Blood and Iron

by Harry Turtledove

  The Charleston Hotel was a large building of white stucco with a colonnaded entranceway. An attendant took charge of the Ford as if it had been a Vauxhall. The house detective didn’t blink an eye as Kimball got into the elevator with Anne.

  Their joining was fierce as usual, as much a struggle for dominance as what a lot of people thought of as lovemaking. When it was good, as it was tonight, they both won. Afterwards, they lay side by side, lazily caressing each other and talking…politics.

  “You were right, Roger,” Anne said, the sort of admission she seldom made. “The Freedom Party is on the way up, and Jake Featherston is someone to reckon with.”

  “I want to meet him myself,” Kimball said. He tweaked her nipple, gently enough to be another caress, sharply enough to be a demand and a warning. “You owe me that, seeing as I was right.”

  She knocked his hand away and answered with more than a hint of malice: “What makes you think he’d want to meet you? You were an officer, after all, and he’s not what you’d call keen on officers.”

  “He’s not keen on rich officers,” Kimball retorted. “You ever saw the farm I grew up on, you’d know I’m not one of those. He’ll know it, too.”

  He saw he’d surprised her by answering seriously. He also saw his answer wasn’t something she’d thought of herself. “All right,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.” She rolled toward him on the broad bed. “And now—”

  He took her in his arms. “Now I’ll see what I can do.”

  Cincinnatus Driver wished he didn’t keep getting shipments for Joe Conroy’s general store. He wished he could stay away from Conroy for the rest of his life. Like so many wishes, that one wasn’t granted. He couldn’t turn down deliveries to Conroy’s. If he started turning down deliveries to one storekeeper, he’d stop getting deliveries to any storekeepers.

  He also wished his rattletrap truck had windshield wipers. Since it didn’t—he counted himself lucky it had a motor, let alone any fripperies—he drove from the Ohio to the corner of Emma and Blackwell as slowly and carefully as he could, doing his best to peer between the raindrops spattering his windshield. His best was good enough to keep him from hitting anybody, but he clucked to himself at how long he was taking to drive across Covington.

  “And when I finally get there, I get to deal with Joe Conroy,” he said. He talked to himself a lot while driving, for lack of anyone else with whom to talk. “Won’t that just make my day? Sour old—”

  But, when he hauled the first keg of molasses into the general store, he found Conroy in a mood not merely good but jubilant. He stared suspiciously at the fat storekeeper; Conroy wasn’t supposed to act like that. Conroy didn’t usually sign the shipping receipt till Cincinnatus had fetched in everything, but he did today. “Ain’t it a beautiful mornin’?” he said.

  Cincinnatus looked outside, in case the sun had come out and a rainbow appeared in the sky while his back was turned. No: everything remained as gray and dark as it had been a moment before. Nasty cold drizzle was building toward nasty cold rain; he didn’t relish the upcoming drive back to the wharves.

  “Tell you straight out, Mistuh Conroy, I’ve seen me a whole hell of a lot of days I liked the looks of better,” he answered, and went back out into the wet to fetch some more of what Conroy had ordered. The sooner he got it all into the store, the sooner he could get away.

  When he came inside again, Joe Conroy said, “Didn’t say it was pretty out. I said it was a beautiful mornin’, and it damn well is.”

  “I ain’t got the time to play silly games.” Cincinnatus spoke more rudely to Conroy than to any other white man he knew, and enjoyed every minute of it. “Tell me what you’re talkin’ about or let it go.”

  Conroy was in the habit of making noises about what an uppity nigger Cincinnatus was. He didn’t even bother with those today. “I’ll tell you, by Jesus,” he answered. “I sure as hell will tell you. It’s a beautiful mornin’ on account of the Freedom Party won eleven seats in the Congress down in Richmond, and the Redemption League took four more.”

  That didn’t make it a beautiful morning for Cincinnatus—but then, Cincinnatus, though he’d had to work with the Confederate diehards in Kentucky, wasn’t one himself. His considered opinion was that a black man would have to be crazy to want the Stars and Bars flying here again. The Stars and Stripes weren’t an enormous improvement, but any improvement, no matter how modest, seemed the next thing to a miracle to him.

