American Empire_ Blood And Iron Part 34

And so, to prove the Freedom Party's national appeal, he'd had to bring the convention to the one Confederate city least friendly to him and his message. New Orleans not only had rich n.i.g.g.e.rs with their own high society, it had a whole great raft of white men who didn't care. The latter offended Jake even more than the former.

He felt better when the train pulled into the station. A company of men in white s.h.i.+rts and b.u.t.ternut trousers stood waiting for him on the platform. Some carried Freedom Party flags, others the Confederate battle flag with reversed colors that the Party also used. "Sarge!" they shouted when he left his car. "Sarge! Sarge! Sarge!"

"Good to be here," Jake lied. "Now, on to victory!" The Freedom Party stalwarts cheered l.u.s.tily. Some of the other people on the platform, New Orleans natives by the look of them, raised eyebrows and curled lips in Gallic disdain at the raucous display. Featherston hardly noticed. He was among his own again-the dispossessed, the rootless, the angry-and so back where he belonged.

When he got to the hotel, he felt as if part of Richmond had been transplanted to this alien soil. He might have been back at Party headquarters, to judge by the deference he got. That from Party members was genuine, that from the hotel staff-both white and black-professionally perfect. Wh.o.r.es, Wh.o.r.es, he thought. he thought. Nothing but wh.o.r.es. Nothing but wh.o.r.es. But, like wh.o.r.es, they made him feel good. But, like wh.o.r.es, they made him feel good.

He spotted Roger Kimball across the gorgeously rococo lobby. Kimball spotted him, too, and hurried over. He could have done without that. "Good to see you, Sarge," Kimball said, shaking his hand. "Say, are they going to try those fellows they arrested for burning down Tom Brearley's house?"

Brearley and his wife had burned, too; Jake was wryly amused Kimball hadn't mentioned that. He answered, "Reckon they are, yeah." Lowering his voice, he added, "Don't reckon any jury's gonna convict 'em, though. That's how it looks from here, anyway."

"Bully," Kimball said, and then, "I won't keep you. You've got to get settled in, I reckon." He drifted away. That was a smoother performance than Featherston had looked for from him. Thoughtfully, Jake rubbed his chin. If Kimball could be smooth as well as ferocious, he might end up making himself very valuable indeed.

After unpacking, Jake walked the couple of blocks to the convention hall, a huge marble wedding cake of a building that had gone up on Esplanade, just outside the French Quarter, a few years before the Great War. He was standing on the rostrum, looking out over the great hall, when Amos Mizell walked down the center aisle toward him. w.i.l.l.y Knight came in a couple of minutes later, before Jake and Mizell could do much more than say h.e.l.lo. Featherston was irked, but only a little; both men would have had spies in the hotel, and maybe back at the train station, too.

All the greetings were warier than they would have sounded to anyone who didn't know the men involved. At last, Mizell said, "The Tin Hats will throw their weight behind you, Jake. You're what this country needs this year, no two ways about it."

Suddenly, Featherston was awfully d.a.m.n glad he'd come to New Orleans. He'd met Mizell halfway, and now the head of the veterans' organization was coming through for him in a big way. w.i.l.l.y Knight looked as if he'd just bitten down hard on the sourest lemon ever picked. He'd been threatening that if Jake didn't tap him for vice president, he'd run for the top spot himself on an independent Redemption League ticket. That would have hurt, and hurt bad, especially in the West. He could still do it. But if the Tin Hats were loudly backing the Freedom Party, his bid would look like nothing but an exercise in spite.

Now, still sour, he asked, "You think you have any real chance of winning, Featherston?"

"Don't know for certain," Jake said easily. "The Party would have a better shot if TR had won up in the USA. Everybody down here hates him just as much as he hates us. Those Red b.a.s.t.a.r.ds they've got up there now are bending over backwards so far, it's hard to get people riled up at 'em the way they ought to be."

"You ought to count your blessings, Jake," Mizell said. "If Roosevelt had been president of the United States for longer than a couple of days after the news about your fellow down there in South Carolina broke, he'd have had his head on a plate-either that or he'd have blown Richmond to h.e.l.l and gone."

"Yeah, I was lucky there," Featherston admitted. Knight sent him another hooded glance, as if to say, If I were a little luckier, I'd be wearing your shoes now. If I were a little luckier, I'd be wearing your shoes now. He was probably right. It did him no good. He was probably right. It did him no good.

