How Few Remain

Chapter 20

"As it then agreed, General?" Alfred Von Schlieffen asked. "You will send officers to Berlin to study the methods of the German Empire?" You will send officers to Berlin to learn how to do things right? was what he meant, but, although no diplomat, he knew better than to phrase it so.

Major General William S. Rosecrans scratched the end of his long nose, then nodded. "It is agreed, Colonel," he told the German military attache, "or rather, the president, the secretary of state, and I agree to it. The Royal Navy, unfortunately, has other ideas."

Schlieffen said, "Had President Blaine made peace some time ago, the British would not have found it necessary the blockade of your coast to resume."

"I am painfully aware of that," Rosecrans said, and his voice did indeed hold pain. "The entire country, I would say, is painfully aware of that-the entire country, less one man."

"What can be done to persuade him?" Schlieffen asked. "Even if he would for more war make ready, he cannot fight more now. He needs to win time in which the United States can get over this fight. So it has always been. So, I think, it will always be."

"Do you know the fable about the goddamn donkey dithering between two bales of hay, Colonel?" Rosecrans asked. After Schlieffen had nodded, the U.S. general-in-chief went on, "Well, sir, James G. Blaine is that donkey, except both bales are poisoned. If you were one of my colonels instead of one of the Kaiser's colonels, I'd say he was a prize horse's ass, too. But you aren't, so I won't."

"But you just-" Schlieffen broke off, realizing exactly what Rosecrans had done. The military attache sniffed, as if he had a cold. He'd smelled liquor on Rosecrans' breath before. He didn't smell it now. Anger and frustration could also drive a man into indiscretion.

Rosecrans went on, "One bale of hay is making peace with the bastards who beat us. But that means admitting they beat us, and he can't stomach it. The other bale is going back to war with 'cm. But if we do, the only thing that'll happen is that they'll lick us some more. He knows as much, but he keeps trying to sick it up, too. And that leaves him nothing to do but dither. Stupid fool's got pretty good at it, too, wouldn't you say? He's had practice enough lately, anyway."

"This dithering, though-" Schlieffen liked the sound of the word, and repeated it: "This dithering cannot last. President Blaine must remember, he is not the only one who can begin again the war. Come soon or come late, your enemies will force you to fight if you do not obey now. This blockade is only a small thing. Much more could come. Much more would come."

Rosecrans' wrinkles got deeper. "I know that, damn it. You'll have a friend in Richmond — your attache to the Confederate States, I mean."

"Aber naturlich, a colleague." Schlieffen made the correction without noticing he'd done it. Since his wife's death-to a large degree before his wife's death, too-he'd so immersed himself in work that he had no time for friends.

"Then you'll have got word from him, one way or another, that the Confederate States are moving troops toward the Potomac," Rosecrans said.

"I had heard this, yes," Schlieffen said, nodding. "I was not going to speak of it if you did not; such is not my place."

"They're moving a good many troops." Rosecrans' voice was sour, heavy. "The railroad makes it easy to move a lot of troops in a hurryhell of a lot easier than moving 'em on roads knee-deep in mud would be. They aren't coming up toward the border for their amusement, or for ours."

"You are also moving troops, I know," Schlieffen said.

"Oh, yes." The U.S. general-in-chief bobbed his head up and down. "If they hit us, we'll give 'em the best damn fight we can-don't doubt it for a minute, Colonel, the best fight we can. But what you may not have heard"-he was almost whispering now, like a boy talking about some bugbear or hobgoblin-"is that General Jackson is back in Richmond."

"No, I had not heard that," Schlieffen said. On hearing it, he heard also that Rosecrans was a beaten man. No matter how many men the USA moved down to the Potomac, Jackson would find a way to beat them, because Rosecrans thought Jackson would find a way to beat them. Someone-Schlieffen annoyed himself by not recalling whether it was Napoleon or Clausewitz-had wisely said that the moral was to the physical in war as three was to one. As Austrian and Prussian armies had for so long gone into battle against Bonaparte convinced before the fighting started that they would lose, so Rosecrans faced the prospect of confronting Jackson.

"Well, it's true; God damn it to hell, it's true," Rosecrans said.

Schlieffen listened with half an ear, trying to remember which military genius had come up with the maxim. He couldn't. Like a bit of gristle stuck between two back teeth, it would bother him till he did. He became aware that Rosecrans had said something else, something he'd missed entirely. "Excuse me, please?" he said, embarrassed at piling one professional failure on another.

"I said, a few friends in the world sure would come in handy about now," Rosecrans repeated.

"For this war, you have no friends who can give you help," Schlieffen said. "This was, I hear from every American, the idea of your President Washington. This man has not been your president for many years. Maybe it is time to think that matters have perhaps changed since his day."

"I'll tell you what I'm starting to think," Rosecrans said savagely. "I'm starting to think Washington was nothing but a stinking Virginian, and the Rebs can damn well keep him and his ideas both."

Schlieffen did not smile. He made a point of not smiling. Not only would smiling have been against his interest and his country's, he was such a resolutely moderate man that smiling did not come easy to him anyhow. In his usual careful way, he said, "I hope you will also say this to your president and to your foreign minister-no, secretary of state you call him."

"I've been saying it since things started going downhill without any brakes," Rosecrans answered. "I've been saying it to anyone who will listen. Colonel, if you think President Blaine is inclined to listen to me, you had better think again. If you think he's inclined to listen to anybody, you had better think again."

"This is not good," Schlieffen said.

The telephone jangled. Rosecrans jerked as if a horsefly had bitten him. "Guess who that is," he said with a martyred sigh. "He may not listen, but by Jesus he likes to talk."

Schlieffen left the office of the general-in-chief. Behind him, Rosecrans bellowed into the newfangled instrument. As Schlieffen came out into the outer office, Captain Saul Berryman looked up from his paperwork with a martyred expression. "Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Oberst, " he said.

"Good-bye, Captain," Schlieffen answered. He had more than a little sympathy for Rosecrans' adjutant, a capable young man trapped in a position where his ability did his nation less good than it might have in the field.

The calendar said spring was only a few days away. Freezing rain pelted down in spite of what the calendar said. Schlieffen hardly noticed as he walked to the carriage waiting for him and climbed in. His mind was elsewhere. Napoleon or Clausewitz? Clausewitz or Napoleon? That he could not make a fact he knew spring up and stand to attention infuriated him.

"Back to the consul's establishment, Colonel?" the driver asked.

"Yes," Schlieffen snapped. He paid no more attention to the driver's chattering teeth than he had to the weather that caused them. The wheels of the carriage slipped a little on the icy paving stones, but then the toe calks on the horse's shoes bit and the carriage began to roll.

Despite the weather, some sort of political demonstration was going on not far from the War Department building. Socialists, Schlieffen thought, seeing the red flags that hung sodden from their staffs. He'd seen more Socialist demonstrations than he liked back in Germany, but never till now one of this size in the United States.

When he reported what he had seen to Kurd von Schlozer, the German minister to the USA nodded. "One faction of Blaine 's own party has made common cause with the Socialists," Schlozer said.

"Really? I had not heard." Save as they affected military affairs, Schlieffen paid little attention to politics.

