"Yes, but they interrogate him more. They've already squeezed everything out of you that they're going to get," Summers said. "He's new, so they still have hopes."

"If there's more than three Confederate officers between here and Richmond who don't know my name, rank, and pay number, I'd be amazed. And not a G.o.dd.a.m.n one of them knows anything but that." Moss spoke with a certain somber pride.

"They've grilled all of us, Major," Summers replied, wearily rolling his eyes as if to say, Haven't they just! Haven't they just! "I know they get more out of some people than they do from others." He held up a hasty hand. "I'm not talking about you, and I'm not talking about Swinburne, either." "I know they get more out of some people than they do from others." He held up a hasty hand. "I'm not talking about you, and I'm not talking about Swinburne, either."

"I know, sir. I understood that. Some men will talk more than others, and they lean on some harder than others, depending on what they think the poor sons of b.i.t.c.hes know." Moss sighed. "I can't even cuss 'em for that, or not real hard, because I know d.a.m.n well we do the same thing."

Monty Summers shrugged. "It's war," he said: two words that covered a mult.i.tude of sins. "We all do the best we can."

"Yes, sir," Moss agreed mournfully. "And look what that's got us." His wave encompa.s.sed the camp. "G.o.d knows what would have happened if we tried to screw up."

"Heh," Colonel Summers said-a noise that sounded like a laugh but wasn't. "A h.e.l.l of a lot of people who didn't do their best are dead right now."

"Oh, yes, sir," Moss agreed. "And some of them are back in Philadelphia with stars on their shoulder straps. They're drinking good booze and eating steaks and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g their secretaries. For them, the war's a nuisance or an opportunity, depending on how you look at things."

Summers eyed him for a long moment before saying, "That holds on both sides of the border, you know."

"I sure hope so, sir," Moss said. "But what worries me is, the Confederates may have done a better job of sweeping away their deadwood than we have, and that's liable to cost us. It's liable to cost us a lot."

XIII.

Dr. Leonard O'Doull wondered how many places he'd set up his aid station since returning to the war. A lot of them-that was all he knew for sure. After a while, they started blurring together. So did cases. What made that worse was, he never saw them again after they went back for more treatment. He never found out whether they got better or worse. They were just arms or legs or bellies or chests or heads-not that he or anybody else this side of G.o.d could do much for too many head wounds.

When he complained about that outside the aid tent one day, Granville McDougald said, "Well, Doc, remember the fellow who had the round burrow under his scalp and come out the back?"

"Calisse! I'm not likely to forget him," O'Doull said. That one would stay in his memory forever. "I haven't come that close to c.r.a.pping myself since I was three years old. But most of the bullets don't go around. They go in." I'm not likely to forget him," O'Doull said. That one would stay in his memory forever. "I haven't come that close to c.r.a.pping myself since I was three years old. But most of the bullets don't go around. They go in."

McDougald grimaced. He crushed a cigarette under his foot. They'd set up in some woods north of Pittsburgh. Catbirds mewed and squawked in the trees. They made an unG.o.dly racket, not all of it catlike. You didn't see them all that often. They were gray with black caps and rusty brown under their tails-good camouflage colors-and stayed where leaves and bushes were thick. A cardinal scratching for seeds on the ground, on the other hand . . .

"I used to love those birds," O'Doull said sadly, pointing towards it. "Nowadays, though, the color just reminds me of blood."

"You are are cheery this morning, aren't you?" McDougald studied the plump, crested cardinal. "I still like 'em." cheery this morning, aren't you?" McDougald studied the plump, crested cardinal. "I still like 'em."

"To each his own." O'Doull looked up at the leaves and branches overhead in a different way. "I wish we were a little more out in the open. A tree burst right above us would fill the aid tent with shrapnel."

"If we were out in the open, we'd get shrapnel from ground bursts that the tree trunks will stop," McDougald answered, which was also true. "Only way not to worry about artillery is not to have a war, and it's a little late for that now."

"Just a bit, yeah," O'Doull said. "And ain't it a shame?"

His head came up like a pointer's taking a scent. So did McDougald's. But they didn't smell anything. No, they heard heavy footsteps: the footsteps of stretcher bearers bringing back a casualty. "Doc!" Eddie yelled. "Hey, Doc! Here's a new model for you!"

"Back to work," O'Doull murmured, and Granville McDougald nodded. The doctor raised his voice: "Bring him to us, Eddie!" He went inside and washed his hands with soap and disinfectant, taking special care to clean under and around his nails. McDougald did the same. They slipped on surgical masks together. Sometimes O'Doull wondered how much good that did when wounds were often already filthy before they got back to him. He supposed you had to try.

