Liberating Atlantis

by Harry Turtledove

  “Thanks. What I want to say is, nobody’s giving us anything for all the stuff slaves have to go through. If slaves didn’t have to go through things like that, I wouldn’t have me Victor Radcliff for a granddad. I don’t reckon there’s enough money in Atlantis to pay us for all that. Just let us be free, and we’ll call it square. If white folks get somethin’ ’cause they can’t own people and buy people and sell people any more, they better reckon they’re the lucky ones, not the other way around.”

  That got him another hand—from Senators from north of the Stour, he presumed. It also got him more fury from Senators from states where owning slaves remained legal. His guess was that most of those Senators would be wealthy men, which meant most were likely to own slaves themselves. No wonder they didn’t love him. Some of them brandished their sticks at him. But, if any of them were armed with more than sticks, they didn’t show it. That was something . . . Frederick supposed.

  He turned to the Consuls. “Ask you something?”

  “We’re supposed to be questioning you,” Stafford said with a thin smile. But then he nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Black man or a copperskin ever talk in front of the Senate before?” Frederick asked.

  “It’s possible,” Consul Newton answered after a pause for thought. “Not certain, but possible. In the states north of the Stour, colored men have been free for a long time. They’ve been able to get an education. Some of them have done very well for themselves, and become experts on this and that. So they may have testified. I’m not sure going back through the records would say one way or the other.”

  “All right.” Frederick hadn’t thought of that. “Reckon folks won’t have any doubts from here on out.”

  “I . . . reckon you’re right.” By the way Newton paused before coming out with the word, he didn’t use it very often. “And your testimony has been intelligent and to the point. Let the record show that also. You have testified like a man.”

  “I am a man,” Frederick said. The Senators from south of the Stour might not like that, but it was true. And he’d just proved it on the most important stage Atlantis had.

  Senators from south of the Stour hadn’t cared for Leland Newton before he went off to face the insurrectionists. They liked him even less now that he’d come back with an agreement they saw as a surrender.

  “Why’d you sell the country down the river, you son of a bitch?” one of them growled as he came up to Newton in a hall.

  “Would you ask Consul Stafford the same question the same way?” Newton inquired.

  “I’ve already done it,” the politico replied—he might be a fool, but he was a consistent fool.

  Right at the moment, Newton didn’t see consistency as a virtue. He snapped, “Well, what did he tell you, you dumb shitheel?”

  The Senator’s jaw dropped. He was more used to dishing out insults than to taking them. “I ought to cut your liver out for that, God damn you to hell.”

  “When I have to deal with oafs like you, I think He has already sent me there,” Newton replied.

  “Why, you—!” The Senator drew back a meaty fist.

  As if by magic, an eight-shooter appeared in Newton’s hand. He’d practiced drawing it in front of a mirror. Practice might not make perfect, but it definitely improved things. “I will tolerate the rough side of your tongue, sir. But I suffer no man to lay a hand on me.”

  “Pull the trigger! You wouldn’t dare!”

  “You have already made a great many mistakes. I promise you, you will have made your last one if you swing on me.” Newton aimed the pistol at the middle of the Senator’s chest. The politico was a beefy man; if Newton did fire, he couldn’t very well miss. A lead ball almost half an inch across—or more than one—would make almost any man thoughtful.

  Even the Senator? Even him. He took one careful backwards step, then another. As if he hadn’t, he snarled, “I still say you’re screwing the country.”

  “Say whatever you please.” Newton didn’t lower the revolver. “For now, why don’t you go say it somewhere else?”

  Swearing under his breath, the Senator edged past him. Newton held on to the pistol till he was sure the other man was going away. Then he tucked it back into his belt under his jacket. Only as he was putting it away did he let his hand shake—or rather, lose the ability to keep it from shaking. He came much too close to shooting himself in the leg.

  “That must have been fun.” Frederick Radcliff came out of another Senator’s office.

  “Now that you mention it,” Newton said, “no.”

  “Is this what running Atlantis is like all the time? Is this what my grandfather had to do?” the Negro asked.

