Settling Accounts Return Engagement: Book One of the Settling Accounts Trilogy

by Harry Turtledove

  “Who says niggers are good for anything?” the sergeant growled. “It’d be a better country if we didn’t have to worry about ’em no more.”

  The other soldier standing there in the snow nodded. Tom didn’t argue. He wouldn’t have been sorry to see all the blacks in the CSA disappear, either. He didn’t have the stomach for killing them all himself, but he wouldn’t shed a tear if the Freedom Party found men who did. As for Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces . . . “I can think of some we don’t have to worry about any more—unless the Yankees use ’em to mock us.” That could be a nuisance. But, as long as he stood here by Lake Erie, it couldn’t be much more than a nuisance.

  Flora Blackford picked up the telephone in her office. “Yes? What is it?” she said.

  “Mr. Roosevelt wants to speak to you, Congresswoman,” her secretary answered.

  “Thank you, Bertha. Of course I’ll talk to him,” Flora said. When the Assistant Secretary of War came on the line, she continued, “Good morning, Mr. Roosevelt. What can I do for you today?”

  “Hello, Congresswoman.” As always, Franklin Roosevelt sounded jaunty in spite of his paralysis. “I’ve just run into something that I thought might interest you.”

  “What is it?” Flora asked.

  “Seems some colored musical ensemble that was up in Ohio to entertain Confederate soldiers decided the grass was greener on our side of the fence. They got away. I gather they shot up some Confederates doing it, too.”

  “Good for them!” Flora exclaimed. “They didn’t get shot when they walked into our lines?”

  “They drove in, as a matter of fact—they stole a command car. That’s what gave them their firepower,” Roosevelt answered. “No, they didn’t get shot. I’m not sure they know how lucky they are.”

  “What are we going to do with them? We can’t very well send them back—that would be murder,” Flora said.

  “No, we’ll keep them. We can use their testimony about Confederate atrocities. And they’re supposed to be pretty good musicians, if you like that kind of thing.” Roosevelt’s laugh was a little self-conscious. “Not really to my taste, I’m afraid: too wild. But some people are excited that they’ve made it over the border. Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces, they’re called.”

  “Satchmo?” Flora wasn’t sure she’d heard straight.

  “That’s right.” Franklin Roosevelt laughed again. “I gather he was named, er, Sennacherib, but nobody who knew him could pronounce it. I believe that—I can’t pronounce it myself.”

  “Sennacherib is a fancy handle even for a Negro from the Confederate States,” Flora agreed. “Will we be bringing, uh, Satchmo and the—the Rhythm Aces, did you say?—to Philadelphia? This is where the wireless networks have their headquarters.”

  “Yes, I think we’ll do that. I don’t know how much broadcasting we’ll have them do, though. What we call English and what they call English are almost two different languages, I’m afraid.”

  “I’d like to see them when they get here,” Flora said.

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d say that.” The Assistant Secretary of War sounded pleased. “You’ve taken the lead in telling the world about what the Confederates are doing to their colored population.”

  “It’s worse than what the Ottomans did to the Armenians during and after the Great War,” Flora said. “If the Russians started killing off their Jews, that might come close, but even it wouldn’t be the same.”

  “The Russians or the Germans,” Roosevelt said. “With the Kingdom of Poland a German puppet, the Kaiser rules over as many Jews as the Tsar does.”

  “Yes, but the Russians have pogroms for the fun of it, and to distract people from what a mess the Tsar’s government is,” Flora answered. “The Germans are too civilized for that kind of thing, thank God.”

  “Half their brain trust are Jews, too. They can’t afford to do without them,” Roosevelt said. “But that’s beside the point. Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces have heard about you, too. So I’m doubly glad you want to meet them, because they’ve already said they want to meet you.”

  “How have they heard about me? Do you know?” Flora asked.

  “From the wireless, mostly, I think,” Roosevelt told her. “That’s good to hear; it shows some of our propaganda is getting through. Would you like to be there on the platform when they come in?”

  “That might be nice.” Flora sighed reminiscently. “When I was first elected to Congress and came down here to start my term, Hosea met me on the platform and took me to my flat. That was the first time we met. I had no idea it would go the way it did.”

