ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (46 page)

“You’re not watching on INN?”

“Well, yes,” Wang said. “And we have our own sources, of course. We get eight
in favor, two still hanging. Does that square with your count?”

Bourque gave Pickett a significant look. “Eight? Well it depends on which
eight, I suppose.”

“All but North Carolina and Virginia, of course,” Wang said.

Bourque raised an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t think the South Carolina or the
Florida results are official yet. I’m impressed with your intelligence
service.”

“Well, those two were pretty much foregone conclusions,” Wang said. “But we’re
in the dark on the other two.”

“Hah! So your CIA isn’t completely omniscient.”

“Not completely. But I’m sure you know more than we do. You could cut the
suspense with a knife here.”

“I do wish I could relieve the tension,” Bourque said. “But to be completely
honest with you, we’re also waiting on those two. Especially Virginia.”

“Yes,” Wang said. “I’m told Carrington is a difficult man.”

“Well, he ain’t a man to tie to in a calm,” Bourque said, “much less a storm.”

“What will you do if…”

“Mr. Wang, us folks down here, we know there are more ways to kill a cat than
choke it to death with hot butter.”

“You don’t mean…”

Bourque grinned. “No I don’t, Mr. Wang. I really don’t. I’m talking about
parliamentary tactics.”

“Of course, President, I knew that.”

“Give my regards to your Boss, Mr. Wang. Tell him we’ll give a shout out the
moment we know something.”

“Yes, sir, will do.”

Bourque hung up, still smiling. “I do believe he thought I was considering an
assassination.”

“Have you taken that off the table?” Pickett asked, and everyone laughed.

“Roy,” said Kooter with a sly smile, “I think you’re confusing Buddy Bourque
with his father.”

“Now you just wait a minute,” Bourque said, pretending to be indignant.

“Jes joshin’ with ya, Buddy,” Kooter said. “I’ll go check on the news and see
if we got more results.”

He opened the door to find a young page standing there, hand raised, about to
knock. The page had a couple of telegrams in his other hand.

“Let me see those, son,” Kooter said. He took them before the young man had a
chance to respond, and read them. “South Carolina says ‘yes’,” he announced.
“And so does Florida.”

Bourque laid his head back on the pillow. “Nothing from Virginia, eh? Nothing
from North Carolina?”

“Not yet, Buddy,” Kooter said. “I’ll see if I can rustle up more news.” He
closed the door behind him.

“Anyhow,” Pickett said, “if assassination was the answer, it’s too late now.”

“If Virginia votes no,” Bourque said, “I may have to throttle him.”

“Oh, Daddy, stop talking like that,” Delphine said. “If worse comes to worse,
you’ll go to Virginia and get the vote reversed.”

Bourque nodded, as if he’d forgotten that option. “Yes,” he said. “Damn right I
will.”

“Think it might be a good idea to give Governor Hightower another nudge?”
Pickett asked. “After all, we have eight yeses.”

“According to your Chinaman friend,” Bourque said. “But you’re right. Gimme the
phone.”

Delphine and Pickett exchanged glances, and both of them shrugged, as if to say
‘why not?’

Bourque pointed to the telephone and waggled a finger, impatiently. Delphine
handed him the receiver.

“Sophie,” he said, “would you get me Ben Hightower, in North Carolina?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said the operator. “Coming right up.” They all waited for
a few moments, then the operator spoke again. “I have Governor Hightower on the
line.”

“Hey, Ben, this is Buddy Bourque. How’s the weather over in Raleigh.”

“Beautiful June day,” Hightower said carefully.

“And what’s the forecast for the State House?” Bourque asked.

“Ah,” said Hightower, catching on. “We’re just about there. Gotta twist a
couple more arms.”

“Doan tell me the votin’ hasn’t started yet.”

“Well, another few minutes.” Hightower said.

“You know that I’ve got eight yeses. Just waitin’ on you and Carrington.”

“Eight? I’d only heard of six. But eight. That’s good.”

“You’re not gonna disappoint me now, are you?”

“No, no, Buddy. You don’t have to worry about North Carolina. I promise you
that.”

“Glad to hear it Ben. I don’t fancy flying in to Raleigh and getting a ‘no’
vote reversed. Could be a mite embarrassing for you.”

“Don’t worry, Buddy.”

“Okay. Now you call me the moment the vote is over. When am I gonna hear from
you?”

“Latest would be 4:00,” Hightower said.

“I’m gonna hold you to it,” Bourque said. “And after we get this under our
belts, I want you to come to the Plantation, bring your family, we’re going to
have the mother of all cookouts.”

