customers.
'Thanks.' Jorge put down another quarter. 'One for you, too, or whatever you want.'
'Gracias.' Bartenders didn't always want the drinks customers bought them. This time, though, the man in the boiled shirt did pour himself a beer.
'ЎSalud!' Quinn raised his glass. He and Jorge and the bartender drank. 'Madre de Dios, that's good!' Quinn said. Was he even a Catholic? Jorge didn't know. He'd never worried about it till now.
One of the men at a table in the back raised a finger to show he and his friends were ready for a refill. The bartender filled glasses and set them on a tray. A barmaid picked them up and carried them off, her hips swinging. Jorge followed her with his eyes. So did Robert Quinn. They grinned at each other. Once you got out of the Army, you remembered how nice it was that the world had pretty girls in it.
As the beers emptied, the bartender murmured, 'Good to have you back, Seсor Quinn. We didn't know if we would see you again.'
'Good to be back,' Quinn said. 'There were some times when I wondered whether anybody would see me again, but war is like that.'
'Sн.' Jorge remembered too many close calls of his own. The man behind the bar was about his father's age. Had he fought in the Great War? Jorge didn't know; again, he'd never wondered till now.
'What are we going to do here, Jorge?' Robert Quinn asked. 'Are you ready to live quietly under the Stars and Stripes? Or do you remember what your country really is?' He hadn't been so bold in the train station. Could one beer have done it to him?
Jorge looked down at his glass. He looked around the cantina. His mind's eye took in the rest of Baroyeca and the family farm outside of town. All that made him feel less determined than he had over at the station. 'Seсor Quinn,' he said sadly, 'I have seen all the fighting I want to see for a long time. I am sorry, but if the damnyankees do not bother me, then I do not care to bother them, either. If they do bother me, the story will be different.'
'Well, that's a fair answer,' Quinn said after silence stretched for more than half a minute. 'You've done your soldiering. If you don't want to do it again, who can blame you? I wish you felt different, but if you don't, you don't.' He drained his glass and strode out of La Culebra Verde.
'Did you make him unhappy?' the bartender asked.
'I'm afraid I did. He doesn't want the war to be over, but I've had enough. I've had too much.' He wondered how Gabe Medwick was getting along. He hoped the U.S. soldiers had picked up his wounded buddy back in the Virginia woods. Was Gabe back in Alabama by now, or did he still languish in a POW camp like Miguel?
And what about Sergeant Blackledge? Jorge would have bet anything that he was raising trouble for the Yankees wherever he was. That man was born to bedevil anybody he didn't like, and he didn't like many people.
The bartender drew another beer and set it in front of Jorge. 'On the house,' he said. 'I don't want to go to the hills. I don't want the United States shooting hostages here. I don't want to be one of the hostages they shoot. Por Dios, Jorge, enough is enough.'
'Some men will eat fire even if they have to start it themselves,' Jorge said, looking at the door through which Robert Quinn had gone.
'He will find hotheads. People like that always do. Look at Jake Featherston.' The bartender never would have said such a thing while the Freedom Party ruled Baroyeca. It would have been worth his life if he had. He went on, 'I don't think anyone will speak to the soldados from los Estados Unidos if Seсor Quinn stays here quietly. But if he goes looking for stalwarts…Then he's dangerous.'
Was the bartender saying he would turn in Robert Quinn if Quinn tried to raise a rebellion? If he was, what was Jorge supposed to do about him? Kill him to keep him from blabbing? But that was raising a rebellion, too, and Jorge had just told Quinn he didn't want to do any such thing.
He also didn't want to sit by while something bad happened to his father's old friend. Sometimes nothing you did would help. He had the feeling that that was true for much of the CSA's last war against the USA.
He also had the feeling it would be true if Confederates tried to mix it up with the USA in the war's aftermath. Yes, they could cause trouble. Could they cause enough to make U.S. forces leave? He couldn't make himself believe it.
When he came back to the farm alone late that afternoon, his mother's face fell, the way it always did when he came back alone. 'No Miguel?' she asked sadly.
'No Miguel. I'm sorry, mamacita.' Then Jorge told of meeting Robert Quinn as the Freedom Party man got off the train.
His mother only sniffed. Next to her missing son, a man who wasn't from the family didn't cut much ice. The news excited Pedro, though. 'Does he want to-?' He didn't go on.
'Yes, he does,' Jorge answered. 'I told him I didn't.' He spoke elliptically, as Pedro had, to keep from making their mother flabble.
Pedro looked discontented. But Pedro hadn't done a whole lot of fighting. He'd spent most of the war behind barbed wire. He didn't have such a good idea of what the United States could do if they decided they wanted to. Jorge did. What he'd seen in Virginia as the war wound down would stay with him for the rest of his life. The overwhelming firepower and the will to use it scared him more than he was willing to admit, even to himself.
'What are we going to do? Sit here quiet for the rest of our lives?' Pedro asked.
'You can do what you want,' Jorge answered. 'Me, I'm going to stay on the farm and see how things go. We have a crop this year, and that's enough for now. If things change later, if the United States make life too hard to stand…Then I'll worry about it. Not until.'
'What kind of patriot are you?' his brother asked.
'A live one,' Jorge answered. 'That's the kind I want to go on being, too. Los Estados Confederados are dead, Pedro. Dead. I don't think they'll come back to life no matter what we do.'
'You think we're beaten.'
'Sн. That's right. Don't you?'
Pedro didn't answer. He stormed out of the farmhouse instead. Jorge started to go after him, then checked himself. His brother could figure out what was going on without him. Jorge hoped he could, anyhow.
The Oregon cruised off the Florida coast. The weather was fine. It felt more like August than October to George Enos. Back home in Boston, the leaves would be turning and it would be getting cold at night. Everything stayed green here. He didn't think autumn would ever come.
All the same, he didn't want to stay stuck on the battleship the rest of his life. He wanted to get home to Connie and the boys. Fighting in a war was one thing. Yeah, you needed to do that; he could see as much. Occupation duty? As far as he was concerned, they could conscript somebody else for it.
He griped. Most of the sailors on the Oregon who weren't career Navy guys were griping. Griping let off steam, and did no other good he could see. Nobody who mattered would pay attention. Nobody who mattered ever paid attention to ratings. That was how the Navy operated.
'Hey, you sorry bastards are stuck,' Wally Fodor said. 'We can't just pretend the fucking Confederates'll be good little boys and girls, the way we did the last time around. We know better now, right?'
'All I know is, this ain't what I signed up for,' George answered. 'I got a family. My kids hardly remember who I am.'
'As soon as you swore the oath and they shipped your sorry rear end to Providence, they had you. They had you but good,' the gun chief said. 'You might as well lay back and enjoy it.'
'I've been screwed long enough,' George said. 'Too damn long, to tell you the truth. I want to go home. I'm not the only one, either-not even close. Congress'll pay attention, whether the brass does or not.'
'Don't hold your breath-that's all I've got to tell you.' Fodor gave what was much too likely to be good advice.
In the meantime, there was Miami, right off the starboard bow. If anybody got out of line, the Oregon's big guns could smash the city to bits. That was what battleships were good for nowadays: blasting the crap out of people who couldn't shoot back. In the Great War, they'd been queens of the sea. Now they were afterthoughts.
'Think we'll get liberty?' one of the shell-jerkers asked, a certain eagerness in his voice. Miami had a reputation almost like Habana's. Didn't hot weather produce hot women? That was how the stories went,
