American Empire_ Blood And Iron Part 1

American Empire_ Blood and Iron.

by Harry Turtledove.

The Great War is over. After three years of brutal conflict, the United States have defeated the Confederate States and Canada-as, in Europe, the German Empire and Austria-Hungary have defeated France, Britain, and Russia. Now, all across North America, people are trying to pick up their shattered lives.

In Boston, Sylvia Enos mourns the loss of her husband, George, who was killed when his destroyer, the USS Ericsson Ericsson, was sunk by a torpedo during the last moments of the war. As the Confederate States had already asked for an armistice, she believes a British submersible sank the Ericsson Ericsson. She has more urgent things to worry about, though: keeping her job when so many men are returning from the war, and bringing up her young son and daughter.

In fact, though, Commander Roger Kimball of the CSS Bonefish Bonefish sank the sank the Ericsson Ericsson, a last blow against the United States even though he knew the Confederacy had asked for quarter. His executive officer, Tom Brearley, tried to talk him out of this, but he ignored Brearley and went ahead. As the USA prohibited the CSA from keeping submarines after the armistice, Kimball is on the beach in Charleston, South Carolina, looking for whatever he can find.

Roger Kimball is Anne Colleton's sometime lover. Her plantation, Marshlands, a ruin because of the Red Negro uprising of 191516, Anne is now living in St. Matthews, South Carolina, not far from Columbia, the state capital. After the war ended, she and her brother Tom and a militia they recruited have finally succeeded in clearing out the last remnants of the black rebels who called themselves the Congaree Socialist Republic from the swamps along the banks of the Congaree River.

Colonel Irving Morrell is one of the U.S. heroes of the moment. The young officer spearheaded the column of armored traveling forts known as barrels that broke the Confederate defenses around Nashville, Tennessee, and allowed the United States to capture the important city. Pus.h.i.+ng south from Nashville, he was one of the first officers to receive a Confederate request for a cease-fire.

Lieutenant Colonel Abner Dowling is adjutant to Colonel Morrell's commanding officer in the Nashville campaign, George Armstrong Custer. As the war ended, he was summoned to Philadelphia, the de facto de facto capital of the United States, along with Custer, whom Democratic President Theodore Roosevelt has just promoted to full general as a reward for his long, faithful, and-in the end-successful service. Custer's headlong aggressiveness found a perfect match with the use of barrels capital of the United States, along with Custer, whom Democratic President Theodore Roosevelt has just promoted to full general as a reward for his long, faithful, and-in the end-successful service. Custer's headlong aggressiveness found a perfect match with the use of barrels en ma.s.se en ma.s.se.

In Philadelphia, young Socialist Congresswoman Flora Hamburger has earned the nickname "the conscience of the Congress" for her principled stands on important issues. Her younger brother, David, is also in Philadelphia, at the Pennsylvania Hospital-he lost a leg fighting in Virginia not long before the end of the war. To her dismay, David has become a Democrat and supports a hard line against the CSA. Flora has become friendly with Hosea Blackford, the veteran Socialist congressman from the state of Dakota, who lives in the same block of flats as she does.

Nellie Semphroch, a widow, lives in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., with her grown daughter, Edna. They have run a coffeehouse throughout the Great War in the de jure de jure capital of the United States, which was occupied for two and a half years by Confederate soldiers. Nellie has also gathered information from Confederates in the coffeehouse and pa.s.sed it on to the cobbler across the street, Hal Jacobs, an important member of a U.S. spy ring. Nellie and Edna were both decorated by President Roosevelt for their services, and Nellie has just accepted a proposal of marriage from Jacobs. capital of the United States, which was occupied for two and a half years by Confederate soldiers. Nellie has also gathered information from Confederates in the coffeehouse and pa.s.sed it on to the cobbler across the street, Hal Jacobs, an important member of a U.S. spy ring. Nellie and Edna were both decorated by President Roosevelt for their services, and Nellie has just accepted a proposal of marriage from Jacobs.

