The Guns of the South

by Harry Turtledove

  Angry shouts, the pound of running feet, a yell with words to it: “Get the filthy nigger!” A shabbily dressed black man dashed across Franklin from Eighth Street, almost in front of Traveller’s nose. The horse snorted and reared. Lee had hardly begun to fight him back under control when at least a dozen whites, many waving clubs, came pounding after the Negro.

  Nothing will anger a professional soldier faster than the sight of a mob, raw force turned loose on the world without discipline. “Halt!” Lee shouted, tossing his head in a perfect fury of rage. Two of the white men at the head of the baying pack wore pieces of Confederate uniform. The abrupt command and the tone in which it was given brought them up short. Others tumbled into them. But at the very front, a fellow in the overalls and leather apron of a blacksmith brought down the Negro with a flying tackle. Even he, though, did not hit the black man with the hammer he carried in his right hand.

  “What-in-God’s-name-is-going-on-here?” Lee demanded, biting off the words one by one. He glared at the men before him. Now they looked sheepish rather than vicious. Several, like the one who had tackled the Negro, were smiths; others, by their clothes, day laborers who hadn’t labored many days lately. But one was a policeman and another, Lee saw with a touch of disquiet, wore the mottled tunic and trousers of the Rivington men. That fellow set hands on hips and insolently stared back at Lee.

  Ignoring him for the moment, Lee asked the policeman, “You, sir, were you seeking to quell this unseemly disturbance?”

  From the ground, the Negro answered before the policeman could: “He weren’t doin’ no such thing, suh! He leadin’ ‘em on.”

  “You deserve everything you’ll get, you—” The white man sitting on the black raised his hammer, as if to strike. Then he met Lee’s eyes. The sword Lee carried was a purely ceremonial side arm, part of his dress uniform; one blow from that hammer would have snapped it in two. In any case, the sword stayed in its sheath. But Lee’s presence was a stronger weapon than any sword. The smith lowered the hammer as carefully as if it were a fused shell.

  “Perhaps you will do me the honor of explaining why you have chosen to run wild through the streets of Richmond,” Lee said with ironic courtesy.

  The smith flushed, but answered readily enough: “To teach this here nigger a lesson, that’s why. He works so cheap, he takes my customers away. How’s a white man supposed to make a living if he has to work alongside niggers?”

  Two or three other blacksmiths growled agreement. So did the day laborers, the policeman, and several members of the crowd that was rapidly gathering to watch the proceedings. The only black face to be seen was that of the fellow the smith was sitting on. “Let him up,” Lee said impatiently. When the smith did, Lee asked the Negro, “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “I’se a free man, suh. I done bought myself out jus’ befo’ the war start, spend all my time since down to the Tredegar Iron Works, doin’ what smifs do. Since the shootin’ stop, things get right slow there, an’ they don’ give me ‘nough work to keep busy, so I set up fo’ my own self. Jus’ tryin’ to git along, suh, that’s all I do.”

  “Are you willing to work for less than these men here?” Lee asked.

  The Negro smith shrugged. “Don’ need much—jus’ tryin’ to git along, like I said.” He showed a flash of spirit: “’Sides, if’n I charge as much as they do, they call me an uppity nigger, say I’s actin’ like I’s as good as they is. That’s how things be, suh.”

  Lee knew that was how things were. He turned to the smiths who had tackled the Negro. “Is what this man says true? He’s done you no harm, he aided his country—and yours—all through the war, and you seek to take the law into your own hands against him?”

  “Reckon what he says is true enough.” The white man looked down at his feet so he would not have to face Lee’s wrath. But he stubbornly went on, “Who says he’s done me no harm? He’s stealing my livelihood, goddam it. I got my own family to feed. Am I supposed to drop down to nigger wages myself to stay even with this black bastard? Don’t seem right nor fair to me.”

  “When has General Lee ever had to worry about what’s fair or right for ordinary whites?” The Rivington man’s half-British, half-harsh accent was as out of place on the Richmond street as his mottled clothes, but he seemed to speak for many in the crowd: “He has more houses, has more land, than he knows what to do with. Not for the likes of him to worry about a kaff—nigger—taking his work away. So where does he get the right to stand up on the mountaintop and tell us we can do nothing about it?”

