American Empire_ Blood And Iron Part 49

They bantered back and forth, each making the other out to be a better football player than he really was. Then Matt got up and headed off to chin with somebody else, just as if he'd never clubbed a striking steelworker in all his born days. And Martin waved when he went, just as if he'd never kicked a cop. Everything in the park was peaceful and friendly. Chester Martin liked that fine.

It couldn't be plainer that no Negro ever born has got what it takes to be a true citizen of the Confederate States of America. Jake Featherston's pen raced across the page. One of those days, Jake Featherston's pen raced across the page. One of those days, Over Open Sights Over Open Sights would be done, and everyone in the country would realize he'd been telling the truth all along. would be done, and everyone in the country would realize he'd been telling the truth all along.

Anyone with half an eye to see can understand the reasons for this. They are-Before Jake could set down what they were, his secretary came back into his inner office. "What do you want, Lulu?" he growled; like any writer, he hated interruptions.

"Someone to see you, Mr. Featherston," she said.

"Who is it?" he asked. "I don't want to see any reporters right now." Fewer reporters wanted to see him these days, too. That worried him, but not enough to make him feel friendly right this second.

"It's not a reporter, sir," Lulu answered. "It's General Jeb Stuart, Jr."

"What?" Jake had trouble believing his ears. As far as he was concerned, Jeb Stuart, Jr., was the author of all his troubles. Who else had made sure he would stay a sergeant as long as he stayed in the Army? Jeb Stuart, Jr., blamed him for the death of Jeb Stuart III. Jake blamed Jeb Stuart, Jr., for suppressing an investigation that might have given warning of the great Red uprising. And now the general wanted to see him? Slowly, Jake said, "Well, I reckon you can bring him on in."

Jeb Stuart, Jr., was in his late fifties. He looked very much like an older version of his handsome son, save that he wore a neat gray chin beard rather than the little strip of hair under the lower lip Jeb Stuart III had affected. After cautious greetings, Stuart said, "You're probably wondering why I've called on you now, after pretending for so long that you and the Freedom Party and all the insults you've thrown at me don't exist."

Jake did his best to sound dry: "I'd be a liar if I said it hadn't crossed my mind-and I'm no liar."

"You say that. I wonder if even you believe it." Stuart looked at him. No-Stuart looked through him. He'd had upper-crust Confederate officers give him that look a great many times. It showed without words that they relegated him to the outer darkness: he wasn't quite a n.i.g.g.e.r in their eyes, but he might as well have been.

It also made Featherston want to punch those upper-crust Confederates right in the face. "You've got anything to say, say it and then get the h.e.l.l out," he snapped. "Otherwise, just get the h.e.l.l out."

"I intend to say it. You needn't worry about that," Jeb Stuart, Jr., replied. "I came to say good-bye."

"Good-bye?" Jake echoed. "Why? Are you leaving? If you are, it's about ten years too late, but good riddance anyway. I'm sure as the devil not going anywhere."

To his surprise, Stuart smiled. "I know you're not. You're not going anywhere at all in the Confederate States of America, not in politics, not any more you're not. And so, Sergeant Featherston"-he laced the t.i.tle with contempt-"good-bye." He waved, a delicate fluttering of the fingers.

Jake laughed in his face. "Go ahead and dream, General." He showed what he thought of Stuart's t.i.tle, too. "You fancy-pants boys won't be rid of me that easy." He couldn't help a nasty stab of fear, though. Nothing had gone right for him or the Freedom Party since Grady Calkins took a Tredegar out to the Alabama State Fairgrounds and shot down Wade Hampton V.

Stuart might have picked his pocket for that very thought. "People know what the Freedom Party is now, Featherston: a pack of murdering ruffians. They'll run your henchmen out of Congress in a few months, and you'll never, ever be president of the Confederate States. And for that, believe me, I get down on my knees and thank G.o.d."

"Go ahead and laugh," Featherston said. "The fellow who laughs last laughs best, or that's what they say. I fought the d.a.m.nyankees till I couldn't fight any more, and I reckon I'll keep on fighting the traitors here the same way." Not for the life of him would he let Jeb Stuart, Jr., see how closely his words reflected Jake's own nightmares.

"There are no traitors, d.a.m.n you," Stuart said.