Anne Colleton's former butler, Scipio, has found a job waiting tables in Augusta, Georgia. The cultured, educated Negro is glad to have escaped from the ruin of the Congaree Socialist Republic, and perhaps even gladder to have escaped from his former mistress' vengeance: the Red uprising, of which Scipio had been an unwilling part, had begun at Marshlands with the murder of her brother, Jacob, a fact that helps drive her push for revenge against the Negroes involved. Scipio hopes for nothing more than to live out the rest of his life in obscurity.

In Lexington, Kentucky, another Negro, Cincinnatus Driver, is adjusting to life in the United States. The adjustments aren't easy; Kentucky was forcibly rejoined to the USA after its conquest in the Great War. Confederate diehards remain active in the state. So do Red factions consisting mostly of Negroes. Cincinnatus has been uncomfortably and unwillingly involved with both groups, and both view him with suspicion-as does Luther Bliss, the head of the Kentucky State (secret) Police. He has been driving a truck for the U.S. Army, but with the end of the war finds himself out of work and looking for a way to support his wife and young son.

On a Canadian farm not far from Rosenfeld, Manitoba, Arthur McGregor has avenged himself on the U.S. occupiers who executed his teenage son, Alexander, for rebellion against their authority. His bomb killed Major Hannebrink, the officer who ordered Alexander up before a firing squad, during a celebration of the end of the war. Arthur McGregor has no intention of confining his vengeance to Major Hannebrink alone. This worries his wife, Maude. His surviving daughters, Julia and Mary-especially Mary, the younger-don't precisely know what he is doing, but hope he will do more of it.

Lucien Galtier is also a farmer working land formerly belonging to the Dominion of Canada. These days, though, his farm near Riviere-du-Loup is part of the Republic of Quebec, a U.S. creation during the Great War. Galtier at first opposed the U.S. occupation of Quebec, especially after U.S. authorities took part of his farm-part of his patrimony-and built a hospital on the land. Lately, though, his reservations about the United States have faded, not least because his daughter, Nicole, who was working at the hospital, married an American doctor, Leonard O'Doull.

Just returned to the United States from the province of Ontario is Jonathan Moss, who served as a pilot all through the Great War. Moss, who lives in the Chicago area, plans to resume his study of the law. While in Canada, he fell in love with a Canadian woman, Laura Secord. Even though she emphatically does not love him in return-she is descended from a famous Canadian patriot of the same name-he cannot get her out of his mind.

Steelworker Jefferson Pinkard has just returned to Birmingham, Alabama, after fighting in the Confederate Army in West Texas. He looks forward to returning to his job at the Sloss Works. He is not so sure he looks forward to returning to family life. During the war, his wife, Emily, was unfaithful with his best friend, Bedford Cunningham, who had come home for good after losing an arm in Tennessee.

Steelworker Chester Martin will be returning to Toledo, Ohio. He fought in the Great War from first shot to last, and was lucky enough to be wounded only once. As a sergeant, he had commanded a company in the closing days of the fighting in Virginia (he was, in fact, David Hamburger's company commander). He is eager to return to the United States to see his parents and his sister, Sue.

Petty Officer Sam Carsten remains in the U.S. Navy. He has seen the effects of aviation on naval warfare off the South American coast, when the USS Dakota Dakota was bombed by land-based aeroplanes. His superior officer, Commander Grady, has hinted that the U.S. Navy has something new in mind when it comes to naval aviation. Carsten is eager to learn what it is. was bombed by land-based aeroplanes. His superior officer, Commander Grady, has hinted that the U.S. Navy has something new in mind when it comes to naval aviation. Carsten is eager to learn what it is.

