American Empire_ Blood And Iron Part 17

Cries of alarm rose from black throats when the Freedom Party men came into sight. "Double line of battle to the left and right," Barney Stevens shouted, and the men performed the evolution with practiced ease. Stevens pointed with his club as if it were a British field marshal's baton. "Charge!"

"Freedom!" Jeff yelled, along with his friends. A couple of policemen made halfhearted efforts to get between the Freedom Party men and the Negroes. The tough young veterans in white and b.u.t.ternut rolled over them.

Jeff swung his club. It smacked into black flesh. A howl of pain rose. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a savage grin. He swung again and again and again. A few of the black veterans fought back. Far more fled, though. Some few of them might have gained the vote, but a Negro who fought a white man in the CSA fought not just his foe but also the entire weight of Confederate society and history.

Inside five minutes, the rally was broken up, destroyed. Some of the white hecklers had joined the Freedom Party men. None of the cops had made more than a token effort to hold them back. A lot of Negroes were down with broken heads. Jeff felt as if he'd just stormed a Yankee position in west Texas. He stood tall, the sweat of righteous labor streaming down his face. Just for the moment, he and his comrades were masters of all they surveyed.

The Speaker of the House pointed toward Flora Hamburger. "The chair recognizes the honorable Representative from New York," he intoned.

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker," Flora said. That was more than a mere courtesy; Seymour Stedman of Ohio was himself a Socialist, the first non-Democrat to be Speaker since the first Congress of President Blaine's disastrous term at the start of the 1880s. "Mr. Chairman, I move that the House pa.s.s a resolution whose text I have conveyed to the Clerk, deploring and condemning the a.s.saults against law-abiding Negroes now taking place within the Confederate States."

"Mr. Speaker!" Several Congressmen tried to gain Stedman's attention. As had been arranged, he recognized Hosea Blackford. "Second!" Blackford said in a loud, clear voice. He and Flora grinned at each other.

"It has been moved and seconded that we adopt the resolution Miss Hamburger has conveyed to the Clerk," Congressman Stedman said. "The Clerk will now read the resolution for debate."

Read the clerk did, in a deadly drone. As soon as he finished stating the resolution Flora had summarized, hands shot up all around the House chamber. Speaker Stedman said, "The chair recognizes his honorable colleague from Ohio."

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker." William Howard Taft rose ponderously to his feet, then turned toward Flora. "I should like to inquire of the distinguished Representative from New York why she does not include in her resolution the disorders currently taking place in China, Russia, South America, France, and Spanish Morocco, all of those being no less beyond the boundaries of the United States and the purview of the House of Representatives than the events condemned in the Confederate States."

Flora glared at Taft, and there was a lot of him at which to glare. With the Socialists and Republicans holding a slim majority in the House, he no longer chaired the Transportation Committee, and could not use his power there to make her life miserable. He seemed to have trouble realizing that; a lot of Democrats did. They took power for granted, even when it wasn't there.

"I would answer the gentleman from Ohio in two ways," she said. "First, what happens in the Confederate States is vitally important to the United States, because the Confederate States are so close and so closely related to us. And second, the attacks on the Negroes there are fierce, unjustified, and altogether unprovoked."

"They're only n.i.g.g.e.rs, for Christ's sake," somebody called out without waiting to be recognized. "Who the devil cares what the Rebs do to them?"

"Order!" Speaker Stedman slammed down the gavel. "The chair recognizes the honorable Representative from Dakota."

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker," Hosea Blackford said. "That unmannerly fellow gives me the chance to quote Donne, and I shall not waste it: 'No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.' If the Confederates now permit the terrorizing of their Negroes, as appears to be true from the reports reaching us, who can guess what they may permit a year from now, or five years, or ten?"

"I have two questions for the gentleman from Dakota," said the Democrat who rose to reply to Blackford. "The first is, why do you think the Confederate States will pay any attention to a resolution from this House? The second is, if you Socialists want us to do something the Confederate States will will pay attention to, why have you taken a meat axe to the War Department budget?" pay attention to, why have you taken a meat axe to the War Department budget?"

