And now the whole damn country was paying for it.
Augusta sure was. The Stars and Stripes flew over city hall for the first time in more than eighty years. The Yankees had captured the town more or less by sideswipe in their drive down the Savannah River to the port of the same name. They’d bombed it a few times, but the Confederates didn’t make a stand here. Jerry Dover had seen what happened to places where one side or the other made a stand. He thanked heaven Augusta wasn’t one of them.
Incidental damage was bad enough. Streets had craters in them. Walls had chunks bitten out of them. Most windows stared with blind eyes. The smell of death was old and faint, but it was there.
His family had survived. His house was—mostly—intact. He supposed he ought to thank heaven for all that, too. As a matter of fact, he did. But he would have liked things better if the town and the way of life he’d liked so well had come through the war in one piece.
They hadn’t. It wasn’t just that U.S. soldiers tramped through the streets of Augusta now. The life, the energy, were gone from the city. Like the rest of the CSA, it had done everything it knew how to do. It didn’t know how to do anything any more.
So many men were missing. A lot were dead. A lot were maimed. Some remained in U.S. POW camps, though every day more came back on the train. But even the ones who were there seemed missing in action. After a losing war, how could you give a shit about putting things back together and making a living again?
Jerry Dover was one of the most hardheaded, practical men around. He had a hell of a time giving a rat’s ass about what happened next. And if he did, what about his countrymen? He saw what about them. They came back, and they had no idea what the hell to do after that.
A lot of them drank. Good booze was in short supply, and hideously expensive when you could find it. There was plenty of rotgut and moonshine, though. The Yankees didn’t mind if taverns opened up. Maybe they figured drunks would be too bleary to bother them. And maybe they were right.
Maybe they weren’t, too. Some of the drunken ex-soldiers didn’t care what happened to them any more. They would pick a fight for the sake of picking it. The Yankees, who weren’t ex-soldiers, had a simple rule: shoot first. Augusta crackled with gunfire. The U.S. soldiers often didn’t bother burying corpses. They left them on the sidewalk or in the gutter to warn other hotheads.
Because the United States played by the Geneva Convention rules and paid him at the same rate as one of their officers, Dover had money in his pocket when he got home. Green money—U.S. money—was in desperately short supply in the conquered Southern states. No one knew what brown money—Confederate cash—was worth any more, or whether it was worth anything. In the bad days after the Great War, one U.S. dollar could have bought billions, maybe trillions, of Confederate dollars. It wasn’t that bad now, but it wasn’t good. Not even the occupying authorities seemed sure what to do about the currency of a defunct country.
Putting all that together made leaving the house an adventure every time Jerry did it. He needed to look for work; his greenbacks wouldn’t last forever, or even very long. But he was lucky if he could get more than a couple of blocks before jumpy kids in green-gray challenged him.
On a typical hot, muggy afternoon, a Yankee corporal barked, “Hey, you!”
“Yes?” Dover stopped in his tracks. He didn’t want to give the soldiers any excuse to do something he’d regret later.
“You fight in the war?” the corporal snapped.
“Yes,” Dover said.
The noncom held out his hand. “Let’s see your release papers.”
“I’m going to reach into my left trouser pocket to get them out,” Dover said. He waited till the U.S. soldier nodded before moving. When he did, he moved slowly and carefully. He showed the Yankee he was holding only papers. “Here.”
“Gimme.” The corporal examined the papers and then sent Dover a fishy stare. “You were a light colonel, and they let you go anyway?”
“No, not me. I’m still back in Indianapolis,” Dover answered.
“Funny guy. I’m laughing my ass off,” the U.S. soldier said. Dover’s big mouth had got him into trouble before. When will I learn? he wondered unhappily. The soldier in green-gray went on, “How come they turned you loose? And don’t get cute with me, or you’ll be sorry.”
“I was only in the Quartermaster Corps. And I signed the papers that said I wouldn’t give any more trouble. Hell, I know we lost. You guys wouldn’t be here if we didn’t,” Dover said.
