Settling Accounts_ Drive To The East Part 24

"Whoever he be, he give a d.a.m.n about colored folks?"

"Well, I don't exactly know that, either."

"Do Jesus!" Scipio stubbed out the b.u.t.t in the pressed-gla.s.s ashtray on the manager's desk. The deceased cigarette had plenty of company. "He one o' dat dat kind o' buckra, we is all dead soon." kind o' buckra, we is all dead soon."

"I do know that," Dover said. "Other thing I know is, I can't do thing one about it. If they call me up . . ." He shrugged. "I can talk to my own bosses till I'm blue in the face, but they don't have to listento me."

Scipio sometimes had trouble remembering that Jerry Dover had had bosses. But he didn't own the Huntsman's Lodge; he just ran the place. He was good at what he did; if he hadn't been, he wouldn't have kept his job for as long as he had. As long as he stayed in Augusta, he had no place to move up from the Huntsman's Lodge. He would have to go to Atlanta, or maybe even to New Orleans, to do better. bosses. But he didn't own the Huntsman's Lodge; he just ran the place. He was good at what he did; if he hadn't been, he wouldn't have kept his job for as long as he had. As long as he stayed in Augusta, he had no place to move up from the Huntsman's Lodge. He would have to go to Atlanta, or maybe even to New Orleans, to do better.

Now he said, "Go on. Go to work. Get your a.s.s in gear."

Not having anything else he could do, Scipio obeyed. Despite his worries, he got through the s.h.i.+ft. When he went back to the Terry, he had no trouble pa.s.sing through the barriers around the colored part of town. Cops and stalwarts knew who he was.

Getting back to work the next day, he found his boss in a terrible temper-not because he'd been called up but because two dishwashers weren't there when they were supposed to be. That was a normal sort of restaurant crisis, and Dover handled it in the normal way: he hired the first two warm bodies off the street that he could.

Neither of them spoke much English. They were Mexicans-not Confederate citizens from Chihuahua or Sonora, but men out of the Empire of Mexico up in the CSA looking for work. Now they'd found some, and they went at it harder than anyone Scipio had seen in a long time. They wanted to keep it.

At first, thinking of the restaurant and nothing more, Scipio was pleased to see their eagerness. He didn't blame Jerry Dover for telling the black men they'd replaced not to bother coming back to work. The look on the Negroes' faces was something to see, but the color of those faces didn't win the men much extra sympathy from Scipio. If you didn't, if you couldn't, show up, you were asking for whatever happened to you. Showing up on time all the d.a.m.n time counted for more than just about anything else in the restaurant business.

That was at first. Then, coming up to the Huntsman's Lodge a couple of days later, Scipio walked past a barbershop. All the barbers in there had been Negroes; he couldn't imagine a white Confederate demeaning himself by cutting another man's hair. But now the barber at the fourth chair, though he wore a white s.h.i.+rt and black bow tie like the other three-a uniform not far removed from a bartender's-did not look like them. He had straight black hair, red-brown skin, and prominent cheekbones. He was, in short, as Mexican as the two new dishwashers.

Ice ran through Scipio, not when he noticed the new barber but when he realized what the fellow meant, which didn't happen for another half a block. "Do Jesus!" he said, and stopped so abruptly, the white man behind him almost walked up his back.

"Watch what you're doing, Uncle," the ofay said irritably.

"I is powerful sorry, suh," Scipio replied. The white man walked around him. Scipio stayed right where he was, trying to tell himself he was wrong and having no luck at all. He wasn't sorry. He was afraid, and the longer he stood there the more frightened he got.

For twenty years and more, Jake Featherston had been screaming his head off about getting rid of the Negroes in the Confederate States. Scipio had had trouble taking the Freedom Party seriously, not because he didn't think it hated blacks-oh, no, not because of that!-but because he didn't see how the CSA could get along without them. Who would cut hair? Who would wash dishes? Who would do the field labor that still needed doing despite the swarm of new tractors and harvesters and combines that had poured out of Confederate factories?

