Morrell hadn’t thought about the aid station in a while. The medics and the doctor there hadn’t had to worry about anything worse than cuts and burns for a bit, not since the planned U.S. offensive stalled. They’d probably been playing poker in their tent before Pound burst in, still carrying Morrell. “For God’s sake, Doc, patch him up,” the gunner panted.
The doctor attached to the force was a New Yorker named Sheldon Silverstein. “Get him on the table,” he said. The corpsmen obeyed, taking Morrell from Sergeant Pound. Morrell tried to bite down on a shriek as they shoved him around. He succeeded less well than he wished he would have.
Silverstein looked down at him. The doctor settled a gauze mask over his nose and mouth. His eyes were dark and clever. “Morphine,” he said, and one of the corpsmen stuck a needle in Morrell. Silverstein went on, “I’m going to have to poke around in there, Colonel. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to figure out what’s going on.”
When he did, pieces of broken bone grated. Morrell tried to rise up off the table like Lazarus. The corpsmen and Michael Pound held him down. He called them and Silverstein every name in the book—and a couple he invented specially for the occasion.
“Smashed up your clavicle, sure as hell,” Silverstein said, as if he and Morrell were discussing the weather. “Doesn’t look too bad after that—bounced off a rib and exited under your arm.”
“Hot damn,” Morrell said, or perhaps something rather warmer.
Dr. Silverstein smiled a thin smile. “I’ll see how we do,” he said. An ether cone came down over Morrell’s face. He feebly tried to pull it off—it reminded him too much of poison gas. Somebody grabbed his good hand. Then the ether took him away from himself.
When he came back to the real world, things hurt less than they had before he went under. He croaked something even he couldn’t understand. A corpsman called, “Hey, Doc! He’s awake!” The man gave Morrell a small swig of water.
Silverstein looked down at him from what seemed a great height. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“I was born to hang,” Morrell said feebly.
“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised.” Nothing fazed Silverstein—he worked at it. “Can you move the fingers on your right hand?”
“Don’t know.” As more cobwebs came off his brain, Morrell realized a good many were still there. He tried to move those fingers. The effort made him grunt. “I—think so.” He wasn’t sure whether he’d succeeded.
But Dr. Silverstein nodded. “Yeah. That means the bullet didn’t tear up the nerve plexus in there. You should do pretty well now, as long as you don’t get a wound infection.”
Even dopey and doped-up as he was, Morrell winced. “Had one of those in the last war. Damn near lost my leg.”
“Well, we can do some things this time around they didn’t know about then,” the doctor told him. “I think you’ve got a pretty good chance.”
“That’s nice.” Morrell yawned. Yes, he still felt disconnected from the physical part of himself. Considering what had happened to his physical part, that was just as well. “How long will I be on the shelf?”
“Depends on how you do,” Silverstein said, which was no answer at all. He seemed to realize that. “My best guess is a couple of months, maybe a little longer than that. You aren’t as young as you used to be.”
When Morrell was young, he’d lain in the dust in Sonora wondering if he’d bleed to death. Was this an improvement? “Should be sooner,” he said, and yawned again. Whatever Dr. Silverstein told him, he didn’t hear it.
He woke later with something closer to his full complement of wits. He also woke in more pain, because the morphine they’d given him was starting to wear off. He was in a different place—a real building with walls and a ceiling, not a tent. A corpsman he’d never seen before asked him, “How do you feel?”
“Hurts,” he answered—one word that covered a lot of ground.
“I believe it, buddy. Stopping a bullet’s no fun at all.” The corpsman gave him a shot. “Here you go. This’ll make things better pretty soon.”
“Thanks,” Morrell said. What was pretty soon to the medic seemed like forever to him. He tried to think, hoping that would distract him from the fire in his shoulder. The fire made thinking hard work, and all he could think about was how he’d got wounded. He was behind the line when he got hit. How had the Confederates sneaked a sniper that far into U.S.-held territory?
