In at the Death (57 page)

When Jorge saw the
alcalde
’s house, he saw the Stars and Stripes flying above it. “Even here!” he said in dismay.

“Even here,” Pedro agreed. “We lost. You can get into big trouble if you show the Confederate flag. All we can do is what the Yankees tell us—for now.”

He sounded as if he was ready to pick up the fight again if he ever saw the chance. Jorge wasn’t so sure. He’d seen a lot more war than his brother had—enough to satisfy him for a long, long time, if not forever. As long as you could live your life, how much difference did it really make which flag flew over the
alcalde
’s house?

There was Freedom Party headquarters, where his father spent so much time. It stood empty, deserted. “What happened to
Señor
Quinn?” Jorge asked.

“He went off to war himself, when things got hard and they started calling in older men,” his mother answered. “After that, nobody here knows. He hasn’t come back—I know that.”

“Maybe he will,” Jorge said. Who could guess how long all the Confederate soldiers would need to come home, especially if they lived in out-of-the-way places like Baroyeca? Maybe Robert Quinn lay in a U.S. hospital. Maybe he was still in a camp. As the war ran down and surrender finally came, the Yankees took prisoners by the tens, maybe by the hundreds, of thousands.

“Let’s go home,” his mother said. Actually, what she said was
Vamos a casa
. She mixed English and Spanish indiscriminately. Most people her age did. Jorge and Pedro smiled at each other. They’d used more English even when they lived here. Since going into the Army, the only time Jorge had spoken any Spanish was when he ran into another soldier from Sonora or Chihuahua. Even then, he and the other man would mostly speak English so their buddies from the rest of the CSA wouldn’t tab them for a couple of dumb greasers.

Home was a three-mile walk. Jorge carried his little nephew part of the way. After a sixty-pound pack and a rifle on his back, Juanito didn’t seem to weigh much. It was hot, but Jorge was used to heat. The air was dry, anyhow; he wouldn’t have to wring himself out when he got to the farmhouse.

“Better weather than farther east,” he said, and Pedro nodded.

A black-headed magpie-jay sat on a power line and screeched at the people walking by below. Jays in the rest of the CSA were smaller, with shorter tails. They didn’t sound the same—but they did sound like cousins.

When he got to the farmhouse, it seemed smaller than he remembered. It also seemed plainer and poorer. He hadn’t thought anything of the way he lived before he went into the Army. People who lived around Baroyeca either scratched out a livelihood from farms like this one or went into the mines and grubbed lead and silver—never quite enough silver—out of the ground.

By local standards, his family was well off. They had running water and electricity, though they hadn’t when Jorge was younger. They’d talked about getting a motorcar. Jorge had needed to go up into the rest of the CSA, the part where everyone spoke English all the time, to realize how much he’d grown up without. If nobody around you had it, though, you didn’t miss it.

“Like old times, having two of my sons home and the third one on the way.” His mother was invincibly optimistic. He thought so, anyhow, till her face clouded and she went on, “If only your father were here to see it.”

“
Sí
,” Jorge said. Nobody seemed to want to say any more than that. Hipolito Rodriguez’s death, so far from all his family, would cast a shadow over them for the rest of their lives.
Why
had he shot himself? He’d been doing work he thought the country needed, and doing it for his Army buddy from the last war. What could have gone wrong?

It was almost as if he’d listened to Yankee propaganda about the camps, and that even before there was much Yankee propaganda. If
mallates
were people like anybody else, then putting them in those camps was wrong. If. No matter what the damnyankees said, Jorge had trouble believing it. Most Confederate citizens would. His father would have—he was sure of that.

Could something he saw, something that happened at the camp, have changed his mind? Jorge also had trouble believing that. And, with no way to look inside his father’s mind and understand what he was thinking, it would stay a mystery forever.

His mother cooked tacos stuffed with shredded pork and spices fiery enough to make his nose run—he wasn’t used to them any more. He ate and ate. Yes, this kind of food beat the devil out of canned deviled ham. And there were
chicharrones
—pieces of pigskin fried crisp and crunchy that gave your teeth a workout.

“This is wonderful,” Jorge said. “I ate boring food so long, I forgot how good things could be.”

His older brother laughed. “I said the very same thing when I got here—didn’t I,
mamacita
?”

“Yes, exactly the same thing,” Magdalena Rodriguez answered.

