The Victorious Opposition (25 page)

A silent aide set a piece of paper on Featherston’s desk. His gaze flicked down it. When he was done, he eyed Potter again. “You’ve been a busy boy down in Charleston, haven’t you? It’s a wonder you’re still running around loose.”

“You come right out and admit that?” Potter said.

“Admit what?” Jake’s smile was all teeth and no mirth. “You say I said it—you say I said it and you get anybody to print what you say—and I’ll call you a liar to your face. How are you going to prove anything different?”

Potter took another sip from his drink. “A point.” He wasn’t just a cool customer. He was a cold fish.

“So what the hell am I going to do with you?” Jake wondered aloud. “You hate my guts, but you shot that nigger before any of my guards could.”

He’d had bullets whistle past his ear before. The frankfurter seller who’d tried to do him in couldn’t shoot worth a damn. The first couple of rounds had been near misses, but then the submachine gun had pulled up and to the right, as such weapons did all too often. Ten or twelve people were hurt, some of them badly, but not Jake. And, by failing, the Negro had handed the Freedom Party a whole new club with which to beat his race.

That could wait—for a little while, anyhow. “What
am
I going to do with you?” Featherston repeated.

With a shrug, Clarence Potter said, “Give me a medal and send me home.”

Featherston shook his head. “Nope. You’d be back. And who knows? You might not miss. If I send you home, you’d have to have an accident pretty damn quick.”

“You don’t care what you say, do you?” Potter remarked. “You never did.”

“I already told you, you’re not going to make a liar out of me,” Jake said. “Tell you what I’ll do, though, since I owe you for this, and since you were damn near the only officer I knew during the war who had any sense at all.” He leaned forward. “How’d you like to go back in the Army . . . Colonel Potter?”

In spite of Potter’s calm façade, his eyes widened. “You mean that,” he said slowly.

“Damn right I do. I can get some use out of you, and so can the country. About time we had some intelligence in Intelligence, goddammit. And I can keep an eye on you that way, too. What do you say?”

“If I tell you no, I wind up dead,” Potter answered. “What do you think I’m going to say?”

You can end up just as dead in a butternut uniform as you can in slacks and a jacket,
Jake thought. But he wasn’t sorry Potter had said yes. The other man was a prim son of a bitch, but he had brains and he had nerve. He’d proved that during the war, in the swimming stadium, and—Jake’s eyes again traveled down the list of some of the things Potter had done in Charleston—in between times, too, even if he’d been on the wrong side then. He could do the CSA a lot of good if he wanted to.

“All right, Colonel,” Featherston said. “We’ll go from there, then.” He stuck out his hand. Potter didn’t hesitate more than a heartbeat before shaking it.

Watching Potter walk out the door with a flunky reminded Jake of something else, a piece of business he wondered why he’d left unfinished. He picked up the telephone and spoke into the mouthpiece. He’d taken too many orders in his time. He liked giving them a lot better.

He had to wait a while before this order was carried out. Normally, he didn’t like waiting. Here, though, he composed himself in patience and went through some of the endless paperwork on his desk.
If I’d known how much paperwork went with the job, I might’ve let Willy Knight be president of the Confederate States.
But he shook his head. That might be funny, but it wasn’t true. The paperwork didn’t just go with the job; in large measure, the paperwork
was
the job.

His secretary poked her head into the office. “General Stuart is here to see you, Mr. President.”

“Thanks, Lulu.” Jake’s smile was large and predatory. “You send him right on in.”

In marched Jeb Stuart Jr., his back as stiff as an old man could make it. He was a year or two past seventy, his chin beard and hair white, his uniform hanging slightly loose on a frame that had begun to shrink. He looked at Featherston with gray-blue eyes full of hate. His salute might have come from a rickety machine. “Mr. President,” he said tonelessly.

“Hello, General,” Featherston said, that fierce grin still on his face. “We meet again.” He waved to a chair. “Sit down.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Sit down, I said,”
Jake snapped, and Stuart, startled, sank into the chair. Featherston nodded. “Remember the last time you paid a call on me, General? You were gloating, on account of I was down. You reckoned I was down for good. You weren’t quite as smart as you reckoned, were you?”

“No, sir.” Jeb Stuart Jr.’s voice remained stubbornly wooden.

“Do you recollect Clarence Potter, General Stuart?” Featherston asked. Doing his best to remain impassive, Stuart nodded. Featherston went on, “I just brought him back into the Army—rank of colonel.”

