A few more Reds blundered out of the undergrowth and died before the rest realized the sort of trap they were in. That was too late. By then, from the sounds of the gunfire, Tom’s men had drawn a good semicircle around them. The only way out lay to the south-and that was no way out, either.

Anne felt like Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar or Robert E. Lee. The whole design was hers, and it was working. Paint a picture? Write a book? She shook her head. Using men, not paint or words, to create…that beat everything.

But the men of the Congaree Socialist Republic had tried to create using men’s lives as their canvas, too. Now, realizing what sort of obstruction barred them from breaking free of their pursuers, they tried once more.

In their own way, they were also veterans, and veteran bushwhackers to boot. That made them too wily to charge headlong at their foes’ position. But they had to get through it, or they would never go anywhere again. At a shouted word of command-was that Cassius’ voice?-they attacked the trench line.

“Damnyankees couldn’t have done it better,” a veteran said admiringly, once the shooting was over. The Negroes advanced by rushes, one group firing from cover to let another leapfrog past them, then moving forward in turn.

A man next to Anne staggered back with a gurgling croak, clutching at his throat. She spared him not a glance-she was drawing a bead on a Red. The Tredegar slammed against her shoulder. The back of the black man’s head blew out. She worked the bolt and fired again.

For a few minutes, the fighting was very hot. The Red rebels battled for escape with desperate courage. Anne’s men had skill, anger, and position on their side. The Negroes got into the trenches even so. That was a worse business than she’d ever imagined, screams and shouts and bullets whipping-several right past her head-and the iron smell of blood and the outhouse stink of guts spilled in the mud.

The Negroes got into the trenches. They did not get past them, not anywhere. The veterans and militiamen outnumbered and outgunned them. A handful of Reds tried to flee back toward the swamp. Anne didn’t think any of them made it.

Cautiously, her men began showing themselves. They drew no fire. She went up and down the trenches, inspecting Negro corpses. She did not find Cassius’ body. Cursing, she blew out the brains of a black who wasn’t quite dead. Had the revolutionary leader slipped through her net again?

Halfway through the afternoon, the veterans who’d slogged down from Gadsden began coming out of the swamp. They had no prisoners with them. When Tom emerged, so filthy she hardly knew who he was, she cried, “Cassius got away again!”

“Oh, no, he didn’t.” Her brother grinned at her. “I shot him myself.”

All she felt was envy bitter and poisonous as prussic acid. “God damn you!” she shouted. “I should have done it.”

“Jacob was my brother, too, Anne,” Tom said quietly, and that brought her back to herself. “Anyhow, you got Cherry,” he went on. “Cassius, now, Cassius was sneaky to the last. Instead of coming south, he tried to wait for my men to go on past him. Then he could have headed north and been home free. He’d done it, in fact, or he thought he had. But I kept a few backstops, and I was one because I had to drag myself out of some quicksand. I was behind a cypress when along he came, a big smile on his face ’cause he’d outfoxed us. But not this time. I put two in his chest from inside thirty yards before he knew I was there. He was still smiling when he fell in the water. He won’t come out again, Sis.”

Anne Colleton heaved a long, long sigh. “It’s over, then-the Congaree Socialist Republic, and Cassius, too. I wonder if Scipio’s dead in the swamp with him. But I don’t care so much about Scipio.”

“Cassius was the big fish,” Tom agreed. “He’s feeding the fish now.”

“It’s over,” Anne repeated. “This whole stretch of South Carolina can start picking up the pieces now. The Confederate States will have to start picking up the pieces now.” She looked north, not into the swamp but far beyond. “We’ve got the damnyankees to catch up with, after all.”

TheGreatWar: Breakthroughs

Books by Harry Turtledove

TheGreatWar: Breakthroughs

The Great War is over but the conflict continues…with

American Empire: Blood Iron by Harry Turtledove

The Great War has ended, and an uneasy peace reigns around most of the world. But nowhere is the peace more fragile than on the continent of North America, where bitter enemies share a single landmass and two long, bloody borders.

In the North, proud Canadian nationalists try to resist the colonial power of the United States. In the South, the once-mighty Confederate States have been pounded into poverty and merciless inflation. U.S. President Teddy Roosevelt refuses to return to pre-war borders. The scars of the past will not soon be healed. The time is right for madmen, demagogues, and terrorists.

At this crucial moment in history, with Socialists rising to power in the U.S. under the leadership of presidential candidate Upton Sinclair, a dangerous fanatic is on the rise in the Confederacy, preaching a message of hate. And in Canada, another man-a simple farmer-has a nefarious plan: to assassinate the greatest U.S. war hero, General George Armstrong Custer.