How Few Remain Part 43

"Merry Christmas to you, miss," Roosevelt said when they were down on the tracked, snowy ground once more.

"The same to you, Colonel." She kept walking along beside him. His hopes rose. In a casual tone of voice, she went on, "If you care for some mince pie, I baked one yesterday. I'd be days and days eating it all by my lonesome."

"Why, that's very kind of you-very kind of you indeed." He smiled. "If your family won't mind sharing, I'd be delighted."

"I am a widow," she answered.

Sometimes that was a euphemism for a streetwalker. Sometimes it wasn't. If she was a woman of easy virtue, she was cleaner and, by all appearances, better-natured than most of her fallen sisters. "Mince pie, then," Roosevelt said-and if she felt like giving him more than mince pie, that would be fine, too.

She lived in a tiny, astringently neat cabin next door to a saloon-not that anything in Fort Benton was far from a saloon. Sure enough, a mince pie sat on the table. She cut Roosevelt a slice. It was good. He said so, loudly, adding, "Thank you for making a soldier far from home happy."

"How happy would you like to be?" she asked, and walked around the table and sat down on his lap.

The bed was close to the stove. Everything in the cabin was close to the stove, which helped keep the place tolerably warm. Roosevelt had had a couple of other women throw themselves at him since he rode down to Fort Benton a hero, or as much of a hero as this hash of a war offered. The experience had been both new and delightful. He wasn't sure whether this was another hero's reward or a business transaction. As he fumbled with the b.u.t.tons of his trousers, he resolved to worry about it later.

"Oh," she said when, presently, he went into her. She was quiet after that, working intently beneath him, till she stiffened again and quivered and cried out, "Oh, Joe! Oh, G.o.d, Joe!" He didn't think she knew what she was saying; he hardly knew what she was saying himself then. His own ecstasy came less than a minute later. Afterwards, he decided she probably was a widow after all.

Being twenty-three, he would have been ready for a second round in short order, but she got off the bed and started dressing again, so he did, too. He was left with a puzzling problem in etiquette after that. If she was a streetwalker as well as a widow, he'd anger her if he didn't offer to pay. If she wasn't, he'd offend her if he did.

He stood irresolute, a rare posture for him. Without answering the question behind it, she solved the problem for him: "Merry Christmas, Colonel Roosevelt."

"Thank you very much," he said, and kissed her. "I don't think I've ever had a nicer present, or one more charmingly wrapped." She smiled at that. He opened the door, and grunted at the cold outside. He'd gone several steps back toward the Unauthorized Regiment's encampment before he realized he'd never learned her name.

.XIX.

The clock in Frederick Dougla.s.s' parlor chimed twelve. All over Rochester, clocks were striking twelve. Dougla.s.s raised a gla.s.s of wine to his wife and son. "Happy New Year," he said solemnly.

"Happy New Year, Frederick," Anna Dougla.s.s said, and drank. "When I was young, I never reckoned I'd live to see such a big number as 1882."

"May you see many more new years, Mother," Lewis Dougla.s.s said.

"You're not drinking, son." Frederick Dougla.s.s had emptied his own gla.s.s, and was reaching for the decanter to refill it.

"No, I'm not," Lewis said, "for the year ahead looks none too happy to me."

"Compare it to the year just past," Dougla.s.s said. "When seen from that perspective, how can it fail of being a happy year?"

Lewis gravely considered that. He showed the result of the consideration not by words but by downing the wine in front of him in a couple of quick gulps. When Dougla.s.s held out the decanter, he poured his gla.s.s full again, too. "Compared to the year just past, any year save perhaps 1862 would seem happy."

Anna c.o.c.ked her head to one side, listening to bells ringing unconstrainedly and to firecrackers and pistols and rifles going off in the street, some quite close by. "It don't sound the way it ought to," she said.

"It doesn't, does it?" Dougla.s.s said. "Something's missing."

Lewis supplied the deficiency: "No cannon this year. No cannon, by order of the mayor and the governor and whichever soldier makes the most noise around these parts. They all fear the British gunboats out on the lake will mistake the celebration for an attack on themselves and use it as a pretext for bombarding the city. A happy new year indeed, is it not?"

"They might do it, too," Dougla.s.s said gloomily. "They might enjoy doing it, the better to coerce the president into yielding to their demands."

"He might as well," Anna said. "Things ain't gwine get no better on account of he don't. They done licked us, so they gets to tell us what to do."

Anna's grammar was not all it should have been. That did not make what she said any less true. Lewis must have thought as much, for he said, "Mother, we ought to send you to Was.h.i.+ngton, because you see these things a lot more plainly than President Blaine is able to."

