Cassius hadn’t thought patrolling Madison, Georgia, and keeping white folks in line could get dull, but it did. Anything you did over and over got dull. Well, he didn’t suppose screwing would, but he hadn’t done enough of that to count as “over and over.” A few hasty grapples with women who’d been part of Gracchus’ band at one time or another were the sum of his experience.
He knew just enough to know he wanted to know more.
And he knew enough to be worried about whether he’d ever get the chance for it. One muggy evening at supper, he asked Gracchus, “Where we gonna find us some nice gals to marry?”
The guerrilla chief looked down at his mess kit, as if hoping one would turn up there. But he had the same roasted pork ribs and sweet potatoes and green beans as Cassius—only those, and nothing more. “Beats me. Beats the shit outa me,” he said heavily. “Most of the niggers left alive down here is the ones in the bands. Ain’t a hell of a lot of gals who wanted to pick up a Tredegar.”
“Don’t I know it! Sometimes I gets so horny, can’t hardly stand it,” Cassius said. “Plenty of white women left with no husbands on account of the war…”
“Good fuckin’ luck! Good fuckin’ luck!” Gracchus said. “Yeah, plenty o’ white widows. An’ you know what else? They’s sorry their husbands is dead. An’ they’s even sorrier we ain’t.”
Cassius wished he thought the older man were wrong. Unfortunately, he didn’t. A shortage of black women and a shortage of white men should have had an obvious solution. Before the war, during the war, saying that where any white could hear him would have got him a one-way ticket to the graveyard. Would things be any different once the CSA finally threw in the sponge? Fat chance, he thought.
“Be a few gals don’t care what color man they got, long as they got one,” Gracchus predicted. “A few—the ones who git horny the same way a guy does. But even supposin’ you find one, where you gonna set up housekeepin’ wid her? Any place you try, how long ’fore the neighbors burn your house down, likely with the both of you in it?”
“The Yankees—” Cassius began.
Gracchus shook his head. “Yankees can’t be everywhere. ’Sides, most of ’em don’t want us messin’ wid no white women, neither. They kin use us, yeah. But they ain’t gonna stick their necks out fo’ us when they don’t got to, and you kin bet your ass on dat. Hell, you mess wid a white woman, you is bettin’ your sorry ass on dat.”
“Shit,” Cassius said, again not because he thought Gracchus was wrong but because he didn’t. “Maybe we go up to the USA, then. Got to be some colored gals there who’d give us the time o’ day.”
“Might not be too bad, if the Yankees let us,” Gracchus allowed. “But we ain’t U.S. citizens any more’n we’s Confederate citizens. We don’t belong nowhere. You don’t believe me, go ask a white man.”
Once more, he made more sense than Cassius wished he did. Every time you tried to get around what Jake Featherston and the Freedom Party had done to Negroes in the Confederate States, you banged your head into a stone wall instead.
The next morning, a couple of Confederate privates and a corporal came up to Cassius as he was on patrol. None of them was carrying a weapon. When they saw him, they all raised their hands and stood very still. “Don’t shoot, pal,” the corporal said. “We’re just lookin’ for somebody to surrender to, that’s all. Reckon you’re it.”
Had they worn the camouflage of the Freedom Party Guards, Cassius would have been tempted to plug them no matter how they tried to sweet-talk him. Who could guess what guards were doing when they weren’t fighting the Yankees? Cassius could, for one. Maybe they were closing Negroes up behind barbed wire. Or maybe they were shoving them into the hell-bound trains from which nobody came back. It wasn’t by accident that Freedom Party Guards had a tough time giving themselves up to the U.S. Army’s new black auxiliaries.
But these three were just in ordinary butternut. If they’d gone out of the way to give Negroes a hard time, it didn’t show. And the noncom hadn’t been dumb enough to call Cassius boy. He gestured with his rifle. “Y’all come with me. POW camp’s right outside of town. You don’t give nobody trouble, you’ll be all right.”
“Had enough trouble,” the corporal said, and both privates nodded. The two-striper went on, “Me, I got a Purple Heart and two oak-leaf clusters. One more wound and I’m a goddamn colander. Enough is enough. Damnyankees wouldn’t be here in the middle of Georgia if we weren’t licked.”
