American Empire_ Blood And Iron Part 51

Would I have gone to bed with him, if he'd wanted that? Anne wondered. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded to herself. Anne wondered. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded to herself. I think I would have. I think I would have. She hadn't been in control of things, not with Jake she hadn't. With every other man she'd ever known-even Roger Kimball after their first encounter-yes. With Featherston? No, and again she was honest enough to admit it to herself. She hadn't been in control of things, not with Jake she hadn't. With every other man she'd ever known-even Roger Kimball after their first encounter-yes. With Featherston? No, and again she was honest enough to admit it to herself.

But he hadn't wanted her. So far as she knew, he hadn't wanted any woman. She didn't think that made him a sodomite. It was more as if he poured all his energy into rage, and had none left for desire.

All that flashed through her mind in a couple of heartbeats: before her brother said, "If I don't see him or hear him again, I won't be sorry."

"As long as the money stays good, you probably won't," Anne said, and Tom nodded. She went on, "And as long as the n.i.g.g.e.rs know their place and stick to it."

Tom nodded again. "Featherston's closest to sound on the n.i.g.g.e.rs, no doubt about that. It's still worth a white man's life, sometimes, to get any decent work out of field hands. They'd sooner loll around and sleep in the sun and collect white men's wages for doing it."

"It won't ever be the way it was before the war," Anne said sadly, speaking in part for Marshlands, in part for the entire Confederacy. The desire to make things again as they had been before the war had won the Freedom Party votes by the thousands, and had helped win her backing, too. But the war was almost six and a half years over, and life did go on, even if in a different way.

"I want another chance at the United States one day," Tom said. "Featherston was sound about that, too, but he wanted it too soon."

"Yes," Anne said, "but we will have another chance at the United States sooner or later, no matter who's in charge of the CSA. And we'll have a good chance at them, too, as long as the Socialists hold the White House."

"They don't," her brother remarked with no small pride. "We wrecked it during the fight for Was.h.i.+ngton."

"It's almost rebuilt," Anne said. "I saw that in one of the papers the other day. We'll have a harder time knocking it down again, too, with the Yankees holding northern Virginia."

"We'll manage," Tom said. "Even if our soldiers don't get that far-and I think they will-we'll have plenty of bombing aeroplanes to flatten it-and Philadelphia, and New York City, too, I hope."

"Yes," was all Anne said to that. She would never be ready to live at peace with the United States, not even when she turned old and gray. Turning old and gray was on her mind a good deal these days. Nearer forty than thirty, she knew the time when her looks added to the persuasiveness of her logic would not last much longer.

As Tom was doing more and more often since coming home from the war, he thought along with her. "You really ought to get married one of these days before too long, Sis," he said. "You don't want to end up an old maid, do you?"

"That depends," Anne Colleton answered. "Compared to what? Compared to ending up with a husband who tells me what to do when he doesn't know what he's talking about? Compared to that, being an old maid looks mighty good, believe me."

"Men aren't like that," her brother protested. "We've got a way of knowing good sense when we hear it."

Anne laughed loud and long. What Tom had said struck her as so ridiculous, she didn't even bother getting angry. "When you finally get married yourself, I'll tell your wife you said that," she remarked. "She won't believe me-I promise she won't believe me-but I'll tell her."

"Why wouldn't she believe that about me?" Tom asked with such a tone of aggrieved innocence, Anne laughed harder than ever.

"Because it'd be lying?" she suggested, but that only made her brother angry. Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. She did: "When are you going to get married, anyhow? You were bothering me about it, but turnabout's fair play."

Tom shrugged. "When I find a girl who suits me," he replied. "I'm not in any big hurry. It's different for a man, you know."

"I suppose so," Anne said in a voice that supposed nothing of the sort. "People would talk if I married a twenty-year-old when I was fifty. If you do that, all your friends will be jealous."

