He waited. If the Attorney General felt like canning him because he had the nerve to answer back . . . If he did, then he would, that was all. Jeff refused to worry about it. He’d paid his dues, and he’d given the Freedom Party everything it could possibly have asked from him. He could always find other things to do now. He was too old to make a likely soldier, but he still had his health. Factories lined up to hire people like him these days.
Instead of getting angry, Koenig said, “Keep your shirt on, Jeff. I know what you’ve done. Like I told you, the President knows, too. Why do you think I called you first? This is going to be the top camp job in the whole country. We want the best man for it—and that’s you.”
Koenig had never been the sort to flatter for the sake of flattery. As Jake Featherston’s right-hand man, he’d never needed to. He meant it, then. Since he meant it, Pinkard didn’t see how he could say no. He drummed his fingers on the desktop. But he also had reasons he hadn’t mentioned for being unenthusiastic about saying yes. He asked, “How long would it be before I have to go out to this place in Texas?”
“Part-time, pretty damn quick. Like I said, you’ll be doing a lot of the setup,” Koenig answered. “Full-time? A few months, I expect. You can ease Scott into your slot there while you’re away, finish showing him whatever he needs when you come back to Louisiana. How’s that sound?”
“Fair, I reckon,” Jeff said, still with something less than delight. “A little longer might be better.”
To his surprise, Ferd Koenig laughed out loud. “I know what part of your trouble is. You’re courting that guard’s pretty widow.”
Pinkard growled something he hoped the Attorney General couldn’t make out. Of course the government and the Freedom Party—assuming you could tell one from the other—were keeping an eye on him. He’d risen high enough that they needed to. He didn’t like it—how could anybody like it?—but he understood it.
“Well, what if I am, goddammit?” he said. He almost said, God damn you, but managed not to. “I don’t sit in this office or prowl around the camp every minute of the day and night.”
“Didn’t say you did,” Koenig told him. “All right—how’s this? When you go to Texas full-time, bring her along. Call her a secretary or whatever the hell you please. If she really does some work, that’s fine. If she doesn’t, nobody’s gonna lose any sleep over it. We’ll pay her a salary on top of the pension either way. We want you there, and if that means forking over a little extra on the side, then it does, and we’ll live with it. That’s why we’ve got bookkeepers.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Koenig.” Now Jeff was glad he hadn’t aimed his curses straight at the Attorney General. “That’s mighty handsome of you. I’ll do it, and I’ll see if she wants to come along.”
“Good,” Koenig said. “I’ll tell you one more thing, long as I’m on the line: if she doesn’t want to go to Texas with you, chances are it wouldn’t have worked out even if you stayed in Louisiana.”
Pinkard grunted. That was probably gospel, too. He said, “She’s got young, ‘uns, you know. There a place close by this here new camp for them to go to school?”
“Beats me,” the Attorney General said. “But if there isn’t, there will be by the time you move there for good. You’ve got my word on it. You’re an expensive proposition, you know that?”
“You said you wanted the good stuff. I don’t come cheap,” Pinkard answered.
Ferdinand Koenig laughed again. “We’ll take it from there, then,” he said, and hung up.
“Yeah. I guess maybe we will,” Pinkard said to the dead line. He set the telephone back in the cradle.
When he went out into the yard, he wasn’t surprised to find Mercer Scott coming up to him inside a minute and a half. The guard chief knew when he got a telephone call. Jeff had never found out how, but Scott knew. “What’s the latest?” the hard-faced man asked casually.
“Congratulations,” Jeff said, his own features as tightly shuttered as if he were in a high-stakes poker game. “Looks like you’re gonna be takin’ over this here camp in a few months’ time.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mercer Scott had a pretty good poker face, too, but it failed him now, shattering into astonishment. “What the hell’s goin’on? You ain’t in trouble far as I know, so help me God.” He had to be wondering what sort of revenge Jeff had planned for him.
“Nah, I ain’t in trouble,” Jeff allowed after letting the other man stew for a little while. “They’re startin’ up a new camp in Texas, and they want me to go over there, get it up and running, and then take it over.”