The second question, in particular, made Flora wince. She'd urged and voted for cutting the military budget, too, and the reasons for which she'd done so-chief among them that the country could no longer afford to keep spending as it had-still seemed good to her. But she had to admit that a warning delivered under credible threat of war would have done far more to deter the thugs who called themselves the Freedom Party than any resolution from the House of Representatives.

As debate went on, she also began to see that even the resolution was going to have a hard time pa.s.sing. A lot of Democrats proclaimed that they did not care to be seen meddling in the internal political affairs of a neighboring sovereign state. Speaker Stedman countered that one with a sardonic gibe: "As we won't meddle in the affairs of the Republic of Quebec? Had we not meddled in those affairs, there would be no Republic of Quebec."

But the Congressman who'd said, "They're only n.i.g.g.e.rs," had spoken for a great many of his colleagues, whether they would come out and admit it or not. Flora had expected little better from the Democrats. But the Republicans, mostly farm-belt Congressmen from the Midwest, also proved to have little sympathy for the colored man's plight. And even one Socialist stood up and said, "This is not an issue that concerns the people of my district."

"The people of your district don't care about pogroms?" Flora shouted angrily, which made Speaker Stedman bang the gavel against her.

When Stedman called the question, Flora's resolution fell eighteen votes short of pa.s.sage. "As the hour now nears six, I move that we adjourn for the day," the Speaker said. His motion carried by voice vote, without a single dissenter heard. The House floor emptied rapidly.

Still furious, Flora made no effort to hide it. "What will they do when the bell tolls for them?" she demanded of Hosea Blackford.

"Who can guess, till the time comes?" he answered with a wry smile. "You don't win all the time, Flora. For a lot of years, we hardly won at all. We are on the record, even if the resolution failed. If things go on, we can bring it up again later in the session."

"You take the long view of things," she said slowly.

"I'd better, after all the worthwhile resolutions and bills I've seen die." Blackford flashed that wry grin again. "For now, what sort of view do you take toward supper?"

"I'm in favor of it," Flora admitted. "With luck, someplace where they know how to serve up crow."

"Oh, I think we can do a little better than that," he said, and took her to a chophouse they'd visited a couple of times before. After mutton chops and red wine, the world did seem a less gloomy place. Brandy afterwards didn't hurt, either. Blackford took out a cigar case. He waited for Flora's nod before choosing and lighting a panatela. Between puffs, he asked, "Shall we go out dancing, or to a vaudeville show?"

Flora thought about it, then shook her head. She wasn't that that happy. "No, thanks. Not tonight. Why don't you just take me back to my flat?" happy. "No, thanks. Not tonight. Why don't you just take me back to my flat?"

"All right, if that's what you want." Blackford rose and escorted her out to his motorcar. The ride back to the apartment building where they both lived pa.s.sed mostly in silence.

They walked upstairs together. The hallway across which their doors faced each other was quiet and dim: dimmer than usual, because one of the small electric light bulbs had burned out. As usual, Blackford walked Flora to her doorway. As usual, he bent to kiss her good-night. The kiss that followed was anything but usual. Maybe Flora was trying to make up for the day's disappointment. Maybe it was just the brandy talking through her. She didn't know, or care.

Neither, evidently, did Hosea Blackford. "Whew!" he said when at last they broke apart. "I think you melted all the wax in my mustache."

Flora's laugh was shaky. Her cheeks felt hot, as if in embarra.s.sment, but she was not embarra.s.sed. Her heart pounded. She turned, wondering if the routine business of unlocking and opening her door would still the tumult in her. It didn't. She reached for the light switch by the door, then looked back to Blackford. "Would you like to come inside?" she asked.

"Good-" he began, responding to the Good night Good night she'd always given him before. Then he heard what she'd really said. He asked a question of his own: "Are you sure?" she'd always given him before. Then he heard what she'd really said. He asked a question of his own: "Are you sure?"

She leaned forward and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the end of the nose. He'd never pushed her to go further than she wanted to go. Pus.h.i.+ng her would have done no good, as a lot of people, in Congress and out, could have told him. But he hadn't needed telling. He wasn't pus.h.i.+ng now. She liked him very much for that...and for the feel of his lips pressed against her, his body pressed against her. "Yes," she said firmly.

