Authors: Harry Turtledove
He got louder and coarser from there. Jackson started to rebuke him, then noticed how splendidly the sweating, smoke-stained artillerymen were handling their cannon. He held his peace. After the battle was over, perhaps he would reprove Alexander for some of his more blasphemous suggestions and ask that he refrain from using them in the future. Meanwhile, the artillery commander was getting results. That counted for more.
Streams of Yankee prisoners began shambling past what had for so long been the dividing point between their army and that of the CSA. One of them, a man old enough to have fought in the War of Secession, recognized Jackson. “God damn you, Stonewall, you sneaky son of a bitch!” he shouted. Jackson tipped his hat—to him, that was praise. The Confederates guarding the U.S. soldiers laughed. So did a few of the Yankees.
Some of the U.S. guns north of the Ohio shifted their fire to oppose the Confederate breakthrough. Jackson used a telescope to watch shells bursting among his advancing soldiers. But, for once, the U.S. artillerymen were slower than they should have been in responding to changing conditions on the field. As an old artillerist, Jackson also realized the smoke and dust his own bombardment was kicking up hampered the foe in his choice of targets.
More prisoners came back, some of them carried on makeshift litters by their comrades. Messengers came back, too. One young man, his voice cracking with excitement, exclaimed, “General Jackson, sir, them damnyankees is unraveling faster’n the sleeve off a two-bit shirt. They would run, only they ain’t got nowheres to run to.”
“God having delivered them into our hands, let us make certain we do not fail to achieve His great purpose by permitting them to slip through our fingers,” Jackson said, and ordered more reinforcements forward.
General Alexander was also sending some of his guns forward so they could bear on the retreating U.S. soldiers. “You know something, sir?” he said. “This business is a lot more fun when you’re moving ahead than when you’re falling back.”
“I believe I may have made a similar observation myself, at one time or another in my career,” Jackson said.
“Yankees aren’t having much fun right now,” Alexander said.
Jackson smiled. It was the sort of smile that made blue-tuniced prisoners shiver as they stumbled into captivity.
A messenger ran up. “Sir,” he panted, “we-uns just ran over the biggest damn Yankee supply dump you ever did see.”
“Put guards around it,” Jackson ordered. “Let no one go into it. Arrest any who try. If they resist even in the least, shoot them. Do you understand me, Private?”
“Y-Y-Yes, sir,” the messenger stammered, and fled.
To E. Porter Alexander, Jackson said, “During the War of Secession, we lived off Yankee plunder because we had so few goods of our own. Sometimes we foraged when we should have been fighting. Now, with a sufficiency of our own supplies, fighting shall come first, as it should.”
“Telling soldiers not to plunder is like telling roosters not to tread hens,” Alexander said.
“Sooner or later, the philandering rooster ends up in a stew,” Jackson replied. “The plundering soldier is also likely to end up stewing, especially if he pauses to plunder when he should advance.”
Before long, disarmed Confederates started coming past him: only a trickle compared to the number of Yankee prisoners, but too many to suit Jackson. Some of them called out to him in appeal. He turned his back, the better to remind them they had jeopardized his victory with their greed.
Messengers also kept coming back. They were far more welcome, since almost all the news they brought was good. Here and there, by squads and companies, the Yankees kept fighting grimly. More often, though, they gave way to the alarm that could jolt through even experienced troops when flanked, and tumbled back toward the Ohio in headlong retreat.
Slyly, Porter Alexander asked, “What do we do if we go and catch Frederick Douglass again?”
“Dear God in heaven!” Jackson clapped a hand to his forehead. “I forgot to issue any orders about him. We give him back to the United States, exactly as we did before. President Longstreet, I must say, convinced me of the urgent necessity for following that course and no other.”
He shouted for runners and sent orders for the good treatment of any captured elderly Negro agitator up to the front along with orders for continued advances. No news of any such prisoner’s
being taken got back to him. No news of any such Negro’s being conveniently found dead on the field got back to him, either. But then, such news wouldn’t. If Douglass had been killed by bullet or shell or hasty noose, his body either lay unnoticed where it had fallen or had been flung into a ditch to make sure it stayed unnoticed.
“Maybe he was back in U.S. territory when the attack began,” Jackson said hopefully. “For our sake, I pray he was. For his sake, I pray he was, too.”