“Damn right.” If the Yankees weren’t here, Cassius probably wouldn’t have been, either. Sooner or later, the militias and the Mexicans would have squashed Gracchus’ band. “Get movin’. Keep your hands high, and don’t git close enough to make me jumpy, or you be mighty sorry.”
“You got the piece,” the corporal said. “You call the shots.”
As they tramped through Madison, the other two soldiers opened up a little. One was from Mississippi, the other from Arkansas. They’d had enough of the war; they were heading home. Cassius thought they were nuts to try to get through two states full of U.S. soldiers, but they weren’t the first men to tell him a story like that. As Confederate armies came apart at the seams, as men thought of themselves ahead of their country once more, the whole thrashing corpse of the CSA seemed full of people in uniform on the move. Some were trying to get somewhere, like these. Others were trying to get away either from Confederates who didn’t want them deserting or from U.S. soldiers who had reason to want to catch them.
“Never reckoned we’d get whupped,” the corporal said mournfully. “First time I got shot was in Ohio. Second time was in Pennsylvania. Third time was in Tennessee, just outside of Chattanooga. Things weren’t going so good by then.”
“I suppose I can see how you’d say that,” Cassius allowed. “But if you was a colored fella here in Georgia, things never went good. Ain’t many of us left alive.”
“We were up at the front, fighting the damnyankees. We didn’t know nothin’ about none o’ that,” the private from Arkansas said quickly. Too quickly? Cassius wasn’t sure. He did know the U.S. guards at the POW camp questioned new prisoners about what they’d done before they got caught. Every so often, they arrested somebody and took him away for more grilling.
“Nabbed yourself some more of these sorry sacks of shit, did you?” a U.S. sergeant in Madison called to Cassius, and gave him a thumbs-up. Cassius waved back.
“He’s got no cause to call us that,” the C.S. corporal said. “I wouldn’t call him that if I went and captured him—and I got me a few damnyankees during the war.”
The private from Mississippi nodded. “You didn’t cuss us when you caught us,” he said to Cassius. “Your mama must’ve learned you manners.”
“She did.” Cassius’ eyes suddenly stung. “And then you goddamn ofays went an’ shipped her to a camp, an’ my pa, an’ my sis, too, an’ I reckon they’s all dead now.”
None of the Confederate soldiers said much after that, which was smart of them. And yet the Mississippian had a point of sorts. Cassius hadn’t cursed the Confederates when they gave themselves up to them. Some of that was because swear words weren’t enough to let him tell them what he thought of them. But some of it was because Confederate whites and Confederate blacks understood one another in ways U.S. whites never would. They might not like one another—hell, they might and often did hate one another. But they and their ancestors had mostly lived side by side for hundreds of years. Each knew how the other ticked.
“Score three for the good guys!” a guard outside the POW compound called as Cassius brought the captives up to the entrance.
“I leave these fellas with you?” Cassius asked.
“Yeah, I’ll take care of ’em from here on out,” the guard replied. He carried a submachine gun, a heavy U.S. Thompson. It would do the job if it had to. “C’mon, you lugs,” he told the Confederates. “This is the end of the line for you.”
“I don’t mind,” the corporal said. “Like I told this fella here�
��—he nodded toward Cassius—“I already been shot three different times. I’m still here. I’m still walkin’. One more, maybe my luck woulda run out.”
“Damn war’s over with,” one of the privates added. “We lost. Ain’t much point to fighting any more.”
“You guys aren’t so dumb,” the U.S. soldier said. “Kick you in the teeth often enough and you get the idea.” He led them off into captivity. They didn’t seem the least bit sorry to go. They’d managed to give up without getting killed. And the chow inside the barbed wire was bound to be better than what they’d scrounged on their own. How much food the Yankees took for granted had already astonished Cassius. The men in butternut were scrawny enough to make him sure it would amaze them, too.
Cassius went back on patrol. Unlike the POWs, he had to earn his victuals. And damned if another pair of Confederate soldiers didn’t come into Madison an hour and a half later. They’d also made sure they weren’t carrying weapons before they showed themselves.
