Beneath Gray Skies

by Hugh Ashton

  Brushing the dust from their knees, the two stood up, and resumed scanning the fence in silence.

  Chapter 2: Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America

  “So you will send troops?”

  Jefferson Davis III, third President of the Confederate States of America, regarded his visitor to the Southern Executive Mansion with some amusement. He crossed his manicured hands over his paunch, leaned back in his chair, and cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I admire your nerve, sir,” he consulted his notes, “If I understand your original letter to me rightly, you are offering an alliance between Germany and the Confederacy, but you are not even an elected member of your country’s Congress.” There was a pause while this was interpreted, and the slight, mustached German replied with a few words.

  “Not yet,” replied the interpreter. The German spoke at more length, and the interpreter continued, “President Davis, I am very much in favor of the policies and the aims of the Confederate States of America, especially with regard to the racial problems you encounter. I myself advocate a similar policy for Germany.”

  “But you have no Negroes in Germany, do you? I do not see how you can make slaves of free German citizens.”

  “To be sure we have no Negroes,” replied the other. A faint almost-smile played beneath the dark mustache of the younger man as his words were interpreted. “We do, however, have Jews in Germany—several million of them, in fact. If I understand your country’s situation correctly, your views on Jews and mine are in almost complete accord.”

  “Waall,” drawling the word, “we don’t make slaves of them like we do the Nigras. But you’re right—we don’t allow them to marry outside their own race, and we don’t allow them to own property.” He sipped at his iced tea.

  “What I am asking, Mr. President, is the chance to make a union between Germany, with our powerful advanced industry—”

  “—which was almost destroyed by the last war,” interrupted Davis, pertly.

  “Indeed, almost destroyed, but we Germans, as you are no doubt aware, can work hard to rebuild what we lost in a matter of only a few years.”

  Davis nodded, seeming to acknowledge the point. “Go on.” He noted the other’s rather shabby suit, patched and darned in a few places, which contrasted with his own dapper appearance.

  “Our industry complements your almost limitless natural resources, which at the moment find it hard to command a market.” This last was painfully true, as Davis was all too well aware. The so-called “Allies” in the Great European War had claimed to be fighting a moral war, and as such had severed all commercial ties with the slave-holding Confederacy, at least for the duration of the conflict. The Triple Alliance powers had either possessed no merchant navy to speak of, or were blockaded so effectively by the British fleet that trade with them had been impossible. Japan, as a scarcely combatant member of the Allies, had proved the Confederacy’s only constant trade partner, albeit with a relatively low volume. And thanks to the Yankees’ control of the Panama Canal, all shipping between the Confederacy and Japan had either to sail round Cape Horn, or to take the long way round, easy prey for British commerce raiders.

  “Take our industry, and put it with your resources, together with your surplus labor force. An alliance with Germany,” the German politician went on after a significant pause, “would greatly help you and us.”

  “So what exactly do you want from me?” Davis leaned forward, and changed from his “statesman” role into what he liked to think of as his “canny politician” persona.

  “I would like, President Davis, the loan of two or three regiments of your army, in order to assist us in our—” the interpreter struggled for an appropriate English word, but ended up using the original German “—Putsch against the weak-willed spineless Weimar government.”

  Davis pushed his pince-nez further up his nose and laughed. “Sir, I am sorry to have to tell you the truth—a thing no politician ever likes to do. Our army is made up of untrained boys. We’re giving boys only fifteen or sixteen years old rifles twice their age and telling them to defend their country against an enemy which, truth to tell, seems to have largely lost interest in us.”

  “The German army in the trenches was made up largely of boys. If it hadn’t been for the damned British Navy, and the Jews and the Communists stabbing us in the back, those boys would have won.” The German’s face was becoming flushed. He pushed his forelock out of his eyes, pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket sleeve, and wiped his face with it.

  “I don’t doubt the courage of boys, be they good Dixie lads or good Germans. I simply doubt their ability. In any case, I can’t easily go sending our army off to foreign lands to interfere in another country’s internal politics.”

  The other sighed, and looked disappointed. “I was afraid you would say something like that. There is, however, one more point I would like to make.”

  “Go on.” Davis appeared bored, rolling a pencil back and forth between his palms, a habit he had recently developed in lengthy Senate meetings.

  “The late President Wilson’s League of Nations…”

  “Go on.” The pencil stopped moving.

  “Forgive me if I am a little direct here, but…”

  “I said ‘Go on,’ sir.” The tone was sharp.

  “The CSA has applied to become a member? And the USA is threatening a veto blocking the application?”

  “Yes. It may not be public knowledge, but anyone with his ear to the ground may know that. So, I congratulate your ears on being so close to the ground.”