“Ah.” Scott’s narrow eyes were shrewd. “Good break for you, then. It’ll be a big son of a bitch, I bet. They wouldn’t waste you on anything pissant-like. So you’ll be able to set it up the way you want to, will you?”
“That’s what Koenig says, anyways,” Jeff answered. “I’ll find out how much he means it when I get there. Some—I’m pretty sure o’ that. All the way? Well, Jesus walked on water, but there ain’t been a hell of a lot of miracles since.”
“Heh,” Scott said. “Yeah. That’d be funny, if only it was funny. Well, you earned it—screw me if you didn’t.” He stuck out his hand. Jeff solemnly shook it. The clasp seemed less a trial of strength than their handshakes usually did. Still shrewd, Scott went on, “What’s Edith Blades gonna think about it?”
Pinkard shrugged. “Dunno yet. I only just found out myself. I got to see what she thinks, see if she feels like packin’ up and headin’ west.”
“You’re serious,” Scott said in some surprise.
“Expect I am,” Jeff agreed. “She’s a nice gal. She’s a sweet gal. She wouldn’t play around on you, not like—not like some.” He didn’t need to tell Mercer Scott the unhappy story of his first marriage.
Scott didn’t push him. Maybe the guard chief already knew. He just said, “Good luck to you.” His voice was far away. His eyes weren’t quite on Jeff, either. He was looking around Camp Dependable. Jeff had no trouble figuring out what he was thinking about: things he’d do different when he took over.
That would be his worry. Jeff had plenty of things to think about, too. Paying a call on Edith once he got off duty topped the list, but only barely. Part of his mind was already way the hell out in Texas. Just like Mercer Scott, he was thinking about what he’d do when he started his new post. But Edith did come first.
He couldn’t telephone her. She didn’t have a telephone. He drove on over that evening after sundown. Her boys said, “It’s Mr. Pinkard!” when she opened the door. They sounded glad to see him. That made him feel good. He’d never had much to do with kids since he stopped being one himself, not till now.
“Well, so it is,” she said. “Come on in, Jeff. What brings you here?”
He told his story all over again. This time, he finished, “An’ I was wondering, if I was to go to Texas, whether you’d like to come along—you and the kids, of course.” He didn’t want her thinking he didn’t give a damn about the boys. He wasn’t even trying to fool her, because he did like them.
She said, “That depends. I could go out there and we’d keep on seeing each other like we been, or I could go out there married to you. I’m not saying you’ve got to propose to me now, Jeff, but I tell you straight out I won’t go out there in between the one of those and the other, if you know what I mean.”
He nodded. He knew exactly what she meant. He liked her better for meaning it, not less. He would gladly have slept with her if she’d let him, but he never would have thought about marrying her if she had. He said, “I’d be right pleased to marry you, if that’s what you want to do.” His heart pounded. Would he be pleased? One way or the other, he’d find out.
“That’s what I’d like to do,” she said. “I’d be proud to go to Texas as your fiancée. I’d like to wait till Chick’s dead a year before I marry again, if you don’t mind too much.”
“I don’t mind,” Jeff said. Too much, he thought.
Tom Colleton h
ad hoped to land another leave down in Columbus. Then the USA threw a fresh attack at Sandusky. It was more an annoyance than a serious effort to drive the Confederates out. The blizzard that blew into the U.S. soldiers’ faces as they advanced from the east didn’t make their lives any easier, either. After a couple of days of probing and skirmishing, they sullenly drew back to their own lines—those who could still withdraw, of course.
Whatever else the attack accomplished, it made the Confederate high command nervous. An order canceling all leaves came down from on high. Privates and sergeants hoping for some time away from the front were disappointed. So was Tom Colleton. One more reason to hate the damnyankees, he thought as the arctic wind off Lake Erie threatened to turn him into an icicle.
