Settling Accounts_ Drive To The East Part 1

Settling Accounts.

Drive to the East.

by Harry Turtledove.

I.

Every antiaircraft gun in Richmond seemed to thunder at once. The sky above the capital of the Confederate States filled with black puffs of smoke. Jake Featherston, the President of the CSA, had heard that his aviators called those bursts n.i.g.g.e.r-baby flak. They did look something like black dolls-and they were as dangerous as blacks in the Confederacy, too.

U.S. airplanes didn't usually come over Richmond by daylight, any more than Confederate aircraft usually raided Washington or Philadelphia or New York City when the sun was in the sky. Antiaircraft fire and aggressive fighter patrols had quickly made daylight bombing more expensive than it was worth. The night was the time when bombers droned overhead.

Today, the United States was making an exception. That they were, surprised Jake very little. Two nights before, Confederate bombers had killed U.S. President Al Smith. They hadn't done it on purpose. Trying to hit one particular man or one particular building in a city like Philadelphia, especially at night, was like going after a needle in a haystack with your eyes closed. Try or not, though, they'd flattened Powel House, the President of the USA's Philadelphia residence, and smashed the bomb shelter beneath it. Vice President La Follette was Vice President no more.

Featherston wasn't sure he would have deliberately killed Al Smith if he'd had the chance. After all, he'd hornswoggled a plebiscite on Kentucky and the part of west Texas the USA had called Houston and Sequoyah out of Smith, and triumphantly welcomed the first two back into the Confederacy. But he'd expected Smith to go right on yielding to him, and the son of a b.i.t.c.h hadn't done it. Smith hadn't taken the peace proposal Featherston offered him after Confederate armor sliced through Ohio to Lake Erie, either. Even though the USA remained cut in two, the country also remained very much in the war. The struggle wasn't as sharp and short and easy as Jake had hoped.

So maybe Al Smith was better off dead. Maybe. How could you tell? Like any Vice President, Charlie La Follette was the very definition of an unknown quant.i.ty.

But it was only natural for the United States to try to take revenge. Kill our President, will you? We'll kill yours!

U.S. Wright-27 fighters, no doubt diverted from shooting up Confederate positions near the Rappahannock, escorted the bombers and danced a dance of death with C.S. Hound Dogs. Level bombers, two- and four-engined, rained explosives down on Richmond.

With them, though, came a squadron of dive bombers, airplanes not usually seen in attacks on cities. To Jake's admittedly biased way of thinking, the CSA had the best dive bomber in the world in the Mule, otherwise known on both sides of the front as the a.s.skicker. But its U.S. counterparts were also up to the job they had to do.

That job, here, was to pound the c.r.a.p out of the Confederate Presidential residence up on Shockoe Hill. The building was often called the Gray House, after the U.S. White House. If the flak over Richmond as a whole was heavy, that over the Gray House was heavier still. Half a dozen guns stood on the Gray House grounds alone. If an airplane was. .h.i.t, it seemed as if a pilot could walk on sh.e.l.l bursts all the way to the ground. He couldn't, of course, but it seemed that way.

A dive bomber took a direct hit and exploded in midair, adding a huge smear of flame and smoke to the already crowded sky. Another, trailing fire from the engine cowling back toward the c.o.c.kpit, smashed into the ground a few blocks away from the mansion. A greasy pillar of thick black smoke marked the pilot's pyre.

Another bomber was. .h.i.t, and another. The rest bored in on their target. Back before the Great War started in 1914, lots of Confederates believed the Yankees were not only enemies but cowardly enemies. They'd learned better, to their cost. The pilots in these U.S. machines were as brave and as skilled as the men the CSA put in the air.

Yet another dive bomber blew up, this one only a few hundred feet above the Gray House. Flaming wreckage fell all around, and even on, the Presidential residence. The survivors did what they were supposed to do. One after another, they released their bombs, pulled out of their dives, and scurried back towards U.S.-held territory as fast as they could go.

