Harry Turtledove - Liberating Atlantis

"Sure won't," Frederick said. The militiamen seemed to be falling even faster than the Atlantean regulars.

"Serves 'em right, too," Lorenzo said. "I want to kill 'em all, is what I want to do. And I reckon maybe we can do it, too."

"So do I," Frederick said. He never would have dreamt of that when the insurrection started, either. His dreams along those lines had been nightmares, almost without exception: nightmares of Atlantean regulars smashing through the rebels, shooting them, bayoneting them, hanging them, tormenting them in as many ways as his sleep-filled imagination could find. And it had proved ingenious in ways he never would have come up with awake. He hoped he wouldn't have, anyway.

"You know what'll happen when word of what we done gets to New Hastings?" Lorenzo said. "White folks'll shit, that's what!"

Frederick nodded gravely. "They sure will." Then he found a question Lorenzo hadn't yet: "And what happens once they get done shitting?"

"Huh?" The copperskin didn't even see that it was a question. "Who the devil cares what happens then?"

"We'd better," Frederick answered. What would the government of the United States of Atlantis do after a ragtag force of rebellious slaves slaughtered its professional soldiers and the white, mostly prosperous militiamen who fought beside those professionals?

Maybe the government would throw its hands in the air and decide the Free Republic of Atlantis was too strong to be put down. Maybe it would realize that blacks and copperskins were just as entitled to freedom as white men were. Maybe the government was looking for any reasonable excuse to liberate the men and women who'd labored in bondage for generations.

Maybe. But the more Frederick Radcliff thought about it, the less he believed it. The insurrectionists clearly could wipe this trapped force of white men off the face of the earth. Suppose they did. When word of the massacre got to New Hastings, wouldn't it infuriate the Senate? Wouldn't the Conscript Fathers decide the rebellion truly was dangerous? Wouldn't all the whites in Atlantis decide the same thing, regardless of whether they lived in Gernika or Penzance?

And if all the whites decided the insurrection was dangerous, what would happen next? Atlantis held many more whites than Negroes and copperskins. As much to the point, or maybe even more, those whites held far more wealth than their colored counterparts. If they decided they had to kill everyone in Atlantis who wasn't white so they could feel safe in their own beds, would they be able to do it?

No sooner asked than answered: of course they could. It might not be easy or quick or cheap, but they could do it. Frederick was sure of that. They might even feel bad about it afterwards, but afterwards would be too late to do anybody colored any good. Frederick was also sure of that.

Which meant… what? That slaughtering this trapped army might be the worst thing the insurrectionists could do? So it seemed to Frederick. One other thing also seemed all too plain: not slaughtering this trapped army had to be the second worst thing the insurrectionists could do.

"Lorenzo," he said.

"What d'you want?" the copperskin answered. "We've got these assholes. We've got 'em right where they belong."

Frederick explained what he wanted. He explained why he wanted it. Explaining made him more miserable, not happier. All the same, he finished, "We can't kill 'em all. We don't dare. Now that we've got 'em where we want 'em, we need to use that to get what we want. But we've got to call the cease-fire before they're all down."

Lorenzo spat in the dirt where the insurrectionists had dug their trench. "Then you go down and take a white flag and talk to the white folks. You done great stuff, Fred, but I will see you in hell before I do that here."

"All right. I will." Frederick didn't sound thrilled, but he nodded. Fair was fair.

"And what happens when the white sons of bitches shoot you down like a hound even though you got that white flag?" No, Lorenzo didn't bother hiding his scorn.

"Get our men to stop shooting. I'll go down there. If the buckra kill me, go ahead and do what you want to them," Frederick answered. "You will anyway-and I won't be around to stop you."

"Damned straight you won't," Lorenzo muttered. He aimed a forefinger at Frederick's chest like a rifle musket. "You nigger bastard, you better be right. You fuck this up, nobody'll ever forgive you."

"Now tell me something I didn't know," Frederick said.

Slowly, the gunfire died away. Frederick scrambled up over the rampart and advanced on the whites armed with only a flag of truce. He wondered if one of his own people would shoot him in the back. That might almost be a relief.

When the firing from all around the white army slackened, sudden crazy hope flowered in Jeremiah Stafford. Maybe the insurrectionists were running out of ammunition! Maybe the whites could snatch victory from what had looked like sure disaster. Maybe…

Maybe Stafford was building castles in the air. That seemed much more likely when a stocky, middle-aged Negro scrambled none too gracefully over the rampart with a big white flag. The man held it up as he came toward the surviving whites.

"Boy, if he wants to parley, I'd talk till the cows come home," a soldier not far from Stafford said. "They can murder every fuckin' one of us, and they don't got to sweat real hard to do it, neither."

That was an inelegant way of summing up the situation, which didn't mean it wasn't true. Now that the shooting had paused, the moans and howls and shrieks of the wounded took center stage. Stafford wished a man could close his ears to shut out dreadful noises, the way he could close his eyes so he didn't have to see dreadful sights.

Colonel Sinapis limped back to the two Consuls. A blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around his left calf; he carried a stick in his right hand in place of his sword. Dipping his head to Stafford and Newton in turn, he said, "If they wish to treat with us, your Excellencies, I must recommend that we do so. However much I regret to say so, we are in no position to resist them."

"That does seem to be the case, doesn't it?" Leland Newton was doing his best to stay calm: an admirable sentiment, as far as it went.

He and Sinapis both eyed Consul Stafford. "If Satan wanted to talk to me right now, I do believe I listen respectfully," Stafford said. "That nigger there isn't the Devil-not quite-but I'll hear him out."

"Thank you, your Excellency." Sinapis' voice seldom showed much. But if he wasn't relieved right this minute, Stafford had never heard anyone who was.

All the soldiers seemed glad the insurrectionists weren't shooting any more. The regulars and militiamen also ceased fire. Stafford saw a couple of them doff their hats to the Negro as he approached. Even without orders, some regulars formed an escort for him and led him back to the Consuls and Colonel Sinapis.

Stafford fought down the impulse to salute the rebels' spokesman. Yes, the Consul was glad to be alive-and even gladder he might stay that way a while longer. In lieu of the salute, he asked, "Who are you?"

"My name is Frederick Radcliff." The Negro didn't sound like a university man, but neither did he sound as ignorant as many of his fellow slaves. Under dark, heavy brows, his eyes flashed. "And who are you, friend?"

I am no friend of yours, Stafford thought, even as he gave his own name. He studied the black man's face, searching for traces of his illustrious grandfather. He didn't need long to find them, either. The nose, the line of the jaw, the shape of this Radcliff's ears… Yes, he did have a white ancestor, and Stafford was willing to believe it was the man from whose line he claimed to spring.

Consul Newton also introduced himself. Then he asked, "Well, Mr. Radcliff, what do you want from us?"