  Then he thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. He might not be crazy, but maybe he was stupid. “That’s how come I’ve seen ‘Freedom!’ painted on about every other wall this past couple weeks,” he said.

  “Sure as hell is,” Conroy said. “Those folks is gonna do great things for the country—for my country.” His narrow little eyes probed at Cincinnatus. Cincinnatus stared back impassively. He didn’t want Conroy to know what he was thinking. The storekeeper grunted and went on, “Reckon there’ll be a Freedom Party startin’ up in Kentucky any day now.”

  “How do you figure the USA’s gonna let you get away with that?” Cincinnatus asked in surprise. “They ain’t gonna let there be no party that don’t really belong to the United States at all.”

  Joe Conroy looked sly. He might not have been all that smart, but he was one crafty devil: that much Cincinnatus could not help but recognize. “They let Reds operate in the USA, don’t they?” he said. “It’s a free country, ain’t it? Says it is, anyways—says it out loud, bangin’ on a big drum. If the Freedom Party, say, wants to try and get the votes to take Kentucky back into the CSA, how can they stop us from doin’ that?”

  He looked smug, as if certain Cincinnatus could have no answer. But Cincinnatus did have an answer, and gave it in two words: “Luther Bliss.”

  “Huh,” Conroy said. “We’ll handle him, too, when the time comes.”

  Cincinnatus didn’t argue, not any more. Arguing with a fool had always struck him as a waste of time. And Conroy sure as hell wasn’t all that smart if he thought he could handle Luther Bliss. Cincinnatus had his doubts about whether Apicius Wood could handle Bliss if he had to. Apicius, he judged, had the sense not to try, but then Apicius really was pretty smart.

  “Let me get the rest of your stuff,” Cincinnatus said. If he wasn’t face-to-face with Conroy, he couldn’t possibly argue with him.

  The storekeeper wanted to keep on jawing, but Cincinnatus didn’t have to play, not today he didn’t. With Conroy’s receipt in his pocket, all he had to do was finish the delivery and get out. He did exactly that.

  As he drove back up toward the river, he really noticed how many walls and fences had FREEDOM! painted on them. The word had replaced the blue crosses and red-white-red horizontal stripes as the diehards’ chosen scribble.

  He didn’t like what he’d heard about the Freedom Party. That put it mildly. The local papers said little about the outfit; these days, they did their best to ignore what went on in the Confederate States. But word drifted up out of the CSA even so, word spread on the black grapevine that ran alongside and occasionally overlapped the one the diehards used. None of that word was good. And now the Freedom Party had done better in the elections than anyone expected. That was not good news, either.

  When he got home that evening, he told Elizabeth what he’d heard from Conroy. She nodded. “White lady I clean house for, she was talkin’’bout the same thing on the telephone. She sound happy as a pig in a strawberry patch.”

  “I believe it,” Cincinnatus said. Kentucky had been taken out of the USA by main force at the end of the War of Secession. It had been dragged back into the United States the same way during the course of the Great War. A lot of Kentuckians—a lot of white Kentuckians—wished the return had never happened. Cincinnatus went on, “The government ever lets people here vote for the Freedom Party, they ain’t gonna like the votes they see.”

  Elizabeth sighed. Part of the sigh was weariness after a long day. Part of it was weariness after living among a
nd having to work for people who despised her the second they set eyes on her. She said, “Reckon you’re right. Wish it wasn’t so, but it is.”

  “Pa’s right,” Achilles said cheerfully. “Pa’s right.” He didn’t know what Cincinnatus was right about. He didn’t care, either. He had confidence that his father was and always would be right.

  Cincinnatus wished he had that same confidence. He knew all too well how many mistakes he’d made over the years, how lucky he was to have come through some of them, and how one more could ruin not only his life but those of his wife and little son. Slowly, he said, “Maybe we ought to talk some more about pullin’ up stakes, Elizabeth. We can do it. Don’t need no passbook, not any more.”

  “We got us a lifetime of roots in this place,” Elizabeth said. She’d said the same thing when Cincinnatus brought up the idea of leaving Covington earlier in the year.