No antiaircraft defenses could block that kind of attack. The Gray House flew to pieces like an anthill kicked by a giant's boot. Some of the wreckage flew up, not out. The d.a.m.nyankees must have loaded armor-piercing bombs into some of their bombers. If Jake Featherston took refuge in the shelter under the museum, they aimed to blow him to h.e.l.l and gone anyway.

But Jake wasn't in the Gray House or in the shelter under it.

Jake wasn't within a mile of the Gray House, in fact. As soon as he heard Al Smith was dead, Jake had ordered the Presidential residence evacuated. He'd done it quietly; making a fuss about it would have tipped off the d.a.m.nyankees that he wasn't where they wanted him to be. At the moment, he was holed up in a none too fancy hotel about a mile west of Capitol Square. His bodyguards kept screaming at him to get his a.s.s down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, but he wanted to watch the show. It beat the h.e.l.l out of Fourth of July fireworks.

Saul Goldman didn't scream. The C.S. Director of Communications was both more restrained and smarter than that. He said, "Mr. President, please please take cover. If a bomb falls on you here, the United States win, just the same as if you'd stayed up on Shockoe Hill. The country needs you. Stay safe." take cover. If a bomb falls on you here, the United States win, just the same as if you'd stayed up on Shockoe Hill. The country needs you. Stay safe."

Jake eyed the pudgy, gray-haired little Jew with something that was for a moment not far from hatred. He He ran the Confederate States, ran them more nearly absolutely than any previous North American ruler had run his country-and that included all the G.o.dd.a.m.n useless Maximilians in the Empire of Mexico. n.o.body could tell him what to do, n.o.body at all. Saul hadn't tried, unlike the Freedom Party guards who'd bellowed at him. No, Saul had done far worse than that. He'd talked sense. ran the Confederate States, ran them more nearly absolutely than any previous North American ruler had run his country-and that included all the G.o.dd.a.m.n useless Maximilians in the Empire of Mexico. n.o.body could tell him what to do, n.o.body at all. Saul hadn't tried, unlike the Freedom Party guards who'd bellowed at him. No, Saul had done far worse than that. He'd talked sense.

"All right, dammit," Featherston said peevishly, and withdrew. He affected not to hear the sighs of relief from everyone around him.

Sitting down in the bas.e.m.e.nt was as bad as he'd known it would be. He despised doing nothing. He despised having to do nothing. He wanted to be up there hitting back at his enemies, or else hitting them first and hitting them so hard, they couldn't hit back at him. He'd tried to do that to the United States. The first blow hadn't quite knocked them out. The next one . . . He vowed the next one would.

Catching his foul mood, Goldman said, "Don't worry about it, Mr. President. When you go on the wireless and let the United States know you're still here, that will hurt them worse than losing a big city."

Again, the Director of Communications made sense. Jake found himself nodding, whether he wanted to or not. "Well, you're right," he said. "They can't afford to come after me like that all the time. They won't have any airplanes or pilots left if they do, on account of we'll blow 'em all to h.e.l.l and gone." He pointed to Goldman. "Make sure there's a studio waiting for me just as soon as these Yankee b.a.s.t.a.r.ds let up, Saul."

"I'll see to it, sir," Goldman promised.

He was as good as his word, too. He always was. That by itself made him somebody to cherish. Most people did what they could and gave excuses for the rest. Saul Goldman did what he said he'd do. So did Jake himself. People hadn't believed him. He'd taken more than sixteen years, a lot of them lean and hungry, to get to the top. Now that he'd arrived, he was doing just what he'd told folks he would. Some people had the nerve to act surprised. Hadn't they been listening, dammit?

An armored limousine took him to a studio. Nothing short of a direct hit by a bomb would make this baby blink. Jake had already survived two a.s.sa.s.sination attempts, not counting this latest one from the USA. Except when his blood was up, the way it had been during the air raid, he didn't believe in taking unnecessary chances.

By now, sitting down in front of a microphone was second nature to him. He'd been a jump ahead of the Whigs and Radical Liberals in figuring out what wireless could do for a politician, and he still used it better than anybody else in the CSA or the USA. Having Saul Goldman on his side helped. He knew that. But he had himself on his side, too, and he was his own best advertis.e.m.e.nt.

