Again, Jefferson Pinkard nodded. He turned to the remaining guards. “All right. Let’s get ’em counted. Remember to take one off for that little trip to the punishment cell.”
“Right, boss,” they chorused, and set to work. Until the count was right, nothing else happened: no breakfast, no work details, nothing. The Negroes knew that, and tried to make things as simple as they could. Things didn’t always go smoothly even so. Some of the guards had trouble counting to eleven without taking off their shoes. Making the prisoner count come out the same way twice running sometimes seemed beyond them. This was one of those mornings.
The prisoners didn’t say anything. Pointing out the obvious would only have landed them in trouble, the way so many things here did. But Jeff could see what they were thinking even so. He fumed quietly. If whites were the superior race and blacks inferior, ignorant, and stupid, why wasn’t the count going better?
Had Pinkard been a different sort of man, that might have made him wonder about a lot of the ruling assumptions the Confederate States had held since they broke away from the United States. Being who and what he was, though, he only wondered why he’d got stuck with such a pack of lamebrains. Even that wasn’t a question easy to answer.
At long last, everything tallied. The prisoners trooped off to the mess hall. Jeff prowled through one of the barracks halls, peering at everything, looking for contraband and for signs of escape tunnels.
He found none. That might have meant the Negroes didn’t have the nerve to try to break the rules. Or it might have meant they were too sneaky to let him notice anything they did have going on. He hoped and thought it was the former, but didn’t rule out the latter. People who underestimated the opposition had a way of paying for it.
After the inspection, he went on to the next hall, and then to the next, till he’d been through the whole camp. Mercer Scott gave him a quizzical look as he finished his tour. Jeff stared back stonily. He’d learned down in Mexico to rely on his own eyes and ears, not just on what the guards told him. You could count on what you saw for yourself. Guards? If guards were so goddamn smart, why couldn’t they keep the count straight?
And if other camp commandants didn’t have the brains to keep an eye on things for themselves, that was their tough luck. Jeff knew he could screw up in spite of inspections. Better that than screwing up because he hadn’t made them.
He went back to his office and started plowing through paperwork. He’d never imagined how much paperwork went with keeping people locked up where they couldn’t get in trouble. You had to keep track of who you had, who’d died, who was coming in. . . . It never seemed to end.
A guard walked into the office with a yellow telegram. Pinkard’s heart sank. He knew what it was going to be. And he was right. Ferdinand Koenig was pleased to inform him of a shipment of so many prisoners, to arrive at Camp Dependable on such and such a day—which happened to be four days away.
“You son of a bitch,” Jeff muttered. That wouldn’t have delighted the Attorney General, but Koenig wasn’t there to hear it. Koenig wasn’t there to deal with the mess he was causing, either. Oh, no. Hell, no. He left that to Jeff to clean up.
A population reduction inside of four days? Mercer Scott’ll scream bloody murder when I tell him, Pinkard thought. Well, too bad. Just as Jeff was stuck with what Richmond did to him, so Scott was stuck with what Jeff needed from him. And bloody murder it would be, even if nobody called it that.
If they hadn’t done it before, they wouldn’t have been able to bring it off. It wouldn’t be easy even now, because the prisoners would know what was going to happen to them when they went out into the bayou. They’d know they weren’t coming back. They would have to be manacled and shackled. But the job would get done. That was all that counted.
Iron wheels squealing and sending up sparks as they scraped against the rails, the westbound train pulled into the station at Rivière-du-Loup. Dr. Leonard O’Doull stood on the platform. He hugged and kissed his wife, and then his son.
“I wish you weren’t doing this,” Nicole said. Tears stood in her dark eyes, but she was too proud, too stubborn, to let them fall.
“I wish I weren’t, too,” he answered. “But it’s something I need to do. We’ve been over it before.” That was a bloodless way of putting it. They’d screamed and yelled and done everything but throw crockery at each other.
“Be careful,” she said. He nodded. It was useless advice. They both knew it. He made a show of accepting it just the same.