"Picked a running mate yet?" Mizell asked, casual as if wondering about what Jake intended to have for supper. Maybe he was just idly curious, the way he sounded. And maybe Jake would flap his arms and fly to the moon, too.

"Yeah," he answered, and let it go at that.

"It isn't me." Knight's voice was flat, uninflected.

"No, w.i.l.l.y, it isn't you." Jake looked him over. "And if you want to raise a stink, go right ahead. You can run your own little outfit, do whatever you want. Would you sooner be a general in a little tinpot army or a colonel in a real one?"

He waited. He didn't know how he'd answer that question himself. Knight glared at him, but finally said, "I'll stick." He didn't add, d.a.m.n you, d.a.m.n you, not quite. His eyes said it for him. not quite. His eyes said it for him.

Jake didn't care. From that moment on, he seemed to hold the world in his hands and turn it as he desired. The convention-the convention he hadn't wanted-went smooth as silk, slick as petroleum jelly. The platform called for ending reparations to the USA, restoring a sound currency, punis.h.i.+ng the people who'd botched the war, putting Negroes in their place, and making the Confederate States strong again (by which Jake meant rearming, but he remained too leery of the United States to say so openly). It pa.s.sed by thunderous voice vote; Jake hoped it would grab lots of headlines.

The next day was his. People made speeches praising him. He'd helped draft some of them. His nomination went forward as smoothly as the Confederate advance on Philadelphia should have gone at the start of the Great War. No one else's name was raised. He became the Freedom Party's choice on the first ballot.

He let it be known he wanted Ferdinand Koenig to run with him. The Freedom Party secretary had backed him when he needed it most, and deserved his reward. That didn't go quite so smoothly as the first two days of the convention had. w.i.l.l.y Knight let his name be placed in nomination, and his followers made fervent speeches about balancing the ticket geographically. Having made their speeches, they sat down-and got steamrollered. Knight sent Jake a note saying he hadn't known they would do it. It might possibly have been true. Jake wouldn't have bet a postage stamp on it.

On the night after the convention nominated Koenig, Featherston stood on the stage at the front of the smoke-filled hall and stared out at the throng of delegates calling his name. The hair at the nape of his neck tried to stand up. Three and a half years before, he'd climbed up on a streetcorner crate to take Anthony Dresser's place because the founder of the Freedom Party wasn't up to speaking to even a couple of dozen people. Thousands waited for Jake's words now. Millions-he hoped-would vote for him come November.

"We're on the way!" he shouted, and the hall erupted in cheers. He held up his hands. Silence fell, instantly and completely. G.o.d must have felt this way after He made the heavens and the earth. "We're on the way!" Jake repeated. "The Freedom Party is on the way-we're on the way to Richmond. The Confederate States are on the way-they're on the way back. And the white race is on the way-on the way to settling accounts with the c.o.o.ns who stabbed us in the back and kept us from winning the war. And we should have won the war. You all know that. We should have won the war!"

Not even his upraised hands could keep the Freedom Party delegates from yelling their heads off. He basked in the applause like a rosebush basking in the sun. When he began to speak again, the noise cut off. "The Whigs say vote for them, everything's fine, nothing's wrong, nothing's really changed a bit." Jake's guffaw was coa.r.s.e as horsehair. "Bet you a million dollars they're wrong." He pulled a $1,000,000 banknote from his pocket, crumpled it up, and threw it away.

Laughter erupted, loud as the cheers had been. Jake went on, "The Rad Libs say everything's fine, and all we need to do is cozy on up to the USA." He looked out at the crowd. "You-all want to cozy on up to the USA?" The roar of No! No! almost knocked him off his feet. almost knocked him off his feet.

"And the Socialists-our Socialists, not the fools in the United States-say everything will be fine, and all we need to do is cozy on up to the n.i.g.g.e.rs." He paused, then asked the question everyone waited for: "You-all want to cozy on up to the n.i.g.g.e.rs?" Socialists, not the fools in the United States-say everything will be fine, and all we need to do is cozy on up to the n.i.g.g.e.rs." He paused, then asked the question everyone waited for: "You-all want to cozy on up to the n.i.g.g.e.rs?" No! No! wasn't a roar this time, but a fierce and savage howl. Into it, through it, he said, "If we'd have ga.s.sed ten or fifteen thousand of those n.i.g.g.e.r Reds at the start of the war and during the war, how many good clean honest white Confederate soldiers would we have saved? Half a million? A million? Something like that. And the ones who did die, by G.o.d, they wouldn't have died for nothing, on account of we'd have won. wasn't a roar this time, but a fierce and savage howl. Into it, through it, he said, "If we'd have ga.s.sed ten or fifteen thousand of those n.i.g.g.e.r Reds at the start of the war and during the war, how many good clean honest white Confederate soldiers would we have saved? Half a million? A million? Something like that. And the ones who did die, by G.o.d, they wouldn't have died for nothing, on account of we'd have won.