In the room next door, the engineer held up one finger-one minute till airtime. Jake waved back at the gla.s.s square set into the wall between the rooms to show he'd got the message. He always acknowledged the competence of people like engineers. They did their jobs so he could do his. He took one last look around. There wasn't much to see. Except for that gla.s.s square, the walls and ceiling of the studio were covered in what looked like cardboard egg cartons that helped deaden unwanted noise and echoes.

The engineer pointed to him. The red light above the square of gla.s.s came on. He leaned toward the microphone. "I'm Jake Featherston," he said, "and I'm here to tell you the truth." His voice was a harsh rasp. It wasn't the usual broadcaster's voice, any more than his rawboned, craggy face was conventionally handsome. But it grabbed attention and it held attention, and who could ask for more than that? n.o.body, not in the wireless business.

"Truth is, I'm still here," he went on after his trademark greeting. "The Yankees dropped bombs on the Gray House, but I'm still here. They threw away G.o.d only knows how many airplanes, but I'm still here. They wasted G.o.d only knows how much money, but I'm still here. They murdered G.o.d only knows how many innocent women and children, but I'm still here. They've thrown G.o.d only knows how many soldiers at Richmond, but I'm still here-and they're not. They've had G.o.d only knows how many fine young men, who could've gone on and done other things, shot and ga.s.sed and blown to pieces, but I'm still here. They've had G.o.d only knows how many barrels smashed to sc.r.a.p metal, but I'm still here. They've given guns to our n.i.g.g.e.rs and taught 'em to rise up against the white man, but I'm still here. And let them try whatever else they want to try. I've taken it all, and I'll take some more, on account of I'm-still-here."

The red light went out. Behind the gla.s.s, the engineer applauded. Jake grinned at him. He didn't think he'd ever seen that before. He raised his hands over his head, fingers interlaced, like a victorious prizefighter. The engineer applauded harder.

When Jake came out of the studio, Saul Goldman stood in the hall with eyes shining behind his gla.s.ses. "That . . . that was outstanding, Mr. President," he said. "Outstanding."

"Yeah, I thought it went pretty well," Featherston said. Around most people, he bragged and swaggered. Goldman, by contrast, could make him modest.

"No one in the United States will have any doubts," Goldman said. "No one in the Confederate States will, either."

"That's what it's all about," Jake said. "I don't want anybody to have any doubts about what I've got in mind. I aim to make the Confederate States the grandest country on this continent. I aim to do that, and by G.o.d I'm going to do that." Even Saul Goldman, who'd heard it all before, and heard it times uncounted, nodded as if it were fresh and new.

A ship of his own! Sam Carsten had never dreamt of that, not when he joined the Navy in 1909. He'd never dreamt of becoming an officer at all, but he wore a lieutenant's two broad gold stripes on each sleeve of his jacket. The ship of his own! Sam Carsten had never dreamt of that, not when he joined the Navy in 1909. He'd never dreamt of becoming an officer at all, but he wore a lieutenant's two broad gold stripes on each sleeve of his jacket. The Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels wasn't a battlewagon or an airplane carrier-nothing of the sort. The U.S. Navy called her a destroyer escort; in the Royal Navy, she would have been a frigate. She could do a little bit of everything: escort convoys of merchantmen and hunt submersibles that menaced them, lay mines if she had to (though she wasn't specialized for that), bombard a coast (though that was asking for trouble if airplanes were anywhere close by), and shoot torpedoes and her pair of four-inch popguns at enemy ships. She was all his-306 feet, 220 men. wasn't a battlewagon or an airplane carrier-nothing of the sort. The U.S. Navy called her a destroyer escort; in the Royal Navy, she would have been a frigate. She could do a little bit of everything: escort convoys of merchantmen and hunt submersibles that menaced them, lay mines if she had to (though she wasn't specialized for that), bombard a coast (though that was asking for trouble if airplanes were anywhere close by), and shoot torpedoes and her pair of four-inch popguns at enemy ships. She was all his-306 feet, 220 men.

