If it wasn’t so damned blue. The band is playing When Johnny Comes Marching Home as his son requested and Sally is weeping prettily and half the folks who matter in Wilmington are on the platform waiting. But the first thing the Judge’s eye falls on is the blasted yankee outfit Niles is got up in, and it makes his blood boil same as always. Niles pauses in the doorway of the Pullman, showing his brilliant teeth and waving his arm at them and all the ladies crying now and the men clapping their hands, he looks so heroic, and then there is the sleeve pinned up on the other side and what they’ve done to his face and the Judge has to breathe deep to hold himself together. He steps forward and takes his son’s hand, the right, thank you Lord, and they embrace. The band rushes into There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight, people clapping and stomping as Sally hugs Niles and the people cheer and then he is led to the little platform they’ve set up where Tom Clawson and Mayor Waddell are waiting, the other instruments dropping out to leave just the boy on the trap drum rattling a quiet tattoo to reclaim the military theme of the proceedings and the redcaps stop and set their burdens down, watching respectfully at the edge of the crowd.
“My fellow citizens,” intones the old Colonel, “it is my great honor to welcome home a son of our soil, a young man who has risked his life and sacrificed his health that the light of Freedom might shine on one of the darkest corners of our world. Lieutenant Niles Manigault, our prayers have been with you, you have done us proud, and we offer you our everlasting gratitude and esteem!”
The boy on the trap is joined by three more drummers now and a color guard from the Wilmington Light Infantry steps forward, the master-at-arms presenting Niles with a yankee flag folded in a triangle. He’s paid a damned arm to protect it, thinks the Judge, they might as well give him one for a souvenir. There is more clapping and folks calling for a speech and the drumroll cuts off sharp.
Niles looks around at the gathering. The engineer has stepped out to watch, his locomotive wheezing hot water up the track, waiting for the ceremony to end before he pulls out of the station.
“It has been my honor,” says Niles finally, “to represent you good people, to represent our fine city and the great state of North Carolina, in this desperate and glorious conflict.”
Cheers and exhortations. Whatever the Judge’s apprehensions about his son serving in a Colorado unit with a troop of illiterate miners, the experience may well have made a man of him.
“As Colonel Waddell has so eloquently stated, our mission in Asia is not one of conquest, but no less than the struggle of Christianity and enlightenment against the forces of darkness and ignorance. I believe that in my absence you folks have triumphed in a similar crusade.”
Laughter and applause at this. There has been some grumbling, concern that the best of the niggers were driven out with the worst of them, Sprunt even sending recruiters up North to bring some back and fill out his shifts. But on the whole, white Wilmington is pretty pleased to have recaptured the city.
“I believe that our success on both of these fronts is evidence that our cause is just and that Almighty God is with us. I have returned not only to reunite with those dear to my heart—” turning to nod fondly at Sally and the Judge, “—but to offer my support, in whatever form proves most useful, to the revitalization of our city and the ascent of our section to its rightful prominence in national affairs.”
More cheering. The Judge gives a nod to Clawson, who steps forward to stand beside Niles.
“We’d all like to know,” grins the editor, quieting the crowd, “if that support might include a run for public office?”
Niles puts his hand over his heart and smiles modestly. The saber scars on his face temper his good looks—even with the gap cut into his moustache he seems more trustworthy than before. War has carved him into something finer.
“I believe Colonel Waddell would concur,” he says, “that if the times demand it, a man must step forward to meet his responsibilities.”
A cheer then and the Judge nods to the band leader, who drops his baton and it is Dixie with the Stars and Bars unfurled from the roof of the station and confetti tossed into the air and stomps and yells and the Judge is not the only man with his heart in his throat. The whistle blows then and all move away from the blasts of steam as the train starts to roll and Niles steps down for what seems like an hour of handshaking and backslapping, the yankee flag wedged under the stump of his left arm and the band shifting into The Volunteer to serenade the folks heading home.
“I thought that went rather well,” says Niles when they are just family and on the way to the carriage.
“The state ought to have a regiment in this fight. With you as commander.”
Niles smiles faintly. “I believe I’ve seen enough of that hellhole for the present, thank you.”
The Judge is glad to see Niles swing himself up into the barouche on his own and then reach back to help Sally. Coleman, the third driver the Judge has hired since the city was liberated, does not think to come down from his seat. Decent government is restored, but the impudence lingers.
“Clawson and I have spoken with Josephus Daniels,” says the Judge, hauling himself on board and facing backward. “There’s a position in the state senate about to open up, and he says he’ll run a campaign in the News and Observer to draft you. With your approval, of course.”
Niles leans his head back against the seat as Coleman sets the team in motion. The journey has tired his son, or else he is just looking older.
“Until I learn to deal poker with one hand,” he says with his new, saber-slashed grin, “I might as well give politics a go.”