soldiers in them?'
Mary nodded. 'I wanted to ask you-'
He talked right through her: 'Do you know who those soldiers were? Do you? No, of course you don't.' He wasn't going to let her get a word in edgewise. 'I'll tell you who they were, by God. They were a pack of Frenchies, that's who.'
'Frenchies? From Quebec?' The news made Mary no happier than it had Mort. She was damned if she would call their home the Republic of Quebec, though, even if it had been torn away from Canada for twenty-five years now.
'That's right,' Mort answered. 'And do you know what else? They're going to be part of the garrison here. At least the United States beat us in the war. What did the Frenchies do? Nothing. Not one single thing. They don't even talk English, most of 'em. I swear to God, honey, I'd sooner have a pack of niggers watching over us than those people.'
'What's even worse is, they're Canadians, too,' Mary said. Her husband gave her a look. 'Well, they are.' Even to herself, she sounded defensive. 'They used to be, anyhow.'
'Maybe,' Mort said. 'They sure don't act like Canadians now, though. They sat there in the diner jabbering back and forth in French like a bunch of monkeys. The only one who spoke enough English to order anything for them was a sergeant who'd been in the Canadian Army once upon a time. And he sounded like the devil, too.'
'That's terrible,' Mary said, and Mort nodded. She asked him, 'Why are there Frenchies here? Did you find out? Would they say?'
'Oh, yes. They aren't shy about talking, even if they don't do it very well,' he answered. 'Reason they're here is, some of the U.S. soldiers who've been on garrison duty are going back to the States.'
'That doesn't explain anything,' Mary said. 'Why would the Yanks want to do a thing like that after all these years?' The USA had occupied Rosenfeld since she was a little girl. No matter how much she hated that, it was in a way part of the natural order of things by now.
'I don't know for sure. The Frenchies didn't say anything about that,' Mort replied. 'But I know what my guess would be-that the Yanks are starting to worry about that Featherston fellow down in the Confederate States.'
'You think they're moving men to stop him?' Mary asked. Her husband nodded again. Excitement blazed through her. 'If you're right, we've got a chance to be free!' And maybe this has been a war all along, and I don't have to think I'm a murderer. Maybe. Please, God.
Cincinnatus Driver watched a spectacle he had hoped he would never see, a spectacle he'd gone to Kentucky to keep from seeing: Confederate troops marching into Covington. He was, by then, just starting to get up on crutches and move around. He supposed he was lucky. The auto that hit him could easily have killed him. There were times, when he'd lain in the hospital and then back at his parents' house, that he wished it would have.
His mother took care of him as if he were a little boy. She plainly thought he was. All the years that had gone by since might as well not have happened. She didn't even realize anything was wrong. That, to Cincinnatus, was the cruelest part of her long, slow slide into senility.
And his father took care of both of them, with as much dignity as he could muster and without much hope. Some of the neighbors helped, as they found the chance. His mother wandered off a couple of times, but she didn't get far. People watched her more closely than they had till Cincinnatus got hit. That was funny, in a bitter way.
Getting out of the house for a little while felt good to Cincinnatus. He'd stared at the cracked, water-stained plaster of the ceiling for too long. He was weak as a kitten and he still got dreadful headaches that aspirin did nothing to knock down, but he was alive and he was upright. When a little more strength returned, he would figure out how to get himself and his father and mother back to the USA. Meanwhile…
Meanwhile, he stumped along the neglected sidewalks of the colored district of Covington toward the parade route. The whole district seemed even more rundown than it had when he came back to Covington. It also seemed half deserted, and so it was. A lot of Negroes had already fled to the United States.
He glanced over to his father, who walked beside him, ready to steady him if he stumbled. 'You sure Ma be all right while we're gone?'
'I ain't sure o' nothin,' Seneca Driver answered, 'but I reckon so.' He walked on for a few paces, then said, 'One thing I ain't sure of is how come you wants to see these bastards comin' back.'
