"You defendin' a Railroader, Quid?"
"I'm defending a lady, Earl."
Sawyer guffawed. "This? This ain't no lady. This here's nothing but a nigger-lovin' white turncoat. Understand? That's the kind of people you been keepin' company with. Nigger-lovin' radical Republican abolitionist Railroad trash."
"She's not trash." He looked at Sharon Sue. "She believes in what she's doing. And I'd appreciate some explanation, Colonel, as to why you threatened me when I went to call my commanding officer."
Sawyer chuckled, but seemed, for a moment, uncertain. He tossed off the remainder of his glass and rubbed his mouth with his sleeve, keeping the other hand at his belt. "Sure, I'll explain. But, say — give me that fuze, would you?"
"I think I'll keep it."
"Aubrey, you sure are tryin' my patience." He looked down at Sharon. "I got good grounds for arrestin' both of you, you know. Findin' the two of you here… you could have been workin' together. Passin' information. I know she got a lot of it through you, Major. I ought to arrest the both of you."
"Go ahead, arrest me. Don't talk about it, do it. The investigation will clear me. No Quidley would ever consider betraying a trust like that. You know my family, we've been gentlefolk back to before the War."
"Gentlefolk?" repeated Sawyer, with a sarcastic edge to his voice, which was going slightly slurred. "Gentlefolk? Even fine high Southern gentlemen have been known to sell out, Major. For money — for a woman — " He sneered at Hunt. "Though there's not much meat on this traitor."
"You're an ignorant pig," she said.
"No, don't hit her," said Quidley, stepping forward as Sawyer swung his arm back. How could a Southern officer act this way, even to a traitor? She was still a lady —
His mouth dropped open, and he stared at Sawyer.
"What's the hell's the matter with you?"
It was logical — it made sense of it all. Before he had fully considered it he blurted it out. "I know who he is."
"Who?" said Sharon Sue.
"All right, Quid," said Sawyer. He backed up a step and placed his hand on his hip. "I think you better sit down, too. Both of you, there, on the sofa."
He hesitated, then sat beside Sharon Sue. He felt her hand grip his. "Aubrey," she murmured, "there's only one reason he wouldn't let you call in. He wants the thing to go to Richmond. Why, I don't know, but—"
"Oh, but you can figger it out, between you," said Sawyer. "The two of you bein' such powerful, original thinkers. From two such cultured, aristocratic families. I bet you can think circles around a poor redneck cracker like me."
He stiffened, then felt her hand on his, holding him back. "Don't," she whispered. "He'll kill you." He forced himself to relax, to sink back into the divan. True — he saw that the big army automatic was only inches from Sawyer's hand. And that the colonel's face was taking on, from the drinks and from some mysterious, deep-rooted rage, a strange, mottled, red-purplish color.
"Yeah, you can reason it out," he spat at them. "You two — gentlefolk. Let's hear it, Major. What am I?"
"You're a Unionist," said Quidley. He clenched his fists and felt the warning pressure of her hand again. "Why, I don't know. How you could betray your country, your oath. But you did. You're a Yankee spy. You're the enemy."
Sawyer nodded heavily. "I'm the enemy, am I?"
"Aubrey," she said softly, "he can't be—"
"Be quiet." He squeezed her hand back and stared up at Sawyer. "At least she's a Southerner. She thinks we've got to change, but she's still loyal, in her way. But you — you're out to destroy us."
"Done, Major? Good, that's good." He laughed, short and bitter and humorless. "Because you're about as wrong as you ever could be. I guess you're just not smart enough. Well-bred — but just not very smart." He weaved a little as he stood and looked down at Sharon. "Why don't you tell him, pretty lady. Maybe you got it figured out better."
"Aubrey, I think you've left something out."
"What? It's pretty obvious to me."
"Aubrey, if he was a Yankee, would he have let you steal the shell?"
"Well… maybe."
"Let you take over a Union ship and kill all the crew?"
"I wouldn't put that past Yankees," he said stubbornly. "They don't think of life the same way we do."
"Would you have given the Confederacy the most powerful weapon you have?"
He had to think about that. "Maybe it isn't what we think it is," he said. "Maybe it's only a trick."
"But why would they sacrifice a ship and crew to let a dummy fall into our hands?"
"Well…." He hesitated again, tried a random stab. "Maybe to let the Railroad have it in Richmond, to use it the way they intend to…."
His voice trailed off; he could see the end of that train of thought. If the Union wanted the Railroad to have anything, there were easier ways to get it to them than by using the Confederate Armed Forces as a delivery service. But even on a political level it didn't make sense. Having the shell in the capital, with coloreds holding it over the heads of the government, would only make things worse between the North and the Confederacy. All the South's ancient pride and stubbornness, which had carried it through years of civil war to final victory, through war in the West and against Spain and then in Europe, would be roused to fever pitch. There were plenty of "patriotic" and racist organizations eager to jump on a bandwagon like that. No, it made no sense for the North to provoke the Confederacy, the Empire, not while their new weapons were still being prepared. If they planned war they would aim at surprise and overwhelming force. If they wanted peace they'd never put such a weapon in Railroad hands.
Therefore… who was Sawyer? "You're not working for the Union?" he said slowly.
"Outstandin', Major!" Sarcasm was heavy in the slurred voice. "I knew you'd come up with it sooner or later. Because you have got blood — and that's what counts. Ain't that right, Miss Hunt?"
She didn't answer, and he looked at Quidley.
"Blood tells, yes," he said, puzzled as to what the man meant.
"But your fine families aren't doin' shit for the South, are they?"
Sawyer staggered across the room to the decanter, drained the last drops into his glass, and raised it. The facets of the cut glass sparkled. "To both your fine fuckin' families," he said, drank it off, and threw the glass into the mirror above the sofa, shattering it.
"You two so damned clever," he resumed, pacing now. "So clever, so re-fined. So high and mighty with your swords and your po-traits and your fine whiskey and your blood.
"Well, they's folks with a sight more brains, and a sight more loyal to the real South, than your first families. Families," he sneered at Sharon, "that produce traitors — empty-headed fools — and both a' you nigger-lovers clear through."
"Earl—"
"Shut up. You had your say. Now I'm havin' mine. Same as the people, the real people, the real patriots, is goin' to have theirs."
His face had darkened, and his steps were unsteady as he strode back and forth. Side by side, they watched as he paced the room, waving the gun now.
"We put up with you for too long. With people like you — planters, senators, governors, generals, diplomats, businessmen — put up with your swill and your re-fined ways and your cowardice too long. You aren't the real South. You just thought you were.
"We're the South. The good white folks of Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, South Ca'lina. Maybe we don't talk so refined. Maybe we don't go to VMI and the Citadel, and maybe we don't have the money to dress in tailored clothes and keep yellow mistresses." Sawyer panted. "But we're Dixie, and we're sick of givin' the niggers everything on a silver platter and lettin' good folks go without. We're sick of Dixie socialism and free food for 'em, and free houses — you know what kind of houses my people live in back home? That's why we burned that there project. These here city niggers got it good. But they won't no more!"