The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories [Anthology]

by Edited By Ian Watson

  Abraham Lincoln, standing there for all to hear in Washington, and then the words spread across the newspapers for all to read, he said: “We shall not send our women into battle; we shall not send our children. And we shall surely not send our Negroes, who are as children, to shed their blood in a war they are not even able to understand.” He said that, and we heard it, and I suppose it was nothing we hadn’t heard before. But somehow his saying it made it official. He made it the official public policy of the Disunited States of America, that the blacks had not even the wisdom of children. After that, we would willingly have fought for the South, even if it meant fighting beside a man who’d ordered us whipped by the cruellest black driver in the worst slave state there ever was.

  They wouldn’t have it. And later, when it got to be obvious that the war could not be won without us, they still would not, for neither side was willing to be the first to say, “Well, we were wrong; I guess the blood of a black man is good enough to spill for this country.”

  Pride! Thus it was that nobody won that awful war, that dragged on eight terrible years. Oh, the South claimed the victory, in the strict sense of the word; there being so many blacks at home to see to the work of the plantations and the farms and the Southern towns, the South lasted longer. It was the North that first proposed to stop fighting. But there was no victory. The time came when there was nobody left with the will to fight any more, that’s all. They just laid down their weapons and went home. What was left of them. To what was left of home.

  * * * *

  They didn’t last very long. Smallpox and cholera took most of them that didn’t die of their battle wounds. A handful came stumbling back to the burned-out ruins that had been the glorious South; and they were ruins, themselves.

  We had been prepared to kill every last one of them; with our bare hands if need be. My grandfather swears to that, and I believe him. We had been ready to kill them all. We were four million strong; even half-starved we had more strength than those ragtag men that lived through the Civil War to come home. Our women were ready, and our children, too, to do whatsoever had to be done.

  But when it came right down to it we had to kill very few of them. The young men, and the older ones that had gone in when the young men were mostly dead and maimed, they brought their diseases home with them. And they went to sleep and eat with their wives and their children and their old people. The sicknesses went through those families like wildfire through a piney woods.

  In another time, we would have nursed them. Some of them would have lived, and many of us would have died, and when it was over we would have been as mixed up as ever. But not this time. They hadn’t considered us fit to die with them in their filthy war; we were not willing to die with them in their filthy peace. We lifted no hand either to help or to harm them, we simply waited. And when it was over we rounded up the pitiful remnant that did not die, man or woman or child, and we sent them with all courtesy into the North, out of New Africa for ever, beyond the walls at the border.

  They went docilely enough. As for the occasional damn Yankee fool that decided he’d ride South and see about bringing New Africa back into the United States, we tried to reason with him. And if he would not be reasonable we took him into our courts and tried him swiftly and carried out the sentence with sufficient dispatch to discourage others from any such hopeless lost notion.

  So. There we were. A sovereign nation. Mexico to the south of us, the United States to the north of us, and the oceans at either side. All the land there for our taking, much of it burned over and scorched black and covered with destruction, but no damage done that we weren’t capable of setting to rights. We made the land clean again, and we cleared away the gutted buildings and put up new ones; we laid out farms and streets and set ourselves to live a decent life for the first time since we were torn out of the breast of Africa and flung like cattle onto this land.

  We should have been all right. We had everything we wanted, and that one most precious thing of all - we were free. Free! The work of our hands was there to do, and the tools to do it with, and its fruits were for the first time to be ours. Hallelujah, it was the Promised Land; praise be to God, it was Eden . . .

  And why, then, do we find ourselves, all these years later, with the work only half done, and half our strength and passions still devoted to squabbling? And the North once again eyeing our borders, thinking the time will come when we’ll be ripe for conquering?

  Pride again. We will be reminded, come Sunday. Pride! We who thought ourselves so fine, watching the white man both Northern and Southern destroy himself and all his kin and all his substance for pride. More fools we, because we were just as human when the time came to test us.

  We’d never given the problem any thought, my grandfather says. There’d been no time to think about it, and no reason. Scattered as we were, subjugated as we were, the matter of language had not come up; under the lash, any word will do to scream with.

  But we’d brought many dozens of languages with us from Africa, each one of them the language of a proud people with a proud heritage. And when it came time to choose one, to decide which one we would speak now in this New Africa, there was no question in anybody’s mind. The only possible choice for the New African tongue was whatsoever language he spoke. “Why, my language, obviously!” And so said they all.

  * * * *

  Bitter. Bitter, the fruit of pride, and harsh in the mouth. Oh God in Heaven, be you black or white or the colour of mimosa flowers, it was bitter! That it should come to this . . . our children free to go to school and learn, finally, and every forty or so in a different school learning a different language. You talk of segregation! And in our legislature, and in our churches and our colleges and our publishing houses and all our daily business of life, it is no African language we speak. Pride will not let us choose one. Only in the white man’s hated English are we able to govern this land, the very name of which is a white man’s name, because our pride would not and will not let us agree on a name in one of our own tongues.