“Let’s hope we can hear Miguel say it, too,” Susana said.

“And soon, please, God,” their mother said. Someone knocked on the door. “It’s the postman.” She got up to see what he had.

There were a couple of advertising circulars and a large envelope that looked official. And it was: it came from something called the U.S. occupying authority in the former state of Sonora. Magdalena Rodriguez fought through the pronunciation of that. When she opened the envelope and unfolded the piece of paper inside, she made a face.

“All in English,” she said.

“Let me see.” Jorge could read English well enough. And, in fact, the paper was aimed at Pedro and him. He frowned at the eagle in front of crossed swords on the letterhead; people using that emblem had done their level best to kill him. Now they were telling him what he had to do as a returned prisoner of war.

And they weren’t kidding around, either. Returned POWs had to report to the
alcalde
’s office once a week. They had to renounce the Freedom Party. They had to report all meetings of more than five people they attended.

Pedro laughed when Jorge said that. “More than five people here now,” he observed. “Do we report this?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jorge said. He kept reading. Returned POWs could not write or subscribe to forbidden literature. They couldn’t keep weapons of caliber larger than .22—either pistols or longarms.

“I’m surprised they let you have any,” his sister said when he read that.

“Somebody who was writing the rules had to know every farm down here has a varmint gun,” Jorge said. His father had taught him to shoot, and to be careful with firearms, when he was a little boy. “If they said we couldn’t keep guns at all, we wouldn’t pay any attention to them. They think this keeps them out of trouble.”

“You can kill somebody with a .22,” Pedro said.

“Sure,” Jorge agreed. “But you have to hit him just right.”

“Are you sure they really let us out of the camps?” his brother asked.

He shrugged. “We’re here. This isn’t so good, but they’ll get tired of it after a while. They have to. How many soldiers can they put in Baroyeca?”

“As many as they want,” Pedro said.

But Jorge shook his head. “I don’t believe it. They’d have to stick soldiers in every little town from Virginia to here. Even the Yankees don’t have that many soldiers…I hope.”

Pedro thought about it. “Mm, maybe you’re right. The war is over. The Yankees will want to go home, too.”

“Sure they will. Who wouldn’t?” Jorge said. “Being a soldier is no fun. You march around, that’s not so bad. But when you fight, most of the time you’re bored and uncomfortable, and the rest you’re scared to death.”

“And you can get hurt, too,” their mother said softly, and crossed herself again.

Jorge and Pedro had both been lucky, coming through the war with nothing worse than a few scratches. Their brother hadn’t. The roll of the dice, the turn of the card…Some guys had a shell burst ten feet away from them and didn’t get badly hurt. Some turned into hamburger. Who could say why? God, maybe. From everything Jorge had seen, He had a rugged sense of humor.

One of these days, he wanted to talk that over with Pedro—and with Miguel, too. Not here, though. Not now. Not with their mother listening. She believed, and she hadn’t seen so many reasons not to believe.

Well, all that could wait. It would have to, in fact. “How is the farm?” he asked his mother. He would be here for a long time. This was what counted now.

“Not so bad,” she answered, “but not so good, either. We all did everything we could. With so many men in the Army, though”—she spread her hands—“we couldn’t do everything we wanted to. The livestock is all right. The crops…Well, we didn’t go hungry, but we barely made enough to pay for the things we need and we can’t get from the land.”

“It’s about what you’d expect,” Pedro said. “If we work hard, we can bring it back to the way it was before the war—maybe better. If the Yankees let us, I mean.”

“I think maybe they will. They don’t care so much about us—we’re too far away,” Jorge said. “Virginia, Tennessee—they really hate the people there. And Georgia, too. I think they’ll come down on them harder and leave us alone unless somebody here does something stupid like try to rise up.”

Pedro didn’t say anything. Jorge realized that wasn’t necessarily good news. No, his brother hadn’t seen so much fighting as he had. Maybe Pedro was still ready for more. Jorge knew damn well he wasn’t. Bombers dropping loads on Baroyeca, without even any antiaircraft to shoot back? Believe it or not, the mere idea made him want to cross himself.

XV

P
eople in the United States said Washington, D.C., had Confederate weather. Armstrong Grimes’ father, who was from Ohio, said so all the goddamn time. Armstrong had always believed it. Why not? His old man wouldn’t waste time and effort lying about anything so small.