Seeing Cassius—and seeing his rifle—they wasted no time raising their hands. “We ain’t people bombs or nothin’, Rastus,” one of them said. “Cross my heart we ain’t.” He lowered his right hand for a moment to make the gesture.
“My name ain’t Rastus,” Cassius retorted. But, again, as long as they didn’t wear camouflage or call him nigger or boy, he was willing if not precisely eager to let them give up.
The same soldier in green-gray still stood at the entrance to the POW camp when Cassius brought in his next set of captives. “Son of a bitch!” the Yankee said. “You’re turning into a one-man gang!”
“They know they’s licked,” Cassius said. “Don’t bother ’em to give up now, like maybe it did befo’.”
“That’s about the size of it,” one of the Confederates agreed. “What’s the point to gettin’ shot now? Sure ain’t gonna change how things turn out.”
“You got that right, anyway,” the U.S. soldier said. “Well, come on. We’ll get you your rooms at our hotel, all right. You can have the caviar or the pheasant under glass. The barmaid’ll be along with the champagne in a few minutes, but it costs extra if you want her to blow you.”
Both men in butternut stared. So did Cassius; the Yankee’s deadpan delivery was mighty convincing. Then the Confederates started to laugh. One of them said, “Long as I don’t get blown up, that’s all I care about right now.”
“Amen!” said the other new POW, as if responding to a preacher in church.
On that kind of simple level, Cassius had no trouble understanding and sympathizing with them. When he tried to fathom their cause, though…If they had their way, I’d be dead, same as the rest of my family. How can they want that so bad? I never done nothin’ to them.
They didn’t care. They feared Negroes might do something to them, and so they got in the first lick. That was Jake Featherston all the way—hit first, and hit hard. But he hadn’t hit the United States quite hard enough. He got in the first lick, but they were getting the last one. And I’m still here, too, Cassius thought. You may not like it, you ofay asshole, but I damn well am.
Sitting in the Humble jail was a humbling experience for Jeff Pinkard. Even if the Republic of Texas had seceded from the Confederate States, the guards at the jail were all U.S. military policemen. They wore green-gray uniforms, white gloves, and white helmets with MP on them in big letters. They reminded him of a lot of the men who’d guarded Camp Humble and the other camps he’d run: they were tough and brave and not especially smart.
They wouldn’t let his wife or stepsons in to see him. They wouldn’t let him see his new baby. All he had for company was Vern Green; the guard chief moped in the cell across the hall.
Three hulking U.S. MPs came for Jeff early in the morning. They all carried big, heavy U.S. submachine guns. “Come on, Pinkard,” one of them—a sergeant—said, his voice cold as Russian Alaska.
Jeff thought they were going to take him outside and shoot him. Who was there to stop them? Not a soul. He fought to keep a wobble out of his voice when he said, “I want to talk to a lawyer.”
“Yeah? So did all the coons you smoked. Come on, asshole,” the MP said. One of his buddies unlocked the cell door. Jeff came. Fear made his legs light. All he could do was try not to show it. If you were going to die anyway, you wanted to die as well as you could.
He squinted against the sun when they led him out of the jail. He hadn’t seen so much sunshine since they locked him up. Looking back at the jail building, he saw the U.S. and Texas flags flying side by side above it. His mouth tightened. Both those flags reminded him of the Stars and Bars; both, now, were arrayed against it.
Barbed wire and machine-gun nests and armored cars defended the jail and the buildings close to it. Seeing Jeff glance at the new fortifications, the MP sergeant said, “Nobody’s gonna spring you from this place, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“Way you’ve got it set up, you must reckon an awful lot of folks want to,” Jeff replied. The noncom scowled at him but didn’t answer. Jeff smiled to himself—that shot must have got home.
What had been a bail bondsman’s office down the street from the jail now had U.S. soldiers standing guard in front of it. The Lone Star flag might fly over the jail, but Pinkard didn’t see any Texas Rangers. The damnyankees were running this show. He didn’t think that was good news for him.
One of the guards opened the door. “Go on in,” the MP sergeant said.
“What happens when I do?” Jeff asked suspiciously.
“The bogeyman gets you,” the MP snapped. When Jeff neither panicked nor asked for any more explanation, the Yankee gestured impatiently. “Just go on. You wanted a lawyer. They’re gonna give you one. More than you deserve, if anybody wants to know what I think.”
