Settling Accounts_ Drive To The East Part 34

There were four of them. Three were older than Cincinnatus. The fourth, who must have been a cadet or a pup or whatever they called it, couldn't have been above sixteen. But he carried a .45, while the regular cops sported two submachine guns and a shotgun. They didn't come into the colored part of Covington without being ready for trouble.

They started to walk on past Cincinnatus. Then one of the geezers-he wore a bushy mustache that had been red once but was almost all white now-paused and said, "You're Cincinnatus Driver, ain't you?"

Cincinnatus thought hard about denying it. But if he did, they'd ask him for his pa.s.sbook, and that would prove he'd lied. The truth seemed a better bet. "Yes, suh," he said, and waited to see what happened next.

"He's on the list!" the cadet exclaimed, his voice breaking.

"He sure as h.e.l.l is," the cop with the mustache agreed. Cincinnatus didn't like the sound of that. As usual in the CSA, what a Negro liked or didn't like didn't matter. The cop gestured with his submachine gun. "You're gonna come along with us."

"What for?" Cincinnatus yelped. "I ain't done nothin'!" He didn't think he had done anything they could prove. Hadn't they grabbed him once and let him go?

The white-mustached cop chuckled. "Buddy, if I had a dime for every a.s.shole I nabbed who hadn't done anything, I could've quit workin' a h.e.l.l of a long time ago. Now you can come along quiet-like or you can come along some other way. But you're gonna come. So what'll it be?"

One cane against all that firepower made ridiculous odds. And the policemen were pros. The old-timers didn't come close enough to let Cincinnatus lash out even if he'd been crazy enough to do it. When the kid started to, one of them pulled him back and explained how he'd almost been a d.a.m.n fool. "I'll come quiet," Cincinnatus said.

"Smart fellow," the mustachioed cop said. He turned to the cadet. "He's smarter'n you are, Newt. How's that make you feel?" By the look on Newt's face, it made him want to cry.

A blue jay scolded Cincinnatus and the policemen for having the nerve to walk under the oak tree where it perched. A little kid playing in his front yard stared at them, eyes enormous in his dark face. So did a drunk draped over a front porch. Cincinnatus happened to know the drunk reported to Lucullus Wood. He feared that wouldn't help him.

When the gate closed behind him and he pa.s.sed out of the barbed-wire perimeter around the colored quarter, that small latch click had a dreadfully final sound. A police car waited just beyond the gate. The policeman with the mustache took Cincinnatus' cane away when he got into the back seat, then got in beside him. "I'll give it back when we get to the station," he said in the tones of a man just doing his job. "Don't want you trying anything silly, though."

"Know how to get what you want, I reckon," Cincinnatus said. The cop laughed.

When they got to the station, they didn't tell Cincinnatus what he was charged with. He feared that was a bad sign. They stuck him in a cell by himself. None of the other cells close by had anybody in it, so he had no one to talk to. He feared that was a bad sign, too.

But they let him keep the cane. Maybe they knew how much trouble he had getting around without it. Police, though, weren't in the habit of showing white prisoners consideration, let alone blacks. Sitting on the edge of the cot-the only place he could sit except for the concrete floor-he scratched his head.

A guard who must have been called back from retirement brought him supper on a tray: two cheese sandwiches on coa.r.s.e, brownish bread and a big cup of water. Cincinnatus shoved the empty tray and cup out into the hall and went back to the cot.

The guard nodded when he came back to pick up the tray. "You know the drill, all right. Reckon you been in the joint before."

"Not for anything I did," Cincinnatus said.

"Likely tell. That's what they all say." Bending made the guard swear under his breath: "G.o.dd.a.m.n rheumatism."

Cincinnatus had never expected to sympathize with a screw. But he had aches and pains, too. Whatever his thoughts, the guard never knew them. The white man would have taken sympathy as weakness. Show weakness in a place like this and you were . . . even worse off than you were already, which wasn't good.

He waited for them to come and start squeezing him for whatever they thought he knew. No matter what they did, he couldn't tell them much about Luther Bliss. He had no idea where the U.S. secret policeman was staying, or even if he was still in Covington. If they started asking him about Lucullus, though . . . He could do Lucullus a lot of harm. He didn't want to, but he knew the best will in the world wouldn't always stand up against enough pain.

They left him in there. They fed him. The food was a long way from good, but he didn't go hungry. They took out the honey bucket twice a day. It was just . . . jail. It didn't feel as if they were softening him up for anything drastic. They could easily have done much worse.