  The remark was ignored. “The USA would very much like Germany to become a part of the League of Nations. It is part of their gentlemanly nature to forgive the defeated underdog, and raise them up, and all the rest of that high-minded nonsense. It’s also a way of controlling Germany, of course. A Germany ruled by my party would make it a condition of joining the League of Nations that the Confederate States of America be admitted at the same time. Given the ‘fraternal’ nature of the League,” Hitler’s interpreter somehow managed to speak the quotation marks, “acceptance of your ‘peculiar institution’ and the Confederacy would be more widespread.” The quotation marks were audible once again. “More trade, more prosperity for us all, and your people in particular if you make an alliance with us, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party.”

  Davis rolled the title of the political party round in his mouth. “‘National Socialist German Workers’ Party’, huh? Sounds to me like you’re trying to be all things to everyone. Bit of nationalism, bit of socialism, appeal to the workers. Good name there.”

  The German smiled, almost for the first time in the conversation. “I’m glad you appreciate our points on this matter, Mr. President, even if you don’t see other things our way.”

  “But Mr. Hitler,” Davis was standing up now, and moving around his desk to lay a hand on his visitor’s shoulder. Hitler flinched a little at the physical contact, but Davis affected not to notice. “I do see things your way. I think we have a lot in common, and I shall reflect very seriously on what you have said just now to me.”

  The other stood and turned to face his host. “So you will send troops?” he asked excitedly.

  “I am more in favor of sending troops to help you and the National Socialist German Workers’ Party than I was a few minutes ago, shall we put it that way? I shall have to discuss the matter with my Senate. How long will you be in Richmond, Mr. Hitler?”

  “A few days more. I leave for Havana on Tuesday.”

  “I wouldn’t expect much from those Florida-Cubans, and I have a feeling that you ain’t going to find them to your liking. In any case, they’re still arguing, nearly thirty years on, whether Havana or Miami should be the capital of that Negro heaven. I hope you have a Spanish interpreter,” Davis grinned. “They won’t speak English for you, you know.”

  “May I expect an answer from you?” Hitler showed no signs of having heard Davis’s last speech.r />
  “Indeed you may. If you leave on Tuesday, I shall have an answer for you on Monday. And who knows, maybe it will not be necessary for you to travel to Havana after all.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” Hitler brought himself to attention and clicked his heels, bowing slightly. Davis, caught off-guard, half raised his hand in farewell, and then dropped it. As Hitler and his interpreter left the office, Davis spoke to his secretary, who had been sitting silently at a desk at the side of the room, taking notes.

  “Gaylord, I need the Senate here by three o’clock. If the telephones aren’t working, send the runners out after them.”

  The secretary went out, leaving Davis alone with his thoughts.

  -o-

  Whether he knew it or not, Hitler had dropped a number of possible solutions to pressing problems into Davis’s lap. President Jefferson Davis III leaned back in his favorite hand-carved rocking chair and ticked off points on his pudgy fingers.

  First, there was the whole League of Nations business. Hitler had struck a shrewd blow when he pointed out the projected veto of the CSA’s membership. It would be a further blow to international prestige, as if any more such blows were needed. As the only nation in the Western world where slavery was still practiced, the Confederacy suffered enough ostracism already. Although most other nations recognized the Confederacy as a legitimate sovereign state, and a semblance of diplomatic relations was maintained, all foreign relations, on both sides, were distinctly frosty.

  Next, a trade agreement with Germany. This would provide a useful opening in the European marketplace for Confederacy exports, giving the CSA a legitimacy that it badly needed, not to mention hard cash. The CSA dollar was not backed by anything except the good faith of its government, a fact that had led South Texas to secede from the Confederacy and join Mexico some years earlier, preferring the relative stability of the Mexican peso to the CSA dollar, reflected Davis bitterly.

  And then there was the whole problem of the Army. Davis knew, as did all thinking Southerners, that slavery was not economically viable. It cost more to produce goods using slave labor than if free labor were used. On the other hand, freeing the slaves was unthinkable, given the potential for mass unemployment should a large black population suddenly join the open labor market. Caught in this vicious trap, the CSA had had no choice but to continue with slavery.

  But this produced another problem. Uneducated whites who did not own slaves (by far the largest proportion of the Southern whites) found themselves with little or no work available, since slaves, both privately and government-owned, performed so many of the menial tasks. Despite the encouragement for them to emigrate to the few nations (mainly located in Southern Africa) that would accept Confederacy settlers, the “trash”, as the ruling Southern aristocrats contemptuously referred to them, continued to grow in numbers, with no visible means of support. Davis’s father, Jefferson Davis II, had introduced ever-longer periods of conscription, and the term was now from the age of 15 for six years.

  The Yankee “enemy” seemed, as Davis had admitted to Hitler, an increasingly nebulous threat. He feared that the Confederacy appeared to be not much more of a threat to the USA than, say, Ecuador. Certainly he knew that in order to maintain the rationale for the size and indeed the very existence of the army, he had had to stage-manage events, such as the construction of a fort several miles inside the New Mexico boundary of the USA by the Brigade of Engineers, in order to provoke a reaction by the Yankee forces. The subsequent “aggression” had been duly written up and publicized throughout the South, and gratifyingly, a number of newspapers had written editorials calling for an increase in the number of years required for military service, and an extension of the reserve period.

