“Okay, so what’s the diff between stern and aft?”
“Stern’s just the back of the craft. Aft means toward the back of the craft. Just like bow means the front of the craft and forward, or for’ard means toward the front of the craft.”
“How do you know this shit?”
“I’m a geographer. We know all sorts of shit,” Bill said with a grin.
“Well, so am I, sorta.”
“Yeah, but I’m also a pilot.”
“And don’t forget sailor,” Jordan piped up.
“I’m not a sailor,” Bill argued.
“I’m betting 6,000 klicks of a trans-Atlantic Ocean crossing, along with thousands of klicks on rivers in a canoe, says otherwise,” Jordan retorted.
Bill had no argument to rebut that.
The stateroom was nothing to write home about. It consisted of four bunk beds, two on either side of the room, with a window that opened out. Considering the fact that the riverboat had air conditioning, and the weather outside was warming up, Bill suspected they would be keeping the windows closed.
The bunk beds were interesting, in that the bottom bunk served as seating and the top bunk folded into the wall. This allowed occupants to sit back and enjoy the view, but still turn the stateroom into sleeping quarters for four when the time came. It reminded Bill of the trains he sometimes took in his youth while traveling across Europe with his dad before international travel by U.S. citizens became so perilous.
There were two small closets to stash their packs in. No hangers, just closets. Luckily, the men each carried two small folding hangers, for shirts or to hang laundry to dry.
Looks like we’ll still be doing laundry on the go, Bill thought.
Packs were shoved into the closet.
“I’m thinking I’d like to watch Old Man River from above,” Jordan said.
“Think that’s a good idea?” Matt asked.
“What’re they gonna do, put me in the ole cotton field?”
“Matt’s right,” Bill said. “Think about it, Jordan; we’re moving into the Confederacy. Your life’s not worth shit there, according to their thinking. Let’s consider that in all future actions.”
Jordan gave Bill a hard look.
“Hey, I’m not for restricting your movement, I’m just thinking maybe we should be a bit more circumspect from now on.”
Jordan nodded, understanding, but not happy about it. “Okay. So, which one of you white boys wants to go up top so I can take a breather?”
Bill and Matt decided to join Jordan on the top deck to watch the landscape go by, while Lane elected to stay in the stateroom and read up a bit on the Confederacy. Jordan took some pictures of the boat and passing landscape.
Deck chairs were arrayed around the top, some with umbrellas attached to them.
“Good way of being able to stay topside and get fresh air without getting too hot,” Matt said as they each took a seat.”
“So, we got nine days until Memphis.” This from Jordan, who was looking out across the river to the land on the other side. It was clear from his tone that he wasn’t particularly thrilled with his current situation.
Bill turned to him. “You wanna head back? We can probably do this without you.”
“Naw. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Besides, who else is gonna save your crazy white ass when you do something boneheaded?”
“This is true. Meri’s not around to pull my bacon out of the fire, so I guess I’ll have to rely on you.”
Turning to Matt, Bill continued, “You might want to start speaking in your normal accent. I figure, this close to the Confederacy, it might make the transition easier.”
“Thank God! You know how hard it is to speak like one of you?”
The other two chuckled.
“You know how hard it is to understand you when you speak like you?” Jordan joked.
Matt gave Jordan a faux look of shocked surprise.
The next nine days passed without any more physical incidents, for which Bill was glad. Nobody got into a fight. The staff on the boat, while not pleased to provide Jordan any service, did so with a minimum of grumbling. Bill developed two shiners from the punch on his nose, and while the swelling of the nose receded to its normal size, the bruising around his eyes went from blue-black to pale green, and finally a brownish-yellow color after the first week.
Bill’s sleep became more troubled, until one morning, Lane pulled him aside. “We need to talk. You keep this up your post-traumatic stress disorder is gonna get the better of you.”
Bill nodded.
“Let’s grab some breakfast and head topside. One of my duties in the Corps is field counseling Explorers after major trauma or deaths to help reduce the incidence of PTSD.”
The two went into the dining room and requested breakfasts and coffees to be served on the deck.
They made their way topside and took seats facing forward. The sun had risen enough that it didn’t slant into their eyes as they sat, and the heat of the day hadn’t reached the point where the umbrellas were needed.
“Okay, first thing to do is talk about it. Let’s just go over the incident, bit by bit.”
Bill had been through the drill before as a Probie, then again upon his return from Planet 42, so he was beginning to feel like a pro at this.
They spent the next two hours talking about the incident, from inception to the present. Bill finally accepted the fact that the man’s death wasn’t solely his fault. If the man hadn’t decided to continue attacking, Bill never would have had to employ the close-quarter combat skills he had learned, and the man would still be alive.
“Then again, maybe what you did was best for society. Who knows what kind of asshole he was to others? Probably one of those white-trash types that like to beat up his girlfriend.”
“What if he was married?”
Lane shook his head. “I looked. No wedding band. He wasn’t married.”
For some reason, that helped give Bill a bit more solace.
61
A day out from Memphis, the old man who had given them their stateroom key approached Bill. The Explorer, who was lounging on deck reading one of his books on Confederate history, had learned that the old man was the purser.