"But the dirty cowards in Richmond, the corrupt imbeciles in the War Department, didn't have the nerve to do it. So the n.i.g.g.e.rs rose up, and they dragged us down. But like I said before, we're on the way again. This time, n.o.body stops us-n.o.body, do you hear me? Not the Congress. Not the jacka.s.ses in the War Department. Not the n.i.g.g.e.rs. Not the USA. n.o.body! n.o.body stops us now!"

He suddenly realized he was dripping with sweat. He'd got the crowd all hot and sweaty, too. They were on their feet, screaming. He saw a sea of glittering eyes, a sea of open mouths. He had a hard-on. He didn't just want a woman. He wanted the whole country, and he thought he might have it.

Once upon a time, the town had been called Berlin. Then, when the Great War broke out, the Canadians rechristened it Empire, not wanting it to keep the name of an enemy's capital. Jonathan Moss had flown over it then, as the U.S. Army pounded it to pieces and eventually overran it during the long, hard slog toward Toronto. Now it was Berlin again. And now he was back, a brand-new lawyer with a brand-new s.h.i.+ngle, specializing in occupation law.

He had himself a brand-new office, too. The Canadians and British had defended Empire as long as the last man who could shoot still had cartridges for his rifle. By the time the Americans forced their way into the town, hardly one stone remained atop another. The Romans could only have dreamt of visiting such destruction on Carthage. All the buildings that stood in Empire were new ones.

Arthur, Ontario, lay about thirty miles to the north. Jonathan Moss told himself over and over that that wasn't why he'd decided to set up his practice in Berlin. Sometimes he even believed it. After all, he hadn't hopped into his Bucephalus and driven up to Arthur, had he? Of course he hadn't. That meant he didn't have Laura Secord on his mind, didn't it? It did, at least some of the time.

But when days were slow, he had too much time to sit in his brand-new office and think. On days like that, he welcomed visitors not so much for the sake of the business they might bring as for their distraction value.

And so, now, he was happy to set a cigarette in the bra.s.s ashtray on his desk and greet the skinny man in the faded, s.h.i.+ny suit of prewar cut who came through the door and said, "Mr. Moss, is it?"

"That's right." Moss' swivel chair squeaked as he rose from it. He stuck out his hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr.-?"

"My name is Smith. John Smith." The skinny man sighed. "Save the question, sir: yes, that really is my name. I can prove it if I have to. There are a lot of Smiths, and my father and his father were both Johns, so..." He sighed again. "It's almost as much trouble as being named something like Cyrus Mudpuddle, or I think it must be, anyhow."

"You're likely right, Mr. Smith," said Moss, who'd taken his share of ribbing about his name over the years. "Why don't you sit down, have a smoke if you care to, and tell me what you think I can do for you." He glanced at that shabby suit again. "No fee for the first consultation." Smith was hungrier than he.

"Thank you, sir. You're very kind." Smith sat, then made a show of patting his pockets. "Oh, dear, I seem to have left my cigarettes at home."

"Have one of mine." Moss extended the pack. He'd half expected something like this. He lit a match for Smith, wondering whether he'd ever see any money from the man if he undertook to represent him. After the Canadian had taken a couple of drags, Moss repeated, "What can I do for you?"

For a moment, he didn't know if he'd get an answer. John Smith seemed entranced with pleasure at the tobacco smoke. Moss wondered how long he'd gone without. After a few seconds, though, Smith seemed to recall he hadn't come into the office just to cadge a smoke. He said, "I wish your a.s.sistance, sir, in helping me regain a piece of property taken from me without good reason."

"Very well." A lot of Moss' business was of that sort. He slid a pad toward himself and took a fountain pen from the middle drawer of his desk. "First, the basics: did you serve in the Canadian Army during the Great War?"

"No, sir," Smith said. "I am badly ruptured, I'm afraid, and was not fit for duty. I have a doctor's certificate."