"h.e.l.l there aren't," Featherston returned. "I'm sitting across the desk from one. G.o.d d.a.m.n you, that n.i.g.g.e.r Pompey, your son's body servant, was as Red as he was black. They were going to take him away and grill him, but your precious brat didn't want 'em to, and they didn't. Who stopped 'em? You stopped 'em, that's who. If that doesn't make you a traitor, what the h.e.l.l are you?"

"A man who made a mistake," Stuart answered. "I don't suppose you've ever made a mistake, Featherston?"

"Not one that big, by Jesus," Jake said.

Stuart startled him again, this time by nodding. "It couldn't have been much bigger, could it? It ended up costing me the life of my only son."

"It cost a lot more than that," Featherston said. "It cost thousands dead, by G.o.d. If any one thing cost us the war, that was it. And all you do is think about yourself. I reckon I ought to be surprised, but I ain't."

"You don't know what I think, so don't put words in my mouth," Jeb Stuart, Jr., said. Slowly, sadly, he shook his head. "I blamed you for my son's death, you know."

"I never would have guessed," Jake said with a fine sardonic sneer. "That's why I spent the next year and however long commanding a battery and staying a sergeant. I could have been in the Army for the next five wars-h.e.l.l, the next ten wars-and I never would've had more than three stripes. Thank you very kindly, General G.o.dd.a.m.n Stuart, sir."

He wanted to fight with Stuart. He would have loved to spring out of his chair, smash the general to the floor, and stomp him. Every muscle quivered. Give me an excuse, Give me an excuse, he said silently. he said silently. Come on, you son of a b.i.t.c.h. Give me even a piece of an excuse. Come on, you son of a b.i.t.c.h. Give me even a piece of an excuse.

But Stuart only looked sad. "And that was the other half of my mistake. Yes, I blocked your promotion. It seemed the right thing to do at the time, but it turned out wrong, so wrong. If you'd ended the war a lieutenant or a captain, would you ever have done what you did with-and to-the Freedom Party?"

Featherston stared at him. That question had never crossed his mind. He tried to imagine himself without the smoldering resentment he'd carried since 1916. For the life of him, he couldn't. That endless burning inside was as much a part of him as his fingers.

He said, "It's a little f.u.c.king late to worry about that now, don't you reckon?"

"I do. I certainly do." Stuart got to his feet. "And it's a little f.u.c.king late to worry about you, Featherston. You're yesterday's news, and you won't be tomorrow's. You don't need to get up for me." Jake hadn't been about to get up for him, as he must have known. "I can find my own way out."

"Don't come back, either," Jake snarled.

Leaving the inner office, Jeb Stuart, Jr., got the last word: "I wish you the same." He closed the door behind him.

With another snarl, this one wordless, Jake s.n.a.t.c.hed up his pen and began to write furiously. He filled two pages in Over Open Sights Over Open Sights in something less than half an hour. But even venting his anger through the growing book was not enough to satisfy him. He slammed his pad shut, threw it into his desk, and locked the drawer that held it. Until he was ready for it to see the light of day, it wouldn't. in something less than half an hour. But even venting his anger through the growing book was not enough to satisfy him. He slammed his pad shut, threw it into his desk, and locked the drawer that held it. Until he was ready for it to see the light of day, it wouldn't.

He sprang up and paced the inner office like a caged wolf. The Party would would lose ground when elections came, and they were only four months away. He saw no way around it. The trick was going to be holding as much as he could-and making people think the Freedom Party would be a force to reckon with in elections after 1923. He'd known it wouldn't be easy long before General Stuart stopped by to gloat. lose ground when elections came, and they were only four months away. He saw no way around it. The trick was going to be holding as much as he could-and making people think the Freedom Party would be a force to reckon with in elections after 1923. He'd known it wouldn't be easy long before General Stuart stopped by to gloat.

He wished he could talk with Roger Kimball. But Kimball was dead, and the d.a.m.nyankee woman who'd murdered him had got off scot-free. That was one more on the list he'd already started compiling against President Mitchel. "Go ahead, kiss the USA's a.s.s," he muttered.