Whites? Not likely! Being a white in the Confederacy meant being above such labor, and above the people who did it.

But whites felt themselves superior to Mexicans: not to the same degree as they did toward Negroes, but enough. And the work blacks did in the CSA couldn't have looked too bad to people who had no work of their own. Which meant . . .

If workers from the Empire of Mexico came north to do the jobs Negroes had been doing in the CSA, the Freedom Party and Jake Featherston might be able to have their cake and eat it, too.

Scipio wasn't at his best at work that day. He was far enough from his best to make Jerry Dover snap, "What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you, Xerxes?"

"Jus' thinkin' 'bout Jose an' Manuel, Mistuh Dover," he answered.

"They aren't your worry. They're mine. If they keep on like they've started, they're no worry at all, and you can take that to the bank. You just keep your mind on what you're supposed to be doing, that's all. Everything will be fine if you do."

"Yes, suh," Scipio said. But yes, suh yes, suh wasn't what he meant. Jose and Manuel-and that barber in the fourth chair-were the thin end of the wedge. If Jake Featherston banged the other end, what would happen? Nothing good. wasn't what he meant. Jose and Manuel-and that barber in the fourth chair-were the thin end of the wedge. If Jake Featherston banged the other end, what would happen? Nothing good.

The restaurant manager eyed him. "You wondering if we can find some d.a.m.n greaser to do your your job? Tell you one thing: the worse you do it, the better the chances are." job? Tell you one thing: the worse you do it, the better the chances are."

That came unpleasantly close to what Scipio was was thinking. Say what you would about Dover, he was n.o.body's fool. "Ain't jus' me I is worried about," Scipio muttered. thinking. Say what you would about Dover, he was n.o.body's fool. "Ain't jus' me I is worried about," Scipio muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dover asked.

"More Mexicans they is, mo' trouble fo' n.i.g.g.e.rs," Scipio answered.

"Oh." Dover thought about it for a little while, then shrugged. "I can't do anything about that, you know. The only thing I care about is keeping this place going, and I'll handle that till they stick a uniform on me and drag me out of here."

He'd done everything a decent man could-more than most decent men would have. Scipio had to remind himself of that. "Yes, suh," the black man said dully.

"Hang in there," Dover said. "That's all you can do right this minute. That's all anybody can do right this minute."

"Yes, suh," Scipio said again, even more dully than before. But then, in spite of himself, his fear and rage overflowed. He let them all out in one sarcastic word: "Freedom!"

Jerry Dover's eyes got very wide. He looked around to see if anyone else could have heard the rallying cry that, here, was anything but. Evidently satisfied no one else had, he wagged a finger at Scipio, for all the world like a mother scolding a little boy who had just shouted a dirty word without even knowing what it meant. "You've got to watch your mouth there, Xerxes."

"Yes, suh. I knows dat." Scipio was genuinely contrite. He knew what kind of danger he'd put himself in.

Dover went on as if he hadn't spoken: "You've got a nice family. I saw them. You want to leave them without their pa?"

"No, suh." Again, Scipio meant it. Still clucking, the restaurant manager let it go and let him alone. He'd told the truth, all right. Here, though, how much did the truth matter? His family, like any black family, was all too likely to be torn to bits regardless of what he wanted.

Chester Martin couldn't have been more bored if the Confederates had shot him. As a matter of fact, they had had shot him, or rather, ripped up his leg with a sh.e.l.l fragment. Everybody kept a.s.suring him he would get better. He believed it. He did feel better than he had right after he was wounded. Thanks to sulfa powder and pills and shots, the wound didn't get badly infected. A little redness, a little soreness on top of the normal pain from getting torn open, and that was it. shot him, or rather, ripped up his leg with a sh.e.l.l fragment. Everybody kept a.s.suring him he would get better. He believed it. He did feel better than he had right after he was wounded. Thanks to sulfa powder and pills and shots, the wound didn't get badly infected. A little redness, a little soreness on top of the normal pain from getting torn open, and that was it.