Schlozer gave him a look that said he should have heeded them more closely. "If we have no peace, soon we shall have fighting in the streets. With the Socialists now stronger, we may have revolution, Red revolution," he said. "This is a land of revolution, and the Socialists- the new Socialists, I mean-know it and exploit it."

"God forbid," Schlieffen said. "If they try to raise a revolution, may they be met with iron and blood." After using Bismarck 's famous phrase, he nodded to Schlozer. "You know I feel the same about the Socialist movement in the Fatherland."

"Oh, yes, my dear Colonel, of course," Schlozer said. "No man of property, no man of sense, could possibly say otherwise. But too many Americans, like too many Germans, have neither property nor sense. And the leaders of the Socialists here, like the leaders there, have an oversupply of cunning, if not of sense."

"This has not been true in the United States," Schlieffen said. "So much I know-otherwise, the Socialists here would have stirred up far more trouble than they have."

"Now, though, men who really know something of politics have started waving red flags for purposes of their own," the German minister said. "In matters of politics, Blaine is now as dead as a salt herring. Even if he could have been reelected before-which would have taken an act of God-he has no hope whatever with a large part of his party going over to the radicals. He must understand as much."

"This is not good," Schlieffen said, as he had to Rosecrans. "A man without hope will do irrational things. Since Blaine did irrational things even when the situation for himself and his country looked better, who knows how crazy and wild he might become now?"

"We shall see." Kurd von Schlozer sounded less gloomy than Schlieffen would have. Schlieffen wondered if his superior was deluding himself about how sensible President Blaine could be. From what the German military attache had seen, expecting common sense from Americans was like looking for water in a desert: you might find some, but, even if you did, it would be only an oasis in a vast stretch of hot, dry, burning sand.

"Napoleon!" he exclaimed suddenly, and felt much better about the world. Hot sand had made him think of Egypt, which had made him think of Bonaparte's campaign there, which in turn had reminded him of whose adage had crossed his mind during his conversation with Rosecrans.

Kurd von Schlozer gave him a curious look.

A couple of days later, after a cable from Berlin, Schlozer requested an audience with Blaine. When the request was granted, the German minister asked Schlieffen to accompany him. "Of course, Your Excellency," Schlieffen said, "if you think my being there will do some good. If not, I have other matters to occupy my time." He was still refining the plan for movement against France whose basic idea he'd borrowed from Lee's campaign in Pennsylvania. He'd had wires of his own from Berlin; the General Staff was enthusiastic about the outline he'd sent.

But Schlozer said, "Military affairs are likely to be discussed, so your place is with me." However much Schlieffen would have liked to go on burrowing through his books-inadequate though his research tools here in Philadelphia were-he could only obey. Hiding a sigh, he set down his pen and, carefully locking the door to his office behind him, followed Schlozer downstairs to the carriage.

Bright sunshine made him blink. The bad weather had blown past Philadelphia the day before; now he could believe spring was at hand. Soon-all too soon-summer would grip the eastern seaboard of the United States in its hot, sweaty fist.

Down from Germantown the carriage made its way, dodging among others like it, rumbling wagons, men on horseback, men on bicycles with improbably high front wheels, and swarms of men and women on foot. And then, as had happened to Schlieffen coming back from the War Department, a political rally snarled traffic that would have been bad without it. Now red flags rippled in a friendly breeze; now not only the most dedicated Socialists, those fearing neither catarrh nor pneumonia, assembled under the flags. Now nervous-looking soldiers helped police route buggies and horses and pedestrians around the streets the demonstrators clogged.

Schlieffen and Schlozer never came within two blocks of the rally. Even so, the Socialists' shouts rose above the clatter of horses' hooves, the rattle of iron tires on paving, and the squeals and groans of axles needing grease. "Can you make out what they are saying, Your Excellency?'' Schlieffen asked.

"I believe the cry is, 'Justice!' " Schlozer clicked his tongue between his teeth. "If I were petitioning the Almighty, or even my government, I would sooner ask for mercy. But then, I am an old man, and well aware of how much I need it. Waving flags in the street is not an old man's sport."

Because of the rally, they got to the Powel House fifteen minutes late. President Blaine brushed aside Kurd von Schlozer's apologies. "Don't trouble yourself about it, Your Excellency," Blaine said. "I want to tell you that I received yesterday a telegram from the U.S. minister in Berlin informing me that his talks with Chancellor Bismarck continue to go well, and that prospects look bright for increased cooperation in all spheres between our two great countries."

"I am delighted to hear this, Mr. President," Schlozer said, and Schlieffen nodded, knowing all spheres included the military. But the German minister looked grim as he continued, "I also received yesterday a telegram from Berlin, whose contents I wish to discuss with you now. I must tell you that the governments of Britain, France, and the Confederate States are most dissatisfied with the dilatory pace of negotiations with your government. Since Germany is neutral in this conflict, they have united in asking Chancellor Bismarck to make me the channel through which they express to you their dissatisfaction. If you refuse to meet their demands, I cannot answer for the consequences."

Blaine flushed. His large, bulbous nose went redder than the rest of his face. "Their demands are outrageous, impossible!" he shouted, as if he were on the rostrum rather than sitting in his office. "How am I to yield so large a portion of my home state to the invaders? How am I to acquiesce in the Confederacy's acquisition of lands to which that nation has no right?"

"If you had yielded Sonora and Chihuahua before, you would not now the loss of part of Maine face," Schlieffen said. "You have lost the war. 'Vae victis,' as Brennus the Gaul said to the Romans he had beaten."

Blaine glared at him. "The Romans ended up whipping the Gauls, so that 'Woe to the conquered' applied to the conquerors. We can fight on, too."

Sadly, Schlieffen shook his head. "No, Your Excellency, not in this war. You are defeated."

Kurd von Schlozer said, "The reason we were tardy, Mr. President, was the large Socialists demonstration that forced traffic to make a detour around it."

Blaine 's complexion darkened once more. "Socialists!" he said, as if pronouncing an obscenity. "Most of them are traitors to the Republican Party, nothing else."

"As may be," Schlozer said. "Would you not agree, though, that they leave your own political future more… uncertain than it was before the schism in your party took place?"

Now Blaine had heard blunt talk from both the German attache and the German minister. "You tread close to the edge, sir," he growled. Schlozer sat impassive, waiting for a more responsive answer. At last, obviously hating every word, Blaine said, "You may be right."

That was the response for which Schlozer had waited. "Being now without hope and so without fear, Your Excellency, can you not act as a disinterested statesman and serve with a whole heart the needs of your country? You have the chance, Mr. President, and a rare chance it is for an elected official, to do just that without considering your own future political advantage, for you can have none."

Had Blaine not been in the room, Schlieffen might have smiled. Schlozer could not have urged a more sensible, more logical course on the president of the United States. The only question remaining was whether sense and logic could still reach James G. Blaine.

Schlieffen added a few words of his own: "If you do not do this, Your Excellency, your country will only suffer more. In your heart, you must know this is so."

Again, Blaine stayed silent a long time. At last, very low, he repeated, "You may be right." He let out a long, shuddering sigh. "Making peace with the enemies of my country is like looking into my open grave. But, as you say, I am already dead, so what does it matter how I am buried?"

"Think of your country," Schlozer said.

"Think of the future, and what your country and mine may do there," Schlieffen said. Slowly, Blaine nodded.