Another groaning wounded man, this one shot in the leg. Except, as Eddie had said, he wasn't what O'Doull was used to seeing. He was short and swarthy and black-haired, and wore a uniform of cut and color-a khaki more nearly yellow than brown-different from either U.S. green-gray or C.S. b.u.t.ternut. When words broke through the animal noises of pain, they came in Spanish, not English.

"Heard there were Mexican troops in front of us," McDougald remarked.

"So did I." O'Doull nodded. "Poor devil came a long way just to let some nasty strangers put a hole in him."

McDougald shook his head. "He came to put holes in the nasty strangers himself. Suckers always do. They never figure the guys on the other side are gonna shoot back."

The Mexican soldier's moans eased. Eddie or one of the other corpsmen must have given him morphine. He said something. O'Doull couldn't figure out what it was. Spanish and French were related, sure, but not closely enough to let him understand one even if he knew the other.

He spoke in English: "You'll be all right." From what he could see of the wound, he thought that was true. The bullet looked to have blown off a chunk of flesh, but not to have shattered any bones. He turned to McDougald. "Put him under."

"Right you are, Doc." McDougald settled the ether cone over the wounded man's face. He and Eddie had to keep the soldier from yanking it off; a lot of men thought they were being ga.s.sed when they inhaled the anesthetic. After a few breaths, the Mexican's hands fell away and he went limp.

O'Doull cleaned out the wound and sewed it up. Had men from the soldier's own side brought him in, it would have been a hometowner: good for convalescent leave, but nothing that would keep him from coming back to the front. As things were, he'd sit out the rest of the war in a POW camp.

When the job was done, O'Doull nodded to Eddie. "You can take him back to the rear now. If they have anybody who speaks Spanish handy, they'll probably want to grill him."

"I suppose," Eddie said. "Like worrying about the Confederates wasn't bad enough. Now we've got the greasers jumping on us, too."

No matter what he called Mexicans, he handled this one with the same rough compa.s.sion he would have shown any wounded soldier, white, brown, black, or even green. He and the other stretcher bearers carried away the still-unconscious man.

"Interesting," Granville McDougald said. "Does this mean the Confederates are starting to run low on their own men?"

"Don't know," said O'Doull, who hadn't looked at it like that.

"Well, neither do I," McDougald allowed. "I don't think like Jake Featherston or Francisco Jose, thank G.o.d. I hope I'm not a son of a b.i.t.c.h or a moron." That startled a laugh out of O'Doull. The medic went on, "But even if I don't know, know, that's sure how it looks to me." that's sure how it looks to me."

"It makes sense," O'Doull said. "We beat the CSA last time by hammering on them till they couldn't hammer back anymore. If we're going to win this war, we'll have to knock 'em flat again."

"Flatter," McDougald said. "Last time, we let 'em up again. If we beat 'em this time, we'd better not do that again. I don't know how long we'll have to sit on 'em, but we need to do it, however long it takes."

"I suppose so," O'Doull said mournfully. "But remember what Kentucky and Houston were supposed to be like before the plebiscite?"

"I'd better remember-I was in in Houston for a while. Half of what went on never made the papers in the USA, let alone in Quebec, I bet." Granville McDougald paused. He looked very unhappy. "I don't want to think about how much trouble sitting on the whole Confederacy would be. Those people purely hate us, no two ways about it. But if we don't occupy them and control them, we'll have to fight 'em again in another twenty years, and I sure as h.e.l.l don't want to do that, either." Houston for a while. Half of what went on never made the papers in the USA, let alone in Quebec, I bet." Granville McDougald paused. He looked very unhappy. "I don't want to think about how much trouble sitting on the whole Confederacy would be. Those people purely hate us, no two ways about it. But if we don't occupy them and control them, we'll have to fight 'em again in another twenty years, and I sure as h.e.l.l don't want to do that, either."

"So what you're telling me is, we're in trouble no matter what happens," O'Doull said. "Thanks a lot, Granny."

"There's trouble, and then there's trouble, trouble," McDougald said. "Trouble is us occupying the Confederate States. Trouble Trouble is the Confederates occupying us. If I've got a choice, I know which one I'd take." is the Confederates occupying us. If I've got a choice, I know which one I'd take."

"Yeah, me, too," O'Doull said. "Here's hoping we've got a choice."

"Now why would you say something like that?" McDougald inquired. "Haven't you got confidence in our brilliant leaders? Doesn't the fact that we're fighting in Pennsylvania mean victory's right around the corner?"

