In at the Death Read online

  No help would come to Atlanta from the north or the east, and the bulk of the CSA’s strength lay in those directions. The Confederate States were like a snail. They had a hard shell that protected them from the United States. Once you broke through, though, you found they were soft and squishy underneath. How much could they bring in from Florida or Alabama? Not nearly enough—or Morrell didn’t think so, anyhow.

  Back when he first proposed his slash, the General Staff estimated it would take two years, not one. When Chattanooga fell, he’d hoped to prove them wrong. He might yet, but racing ahead for the sake of speed wasn’t smart.

  “Then don’t do it,” he muttered, and headed out of the office. On the floor lay the dentist’s diploma from Tulane University, the glass in the frame shattered. Morrell wondered whether the man was still practicing in Monroe or had put on a butternut uniform and gone up toward the front.

  Two black men carrying rifles stalked along the street. They wore armbands with USA on them. White civilians fell over themselves getting out of their way. They waved and nodded to Morrell: not quite salutes, but close enough. He nodded back. The Negro guerrillas made him nervous, too. But they scared white Confederates to death, which was good, and they knew more about what was going on here than U.S. troops did, which was even better.

  Sometimes they shot first, without bothering to ask questions later. Morrell was sure they’d killed a few people who didn’t deserve killing. But how many Negroes who didn’t deserve killing were dead all across the CSA? A little extra revenge might be too bad, but Morrell didn’t intend to lose any sleep about it.

  Except for guerrillas, not many Negroes were left in and around Monroe, or anywhere U.S. armies had reached. White people seemed to suffer from a kind of collective amnesia. More often than not, they denied there’d ever been many blacks close by. In Kentucky, they said the Negroes mostly lived in Tennessee. In Tennessee, they said the Negroes mostly lived in Georgia. Here in Georgia, they pointed two ways at once: towards Alabama and South Carolina. Was that selective blindness, a guilty conscience, or both? Morrell would have bet on both.

  “Young man!” A Confederate dowager swept down on him. “I need to speak to you, young man!”

  Morrell almost looked over his shoulder to see whom she meant. He’d passed fifty a couple of years before, and his weather-beaten features didn’t seem young even to himself. But her gray hair and the turkeylike wattles under her chin said she was some distance ahead of him. “What can I do for you, ma’am?” he asked, as politely as he could.

  “Young man, I know you come from the United States, and so are ignorant of a good deal of proper behavior, but I must tell you that colored people are not permitted to go armed in this country,” she said.

  He looked at her. He did his best to look through her. “They are now.”

  “By whose authority?” she demanded.

  “Mine.” He tapped the stars on his shoulder strap.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, in that case,” she said.

  Of itself, his hand dropped to the .45 he wore on his belt. “Lady, I think you better get lost before I blow your stupid head off,” he said. “You people did your best to murder every Negro you could catch, and you have the gall to talk to me about shame…There’s not a word low enough for you.”

  “The nerve!” The matron flounced off. Reality hadn’t set in for her. He wondered if it ever would, or could.

  Over in Texas, General Dowling had taken local big shots through the Confederate death camp and into the mass graveyard so they could see with their own eyes what their country had done. Some of them had the decency to kill themselves afterwards. Others just went on the way they had before.

  Morrell wished he had one of those camps to show the locals. Then they wouldn’t be able to shrug and pretend there’d never been that many Negroes in this part of the CSA. But he feared the matron wouldn’t be much impressed afterwards. She was one of those people for whom nothing seemed real if it didn’t happen to her.

  Somebody’d painted YANKS OUT! on a wall. Morrell grabbed the first soldier he saw. “Get some paint and grab a couple of these assholes and have ’em clean this shit up,” he told the man in green-gray. “If they give you a hard time, do whatever you have to do to get ’em to pay attention.”

  “Yes, sir!” the soldier said, and went off to take care of it with a grin on his face.

