When he got back to the apartment, he found his wife about ready to jump out of her skin with excitement. Half a dozen words explained why: "Amanda's fella done popped the question!"
"Do Jesus!" Cincinnatus sank into a chair. When he left Des Moines not quite two years earlier, his daughter hadn't had a boyfriend. She did now. Calvin Washington was a junior butcher, a young man serious to the point of solemnity. He didn't have much flash-hell, he didn't have any flash-but Cincinnatus thought he was solid all the way through. "She said yes?"
Elizabeth nodded. "She sure did, fast as she could. She thinks she done invented Calvin, you know what I mean?"
"Expect I do." Thoughtfully, Cincinnatus added, "He's about the same color she is."
"Uh-huh." His wife nodded again. "It don't matter as much here as it did down in Kentucky, but it matters."
"It does," Cincinnatus agreed. That an American Negro's color did matter was one more measure of growing up in a white-dominated world, which made it no less real. Had Calvin been inky black, Cincinnatus would have felt his daughter was marrying beneath herself. He didn't know whether Amanda, a modern girl, would have felt that way, but he would have. Were Calvin high yellow, on the other hand, he might have felt he was marrying beneath himself. Since they were both about the same shade of brown, the question didn't arise. "When do they want to get hitched?" Cincinnatus asked.
"Pretty soon." Elizabeth's eyes sparkled. "They're young folks, sweetheart. They can't hardly wait."
"Huh," Cincinnatus said. It wasn't as if his wife were wrong. Whether he was ready or not, the world kept right on going all around him.
The first thing Irving Morrell said when he got into Philadelphia was, "This is a damned nuisance."
John Abell met him at the Broad Street station, as he had so many times before. "If you want to get it quashed, sir, I'm sure we can arrange that."
"No, no." Regretfully, Morrell shook his head. "The man's a cold-blooded son of a bitch, but even a cold-blooded son of a bitch is entitled to the truth."
"Indeed," the General Staff officer murmured. Abell was a cold-blooded son of a bitch, too, but one of a rather different flavor. He had two virtues, as far as Morrell could see: they were on the same side, and Abell didn't go around telling the world how goddamn right he was all the time. Right now, he asked, "Shall I take you over to BOQ and let you freshen up before you go on?"
Morrell looked down at himself. He was rumpled, but only a little. He ran a hand over his chin. Not perfectly smooth, but he didn't think he looked like a Skid Row bum, either. He shook his head. "No, let's get it over with. The sooner it's done, the sooner I can head west and see my wife and daughter."
"However you please," Abell said, which meant he would have showered and shaved and changed his uniform first. But he left the editorializing right there. "My driver is at your disposal."
"Thanks." Morrell followed him off the platform.
They didn't have far to go. Morrell didn't have to look at the slagged wreckage on the other side of the Schuylkill, which didn't mean he didn't know it was there. Its being there, in fact, was a big part of why he was here.
There was no fresh damage in Philadelphia now that the war was over. Some of the wrecked buildings had been bulldozed, and the rubble hauled away. Repairmen swarmed everywhere. Glass was beginning to reappear in windows. "Looks…neater than it did before," Morrell remarked. "We're starting to come back."
"Some," Abell said. "It won't be the way it was for a long time. As a matter of fact, it will never be the way it was."
"Well, no. You can't step into the same river twice." Some Greek had said that a couple of thousand years before Morrell. He didn't remember who; John Abell probably did. Morrell, no great lover of cities, didn't much care how Philadelphia rose again. As long as it had peace in which to rise, that suited him.
The War Department had set up a Tribunal for Accused Confederate War Criminals in a rented office building not far from the government buildings that dominated the center of town. Despite the stars on Morrell's shoulder straps and those on John Abell's, getting in wasn't easy. Security was tight, and no doubt needed to be.
A neatly lettered sign outside a meeting room turned courtroom said UNITED STATES OF AMERICA VS. CLARENCE POTTER, BRIGADIER GENERAL, CSA. "I would never tell you to perjure yourself," Abell said as they paused outside the door, "but I wouldn't hate you if you did, either."
"I'm Irving Morrell, and I'm here to tell you the truth," Morrell said. Abell winced. Morrell went on in.
Inside the makeshift courtroom, everyone except a few reporters and the defendant wore green-gray. The reporters were in civvies; Clarence Potter had on a butternut uniform that, even without insignia, singled him out at a glance. Morrell knew of him, but had never seen him before. He was a little older and more studious-looking than the U.S. officer expected, which didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He'd already proved he was.
His defense attorney, a U.S. major, got to his feet. "Since General Morrell has chosen not to contest our subpoena, I request permission to get his remarks on the record while he is here."
He faced a panel of five judges-a brigadier general sitting in the center, three bird colonels, and a lieutenant colonel. The general looked over to the light colonel who seemed to be the prosecutor. "Any objections?"
"No, sir," that officer replied. I'm stuck with it, his expression said.
"Very well," the chief judge said. "Come forward and be sworn, General Morrell, and then take your seat."
When Morrell had taken the oath and sat down, Potter's defense counsel said, "You are aware that General Potter is on trial for conveying the Confederate superbomb to Philadelphia while wearing the U.S. uniform for purposes of disguise?"
"Yes, I know that," Morrell said.
"This is considered contrary to the laws of war as set down in the 1907 Hague Convention?"
"That's right."
"Had the Confederates ever used soldiers in U.S. uniform before?"
"Yes, they had. Their men in our uniforms helped get a breakthrough in eastern Ohio in 1942. They even picked men who had U.S. accents. It hurt us."
"I see." The defense attorney looked at some papers. "Were the Confederates alone in using this tactic?"
"No," Morrell said.
"Tell the court about some instances when U.S. soldiers under your command used it."
"Well, the most important was probably the 133rd Special Reconnaissance Company," Morrell replied. "We took a page from the CSA's book. We recruited men who could sound like Confederates. We armed them with Confederate weapons, and put them into Confederate uniform."
"Where did you get the uniforms?" asked the major defending Potter.
"Some from prisoners, others off casualties," Morrell said.
"I see. And the 133rd Special Reconnaissance Company was effective?"
"Yes. It spearheaded our crossing of the Tennessee in front of Chattanooga."
"Surprise and deception made it more effective than it would have been otherwise?"
"I would certainly think so."
"Thank you, General. No further questions."
The chief judge nodded to the prosecutor. "Your witness, Colonel Altrock."
"Thank you, sir." Altrock got to his feet. "You say you were imitating Confederate examples when you dressed our men in enemy uniform, General?"
"I believe that's true, yes," Morrell said.
"Would you have done it if the enemy hadn't?" Altrock asked.
"Objection-that's a hypothetical," the defense attorney said.
After the judges put their heads together, their chief said, "Overruled. The witness may answer the question."