"How you do go on, Sis!" Tom said, turning red. Anne had indeed managed to get him to stop thinking about marrying her off. But the dismal truth was, he had a point. It was was different for men. They often got more handsome as they aged; women, almost never. And men could go right on siring children even after they went bald and wrinkled and toothless. Anne knew she had only a few childbearing years left. Once they were gone, suitors would want her only for her money, not mostly for it as they did now. different for men. They often got more handsome as they aged; women, almost never. And men could go right on siring children even after they went bald and wrinkled and toothless. Anne knew she had only a few childbearing years left. Once they were gone, suitors would want her only for her money, not mostly for it as they did now.

"G.o.d must be a man," she said. "If G.o.d were a woman, things would work a lot different, and you can take it to the bank."

"I don't know anything about that," Tom said. "If you really reckon it's fun and jolly to go up out of a trench when the machine guns are hammering, or to hope you've got your gas helmet good and snug when the chlorine sh.e.l.ls start falling, or to sit in a dugout wondering whether the next eight-inch sh.e.l.l is going to cave it in, then you can go on about what a tough row women have to hoe."

"I've fought," Anne said. Her brother only looked at her. She knew what she'd been through. So did he. He'd been through some of it with her, cleaning Red remnants out of the swamps by the Congaree after the war against the USA was lost. She had some notion of what Tom had experienced on the Roanoke front, but only some. She hadn't done that. By everything she knew, she wouldn't have wanted to do it.

"Never mind," Tom said. "For now, it's over. We don't need to quarrel about it today. Might as well leave that for the generals-all of 'em'll spend the next twenty, thirty years writing books about how they could have won the war single-handed if only the fellows on their flanks and over 'em hadn't been a pack of fools."

He walked over to a cupboard and took out a couple of gla.s.ses. Then he yanked the cork from a bottle of whiskey on the counter under the cupboard and poured out two hefty belts. He carried one of them back to Anne and set it on the table by the newspapers. She picked it up. "What shall we drink to?" she asked.

"Drinking to being here and able to drink isn't the worst toast in the world," Tom said. He raised his gla.s.s. Anne thought about that, nodded, and raised hers in turn. The whiskey was smoke in her mouth, flame in her throat, and a nice warm fire in her belly. Before long, the gla.s.s was empty.

Anne went over to the counter and refilled it. While she was pouring, Tom came over with his gla.s.s, from which the whiskey had also vanished. She gave him another drink, too. "My turn now," she said, as if expecting him to deny it.

He didn't. He bowed instead, as a gentleman would have done before the war. Not so many gentlemen were left these days; machine guns and gas and artillery had put them under the ground by the thousands, along with their ruder countrymen by the tens of thousands.

She raised her gla.s.s. "Here's to freedom from the Freedom Party!"

"Well, you know I'll drink to that one." Her brother suited action to word.

Again, the gla.s.ses emptied fast. The whiskey hit-Anne understood why the simile was on her mind-like a bursting sh.e.l.l. Everything seemed simple and clear, even things she knew perfectly well weren't. She weighed Jake Featherston in the balances, as G.o.d had weighed Belshazzar in the Bible. And, as G.o.d had found Belshazzar wanting, so she found Featherston and the Freedom Party.

"No, I don't reckon he'll be back. I don't reckon he'll be back at all," she said, and that called for another drink.

Sam Carsten was using his off-duty time the way he usually did now: he sprawled in his bunk aboard the Remembrance Remembrance, studying hard. His head felt filled to the bursting point. He had the notion that he could have built and outfitted any s.h.i.+p in the Navy and ordered its crew about. He didn't think the secretary of the navy knew as much as he did. G.o.d might have; he supposed he was willing to give G.o.d the benefit of the doubt.

George Moerlein, his bunkmate, came by to pull something out of his duffel bag. "Christ, Sam, don't you ever take a break?" he said. He had to repeat himself before Carsten knew he was there.

At last reminded of Moerlein's existence, Sam sheepishly shook his head. "Can't afford to take a break," he said. "Examinations are only a week away. They don't make things easy on petty officers who want to kick their way up into real officer country."