  And so there are Silents.

  Sworn to use no language. Not spoken; not written; not language of the hands. Only that irreducible minimum of all signs that must be used if we are to survive. Four signs a day, we are allowed, if by no other means can we make our brother or our sister understand that the building is on fire or the piece of meat on the table is unsafe to eat or a baby is about to be born. And not even those four, unless we are forced to them.

  Before we come into the shelterhouse, before we make our vows, those who serve as liaison between the Silents and the world explain this to us; they make it very certain that we understand, before they let us come.

  We will be silent. That is the vow we take. Until death; or until our people can lay aside the pride that destroys them and choose a language that is not a white man’s language. Whichever comes first.

  Matthias Darrow, the Lord God have mercy on his soul, could not wait any longer.

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  * * * *

  A Letter From the Pope

  Harry Harrison and Tom Shippey

  In the year 865, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, a “great army” of the Vikings landed in England, led in legend and probably in fact by the sons of Ragnar Hairy-Breeks. In the following years this army wiped out the rival dynasties of Northumbria, killed Edmund, King of East Anglia, and drove Burgred, King of Mercia, overseas, replacing him with a puppet ruler. By 878 all the kingdoms of the English had been conquered - except for Wessex. In Wessex, Alfred, the last of five brothers, continued to fight.

  But then the Vikings turned their full effort on him. At Twelfth Night 878, when all Christians were still getting over Christmas and when campaigning was normally out of the question, they made a surprise attack on Wessex, establishing a base at Chippenham, and according to the Chronicle again driving many Englishmen overseas and compelling others to submit. Alfred was forced to go into hiding and conduct a guerrilla campaign “with
a small force, through the woods and the fastnesses of the fens”. It was at this time that - so the story goes - he was reduced to sheltering in a peasant’s hut where, immersed in his problems, he burned the good wife’s cakes and was violently rebuked for it.

  Yet Alfred managed somehow to stay alive, keep on fighting, and arrange for the army of Wessex to be gathered under the Vikings’ noses. He then, quite against the odds, defeated the “great army” decisively, and finally made a masterstroke of statesmanship. He treated the Viking king Guthrum with great forbearance, converted him to Christianity, and became his godfather. This set up a reasonable relationship between English and Vikings, gave Wessex security, and became the basis for the later reconquest of all England by Alfred’s son, grandson and later descendants (of whom Queen Elizabeth II is one).

  Many historians have noted that if Alfred had not held on in the winter of early 878, England would have become a Viking state, and the international language of the world would presumably now be a form of Danish. Yet another possibility.

  By 878 Alfred and Wessex stood for Christianity, and the Vikings for paganism. The later reconquest of England was for Christ as well as for the Wessex kings, and monastic chroniclers were liable to see Alfred as an early crusader. But we know, from his own words, that by 878 Alfred was already deeply dissatisfied with the ineptitude of his churchmen. We also know that about the same time Ethelred, Archbishop of Canterbury, had written to the pope to protest about Alfred’s extortions - which were very likely only a demand for further contributions to resist the pagan assaults. Pope John responded by sending Alfred a letter of severe reproof - at exactly the moment when Alfred was “journeying in difficulties through the woods and fens”. This letter never arrived. No doubt the letter carrier could not find the king, or thought the whole situation far too dangerous even to try.

  But what would have happened if the letter had been received? Would it have been the last straw for a king already isolated, almost without support from his own subjects and his own Church? A king also with clear precedent for simply retiring to safety? Or would Alfred (as he so often did in reality) have thought of another bold, imaginative and unprecedented step to take?

  This story explores that last possibility.

  Alfred, Guthrum, Ethelnoth, Odda, Ubbi, Bishop Ceolred, the archbishop of Canterbury, as well as the pope, are all historical characters. The pope’s letter is based on examples of his known correspondence.

  * * * *

  A dark figure moved under the trees ahead, barely visible through the heavy mist, and King Alfred raised his sword. Behind him the last army of England - all eighteen of them -stirred with unease, weapons ready as well.

  “Easy,” Alfred said, lowering his sword and leaning on it wearily. “It is one of the peasants from the village.” He looked down at the man who was now kneeling before him, gaping up at the gold torque and bracelets that marked the king.

  “How many are there?”

  “Tw-twelve, lord King,” the peasant stammered.

  “In the church?”

  “Yes, lord King.”

  The Vikings were conquerors, not raiders. Guthrum’s men always quartered themselves in the timber churches, leaving the peasant huts and the larger thanes’ dwellings undamaged - as long as there was no resistance. They meant to take the country over, not destroy it. The mist was rising and the lightless village was visible below.