Maybe they thought they were lulling him. He didn't mind. He would take whatever he could get. Boredom wasn't much, but it beat the h.e.l.l out of brutality. If he yawned, if he paced-well, so what? He could have bled. He could have spat out teeth. He'd heard of things they could do with a motorcar battery and some wires that made his stomach turn over. Compared to any of that, boredom was a walk in the park on a sunny spring day.

It had to end. And when it did, it was even worse than he'd feared. Police didn't come for him. Instead, the man at the head of three guards who carried submachine guns was a jackbooted Confederate major with a face like a clenched fist. "You're Cincinnatus Driver?" he barked.

"Yes, suh," Cincinnatus admitted apprehensively.

"d.a.m.nfool notion, letting n.i.g.g.e.rs have last names," the officer muttered. Cincinnatus kept his mouth shut. It wouldn't do him any good-he was all too sure of that-but it wouldn't harm him, either. Anything he said might have. The major glowered at him. The man's mouth got even tighter. Cincinnatus hadn't thought it could. One of the guards had a key. He opened the cell door. "Come on," the major said. "Get out. Get moving."

Cincinnatus obeyed-what choice did he have? "Where you takin' me?" he asked. They couldn't get too angry at him for wanting to know.

That didn't mean they would tell him. "Shut up," the major said. "You're coming along with me." He looked as if he would sooner have sc.r.a.ped Cincinnatus off the soles of those highly polished boots than had anything more personal to do with him. Cincinnatus wasn't all that eager to have anything to do with the major, either. The white man, however, had a choice. As usual, Cincinnatus got none.

They marched him down the corridor to the front desk. The Confederate officer signed whatever paperwork he had to sign to take Cincinnatus farther than that. Then he and two of the guards took Cincinnatus out of the city jail altogether (the third one, the one with the key, stayed behind). They bundled him into a motorcar and took him up to the docks on the Ohio. Another auto pulled up beside his. To his surprise, his father got out of that one. Seneca Driver had his own contingent of guards. "What's goin' on, Son?" he asked.

"Beats me," Cincinnatus answered.

"Shut up, both of you," the major said. "Into the boat." He pointed. It was a smallish motorboat with, at the moment, a Red Cross flag draped across what had to be a machine-gun mount up near the bow. Awkwardly, Cincinnatus obeyed. Then he helped his father into the boat, though the older man was probably sprier than he was.

The engine roared to life. The motorboat arrowed across the river to the Cincinnati side. More guards waited at a pier there. One of them condescended to give Cincinnatus a hand as he struggled out of the boat. "Thank you, suh," he said softly.

"Shut up! No talking!" The major had strong opinions and what seemed to be a one-track mind. He pointed to a waiting motorcar painted C.S. b.u.t.ternut. "Get in."

Soldiers stood near the motorcar. The automatic rifles they carried made the submachine guns he'd seen before seem children's toys by comparison. Their expressions said they would just as soon shoot him as look at him. He got into the auto. One of them got in beside him. "Don't f.u.c.k with me, Sambo," the Confederate said casually, "or you'll never find out how the serial down at the Bijou turns out."

"I ain't done nothin'," Cincinnatus said. "I ain't gonna do nothin', neither." The soldier only grunted. He didn't believe a word of it. Another heavily armed man sat in the front seat next to the driver.

Away went the motorcar. Cincinnatus looked out the window. Cincinnati had taken more battle damage than Covington. The people on the streets looked shabby and unhappy. He never saw Confederate soldiers in parties smaller than four. That told him a lot about what the occupied thought of their occupiers.

"Can I look out the back window, suh, without you shootin' me?" he asked the soldier.

After considering, the man nodded. "Hand me your stick first," he said. "Move slow and careful. Don't get cute, or you'll be sorry-but not for long."

Cincinnatus obeyed in every particular. He saw what he'd hoped to see: another motorcar full of soldiers right behind this one. With any luck at all, that one also held his father. He swung around so he was sitting straight ahead again. "Thank you kindly, suh."

"Huh," the Confederate soldier said, and then, "Looks like we're here."

Here was the Cincinnati city jail. Cincinnatus wondered if he'd just traded one cell for another. n.o.body told him to get out of the auto, though. In fact, three more motorcars joined the ones he and his father were in. The procession headed west and north through occupied Ohio. was the Cincinnati city jail. Cincinnatus wondered if he'd just traded one cell for another. n.o.body told him to get out of the auto, though. In fact, three more motorcars joined the ones he and his father were in. The procession headed west and north through occupied Ohio.

Most of the countryside looked normal, as if war had never touched it. Here and there, usually around towns, were patches of devastation. You could see where U.S. soldiers had stood and fought and where they'd been outflanked, outmaneuvered, and forced from their positions.