Moerlein had been a petty officer a long time, a lot longer than Carsten. He had no desire to become anything else, and saw no reason anyone else should have such a desire, either. "I've known a few mustangs, or more than a few, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I ever knew a happy one. Real officers treat 'em like you'd treat a n.i.g.g.e.r in a fancy suit: the clothes may be right, but the guy inside 'em ain't."

"If I don't pa.s.s this examination, it won't matter one way or the other," Sam said pointedly. "And besides, officers can't be any rougher on mustangs than they are on ordinary sailors."

"Only shows how much you know," Moerlein answered. "Well, don't mind me, not that you was." He went on about his business. Sam returned to his book. He came across a section on engine maintenance he didn't remember quite so well as he should have. From feeling he knew about as much as G.o.d, he fearfully sank to thinking he knew less than a r.e.t.a.r.ded ordinary seaman on his first day at sea.

Mess call was something of a relief. Sam stopped worrying about keeping a wars.h.i.+p fueled and running and started thinking about stoking his own boiler. With the Remembrance Remembrance still tied up in the Boston Navy Yard, meals remained tasty and varied-none of the beans and sausage and sauerkraut that would have marked a long cruise at sea. still tied up in the Boston Navy Yard, meals remained tasty and varied-none of the beans and sausage and sauerkraut that would have marked a long cruise at sea.

Somebody sitting not far from Sam said, "I'd sooner spend my days belching and my nights farting, long as that meant I was doing something worthwhile."

Heads bobbed up and down in agreement, all along the mess table. "We ought to be thankful they ain't breaking us up for sc.r.a.p," another optimist said.

Somebody else added, "G.o.d d.a.m.n Upton Sinclair to h.e.l.l and gone."

That brought more nods, Carsten among them, but a sailor snapped, "G.o.d d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l and gone, Tad, you big dumb Polack."

Socialists everywhere, Carsten thought as Tad surged to his feet. A couple of people caught him and slammed him back down. Sam nodded again, this time in approval. "Knock it off," he said. "We don't want any brawls here, not now we don't. Anything that makes the Carsten thought as Tad surged to his feet. A couple of people caught him and slammed him back down. Sam nodded again, this time in approval. "Knock it off," he said. "We don't want any brawls here, not now we don't. Anything that makes the Remembrance Remembrance look bad is liable to get her taken out of commission and land the lot of us on the beach. Congress isn't throwing money around like they did during the war." look bad is liable to get her taken out of commission and land the lot of us on the beach. Congress isn't throwing money around like they did during the war."

"h.e.l.l, Congress isn't throwing money around like they did before the war, neither," Tad said. "We busted a gut building a Navy that could go out and win, and now we're flus.h.i.+ng it right down the head."

"Rebs ain't got a Navy worth anything any more," said the Socialist sailor who'd called him a Polack. "Limeys ain't, either. No such thing as the Canadian Navy these days. So who the h.e.l.l we got to worry about?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n j.a.ps, for one." Three men said the same thing at the same time, differing only in the adjective with which they modified j.a.ps j.a.ps.

"Kaiser Bill's High Seas Fleet, for two," Sam added. "Yeah, us and the Germans are pals for now, but how long is that going to last? Best way I can think of to keep the Kaiser friendly is to stay too tough to jump on."

That produced a thoughtful silence. At last, somebody down at the far end of the mess table said, "You know, Carsten, when I heard you was studying for officer, I figured you was crazy. Maybe you knew what you was doing after all."

Sam looked around to see who was in earshot. Deciding the coast was clear, he answered, "Maybe you don't have to be crazy to be an officer, but I never heard tell that it hurts."

Amidst laughter, people started telling stories about officers they'd known. Sam pitched in with some of his own. Inside, he was smiling. A book about leaders.h.i.+p he'd read had suggested that changing the subject was often the best way to defuse a nasty situation. Unlike some of the things he'd read, that really worked.