  “If Victor Radcliff ever drew a pistol on a Senator in a hallway, history does not record it,” Leland Newton answered. “Plenty of people called him everything they could think of, though, and a little more besides. By everything I’ve read, and by everything old men told me when I was young, he gave as good as he got, or maybe a bit better.”

  “Huh,” Victor Radcliff’s grandson said thoughtfully, and then, “Well, I worried some of my people might shoot me, too.”

  “Did you?” Consul Newton said; Frederick hadn’t admitted that before. “So things weren’t all sweetness and light in the Free Republic of Atlantis?”

  “Are you kiddin’ me? Only place it’s all like that is heaven—’ cept I bet they argue there, too,” Frederick said. “Somebody brags his halo’s shinier’n the other fellow’s, or this lady doesn’t like it on account of that other lady over there, she’s playin’ her harp too loud.”

  “If some of the Conscript Fathers heard you, they would call you a blasphemous skink.” Newton had to suck hard on the insides of his cheeks to keep from cackling like a laying hen. He had no trouble at all picturing Frederick’s querulous angels, and hearing them inside his head. Chances were that made him a blasphemous skink, too. He didn’t intend to lose any sleep over it.

  And Frederick Radcliff passed from the ridiculously sublime to the serious in a single sentence: “If all the southern Senators are like that big-mouthed bastard, how will you ever pass the agreement?”

  “Not all of them are, thank God,” Newton said. “I doubt they will love you any time soon, but some of them can see reason if you hit them over the head with a rock. Consul Stafford did, after all.”

  “Happy day. That makes one,” Frederick said.

  “There will be more. There must be more.” Was Newton saying that because he really believed it, or to try to convince himself? He didn’t care to inquire into the question too closely. To his relief, Frederick Radcliff didn’t seem to care to, either.

  No one banged on the door to the hotel room Frederick Radcliff and Helen shared. They had guards out in the hall to make sure no unwelcome and possibly armed visitors barged in on them. Given the emotional and political climate in the Senate, and in New Hastings generally, Frederick was glad those guards were there.

  When someone tapped on his door, then, he didn’t hesitate to open it. One of the guards handed him a newspaper, saying, “A Senator gave me this. He asked if you’d seen this story here.” A callused forefinger showed which story.

  Frederick would have found the headline even without the helpful digit. What else would a Senator want him to read but a story headlined SLAVE REVOLT IN GERNIKA SPREADS!?

  He quickly read the piece. The revolt had broken out near St. Augustine, a sleepy subtropical town on the east coast south of the city of Gernika, the state capital. Local planters had had no luck crushing it; neither had the state militia. The state of Gernika had been Spanish Atlantis till the USA bought it from Spain thirty years earlier. Both before and after coming into the USA, Spaniards had an evil reputation among slaves. Better to be owned by an English Atlantean than a Frenchman, but better a Frenchman than a Spaniard any day—or so Negroes and copperskins said.

  Maybe that was true, maybe not. If the slaves down in Gernika believed it, they would fight harder against the me
n who’d claimed the right to own them. Frederick gave the paper back to the guard. “All right. Now I’ve seen it. What does the Senator want me to do about it?”

  “He didn’t tell me,” the guard answered. “But if I was him, I’d want you to stop it. That’s what you’re here for, right?”

  That’s what you’re here for, right, nigger? The guard didn’t say it out loud. He and his friends were doing their job well enough, so maybe he didn’t even think it. Maybe. But Frederick had trouble believing that. He could hear slights in a white man’s tone of voice. If he sometimes heard them even when they weren’t there, well, who could blame him?

  Regardless of whether nigger was in the guard’s thought, what he did say made obvious sense. It had equally obvious problems. “How am I supposed to stop something down in Gernika if I’m here in New Hastings?”

  “Beats me.” The guard tapped the two stripes on the left upper arm of his tunic. “I ain’t nothin’ but a dumb corporal. You should ought to talk to the Senator.”

  “It would help if I knew which one,” Frederick pointed out.

