Settling Accounts_ Drive To The East Part 12

A few days later, the Secretary of the Interior did did appear before the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War. Harry Hopkins came from Iowa and still spoke with a flat Midwestern accent, but he'd gone to New York as a young lawyer. He'd got to know Al Smith there, and had risen with him. Now he had to defend the policies of another President. appear before the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War. Harry Hopkins came from Iowa and still spoke with a flat Midwestern accent, but he'd gone to New York as a young lawyer. He'd got to know Al Smith there, and had risen with him. Now he had to defend the policies of another President.

"What terms has the administration offered the Mormon insurgents in Utah?" Senator Norris asked the question reluctantly. He knew the other members would be sharper than he if he faltered.

"No more than a return to the status quo ante bellum status quo ante bellum if they lay down their arms," Hopkins answered. "If they want peace, we will give them peace: no treason trials, no persecutions. But that is absolutely as far as we will go. Demands for autonomy and independence for the so-called State of Deseret have been and will continue to be rejected out of hand." if they lay down their arms," Hopkins answered. "If they want peace, we will give them peace: no treason trials, no persecutions. But that is absolutely as far as we will go. Demands for autonomy and independence for the so-called State of Deseret have been and will continue to be rejected out of hand."

"And what is the response of the Mormon representative to this proposal?" the chairman asked. "Uh-what is the gentleman's name?" He plainly wanted to call the Mormon representative something else, something less polite, but refrained.

"Rush. Hyrum Rush." Hopkins spelled the Mormon's first name. Having done so, he let out a resigned sigh. "Mr. Rush does not feel our proposal goes far enough, and fears it leaves his people vulnerable to further U.S. aggression. Those are his words, not mine."

Flora raised her hand. With a certain amount of trepidation, Norris recognized her. She said, "Mr. Hopkins, why does Mr. Rush think Utah would be any safer as an independent country surrounded by the United States than as one state among many? This makes little sense to me."

"He said, 'You gave Kentucky and Houston and Sequoyah plebiscites, but you wouldn't give us one. You thought we were a bunch of perverts, and we didn't deserve one,' " Hopkins replied.

Hyrum Rush wasn't so far wrong. Flora said, "Don't you think we ought to get rid of an abscess like that instead of putting a bandage on it?"

"Normally, Congresswoman, I'd say yes. Right now, we've got bigger things to worry about than an abscess."

Flora winced. With the country cut in half, she couldn't very well disagree with the Secretary of the Interior. "The rebels show no sign of agreeing to these terms?" she asked.

"That's correct, ma'am," Harry Hopkins said.

Good, Flora thought, but she kept it to herself. She nodded to the chairman. "No further questions." Flora thought, but she kept it to herself. She nodded to the chairman. "No further questions."

Brigadier General Abner Dowling studied Confederate dispositions on a large map pinned to a wall of the house in Culpeper he used as a headquarters. If the U.S. Army ever moved deeper into Virginia, the house's owner would get it back, and would probably be unhappy about the holes in his plaster. Dowling, whose own disposition was none too good, intended to miss not a moment of sleep worrying about that.

He called Captain Toricelli in to look at the latest dispositions. His adjutant was a sharp young officer. "Tell me what you make of this," Dowling said, as neutrally as he could. He left it there. He wanted to see if the junior officer noticed the same thing he had-and if it was truly there to notice.

Angelo Toricelli eyed the map with unusual care. He knew Dowling wouldn't have asked him for no reason. After a thoughtful pause, he said, "They really are thinning out their positions a bit, aren't they?"

"It looks that way to me," Dowling answered. "It's got to the point where we can't ignore it, hasn't it?"

His adjutant nodded. "I'd say so. But the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in b.u.t.ternut don't want us to spot it. Just by the way they're doing it, I'd bet money on that."

"Does seem so, doesn't it?" Dowling said. "And why not? For fear we'll pour through? They aren't weakening themselves that that much." much."

"Where are those men going?" Toricelli asked.

"If I knew, I would tell you." Dowling scratched his head. His hair was thinning-one more indignity of age. He sighed. "We ought to send out raiders, bring back some prisoners. They may know where their pals are headed. It doesn't seem to be down toward the Wilderness. That was what I guessed when I conferred with General Morrell. If it turns out to be over toward Fredericksburg instead, we'll have to alert General MacArthur, a.s.suming such a thing is possible."

"Er-yes, sir," Captain Toricelli said. These days, Dowling didn't bother hiding his scorn for his superior. MacArthur didn't like him, either, and manifested it by withholding men and materiel from his corps. That was how things looked to Dowling's jaundiced eye, anyhow.