Reggie Bartlett, a pharmacist's a.s.sistant, has returned home to Richmond, Virginia, capital of the CSA. He has had a hard war. He was captured once in Virginia, but escaped from a U.S. prisoner-of-war camp. Returning to action, he was badly wounded in Sequoyah and captured again. This time, he remained in a U.S. hospital in St. Louis till the fighting ended. His long talks with Rehoboam, a colored Confederate soldier also at the hospital after losing a foot, have made him thoughtful about parts of life in the Confederate States he had always taken for granted before the war.

Sergeant Jake Featherston, former battery commander in the First Richmond Howitzers, has also come home to Richmond. He too fought from first shot to last in the Great War, and never rose above sergeant, not least because the War Department was angry at him for exposing the shortcomings of his former CO, Captain Jeb Stuart III. Furious and bitter at the War Department in particular and the world in general, Featherston wonders what to do now that he has no place in the Army any more.

When the Great War ended, Jake Featherston had thought the silence falling over the battlefield as strange and unnatural as machine-gun fire in Richmond on a Sunday afternoon. Now, sitting at the bar of a saloon in the Confederate capital a few weeks later, he listened to the distant rattle of a machine gun, nodded to himself, and took another pull at his beer.

"Wonder who they're shooting at this time," the barkeep remarked before turning away to pour a fresh whiskey for another customer.

"Hope it's the n.i.g.g.e.rs." Jake set a hand on the grip of the artilleryman's pistol he wore on his belt. "Wouldn't mind shooting a few myself, by Jesus."

"They shoot back these days," the bartender said.

Featherston shrugged. People had called him a lot of different things during the war, but n.o.body had ever called him yellow. The battery of the First Richmond Howitzers he'd commanded had held longer and retreated less than any other guns in the Army of Northern Virginia. "Much good it did me," he muttered. "Much good it did anything." He'd still been fighting the d.a.m.nyankees from a good position back of Fredericksburg, Virginia, when the Confederate States finally threw in the sponge.

He went over to the free-lunch counter and slapped ham and cheese and pickles on a slice of none-too-fresh bread. The bartender gave him a pained look; it wasn't the first time he'd raided the counter, nor the second, either. He normally didn't give two whoops in h.e.l.l what other people thought, but this place was right around the corner from the miserable little room he'd found. He wanted to be able to keep coming here.

Reluctantly, he said, "Give me another beer, too." He pulled a couple of brown dollar banknotes out of his pocket and slid them across the bar. Beer had only been a dollar a gla.s.s when he got into town (or a quarter in specie). Before the war, even through most of the war, it had only been five cents.

As long as he was having another gla.s.s, he snagged a couple of hard-boiled eggs from the free-lunch spread to go with his sandwich. He'd eaten a lot of saloon free lunches since coming home to Richmond. They weren't free, but they were the cheapest way he knew to keep himself fed.

A couple of rifle shots rang out, closer than the machine gun had been. "Any luck at all, that's the War Department," Jake said, sipping at the new beer. "Lot of d.a.m.n fools down there n.o.body'd miss."

"Amen," said the fellow down the bar who was drinking whiskey. Like Featherston, he wore b.u.t.ternut uniform trousers with a s.h.i.+rt that had seen better days (though his, unlike Jake's, did boast a collar). "Plenty of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in there who don't deserve anything better than a blindfold and a cigarette, letting us lose the war like that."

"Waste of cigarettes, you ask me, but what the h.e.l.l." Jake took another pull at his beer. It left him feeling generous. In tones of great concession, he said, "All right, give 'em a smoke. Then Then shoot 'em." shoot 'em."

"Plenty of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in Congress, too," the bartender put in. He was plump and bald and had a white mustache, so he probably hadn't been in the trenches or just behind them. Even so, he went on in tones of real regret: "If they hadn't fired on the marchers in Capitol Square last week, reckon we might have seen some proper housecleaning."

Featherston shook his head. "Wouldn't matter for beans, I say."

"What do you mean, it wouldn't matter?" the whiskey-drinking veteran demanded. "Stringing a couple dozen Congressmen to lampposts wouldn't matter? Go a long way toward making things better, I I think." think."