“Take care, Papa,” Lucien said. He was twenty-three now. He had his full height, but was still three or four inches shorter than his rangy father. He didn’t need to worry about going to war. His country was still at peace. In the end, though, the Republic of Quebec wasn’t Dr. O’Doull’s homeland. He belonged to the USA.
“All aboard!” the conductor shouted.
Black bag in hand, O’Doull got on the train. Nicole and Lucien waved to him after he found a seat. He waved back, and blew kisses. He kept on waving and blowing kisses as the train began to roll, even after his wife and son disappeared.
“God damn Jedediah Quigley,” he muttered in English. But it wasn’t Quigley’s fault. The retired officer couldn’t have sold him on returning to the service if he hadn’t wanted to be sold. Blaming the other man was easier than blaming himself, though.
The train ran along the southern bank of the St. Lawrence for a long time. The river, through which the Great Lakes drained into the Atlantic, hardly seemed to narrow as O’Doull went south and west. The ocean was bigger, but the Great Lakes might not have known it. They sent a lot of cold, clean, fresh water out into the sea. Even well beyond Rivière-du-Loup to the east, where the St. Lawrence river gradually became the Gulf of St. Lawrence, the water remained at most brackish.
Farm country much like that which O’Doull’s father-in-law had worked for so many years met the doctor’s eye through the rather smeary window. Fields of wheat and barley and potatoes alternated with pear and apple orchards. The farmhouses also reminded O’Doull of the one in which Lucien Galtier had lived. They were built of wood, not stone. Almost all of them were white, with red roofs whose eaves stuck out to form a sort of verandah above the front door. The barns were white, too. O’Doull had got used to that. Now he recalled that most barns in the USA were a dull red that got duller each year it wasn’t touched up.
Towns came every few miles. They commonly centered on Catholic churches with tall spires made of pressed tin. Near the church would be a school, a post office, a few stores, and a tavern or two. Sometimes there would be a doctor’s office, sometimes a dentist’s, sometimes a lawyer’s. Houses with shade trees in front of them surrounded the little business centers.
Even if he hadn’t been familiar with such small Quebecois towns, he would have come to know them well on the journey back to the United States, for the train seemed to stop at every one. That cut its speed down to a crawl, but nobody except O’Doull seemed to mind, and even he didn’t mind very much.
Now a man in overalls would get on and light up a pipe, now a woman with squealing children or squealing piglets in tow, now a priest, now a granny. They would get to where they were going, get off at a station just like the one at which they’d boarded, and be replaced by other similar types. Once a handful of soldiers in blue-gray, probably coming back from leave, livened up O’Doull’s car for a while. A couple of them were still drunk. They sang songs that made the grannies blush and cover their ears—except for one old dame who sang along in a voice almost as deep as a man’s.
From Rivière-du-Loup to Longeuil, across the river from Montréal, was about 250 miles. The train didn’t get there till evening, though it had left Rivière-du-Loup early in the morning. An express could have done the run in less than half the time. Leonard O’Doull laughed at himself for even imagining an express that ran out as far as Rivière-du-Loup. Where were the people who might make such a run profitable? Nowhere, and he knew it.
No ma
tter how much the U.S. Army Medical Corps wanted his services, they hadn’t wanted them badly enough to spring for a Pullman berth. His seat reclined, a little. He dozed, a little. His route went south, away from the river at last and down toward the United States. Even so, the train kept right on stopping at every tiny town.
Here in what people called the Eastern Townships, Quebec changed. English-speakers replaced Francophones. The towns, from what he could see of them, lost their distinctively Quebecois look and began to resemble those of nearby New England. Most of the settlers in this part of Quebec were descended from Loyalists who’d had to flee the USA during and just after the Revolution.
O’Doull wondered how loyal those people were to the government in Quebec City even now. French-speaking Catholics dominated the Republic of Quebec—as well they might, when they made up close to seven-eighths of the population. The Republic’s constitution guaranteed freedom of religion, and no one had yet tried to ram French down the throats of the people here, but where in the world did minorities ever have an easy time? Nowhere.