For a wonder, the Confederate powers that be actually suspected they might have disappointed their men. From officers of such exalted grade, that was almost unprecedented. Colleton put it down to Jake Featherston’s influence on the Army. Say what you would about the President of the CSA, but he’d been a noncom up close to the front all through the Great War. He knew how ordinary soldiers thought and what they needed. Some of that knowledge got through to the people directly in charge of the Army these days.
They tried to make up for banning leaves by sending entertainers up to Sandusky. It wasn’t the same—they didn’t send a brothel’s worth of women up there, for instance—but it was better than nothing.
There were some women in the troupe: singers and dancers. The soldiers who packed a high-school auditorium whooped and cheered and hollered. Officers were no less raucous than enlisted men. They might have charged the stage if a solid phalanx of military policemen with nightsticks hadn’t stood between them and the objects of their desire.
Most of the acts that didn’t have girls in them met a reception as frigid as the weather outside. A comic who told jokes about the war but was plainly making his closest approach to anything that had to do with combat by being here almost got booed off the stage.
“You cocksucker, you’d shit your drawers if you saw a real Yankee with a real gun in his hands!” somebody yelled. A fierce roar of approval rose from the crowd. It was all downhill from there for the luckless comic.
One exception to the rule was a Negro musical combo called Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces. Negro musicians had been part of life in the Confederate States since long before the War of Secession—and Satchmo was a trumpeter the likes of whom Tom Colleton had never seen or heard. The rest of the Rhythm Aces were good without being especially memorable. Backing the brilliant Satchmo, they shone brighter in the light of his reflected glory.
With a harsh spotlight on him, he looked like nothing so much as a big black frog. His eyes and his cheeks bulged in a way that would have been comical except for the sounds that came out of his horn. A man who made music like that? No matter what he looked like, you couldn’t help taking him seriously.
A man sitting in the row behind Tom said, “I’ll be goddamned if that nigger don’t look scared to death.”
He was right. Colleton realized as much almost at once. He’d taken Satchmo’s grimaces and contortions as some ill-advised comedy thrown into the act. Colored performers often did things like that when they played in front of whites. But these weren’t the usual nigger’s smirks and simpers. They didn’t come close to fitting the music, either, and Satchmo wasn’t the sort of man who would have sullied that.
What was he so afraid of? Nobody here was going to do anything to him. On the contrary: the soldiers were listening in the enchanted silence only the finest performers could earn. When Satchmo finished a number, the cheering nearly tore the roof off the auditorium.
What, then? Tom shrugged. You couldn’t expect Negroes to love the CSA. As far as Tom was concerned, they deserved a lot of what they were getting. He remembered the way the Marshlands plantation had been, and the ruin it was now. If the colored Reds hadn’t risen up, that wouldn’t have happened. But blacks didn’t like it so much now that the shoe pinched the other foot.
Tom didn’t know everything the Freedom Party was doing down in the CSA. He did know he wasn’t sorry for it, whatever it was. He’d never asked himself where the phrase population reduction came from. Few whites had, though they used it. Had the question occurred to him, he might have understood why terror lay under Satchmo’s music.
When the trumpeter and the Rhythm Aces finished their set, they got another thunderous hand. Tom wasn’t the only man who leaped to his feet to show how much he’d liked them. They played an encore and got even more applause, enough to prompt a second encore. They could have played all night, as far as the soldiers went. At last, though, Satchmo mimed exhaustion.
“I thanks you right kindly, gentlemen,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, “but we gots us another gig in the mornin’. When the gummint done sent us up here to Yankeeland, they made sure they kep’ us busy.”
How many shows did they have to play? How much rest did they get between them? The answers were bound to be lots and not much, respectively. Reluctantly, the Confederate soldiers let them go—and then jeered the white song-and-dance man who had the misfortune to come on after them.
Quite a few men got up and left after Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces quit the stage. They might have been saying they were sure they wouldn’t see anything else worth watching. Tom sat through the rest of the evening. He saw a few more pretty girls than the soldiers who’d walked out early, but that was about it.