“That is your privilege, Mr. President.” Stuart did his best not to make things easy.

His best wasn’t going to be good enough. Jake had the whip hand now. “Yeah,” he said. “It is. You screwed his career over just as hard as you screwed mine. And for what? I’ll tell you for what, God damn you. On account of we were right, that’s what.”

Jeb Stuart Jr. didn’t answer. During the war, Jake had served in a battery commanded by Jeb Stuart III, his son. He’d suspected Pompey, the younger Stuart’s colored servant, of being a Red. He’d said as much to Potter. Jeb Stuart III had used his family influence, and his father’s, to get Pompey off the hook. The only trouble was, Pompey
had
been a Red. When that proved unmistakably clear, Jeb Stuart III had thrown his life away in combat rather than face the music. And Jeb Stuart Jr. had made sure neither Featherston nor Potter saw another promotion through the rest of the war.

“Did you reckon I’d forget, General Stuart?” Jake asked softly. “I never forget that kind of thing. Never, you hear me?”

“I hear you, Mr. President,” Stuart said. “The high respect I hold for your office precludes my saying more.”

“For my office, eh? Not for me?” Featherston waited. Again, Jeb Stuart Jr. didn’t answer. Jake shrugged. He knew the older man blamed him for Jeb Stuart III’s death.
Too damn bad,
he thought. In spite of his campaign promises, he’d walked softly around the Army up till now. He hadn’t been quite ready to clean house. All of a sudden, he was—and surviving an assassination attempt would do wonders for his popularity, cushion whatever anger there might have been. “I accept your resignation, General.”

That struck home. Stuart glared. He’d spent fifty-five years in the Confederate Army; he’d been a boy hero in the Second Mexican War, and had never known or wanted any other life. “You don’t have it, you . . . you damned upstart!” he burst out.

Upstart? Jake knew he was one. The difference between him and Stuart—between him and all the swarms of Juniors and IIIs and IVs and Vs in the CSA—was that he was proud of it. “No resignation?” he said. Jeb Stuart Jr. shook his head. Featherston shrugged. “All right with me. In that case, you’re fired. Don’t bother cleaning out your desk. Don’t bother about your pension, either. You’re finished, as of now.”

“I demand a court-martial,” Stuart said furiously. “What are the charges against me, damn you? I’ve been in the Army and risking my life for my country since before you were a gleam in your white-trash father’s eye. And not even the president of the Confederate States of America has the power to drum me out without my day in court.”

“White trash, is it?” Featherston whispered. Jeb Stuart Jr. nodded defiantly. “All right, Mr. Blueblood. All right,” Jake said. “You want charges, you stinking son of a bitch? I’ll give you charges, by Christ!” His voice rose and went harsh and rough as a rasp: “Yeah, I’ll give you charges. Charges are aiding and abetting your inbred idiot son, Captain Jeb fucking Stuart III, in hiding that his prissy little nigger called Pompey was really a goddamn Red. I’ll take you down, cocksucker, and I’ll take your stinking brat down with you. There won’t be a place in the CSA you can hide in by the time I’m done with you two, you’ll stink so bad. And so will he.”

The color drained from Jeb Stuart Jr.’s face. It wasn’t just that no one had talked to him like that in all his life. But no one had ever gone for the jugular against him with such fiendish gusto. He was white as typing paper when he found his voice, choking out, “You—You wouldn’t. Not even you would stoop so low.”

Jake smiled savagely. “Try me. You want a court, that’s what you’ll get.”

“G-Give me a pen, God damn you,” Stuart said. Featherston did, and paper to go with it. The officer’s hand shook as he wrote. He shoved the paper back across the desk.
I resign from the Army of the Confederate States, effective immediately,
he’d written, and a scrawled signature below the words. “Does that satisfy you?”

“Damn right it does. I’ve been waiting for it for twenty years,” Jake answered. “Now get the hell out of here. You start feeling unhappy, just remember you’re getting off easy.”

Jeb Stuart Jr. stormed from the office. He slammed the door as he went. Jake laughed. He’d heard a lot of slams since becoming president. This one didn’t measure up to some of the others.

After a moment, Jake called, “Lulu?”

“Yes, Mr. President?” his secretary said.

“Give Saul Goldman a buzz for me, will you?” Featherston was always polite to Lulu, if to nobody else. “Tell him I want to talk with him right away.”