  Artillery rumbled, off to the northeast. Morrell cocked his head to one side, listening, gauging. Those were Confederate guns. The enemy was still trying to blunt the U.S. attack and drive Morrell’s forces back. He didn’t think Featherston’s men could do it. Before long, counterbattery fire or air strikes would make those C.S. gun bunnies sorry they’d ever been born, and even sorrier they’d tried messing with the U.S. Army.

  From what Morrell had seen, the only thing Confederate civilians were sorry about was that their army hadn’t done a better job of keeping the damnyankees away. Somehow, that left him imperfectly sympathetic.

  “General!” Another woman called to him. This one was young and blond and pretty, pretty enough to remind him how long he’d been away from Agnes. She also looked mad enough to spit nails.

  “Yes?” He’d give her the benefit of the doubt as long as he could.

  “Those niggers of yours!” she snapped.

  “What about ’em?” Morrell didn’t want them getting out of hand and raping all the women they could catch. He could understand why they’d want to. He could sympathize, too. But he wasn’t running a mob. He was running an army, or trying to.

  “They looked at me. They leered at me, the grinning apes,” the blond woman said. “You ought to string them up and horsewhip them.”

  Morrell needed a moment to realize she was dead serious. When he did, he almost wished the Negroes had dragged her into an alley and done their worst. “That’s not how things’ll work from here on out, so you’d better get used to it,” he said. “Nobody gets whipped for looking. Heck, I’m looking right now. You’re worth looking at, no offense.”

  “Well, of course.” As pretty women often did, she took her good looks for granted. “But I don’t mind it from you—too much. You’re a Yankee, but you’re not a nigger.”

  “If they touch you and you don’t like it, you can complain. If anybody touches you and you don’t like it, you can complain,” Morrell said. “But they can look as much as they want.”

  “You mean you won’t do anything about it?” The blond woman sounded as if she couldn’t believe her ears. She looked disgusted, almost nauseated.

  “That’s what I said,” Morrell told her.

  “You damnyankees really are animals, then.” She pursed her lips, perhaps getting ready to spit at him.

  “If you do anything stupid,” he said, “you’ll find out just what kind of animal I am. You won’t like it—I promise.”

  He didn’t shout and bluster. That had never been his style. He didn’t need to. He sounded like a man who meant exactly what he said, and for a good reason: he was. The local woman stopped looking like somebody saving up spit. She did look a little deflated. Then she gathered herself, flung, “Nigger-lover!” in his face instead of saliva, and stalked off. Fury gave her a fine hip action. Morrell admired it. He was sure the Negro auxiliaries had, too.

  Up till now, he hadn’t had much use for Negroes. Few whites in the USA did. Had he seen a couple of black men staring at a white woman’s butt on a street corner in, say, Indianapolis, that might have offended him. In Monroe, Georgia? No. In fact, he smiled. The enemies of his enemies were his friends, all right.

  After dark, Confederate bombers came over Monroe and dropped explosives on the U.S. soldiers in and around the town—and on their own people. A thin layer of low clouds hung above Monroe, so the Confederates might as well have been bombing blind. They couldn’t come over by day, not unless they wanted to get slaughtered. In their shoes, Morrell supposed he would have preferred bombing blind to not bombing at all, too.

>   He had a few minutes’ warning from Y-ranging gear that spotted the approaching bombers and sounded the alarm before they started unloading. U.S. night fighters were also starting to carry Y-ranging sets. So far, those sets were neither very strong nor very easy to use, but they were already making night operations more expensive for the CSA. Pretty soon, electronics might make nighttime raids as risky as daylight ones.

  Crouching in a trench with bombs crashing down around him, Morrell could see a day where neither side on a battlefield would be able to hide anything from the other. How would you fight a war then? You could be so strong you’d beat your enemy even if he did see what you had in mind. You could, yes, but it wouldn’t be easy, or economical.

  Or you could make him think all your fancy preparations meant one thing and then go and do something else instead. Morrell nodded to himself. If he had his druthers, he would play it that way. If the enemy kept staring at the cape, he wouldn’t see the sword till too late. You saved your own men and matériel that way…if you could bring it off.

