Authors: Harry Turtledove
“Yes, sir, I do,” Potter answered. Jake’s glare, which reduced a lot of men to quivering jelly, had disappointingly little effect on the Intelligence officer. Potter went on, “That’s one of the things I was coming to talk to you about. We’ve got reports Luther Bliss has been seen in Covington. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“I hope to shit it does!” Featherston burst out. “That cold-blooded bastard was nothing but trouble for us while the USA held on to Kentucky.”
Potter’s face never showed a whole lot. Even so, the slight twitch of an eyebrow gave Jake some idea of what was going through his devious mind. If it wasn’t something like,
Takes one to know one,
the President of the CSA would have been mightily surprised.
“I can’t prove he had anything to do with the mines in the Licking,” Potter said. “I can’t prove it—but that’s the way to bet.”
“You’d better believe it,” Jake said. “I want that son of a bitch taken out. He can cause us more trouble than a regiment of regular Yankee soldiers.”
“We’re working on it,” Potter said. “Trouble is, he’s a professional, too. I’d guess he’s been in place there a good long while, getting set up and so on, but I first got word of him just a few days ago. He’s not going to be there by himself. He’ll have friends lending a hand.”
“Niggers lending a hand,” Featherston said savagely. “You see why we’re on our way to taking care of them.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. President. I’ve never had any trouble with that,” Potter said.
Jake eyed him. He hadn’t quite come out and said he did have trouble with other things the Freedom Party had done, but he might as well have. “How the hell did I get me a goddamn stiff-necked Whig running my spies?” Jake asked Potter—or possibly God.
God, as usual, kept quiet. Potter, as usual, didn’t. Giving Jake a crooked smile, he answered, “Well, sir, looks to me like it’s because you aren’t a wasteful man.”
Among his other annoying traits was being right most of the time. He’d sure put a hole right in the middle of this bull’s-eye. Featherston remained sure Potter had come up to Richmond in 1936 to put a hole right in the middle of
his
bull’s-eye. He’d accidentally become a hero instead, and made the most of things since.
The really crazy part was that, if he’d just stayed down in Charleston as an ordinary loud-mouthed Whig, he would have got arrested and gone into a camp for politicals, the way so many others had. Or maybe, since he was tougher than most, he would have been shot while resisting arrest. He would have been out of the picture, though, for sure.
But here he was—not only alive but useful. He’d done better for himself as a would-be assassin than he ever could have as an ordinary loud-mouthed Whig.
“That was part of what you wanted to tell me,” Featherston said. “What else have you got?”
Clarence Potter smiled again. This time, a leopard wouldn’t have been ashamed to show its teeth like that. “We’ve found one of the spies in the War Department, anyhow—sniffed him out with another round of multiversion reports.”
“There you go!” Jake slammed a fist down on the desk. Papers and even the gooseneck lamp jumped. “Who was it?”
“A mousy little file clerk in Operations and Training named Samuel Beauchamp Smith,” Potter answered. “He’s been shuffling and filing papers since 1912, God help us, and he’s probably been passing things along all that time, too.”
“Peel him,” Featherston said. “Peel him like an onion, and make him hurt every time you strip off a new layer. He’s been hurting us all that time—he should hurt for a long time himself. Just be sure you keep him alive so he can go on answering questions, that’s all.”
“It’s being taken care of, sir.” Clarence Potter didn’t bat an eye. He didn’t lose any sleep over playing a dirty game. He understood you sometimes had to get answers any way you could. If that was hard on the bastard who didn’t want to give them . . . well, too bad for him.
“All right,” Featherston said. “And a good job on that sniper who shot Morrell.”
“Not good enough.” Potter said. “He’s on the shelf, but I wanted him dead.”
Potter was a perfectionist. Unless things went exactly the way he wanted them to, he wasn’t happy. That was not the least of the things that made him so useful to the CSA in spite of his godawful politics. Featherston said, “By your report, the Yankees scooped him up and got him out of harm’s way pretty damn quick.”