Cincinnatus wasn't altogether sure of that himself. After a little thought, he said, 'I got to remind myself why I want to git back to Iowa so bad, maybe.'
'Maybe.' His father sounded deeply skeptical.
Seneca had reason to sound that way, too. Only a handful of blacks headed for the parade route. Most of the people who came out to see this underscoring of the return of Confederate sovereignty were white men with Freedom Party pins in their lapels-or, if they didn't wear lapels, as many didn't, on the front of denim jackets or wool sweaters. Cincinnatus hadn't been the target of looks like the ones they gave him for many years. People in Des Moines thought Negroes curious beasts, not dangerous ones.
One of the blacks on the street was a familiar face: Lucullus Wood. He'd visited Cincinnatus at the hospital, and several times at his parents' house. As far as a Negro could be, Lucullus was a man to reckon with in Covington. A generation earlier, his father had been, too.
Seeing Cincinnatus and Seneca, Lucullus came across the street to say hello. 'Ain't this a fine day?' he said. A Freedom Party man might have used the same words. A Freedom Party man might even have used the same tone of voice. But the words and the tone would have had a very different meaning in a Freedom Party man's mouth. Lucullus understood irony-blacks who'd been born in the CSA understood irony from the moment they could talk- and no Party stalwart ever would.
'Never thought I'd see it,' Cincinnatus agreed.
None of the plump, eager white men in earshot could have taken exception to his words or tone, either. In fact, one of them turned to another and said, 'You see? Even the niggers is glad to have the damnyankees gone.'
'They know they was well off before,' his friend replied.
Cincinnatus didn't look at Lucullus. Neither of them looked at Seneca. He didn't look at them. None of them had any trouble knowing what the other two were thinking. Remarking on it would have been a waste of breath.
Off to the south, Cincinnatus heard a peculiar noise: partly musical, partly a low, mechanical rumble. Both pieces of the noise got louder as it came closer. Before too long, Cincinnatus recognized the music. A marching band was blaring out 'Dixie,' playing the tune for all it was worth.
'That there song used to be against the law here,' Lucullus said. By the way he said it, he thought it was too bad 'Dixie' had been illegal. Cincinnatus knew better. A casual listener-a white listener-wouldn't have.
'Wonder what ever happened to that Luther Bliss,' Cincinnatus said. 'Reckon he ain't never gonna show his face here no more. Don't miss him one damn bit.' Since the former head of the Kentucky State Police had thrown him in jail, most of him meant that. The rest, though, couldn't help remembering how hard and how well Bliss had fought Confederate diehards-and anyone else he didn't care for.
'Reckon you's right,' Lucullus answered. Cincinnatus sent him a sharp look. A casual listener wouldn't have heard anything wrong with his words there, either. Cincinnatus wondered if he knew more than he was letting on.
Here came the band. The Freedom Party men-and the smaller number of women with them-burst into applause. A lot of them began to sing. Cincinnatus couldn't applaud, not with his hands on the crutches. His father and Lucullus did. He couldn't blame them. Better safe than sorry.
Behind the band marched several companies of Confederate soldiers. Their uniforms didn't look much different from the ones C.S. troops had worn during the Great War, but there were changes. Most of them had to do with comfort and protection. The collars on these tunics were open at the neck. The cut was looser, less restrictive. Their helmets came down farther over the ears and the back of the neck than the Great War models had. They weren't the steel pots U.S. soldiers wore, but they weren't much different from them.
The rifles they carried… 'Funny-lookin' guns,' Cincinnatus said to Lucullus in a low voice.
'Gas-operated. Don't need to work the bolt to chamber a round after the first one in the clip.' Lucullus spoke with authority. 'They's new. Not everybody's got 'em. They is very bad news, though.'
Not even all the parading soldiers carried the new rifles. Some had submachine guns instead. Cincinnatus