But now Armstrong was stuck in southern Alabama in the middle of summer, and he was discovering that people in the USA didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. He’d already found that out about his father—what guy growing up doesn’t?—but discovering the same thing about the rest of the country came as a bit of a jolt.

Every day down here was like a bad day back home. It got hot. It got sticky. And it never let up. U.S. soldiers gulped salt tablets. When the sweaty patches under their arms dried out—which didn’t happen very often—they left salt stains on their uniforms. He itched constantly. Prickly heat, athlete’s foot, jock itch…You name it, Armstrong came down with it. He smeared all kinds of smelly goop on himself. Sometimes it helped. More often, it didn’t.

And there were bugs. They had mosquitoes down here that could have doubled as fighter-bombers. They had several flavors of ferocious flies. They had vicious little biting things the locals called no-see-’ems. They had chiggers. They had ticks. They had something called chinch bugs. The Army sprayed DDT on everything and everybody. It helped…some. You would have had to spray every square inch of the state to put down all the nasty biting things.

Local whites hated the men in green-gray who’d whipped their armies and made them stop killing Negroes. Bushwhackers shot at U.S. soldiers. You looked sideways at every junked motorcar by the side of the road. It could go boom and take half a squad with it.

The U.S. Army didn’t waste time fighting fair, not after the surrender. Every time a U.S. soldier got shot, ten—then twenty—Confederates faced the firing squad. The number for an auto bomb started at a hundred and also quickly doubled.

Armstrong hadn’t been on any firing squads while the war was going on. Now, with three stripes on his sleeve, he frequently commanded one. The first couple of times he did it, it made his stomach turn over. After that, it turned into routine, and he got used to it.

So did the soldiers who did the shooting. They went about their business at the same time as they argued about whether it did any good. “Just makes these motherfuckers hate us worse,” Squidface opined.

“They already hate us,” Armstrong said. “I don’t give a shit about that. I just don’t want ’em shooting at us.”

“If we don’t get the assholes who’re really doin’ it, what do we accomplish?” Squidface asked. “Shootin’ little old ladies gets old, you know?”

“We shoot enough little old ladies, the ones who’re left alive’ll make the trigger-happy guys knock it off,” Armstrong said.

“Good fuckin’ luck.” Squidface was not a believer.

Armstrong trotted out what he thought was the clincher: “’Sides, we kill all the whites down here, nobody’ll be left to go bushwhacking, right?”

“Shit, now you’re talkin’ like a Confederate nigger,” Squidface said. “We do that, won’t be
anybody
left alive down here.”

“Wouldn’t break my heart.” Armstrong wiped his face with his sleeve. The sleeve came away wet—big surprise. “Best thing they could do with this country is give it back to the possums and the gators.”

Squidface laughed, but he wouldn’t give up on the argument—what better way to kill time? He suggested a reason to leave some Confederates alive: “Nobody gets laid any more if we kill all the women. Some of the ones we grease are cute. That’s a waste of good pussy.”

“How come you haven’t come down venereal yet?” Armstrong asked.

“Same reason you haven’t, I bet,” Squidface answered. “I’m lucky. And when I figure maybe I won’t be lucky, I’m careful. The broads down here, they’re nothin’ but a bunch of whores.”

“They lost,” Armstrong said, which went a long way towards explaining things. He added, “A lot of ’em, their husbands or boyfriends aren’t coming back, either.”

He supposed he had been lucky. He’d got an education down here that was a hell of a lot more enjoyable than anything they’d tried to cram down his throat in high school. He hadn’t cared about English lit or medieval history or practical math. This—this was stuff he wanted to learn.

The one thing he was glad about was that none of the women who’d enlightened him had come before his firing squad. That would have been worse than embarrassing, and it might have landed him in trouble. Orders against what the brass called fraternization had gone out. Getting anyone to listen to them was another story.

“Far as I’m concerned, it’s the same now as it was when we were shooting at each other,” he said. “I just want to serve out my hitch, take off the goddamn uniform, go back home, and figure out what the hell to do with the rest of my life.”

“Want to hear somethin’ funny?” Squidface said.

“I’m all ears,” Armstrong answered.

“Me, I’m thinkin’ about turning into a lifer.”

“Jesus Christ! C’mon with me, buddy. I’m taking you to the aid station. You’re down with something worse than the clap. You’ve got softening of the brain, damned if you don’t.”