When he said
right away
to Goldman, the skinny little Jew, who got the Freedom Party’s message out to the country and the world, took him literally. He got to Jake’s office within five minutes. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“General Jeb Stuart Jr. just resigned.” Featherston flourished the sheet of paper with the one-line message. “I’m going to tell you why he resigned, too.” He gave Goldman the story of Jeb Stuart III and Pompey.

Goldman blinked. “You want me to announce that to the country? Are you sure?”

“Damn right I do. Damn right I am.” Jake nodded emphatically. “Let people know why he left. Let ’em know we’ll be cleaning out more useless time-servers soon, too. That’s the angle I want you to take. Reckon you can handle it?”

“If that’s what you want, Mr. President, that’s what you’ll get,” Goldman said.

“That’s what I want,” Jake Featherston declared. And sure as hell, what he wanted, he got.

VII

J
efferson Pinkard stood in line at the Odeum, waiting to buy a ticket. When he got up to the window, he shoved a quarter at the fellow behind it. He took the ticket and walked inside. After a pause at the concession stand, he went into the darkness of the theater, popcorn and a Dr. Hopper in hand.

He sat in the middle of a row, so people going by wouldn’t make him spill the popcorn or the soda. As soon as he was settled, he started methodically munching away. No one else sat very close to him, maybe because of the noise. He didn’t care. He wasn’t there for company. He was there to kill a couple of hours.

The maroon velvet curtains slid back to either side of the stage, revealing the screen. In the back of the theater, the projector began to hum and whir.
SMOKING IS PROHIBITED IN THIS AUDITORIUM
appeared on the screen, then vanished.

Most of the people in the Odeum came from Fort Deposit. They leaned forward almost in unison, knowing the newsreel was coming up next. Pinkard leaned forward with them. Since coming to work at the Alabama Correctional Camp (P), he’d felt far more cut off from the world around him than he ever had up in Birmingham. If not for wireless and moving pictures, the outside world would hardly have touched this little Alabama town.

“In Richmond, the Olympic Games came to a magnificent conclusion!” the announcer blared. “The Confederate States have shown the world they are on the move again, thanks to President Featherston and the Freedom Party.”

“Freedom!” somebody in the auditorium called, and the chant rang out. Jeff was glad to join it, but it didn’t last; people couldn’t chant and hear what the announcer was saying at the same time.

Confederate athletes with the C.S. battle flag on their shirtfronts ran and jumped and swam and flung javelins. Smiling, they posed with medals draped around their necks. President Featherston posed with them, shaking their hands in congratulations. He turned to face the camera and said, “We’re a match for anybody—more than a match for anybody. And nothing’s going to stop us from getting where we’re going.”

Suddenly, the camera cut away from the athletes. It lingered on the crumpled corpse of a black man, and on the submachine gun half visible under his body. “This stinking, worthless nigger tried to assassinate our beloved president, who sat watching the athletic competition,” the announcer declared. “Thanks to the heroism of a Great War veteran, he paid the price for his murderous folly.”

Another camera cut. The bespectacled white man standing beside Jake Featherston didn’t look like a veteran; he put Pinkard more in mind of a professor. Featherston spoke again: “Those damn blacks—beg your pardon, folks—stabbed us in the back during the war. They’re trying to do it again. This time, though, we’re good and ready for ’em, and we won’t let ’em get away with it.”

Murmurs of agreement ran through the Odeum. Fort Deposit was in the Black Belt, but no black faces had been visible in the theater before the lights went down. Indeed, armed guards outside and on the roof made sure no marauding Negroes would cause trouble while the motion picture played.

At the Olympic closing ceremonies, smartly turned-out Confederate soldiers ringed the stadium, protecting it as the guards protected the theater here. Aeroplanes with the words
CONFEDERATE CITRUS COMPANY
painted in big letters on their sides streaked low above the stadium. They flew wingtip to wingtip, in formations only professional pilots who were also daredevils would have tried.

They could fight if they had to,
Pinkard realized. He wondered if they were Great War veterans, or if they’d picked up their experience flying for Maximilian in the Mexican civil war. That didn’t matter. Wherever they’d got it, they had the right stuff. So did the machines they flew: sleek low-winged metal monoplanes that made the slow, sputtering canvas-and-wire contraptions of the Great War seem like antiques by comparison.

After a moment’s pause, the newsreel shifted subjects.
VETERAN STEPS DOWN
, a card said. “Jeb Stuart Jr., who first came to prominence in the Second Mexican War more than fifty years ago, has left the Confederate General Staff after revelations about his unfortunate role in failing to prevent the Red uprising of 1915,” the announcer said. On the screen, Stuart looked ancient indeed, ancient and doddering. “President Featherston will soon name a younger, more vigorous replacement.”

