Beneath Gray Skies (6 page)

David thought about it a bit, and laughed quietly. “’Night, then, Brian.”

“Goodnight, old man.”

It was when David was nearly asleep that he realized that the weather had been overcast all day. It hadn’t looked that evening as though the weather was going to clear up. Surely Brian wouldn’t have gone out to look at the clouds? But why would Brian lie about it? He must have made a mistake, that’s all. But you don’t make a mistake about that sort of thing … David drifted off.

“
This is one of the biggest messes that’s ever landed on my desk.”

“
S
o, the 3rd Alabama, the 7th North Texas and the 9th North Carolina are going over next week?” C, the head of the British Secret Service, asked one of his deputies.

“It certainly looks that way, sir,” came the reply.

“Do you think we should pull Finch-Malloy out of there?” C enquired. “He’s done damn’ well, I have to give him that and I’d be happy to let him pull out with full honors if he wants.”

“Actually, I think he wants to stay on there for a while, sir. He reported that he’s got to like the taste of grits, whatever they may be, and that he’s discovered a chess prodigy he thinks it’s his duty to bring before the world.”

“Hmph. Not exactly good Service reasons, are they? Can he do anything more while he’s in that army?”

“Oh yes. He can report on their state of readiness and all that, sir. I’d be inclined to let him stay there with his grits if he wants to stay, sir.”

“Very well, Parkes. But tell him he can pull out at any time if he wants to. No chance he’s been spotted, is there?”

“I think he would have let us know by now if he had any problems in that area, sir.”

“I hope you’re right. Those Confeds can be pretty nasty towards the people they don’t like once their blood’s up. Lynchings and all that. I’m sure our Washington friends are glad they never had to fight them in a war and that they went without a struggle.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir. They say that if President Lincoln hadn’t gone down with that fever when he did, he’d have made a stand, and there would have been a war, rather than that half-baked Seward-Chase compromise on Fort Sumter which let them slip away peacefully. Probably several thousand dead. Could have gone on for a year or so.”

C snorted. “Says who? The Confederacy would have had to surrender in a month or two. No supplies. Look at them now. A load of subsistence-level farmers mainly, led by a hereditary slave-owning dictatorship with a worthless currency, and thinking they’re God’s chosen people.”

“Bit like the Roundheads in our Civil War, sir?”

“You could say that in some ways, Parkes. Damn’ good fighters when they have the supplies to do it, though, which is why I’m worried about them going over to Germany. Herr Hitler has some money coming to his National Socialists from a lot of large companies. Enough to get decent Mausers into the hands of those Confeds and God knows what else in the shape of airplanes and so on.”

“You’d think there’d be enough experienced fighting men in Germany, sir.” It was half a question, and C chose to answer it.

“Half-starved and shell-shocked, Parkes. You’ve seen our lads back from the trenches. Well, the Germans have it much worse. And the poor bastards are starving to death—the ones that the influenza epidemic left alive. They lost hundreds of thousands, you know, poor devils. They’ve no stomach for any more fighting. Anyway, you know Jerry. Follow an officer anywhere, but Hitler was only a corporal. How much support is he going to get from the officers if he wants to take over the country?”

“And I suppose that if things go wrong, it wasn’t the Germans who failed and the Nazis can’t be blamed?”

“You have the makings of a very superior dictator, Parkes,” smiled C. “Don’t let it go to your head. Now I must pop round and see our lords and masters, and make sure this information your man has given us gets to the right ears.”

-o-

T
he Minister was not pleased with the information when C made his way to Whitehall. “Damn it, C, of course I’m happy that we know what’s going on, but couldn’t we have known about this a little earlier?”

“Apparently the details of this were only decided a few days ago. We’re pretty sure Washington doesn’t know about this yet.”

“Are you going to tell them?” C stood primly without saying a word. “Don’t look like that at me, C. Dumb insolence, I call it. You know perfectly well that you intelligence chappies trade secrets like schoolboys swapping stamps.”

“In this case, sir, I would prefer the Cabinet to make the decision regarding Washington’s being informed, rather than my making it. Far be it for me to fall foul of the Monroe Doctrine.”

The Minister spluttered into his teacup. “You never fail to amaze and entertain me, C. Since when has the Monroe Doctrine ever meant a thing to you secret johnnies? Are you going to tell the Yanks?”

“I’ve already said, sir. This is a matter for the Cabinet, not for me.”

“Why so serious with this one, C?”

“Because, sir, this is one of the biggest messes that’s ever landed on my desk. Quite frankly, I would prefer it if it were someone else’s decision. The implications go a long way outside my office, and reach to the League of Nations in Geneva.”

“All right, I’ll present it to the PM. What’s your private view on this? Off the record, as the newspaper chaps say?”

“My view is to keep it quiet, sir. If we let them know we have agents in the Southern army, the Yanks will start looking for our agents in their forces as well. We could disguise the information, of course, and say it came from the French or something …”

“So for the moment, I’ll suggest we keep it quiet. If any further ingenious ways of distorting the truth occur to your twisted mind, I’ll trouble you to keep them to yourself for now. By the way, have you any idea how several thousand men who speak no German are going to be hidden in Germany until Herr Hitler makes his move?”

“No, sir. But a few possibilities occur to me. They could be presented as prisoners of war, to be kept apart from the general population.”

“From a war that ended three years ago? Preposterous!”

“Not from the Great War, sir, but from one of the Polish border clashes or something like that. Maybe even from Bolshevik Russia.”

The Minister considered this. “Better than I could come up with, C,” he said at length. “I start to understand how you earn your monstrously high salary. Joking apart, do you want to attend the Cabinet meeting and present these findings? I’m beginning to feel I will need the safety of numbers. The PM has a distinct aversion to rocking boats too hard. I get the feeling he gets seasick far too easily.”