"Good enough." Moss scribbled a note. "Next obvious question: have you taken the oath of loyalty to the occupation authorities?"

"Yes, I did that-did it not long after the war ended, as soon as I had the chance," Smith answered. "I am a peaceable man. I would not tell you a falsehood and say I am glad your country won the war-you are are an American, I take it?" He waited for Moss to nod, then went on, "Because I am a peaceable man, all I can do is make the best of things as I find them." an American, I take it?" He waited for Moss to nod, then went on, "Because I am a peaceable man, all I can do is make the best of things as I find them."

"That's sensible, Mr. Smith." Moss noted he'd taken the oath. "All right. I may be able to help you. If you'd answered no no to either of those questions, I couldn't possibly, and neither could any lawyer. Some would take your money and tell you they could work miracles, but they'd be lying. I make no promises yet, you understand, but you do meet the minimum criteria for pursuing a claim. Now-what piece of property are we talking about?" to either of those questions, I couldn't possibly, and neither could any lawyer. Some would take your money and tell you they could work miracles, but they'd be lying. I make no promises yet, you understand, but you do meet the minimum criteria for pursuing a claim. Now-what piece of property are we talking about?"

Smith coughed apologetically. "This one, sir."

"What?" Moss stared.

"This one, sir." John Smith looked even more embarra.s.sed. "Before the war, sir, my house stood right about"-he p.r.o.nounced it aboat aboat, as a Canadian would-"here, instead of this fine big building where you have your office."

"You want me to help you make me move out of my office?" Moss had judged Smith a man without any nerve. Now he revised his opinion. If that wasn't gall, Julius Caesar had never seen any.

With or without nerve, Smith remained a quiet, apologetic fellow. "It's not so much that I want to, sir," he said, "but this property was-is-almost the only thing I own. I've not had an easy time of it since...since the war." Maybe he'd been on the point of saying something on the order of, Since you Yankee robbers came up here. Since you Yankee robbers came up here. But maybe not, too. Maybe he'd just stumbled over a word. He seemed the type to do a good deal of that. But maybe not, too. Maybe he'd just stumbled over a word. He seemed the type to do a good deal of that.

Jonathan Moss started to laugh. He quickly held up a hand. "I'm not laughing at you, Mr. Smith-really, I'm not," he said. "But this is absurd, and I don't think you can argue with me there."

"I wouldn't think of it," Smith said, and Moss believed him. The Canadian got to his feet. "I am sorry to have troubled you."

"Don't go away!" Moss sprang to his feet, too, quick as if he'd been turning his fighting scout onto the tail of a Sopwith Pup. "I didn't say I wouldn't take your case. Let me see your doc.u.ments, Mr. Smith, and I'll see what I can do for you."

"Really?" John Smith's hangdog expression vanished, to be replaced by astonishment. "But you work here!"

"It's not like I own the building." Moss corrected himself: "It's not like I think I own the building." He wondered what he would have done in his landlord's shoes. Probably thrown Smith out so hard he bounced. But the Canuck could always have found another lawyer. Plenty of eager young hotshots had come up from the United States, and some Canadians were also jumping into occupation law.

"I-I don't know what to say," Smith told him. "Thank you very much, sir." He coughed and looked embarra.s.sed again. "I'm also afraid I'll have some trouble paying you."

One look at his suit had warned Moss that was likely. The way Smith had "forgotten" his cigarettes warned him it was as near certain as made no difference. He shrugged. "What the h.e.l.l, Mr. Smith," he said-not proper legal language, but at the moment he didn't care. "We'll see what you can afford. If you can't afford much, I'll do it for a lark. I want to see the look on my landlord's face when I serve him the papers."

"Oh, that's good. That's very good." For a moment, Smith, who had to be close to fifty, looked about fifteen. "What they call a practical joke, isn't it?"

"Isn't it just?" Moss leaned forward in his chair. "Now-let's find out exactly how practical a joke it is. Show me these doc.u.ments."

"I haven't got everything with me, I'm afraid," Smith said. Moss exhaled through his nose. He hadn't been practicing long, but he'd already seen that unprepared clients were the bane of an attorney's life. Blus.h.i.+ng, Smith went on, "I left most of the papers I still have back at my flat, because I didn't really believe you'd be interested in helping me."

"Show me what you've-" Moss stopped. "The papers you still have?" he asked sharply. "What happened to the ones you used to have?"

