Harry Turtledove - Drive to the East

“This is Franklin Roosevelt.” As always, his voice conceded nothing to the illness that left him in a wheelchair. When Flora gave her name, Roosevelt started to laugh. “You’ve been naughty today, haven’t you?” he said.

“I don’t think so. I think the administration has,” Flora said. “Talking with the Mormons? It’s madness.”

“Is it? President La Follette doesn’t think so. Neither do I,” Roosevelt said. If he did, you would, too, Flora thought. But a lot of politics worked that way. Roosevelt went on, “Don’t you think the Confederate States would be better off if Jake Featherston tried talking with his colored rebels instead of doing his best to put them all six feet under?”

“I don’t want the Confederate States better off,” Flora said.

Roosevelt’s laugh invited everyone who heard it to share the joke. “You can’t duck me like that and expect me not to quack,” he said. “You’re too smart not to know what I’m talking about.”

“We can talk to the Mormons till we’re blue in the face,” Flora said. “What good will it do if they don’t want to listen?”

“That’s what Ferdinand Koenig would say, all right.” Roosevelt was being as exasperating as he could.

“What can we possibly give the Mormons that would satisfy them and us?” Flora asked.

“I don’t know,” Roosevelt admitted. “But the President thinks we ought to find out and not go on till everyone who could fight us is dead.” Pointedly, he added, “And he thinks his own party ought to back him while he’s doing it.”

“I will happily back the President when I think he’s right, or even when I’m not sure-I haven’t said a word about whatever is going on in western Washington, and I don’t intend to,” Flora said. “But when I think he’s wrong… I’m sorry, Franklin, but party loyalty doesn’t go that far.”

A lot of people thought it did. Presidents were usually of that opinion. Roosevelt just sighed. “I might have known you’d say that. As a matter of fact, I did know you’d say that. It doesn’t make things any easier for me, you know.”

I’m the one who’s in charge of keeping you from running wild, Flora translated mentally. “Tell me what sort of terms we’re offering the Mormons. Then maybe I’ll change my mind and believe this is worth doing,” she said.

“Not my bailiwick,” Roosevelt told her. “But I’d hope you’d trust Charlie La Follette far enough to believe he wouldn’t make terms that are bad for the country.”

“I trusted Al Smith not to make a deal that was bad for the country,” Flora said. “Look how that turned out.” Good God! she thought. I sound just like my reactionary brother David. But that didn’t mean she thought she was wrong now, however much she wished it did.

“Low blow,” Franklin Roosevelt said.

“Is it? We’ll see what the Secretary of the Interior has to say,” Flora answered.

“Some people are disappointed in the stand you’re taking.”

Though Roosevelt couldn’t see her, Flora shrugged. “They can put up another Socialist candidate when my district nominates this summer. Or they can back the Democrat against me this fall.”

“No one would do anything like that,” Roosevelt said hastily. Flora also knew nobody would do anything like that. She’d represented her district for most of the past twenty-six years, and she was a President’s widow. They’d need better reasons than this to oppose her: treason, say.

A few days later, the Secretary of the Interior did appear before the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War. Harry Hopkins came from Iowa and still spoke with a flat Midwestern accent, but he’d gone to New York as a young lawyer. He’d got to know Al Smith there, and had risen with him. Now he had to defend the policies of another President.

“What terms has the administration offered the Mormon insurgents in Utah?” Senator Norris asked the question reluctantly. He knew the other members would be sharper than he if he faltered.

“No more than a return to the status quo ante bellum if they lay down their arms,” Hopkins answered. “If they want peace, we will give them peace: no treason trials, no persecutions. But that is absolutely as far as we will go. Demands for autonomy and independence for the so-called State of Deseret have been and will continue to be rejected out of hand.”

“And what is the response of the Mormon representative to this proposal?” the chairman asked. “Uh-what is the gentleman’s name?” He plainly wanted to call the Mormon representative something else, something less polite, but refrained.

“Rush. Hyrum Rush.” Hopkins spelled the Mormon’s first name. Having done so, he let out a resigned sigh. “Mr. Rush does not feel our proposal goes far enough, and fears it leaves his people vulnerable to further U.S. aggression. Those are his words, not mine.”

Flora raised her hand. With a certain amount of trepidation, Norris recognized her. She said, “Mr. Hopkins, why does Mr. Rush think Utah would be any safer as an independent country surrounded by the United States than as one state among many? This makes little sense to me.”

“He said, ‘You gave Kentucky and Houston and Sequoyah plebiscites, but you wouldn’t give us one. You thought we were a bunch of perverts, and we didn’t deserve one,’ ” Hopkins replied.

Hyrum Rush wasn’t so far wrong. Flora said, “Don’t you think we ought to get rid of an abscess like that instead of putting a bandage on it?”

“Normally, Congresswoman, I’d say yes. Right now, we’ve got bigger things to worry about than an abscess.”

Flora winced. With the country cut in half, she couldn’t very well disagree with the Secretary of the Interior. “The rebels show no sign of agreeing to these terms?” she asked.

“That’s correct, ma’am,” Harry Hopkins said.

Good, Flora thought, but she kept it to herself. She nodded to the chairman. “No further questions.”

Brigadier General Abner Dowling studied Confederate dispositions on a large map pinned to a wall of the house in Culpeper he used as a headquarters. If the U.S. Army ever moved deeper into Virginia, the house’s owner would get it back, and would probably be unhappy about the holes in his plaster. Dowling, whose own disposition was none too good, intended to miss not a moment of sleep worrying about that.

He called Captain Toricelli in to look at the latest dispositions. His adjutant was a sharp young officer. “Tell me what you make of this,” Dowling said, as neutrally as he could. He left it there. He wanted to see if the junior officer noticed the same thing he had-and if it was truly there to notice.

Angelo Toricelli eyed the map with unusual care. He knew Dowling wouldn’t have asked him for no reason. After a thoughtful pause, he said, “They really are thinning out their positions a bit, aren’t they?”

“It looks that way to me,” Dowling answered. “It’s got to the point where we can’t ignore it, hasn’t it?”

His adjutant nodded. “I’d say so. But the bastards in butternut don’t want us to spot it. Just by the way they’re doing it, I’d bet money on that.”

“Does seem so, doesn’t it?” Dowling said. “And why not? For fear we’ll pour through? They aren’t weakening themselves that much.”

“Where are those men going?” Toricelli asked.

“If I knew, I would tell you.” Dowling scratched his head. His hair was thinning-one more indignity of age. He sighed. “We ought to send out raiders, bring back some prisoners. They may know where their pals are headed. It doesn’t seem to be down toward the Wilderness. That was what I guessed when I conferred with General Morrell. If it turns out to be over toward Fredericksburg instead, we’ll have to alert General MacArthur, assuming such a thing is possible.”