I could never have done this back in New York, she thought as they sat side by side on the sofa- she thought as they sat side by side on the sofa-not with everyone who lives in our apartment. But even that wasn't true. When Yossel Reisen was about to go off to war, her sister Sophie had found a way to give him a woman's ultimate gift-and he'd given her a gift in return, a gift that now bore his name, a gift he'd never lived to see. If you wanted to badly enough, you could always find a way. But even that wasn't true. When Yossel Reisen was about to go off to war, her sister Sophie had found a way to give him a woman's ultimate gift-and he'd given her a gift in return, a gift that now bore his name, a gift he'd never lived to see. If you wanted to badly enough, you could always find a way.

She'd never dreamt she might want to so badly. When, in an experimental way, Blackford slipped an arm around her, she pinned him against the back of the sofa. This kiss went on much longer than the one in the hallway had, and left her feeling as if she might explode at any moment.

Blackford kissed her eyes, her cheeks; his mouth slid to the side of her neck, then up to her ear. Every time his lips touched her skin, she discovered something new and astonis.h.i.+ng and wonderful. He nibbled at her earlobe, murmuring, "You don't know how long I've wanted to do this, darling." She didn't answer, not with words, but left no doubt about what she wanted.

But going into her bedroom with him a few minutes later was another long step into the unknown. She didn't turn on any of the lights in there. No matter how much urgency filled her, the idea of undressing in front of a man left her shaking. Even so, she sighed with relief as she slid off her corset. On a hot, muggy late-summer night, bare skin felt good.

Her bare skin soon felt quite a lot better than good. She was amazed at the sensations Hosea Blackford's hands and lips and tongue evoked from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and then amazed again when one hand strayed lower. She'd stroked herself now and again, but this was different: every touch, every movement, a startlement. The small, altogether involuntary moan of pleasure she let out took her by surprise.

But that surprise also recalled her partly to herself. She remembered Sophie's horror and panic out on the balcony of the family flat when her sister told her she was pregnant. "I can't have a baby!" she exclaimed.

Blackford hesitated, studying her in the half-light. Had she made him angry? If he got up and left now, she would die of humiliation-and frustration. But, to her vast relief, he nodded. "One of the reasons I care for you so much is for your good sense," he said. "We'll make sure everything is all right." He bent so that his mouth went where his hand had gone before.

Flora had literally never imagined such a thing. She hadn't imagined how good it felt, either. When pleasure burst over her, it made everything she'd done by herself seem...beside the point was the best way she found to think of it. was the best way she found to think of it.

If he'd done that for her, she ought to return the favor, though she didn't quite know how. Awkwardly, she took him in her hand. As she drew near, she saw he looked strange. From inadvertencies around the family apartment, she knew how a man was made. Hosea Blackford was made a little differently. He's not circ.u.mcised, He's not circ.u.mcised, she realized. She'd forgotten that consequence of his being a gentile. she realized. She'd forgotten that consequence of his being a gentile.

She kissed him and licked him. He needed only a moment to understand she didn't know what she was doing. "Put it in your mouth," he said quietly. She did, though she hadn't imagined that only minutes before, any more than the other. The sound he made was a masculine version of her moan. Encouraged, she kept on.

She didn't need to keep on very long. He grunted and jerked and spurted. It caught her by surprise, and didn't taste very good. She coughed and sputtered and gulped before she could help herself. When she could speak again, she asked, "Was that right?"

He put her hand over his heart, which pounded like a drum. "If it were any more right," he a.s.sured her, "I'd be dead." She laughed and lay beside him, still marveling that such pleasure was possible-and ever so relieved that, unlike Sophie, she would not have to worry about consequences nine months later.

"Atlanta!" the conductor called, stepping into the car in which Jake Featherston rode. "All out for Atlanta!" He strode down the aisle, making sure no one could doubt the upcoming stop.

Featherston grabbed his carpetbag and sprang to his feet. His seat had been in the middle of the car, but he was one of the first people off it. He was one of the first people to a taxicab, too. "The Kendall Hotel," he told the driver.

