The Grapple

Into the camp they went, those who could move. Other Negroes-trusties-carried and dragged those who couldn’t move straight to the trucks. The story was that they were going to a clinic some distance from the camp. In fact, the trucks would go far enough to make sure they were dead, then bring them back to the crematorium. More trusties, these always under the watchful eyes of guards, would load the corpses into the fire, and that would be that.

Before long, the trusties would get it in the neck-in the nape of the neck, to be precise-and go up in smoke themselves. They didn’t know that yet; they thought they were saving their worthless black hides by going along with the guards. But Jeff and the others in gray uniforms had plenty of Negroes to choose from. Blacks were flooding into Camp Humble faster than even this magnificent facility could get rid of them.

Guards and trusties went through the train together, pulling out corpses and the live Negroes who were either too far gone to come out on their own or were playing dead. The bodies went straight to the crematorium. The shammers went straight to the trucks.

One of them saw the wreathed stars on Jeff’s collar and stretched out his hands in appeal. “I didn’t do nothin’, suh!” he said, plainly sensing that nothing good was likely to happen to him. Trusties holding him tight and guards aiming automatic weapons at him gave pretty fair hints.

“You broke a rule,” Jeff said stonily. “They said come out, and you damn well didn’t. There’s a punishment barracks next to the clinic.” By now, he brought out the soothing lies with the greatest of ease. “You spend some time in there, you’ll learn to behave yourself when you get back here.”

The Negro went on squawking, but these weren’t the bad kind of squawks. As long as he thought he would be coming back, he was willing to go where the trusties were taking him-not eager, maybe, but willing. He would have kicked up all kinds of trouble had he thought he was heading for his last truck ride.

Before long, the crematorium went to work. The trusties took jewelry and dental gold from the corpses and gave them to the guards. Keeping any of that stuff sent a trusty into the flames alive. So far, the guards hadn’t caught any of them sticking rings up their ass or anything. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Some people would try to steal no matter what.

Smoke belched from the stacks. Jeff swore softly. The smoke smelled like greasy burnt meat. The outfit that ran up the crematorium had sworn on a stack of Bibles that the smoke would be clean, that you’d never know in a million years they were burning bodies. “Lying bastards,” Pinkard muttered. Yeah, some people tried to steal, all right, no matter what. They weren’t all black, either.

He wrinkled his nose against the stink. Sometimes half-charred bits of flesh came flying out of the stacks, sucked up along with the hot gases. There was a lot more soot than the manufacturers promised, too.

Pulling out a notebook, Jeff scribbled in it. Before long, he’d send Richmond a nasty letter. With luck, he could put the company’s ass in a sling. He did some more muttering. He hoped the people back in Richmond weren’t too busy with the war to come down on some not so petty grifters who’d grabbed a fat contract by promising more than they could deliver.

He wondered if he ought to see where he could put mass graves in case the crematorium just didn’t work out. That would be harder around here than it was around Snyder; this country was more thickly settled. And the ground here was a lot swampier than it was farther west. The stink from graves might be even worse than what the crematorium turned out. All those bodies might pollute the ground water and start epidemics, too. He supposed he’d have to talk to a doc about that.

So goddamn many things to worry about.

But Camp Humble was up and ru

One of the guards came up to him. “Sir?”

“What’s up, Cromartie?” Jeff tried to know everybody’s name.

Cromartie looked shamefaced. “Sir, I’ve got the clap,” he blurted. “Troop Leader Mauch said I had to tell you, or he’d tear off my dick and stuff it up my… Well, he said I had to let you know.”

“You fucking idiot,” Jeff said, which was exactly Cromartie’s trouble. “Did you catch it here?”

“Reckon so, sir. I sure didn’t have it before.”

“All right. Get your sorry ass over to the doc. He’ll have some pills for you. I’m go

Miserably, Cromartie nodded. Even more miserably, he shuffled away. Jeff laughed, but only quietly-no fool worse than a horny fool. The laughter didn’t last. No matter how well Camp Humble ran, he wished he were still several hundred miles farther west. That would have meant the Confederacy was wi

XX

Abner Dowling walked the mayor of Snyder, Texas, through what was left of Camp Determination. The mayor was a plump, middle-aged fellow named Jethro Gwy

“That’s a fact, sir,” Gwy

Neither did Major Angelo Toricelli. “Well, what did you think was going on when all those trains stopped here? People got off those trains. Thousands and thousands and thousands of them got off. Nobody ever got on. Didn’t that kind of make you wonder?”

“No, sir,” Gwy

“What are we going to do with this lying son of a bitch, sir?” Dowling’s adjutant demanded.

“Here, now. You got no cause to talk about me like that,” Jethro Gwy

Major Toricelli’s hand dropped to his pistol. “For three cents cash I’d blow your lying brains out. It’s more than you’re worth, too.”

“Nobody who lives in town paid much attention to this place,” the mayor of Snyder insisted. “It was just here, that’s all.”

That was too much for General Dowling. “All right, Mr. Gwy

“Where are we going?” Gwy

“Don’t worry-it’s not far,” Dowling answered. “And even if it were, you’d be smart to come along. I bet if I looked in my pocket I could find three cents for Major Toricelli.” His hands folded into fists. He wanted to beat the snot out of this Texan, the kind of urge he hadn’t had since his West Point days. “Get moving. You think you’re unhappy now that the United States are here, you give me any trouble and you’ll find out you don’t know jack shit about unhappy-not yet you don’t, anyway. But you will.”

He must have been persuasive. Without another word, Jethro Gwy

“Take us to that field, Clancy,” Dowling told the driver. “You know the one I’m talking about?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I sure do,” Clancy said. The motor was still ru