the street in front of a command car…'
'I see.' Dowling wondered if he saw anything but the tip of the iceberg. 'How many Confederates have already had, uh, unfortunate accidents?'
'I can't talk about that with you,' the General Staff officer answered. 'Some people we can't convict for crimes against humanity still don't deserve to live, though. Or will you tell me I'm wrong?'
Dowling thought about that. He thought about everything that had happened in the CSA since Jake Featherston took over. Slowly, he shook his head. 'Nope. I won't say boo.'
'Good. I didn't expect you would.' Abell gave another of his chilly smiles. 'Tell me, General, have you given any thought to your retirement?'
The question might have been a knife in Abner Dowling's guts. So this is the other reason they called me to Philadelphia, he thought dully. He didn't know why he was surprised. Not many men his age were still serving. But he thought he'd done as well as a man could reasonably do. Of course, when you got old enough, that didn't mean anything any more. They'd kick you out regardless. If it had happened to George Custer-and it had-it could happen to anybody.
With that in mind, Dowling answered, 'Custer got over sixty years in the Army. I've had more than forty myself. That doesn't match him, but it's not a bad run. I'm not ready to go, but I will if the War Department thinks it's time.'
'I'm afraid the War Department does,' Abell said. 'This implies no disrespect: only the desire to move younger men forward. Your career has been distinguished in all respects, and no one would say otherwise.'
'If I'd held Ohio…' But Dowling shook his head. Even that probably wouldn't have mattered much. The only way you could keep from getting old was by dying before you made it. The past three years, far too many people had done that.
'It's not personal or political,' Abell said. 'I understand that you feel General Custer's retirement was both.'
'Oh, it was,' Dowling said. 'I was there when the Socialists stuck it to him. There was blood on the floor by the time N. Matoon Thomas got done.'
'I shouldn't wonder. Custer was a, ah, vivid figure.' Abell wasn't lying. And the sun was warm, and the ocean was moist. The General Staff officer went on, 'I repeat, though, none of those factors applies in your case.'
'Bully,' Dowling said-slang even more antiquated than he was. 'I get put out to pasture any which way.'
'If you'd been asked to retire during the war, it might have shown dissatisfaction with your performance. We needed your experience then. Now we have the chance to train younger men,' Abell said.
He was putting the best face he could on it. He wasn't a hundred percent convincing, but he didn't miss by much. Even so…'How long before they put you out to pasture?' Dowling asked brutally.
'I may have a few more years. Or they may ask me to step down tomorrow,' Abell answered with every appearance of sangfroid. 'I hope I'll know when it's time to say good-bye. I don't know that I will, but I hope so.'
'Time to say good-bye,' Dowling echoed. 'When I started, no one was sure what the machine gun was worth. Now FitzBelmont talks about blowing up Rhode Island with one bomb.'
'Best thing that could happen to it,' Abell observed.
'Heh,' Dowling said. 'Maybe it is time for me to go.'
'Believe me, the Army appreciates everything you did,' Abell said. 'Your success in west Texas changed the whole moral character of the war.'
Dowling knew what that meant. Not even U.S. citizens who didn't like Negroes could stomach killing them in carload lots. That was why Jefferson Pinkard would swing. Dowling's Eleventh Army had shown that the massacres weren't just propaganda. The Confederates really were doing those things-and a lot of them were proud of it.
'Well…thank you,' Dowling said. It wasn't exactly what he'd hoped to be remembered for when he graduated from West Point, but it was better than not being remembered at all. As Custer's longtime adjutant, he'd been only a footnote. The one time he'd been important was when he lied to the War Department about what Custer and Morrell planned to do with barrels. That, he hoped, wouldn't go down in history. In this war, he'd carved out a niche for himself. It wasn't a Custer-sized niche. If anybody had that one this time around, it was Irving Morrell. But a niche it was.
'You might do worse than think about publishing your memoirs in timely fashion,' Abell said. 'A lot of high- ranking officers will be doing that. If you get yours out there before most of the others, it can only work to your advantage.'
If I do that, Dowling thought, I will have to talk about lying to the War Department. A good many people would read a memoir of his precisely because he'd worked with Custer for so long. But work with Custer wasn't all he'd done-not even close. Didn't the world deserve to know as much?
'I'll think about it,' he said.
'All right.' Abell nodded briskly. He'd solved a problem. Dowling wouldn't be difficult, not the way Custer had. The General Staff officer went on, 'Do you want to head over to the press office to help them draft a release about your retirement?'
'Do I want to?' Dowling shrugged. 'Not especially. I will, though.' What did Proverbs say? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever. He hadn't passed away yet, but he was passing. The United States, like the earth, would abide, and he'd helped make that so.
XIX
'Hi, hon,' Sally Dover said when Jerry came back to the house. 'You got a telephone call maybe half an hour ago.'
'Oh, yeah?' Dover gave his wife the kind of absentminded kiss people who've been married a long time often share. 'Good thing we didn't take it out yet, then.' That was coming soon, he feared. You could pretend to stay middle-class for a while when you were out of work, but only for a while. After that, you started saving every cent you could, every way you could. The Dovers weren't eating meat very often these days, and most of the meat they did eat was sowbelly.
'Here's the number.' She gave him a scrap of paper.
He'd hoped it would be the Huntsman's Lodge. It wasn't. He knew that number by heart, of course. He knew the numbers for just about all the restaurants in Augusta by heart. This wasn't any of them. If it was anything that had to do with work, whether in a restaurant or not, he would leap at it now.
He dialed the operator and gave her the number. She put the call through. It rang twice before someone on the other end picked it up. 'This is Mr. Broxton's residence.' The voice was unfamiliar. The accent wasn't-if the man hadn't been born in Mexico, Jerry Dover was an Eskimo.
Hope was also unfamiliar. Charlemagne Broxton-and wasn't that a name to remember? — was the principal owner of the Huntsman's Lodge. Heart thuttering, Dover gave his name. 'I'm returning Mr. Broxton's call,' he said.
'Oh, yes, sir. One moment, please,' the-butler? — said. Back before the war, Charlemagne Broxton had had colored servants. Who among the wealthy in Augusta hadn't? Where were they now? Nobody who'd lived through the war wanted to think about things like that. Nobody on the Confederate side, anyway-the damnyankees were much too fond of asking such inconvenient and embarrassing questions.
'Broxton here.' This voice was deep and gruff and familiar. 'That you, Dover?'
No. My name's Reilly, and I sell lampshades. The mad, idiot quip flickered through Dover's mind and, fortunately, went out. 'Yeah, it's me, Mr. Broxton. What can I do for you, sir?'
'Well, I hear you're looking for work,' Broxton said. 'How would you like your old job back?'
'I'd like that fine, Mr. Broxton. But what happened to Willard Sloan?' Jerry Dover asked.
Shut up! Are you out of your mind? Sally mouthed at him. He ignored her. No matter how tight things were, he didn't want to put a cripple on the street. That could have happened to him if a bullet or a shell fragment changed course by a few inches.
'Well, we had to let him go,' Broxton answered.