“You say that about Frederick Douglass, sir?” E. Porter Alexander gave him a quizzical look.
“I do,” Jackson answered. “He has, I would say, already done as much damage to our cause as he is likely to do.” He did not mention President Longstreet’s plan for manumitting Negroes in the CSA after the close of the war. General Alexander did not need to know about that, not yet. Jackson wished he didn’t need to know about it, either.
Over the months since Longstreet had broached his intentions to him, he’d reluctantly decided the president knew what he was doing. Longstreet, as far as Jackson was concerned, made a better politician than a soldier; he was full of the deviousness politics required. If he said manumitting the Negro would redound to the advantage of the Confederate States, odds were he knew whereof he spoke.
“Sir!” A messenger shattered Jackson’s reverie. “Sir, we have men on the Ohio!”
“Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow,” Jackson murmured.
“We won’t keep ’em there,” Alexander predicted. “The damnyankees can send too many shells down on ’em from across the river.”
“You’re likely right,” Jackson said. “But that they are there spells the ruin of this salient, and all done in the space of a couple of hours.”
“Uh, sir, look to the sky,” Alexander said. “The sun’ll be going down in an hour or so.”
Jackson looked, and blinked in astonishment. Where had the time gone? “Very well, General: in the space of a day. I hope you are satisfied.” He used words that seldom passed his lips: “I certainly am.”
* * *
“Brother Sam,” Vernon Perkins said severely over breakfast, “I must tell you that I am most vexed at the way your dog gobbles everything in his bowl and then steals from the portion allotted to Rover.”
“You have to remember, Vern,” Sam Clemens answered, “Sutro is named for a politician, so it’s in his nature to steal whatever he can grab.”
“And stop calling me Vern!” His brother-in-law’s voice went shrill. “Vernon is a perfectly good name, and the one by which I prefer to be known.”
“All right …” Sam was on the point of calling him
Vern
again, as if absentmindedly, but Alexandra’s warning glance persuaded him that wouldn’t be a good idea. He ate the rest of his insipid, lumpy oatmeal, grabbed his hat, and fled the regimented boredom of his brother-in-law’s house for the genial, congenial chaos prevailing at the
San Francisco Morning Call
.
Wrecking crews were still tearing down buildings the British bombardment and invasion had ruined. Already, on some sites that had been cleared, new construction was going up: pine frames of a yellow bright enough to hurt the eye. On lots still empty, signs promised resurrection almost as fervently as did the Bible.
THE OTTO V. JONES INSTITUTE OF PHRENOLOGY SHALL REOCCUPY THESE PREMISES
, one declared. “Too bad,” Sam said, and walked on.
Half a block farther south, another sign in the middle of a vacant stretch of ground said,
WHEN COHAN’S OPENS UP AGAIN, WE’LL HAVE A BETTER FREE LUNCH TABLE THAN EVER
. Always a man to prefer five-cent beer and free lunch to phrenology, Clemens beamed at that. Two lots farther on again, yet another sign offered a simple promise:
WE’LL BE BACK
.
Once Sam got down to the
Morning Call
offices on Market Street, he forgot about signs. “What’s the story on Kentucky?” he called, walking in the door.
“U.S. troops still in the city of Louisville,” Clay Herndon said. “General Willcox says he pulled back from the salient east of town to consolidate for another push somewhere else. New York quotes Berlin quoting London quoting Richmond quoting Stonewall Jackson saying we pulled back on account of he licked the stuffing out of us.”
“That sounds about right, even if it did go through more hands
than a streetwalker when the fleet sails into port,” Clemens said. “And what’s the latest out of Philadelphia, or don’t I want to know?”
Herndon spoke in a monotonous drone: “President Blaine is reported to be studying the situation and will comment further when more is known.” He went back to his normal voice: “He’s probably hiding under the bed, waiting for the Rebs to walk in and cart him off.”
“Why would they want to cart him off?” Sam asked with a bitter snort. “He does them more good right where he is. I don’t suppose he’s said anything more about Longstreet’s call for peace since yesterday?”
“Nary a word,” Herndon answered.