Other newsreel snippets showed dams rising in the Tennessee River valley, tractors plowing, and other machines harvesting. “Agriculture makes great strides,” the announcer said proudly. “Each machine does the work of from six to six hundred lazy, shiftless sharecroppers.” The camera panned across shabbily dressed colored men and women standing in front of shanties.

“And in lands stolen from the CSA after the war, in Sequoyah and the part of occupied Texas miscalled Houston . . .” The announcer fell silent. The pictures of dust in dunes, in drifts, in blowing, choking curtains, spoke for themselves. Leaning forward against a strong wind, a man lurched through drifted dust towards a farmhouse with a sagging roof. His slow, effortful journey seemed all but hopeless. So did the wail of a baby on the lap of a scrawny woman in a print dress. She sat on the front porch of a house whose fields lay dust-choked and baking under a merciless sky.

Gloating, the announcer said, “This is how the United States care for the lands they took from their rightful owners.”

“Damnyankees,” a woman behind Pinkard whispered.

After those grim scenes, the serial that followed came as something of a relief. It portrayed a pair of Confederate bunglers who’d ended up in the Army during the war and had escape after unlikely escape. Jeff knew it was ridiculous, but couldn’t help laughing himself silly.

The main feature was more serious. It was a love story almost thwarted by a colored furniture dealer who kept casting lustful looks toward the perky blond heroine. Pinkard wanted to kick the Negro right in the teeth. That the people who’d made the motion picture might want him to react just like that never once crossed his mind.

He rose and stretched when the picture ended, well pleased that the black man had got what was coming to him. Then he left the theater and walked over to the bus that would take him back to the Alabama Correctional Camp (P). The bus was heavily armored, with thick wire grating over the windows. Pinkard wasn’t the only white passenger who drew a pistol before boarding. Here at the edge of the Black Belt, rebellion still sizzled. He wanted to be able to fight back if the Negroes shot up the bus. His heart thudded in his chest when the machine got rolling.

It reached the Alabama Correctional Camp (P) without taking fire. Jeff breathed a sigh of relief when he got off. Two sandbagged machine-gun nests guarded the front entrance. They were new. Black raiders hadn’t been shy about shooting into the camp, and didn’t seem to care whether they hit guards or prisoners. New belts of barbed wire ringed the place, too. They were as much to keep marauders out as they were to keep inmates in.

Jeff’s white skin was enough to get him past the machine-gun nests unchallenged. At what had been the entrance, another guard carefully scrutinized both him and his identity card. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Toby,” he fumed, “you know goddamn well who I am.”

“Yeah, I do,” the lower-ranking guard said, “but I gotta be careful. There was that camp in Mississippi where one of the prisoners managed to sneak out with a phony card.”

“You ever hear of anybody sneaking
in
with a phony card?” Jeff demanded. Toby only shrugged. Pinkard let it go. He couldn’t complain too hard, not when the camp needed solid security.

A mosquito bit him on the back of the neck. He swatted and missed. Its buzz as it flew away sounded as if it were laughing at him. The camp lay quiet in the summer night. Snores floated out the windows of the prisoners’ barracks. Men who’d proved too enthusiastic about being Whigs or Rad Libs weren’t going anywhere—except for hasty trips to the latrines.

“What do you say, Jeff?” a guard called as Pinkard headed toward his much more comfortable barracks. “How was the picture?”

“Pretty good, Charlie,” he answered. “Got to do something about those damn niggers, though. That one who took a shot at the president . . .” He caught himself yawning and didn’t go on. Instead, he just said, “Freedom!”

“Freedom!” Charlie echoed. It was a handy word when you wanted to say something without bothering with a real conversation.

Pinkard’s mattress creaked when he lay down. In the warm, muggy darkness, he was some little while falling asleep. He’d laid out the camp with room to grow. The expanded security perimeter had come from that extra room, which was fine. The land was there, for whatever reason. If it hadn’t been, that would have caused a problem. As things were . . . As things were, he rolled over and slept.

Reveille woke him. He got out of bed, put on a fresh uniform, washed his face and shaved, and went out to look at morning roll call and inspection. The politicals were lined up in neat rows. They wore striped uniforms like any convicts, with a big white P stenciled on the chest and back of each shirt and the seat of each pair of trousers.