He wished he could talk with Anne Colleton, too. He valued her money, he valued her sense of theatrics, and he valued her brains. But she didn't value him or the Freedom Party any more. Of all the defections he'd had to endure over the past year, hers might have hurt most.

Since he couldn't talk with either of them, he telephoned Ferdinand Koenig. "Jeb Stuart, Jr.?" his former running mate exclaimed. "Well, isn't that a kick in the head? Stopped by to gloat, you say?"

"That's just what he did," Jake answered. "Said the Party was as good as dead and buried, G.o.d d.a.m.n him to h.e.l.l."

"Don't take it too much to heart," Koenig said. "If he's as right about that as he was during the war, we're in fine shape."

"Yeah!" Featherston said gratefully; he hadn't thought of it like that. "You've got a good way of looking at things, Ferd."

"Don't reckon you'll let us down, Sarge," Koenig answered. "I remember where we were back in 1917, and I can see where we are now. Maybe we haven't climbed all the way to the top of the mountain, but we'll get there."

Thousands of Party stalwarts might-would-have said the same thing. But Jake set no special stock in what stalwarts said. They weren't stalwarts because they were long on brains. They were stalwarts because they were long on muscle and short on temper. Ferdinand Koenig was different. He not only had good sense, he wasn't embarra.s.sed about showing it.

"Of course we'll get there," Jake said, sounding more confident than he felt. "Just have to come through this November without getting skinned."

"Figure we will?" Koenig asked.

"That's the question, all right," Jake allowed. He let out a long, slow sigh. "We'll get hurt some. We'll have to put the best face on it we can, and then we'll have to start building toward 1925. We can't afford to waste a minute there. I only hope to G.o.d we don't lose so much, people won't take us serious any more." With Kimball dead and Anne Colleton gone, Ferdinand Koenig was the only one to whom he would have said even so much.

Koenig answered, "You never can tell, Sarge. Folks don't think we matter so much now that money doesn't burn a hole in their pockets if they leave it in there more than a minute and a half, but who knows how long that'll last? Who knows what all's liable to go wrong between now and 1925?"

"That's right," Jake said, smiling for the first time since Jeb Stuart, Jr., had left. "That's just right. With the Whigs running things, they will will go wrong, sure as the sun comes up tomorrow." He hung up feeling better, but only for a little while. Would anything be left of the Freedom Party when a chance to rule came round at last? go wrong, sure as the sun comes up tomorrow." He hung up feeling better, but only for a little while. Would anything be left of the Freedom Party when a chance to rule came round at last?

"Mama!" Clara Jacobs screeched from what had been the storeroom. "Little Armstrong just tore up the picture I was drawing!"

She was almost four, more than twice the age of her little nephew. But Armstrong Grimes, even as a toddler, gave every sign of being h.e.l.l on wheels. He takes after Edna, He takes after Edna, Nellie thought. Nellie thought. I bet Merle Grimes was a nice man even when he was a little boy. I bet Merle Grimes was a nice man even when he was a little boy. She had such a good opinion of almost no one else in the male half of the human race; the more she got to know her son-in-law, the more he impressed her. She had such a good opinion of almost no one else in the male half of the human race; the more she got to know her son-in-law, the more he impressed her.

Fortunately, the coffeehouse was almost empty. She could hurry back to the old storeroom and mete out punishment. Armstrong hadn't just torn up Clara's picture; he'd made a snowstorm of pieces out of it. He was happily sticking one of those pieces in his mouth when Nellie yanked it away from him, upended him over her knee, and walloped his backside. "No, no!" she shouted. "Mustn't tear up things that don't belong to you!"

Her grandson howled. Since he was wearing a diaper that s.h.i.+elded his bottom, Nellie knew she wasn't hurting him much. The spanking made an impressive amount of noise, though, as did her yelling.

"Now," she said, "are you going to do that any more?"

"No," little Armstrong answered. Nellie wiped his nose, which was dripping yellowish snot. She didn't believe him. For one thing, he was heading toward the age where he said no no every other time he opened his mouth. For another, a toddler's promise lasted only till he forgot he'd made it, which meant anywhere from two minutes to, in extraordinary circ.u.mstances, an hour or so. every other time he opened his mouth. For another, a toddler's promise lasted only till he forgot he'd made it, which meant anywhere from two minutes to, in extraordinary circ.u.mstances, an hour or so.

