The Victorious Opposition (4 page)

Clankings from up above said somebody else wanted to investigate the new barrel, too. Michael Pound’s voice came in through the open hatch: “If you don’t get out of the way, I’m going to squash you . . . sir.” Morrell moved. Pound slithered down—his stocky frame barely fit through the opening—and settled himself behind the gun. He peered through the sights, then nodded. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“No, not bad at all,” Morrell agreed. “They’re going to name the production model after General Custer.”

“That’s fitting. It’s a pity they fiddled around too long to let him see them,” Pound said, and Morrell nodded. The gunner asked, “How many are they going to make?”

“I don’t know that yet,” Morrell answered. “What they think they can afford, I suppose. That’s how it usually works.” He scowled.

So did Sergeant Pound. “They’d better make lots if they name them after Custer. He believed in great swarms of barrels. Anyone with sense does, of course.” Having served with Custer, Morrell knew he’d often been anything but sensible. He also knew Pound meant
anyone who agrees with me
by
anyone with sense
. Even so, he nodded again.

C
olonel Abner Dowling opened the
Salt Lake City Bee
. The Army published the paper. It put out what the U.S. authorities occupying Utah wanted the people there to see. As commander of the occupying authorities in Salt Lake City, Dowling knew that did only so much good. The locals got plenty of news the paper didn’t print and the town wireless outlets didn’t broadcast. Still, if you didn’t try to keep a lid on things, what was the point of occupying at all?

On page three was a picture of a very modern-looking barrel—certainly one that seemed ready to blow any number of hulking Great War machines to hell and gone.
NEW CUSTER BARREL PUT THROUGH PACES IN KANSAS,
the headline read. The story below praised the new model to the skies.

“Custer,” Dowling muttered—half prayer, half curse. He’d been Custer’s adjutant for a long time—and it had often seemed much longer. Naming a machine intended to smash straight through everything in its path after George Armstrong Custer did seem to fit. Dowling couldn’t deny that.

He went through the rest of the paper in a hurry—there wasn’t much real news in it, as he had reason to know. Then he pushed his swivel chair back from his desk and strode out of the office. He was a hulking machine himself, and built rather like the desk. Custer had been in the habit of twitting him about his heft. Custer hadn’t been skinny himself, but Dowling hadn’t lost any weight since they finally forced the old boy into retirement. On the contrary.

It’s good, healthy flesh,
he told himself. Plenty of people had worse vices than getting up from the supper table a little later than they might have. Take Custer, for instance. Dowling’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head. He’d escaped Custer more than ten years before, but couldn’t get him out of his mind.

That’s how people will remember me a hundred years from now,
he thought, not for the first time.
In biographies of Custer, I’ll have half a dozen index entries as his adjutant. Immortality—the tradesman’s entrance.

But that wasn’t necessarily so, as he knew too well. People might remember him forever—if Utah blew up in his face. Even back as far as the trouble it caused in the Second Mexican War in the early 1880s, Custer had wanted to lay it waste. Abner Dowling shook his head.
Enough of Custer.

These days, Dowling had an adjutant of his own, a bright young captain called Isidore Lefkowitz. He looked up from his desk in the outer office as Dowling emerged from his sanctum. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, his accent purest New York.

“Mr. Young is due here in ten minutes, isn’t that right?” Dowling said.

“Yes, sir, at three o’clock sharp,” Lefkowitz replied. “I expect him to be right on time, too. You could set your watch by him.”

Dowling’s nod also made his chins dance. “Oh, yes.” Heber Young was a man of thoroughgoing rectitude. Mischief in his eye, he asked, “How does it feel, Captain, to be a gentile in Utah?”

Captain Lefkowitz rolled his eyes. “I should care what these Mormon
mamzrim
think.” He didn’t translate the word. Even so, Dowling had no trouble figuring out it was less than complimentary.

He said, “The Mormons are convinced they’re persecuted the way Jews used to be in the old days.”

“What do you mean, used to be?” Lefkowitz said. “Tsar Michael turned the Black Hundreds loose on us just a couple of years ago. If the peasants and workers go after Jews, they don’t have to worry about whether they might have done better throwing out Michael’s brother Nicholas and going Red. There are pogroms in the Kingdom of Poland, too.”