“Looking forward to it, Buddy.”

Bourque handed the phone to Delphine. “Man’s as fidgety as a grasshopper, but
he’ll make the trip. Wish I could say that about Carrington.”

The instant Delphine put down the receiver, the phone rang. She picked it up
again. “Delphine Bourque.”

“Oh good,” said the man on the other end of the line. “I was hoping to speak to
you. This is Edmund Randolph.”

“Mr. Randolph,” she said, smiling and pushing the speaker button. “It’s good to
hear from you. How are things at Westover? Cecily and Mrs. Randolph are well?”

“Everyone’s fine, Delphine, but we have been dealing with a problem here.”

“A problem?”

“Yes. Our governor. We’ve talked to him—just like we talked to you—but he
hasn’t been very responsive. And with the vote coming later this afternoon…”

“You want me to call him?”

“Well, ah, please don’t take offense, but I don’t think a call from a young
woman, even you…”

“My father’s already talked to him. He met with all the governors. Is
Carrington actively opposing the bill? He promised…”

“That’s just it,” Randolph said. “He’s saying the right words, but making it
clear he doesn’t agree with them. Even if he were 100% behind the bill, the
vote would be very close. Two or three votes at most. But he’s putting short,
and 95% of all putts you leave short don’t go in.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“I just wanted you to know what’s going on…”

“I appreciate you telling me, Mr. Randolph, and I know my father will too.”

“We pressured him as much as we could,” Randolph said.

“I know you did,” Delphine said. “And I appreciate that. We’ll take it from
here.”

“Whatever you do, you know you have our support.”

“Yes, and we thank you for that.”

Delphine hung up and turned toward her father, who was steaming.

“That som-bitch is so slippery he’d hold his own in a pond fulla eels,” Bourque
said. “But he’s overwound his watch, and I’m gonna call him on it. Gimme the
damn phone.” He was almost shouting.

“Now, Daddy…”

“Best not to get riled up, Boss,” Pickett said.

Bourque took a deep breath. “Okay, you’re right. Both of you.” He popped a Tum
and chewed it. When he was finished, he looked at Delphine. “Now, could I
please have the phone?”

“What do you think?” Delphine asked Pickett.

“Your call.”

Delphine handed the receiver to her father. “Sophie, get me Andrew Carrington,”
he said. He pushed the speaker button, so all could hear.

“Coming right up, Mr. President.”

It took several minutes, but eventually, Governor Carrington came on the line.
“Buddy? I’m a bit surprised to hear from you. I told you I’d call when I had
news, and we haven’t voted yet.”

“Yes, I know,” Bourque said. “But I hear you’re working hard to get yourself
into the history books.”

“Really? Howzat?”

“Well, from what I understand, you want to be the man who prevented reunion and
squashed the South’s last chance to avoid poverty and invasion.”

Carrington was silent for a moment, then he spoke. “I don’t know where you got
that idea, Buddy. I’m doing all I can to get us the votes we need. I’m keeping
my promise.”

“You’re saying the right things, Andrew, but you’re whispering and winking.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea,” Carrington protested. “I’m doing my
best. But we’ve got some fierce opposition here, Buddy, people who don’t want
to give up their traditions, people who value their history. I’m not sure I can
overcome them.”

“Hell, Andrew, you can make that whole legislature dance the Hornpipe if you’ve
a mind to and we both know it.”

“Not this time, Buddy.”

“So who’s against you?” Bourque said. He caught Delphine’s eye as he asked the
question.

“It’s the plantation owners, Buddy. The old-timers. They still have a lot of
political power and they’re dead set against this. You know how it is, they
feel entitled.”

“Andrew, all I can figure is that you think my roof ain’t nailed on tight.”

“That’s not true, Buddy, and I’m surprised you’d say so.” Carrington said,
sounding wounded. “You know how much I respect you. Always have, always will.”

“Then why are you pissing on my leg and telling me it’s raining?”

“Honestly, Buddy, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t said a bad
word about reunion. Not one.”

“That supposed to reassure me?”

“Well, maybe I could have made a public statement…”

“Andrew, you think I don’t know how the plantation owners feel about reunion?”

Carrington was silent now, but the wheels were turning. “Buddy, I don’t know
who you’ve been talking to, but I think you’re misinformed.”

“I see,” Bourque suggested, “you think someone’s been pulling the wool over my
eyes.”

“No. Well, not exactly, but people do lie. They’ve convinced themselves they
have good reasons.”