The little convoy pa.s.sed through checkpoint after checkpoint. At one of them, a soldier put something on the wireless aerial to Cincinnatus' auto. He couldn't see what it was. He asked permission to look back at the motorcar behind him again. The soldier with the automatic rifle looked disgusted but nodded. He didn't get any less alert. He also showed no sign of needing to take a leak, though they'd been traveling for quite a while. Cincinnatus didn't know how much longer he he could go on before asking for a stop. He didn't know if he'd get one, though, even if he asked. could go on before asking for a stop. He didn't know if he'd get one, though, even if he asked.

A white flag flew from the other auto's aerial. He supposed his motorcar carried the same flag of truce. But when he asked about it, the soldier stared through him and said, "Shut up." He didn't argue with an armed man.

Just before he had to ask for a stop-and just after they'd rolled through a small town called Oxford-the convoy halted on its own. "Where the h.e.l.l are they?" the driver grumbled.

"They'll be here," said the other man in the front seat. "Ain't like we never done this before."

Sure enough, five minutes later another convoy of motorcars approached from the west. Those also had white flags on their wireless antennas. They were painted green-gray, not b.u.t.ternut. The soldier next to Cincinnatus nudged him with the muzzle of his rifle. "Get out." He obeyed. The soldier pa.s.sed him his cane. His father left the auto behind him. Three skinny white men who needed shaves emerged from the other motorcars.

Along with U.S. soldiers, five whites got out of the green-gray autos. Cincinnatus' dour major went up to confer with a U.S. officer who might have been his long-lost twin. They signed some papers for each other. The C.S. major turned back. "You are exchanged!" he shouted to Cincinnatus and the others. "You're the d.a.m.nyankees' worry now. Far as I'm concerned, they're welcome to you. Go on-git!"

"Do Jesus!" Cincinnatus whispered as he limped forward into U.S. custody. That cop in Covington hadn't lied to him after all. "Do Jesus!" He looked back to his father. "Come on, Pa. I think we're goin' home."

Sergeant Michael Pound had a new barrel. Considering what had happened to the old one, that was anything but a surprise. But this wasn't a new barrel of the same old style. U.S. engineers had rapidly figured out they needed to do something about the fearsome new machine the Confederates had introduced. Their answer was . . . not everything it might have been, but a d.a.m.n sight better than no change at all.

The cha.s.sis hadn't changed much. The engine was of similar design to the old one, but put out an extra fifty horsepower. That was all to the good, because the new barrel was heavier, and needed the extra muscle to shove it around.

Almost all the weight gain came from the new turret. It was bigger than the old one. Its armor was thicker and better sloped. And it had been upgunned. Instead of a 37mm gun-an inch and a half to a gunner-it now carried a 60mm piece-a little less than two and a half inches. That still didn't match the three-inch monster the new Confederate barrels used, but it was big enough to make any enemy barrel say uncle, where you had to be d.a.m.n good or d.a.m.n lucky to hurt the new C.S. machine with the 37mm cannon.

And the 60mm gun was absolutely the biggest one that would fit on the turret ring of the old cha.s.sis. A new, improved body took a lot longer to turn out than a reworked turret. The Confederates must have been planning their Mark 2 while the Mark 1 was just starting production. The USA hadn't done that. And so, instead of a proper Mark 2, the United States had to make do with Mark 1.5, more or less.

"Ugly beast," Pound said, laying a hand on its armored flank. He didn't see how anybody could argue with that. The new turret went with the old cha.s.sis about the way a rhino's head went with a cow's body. Everything on the Confederates' new barrels fit together with everything else. They had a grim, functional beauty. The Mark 1.5 was just grim.

"Well, Sergeant, Featherston's f.u.c.kers will think it's ugly, too, especially after it bites them a few times." That was Cecil Bergman, Pound's new loader. He was a skinny little guy, which helped him do his job-even though the new turret was bigger on the outside, it had even less room within than the old one.

"That's a fact. The new gun will make them sit up and take notice. About time, too," Pound said. "Maybe we have a chance of holding them out of Pittsburgh now. Maybe." He sounded anything but convinced.

He sounded that way because he was was unconvinced. The U.S. Army hadn't been able to stop the latest Confederate push, any more than it had been able to stop the Confederate drive up through Ohio the summer before. If you couldn't stop the enemy, how the devil were you supposed to win the war? Pound saw no way. unconvinced. The U.S. Army hadn't been able to stop the latest Confederate push, any more than it had been able to stop the Confederate drive up through Ohio the summer before. If you couldn't stop the enemy, how the devil were you supposed to win the war? Pound saw no way.