“People over there use Jews for whipping boys, the same way the Confederates use their Negroes,” Dowling said.

Lefkowitz started to answer, stopped, and gave Dowling an odd look. “That’s . . . very perceptive, sir,” he said, as if Dowling had no business being any such thing. “I never thought I had much in common with a
shvartzer
”—another untranslated word Dowling had little trouble figuring out—“but maybe I was wrong.”

Before Dowling could answer, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. A soldier led a tall, handsome man in somber civilian clothes into the outer office. “Here’s Heber Young, sir,” the man in green-gray said. “He’s been searched.”

Dowling didn’t think Brigham Young’s grandson was personally dangerous to him. He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t rescinded the order that all Mormons be searched before entering U.S. military headquarters. He’d been in the office with General Pershing when the then-commander of occupation forces was assassinated. The sniper had never been caught, either.

Officially, of course, the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints remained forbidden in Utah. Officially, Heber Young had no special status whatever. But, as often happened, the official and the real had only a nodding acquaintance with each other. “Come in, Mr. Young,” Dowling said, gesturing toward his own office. “Can we get you some lemonade?” He couldn’t very well ask a pious (if unofficial) Mormon if he wanted a drink, or even a cup of coffee.

“No, thank you,” Young said, accompanying him into the private office. Dowling closed the door behind them. He waved Young to a seat. With a murmured, “Thank you, Colonel,” the local sat down.

So did Abner Dowling. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Young?” he inquired. He was always scrupulously polite to the man who headed a church that did not officially exist. Despite half a century of government persecution and almost twenty years of outright suppression, that church still counted for more than anything else in Utah.

“You will remember, Colonel, that I spoke to you this past fall about the possibility of programs that would give work to some of the men here who need it so badly.” Young was painfully polite to him, too. The diplomats called this sort of atmosphere “correct,” which meant two sides hated each other but neither showed what it was feeling.

“Yes, sir, I do remember,” Dowling replied. “And, I trust, you will recall I told you President Hoover disapproved of such programs. The president’s views have not changed. That means my hands are tied.”

“The problem is worse here than it was last fall,” Heber Young said. “Some people grow impatient. Their impatience could prove a problem.”

“Are you threatening me with an uprising, Mr. Young?” Dowling didn’t shout it. He didn’t bluster. He simply asked, as he had asked if Young wanted lemonade.

And the Mormons’ unofficial leader shook his head. “Of course not, Colonel. That would be seditious, and I am loyal to the government of the United States.”

Dowling didn’t laugh in his face, a measure of the respect he had for him. But he didn’t believe that bold assertion, either. “Are you also loyal to the state of Deseret?” he asked.

“How can I be, when there is no state of Deseret?” Young asked calmly. “What happened here during the Great War made that plain.”

“A thing may be very plain, and yet people will not want to believe it,” Dowling said.

“True,” Heber Young agreed. “May I give you an example?”

“Please do,” Dowling said, as he was no doubt supposed to.

“Thank you.” Yes, Young was nothing if not courteous. “That many people in Utah were not happy with the repression and persecution they received at the hands of the government of the United States must have been obvious to anyone who looked at the matter, and yet the rebellion that broke out here in 1915 seems to have come as a complete and utter shock to that government. If you despise people on account of what they are, can you be surprised when they in turn fail to love you?”

“I was in Kentucky at the time. I was certainly surprised, Mr. Young,” Dowling answered. Custer had been more than surprised. He’d been furious. A couple of divisions had been detached from First Army and sent west to deal with the Mormon revolt. That had scotched an offensive he’d planned. The offensive probably would have failed, and certainly would have caused a gruesome casualty list. Of course, fighting the Mormons had caused a gruesome casualty list, too.

Young said, “My grandfather came to Utah to go beyond the reach of the United States. All we ever asked was to be left alone.”

“That was Jefferson Davis’ war cry, too,” Dowling said. “Things are never so simple as slogans make them sound. If you live at the heart of the continent, you cannot pretend that no one will notice you are here. For better or worse, Utah is part of the United States. It will go on being part of the United States. People who live here had better get used to it.”