Everybody kept telling him he'd get back to duty pretty soon, too. He also believed that. People kept saying it as if it were good news. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why. Hey, Chester! The Confederates'll get another chance to maim you or kill you before too long. Ain't that great? Hey, Chester! The Confederates'll get another chance to maim you or kill you before too long. Ain't that great? Maybe he was prejudiced, but it didn't seem great to him. Maybe he was prejudiced, but it didn't seem great to him.

Meanwhile, he lay on a cot with the iron frame painted Army green-gray. Once a day, he got exercise and physical therapy. The rest of the time, he just lay there. The Army gave him better rations in the hospital than it had while he was in the field. That struck him as fundamentally unfair, but then, so did a lot of other things about the Army.

He also got his pay here. Money in his pocket let him sit in on a poker game whenever he felt like it. The only trouble was, he didn't feel like it very often. Sometimes he sat in even when he didn't much feel like it. It was something to do, a way to make time go by.

Because he didn't much care whether he won or lost, he had a terrific poker face. "n.o.body can tell what you're thinking," one of the other guys in the game grumbled.

"Me? I gave up thinking for Lent," Chester said. Everybody sitting around the table laughed. And he had been joking . . . up to a point.

He'd just come back from his exercise one day when a ward orderly stuck his head into the room and said, "You've got a visitor, Martin."

"Yeah, now tell me another one," Chester said. "I'm not bad enough off to need the padre for last rites or anything, and who else is gonna want to have anything to do with me?"

The orderly didn't answer. He just ducked back out of sight. Rita walked into the room. "You idiot," she told him, and burst into tears.

Chester gaped at his wife. "What are you doing here?" he squeaked.

She pulled a tiny linen handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes. "When I found out you got wounded, I asked the War Department where you were," she answered. "They told me, and so I got on a train-got on a bunch of trains, really-and here I am. Carl's with Sue and Otis till I get back."

"All right," Chester said dazedly. His sister and brother-in-law would do fine with his son. "Jesus, sweetie, it's good to see you."

Rita gave him a look laced with vitriol. "If you like seeing me, why did you go put that stupid uniform on again? You could have stayed in L.A. and seen me every day."

He sighed. "It seemed like a good idea when I did it." How many follies got perpetrated because they seemed a good idea at the time? Was there any way to count them? Chester didn't think so.

By the way Rita drummed her fingers against the painted iron of the bedstead, she didn't, either. "They told me you weren't hurt bad enough for them to discharge you from the Army," she said. "That means the Confederates will have to shoot you at least one more time before I get you back, doesn't it?"

"I . . . hadn't thought of it like that," Chester said, which was true.

"No? Maybe you should have." Rita could be devastating when she felt like it. "How many pieces of you will be missing when you finally do come home?"

"For all either one of us knows, I won't get another scratch the rest of the way," Chester said.

She didn't laugh in his face. She didn't say anything at all. Her silence made his remark sound even more foolish than it would have anyway. He grimaced. He knew that as well as she did.

At last, she unbent enough to ask, "How are you?"

"I'm getting better," he answered. "As soon as the leg is strong enough, they'll send me back."

"Swell," Rita said. "I thought I was going to die when I got the wire that said you'd been hurt."

"Chance I took," Chester said. "It's not that bad." That was true. He would recover, as he had when he got hit in the arm during the Great War. He'd seen plenty of men crippled for life, plenty of others torn to pieces or blown to bits.

Rita's first husband hadn't come out of the Great War alive, so she knew about that, too. "What will it be like the next time?" she demanded pointedly. "I love you. I couldn't stand getting another 'The War Department deeply regrets to inform you . . .' telegram. I'd die."