“Bet your balls, buddy.” The corporal scratched his bristly chin. “Doesn’t seem like enough, somehow. Not a lot of officers released yet.”
“Well, there is one thing more,” Dover admitted reluctantly.
“Yeah?”
“The guy who shot Jake Featherston, his father used to work in the restaurant I managed. Maybe he said I wasn’t a total bastard.”
“Maybe he was lying through his teeth. Or maybe you are.” The corporal gestured with his tommy gun. “C’mon with me. We’ll get this shit sorted out.”
“Right,” Dover said, resignation in his voice. If he said no, he’d get shot. So they went to the corporal’s superiors. Dover told his story over again. A U.S. second lieutenant with more pimples than whiskers called somebody on a field telephone. The kid—he had to be younger than the corporal—talked, listened, and hung up.
“They’ll get back to us,” he said.
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Dover asked.
“Wait right here,” the baby-faced officer answered. Dover didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t have looked very happy. The lieutenant said, “What’s the matter, Pops? You got a hot date stashed somewhere?”
“No,” Jerry Dover said with a sigh. His last “hot date,” down in Savannah, had blackmailed him and was probably some kind of Yankee spy. That didn’t mean sitting around in a green-gray tent made his heart go pitter-pat with delight. Since his other choices seemed to be the stockade and the burial ground, he sat tight.
After a while, they gave him a couple of ration cans. He ate without another word. He’d had U.S. rations plenty of times during the war and in the POW camp. Eating them in his home town added insult to injury.
After two and a half hours, the field telephone rang. The lieutenant picked it up and listened. “Really?” he squeaked in surprise. “All right—I’ll take care of it.” He hung up and eyed Jerry. “Your story checks out.”
“It should. It’s true,” Dover said.
“I know that—now. I wouldn’t’ve believed it before.” The junior officer scribbled something on Dover’s papers. “There. I’ve written an endorsement that should keep them from hauling you in again.”
“That’d be nice,” Dover said, and then, belatedly, “Thanks.” Maybe the endorsement would do some good, maybe it wouldn’t. But at least the kid with the gold bars made the effort. Dover supposed a lot of Yankees would have laughed to see him get in trouble time after time. He put the papers back in his pocket.
“You’re done here,” the lieutenant said. “You can go.”
“Thanks,” Dover said again, and ambled off.
He got stopped one more time before he made it to the Huntsman’s Lodge. This U.S. patrol didn’t haul him in, so maybe the lieutenant’s endorsement really did help. Stranger things must have happened, though Dover had a hard time thinking of one.
The Huntsman’s Lodge was open for supper. That didn’t surprise Jerry Dover; the fancy places always made it. Most of the customers were U.S. officers. Some of them were eating with pretty girls who definitely didn’t come from the USA. That didn’t surprise Jerry Dover, either. It was the way the world worked.
Most of the waiters and busboys were Mexicans. The ones who weren’t were whites: a couple of sixteen-year-olds and a couple of old men. That was a revolution; in the prewar CSA, most whites would sooner have died than served anyone.
One of the Mexicans recognized Dover. The short, swarthy man came over a
nd shook his hand. “Good to see you again, Señor,” he said.
“Good to be seen, by God,” Dover answered. “Willard Sloan still running things here?”
“Sí—uh, yes. I take you to him.”
Dover grinned. “You reckon I don’t know the way, Felipe?”
All the same, he let the waiter escort him to the tiny, cramped office where he’d put in so many years. Seeing Sloan behind his battered desk was a jolt. The current manager of the Huntsman’s Lodge was in his late forties, with a lean face, a bitter expression, and hard blue eyes. When he sat behind the desk, you could hardly tell he used a wheelchair. His legs were useless; he’d got a bullet in the spine during the Great War.
He eyed Jerry Dover with all the warmth of a waiter eyeing a patron sliding out the door without paying his check. “Think you can take my job away from me, do you?” he said.
“That’s not what I came here for,” Dover answered, which was at least partly true. “Just…wanted to see how things were. I spent a lot of years here, you know.”
