y’all know, but are loathe to admit: our racial policies have cost us dearly with the rest of the world. We gave up slavery to please them. But that was not enough. We built nigra schools and hospitals. Still not enough. We’ve been doin’ it in dribs and drabs, but the world has never given us any credit for it.” Bourque paused again, checking reactions.

  “That’s the absolute truth,” said Governor Claxton. “We’ve made enormous changes since I was a tyke. Why, I remember…no, never mind. But nobody ever gave us any credit for it, not even the nigras. They act like we owe them something.”