"What Blaine can see and what he can do are liable to be two different propositions," Dougla.s.s said, regretting every word of defense he spent on the man who had had the best chance since the presidency of Abraham Lincoln to do something about the Confederate States-had it and squandered it. "He's made his bed, and now-"

"And now the whole country has to lie in it," Lewis broke in. He reached for the wine decanter once more, then yanked his hand away. Bitterness filled his voice as he went on, "I'd get drunk, but what's the use? Things wouldn't be any better when I sobered up again."

"Well, I don't aim to get myself drunk any which way," Anna Dougla.s.s said. "It's a sinful thing to go and do. What I aim to do is go to bed." She struggled to her feet. "Frederick, you'll help me up the stairs."

"Of course I will, my dear." Dougla.s.s rose, too. His body still responded readily to his will. He helped his wife up to the bedroom, helped her out of her dress and corset, and made sure she was comfortable before he went back down to talk with his son a while longer.

Lewis was taking short, quick, furious puffs on a cigar when Frederick Dougla.s.s came back to the parlor. "What's the use, Father?" he asked as Dougla.s.s sat down once more. "What in G.o.d's name is the use? Why don't we all pack up and move to Liberia? We might accomplish something there."

"You may, if you like," Dougla.s.s answered evenly. "I've thought about it once or twice-maybe more than once or twice." His son stared at him. He nodded, his face grave. "Oh, yes, I've thought about it. In Liberia, the pond is so small as to make me-or you, should you ever choose to go-a very large fish indeed, which cannot help but feed a man's pride. But if I left, I should be giving up the fight here, and as much as proving the Confederates right when they say the black man cannot compete equally against the white. Every column I write here shows the CSA to be founded on a lie. How could I do the same in Africa?"

Lewis did not answer right away. He took the cigar from his mouth and sat for some time staring at the glowing coal. Then, savagely, he stubbed out the cigar. "Well, you're right," he said. "I wish to heaven you weren't, but you are." He got up and clapped Dougla.s.s on the shoulder. "Happy New Year, Father. You were right about that, too. Set next to the one we've escaped, the year ahead can't be so bad. Good night. You needn't get up-rest easy."

Dougla.s.s rested easy. He heard his son take his overcoat off the tree in the front hall, put it on, open the door, and close it after him. Bells on the carriage jingled as Lewis drove home. Dougla.s.s looked at the decanter of wine. Like a voyage to Liberia, it tempted him. But, ever since his escape from slavery, he had seldom run away, and he had never been a man who drank alone. Picking up the cut-gla.s.s stopper, he set it in its place. Then, with a grunt, he rose once more and went off to bed. He listened to clocks striking one. He expected he would also listen to them striking two, but drifted off before they did.

Other than having a new calendar, 1882 seemed little different from the vanished 1881. Wars.h.i.+ps flying the Union Jack remained outside Rochester harbor, as they did outside other U.S. harbors along the Great Lakes. No wars.h.i.+ps flying the Stars and Stripes came out to challenge them. That sprang in part from the ceasefire, but only in part. The rest was that the U.S. Navy's Great Lakes flotilla was incapable of challenging its British counterpart.

One day in the middle of January, the War Department announced that the troops of the Army of the Ohio were returning to U.S. soil. By the way the announcement sounded, no one would have guessed it meant the U.S. Army was abandoning the last foothold it held in Kentucky. The telegram made the move sound like a triumph.

"Look at this!" Dougla.s.s waved the announcement in his son's face. "Look "Look at this. How many dead men in Louisville? at this. How many dead men in Louisville? They They won't be coming back to Indiana. And for what did they die? For what, I ask you?" won't be coming back to Indiana. And for what did they die? For what, I ask you?"

"For President Blaine's ambition," Lewis answered. "Nothing else." The abject failure of the U.S. war effort had left him even more estranged from and cynical about the society in which he lived than he had been before the fighting started.

But Dougla.s.s shook his head. "The cause for which we fought was n.o.ble," he insisted, as he had insisted all along. "The power of the Confederate States should have been kept from growing. The tragedy was not that we fought, but that we fought while so manifestly unprepared to fight hard. Blaine gets some of the blame for that, but the Democrats who kept us so weak for so long must share it with him. If we are to have a return engagement with the Confederacy, we must be more ready in all respects. I see no other remedy."

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when you and Ben Butler were proposing the same cure for our disease," Lewis said. "The Democrats like him, too."

That brought Dougla.s.s up short. Butler had no more kept silent about the proposals he had made in the meeting at the Florence Hotel outside Chicago than Abraham Lincoln had about his. Both men were stirring up turmoil all through the battered country, and each one's followers violently opposed the other's. As Lincoln had joined with the Socialists, so Butler was indeed drifting back toward the Democrats, from whose ranks he had deserted during the War of Secession.