  “He was a good man. A good man,” Franklin Roosevelt said. “I’ve always thought it was horribly unfair to blame the business collapse on him. If it weren’t for that, he would have made a fine President. No, that’s not right—he did make a fine President. It’s just that the times were against him.”

  “Thank you. I’ve always thought the same thing,” Flora said. “And we elected Coolidge—and got Hoover. Coolidge wouldn’t have made things better, and Hoover didn’t. And the Confederates chose Jake Featherston, and the French got Action Française and a king, and the English got Mosley and Churchill. That’s a lot to pin on an Austro-Hungarian bank failure, but it’s the truth.”

  “If you toss a pebble into a snowbank, you can start an avalanche that will wipe out everything down below,” Roosevelt said. “The first failure was a pebble, and the avalanche rolled downhill from there.”

  “Didn’t it just!” Flora said mournfully.

  When Roosevelt spoke again, it was after a paper-shuffling pause: “Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces get into town at the Broad Street station, Platform 27, at . . . let me see . . . at half past nine tomorrow night. That’s when they’re scheduled, I should say. Confederate bombers and Confederate saboteurs may change everyone’s plans.”

  “Oh, yes, I know,” Flora replied. “Well, I’ll get there on time—unless an air raid changes my plans.”

  “Thank you very much.” Franklin Roosevelt hung up.

  To Flora’s relief, the sirens didn’t howl that night. The Confederates weren’t coming over Philadelphia quite so much these days. More of their airplanes were staying home to attack the U.S. forces slogging forward through an ocean of blood in Virginia. She had no trouble getting a cab and going over to the Broad Street station.

  Platform 27 wasn’t the one where she’d got off the train from New York City all those years ago. Too bad, she thought. She’d wondered if Franklin Roosevelt would also be there to greet the escaped musicians. He wasn’t, but several lesser War Department dignitaries were.

  The train ran late. Some years before, there’d been an Italian politician who’d promised to make the trains run on time if he were elected. He hadn’t been; nobody had believed he could do it. Flora tried to remember his name, but couldn’t, which only went to show how unimportant he’d been. U.S. trains weren’t so bad as their Italian counterparts were said to be, but they weren’t all that good, either. And the war had done nothing to help.

  At ten, Flora was resigned. At half past, she was annoyed. At eleven, she didn’t know whether to be furious or worried. The train finally pulled into the station at ten minutes to twelve. That irked her all over again. She’d decided to give the laggard locomotive till midnight. After that, she could have gone home and gone to bed in good conscience. She wouldn’t see bed at even a halfway reasonable hour now.

  People who got off before Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces shook their heads and grumbled, often profanely, about delays and detours. A few of them muttered apologies to Flora as they walked by. One of the foulest-mouthed passengers, though, was a woman, and she was in no mood to apologize to anybody for anything.

  Flora had no trouble recognizing the men she was looking for. In the bright light under the platform, the Negroes seemed all eyeballs and teeth. They wore green-gray uniform tunics and trousers with the highly polished shoes that must have accompanied more formal wear. They stared every which way
, plainly with no idea what to do next.

  She stepped up to them, gave her name, and said, “Welcome to Philadelphia. I’d say welcome to freedom, but there’s a party down in the CSA that’s given the word a bad name.”

  All five of the black men grinned and nodded. “Ain’t it the truth!” said the one who stood out a little from the rest. If he wasn’t Satchmo, she would have been very surprised. He had a deep, raspy voice and an engagingly ugly face. “We’re right pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Blackford. Ain’t that right, boys?” The other Negroes nodded again, in unison.

  The men from the War Department were a few paces behind Flora. Since they were the ones who were going to take charge of the newcomers, she stepped aside and let them introduce themselves. Then she asked, “What is it like for a Negro in the Confederate States these days?”

  “Ma’am, I reckon you got a notion already that it’s pretty bad,” Satchmo said. Flora didn’t need to nod to show she did. The musician went on, “All right. Well, for true, it’s a hundred times that bad.” The other Rhythm Aces murmured agreement, as if he were a lead singer and they his backup vocalists.

  “Do most of the Negroes in the CSA know what the Freedom Party is doing to them—to you?” Flora asked.