Commander Cressy, the Remembrance Remembrance's executive officer, had been surprised when he got her-surprised, but pleased. Sam's own exec was a lieutenant, junior grade, just over half his age, a redheaded, freckle-faced go-getter named Pat Cooley. Cooley was probably headed for big things-he was almost bound to be if the war and its quick promotions lasted . . . and if he lived, of course. Carsten knew that he himself, as a mustang, had gone about as far as he could go. He could hope for lieutenant commander. He could, he supposed, dream of commander-as long as he remembered he was dreaming. Considering where he'd started, he had had a h.e.l.l of a career.

Cooley looked around with a smile on his face. "Feels like spring, doesn't it, Captain?"

Captain. Sam knew he couldn't even dream about getting a fourth stripe. But he was, by G.o.d, captain of the Sam knew he couldn't even dream about getting a fourth stripe. But he was, by G.o.d, captain of the Josephus Daniels. Josephus Daniels. "Always feels like spring in San Diego," he answered. "August, November, March-doesn't make much difference." "Always feels like spring in San Diego," he answered. "August, November, March-doesn't make much difference."

"Yes, sir," the exec said. "Another three weeks and we'll have the genuine article."

"Uh-huh." Sam nodded. "We'll think it's summer by then, I expect, cruising off the coast of Baja California."

"Got to let the d.a.m.n greasers know they picked the wrong side-again," Cooley said.

"Uh-huh," Sam repeated. The Empire of Mexico and the Confederate States had been bosom buddies ever since the Second Mexican War. There was a certain irony in that, since Mexican royalty came from the same line as the Austro-Hungarian Emperors, and Austria-Hungary lined up with Germany and the USA. But Confederate independence and Confederate friendship with the first Maximilian had kept the USA from invoking the Monroe Doctrine-had effectively shot the Doctrine right between the eyes. The Emperors of Mexico remembered that and forgot who their ancestors had been.

Pat Cooley was the one who took the Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels out of San Diego harbor. Sam knew d.a.m.n near everything there was to know about gunnery and damage control. His shiphandling skills were, at the moment, as near nonexistent as made no difference. He intended to remedy that. He was and always had been a conscientious man, a plugger. He went forward one step at a time, and it wasn't always a big step, either. But he out of San Diego harbor. Sam knew d.a.m.n near everything there was to know about gunnery and damage control. His shiphandling skills were, at the moment, as near nonexistent as made no difference. He intended to remedy that. He was and always had been a conscientious man, a plugger. He went forward one step at a time, and it wasn't always a big step, either. But he did did go forward, never back. go forward, never back.

Three other destroyer escorts and a light cruiser made up the flotilla that would pay a call on Baja California. Sam could have wished they had some air support. h.e.l.l, he did wish it. He'd heard that a swarm of light carriers-converted from merchantman hulls-were abuilding. He hoped like anything that was true. True or not, though, the light carriers weren't in action yet.

He smeared zinc-oxide ointment on his nose, his cheeks, and the backs of his hands. Freckled Pat Cooley didn't laugh at all. Sam was very blond and very fair. Even this early impression of San Diego spring was plenty to make him burn. He offered Cooley the tinfoil tube.

"No, thank you, sir," the exec said. "I've got my own." He'd start to bake just about as fast as Carsten did.

The long swells of the Pacific, swells all the way down from the Gulf of Alaska, raised the destroyer escort and then lowered her. She rolled a few degrees in the process. Here and there, a sailor ran for the rail and gave back his breakfast. Sam smiled at that. His hide was weak, but he had a strong stomach.

He took the wheel when they were out on the open sea. Feeling the whole ship not just through the soles of his feet but also through his hands was quite something. He frowned in concentration, the tip of his tongue peeping out, as he kept station, zigzagging with his companions.

"You're doing fine, sir," Cooley said encouragingly. "Ask you something?"

"Go ahead." Sam watched the compa.s.s as he changed course.

"Ease it back just a little-you don't want to overcorrect," Cooley said, and then, "How bad are things over in the Sandwich Islands?"

