“Think about switching sides, then,” the chief judge said. “Plenty more trials coming up. Not all of them will be as cut-and-dried as Jefferson Pinkard’s, either. We do need people who can conduct a good defense, and you’ve shown you can do that and then some. But we need prosecutors, too.”
He was bound to be right about the upcoming trials. How many people had helped shove Negroes into cattle cars? How many had run up barbed wire and put brick walls around colored districts in the CSA? How many had done, or might have done, all the things the Confederacy needed so it could turn massacre from a campaign promise to reality?
And what would they say now? I was at the front or I was working in a factory or I never liked the Freedom Party anyway. Some would be telling the truth. Some would be telling some of the truth. Some would be lying through their teeth. Sorting out who was who and giving the ones who deserved something what they deserved would take years. God only knew it would take plenty of lawyers, too.
“I don’t think I’d want to defend Vern Green, say, any time soon,” Moss said. The guard chief at the Texas camps Pinkard had run was on trial here, too, and it was a sure thing his neck would stretch along with his boss’. “One of these is about as much as I can stomach, at least from this side. Somebody where there really was some doubt about what he did…That might be a different story.”
“Nobody wants to do many of these,” the chief judge said. “I don’t think you can do many of these, not if you’re going to stay sane. We try not to drive our staff members loopy…on purpose. Think about it. You don’t have to make up your mind right away. In fact, if you want to think about it over a drink down in the officers’ club…God knows I need one, and I bet you do, too.”
“Sir, that is the best idea I’ve heard in a long time,” Moss said.
Whiskey probably didn’t do much for the thought process. It worked wonders on Moss’ attitude, though. And attitude mattered here at least as much as actual thought. Was this what he wanted to do with the rest of his working life?
Halfway down the second drink, he asked, “Will the Judge Advocate’s staff handle claims by Negroes against whites in the CSA?”
“I don’t know.” The chief judge looked startled. “There’ll sure be some, won’t there?”
“Only way there’d be more was if more Negroes lived,” Moss answered. “But if you’re involved in that, count me in. And if you’re not, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I can’t think of anything down here that needs doing more.”
“Now that you mention it, neither can I,” the chief judge said.
He’d sentenced Jefferson Pinkard to hang. That was his—and the USA’s—obligation to the dead. That the USA might also have an obligation to the living didn’t seem to have crossed his mind till now. Moss wondered how many other important people’s minds it also hadn’t crossed. Too many—he was sure of that. People in the USA kept doing their best not to think about Negroes or have anything to do with them, the same as they had ever since the CSA seceded.
Moss finished that second drink and waved for another one. He was also sure of something else. He was sure he’d found himself a new cause.
What happened to your legs?” By the way the girl at Miss Lucy’s eyed Michael Pound, he might have come down with a horrible social disease.
He shrugged. “I got caught in a burning barrel.”
“Oh.” She was about twenty-five, cute enough even if she wasn’t gorgeous, and plainly not long on brains. “That must not have been much fun.”
“Sweetheart, you said a mouthful. And speaking of which…” Pound gestured. With a small sigh, the girl dropped to her knees.
He liked officers’ brothels a hell of a lot better than the ones enlisted men had to use. The girls were prettier. Nobody hurried you here, either. That was best of all. He could take his time and enjoy it. He could, and he did.
Afterwards, he left the girl—her name was Betty—a couple of dollars for herself. “You don’t need to say anything to Miss Lucy about ’em.”
“Well, I’ll try. But when it comes to cash, that old bitch has a Y-ranging set like you wouldn’t believe.” Betty spoke with more resignation than rancor.
Pound got back into his uniform. “See you again, maybe,” he said. She nodded. If she was enthusiastic, she hid it very well. She didn’t mind his money, but she sure wasn’t thrilled about him.
Well, he was old enough to be her father. And he was a damnyankee. And she was a whore and he was a trick. That left it fourth down and time to punt.