“Nah. I been thinkin’ about it,” Squidface said. “Thinkin’ hard, too. Say I go back to Civvy Street. What’s the best thing that can happen to me?”

“You get out of the Army,” Armstrong answered at once.

“Yeah, and then what? Best thing I can see is, I spend the next forty years working in a factory, I find some broad, we have some kids and get old and fat together. Big fucking deal, pardon my French.”

That was, in broad outline, the future Armstrong saw for himself, too. It didn’t seem so bad—but, when Squidface laid it out, it didn’t seem so good, either. But when the other choice was staying in…“Would you rather get your balls shot off instead? I already got one Purple Heart. That’s about five too many.”

“It won’t be as bad now as it was,” Squidface said. “What I figure is, if I stay in, I can end up a top kick pretty goddamn fast. They’re gonna lose all kinds of senior noncoms—some of those sorry assholes are Great War retreads, and they ain’t gonna stick around. People’ll call me First Sergeant Giacopelli, not Squidface. I’ll get to tell lieutenants where to head in. Even captains won’t look at me like I’m dogshit on the bottom of their shoe. I’ll have more fruit salad on my chest than the mess hall has in cans.”

“You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do,” Armstrong said. “Don’t figure I can talk you out of it. Hell, I wish you luck, if it’s what you really want. But I’m not gonna go that route.”

“You’ll end up in an office somewhere, with a secretary to blow you if your wife won’t. You’re a smart guy,” Squidface said. “I’m just a sap from the wrong side of the tracks. Army’s the first place I ever got anything like a square deal.”

“If I’m so smart, what am I doing here?” Armstrong asked. Squidface laughed. Armstrong wished he hadn’t made the crack about secretaries. His own father had worked in a Washington office since time out of mind. Armstrong didn’t have any reason to think his old man was unfaithful, but now he’d wonder. That wasn’t so good.

Then somebody let out a yell, and Armstrong and Squidface both jumped up to see what was going on. The guy who yelled was a captain. Seeing Armstrong, he said, “Gather up your platoon, Grimes, and take ’em into Hugo. We’ve got trouble there.”

“Yes, sir,” Armstrong said, and then, “Can you tell me what kind of trouble, so they know what to look out for?”

“There’s a gal says a nigger raped her. He says she gave it up, and she only started yelling when somebody saw him leaving her house. All the white folks in town want to hang him up by the nuts. Before we got down here, they’d hang a coon for whistling at a white woman, let alone fucking her.”

“What are we supposed to do, exactly?” Armstrong asked.

“He’s in the town jail. Don’t let ’em haul him out and lynch him. We’re still figuring out what really happened—trying to, anyway. So that’s what’s going on. Go deal with it. Do whatever you have to do to hold the jail. White folks here have to know we’re the law in these parts nowadays. They aren’t. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Armstrong replied—the only possible answer.
Go deal with it
, he thought.
Right
. Turning to Squidface, he said, “Let’s round ’em up.”

“Sure, Sarge.” Squidface said the only thing
he
could.

They tramped into Hugo in full combat gear, weapons loaded and ready. Finding the jail was the easiest thing in the world—it was the building with the mob in front of it. A squad of scared-looking U.S. soldiers in the jail looked as if they didn’t think they could hold the mob out if it attacked. They might well have been right, too.

“Break it up there!” Armstrong yelled from behind the crowd of irate Alabamans. “Go home!”

They whirled, almost as one. For a second, he wondered if they would charge his men. The sight of so many more soldiers in green-gray—and so many automatic weapons—seemed to give the locals pause. “We want the nigger!” one of them yelled. Then they all took up the cry:
“We want the nigger!”

“Well, you aren’t gonna get him,” Armstrong said. “He’s ours to deal with, once we work out what really went on. You people go on home. First, last, and only warning: we start shooting, we don’t quit.”

“What he done to that white gal, just killin’s too good for him!” shouted a man with a gray mustache stained by tobacco juice. “We’re gonna—”

“You’re gonna shut the fuck up and go home right now, or you’re gonna end up dead,” Armstrong broke in. “Those are the only choices you got.
We’ll
deal with the colored guy, or maybe with the whore he was trickin’ with.” That caused fresh tumult. He silenced it by chambering a round. The harsh
snick!
cut through the crowd noise like a sharp knife through soft sausage. “Enough of this shit,” Armstrong said. “Beat it!”