"Draft the orders," Dowling said. "Send them by runner, not by telegraph or telephone or wireless, not even in code. I don't want the Confederates getting wind of what we're up to and priming some men to lie like Ananias." Maybe he had what the smart alienists these days were calling a persecution complex. He didn't intend to worry about it. An Army officer who didn't worry that the enemy was out to diddle him didn't deserve his shoulder straps.

And Toricelli didn't think his orders were anything out of the ordinary-or, if he did, he had the sense to keep his mouth shut about it. "I'll have them on your desk in twenty minutes, sir," he promised.

"That sounds good," Dowling said.

As if further to disguise whatever they were up to, the Confederates in front of Dowling's corps suddenly turned aggressive-not in any big way, but with lots of raids and artillery barrages and all the other things that made it look as if a major offensive might be brewing. Several regimental commanders sent panicky messages back to Culpeper.

One thing Dowling was good at was not getting excited at every little thing. Had he got excited at every little thing while serving under General Custer, he would have jumped out a window early in his career. He managed to calm down his subordinates, too. Had he been wrong, had the Confederates been planning a big push, he might have ended up with egg on his face for calming them down too well. But no big push came.

In due course, the interrogation reports did. Dowling's eyebrows rose toward his retreating hairline when he read them. He looked up to Captain Toricelli, who'd given him the transcripts. "The questioners think this is reliable and accurate?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I talked to one of them. They're pretty certain," Toricelli replied.

"All right. We'll relay it to General MacArthur's headquarters, and we'll also relay it to the War Department," Dowling said. "In code, mind you."

"Oh, yes, sir," his adjutant agreed. "This is too hot to go out in clear." For once, he showed none of the quiet scorn with which adjutants often greeted their superiors' ideas. I hope my notions aren't as bad as a lot of Custer's were, I hope my notions aren't as bad as a lot of Custer's were, Dowling thought. And yet one of Custer's ideas-as foolish at first sight and as stubbornly maintained as any of the others-had gone a long way toward winning the Great War. You never could tell. Dowling thought. And yet one of Custer's ideas-as foolish at first sight and as stubbornly maintained as any of the others-had gone a long way toward winning the Great War. You never could tell.

A few hours later, Dowling's telephone jangled. He picked it up. "First Corps Headquarters, Dowling speaking."

"h.e.l.lo, sir. This is John Abell." The General Staff officer didn't give his rank or affiliation. That was no doubt wise. A lot of telephone wire lay between Philadelphia and Culpeper. If the Confederates weren't tapping it somewhere, Dowling would have been amazed. Abell went on, "You have confidence in the information you sent us?"

"Would I have sent it if I didn't?" Dowling returned.

"You'd be amazed," Abell said, and that was probably true. He continued, "We still have to confirm it at the other end."

"I don't know anything about that," Dowling said. "But I do know what I've seen, and I know-or I think I know-I wasn't imagining it."

"You weren't, not if these reports are even close to accurate," Abell said. "Have you heard anything from General MacArthur yet?"

"No, not a word," Dowling said.

The General Staff officer sniffed disdainfully. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I've alerted him to the possibility. That's all I can do," Dowling said. That's all I want to do, That's all I want to do, he added to himself. he added to himself. If I could have found any way to keep from doing even that much, I would have grabbed it like you wouldn't believe. If I could have found any way to keep from doing even that much, I would have grabbed it like you wouldn't believe.

"I hope something good comes of it." Abell's tone suggested he didn't think that was likely. "So long, sir. Take care of yourself." He hung up.

So did Dowling, muttering to himself. Daniel MacArthur didn't want to talk to him any more than he wanted to talk to MacArthur. So he thought, anyhow. But when the telephone rang again and he picked it up, what he heard was an abrupt rasp: "This is MacArthur."

"Yes, sir." Dowling unconsciously came to attention in his chair. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"It's really true that the Confederates are draining men away from this entire front?" MacArthur demanded.

"Sir, that's the way it looks from here." Dowling didn't intend to commit himself any further than that. a.s.sert that something was really true and it was only too likely to come back and haunt you.

What he did say seemed to satisfy MacArthur. "In that case, I'm going to take one of the divisions out of your corps and bring it east."

"What?" The word burst from Dowling's throat as a pained yelp. "What do you want to do that for?"

"We mounted an attack at Fredericksburg that could have succeeded-that should have succeeded, in fact," MacArthur answered. "I intend to send more men in this time-send them in and have them break through."