  “That’s the truth, by God,” someone said. “So it is,” somebody else echoed.

  What Lee had were more debts and obligations than he knew what to do with. Nobody here would care to listen to that, though, or believe it if he heard it. The Rivington man knew how to swing folk his way, and went about it ruthlessly—no one native to Richmond would have attacked Lee head-on as he did.

  Lee knew he had to reply at once, or lose the authority his position brought him: this would be closer to the rough and tumble of the battlefield than to his polite if sometimes savage exchanges with the Federal commissioners. He said, “Poor men have more to fear when the laws go down than the rich, for they are less able to protect themselves without law. You had all better shiver when you see a policeman rioting rather than putting down a riot, for he may well come after you next, or stand aside when someone else does.”

  The policeman, a great many eyes suddenly upon him, did his best to sink into the dirt of Franklin Street. Lee continued, “No one, not even the men pursuing him, claims this Negro broke any law or, in fact, did anything wrong. Will they come after you next, sir, if they don’t care for your prices?” He startled a man in the crowd by pointing at him. “Or you? Or you?” He pointed twice more, got no reply.

  The Rivington man started to say something. Lee interrupted him, glaring at the men in Confederate gray: “Your comrades gave their lives, and gave them gladly, so we could live under laws of our own choosing. Do you choose now to live without law altogether? I should sooner have surrendered to Abraham Lincoln and lived under Washington City’s rule than subject myself to no rule at all. You make me ashamed to call myself a Virginian and a Southerner.”

  His troops had always feared his displeasure more than any Minié ball. One of the former soldiers choked out, “Sorry, Marse Robert.” Another simply turned on his heel and walked away, which seemed to be a signal for the whole crowd to start dispersing.

  The Rivington man, still uncowed, said, “I never thought anyone who called himself a Virginian and a Southerner would take the black man’s part over the white’s. People will hear of this, General Lee.”

  I shall make sure people hear of this, was what he meant. “Say what you will, sir,” Lee answered. “Being without ambition for any post other than the one I presently hold” —which was true and more than true, no matter what Jefferson Davis had in mind for him—”I fear no lies, while the truth will only do me credit.”

  The Rivington man stamped away without replying. The soles of his heavy boots left chevroned patterns in the street. Lee had noticed that before. Absently, he wondered how such gripping soles were made; they were plainly superior to smooth leather or wood. One more trick from the future, he thought. He rather wished the future had been content to take care of itself and leave his own time alone. Wishing did no good. He flicked Traveller’s reins and rode on.

  Custis Lee tossed a copy of the Richmond Sentinel on his father’s desk. “What’s all this in aid of?” he asked, pointing to a story most of the way down the right-hand column of the front page. “By the way it reads, you rode with John Brown instead of bringing him to justice.”

  “Let me see, my dearboy.” Lee bent close to read the small, sometimes smeared type. When he was finished, he broke out laughing. “From this alone, any man would think me worse than a radical Republican, wouldn’t he? But since people know perfectly well that I am no such creature, I trust they shall not j
udge me by this alone.”

  “I would hope not,” Custis agreed. “But what gave rise to such a—curiosity, shall I say?—in the first place? Something must have, I suppose, besides a reporter’s malice.”

  “Malice there was, but not a reporter’s.” Lee briefly explained the germ of truth behind the Sentinel story.

  “I didn’t think you’d say Lincoln would have made the Southern Confederacy a better president than Jeff Davis,” his son remarked. “It doesn’t sound like you, somehow.” He laughed too, at the size of his own understatement.

  “It doesn’t much, does it? The Rivington man who gave the Sentinel the story laid things on far too thick for anyone of sense to take the piece seriously.” But Lee’s laughter soon dried up. “Had the Rivington man not been present, the affair would have gone unreported, as indeed it should have. For that matter, I wonder if he did not instigate the whole affair. He tried his utmost, to incite the crowd against the free nigger, and against me for taking the poor wretch’s part. It is not the first disagreement on the subject I have had with the men of America Will Break.”