"You be good, you hear me?" Nellie said.

"No," Armstrong Grimes answered. That was neither defiance nor ignorance, only the first thing that came out of his mouth.

"I'm good, Mama," Clara said, so virtuously that Nellie expected to be blinded by the halo about to spring into being above her head. good, Mama," Clara said, so virtuously that Nellie expected to be blinded by the halo about to spring into being above her head.

"Of course you are-when you feel like it," Nellie told her own daughter. "Pick up those sc.r.a.ps, and don't let him eat any more of them. Don't let him eat your crayons, either."

"I won't, Mama." Clara turned to her nephew. "You see? You can't have anything anything." Thus made forcibly aware that he was being deprived, Armstrong started crying again. Nellie had to spend more time soothing him before she could go out front again.

Edna was supposed to come get her son at half past three; she'd left him with Nellie so she could do some unenc.u.mbered shopping. She didn't show up till a quarter after four. "h.e.l.lo, Ma-I'm sorry," she said in a perfunctory way. "How crazy did he drive you?"

"Crazy enough," Nellie replied. "I was thinking he reminds me of you." Edna laughed, but Nellie wasn't joking. She went on, "Please come get him when you say you will. I've got enough to do keeping up with Clara and the coffeehouse. Put Armstrong in there, too, and I start climbing the walls."

Edna sniffed. "I take care of Clara for you sometimes, and you don't hear me complaining about it."

"Oh, I do sometimes," Nellie said. "And besides, when you take care of the children, that's all you do. You have Merle to make a living for you. I've got to make my own living, and this place won't run by itself."

Before Edna could answer, Armstrong picked up something from the floor and started chewing on it. He bit Edna when she stuck her finger in his mouth to get it out. She finally did-it was a nasty little clump of hair and dust-and then whacked him a lot harder than Nellie had done. He wasn't crying now because he was angry or frightened; he was crying because his bottom hurt.

"You've never been fair with me," Edna said.

And here we go again, Nellie thought. Nellie thought. One more round in the fight that never stops for good. One more round in the fight that never stops for good. She said, "You think being fair means doing whatever you want. I've got news for you, dearie-it doesn't work that way." She said, "You think being fair means doing whatever you want. I've got news for you, dearie-it doesn't work that way."

"I've got news for you, Ma-you never do what I want." Edna glared. "You do as you please, and what pleases you most is doing whatever you think will make me maddest."

"Why, you little liar!" Nellie snapped, as she might have at Clara. But Edna's charge held just enough truth to sting more than it would have had it been made up from whole cloth. "And you were the one who was always sneaking around behind my back. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"I had to sneak around behind your back. You wouldn't let me live any kind of life in front of your face," Edna said.

"I don't call living fast and loose any kind of a life." To forestall her daughter, Nellie added, "And I ought to know, too. I found out the hard way."

"Yeah, and you've been frozen up ever since on account of it," Edna said, another shot with all too much truth in it. "I got what I was looking for in spite of you, and do you know what else? I like it just fine." She carried her son out of the coffeehouse, slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle the windows.

"Why is my big sister angry?" Clara asked from the door to her playroom. "If I slammed a door like that, I'd get a whipping."

"Edna's too big to get a whipping." Under her breath, Nellie mumbled, "No matter how much she needs one."

That slammed door also drew Hal from across the street. "You had another quarrel with Edna," he said. It was not a question.

"Well, what if I did?" Nellie said. "I don't suppose I would have, if she'd come and gotten her brat when she was supposed to."

Exercising her temper proved a mistake. Clara started chanting, "Armstrong is a brat! Armstrong is a brat!"

"Stop that!" Hal Jacobs said sharply, and, for a wonder, Clara stopped it. She listened to her father more often than to her mother, perhaps because Hal gave her fewer orders than Nellie did.

Nellie sighed. "I wish Edna would pay as much attention to you as Clara does." She sighed again. "I wish anyone would pay attention to me."

"I always pay attention to you, my dear," Hal said.

That was true. It was so true, Nellie had come to take it for granted in the years since she and Hal got married. Because she took it for granted, it no longer satisfied her. She said, "I wish Edna would pay attention to me."