  One of the Aces spoke on his own for the first time: “If we didn’t, ma’am, you reckon we take the chance o’ doin’ what we done?”

  “But musicians like you travel all over the place. You hear things most people wouldn’t,” Flora persisted. “What about ordinary Negroes who stay in one spot? Do they know what’s happening in those Freedom Party camps?”

  A major asked, “Do they hear our wireless broadcasts? We try to let them know what’s going on.” He had to be in Intelligence or Propaganda. Nobody who wasn’t could have made that sound so smooth.

  “They hear some, I reckon, but the Freedom Party jams you pretty good, suh,” Satchmo replied. “Don’t want nobody, white or colored, listenin’ to the damnyankee wireless.”

  Flora had heard white Confederates say damnyankee as if it were one word. She hadn’t expected a black man to do the same. “How do they know, then?—the black people in the CSA, I mean.”

  The musicians looked at her. One of them said, “Everybody know somebody done got sucked into a camp. Ain’t nobody know nobody who ever come out again. We ain’t educated. White folks in the CSA always been afraid o’ what’d happen if we git educated. But we ain’t stupid, neither. Don’t gotta be no sly, sneaky Jew to figure out what folks goin’in an’ not comin’ out means.”

  He knew as little of Jews as Flora did of Negroes, probably less. She had to remind herself of that. And he’d made his point. She said, “Well, you’re safe here—as long as a bomb doesn’t fall on your head. We all take that chance.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. God bless you, ma’am,” Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces chorused together.

  “You’re welcome,” Flora said. “And I’ll do whatever I can to stop those Freedom Party goons from massacring your people. I don’t know how much that will be, but I’ll do my damnedest.” She hardly ever swore, but it seemed fitting now.

  “God bless you,” Satchmo repeated. “Nice to know somebody here cares a little, anyways. Ain’t nobody south of the border cares at all.”

  How many people north of the border cared at all? Too few, too few. Flora didn’t care to tell Satchmo that. He and his friends had just escaped from worse. Let them find out a little at a time that they hadn’t come to paradise. That way—maybe—their hearts wouldn’t break.

  Cincinnatus Driver couldn’t believe he’d been stuck in Covington more than a year. He knew he was lucky his father hadn’t had to bury him here, but he wasn’t always sure his luck in surviving had been good.

  Just the same, he had made progress. He still used a cane, and feared he would for the rest of his life. He was fairly spry with it now, where he had been an arthritic tortoise. He didn’t get headaches as often as he had not long after the accident, either, and the ones that did come weren’t so blinding. Progress. He laughed. It was either that or cry. He’d gone from worse to bad. Huzzah!

  His mother, now, his mother went from bad to worse. She still knew who Seneca was, and sometimes Cincinnatus, but that was almost her only hold on the real world. She made messes like a toddler. The first time Cincinnatus cleaned her, he burst into tears as soon as he got out of the room. He had to harden himself to do it over and over again. He never cried after that once, but it tore at his heart every time. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. She’d done this for him when he was little. That he should have to do it for her . . .

  He found himself looking at his father. Would he have to do the same for him one day? The horror of that thought drove Cincinnatus out of the house. He could have gone to the Brass Monkey; getting drunk would—well, might—have kept him from dwelling on it. Instead, he headed for Lucullus’. He couldn’t buy a drink there, not officially, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get something to wet his whistle if he wanted to. Knowing the proprietor had its advantages.

  The place wasn’t crowded when he limped in. He hadn’t thought it would be, not on a drizzly Tuesday afternoon. But it wasn’t empty, either. As far as he knew, Lucullus’ place was never empty. The barbecue was too good for that. Negroes and whites both came here. As usual, whites sat at some tables, blacks at others, and. . . . There, a white man and a Negro sat across from each other at the same table. That was out of the ordinary not only at Lucullus’ but anywhere in the CSA.

  Then Cincinnatus saw the Negro at the table was Lucullus himself. The bulky barbecue chef broke the rules whenever he pleased. The white man glanced up as Cincinnatus came in. The fellow didn’t look to be far from a skid row bum. His gray hair came down in odd tufts from under a disreputable hat. He’d needed a shave for three or four days. His scruffy sweater had had spots on it before barbecue sauce added a more colorful one.