  Custis Lee also grew serious. His features, fleshier than his father’s, were well suited to sober consideration. He said, “They are dangerous enemies to have. I’ve watched them ever more closely since you set me the task this past February. For one thing, they spend gold freely, and in a nation as strapped for specie as is ours, that alone grants them influence disproportionate to their numbers.”

  “So I have heard,” Lee said. “ ‘For one thing’ implies ‘for another.’ What else have you heard?”

  “As will not surprise you, they line up behind those hardest on the Negro question.” Custis shook his head. “Try as we will to escape it, it remains with us, doesn’t it, Father? A bill was recently introduced in the House of Representatives calling for the reenslavement or expulsion of all free Negroes in the Confederate States. Congressman Oldham of Texas, who wrote the bill, bought a fine house hereabouts—not far from yours, as a matter of fact—and paid gold for it. And Senator Walker of Alabama, who was thought certain to oppose the legislation, has been unwontedly quiet about it. I had to undertake some little digging to find out why, but I managed.”

  “Enlighten me, please,” Lee said when Custis fell silent.

  “It seems,” Custis said, raising one eyebrow, “the Rivington men somehow obtained a daguerreotype of Senator Walker enjoying the, ah, intimate embraces of a woman not his wife. Their threat to reproduce the photograph and spread it broadside through Montgomery was plenty to gain his silence.”

  “Not what one would call a gentlemanly tactic,” Lee observed.

  “No, but damned effective.” Custis chuckled. “It must have been a damned languorous embrace, too, for them to have held still long enough for the camera to capture them. And how could they have failed to notice that camera and the man behind it?”

  “The Rivington men brought us something new in the line of rifles. Why should they not also have cameras better than ours?”

  Lee spoke casually, but the words seemed to hang in the air after they left his lips. The repeaters, the desiccated foods, the medicines the Rivington men brought from 2014 were marvels here and now, for he and his fellows saw them apart from their proper context. But in 2014, they had to be ordinary. Of what else might that be true? Of almost anything, was the only answer that came to Lee. The thought worried him. If the Rivington men could pull wonders out from under their hats whenever they needed one, how could anybody keep them from doing whatever they wanted? He came up with no good answer to the question.

  “You see, Father, they can be dangerous,” Custis persisted.

  “I never doubted it, my dear boy.” Lee wondered if some man in mottled clothing had followed him around with an impossibly small camera. He’d always had an eye for pretty women, and with his wife both ill and no longer young, he might well have been thought likely to commit an indiscretion. But duty ruled his personal life as sternly as his public one. His hypothetical photographic spy would have gone home disappointed.

  “What now, Father?” Custis asked.

  “Pass on what you’ve learned about Congressman Oldham and Senator Walker to the President,” Lee said. “That is something he needs to know, and you may not have uncovered all of it”

  “I shall inform him directly,” Custis promised. He reached across the desk, set a hand on his father’s arm. A little surprised and more than a little touched, the elder Lee looked into his son’s eyes. Concern in his voice, Custis said, “You take thought for yourself as well. The Rivington men are unkind to those who choose to stand against them. They may choose means more direct than this.” He tapped the copy of the Richmond Sentinel.

  “In any case, they are but a handful among us, and not worth my worry,” Lee said. “If I allow them to turn me aside from my own purpose, they shall have beaten me.”

  Custis nodded, reassured. Lee, however, found himself less easy of mind, not more, after his bold words. The Rivington men might be a handful, but they were a handful with powers the more dangerous for being so largely unknown. He would not walk soft on their account, but he would not close his eyes to them, either.

  “Sit down, my friends,” Judah Benjamin said as the Federal peace commissioners came into the Cabinet chamber. He, Vice President Stephens, and General Lee waited for Lincoln’s representatives to take chairs before they seated themselves. Then Benjamin went on,” Am I to understand you have at last a reply to our proposal for elections in Kentucky and Missouri?”

  “We do,” William H. Seward said.