"Wouldn't," Jake said stubbornly. "Could hang 'em all, and it wouldn't matter. They'd go and pick new Congressmen after you did, and who would they be? More rich sons of b.i.t.c.hes who never worked a day in their lives or got their hands dirty. Men of good family." He loaded that with scorn. "Same kind of jacka.s.ses they got in the War Department, if you want to hear G.o.d's truth."

He was not anyone's notion of a cla.s.sical orator, with graceful, carefully balanced sentences and smooth, elegant gestures: he was skinny and rawboned and awkward, with a sharp nose, a sharper chin, and a harsh voice. But when he got rolling, he spoke with an intensity that made anyone who heard him pay attention.

"What do you reckon ought to happen, then?" the barkeep asked.

"Tear it all down," Jake said in tones that brooked no argument. "Tear it down and start over. Can't see what in G.o.d's name else to do, not when the men of good family men of good family"-he sneered harder than ever-"let the n.i.g.g.e.rs rise up and then let 'em into the Army to run away from the d.a.m.nyankees and then gave 'em the vote to say thank-you. Christ!" He tossed down the last of the beer and stalked out.

He'd fired canister at retreating Negro troops-and, as the rot spread through the Army of Northern Virginia, at retreating white troops, too. It hadn't helped. Nothing had helped. We should have licked the d.a.m.nyankees fast, We should have licked the d.a.m.nyankees fast, he thought. he thought. A long war let them pound on us till we broke. A long war let them pound on us till we broke. He glared in the direction of the War Department. He glared in the direction of the War Department. Your fault. Not the soldiers'fault. Yours. Your fault. Not the soldiers'fault. Yours.

He tripped on a brick and almost fell. Cursing, he kicked it toward the pile of rubble from which it had come. Richmond was full of rubble, rubble and ruins. U.S. bombing aeroplanes had paid repeated nighttime visits over the last year of the war. Even windows with gla.s.s in them were exceptions, not the rule.

Negro laborers with shovels cleared bricks and timbers out of the street, where one faction or another that had sprung up since the war effort collapsed had built a barricade. A soldier with a bayoneted Tredegar kept them working. Theoretically, Richmond was under martial law. In practice, it was under very little law of any sort. Discharged veterans far outnumbered men still under government command, and paid them no more heed than they had to.

Three other Negroes strode up the street toward Jake. They were not laborers. Like him, they wore a motley mix of uniforms and civilian clothing. Also like him, they were armed. Two carried Tredegars they hadn't turned in at the armistice; the third wore a holstered pistol. They did not look like men who had run from the Yankees. They did not look like men who would run from anything.

Their eyes swept over Jake. He was not a man who ran from anything, either. He walked through them instead of going around. "Crazy white man," one of them said as they walked on. He didn't keep his voice down, but he didn't say anything directly to Jake, either. With his own business on his mind, Jake kept walking.

He pa.s.sed by Capitol Square. He'd slept under the huge statue of Albert Sidney Johnston the night he got into Richmond. He couldn't do that now: troops in sandbagged machine-gun nests protected the Confederate Capitol from the Confederate people. Neatly printed NO LOITERING NO LOITERING signs had sprouted like mushrooms after a rain. Several bore handwritten addenda: signs had sprouted like mushrooms after a rain. Several bore handwritten addenda: THIS MEANS YOU THIS MEANS YOU. Bloodstains on the sidewalk underscored the point.

Posters covered every wall. The most common showed the Stars and Bars and the phrase, PEACE, ORDER, PROSPERITY PEACE, ORDER, PROSPERITY. That one, Featherston knew, came from the government's printing presses. President Semmes and his flunkies remained convinced that, if they said everything was all right, it would be all right.

Black severed chains on red was another often-repeated theme. The Negroes' Red uprisings of late 1915 had been crushed, but Reds remained. JOIN US JOIN US! some of the posters shouted-an appeal from black to white.