No, I would. Chester swallowed the words long before they pa.s.sed his lips. Rita wouldn't find them funny. He did, but only in the blackly humorous way that didn't make sense to anyone who hadn't been through the things front-line soldiers had. Chester swallowed the words long before they pa.s.sed his lips. Rita wouldn't find them funny. He did, but only in the blackly humorous way that didn't make sense to anyone who hadn't been through the things front-line soldiers had.

Rita came over, bent down, and laid her head on his shoulder. She really started to bawl then. "I don't want to lose you, Chester!"

"Hey, babe." Awkwardly, he put his arms around her. "Hey," he repeated. "I'm not going anywhere." He did laugh then, because that was literally true.

Almost to Chester's relief, the orderly came in then and said, "You've got to go, ma'am. Doctors don't want him tired out."

The look she gave the man should have put him him in a hospital bed. She kissed Chester. His eyes crossed; n.o.body'd done that since he reenlisted. Then, reluctantly, she let the orderly lead her away. in a hospital bed. She kissed Chester. His eyes crossed; n.o.body'd done that since he reenlisted. Then, reluctantly, she let the orderly lead her away.

When she'd left the ward, the guy in the next bed said, "Must be nice, getting a visit from your wife." He wasn't even half Chester's age. By pure coincidence, the two of them had almost the same wound.

"Yeah, it was," Chester said, more or less truthfully. "She sure caught me by surprise, though." That was also true.

"Too bad you don't have a private room." The kid-his name was Gary-leered at him.

"Yeah, well . . ." Chester didn't know why he was embarra.s.sed; the same thought had crossed his mind. He went on, "If I wasn't just a noncom, if I was an officer like the snotnose whose hand I was holding, maybe I would have one. Life's a b.i.t.c.h sometimes."

"Would we be here if it wasn't?" Gary was a buck private. To him, a top sergeant was as exalted a personage as any officer, at least this side of a general.

"You've got a point," Chester said. Of course, instead of ending up in a military hospital, they could have ended up dead. Or they could have been maimed, not just wounded.

Or we might not have got hurt at all, Chester thought resentfully. But he knew too well how unlikely that was. If you stayed in the meat grinder long enough, odds were you'd brush up against the blades. Chester thought resentfully. But he knew too well how unlikely that was. If you stayed in the meat grinder long enough, odds were you'd brush up against the blades.

Gary was looking at him. "You're not a lifer, are you?"

"Me? h.e.l.l, no," Chester said. "Do I look crazy?"

"Never can tell." Gary wouldn't get in Dutch for sa.s.sing a sergeant here; the rules were relaxed for wounded men. "It's like your wife said-if you're so smart, how come you signed up for round two when you'd already been through round one?"

"We licked those Confederate b.a.s.t.a.r.ds once, but then we let 'em up, and look what we got," Chester answered. "Millions of maniacs screaming, 'Freedom!' and out to take anything they can grab. If we don't beat 'em again, they'll d.a.m.n well beat us, and then we have to start all over."

"Yeah, but why you you?" Gary persisted. "You paid your dues the last time. You didn't have to take a chance on getting your a.s.s shot off twice."

"You're too young to know what Remembrance Day was like before the last war," Chester said slowly. "It really was a day of remembrance and a day of mourning. Things shut down tight tight except for the parades and the speeches. n.o.body who saw it could ever forget the flag going by upside down. The Confederates and the limeys and the frogs beat us twice. We had to get tough. We had to build up if we were going to pay them back-and we did. I don't ever want to see the country go through anything like that again." except for the parades and the speeches. n.o.body who saw it could ever forget the flag going by upside down. The Confederates and the limeys and the frogs beat us twice. We had to get tough. We had to build up if we were going to pay them back-and we did. I don't ever want to see the country go through anything like that again."

"That talks about the country. That doesn't talk about you," Gary said. "Me, I'm here on account of I got conscripted. But they weren't going to conscript you." You old fart. You old fart. He didn't say it, but he might as well have. "So how come you volunteered to let 'em take another shot at you? You're not Custer-you aren't going to win the war all by yourself." He didn't say it, but he might as well have. "So how come you volunteered to let 'em take another shot at you? You're not Custer-you aren't going to win the war all by yourself."