Not my worry, thank God, O’Doull thought, and dozed some more.
When he woke up again, the train was passing from the Republic of Quebec to the United States. Customs inspectors in dark green uniforms went up and down the aisles, asking people from the Republic for their travel documents. What O’Doull had was sketchy: a U.S. passport from just before the Great War and a letter from Jedediah Quigley certifying that he had been invited down to the USA to rejoin the Medical Corps.
The customs inspector who examined his papers looked as if he’d swallowed a lemon. “Hey, Charlie!” he called. “Come take a gander at this. What the hell we got here?”
In due course, Charlie appeared. He had slightly fancier gold emblems on his shoulder boards than the other customs man did. He frowned at the ancient passport, and frowned even harder at the letter. “Who the devil is Jedediah Quigley?” he demanded. “Sounds like somebody out of Dickens.”
A literate official—who would have believed it? O’Doull answered, “Actually, I think he’s from New Hampshire or Vermont. He’s been the middleman for a lot of deals between the USA and Quebec. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just small change.”
Charlie might have been literate, but he wasn’t soft. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re just small change, too, buddy,” he said coldly. “I think you better get off the train till we can figure out if you’re legit. There’s a war on, you know.”
“If there weren’t a war on, I wouldn’t be back in the United States,” O’Doull said. “You can count on that.”
“I don’t count on anything,” Charlie said. “That’s why I’ve got this job, and that’s why you’re getting off this train.”
O’Doull wanted to punch him in the nose. If he had, he probably would have ended up in jail instead of in the train station at Mooers, New York. By the time the sun came up, the distinction seemed academic. Mooers lay in the middle of what had been forest and was now stubble, as if the earth hadn’t shaved for several days. O’Doull had seen haphazard logging jobs in Quebec, but this one seemed worse than most.
Adding to the surreal feeling his weariness gave him, almost everybody in the train station except the customs inspectors seemed to be an immigrant from Quebec. When he spoke French to a girl who brought him coffee, her face lit up. But he just made the customs men more suspicious.
“How come you parlez-vous?” Charlie demanded. “You’re supposed to be a Yankee, aren’t you?”
“I am a Yankee, dammit,” O’Doull answered wearily. “But I’ve lived in Quebec for twenty-five years. My wife speaks French. All my neighbors speak French. All my patients, too. I’d better, don’t you think?”
“I think we’ll get your cock-and-bull story checked out, that’s what I think,” Charlie said. “Then we’ll figure out what’s what.”
The girl brought O’Doull a plate of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes and more coffee. The customs men sent her sour stares; maybe she wasn’t supposed to. O’Doull doubted she would have if he’d just used English with her. The potatoes were greasy and needed salt. He wolfed them down anyhow.
When he went to the men’s room to get rid of some of that coffee, one of the customs men tagged along. “Do you really think I’d try to run away?” O’Doull asked. “Where would I go?”
“Never can tell,” said the man in the green uniform. O’Doull thought he was nuts, but didn’t say so. Mooers might not have been in the middle of nowhere, but it wasn’t right at the edges, either.
Instead of escaping, he went back and sat down on the padless metal folding chair he’d vacated to whizz. His backside was sick of sitting, and this chair was even less comfortable than the seat on the train. He twisted and turned. Whenever he stood up to stretch, the customs men got ready to jump him.
He bought a hamburger and more greasy fries for lunch. By then, he’d started to wonder if he could open a practice here, because he seemed unlikely to go any farther. The customs men did finally let him buy a newspaper, too: a copy of the Plattsburg Patriot from two days before. The headline insisted that Columbus wasn’t cut off and surrounded, and denied that the U.S. Army had pulled its Ohio headquarters out of the city. O’Doull had seen headlines like that before. They were usually lies. He didn’t say so. It would have made the customs men think him a defeatist.
Finally, at half past four, Charlie came up to him and said, “As far as we can tell, Dr. O’Doull, you are what you say you are. We’re going to let you go on as soon as the next train gets in.”