"That's what I'm afraid of," O'Doull answered. "The only trouble is, whose victory are you talking about?"

McDougald laughed, for all the world as if they were sitting in a saloon telling jokes. The fate of nations? Who could get excited about the fate of nations if the beer was cold and the joint had a halfway decent free-lunch spread? The medic said, "If we were a little farther back of the line and we talked like this, we'd catch h.e.l.l for defeatism, you know?"

"Yeah, they'd yell at us," O'Doull agreed. "But that's all they'd do. If we talked like this on the Confederate side of the line, they'd probably shoot us."

"Y'all are d.a.m.nyankee sympathizers." McDougald's Southern drawl wouldn't get him into espionage. "Y'all can have blindfolds. I ain't gonna waste good Confederate tobacco on you, though-that's for d.a.m.n sure."

"A Kentucky colonel you're not," O'Doull said. But then he thought about the warning that had come in: Confederate soldiers in U.S. uniform were supposed to be operating behind U.S. lines. They were supposed to have good U.S. accents, too. O'Doull had no idea if that was true, or how you went about telling a disguised Confederate from an average screwup. He also wondered what to do if one of those Confederates in U.S. clothing came into the aid station. Then he wondered how the devil he'd know.

Scipio got more frightened every day. Nothing had changed in the Terry since the sweep that would have swept out his family and him. Nothing had changed, no, but trouble was in the air. Something new was stirring, and he didn't know what it was.

He came right out and asked Jerry Dover. The manager at the Huntsman's Lodge just shrugged and said, "I haven't heard anything."

"Do Jesus!" Scipio said. "Them Freedom Party stalwarts, they looks like they gwine kill all o' we, an' you ain't heard heard nothin'?" nothin'?"

"If I had, I'd tell you," Dover said. "This time, I think you're flabbling over nothing."

"Ain't you got no mo' errands fo' me to run? Ain't you got no errands fo' me an' my whole fambly to run?" Scipio paused, then switched dialects to the one he hardly ever used: "Mr. Dover, please understand me-I am a desperate man, sir." He had to be desperate to use his white man's voice.

It rocked Dover, the way it would have rocked any white in the CSA. Biting his lip, the restaurant manager muttered, "If I'd known you were that G.o.dd.a.m.n sharp, I never would've sent you to Savannah."

Scipio wanted to laugh, or possibly to scream. Jerry Dover had worked alongside him for more than twenty years. If that didn't give Dover the chance to figure out what kind of brains he had . . . Scipio knew what the trouble was, of course. All that time, he'd talked like a n.i.g.g.e.r, and an ignorant n.i.g.g.e.r at that. Perception clouded reality. Like so many whites, Dover had a.s.sumed anybody who sounded like an illiterate field hand had to be as ignorant and probably as stupid as a field hand.

Of course, there were holes in that line of thought. Dover had known all along that he could read and write and cipher. Set that against sounding like a buck from the Congaree swamps, though, and it suddenly became small potatoes.

"What was was in that envelope I took there?" Scipio pressed his advantage. He didn't get one very often, and knew he had to make the most of it. "Something for the United States? Something for the Freedom Party? Something for a lady friend of yours, perhaps?" Even to himself, he sounded smarter when he talked like a white man. If that wasn't a measure of what living in the Confederate States his whole life had done to him, he didn't know what would be. in that envelope I took there?" Scipio pressed his advantage. He didn't get one very often, and knew he had to make the most of it. "Something for the United States? Something for the Freedom Party? Something for a lady friend of yours, perhaps?" Even to himself, he sounded smarter when he talked like a white man. If that wasn't a measure of what living in the Confederate States his whole life had done to him, he didn't know what would be.

Jerry Dover turned red. "Whatever it was, it's none of your d.a.m.n beeswax," he snapped. "The less you know about it, the better off we both are. Have you got that?"

He made sense, no matter how much Scipio wished he didn't. If they arrested Scipio instead of just hauling him off to a camp, he couldn't tell them what he didn't know. Of course, he could tell them Dover's name, at which point they'd start tearing into the restaurant manager. And how would he he stand up to the third degree? Scipio almost looked forward to finding out. If Dover's ruin didn't so surely involve his own, he would have. stand up to the third degree? Scipio almost looked forward to finding out. If Dover's ruin didn't so surely involve his own, he would have.

"Somethin' else you better keep in mind," Dover said. "Wasn't for me, you'd be dead. Wasn't for me, you'd be in wherever n.i.g.g.e.rs go when they clean out part of the Terry. Instead, you're still walkin' around Augusta, and you don't seem any too G.o.dd.a.m.n grateful for it."