Reluctantly, Dougla.s.s said, "An idea may be a good one no matter who propounds it."

"Nero fiddled while Rome burned," Lewis retorted. "You temporize while the Republican Party goes up in flames."

"I am not temporizing," Dougla.s.s said with dignity. "I have done all I could to hold the party together. I am still doing all I can. It may not suffice-I am only one man. But I am doing my best."

"You'd have a better chance if your skin were white," Lewis said. Dougla.s.s stared at him. Negroes in the U.S. seldom spoke so openly of the handicap they suffered by being black. Lewis glared back in furious defiance. "It's true, and you d.a.m.n well know it's true."

But Dougla.s.s shook his head. "Not for me. Had I been born white-had I been born all all white"-he corrected himself, to remind his son they both had white blood in their veins-"I suspect I would have drifted into some easy, profitable trade, never giving a second thought, or even a first, to politics. Being the color I am, I have been compelled to face concerns I should otherwise have ignored. It has not been an easy road, but I am a better man for it." white"-he corrected himself, to remind his son they both had white blood in their veins-"I suspect I would have drifted into some easy, profitable trade, never giving a second thought, or even a first, to politics. Being the color I am, I have been compelled to face concerns I should otherwise have ignored. It has not been an easy road, but I am a better man for it."

"I do not have your detachment, Father, nor, frankly, do I want it," Lewis said. "I wish you a good morning." He departed Dougla.s.s' home without much ceremony and with a good deal of anger.

Dougla.s.s had to go out himself a couple of days later, when his wife developed a nasty cough. The new cough syrups, infused with the juice of the opium poppy, really could stop the hacking and barking that seemed such a characteristic sound of winter. Thanking heaven for modern medicine, Dougla.s.s bundled himself up and trudged off to the nearest drugstore, a few blocks away.

He thanked heaven for the day, too. As January days in Rochester went, it was good enough-better than good enough. It was bright and clear and, he guessed, a little above freezing. Not too much snow lay on the ground. Even so, he planted his feet with care; the sidewalks had their share of icy patches.

"Half a dollar," the druggist said, setting on the counter a gla.s.s bottle with the label in typography so rococo as to be almost unreadable. His voice was polite and suspicious at the same time. Dougla.s.s' fur-collared overcoat argued that he had the money to pay for the medicine. His being a Negro argued, to far too many white men, that he was likely to be s.h.i.+ftless and liable to be a thief.

He reached into his pocket and found a couple of quarters, which he set beside the bottle of cough elixir. Only after the druggist had scooped the coins into the cash box did his other hand come off the bottle. That care made Dougla.s.s want to laugh. He was stout, black, and well past sixty. Even if he did abscond with the medicine, how could he possibly hope to get more than a couple of blocks without being recognized or, more likely, tackled with no ceremony whatever?

He was carrying the bottle of cough syrup out of the store when three middle-aged white men started to come in. He stood aside to let them use the narrow doorway ahead of him. Instead of going on past, though, the fellow in the lead stopped, rocked back on his heels, and looked at him with an expression of mingled contempt and insult.

"Well, looky here, Jim. Looky here, Bill," he drawled. "Ain't this a fine buck n.i.g.g.e.r we got?" His friends laughed at what they and he thought to be wit.

Dougla.s.s stiffened. "If you gentlemen will excuse me-" he said, his voice chillier than the weather outside.

"Listen to him, Josh," either Jim or Bill exclaimed. "Talks just like a white man, he does. Probably got a white man inside him, that he ate up for breakfast." All three of them found that a very funny sally, too.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me-" Dougla.s.s repeated, bottling up the fury he felt. He took a step forward. More often than not, his sheer physical presence was enough to let him ease through confrontations like this.

It didn't work today. Instead of giving way before him, the white man in the lead-Josh-deliberately blocked his path. "No, we don't excuse you, Sambo," he said, and looked back over his shoulder. "Do we, boys?"

"No," one of Jim and Bill said, while the other was saying, "h.e.l.l, no."

Josh stuck a finger in Dougla.s.s' face. "And do you know why we don't excuse you, boy? I don't excuse you because it's all your G.o.dd.a.m.n fault."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Dougla.s.s said, now alarmed as well as furious. This sort of thing hadn't happened to him in Rochester for many years. He knew too well how ugly it could get, and how fast it could get that way. Carefully, he said, "I do not know what you believe to be my fault, but I do know I have never set eyes on any of you before in my life." And, if G.o.d be kind, I shall never see you again And, if G.o.d be kind, I shall never see you again.