After supper, he went back to studying, and kept at it till lights-out. George Moerlein shook his head. "Never reckoned you was one of those fellows with spectacles and a high forehead," he said.

"You want to get anywhere, you got to work for it," Sam answered, more than a little nettled. "Anybody wants to stay in a rut, that's his business. But anybody who doesn't, that's his business, too, or it d.a.m.n well ought to be."

"All right. All right. I'll shut up," Moerlein said. "Swear to Jesus, though, I think you're doing this whole thing 'cause you want I should have to salute you."

"Oh, no," Carsten said in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "My secret's out." For a moment, his bunkmate believed him. Then Moerlein snorted and cursed and rolled over in his bunk and, a couple of minutes later, started to snore.

Sam ran on coffee and cigarettes and very little sleep till the day of the examinations, which were held in a hall not far from the Rope Walk, the long stone building in which the Navy's great hemp cables were made. Commander Grady slapped Sam on the back as he left the Remembrance Remembrance. "Just remember, you can can do it," the gunnery officer said. do it," the gunnery officer said.

"Thank you, sir," Sam said, "and, if you please, sir, just remember, this was your idea in the first place." Grady laughed. Sam hurried past him and down the gangplank.

Sitting at a table in the examination hall waiting for the lieutenant commander at the front of the room to pa.s.s out the pile of test booklets on his desk, Sam looked around, studying the compet.i.tion. He saw a roomful of petty officers not a whole lot different from himself. Only a few were younger than he; several grizzled veterans had to be well past fifty. He admired their persistence and hoped he would outscore them in spite of it.

Then he stopped worrying about anything inessential, for the officer started giving out the booklets. "Men, you will have four hours," he said. "I wish you all the best of luck, and I remind you that, should you not pa.s.s, the examination will be offered again in a year's time. Ready?...Begin."

How many times had some of those grizzled veterans walked into this hall or others like it? That thought gave Sam a different perspective on persistence. He wondered if he'd keep coming back after failing the examination half a dozen or a dozen times. Hoping he wouldn't have to find out, he opened the booklet and plunged in.

The examination was as bad as he'd feared it would be, as bad as he'd heard it would be. As he worked, he felt as if his brain were being sucked out of his head and down onto the paper by way of his pencil. He couldn't imagine a human mind containing all the knowledge the Navy Department evidently expected its officers to have at their fingertips. Panic threatened to overwhelm him when he came upon the first question he couldn't even begin to answer.

Well, maybe these other b.a.s.t.a.r.ds can't answer it, either, he thought. That steadied him. He couldn't do anything more than his best. he thought. That steadied him. He couldn't do anything more than his best.

Sweat soaked his dark uniform long before the examination ended. It had nothing to do with the hall, which was very little warmer than the Boston December outside. But he noticed he was far from the only man wiping his brow.

After what seemed like forever-and, at the same time, like only a few minutes-the lieutenant commander rapped out, "Pencils down! Pa.s.s booklets to the left." Sam had been in the middle of a word. That didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more. He joined the weary, shambling throng of sailors filing out of the hall.

"There's always next year," someone said in doleful tones. Carsten didn't argue with him. n.o.body argued with him. Sam couldn't imagine anyone being confident he'd pa.s.sed that brutal examination. He also couldn't imagine anyone showing confidence without getting lynched.

He didn't have any leave coming, so he couldn't even get drunk after the miserable thing was over. He had to return to the Remembrance Remembrance and return to duty. When Commander Grady asked him how he'd done, he rolled his eyes. Grady laughed. Sam didn't see one thing funny about it. and return to duty. When Commander Grady asked him how he'd done, he rolled his eyes. Grady laughed. Sam didn't see one thing funny about it.

Day followed day; 1923 gave way to 1924. Coming up on ten years since the war started, Coming up on ten years since the war started, Sam thought. That seemed unbelievable, but he knew it was true. He wished ten years had gone by since the examination. When results were slow in coming, he did his best to forget he'd ever taken the miserable thing. Sam thought. That seemed unbelievable, but he knew it was true. He wished ten years had gone by since the examination. When results were slow in coming, he did his best to forget he'd ever taken the miserable thing. There's always next year, There's always next year, he thought-except, by now, this was next year. he thought-except, by now, this was next year.

