Pretty Quadroon
BY CHARLES FONTENAY
Once a man has chosen a path to follow, there's
no turning back. But what if the die could be
recast and we could retrace our steps when we
chose the wrong one ... and choose another?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
General Beauregard Courtney sat in his staff car atop a slight rise andwatched the slow, meshing movement of his troops on the plains southof Tullahoma, Tennessee. Clouds of dust drifted westward in the lazysummer air, and the dull boom of enemy artillery sounded from the north.
"You damn black coon," he said without rancor, "you know you're costingme a night's sleep?"
The Negro courier stood beside his motorcycle and his teeth flashedwhite in his good-natured face. The dust of the road filmed his uniformof Southern grey.
"Miss Piquette told me to bring you the message, suh," he answered.
"A wife couldn't be more demanding," grumbled Beauregard. "Whycouldn't she wait until this push is over?"
"I don't know, suh," said the courier.
"Well, get back to headquarters and get some supper," commandedBeauregard. "You can fly back to Chattanooga with me."
The man saluted and climbed aboard his motorcycle. It kicked to lifewith a sputtering roar, and he turned it southward on what was left ofthe highway.
The sun was low in the west, and its reddening beams glinted from theweapons and vehicles of the men who moved through the fields belowBeauregard. That would be the 184th, moving into the trenches at theedge of what had been Camp Forrest during the last war.
On the morrow this was to be the frontal attack on what was left of theNorthern wind tunnel installations, while the armor moved in like apowerful pincers from Pelham to the east and Lynchburg to the west. Ifthe Union strongpoint at Tullahoma could be enveloped, the way lay opento Shelbyville and the north. No natural barrier lay north of Tullahomauntil the Duck River was reached.
This was the kind of warfare Beauregard Courtney relished, thiswheeling and maneuvering of tanks across country, this artillerybarrage followed by infantry assault, the planes used in tacticalsupport. It was more a soldier's warfare than the cold, calculated,long-range bombardment by guided missiles, the lofty, aloof flight ofstrategic bombers. He would have been happy to live in the days whenwars were fought with sword and spear.
When the Second War for Southern Independence (the Northerners calledit "The Second Rebellion") had broken out, Beauregard had feared itwould be a swift holocaust of hydrogen bombs, followed by a cruelscourge of guerilla fighting. But not one nuclear weapon had exploded,except the atomic artillery of the two opposing forces. A powerfuldeterrent spelled caution to both North and South.
Sitting afar, watching the divided country with glee, was SovietRussia. Her armies and navies were mobilized. She waited only for thetwo halves of the United States to ruin and weaken each other, beforeher troops would crush the flimsy barriers of western Europe and moveinto a disorganized America.
So the Second Rebellion (Beauregard found himself using the termbecause it was shorter) remained a classic war of fighting on theground and bombing of only industrial and military targets. Both sides,by tacit agreement, left the great superhighways intact, both heldtheir