  None of that had anything to do with the icy lizards that walked up Cincinnatus’ back. Going around like somebody who’d been hitting the bottle too hard for too long might fool most people, but not Cincinnatus. He would have recognized Luther Bliss in pancake makeup and a little black dress, let alone this outfit.

  His face must have given him away. Bliss said something to Lucullus, who looked up. He waved to Cincinnatus and beckoned him over. Cincinnatus would sooner have jumped into a nest of rattlesnakes. He didn’t see what choice he had, though. Moving even more slowly than he had to, he approached.

  “Well, well. Damned if it ain’t little Mary Sunshine.” Bliss sounded like a crack-brained derelict, too, which was harder than looking like one. His eyes, though, his eyes he couldn’t disguise. They were too alert, too clever, to match the rest of his pretended persona.

  “What you doin’ here?” Cincinnatus asked as he sat down—by Lucullus. Nothing in the world would have made him sit down by Luther Bliss.

  “Me? goin’to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it,” Bliss answered.

  For a moment, that made no sense to Cincinnatus. Then it did. It was from the Book of Job. “You don’t gotta do much talkin’ to make me believe you’re the Devil,” Cincinnatus said.

  Bliss brayed out a loud, stupid laugh. “Love you, too,” he said, and blew Cincinnatus a kiss.

  Cincinnatus turned to Lucullus. “What you doin’ with this man? Whatever it is, he ain’t doin’ it for you. He’s doin’ it for his ownself, nobody else.” Bliss laughed again, even more raucously. Cincinnatus glared at him once more. All that did was prove looks couldn’t kill.

  Before saying anything of consequence, Lucullus waved for a waitress and told her to fetch Cincinnatus a plate of pork ribs and a bottle of Dr. Hopper. Only after she went away did he remark, “Ain’t always who you’re for what matters. Sometimes who you’re against counts fo’ mo’.”

  “Yeah, sometimes.” Cincinnatus pointed at Luther Bliss. “He’s against you, for instance, on account of you’re a Red.” Keeping his voice down so th
e whole place wouldn’t hear what he was saying took almost more willpower than he had in him.

  “I got bigger worries right now, bigger fish to fry.” Bliss talked normally. He just made sure nobody in his right mind would want to listen. That was a considerable talent. He had a lot of them. Getting Cincinnatus to trust him would never be one.

  The waitress brought the food and the soda pop. Nobody said anything till she left. Cincinnatus wondered whether that was wasted caution. People who worked for Lucullus were probably involved in his schemes up to their eyebrows. Then the delicious aroma of the ribs distracted him. He dug in, and promptly got a stain on his shirt to match the one on Luther Bliss’ sweater.

  “How’d you like to help us give the Confederate States of America one right in the nuts?” Lucullus asked.

  He might have asked, How’d you like to buy a pig in a poke? Or he might have asked, How’d you like to get killed? Cincinnatus suspected all three questions boiled down to the same thing. “Depends,” he said. “What do I gotta do?”

  “I knew he didn’t have the balls for it,” Luther Bliss said scornfully.

  Cincinnatus didn’t raise his voice as he said, “Fuck your mother, Luther.”

  Bliss’ mahogany eyes opened very wide, perhaps at the obscenity, perhaps because a black man had presumed to call him by his first name. Before he could say anything, Lucullus beat him to it: “That’ll be enough outa both o’ you.” He glowered at white man and black in turn, as if to say they’d have to quarrel with him before they could go at each other.

  If Luther Bliss wanted a fight, Cincinnatus was ready. He didn’t even worry about being a cripple. He intended to use his cane to knock the white man ass over elbow. He didn’t figure Bliss would fight fair, so why should he?

  “You reckon you can drive a truck?” Lucullus asked him.

  “Can I? Hell, yes,” Cincinnatus answered. “Why do I want anything to do with this ofay bastard, though?” He pointed across the table at Bliss.

  “Because it’ll heap coals of fire on Jake Featherston’s head.” Lucullus could quote Scripture for his purpose, too. “Next to that, what else matters?”