ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (39 page)

At that moment, two pretty big-haired serving girls began passing out hearty
slices of pecan pies, and daubing them with dollops of genuine whipped cream.
Gatewood, who, for smokescreen reasons, had made a practice of coming on to any
unattached woman he encountered, made a few crude comments, which the girls
effortlessly laughed off. Then he and the others turned to their pie and
appetite momentarily took precedence over conversation.

Governor Claxton, who apparently had a powerful sweet tooth, was the first to
finish. “I just thank God I won’t be around to see this happen,” he said.
“That’s one of the privileges of age.”

“Timothy, I’m afraid you may be wrong there,” Bourque said. “Callaway’s going
to want an answer from us very quickly and if we can both get our people on
board, this whole thing could happen in a few weeks.”

Barnes piped up again. “He’s right.”

“We must find another way then,” Carrington said. “We cannot let the
Confederacy end this way. We owe it to our ancestors…”

“And to our descendants,” said Baptiste.

Bourque leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Come to
think of it,” he said, “there
is
one other way out of our problems…”

Carrington interrupted. “And you were keeping that from us? Why?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure how eager you were to learn Spanish and start going to
Mass, Andrew. I didn’t know if you were ready give up grass-fed beef and Gulf
shrimp and adopt a diet of favor of tacos, enchiladas and burritos. But if you
are, there is another solution.”

“Very funny,” Carrington said.

“I wasn’t joking with you, Andrew,” Bourque said. “Or do you need to take
another gander at the landing craft photos?” He motioned to Pickett to give
Carrington the photo folder, but Carrington waved it away.

“I don’t know, Buddy, I just don’t know,” said Justin Babineaux. “I could see a
military alliance. That would make sense. But reunion? Giving nigras the
vote—and everything else? I just can’t get my head around that.”

Bourque nodded. “I understand where you’re coming from, governor. You’re
talking about ancient values, values I also hold sacred. . I’m on your side on
this one. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, especially without much warning.”

He let his words sink in and, to a man, the governors nodded in agreement.

“But there is another way to look at it,” Bourque went on. “We’ve all known,
and for a long time, that we’d eventually have to give our colored brothers
full citizenship. Just between you and me and the doorpost, we all know that
we’ve been enjoying a position of power that we really didn’t do anything to
earn, and if we’re big enough to admit it, we do not deserve. We don’t like to
think about it—
I
don’t like to think about it—but it’s just an accident
of history. We coulda been the slaves, not them.”

He surveyed the faces in front of him. They were still nodding, although
reluctantly.

“And there’s another thing y’all know, but are loathe to admit: our racial
policies have cost us dearly with the rest of the world. We gave up slavery to
please them. But that was not enough. We built nigra schools and hospitals.
Still not enough. We’ve been doin’ it in dribs and drabs, but the world has
never given us any credit for it.” Bourque paused again, checking reactions.

“That’s the absolute truth,” said Governor Claxton. “We’ve made enormous
changes since I was a tyke. Why, I remember…no, never mind. But nobody ever
gave us any credit for it, not even the nigras. They act like we owe them
something.”

“Exactly,” said Bourque. “And despite that, despite the lack of gratitude, we
always knew we were moving toward full citizenship for the coloreds. We all
knew the day had to come, or else the world would move on without us. Well, the
day is here.”

“I think he’s right,” Barnes said. He looked at Bourque like a dog hoping for a
pat on the head.

Bourque considered Barnes’ comment for a moment. “Yes. Right. That’s the way we
all feel about our traditions. We’re comfortable with our society the way it
is, you and me both. But that doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t even make it
good.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Georgia’s Governor, Albert Sidbury, or Judge
Sidbury as he preferred to be called. He was a handsome older man who radiated
dignity, having once presided over the Confederacy’s Supreme Court. “We have a
proud tradition and a wonderful way of life. Even the nigras are happy with it,
I think.”

“You make good points, Judge. The nigras may be happy—or fairly docile,
anyhow—but maybe because they’ve never known anything different. But we do.
We’ve seen what happens when coloreds have equality. The NAU has provided us
with an excellent example, an embarrassing example, I might add.