Philander Snow spat a brown stream into a drift of the stuff whose name he bore. Theodore Roosevelt had changed the calendar from March to April a couple of days before. He'd seen spring snow in New York State; seeing it in Montana Territory did not delight him, but it did not surprise him, either.

His mind had a way of running toward what would be. "We've got to plant as soon as we can, Phil," he said. "We shan't have a long growing season-we never do, not here, but it will be even shorter this year. Everything must be in readiness to move the moment conditions permit."

Snow spat again. "It will be, Colonel." He'd taken to calling Roosevelt that since his boss' return from commanding the Unauthorized Regiment. Having been mustered out of the U.S. Army, Roosevelt no longer had any formal right to the title. The next time he corrected the ranch hand about it would be the first.

"That's good, Phil. That's what I want to hear," he said, now, adding, for about the hundredth time, "I know I can rely on you. If I'd ever had any doubts-which I haven't-the way you and the rest of the hands who didn't join my regiment brought in the harvest last fall would have shot them right between the eyes."

"That's white of you, Colonel. We reckoned it was the least we could do, seein' how you and the Unauthorized Regiment was doin' everything you could to keep them goddamn English bastards from comin' down and burnin' us out." Snow loosed yet another stream of tobacco juice. "Ask you somethin'?"

"You may ask," Roosevelt said. "I don't promise to answer."

"Fair enough." Snow nodded. "All kinds of talk been goin' around about how you'll up and sell this here ranch and go back to New York to do some politicking there. Is it so, or is it a pile of humbug?"

"I'd love to go back to New York and politic there," Roosevelt answered. "The only trouble with the notion is that, in order to run for the State Assembly, I must have attained the twenty-fifth year of my age. I am old enough to have fought for my country and to have commanded men in battle, but not old enough to help legislate for my state."

"Plumb crazy, you ask me," Philander Snow opined. " 'Course, nobody asked me."

"Crazy it may be," Roosevelt said. "The law of the state it is. And so I shall stay here in Montana Territory, here on the ranch, a while longer, at any rate." He did his best to speak lightly, as if that mattered to him only a little. Inside, he seethed with worry lest the fickle populace forget him before he reached the age where he could offer himself for approval.

"Well, I'm powerful glad to hear that," Snow said. "Powerful glad. I've been pleased with my situation here, and I'd hate to have to go looking for another one on account of you was sellin' the place for no better reason than to go back East and tell lies to people the rest of your days."

"Is that what politics means to you?" Roosevelt demanded. The ranch hand nodded without hesitation. Roosevelt 's sigh loosed a cloud of steam into the chilly air. "I give you my solemn word: I shall always tell the truth to the people."

"I've heard a lot of people say that." Snow spoke in ruminative tones. "Maybe you're telling the truth, Colonel. I hope to Jesus you are, matter of fact. But it wouldn't startle me out of my stockings if I found out you wasn't."

"I shall always tell the truth to the people," Roosevelt repeated. "Always. Do not doubt me on this, Phil; I mean every word I say. You are right when you assert that the American people have already heard too many lies."

Snow cocked his head to one side and studied Roosevelt for a while before saying, "It's a young man's promise, Colonel. Maybe there's a reason a fellow has got to be twenty-five before he can run after all. You get older, you figure out there's a deal of gray between black and white."

"A man who will see gray once will see gray all the time." Theodore Roosevelt scornfully tossed his head. "A man who sees gray will never see black, nor white either, even when they are there. That, I think, defines your run-of-the-mill politician to a T. I may be a politician one day-I would be lying if I said I didn't fancy the notion-but, whatever else history may record of me, it shall never say I was run-of-the-mill."

Philander Snow gave him another measuring appraisal, punctuating it by putting another brown spot in the white by his feet. "I don't reckon anyone will call you that. Some other things, maybe, but not that one there."

"I hope no one does," Roosevelt said. "Even those who were great in their time are so easily forgotten. Who now recalls the deeds of Lysander the Spartan or Frederick Barbarossa?"

"Not me, that's for damn sure," Snow said at once.

"Just so," Roosevelt said. "Just so. I want my name to live, to be a possession for all time." Phil wouldn't have heard of Thucydides, either, so Roosevelt didn't bother explaining where he'd got that last phrase. But, even if the ranch hand hadn't heard of him, a lot of what the Greek historian had to say about the war between Athens and Sparta in the fifth century before Christ could as readily have been written about the modern struggles between the USA and the CSA. Just as Sparta had got aid from rich Persia against Athens, which otherwise was probably the stronger, so the Confederate States had used help from England and France to put down the United States, which alone was the larger, richer, and more populous of the two.

Snow said, "Good shootin' the breeze with you, boss. I'm headin' off to check on the stock." He trudged down toward the barn, his boots crunching as each step broke the crust on the latest snowfall.

Roosevelt went inside to catch up on the bookkeeping. No sooner had he got to work than dark clouds rolled across the sun. He lighted a lamp in the study. A few minutes later, it went dry, filling the room with the stink of kerosene. When he went to put more into it, he discovered the ranch house was almost out.

He went to the door and shouted for Philander Snow. Eventually, Snow stuck his head out of the barn. When Roosevelt asked him if there was any kerosene in there, the ranch hand answered, "Sure as hell ain't. We should have bought some the last time the Handbasket went down to Helena, only we forgot."

"Damnation," Roosevelt muttered. "None in the hands' quarter, either?"

"Sure as hell ain't," Snow repeated. "Oh, maybe enough for a day or two, you spread it out amongst there and the barn and the ranch house. But maybe not even that much, neither."

"Damnation," Roosevelt said again. Then he brightened. "Well, hitch up the horses to the Handbasket. We'll just have to go down to Helena again and get some." Any excuse to get into town, even his own absentmindedness, was a good one as far as he was concerned. Here on the ranch, he was feeling isolated again. The year before, he'd been part of great events. Now, unless he went down to Helena, he didn't even know about them till long after they happened-not till someone chanced to bring word up to the ranch.

Thinking along with him, Snow said, "We got the chance to find out what in hell's gone wrong the past few days. Swear to Jesus, sometimes I laugh till I'm like to bust, listenin' to you cuss old Blaine and the Socialists and whoever else you ain't feelin' happy about of a mornin'."

"I'm so glad I amuse you," Roosevelt said. "I wish I amused myself. You do know that what you're laughing about is the humiliation of the United States?"

"Oh, no, Colonel-what I'm laughin' about is you cussin' the humiliation of the United States," Snow said, a distinction a Jesuit might have envied. Before Roosevelt could remark on it, the hand went back into the barn, presumably to hitch the horses to the farm wagon. When he brought the wagon out, he gave Roosevelt a wistful look. "Don't suppose you'd want some company on the way down to Helena?"

"I alone committed the sin of omission," Roosevelt answered. "I alone shall atone for it." Philander Snow let out a gusty sigh. He'd done his best to get out of several hours' work: done his best and failed, in which he resembled his country. Having failed, he went back to the unending chores that bulked so large in farm life.

Roosevelt rattled down the road by himself. In the back of the wagon, the five-gallon milk cans in which he'd bring back the lamp oil did considerable rattling of their own. They had kerosene painted on them in big red letters, to make sure no milk went into them by mistake.