“I noticed your Negro carries a gun.”
Bill just nodded.
“Y’uns open for some free advice? Y’git what y’pay for.”
Bill nodded again, closing the book and setting it on his lap. “Sure, always open for new information.”
“Don’t let Customs see him with that pistol. Matter of fact, don’t let anyone see him with a gun. Any Negro caught with a gun, don’t matter what type, any gun, gets an automatic, on-the-spot death sentence.”
“What?” Bill was shocked. This wasn’t anything covered in his training or any of the reading he had done yet.
“Yep. Confederate law. Only white folk are allowed to be armed. Most white men are required to be armed. It’s the only way they keep the Negroes down. Any of them catch a Negro with a gun in the CSA, they’re required to immediately shoot them.”
Holy shit! What on Earth did we get ourselves into? Why the hell didn’t the Corps uncover this little fact before sending Jordan?
“That’s some pretty useful information. Anything else we should know? Last thing I want to do is see anyone get killed or imprisoned. The purser pulled up a deck chair and sat on it. “Mind if I sit?”
Bill grinned. “Looks like you’re already doing that.”
“Reckon I am.” This said with a tobacco-stained-teeth smile. “Anyhoo, things are a bit different down South. White man rules, but he’s always afraid of the Negroes rising up, so don’t be shocked by any of the behavior you might see. Public beatings and whippings are the norm. And shootings? Happen all the time.
“Here’s some thoughts on your Negro friend. Tell him to lay low, stay behind you, and don’t look people in the eye. Especially white women. That’ll just rile up the white men. And it don’t matter t
o them if he’s free or not. To them, he’s just another nigger, good only for picking crops or other manual labor. Hell, even as a live target for target practice.
“If anyone asks, he’s your boy or the boy of one of your buddies. A lot harder for some guy to damage your property than for him to kill some unattached nigger.”
Bill digested this. “So, I should probably carry his pistol for him?”
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea. That and any other weapons he might have. As to money, you should probably hold it for him, too. And remember, he only needs to say two things; either yes sir or no sir. Anything beyond that pretty much ain’t tolerated.
“If’n you plan on staying in Memphis, you might want to stay at the Excelsior Hotel. They take anyone, mostly Yankees or Franklins, but they’ll also put up Negroes.”
Standing up, the purser extended this hand to Bill. “I don’t know why you fool boys wanna go into the Confederacy, but I hope God guides and protects you.”
Bill took his hand. “Thanks.”
The arrival in Memphis was uneventful. The boat pulled up to a dock, and the passengers disembarked.
Customs and immigration, on the other hand, was the opposite of uneventful. While the vast majority of passengers, all white, simply showed a passport, a filled-out customs declaration form, and explained their reason for being in the Confederacy, that’s not how it went for the four from Hayek.
Bill had no trouble getting clear. They didn’t even check his pack for contraband, although he was questioned a bit more on his reason for visiting the Confederacy. This was probably due to his accent and Republic of California passport than anything else. The agent was fat and sweating. Wet rings were visible under his armpits, staining the gray uniform an almost black. The man had a rancid stench to him. Probably just hasn’t washed his uniform in a week or two.
As soon as Matt opened his mouth, the official didn’t even look at him, just waved him on.
Bill stood by while Jordan and Lane stepped up to the desk.
Immediately, he could see the agent’s attitude change. Rather than being mildly bored, he became visibly interested in his newest clients. His eyes squinted and he leaned forward.
“What you want, boy?”
Jordan passed over his passport. “I’m a grad student, sir, interested in doing a bit of biological work in the South.”
“You’re a what?”
“Grad student.”
“What’s a grad student?”
“Uh, a graduate student. One that’s already got a college degree and is pursuing an advanced degree in their field.”
“They let niggers go to school in California?”
Bill could tell that Jordan was trying real hard to play things down.
“Reluctantly, sir.” Jordan kept his eyes down, as Bill had instructed him.
“Damned right, reluctantly. What you got in that there bag, boy?”
“Clothes and books, sir.”
“Lemme see. Better not have no weapons. I don’t give a shit if you are from California. You come into my country with a weapon I’ll kill your ass directly. You got that, boy?”
Jordan handed over his pack, glancing briefly over at Bill.
Whew. Glad he turned over his pistol and pocket knife, Bill thought as the man began pulling clothing from Jordan’s pack and dumping them on the table.
Finding nothing, he turned his attention back to Jordan. “What you got in your pockets?”
“Just my wallet, ID, and some change, sir.”
“Empty ‘em out and put everything on the desk.”
Jordan did as instructed.
As his wallet hit the table, the customs agent picked it up and rifled through it, taking out half the money and shoving it into his own pocket. He glared at Jordan as if wanting the black man to challenge him. Jordan stayed silent.
Once again, Bill was grateful Jordan had turned over most of his money to Bill before leaving the boat.
After the agent had gone through everything that Jordan could possibly have hidden anywhere, short of a body cavity search, he picked up Jordan’s passport again.
