And, sure enough, the American officer nodded vigorously. “The only people who love a war are those who have never fought in one,” he declared, to which Lucien could but incline his head; he had not thought Major Quigley could say anything so wise. And then Quigley spoiled it: “But you, M. Galtier, you will have come out of the war having done pretty well for yourself. Without it, you would not have gained a doctor as a fiance for your daughter.”
Even without brandy in him, Galtier would not have let that go unchallenged. With brandy in him, he let fly, saying, “Without the war, Major Quigley, I would not have had part of my patrimony…alienated”-even with brandy in him, he had sense enough not to say stolen-“from me so that the United States Army could build on it a hospital.”
Major Quigley coughed a couple of times. The brandy had turned him a little ruddy. Now he went red as a brick. “I will speak frankly,” he said. “I already told you that, when the war was new, I did not think you were a man the United States could trust.”
“Yes, you said that,” Galtier agreed. And you were right to think what you thought. He had sense enough to keep that to himself, too.
After coughing once more, Quigley said, “I also told you I seem to have been wrong. I do not deny I chose your land on which to build this hospital in part because I did not believe you were reliable.”
“And now you know differently?” Lucien asked. He had to make it a question, not least because he remained unsure of the answer himself.
But Quigley nodded. “Now I know better,” he echoed, and coughed yet again. When he went on, he seemed to be talking as much to himself as to Galtier: “Since I know better, it could be that what I did might not have been the wisest thing to do.”
“Perhaps, then, you should think about how you might make amends.” Galtier stared down at the little bit of brandy left in his glass. Had what he’d drunk really made him bold enough to say that?
Evidently it had. Major Quigley rubbed his nose. He fiddled with a cuff on his green-gray tunic. At last, he said, “Perhaps I should. What would you say a fair rent for the piece of ground on which the hospital was built would be?”
Galtier had all he could do not to ask if he had heard correctly. Quigley still assumed he’d had the right to use the land regardless of whether Lucien approved or not, but an offer to pay back rent was ever so much more than the farmer had expected to hear. He scratched his chin, named the most outrageous amount he could think of-“Fifty dollars a month”-and braced himself for the haggle to come. If I end up with half that, he thought, I shall be well ahead of the game.
But Major Quigley, instead of haggling, simply said, “Very well, M. Galtier, we have a bargain.” He stuck out his hand.
In a daze, Lucien Galtier took it. The daze had nothing to do with the brandy he had drunk. He did not know whether to be delighted Quigley had met his price or disappointed he hadn’t tried to gouge the American officer out of more. In the end, he was delighted and disappointed at the same time.
Quigley said, “Here, I will leave the bottle with you. If I drink any more from it tonight, I shall be unable to drive back to Riviere-du-Loup.”
“Here is an advantage of a wagon or a buggy over a motorcar,” Galtier said. “A horse would be able to get you back to town if only you pointed him in the right direction. A motorcar is not so accommodating.”
“C’est vrai, et quelle dommage,” the American replied, in tones that made it a truly pitiful pity. He got to his feet and walked-steadily but very slowly-to the doorway. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Galtier.”
“Bonsoir,” Lucien said. Major Quigley went outside and cranked his Ford to life. Lucien stood in the doorway and watched him drive-steadily but, again, very slowly-north toward Riviere-du-Loup.
Marie came out of the kitchen. Nicole followed her. Astonished disbelief filled both their faces. Almost whispering, Marie said, “Did my ears tell me the truth? Can it be that the Americans will pay us rent for the land they stole for their hospital?”
“If they pay rent, we can no longer say they stole the land from us,” Galtier replied. “It becomes then a matter of business. And what business!” The full weight of what he’d done began to sink in. “Not only rent, but back rent. Not only back rent, but fifty dollars a month.”
“We shall be rich!” Nicole exclaimed.
Her mother shook her head, denying even the possibility of such a thing. “No, we shall not be rich. Rich is not for the likes of us. It could be…it could be that, for a little while, we may have almost enough.” Saying even so much took a distinct effort of will from her.
“That would be fine,” Lucien said. “Even of itself, that would be very fine.” Acid returned to his voice: “It might even let us make up for the robbery the Americans committed against us during the first winter of the war.”
In a worried voice, Marie said, “But taking this money…I pray it shall not be as it was when Judas took his thirty pieces of silver.”
“Nonsense,” Galtier said. “Judas took silver for betraying our Lord. We shall take this money in exchange for what is rightfully ours, in exchange for the Americans’ use of my patrimony.”
“Father is right,” said Nicole, who had her own reasons to want things to go smoothly between her family and the Americans.
“I suppose so.” But Marie still did not sound convinced.
Lucien was not altogether convinced, either, but he had made the offer and Major Quigley accepted it. What could he do now? Like Nicole’s engagement to Dr. O’Doull, the rent tied him ever closer to the United States and the interests of the United States. He clicked his tongue between his teeth. In 1914, he never would have, never could have, imagined any such thing.
Night was slowly lifting over northern Virginia. Sergeant Chester Martin hadn’t got much in the way of sleep even while darkness hung over the land. Ever since midnight, U.S. machine guns had been hammering away at the Confederate line to the east and south, and the guns of the Army of Northern Virginia hadn’t been shy about replying, either. The din had kept most of Martin’s section awake, though Corporal Bob Reinholdt still lay wrapped in his blanket, sleeping the sleep of a man more innocent than he was likely to be.
But the din had also kept the Rebs from noticing the noise of a whole great whacking lot of barrels moving toward the front line-or so the brass hoped. So Chester Martin devoutly hoped, too.
He turned to David Hamburger. “Next time you write to your sister, tell her thanks,” he bawled in the kid’s ear. “Looks likely they’ve got a really big force of barrels here, like they’ve been doing it in Tennessee.”
“I don’t know how much she had to do with any of that,” Hamburger shouted-in effect, whispered-back. “You’ve got to remember, Sarge, she hates the war and anything that has anything to do with it.”
“Hey, she’s not the only one,” Martin said. “You think I like getting shot, you’re crazy. But if we’ve got to have the goddamn thing, we’d better win it. The only thing worse than having a war is losing one. The United States know all about that.”
Before Hamburger could reply, U.S. artillery, which had been pretty quiet, opened up with a thunderous roar. Short and sweet-that was how they did it these days. None of the week-long bombardments that Martin had seen on the Roanoke front, enormous cannonadings that did more to tell the Rebs where the attack was going in than anything else.
Artillery or no artillery, Bob Reinholdt kept right on sleeping. Martin went over and shook him, then had to leap back as Reinholdt lashed out with a trench knife. “Naughty,” Martin said; the corporal always woke up at maximum combat alertness. “Show’s about to start.”