With snow on it, the ground was still hard. Before long, the snow would melt, and everything would turn to mud. Getting to Helena through the resulting morass was liable to be an all-day job, as opposed to a couple of hours each way.

A horseman came up the road toward Roosevelt. As the fellow trotted past, he took off his hat and waved it, saying, "Good day to you. Colonel."

"And to you, Magnussen," Roosevelt answered. "You look well. How's that leg of yours feeling? I remember your captain saying you fought bravely."

"Oh, thank you, Colonel." The former trooper of the Unauthorized Regiment blushed like a girl. "The leg is good. How do you recall all your men, and who got hit in the leg, and who in the arm, and so on?"

"How? You just do it." Roosevelt saw nothing out of the ordinary in carrying a flock of details in his head. "It's no harder than memorizing the multiplication table-easier, for men have faces and voices, and numbers don't."

Magnusscn laughed. "Easier for you, maybe, Colonel, but not for the likes of me." He lifted his hat again, then rode on.

"A man can do anything he sets his mind on doing," Roosevelt called after him. Magnussen gave no sign that he'd heard, though he wasn't out of earshot. Roosevelt shrugged. Too many men would not set their minds on anything worth doing. That, to him, was why they did not succeed. He loosed an angry snort at the absurdity of Abraham Lincoln's Socialist notions.

When he got to Helena, he took some little while reaching the general store. Men who'd served in the Unauthorized Regiment were thick on the ground in the territorial capital. If Roosevelt had taken all of them up on the drinks they wanted to buy him, he would have forgotten his name, let alone such minutiae as where he lived and what he'd come into town to buy.

He filled the milk cans from the big wooden barrel behind the counter at the store. The proprietor, a big redhead named McNa-mara, said, "I reckoned you was runnin' low last time you was in, Colonel, but you always know your own business so good, figured I was crazy myself."

"Even Jove nods," Roosevelt said, which meant nothing to the storekeeper. Grunting, Roosevelt carried the full milk cans out to the wagon. He turned down another drink while he was doing that.

Virtue unalloyed would have sent him straight back to the ranch. His virtue turned out not to be quite free of admixture. Instead of riding out of town with the kerosene, he went over to the offices of the Helena Gazette. As usual, a crowd had gathered in front of the building to read the newspaper on display under glass.

Roosevelt hitched the wagon and started working his way through the crowd toward the paper. He didn't worry about the kerosene; nobody could inconspicuously amble off with a five-gallon milk can full of the stuff. Men made way for him, so he got to the Gazette far sooner than he would have before he'd recruited the Unauthorized Regiment. They reached out to shake his hand or slap him on the back. If Helena had anything to say about it, he could have been elected president tomorrow.

What he read, though, made him grind his teeth. "The arrogance of our enemies!" he burst out. "But for Maine, they hold not a single square inch of our sacred soil, yet they presume to order us around as if we were beasts of burden."

"What are we going to do to them?" somebody asked. "What can we do to them? We're too busy squabbling among ourselves to hurt anybody else." He pointed to a story about a Socialist parade in Boston that had got out of hand. The police had opened fire, and four were dead, including one policeman. Red is the color of the blood of martyrs, a Socialist spokesman was quoted as saying.

"To hell with Abraham Lincoln," Roosevelt ground out. "Custer was right-Pope should have hanged him while he had him under lock and key in Utah Territory. He's ten times as much trouble as all the Mormons and all their wives put together." He heard himself in some surprise; he hadn't thought he might agree with Custer on anything.

About half the crowd in front of the copy of the Gazette loudly approved his words. The other half-miners, mostly-as loudly told him where to go and how to get there. Helena, he remembered, had broken out in riots after one of Lincoln 's speeches, while Great Falls had stayed calm. To a man who had nothing to offer but the sweat of his brow, class warfare was a seductive strumpet indeed.

"I don't think Lincoln 's is the best way for the working men of this country to get a square deal," he said, sticking out his chin. "And besides, if we fight one another, who wins? Do the capitalists win? Do the workers win? Not a chance in hell, either way. I'll tell you who wins: the British and the French and the Confederates. Nobody else."

That got him a thoughtful silence. He was happy enough to gain even so much; he'd been wondering whether Helena would erupt again on account of him. He knew where the Gatling guns were. Colonel Welton had kept most of them even after Custer returned to Kansas. They were the most telling argument yet prepared against the rise of Socialism.

But then a miner said, "Colonel, you can talk about winners and losers as much as you like-when you're one of the winners. When you're putting in twelve, fourteen hours underground six days a week and you don't make enough to feed yourself, let alone your wife and children, well, hell, you've already lost. How are you worse off then if you try and do something different? What can you throw away that ain't already gone?"

The miner drew applause from people who had booed Roosevelt; those who had agreed with him stood silent, waiting to hear what he would say. He picked his words with care: "Do you want to burn down the timbers that arc holding up the roof of the tunnel? That's what Red revolution means. If you want to shore up the roof so it doesn't come down on your head, peaceably petition the government for redress of grievances."

"And a hell of a lot of good that'll do," the miner said. "They only listen to the bastards with money."

"No," Roosevelt said. "They listen to the bastards with votes. And you mark my words, sir: they will go a hell of a long way to keep the revolution from coming. A man will do a great many startling things if all his other choices look worse. On that you may rely."

" Lincoln said the same damn thing, and you were going on about hanging him," the miner said.

" Lincoln pays lip service to peaceable redress, but he doesn't believe in it," Roosevelt said. "I do."

The miner looked him up and down. "You don't mind me saying so, there's a hell of a lot of difference between what some pup who was a cavalry colonel for a little while thinks and what goes through the head of a fellow who was president of the United States and who's been trying to help the little fellow, the labouring man, his whole life long."

Some little pup who was a cavalry colonel for a little while. A flush heated Roosevelt 's cheeks and turned his ears to fire. Now he knew what came after hero: has-been. Savagely, he said, " Lincoln is the past. I am the future. And Socialism, sir, Socialism is the road to ruin."

If he impressed the miner, the man-who had to be at least twice his age-did not show it. "Talk is cheap," he said. "You get to be as old as Lincoln is nowadays, you look back and see what you've done, see if you measure up. You ask me, it ain't likely."

"I will take that wager, and I will take that chance," Theodore Roosevelt said. "And there is one thing Lincoln has done that I swear before almighty God I shall never do."

"Yeah?" The miner laughed. "What is it?"

"If the chance should come my way to fight the Confederate States of America, I shall never lose a war to them," Roosevelt promised. The miner laughed again. Roosevelt didn't care.

General Thomas Jackson had just finished the last piece of fried chicken on his plate and was wiping his fingers when someone knocked on the door of his Richmond house. "Who could that be?" his wife said in some annoyance. "I had looked for a quiet evening at home. Since the war took you away from your family for so long, I think I am entitled to look for a few quiet evenings at home with you."

"Let us hope it is some traveler who has lost his way and seeks directions, then," Jackson said. "But if it is not, Mary, that too is as God wills."

Cyrus, the butler, came into the dining room. "General Jackson, suh, Senator Hampton say he wish to have a word with you," the slave reported.

" Hampton?" Jackson 's eyebrows rose. So did he. "Of course I'll see him. You've put him in the parlor?" Cyrus nodded. Jackson headed in that direction. "I wonder what on earth he can want with me, though."