"Not likely," Jake said, and spat at one of those posters. No more than a handful of Confederate whites had joined the revolutionaries during the uprisings. No more than a handful would ever join them. Of so much Featherston was morally certain.

Yet another poster showed George Was.h.i.+ngton and the slogan, WE NEED A NEW REVOLUTION WE NEED A NEW REVOLUTION. Jake spotted only a couple of copies of that one, which was put out by the Freedom Party. Till that moment, Jake had never heard of the Freedom Party. He wondered if it had existed before the war ended.

He studied the poster. Slowly, he nodded. "Sure as h.e.l.l do need a new revolution," he said. He had no great use for Was.h.i.+ngton, though. Was.h.i.+ngton had been president of the United States. That made him suspect in Jake's eyes.

But in spite of the crude ill.u.s.tration, in spite of the cheap printing, the message struck home, and struck hard. The Freedom Party sounded honest, at any rate. The ruling Whigs were trying to heal an amputation with a sticking plaster. The Radical Liberals, as far as he was concerned, played the same song in a different key. As for the Socialists-he spat at another red poster. n.i.g.g.e.rs and n.i.g.g.e.r-lovers, every one of them. The bomb-throwing maniacs wanted a revolution, too, but not the kind the country needed.

He peered more closely at the Freedom Party poster. It didn't say where the party headquarters were or how to go about joining. His lip curled. "G.o.dd.a.m.n amateurs," he said. One thing spending his whole adult life in the Army had taught him: the virtue of organization.

With a shrug, he headed back toward his mean little room. If the Freedom Party didn't know how to attract any members, odds were it wasn't worth joining. No matter how good its ideas, they didn't matter if n.o.body could find out about them. Even the d.a.m.ned Socialists knew that much.

"Too bad," he muttered. "Too stinking bad." Congressional elections were coming this fall. A shame the voters couldn't send the cheaters and thieves in the Capitol the right kind of message.

Back in the room-he'd had plenty of more comfortable bivouacs on campaign-he wrote for a while in a Gray Eagle scratch-pad. He'd picked up the habit toward the end of the war. Over Open Sights, Over Open Sights, he called the work in progress. It let him set down some of his anger on paper. Once the words were out, they didn't fester quite so much in his mind. He might have killed somebody if he hadn't had a release like this. he called the work in progress. It let him set down some of his anger on paper. Once the words were out, they didn't fester quite so much in his mind. He might have killed somebody if he hadn't had a release like this.

When day came, he went out looking for work. Colored laborers weren't the only ones clearing rubble in Richmond, not by a long chalk. He hauled bricks and dirt and chunks of broken stone from not long after sunrise to just before sunset. The straw-boss, of course, paid off in paper money, though his own pockets jingled.

Knowing the banknotes would be worth less tomorrow than they were today, Jake made a beeline for the local saloon and the free-lunch counter. He'd drawn better rations in the Army, too, but he was too hungry to care. As before, the barkeep gave him a reproachful look for making a pig of himself. As before, he bought a second beer to keep the fellow happy, or not too unhappy.

He was stuffing a pickled tomato into his mouth when the fellow with whom he'd talked politics the day before came in and ordered himself a shot. Then he made a run at the free lunch, too. They got to talking again; Featherston learned his name was Hubert Slattery. After a while, Jake mentioned the Freedom Party posters he'd seen.

To his surprise, Slattery burst out laughing. "Oh, them!" he said. "My brother took a look at those fellows, but he didn't want any part of 'em. By what Horace told me, there's only four or five of 'em, and they run the whole party out of a s...o...b..x."

"But they've got posters and everything," Jake protested, startled to find how disappointed he was. "Not good good posters, mind you, but posters." posters, mind you, but posters."

"Only reason they do is that one of 'em's a printer," the other veteran told him. "They meet in this little dive on Seventh near Ca.n.a.l, most of the way toward the Tredegar Steel Works. You want to waste your time, pal, go see 'em for yourself."

