In at the Death

by Harry Turtledove

  The exec gave him a peculiar look. “You know what, skipper? I can see why the board asked you for ideas. You just naturally come up with things.”

  “Well, if I do, the pharmacist’s mates have always been able to treat ’em,” Sam answered. Praise—especially praise from a bright Annapolis grad—never failed to make him nervous.

  He got a grin from Menefee, but the younger man persisted: “If you’d gone to college, you’d be an admiral now.”

  Sam had heard that before. He didn’t believe it for a minute. “I didn’t even finish high school. Didn’t want to, either. All I wanted to do was get the hell off my old man’s farm, and by God I did that. And if I was the kind of guy who went to college, chances are I wouldn’t’ve been the kind of guy who wanted to join the Navy. Nope, I’m stuck with the school of hard knocks.”

  “Maybe. But it’s still a shame,” the exec said.

  “Don’t flabble about me, Lon. You’re the one who’ll make flag rank. I like where I’m at just fine.” Sam wasn’t kidding. Two and a half stripes! Lieutenant commander! Not bad for a man up through the hawse hole, not even a little bit. And his superiors still wanted him around. Maybe he could dream of making commander, at least when they finally retired him. He sure hadn’t wasted any time sewing the thin gold stripe between the two thicker ones on each cuff.

  He’d flustered Menefee in turn. “Flag rank? Talk about counting your chickens! I just want to see what I can do with a ship of my own.”

  “I understand that.” Sam had waited a long, long time for the Josephus Daniels. But doors opened to young Annapolis grads that stayed closed for graying mustangs.

  Menefee pointed across the water. “Supply boat’s coming up.”

  Before Sam could say anything, the bosun’s whistle shrilled. “Away boarding parties!” Sailors armed with tommy guns went down into a whaleboat at the archaic command. Others manned the destroyer escort’s twin 40mms. After that bumboat attacked the Oregon, nobody took chances.

  If the boat didn’t stop as ordered, the guns would stop it. But it did. The boarding party checked every inch of the hull before letting it approach. Sam hadn’t had to say a word. He smiled to himself. This was the way things worked when you had a good crew.

  Sooner or later, conscripts would replace a lot of his veteran sailors. By now, he knew what he needed to know about whipping new men into shape. He didn’t look forward to the job, but he could do it.

  Meat and fresh vegetables started coming aboard the destroyer escort. The chow was better than it had been when she spent weeks at a time at sea. Sam had never been one to cling to routine for its own sake. If he never tasted another bean as long as he lived, he wouldn’t be sorry.

  “I’m going to my cabin for a spell, Lon,” he said. “The paperwork gets worse and worse—and if something disappears now, we can’t just write it off as lost in battle, the way we could before. Damn shame, if you ask me.”

  “Sure did make the ship’s accounts easier,” Menefee agreed. “Have fun, skipper.”

  “Fat chance,” Sam said. “But it’s got to be done.”

  Dealing with the complicated paperwork of command might have been the toughest job for a mustang who’d never been trained to do it. You could end up in hock for tens of thousands of dollars if you didn’t keep track of what was what, or if you absentmindedly signed the wrong form. Because he’d had to start from scratch, Sam was extra scrupulous about double-checking everything before his name went on it.

  He absently scratched the back of his left hand, which itched. Then he went back to making sure of his spare-parts inventory. Some of that stuff—the part that petty officers found useful—had a way of walking with Jesus.

  A few minutes later, he noticed his hand was bleeding. He swore and grabbed for a tissue. He must have knocked off a scab or something. When he looked, he didn’t see one. The blood seemed to be coming from a mole instead. After a while, it stopped. Sam went back to work.

  Things on the Josephus Daniels were just about the way they were supposed to be. If he had to turn the ship over to a new CO tomorrow, he could without batting an eye. His accounts were up to date, and they were accurate—or, where they weren’t, nobody could prove they weren’t. People said there was a right way, a wrong way, and a Navy way. He’d used the Navy way to solve his problems about missing things.

  Sam grinned. Of course he’d used the Navy way. What other way did he know? He’d given the Navy his whole life. He hadn’t known he would do that when he signed up, but he wasn’t disappointed. He’d sure done more and seen more of the world that he would have if he’d stayed on the farm.