When he went into the parlor, Wade Hampton III rose from a sofa to shake his hand. The senator from South Carolina was five or six years older than Jackson, portly but erect, balding, with a neat beard once brown but now mostly gray and splendid mustachios. He and Jackson had known each other for twenty years, since the days when the former planter commanded a cavalry brigade under Jeb Stuart.

After the greetings were done, after Hampton had declined food and drink, the South Carolinian closed both doors into the parlor, having first looked up and down each hallway to ensure that no one lurked nearby. That bit of melodrama accomplished, he said, "I must have your word, General, that, come what may, what we say and do here tonight shall remain solely between the two of us."

"Well, sir, that depends," Jackson said. "If you are contemplating treason against the government of the Confederate States, I'm afraid I cannot help you."

He'd meant it for a joke, a piece of light badinage. The last thing he expected was for Wade Hampton to look as if he'd just taken a gunshot wound. Slowly, Hampton said, "Treason against the government of the Confederate States is not the same as treason against the Confederate States. Of this I am convinced down to the bottom of my soul. If you disagree, tell me at once, and I shall bid you a good evening and beg your pardon for having disturbed you."

"You had better tell me more," Jackson said, also slowly. "I must confess, I have not the faintest idea of what you are talking about. Do you believe that I, in my recent conversation with General Rosecrans and Mr. Hay, am somehow betraying our country? If so, sir, we would be wiser to continue this conversation through our friends." Dueling had been illegal in Virginia for many years. From time to time, though, gentlemen still traded fire on the field of honor.

But Hampton hastily held up a hand. "By no means!" he exclaimed. "You do not tarnish the honor of the Confederacy; your every action brightens it. Would to God others might say the same instead of trampling our beloved Constitution in the dust."

"Take a seat, sir; take a seat," Jackson urged. After Hampton sat, so did the Confederate general-in-chief, on a cane-backed chair well suited to his rigid posture. "You still have the advantage of me, for I know of no plots brewing against our government."

"You have a sizable army in northern Virginia, ready to compel the Yankees to obedience," Hampton said. After Jackson nodded, the senator went on, "I trust the men would also obey you if you called on them to preserve our republic from those who would destroy the principles on which it was founded."

"Speak your mind, if that is what you came for," Jackson said. Wade Hampton did nothing of the sort, but sat mute. Jackson 's bushy eyebrows came down low over his eyes. The scowl that made soldiers quail had no effect on the senator. Sighing, Jackson did something out of the ordinary for him: he gave ground. "Very well-you have my promise."

"I knew you were a true patriot," Hampton breathed. "Here, then: I shall ask my question, which is this-if you order your men to defend the Constitution of the Confederate States, will they move against the men here in Richmond who set it at naught?"

When Hampton spoke of setting an army in motion against Richmond, that was liable to be treason, though Jackson could not imagine his old comrade-in-arms disloyal to the CSA. "From whom, in your view, does the Constitution want defending?" he asked.

And, at last, the senator from South Carolina brought his fear and anger out into the light: "From President Longstreet, General, and from any other man who would tamper with the structure of society we have so long maintained in our beloved nation."

"Ahh." Jackson let out a long exhalation. "You oppose him because he intends to manumit the Negro."

"Of course I do," Hampton said. "What right-thinking white man in this country does not? My home state was first to leave the USA because of the federal government's continued interference with slavery, as our ordinance of secession clearly shows. Shall we tolerate from Richmond the tyranny that led us to break with Washington?"

Jackson sighed again, this time with deep regret. "I am afraid we shall, Senator," he said. Hampton stared at him. He went on, "The president has persuaded me that his policy is in the best interest of our country. If not for the intervention of Britain and France, we might well have failed in the War of Secession. If not for their intervention, we should have had a far more difficult time in this war. If we forfeit their support by maintaining an institution they despise, how shall we fare against the Yankees the next time we have to face them?"

"We'll lick 'em, of course," Wade Hampton III replied at once. "We always have. We always will."

"I wish I shared your certainty," Jackson said. "From the bottom of my heart, I wish I shared your certainty. But I do not. I cannot. Since I do not and cannot, and since I know the president purposes giving the Negro the name of freedom but not much of the thing itself, I am willing to suspend my disagreement with him on this matter and to believe him better acquainted with what will best serve us than I am myself."

Hampton 's countenance darkened. "General, you are making a mistake if you choose to side with a man who would cast down our peculiar institution."

"Senator, you are making a mistake if you seek to suborn me into treason against the duly elected head of my government," Jackson answered evenly. "The Army will stand behind the president, sir; you may take that to be as much a given as one of Euclid 's axioms of geometry. This being so, have we anything further to say to each other?"

"I think not." Senator Hampton headed for the door. "You need not accompany me, General; I can find my own way out." He opened the door from the parlor to the front hall, then slammed it shut.

Another window-rattling slam marked his departure from Jackson 's home.

"Good heavens!" his wife exclaimed when he returned to the table. "You sent the senator away unhappy, Tom." She took a longer look at Jackson. "And you are unhappy, most unhappy, yourself. What happened between the two of you?"

"Nothing I much care to discuss," Jackson answered. "Least said, soonest mended." He hoped with all his heart that his flat rejection of Hampton 's overtures would persuade the senator any attempt at a coup d'etat was foredoomed to failure. If it didn't, force of arms would persuade Hampton and whoever backed him of the same thing. "We had a disagreement, that's all, and the senator from South Carolina is and has always been a man of somewhat hasty temper."

His son's eyes glowed. " Hampton 's red-hot for holding the nigger down and putting a foot on his neck," Jonathan said. "I'll bet he was trying to talk Father into going against manumission."

Jackson rolled his eyes up to the heavens. "Senator Hampton is a fool," he growled. Jonathan grinned an enormous grin, convinced his father's words meant he was right. So they did, though not quite for the reason he thought. Jackson himself paid as little attention to politics as he could. Hampton 's appeal had taken him by surprise. But if his purpose was so obvious that even a youth-a youth more politically alert than the Confederate general-in-chief-could see it, people of greater prominence than that youth also would see it.

And, sure enough, when Jackson went to the War Department the next morning to continue discussion with General Rosecrans and Minister Hay, he was not altogether astonished to have a young lieutenant take him aside and lead him down the hall to a small room where President Longstreet sat waiting. Without preamble, Longstreet said, "You had a visit from Wade Hampton last night."

"Yes, Your Excellency, I did," Jackson said.

"He asked you to help overthrow the government if I persist in moving us toward manumission." Longstreet did not phrase it as a question.

"By his request, Mr. President, what passed between us last night is a private matter," Jackson said.

"You need not tell me-I know Hampton 's mind," Longstreet said. "I also know you sent him away with a flea in his ear."

"How do you know-?" Jackson paused. "You are having him watched." Spoken so baldly, it sounded like a transgression.

But Longstreet nodded, unembarrassed. "I most certainly am. If he were actor enough to simulate the fury he showed outside your home, he would do better before the footlights than in the Senate. I assure you, General, I do not intend our nation to be torn asunder in the hour of our greatest triumph."

"Our greatest triumph." Jackson sighed. "A great pity General Stuart cannot now enjoy it with us."