“Yeah,” Sloan said glumly. “Owners know you’re back yet?”
“No,” Dover said.
“Maybe I ought to plug you now, then.” Sloan sounded serious. Did he keep a pistol in a desk drawer? The way things had gone in the CSA, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. The cripple gave Dover another wintry stare. “Or maybe I just ought to shoot myself, save somebody else the trouble.”
“Hey, I only want to get…started over.” Dover didn’t want to say get back on my feet again, not to a man who never would. “Doesn’t have to be here.”
“But this’d suit you best.” Willard Sloan didn’t make it a question.
“If you’ve done a halfway decent job since I left, the owners’ll keep you on,” Dover said. “I bet they’re paying you less than they paid me.” Would he work for less than he had before? Damn right he would. But he didn’t tell Sloan that.
“Yeah, they jewed me down pretty good,” the present manager agreed. “What can you do, though?”
“Not much,” Dover said. What could he do? He could let the owners know he was around. He’d likely taken care of that just by showing up here. If they wanted him back, they’d get word to him—and too bad for Willard Sloan. If they didn’t…he’d have to figure out something else, that was all.
Thick wire mesh in the Houston jail’s visiting room separated Jefferson Pinkard from the new damnyankee officer the U.S. authorities had chosen to defend him. As he had with Isidore Goldstein, he growled, “Dammit, I didn’t do anything in your country. I didn’t do anything to anybody from your country. I didn’t do anything the people in my country didn’t want me to do, either.”
The damnyankee—he was called Moss, and he was about as exciting as his name—shook his head. “None of that counts. They’re charging you with crimes against humanity. That means you should have known better than to do that stuff even if they told you to.”
“My ass,” Jeff said angrily. “Goddamn coons always hated the Confederate States. They fucked us when they rose up in the last war.
Hell, first time I went into action, it wasn’t against you Yankees. It was against Red niggers in Georgia. You reckon they wouldn’t’ve done it again? Like hell they wouldn’t. Only we didn’t give ’em the chance this time around.”
Moss shook his head again. “Women? Children? Men who never did anybody any harm? You won’t get a court to buy it.”
“Well, shit, tell me something I don’t know,” Pinkard said. “You assholes are gonna hang me. Anything I say is just a fuckin’ joke, far as you’re concerned. Why’d they even bother giving me a new lawyer when Goldstein got hurt? Just to make it look pretty, I bet.”
“I wish I could tell you you’re wrong,” Moss replied, which took Jeff by surprise. “Chances are they will hang you. But I’ll fight them as hard as I can. That’s my job. That’s what lawyers do. I’m pretty good at it, too.”
Jeff eyed him through the grating. He still wasn’t much to look at: a middle-aged man who’d been through the mill. He did sound like somebody who meant what he said, though. Jeff knew professional pride when he heard it. He thought Moss would do the best job he could. He also thought it wouldn’t do him one goddamn bit of good.
“Can you give me anything to show there were Negroes you didn’t kill when you could have?” Moss asked. “That kind of thing might help some.”
“Nope.” Pinkard shook his head. “I did what I was supposed to do, dammit. I didn’t break any laws.”
“How many Negroes went through your camps?” Lieutenant Colonel Moss asked. “How many came out alive? How many had trials?”
“Trials, nothing,” Jeff said in disgust. “Trials are for citizens. Niggers aren’t citizens of the CSA. Never have been. Never will be now, by God.” He spoke with a certain doleful pride. He’d helped make sure of that.
“Even there, you’re wrong,” Moss said. “There were Negro citizens in the Confederate States—the men who fought for them in the Great War. They went into your camps just like the rest. U.S. authorities can prove that.”
“Well, so what? They were dangerous,” Jeff insisted. “You leave out the ones who learned how to fight, they’re the bastards who’ll give you grief down the line. When we take care of stuff, we do it up brown.”
The Yankee sighed. “You aren’t making it any easier for me—or for yourself.”
“What the hell difference does it make?” Pinkard demanded. “You said it yourself—they’re gonna hang me any which way. I’ll be damned if I give ’em excuses. I did what I was supposed to do, that’s all.”
