Walk in Hell

McSweeney flipped back a few pages in the Book of Matthew and grunted in satisfaction. “Chapter 5, verse 29,” he murmured: And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

He looked at the men in his squad. None of them dared meet his eye. Would any have the nerve to shoot him under cover of battle? He shook his head. He didn’t believe it, not for a moment. Would they leave him in the lurch when he attacked? Maybe they would. His glance flicked to the flamethrower. Anyone who carried one of those infernal devices was on his own anyhow.

“Justice,” McSweeney said, and gave a sharp nod. Only the wicked feared justice, and with reason, for they deserved chastisement. Thus the United States would chastise their seceded brethren, and chastise as well the wicked foreigners who had made secession possible.

God wills it, McSweeney thought, for all the world like a Crusader before the walls of Jerusalem. And Jerusalem would fall. He would make it fall, and break anyone and anything standing in the way.

XIV

Achilles smiled at Cincinnatus, a smile that showed one new tooth in a wide, wet mouth. The baby said something wordless but joyful. Cincinnatus smiled back. To Elizabeth, he said, “He’s in a happy mood this mornin’, ain’t he?”

His wife smiled back, wanly. “Why shouldn’t he be happy? He can sleep as long as he wants, an’ he can wake up whenever he please. An’ he’s still too little to know his ma can’t do likewise.”

“I heard him there in the middle of the night,” Cincinnatus said, digging into the ham and eggs Elizabeth had made. “He sounded happy then, too.”

“He was happy,” she said, rolling her eyes, which were still streaked with red. “He was so happy, he wanted to play. He didn’t want to go back to bed, not for nothin’ he didn’t. Did you?” She poked Achilles in the ribs. He thought that was the funniest thing in the world, and squealed laughter. When he did, his mother visibly melted. All the same, she said, “What I wanted to do was give him some laudanum, so he’d go back to sleep and I could, too.” She yawned. Achilles squealed again-everything was funny this morning.

No sooner had Cincinnatus shoveled the last fluffy scrambled egg into his mouth than someone knocked on the door. He grabbed for his mug of coffee and gulped it down while hurrying to let in his mother. “How’s my little grandbaby?” she asked.

Cincinnatus was still swallowing. From the kitchen, Elizabeth answered, “Mother Livia, he must be sleepin’ while you got him, on account of he sure don’t do none o’ that in the nighttime.”

“He jus’ like his father, then,” Cincinnatus’ mother said. She turned to him. “You was the wakinest child I ever did hear tell of.” Without taking a breath, she went on in a different tone of voice: “Looks like it’s fixin’ to storm out there, storm somethin’ fierce.”

“Does it?” Cincinnatus looked outside himself. His mother was right. Thick, dark clouds were boiling up in the northwest, over Ohio, and heading rapidly toward Covington. The air felt still and heavy and damp. He reached into the pocket of his dungarees and pulled out a nickel. “Gonna ride me the trolley down to the docks.”

“Gettin’ pretty la-de-da, ain’t you?” his mother said. “Trolley here, trolley there, like you got all the money is to have. Pretty soon you gwine buy youself a motorcar, ain’t that right?”

“Wish it was,” Cincinnatus said, and gave her a kiss as he hurried out the door. When the CSA had ruled Covington, a motorcar for a black man would have been out of the question, unless he wanted to be branded as uppity-and, perhaps, literally branded as well. Under the USA…maybe such a thing would be possible, if he got the money together. Maybe it wouldn’t, too.

The rain began just before he got to the trolley stop, which wasn’t particularly close to his house. One stop served the entire Negro district near the Licking River. He remembered the complaints he’d heard about routing the track even so close to his part of town.

When the trolley car rattled up, he threw his nickel into the fare box and sat down in the back. The Yankees hadn’t changed the rules about that sort of thing; they had rules of their own, not quite so strict as those of the Confederacy but not tempered by intimate acquaintance, either. He sighed. If your skin was dark, you had trouble finding a fair shake anywhere.

Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. Rain started coming down in sheets. The trolley filled up in a hurry, as people who usually would have walked to work decided against it today. Whites started moving back into the Negro section. One by one, Cincinnatus and his fellow blacks gave up their seats and stood holding the overhead rail. None of them complained, not out loud. Men down from the USA ousted them as casually as did native Covingtonians.

Water sprayed up from the trolley’s wheels as it slid to a stop near the wharves. Cincinnatus and several other Negro men leaped down and ran for their places. The others were all roustabouts; they’d be drenched by the time the day was through. Cincinnatus didn’t expect to be much better off. For one thing, it was almost as wet inside the cab of a White truck as it was outside. For another, he’d be outside a good deal of the time, certainly while loading and unloading his snarling monster, and probably while fixing punctures as well.

“Morning, Cincinnatus,” Lieutenant Straubing said when he splashed into the warehouse that served as headquarters for the transportation unit. “Wet enough out there to suit you?”

“Sure enough is, suh,” Cincinnatus answered. As usual, his color seemed not to matter to Straubing. He still had trouble believing that could be true, but had seen no evidence to make him suppose it was an act, either.

The lieutenant looked troubled. “Cincinnatus, we have a problem, and I think we could use your help to solve it.”

“What kind of problem you talking about, sir?” the Negro asked, expecting it to be something to do with the bad weather and what it was doing to the schedule and to Kentucky’s miserable roads.

Lieutenant Straubing looked even less happy. “A sabotage problem, I’m afraid,” he answered. Just then, an enormous clap of thunder gave Cincinnatus an excuse for jumping, which was just as well, because he would have jumped with an excuse or without one. Straubing went on, “An unhealthy number of fires have broken out in areas we’ve served. Please be on the alert for anything that seems suspicious.”

“Yes, suh, I’ll do that,” Cincinnatus said, knowing everyone would be on the alert for him, a distinctly alarming notion.

Straubing said, “Damned if I can figure out who’s playing games with us, either. Maybe it’s the Reds”-he didn’t say anything about niggers, as most whites, U.S. or C.S., would have done-“or maybe it’s Confederate diehards. Whoever it is, he’ll pay when he gets caught.”

“Yes, suh,” Cincinnatus said again. “He deserve it.” He shut up after that, not wanting to draw the U.S. lieutenant’s attention to himself. Part of that, of course, was simple self-preservation. Part of it, too, was not wanting the one white man who’d ever treated him like a human being to be disappointed in him. If the United States had produced more men like Lieutenant Straubing, Cincinnatus never would have worked to harm them. As things were…

“I’m letting everyone know,” Straubing said. “If you’ve seen anything, if you do see anything, don’t be shy.”

“I won’t, suh.” Cincinnatus wondered if he could buy his own safety by betraying the Confederate underground. The trouble was, the only man whose whereabouts he knew for certain was Conroy. No, that was one trouble. The other was that, here in Covington, Confederates and Reds worked hand in hand. He’d betray Apicius and his sons along with the men who waved the Stars and Bars. Some things cost more than they were worth.

More drivers, white and black, came dripping into the shed. Straubing spoke to them all. Cincinnatus wondered how good an idea that was. Everyone would be eyeing everyone else now. And anyone who had a grudge against anyone else would likely seize the chance to have the occupation authorities put the other fellow through the wringer.

“Let’s move out,” the lieutenant said at last. “We’ve got a cargo of shells the artillery is waiting for.”

“Weather like this, they’re going to be waiting a while longer,” said one of the drivers, a white man