"That it is," Longstreet agreed. "Still, he fell in action, as he no doubt would have wished to do, and we have avenged and shall avenge ourselves upon the Apaches manyfold for his assassination." But nothing, not even the death of a friend of many years, could derail Longstreet's train of thought for long. "Believe me, General, I am glad you share my views on the integrity of our nation."

"I do indeed," Jackson said. On the other hand, Abraham Lincoln had not intended the United States to be torn asunder, either.

But Longstreet, almost as if in response to Jackson 's thought, went on, "And I shall not allow Hampton and his fellows any opportunity to do us mischief, either. I shall steal their thunder. Easter has come and gone; the end of April approaches. Still Blaine delays and delays and delays. He shall delay no more. Is the army gathered by the Potomac in readiness?"

"You know it is, Your Excellency," Jackson replied, as if he had been insulted.

"Of course I do," the president said soothingly. "Still, the question had to be asked. At today's session with the Yankees, you and Minister Benjamin are to tell them the war will resume in forty-eight hours unless we, the British Empire, and France have the full acquiescence of the United States to all demands made against them before that time shall have expired."

"Yes, sir!" Jackson 's voice bubbled with enthusiasm. "We shall punish them as they deserve." He thought for a moment. "And, in so doing, we make Hampton and his complaints into smaller matters than they would be otherwise."

"Just so," James Longstreet said. "I have told you before, I believe, that you are, or you can be, more astute in matters political than one might suppose."

"You natter me beyond my deserts, sir," Jackson said. "Like you, my son had no trouble ciphering out the reason on account of which Senator Hampton paid me a call, though I did not realize what it was until he made himself unmistakably plain."

"Jonathan's a clever lad," Longstreet said, smiling. "Remember, the United States are to have forty-eight hours from the moment you deliver the ultimatum. Make careful note of the time, that we may not unduly delay their punishment should its infliction prove necessary."

"I shall carry out your orders in every particular, Mr. President," Jackson said. "You may rest assured on that score."

"I do, General, believe me." Longstreet got to his feet. "And now Lieutenant Latham will take you to Mr. Benjamin. I leave to the two of you the manner in which you present the ultimatum to the United States. I am confident that, between your ingenuity and his, you will devise a plan more likely to meet our needs than any my poor wits might conceive."

" I am confident I know a man hiding his light under a bushel when I see one," Jackson said. Ignoring Longstreet's modest little wave, he went on, "I also have great faith in Mr. Benjamin's ingenuity." He rose and followed the young officer to the room where the Confederate minister to the USA waited.

"Ah, General Jackson!" Judah P. Benjamin exclaimed in delight, or an artful counterfeit thereof. "The president has told you of his intention?"

"He has." Jackson knew how abrupt his nod was. Benjamin's round, smiling, Semitic face, framed by hair and beard dyed a black that defied and denied his years, never failed to make the Confederate general-in-chief nervous. The statesman was too openly successful, too openly clever a Jew to suit Jackson 's stern Christianity.

"My view, General, is that you should be the one to deliver the ultimatum," Benjamin said now. "Coming from your lips, it will possess an aura of authority I could never give it. Were I to present it to Hay and Rosecrans, they would the more readily assume it to be negotiable."

"So they would," Jackson agreed. Benjamin's smile never wavered. Jackson did not think to wonder if he had insulted the Jew by assuming him to be flexible in all circumstances. Drawing out his pocket watch, he said, "The Yankees should be here in a few minutes."

Another young Confederate lieutenant escorted the U.S. representatives into the room. After polite greetings, John Hay said, "I should like to bring to your attention a new proposal President Blaine has authorized me to-"

"No," Jackson interrupted.

"I beg your pardon?" the U.S. minister to the Confederate States said.

"No," Jackson repeated. "The time for proposals from President Blaine has passed. He is in no position to offer them. He has, in fact, but one choice left: peace on our terms or war." He delivered Longstreet's ultimatum in tones as fierce as he could muster. Having done so, he noted down the time on a scrap of paper: twenty-seven minutes past ten in the morning.

Hay and Rosecrans both stared at him, the one with something like horror on his handsome face, the other in a sort of weary resignation. Rosecrans found his tongue first: "And what happens if President Blaine makes no reply, saying neither yes nor no?"

"That is a well he has drunk dry: it will be construed as rejecting the ultimatum," Jackson replied. "If we do not hear that he has accepted our terms within the space of forty-eight hours, now less"-he looked at the watch again-"two minutes, the war shall begin again, and where it shall end is known but to God."

"General, this is a brutal and most unreasonable way of forcing your will upon us," John Hay said.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Jackson agreed placidly. He said no more than that, leaving the U.S. minister to the Confederate States nothing on which he could hang a further protest.

Judah P. Benjamin spoke for the first time: "Gentlemen, I would suggest that, in view of the present circumstances, you might be well advised to communicate this ultimatum to President Blaine as soon as is practicable, to give him the greatest possible amount of time in which he can decide."

Under his breath, General Rosecrans muttered, " Blaine 's had months to decide. What the devil difference will two more days make?"

Jackson and Benjamin both started to speak at the same time. The Confederate minister to the USA caught Jackson 's eye. Benjamin's own eyes, dark and all but fathomless, glinted. Jackson inclined his head, allowing his clever companion to say whatever he intended. Turning another of his woundingly bland smiles on the U.S. representatives, Benjamin remarked, "I believe it was Samuel Johnson, gentlemen, who observed, 'When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.' "

Hay winced. Rosecrans muttered again, this time unintelligibly. Gathering himself, Hay said, "I hope you will permit us an adjournment, then, to wire your demands to our president."

Now Judah Benjamin nodded to Jackson. "I not only permit it," the Confederate general-in-chief said, "1 require it."

Rosecrans' comments to himself sounded sulfurous, even if Jackson could not make them out in detail. With a sigh, Hay asked, "May we have a written copy of the ultimatum, to be sure it is communicated accurately to President Blaine?"

Jackson shook his head. "No, for I have not got one. The terms are of the simplest, however: either your government shall yield within forty-eight hours less… thirteen minutes now, or there will be renewed war."

"War a I'outrance" Benjamin added. Rosecrans, who plainly did not understand the French phrase, glared at him. Hay, who plainly did, also glared, in a different, more nearly desperate way. The two U.S. representatives rose, shook hands again with their Confederate counterparts, and took their leave.

"From now on, sir, these talks will be in your hands alone, I expect," Jackson said to Benjamin. "I shall shortly travel north to the Potomac, to take charge of operations against the United States in that region."

"In my opinion, General, you need not be overhasty," the minister to the United States replied.

"I dare not take the chance of your being mistaken," Jackson said.

"However you like." Benjamin habitually looked amused. At the moment, he looked more amused than usual. "Whether we do go to war or not, though, the president has effectively spiked Senator Hampton's guns, would you not agree?"

"You know about Senator Hampton?" Jackson blurted, and then felt extraordinarily foolish: whatever went on in the Confederate States without Judah P. Benjamin's knowledge could not be worth knowing.

Benjamin's laugh made his big belly shake. "Oh, yes, General, I know about Senator Hampton. A great many people know about Senator Hampton. That you did not until last night speaks well of your devotion to duty."

