'Fat chance,' Sam said. 'But it's got to be done.'
Dealing with the complicated paperwork of command might have been the toughest job for a mustang who'd never been trained to do it. You could end up in hock for tens of thousands of dollars if you didn't keep track of what was what, or if you absentmindedly signed the wrong form. Because he'd had to start from scratch, Sam was extra scrupulous about double-checking everything before his name went on it.
He absently scratched the back of his left hand, which itched. Then he went back to making sure of his spare-parts inventory. Some of that stuff-the part that petty officers found useful-had a way of walking with Jesus.
A few minutes later, he noticed his hand was bleeding. He swore and grabbed for a tissue. He must have knocked off a scab or something. When he looked, he didn't see one. The blood seemed to be coming from a mole instead. After a while, it stopped. Sam went back to work.
Things on the Josephus Daniels were just about the way they were supposed to be. If he had to turn the ship over to a new CO tomorrow, he could without batting an eye. His accounts were up to date, and they were accurate-or, where they weren't, nobody could prove they weren't. People said there was a right way, a wrong way, and a Navy way. He'd used the Navy way to solve his problems about missing things.
Sam grinned. Of course he'd used the Navy way. What other way did he know? He'd given the Navy his whole life. He hadn't known he would do that when he signed up, but he wasn't disappointed. He'd sure done more and seen more of the world that he would have if he'd stayed on the farm.
The only way he'd leave now was if they threw him out or if he dropped dead on duty. He'd been scared they would turn him loose when the war ended, but what did they go and do? They promoted him instead.
'Nope, only way I'm going out now is feet first,' he murmured. 'And even then, the bastards'll have to drag me.'
A U.S. warship under his command anchored in Mobile Bay? He'd never dreamt of that when he signed on the dotted line. He hadn't imagined he could become an officer, not then. And he hadn't imagined the USA would ever take the CSA right off the map. The way it looked to him then-the way it looked to everybody-both countries, and their rivalry, would stick around forever.
Well, nothing lasted forever. He'd found that out. You went on and did as well as you could for as long as you could. When you got right down to it, what else was there?
Miguel Rodriguez said…something. 'What was that?' Jorge asked.
His brother tried again. 'Water,' he managed at last.
'I'll get you some.' Jorge hurried to the sink and turned the tap. When he was a little boy, he would have had to go to the well. This was so much easier.
Bringing the water back to Miguel, seeing his brother again, was so much harder. Now he understood why the Yankees had kept Miguel so long. Miguel sat in a U.S.-issue military wheelchair. He would never walk again. So said the letter that came with him, and Jorge believed it. His body was twisted and ruined. So was his face. U.S. plastic surgeons had done what they could, but they couldn't work miracles.
The shell that didn't quite kill him damaged his thinking, too-or maybe he was trapped inside his own mind, and his wounds wouldn't let him come out. The U.S. doctors had kept him alive, but Jorge wasn't even slightly convinced they'd done him any favors.
He gave Miguel the cup. His brother needed to take it in both hands; he couldn't manage with one. Even then, Jorge kept one of his hands under the cup, in case Miguel dropped it. He didn't, not this time, but he did dribble water down what was left of his chin. Jorge wiped it dry with a little towel.
How long could Miguel go on like this? Ten years? Twenty? Thirty? Fifty? Would you want to go on like this for fifty years? If somebody took care of you, though, what else would you do?
Pedro came in and looked at Miguel, then quickly looked away. What had happened to his brother tore at him even worse than it did at Jorge. And what it did to their mother…Jorge tried not to think about that, but he couldn't help it. She'd be taking care of and mourning a cripple for as long as she or Miguel lived.
'Those bastards,' Pedro said savagely. 'Damnyankee bastards!'
'I think they did the best they could for him,' Jorge said. 'If they didn't, he'd be dead right now.'
Pedro looked at him as if he were an idiot. 'Who do you think blew him up in the first place? Damnyankee pendejos, that's who.'
He was probably right-probably, but not certainly. Jorge had seen men wounded and killed by short rounds from their own side. He didn't try to tell his brother about that-Pedro was in no mood to listen. He just shrugged. 'It's the war. We all took chances like that. What can you do about it now? What can anyone do?'
'Pay them back,' Pedro insisted. 'Seсor Quinn says we can do it if we don't give up. I think he's right.'
'I think you're loco,' Jorge said. 'What happens if you shoot somebody? They take hostages, and then they kill them. They take lots of hostages. They've already done it here once. You think they won't do it again?'
'So what?' Pedro said. 'It will only make the rest of the people hate them.'
'Suppose they take Susana or her kids? Suppose they take Lupe Flores?' Jorge said, and had the dubious satisfaction of watching his brother turn green. Yes, Pedro was sweet on Lupe, all right. Jorge pressed his advantage: 'Suppose they take Mamacita? Will you go on yelling, 'Freedom!' then? It's over, Pedro. Can't you see that?'
Pedro swore at him and stormed out of the farmhouse again. Jorge noticed his own hands had folded into fists. He made them unclench. He didn't want to fight Pedro. He didn't want his brother doing anything stupid and useless, either. The Army had taught him one thing, anyhow: you didn't always get what you wanted.
Miguel had listened to everything. How much he'd understood…How much Miguel understood was always a question. It probably always would be. He struggled with his damaged flesh and damaged spirit, trying to bring out words. 'Not good,' he managed. 'Not good.'
'No, it isn't good,' Jorge agreed. Just how his injured brother meant that…who could say? But Miguel wasn't wrong any which way. If Pedro went and did something stupid, people for miles around could end up paying for it.
Miguel tried saying something else, but it wouldn't come out, whatever it was. Sometimes Jorge thought Miguel knew everything that was going on around him but was trapped inside his own head by his wounds. Other times, he was sure Miguel's wits were damaged, too. Which was worse? He had no idea. Both were mighty bad.
If Pedro really was planning on doing something idiotic…Whatever Jorge did, he would never betray his own flesh and blood to the occupiers. If you did something like that, you might as well be dead, because you were dead to all human feeling. But that didn't mean he couldn't do anything at all.
The next time he went into Baroyeca, he did it. Then he went into La Culebra Verde and drank much more beer than he was in the habit of putting down. He didn't walk back to the farmhouse-he staggered. If the electric poles hadn't marched along by the side of the road to guide him back, he might have wandered off and got lost.
His mother looked at him with imperfect delight when he came in. 'Your father didn't do this very often,' she said severely. 'I wouldn't stand for it from him. I won't stand for it from you, either.'
'Shorry-uh, sorry-Mamacita,' Jorge said.
'And don't think you can sweet-talk me, either,' his mother went on. 'You can call me Mamacita from now till forever, and I'll still know you've come home like a worthless, drunken stumblebum. I told you once, and I'll tell you again-I won't put up with it.'
Jorge didn't try to argue. He went to bed instead. He woke up with his head feeling as if it were in the middle of an artillery barrage. Aspirins and coffee helped…some. Pedro eyed him with amused contempt that was almost half admiration. 'You tied a good one on there,' he remarked.
'Sн.' Jorge didn't want to talk-or to listen, for that matter. He poured the coffee cup full again.
'How come?' Pedro asked him. 'You don't usually do that.' Miguel sat in the wheelchair watching both of them, or maybe just lost in his own world.
'Everything,' Jorge said. 'Sometimes it gets to you, that's all.' He wasn't even lying, or not very much.
Pedro nodded vigorously. 'It does. It really does! But I don't want to get drunk on account of it. I want to do something about it.'
You want to do something stupid about it, Jorge thought. He kept that to himself. If you got into an argument