From everything Dowling had heard, the attack on Fredericksburg hadn't come anywhere near as close to succeeding as MacArthur claimed. From everything Dowling had heard, U.S. forces hadn't even got over the Rappahannock and into Fredericksburg itself. Would throwing in more men help? Dowling didn't know. Custer had always liked to smother fires by burying them in bodies. He'd had his share of b.l.o.o.d.y fiascoes, but he'd also finally had his breakthrough. Maybe Daniel MacArthur would, too. Maybe.

One thing was certain: if MacArthur wanted one of Dowling's divisions, he had the right to take it. Dowling did what he could, saying, "We'll be spread thin here if you do shift it east."

"So are the Confederates you're facing. You found that out yourself. Since they are, why worry? It seems to me that you spend too much time carping and complaining and not enough figuring out how to strike the foe."

It seemed to Dowling that MacArthur spent too much time figuring out stupid ways to strike the foe. He didn't say so. What point to it? He'd just get MacArthur angry at him again. He wouldn't change his superior's mind. No one except MacArthur could do that, and he wasn't in the habit of doing so.

Suppressing a sigh, Dowling said, "Sir, I'll do my best with whatever men you leave me. You can rely on that."

"There. You see?" Daniel MacArthur actually sounded pleased. "You can be cooperative when you set your mind to it."

By be cooperative, be cooperative, he meant he meant do exactly what I tell you without asking any inconvenient questions no matter what. do exactly what I tell you without asking any inconvenient questions no matter what. Dowling knew that only too well. Again, though, what could he do about it? Not much, as he knew all too well. He tried his best to keep resignation out of his voice as he answered, "Yes, sir." Dowling knew that only too well. Again, though, what could he do about it? Not much, as he knew all too well. He tried his best to keep resignation out of his voice as he answered, "Yes, sir."

"Good," MacArthur said. Dowling wondered if it was. MacArthur went on, "You'll have your orders soon. Thin their lines against me, me, will they? I am going to bury those Confederates-bury them, I tell you. There's no doubt in my mind." will they? I am going to bury those Confederates-bury them, I tell you. There's no doubt in my mind."

"Yes, sir," Dowling said. Maybe he would. But how many U.S. soldiers would they bury, too? No way to know, not till it happened. Dowling had long since abandoned optimism along with the other illusions of his youth. He had thought before that MacArthur had more in common with George Custer than either of the two generals would ever have admitted: a complete lack of doubt and a strong belief in their own brilliance running neck and neck.

As if to underscore that, MacArthur said, "See you in Richmond, then," and slammed down the telephone. Dowling slowly replaced his own handset in its cradle. See you in Richmond? See you in Richmond? MacArthur would either make good on the boast or an awful lot of young men would die trying. MacArthur would either make good on the boast or an awful lot of young men would die trying.

Dowling knew which way he would bet. He couldn't say anything about that, not to anybody, not without being accused of deliberately damaging morale. He couldn't even get on the telephone to Philadelphia, the way he had when MacArthur proposed the amphibious operation aimed at the mouth of the James. That had been madness. This might work. Dowling didn't think it would, but he had to give his superior the benefit of the doubt.

He said something filthy. However much he'd longed for combat posts, he'd spent much of his career either as Custer's adjutant or on occupation duty in Utah-his main job there, in fact, had been to keep that from turning into a combat post, and he'd done it. Now he had what he'd always wanted. He had it, and he hadn't covered himself with glory in it. Maybe he wasn't cut out to be a hero. Or maybe he should have been more careful about what he wished for, lest he get it.

Jake Featherston peered down from Marye's Heights over the town of Fredericksburg toward the Rappahannock and the d.a.m.nyankees on the other side. He turned to Nathan Bedford Forrest III, who stood by his side. "I was right about here when the last war ended," the President of the CSA said.

"Yes, sir," replied the chief of the Confederate General Staff, who'd been too young to fight in the Great War.

"Well, I was, G.o.ddammit," Featherston said. "When the order to cease fire came, I waited till the very last minute. Then I took the breech block out of my piece and chucked it in that creek over yonder." He pointed. "I was d.a.m.ned if the United States were gonna get anything they could use from me."

"Yes, sir," Forrest repeated, adding, "That sounds like you."

"Good. It ought to," Jake said, more than a little smugly. "Maybe what p.i.s.sed me off most about having to quit, though, was that I could have killed every d.a.m.nyankee in the world from right here, if the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds kept coming at me and my ammo held out."

"It's a good position," Forrest allowed. "Not as good as it would have been in the Great War-artillery's better now than it was then, and barrels and bombers are a h.e.l.l of a lot better. But it's still mighty good."

"I know it is," Jake said. "That's how come I was more than half disappointed we didn't let the enemy get into Fredericksburg and then try to storm these heights. We'd have been shooting 'em till they got sick of trying."