The Jew was indeed a statesman, Jackson thought; he had never been called blind more politely. In musing tones, he asked, "Could he have raised a revolution with my help?"

"With your help, General, anything would be possible," Judah Benjamin answered. "Without it, he is bound to fail." Benjamin hesitated, then went on, "Had President Longstreet reckoned your help likely to be forthcoming, the distinguished senator from South Carolina would have found himself unfortunately unable to call on you yesterday."

"Would he?" Jackson murmured. Benjamin gave him a solemn nod. He nodded back, unsurprised. After a moment's consideration, he nodded again, this time in firm decision. "Good."

Samuel Clemens woke with the bed shaking. He sat bolt upright, ready to run if it was an earthquake. By the way Alexandra smiled at him, it wasn't. He could barely see her smile; the sun hadn't risen yet. "What time is it?" he asked around a yawn.

"A little before five," his wife answered. "You wanted me to get you up early, though-remember? Philadelphia sun time is more than three hours ahead of us here."

Clemens grimaced and nodded. "Which means that, whatever Blaine aims to do, he'll do it too early in the morning." He got out of bed with a martyred sigh. "Light the lamp, will you, my dear?" Gas hissed. Alexandra struck a match. Yellow light filled the bedroom. Sam sighed again as he walked to the closet. "We're finally back in a home of our own-in a bed of our own, by God-and Blaine routs me out of it on a Saturday morning. There is no justice in the world-and no clean trousers, either, by the look of things."

"There are so," Alexandra declared. By then, Sam was getting into a pair of them. She gave him a dirty look.

He affected to ignore it, but from then on aimed his barbs at the administration rather than his wardrobe: "He shouldn't have started the war in the first place. Once he'd botched it, he should have quit when Longstreet gave him the chance. That would have saved San Francisco, and saved us the torture of living with your brother."

"You can't blame the president for that," Alexandra said.

"Who says I can't? I just did." Clemens warmed to his theme: "He dithered till he lost half of Maine, too. And now that the ultimatum's landed on him, he still can't make up his blasted mind. If he doesn't give in before half past seven or so, we're going to take another licking, and for what? For what, I ask you?"

His wife said, "Why don't you finish dressing? I'll go downstairs and make some coffee for you." It was not a responsive answer, but Sam doubted James G. Blaine could have given him a better one. And heaven only knows what sort of coffee Blaine makes, he thought, rummaging in a drawer for a cravat.

Fortified with coffee, bread and butter, and a slab of ham left over from supper the night before, he headed east along Turk Street toward the Morning Call. Not all the houses in the neighborhood had yet been rebuilt; empty lots gave the street the aspect of a barroom brawler who led with his teeth instead of his left.

Every few paces, Clemens looked back over his shoulder. Hills hid the Pacific from his eyes. Whether he could see it or not, though, he knew it was there. Somewhere on it, probably somewhere not far from San Francisco, sailed a Royal Navy flotilla. He was sure of that. The Pacific Squadron of the U.S. Navy, or what was left of it, was out there, too, but he had no faith in its ability to halt the British warships, or even to slow them much. When a fast steamer from the Sandwich Islands gave them the word to move…

Since the British attack on San Francisco, Colonel Sherman had brought in many more guns to defend the coast. Clemens didn't think they would do much good, either: they were small-caliber field pieces, which had the twin advantages of being common and mobile but were hardly a match for the huge cannon the ironclads of the Royal Navy mounted. Still, Sherman was making an effort, which put him ahead of most of the U.S. government.

Market Street was quiet as Sam turned onto it. Not only was Saturday a half day for most people, he was earlier than usual getting to the office. He walked in just before a quarter to seven. He wasn't the first man there, either, not by a long chalk. Reporters clustered round the telegraph clicker like relatives round the bed of a sick man who was not expected to live.

"No news yet, eh?" Clemens asked.

"Not a word," Clay Herndon answered, before anyone else could speak. "The only question left is whether the wire comes from Philadelphia or the Potomac. Will Blaine see sense, or will he throw away Washington City and Maryland to go along with Maine?"

" Blaine will let the war go on." Edgar Leary spoke with great assurances. His whole manner had changed since his stories on corruption in the rebuilding of San Francisco ran in the Morning Call. Now he seemed to reckon himself a man among men, a pup no longer. He had reason for that new-found confidence, too; thanks to those stories, several prominent men were presently occupying small rooms with poor accommodations and unpleasant views. He went on, "He's dragged his heels all the way through this mess. Why would he change now?"

No one argued with him. Clocks in the office and outside struck seven. "Less than half an hour to go," Herndon muttered. "Big story coming, one way or the other."

"Bastards," somebody said softly. Clemens wondered whether the fellow meant the enemies of the United States or the Blaine administration. After a moment, he realized the curse could be inclusive.

At nineteen minutes past seven, the telegraph receiver began to click. "It's early," Edgar Leary noted. "Have the Rebs jumped the gun, or has Blaine thrown in the sponge? My bet's on the Rebs."

But the telegram came out of Philadelphia. Clay Herndon, who happened to be closest to the machine, read the Morse characters emerging word by word on the tape as readily as if they were set in fourteen-point Garamond. "President Blaine accedes to Confederate ultimatum," he said, and then, through a burst of startled exclamations and cheers, "President Blaine's complete statement follows."

"Read it out, Clay," Sam said. "Read it on out. Let's see how he puts it in the best light he can."

He promptly regretted that, for Blaine went on at greater length than he'd expected. But neither he nor anyone else in the offices of the Morning Call interrupted the reporter as he gave voice to the words flowing from the clicking receiver:

"Finding no hope for the successful employment of our arms against the enemies who ring us round and who have unjustly combined against us, I am compelled at this hour to yield to the demands imposed upon the United States by the Confederate States, Great Britain, and France. I do this with the heaviest of hearts, and only in the certain knowledge that all other courses are worse.

"This surrender offers a fitting occasion to present ourselves in humiliation and prayer before that God Who has ordained that it be so. We had hoped that the year just past would close upon a scene of victory for our righteous cause, but it has pleased the Supreme Disposer of events to order it otherwise. We are not permitted to furnish an exception to the rule of Divine government, which has prescribed affliction as the rule of nations as well as of individuals. Our faith and perseverance must be tested, and the chastening which seems grievous will, if rightly received, bring forth its appropriate fruit.

"It is meet, therefore, that we should repair to the only Giver of all victory, and, humbling ourselves before Him, should pray that He may strengthen our confidence in His mighty power and righteous judgment. Then we may surely trust in Him that He will perform His promise and encompass us as with a shield.

"In this trust and to this end, I, James G. Blaine, president of the United States, do hereby set apart today, Saturday, the twenty-second day of April, as a day of fasting, humiliation, prayer, and remembrance, and I do hereby invite the reverend clergy and people of the United States to repair to their respective places of worship and to humble themselves before almighty God, and pray for His protection and favor to our beloved country, and that we may be saved from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us.

"And I do further urge and direct the citizens of the United States to observe the twenty-second day of April in each succeeding year as a day of humiliation and remembrance, so that the infamous defeat we have suffered on this date shall never be lost from the minds of the said citizens until such time as it may, by the grace of God, be avenged a hundredfold."