  The only way he’d leave now was if they threw him out or if he dropped dead on duty. He’d been scared they would turn him loose when the war ended, but what did they go and do? They promoted him instead.

  “Nope, only way I’m going out now is feet first,” he murmured. “And even then, the bastards’ll have to drag me.”

  A U.S. warship under his command anchored in Mobile Bay? He’d never dreamt of that when he signed on the dotted line. He hadn’t imagined he could become an officer, not then. And he hadn’t imagined the USA would ever take the CSA right off the map. The way it looked to him then—the way it looked to everybody—both countries, and their rivalry, would stick around forever.

  Well, nothing lasted forever. He’d found that out. You went on and did as well as you could for as long as you could. When you got right down to it, what else was there?

  Miguel Rodriguez said…something. “What was that?” Jorge asked.

  His brother tried again. “Water,” he managed at last.

  “I’ll get you some.” Jorge hurried to the sink and turned the tap. When he was a little boy, he would have had to go to the well. This was so much easier.

  Bringing the water back to Miguel, seeing his brother again, was so much harder. Now he understood why the Yankees had kept Miguel so long. Miguel sat in a U.S.-issue military wheelchair. He would never walk again. So said the letter that came with him, and Jorge believed it. His body was twisted and ruined. So was his face. U.S. plastic surgeons had done what they could, but they couldn’t work miracles.

  The shell that didn’t quite kill him damaged his thinking, too—or maybe he was trapped inside his own mind, and his wounds wouldn’t let him come out. The U.S. doctors had kept him alive, but Jorge wasn’t even slightly convinced they’d done him any favors.

  He gave Miguel the cup. His brother needed to take it in both hands; he couldn’t manage with one. Even then, Jorge kept one of his hands under the cup, in case Miguel dropped it. He didn’t, not this time, but he did dribble water down what was left of his chin. Jorge wiped it dry with a little towel.

  How long could Miguel go on like this? Ten years? Twenty? Thirty? Fifty? Would you want to go on like this for fifty years? If somebody took care of you, though, what else would you do?

  Pedro came in and looked at Miguel, then quickly looked away. What had happened to his brother tore at him even worse than it did at Jorge. And what it did to their mother…Jorge tried not to think about that, but he couldn’t help it. She’d be taking care of and mourning a cripple for as long as she or Miguel lived.

  “Those bastards,” Pedro said savagely. “Damnyankee bastards!”

  “I think they did the best they could for him,” Jorge said. “If they didn’t, he’d be dead right now.”

  Pedro looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Who do you think blew him up in the first place? Damnyankee pendejos, that’s who.”

  He was probably right—probably, but not certainly. Jorge had seen men wounded and killed by short rounds from their own side. He didn’t try to tell his brother about that—Pedro was in no mood to listen. He just shrugged. “It’s the war. We all took chances like that. What can you do about it now? What can anyone do?”

  “Pay them back,” Pedro insisted. “Señor Quinn says we can do it if we don’t give up. I think he’s right.”

  “I think you�
�re loco,” Jorge said. “What happens if you shoot somebody? They take hostages, and then they kill them. They take lots of hostages. They’ve already done it here once. You think they won’t do it again?”

  “So what?” Pedro said. “It will only make the rest of the people hate them.”

  “Suppose they take Susana or her kids? Suppose they take Lupe Flores?” Jorge said, and had the dubious satisfaction of watching his brother turn green. Yes, Pedro was sweet on Lupe, all right. Jorge pressed his advantage: “Suppose they take Mamacita? Will you go on yelling, ‘Freedom!’ then? It’s over, Pedro. Can’t you see that?”

  Pedro swore at him and stormed out of the farmhouse again. Jorge noticed his own hands had folded into fists. He made them unclench. He didn’t want to fight Pedro. He didn’t want his brother doing anything stupid and useless, either. The Army had taught him one thing, anyhow: you didn’t always get what you wanted.

  Miguel had listened to everything. How much he’d understood…How much Miguel understood was always a question. It probably always would be. He struggled with his damaged flesh and damaged spirit, trying to bring out words. “Not good,” he managed. “Not good.”