"Well, they sure as h.e.l.l aren't good." Sam did ease it back. "With no carriers over there right now, we're in a bad way." He remembered swimming from the mortally damaged Remembrance Remembrance to the destroyer that plucked him from the warm Pacific, remembered watching the airplane carrier on which he'd served so long slide beneath the waves, and remembered the tears streaming down his face when she did. to the destroyer that plucked him from the warm Pacific, remembered watching the airplane carrier on which he'd served so long slide beneath the waves, and remembered the tears streaming down his face when she did.

Cooley frowned. "We've got plenty of our own airplanes on the main islands. We should be able to make the j.a.ps sorry if they come poking their noses down there, right?"

"As long as we can keep 'em in fuel and such, sure," Carsten answered. "But the islands-Oahu, mostly-just sit there, and the j.a.ps' carriers can go wherever they want. There's a gap about halfway between here and the islands that we can't cover very well from the mainland or from Honolulu. If the j.a.ps start smashing up our supply convoys, we've got big trouble, because the Sandwich Islands get d.a.m.n near everything from the West Coast."

"We ought to have airplanes with longer range," the exec said.

"Yeah." Sam couldn't say the same thing hadn't occurred to him. It had probably occurred to every Navy man who'd ever thought about the question. "Only trouble is, that's the one one place where we need 'em. The Confederate States are right next door, so the designers concentrated on guns and bomb load instead. Before the war, I don't think anybody figured we'd lose Midway and give the j.a.ps a base that far east." place where we need 'em. The Confederate States are right next door, so the designers concentrated on guns and bomb load instead. Before the war, I don't think anybody figured we'd lose Midway and give the j.a.ps a base that far east."

Cooley's laugh was anything but amused. "Surprise!" He c.o.c.ked his head to one side and studied Sam. "You think about this stuff, don't you?"

Commander Cressy had said almost the same thing in almost the same bemused tone of voice. Like Cressy-who was now a captain-Cooley came out of the Naval Academy. Finding a mustang with a working brain seemed to have perplexed both of them. Cooley had to be more careful about how he showed it: Sam outranked him.

Shrugging, Sam said, "If you guess along, you're less likely to get caught with your skivvies down. Oh, you will some of the time-it comes with the territory-but you're less likely to. The more you know, the better off you are."

"Uh-huh," Cooley said. It wasn't disagreement. It was more on the order of, Well, Well, you're you're not what I thought you were going to be. not what I thought you were going to be.

The first Mexican town below the border had a name that translated as Aunt Jane. In peacetime, it was a popular liberty port. The handful of Mexican police didn't give a d.a.m.n what American sailors did-this side of arson or gunplay, anyhow. If you couldn't come back to your ship with a hangover and a dose of the clap, you weren't half trying.

But it wasn't peacetime now. The Mexicans hadn't built a proper coast-defense battery to try to protect poor old Aunt Jane's honor. What point, when overwhelming U.S. firepower from across the border could smash up almost any prepared position? The greasers had had brought in a few three-inch pieces to tell the U.S. Navy to keep its distance. Some of them opened up on the flotilla. brought in a few three-inch pieces to tell the U.S. Navy to keep its distance. Some of them opened up on the flotilla.

Sam called the Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels to general quarters. He laughed to himself as the klaxons hooted. This was the first time he hadn't had to run like h.e.l.l to take his battle station. Here he was on the bridge, right where he belonged. to general quarters. He laughed to himself as the klaxons hooted. This was the first time he hadn't had to run like h.e.l.l to take his battle station. Here he was on the bridge, right where he belonged.

The Mexicans' fire fell at least half a mile short. Columns of water leaped into the air as sh.e.l.ls splashed into the Pacific. Sailors seeing their first action exclaimed at how big those columns were. That made Sam want to laugh again. He'd seen the great gouts of water near misses from fourteen-inch sh.e.l.ls kicked up. Next to those, these might have been mice p.i.s.sing beside elephants.

"Let's return fire, Mr. Cooley," Sam said.