  He hadn’t pressed her very hard then. Now he said, “Sometimes the only thing roots is good for is gettin’ pulled out of the ground. Sometimes, if you don’t pull ’em out, they hold you there till somethin’ cuts you down.”

  Instead of answering directly, Elizabeth retreated to the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she said, “Go set yourself down. Smells like the ham is just about ready.”

  Sit himself down Cincinnatus did, but he didn’t abandon the subject, as his wife plainly hoped he would. “I been thinkin’ about this,” he said. “Been thinkin’ about it a lot, even if I ain’t said much. If we leave, I know where I’d like us to go. I been lookin’ things up, best I can.”

  “And where’s that?” Elizabeth asked, resignation and fear mingling in her voice.

  “Des Moines, Iowa,” he answered. “It’s on a river—the Des Moines runs into the Mississippi—so there’ll be haulin’ business off the docks. Iowa lets black folks vote. They let women vote for president, too.”

  “I reckon they got women there,” Elizabeth allowed. “They got any black folks there at all?”

  “A few, I reckon,” he answered. “There’s a few black folks in just about every good-sized town in the USA. Ain’t any more than a few very many places, though.” He held up a hand before his wife could say anything. “Maybe that’s even for the best. When there ain’t very many of us, can’t be enough for the white folks to hate us.”

  “Who says there can’t?” Elizabeth spoke with the accumulated bitter wisdom of her race. “And Jesus, how far away is this Des Moines place? It’d be like fallin’ off the edge of the world.”

  “About six hundred miles,” Cincinnatus said, as casually as he could. Elizabeth’s eyes filled with horror. He went on, “Reckon the truck’ll make it. They got a lot o’ paved roads in the USA.” He pursed his lips. “Have to pick the time to leave, make sure everything’s all good and dry.”

  “You aim on bringin’ your ma an’ pa along?” Elizabeth asked. Her own parents were both dead.

  “They want to come, we’ll fit ’em in some kind of way,” Cincinnatus answered. “They don’t—” He shrugged. “They’re all grown up. Can’t make ’em do nothin’they don’t take a shine to.”

  “I don’t take no shine to this myself.” Elizabeth stuck out her chin and looked stubborn.

  “You take a shine to livin’ here in Kentucky if that Freedom Party starts winnin’ elections?” Cincinnatus asked. “Somethin’ like that happen, you’ll be glad we got somewheres else to go.”

  That hit home. “Maybe,” Elizabeth said in a small voice.

  Something else occurred to Cincinnatus: if the Freedom Party started winning elections in the Confederate States, what would the Negroes there do? They couldn’t run away to Iowa. They’d already tried rising up, tried and failed. What did that leave? For the life of him, Cincinnatus couldn’t see anything.

  Stephen Douglas Martin’s eyes went from his daughter to his son and back again in something that looked like pleased bemusement. “You don’t have to do this on account of me, you know,” he said. “If you want to go out and paint the town red, go right on out and do it.”

  Chester Martin grinned at his father. “You already say I’m too much of a Red. I don’t even want to go out and paint the town green.”

  “We just want to spend New Year’s Eve with you and Mother, that’s all,” Sue Martin said, nodding vigorously. Chester’s kid sister looked a lot like him, with sharp nose, green eyes, and sandy hair. She thought a lot like him, too, on labor matters and on a lot of other things as well.

  “Besides, Pa,” he added, “where the devil could I go in Toledo to paint the town red even if I wanted to? This isn’t exactly Philadelphia or New York City.” Toledo also didn’t boast the multitude of saloons and brothels that sprang up behind an army’s lines to cater to the needs—or at least the desires—of soldiers briefly free from the trenches.

  “Well, you’ve got me there,” his father answered. “Yes, sir, you’ve got me there. Once upon a time, I used to know where all the hot joints were, but that was a while ago now. Don’t look so much to go out and get rowdy, like I used to before I hooked up with your mother and settled down.”