That would have been insulting if it hadn't been true. "Yeah, I know," Chester said with a sigh. "But if everybody sat on his hands, we'd lose. That's the long and short of it. So I put the uniform back on."

"And look what it got you," Gary said.

"I think I did some good before I got hurt," Chester said. "I commanded a company for a while the last time around, so-"

"Wait a second," Gary broke in. "You were an officer then?"

Chester snorted. "h.e.l.l, no. Just an ordinary three-striper. But when everybody above me got killed or wounded, I filled the slot for a while. Did all right, if I say so myself. After a while, they found a lieutenant to run it. If I could do that then, I didn't have any trouble helping a shavetail run a platoon this time. I'll probably do the same thing somewhere else when they turn me loose here."

"You're like a football coach," Gary said.

"Sort of, I guess. I never even thought about coaching football, though. I used to play it-not for money, but on a steel-mill team. We weren't bad. We sure had some big guys-you better believe that." Chester's eye went to the clock on the wall. It was a few minutes before eleven. "Hey, Greek. you've got two good legs. Turn on the wireless, why don't you? News coming up."

"Sure." The guy called Greek had one arm in a cast, but nothing was wrong with the other.

The k.n.o.b clicked. The set started to hum. Everybody waited for the tubes to warm up. What came out of the wireless when the sound started reminded Chester of a polka played by a set of drunken madmen. When it mercifully ended, the announcer said, "That was the Engels Brothers' new recording, 'Featherston's Follies.' " Everyone snorted; the Engels Brothers were were madmen. The announcer went on, "And now the news." madmen. The announcer went on, "And now the news."

"Heavy fighting is reported in and around Cleveland," a different announcer said. "The fierce U.S. defense is costing the Confederates dearly." Chester knew what that meant-the United States were getting hammered. The newsman continued, "Occupation authorities have also declared that the situation in Canada is is under control, despite enemy propaganda." He went on to another story in a hurry. Chester didn't think under control, despite enemy propaganda." He went on to another story in a hurry. Chester didn't think that that sounded good, either. sounded good, either.

X.

Too many things were happening all at once for Flora Blackford's comfort. None of them seemed to be good things, either. The U.S. offensive in Virginia, on which so many hopes had been pinned, was heading nowhere. The new Confederate a.s.sault in Ohio, by contrast, was going much better than she wished it were. The Mormons still tied down far too many soldiers in Utah. And the Canadian uprising, from everything she could gather, was a lot more serious than the authorities were willing to admit in the papers or on the wireless.

All in all, the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War had plenty to do. She would rather it didn't.

And there were other distractions. Her secretary stuck her head into the inner office and said, "Miss Clemens is here to speak with you, Congresswoman."

"Thank you." Flora meant anything but. Some things couldn't be helped, though. "Send her in."

In marched the reporter. Ophelia Clemens had to be fifteen years older than Flora, but still looked like someone who took no guff from anybody. There, at least, the two women had something in common. "h.e.l.lo, Congresswoman. Mind if I smoke?" she said, and had a cigarette going before Flora could say yes or no. That done, she held out the pack. "Care for a coffin nail yourself?"

"No, thanks. I never got the habit," Flora said, and then, "That's a Confederate brand, though, isn't it?"

"You betcha. If you're gonna go, go first cla.s.s," Ophelia Clemens said. Flora didn't know how to answer that, so she didn't try. The reporter came straight to the point: "How many soldiers are we going to have to send up to Canada to help the Frenchies keep the lid on?"

"I don't have a number for that," Flora said cautiously. "You might do better asking at the War Department."

"Yeah, and I might not, not," Ophelia Clemens said with a scornful toss of the head. "Those people were born lying, and you know it as well as I do."

Since Flora did, she didn't bother contradicting the correspondent. "I'm afraid I still don't have the answer. Even if it's just one, it'll be more than we can afford."