“That’s fine,” Tom Kennedy said. He was thin and dapper and clever; it wasn’t by accident he’d been running the hauling firm for which Cincinnatus had worked before the war. “I always knew there was a lot to you, Cincinnatus. Once we win the war, smart black fellows like you will have a lot more chances in the CSA, I reckon. It’s in the cards.”
“You say that even after the Red uprisin’?” Cincinnatus asked. Kennedy and Conroy didn’t know he was a part-time Red himself, but he was in no danger of blowing his cover with the question-the only people who didn’t know about the Red Negro attempted revolution were dead.
Kennedy nodded, quite seriously. “Hell, yes, I say that. Richmond won’t ever want that kind of thing to happen again, not ever, I tell you. Too many niggers to hold down all of you, so I figure they’ll have to give you some of what you want. Don’t you?”
Cincinnatus shrugged. He eyed Joe Conroy. The storekeeper nodded, however unenthusiastically. That made Cincinnatus think Kennedy might be right. The next question was, did he care? That was harder to answer. A few weeks before, he would have said a Confederacy with some rights for blacks didn’t sound too bad. But now that he’d met Lieutenant Straubing, it didn’t sound too good, either. He’d seen that men who didn’t care about color were rare in the USA. In the CSA, they weren’t rare-they simply didn’t exist.
Taking his silence for consent, Kennedy picked up the box from which Conroy had drawn the panatella and the box under it. He opened the one under that. It held, not cigars, but thin-walled lead cylinders of about the same size. Cincinnatus didn’t know what they were for, but he figured Kennedy would tell him.
He was right. Kennedy picked up one of the tubes and said, “Thanks to these little sugar plums, we can make the Yankees very unhappy. There’s a copper disk edge-on right in the middle here”-he held the cylinder toward a kerosene lamp, so Cincinnatus could see it wasn’t hollow quite all the way through-“that divides it into two compartments. You put sulfuric acid in one, picric acid in the other, cork both ends with wax plugs-and then all you have to do is wait.”
“Wait for what?” Cincinnatus was starting to get an idea, but, again, he didn’t know enough to be sure.
“When the sulfuric acid eats through the copper, it mixes with the picric acid, right?” Kennedy said with a grin that would have made him a hell of a snake-oil salesman. “And out both ends of the tube comes the nicest little spurt of flame you ever did see. Melts down the bomb so nothing’s left and starts a hell of a fire, both at the same time. Set one in a crate of shells, say-”
“I see what you’re talkin’ about, Mr. Kennedy, I surely do,” Cincinnatus said. The Confederates had indeed come up with a nasty little toy here. “How much time goes by ’fore the stuff in there eats through the copper and the fire starts?”
“Depends on how thick the copper disk is,” Conroy answered. “Anywhere from an hour or so to a couple of weeks. We got all kinds. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Good,” Cincinnatus said. It wasn’t good, but it was better than it might have been. If he started setting firebombs all over creation, the Yankees would take a while to associate the blazes with him. But, sooner or later, they would. He had no doubt of that. The Yankees weren’t stupid. Even Lieutenant Kennan did his job well enough, no matter how wrongheaded his ideas about Negroes were.
Conroy and Kennedy probably didn’t think the Yankees were stupid, either. What they did think was that Cincinnatus was stupid. With a big, false smile pasted across his face, the storekeeper said, “See how easy it’ll be, boy? Not a chance in the world of getting caught.”
Cincinnatus glanced over to Tom Kennedy. Kennedy treated him as well as any Confederate white had ever done, and sometimes showed, or seemed to show, some understanding that dark skin didn’t mean no brains. If Kennedy warned him to be careful now when he picked his spots, and to make sure he didn’t bring suspicion down on himself…he wasn’t sure what he’d do then, but at least he’d have proof in his former boss’ actions that the CSA might see its way clear to looking at Negroes as human beings once the war was done.
Kennedy smiled, too. “Joe is right, Cincinnatus,” he said. “You can see for yourself, they won’t ever have a clue about how the fires start. You can do the cause a whole lot of good.”
“I see that, Mistuh Kennedy, suh,” Cincinnatus said slowly. The Confederate cause came first with Kennedy, too. “How do I tell the few-hour bombs from the ones that go for days ’fore they catch on fire?”
Tom Kennedy’s smile got broader. He clapped Cincinnatus on the back. “You’re a good fellow, you know that? Here, I’ll show you.” He held out one of the lead tubes. “The time it’s set for is stamped right here, you see. This one’s a six-hour delay.” He held up a warning forefinger. “That’s not perfect, mind you. It might be four hours, and it might be eight. But it won’t be two hours, and it won’t be two days, either.”
“I got you,” Cincinnatus said. It was a good system. It would do damage. It would also get traced back to him, sure as the sun would set tonight and come up again tomorrow.
Conroy and Kennedy had a rucksack ready for him to carry home. It contained lead tubes inset with copper disks of varying thickness, a glass jar full of oily-looking sulfuric acid, and another jar that held a powdery, yellowish substance, presumably picric acid. It also had a couple of dozen wax stoppers, a spoon, and a couple of glass funnels. “You don’t want to get this stuff, either kind, on your skin, or let the one go through the funnel that’s held the other,” Conroy said. If the storekeeper was warning him, Cincinnatus figured he was dealing with nasty stuff indeed.
The rucksack was small, but surprisingly heavy-lead was like that. Cincinnatus felt almost as if he’d lugged a crate of ammunition home with him. When he got back to the house, Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up at the burden he brought in. “You don’t want to know,” he told her, and she didn’t ask any more questions. She’d learned you were liable to be better off without some answers than with them.
That evening, working in the sink after Elizabeth had gone to bed, Cincinnatus carefully made up three firebombs, one with a one-day disk, one with a two-day disk, and one with a fourteen-day disk, the longest in the whole set of tubes the men from the Confederate underground had given him. He accidentally spilled a drop of sulfuric acid on the galvanized iron. It steamed and bubbled and was doing its best to eat its way right through the sink till he poured lots of water on it. Afterwards, he eyed the discolored spot with considerable respect.
He didn’t like having the bombs in his pocket when he went to work the next morning. If a stopper came loose, he figured he’d like it even less. Nodding in a friendly way to Lieutenant Straubing came hard.
Along with the other drivers, he rattled south, and stopped to drop his cargo-small-arms ammunition, from what was stenciled on the crates-a little past one in the afternoon. While laborers unloaded the trucks, he ate his lunch and wandered around. Planting a couple of bombs was as easy as Kennedy and Conroy had said it would be.
Night had fallen by the time he got back to Covington. “See you tomorrow, Cincinnatus,” Lieutenant Straubing called, and waved.
“Yes, suh.” Cincinnatus waved back. He walked home. No signal for him in Conroy’s front window today-the Confederate underground had got what it wanted from him. The general store was quiet and dark, closed for the day. He ducked into the alley behind the place to make sure nothing was wrong, then went on home.
He made up a couple of more bombs that evening, and planted them the next day. That evening, Conroy waved to him as he walked past-word of the first fire he’d set must have already got back to the storekeeper. Glad you’re happy, Cincinnatus thought, and returned the wave, as he had Lieutenant Straubing’s.
Twelve days later, Conroy’s store burned to the ground.