Then, one day, the yeoman in charge of mail called out "Carsten!" and thrust an envelope at him. He took it with some surprise; he seldom got mail. But, sure enough, the envelope had his name typed on it, and DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY in the upper left-hand corner. He stuck his thumb over that return address, not wanting his buddies to know he'd got news he expected to be bad. in the upper left-hand corner. He stuck his thumb over that return address, not wanting his buddies to know he'd got news he expected to be bad.

He marched off down a corridor and opened the envelope where no one could watch him do it. The letter inside bore his name and pay number on Navy Department stationery. It read, You are ordered to report to Commissioning Board 17 at 0800 hours on Wednesday, 6 February 1924, for the purpose of determining your fitness to hold a commission in the United States Navy and... You are ordered to report to Commissioning Board 17 at 0800 hours on Wednesday, 6 February 1924, for the purpose of determining your fitness to hold a commission in the United States Navy and...

Sam had to read it twice before he realized what it meant. "Jesus!" he whispered. "Sweet suffering Jesus! I pa.s.sed!"

He had to remind himself that he wasn't home free yet. Everybody said commissioning boards did strange things. In this particular case, what everybody said was likely to be true. Standing there in the cramped corridor, he refused to let what everybody said worry him in the least. The worst had to be over, for the simple reason that nothing could have been worse than that examination. The worst was over, and he'd come through it. He was on his way.

These days, Lucien Galtier thought of himself as an accomplished driver. He didn't say he was an accomplished driver, though. The one time he'd done that, Georges had responded, "And what have you accomplished? Not killing anyone? Bravo, mon pere! mon pere!"

No matter how accomplished he reckoned himself (Georges to the contrary notwithstanding), he wasn't planning on going anywhere today. That he had a fine Chevrolet mattered not at all. He wouldn't have gone out on the fine paved road up to Riviere-du-Loup even in one of the U.S. Army's traveling forts-why the Americans called the infernal machines barrels barrels he'd never figured out. The snowstorm howling down from the northwest made the trip from the farmhouse to the barn cold and hard, let alone any longer journey. he'd never figured out. The snowstorm howling down from the northwest made the trip from the farmhouse to the barn cold and hard, let alone any longer journey.

When he got inside, the livestock set up the usual infernal racket that meant, Where have you been? We're starving to death. Where have you been? We're starving to death. He ignored all the animals but the horse. To it, he said, "This is ingrat.i.tude. Would you sooner be out on the highway in such weather?" He ignored all the animals but the horse. To it, he said, "This is ingrat.i.tude. Would you sooner be out on the highway in such weather?"

Only another indignant snort answered him as he gave the beast oats for the day. When it came to food, the horse could be-was-eloquent. On any other subject, Galtier might as well have been talking to himself whenever he went traveling in the wagon. He knew that. He'd known it all along. It hadn't stopped him from having innumerable conversations with the horse over the years.

"I cannot talk with the automobile," he said. "Truly, I saw this from the moment I began to drive it. It is only a machine-although this, I have seen, does not keep Marie from talking with her sewing machine from time to time."

The horse let drop a pile of green-brown dung. It was warmer in the barn than outside, but the dung still steamed. Lucien wondered whether the horse was offering its opinion of driving a motorcar or of conversing with a sewing machine.

"Do you want to work, old fool?" he asked the horse. The only reply it gave was to gobble the oats. He laughed. "No, all you want to do is eat. I cannot even get you a mare for your amus.e.m.e.nt. Oh, I could, but you would not be amused. A gelding is not to be amused in that way, n'est-ce pas? n'est-ce pas?"

He'd had the vet geld the horse when it was a yearling. It had never known the joys not being gelded could bring. It never would. Still, he fancied it flicked its ear at him in a resentful way. He nodded to himself. Had anyone done such a thing to him, he would have been more than merely resentful.