“First shot should have finished him off.” Yes, Potter was discontented. “One of our snipers would have. But this was so far in back of their lines, I had to rely on local talent—and the local talent wasn’t talented enough.”
“You’ll have other chances at other officers,” Featherston said. “If we can knock the brains out of the U.S. Army, it’ll be that much easier to lick.”
“Yes, sir. But the Yankees have figured out that that was an assassination try,” Potter said. “I’d suggest you beef up security for our own best men.”
“I’ve already done it,” Featherston said. “And, to tell you the truth, there’s a few generals I wouldn’t mind seeing ’em knock off. I won’t name names, but I reckon you can figure some of ’em out for yourself.”
“Could be.” Potter’s voice and chuckle were dry. But he quickly grew serious again. “The other thing is, you ought to beef up
your
security, too. The war effort goes down the drain if we lose you.”
“Don’t you worry about
my
security. That’s not your department, and it’s tight as an old maid’s. . . .” Featherston didn’t finish, but he came close enough to make Potter chuckle again. And the truth was, he didn’t worry all that much about his security, at least not in the way Potter meant. If it was good enough to keep blacks and disgruntled Freedom Party men from knocking him off, it was bound to be good enough to hold the damnyankees at bay, too.
And if it wasn’t . . . If it wasn’t, Don Partridge became President of the CSA. Jake didn’t think Partridge could run things, even if he did have the title. Who would? Ferd Koenig, from behind the scenes? Nathan Bedford Forrest III, from even further behind them?
Featherston only shrugged. If he wasn’t there to see the unlucky day, what difference did it make to him? “Anything else?” he asked.
“Only the thought that, since the damnyankees didn’t quit after we got up to Lake Erie, we might do better finding a peace both sides can live with than butting heads for God knows how long,” Potter answered. “That kind of fight favors them, not us.”
“I want your opinion on how to run my business, you can bet I’ll ask for it,” Featherston growled. “Till I do, you can damn well keep your mouth shut about it. So long, General Potter.”
“So long, Mr. President.” Potter wasn’t the least bit put out as he left the office. He’d probably said what he’d said for no better reason than to rattle Jake’s cage.
I don’t care why he said it. He can goddamn well shut up about it,
Featherston thought. Defiantly, he looked north. He’d taken Confederate arms where they’d never gone before, where none of his predecessors had ever dreamt they could go. He still intended to lick the United States, to lick them so they stayed licked. It might take longer than he’d thought when he set out, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do it.
“I can, and I will,” he said, as if someone had denied it. All he had to do to make something real was to want it, to keep going after it, and not to quit no matter what. Sooner or later, it would fall into his hands.
I’m sitting here in the Gray House, aren’t I?
He nodded. Even if the Whigs didn’t like it, he
was
here. He belonged here. And he intended to take the Confederate States with him where he wanted to go. By the time they were someone else’s worry, they would look the way he’d wanted them to all along. No one else would be able to change them back to the way they were now.
As for the United States . . . Featherston’s swivel chair squeaked as he swung it around toward the north, too. All right, they hadn’t given up the way he’d thought they would. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be beaten down. He intended to do just that. By the time he got finished, the Confederate States would be the number-one power on this continent.
They’d stay number one, too. He intended to fix things so even a dunderhead like Partridge couldn’t mess them up. And everyone would always remember the name of the man who’d put them on top. His name. Him. Jake Featherston.
XX
T
he Sandwich Islands. Home of perfect weather, sugar cane, pineapple, and women of several races wearing no more than the perfect weather required. Home of the ukulele, the instrument the Devil had invented when he was trying for the guitar. Home of romance. That was what the tourist brochures said, anyhow.
George Enos, Jr., didn’t have the chance to pay attention to the tourist brochures. He didn’t have time to pay attention to the pineapple or the sugar cane or even the women and what they were or weren’t wearing. He’d been away from Connie for quite a while. His interest might have been more than theoretical. He didn’t get the chance to find out.