“
My guess is that they were looking for any excuse to kill you.”

T
he sun was going down as Christopher walked from the drugstore, where he’d just purchased a packet of headache powders, back to Miss Justin’s. As he turned the corner behind the railroad depot, he noticed the Childers girl sitting in the road, crying.

“Why, Miss Anna-Mary, what’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“I fell down and hurt my knee, and my doll has hurt her knee, too.”

“Oh, that’s too bad now. Let’s have a look at your dolly and your knee. Oh yes,” he shook his head sympathetically. “She is in a bad way. And so are you. Let me help you up, and I’ll take you home.” He reached down and took her hand, when he was interrupted by a shout from behind him.

“Hey! Nigra! Take your dirty black hands off her, y’hear?” It was Lamar Fitchman’s raucous voice. Scared, Christopher dropped Anna-Mary’s hand and turned to face Fitchman. With a sinking feeling, he saw that Fitchman was not alone. Three friends were with him. Wild boys from the other side of the tracks, one swinging a corn liquor jug from one hand. As Fitchman made his way, somewhat unsteadily, towards Christopher and Anna-Mary, it was obvious to Christopher that he been drinking heavily.

“Now, sweetheart,” Fitchman slurred towards the little girl. “You leave this nasty black boogeyman to us, and run along home.” Forgetting both the pain in her knee, and a loaf of corn bread which she’d been carrying in her other hand, she fled, doll firmly clutched to her breast, from this new apparition with hate in his reddened eyes, and a strong smell of stale whiskey on his breath.

“So, Nigra? Whattya doing with a nice little white girl, all alone behind the depot, then? Holding her hand? Wanted to hold something else of hers, diddya?” Before Christopher could answer, a fist thudded into the side of his neck, knocking him off his feet.

“I was only trying to—” he started to say, struggling to sit up, but a heavy boot in the pit of his stomach cut him off.

“No excuses, boy. Hey, fellas, come and help me. We’re gonna string us up an uppity Nigra tonight. But before we do that …” Another vicious kick, this time aimed at Christopher’s face, which caught him sickeningly on the cheekbone. Christopher heard something crack inside his head.

“You can’t do that, Lamar,” objected one of the good old boys with Fitchman. “That there’s your aunt’s Nigra.”

“So she’s kin to me. Means I can do what I damn’ well please,” kicking him again, this time in the ribs. Christopher had the sense to lie limp and stay still, but the kicking and beating continued. He had no idea how long it went on. He forced himself to think of happy memories, music he loved, good times he had enjoyed. He recited the Lord’s Prayer to himself, and concentrated hard on the parts where he asked God to deliver him from evil and to forgive those who sin against us. He lost consciousness briefly once or twice from the pain in his face and body, and two fingers of his left hand were in screaming agony, but he was almost beyond caring by this point, and his body refused to react to the blows that Fitchman and one of his friends continued to deal him.

At length he heard, “Fetch a rope, Slim. Time to string him up.” Trying hard not to be seen moving, Christopher opened one eye slightly, and painfully moved his head slowly. He saw the largest of Fitchman’s friends detach himself from the group and move towards the depot.

As he left, a tall man in the uniform of the Confederate army, a rifle slung over his shoulder, stepped out of the shadows. The town had been full of strangers in uniform over the past few days, as troop-trains had been coming and going through the town. “Fancy a spot of help?” asked the stranger in an accent that Christopher couldn’t place.

“Why, sure. Always glad to have the military help out,” replied Fitchman, swinging his hand up in a drunken parody of a salute.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” replied the newcomer, coldly. “I was talking to that poor chappie there,” jerking his thumb at Christopher. “Except that he doesn’t seem to be talking much right now, so I suppose I’d better do his talking for him. Four against one doesn’t seem fair play, what? Even if the four of you are half-monkey. Thought I might come along and even things up, don’t you know?”

“Why you Nigra-loving son of a—”

“Don’t say it.” The rifle had somehow slipped off the man’s shoulder and was pointing straight at Fitchman. “Slim? That your name, fat boy?” he called to the man who’d gone for the rope. “Over here where I can see you.” The muzzle of the rifle swung slightly in Slim’s direction. Slim hurried back and took his place beside Fitchman. It wasn’t so much the rifle in the man’s hands, it was the way he was holding it, which told you he was someone who had used a rifle before, and the look on his face, which told you he was prepared to use it again.

“Over towards the light, all of you potato-brains, where I can get a better look at you.” The rifle barrel moved again, and Fitchman and his friends moved towards the light. “Don’t even think of doing it, monkey boy,” to Fitchman, whose body seemed poised to make a rush at the speaker. “I don’t shoot to kill people, I shoot to hurt them. Even if one of you manages to get to me, you and at least one of your friends are going to wake up every morning for the rest of your life, screaming in pain, and cursing the day you tried something stupid against me. That’s better,” as Fitchman’s body relaxed. “And just in case,” the soldier added, fixing a bayonet to the end of his rifle faster than their eyes could follow, “you have any silly ideas about bullets, maybe cold sharp steel is easier for your slow brains to understand.”

“You stinkin’ bastard!” One of Fitchman’s friends made a move toward the tall stranger, drawing his Bowie knife as he lunged forward. Christopher couldn’t quite make out how it had all happened, but suddenly the rifle had reversed itself in the tall man’s hands, with the butt first smashing upwards into his opponent’s groin and then coming down with a sickening crack onto the right knee. With a tight scream, the man went down, dropping the knife, and looked up to see the bayonet’s point inches away from his eyes.