Harry Turtledove - Walk in Hell

The United States had lost the War of Secession. Then, twenty years later, they’d lost the Second Mexican War. Germany or its Prussian core, in the meantime, had smashed the Danes, the Austrians, and the French, each in short order. As far as Dowling was concerned, the country that lost wars needed to do some learning from the side that won them.

That was something else he couldn’t say. He tried guile: “If we do break through at Morehead’s Horse Mill, sir, we’ll be in a good position to roll up the Rebel line all the way back to the Ohio River, or else to push hard toward Bowling Green and make the enemy react to us.”

All of that was true. All of it was reasonable. None of it was what Custer wanted to hear. Much of Dowling’s job was telling Custer things he didn’t want to hear and making him pay attention to them. What Dowling wanted was to get up to the front and command units for himself. The only reason he didn’t apply for a transfer was his conviction that more men could handle a battalion in combat than could keep General Custer out of mischief.

Before Custer could go off like a Yellowstone geyser, a pretty young light-skinned colored woman poked her head into the room with the map table and said, “General, suh, I got your lunch ready in the kitchen. Mutton chops, mighty fine.”

Custer’s whole manner changed. “I’ll be there directly, Olivia. Thank you, my dear,” he said, courtly as you please. To Dowling, he added, “We’ll resume this discussion after I’ve eaten. I do declare, Major, that young lady is the one redeeming feature I have yet found in western Kentucky.”

“Er-yes, sir,” Dowling said tonelessly. Custer took himself off with as much spry alacrity as a man carrying three quarters of a century could manage. He didn’t bother hiding the way he pursued Olivia. Amused First Army rumor said she’d been caught, too, not just chaste. Dowling thought the rumor likely true: the general carried on like an assotted fool whenever he was around his cook and housekeeper. The adjutant was more inclined to fault Olivia’s taste than Custer’s. You’d think the old boy would have had his last stand years before.

An orderly came in with the day’s mail. “Where shall I dump all this, sir?” he asked Dowling.

“Why don’t you give it to me, Frazier? The general’s eating his lunch.” Or possibly his serving wench . Dowling shook his head to get the lewd images out of it. Coughing, he went on, “I’ll sort through it for him so he can go through it quickly when he’s finished.”

“Yes, sir.” Frazier handed him the bundle and departed. Dowling made three piles on the map table. One was for administrative matters pertaining to First Army, most of which he’d handle himself. One was for communications from the War Department. He’d end up handling most of those, too, but Custer would want to look at them first. And one was for personal letters. Custer would answer some of those-most likely, the ones full of adulation-himself. Dowling would get stuck with the rest, typing replies for the great man’s signature. His lip curled.

And then, all at once, the sour expression vanished from his broad, plump, ruddy face. He arranged the piles and waited with perfect equanimity for General Custer to return. Meanwhile, he studied the map. If they could break through at Morehead’s Horse Mill, they really might accomplish something.

Custer came back looking absurdly pleased with himself. Maybe he’d managed to get a hand under Olivia’s long black dress. “The mail came in, sir,” Dowling said, as if reporting the arrival of a new regiment.

“Ah, capital! Let’s see what sort of big thing it brings us today,” Custer said grandly, hauling out a piece of slang forgotten by almost everyone since the War of Secession. As Dowling had known he would, he picked up the stack of personal mail first. As Dowling had known he would, he went from grand to glum in a matter of moments. “Oh. A letter from my wife.”

“Was there, sir? I didn’t notice,” Dowling lied. He twisted the knife a little: “I’m sure you must be glad to hear from her.”

“Of course I am.” Custer sounded like a liar himself. His letter opener was shaped like a cavalry saber. He used it to slit the envelope. Elizabeth Custer was in the habit of writing long, even voluminous, letters. So was the general, come to that, when he bothered to write her at all. Dowling would have bet he hadn’t said anything about Olivia in any of them, though.

Custer fumbled for his reading glasses, perched them on his nose, and began to wade through the missive. Suddenly, he turned red, then white. His hand shook. He dropped one of the pages he hadn’t yet read.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Dowling asked, wondering if God had chosen this moment to give First Army a new commander.

But Custer shook his head, sending his curls flying once more. “No,” he said. “It’s good news, as a matter of fact.” If it was, no one had reacted so badly to good news since Pyrrhus of Epirus cried, One more such victory and we are ruined! Custer went on, “Libbie, it seems, has secured permission from the powers that be to enter into the war zone, and will soon be brightening my life here in Bremen for what she describes as an extended visit.”

“How lucky you are, sir, that you’ll have your own dear wife here to help you bear the heavy burden of command.” Dowling brought that out with an absolutely straight face. He was proud of himself. None of the delight he felt showed in his voice, either. Having Elizabeth Custer come to Bremen for a visit was better, more delightful news than any for which he’d dared hope.

He wondered what sort of convenient illness Olivia would contract the day before Mrs. Custer arrived, and whether she’d recover the day after Mrs. Custer left or perhaps that very afternoon. By the thoughtful look in his eye, the distinguished general might have been wondering the same thing.

Whatever Custer came up with, that, by God, was not something he could pile onto the shoulders of his long-suffering adjutant. He’d have to take care of it all by his lonesome.

“I’ll draft the orders for the push against Morehead’s Horse Mill,” Dowling said.

“Yes, go ahead,” Custer agreed abstractedly. Dowling had been sure he would be abstracted at the moment. Custer had made it plain he had no use for German terminology. Dowling reminded himself not to call the concentration against Morehead’s Horse Mill the Schwerpunkt of First Army action. But German was a useful language. English, for instance, had nothing close to Schadenfreude to describe the glee Dowling felt at his vain, pompous, foolish commander’s discomfiture.

Despite the many things Lieutenant Commander Roger Kim-ball had thought he might do in a submarine-and his fantasies had considerable scope, ranging from laying a pretty girl in the captain’s cramped cabin to sinking two Yankee battleships with the same spread of torpedoes-sailing up a South Carolina river on gunboat duty hadn’t made the list. But here he was, heading up the Pee Dee to bombard the revolting Negroes-in both senses of the word-who called themselves the Congaree Socialist Republic.

Diesel smoke poured from the exhaust of the Bonefish at the back of the conning tower on which he stood. The submersible drew only eleven feet of water, which meant it could go farther up the river before grounding itself than most of the surface warships that had been in Charleston harbor when the rebellion broke out.

All the same, Kimball was proceeding at a quarter speed and had a man with a sounding line at the bow. The sailor turned and called, “Three fathoms twain, sir!” He cast the line again. The lead weight splashed down into the muddy water of the Pee Dee.