This time it was Bourque who took a few seconds to respond. “Good reasons, eh?”
He finally said. “What are
your
good reasons, Andrew?”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Carrington asked very quietly.

“What I’m saying, Andrew, is if the Virginia legislature doesn’t pass the
reunion bill, I’m going to assume you sabotaged it. And that’s the story I’m
gonna tell the newspapers and the TV boys. I’m going to say all the other
governors had the guts, but not you. I’m going to say they all understood what
was at stake, except you. I’m going to say I’ve heard rumors that you’ve been
negotiating with Garcia…”

“Jesus, Buddy, they’ll get out the tar and feathers…”

“On the other hand,” Bourque continued, “if, by the end of the day, I hear that
Virginia has passed the reunion bill, and by a fair margin, then I’m gonna
round up those reporters and brag on you. I’m gonna tell ‘em what a great
statesman you are. I’m going to tell them that you’re a man of courage and
vision and that I’m proud to call you my friend.”

Carrington went silent again, and Bourque let him stew for awhile. “So what’s
it going to be, Andrew? Friend or foe?”

“You play hardball, don’t you, Buddy?”

“Andrew, this ain’t hardball. This is batting practice.”

“The margin isn’t going to be very big, Buddy. Five votes, possibly ten—that’s
the very best I can do.”

“That would fill my heart with joy, Andrew.”

“You’ll hear from me by 5 o’clock, Buddy. But you can consider it a done deal.”

“Thank you, Andrew.”

Bourque handed the receiver to Delphine and lay back in the bed, pale and
exhausted. She took a pill from one of the bottles, handed him the water glass
and made sure he swallowed it down. He did so looking up at the portrait of his
wife hanging on the wall, a handsome woman with Delphine’s red hair and blue
eyes, but pretty in a different way.

“You’re a hard man to say ‘no’ to,” Pickett observed.

Bourque nodded weakly. “I’ve done all I could. Now it’s up to
Callaway.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Senate Foreign Relations Committee hearings began the next morning at 10
a.m. at 419 Dirksen Senate Office Building, one of the Senate’s largest and
most impressive hearing rooms, a chamber with thirty-foot ceilings and a
visitor’s gallery.

Seated around the giant u-shaped committee rostrum, which was covered with blue
cloth, were seventeen senators: nine Democrats and eight Republicans, all of
them either conferring with assistants, fiddling with their laptops, or
gossiping about each other. The rostrum microphones had not yet been turned on.

At the center, facing the witness table, were Sen. Tom Poulos, the committee
chairman, and Sen. Oliver Wendell, the ranking Republican. Poulos and slipped
on his eyeglasses and was hopping around the Web, checking out the political
sites.

At that moment, the hearing room’s main doors were flung open and a mob of
reporters, photographers and other assorted media folk, followed soon after by
a good-sized serving of the general public. The journalists spread out in front
of the rostrum, the better to keep an eye on both the committee members and the
witnesses.

Wendell punched numbers into a cell phone, listened, swore, then slipped the
thing back into his pocket. “Damn kid doesn’t answer,” he told Poulos, who
smiled and shrugged.

A Senator to Poulos’s left—in more ways than one—one Alexander “Sandy” Salkin,
a self-proclaimed Socialist and Independent who caucused with the Democrats, a
wild-haired man in his 60s with a reputation as an orator, bent forward so he
could see Wendell. “I see you’re taking a turn as Nostradamus, Oliver.”

“What do you mean?” Wendell said, puzzled and ready to be offended.

“Well, I gather you’re predicting the end of our President’s tenure.
Everybody’s talking about it.”

“No, no. That’s a misquote. That’s not what I meant,” Wendell insisted. “I was
talking about his
momentum
. He’s been living a charmed life, riding a
wave, what with the election and all. But this absurd, Quixotic reunion idea
will put all that to an end.”

“I don’t see it that way, Oliver,” Salkin said.

“Oh? And how do you see it?”

“I think it’s the greatest idea I’ve heard in my lifetime from any American
President.”

“Says here,” Poulos said, pointing to his computer screen, “that our friend
plans to filibuster the bill, if necessary.”

Salkin shook his head sadly. “I should have guessed,” he said. “Whenever
progress threatens, Oliver Wendell will be standing at the barricades, ready to
thwart it.”

“Your idea of progress is not the same as mine, Sandy,” Wendell said.

The committee hearing began a few minutes later, first witness called by the
minority, Dr. Dexter P. Kimball, Jack Sullivan’s favorite Confederacy expert.
And in his wheezy and unpleasant treble, he repeated his contentions that
Bourque was after money and power and nothing else.