  “Oh, sure. That makes a difference, don’t it?” Laughing at himself, the underofficer thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. Perhaps all men really were brothers under the skin. Frederick had used that same gesture when he was feeling more stupid than usual. The corporal went on, “This here was Senator Marquard, from Cosquer.”

  From Consul Stafford’s home state, just north of Gernika. A Frenchman, by his name. A sly fellow, whatever his name and background—he didn’t want trouble spilling up over the border. Slaves everywhere south of the Stour seemed suspended in a state of limbo. If the Senate approved the Slug Hollow agreement, they would be free. If the Senate didn’t, they would explode, and Frederick didn’t think he or anyone else would be able to stop them or even slow them down.

  The Negroes and copperskins down by St. Augustine must not have been able to wait. Or else some master had done something intolerable even by the loose standards of masters in a state where Spanish rules still held sway. The newspaper story hadn’t said what touched off the uprising. Maybe the reporter didn’t know. Maybe, when he was writing about slaves, he didn’t care.

  Frederick didn’t remember any particularly hostile questions from Senator Marquard. The little the Negro knew of him suggested he could see sense. He supported slavery—what Senator from south of the Stour didn’t?—but he was less fanatical than most of his colleagues. Which meant . . .

  “I’m going to have to see him,” Frederick told Helen after summarizing the newspaper story and his conversation with the guard.

  “How come? All he wants to do is get you killed,” his wife said.

  That hadn’t occurred to Frederick. He hadn’t thought of himself as naive, but maybe he should have. If he went down to Gernika to try to settle things and either the whites or the rebellious slaves didn’t want to listen to him, he could easily end up dead. But if he didn’t, what was he worth as a leader? What was the Slug Hollow accord worth?

  Sighing, he said, “I got to see the Senator. Where I go from there . . . Well, we’ll find out.”

  Senator Abel Marquard was ready to see Frederick. Frederick would have been astonished if he weren’t. Marquard looked both debauched and clever. His eyes were red-tracked and pouchy; he combed a few strands of coal-black hair across a vast expanse of scalp. But he had the air of a man who calculated and who remembered—favors, yes, but also slights.

  He shook hands with Frederick with no visible qualms: a courtesy not all southern Senators seemed willing to extend to a black man. When he said, “I am pleased to make the acquaintance of the man of the hour,” Frederick could hear no sarcasm—which, with a customer as smooth as Marquard, didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  “Please to meet you, too, sir,” Frederick said, wondering if he meant it. “What can I do for you?”

  “Not what you can do for me—what you can do for Atlantis,” Senator Marquard answered.

  Frederick decided to stop beating around the bush. “Why should I do anything for Atlantis? What the devil has Atlantis ever done for me? Plenty to me, I will say that, but not much for me.”

  “Not yet, maybe,” Marquard agreed blandly. “But how would you expect the Senate to approve the Slug Hollow agreement”—he named it with obvious amusement—“when slaves are still in arms against the country in spite of the truce you promised?”

  “Oh, come on . . . sir,” Frederick said with a snort. “I’ve never been to Gernika. I’ve never been anywhere near it. If you think I’m in charge of slaves down there the way a colonel in New Hastings is in charge of soldiers in New Marseille, you better think again.”

  “I see. Well, let me ask you another question, then: if you are not in charge of these people, if they pay you no heed, why should anyone here take the Slug Hollow agreement seriously?” Marquard said. “Does it not promise more than you can deliver?”

  “Mmp.” Frederick made an unhappy noise. He parried the question as best he could: “If you go along with it, the slaves won’t have any reason to rise up, on account of they won’t be slaves any more.”

  “It could be.” Marquard didn’t call him a liar to his face, but he might as well have. “On the other hand, we are entitled to proof that you are a leader who can get your people to follow you wherever they happen to be.”

  By your people, he couldn’t mean anything but Negroes and copperskins . Frederick wanted to argue with him about that. He thought the Slug Hollow accord was good for everyone in Atlantis, regardless of color. But that would sidetrack the argument. Instead, he stayed direct: “Suppose I do that for you, then? What will you do for me in exchange?”

