Blood and Iron by Harry Turtledove Page A

mustache. He did know how to take orders—most of the time. “Libbie would like going that way,” he said, as if to give himself an excuse for yielding. Dowling nodded, partly from policy, partly from agreement. Custer’s wife
would
like going that way, and would also approve of his acquiescence. But then, Elizabeth Bacon Custer, in Dowling’s view, had more brains in her fingernail than her illustrious husband did in his head.
    The train proved splendid. Dowling wondered if the Pullmans and dining car had been borrowed from a wealthy capitalist to transport Custer in splendor—and he himself got only a reflection of the splendor Custer had to be enjoying to the fullest. As he ate another bite of beefsteak in port-wine sauce, he reflected that life could have been worse.
    A brass band waited on the platform as the locomotive pulled into the Broad Street station—and not just any brass band, but one led by John Philip Sousa. Next to the band stood Theodore Roosevelt. Dowling watched Custer’s face when he saw the president. The two men had been rivals since they’d combined to drive the British out of Montana Territory at the end of the Second Mexican War. Each thought the other had got more credit than he deserved—they’d quarreled about it in Nashville, as the Great War was ending.
    Now, though, Roosevelt bared his large and seemingly very numerous teeth in a grin of greeting. “Welcome to Philadelphia, General!” he boomed, and advanced to take Custer’s hand as the band blared out “The Stars and Stripes Forever” and photographic flashes went off like artillery rounds. “I trust you will do me the honor of riding with me at the head of the Remembrance Day parade tomorrow.”
    Dowling could not remember the last time he had seen George Custer speechless, but Custer was speechless now, speechless for half a minute. Then, at last, he took Roosevelt’s hand in his and huskily whispered, “Thank you, Mr. President.” Beside him, Libbie (who thought even less of Roosevelt than he did) dropped the president a curtsy.
    And Abner Dowling felt something that might almost have been a tear in his eye. Roosevelt had done Custer honor, not the other way round. President Blaine had instituted Remembrance Day at the close of the Second Mexican War as a memorial to the humiliation of the United States by their foes. It had always been a day of mourning and lamentation and looking ahead to fights unwon.
    And now the fight was over, and it had been won. Instead of lying prostrate in defeat, the United States stood triumphant. With Remembrance Day come round again, the country could see that all the sacrifices its citizens had made for so many years were not in vain. Flags wouldn’t fly upside down in distress any more.
    Custer asked, “Mr. President, where will you seat my wife? That I have come to this moment is in no small measure due to her.”
    “Thank you, Autie,” Libbie said. Dowling thought Custer dead right in his assessment. He hadn’t thought Custer perceptive enough to realize the truth in what he said. Every once in a while, the old boy could be surprising. Trouble was, so many of the surprises proved alarming.
    “I had in mind placing her in the motorcar directly behind ours,” Roosevelt answered, “and putting your adjutant with her, if that be satisfactory to you all. Lieutenant Colonel Dowling has given his country no small service.”
    Dowling came to stiff attention and saluted. “Thank you very much, sir!” His heart felt about to burst with pride.
    “The people will want to look at the general and the president, so I am perfectly content to ride behind,” Libbie said. In public, she always put Custer and his career ahead of his own desires. In private, as Dowling had seen, she kept a wary eye on Custer because his own eye, even at his advanced age, had a tendency to wander.
    “Good. That’s settled.” Roosevelt liked having things settled, especially his way. “We’ll put you folks