"She is a grown woman," Hal said. "With a little luck, she is paying attention to her own husband now."

"It's not the same," Nellie replied in a sulky voice.

"No, I suppose it is not," Hal admitted. "But it is good that she should pay attention to someone, I think. And Merle Grimes is a young man worth paying attention to."

"I know he is. I was thinking the same thing myself earlier today," Nellie said. "But he's not her mother, and I am." She shook her head, discontented with the world and with Edna. "That's probably why she doesn't pay attention to me."

"Yes, it probably is," Hal said. "When I was becoming a man, I paid as little attention to my mother and my father as I could get away with."

Nellie had hardly known her own father. When she'd got away from her mother at an early age, it was to go into the demimonde. Hal didn't need to know any more about that than whatever he'd already found out. Nellie said, "But Edna isn't becoming a woman. By now, she is one, like you said. Shouldn't she have figured out that I know what I'm doing by now?"

"Maybe," Hal said. "But maybe not, too." He looked at Nellie with amused affection. "She has a stubborn streak as wide as yours. I wonder where she could have gotten it."

"Not from me," Nellie said automatically. She needed a moment to recognize the expression on her husband's face. Hal Jacobs was doing his best not to laugh out loud. Again, Nellie spoke automatically: "I'm not stubborn!" Hal let the words hang, the most devastating thing he could have done. Nellie's face went hot. She said, "I'm not that stubborn, anyway."

"Well, maybe not," Hal said; he should have been a diplomat in striped trousers, not a cobbler and sometimes spy. He went on, "You are my dear wife, and I love you exactly the way you are."

"You're sweet." That was usually another automatic reply. This time, Nellie listened to what she'd just said. "You really are sweet, Hal. I'm glad I married you. I was scared to death when you asked me, but it's worked out pretty well, hasn't it?" If she sounded a little surprised, she could hope her husband didn't notice.

If he did, he was too much a gentleman to show it. "The best five years of my life," he said. "Being here with you, and being here to watch Clara grow up..." His face softened. "Yes, the best years of my life."

With more than a little surprise, Nellie realized the years since the war had been the best of her life, too. She'd made more money when the Confederates occupied Was.h.i.+ngton, but she'd been worried and afraid all the time: worried about what Edna would do, afraid Bill Reach would tell the whole world what he knew, worried and afraid the U.S. bombardment would blow her and Edna and the coffeehouse to h.e.l.l and gone.

Now Edna was married, Bill Reach was dead, and the country was at peace. And living with Hal Jacobs hadn't proved nearly so hard as she'd feared. "I love you, Hal," she exclaimed.

Saying it surprised her: it seemed an afternoon for surprises. And discovering she meant it surprised her even more. Hearing it made her husband's face light up. "I love it when you tell me that," Hal said. "I did not know I could be more happy than I already was, but now I am."

"I'm happy, too," Nellie said. By the way all the stories were written, she should have been in love with her husband before she married him, instead of finding out she was five years later. Well, Well, she thought, she thought, it's not like I've lived a storybook life. it's not like I've lived a storybook life. She tried to remember if she'd ever told Hal she loved him before. Once or twice, maybe, in a dutiful fas.h.i.+on, as she occasionally gave him her body. But the words hadn't come from her heart, not till today. She tried to remember if she'd ever told Hal she loved him before. Once or twice, maybe, in a dutiful fas.h.i.+on, as she occasionally gave him her body. But the words hadn't come from her heart, not till today.

Perhaps Hal sensed something of the same thing. He walked up to her and gave her a kiss a good deal warmer than the pecks that usually pa.s.sed between them. She returned it with more warmth than usual, too. For once, she didn't mind the gleam that came into Hal's eye. The idea of making love while kindled suddenly struck her as delicious, not disgusting.

But Clara was still playing not far from one of the tables, and a customer chose that moment to come in. Can't have everything, Can't have everything, Nellie thought as she walked over to ask the man what he wanted. She looked around. No, she couldn't have everything-she wouldn't be rich as long as she lived, for instance. What she had, though, was pretty good. Nellie thought as she walked over to ask the man what he wanted. She looked around. No, she couldn't have everything-she wouldn't be rich as long as she lived, for instance. What she had, though, was pretty good.