"If they weren't savages, they wouldn't have risen against their masters," Stafford insisted.

"No doubt the English papers said the same thing about the Atlantean Assembly's army a lifetime ago," Newton said.

"It's not the same thing, damn it," Stafford said.

"It never is when the shoe goes on the other foot," Colonel Sinapis put in. Stafford scowled at him. Sinapis went on, "Is it different enough to make us fierce for the sake of fierceness? History argues that if you make a war against slaves a war to the knife, a war to the knife it shall be."

"True," Stafford said. "How many tens of thousands of them did the Romans crucify after they beat Spartacus?"

"How many Romans did those slaves kill before the legions beat them?" Newton said.

One more grunt from his colleague. Stafford threw his hands in the air. "All right, let them keep breathing for now. If their friends give us cause, we can always hang the wretches later."

"That seems fair," Newton allowed-it was more than he'd expected to win from his fellow Consul.

"So it does," Colonel Sinapis said, and that seemed to settle that.

Jeremiah Stafford felt like a man struggling in quicksand. It wasn't just that he'd let Leland Newton talk him into treating captured blacks and copperskins as prisoners of war. That was bad enough, but there was worse. The servile insurrection sizzled everywhere but the places where Atlantean soldiers actually stood.

A man who went off into the woods to ease himself might not come out again. If he didn't, his friends were all too likely to find him with his throat cut or his skull smashed in. They weren't likely to find the skulkers who'd murdered him.

"Is this what you call fighting in accordance with the usages of war?" Stafford asked Newton after three ambushes in two days.

"It may not be sporting, but I wouldn't say it breaks international law," the other Consul answered. "If Colonel Sinapis feels otherwise, I'm sure he'll let us know."

"Bah," Stafford said. The colonel didn't agree with him often enough to suit him. As far as he was concerned, Sinapis had a soft spot in his heart for the insurrectionists. Stafford wondered why. Hadn't the colonel been a loyal-maybe even an overloyal-servant of the status quo back in Europe? Did he have a guilty conscience he was trying to salve years too late?

More and more whites fled the territory north and east of the city of New Marseille. Some of them took service with the militiamen fighting alongside the Atlantean regulars. Others seemed more inclined to moan about their sea of troubles than to take arms against them.

"Why haven't you people killed all those raggedy-ass bastards by now?" an unhappy planter demanded of Stafford.

"I wish it were as easy as you make it sound," the Consul answered.

"Well, why ain't it?" the planter said. "Nothin' there but a pack of slaves. You should take the lash to 'em. They'd run miles, dog my cats if they wouldn't."

Something inside Stafford jangled. Someone in ancient days was supposed to have put down a slave uprising like that. He tried and failed to remember who it was. He suspected the failure was a sign the ancient historian who told the story was talking through his hat.

He also suspected the planter was doing the same thing. "Did you try scaring them off with a whip?" he asked.

"Well, no," the fellow admitted. "They woulda shot me if I had."

"Then why do you think things are any different for us?" Stafford inquired.

"On account of you're the government," the planter said.

By the way he said it, that gave the army everything but power from On High. If only it were true, Stafford thought. Aloud, he said, "Don't you see that the insurrectionists have rejected government along with everything else?"

"But they've got no business doing that!" the man exclaimed.

How often had he rejected government when it tried to do something he didn't fancy? Raise his taxes, for instance? No doubt he'd done it without thinking twice. Now he needed what government could give him, and so he was crying out for it. Listening to him made Stafford very tired.

"We shall do what we can for you, sir," the Consul said. "If you will pick up a musket and do something for yourself, that will also help your country's cause."

"Maybe I will," the planter said, which meant he wanted nothing to do with a notion that might endanger his precious carcass. Seeing as much, Stafford went off to talk with another refugee, hoping that fellow would show more sense. Just because a man hoped for such things didn't mean he got them.

"I wish we knew more about what's going on in the rest of the country," Stafford said to Consul Newton the next day.

"That we don't probably isn't the best sign," his opposite number replied. "The rebels are doing too well at cutting the telegraph wires. They control the countryside, and I don't know what we can do about that."

"We ought to do more than we have been," Stafford said fretfully. "We are not aggressive enough-not nearly. And that is not least your fault: you want the insurrectionists to prevail."

"I want justice to prevail and peace to return," Newton said.

"What you call justice is a southern man's nightmare," Stafford said.

"A southern white man's, maybe," Newton answered. "To a southern colored man, the way he lived up until the rebellion was the nightmare. If we could find some way not to leave anyone of any blood too dissatisfied-"

"Wish for the moon while you're at it," Stafford said. "And, if anyone is to be satisfied, I intend it shall be the white man. Believe me, your Excellency, that is my first concern."

"Oh, I believe you," Newton said. "That is a large part of the problem." He walked away, leaving Stafford obscurely punctured.

"Here they come!" a copperskin called, hurrying back toward the position the rebellious slaves held. Frederick Radcliff grimaced. He didn't want to fight the white men. He wished they would leave the Free Republic of Atlantis alone. Too much to hope for, of course. Whites hated the idea that Negroes and copperskins might be able to take care of themselves. They hated the idea that Negroes and copperskins ought to be free even more. And so another battle was coming.

Another chance for things to go wrong, Frederick thought. The Free Republic's fighters had done better than he'd ever dreamt they could. But if things went wrong-no, when they did-he had to hope his makeshift army wouldn't fall to pieces. They weren't professional soldiers. Could they deal with defeat?

Militiamen had finally let the Atlantean army flank its way past the strong position Frederick's men held for so long. This new one the Free Republic occupied wasn't nearly so good. It was the best the colored fighters could do, though. If they let the white men in gray march wherever they pleased, the Free Republic of Atlantis was only a sham. If land was really yours, you had to fight to keep it.

Frederick wasn't about to let his men stand there and trade volleys with the soldiers. That was asking to get the fighters chewed to pieces. The white professionals were trained to fight that way. His men weren't. They would sweep the open area in front of the woods where they crouched with musketry. If the whites wanted to try advancing through it, they were welcome to.

But counting on the enemy's foolishness turned out to be a bad idea. Atlantean soldiers in their gray and militiamen in blue or brown or green or colorless homespun did attack across the field in front of the forest. There were enough of them to keep Frederick's men busy: enough to make him think there were more.

A man who knew how to do card tricks or seem to pull coins from someone else's ear or nose had learned the art of misdirection. He made the audience look away from the important part of what he was up to so it wouldn't catch on till the trick was done. The soldier commanding the Atlantean army had picked up the same knack.