"Not you, you-you n.i.g.g.e.rs," Josh said. "Hadn't been for you n.i.g.g.e.rs, this here'd still be one country. We wouldn't have fought two wars against the lousy Rebels, and they wouldn't have licked us twice, neither."

"Yeah," said Jim or Bill.

"That's right," Bill or Jim agreed.

They weren't drunk. Dougla.s.s took some small comfort in that. It might make them a little less likely to pound him into the boards of the floor. He said, "Black men did not ask to be brought to these sh.o.r.es, nor did we come willingly. The difficulty lies not in our being here but in the way we have been used. I myself bear on my back the scars of the overseer's lash."

"Ooh, don't he talk fancy," one of the men behind Josh said.

"Reckon that's why the overseer whupped him," Josh replied, which was a disturbingly accurate guess. He didn't attack, he didn't make a fist, but he didn't get out of Dougla.s.s' way, either. "Ought to all go back to Africa, every stinking one of you. Then we'd set things to rights here."

"No." Now Dougla.s.s let his anger show. "For better and for worse, I am an American, too-every bit as much as you. This is my country, as it is yours."

"Liar!" Josh shouted. His friends echoed him. Now he did fold his hand into a fist. Had the bottle Dougla.s.s held been thicker, he would have used it to add strength to his own blow. As things were, he feared it would break and cut his palms and fingers. He got ready to throw it in Josh's face instead.

From behind him came a short, sharp click. It was not a loud noise, but it was one to command immediate, complete, and respectful attention from Dougla.s.s and from the three white men of whom he'd fallen foul. Very slowly, Dougla.s.s turned his head and peered over his shoulder. The druggist's right hand held a revolver, the hammer c.o.c.ked and ready to fall.

"That's enough, you men," he said sharply. "I've got no great use for n.i.g.g.e.rs myself, but this fellow wasn't doing you any harm. Let him alone, and get the h.e.l.l out of here while you're at it."

Josh and Jim and Bill tumbled over one another leaving the drugstore. The druggist carefully unc.o.c.ked the pistol and set it down out of sight. Frederick Dougla.s.s inclined his head. "I thank you very much indeed, sir."

"Didn't do it for you so much as to keep the place from getting torn up," the druggist replied in matter-of-fact tones. "Like I said, I don't much care for n.i.g.g.e.rs, especially n.i.g.g.e.rs like you that put on airs, but that ain't the same as saying you deserved a licking when you hadn't done anything to deserve one. Now take your cough elixir and go on home."

"I'll do that," Dougla.s.s said. "A man who, for whatever reason, will not let another be beaten unjustly has in himself the seeds of justice." He tipped his hat and walked out of the store.

Once on the sidewalk, he looked around warily to see whether the white ruffians might want another try at him. But they were nowhere around. They must have had enough. His sigh of relief put a fair-sized frosty cloud in the air.

When he got home, Anna was sitting in the parlor, coughing like a consumptive. "Hold on, my dear," he said. "A tablespoon of this will bring relief."

"Fetch me a gla.s.s o' water with it, on account of it's gwine taste nasty," she answered. She sighed when he brought the medicine and the water. "I ain't been out of the house in a good while now. Anything much interestin' happen while you was at the drugstore?"

Dougla.s.s gravely considered that. After a moment, he shook his head. "No," he said. "Nothing much."

Snow blew into Friedrich Sorge's face. As it had a way of doing in Chicago, the wind howled. Sorge clutched at his hat. The Socialist newspaperman had an exalted expression on his face. Turning to Abraham Lincoln, he shouted, "Will you look at the size of this crowd? Have you ever in all your life seen anything like it?"

"Why, yes, a great many times, as a matter of fact," Lincoln answered, and hid a smile when Sorge looked dumbfounded. He set a gloved hand on his new ally's shoulder. "You have to remember, my friend, that you have been in politics as an agitator, a gadfly. From now on, we will be playing the game to win, which is a different proposition altogether."

"Yes." Sorge still sounded dazed. "I see that. I knew our joining would bring new strength to the movement, but I must say I did not imagine it would bring so much." He laughed. The wind did its best to blow the laughter away. "Until now, I did not imagine how weak we were, nor how strong we might become. It is ... amazing. Not since I left the old country have I been part of anything to compare to this-and in the old country, we were put down with guns."

Lincoln had different standards of comparison. To him, it was just another political rally, and not a particularly large one at that. m.u.f.fled against the cold and the wind, men and women trudged south along Cottage Grove Avenue toward Was.h.i.+ngton Park. Considering the weather, it wasn't a bad crowd at all. It was also, without a doubt, the most energetic crowd Lincoln had seen since the War of Secession.