Pinkard didn’t give a rat’s ass for what the MP thought. A lawyer was more than he’d thought he would get from the U.S. authorities. Of course, having one and having one who’d do any good were two different critters. He was playing by Yankee rules now, and he knew damn well they’d be stacked against him.
In he went, before the snooty sergeant could tell him again. Sitting at what had been the bondsman’s desk was a skinny fellow with curly red hair, a big nose, and a U.S. major’s gold oak leaves. “You’re Jefferson Pinkard?” the man asked.
“That’s right.” Jeff nodded. “Who’re you?”
“My name is Isidore Goldstein,” the major answered. I figured he was a hebe, Jeff thought. Well, chances are he’s smart, anyway. Goldstein went on, “I’m part of the Judge-Advocate’s staff. I’m an attorney specializing in military law. I will defend you to the best of my ability.”
“And how good are you?” Pinkard asked.
“Damn good, matter of fact,” Goldstein said. “Let’s get something straight right now: I didn’t want this job. They gave it to me. Well, that’s how it goes sometimes. I don’t like you. No—I despise you. If you’ve done one percent of what they say you’ve done, I’d stand in the firing squad and aim at your chest. And we both know you’ve done a hell of a lot more than that.”
“If you’re my lawyer, why do they need some other asshole to prosecute me?” Jeff said.
He surprised a laugh out of Goldstein. The Yankee lawyer—the Yankee Jew lawyer, almost a stock figure in Confederate movies about the depravities of life in the USA—said, “But you gotta understand something else, too. My job is defending people. Guilty people need lawyers. Guilty people especially need lawyers. Whatever they let me do, I’ll do. If I can get you off the hook, I will. If I can keep ’em from killing you, I will. That’s what I’m supposed to do, and I’ll damn well do it. And like I say, I know what I’m doing, too.”
Pinkard believed him, not least because Goldstein plainly didn’t care whether he believed him or not. “So what are my chances, then?”
“Shitty,” Goldstein answered matter-of-factly. “They’ve got the goods on you. They know what you did. They can prove it. You get rid of that many people, it’s not like y
ou can keep it a secret.”
“Everything I was doing, I was doing ’cause I got orders from Richmond to take care of it,” Jeff said. “Far as the laws of my country went, it was all legal as could be. So what business of your country is it what I was doing inside of mine?”
“Well, that’s one of the arguments I aim to use,” Isidore Goldstein said. “You’re not so dumb after all, are you?”
“Hope not,” Jeff said. “How come you reckoned I was?”
“One way to do what you did is just do it and never think about it at all,” the U.S. attorney said. “I figured you might be like that, where you’d go, ‘Yeah, sure,’ and take care of things, like. But you’ve got too many brains for that—I can tell. So why did you do it?”
“’Cause the niggers were screwing my country. Honest to God, they were. First time I went to combat in 1916, it wasn’t against you Yankees. Oh, hell, no. I was fightin’ the damn coons in Georgia after they rose up and stabbed us in the back.”
Goldstein pulled a notebook out of his left breast pocket and wrote something in it. “Maybe that will help some. I don’t know, but maybe,” he said. “The charge, though, is crimes against humanity, and that can mean whatever the people who make it want it to mean.”
“Sounds chickenshit to me,” Jeff said. “They gonna make believe the niggers weren’t up in arms against our government long before we went to war with the USA? They can do that—I sure can’t stop ’em—but they’re a pack of goddamn liars if they do.”
The military attorney did some more scrawling. “Maybe you want to forget the word nigger.”
“How come?” Pinkard asked, genuinely confused.
“Because you hammer another nail into your coffin every time you say it,” Goldstein answered. “In the United States, it’s an insult, a fighting word.” The idea that Negroes could fight whites without having the whole country land on them with both feet deeply offended Jeff. He was shrewd enough to see saying so wouldn’t do him any good. He just nodded instead. So did Isidore Goldstein, who went on, “And they’ll say things were so bad for the colored population in the Confederate States under Freedom Party rule that it had no choice but to rebel.”
In at the Death Page 43