“Are you sorry you did it?” Moss said. “You might be able to persuade them to go a little easier on you if you make them believe you are.”
“Easy enough to leave me alive?” Jeff asked.
“Well…” The military attorney hesitated. “You are the one who started using trucks to asphyxiate Negroes, right? And you are the one who started using cyanide in the phony bathhouses, too, aren’t you?”
“How’d you know about the trucks?” Jeff asked.
“There’s a Confederate official in Tennessee named…” The lawyer had to stop and check his notes. “Named Mercer Scott. He told us you were responsible for coming up with that. Is he lying? If he is, we have a better chance of keeping you breathing.”
Jeff considered. So Mercer was singing, was he? Well, he was trying to save his neck, too. Chances were he wouldn’t be able to do it, not when he ran Camp Dependable after Jeff moved on to Camp Determination. The trucks first showed up at Camp Dependable. They made life a lot easier for guards than taking Negroes out into the swamps and shooting them. Was the mechanic who’d made the first one still alive? Jeff didn’t know. It probably didn’t matter. Other guards back at the camp by Alexandria would be able to back Mercer up. As for the cyanide, he had plenty of correspondence with the pest-control company that made it. If he tried to deny things there, he was screwed, blued, and tattooed.
And so, with a heavy sigh, he shook his head. “No, I did that stuff, all right. I did it in the line of duty, and I don’t need to be ashamed of it.”
“You were trying to kill people as efficiently as you could,” Moss said.
“I was trying to dispose of niggers as efficiently as I could, yeah,” Pinkard said. “They were a danger to the Confederate States, so we had to get rid of ’em.”
“Jake Featherston could have settled on redheads or Jews just as easily,” the lawyer said.
“Nah.” Jeff shook his head. “That’s just stupid. Redheads never did anything to anybody. And Jews—hell, I don’t have a lot of use for Jews, but they pulled for us, not against us. Look at Saul Goldman.”
“He’s under arrest, too,” Moss said. “They’ll hang him for all the lies he told and all the hatred he stirred up.”
Jefferson Pinkard laughed. “You dumbass Yankees reckon we need to get talked to to hate niggers? We can take care of that on our own, thank you kindly. And so can you-all. Othe
rwise, you would’ve opened up the border and let ’em all in back before the war. Sure as hell didn’t see that happening.”
Moss wrote himself a note. “I’ll bring it up at the trial. Some of the Negroes’ blood is on our hands.”
“Think it’ll help?” Jeff asked.
“No,” Moss said. “It’ll just make the judges mad, because they’ll aim to lay all the blame on you. But I’ll get it on the record, anyhow.”
“Hot shit,” Jeff said.
The lawyer shrugged. “I can’t promise to get you off the hook, not when I don’t have a chance in church of delivering. They’re going to do what they’re going to do. I can slow them down a little and piss them off a little, and that’s about it.”
“It ain’t fair,” Jeff said. “You can’t blame me for doing what my country wanted me to do. It’s not like I broke any of my laws. You’re changing the rules after the game is over.”
“You’re probably right, but so what?” Moss answered. “Millions of people are dead. Millions of people got killed for no better reason than that they were colored. The government of the USA has decided that that’s a crime regardless of whether it broke Confederate law or not. I can’t appeal against that decision—they won’t let me. I have to play by the rules they give me now.”
“Well, I had to play by the rules they gave me then. What’s the goddamn difference?” Jeff said.
Moss reached into his briefcase and pulled out some photographs. He held them up so Pinkard could see them. They showed the crematorium at Camp Humble and some of the mass graves back at Camp Determination. “This is the difference,” Moss said. “Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”
“It means they’re gonna fuck me,” Jeff said. “That lousy crematorium never did work the way it was supposed to.”
“I know. I’ve seen your letters to the company that built it,” Moss said. “The people in charge of that company are also charged with crimes against humanity. The whole Confederacy went around the bend, didn’t it?”
In at the Death Page 55