  The all-clear warbled. Morrell got out of the trench and went back to his cot. He didn’t know how much damage the Confederates had done. Probably some—probably not a lot. Without a doubt, they’d screwed a lot of U.S. soldiers out of a night’s sleep. That counted, too, though no civilians who hadn’t got up groggy after an air raid would think so. Morrell yawned. His eyes closed. Air raid or not, the Confederates didn’t screw him out of more than forty-five minutes.

  Jonathan Moss had been on the run ever since a tornado let him break out of the Andersonville POW camp. Joining Spartacus’ band of Negro guerrillas had kept the Confederates from getting him (it had also kept the guerrillas from shooting him and Nick Cantarella). But joining them also ensured that he stayed on the run.

  U.S. forces weren’t far away now. The rumble of artillery and the thud of bursting bombs came from the north by day and night. Running off to the troops from his own side would have been easy as pie…if not for God only knew how many divisions’ worth of Jake Featherston’s finest between him and them.

  “We gots to sit tight,” Spartacus told his men—again and again, a sure sign they didn’t want to listen to him. “We gots to. Pretty soon, the Yankees, they comes to us. Then we is free men fo’ true. We is free at las’.”

  Moss and Cantarella caught each other’s eye. Moss doubted it would be so simple. By the New York infantry officer’s raised eyebrow, so did he.

  And, however much they wished they weren’t, they turned out to be right. For a long time, the countryside a hundred miles south of Atlanta had been a military backwater: peanut farms and cotton fields, patrolled—when they were patrolled—by halfhearted Mexican soldiers and by militiamen whose stamina and skill didn’t match their zeal. Good guerrilla country, in other words.

  No more. With the U.S. irruption into northern Georgia, with the threat to Atlanta, southern Georgia suddenly turned into a military zone. Encampments and supply dumps sprouted like toadstools after a rain. Truck convoys and trains brought supplies and soldiers up toward the front.

  All that gave Spartacus’ band and the other black guerrillas still operating chances they’d never had before. If they mined a road and delayed a column of trucks, if they sprayed machine-gun bullets at a tent city in the middle of the night, they really hurt the Confederate war effort. From everything Jonathan Moss gathered from the news and rumors he picked up, the Confederate States couldn’t afford even fleabites on their backside. They already had too much trouble right in front of them.

  The enemy seemed to feel the same way. When Spartacus’ guerrillas did strike, the men in butternut went after them with a ferocity they hadn’t seen before. If Spartacus hadn’t been fighting in country he knew better than the enemy did, the Confederates would have wiped out his band in short order. As things were, his men scrambled from woods to swamp, half a jump ahead of their pursuers.

  Moss developed a new appreciation for possum and squirrel and turtle. The Negroes called one kind of long-necked terrapin, chicken turtles, presumably because of how they tasted. Moss couldn’t see the resemblance. He didn’t spend much time bitching, though; any meat in his belly was better than none.

  Looking down at what was left of himself one weary evening, he said, “Back before the war, I had a potbelly. One of these days, I’d like to get another one.”

  “Some of the shit we eat makes Army rations look good,” Nick Cantarella agreed. “Don’t know that I could say anything worse about it.”

  Amusement glinted in Spartacus’ eyes as he looked from one white man to the other. “I’s mighty sorry to inconvenience you gents—mighty sorry,” he said. “If ’n you knows where we kin git us some ribs and beefsteaks, sing out.”

  “Steak! Jesus!” Cantarella started to laugh. “I even stopped thinking about steak. What the hell’s the point?”

  “How about Confederate rations?” Spartacus asked, the mockery gone from his voice.

  Hearing the change in tone, Moss grew alert. “What do you have in mind, boss?” he asked.

  Spartacus smiled; he liked hearing the white men in his band acknowledge that he outranked them. “They got that new depot over by Americus,” he said.

  “Think we can hit it?” Cantarella asked.

  “Hope so, anyways,” Spartacus answered. “I got me a pretty good notion where they keeps the ration tins, too. See, here’s what I got in mind…”

  He sketched on the muddy ground with a stick. He wouldn’t have done so much explaining for the other Negroes, but he thought of the escaped U.S. soldiers as military professionals, and valued their opinion. With Nick Cantarella, that was justified. Moss knew it was a lot less so for him.