  “No, it isn’t good,” Jorge agreed. Just how his injured brother meant that…who could say? But Miguel wasn’t wrong any which way. If Pedro went and did something stupid, people for miles around could end up paying for it.

  Miguel tried saying something else, but it wouldn’t come out, whatever it was. Sometimes Jorge thought Miguel knew everything that was going on around him but was trapped inside his own head by his wounds. Other times, he was sure Miguel’s wits were damaged, too. Which was worse? He had no idea. Both were mighty bad.

  If Pedro really was planning on doing something idiotic…Whatever Jorge did, he would never betray his own flesh and blood to the occupiers. If you did something like that, you might as well be dead, because you were dead to all human feeling. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t do anything at all.

  The next time he went into Baroyeca, he did it. Then he went into La Culebra Verde and drank much more beer than he was in the habit of putting down. He didn’t walk back to the farmhouse—he staggered. If the electric poles hadn’t marched along by the side of the road to guide him back, he might have wandered off and got lost.

  His mother looked at him with imperfect delight when he came in. “Your father didn’t do this very often,” she said severely. “I wouldn’t stand for it from him. I won’t stand for it from you, either.”

  “Shorry—uh, sorry—Mamacita,” Jorge said.

  “And don’t think you can sweet-talk me, either,” his mother went on. “You can call me Mamacita from now till forever, and I’ll still know you’ve come home like a worthless, drunken stumblebum. I told you once, and I’ll tell you again—I won’t put up with it.”

  Jorge didn’t try to argue. He went to bed instead. He woke up with his head feeling as if it were in the middle of an artillery barrage. Aspirins and coffee helped…some. Pedro eyed him with amused contempt that was almost half admiration. “You tied a good one on there,” he remarked.

  “Sí.” Jorge didn’t want to talk—or to listen, for that matter. He poured the coffee cup full again.

  “How come?” Pedro asked him. “You don’t usually do that.” Miguel sat in the wheelchair watching both of them, or maybe just lost in his own world.

  “Everything,” Jorge said. “Sometimes it gets to you, that’s all.” He wasn’t even lying, or not very much.

  Pedro nodded vigorously. “It does. It really does! But I don’t want to get drunk on account of it. I want to do something about it.”

  You want to do something stupid about it, Jorge thought. He kept that to himself. If you got into an argument when you were hung over, you were much too likely to get into a brawl. He didn’t want to punch Pedro—most of the time, anyhow.

  The Bible said a soft answer turned away wrath. No answer seemed to work just as well. When Jorge didn’t rise to the bait, Pedro left him alone. He wondered whether he ought to remember that lesson for later. A shrug was all he could give the question. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t.

  He went on about his business. Even in winter, the farm needed work. He tended the garden and the livestock. He went into Baroyeca once more, and came back sober. Magdalena Rodriguez nodded to him in somber approval.

  Then Pedro went into town a few days later. When he came home, he was wild with rage. “The Yankees! They’ve taken Señor Quinn!”

  “I was afraid of that,” Jorge said.

  “But how could they know what he stands for?” Pedro demanded.

  “He talks too much,” Jorge answered, which was true. “And too many people know he was the Freedom Party man here. Someone in town must have blabbed to the soldados from los Estados Unidos.” Most of that was true, but not all.

  “What can we do?” his brother cried.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think we can do anything. The Yankees have machine guns and automatic rifles. I don’t want to go up against them. If you do, you have to be out of your mind.”

  Pedro frowned; that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “I hope nobody decides to inform on me,” he said. “All we’ve got here are a couple of .22s, and you can’t fight anybody with those.”

  “Of course not. That’s why the Yankees let us keep them,” Jorge said.

  Then his brother brightened. “Maybe we could get some dynamite from the mines, and we could—”

  “Could what?” Jorge broke in. “You can’t fight with dynamite, either. What are you going to do, throw sticks of it?”

  “Well, no. But if we made an auto bomb—”

  “Out of what? We don’t have an auto,” Jorge reminded him. “Besides, do you know how many the Yankees shoot for every auto bomb that goes off?”