"Maybe I will," Featherston said. Hubert Slattery laughed again, but that just made him more determined. "By G.o.d, maybe I will."

Congresswoman Flora Hamburger clapped her hands together in delight. Dr. Hanrahan's smile was broader than a lot of those seen at the Pennsylvania Hospital. And David Hamburger, intense concentration on his face, brought his cane forward and then took another step on his artificial leg.

"How does it feel?" Flora asked her younger brother.

"Stump's not too sore," he answered, panting a little. "But it's harder work than I thought it would be."

"You haven't been upright since you lost your leg," Dr. Hanrahan reminded him. "Come on. Give me another step. You can do it." David did, and nearly fell. Hanrahan steadied him before Flora could. "You've got to swing the prosthesis out, so the knee joint locks and takes your weight when you straighten up on it," the doctor said. "You don't learn that, the leg won't work. That's why everybody with an amputation above the knee walks like a sailor who hasn't touched land in a couple of years."

"But you are are walking, David," Flora said. She dropped from English into Yiddish: walking, David," Flora said. She dropped from English into Yiddish: "Danken Gott dafahr. Omayn." "Danken Gott dafahr. Omayn."

Seeing her brother on his feet-or on one foot of his and one of wood and metal and leather-did a little to ease the guilt that had gnawed at her ever since he was wounded. Nothing would ever do more than a little. After her New York City district sent her to Congress, she'd had the chance to slide David from the trenches to a quiet post behind the lines. He wouldn't have wanted her to do that, but she could have. She'd put Socialist egalitarianism above family ties...and this was the result.

Her brother shrugged awkwardly. "I only need one foot to operate a sewing-machine treadle. I won't starve when I go home-and I won't have to sponge off your Congresswoman's salary, either." He gave her a wry grin.

As a U.S. Representative, Flora made $7,500 a year, far more than the rest of her family put together. She didn't begrudge sharing the money with her parents and brothers and sisters, and she knew David knew she didn't. He took a brotherly privilege in teasing her.

He also took a brotherly privilege in picking her brains: "What's the latest on the peace with the Rebs?"

She grimaced for a couple of reasons. For one, he hadn't called the Confederates by that scornful nickname before he went into the Army. For another..."President Roosevelt is still being very hard and very stubborn. I can understand keeping some of the territory we won from the CSA, but all he's willing to restore is the stretch of Tennessee south of the c.u.mberland we took as fighting wound down, and he won't give give that back: he wants to trade it for the little piece of Kentucky the Confederates still hold." that back: he wants to trade it for the little piece of Kentucky the Confederates still hold."

"Bully for him!" David exclaimed. He had been a good Socialist before he went off to war. Now, a lot of the time, he sounded like a hidebound Democrat of the Roosevelt stripe. That distressed Flora, too.

She went on, "And he's not going to let them keep any battles.h.i.+ps or submersibles or military aeroplanes or barrels, and he's demanded that they limit their Army to a hundred machine guns."

"Bully!" This time, her brother and Dr. Hanrahan said it together.

Flora looked from one of them to the other in exasperation. "And he won't come a dime below two billion dollars in reparations, all of it to be paid in specie or in steel or oil at 1914 prices. That's a crus.h.i.+ng burden to lay on the proletariat of the Confederate States." he won't come a dime below two billion dollars in reparations, all of it to be paid in specie or in steel or oil at 1914 prices. That's a crus.h.i.+ng burden to lay on the proletariat of the Confederate States."

"I hope it crushes them," David said savagely. "Knock on wood, they'll never be able to lift a finger against us again." Instead of knocking on the door or on a window sill, he used his own artificial leg, which drove home the point.

Flora had given up trying to argue with him. He had his full share of the Hamburger family's stubbornness. Instead, she turned to Dr. Hanrahan and asked, "How much longer will he have to stay here now that he's started to get back on his feet?"