“That’s nice,” O’Doull answered. “It would have been a lot nicer if you’d decided that a while ago, but it’s still nice. When does the next train get in?” If Mooers hadn’t been on the border, no railway would have come anywhere near it.
“Tomorrow evening,” Charlie said, a little uncomfortably.
A little—not nearly enough. “Tomorrow evening!” Leonard O’Doull exploded. “Jesus Christ! I’m stuck in this lousy place for two stinking days? No wonder we’re losing the goddamn war!” In the face of two days in Mooers, New York, defeatism suddenly seemed a small thing.
“We are not,” Charlie said, but he didn’t sound as if he believed himself. “And if you’d had proper travel documents—”
“I did,” O’Doull said. “It only took you about a year and a half to check them.” Charlie looked sullen. O’Doull didn’t care. “I don’t suppose there’s actually a hotel here?” The customs man’s face told him there wasn’t. He made more disgusted noises. If he wasn’t going to enjoy himself in Mooers, he was damned if Charlie was going to enjoy having him here.
After the Second Mexican War, Philadelphia became the de facto capital of the USA for one simple reason: it was out of artillery range of the CSA. During the Great War, Philadelphia hadn’t quite come within artillery range of the CSA, either. Confederate bombers had visited the city every now and then, but they hadn’t done much damage.
That was then. This was now. Flora Blackford had already come to hate the rising and falling squeal of the air-raid siren. Confederate bombers came over Philadelphia every night, and they weren’t just visiting. They seemed bound and determined to knock the town flat.
Hurrying down to the cellar of her apartment building after the latest alarm, Flora complained, “Why didn’t they move the government to Seattle?”
“Because then the . . . lousy Japs would bomb us,” said a man ahead of her.
She scowled. The stairwell was dark. No one noticed, not even Joshua beside her. She’d been in Los Angeles in 1932, campaigning with her husband in his doomed reelection bid, when Japanese carrier airplanes came over the city. It had been only a pinprick, but it had let the last of the air out of his hopes.
Someone else on the stairs said, “Japan hasn’t declared war on us yet.”
“Yeah? And so?” another man replied. “Confederates didn’t declare war on us, either. Slant-eyed so-and-sos are probably just waiting till they’ve got a big en
ough rock in their fist.”
That made more sense than Flora wished it did. But she couldn’t brood about it, not right then. Bombs started coming down. She took them more seriously than she had when the war began. Every time she went out during the day, she saw what they could do.
Into the cellar. It filled up fast. Fewer people bothered about robes and slippers than they had that first night. As long as you weren’t naked, none of your neighbors would give you a second look. They had on pajamas and nightgowns, too. They hadn’t combed their hair or put on makeup, either. Quite a few of them hadn’t had baths. If you hadn’t, it didn’t matter so much. Nobody was going to get offended.
The floor shook under Flora’s feet. “They’re after the War Department again,” Joshua said. “That’s where most of the bombs are coming down.” He pointed like a bird dog.
And Flora could tell he was right. The knowledge brought horror, not joy. Learning how to tell where bombs were falling was nothing she’d ever wanted to do. “Damn Jake Featherston,” she said quietly.
“Amen,” said somebody behind her. Half a dozen other people rumbled agreement.
She guessed they were damning him for bombing Philadelphia and routing them out of bed again. She damned Featherston for that, too. But she had bigger reasons. She damned the President of the CSA for murdering hope. In the time the Socialists held the Presidency of the USA after the Great War, they’d been reluctant to spend money on weapons. They’d thought the world had learned its lesson, and that nobody would try to kill anybody any more any time soon. Better to set things to rights inside the United States than to flabble about the Confederate States.
After all, the CSA had suffered even more than the USA in the Great War. The Confederates wouldn’t want to risk that again, would they? Of course not! You’d have to be a madman to want to put your country through another round of torment.
Settling Accounts Return Engagement: Book One of the Settling Accounts Trilogy Page 17