“We’ve always held that blacks had risen as far as they could, and that they’d
demonstrated they just weren’t the equal of whites. But if you live in the
north, it sure doesn’t look that way. If you live in the north and you look
around you, you see all kinds of nigras demonstrating as much ability and as
much intelligence as whites. We might not like it—hell,
I
don’t like it.
But you can’t deny the truth.”

He looked at Kooter Barnes, but this time, his Vice President couldn’t make
himself say anything supportive, and the others were frowning or looking away.

“Why do you think Charles Callaway was elected President of the NAU?” Bourque
asked. “I’ll tell you why: because he’s the best man for the job. I’ve seen him
with my own eyes. I’ve seen the wisdom and the courage. And I’ll tell you, the
people of the Confederate States of America are damned lucky—lucky!—that this
man is the leader of the NAU.”

“I agree,” Barnes managed to say.

“I don’t know of any previous President who had the guts to do what he’s doing.
It is an extraordinarily generous and unselfish act. Now I’m not sayin’ there’s
no self-interest in it. In the long term, Mexico is as much the enemy of the
NAU as it is of ours. But it takes vision to see that—and Charles Callaway has
that vision.”

Daryl Burgess raised a hand.

“Yes, Col. Burgess,” Bourque said. “You have a question?

“I say, Mr. President, are we
absolutely sure
Garcia has us in his
sights? Are we certain he’s planning to attack us?”

“Hear, hear,” said Governor Gatewood. “We’d all like to know the answer to that
question.”

Bourque looked at the two governors as if they’d lost their minds. “Have you
forgotten New Orleans, gentlemen? Has the loss of Texas slipped your minds? Do
you recall that I almost lost my life in the Mexican war? In my best judgment,
Garcia is planning to invade us—and soon. If we dilly-dally, a thousand Mexican
troop carriers will land on our shores and Mexican armies will sweep over the
Confederacy, erasing every trace of us. And I doubt Garcia will be paying
pensions to any retired governors.”

Governor Carrington wasn’t quite ready to let go. “But won’t reunion have the
same effect, except that we’d be giving up without a fight.”

“You’re looking at it the wrong way, Andrew,” Bourque said. “We’ll be rejoining
the country from which we sprang. We will be making common cause with a nation
with whom we share a common history—the history of Washington, Franklin and
Jefferson. The NAU and the CSA speak the same language, and I’m not just
talking about words. We have many similar laws and values. We have a thousand
economic connections. Many of us have family up there. We share a lot of
geography, and most important, perhaps, we have a common enemy.”

“He’s right, Andrew,” said Kooter Barnes.

Bourque surveyed the room again, looking for open opposition. Finding none, he
continued. “I think the time has come to stop jabbering about this and make a
decision—unless someone has something else to say.

“You’re with him on this, Kooter?” Carrington asked.

“One hundred percent,” Barnes said promptly. He and Bourque exchanged
meaningful glances. The Kooter had promised and he had delivered.

“What about Hurbuckle?” Governor Claxton asked. “Will he back you? Will he
speak out in favor of reunion? It would sure solve a lot of problems if he
does.”

“He’ll be on board,” Bourque said. “He understands the situation.”

Claxton sighed “He can’t just give it lip service, Buddy. If this is going to
work, he has to be an enthusiastic advocate.”

“You can count on that,” Bourque said.

“That’s a relief,” said Claxton.

They went on like this for the better part of two hours, while Buddy Bourque,
the acknowledged baron of brainwashing, prince of persuasion and king of
convincing coaxed, wheedled and bludgeoned his governors into submission.
Finally, he was ready for the next step.

“Okay, now here’s the drill,” Bourque said. “The NAU is requiring that all ten
state legislatures vote in favor of petitioning for readmittal. A single
negative state vote and we abandon the agreement and let fate decide what
happens to us. This is how the cow eats the cabbage, gennelmen. Unless I hear
objections, I’m asking for the vote. I’m going to call on y’all one by one and
I want to hear a yea or a nay, nothing else.”

Carrington looked at Bourque, folded his arms across his chest and shook his
head. “I gotta hand it to you, Buddy,” he said, sounding bitter. “You have more
nerve than a herd of tigers. You’re asking us to roll over and approve of the
most radical imaginable change in our country like it was nothing more than a
new tax measure or a waterway project. But we’re not your rubber stamps. Not
this time.”