"If walking around Augusta involved anything even approaching freedom-lowercase f, f, mind you-I mind you-I would would be grateful," Scipio said. "But this is only a slightly more s.p.a.cious prison. I don't ask for much, Mr. Dover. I could accept living as I did before the war began. It was imperfect, but I know it was as much as I could reasonably expect from this country. What I have now, sir-I do believe a preacher would call it h.e.l.l." be grateful," Scipio said. "But this is only a slightly more s.p.a.cious prison. I don't ask for much, Mr. Dover. I could accept living as I did before the war began. It was imperfect, but I know it was as much as I could reasonably expect from this country. What I have now, sir-I do believe a preacher would call it h.e.l.l."

He'd hoped his pa.s.sion-and his accent-would impress the white man. Maybe they even did. But Dover said, "All I got to tell you is, you don't know what you're talking about. You go on about a preacher? You ought to get down on bended knee and thank G.o.d you don't know what you're talking about."

Where Scipio had rocked him before, now he shook the black man. He sounded as if he knew exactly what he he was talking about. "Mr. Dover, if what you say is true, then my family and I have even more urgent reasons to leave Augusta immediately." was talking about. "Mr. Dover, if what you say is true, then my family and I have even more urgent reasons to leave Augusta immediately."

"Bulls.h.i.t," Dover said. Scipio blinked as if he'd never heard the word before. "Bulls.h.i.t," Dover repeated. "What the h.e.l.l makes you think things are better anywhere else, for crying out loud?"

Scipio bit down on that like a man breaking a tooth on a cherry pit in his piece of pie. "Do Jesus!" he exclaimed, startled for a moment back into his usual way of talking. He'd always thought of Augusta as an aberration, a disaster. If it wasn't . . .

"Jesus ain't got nothin' to do with it," Jerry Dover said brutally. "Don't be dumber than you can help, all right? If you reckon you're the only one in the world with troubles, what does that make you? Besides a d.a.m.n fool, I mean?"

"Do Jesus!" Scipio said again, softly this time. "What am I gonna do?"

He wasn't asking the question of the restaurant manager. He wasn't asking G.o.d, either. He was asking himself, and he had no more answers than either G.o.d or Dover did.

Dover thought he had one: "Get your a.s.s out there, do your job, and keep your head down."

Had Scipio been alone in the world, that might even have sufficed. As things were, he shook his head. "I got a wife, Mistuh Dover. I got chilluns." He couldn't talk like a white man now; that would have hurt too much. "I wants dem chilluns to do better'n I ever done. How kin dey do dat? Likely tell, dey don't even git to grow up." Tears filled his eyes and his voice.

Dover looked down at his desk. "I don't know what you want me to do about it."

"He'p me!" Scipio burst out. "You gots to he'p me. Git me outa here."

"How? Where?" the restaurant manager demanded. "You reckon I got some magic carpet that'll fly you to Mexico or the USA? If you do, give me some of whatever you're drinking, on account of I want to get goofy, too."

Scipio looked wildly around him. The walls of Dover's office seemed to be closing in. Except it wasn't the office alone. . . . "You know somethin', Mistuh Dover?" he said. "This whole country-this whole G.o.dd.a.m.n country-ain't nothing but a prison camp fo' black folks."

"Yeah, well, I can't do nothin' about that, neither," Jerry Dover said. "All I can do is run this place here. And if you aren't out there waiting tables in five minutes, I start having trouble doing that."

"No, suh," Scipio said, and Dover blinked; whites in the CSA seldom met outright refusal from Negroes. Scipio went on, "Reckon you do more'n dat. Reckon you never woulda sent me to Savannah, you didn't do more'n dat." He still didn't know why the white man had sent him there. He didn't care, either. That he'd gone gave him a weapon. "You got to he'p me. You got to he'p my chilluns."

"I already have," Dover said quietly. Scipio grimaced. That was true. Dover went on, "You want me to do more than I can do. You want me to do more than anybody can do. I can't make you turn white. That's what you really want out of me, isn't it?"

He made Scipio grimace again. Even when times were relatively good for blacks in the CSA, skin lighteners and hair straighteners-a lot of them, especially the lighteners, only quack nostrums-sold briskly. The worse times got, the better they sold, too. These days, anyone who could possibly pa.s.s for white was doing it. Scipio's own skin was far too dark even to let him think about it. Bathsheba was lighter, but not light enough. Neither were Antoinette and Ca.s.sius. They were all irredeemably marked as what they were.

"d.a.m.n you, Mistuh Dover," Scipio said dully.