Nathan Bedford Forrest III frowned. "Conventional wisdom says you don't want to let them have a bridgehead if you can help it. You can get around conventional wisdom a lot of the time, but not always. That foothold they've got south of the Rapidan in the Wilderness still worries me."

One of the reasons Forrest headed the General Staff was that he wasn't afraid to speak his mind, even to the President of the Confederate States. Jake asked, "Are you telling me they might break through if they cross the river here? We couldn't hold 'em and drive 'em back?"

Forrest scratched his mustache with his right thumb. "Odds are we could, but it's not a sure thing. Remember, sir, they kept fighting after we thought they wouldn't."

After you thought they wouldn't, he meant. Featherston couldn't even swear at him, not when he wasn't wrong. Because Forrest spoke his mind, Jake handled him more carefully than he would have dealt with some Party yes-man. "What's your judgment, then, General? If you reckon the risk is too high, we won't take it. But if you don't, this looks like a dandy place to bleed the d.a.m.nyankees white." he meant. Featherston couldn't even swear at him, not when he wasn't wrong. Because Forrest spoke his mind, Jake handled him more carefully than he would have dealt with some Party yes-man. "What's your judgment, then, General? If you reckon the risk is too high, we won't take it. But if you don't, this looks like a dandy place to bleed the d.a.m.nyankees white."

"If everything goes well, sir, we ought to be able to do that," Forrest said at last. "If things go wrong, though . . . If things go wrong, we've given ourselves a lot of trouble that we didn't have to. And remember, Mr. President-we'll need more men here to bleed the Yankees than we would if we just kept 'em on the north bank of the Rappahannock. Those are men we wouldn't be able to use for other operations. The one thing the Yankees always have is more men than we do. So which is more important to you?"

Featherston smiled. He almost laughed out loud. He'd put the burden on Forrest's shoulders, and the chief of the General Staff had put it right back on his. And Forrest's question was a serious one. Jake hated nothing worse than being deflected from any purpose of his-indeed, he'd made a hallmark of being impossible to deflect. Here, though, Nathan Bedford Forrest III was speaking plain good sense, much too plain to ignore. "All right, dammit," Jake said grudgingly. "Hold 'em on the other side of the Rappahannock if you can."

He didn't fail to note how relieved Forrest looked. "We'll do that, sir, or we'll do our best to do it, anyhow," the general said. "If they try to force another crossing, they may get over whether we want them to or not. In that case, we'll do our best to give you the killing ground you have in mind."

He's trying to let me down easy. Again, Jake almost laughed. He said, "All right, that's how we'll do it, then. Make your orders out that way. And make sure the other thing, Coal-scuttle, is going forward the way it's supposed to. I want to make the United States feel the pinch, G.o.ddammit." Again, Jake almost laughed. He said, "All right, that's how we'll do it, then. Make your orders out that way. And make sure the other thing, Coal-scuttle, is going forward the way it's supposed to. I want to make the United States feel the pinch, G.o.ddammit."

"Things are moving into place on that one, Mr. President," Forrest said. "Keeping a smaller presence here will help that, too. I don't think you'd find anyone who'd disagree there."

"All right. All right. You made your point." No, Jake didn't like being balked. It didn't happen very often, not when he was both President of the Confederate States and head of the Freedom Party. He'd thought he knew just how Al Smith's mind worked, but then the son of a b.i.t.c.h decided to go on with the war. And now this . . .

"Mr. President, we simply aren't big enough to do two big things at once," Forrest said. "That's a nuisance, but it's the truth. If we try to pretend we are, we'll end up in trouble."

"If you try to teach your grandma how to suck eggs, you'll you'll end up in trouble," Jake said. Nathan Bedford Forrest III chuckled, though Jake hadn't been joking. The President went on, "Let's get back to Richmond, then." He all but spat out the words. He'd wanted to take off his shirt and serve a gun, the way he had in the Great War. Things were simple then. With the enemy right in front of you, you went ahead and blew him up. You didn't need to worry about anything else. end up in trouble," Jake said. Nathan Bedford Forrest III chuckled, though Jake hadn't been joking. The President went on, "Let's get back to Richmond, then." He all but spat out the words. He'd wanted to take off his shirt and serve a gun, the way he had in the Great War. Things were simple then. With the enemy right in front of you, you went ahead and blew him up. You didn't need to worry about anything else.