  “What are they doing now?”

  As if in reply the church door swung open, a square of red light against the blackness, and struggling figures passed across it before it slammed shut again. A female shriek hung in the air, then was drowned out by a roar of welcome.

  Edbert, the king’s chaplain, stirred with anger. He was lean, just string and bones, all the fat squeezed out by the passion of his faith. His voice, loud and resonant, had been formed by that same faith. “They are devils, heathen devils! Even in God’s own house they practise their beastly lusts. Surely He shall strike them in the middle of their sin, and they shall be carried to the houses of lamentation where the worm—”

  “Enough, Edbert.”

  Alfred knew that his chaplain was vehement against the heathens, striking out strongly enough with his heavy mace, for all his leanness and apparent reluctance to shed blood against the canons of the Church. But talk of miracles could only anger men who had wished for divine assistance many times - so far without reward. He turned back to the peasant. “You’re sure there are twelve?”

  “Yes, lord King.”

  The odds were not good. He needed a two-to-one advantage to guarantee victory. And Godrich was still coughing, near dead with cold. He was one of the eleven king’s companions who had right of precedence in every battle. But not this time. A sound reason must be concocted for leaving him behind.

  “I have a most important duty for you, Godrich. If the attack should fail we will need the horses. Take them all down the track. Guard them with your life. Take Edi to help you. All others follow me.”

  Alfred put his hand on the kneeling peasant’s shoulder.

  “How will we know the door is unbarred?”

  “My wife, lord King ...”

  “She is in there with the Vikings?”

  “Aye, lord King.”

  “You have a knife in your belt? Follow, then. I grant you the throats of the wounded, to cut.”

  The men surged forward across the meadow, grimly eager now to end the waiting, to strike at least one nest of their enemies from the board.

  This night-time raid was a pale shadow of past encounters. Nine times now Alfred had led whole armies, real armies, thousands of men, against the drawn-up line of the enemy. With the war horns bellowing, the men drumming their spears against the hollow shields, the champions in the front rank throwing up their gold-hilted swords and catching them as they called on their ancestors to witness their deeds. And always, always the Viking line had stood watching, unafraid. The horses’ heads on poles grinning over their array, the terrible Raven banner of the sons of Ragnar spreading its wings in triumph.

  How bold the attack; how bad the defeat. Only once, at Ashdown, had Alfred made the enemy fall back.

  So there would be no triumph in this night encounter, no glory. But when this band of plunderers vanished, the rest of the invaders would know there was one Saxon king still left in England.

  As they pushed through the gap in the thorn hedge and strode into the miserable cluster of wattle-and-daub huts, Alfred jerked his shield down so he could seize the handgrip, and cleared the sax knife in its sheath. In pitched battle he carried long sword and iron-mounted spear, but for these scrimmages among the houses the men of Wessex had gone back to the weapons of their ancestors, the Saxons. The men of the sax: short, pointed, single-edged cleavers. He strode quickly so that the hurrying companions could not squeeze past him. Where was the Viking sentry? When they had reached the last patch of shadow before the churchyard the men stopped at his signal and pushed forward the peasant guide. Alfred looked at him once, and nodded.

  “Call now to your woman.”

  The peasant drew in his breath, shivering with fear, then ran forward five paces into the little open square before the church. He halted and at the top of his voice uttered the long, wailing ululation of the wolf, the wild wolf of the English forests.

  Instantly a harsh voice roared out from the church’s tiny belfry, little more than a platform above the roof. A javelin streaked down at the howling man, but he had already leapt aside. There was a scrape of metal as the Saxons drew their weapons. The door swung suddenly outwards; Alfred held his shield in front of him and charged for the center of the door.

  Figures pushed furiously in front of him, Tobba on the left, Wighard, captain of the king’s guard, on the right. As he burst into the room men were already down, bare-skinned bearded figures rolling in blood. A naked, screeching woman ran across his path, and behind her he saw a Viking jumping for the ax that leaned against the wall. Alfred hurled himself forw
ard and as the Viking turned back he drove the sax in under his chin. When he spun round, shield raised in automatic defence, he realized the skirmish was already over. The English had fanned out in one furious sweep and driven from wall to wall, cutting every Viking down, stabbing savagely at the fallen; no veteran of the Athelney winter thought for an instant of honor, or display. A Viking with his back turned was all they wanted to see.

  Even as relief flooded into him Alfred remembered that there was one task left undone. Where was that Viking sentry? He had been on the belfry, awake and armed. He had had no time to come down and fall in the slaughter. Behind the altar there was a staircase leading up, little more than a ladder. Alfred called out in warning to the milling Englishmen and sprang towards it with his shield high. He was too late. Elfstan, his old companion, stared at his king without comprehension, threw up his arms, and fell forward. The javelin was bedded deep in his spine.