He could have elaborated on the many failings of the U.S. War Department, but Bergman hissed at him and jerked a thumb off to the left. "Here comes the lieutenant," he warned.

Second Lieutenant Don Griffiths was typical of the breed. He was young, he didn't know much, and one of the things he didn't know was how much he didn't know. He had blond hair and freckles and couldn't possibly have bought a drink without proving to the bartender that he was over twenty-one.

Sergeant Pound and PFC Bergman saluted him. He returned the gesture. "Men, we have our orders," he said.

He sounded full of enthusiasm. It was too early in the morning for Pound to feel enthusiasm or much of anything else except a deep longing for another cup of coffee. But Griffiths stood there waiting expectantly, so Pound did what he was supposed to do: he asked, "What are they, sir?"

"We are going to drive the enemy out of Pennsylvania," the lieutenant said grandly.

"What? All by ourselves?" Pound said.

Don Griffiths wagged a finger in his face. "I've heard about you, Sergeant-don't think I haven't," he said. "You haven't got the right att.i.tude."

"Probably not, sir," Pound agreed politely. "I do object to being killed for no good reason."

"Don't get smart with me, either." Griffiths' voice didn't break the way the late Lieutenant Poffenberger's had, but he still sounded like a kid. "I'll bust you down to private faster than you can say Jack Robinson."

"Go ahead, sir," Pound answered, politely still. "I'll never get rich on Army pay no matter what my rank is, and if I'm a private again I'll get out from under you. Besides, how likely is either one of us to live through the war? Why should I get excited about whether my sleeve has stripes on it?"

Lieutenant Griffiths gaped at him. The gold bar Griffiths wore on each shoulder strap was the only thing he had going for him. He couldn't imagine anybody who didn't care about rank. In fact, Pound did, very much, but the best way to hang on to what he had and be able to mouth off the way he wanted to was to pretend indifference. "You are insubordinate," Griffiths spluttered.

"Not me, sir. Bergman is my witness," Pound said. "Have I been disrespectful? Have I been discourteous? Have I been disobedient?" He knew he hadn't. He could be much more annoying when he stayed within the rules.

Griffiths proved it by spinning on his heel and storming away. PFC Bergman chuckled nervously. "He's gonna get you in Dutch, Sarge," Bergman predicted.

"What can he do to me? Throw me in the stockade?" Pound laughed at the idea. "I hope he does. I'll be warm and safe in a nice cell back of the line, three square meals a day, while he's stuck up here with unfriendly strangers trying to shoot his a.s.s off. The worst thing he could do to me is leave me right where I am."

Bergman shook his head. "Worst he could do is bust you and and leave you where you're at." leave you where you're at."

Pound grunted. That, unfortunately, was true. He didn't think Lieutenant Griffiths had the imagination to see it; if he'd had that kind of imagination, he would have been a real officer, not a lowly shavetail. Pound proved right. The next time Griffiths had anything to do with him, the barrel commander pretended their last exchange hadn't happened. Pound played along. He watched the way Griffiths eyed him: like a man watching a bear that might or might not be ready to charge.

Their barrel moved out the next morning. Several platoons of the new machines rumbled north and west from the cla.s.sically named town of Tarentum. Tarentum lay northeast of Pittsburgh; the barrels wanted to knock in the head of the Confederate column sweeping past the industrial center. Another enemy column was pus.h.i.+ng up from the southwest. If they met, they would put Pittsburgh in a pocket. That had happened to Columbus the summer before. If the Confederates brought it off here, they could smash up the U.S. defenders in the pocket at their leisure.

Pittsburgh was the most important iron and steel town in the United States. If it fell, how could the country go on with the war? If it fell, would the country have the heart to go on with the war? Those were interesting questions. Michael Pound hoped he-and the USA-didn't find out the answers to them.

"This is pretty good barrel country, sir," he remarked to Lieutenant Griffiths after they'd been rolling along for a while.

"It is?" Griffiths sounded suspicious, as if he feared Pound was pulling his leg. "I thought you wanted wide-open s.p.a.ces for barrels, not all these trees and houses and other obstructions."

Anyone who used a word like obstructions obstructions in a sentence was bound to have other things wrong with him, too. "You do, sir, if you're on the attack," Pound said patiently. "But if you want to defend, if the enemy's coming at you, having enough cover to shoot from ambush is nice." in a sentence was bound to have other things wrong with him, too. "You do, sir, if you're on the attack," Pound said patiently. "But if you want to defend, if the enemy's coming at you, having enough cover to shoot from ambush is nice."

"Oh." The lieutenant weighed that. "Yes, I see what you mean."