“Jordan Washington? What the hell? You got the same name as our first president. How’s that possible?”
“I believe my ancestors were once slaves of the great man, sir. Upon their manumission, they took his last name in honor.”
“Figgers. Fuckin’ niggers can’t be original. Always gotta be stealin’ from others. How long you say you want to visit, boy?”
“Six months, sir. That should be enough time to gather my data.”
The man stamped the passport. “You get three, and be thankful I’m even lettin’ you in. Nigger like you belongs on the plantation, not out studying things more suited for your betters.”
He handed the passport back to Jordan. “Now pick up your shit and get outta here, boy.”
Jordan put his lightened wallet away, then began gathering his belongings to put them in the pack.
“I said move, boy. Don’t you understand? Get your black ass outta here.”
Jordan didn’t say anything. He just picked up his clothes and pack and moved out of the way.
As he was repacking his pack, Lane approached the agent.
“Good God, what we got here, a fucking Chink?”
“No sir, Hawaiian,” Lane answered him in a soft voice.
“Look like a fucking Chink to me.”
The agent held his hand out and Lane placed his passport in it.
The man held it close, and a bead of sweat dripped off his nose onto the open pages. He casually wiped it away with his free hand.
“Hawaii, huh? Ain’t that part of Imperial Japan or somethin’?”
“No sir. It’s a British Protectorate for the Kingdom of Hawaii. Just Hawaiian. Trying to keep the Japs and Californian’s at bay.”
“Good on you. Bastards try to take everything. Anything to declare?”
“No sir.”
“Reason for your visit?”
“Historical research. I’m a grad student, too.”
The agent grunted. He then stamped the passport and handed it back.
“Well, welcome to the Confederate States of America. Keep your pistol loose and watch out for any uppity niggers.” The latter was obviously meant for Jordan, as evidenced by the agent’s glance in his direction.
They finally cleared customs and made their way up the street to the taxi stand. Bill tried to get a taxi but was told in no uncertain terms that there was no way, no how, any taxi would give a ride to a nigger.
Deciding to take the purser’s advice, Bill spoke with one of the taxi drivers and got directions to the Excelsior Hotel. It turned out to be less than a mile away. Again, it looked like they’d be staying in one of the less than savory parts of a city.
Unlike their brief, but violent, walk in St. Louis, nobody bothered them on their trip to the hotel this time. Bill saw more blacks than he had seen his entire time on this Earth, and pointed it out to the others. Most were dressed poorly, in rags, and many were barefoot. It reminded Bill of photographs he had seen of blacks in the American South during slavery. The whites they saw were also roughly dressed, but clearly with attire that was superior, or newer, than what the blacks wore.
Most white men wore vests, which Bill suspected hid firearms. He also noticed some white men carrying pistols on their belts.
The streets, much like St. Louis, were crowded, but with far fewer automobiles than the Franklin city. The cars were similar to ones Bill had seen in his travels so far, looking like something from his 1940s Earth. There was an abundance of buses, along with several streetcar lines. It seemed most transport was done by bus or streetcar. Even the trucks looked different. Now that Bill thought about it, he hadn’t seen a tractor-trailer combination yet; all the trucks on this Earth were simple box-trucks.
The area between the landing and the hotel was not the most savory area they had ever been in. As Bill looked around, the words seedy and worn-down and skid ro
ad came to mind. The buildings were mostly low, with no real skyscrapers. They consisted of a mix of construction material, mostly wood or brick. The sidewalks they trod upon were cracked, broken, and weed-strewn. The road, made of asphalt, was rutted, pot-holed, and generally in bad condition.
Bill stepped over one egregious uplifted section of sidewalk. Man, I wonder if the rest of the city is like this.
Across the street, Bill spotted two men in uniform, whom he assumed were police. Unlike the blue uniforms of St. Louis, these were a light brown, almost khaki, but not quite. The men had stars pinned to their chests and wore the ubiquitous Sam Browne belt worn by police the worlds over. Along with their pistols, each man had a nightstick and an item Bill never expected to see on a law enforcement officer: what appeared to be a rolled-up whip.
“You guys see what’s on those cops’ hips?”
Behind him, he heard Jordan mutter, “Daaaamn. This place is a little too freaky for me.”
By the time they made it to the hotel, they were beginning to sweat. Early summer in the South is a lot warmer and more humid than what they were used to, living in the dry side of the Cascades of the Pacific Northwest.The hotel had two entrances under a wide porch. The big, double doors in the center were clearly for the white guests, as a single door near the right corner had a sign, Coloreds, above it.
Bill looked at the two entrances. “Wait here a minute and I’ll see what’s up.” He then entered the hotel.
At the front desk was a young man with a handle-bar mustache and a receding hairline. His attire was a step up from the hotel in St. Louis, but just barely. The interior of the hotel didn’t look as shabby, either. There was a small dining area beyond the lobby, with what looked like another dining area next to it. Above that dining area’s door was another Coloreds sign. The first dining area had tables set with tablecloths, and a small bar was visible at the back. The bartender, cleaning a glass with a towel, was an older black man.
The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history Page 67