Miss Lucy’s had a bar, too—one more amenity enlisted men’s brothels didn’t enjoy. Maybe the assumption was that officers wouldn’t get plastered and smash whiskey bottles over each other’s heads. From everything Pound had seen, whoever made that assumption was an optimist.
Things seemed peaceable enough in there now. Pound stepped in and asked for a whiskey over ice. “Comin’ up,” said the woman behind the bar. She was one of the working girls; maybe she had her monthlies or something.
“Thanks,” he said when she gave it to him. “Did this place have a regular bartender back before the war?”
“Sure did. But Hadrian, he, uh, don’t work here no more.”
“Right.” Pound knocked back the drink. The booze wasn’t bad, but it tasted foul in his mouth. With a name like Hadrian, the ex-bartender had probably been colored. And the odds that he was dead now were pretty damn good. Pound set the glass on the bar. “Let me have another one.”
“Sure will.” The woman poured whiskey into a fresh glass and added a couple of ice cubes. “Boy, you drank that last one in a hurry.”
“Yeah,” Pound said. She didn’t know what was eating him. She didn’t have the faintest idea, as a matter of fact. That she didn’t was a measure of the CSA’s damnation.
Two good knocks of whiskey made Pound a little less graceful on his burned legs than he would have been without them. He walked back to BOQ through deepening twilight. There was a nip in the air. Tallahassee lay in the northern part of Florida; it got cool in the wintertime, unlike places farther south.
But the weather wasn’t the biggest thing on his mind. His head kept going back and forth. He wished he had an eye that would let him see to the rear. This was the time of day when U.S. soldiers got knocked over the head. By the time anyone found them, the bushwhackers were long gone. That didn’t keep hostages from being taken and shot, but killing innocent people also made the guerrillas have an easier time recruiting.
He got back to BOQ without any trouble. Most people did, most of the time. Anything that could happen, though, could happen to you. Anybody who didn’t understand that never went to war. Being careless—being stupid—made living to a ripe old age less likely. Pound aspired to getting shot by an outraged husband at the age of 103.
When he went to breakfast the next morning, he realized something was up. He didn’t know what; Colonel Einsiedel wasn’t letting on. Something was cooking, though. A few people in the know were all excited about it, whatever it was. Pound and the others who noticed that tried to get it out of them. The rest of the officers shoveled in bacon and eggs, oblivious to the drama around them.
The double-chinned major sitting next to Pound was one of those. “Dammit, they should have had hash browns,” he complained. “I don’t like grits.” He might not have liked them, but he’d put away a good-sized helping.
Pound didn’t like them, either. He also hadn’t taken any. He’d doubled up on toast instead. To him, that was simple common sense. It seemed beyond the major.
Dear God! How did we win the war? he thought. That answer seemed only too obvious. There were just as many thumb-fingered, blundering idiots on this side of the former border as on the other one. No matter where you went, you couldn’t escape the dullards. Life would have been easier and happier if you could.
That afternoon, the other shoe dropped. Harry Truman was coming to Tallahassee to talk to the troops and to any locals who wanted to listen to him. An offic
er who was with Pound when the news got out knew exactly what he thought of that: “They better frisk these bastards before they let ’em within rifle range of the guy.”
“Amen!” Pound said, and then, a beat later, “Dibs on the girls.” He held out his hands as if he were cupping breasts. The other officer laughed.
Truman arrived by airplane two days later. That was judged safer than traveling by train. Sabotaging railroad tracks was easy, but Confederate diehards didn’t have much in the way of antiaircraft guns. Pound’s barrel was one of the machines guarding the airport as the Vice President–elect’s airliner touched down on the runway.
Pound stood up in the cupola and peered at Truman through binoculars. The Senator from Missouri wasn’t young, but he walked with crisp stride and straight back: an almost military bearing. Fair enough—he’d been an artillery officer in the Great War. Not many healthy men in the USA had missed military service in one war or the other. Even fewer in what had been the CSA.