He tramped back through the snow to the house where he’d been staying since his regiment reached Sandusky. The Yankees who’d lived there before him had either got out or been killed. The house itself had taken some damage, but not a lot. With wood in the fireplace and coal in the stove, it was cozy enough, even in wintertime.
A commotion—men running every which way and shouting—woke Tom before sunup the next morning. He put on his boots and the greatcoat he’d piled on top of his blanket and went out to see what the hell was going on. The only thing he was sure of was that it wasn’t the damnyankees: nobody was shooting and nobody was screaming in the way only wounded men did.
He got his answer when a soldier burst out, “Them goddamn niggers’ve run off!” By the fury in his voice, he might have been an overseer back in the days before the Confederate States manumitted their slaves.
“Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces?” Tom asked. He couldn’t imagine men making such a fuss over either of the other colored acts in the show.
“That’s right. Goddamn stinking ungrateful coons,” the soldier said. “We catch their black asses, we’ll make ’em sorry they was ever born.”
“They’re probably already sorry,” Tom said. “And if they aren’t now, they will be pretty damn quick. Even if they do make it through our lines, they’ll find out the damnyankees don’t like niggers a hell of a lot more than we do.”
The soldier—a sergeant who needed a shave—nodded. “That’s a fact, sir. But I want to make ’em as sorry as they can be. They got themselves a nerve, playin’ like that last night and then runnin’ away. Like I said, ungrateful bastards.”
“Which way did they go?” Tom asked. “In this snow, they should have left a trail a mile wide.”
“What it looks like they done is, it looks like they stole themselves a command car,” the noncom said. “Once they got on the eastbound road, their goddamn tire tracks look like everybody else’s.”
He was right about that. Command cars often mounted machine guns, too. Whoever tried to stop the blacks might get a nasty surprise. “Did you send a wireless message on ahead, warning people the niggers are liable to be on the way?” Tom asked.
“Sure did, sir,” the unshaven sergeant answered, “but Christ only knows how much good it’ll do. We only just found out they was gone—reckon the ruction’s what rousted you out of the sack—and they have hours of start. They could’ve gone a hell of a long ways before we knew they took off.”
He was right about that, too. Tom said, “God help their sorry n
ecks if we do catch ’em. They’ll get their population reduced faster than you can whistle, ‘Dixie.” “
“Just goes to show you can’t trust a nigger no matter what,” the noncom said. “Somebody down in the CSA figured those spooks wouldn’t make a break for it if he let ’em get close to the damnyankees. That’s what he figured, but it sure looks like he was full of shit.”
Another soldier came running out of regimental headquarters. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted. “Just got word back from the east. They found a picket post, looks like it was all shot to hell. Shot to hell from this side, mind you, not like the Yankees done it. Hell with me if those coons didn’t get away.”
Tom and the sergeant both swore. Evidently the stolen command car had carried a machine gun. Had one of the Rhythm Aces, or maybe even Satchmo himself, served a weapon like that in the uprisings of 1915 and 1916? Or—worse thought yet—had one of them served in the C.S. Army during the Great War and learned to use a machine gun there? So much for gratitude: if he had, he’d just bitten the hand that fed him.
And the Confederate pickets would have been paying attention to the U.S. troops in front of them, not to a command car coming up from behind. They would have figured an officer was coming up to look things over. It would have been the last mistake they ever made.
“How far from there to the Yankees’ positions?” Tom asked.
“Not very far, sir,” answered the soldier who’d heard the report.
“Any sign of dead niggers between the outpost and the U.S. lines?”
“No, sir.”
“They got away, then, sure as hell.” Tom cussed some more. So did the sergeant. After a moment, so did the man who’d brought the news. Tom went on, “The real pisser is, odds are they won’t let any more niggers come up and perform after this. I bet they ship the other colored acts in this troupe back home, too. It’s a damn shame for soldiers, is what it is. We aren’t using niggers to fight. If we can’t use ’em to entertain, what are they good for?”
Settling Accounts Return Engagement: Book One of the Settling Accounts Trilogy Page 68
