'Down in Oglethorpe, other side o' the river,' Spartacus answered. 'They got some sojers there, anyways.'
'You lead us to 'em?' the young officer asked.
Spartacus nodded. 'It'd be my pleasure.'
'All right. We'll clean 'em out-or if we can't, we'll call for the guys who damn well can.' The lieutenant took a couple of steps towards Oglethorpe before he remembered he hadn't dealt with Moss and Cantarella. He pointed to one of his men. 'Hanratty!'
'Yes, sir?' Hanratty said.
'Take these Robinson Crusoes back to Division HQ. Let the clerks deal with 'em.' The lieutenant raised his voice: 'The rest of you lazy lugs, c'mon! We still got a war to fight.'
'Robinson Crusoes?' Moss said plaintively. The infantrymen tramped south, boots squelching through the mud. The barrels rumbled along with them. The Confederates in Oglethorpe were in for a hard time. Nobody paid any attention to the newly liberated POWs, not even the blacks with whom they'd marched and fought with for so long.
Well, there was Hanratty. 'You guys were officers?' he said. Jonathan Moss managed a nod. So did Cantarella, who looked as stricken as Moss felt. Hanratty just shrugged. 'Well, come on, sirs.'
Still dazed, Moss and Cantarella followed. Moss had known the ropes with the guerrillas, and before that in Andersonville, and before that as a flier. Before long, he'd probably be in a situation where he knew them again. For now, he was in limbo.
Division HQ was a forest of tents a couple of miles to the north. Hanratty turned his charges over to the sentries there, saying, 'My outfit scraped up these two Crusoes running with the niggers. One's a major, the other one's a captain. They're all yours. I gotta get back to it-can't let my guys down.' With a nod, he headed south again.
'Crusoes?' Moss said once more. Not even Robinson Crusoes this time.
'That's what we call escaped POWs who've been on their own for a while, sir,' the sentry said. Maybe he was trying to be kind, but he sounded patronizing, at least to Moss' ears. He went on, 'You guys come with me, uh, please. I'll take you to the doc first, get you checked and cleaned up, and then they'll start figuring out what to do with you next.'
'Oh, boy,' Cantarella said in a hollow voice. Moss couldn't have put it better himself.
The doctor wore a major's gold oak leaves, but he didn't look much older than that kid lieutenant. He poked and prodded and peered. 'Fleas, lice, chiggers, ticks,' he said cheerfully. 'You're scrawny as all get-out, too, both of you. Do a lot of walking barefoot?'
'Some, after our boots wore out and before we could, uh, liberate some more,' Moss admitted.
'Hookworm, too, chances are. And some other worms, I bet.' Yes, the doctor sounded like somebody in hog heaven. 'We'll spray you and give you some medicine you won't like-nobody in his right mind does, anyway-and in a few days you'll be a lot better than you are now, anyhow. And we'll feed you as much as you can hold, too. How does that sound?'
'Better than the worm medicine, anyway,' Moss said. 'You make me feel like a sick puppy.'
'You are a sick puppy,' the doctor assured him. 'But we'll make you better. We've learned a few things the last couple of years.'
'When do we get back to the war?' Nick Cantarella asked. 'If the United States are down here, Featherston's fuckers have to be on their last legs. I want to be in at the death, goddammit.'
'Me, too,' Moss said.
'When you're well enough-and when we make sure you are who you say you are.' The doctor produced two cards and what looked like an ordinary stamp pad. 'Let me have your right index fingers, gentlemen. We'll make sure you're really you, all right. And if you're not, you'll see a blindfold and a cigarette, and that's about it.'
'If you think the Confederates would let somebody get as raggedyassed as we are just to infiltrate, you're crazy as a bedbug, Doc,' Cantarella said.
'Well, you aren't the first man to wonder,' the doctor said easily.
For the next few days, Moss felt as if he'd gone back to Andersonville. He and Cantarella were under guard all the time. The food came from ration cans. The worm medicine flushed it out almost as fast as it went in. That was no fun. Neither was the idea that his own country mistrusted him.
At last, though, a bespectacled captain said, 'All right, gentlemen-your IDs check out. Welcome back to the U.S. Army.'
'Gee, thanks.' Moss had trouble sounding anywhere close to enthusiastic.
The captain took his sarcasm in stride. 'I also have the pleasure of letting you know that you're now a lieutenant colonel, sir-and you, Mr. Cantarella, are a major. You would have reached those ranks had you not been captured, and so they're yours. They have been for some time, which is reflected in the pay accruing to your accounts.'
'That's nice.' Moss remained hard to please. Nobody got rich on an officer's pay, and the difference between what a major and a light colonel collected every month wasn't enough to get excited about.
'When can we start fighting again?' Cantarella demanded, as he had before.
'You'll both need some refresher training to get you back up to speed,' said the captain with the glasses. 'Things have changed over the past couple of years, as I'm sure you'll understand.'
'How much hotter are the new fighters?' Moss asked.
'Considerably,' the captain said. 'That's why you'll need the refresher work.'
'Will I get back into action before the Confederates throw in the sponge?'
'Part of that will be up to you,' the captain answered. 'Part of it will be up to the Army as a whole, and part of it will be up to Jake Featherston. My own opinion is that you shouldn't waste any time, but that's only an opinion.'
'We are going to lick those bastards?' Nick Cantarella said.
'Yes, sir. We are.' The captain with the specs sounded very sure.
'What'll happen to Spartacus and his gang?' Moss asked, adding, 'They're damn good fighters. They wouldn't have stayed alive as long as they did if they weren't.'
'We've started accepting colored U.S. citizens into the Army,' the captain said, which made Moss and Cantarella both exclaim in surprise. The captain continued, 'Since your companions are Confederates, though, they'll probably stay auxiliaries. They'll work with us, but they won't be part of us.'
'And if they get out of line, you won't have to take the blame for anything they do.' As a lawyer, Moss saw all the cynical possibilities in the captain's words.
The other officer didn't even blink. 'That's right. But, considering everything the enemy has done to them, not much blame sticks to Negroes acting as auxiliaries in the Confederate States.'
'Is it really as bad as that?' Having been away from even Confederate newspapers and wireless broadcasts since his escape, Moss had trouble believing it.
'No, sir,' the captain said. 'It's worse.'
S omewhere ahead lay the Atlantic. Cincinnatus Driver had never seen the ocean. He looked forward to it for all kinds of reasons. He wanted to be able to say he had-a man shouldn't live out his whole life without seeing something like that. More important, though, was what seeing the ocean would mean: that the United States had cut the Confederate States in half.
He hadn't been sure it would happen. This thrust east across Georgia had started out in a tentative way. The United States was trying to find out how strong the Confederates in front of them were. When they discovered the enemy wasn't very strong, the push took on a life of its own.
And anywhere soldiers went, supplies had to go with them. They needed ammo. They needed rations. They needed gasoline and motor oil. Cincinnatus didn't like carrying fuel. If an antibarrel rocket-or even a bullet-touched it off…
'Hell, it's no worse than carrying artillery rounds,' Hal Williamson said when he groused about it. 'That shit goes up, you go with it.'
He had a point. Even so, Cincinnatus said, 'Artillery rounds blow, they take you out fast. You get caught in a gasoline fire, maybe you got time to know how bad things is.'
'Well, maybe,' the white driver said. 'They give you a truckload, though, I figure it'll go off like a bomb if it