The Vice President–elect spoke in front of the state Capitol. They set up a podium and lectern for him by a palm tree on the lawn in front of the Italian Renaissance building. Sure enough, military policemen and female auxiliaries searched people in civilian clothes before letting them past rope lines half a mile from the podium. They also searched uniformed personnel. The war had shown that people had no trouble getting their hands on uniforms that didn’t belong to them and doing unpleasant things in the other side’s plumage.
What sort of Floridians would listen to the Vice President–elect of the USA? Michael Pound eyed them curiously. Some he recognized—collaborators. They figured they knew which side their bread was buttered on. There’d been some of that flexible breed north of the Ohio a couple of years earlier. They caught hell when they turned out to have guessed wrong. These plump fellows and their sleek women were less likely to be mistaken.
Others—more ordinary folks—seemed honestly curious. That gave Pound at least a little hope. If they could get used to the idea of being part of the USA…It’d take a miracle, and when was the last one you saw? the cynical part of his mind jeered. The rest of him had no good answer.
Colonel Einsiedel stepped up to the mike mounted on the lectern. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure and my privilege to present the Honorable Harry S Truman of Missouri, Vice President–elect of the United States of America.”
Along with the other soldiers, Pound clapped till his palms stung. Applause from the local civilians seemed much more measured. Well, that was no surprise. Metal-framed eyeglasses gleaming in the sun, Truman looked out over the crowd. “If anybody would have told me ten years ago that I would come to Florida to speak to my country’s soldiers here, I would have said he was crazy.” To Pound’s ear, shaped in the northern Midwest, Truman’s Missouri twang had more than a little in common with the local drawl.
“Didn’t Jake Featherston say, ‘Give me five years, and you won’t recognize the Confederate States’?” the Vice President–elect went on. His jaunty grin invited soldiers and locals alike to see the bitter joke. “Well, the man was right, but not quite the way he expected to be.
“And now the United States have to pick up the pieces. The buck stops with us. If we do this wrong, our grandchildren will be down here fighting guerrillas. If we do it right, maybe we can all remember that we started out as one country. We have a lot of things to put behind us before we’re one country again, but we can try.”
His voice toughened. “That doesn’t mean the USA will be soft down here. You people who spent your lives as Confederates have no reason to love us, not yet. And we have to be careful about trusting you, too. You stained yourself with the darkest crime a people can commit, and too many of you aren’t sorry enough. So things won’t happen in a hurry, if they happen at all.
“But, for the past eighty-odd years, people in the USA and people in the CSA have all called themselves Americans. Maybe, if we work together, one day that will mean what it did before the War of Secession. Maybe it will mean we really are all part of the same country once again. I hope so, anyhow. That’s what President Dewey and I will work for. We’ll be as firm as we need to be. But we won’t be any firmer than that. If people down here work with us, maybe we’ll get where we ought to go. God grant we do.”
He stepped away from the lectern. This time, the applause from the soldiers was less enthusiastic, that from the civilians more so. Pound didn’t think it was a bad speech. Truman was setting out what he hoped would happen, not necessarily what he expected to happen. If the survivors in the CSA got rambunctious, the Army could always smash them.
The Vice President–elect didn’t just go away. He plunged into the crowd, shaking hands and talking with soldiers and locals alike. Reading the ribbons on Michael Pound’s chest, he said, “You had yourself a time, Lieutenant.”
“Well, sir, that’s one way to put it,” Pound said.
“I just want you to know that what you’re doing here is worthwhile,” Truman said. “We have to hold this country down while we reshape it. It won’t be easy. It won’t be quick. It won’t be cheap. But we’ve got to do it.”
“What if we can’t?” Pound asked.
“If we can’t, some time around the turn of the century the new Vice President–elect will come down here to tell your grandson what an important job he’s doing. And they’ll still search the locals before they let them listen.”
Pound had no children he knew about. The Army had been his life. But he understood what Truman was talking about. “What do you think of our chances?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Truman didn’t seem to have much patience with beating around the bush. “We’ve got to try, though. What other choice do we have?”