After a little while, he realized how might not be the right question. Why had the Confederates sneaked a sniper that deep into U.S.-held territory? The only answer that came to mind was to knock off a certain Irving Morrell. The bastard had been shooting at him—at him and nobody else—even while Sergeant Pound was hauling him to Dr. Silverstein’s tent.
It was an honor, of sorts. It was one he would gladly have done without. He tried to move the fingers on his right hand again. When he did, it was as if he’d put a bellows to the fire in his shoulder. The Confederates thought he was dangerous to them, did they? He wondered if the United States were trying to assassinate Confederate officers who’d hurt them. Neither side had fought that way in the Great War. This time, it looked to be no holds barred.
Little by little, the new shot of morphine sneaked up on him. It built a wall between his wound and the part of him that mattered. It also slowed his thinking to a crawl . . . and that wasn’t such a bad thing, either.
Part of Mary Pomeroy was glad to see Alec in kindergarten. It meant she didn’t have to keep an eye on him every hour of every day. She’d almost forgotten what having time to herself felt like. Finding some again was even better than she’d thought it would be.
But, however convenient it was for her, it came at a price. What didn’t? In kindergarten and all the years of school that followed, Alec’s teachers would do their best to turn him into a Yank, or at least into somebody who thought like a Yank. Some of what they taught him would be small and probably harmless. Would it really matter if he spelled in the U.S. style, writing color for colour and check for cheque? Maybe not. As far as Mary was concerned, though, it would matter a lot if he decided the United States had had right on their side in the War of 1812—or, for that matter, in the Great War.
Her own father had pulled her out of school when he saw what the Yanks were up to. She couldn’t do that with Alec. The rules were tighter now than they had been a generation before—and she was in town, not on a farm. If she held him out, she’d draw questions. They’d investigate her. They might look harder at what Wilf Rokeby had claimed about her. She couldn’t take the chance. And so Alec went off to school every day, and never knew about his mother’s misgivings.
He had none of his own. He loved school. He said over and over that he was the biggest boy in his class, and the toughest. He had fights on the schoolyard, and he won them. Every once in a while, his teacher paddled him. He seemed to take that in stride—part of the price of being exuberant. Mary still sometimes had to whack him to get his attention, too.
“He’s a little hell-raiser, isn’t he?” Mort said, more proudly than not, one day after Alec came home with a torn shirt and a fat lip.
“Does he take after you?” Mary asked.
“Oh, I expect so,” Mort answered. “I got into trouble every now and again. Not a whole lot of kids who don’t, are there? Boys, anyway, I mean. Girls are mostly pretty good.”
“Mostly,” Mary said, and Mort laughed. He didn’t know about the bomb she’d put in Karamanlides’ general store, or about the one she’d sent to Laura Moss. She had no intention that he find out, either.
The laugh drew Alec into the kitchen. “What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You are, kiddo,” Mort said.
“I’m not funny. I’m tough,” Alec said.
“You sure are, kiddo,” Mort said. “Here—put up your dukes.” He and Alec made as if to turn the kitchen into Madison Square Garden.
“You’d better be careful, champ, or he’ll knock you out when you aren’t looking,” Mary
said. Alec threw haymakers with wild enthusiasm. Mort caught them with his hands. He didn’t let his chin get in the way of one. When Alec stepped on Mary’s toes twice in the space of half a minute, she chased him and her husband out of the kitchen. Had she married a different man, she might have threatened him with having to do his own cooking. That didn’t work with Mort, though.
“Good chicken,” he said once she finally got it on the table. Threats might not work with him, but his compliments counted for more than they would have from a man who didn’t know anything about food.
Alec gnawed all the meat off his drumstick, then thumped it against his plate. That was taking the word too literally for Mary. “Cut it out,” she said, and then, louder, “Cut it out!” Next stop was a spanking. Alec knew as much, and did cut it out. His mother sighed. “He is a little . . . what you said earlier.”
“A what?” Alec asked. “What am I? I’m a what?”
“You’re a what, all right,” Mort Pomeroy said. “Try to be a good what, and do what your mother tells you to.”