Red flags whipped in the wind. It had already torn some of them into streamers. Men had to wrestle to keep the signs they held from flying away. JUSTICE FOR THE WORKING MAN JUSTICE FOR THE WORKING MAN, some said. TAX CAPITALISTS' INCOME TAX CAPITALISTS' INCOME, others urged. REVOLUTION IS A RIGHT REVOLUTION IS A RIGHT, still others warned.

Some of the people on the sidewalks cheered as the marchers walked past. Others hurried along, intent on their own business or on finding someplace to get out of the cold. Policemen in overcoats of military blue were out in force. They had clubs in their hands and pistols on their belts. If peaceable protest turned to uprising-or, perhaps, if the police thought it might, this gathering too could be put down with guns.

Trees in Was.h.i.+ngton Park were skeletally bare. What little gra.s.s snow did not cover was yellow and dead. It was as bleak and forbidding a place as Lincoln could imagine. But it also struck him as the perfect place to hold a rally for the new fusion of the Socialists and his wing of the Republican Party.

"In the summer, you know, and when the weather is fine, the rich promenade through here, showing off their fancy carriages and matched teams and expensive clothes," he said to Friedrich Sorge.

Sorge nodded. "Yes, I have seen this." He scowled. "It is not enough for them that they have. They must be seen to have. Their fellow plutocrats must know they, too, are part of the elite, and the proletariat must be reminded that they are too rich and powerful to be trifled with."

"Thanks to their money, they think it is summer in the United States the year around," Lincoln said. "To the people coming into Was.h.i.+ngton Park now, blizzards blow in January and July alike."

"This is true," Sorge agreed emphatically. He hesitated. "It is also very well said, though with my English imperfect you will not, perhaps, find in this much praise. But I think you have in yourself the makings of a poet."

"Interesting you should say so," Lincoln replied. "I tried verse a few times, many years ago-half a lifetime ago, now that I think about it. I don't reckon the results were altogether unfortunate, at least the best of them, but they were not of the quality to which I aspired, and so I gave up the effort and turned back to politics and the law, which better suited my bent."

"You may have given up too soon," Sorge said. "Even more than other kinds of writing, poetry repays steady effort."

"Even if you are right, as you may well be, far too many years have pa.s.sed for it to matter now," Lincoln said. "If, by lucky chance, some phrase in a speech or in an article should strike the ear or mind as happily phrased, maybe it is the poet, still struggling after so long to break free."

More miserably cold-looking policemen directed the throng to an open area in front of a wooden platform from which more red banners flew. The wind was methodically ripping them to shreds. "Say your say and then go home," a policeman told Lincoln. The former president judged that likelier to be a plea from the heart than a political statement; the fellow's teeth were chattering so loudly, he was hard to understand.

Friedrich Sorge said, "Not too hard, is it, to know which of our followers came from your camp and which from mine?"

"No, not hard," Lincoln said. The difference interested him and amused Sorge. About four out of five people in the crowd obeyed without question the police who herded them where they were supposed to go. The fifth, the odd man out, called the Chicago policemen every name in the book, sometimes angrily, sometimes with a jaunty air that said it was all a game. The fifth man, the odd man, was far more likely to be carrying a red flag than the other four.

"Some people, Lincoln, you see, truly do believe in the revolution of the proletariat," Sorge said.

"I do recollect that, believe me," Lincoln answered. "What you you have to remember is that some people don't. Looking over the crowd here, I'd judge that most of the people in it don't. What we have to do to build this party is to make the people who don't believe in revolution want to join so they can reform the country, and at the same time keep the ones who are revolutionaries in the fold." have to remember is that some people don't. Looking over the crowd here, I'd judge that most of the people in it don't. What we have to do to build this party is to make the people who don't believe in revolution want to join so they can reform the country, and at the same time keep the ones who are revolutionaries in the fold."

Sorge's mouth puckered as if he'd bitten into an unripe persimmon. "You are saying-you have been saying since we first spoke-that we must water down the doctrines of the party the way a dishonest distiller will water down the whiskey he sells."

"Look at the crowd we have here today," Lincoln said patiently. "With a crowd like this, we can make the bosses think twice before they throw workers out in the streets or cut their pay. With a crowd like this, we can elect men who see things our way. Wouldn't you like to see a dozen, or two dozen, Socialist congressmen on the train for Was.h.i.+ngton after the elections this fall?"

"I do not know," Sorge said. "I truly do not know. If they call themselves Socialists but hold positions that are not Socialist positions-"