“Treating these people the way they treated their Negroes.” Michael Pound sounded perfectly serious. He was. He faced the possibility of massacring twenty-odd million people as a problem of ways and means, not an enormity. The Army had been shooting hostages since it entered the CSA. Now the whole Confederacy was a hostage.
But Truman shook his head. “No. Not even these people will ever turn me into Jake Featherston. I’d sooner blow out my own brains.” He passed on to another officer.
Had Pound worried about his career, he would have wondered if he’d just blighted it. He didn’t. He could go on doing his job right where he was. Even if they busted him down to private for opening his big mouth, he could still help the country. And they wouldn’t do that. He knew it. He had his niche. He fit it well. He aimed to stay in it as long as he could.
Winter in Rivière-du-Loup started early and stayed late. After close to three years in warmer climes, Leonard O’Doull had to get used to the weather in the Republic of Quebec again. He tried not to grumble too loud. People here would just laugh at him. They took month after month of snow in stride. They’d never known anything else.
O’Doull had to get used to a new office, too. He hadn’t sublet the other one when he rejoined the Army; he’d just let it go. He reached for things in places where they had been, only to find they were somewhere else. Little by little, he made such mistakes less often.
And he had to get used to a practice that wasn’t nearly so frantic as what he had been doing. A sty on the eye or a boil on the butt hardly seemed exciting, not after all the quick and desperate surgery he’d performed. In a way, that was heartening. In another way…He felt like a man who’d gone from ten cups of coffee a day to none, all at once. Some of the energy had leaked out of his life.
His wife was convinced that was a good thing. “You’re home. You can relax,” she told him—and told him, and told him. After a while, he got better at pretending to believe her.
One freezing morning in early December, his receptionist said, “A Monsieur Quigley is here to see you.” She made a hash of the name, as any Francophone would have. O’Doull had had to get used to speaking French again, too. That came back fast. These days, he sometimes switched languages without noticing he was doing it.
“Send him in,” he said at once.
Jedediah Quigley had to be well up into his seventies now. The retired U.S. officer was a little stooped, but still seemed spry. “Your country owes you a debt of gratitude, Dr. O’Doull,” he said in elegant Parisian French. The back-country patois spoken here had never touched his accent, the way it had O’Doull’s.
“That’s nice,” O’Doull replied in English. He waved to the chair in front of his desk, then pulled out a couple of Habanas. “Cigar?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Quigley said. “Where’d you come by these?”
“Friend of mine—a sergeant named Granny McDougald—is a medic in the force occupying Cuba. He sent me a present,” O’Doull answered. They both lit up and filled the air with fragrant smoke.
Quigley eyed the cigar with respect. “Smooth! That was mighty kind of him.”
“I’ll say.” Leonard O’Doull nodded. “The box got here a few days ago. Granny and I worked together for a long time, till he took a bullet in the leg. He remembered the name of my home town, and so…Damn kind of him.” O’Doull smiled. McDougald didn’t have to do anything like that. If he did it, it was because he wanted to, because he thought the doc he’d worked with was a pretty good guy. Knowing somebody you thought well of figured you were a pretty good guy would make anybody feel good.
“I’m glad you came through in one piece,” Quigley said. “I would have felt guilty if you stopped something.”
O’Doull didn’t laugh in his face, but he came close. “Tell me another one,” he said. “You’ve got the conscience of a snappy turtle.”
“Why, Doctor, you say the sweetest things.” Damned if Jedediah Quigley didn’t bat his eyes. It was as ridiculous as watching Michelangelo’s David giggle and simper.
This time, O’Doull did laugh. “Well, what can I do for you, you old fraud?” he said. “Or what are you trying to do to me?”
“Do to you? If I hadn’t taken Lucien Galtier’s land for that hospital, you never would have met your wife. Is this the thanks I get?” Quigley said.
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