Clemens snorted again. “Well, I don’t reckon we ought to be surprised. Since the last time Longstreet said he could have peace if he wanted it, we’ve been licked up and down both coasts, in New Mexico, and on the Great Lakes. If that wasn’t enough to give the man a clue, why the devil should he take any notice of throwing away half of what’s supposed to be the best army we’ve got?”
“Damned if I know.” Herndon paused to light a cigar, then added, “You forgot about Montana.”
“Oh? Have we been licked there, too?” Sam asked. “You didn’t say anything about that.”
“Don’t know if we have or we haven’t,” his friend replied. “Not enough telegraph lines up where the soldiers are for anyone to know anything. Word goes from Louisville to Richmond to London to Berlin to New York to here a hell of a lot faster than it leaks out of a place like that.”
“They’ve kicked us around everywhere else,” Sam said,
“they
being whoever’s gone up against us. No reason to expect anything different out in the middle of nowhere, is there?”
“Can’t think of any,” Herndon said. “Wish I could.”
“Don’t we both?” Sam walked over to his desk and sat down. All unbidden, he saw in his mind the grimy face of the Royal Marine who could have killed him out in front of the newspaper offices. Even though he was sitting, his knees quivered. “We were at their mercy,” he muttered, more than half to himself. “They could do anything they wanted with us—and they did.”
The telegraph clicker started delivering a new message. “Let’s
see what’s gone wrong now,” Herndon said. Out came the message, a word at a time. “London by way of Berlin by way of New York City—the British and Canadians are saying they’ve reached the line in Maine that was the British claim line before the Webster-Ashburton Treaty, and they’ll stop there and annex it to Canada.”
“Is that what they’re saying?” Clemens raised a bushy eyebrow. “How does that square with what Longstreet’s been saying about peace without losing pieces of the USA?”
“Damned if I know,” Herndon said again. “Of course, Longstreet only speaks for the Confederate States. Not likely the limeys would let him tie their hands. They do as they please, not as Old Pete pleases.”
“You’re right about that,” Sam agreed. “The British Empire is the biggest dog around, which is why Englishmen can act like sons of bitches all over the world. But good God, Clay, now they’ve given Blaine a reason to keep fighting, and one that makes some kind of sense. This damned war is liable to drag on forever.”
“Congressional elections next year,” Herndon said reassuringly. “With the House of Representatives Blaine’ll get after this fiasco, he won’t see two bits of money for the Army. He’d have to give up then.”
“He should have given up weeks ago,” Clemens snapped. “He shouldn’t have started the blamed war in the first place.” He shook his fist in the direction of Philadelphia. “I told you so, Mr. President! Now if only you’d gone and listened to me. But what the hell: no one else does, so why should you be any different?”
Herndon didn’t answer that. Sam fired up a cigar and filled the space around him with noxious fumes. Thus fortified, he attacked the pile of stories on his desk. Colonel Sherman was proclaiming that more fortifications could make San Francisco invulnerable to attack from the sea. Sam scribbled a note at the bottom of the article:
Comments about stolen horses and locked barn doors would seem to fit here
.
Edgar Leary had covered Mayor Sutro’s latest
pronunciamento
about the urgency of rebuilding what the Royal Navy and Marines had devastated. Sam devastated Leary’s prose, shelling adjectives and bayoneting adverbs. He had a scrawled suggestion for a further line of development on this piece, too:
The faster we
rebuild, the less anyone checks on how much money gets spent and on who spends it. It will stick in somebody’s pockets, odds are those of some of His Honor’s chums. Whose? Find out, and we’ll shake this city harder than any earthquake ever did
.
He didn’t think Leary could or would find out; Adolph Sutro had proved adept at covering his tracks and those of his henchmen. But it would give the kid something to do and keep Leary out of his hair for a while, which wasn’t the worst bargain in the world. And Leary, even if he couldn’t write for beans, was pretty good at getting to the bottom of things.
The rest of the pieces were routine: a looter caught in the act and shot dead, the usual rash of robberies and burglaries and assaults, and praise for the entertainments offered in those theaters to which the Royal Marines had not applied the most incendiary form of dramatic criticism. Having covered both the police-court circuit and the theaters in his time, Clemens knew how hard it was to breathe life into reports concerning them. After marking the copy with a relatively gentle hand, he passed it on to the typesetters.