"Sure thing," the fellow answered. The hotel proved to be only a few blocks east of Terminal Station. Brakes squealed as the driver stopped in front of the ma.s.sive brick building with Moorish-looking turrets and ornaments. "That'll be twelve."

"Here you go." Jake handed him a $1,000 banknote and a $500. "I don't need any change." With the taximan's tip, he would have got back only a hundred dollars, two hundred if he wanted to be a cheapskate. He didn't. Anyhow, with currency the way it was these days, you had to be crazy to worry about anything as small as a hundred bucks.

A uniformed Negro porter came up to carry his bag. He gave the black man a hundred dollars. That was what such nearly worthless banknotes were good for. It was also, he thought, what nearly worthless black men were good for.

When Jake gave his name at the front desk, the clerk handed him his key and then said, "I have a message here for you, Mr. Featherston." He plucked an envelope from a pigeonhole and presented it with a flourish.

"Thanks." Featherston pulled out the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper inside. It read, Knight got in this morning. If you see this in time, have supper with us at seven tonight in the hotel restaurant. Amos Mizell. Knight got in this morning. If you see this in time, have supper with us at seven tonight in the hotel restaurant. Amos Mizell. He stuck the note in his pocket. "How do I find the restaurant?" he asked the desk clerk. He stuck the note in his pocket. "How do I find the restaurant?" he asked the desk clerk.

"Down that corridor-second doorway on your left-first is the bar," the young man answered. Shyly, he went on, "It's an honor to have you in the Kendall, Mr. Featherston. Freedom!"

"Freedom, yeah." Jake was still getting used to people recognizing his name. It was, he found, very easy to get used to.

Another colored porter carried the bag up to his room, and earned another hundred dollars. Jake snorted, imagining a hundred-dollar tip before the war. He unpacked his clothes, then pulled a watch from his pocket and checked the time. It was half past five.

He didn't feel like sitting in the room for an hour and a half like a cabbage, so he went down to the bar and peeled off a $500 banknote for a beer. He nursed the one gla.s.s till it was time for supper. The last thing he wanted was to go to this meeting drunk, or even tipsy.

When he left the bar and headed over to the restaurant, a professionally obsequious waiter led him to a table in a quiet corner: not the best seating in the place for anyone who wanted to show off, but a fine place to sit and eat and talk. Two other men were already sitting and talking. Featherston would have pegged them both for veterans even had he not known they were.

They got to their feet as he approached. "Featherston?" the taller one asked. Jake nodded. In a tw.a.n.ging Texas accent, the fellow went on, "I'm w.i.l.l.y Knight of the Redemption League, and this here is Amos Mizell, who heads up the Tin Hats."

"Pleased to meet you gents," Jake said, shaking hands with both of them. He wasn't sure how pleased he was to meet Knight; the Freedom Party was growing only slowly west of the Mississippi, not least because the Redemption League spouted similar ideas there. Supper with Amos Mizell was a feather in his cap, though. The Tin Hats were far and away the largest ex-soldiers' organization in the CSA.

Mizell sipped from a whiskey gla.s.s in front of him. He was about forty, and missing the little finger on his left hand. He said, "I think all three of us are going in the same direction. I think all three of us want to see the country going in the same direction, too. What we want to do is make sure n.o.body sidetracks anybody else."

"That's right." Knight nodded. He was blond and handsome and wore an expensive suit, all of which made Jake jealous. "That's just right," he went on. "If we bang heads, the only ones who win are the d.a.m.nyankees."

"Fair enough." Jake smiled, as he might have smiled over a bad poker hand. Knight reminded him of an officer, which in his book was another black mark against the Redemption League man. "We might have been smarter not to talk till after the Congressional elections, though. Then we'd have a better notion of who's strong and who isn't."

Almost imperceptibly, w.i.l.l.y Knight winced. Featherston grinned at him, the fierce grin of defiance he threw at everyone who got in his way. The Freedom Party was stronger than the Redemption League, at least for now. It had its base in the more populous eastern part of the Confederate States and was reaching west, where only a relative handful of people on this side of the Mississippi belonged to the Redemption League.