“Then treat us like any other part of the United States,” Young said. “Send your soldiers home. Open the borders. Let us practice our religion.”

How many wives did Brigham Young have? Which one of them was your grandmother?
Dowling wondered. Aloud, he said, “Mr. Young, I am a soldier. I do not make policy. I only carry it out. In my opinion, though, your people were well on the way to getting what you ask for . . . until that assassin murdered General Pershing. After your revolt in 1881, after the uprising in 1915, that set back your cause more than I can say.”

“I understand as much,” Young said. “Do you understand the desperation that made that assassin pick up a rifle?”

“I don’t know.” Dowling had no interest in understanding the assassin. He suddenly shook his head. That wasn’t quite true. Understanding the Mormon might make him easier to catch, and might make other murderers easier to thwart. Dowling doubted that was what Heber Young had in mind.

The Mormon leader said, “The worse the conditions in this state get, the more widespread that desperation becomes. We may see another explosion, Colonel.”

“You are in a poor position to threaten me, Mr. Young,” Dowling said.

“I am not threatening you. I am trying to warn you,” Young said earnestly. “I do not want another uprising. It would be a disaster beyond compare. But if the people of Utah see no hope, what can you expect? They are all too likely to lash out at what they feel to be the cause of their troubles.”

“If they do, they will only bring more trouble down on their heads. They had better understand that,” Dowling said.

“I think they do understand it,” Heber Young replied. “What I wonder about is how much they care. If all choices are bad, the worst one no longer seems so very dreadful. I beg you, Colonel—do what you can to show there are better choices than pointless revolt.”

With genuine regret, Dowling said, “You credit me with more power than I have.”

“I credit you with goodwill,” Young said. “If you can find something to do for us, something you may do for us, I think you will.”

“The things you’ve asked for are not things I may do,” Dowling said.

Impasse. They looked at each other in silent near-sympathy. Young got to his feet. So did Dowling. Dowling put out his hand. Young shook it. He also shook his head. And, shaking it, he strode out of Abner Dowling’s office without looking back.

“C
ome on, Mort!” Mary Pomeroy exclaimed, sounding as excitable as her red hair said she ought to be. “Do you want to make us late?”

Her husband laughed. “For one thing, we won’t be late. For another thing, your mother will be so glad to see us, she won’t care anyhow.”

He was right. Mary knew as much, but she didn’t care. “Come on!” she said again, tugging at his arm. “We’ll all be there at the farm—Ma and Julia and Ken and their children and Beth—that’s Ken’s ma—”

“I know who Beth Marble is,” Mort broke in. “Hasn’t she been coming to the diner for years whenever she’s in Rosenfeld to buy things?”

“And us,” Mary finished, as if he hadn’t spoken. “And us.” They’d been married less than a year. A lot of the glow was still left on her—left on both of them, which made life much more pleasant. She gave him a playful shove. “Let’s go.”

“All right. All right. See? I’m not arguing with you.” He put on a straw boater—a city fellow’s hat, almost too much of a city fellow’s hat for a town as small as Rosenfeld, Manitoba—and went downstairs. He carried the picnic basket, though Mary had cooked the food inside. They went downstairs together.

Their apartment stood across the street from the diner Mort ran with his father. Mort’s rather elderly Oldsmobile waited at the curb in front of the building. Mary wished he didn’t drive an American auto, but there were no Canadian autos, and hadn’t been since before the Great War. As he opened the trunk to put the picnic basket inside, a couple of occupiers—U.S. soldiers in green-gray uniforms—went into the diner. They both eyed Mary before the door closed behind them.

She slammed down the trunk lid with needless violence. All she said, though, was, “I wish Pa and Alexander could come to the picnic, too.”

“I know, honey,” Mort said gently. “I wish they could, too.”

The Yanks had shot Alexander McGregor—her older brother—in 1916, claiming he’d been a saboteur. Mary still didn’t believe that. Her father, Arthur McGregor, hadn’t believed it, either. He’d carried on a one-man bombing campaign against the Americans for years, till a bomb he’d intended for General George Custer blew him up instead.