He reached forward and touched the pistol in Jerry Franklin’s hand curiously and inquiringly. He nodded to himself, as if he’d come to a decision. He stood up, and saluted with a flourish.

“I hereby recognize you as the last legal authority of the United States Government. And I place my fleet at your disposal.”

“Good.” Jerry stuck the pistol in his belt. He pointed with the saber. “Do you have enough food and water for a long voyage?”

“No, sir,” Admiral Chester said. “But that can be arranged in a few hours at most. May I escort you aboard, sir?”

He gestured proudly down the beach and past the surf to where the three forty-five-foot gaff-rigged schooners rode at anchor. “The United States Tenth Fleet, sir. Awaiting your orders.”

Hours later when the three vessels were standing out to sea, the admiral came to the cramped main cabin where Jerry Franklin was resting. Sam Rutherford and Sarah Calvin were asleep in the bunks above.

“And the orders, sir…?”

Jerry Franklin walked out on the narrow deck, looked up at the taut, patched sails. “Sail east.”

“East, sir? Due east?”

“Due east all the way. To the fabled lands of Europe. To a place where a white man can stand at last on his own two legs. Where he need not fear persecution. Where he need not fear slavery. Sail east, Admiral, until we discover a new and hopeful world—a world of freedom!”

Afterword

In 1957, Anthony Boucher retired from the wonderful magazine he had helped found, The Magazine of Fantasy Science Fiction. Bob Mills, the managing editor, needed someone with a substantial background in science fiction to temporarily take Tony’s place, so Cyril Kornbluth was hired as Consulting Editor. There was a heavy snowfall in New York about that time, and Cyril, who suffered from very high blood pressure, made the mistake of hurriedly shoveling his driveway clear so he could get his car out and keep an appointment with Mills. He dropped dead, I believe, in the driveway.