  “We’ve got to do something for Señor Quinn,” Pedro said.

  “Bueno. What do you want to do? What can you do that will set him free and won’t get us into trouble?”

  Pedro thought about it. The longer he thought, the more unhappy he looked. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

  “Well, when you answer that, then maybe you can do something. Now we have to worry about keeping ourselves safe, and keeping Mamacita safe, and keeping Miguel safe,” Jorge said.

  Miguel sat in the wheelchair. Was he listening to his brothers argue, or not paying any attention at all? Jorge was never sure how much Miguel understood. Sometimes he even thought it varied from day to day. Now, though, Miguel’s eyes came alive for a moment. “Stay safe!” he said clearly. “Get down!” Was that the last thing he said or the last thing he heard before the shell crashed down and ruined his life? Jorge wouldn’t have been surprised.

  Pedro gnawed on the inside of his lower lip. “You can put up with things easier than I can, Jorge.”

  “Sometimes, maybe,” Jorge said.

  “But it gets to you, doesn’t it? It gets to you, too.” His brother pointed an accusing forefinger at him. “Otherwise, why did you need to go to the cantina and get drunk?”

  Jorge spread his hands. “Well, you’ve got me there.”

  “I thought so.” Pedro sounded smug. Not many things anyone liked better than being sure he knew what someone else was thinking.

  “Careful,” Miguel said, maybe at random, maybe not. Was he still thinking about getting shelled? Or was he warning Pedro not to think he was so smart? How could anyone outside the wreckage of his body and mind and spirit guess?

  With a sigh, Pedro said, “I will be careful. I won’t do anything that gets us into trouble or gets us hurt.”

  “That’s the idea.” Jorge hoped his brother would keep the promise. “Maybe things will get better. We just have to wait and see—what else can we do that’s safe?”

  “Señor Quinn didn’t talk that way.” Pedro wasn’t ready to give up, not quite.

  “No, he didn’t,” Jorge agreed. “And look what happened to him. If he’d just tried to fit in, the Yankees would have let hi
m alone, I bet. But he started running his mouth, and—”

  “Some dirty puto ratted on him,” Pedro said savagely.

  “Sí. It only goes to show, it can happen to anybody who isn’t careful,” Jorge said.

  He knew what he was talking about. He knew more than he would ever talk about. He’d written the anonymous letter that betrayed Robert Quinn to the U.S. authorities. He hadn’t been happy about it, not then. That was why he came home drunk that evening. But he wasn’t sorry now that he’d done it. He’d kept Pedro safe—safer, anyhow. He’d done the same thing for the whole family. They could go on. After you lost a war, that would do.

  George Enos and Wally Fodor and most of the other guys at the twin-40mm mount had their shirts off. They basked in the warm sunshine like geckos on a rock. “January,” George said to the gun chief. “Fuckin’ January. I tell you, man, Florida’s been wasted on the Confederates too goddamn long.”

  “You got that straight,” Fodor agreed.

  It was somewhere close to eighty. Up in Boston, the snow lay thick on the ground. George had just got a letter from Connie talking about the latest blizzard. He missed his wife. He missed his kids. He sure as hell didn’t miss Massachusetts weather.

  “When I get old and gray, I’ll retire down here,” he said.

  “Good luck, buddy. The Confederates’ll blow your old gray ass from here to Habana,” Wally Fodor said. “Do you really think these guys’ll be glad to see us even by the time we get old?”

  “Probably be glad to take our money,” George said.

  The gun chief laughed. “Like that’s the same thing. A whore’s glad to take your money, but that doesn’t mean she’s in love with you.” Fodor laughed again. “Hell with me if you ain’t blushing.”

  “Hell with you anyway, Wally.” George smiled when he said it, but he knew how uneasy the smile was. He always felt bad about going to brothels. That didn’t stop him, but it made him flabble afterwards.

  All the joking stopped when a supply boat approached the Oregon. The 40mm crews and even the men on the battlewagon’s five-inch guns covered the vessel while sailors searched it. That was, of course, locking the door with the horse long gone, but what else could you do? The diehards might hurt other warships, but they wouldn’t get the Oregon again.