"I'm sorry. h.e.l.l, I am am sorry. I didn't want things to turn out like this," Jerry Dover said. "I'm no G.o.dd.a.m.n Freedom Party goon. You know that. But I can't stick my neck out too far, either, not unless I want it chopped." sorry. I didn't want things to turn out like this," Jerry Dover said. "I'm no G.o.dd.a.m.n Freedom Party goon. You know that. But I can't stick my neck out too far, either, not unless I want it chopped."

Scipio tried to hate him. Try as he would, he couldn't. Dover wasn't as big a man as he might have been. But plenty were smaller, too, and not all of them were white. Dover didn't even use his advantage in color and cla.s.s to order Scipio out of his office. He just waited. Scipio could tell no hope was to be had here. He left by himself.

Taking orders in the restaurant, bringing them back to the kitchen, and carrying food out again felt strangely surreal. The prosperous white men and their sleek companions treated him as they always would have: like a servant. They talked as if he weren't there. Had he been a U.S. spy, he could have learned some interesting things about railroad repairs and industrial bottlenecks. He could have picked up some pointers on barrel deployment from an officer trying-the wrong way, in Scipio's view-to impress a really beautiful brunette.

He kept waiting to hear word about the Terry, about yet another cleanout. He'd been doing that ever since the night when the Angel of Death, thanks to Jerry Dover, pa.s.sed over his family and him. But the whites in the Huntsman's Lodge never talked about things like that. Maybe they didn't want to think about them while they were eating venison or duck in orange sauce and drinking fancy French wine. Or maybe they weren't quite so oblivious to the colored staff as they let on.

It was probably some of each. Scipio wouldn't have wanted to think about sending people off to camps while he was enjoying a fine meal, either. And, while whites in the CSA often pretended to ignore Negroes, they knew they couldn't really afford to do it very often. They would pay, and pay high, if they did.

He got through the evening. He clocked out of the Huntsman's Lodge and walked through Augusta's dark, silent streets-the city remained under blackout even if no Yankee bombers had ever appeared overhead-toward the Terry. It was like going back to jail-with the barbed wire all around, just like that.

"Halt!" called one of the policemen and stalwarts at the gate. "Advance and be recognized. Slow and easy, or you never get another chance."

They were jumpy tonight. Scipio didn't like that; it was too likely a harbinger of trouble. "Ain't n.o.body but me," he said. What would the ruffians have done if he'd used his white man's voice with them? Shot him, probably, for not being what they expected.

As things were, they laughed. "It's the old spook in the boiled shirt," one of them said. The gate creaked as they opened it. "Go on through." They didn't even ask for his pa.s.sbook. Whatever the shape of the trouble they were flabbling about, it wasn't his.

The Terry's streets were even quieter than those of the white part of Augusta. Scipio imagined he heard ghosts moaning along them, but it was only the breeze . . . or was it? With more than half the Negroes scooped out of the place and carried off to a fate unknown but unlikely to be good, ghosts were bound to be wandering the streets where so many real people no longer went.

His apartment was dark. Bathsheba had got a couple of kerosene lamps after the electricity was cut off, but kerosene was hard to come by these days, too. They used it only when they had to. He navigated with the confidence of a man who knew where everything was whether he could see it or not. His wife had left his nightshirt out for him on a chair by the bed. He sighed with relief at escaping the tuxedo. Sleep dissolved night terrors.

Breakfast was bread and jam. Ca.s.sius and Antoinette were already up when Scipio rose. His son said, "Pa, we got to fight the ofays. We don't fight 'em, reckon they go an' kill us all."

"We do fight de buckra, reckon dey kills all o' we anyways," Scipio answered.

"Leastways we gets to hit back," Ca.s.sius said.

Yond Ca.s.sius has a lean and hungry look;/He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. Having watched the brutal collapse of the Congaree Socialist Republic, Scipio knew black uprisings against whites in the CSA had no hope. He looked around. Was there hope anywhere else in the Terry? Not that he could see. All he said was, "Be careful, son. Be careful as you kin." Having watched the brutal collapse of the Congaree Socialist Republic, Scipio knew black uprisings against whites in the CSA had no hope. He looked around. Was there hope anywhere else in the Terry? Not that he could see. All he said was, "Be careful, son. Be careful as you kin."

Ca.s.sius' face lit with a terrible joy, the joy of a man who had nothing left to lose.

Midnight was the traditional time for the knock on the door. Had the police come then, Cincinnatus Driver would have greeted them with the bolt-action Tredegar he'd hidden under a floorboard in the front room. But they caught up with him in the middle of the afternoon and found him on the street, armed only with a cane.