Harry Turtledove - Liberating Atlantis

Stafford opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. Newton had tried any number of things without obtaining that desirable result. He cherished it now that he finally had it.

Lorenzo admired the rifle muskets and the cartridge pouches and all the other impedimenta of war the white Atlanteans had to leave behind for their long march back to New Marseille-and their even longer march into disgrace. "Will you look at this shit?" the copperskin crooned. "Will you just fucking look at it?"

"I am looking at it," Frederick Radcliff answered. "Believe me, I like it as much as you do."

"You've got to go some to do that," Lorenzo said. Frederick believed him; Lorenzo might not have paid such careful, loving attention to a beautiful woman dancing naked before him. "We've even got cannon," he added.

"Can't do anything with 'em," Frederick said. "Now I know why people talk about spiking somebody's guns."

Lorenzo waved that aside. "We'll fix 'em. Won't take too long, neither, I bet. And even if we don't, so what? Damned white folks won't be able to shoot 'em at us."

"Yeah." Frederick had no trouble sounding enthusiastic about that. He'd never found anything he liked less than trying to stay nonchalant while roundshot screamed by. But, like most slaves, he had no trouble seeing the clouds that darkened silver linings. "Trouble is, these are the onliest cannons we've got. The damned buckra can go and pull more out of their assholes any time they please. It's the same deal as percussion caps-they can make 'em, and we can't."

"Won't have to worry about percussion caps for a hell of a long time, not after all the ones we took," Lorenzo said. Frederick wondered whether he'd missed the point. A moment later, Lorenzo proved he hadn't: "I bet some of our blacksmiths could make cannon if they set their minds to it."

"Maybe." If Frederick didn't sound convinced, it was only because he wasn't. "Sure wouldn't want to stand behind one the first time some poor damned fool fired it."

"Use a long fuse the first time," Lorenzo said. "After that, though… Hell, these guns the white folks make blow up every once in a while. Chance you take when you join the artillery."

"Reckon so," Frederick said. "With luck, though, won't be anybody shooting for a while now. Maybe the shooting's over. I hope so. Jesus! Do I ever!"

"Oh, I hope so, too. Doesn't mean I won't stay ready to fight," the copperskin answered. "White folks are likely too muleheaded to quit just on account of we licked 'em once. That's why I was so surprised you let 'em go when we could've hurt 'em a lot worse'n we did."

"If they want to beat us bad enough, they can. They got to decide to spend the money and spend the men, but we're whipped if they do," Frederick said. "What we've got to do is, we've got to make 'em decide not to do that stuff. If we scare 'em too much, we're dead. It will take a while, but we're dead. We've got to make 'em think, These niggers and mudfaces ain't so bad. Fighting them is more trouble than it's worth. We let 'em go free, after a while they'll be just like anybody else."

"Fuck 'em," Lorenzo said. "I don't want to act like Master Barford did, puttin' on airs like the fat fool he was."

"Not what I meant," Frederick said. "We got to make 'em figure we'll be peaceable once we're free. If they reckon we'll keep on stealin' and burnin' and killin', they won't give in no matter what."

Quite a few insurrectionists had found they liked the outlaw life. That would cause trouble when peace came-if it ever did. One more thing to worry about later, Frederick thought. First we've got to get peace.

Negroes and copperskins and captured white soldiers who weren't badly wounded dug long trenches in which to bury the Atlantean regulars who'd died trying to get over the rampart and up the gently sloping sides of the valley. The stench of blood and shit and fear that hung over any new battlefield was beginning to go off, to change to the spoiled-meat stink that announced what the flesh was heir to. The fight was only one day past; in the humid heat of Atlantis' southwest, nothing stayed fresh for long.

"Good to get them underground," Frederick said.

"Sure is," Lorenzo answered. "And you'd best believe our boys and girls'll go through their pockets one more time, make damned sure nobody goes into a hole in the ground while he's still got anything anyone can use."

"That's the way it ought to be," Frederick said. His fighters had already plundered the battlefield. Plenty of them wore boots and socks that had graced white soldiers who didn't need them any more. (Some of the white prisoners walked around barefoot, too. If a man with a rifle musket wanted what you wore on your feet, would you tell him no?) Some of the copperskins and Negroes sported trousers or belts or tunics they hadn't owned a couple of days earlier. Some of the clothes were still bloodstained. Soaking them in cold water would get rid of most of those sinister marks.

Two copperskins led a skinny white man up to Frederick. One of them said, "This fella says he's a preacherman. He wants to say a prayer over the dead white men once they go in the graves."

"Oh, he does?" Frederick eyed the volunteer minister. "You ain't gonna do nothin' stupid, are you?"

"I hope not," the skinny man answered. "What do you mean, stupid?"

"Goin' on about how white folks're better than niggers and mudfaces, for instance," Frederick said. "Or about how they're sure to go to heaven 'cause they were fighting on God's side. You come out with shit like that, you're gonna end up in one of those trenches, not preachin' over it."

"That'd be just what you got coming, too, for bein' a fool," Lorenzo put in.

"I was going to recite the Twenty-third Psalm and the Lord's Prayer," the white man said. "I don't see how that can offend anybody."

Frederick thought about it, then nodded. "All right. Fair enough. Long as you stick to those, you can talk. I don't know that it'll do the white folks any good, but I don't see how it'll hurt, either."

His lack of zeal seemed to offend the would-be preacher, but the man had the sense not to open his mouth about it-a good thing, too. Lorenzo said, "As long as you stick to that kind of stuff, you won't get our fighters mad at you, neither. You do, it's the last dumb mistake you'll ever make."

"I understand," the prisoner said.

"You better," Frederick warned.

Most of the white captives turned out to hear the memorial service for their fallen friends. So did some of Frederick's Negroes and copperskins-more than he'd expected, really. One of the most successful tools whites had used to hold their slaves in line was a religion where God came down to earth as a white man. Frederick had taken years to realize that was what was going on. In spite of realizing it, he still thought of himself as a Christian more often than not. A lot of his fighters evidently felt the same way.

Still in a dirty gray uniform, the preacher stood in front of one of the filled-in trenches that scarred the meadow. Looking out over his audience, he said, "Let us pray."

Whites, blacks, and copperskins bowed their heads. Some of them clasped their hands or pressed palms together. As he'd promised, the preacher recited the Lord's Prayer and the Twenty-third Psalm. Everybody knew those. If you were going to draw comfort from a prayer, you'd find it in one or both of them.

Frederick thought the man would stop there. Had he stopped, he would have done well enough in an ordinary way. Instead, the fellow looked out over his audience and went on, "These soldiers gave their last full measure of devotion fighting for their country. And they will be repaid, for the House of God is a House of Universal Devotion, one where those who believe truly shall be made glad throughout all eternity-not just some eternity, mind you, but all of it!"