John Smith showed a touch of temper for the first time. "What do you think happened to them?" he snapped. "You Yanks, that's what. I stayed in Empire-in Berlin-till the sh.e.l.ls started falling. When I got out, it was with the clothes on my back and one carpetbag. You try stuffing your whole life in one carpetbag, sir, and see how well you do."

Before coming to Berlin, Moss hadn't thought much about how civilians on the losing side felt about the war. He was getting an education in quiet bitterness. "All right," he said. "What have you got?"

Smith reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the two doc.u.ments he'd already mentioned. He'd have needed the doctor's certificate as he fled the advancing Americans. Without it, the Canadians would have stuck a rifle in his hands and sent him to the trenches, rupture or no rupture. They might have done that anyhow, but he had the paper that said they wouldn't have. He also had the paper that said he'd made his formal peace with the U.S. occupiers. No Canadian could work without that one.

And he had a photograph of himself-a younger version of himself-standing in front of a clapboard house that bore the same address as this big brick office building. A plain woman in a black dress and a frumpy hat stood beside him. "Your wife?" Moss asked.

"That's right." Smith paused, then went on, "Some Yank pilot shot us up as we were leaving-shot up the road, I mean, for the sport of it. He killed my Jane and left me without a scratch-and ever since, I've wished it had been the other way round."

Moss didn't know what to say to that. He'd shot up refugee columns. It was part of war: it disrupted the enemy. He hadn't thought much about the consequences of what he did. He resolutely tried not to think about those consequences now.

"Besides this photograph," he managed at last, "what sort of t.i.tle can you show to this property? Have you got a deed? Have you got bank records?"

"Haven't got a deed," Smith said. "Used to be bank records-in the bank. Isn't any bank any more. I hear tell Yank soldiers blew the vault open and stole everything inside-everything they wanted, anyway."

That wouldn't have surprised Moss. Among other things, armies were enormous robber bands. He said, "You do understand, lacking the proper papers will make your claim much harder to establish."

"I should hope I understand that," John Smith said. "If I'd reckoned it would be easy, I'd have tried it myself."

"All right," Moss said. "Go through your effects. Whatever you can bring that's evidence you own this land, I want to see it. No matter how unlikely you think it is, I want to see it. If you know people who can testify they know you owned this land, I want to hear from them. I won't kid you, though. We've got our work cut out for us."

"I'll do my best," Smith promised.

When Lucien Galtier saw the green-gray motorcar coming down the road from Riviere-du-Loup toward his farmhouse, he took it for granted at first. He had seen an infinitude of green-gray motorcars and trucks coming down that road, and another infinitude going up it.

Then, after he'd already started turning away, he spun back and stared at the Ford with eyes that wanted to narrow in suspicion and widen in surprise at the same time. He had not seen a green-gray motorcar in some time. The U.S. Army painted its motorcars that color. But the U.S. Army had not occupied the Republic of Quebec since the end of the war-well, since a little after the end of the war.

The Ford pulled off the road and parked beside the farmhouse, as Leonard O'Doull's automobile more commonly did these days. Lucien sighed and walked toward it. "I might have known," he muttered under his breath. "A man may think he has escaped troubles, but troubles never escape a man."

Two men got out of the motorcar. Galtier recognized Bishop Pascal first, more by his vestments than by his own tubby form. His companion, the driver, was whipcord lean and, sure enough, wore U.S. Army uniform. Seeing Lucien approach, he waved. "Bonjour!" "Bonjour!" he called in excellent Parisian French. "It is good to see you once more, M. Galtier." he called in excellent Parisian French. "It is good to see you once more, M. Galtier."

"Bonjour..." As Galtier drew near, he saw that Jedediah Quigley wore eagles on his shoulders, not oak leaves of either gold or silver. He'd been a major when Galtier first made his acquaintance. Now-" As Galtier drew near, he saw that Jedediah Quigley wore eagles on his shoulders, not oak leaves of either gold or silver. He'd been a major when Galtier first made his acquaintance. Now-"Bonjour, Colonel Quigley. You have come up in the world since I saw you last." Colonel Quigley. You have come up in the world since I saw you last."

"He is the military liaison officer between the United States and the Republic of Quebec," Bishop Pascal said. Hearing the bishop speak ahead of Colonel Quigley surprised Lucien not at all; Pascal had always found the sound of his own voice sweeter and more intoxicating than communion wine.

"An important man indeed," Galtier said. "And how and why does a simple farmer deserve a visit from not only the military liaison officer between the United States and the Republic of Quebec but also the ill.u.s.trious and holy bishop of Riviere-du-Loup?"

