Harry Turtledove - Liberating Atlantis

He was full of hard questions this morning. Newton wished he himself were as full of answers. He said, "All we can do is find out." He handed the other Consul the paper he'd been working on. "Does this say everything we need to say? Is it clear? Have I forgotten anything?"

Stafford perused it. He suggested two or three small changes. The points he raised were cogent; Newton made the changes without a murmur. His colleague sighed. "Now I suppose it is as good as it can be. Whether it should be…" Stafford sighed again. "I think not, but events have overtaken me."

"General Cornwallis must have said the same thing when Victor Radcliff trapped him in Croydon," Newton remarked.

"He ended up doing well for himself-and for England-in India," Stafford said. "Atlantis can't send me so far away. When the country learns what we're about to do here today, it may wish it could."

"The Treaty of Slug Hollow, or perhaps the Slug Hollow Agreement. Schoolchildren from now till the end of time will have to learn about it, and about the people who signed it," Newton said.

"But what will they learn?" Stafford asked. "Will teachers say we were heroes, or will they call us a pack of fools and thrash all the little brats who can't remember how we made a hash of things?"

More hard questions. Newton could only shrug. "We'll have to do it and then find out, that's all," he said. "Are you ready?"

"No, but we're going to do it anyhow," the other Consul answered. "Then we have to persuade the Senate not to crucify us because we did it. And good luck on that score, your Excellency."

"We'll both need all the luck we can find," Newton said. "So will the United States of Atlantis." He carefully folded the Slug Hollow Agreement and put it in a jacket pocket. It meant nothing till it was signed. But that moment was only a few steps away now.

Frederick Radcliff studied the paper in front of him with more care than he'd ever given any other piece of writing. No other piece of writing he'd ever seen would affect his life so much, or affect the lives of so many other people.

"Is it all right?" Lorenzo asked anxiously. The copperskin couldn't read, and had to trust his judgment. With much effort, and with his tongue wagging from a corner of his mouth like a hard-working schoolboy's, Lorenzo could write his name. Even that little put him ahead of most slaves.

"I… think so," Frederick answered. He glanced across the table at Consul Newton, who'd given him the document. Newton was a white man, a barrister, and a politico, and so triply not to be trusted. He smiled back blandly now. Frederick discounted that. His gaze swung to the other Consul, the southern Consul. The less happy Jeremiah Stafford looked, the more relieved Frederick felt. Stafford was bound to have seen the agreement beforehand. If he didn't like it, it was less likely to hold hidden traps that would limit the future liberty of blacks and copperskins.

"As you will see, we have already signed the document," Newton said. "It needs only your signature, and that of your marshal, for us to submit it to the Senate and end this insurrection that has discommoded everyone."

"Not everyone, your Excellency. Oh, no. Not everyone," Frederick said. "You see freedom in front of you, you don't reckon you're-what did you call it? Discommoded, that's right." He filed the word away so he could use it again if he ever found the need.

Consul Stafford sniffed. "You see a chicken coop in front of you, you don't care who owns it."

"I expect that's so, your Excellency," Frederick said. "You're hungry enough, I expect it's so no matter what color you are. You want to get free bad enough, I expect you rise up no matter what color you are, too. Back in the old, old days, weren't white men slaves? And didn't they rise up whenever they saw the chance?"

"Spartacus," Newton said.

"That's the fella!" Frederick nodded. He knew little more about the ancient slave insurrectionist than his name. He hadn't even been able to come up with it a moment before. All the same, lots of Negroes and copperskins knew there'd been plenty of slave revolts before their day. Whites didn't want them learning such things, which was all the greater incentive for doing so.

Plainly, Consul Stafford also knew about Spartacus. Just as plainly, he didn't like what he knew and didn't want colored men knowing it. But that was his hard luck, nobody else's.

Frederick went through the agreement one more time. He might miss something because Consul Newton was too clever for him. You took that chance in any dicker. He was damned if he would miss anything because he hadn't been diligent enough, though.

"Is it all right?" Lorenzo asked again. He respected and feared the written word all the more because he had no control over it.

Reluctantly, Frederick nodded. He had his own fears: that damaging clauses still hid under the surface, the way crocodiles waited underwater for whatever might be rash enough to step into their river. But on the surface everything seemed as it should. "It is all right," he replied, more firmly than he had the last time.

"May I offer you a pen?" Consul Newton took one from his pocket and held it out across the table.

"Got my own, thanks," Frederick said, not without pride. He pulled it out. It was at least as fine as the white man's, likely finer.

"Where did you steal it?" Stafford asked.

"I don't have to tell you that, and I don't aim to," Frederick said. "Take a look at Article Four here." His finger stabbed down onto it. "There's an amnesty for things that happened during the war. If it covers killin' folks, I reckon it covers gettin' my hands on an ink pen."

He waited to see if Stafford would call him a liar. By all the signs, the Consul from Cosquer wanted to. Since Article Four said exactly what Frederick maintained, Stafford couldn't. He fumed instead. Leland Newton kept his face studiously blank. Colonel Sinapis looked amused, but only for a couple of heartbeats. Then his features also went impassive again.

Newton slid a bottle of ink across the table. That Frederick did accept, opening it with a nod of thanks. He dipped his pen, then signed his name on the line waiting for it. His signature wasn't so fancy and florid as any of the white men's-Sinapis', in particular, was a production-but so what? You could tell it was his name, and nothing else mattered.

He pushed the paper over to Lorenzo and handed him the pen. "You sign it here." He pointed to the only remaining blank line.

"By God, I'll do it," Lorenzo said, and he did.

"We have an agreement. The Great Servile Insurrection has ended at last," Newton said.

"The Free Republic of Atlantis is no more." Consul Stafford took what comfort he could from that.

"We have an agreement," Frederick said. "But the Senate back in New Hastings still has to say everything's all right, doesn't it? Till then, it's just what we've done. It's not official, like."

"That's true. Consul Stafford and I will do all we can to make sure the Senate does approve what we've done here," Consul Newton said. "We don't want the fighting to flare up again. And our own prestige is on the line here, you know. If the Senate rejects this agreement, it's the same as rejecting our leadership."

Stafford made a wordless noise, down deep in his throat. Maybe his heart wouldn't break if the Senate did reject the agreement. It might be the same as rejecting his leadership, but it might also keep slavery alive-for a little longer, anyhow. That was part of the reason Frederick said, "Reckon I'll come back to New Hastings with you, me and my wife. Nobody's got more reason to try and make the Senate see things the right way than the two of us."

"Are you sure that would be wise?" Newton said slowly. "Your presence there might do more harm than good." Consul Stafford's face said-shouted-that he thought the same thing.