Scipio grabbed his carpetbag and descended. As at Augusta, the exit to the station kept him from having anything to do with boarding passengers. He gave the system grudging respect. That it should be necessary was a judgment on the Confederate States, but it did what it was designed to do.

Once he got out of the station, he stopped and looked at the sun, orienting himself. Forsyth Park was east and south of him. He walked towards it, wondering if a policeman would demand to see his papers. Sure enough, he hadn’t gone more than a block before it happened. He displayed his passbook, his train ticket, and the letter from Jerry Dover authorizing him to be away from the Huntsman’s Lodge. The cop looked them over, frowned, and then grudgingly nodded and gave them back. “You keep your nose clean, you hear?” he said.

“Yes, suh. I do dat, suh,” Scipio said. His Congaree River accent had marked him as a stranger in Augusta. It did so doubly here; from what little he’d heard of it, Savannah Negroes used a dialect almost incomprehensible to anyone who hadn’t grown up speaking it.

Forsyth Park was laid out like a formal French garden, with a rosette of paths going through it. With spring in the air, squirrels frisked through the trees. Pigeons plodded the paths, hoping for handouts. Flowering dogwood, wisteria, and azaleas brightened the greenery.

Scipio had to find the Albert Sidney Johnston monument. The Confederate general, killed at Pittsburg Landing, was something of a martyr, with statues and plaques commemorating him all over the CSA. In this one, he looked distinctly Christlike. Scipio fought the urge to retch.

He sat down on a wrought-iron bench not far from the statue. One of those importunate pigeons came up and eyed him expectantly. When he ignored it, he half expected it to crap on his shoes in revenge, but it didn’t. It just strutted away, head bobbing. You’ll get yours, it might have said, and it might have been right.

A squirrel overhead chittered at him. He ignored it, too. He had no certain notion how long he’d have to wait here, so he tried to look as if he were comfortable, as if he belonged. Several white women and a few old men passed with no more than casual glances, so he must have succeeded. Very few white men between the ages of twenty and fifty were on the streets. If they weren’t at the front, they were in the factories or on the farms.

“How do I get to Broad Street from here?” asked a woman with brown hair going gray.

“Ma’am, you goes west a few blocks, an’ there you is,” Scipio answered.

“Oh, dear. I was all turned around,” the woman said. “I’m afraid I have no sense of direction, no sense of direction at all.”

The code phrases were the ones Scipio had been waiting for. He hadn’t expected a woman to say them. He wondered why not. Jerry Dover hadn’t said anything about that one way or the other. A woman could do this as well as a man-maybe better, if she was less conspicuous. Scipio took a small envelope out of the hip pocket of his trousers. As casually as he could, he set it on the bench and looked in the other direction.

When he turned his head again, the envelope was gone. The woman was on her way toward Broad Street. No one else could have paid any attention to, or even seen, the brief encounter in the park. Scipio wasn’t sure what he’d just done. Had he given the Confederate States a boost or a knee in the groin? He had no way of knowing, but he had his hopes.

Jefferson Pinkard was a happy man, happier than he had been since moving out to Texas to start putting up Camp Determination. For one thing, Edith Blades was coming out to Snyder with her boys before too long. That would be nice. She didn’t want to marry Jeff till her husband was in the ground for a year, but he’d still be glad to have her close by instead of back in Louisiana.

And, for another, now he had a man he could trust absolutely among the guards. “Hip Rodriguez!” he murmured to himself in glad surprise. He hadn’t seen the little greaser for twenty-five years, but that had nothing to do with anything. After what they’d been through together in Georgia and west Texas, he knew he could count on Rodriguez. He didn’t know how many times they’d saved each other’s bacon, but he knew damn well it was more than a few.

And he knew how important having somebody absolutely trustworthy was. Running prison camps was a political job, though he wouldn’t have thought so when he started it. And the higher he rose, the more political it got. When the only man over you was the Attorney General, you found yourself in politics and maneuvering up to your eyebrows, because Ferdinand Koenig was Jake Featherston’s right-hand man-and about two fingers’ worth of the left as well.

Back by Alexandria, Mercer Scott was heading up Camp Dependable these days. Scott had led the guard force when Jeff commanded the camp. He’d had his own ways to get hold of Richmond. No doubt the guard chief here did, too. The Freedom Party people at the top wanted to make sure they knew what was going on, so they had independent channels to help them keep up with things.

And if the guard chief started telling lies, or if he started scheming, having someone on your side in the guard force was like an insurance policy. Hip Rodriguez couldn’t have fit the bill better.

With a grunt, Pinkard got up from his desk and stretched. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the top drawer, lit one, started to put the pack back, and then stuck it in his pocket instead. He was about to start his morning prowl through the camp when the telephone rang.

“Who’s bothering me now?” he muttered as he picked it up. His voice got louder: “This here’s Pinkard.”

“Hello, Pinkard. This is Ferd Koenig in Richmond.”

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir?” Speak of the devil and he shows up on your front porch, Jeff thought.

“I want to know how things are coming,” Koenig said, “and whether you can make a few changes in the way the camp’s laid out.”

“Things were coming fine, sir. There’s been no problem on shipments out of here,” Pinkard answered. Shipments was a nice, bloodless way to talk about Negroes sent off to be asphyxiated by the truckload. It kept him from thinking about what went on inside those trucks. He didn’t feel bloodless toward Ferd Koenig. If the son of a bitch thought he could run a Texas camp from Richmond… he might be right, because he had the authority to do it. Grinding his teeth, Pinkard asked, “What do you need changed?”

“Way you’ve got the place set up now, it’s just for men-isn’t that right?” the Attorney General said.

“Yes, sir. That’s how all the camps have been, pretty much,” Jeff replied. “Not a hell of a lot of women and pickaninnies packing iron against the government.” There were some, but not many. He didn’t know if there were separate camps for black women, or what. He guessed there were, but asking questions about things that were none of your business was discouraged-strongly discouraged.

“That’s going to change.” Koenig’s voice was hard, flat, and determined. “You can bet your bottom dollar that’s going to change, in fact. What’s wrong with the CSA is that we’ve got too many niggers, period. Not troublemaking niggers, but niggers, period-’cause any nigger’s liable to be a troublemaker. Am I right or am I wrong?”

“Oh, you’re right, sir, no doubt about it,” Jeff said. Koenig was just quoting Freedom Party chapter and verse. Jake Featherston had been going on about niggers and what they deserved ever since he got up on the stump for the Party. Now he was keeping his campaign promises.

“All right,” Koenig said. “If we’re gonna get rid of ’em, we’ve got to have places to concentrate ’em till we can do the job. That means everybody we clean out of the countryside and the cities. Everybody. So can you separate off a section for the women?”