"Aye aye, sir." The exec relayed the order to the gun turrets. Both four-inchers-nothing even slightly fancy themselves: not even secondary armament on a capital ship-swung toward the sh.o.r.e. They fired almost together. At the recoil, the Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels heeled slightly to starboard. She recovered almost at once. The guns roared again and again. heeled slightly to starboard. She recovered almost at once. The guns roared again and again.

Sh.e.l.ls began bursting around the places where muzzle flashes revealed the Mexican guns. The other members of the flotilla were firing, too. The bigger cannons on the ships could reach the sh.o.r.e, even if the guns on sh.o.r.e couldn't touch the ships. Through binoculars, Sam could easily tell the difference between bursts from the four-inch guns on the destroyer escorts and the light cruiser's six-inchers.

Plucky if outranged, the Mexicans defiantly shot back. "I wouldn't do that," Cooley said. "It just tells us we haven't knocked 'em out. Now more'll come down on their heads."

"They're making a point, I suppose." Sam peered through the binoculars again. "Our gunnery needs work. I'd say that's true for every ship here. I can't do anything about the others, but by G.o.d I can fix things on this one."

"Uh, yes, sir." Cooley looked at him, plainly wondering whether he knew any more about that than he did about conning a ship.

Sam grinned back. "Son, I was handling a five-inch gun on the Dakota Dakota about the time you were a gleam in your old man's eye." about the time you were a gleam in your old man's eye."

"Oh." The exec blushed between his freckles. "All right, sir." He grinned, too. "Teach me to keep my mouth shut-and I hardly even opened it."

One of the bursts on sh.o.r.e was conspicuously bigger than the others had been. "There we go!" Sam said. "Some of their ammo just went up. I don't know whether they've got real dumps there or we hit a limber, but we nailed 'em pretty good either way."

"Blew some gunners to h.e.l.l and gone either way, too," Cooley said.

"That's the point of it," Carsten agreed. "They won't care if we rearrange the landscape. After they bury Jose and Pedro-if they can find enough of 'em left to to bury-they'll get the idea that we can hurt them worse than they can hurt us. It's about people, Pat. It's always about people." bury-they'll get the idea that we can hurt them worse than they can hurt us. It's about people, Pat. It's always about people."

"Uh, yes, sir," Pat Cooley said again. This time, it wasn't doubt in his eyes as he looked Sam over: it was bemus.e.m.e.nt again. Sam laughed inside himself. No, the mustang isn't quite what you figured on, eh, kid? No, the mustang isn't quite what you figured on, eh, kid?

The light cruiser's skipper didn't choose to linger to continue the one-sided gun duel. The flotilla steamed south. Sam hoped the Mexicans didn't have anything more up their sleeves than what they'd already shown.

For you, the war is over. The Confederate officer who took Major Jonathan Moss prisoner after his fighter got shot down over Virginia had sounded like an actor mouthing a screenwriter's lines in a bad film about the Great War. The only thing that had kept Moss from telling him so was that the son of a b.i.t.c.h was likely right. The Confederate officer who took Major Jonathan Moss prisoner after his fighter got shot down over Virginia had sounded like an actor mouthing a screenwriter's lines in a bad film about the Great War. The only thing that had kept Moss from telling him so was that the son of a b.i.t.c.h was likely right.

Moss strolled near the barbed-wire perimeter of a prisoner-of-war camp outside the little town of Andersonville, Georgia. He didn't get too too close to the barbed wire. Inside it was a second perimeter, marked only by two-foot-high stakes with long, flimsy bands supported on top of them. The red dirt between the inner and outer perimeters was always rolled smooth so it would show footprints. The goons in the guard towers outside the barbed wire would open up with machine guns without warning if anybody presumed to set foot on that dead ground without permission. close to the barbed wire. Inside it was a second perimeter, marked only by two-foot-high stakes with long, flimsy bands supported on top of them. The red dirt between the inner and outer perimeters was always rolled smooth so it would show footprints. The goons in the guard towers outside the barbed wire would open up with machine guns without warning if anybody presumed to set foot on that dead ground without permission.