  “Took you, or rather Mr. Lincoln, long enough,” Alexander Stephens observed acidly.” Your election is less than three weeks away.”

  “You and Mr. Benjamin both served as U.S. Senators,” Seward said. “You understand that reaching a decision of such importance cannot be hurried.” Lee—and no doubt his colleagues with him—also understood the decision, whatever it was, had been timed to furnish Lincoln the greatest possible political advantage. No one, however, was crass enough to say so straight out.

  “And what conclusion has your principal reached, sir?” Benjamin asked when Seward showed no sign of announcing that conclusion without being urged to do so.

  The U.S. Secretary of State said, “Regretfully, I must inform you that the President declines your suggestion. He still maintains the position that the Federal Union is indivisible, and cannot in good conscience acquiesce to any plan which involves its further disruption. That is his final word on the subject.”

  Lee sat very still to keep from showing how disappointed he was. He saw war clouds rising over the two states still in dispute. He saw trains setting out from Rivington, trains full of AK-47s and metal cartridges. He saw the men of America Will Break further cementing their influence over the Confederate States: in battle, their aid would be a sine qua non against the richer North.

  “I wish Mr. Lincoln would reconsider,” he said.

  Seward shook his head. “As I told you, General, I have given you his final word. Have you any further propositions to set before him?” When none of the Confederate commissioners replied, he got to his feet. “A very good day to you, then, gentlemen.” With Stanton and Butler in his train, he swept out of the chamber.

  “How can our nation bear another war so soon?” Lee groaned.

  “It may not come to that, General Lee.” Judah Benjamin’s perennial smile grew broader. “Having lost the war, Lincoln must show as much strength now as he can. His ‘final’ word may seem much less so after the eighth proximo. If he wins the election, he will no longer need to posture before the voters, and so may be more inclined to see reason. And if he loses, he may consent for fear the Democrats will offer us greater concessions come March.”

  Lee stroked his beard as he considered that. After a few seconds. he bowed in his seat to the Confederate Secretary of State. “Were my hat on, sir, I would take it off to you. I see yet again that in matters political, I am but a babe in the wood
s. Deception is an essential element of the art of war, yes, but in your sphere it seems not only essential but predominant.”

  “You manage nicely, General, despite your disturbing tincture of honesty,” Benjamin assured him. “The proposition the Federals are considering came from you, after all.”

  “Honesty is not always a fatal defect in a politician,” Alexander Stephens added. “Sometimes it even becomes attractive, no doubt by virtue of its novelty.”

  The two veterans of the political arena chuckled together, Benjamin deeply from his comfortable belly, Stephens with a few thin, dry rasps. The Vice President’s eyes flicked over Lee, who wondered if Stephens knew of Jefferson Davis’s plans for him and, if so, what he thought. Stephens might well have wanted the Presidency for himself and resented Lee as a rival.

  If he did, he gave no sign. All he said was,” As no further progress seems likely before the United States hold their elections, we may as well recess until those results are known. Unless one of you gentlemen objects, I shall so communicate to the Federal commissioners.”

  Judah Benjamin nodded. So did Lee, saying, “By all means. Nor will I be sorry to gain a further respite. After so long in the field, I find being in the bosom of my family exceedingly pleasant. Indeed, if you will be kind enough to excuse me, I shall head for my house this very moment.”

  Again, no one objected.

  Nate Caudell hurried into the Nashville general store. Raeford Liles looked up at the tinkle of the doorbell. “Oh, mornin’, Nate. What can I do for you today?”

  “You can sell me a hat, by God.” Caudell ran his hands through his hair and beard. Already wet, they came away wetter. Rain drummed on the roof, the door, the windows. “I lost my last one up in the Wilderness and I’ve been without ever since.”

  “What d’you have in mind?” Liles pointed to a row of hats on hooks up near the ceiling. “A straw, maybe? Or a silk stovepipe, to get duded up in?”

  “No thanks to both of those, Mr. Liles. All I want is a plain black felt, same as the one I lost. Say that one here, if it fits me, and you don’t want half my next year’s pay for it.”