Bishop Pascal had no ear for irony. Colonel Quigley did. One of his eyebrows quirked upward. "It is a matter concerning the hospital," he said.

"What about the hospital?" Galtier demanded, suddenly apprehensive. He saw Marie peering out the kitchen window, no doubt wondering what was going on. He'd been about to ask Quigley and Bishop Pascal to come into the farmhouse so she could serve them tea-or something stronger-and some of the cinnamon buns she'd baked the day before. Now, he was not nearly so sure they were welcome in his house.

"The hospital, of course, is built on land taken from your patrimony," Bishop Pascal said. The plump bishop always looked out for himself first. He had embraced the Americans with indecent haste. Galtier would not have cared to turn his back on him for an instant. But he did understand the way a Quebecois farmer's mind worked.

Colonel Quigley, despite having been in Quebec since 1914, didn't. "And we've been paying you a good rent for it, too," he said gruffly.

"It is my land," Galtier replied with dignity. "And"-his own eyebrow rose-"for some long stretch of time, you paid not a cent of rent. You simply took it, because you had men with guns."

"We suspected your loyalty." Quigley was blunt in a way no Quebecois would have been. "Once we didn't any more, we paid what we owed you."

"If you steal land from a man's patrimony, you are liable to make him disloyal," Galtier said. "Indeed, you are fortunate this did not happen with me." He still marveled that it hadn't. He'd been disloyal after the Americans invaded Quebec. He clearly remembered that. But Nicole had gone to work at the hospital, she and Leonard O'Doull had fallen in love, Quigley had agreed to pay rent, and the Americans had not treated him so badly after all. He'd thrived since they came. Quebec had prospered, too. And he had a half-American grandson. Sure enough, he was at peace with Americans now.

Bishop Pascal said, "Naturally, my son, you can comprehend that it is awkward for this fine hospital to rest on land where, if the owner so desires, he may, at a whim, order it to leave so he might seed the soil with lettuces."

"Lettuces?" Galtier said. "Certainly not. That is wheat land, and wheat land of the first quality, I might add."

Jedediah Quigley seemed to need both hands to hold on to his patience. "Whatever you raised on it is beside the point," he said. "The point is, the Republic of Quebec wants to buy that land from you, so no troubles of the sort Bishop Pascal is talking about can arise. I'm involved here because I am the one who took that land from you in the first place."

"You wish me to sell sell part of my patrimony?" Galtier knew he sounded as if Colonel Quigley had asked him to sell one of his children. He didn't care. That was how he felt-even if, at times, he wouldn't have minded getting rid of Georges. part of my patrimony?" Galtier knew he sounded as if Colonel Quigley had asked him to sell one of his children. He didn't care. That was how he felt-even if, at times, he wouldn't have minded getting rid of Georges.

"Money can be part of your patrimony, too," Quigley said, which only proved he did not completely understand the folk of Quebec.

"It would be an act of Christian charity, for the sake of the people of Riviere-du-Loup and the surrounding countryside," Bishop Pascal said. "And, unlike most acts of charity, my son, it would not only be good for your soul but would bring money into your pocket rather than having it flow out."

"And not just money," Colonel Quigley added. "You know the hospital makes its own electricity. As part of the bargain, we would have the hospital make electricity for this farm as well."

They were eager to make a deal. They were showing how eager they were. Against a canny peasant like Lucien Galtier, they were begging to be skinned. He knew now, he would sell the land. Marie would skin him if he let the chance to get electricity escape. But he intended to make the bishop and the colonel sweat first. "It is my patrimony," he growled. "One day, my grandson's grandson will grow wheat on that land."

Colonel Quigley rolled his eyes. "d.a.m.n stubborn frog," he muttered under his breath in English. Galtier smiled. He didn't think he was supposed to hear, or to understand if he did. Too bad, Too bad, he thought. He he thought. He was was a d.a.m.n stubborn frog, and they would have to make the best of it. a d.a.m.n stubborn frog, and they would have to make the best of it.

"My son, have you not seen in these past few years how things can change, and change unexpectedly and quickly?" Bishop Pascal asked. "Would you not like to see this change be for the better?"

"By better, your Grace, you mean doing as you wish." Galtier did not want to lose the chance he had here. Gruffly, grudgingly, he said, "Very well. Let us speak of this further, since you insist. Come inside. We may as well sit down."