The next witness, called by the majority, Dr. Madeline Corin, professor of
Southern Studies at Brandeis, contradicted everything Dr. Kimball had said,
asserting that reunion would bring prosperity to the Confederacy and strengthen
the North.

And so it went, for almost two days. It was like a murder trial, the prosecution
putting up experts of one persuasion, the defense finding their opposite
numbers, thirteen of them in all—economists, sociologists, political
scientists, bankers, clergy. In the end, neither side was able to make a dent
in the other.

In general, the Liberals favored reunion and the Conservatives were against it.
However, the largest group of Senators couldn’t make up their minds, or weren’t
willing to tell anyone how they planned to vote.

Toward the end of the second day of the hearings, Senator Wendell raised a
troublesome question, which, leaning into his mike, he addressed to Senator
Poulos. “Tom, something has been puzzling me. You’ve called quite a few
witnesses, but not one from the Confederacy, someone who can tell us how the
people of the South feel about reunion. Why is that?”

The question, the first Wendell had directly asked Poulos, attracted the
attention of several members of the media, who’d been bored silly sitting
through the hours of tedious and inconclusive testimony. They hoped it might
provide an answer to the only remaining mystery of the day, the identity of the
person identified on the meeting scheduled only as “final witness.”

“As a matter of fact,” Sen. Poulos said, rather pleased with himself, “We do
have one more witness and I think you’ll find he fits your description
perfectly. The committee calls LeRoy Pickett to the witness table.”

One of the room’s side doors opened and Roy Pickett walked out, unaccompanied,
wearing a suit, looking quite self-possessed. He stood at the witness table,
facing the senators of the Foreign Relations Committee and looked expectantly
at the young, dark-haired lawyer who was administering oaths.

“Please raise your right hand.”

Pickett did so.

“I solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the
truth.”

Pickett repeated the oath.

“State your name, occupation and place of residence.”

“I am LeRoy Pickett, assistant to the President of the Confederacy, Virgil
Bourque, and I reside at The Plantation, also known as Arcadia, President
Bourque’s residence, just outside of Baton Rouge, Louisiana.”

Pickett’s arrival caught the spectators’ gallery by surprise, inspiring an
outbreak of hushed conjecture. Even the committee members seemed taken aback,
several of them consulting their agendas, trying to satisfy their curiosity.

Pickett waited until the buzz faded a bit. “Chairman Poulos, Senator Wendell,
members of the Foreign Relations Committee,” he said. “I would like to make a
statement. I’ll be happy to answer your questions afterward.”

“Please go ahead,” Sen. Wendell said. The spectators finally ceased chattering.

Pickett spread out his written statement on the witness table. “To begin with,”
he began, talking slowly and deliberately, “I speak for myself, not the
government or the people. But I was born in the Confederacy. I was raised in
the South and I have lived there all of my life. I know the hearts of
these people, leaders and commoners alike. I know their customs, their beliefs,
their attitudes, their fears and their hopes.”

Pickett stopped and gazed at the committee members, to make sure he was being
taken seriously. They were paying close attention.

“As you know,” he continued, running a finger along his typescript, determined
not to lose his place, “the leaders of our country, beginning with the
President, but including every single governor and the clear majority of our
legislators and our greatest religious leader have decided to forever abandon
nationhood and to reaffirm our allegiance to the Constitution, its amendments
and the Federal laws of the North American Union. We have petitioned you for
reunion.”

In the back of the spectators’ gallery, two young men in dark blue hoodies
suddenly rose and spread out a painted banner that read “Say No to Bourque!”
and started shouting “Go home, you’re not wanted here!” Guards quickly
converged on them and hustled them out of the room, but everyone present had
heard their message.

Pickett waited until the room was quiet, then resumed as though he had not been
interrupted. “You may ask, you have every right to ask, are we sincere in our
request? My answer is that we are more sincere even that
we
Southerners
know or realize. In a superficial sense, we have come to you because of
circumstances, specifically the fact that our country is bankrupt and that we
face a dire military threat from Mexico.”

He paused for breath and the silence was immediately filled by audience
buzz—his two blunt statements had inspired an outbreak of surprised whispers.
When they died down, cowed by his silence, he resumed without elaborating.

“But there are far deeper, far more profound reasons for our request to rejoin
you. The Confederacy is exhausted, economically, physically, psychologically
and perhaps most important, morally. Even the blindest of us can no longer deny
that we have been living an illusion. The reality, the colossal errors of our
ways, are as obvious to the oppressors as to the oppressed.