  From the kitchen, Louisa Martin called, “What are you blaming me for now, Stephen?” Dishes rattled as she put them back into the cabinet. “I’m almost finished in here. Whatever you’re trying to pin on me, in a minute I’ll be out there and you won’t be able to do it.”

  She was as good as her word. Her husband said, “What I was trying to pin on you, dear, was settling me down. If you don’t think you’ve done it, I’ll go out and get drunk and leave you home with the kids.” His eyes twinkled. “I’ll probably beat you when I get back, too, the way I always do.”

  “I don’t know why you haven’t quit yet,” Louisa Martin said with a pretty good martyred sigh. “I’m all over bruises, and the police keep dragging you down to the station every other day.”

  They both started laughing. Sue looked from one of them to the other, as if astonished her parents could act so absurd, and about something that would have been very serious had they been serious themselves. Chester said, “Well, Ma, that’s better work for the cops than most of what they do, believe me.”

  “Hold on there.” His father held out his hand like a cop halting traffic. “If we’re going to have a happy New Year’s Eve, let’s see if we can manage not to talk politics. Otherwise, we’ll just start arguing.”

  “I’ll try,” Chester said, knowing his father was likely to be right. He let out a wry chuckle before going on, “Doesn’t leave me much to talk about but my football team, though.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk about that, either,” his mother said. “It’s just as dangerous as going out there on the picket line.”

  “Not even close.” Chester shook his head. “The fellows on the teams we play hardly ever carry guns, the way the cops and the company goons do.”

  “What did I say a minute ago?” Stephen Douglas Martin asked rhetorically. “If you want to turn out editorials, son, go work for a newspaper.”

  “All right,” Chester said.

  His father looked at him in some surprise, evidently not having expected such an easy victory. The older male Martin arose with a grunt from the chair in which he’d been ensconced since suppertime. He went into the kitchen and came out with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  “Well, I like that,” Sue said with annoyance only partly affected. “Are you going to leave Mother and me thirsty?”

  “I only have two hands.” Her father set the whiskey and the glasses on the side table by his chair, then held up the members in question. “Count ’em—two.” He returned to the kitchen and brought out two more tumblers.

  Chester wondered if his father had intended to include Sue and his mother in the drinking. If he hadn’t, nobody could prove it now. Whiskey gurgled into four glasses. Chester raised his. “To 1920!” he said.

  “To 1920!” his sister and his parents echoed. They all drank. Chester sighed as the whiskey ran down his throat. It wasn’t the smoothest he’d ever
drunk, but it wasn’t bad, either. Some of the rotgut he’d had in back of the lines—and, every once in a while, in a canteen or jug smuggled up to the forward trenches—had been like drinking liquid barbed wire.

  His father stood to propose a toast. “To the 1920s—may they be a better ten years than the ten we’ve just gone through.” Everyone drank to that, too. Stephen Douglas Martin said, “Now we ought to all pitch our glasses into the fireplace. Only trouble with that is, you go through a lot of glasses.”

  Sue looked at the clock on the mantel over the fireplace. “Three hours till midnight, less a couple of minutes. Will starting a new calendar really make a difference? It’d be nice to think it would.”

  “We always hope it will,” her mother said wistfully. She sighed. “And we usually end up looking back and saying, ‘Well, that’s another year down.’”

  “This wasn’t too bad a year,” Chester said. “I’ve had work through most of it, anyway, and that’s more than I can say for the rest of the time since I got out of the Army.”

  He left it at that. Had he said more, he and his father would have got to arguing politics. He was convinced the factory owners had settled with the steelworkers because of the 1918 election returns. Whatever else you might say about them, big capitalists weren’t stupid. When handwriting went up on the wall, they could read it. If they didn’t come to terms with the people who worked for them, Congress would start passing laws they didn’t fancy.

  His mother sat down at the tired old upright piano and began to play. Her choice of tunes made him smile. After a little while, he said, “I’m not in the Army any more. You don’t have to give me one Sousa march after another.” He stomped up and down the room as if on parade.

  “I like playing them, Chester,” Louisa Martin said. “They make me want to go marching—except I can’t, not while I’m playing.” She swung into a spirited if not technically perfect rendition of “Remembrance and Defiance.”