  Senator Marquard looked pained. Such straightforwardness held little appeal for him. “You would not find me ungrateful,” he murmured, pasting a delicate smile onto his thin lips.

  Frederick’s lips were far from thin, his smile far from delicate. “If I do this, and I come back alive—or even if I don’t—will you back the Slug Hollow agreement? Will you do everything you can to get your friends to back it, too?”

  The Senator looked pained. “You ask me to put my political future in your hands.”

  “Well, you’re askin’ me to risk my neck,” Frederick retorted. “You think I’m gonna do that for nothin’, you better think twice.”

  “I could tell you yes and then do exactly as I please,” Marquard said. “You are no Senator yourself. You have no power to enforce a bargain.”

  “No, huh?” Frederick smiled again, as unpleasantly as he could. “How many slaves have you got, sir? If you renege on me, how long do you reckon you can go before you have an accident? Or you can turn your slaves loose, I guess—but if you do that, you may as well go along with Slug Hollow, right?”

  Senator Marquard opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. After a long silence, he said, “It is not to be doubted that you favor your grandfather. The Radcliffs have always been famous for their stubbornness.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I never got to meet him. He never came to see my grandma again, or my pa.” Frederick didn’t try to hide his bitterness. “All I know is, you want me to do this, and I want something from you. If I play your game, will you play mine?”

  Another silence followed the question. Abel Marquard made a steeple of his fingertips. Over his hands, he stared across his desk at Frederick. “Had you been born white, you would assuredly have been chosen Consul by now—more than once, unless I miss my guess.”

  “Who can say?” That thought had also occurred to Frederick. “But I never had the chance, on account of I’m black instead. Maybe some other Negro or copperskin will get it one of these days—if you go along with what I worked out with the Consuls Atlantis has got now.”

  By Marquard’s expression, he wasn’t convinced that would be good for the country. His chuckle wasn’t enthusiastic, either. But he said, “All right. If you go and pour oil on the troubled waters of Gernika, I will do what I c
an to have the Senate ratify the Slug Hollow agreement. Does that suit you?”

  Frederick thought about asking him to put it in writing. Before he did, he realized Marquard would refuse. Frederick tried a different question: “Your word as a gentleman, sir?”

  He knew the southern planter’s code. Other than a southern planter, who knew it better than a house slave? If Marquard gave his word as a gentleman, even to a Negro, he would keep it. A man who broke his word showed he was no gentleman, and a southern planter who showed he was no gentleman had no reason to go on living.

  Those same thoughts had to be passing through Abel Marquard’s mind. If they were, his much-lived-in face gave no sign of it. His answering nod held no trace of hesitation. “My word as a gentleman,” he said, and held out his right hand. Frederick took it again. One man risked his life; the other, his influence. Each probably would have said he chanced too much.

  Jeremiah Stafford had been on the point of demanding an army to put down the new spark of insurrection in Gernika when Frederick Radcliff said he would go down there and try to do the job himself. That took the Consul by surprise. He wondered if the rebellious slaves in Gernika had even heard of Frederick Radcliff. They’d heard there was trouble, and they’d decided to start some more. That was how things looked to him, anyhow.

  Part of him wanted the Negro to go down there, fail miserably, and prove to the world that the Slug Hollow agreement wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. What surprised him was that part of him didn’t. The world had changed, and Stafford had changed with it. Frederick Radcliff’s slave army could have carried out a massacre worse than any in Atlantean history. It could have, but it hadn’t. Stafford remained among the living because of the Negro leader’s restraint. And so . . .

  A life for a life, Stafford thought when he summoned Frederick to his office. Things weren’t so simple, of course. Atlantis owed the black man far more than one life. But Stafford was doing what he could.

  Dressed in white shirt, black trousers and jacket, and black cravat—dressed like a prominent white man, in other words—Frederick Radcliff cut an imposing figure. Amazing what wearing a jacket with black buttons rather than a butler’s brass ones could do: the Negro no longer seemed the least bit servile.