Bourque thought a moment, then spoke. “Andrew, I’m asking you to approve
reunion on its merits, not just because I like the idea. I’m asking you to say
yes because I don’t think we can save our society any other way, and because I
wouldn’t be able to live with my conscience if I didn’t try.”

“Be that as it may,” Carrington said, “we’re not going to let you dictate our
votes. And least
I’m
not. I intend to act according to
my
conscience, not yours. I believe in the Confederacy.”

“Come on now, Andrew,” Bourque purred. “Your conscience is telling you the same
thing mine is. You just don’t want to listen and I don’t blame you. It hurts.
You believe in the Confederacy. Well, so do I. And you know that, Andrew. You
know what it’s cost me to reach this conclusion and to ask for your approval.”
He looked around the room. “And y’all know I wouldn’t ask you to approve
reunion with the North if there was another way.”

“I resent being bullied,” Carrington said.

“If you feel I have bullied you, Andrew, then please accept my apologies,”
Bourque said. “I promise you I only meant to tell you the facts and let the
facts persuade you. They have certainly persuaded me.

This time, Carrington had no comeback. Bourque looked around the room. None of
the other governors had anything to say either.

“Okay,” Bourque said, “Governor Claxton, what say you?”

The old man seemed confused. “You want me to vote? What will that do?”

“It’ll be your solemn promise that you’ll get your legislature to petition the
NAU for statehood. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Well, yes, probably, but..”

“Yea or nay, Timothy. Time to choose.”

“If I say nay, that means…”

Bourque sighed. “That would mean there’ll be no reunion, at least as long as
you’re in office.”

Claxton looked at the others, hoping someone would provide the next line, but
no one was willing to look his way.

“Timothy?” Bourque was losing patience.

“Well then, okay, yea. I say yea.”

“Thank you,” Bourque said as if this was just what he had expected. “One vote
yea. Governor Baptiste?”

“Pass.”

Bourque shook his head. “You can’t pass, Lawrence. Make up your mind. Yea or
nay?”

Baptiste, a swarthy little man with darting black eyes, gave Bourque a long
appraising look. “Yea,” he said, practically spitting out the word.

Bourque ignored the tone of voice. “Two votes yea,” he said. Governor
Gatewood?”

“Well, the way you’ve laid it out for us, there’s only one possible way to
vote. Yea.”

“Three votes yea,” Bourque said. “Governor Hightower?”

Hightower was startled, evidently expecting to be called on later. “If you’re
sure about Mexico…”

“I think I’ve made my opinion clear, Ben,” Bourque said. “I’m not selling you
down the river.”

“Then, put me down for yea,” Hightower said.

And so it went, each governor justifying himself, but in the end, voting yea.

Bourque he continued, stopping in front of Cornelius Flagler, a shy, slender
young man who had been elected to serve out his father’s term when Flagler, Sr.
died of a stroke. Up to now, he hadn’t said a word.

“How about you, Corny?” Bourque asked. “You’ve been mighty quiet. You with me
or against me?”

“I-I know my father would support you,” young Flagler said, “and I would never
go against his wishes.”

“That’s nine yeas,” Bourque said. “And now we come to the final voter. What say
you, Andrew Carrington?”

Carrington leaned back in his chair and idly stabbed at the few remaining
morsels of pecan pie on his plate. Then he smiled. “So it’s all up to me, eh?”

“Seems so,” Bourque allowed. “Great responsibility, too. Lot of lives in your
hands. A lot of futures. Of course the world is gonna change, no matter which
way you vote. Question is, will it change for us—or against us? I guess that’s
up to you.”

Carrington shook his head, stymied. “I guess you’ve got me, haven’t you? You’ve
put it all on my head. Very neat. And if I refuse, if I vote nay, then you’ll
blame the Mexican invasion on me, won’t you.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me actually,” Bourque said. “But it’s not a bad idea.”

“What about reunion?” Carrington asked. “When the citizens of Virginia object
to that, are you going to blame me for reunion as well?”