Again, Mizell played peacemaker: "One thing certain is, we're stronger together than we are apart." The Tin Hats weren't a political party, so he wasn't a direct rival to either of the men at the table with him. But if he tipped to one or the other of them, his influence would not be small.

They paused when the waiter came up. Knight ordered a beefsteak, Mizell fried chicken, and Jake a ham steak. "I'm shooting for ten Congressmen next session," he said, though he expected perhaps half that many would win seats. "How about you, Knight?"

"We'll win Dallas-I'm pretty sure of that," the leader of the Redemption League said. "They can see the Yankees up in Sequoyah and over in that d.a.m.ned new state of Houston from there. We may take a couple of other seats, too. I'll tell you what we will do, though, by G.o.d: we'll scare the Radical Liberals clean out of their shoes."

"No arguments there," Amos Mizell said. He raised the drink to his lips again. "I wish more of the new leaders who think along our lines would have joined us here tonight. The Tennessee Volunteers, the Knights of the Gray, and the Red-Fighters all have ideas we might find worthwhile, and they aren't the only ones."

"There's plenty of people angry with the way things are going now," Jake allowed. "A couple of years ago, the Freedom Party wasn't anything more than a few people sitting around in a saloon grousing." He drew himself up straight with pride. "We've come a long ways since then."

"That you have," Mizell said. Knight nodded once more. Now he looked jealous. The Freedom Party had come further and faster than the Redemption League. Mizell continued, "I know for a fact that a lot of Tin Hats are Freedom Party men, too."

"I never thought we could get away with breaking up the soft parties' rallies," Will Knight said, and looked jealous again. "But you've gone and done it, and you've gone and gotten away with it, too."

"You bet we have," Jake said. "If you reckon the cops love the Whigs and the Radical Liberals and the n.i.g.g.e.rs, you can d.a.m.n well think again. And"-he lowered his voice a little-"if you reckon the soldiers love the traitors in the War Department, you can d.a.m.n well think again about that, too."

"Some of the things you've said about the War Department have been of concern to me," Amos Mizell said. "I don't care to bring disrepute down on men who served so bravely against the foe. Traitor Traitor is a hard word." is a hard word."

Featherston fixed him with that savage grin. "Jeb Stuart III was my commanding officer," he said. "Pompey, his n.i.g.g.e.r servant, was a.s.s-deep in the rebellion. He s.h.i.+elded that n.i.g.g.e.r from Army of Northern Virginia Intelligence. His old man, Jeb, Jr., s.h.i.+elded him when it turned out he'd been wrong all the time. If that doesn't make him a traitor to his country, what the h.e.l.l does it do?"

Before either Mizell or Knight could answer, the waiter returned with their suppers. They ate in silence for a while. Knight was the first to break it. "Suppose what you say is true. If you say it too loud and too often, don't you figure the Army is going to land on your back?"

"I reckon the generals'd love to," Jake answered with his mouth full. "But I don't reckon they'd have an easy time of it, even now, on account of the soldiers who got the orders wouldn't be happy about following 'em. And the longer they wait, the harder it'll be."

"You may be right about the second part of that," Mizell said. "I've got my doubts about the first, I have to tell you. You might be smarter to take a step back every now and then so you can take two forward later on."

"The Freedom Party doesn't back up." Featherston eyed Mizell, but was really speaking more to Knight. "You talk about people who want to straighten out the mess we're in and you talk about us first. Everybody else comes behind us."

"You go on like that, why'd you bother coming down here at all?" Knight asked. "What have we got to talk about?"

That was a good question. Jake did not want to negotiate with the Redemption League. Negotiating implied he reckoned Knight his equal, which he did not care to do. But he did not dare risk antagonizing the Tin Hats. If Amos Mizell started saying harsh things about him and about the Freedom Party, it would hurt. But he was not about to admit that, either.

Picking his words with more care than usual, he replied, "We're on the way up. You want to come with us, Knight, you want to help us climb, that's fine. You want to fight, you'll slow us down. I don't say anything different. But you won't stop us, and I'll break you in the end." That wasn't party against party. It was man against man. The only thing Featherston knew how to do when threatened was push back harder than ever. Knight was a man of similar sort. He glared across the table at Jake.