The clicker fell silent. Several men sighed. Sam realized he wasn't the only one who'd been holding his breath toward the end. Clay Herndon said, "Well, well, who would have thought it? Even James G. Blaine can read the writing on the wall, provided only that you make the letters big enough."

"The writing on the wall, eh?" Sam said. "That must be why he blamed God for our losing, or one reason for it, anyhow. The other two that spring to mind are that God doesn't vote, and He hardly ever stands up on His hind legs and calls someone a damned liar."

Outside, church bells began to ring out. Noise on the street swiftly swelled: shouts and cheers and snatches of song. Here and there, gunshots rang out. One of them sounded as if it came from right outside the offices. Somebody yelled, "That's the boy, Reuben! Shoot 'em all off-we ain't gonna need 'em no more." Another shot shattered the morning, presumably from Reuben's gun.

"We aren't the only ones with the news," Herndon observed. "That one would have gone to a whole raft of telegraph instruments."

"Everybody who has it likes it, too," Edgar Leary said.

Samuel Clemens made himself stop thinking like an American delighted the war had indeed ended-regardless of the terms on which it had ended-and start thinking like a newspaperman again. "Half the people who've got the word print papers of their own," he growled. "Out of that bunch, we're going to be the ones who put the news on the street first, or I'll know the reason why."

That blunt announcement sent people flying away from the telegraph clicker as if it had suddenly become red-hot. One of the typesetters yelled, "We'll need a transcript of what Blaine had to say. If somebody writes it out, it'll be a hell of a lot faster to set than if we've got to do it from the Morse."

"Clay, you take care of that," Sam said. "You've already read it through once, so you've got a head start on everybody else. Headline above it will be 'War Ends'-screamer type, of course."

"You want seventy-two point?" the typesetter asked.

"No, ninety-six, Charlie," Clemens answered. "Hell, 108 if you've got it. That's not a headline we get to use every day. If only we could write Blaine Tarred, Feathered, and Ridden Out of Philadelphia on a Rail underneath it, everything would be perfect." He hesitated. "Well, almost perfect: we'd have to drop the type size a good deal to fit that on one line."

"Boss, you'll give us an editorial to run alongside of Blaine 's statement?" Leary said.

"What?" Sam frowned. "Oh. Yes, I suppose I'd better, hadn't I?"

He went back to his desk, swept a snowdrift of papers out of the way so he'd have room to write, and set a fresh sheet down in the middle of the space he'd cleared. After he'd inked a pen, he stared at the blank paper. For a man who wrote for a living, getting started was always the hardest part of the job.

Words did not want to come. He'd set everybody else on the Morning Call running like a dog with a tin can tied to its tail, and the words did not want to come. He glared at the paper. He glared at the pen. The fault was not in them. He knew where the fault was. He did not have a mirror at his desk, so he could not glare at himself.

He took out a cigar, scraped a match afire, and lighted the malodorous stogie. Neither the harsh smoke he held in his mouth nor the stinking fogbank with which he surrounded himself helped concentrate his mind on the business at hand, as they often did. He smoked the cigar down to a dank, soggy butt with quick, angry puffs, then lighted another. Nothing even vaguely resembling inspiration struck.

Setting the second cigar in the grimy brass ashtray that held the corpse of the first, he opened a desk drawer. If inspiration wasn't lurking in tobacco today, maybe it was hiding somewhere else. He pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and took a long swig. Whiskey ran molten down his throat. His eyes opened very wide. He took another drink. It exploded in his stomach like a ten-inch shell from a British ironclad. He felt ready to whip his weight in wildcats.

He picked up the pen and poised it above the paper. No words came out. He was as silent and frustrated as a veteran actor-say, one of the Booth brothers, whose careers went back before the War of Secession, and whose tours had crisscrossed the USA and the CSA ever since-inexplicably stricken with stage fright in front of a packed house.

Clay Herndon trotted up to him, carrying a sheet full of words from edge to edge and top to bottom. Sam ground his teeth, even though he knew the words were Blaine's and not Herndon's. "Here's the transcription of the statement," Herndon said, waving it about. "I'll give it to the typesetters. What are you going to say in your-?" Most of a sentence too late, his eye fell on the still-blank page in front of Clemens.

Sam's eye fell on it, too… balefully. "Damned if I know," he ground out.

"Even if it's only 'Mary had a little lamb,' you'd better say it fast," Herndon said. "You were right-we can't be the only paper getting a new edition to press as fast as we can set the type."

"I know, God damn it, but I'm dry," Sam said. "I haven't been this dry since the stagecoach ride through the desert from Salt Lake to Virginia City."

"You've got to say something," Herndon insisted.

"Yes, but what?" Clemens said. "What the devil can I say that Blaine didn't already? The war's done. We lost. Any fool can see that, and even a fool can see it now, or Blaine wouldn't have given up. The thing is so obvious, it's impossible to write about without sounding like an idiot." Herndon didn't say anything. Sam caught him not saying anything. "When has that ever stopped me before, eh?"

"You can't prove that's what I was thinking," the reporter answered with a grin.

"And a damned lucky thing for you I can't, too," Sam said. "Go on, get that set. I'll come up with something in the next few minutes, or else we just have to go on without me." He didn't like that. It was embarrassing. But getting the news out on the street third would be a lot more embarrassing. Herndon dashed away to the typesetters.

It's over. Almost of its own will, Clemens' pen set down two words. He stared at them. They came close to serving as an editorial by themselves. What else did he need to say? He thought about that for a few seconds, then wrote one more sentence: Thank heaven! He nodded, picked up the paper, and hurried after Clay Herndon.

Author's Note

T his is a novel about the aftermath of a Confederate victory in the Civil War. It is not in any sense a sequel to my earlier novel about a Confederate victory in the Civil War, The Guns of the South. Here, the Confederacy is imagined to have won by natural causes, so to speak, rather than by intervention from time-travelers with an agenda of their own, and to have done so in 1862 rather than 1864.

The differences are crucial. The Civil War is, and deserves to be, perhaps the most intensely examined period of American history. For better and for worse, all that the United States is today (even that we say The United States is, not The United States are), it is because of what happened in and immediately after the Civil War. Change anything there, and subsequent history changes drastically.

Take the three cigars around which Lee's Special Order 191 was wrapped. In real history, two Union soldiers, Corporal Barton Mitchell and First Sergeant John Bloss, discovered them after a Confederate courier lost them. Learning Lee's battle plan and how widely Lee had divided his army while invading U.S. territory let General McClellan win the battle of Antietam. That victory, in turn, let Lincoln issue the Emancipation Proclamation, which changed the moral character of the war. It effectively made sure that Britain and France, which were at the time trembling on the brink of recognizing the Confederate States and forcing mediation on the United States, did not do so.

Had those cigars and that order not been lost… the world would be a different place today.

I need to make a couple of remarks about my handling of the characters in this novel. All speeches and writings attributed to Samuel Clemens, in particular, are of my own devising. The same does not apply to the political speeches I have put in the mouth of Abraham Lincoln. In them, I have frequently used his own words on the relationship between labour and capital and between employee and employer, sometimes verbatim, sometimes adapting his thought on slaves and owners to apply to workers and owners. I have done this not only for dramatic effect but also to show the plausibility (and what more can one demand of a novelist?) of the views I have ascribed to him in the changed circumstances I have envisioned here.