As soon as the
Townsend
pulled into Pearl Harbor, she refueled and steamed northwest toward Midway. Even though the island was lost to the Japanese, the USA seemed determined to defend Oahu as far forward as possible. That would have been farther forward still if the
Remembrance
hadn’t lain at the bottom of the Pacific. As things were, the Americans didn’t poke much beyond the distance air cover from the main islands could reach.
Out beyond that distance lay . . . the Japs.
They
had carriers in the neighborhood, and they’d proved airplanes could do more to ships than other ships could. The
Townsend
did have Y-ranging gear, which struck George as something not far from black magic. Black magic or not, though, how much would it help? Airplanes were so much faster than ships—you couldn’t run away even if you saw the other guy long before he saw you.
Hydrophone gear listened for Japanese submersibles. Old-timers—the
Townsend
had a handful—said the gear was greatly improved over what the Navy had used in the last war. It could hear a sub while the destroyer’s engines were going. If they hadn’t been able to do that in the Great War, George wondered how any surface ships had survived. His mouth tightened. Too many hadn’t, including the one with his father aboard.
When he wasn’t chipping paint or swabbing the deck or doing one of the nine million other jobs the Navy had to keep all hands from knowing any idle moments, he stuck close to the 40mm mount. If anything came within range of the destroyer, he wanted the best chance to blast it he could get. When the klaxons sounded general quarters, he ran like a man possessed. So did his crewmates. In these waters, it was too likely no drill.
“We’re trying to find their subs, and they’re trying to find us,” Fremont Blaine Dalby said one morning. The gun chief peered out over the blue, blue water, as if expecting to see periscopes lined up like city workers waiting for the trolley. He might not have been so far wrong, either. He went on, “Whoever plays the game better gets to play it again. Whoever screws up . . .” A shrug. “It’s a hell of a long way down in this part of the Pacific.”
“Happy day,” George said.
“Ain’t it?” That was Fritz Gustafson. The loader seldom had a whole lot to say, but he never left any doubt where he stood. He jerked a thumb at Dalby. “Just our luck to have a damn Jonah bossing this gun.”
“A Jonah?” Dalby swelled up like a puffer fish. “What do you mean, a Jonah?”
“What I said,” Gustafson answered. “Named for Republicans. Phooey! Bunch of goddamn losers.”
“Could be worse,” George said helpfully. “His mama could have called him Lincoln.”
Dalby gave him a more venomous look than the one he’d sent Gustafson. He and the loader had been together for a long time. They’d probably been needling each other just as long, too. George was still a new kid on the block. He was showing some nerve by joining in.
Before Dalby could call him on it, if he was going to, the klaxons began to hoot. Feet clanged on metal decks. George started to laugh. He was already at his battle station. The only thing he did was button up his shirt and roll down his sleeves. Orders were to cover as much of yourself as you could when combat was close. That could be uncomfortable in warm weather, but it could also be a lifesaver. Flash burns from exploding ordnance often killed even when shrapnel didn’t turn a man to butcher’s work.
The
Townsend
’s engines took on a deeper note. The destroyer sped up and started zigzagging. The men on the gun crew looked at one another. They all said the same thing at the same time: “Uh-oh.”
When the klaxons stopped, it wasn’t to sound the all-clear. An officer’s voice came over the speakers: “Now hear this. We’ve picked up airplanes heading this way from the northwest. They are unlikely to be friendly. That is all.”
“Unlikely to be fucking friendly.” Fremont Dalby spat. “Yeah.”
With Midway gone, the USA had no bases northwest of where the
Townsend
steamed. However many Japanese carriers were up there, they had the best of both worlds. They could launch their airplanes at American ships while staying out of range of retaliation from Oahu or Kauai. They might lose fighters or bombers. They wouldn’t expose themselves to danger.
Y-ranging gear had a range far beyond that of the Mark One eyeball. It gave the gun crews fifteen or twenty minutes to get as ready for the onslaught as they could. Everyone started toward the northwest. Somebody opened up on a particularly majestic goony bird. The shells screamed past it. The goony bird altered course not a bit.