These days, enemies were everywhere: not just the d.a.m.nyankees, not just the n.i.g.g.e.rs who tormented the CSA, but fools and bunglers who wouldn't go along and traitors who wanted to see him fail just because that would mean they were right and he was wrong. I'll settle them all-every last one of them, I'll settle them all-every last one of them, Jake thought. Jake thought. By the time I'm through, this country will look the way it's supposed to, the way I want it to. By the time I'm through, this country will look the way it's supposed to, the way I want it to.

As usual, he went back to Richmond in an ambulance. If U.S. airplanes appeared overhead, the Red Crosses on the vehicle ought to keep the Yankees from shooting it up. Also as usual, he had an ordinary-although armored-motorcar take him the last leg of the journey so no Yankee reconnaissance aircraft or spies on the ground would spot an ambulance going into the Gray House.

Bomb craters turned the grounds around the Presidential residence into a lunar landscape. And repairmen swarmed over the building itself. "Jesus!" Jake exclaimed. "How come n.o.body told me it got hit again?"

"Probably didn't want to get you all upset, sir," his driver answered.

Probably didn't want to make you blow a gasket, that meant. The driver was probably right, too. Jake had succeeded in making people afraid of him. Men who would tell him what they thought, men like Nathan Bedford Forrest III and Clarence Potter, were rare. The rest said what they thought he wanted to hear-either that or they hunkered down and didn't tell him anything. That last looked to be what had happened here. that meant. The driver was probably right, too. Jake had succeeded in making people afraid of him. Men who would tell him what they thought, men like Nathan Bedford Forrest III and Clarence Potter, were rare. The rest said what they thought he wanted to hear-either that or they hunkered down and didn't tell him anything. That last looked to be what had happened here.

"Is Lulu all right?" he demanded when he got inside. If his secretary wasn't and they'd kept that from him, they'd be sorry, and pretty d.a.m.n quick, too.

But the flunky he'd asked nodded. "She sure is, Mr. President. Just about everybody got down to the shelter before the bombs started falling."

"Well, that's good, anyway," Featherston said. The bomb shelter below the Gray House was as elaborate as the one under the Confederate War Department. No doubt the shelter under Powel House in Philadelphia was just as fancy, but it hadn't done Al Smith one d.a.m.n bit of good. Jake preferred not to dwell on that.

When he got to his office, Lulu greeted him with a nod. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. President," she said, as calmly as if nothing had happened while he was away.

"h.e.l.lo, sweetie," he said, and gave her a hug. She was one of the tiny handful of people he cared about as people and not as things to order around or otherwise manipulate. If he'd lost her . . . He didn't know what he would have done.

Her sallow cheeks turned pink. "You worry about running the country, sir," she said. "You don't need to worry about me." In such things, she could give him orders, or thought she could.

"I'll worry about whatever I . . . darn well want to," he said. He swore like the old soldier he was around everyone else, but tried not to around her. Her disapproving sniffs were too much for him to take. He went on, "Can I still work at my desk, or did it get blown to, uh, smithereens?"

"I'm afraid it did, sir," Lulu answered. "But everything down below came through just fine."

Jake made a discontented noise, down deep in his throat. He didn't want to run the war from down in the bomb shelter, even if its air conditioning made it a comfortable place in the hot weather that lay ahead. It felt like being cooped up inside a submarine. Actually, Jake had never been inside a sub, so he couldn't prove that, but it felt like what he thought being cooped up in one would would feel like. And what he wanted to do wasn't always the same as what he needed to do. The shelter bristled with telephone and wireless links. He feel like. And what he wanted to do wasn't always the same as what he needed to do. The shelter bristled with telephone and wireless links. He could could run the war from it. If he didn't like it-well, too bad. This was war, and people all over the continent were putting up with things they didn't like. run the war from it. If he didn't like it-well, too bad. This was war, and people all over the continent were putting up with things they didn't like.

A young man in a State Department uniform came up to him, waited to be noticed, and then said, "Sir, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"You're doing it," Jake told him.

"Er-yes." For some reason, that fl.u.s.tered the State Department fellow. He needed a moment to gather himself. Then he said, "Sir, we've heard from the Emperor of Mexico. His Majesty will provide the three divisions you requested."

"Good. That's good." Featherston tried to make his smile benign instead of tigerish. Maximilian hadn't wanted to cough up the men. Jake had been blunt about what would happen to his miserable gimcrack country-and to him-if he didn't. Evidently the message had got through. The President went on, "We've saved the greasers' bacon a few times. Only fitting and proper they pay us back."

"Yes, sir," the State Department man said. He looked as if he would have been more comfortable in striped trousers and cutaway coat. Too d.a.m.n bad for him.

"Anything else, sonny?" Jake asked. The puppy shook his head. Featherston jerked a thumb toward the front door, which hadn't been damaged. "All right, then. Get lost."