Guards counted them off and compared the tally to the number expected. When Pinkard saw the count start over again, he knew the numbers didn’t match. The politicals groaned; they didn’t get fed till everything checked out the way it was supposed to. One of them said, “Take off your shoes this time, goddammit!”

Without even pausing, a guard walking by backhanded the talky prisoner across the face. The political clapped his hands to his nose and mouth, whereupon the guard kicked him in the belly. He fell to the ground, writhing.

Jeff ate breakfast with assistant wardens not involved in the count. Ham and eggs and grits and good hot coffee filled him up nicely. When the count finally satisfied the guards making it, the prisoners got the very same breakfast—except for the ham and eggs and coffee.

One of the assistant wardens said, “I hear we’ve got some new fish coming in today.”

“Yeah?” Jeff pricked his ears up. “What kind of new fish?”

“Blackfish,” the other man answered.

“Niggers?” Pinkard said, and the other fellow nodded. Jeff swore. “How the hell are we going to keep ’em separate? Nobody said nothin’ about niggers when we were laying out this place.”

“What the devil difference does it make?” the other fellow said. “Half the bastards we’ve got in here—shit, more than half—they’re already nigger-lovers. Let ’em stick together with their pals.” He laughed.

To Jeff, it wasn’t a laughing matter. “They’ll make trouble,” he said dolefully. He didn’t want trouble—he didn’t want trouble the prisoners started, anyhow. He wanted things to go smoothly. That made him look good.

With a shrug, the other assistant warden said, “They won’t bust out, and that’s all that matters. And how much trouble can they make? We’ve got the guns. Let ’em write the governor if they don’t like it.” He guffawed again. So did Pinkard—that was funny.

Sure enough, the colored prisoners came in a little before noon. Some of them were wounded, and went into the meager infirmary. The rest . . . The rest reminded Jeff of the Red rebels he’d fought just after he got conscripted into the C.S. Army. With them inside it, this camp would need more guards. He was morally certain of that. What, after all, did these skinny, somber Negroes have left to lose?

“Y
ankees go home! Yankees go home! Yankees go home!”

The endless chant worried Irving Morrell. He stood up in the cupola of his barrel, watching the crowd in the park in Lubbock. Trouble was in the air. He could feel it. It made the hair on his arms and at the back of his neck want to stand up, the way lightning did before it struck. Not enough men here, in the restless—hell, the rebellious—state of Houston; not enough barrels, either. They hadn’t been able to clamp down on things here and make them stay quiet.

What do you expect?
he asked himself.
We’ve got that long, long border with Confederate Texas, and agitators keep slipping over it. They keep sneaking guns across it, too, not that there weren’t plenty here already.

As if on cue—and it probably was—the crowd in the park changed their cry: “Plebiscite! Plebiscite! Plebiscite!” Morrell’s worry eased, ever so slightly. Maybe they were less likely to do anything drastic if they were shouting for a chance to vote themselves back into the CSA.

From the gunner’s seat, Sergeant Michael Pound said, “By God, sir, we ought to let Featherston have these bastards back. They’d be just as unruly for him as they are for us.”

“I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong, Sergeant, but that’s not what our orders are,” Morrell answered. “We’re supposed to hold Houston, and so we will.”

“Yes, sir.” By his tone, Pound would sooner have dropped the place. Morrell had trouble blaming him. As far as he was concerned, the Confederates were welcome to what had been western Texas. But he didn’t give orders like that. He only carried them out, or tried.

When trouble started, it started very quickly. The crowd was still chanting, “Plebiscite! Plebiscite!” Morrell barely heard the pop of a pistol over the chant and over the rumble of the barrel’s engine. But he realized what was going on when a soldier in U.S. green-gray slumped to the ground, clutching at his belly.

The rest of the soldiers raised their rifles to their shoulders. The crowd, like most hostile crowds in Houston, had nerve. It surged forward, not back. Rocks and bottles started flying. The soldiers opened fire. So did people in the crowd who’d held back up till then.

Morrell ducked down into the turret. “It’s going to hell,” he told Pound. “Do what you have to do with the machine gun.”

“Yes, sir,” the gunner answered. “A couple of rounds of case shot from the main armament, too?”

Before Morrell could answer, three or four bullets spanged off the barrel’s armor plate. “Whatever you think best,” he said. “But we’re going to dismiss this crowd if we have to kill everybody in it.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael Pound said crisply; that was an order he could appreciate. “Case shot!” he told the loader, and case shot he got. He had never been a man to do things by halves.