But then shouts rang out up and down the
Townsend.
Those dark specks weren’t birds, goony or otherwise. They were enemy airplanes.
The
Townsend
’s five-inch guns could fight both ships and airplanes. They opened up first. The blast from them was like the end of the world. George felt it as much as he heard it. Black puffs of smoke appeared among the incoming Japs. None of them tumbled out of the sky, not yet. They didn’t even break formation. The Pacific War had proved Japanese pilots knew their stuff. Nothing that had happened in this one made anybody want to change his mind.
“Let’s get ’em!” Dalby shouted. The twin 40mm guns started hammering away. George fed shells as fast as he could. Fritz Gustafson might have been a mechanism designed for nothing but loading. The rest of the crew swung the guns toward their targets.
Flame spurted from the gun barrels. Shell casings leaped from the breeches. George passed more ammo. The noise of the twin antiaircraft guns was terrific, but not so overwhelming as the roar of the dual-purpose five-inchers not far away. They kept shooting, too, adding bass notes to the cacophony.
Bombs burst in the sea, much too close to the
Townsend
’s flank. George remembered destroyers were built for speed, and sacrificed all armor plate to get it. He could have done without the thought. Great plumes of white water flew up. Some of it splashed him. He wondered what flying fragments from the casing were doing to the hull. Nothing good.
A fighter streaked for the
Townsend,
machine guns blazing. Tracers from several guns converged on it. It blew up in midair; the remains splashed into the Pacific. “Scratch one Jap!” George yelled in delight, even if he was far from sure his gun had put the fatal round into the enemy fighter.
But plenty of Japanese airplanes were left unscratched. A dive bomber screamed down on the
Townsend.
Fritz Gustafson swiveled the antiaircraft gun with desperate haste to bring it to bear on the bomber. Tracers swung toward the hurtling plane, swung into it, and left it a smoking, flaming ruin that crashed into the sea—but not before it loosed the bomb.
George watched it fall. He felt the
Townsend
heel sharply—but not sharply enough. The bomb struck home at the destroyer’s stern. It struck home . . . but it didn’t burst.
“Thank you, Jesus!” George said. He’d nominally turned Catholic to marry Connie, but he didn’t feel it. That was too bad. Crossing himself and really meaning it would have felt good just then.
“Fuck me.” Fremont Dalby sounded as reverent as George did, even if he’d chosen different words. “A dud!” Those were beautiful words, too.
Gustafson shook his head. “I bet it isn’t. I bet they put an armor-piercing fuse on it, and it didn’t hit anything tough enough to make it go off. It would have raised all kinds of hell on a cruiser or a battlewagon.”
“Fuck me,” Dalby said again, this time much less happily. “I bet you’re right. That means we’ve got a real son of a bitch in there somewhere.”
“It’ll go off if somebody sneezes on it, too, most likely.” Gustafson spoke with a certain somber satisfaction.
Another dive bomber stooped on the destroyer. One of the
Townsend
’s five-inch guns got this one. When that kind of shell struck home, the enemy airplane turned into a fireball. The dive bomber behind it flew past the edge of the fireball, so close that George hoped it would go up in flames, too. It didn’t. It released its bomb and zoomed away only a few feet above the waves.
Maybe evading the fireball had spoiled the pilot’s aim, because the bomb went into the Pacific, not into the
Townsend.
It also failed to explode, which suggested all the dive bombers bore badly fused bombs. George expended some more hope on that.
Even if it was so, the
Townsend
wasn’t out of the woods yet. More bombs rained down from the level bombers high overhead. None had hit yet, but they kept kicking up great spouts of water when they splashed into the sea. Nothing was wrong with
their
fuses. And fighters buzzed around the destroyer like so many malevolent wasps. They strafed the deck again and again. Someone on the
Townsend
shot down another one, but cries for medics said the fighters’ machine guns were doing damage, too.
After what seemed forever but was by the clock eighteen minutes, the Japanese airplanes flew back in the direction from which they’d come. Fritz Gustafson nodded to George. “Well, rookie, you’re a veteran now,” he said.