Other officers-fliers and ground pounders both-also walked along the perimeter or through the camp. The only other thing to do was stay in the barracks, an even more depressing alternative. The Confederates had built them as cheaply and flimsily as the Geneva Convention allowed. No doubt U.S. accommodations for C.S. prisoners were every bit as shabby. Moss didn't care about that; he wasn't in a U.S. camp. What he did care about was that, when it rained here-which it did all too often-it rained almost as hard inside the barracks as it did outside.

Clouds were rolling in out of the northwest, which probably meant yet another storm was on the way. Moss looked down at his wrist to see what time it was. Then he muttered to himself. He'd been relieved of wrist.w.a.tch and wallet shortly after his capture.

All things considered, it could have been worse. The food was lousy-grits and boiled greens and what the guards called fatback, a name that fit only too well-but there was enough of it. Meals were the high points of the day. Considering how dreary they were, that said nothing good about the rest of the time.

A captain came up to Moss. Nick Cantarella looked like what he was: a tough Italian kid out of New York City. "How ya doin'?" he asked.

Moss shrugged. "All things considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia." He wasn't above stealing a line from one of the more inspired film comics he'd seen.

Chuckling, Cantarella said, "Yeah, this place makes Philly look good, and that's sayin' somethin'." He looked around. The guard in the closest tower was watching the two of them, but he couldn't hear a quiet conversation. No prisoners were in earshot, either. "It could happen one of these days."

"Could it?" Moss said eagerly.

"Could, I said." Cantarella left it at that, and trudged away with his head down and the collar of his leather jacket turned up.

However much Moss wanted to learn more, he kept quiet. Trying to know too much and learn too fast only made people in the Andersonville camp suspicious. Not all the inmates were prisoners: so Moss had been a.s.sured, anyhow. The United States and Confederate States were branches off the same trunk. They'd grown apart, but not that far apart. It wasn't impossible for a clever Confederate to impersonate a U.S. officer. No one here was trusted with anything important-indeed, with anything at all-till someone known to be reliable vouched for him. Till then, he was presumed to be talking to the guards.

That had made it harder for Moss to gain people's confidence. His squadron was fairly new in Maryland, and not many people fighting in the East knew him. Finally, another pilot shot down over Virginia proved to have flown with him in Ohio and Indiana, and also proved to be known to a couple of pilots already in the Andersonville camp. Once they'd a.s.sured their friends that Joe was legit, Joe could do the same for Moss.

So now he knew there were plans to stage an escape from the camp. That was all he knew about them. Details would come sooner or later. He had no idea whether he'd be on the list of prisoners chosen to disappear. He did think the breakout had a chance. Following Geneva Convention rules, the Confederates paid prisoners who were commissioned officers the same salary as they gave to men of equal grade in their own service. Escapees would have money, then. They spoke the local language, even if their accent was odd. If they could get outside the barbed wire, get a little start . . .

For you, the war is over. Moss could hope not, anyhow. He didn't know what the hope was worth. In the meantime . . . In the meantime, the rain arrived about half an hour later. It drove Moss back into the barracks. The red dirt outside rapidly turned to a substance resembling nothing so much as tomato soup. Inside, rain dripped between the unpainted pine boards of the roof. Some of the leaks were over bunks. Makeshift cloth awnings channeled away the worst of them. Moss could hope not, anyhow. He didn't know what the hope was worth. In the meantime . . . In the meantime, the rain arrived about half an hour later. It drove Moss back into the barracks. The red dirt outside rapidly turned to a substance resembling nothing so much as tomato soup. Inside, rain dripped between the unpainted pine boards of the roof. Some of the leaks were over bunks. Makeshift cloth awnings channeled away the worst of them.

Moss' mattress and pillow were cheap cotton sacking stuffed with sawdust and wood shavings. Eight wooden slats across the bed frame supported the bedding. The mattress was every bit as comfortable as Moss had thought it would be when he first set eyes on it. He might have had worse nights sleeping on the slats. Then again, he might not have.