  He listened to Spartacus and tried to look wise. Cantarella, sure as hell, had a couple of suggestions that made the guerrilla leader nod in admiration. “Yeah, we do dat,” Spartacus said. “We sure ’nough do dat. Featherston’s fuckers, dey don’t know which way dey should oughta run.”

  “That’s the idea,” Cantarella said. “If they go in a bunch of wrong directions, the right one gets easier for us.”

  The guerrillas struck at night. They stayed under cover while the sun was in the sky. Doing anything else would have asked to get slaughtered. A Negro threw a grenade into the depot from the north, while another black banged away with a Tredegar—trying to stir up the anthill.

  They did it, too. Whistles shrilled. Men shouted. Soldiers boiled out after the Negroes. Moss hoped the guerrillas had splendid hidey-holes or quick legs.

  As soon as the Confederates were well and truly stirred, the guerrillas’ machine gun opened up from the west. Nick Cantarella had finally persuaded the gunner to fire short bursts and not squeeze off a belt of ammo at a time. It made the weapon much more effective and much more accurate.

  Somebody inside the supply dump yelled, “Let’s get those coons, goddammit! They come around here, they give us the chance to wreck ’em. We better not waste it.” Shouted orders followed. The officer—he plainly was one—knew what he was doing, and how to get his men to do what he wanted.

  A scream said at least one machine-gun bullet struck home. The Confederates fired back. They also started moving against the machine gun. A few black riflemen posted near the guerrillas’ heavy weapon discouraged that. They were more mobile than the machine-gun crew, and gave the C.S. attackers some unpleasant surprises.

  But the big surprise the guerrillas had in mind came from the far side of the supply depot. As soon as the Confederates were well engaged to the west, Spartacus whistled to the rest of the band and said, “Let’s go!”

  As it always did when he went into action, Jonathan Moss’ heart pounded. He clutched his Tredegar and loped forward. Cutters snipped through the strands of barbed wire around the depot. The supply dump was new and in a rear area. The Confederates hadn’t had the time or energy to protect it the way they would have closer to the front.

  “No shootin’ here, remember—not unless you got to,” Spartacu
s called quietly. “In an’ out fast as you can, like you was screwin’ with her pappy asleep right beside you.” From the way some of the Negroes chuckled, they’d done things like that.

  Most of them carried rifles or pistols or submachine guns. Three or four, though, pushed wheelbarrows instead. Moss couldn’t imagine a homelier weapon of war. But a man with a wheelbarrow could move much more food than someone who had to carry a crate in his arms or on his back.

  “What the hell?” a Confederate called—the Negroes weren’t quiet enough to escape all notice.

  “We’re on patrol here,” Moss said, doing his best to imitate a Southern accent. “Why the devil aren’t you chasing those damn niggers?”

  “Uh—on my way, sir.”

  Moss heard rapidly retreating footsteps. He knew he’d better not laugh out loud. In his own ears, he hadn’t sounded much like a Confederate at all. But he had sounded like a white man, and the soldier never dreamt he’d run into a damnyankee here. To him, anybody who sounded like a white had to be on his side, and anybody who sounded like an authoritative white had to be entitled to order him around.

  “How d’you like being a Confederate officer?” Nick Cantarella whispered.

  “Fine, except the bastards don’t pay me,” Moss whispered back.

  “Hell they don’t,” Spartacus said. “We’s at the payoff now. In there, boys—grab an’ git!”

  The Negroes rushed into the tent that sheltered crates of rations from the elements. Soft thumps announced that several of those crates were going into the wheelbarrows. The guerrillas emerged, their grins the most visible thing about them.

  Then a shot rang out. “Jesus God, we got chicken thieves!” a Confederate screamed.

  One of the chicken thieves shot him an instant later. “Scram!” Spartacus said—surely the most succinct order Moss had ever heard. It was also just right for the circumstances.