He wondered if they would rush him in spite of everything. He also wondered if he and his buddies could shoot enough of them to break the rush before they got mobbed. Then, sullenly, the crowd dispersed. They were willing to kill to defend Confederate womanhood, but less enthusiastic about dying for it.

“Whew!” Armstrong said.

“Yeah.” Squidface nodded. “Ain’t you glad the war’s over?”

“Christ, we almost started it up again,” Armstrong said. “And you want to keep on doing crap like this? You gotta be out of your tree.”

“Hey, I won’t be bored, anyway,” Squidface made light of it, but he wasn’t about to change his mind. “Got a butt on you?”

“Sure.” Armstrong handed him a pack. “Wonder if that coon really did give her the old what-for?”

“Who cares?” Squidface paused to flick his Zippo, sucked in smoke, and went on, “Way I look at it is, all the shit these white Freedom Party assholes gave the spades, who gives a shit if they get some of their own back eight inches at a time?”

“Mm, you’ve got something there.” Armstrong lit a cigarette, too. “Besides, I bet she’s ugly.” He and Squidface both laughed. Their side had won. They could afford to.

C
assius had wondered about a lot of things in his life. Whether he would be famous never made the list. A Negro in the CSA had no chance at all of reaching that goal, so what point to wondering about it?

All he had to do, it turned out, was be a halfway decent shot. Knock one man over, and his own world turned upside down and inside out. No, he hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t even imagined it. None of which kept it from happening.

First, U.S. officers inside Madison grilled him. He told his story. There wasn’t much of a story to tell: “Soon as I seen it was Jake Featherston, I shot the son of a bitch. Shot him some more once he was down so’s he wouldn’t get up no mo’.”

“What’ll we do with him?” one officer asked another over Cassius’ head. They might as well have been talking about somebody in the next county.

“Hell, I don’t know,” the second Yankee answered. “If it was up to me, though, I’d put him up for a Congressional Medal of Honor.”

“Can’t,” the first officer said.

“Why the hell not?”

“He isn’t a U.S. citizen.”

“Oh.” The second officer laughed sheepishly. “Yeah. You’re right. But he just did more for us than a fuck of a lot of guys who are.”

One thing that happened because he’d shot Jake Featherston was that he didn’t have to go out on patrol any more. He didn’t have any more duties at all, in fact. He could eat as much as he wanted and sleep as late as he wanted. If they’d issued him a girl, he would have had the whole world by the short hairs. And if he’d asked, they probably would have. But he didn’t think of it, and no one suggested it, so he did without.

A few days later, a newsreel crew filmed him. He told them the same story he’d given the Army officers. One of them asked, “Did you feel you were taking revenge for all the Negroes Jake Featherston hurt?”

“He didn’t hurt ’em, suh—he done
killed
’em,” Cassius answered. “My ma an’ my pa an’ my sister an’ Lord knows how many more. Can’t hardly get even for all that jus’ by killin’ one man. He needed killin’—don’t get me wrong. But it ain’t enough—not even close.”

“Why didn’t you get taken with the rest of your family?” asked the white man from the USA.

“On account of I didn’t go to church on Sunday. That’s where they got grabbed.”

“Do you think God was saving you for something else?”

“Beats me,” Cassius answered. “Plenty of other times I could’ve got killed, too.”

“What are you going to do now?”

Cassius spread his hands. “Suh, I got
no
idea.”

Plenty of other people had ideas for him. Next thing he knew, he was on a train heading for the USA. He’d never ridden on the railroad before, and he would have gone hungry if one of the whites escorting him hadn’t taken him to the dining car. The food was good—better than U.S. Army chow. It didn’t measure up to what the Huntsman’s Lodge or his mother had made, but he didn’t figure anything ever would, not this side of heaven.

He took some satisfaction in seeing what the USA had done to the CSA—and the Carolinas had been a Confederate redoubt till late in the war. As he passed through Virginia, he saw what the United States had done where they weren’t fooling around. He saw white people living in the midst of the rubble. They were filthy and grubby and scrawny. He’d gone through that himself. He might have been sorry for them…if he’d seen more than a tiny handful of blacks living alongside them. Since he didn’t, he stifled whatever sympathy he would have felt.