  A European adventure would be good for all concerned, even if it really was only an act of brigandage, as far as Davis could see. In any case, he’d have to run it past his Senate, the only other force in the Confederacy government, for the sake of form.

  -o-

  Jefferson Davis II (a distant cousin of the first Jefferson Davis) had arrested the membership of the Confederate House of Representatives in 1886, when they had unanimously passed a resolution to seek peace with the Union. After the whole House membership had been condemned to death for treason by the Supreme Court (and their sentences commuted to perpetual exile by President Davis), the House had never been re-convened. Towards the end of his sixth term, Davis II had revised the Constitution regarding the Senate. As before, two Senators were appointed from each state of the Confederacy, but henceforth the appointments were made by the President. Each Senator further served as a member of the Electoral College, thereby preserving the constitutional democracy of the Confederacy. Davis III, biological and political heir of Davis II, had seen no reason to alter these arrangements.

  -o-

  He sighed as the room was re-arranged for the Senate meeting, with pitchers of iced tea set out for the Senators, and clean spittoons placed beside each chair at the long conference table. LaMotte from North Texas would undoubtedly insist on speaking at some length about the evils of sending “our boys” to fight outside the CSA, and Wishaw from Georgia would worry about the money. Such a waste of time, Davis thought to himself, when the result was a foregone conclusion, but the charade was necessary to keep criticism from becoming too fierce.

  As the overweight LaMotte, smelling of some exotic floral scent, was ushered through the door, Davis leapt to his feet, all smiles. “Senator! I surely am glad to see y’all in such good health.” Inwardly he braced himself for a flood of small-talk, and let his attention drift until the meeting was underway.

  Chapter 3: The Cabinet Office, Downing Street, London, United Kingdom

  “Do you think he might bring in slavery in Germany?”

  “They decided what?” asked the British Prime Minister.

  “They’d send two or three regiments in mufti to help this Hitler chappie get control of Germany.”

  “Did they, by Jove? Have they two regiments to spare?” He glared down the table at the Secretary of State for War, seated beneath a portrait of some deservedly forgotten and neglected Victorian politician.

  “According to the report,” shuffling papers, “they do indeed, Prime Minister. Armed with Crimea-era muskets, I believe.” He smiled to show he was not to be taken altogether seriously.

  “And who exactly is this Mr. Hitler?” The Prime Minister turned to the Foreign Secretary.

  “He’s a crank, Prime Minister. An ex-corporal. They gave him an Iron Cross. We gassed him while he was serving in the trenches at the Western Front—”

  “Pity we didn’t finish the bugger off,” someone muttered at the foot of the long polished mahogany Cabinet table.

  “As I was saying,” resumed the Foreign Secretary, glaring at the offender. “He seems to have gathered a little nest of malcontents and misfits around him. They blame all the Jews in Germany for their misfortunes. Also the Communists—”

  “He sounds like a decent chap as far as all that’s concerned, at any rate,” came the drawling Eton voice from the foot of the table again.

  “Prime Minister,” appealed the Foreign Secretary. “Am I to be allowed to continue?”

  “Of course, my dear fellow. Please do be quiet, Charles,” he appealed to the foot of the Cabinet table, with the air of a particularly ineffectual schoolmaster.

  “Thank you, Prime Minister. Basically, Herr Hitler has decided that the woes of Germany can be laid at the doors of the Jews and the Communists—I don’t think he’s particularly fussy which—and he’s given his riffraff the grand title of National Socialist German Workers’ Party.”

  “Bit of a mouthful,” interrupted the Prime Minister.

  “It sounds much worse in German, believe me,” said the Foreign Secretary. “They call themselves Nazis for short, from ‘National Socialist’. Anyway, by blaming all the traditionally unpopular minorities, and putting the fear of God into everyone else, they’re scaring a lot of votes thei
r way. Not enough to get in through the ballot box, but just about enough to support them as a viable force. They have all kinds of pseudo-intellectual rubbish about the purity of Aryan nations, whatever that may mean, and so on. Of course, the Jews aren’t Aryan, according to them, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find them spouting some kind of rubbish about Communists not being Aryan, either.”

  “They sound absolutely frightful,” the Prime Minister remarked.

  “They are. One of our people went to a political meeting where Herr Hitler was speaking. One of the audience stood up and called Hitler an idiot. Hitler’s supporters dragged him outside and beat him. He’d lost an eye and most of his teeth when our chap saw him being loaded into an ambulance.” The British Cabinet shuddered in well-bred unison.

  “If I may?” It was the Home Secretary. “It does sound as though there are more than a few points in common between President Davis and Herr Hitler. What’s Hitler’s position on colored chappies?”