“I’m a what! I’m a what! What! What!” Alec shouted. He liked that so well, he wasn’t about to pay attention to anything else.
When supper was done, Mary got up from the table, saying, “I’m going to wash dishes. How would you like to dry them, what?”
The what didn’t like that idea at all. He retreated into the living room, where he loudly told the cat what he was. If Mouser was impressed, he hid it very well. Mort said, “I’ll dry. I’m less likely to drop things than Alec is, anyway.”
“I’m not Alec! I’m a what!” The what, like a lot of little pitchers, had big ears.
Most husbands who volunteered to dry would have got nothing but gratitude from their wives. Mort made Mary feel guilty. She said, “You mess around with dishes all day long.”
“A few more won’t hurt me,” he said gallantly, and then, lowering his voice, “Besides, maybe we can talk a little without the hell-raiser listening in.” Since Alec didn’t know he was a hell-raiser, he didn’t rise to that.
Mary started running water in the sink. The splashing helped blur their voices. “What’s up?” she asked, also quietly.
“They gave Wilf Rokeby ten years,” Mort answered as he grabbed a dish towel. “Five for having subversive literature, and five for lying about you and that bomb. He swore up and down that he wasn’t lying, but he would, wouldn’t he?”
“He knew my father. He remembered what happened to my brother. He thought the Yanks—well, the Frenchies—would believe any old lie about me on account of that.” Mary had no trouble sounding bitter. She was bitter about everything the USA had done to her family and made it do to itself. That the postmaster was telling the truth was something only he and she knew—an odd sort of intimacy, but no less real for that. In an abstract way, she pitied him. He had to be out of his mind with rage and frustration because he couldn’t make anybody believe him.
“He’s got a lot of . . . darn nerve, trying to get you in trouble on account of what happened a long time ago.” Mort slung a couple of forks into the silverware drawer. He was furious, even if he didn’t raise his voice.
“Ten years is a long time. He’ll be an old man when he gets out, if he doesn’t die in there,” Mary said.
Mort slipped an arm around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. “You’re a peach, you know that? I want to murder Wilf Rokeby, and here you are sticking up for him after he did his best to ruin you.”
He had his reasons, too. The only difference is, I managed to ruin him instead. Mary shrugged. “He didn’t. He couldn’t. Not even the Frenchies would believe him without evidence, and he didn’t have any.” I made sure of that.
“I should hope not!” Mort let his hand rest on the swell of her hip.
She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Sooner or later, you-know-who’s got to go to bed.” She didn’t name Alec, and so he didn’t notice that.
“Well, I guess he does.” Mort gave her a quick kiss. “I can hardly wait.”
To Mary’s surprise, Alec didn’t stay up too late, or fuss too much about going to sleep. Maybe he’d worn himself out running around at school, or maybe the chasing game he played with the cat—who was chasing whom wasn’t always obvious—did the trick. Mort read him a story from England about a talking teddy bear and his animal friends. Even the Yanks enjoyed Pooh; Alec adored him. As usual, he listened, entranced, till the end of the tale. Then he kissed Mort and Mary and went off to his room. Five minutes later, he was snoring.
Those snores brought a particular kind of smile to Mort’s face. “Well, well,” he said. “What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mary answered demurely. “I suppose we could think of something, though.”
And they did. Mort locked the bedroom door and left one of the bedside lamps on, which made everything seem much more risqué than it did in the usual darkness. Mary wasn’t sure whether it would excite her or embarrass her. It ended up doing a little of both. Her nails dug into his back.
Then it was over, and he suddenly seemed very heavy on her. “You’re squashing me,” she said, sounding . . . squashed.
“Sorry.” He rolled off and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.” Mary had tried to smoke, but didn’t care for the burning feeling in her chest. She put on a housecoat, belted it around her, and went into the bathroom to freshen up. When she came back, Mort was blowing smoke rings. She liked that as much as Alec did. It was the one reason she’d ever found that made smoking seem worthwhile.