"I'm glad, sir." Now Pound sounded-and was-dead serious. "Because the point of the whole business is to kill the other guys and not get killed ourselves. That's the long and short of it."

Griffiths didn't disagree with him. The young officer opened the cupola and stood up in the turret to see what he could see. Pound just got glimpses through the gunsight-which was also improved from the one in the earlier turret. The Confederates hadn't got here yet, so the landscape wasn't too badly battered. That didn't mean he would have wanted to live here even if no one had ever heard of war. Coal mines, tailings from coal mines-he'd heard the locals call the stuff red dog-and factories dealing with coal and steel and aluminum dotted the landscape. Some of the factories belched white or gray or black or yellowish smoke into the sky even though the enemy was only a few miles away. They were going to keep operating till the Confederates overran them.

Michael Pound scowled. When they shut down, all the workers would try to get away at once. He'd seen that before. They'd clog the roads, U.S. troops would have trouble going around them or through them, and the Confederates would have a high old time bombing them and shooting them from the air.

Not five minutes after that thought crossed his mind, the barrel slowed and then stopped. Lieutenant Griffiths shouted from the cupola: "You people! Clear the road at once! At once, I tell you! You're impeding the war effort!" Pound wouldn't have moved for anybody who told him he was impeding anything. This crowd didn't, either.

And they paid for not moving. No a.s.skickers screamed down out of the sky to pummel them, but they were in range of Confederate artillery. So were the advancing U.S. barrels. That didn't worry Pound very much-except for the rare unlucky direct hit, long-range bombardment wouldn't hurt them. He did tug on Griffiths' trouser leg and call, "Better get down, sir. Fragments aren't healthy."

"Oh. Right." The lieutenant even remembered to close the cupola hatch after himself. He was faintly green, or more than faintly. "My G.o.d!" He gulped. "What sh.e.l.lfire does to civilians out in the open . . . It's a slaughterhouse out there."

"Yes, sir," Pound said, as gently as he could. "I've seen it before." He'd got glimpses through the gunsight here, too, and was glad he'd had no more than glimpses. Shrapnel clattered off the sides and front of the barrel. There were times when sitting in a thick armored box wasn't so bad, even if it was too d.a.m.n hot and n.o.body in there with you had bathed anytime lately.

Griffiths spoke to the driver over the intercom: "If you can go forward without smas.h.i.+ng people, do it." The barrel moved ahead in low gear. Pound didn't like to think about what it was running over, so he resolutely didn't. The lieutenant peered through the periscope: a far cry from sticking your head out and looking around, but n.o.body would have done that under this kind of sh.e.l.lfire. Well, maybe Irving Morrell would have, but officers like him didn't come along every day.

Suddenly, Griffiths let out an indignant squawk. "What is it, sir?" Pound asked.

"Our men," Griffiths answered. "Our soldiers-retreating!"

Pound got a brief look at them, too, and liked none of what he saw. "We'd better find an ambush position pretty quick, then, sir," he said. "We're going to have company."

Griffiths didn't get it right away. When he did, he nodded. A stone wall that hid the bottom half of the barrel wasn't perfect cover, but it was a lot better than nothing.

"Have an AP round ready," Pound told Bergman. The loader tapped him on the leg to show he'd heard.

"There's one!" Griffiths squeaked with excitement. "Uh, front, I mean!"

"Identified," Pound confirmed. "Range six hundred yards." He added, "Armor-piercing." Bergman slammed the round into the breech. With quick, fussy precision, Pound lined up the sights on the target: one of the new-model C.S. barrels. Now to see what this new gun could do. He nudged Lieutenant Griffiths. "Ready, sir."

"Fire!" Griffiths said, and the cannon spoke.

Here in the turret, the report wasn't too loud. The empty casing leaped from the breech and clattered down onto the deck. Cordite fumes made Pound cough. But he whooped at the same time, for fire spurted from the enemy barrel. "Hit!" he shouted, and Griffiths with him. The old gun wouldn't have pierced that armor at that range.

"Front!" Griffiths said again, more businesslike this time. "About ten o'clock."

"Identified," Pound replied. He scored another hit. Whatever the Confederates wanted today, they weren't going to buy it cheap.

Out of the line. Armstrong Grimes knew only one thing besides relief: resentment that he'd have to go back when his regiment's turn in reserve was up. For the time being, though, n.o.body would be shooting at him. He wouldn't be ducking screaming meemies. He wouldn't wonder if the stranger in a green-gray uniform was really a U.S. soldier, and worry that that unfamiliar face might belong to a Mormon intent on cutting his throat or stabbing him in the back and then sneaking away.