George looked around. There were bullet holes and dents much too close for comfort. Blood streaked the deck at the next 40mm mount.
That could have been me,
he thought, and started to shake.
Gustafson slapped him on the back. “All right to get the jimjams now,” the loader said. “You did good when it counted.”
“We all did good when it counted,” Dalby said. “Damn Japs didn’t buy anything cheap today.”
“Unless that bomb goes off,” Gustafson said. Dalby gave him the finger.
Men from the damage-control party brought the bomb up on deck in a canvas sling. Ever so gently, they lowered it over the side. All the sailors watching cheered as it disappeared into the depths of the Pacific.
“Still here,” George breathed. He hardly dared believe it. If that carrier decided to send more airplanes after the
Townsend,
it might not last. Nothing seemed better, though, than taking the enemy’s best shot—and coming through.
S
cipio didn’t like going through the Terry any more. He especially didn’t like going through the northern part, the part that had been emptied out by police and Freedom Party stalwarts and guards. Scavengers prowled it, pawing through what the inhabitants had had to leave behind when they were sent elsewhere. A lot of the houses and apartments there weren’t uninhabited any more. They had no electricity, water, or gas, but the people in them didn’t seem to care. For some, they turned into homes. For others, they were no more than robbers’ dens.
Every time Scipio got into the white part of Augusta, he breathed a sigh of relief. That felt cruelly ironic. Whites were doing horrible things to blacks all over the CSA. No one could deny it. But a white man wouldn’t murder him on the street for the fun of it or for whatever he had in his pockets. A black man might. He hated that knowledge, which didn’t mean he didn’t have it.
He grumbled about it during the waiters’ hasty supper at the Huntsman’s Lodge. Now that Aurelius was also working there, he had someone to talk to, someone who’d been through a lot of the things he had.
Two gray heads,
he thought.
“Ain’t nothin’ to be done about it,” Aurelius said. “Things is what they is. Ain’t for the likes of us to change ’em. We just got to git through ’em.”
“I knows it,” Scipio said. “Don’t mean I likes it.”
“Tell you what the difference is, ‘tween niggers and ofays,” Aurelius said.
“Go on,” Scipio urged him. “Say your say, so’s I kin tell you what a damn fool you is.” He smiled to show he didn’t intend to be taken seriously.
Aurelius ignored the gibe altogether, which showed how seriously he took it. Before he went on, though, he looked around to make sure neither Jerry Dover nor any other white was in earshot. That
was
serious business. Satisfied, he said, “Difference is, when niggers kill whites, they does it one at a time. When the ofays decide they gonna kill niggers, they does it by city blocks an’ by carloads. If I was forty years younger . . .” He didn’t finish that.
What would you do?
But Scipio didn’t wonder for long. What could the other man have meant but that he would pick up a gun and use it against the whites? Scipio said, “We tries dat, we loses. They gots more guns, an’ they gots bigger guns, too. Done seen dat in de las’ war.”
“Yeah.” Aurelius didn’t deny it. He couldn’t very well; it was self-evident truth. But he did say, “We don’t try it, we loses, too. Can’t very well turn the other cheek when the ofay jus’ hit you there soon as you do.”
Scipio grunted. That also held more truth than he wished it did. Before he could say anything, Jerry Dover stuck his head into the room and said, “Eat up, people. We’ve got customers coming in, and the floor has to be covered.” He disappeared again.
The floor has to be covered whether you’re done eating or not,
he meant. Waiters and busboys could eat, as long as they did it in a way that didn’t interfere with their work. If it came to a choice between work and food, work always won.
Gulping down a last bite of chicken breast cooked with brandy, Scipio went out onto the floor. He stood straighter. He walked with dignity. He put on some of the airs he’d shown as Anne Colleton’s butler at Marshlands. Assuming all of them would have been laying it on too thick, but customers here expected a certain amount of well-trained servility. Giving them what they wanted put a little extra money in his pocket.