“What was our folly? We tried to freeze our society as it was, pulling up the
drawbridge to change. Our border fence was a kind of moat, which change could
not penetrate. And so we lived our lives as time went by, and as the world
revolved, and evolved. The Confederacy wanted no part of whatever the rest of
the world had to offer.”

Pickett looked at the Senators on the rostrum one by one, hoping he was having
an impact. They seemed riveted to his words, but he couldn’t tell what they
were thinking.

“Why did my country do this? It did this for the comfort and stature of the
rich and the powerful, and for the poor and downtrodden as well—so long as they
were not Black. It did this out of fear. The dominant elements of society—the
whites—were not willing to give up a way of life that provided economic
security for many, and confirmed feelings of superiority for all, every day, in
ways both large and small. Why would anyone want to give that up?

“And what about the others, the Blacks? We were largely compliant, for our own
safety. We had no responsibilities, except to our masters, and for some, this
was an easy way of life.

“As the years passed, our society continued in its frozen ways. And it worked.
It succeeded, more or less, when we had the cotton and the Texas oil. They
allowed us to keep living in the past, in relative comfort, adopting some of
the outside world’s technologies, while rejecting its social progress. But it
is clear to all of us, Black and white, that this no longer works. We cannot be
a independent country any longer.”

Pickett stopped, sat back and took a deep breath. Then he realized he’d lost
his place. It took him a few moments to find it. The hearing room waited
silently as he searched.

Then, there is was. “Whether or not you approve the petition of our ten states
and grant us reunion,” he read aloud, “our country is at an end. It is ready
either to be conquered and picked apart by our enemies, or joined to the people
from whom we sprang, so that we would both be stronger.

“It is true that we need help. Quite a bit of it. We need your generosity and
understanding. But it is also true that we have much to contribute—not just
people willing and able to work, but also unique cultural riches, beautiful
lands, pristine beaches, natural wonders, natural resources, navigable
waterways, ports on the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico. We will enrich
each other.”

Another pause…a change of subject and tone of voice. “And what of white and
Black? It will take time for the old habits to die. They are habits, after all.
We might have to wait until the next generation before we’re substantially free
of them. But it’s already started, and if you agree to reunion, we will change
even more quickly and even more profoundly. Our children will live in a
different world.”

Pickett let that sink in for a moment, then began speaking again, almost
pleading. “We are
family
, Senators. We have been estranged these last
150 years, and the fault is entirely ours. But we have learned our lesson the
hard way, the very hard way. We have paid the price of arrogance and pride, and
it has been a high price. Now the prodigal states return, asking for your
understanding and your generosity, pledging to add their hands to yours, to
stand beside you and among you in good times and bad.

“What would reunion mean to me, as a Black man and as a citizen of the
Confederacy? Freedom…Opportunity...Dignity...Recognition of my worth as a human
being. You have it in your power to imbue millions of people with those
feelings, to raise up an entire race. It would be one of the greatest
contributions to the advancement of civilization in human history, an act of
unprecedented magnanimity.”

Now Pickett came to a dead stop. He’d made his case. He’d poured out his heart.
It was time to make the request. “And so I ask you to vote yes, “he said, “I
ask you to pass this measure on to the Senate, so that our separation might
finally come to an end and that we might once more be one nation, indivisible.”

For a moment, there was no reaction in the hearing room. Then a spectator in
the gallery rose and began to applaud, slowly. He was soon joined by a visitor
on the other side of the chamber, then by several more and before long, the
entire room—all but the Senators on the rostrum and the media mob—were standing
and applauding quietly but in earnest.

Sen. Poulos sat back and let the applause continue for a bit. When it seemed to
be going on too long, he tapped his gavel a couple of times, to no effect. He
let it go on a little longer,

Pickett looked over his shoulder, at the gallery of spectators applauding him
and, after a moment, realized that tears were running down his face. He turned
back toward the Senators on the rostrum. They were staring at him, expressions
inscrutable. He lowered his eyes and found himself thinking about Buddy
Bourque. He hoped he had done well by him.

On the rostrum, Sen. Wendell put a hand over his mike and leaned toward Sen.
Poulos. “I think we’ve heard more than enough from the Peanut Gallery, don’t
you?”

Poulos nodded and tapped his gavel again, more loudly this time. “Ladies and
gentlemen,” he said sternly, “please be quiet. If there are any further
disturbances of any kind, I’m going to have to clear the room.”

*

At the Plantation, Buddy Bourque lay in bed—the good days were fewer and
shorter now—and, holding their breath, he and Delphine watched Pickett on TV,
reading his statement to the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.