"Life is hard," he said. "Even for an animal like yourself, one that does little work these days, life is hard. Believe me, it is no easier for men and women. Most of them, most of the time, have very little, and no hope for more than very little. I get down on my knees and thank the Lord for the bounty He has given me."

Another ear flick might have said, Careful how you speak, there-I am a part of your bounty, after all. Careful how you speak, there-I am a part of your bounty, after all. Maybe the horse was exceptionally expressive today. Maybe Galtier's imagination was working harder than usual. Maybe the horse was exceptionally expressive today. Maybe Galtier's imagination was working harder than usual.

"Truly, I could have been unfortunate as easily as I have been fortunate," Galtier said. The horse did not deny it. Galtier went on, "Had I been unfortunate, you would not be eating so well as you are now. Believe me, you would not."

Maybe the horse believed him. Maybe it didn't. Whether it did or not, it knew it was eating well now. That was what mattered. How could a man reasonably expect a horse to care about might-have-beens?

But Lucien Galtier cared. "Consider," he said. "I might have been driven to try to blow up an American general, as was that anglophone farmer who blew himself up instead, poor fool. For I will not lie: I had no love for the Americans. Yes, that could have been me, had chance driven me in the other direction. But I am here, and I am as I am, and so you have the chance to stand in your stall and get fat and lazy. I wonder if that other farmer had a horse, and how the unlucky animal is doing."

His own horse ate all he had given it and looked around for more, which was not forthcoming. It sent him a hopeful look, rather like that of a beggar who sat in the street with a tin cup beside him. Galtier rarely gave beggars money; as far as he was concerned, men who could work should. He did not insist that the horse work, not any more, but he knew better than to overfeed it.

After finis.h.i.+ng in the barn, he walked through the snow to the farmhouse. The heat of the stove in the kitchen seemed a greater blessing than any Bishop Pascal could give. As Galtier stood close by it, Marie poured him a cup of steaming hot coffee. She added a hefty dollop of cream and, for good measure, a slug of applejack, too.

"Drink it before it gets cold," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "You should be warmed inside and out." And, before he could answer, almost-but not quite-before he could even think, she added, "And do not say what is in your mind, you dreadful brute of a man."

"I?" After sipping the coffee, which was delicious, Galtier said, "I declare to the world that you have wronged me."

"So you do," his wife replied. "You should remember, though, that declaring a thing does not make it true."

She was laughing at him. He could hear it in her voice. She was also laughing because of him, a very different business. He waggled a forefinger at her. "You are a very troublesome woman," he said severely.

"No doubt you have reason," Marie said. "And no doubt I have my reasons for being troublesome. One of those reasons that comes straight to my mind is that I have a very troublesome husband."

"Me?" Lucien shook his head. "By no means. Not at all." He took another sip of fortified coffee. "How could I possibly be troublesome when I am holding here a cup of the elixir of life?" He put down the elixir of life so he could shrug out of his wool plaid coat. It was not quite warm enough in the bitter cold outside, but much too warm for standing by the stove for very long. As Lucien picked up the coffee cup again, Georges came into the kitchen. Lucien nodded to himself. "If I am troublesome, it could be that I understand why."

"How strange," Marie said. "I just now had this same thought at the same time. Men and women who have been married a long while do this, they say."

"How strange," Georges said, "I just now had the thought that I have been insulted, and for once I do not even know why."

"Never fear, son," Galtier said. "There are always reasons, and they are usually good ones."

"Here, then-I will give you a reason," Georges said. He left the kitchen, and flicked the light switch on the way out. The electric bulb in the lamp hanging from the ceiling went dark, plunging the room into gloom.

"Scamp!" Galtier called after him. Georges laughed-he was being troublesome, all right. Muttering, Galtier went over and turned on the lamp again. The kitchen shone as if he'd brought the sun indoors. "Truly electricity is a great marvel," he said. "I wonder how we ever got along without it."