He went out to the bathroom in a ratty old bathrobe. By the time he got back, Mary had got into a flannel nightgown and bundled under the covers. He put on pajamas and got in beside her. “Time for long johns soon,” he said.
Mary sighed and nodded. “I hate them, though,” she said. “They itch.”
“Wool,” Mort said, and Mary nodded again. He went on, “You need ’em, whether you like ’em or not.”
“I know.” Mary thought about going out without long underwear when it got down to fifteen below. Even the thought was plenty to make her shiver.
Mort leaned over and gave her a kiss. “Good night. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said, and she did. She yawned, rolled over, twisted once or twice like a dog getting the grass just right, and fell asleep. Next thing she knew, the alarm clock started having hysterics. Mort killed it. Yawning, Mary went out to the kitchen to make coffee. She would rather have had tea, but it was impossible to come by with the USA at war with Britain and Japan. Coffee was harsher, but it did help pry her eyes open.
After a hasty morning smooch, Mort hurried across the street to the diner. It was still dark outside; the sun came up later every day. Mary poured herself a second cup of coffee and turned on the wireless. Pretty soon she’d haul Alec out of bed and start getting him ready for school, but not quite yet. She had a few minutes to herself.
“And now the news,” the announcer said. “Confederate claims of victory in Virginia continue to be greatly exaggerated. U.S. forces continue to advance, and have nearly reached the Rapidan in several places. Further gains are expected.”
Mary had been listening to U.S. broadcasters for as long as she’d had a wireless set. By now, she knew what kinds of lies they told and how they went about it. When they said the other side’s claims were exaggerated, that meant those claims were basically true. Mary hoped they were. She had no great love for the Confederate States, but they’d never bothered Canada.
“U.S. bombers punished targets in Virginia, Kentucky, Arkansas, and Texas in reprisal for the terrorist outrages the Confederates have inflicted on the United States,” the newsman continued. “Damage to the enemy was reported to be heavy, while C.S. antiaircraft fire had little effect.”
Again, no details, but it sounded good to anyone who already liked the USA. Since Mary didn’t, she hoped the Yanks were lying again. She expected they were.
What else did Yanks do but lie? They’d lied about Alexander, lied so they could line him up against a wall and shoot him.
What goes around comes around, Mary thought. And it hasn’t finished coming around yet. One of these days, she would get back to the farm where she’d grown up. Not yet—the time wasn’t ripe quite yet. But it would be.
XVII
Robert Quinn looked up from the papers on his desk when Hipolito Rodriguez walked into Freedom Party headquarters in Baroyeca. “Hola, Señor Rodriguez,” Quinn said. “I don’t often see you except on meeting nights.”
“Usually, I am working on the farm during the day,” Rodriguez said. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said about the Confederate Veterans’ Brigades.”
“Ah. Have you?” Quinn smiled broadly. “I’m glad to hear it, señor. And what have you decided about them?”
“I would like to join,” Rodriguez said simply.
“¡Bueno!” Quinn jumped up from his chair and stuck out his hand. He pumped Rodriguez’s. “Congratulations! I think you are doing the right thing for yourself and the right thing for your country.”
“For myself, I’m sure I am,” Rodriguez replied. “I’ve studied what the law gives, and it’s generous. It gives more than I could make if I stayed on my farm.” He knew why that was so, too, though he didn’t mention it. The law that set up the Veterans’ Brigades was bound to be geared to the richer Confederate northeast. What would have been barely enough to get by on there seemed like a lot more in Sonora and Chihuahua. He went on, “Do you have the papers I will need to sign?”
Quinn shook his head. “No. They are not here. You will find them at the alcalde’s office. This is a government matter, not a Freedom Party matter.”
“What is the difference?” Rodriguez asked, honestly confused.
“Many times, it is not so much,” Quinn admitted. “But military affairs—except for the Freedom Party guards—belong to the government, and even the guards end up getting their gear through the Attorney General’s office. So yes, you do this there.”
Settling Accounts Return Engagement: Book One of the Settling Accounts Trilogy Page 59