"He should be able to leave in about a month, provided he makes good progress and provided the infection in the stump doesn't decide to flare up again," Hanrahan said. Flora nodded; she'd seen he gave her straight answers. He finished with a brisk nod: "We'll shoot for November first, then."

After giving her brother a careful hug and an enthusiastic kiss, Flora left the Pennsylvania Hospital. Fall was in the air, sure enough; some of the leaves in the trees on the hospital grounds were beginning to turn. She flagged a cab. "The Congressional office building," she told the driver.

"Yes, ma'am." He touched the s.h.i.+ny leather brim of his cap, put the Oldsmobile in gear, and went out to do battle with Philadelphia traffic. The traffic won, as it often did. Philadelphia had been the de facto de facto capital of the USA since the Confederates bombarded Was.h.i.+ngton during the Second Mexican War, more than thirty-five years before. Starting even before then, a great warren of Federal buildings had gone up in the center of town. Getting to them was not always for the faint of heart. capital of the USA since the Confederates bombarded Was.h.i.+ngton during the Second Mexican War, more than thirty-five years before. Starting even before then, a great warren of Federal buildings had gone up in the center of town. Getting to them was not always for the faint of heart.

"I have a message for you," said Flora's secretary, a plump, middle-aged woman named Bertha. She waved a piece of paper. "Congressman Blackford wants you to call him back."

"Does he?" Flora said, as neutrally as she could. "All right, I'll do that. Thank you." She went into her inner office and closed the door after her. She didn't turn around to see whether Bertha was smiling behind her back. She hoped not, but she didn't really want to know.

Dakota, a solidly Socialist state, had been returning Hosea Blackford to the House since Flora was a girl. He was about twice her age now, a senior figure in the Party, even if on the soft side ideologically as far as she was concerned. And he was a widower whose Philadelphia apartment lay right across the hall from hers. He had left no doubt he was interested in her, though he'd never done anything to tempt her into defending herself with a hatpin. To her own surprise, she found herself interested in return, even if he was both a moderate and a gentile.

"Now," she muttered as she picked up the telephone and waited for the operator to come on the line, "is he calling about Party business or...something else?"

"h.e.l.lo, Flora," Blackford said when the call went through. "I just wanted to know if you had seen the newspaper stories about strikes in Ohio and Indiana and Illinois."

Party business, then. "I'm afraid I haven't," Flora said. "I just got back from visiting David."

"How is he?" Blackford asked.

"They've fitted the artificial leg, and he was up on it." Flora shook her head, though Blackford couldn't see that. "Even with one leg gone, he talks like a Democrat." She inked a pen and slid a piece of paper in front of her so she could take notes. "Now tell me about these strikes."

"From what I've read, factory owners are trying to hold down wages by pitting workers against each other," he said. "With soldiers starting to come home from the war, they have more people wanting jobs than there are jobs to give, so they're seeing who will work for the lowest pay."

"That sounds like capitalists," Flora said with a frown. A moment later, she brightened. "It also sounds like a political opportunity for us. If the factory owners keep doing things like that-and they probably will-they'll radicalize the workers, and they'll do a better job of it than we ever could."

"I happen to know we've urged the strikers to stay as peaceful as they can, unless the bosses turn goons loose on them or their state governments or the U.S. government move troops against them," Blackford said.

"Good." Flora nodded. Blackford couldn't see that, either, but she didn't care. Something he'd said touched off another thought. "Has Roosevelt made any statement about this yet?"

"One of the wire reports quotes him as calling the factory owners a pack of greedy fools," the Congressman from Dakota said, "but it doesn't say he'll do anything to make them stop playing games with people's lives."

"That sounds like him," Flora said. "He talks about a square deal for the workers, but he doesn't deliver. He delivered a war."

"He delivered a victory," Hosea Blackford corrected. "The country was starved for one. The country's been starved for one for more than fifty years. You may not like that, but you can't stick your head in the sand and pretend it isn't so."