"We're here to stop these brawls before they hurt all of us," Amos Mizell said. "If we work things out now, we don't have to air our dirty linen in public and waste force we could aim at our enemies. That's how I see it."

"That's how I see it, too," Jake said. "If the Redemption League was bigger than the Freedom Party, I'd ease back. Since it's the other way round-"

"You're the one who gets to talk that way," w.i.l.l.y Knight said. Jake only smiled. He knew he was lying-he would have done anything to get ahead of a rival-but n.o.body could prove it.

"It appears to me, things being as they are, that our best course is to use the Freedom Party as the spearhead of our movement and the Redemption League and other organizations as the shaft that helps give the head its striking power," Mizell said. "How does it appear to you, Mr. Knight?"

Featherston felt like kissing Amos Mizell. He couldn't have put the leader of the Redemption League on the spot like that himself. Knight looked like a man who'd found a worm-no, half a worm-in his apple. Very slowly, he replied, "I think we can work with the Freedom Party, depending on who's stronger in any particular place."

"That's a bargain," Jake answered at once. "We'll pull a couple of our candidates in Arkansas, where you look to have a better chance, and we'll throw our weight behind you. There are some districts in Alabama and Mississippi and one in Tennessee I can think of where I want you to do the same."

Even more slowly, Knight nodded again. If the Freedom Party outperformed the Redemption League in this election, support would swing Featherston's way, leaving Knight in the lurch. He could see that. He couldn't do anything about it, though.

He'd want a high post if the Redemption League got folded into the Freedom Party. Jake could already tell as much. He'd give Knight a good slot, too. That way, he could keep an eye on him. The CSA, he thought, had been stabbed in the back. He didn't intend to let that happen to him.

Jonathan Moss slid out of his Bucephalus and stumbled toward his Evanston apartment building. He was glad he'd managed to get home without running over anybody. After his last course, he and Fred Sandburg and several other people-he couldn't recall how many right now-had found a friendly saloon and done their best to drink it dry. Why not? Why not? he thought. It was a Friday night. He wouldn't need his brains again till Monday morning. he thought. It was a Friday night. He wouldn't need his brains again till Monday morning.

His breath smoked. The wind off Lake Michigan blew the smoke away. It was chilly, despite the antifreeze he'd poured into his pipes. "Not as chilly as it would be up in Ontario," Moss said, as if someone had a.s.serted the opposite. He stepped up onto the stairs. "Not half as chilly as Laura Secord's heart."

Fred never had stopped ribbing him about Laura Secord. Even now, after she'd rejected him again, he couldn't get her out of his mind. He'd come home. He'd done well at Northwestern. He hadn't found a girl he cared about, though. He wondered if he ever would. He wondered if he ever could.

He opened the door at the top of the stairs, then quickly shut it behind him. Getting out of the wind felt good. He fumbled for the key to his mailbox. It wasn't easy to find, not when every key on the ring looked like one of twins. He almost gave it up as a bad job and headed for bed. But, figuring he'd probably have trouble finding his apartment key, too, he chose to regard the mailbox key as a test. He made a determined drunk.

"There you are, you sneaky little b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said, capturing the errant key. Making it fit the lock was another struggle, but he won that one, too.

A couple of advertising circulars fell onto the floor. Bending to pick them up made his head spin. He also had a letter from a cousin out in Denver and another envelope with his address written in a hand he didn't recognize. He'd taken two steps toward the stairs before he remembered to go back and shut and lock the mailbox.

He did have a devil of a time finding the key that opened the apartment door, but by luck he got it into the lock on the first try. He flipped on the electric light and tossed the mail down on the table in front of the sofa. He tossed himself down on the sofa and fell asleep.

Next thing he knew, the sun was streaming in the window. A determined musician pounded on kettle drums inside his head. His mouth tasted the way a slit trench smelled. His bladder was about to explode. He staggered off to the bathroom, p.i.s.sed forever, brushed his teeth, and dry-swallowed two aspirin tablets. Black coffee would have helped, too, but making it seemed too much like work.