Settling Accounts_ Drive To The East Part 4

"Beats me," that worthy said cheerfully. "For all I know, hitching's faster than any other way. Once you get to Milwaukee, I promise they'll tell you what to do next."

"I hope so." Martin didn't trust Army bureaucracy. While the people in Wisconsin were figuring out how to get him past the Confederate corridor that split the USA in two, the people in Virginia were liable to decide he was AWOL if he didn't show up on time and throw him in the guardhouse when he finally did. He knew that was unreasonable. He also knew the Army had some strange notions about what was reasonable and what wasn't.

He had a brand-new green-gray duffel bag slung over his shoulder when he went to Remembrance Station, the big new railroad depot in downtown Los Angeles. Rita and Carl came along to say good-bye. If Rita cried, she wasn't the only wife with a husband in uniform who did. He squeezed her and kissed her one last time, kissed Carl on the forehead, and climbed into a second-cla.s.s car. Maybe officers got Pullman berths. Sergeants, or at least one sergeant in particular, didn't.

More than half the men in the car were soldiers, either coming back from leave or reporting to duty for the first time. Chester listened. The chatter sounded much like what he remembered from the last go-round. n.o.body seemed to want to talk to him. That didn't surprise him. He had a lot of stripes on his sleeve, and he was at least twice the age of most of the men in green-gray.

When night came, the train slowed down to a crawl. He hadn't thought about how the blackout applied to trains. He realized he should have. If locomotives went tearing along at full speed behind the beam of a big, bright light, they shouted, Hey, come shoot me up! Hey, come shoot me up! at whatever enemy airplanes happened to be in the neighborhood. That made perfect sense-once you worked it out. at whatever enemy airplanes happened to be in the neighborhood. That made perfect sense-once you worked it out.

Conductors went through the cars making sure blackout curtains were in place on every window. Light leaking out the sides was as bad as any other kind. Chester wondered how likely an attack was. He shrugged. If it could happen at all, you didn't want to take needless chances.

About half an hour after the blackout curtains came down, Chester went back to the dining car. The featured entree was something called Swiss steak. It struck him as a good reason for emigrating from Switzerland. He looked at the private at the table next to his and said, "I'm not back on duty yet, but now I feel like I'm back in the Army, by G.o.d."

"Yeah." The kid was pus.h.i.+ng the gravy-smeared meat around with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "This is pretty lousy, isn't it?" He eyed Martin's heavily striped sleeve. "Have you, uh, been in the Army all along?"

By the way he said it, he might have meant since the War of Secession, or possibly since the War of the Roses. Chester laughed and shook his head. "Nope. I got out in 1917"-undoubtedly before the private was born-"and went on with my life."

"Oh." The youngster digested that, which had to be easier than digesting the Swiss steak. He risked another question: "How come you came back? They conscripted me. I had to go. But you must've had it made."

"Well, not quite," Martin said. "I was doing all right, but I wasn't rich or anything. But I didn't want to see Jake Featherston kicking us in the slats, and so here I am."

"Uh-huh." The private seemed surprised anybody who didn't have to would put on the uniform. Maybe he was what was wrong with the USA, part of the reason the country was having so much trouble with the CSA. On the other hand, maybe he just had a good deal of common sense.

Chester wondered how the Chicago-bound train would go to avoid both the Mormon uprising and the chance of b.u.mping into Confederate raiders. It headed east through Kingman and Flagstaff, New Mexico, and on to Santa Fe, where it turned north for a run through the mountains to Denver. It got hung up there for two days, though, at a little Colorado town called Salida. Somebody said Salida Salida meant meant exit exit in Spanish, but there was no exit from the place till damaged track up ahead was repaired. Avalanche? Sabotage? No one seemed to want to say, which left Chester suspecting the worst. in Spanish, but there was no exit from the place till damaged track up ahead was repaired. Avalanche? Sabotage? No one seemed to want to say, which left Chester suspecting the worst.

He dug a greatcoat out of his duffel and used it to stay warm. Sleeping in his seat was anything but delightful. Everybody grumbled. n.o.body could do anything but grumble. Misery might not have loved company, but had a lot of it.

Once they got going again, they made pretty good time till they came to Chicago. The Confederates had done what they could to bomb the railroad yards. Given the accuracy of night bombing, that meant the whole city had caught h.e.l.l. But the crawl at which the train proceeded showed the enemy had hurt the tracks and the stations to which they led.

Following signs that said MILITARY Pa.s.sENGERS MILITARY Pa.s.sENGERS for the transfer to Milwaukee, Chester stood in line for twenty minutes and then presented his voucher to a bored-looking corporal who eyed it and said, "You're late." for the transfer to Milwaukee, Chester stood in line for twenty minutes and then presented his voucher to a bored-looking corporal who eyed it and said, "You're late."

"My whole G.o.dd.a.m.n train is late. So sue me," Chester said. The corporal looked up, wondering who could be so cavalier about this business. Seeing a man with a lot more stripes than he owned instead of a scared young private, he kept his mouth shut. Chester went on, "I knew I was late before I got here. Now I want to know how to get where I'm going."

"I'll fix it, Sergeant," the corporal promised, and he did. If he took it out on some luckless kid later on, Chester didn't find out about that.

From Chicago to Milwaukee was a short hop, like the one from Toledo to Cleveland. Naturally, whatever eastbound transport they'd planned from Milwaukee was also obsolete. Another noncom did some more fixing. An hour and a half later, Martin found himself taking off in a twenty-two-seat Boeing transport, bound for Buffalo: the first airplane ride of his life.

He didn't like it. It was b.u.mpy-worse than b.u.mpy, in fact. Several people were airsick, and not all of them got all of it in their sacks. There was a snowstorm over Buffalo. The pilot talked about going on to Syracuse or Rochester. He also talked about how much-or rather, how little-fuel he had. The kid next to Chester worked his rosary beads hard.

They did put down in Buffalo, snowstorm or not. The transport almost skidded off the end of the runway, but it didn't quite. The rosary beads got another workout during and after that. "Give 'em some for me, too," Chester said when the airplane finally decided it did did intend to stop. The only thing that could have made the landing more fun would have been Hound Dogs shooting up the transport while it came in. intend to stop. The only thing that could have made the landing more fun would have been Hound Dogs shooting up the transport while it came in.

He wondered if the Army would try to fly him down to Virginia. If they did, he might have found out more about Confederate fighters than he ever wanted to know. But he got on another train again instead. And he got delayed again, twice: once from bombed-out rails and once from what they actually admitted was sabotage.

Somebody in the car said, "Christ, I hope we're doing the same thing to the Confederates."

"If we weren't, we would've lost the G.o.dd.a.m.n war by now, I expect," somebody else replied. Chester suspected that was true. He also suspected the United States were using Negro rebels to do a lot of their dirty work down there. He knew they'd done that in the last war; he'd led a Negro Red through U.S. lines to get whatever he needed in the way of arms and ammunition. Blacks now had even less reason to love the CSA than they'd had then.

"You're late," a sergeant growled at him when he finally got where he was going.

"That's right," Chester said. "I'm d.a.m.n lucky I'm here at all." The other sergeant stared at him. He stared back. He'd had three years of guff the last war. Enough, by G.o.d, was enough.

Cincinnatus Driver sat in the Bra.s.s Monkey soaking up a bottle of beer. The Bra.s.s Monkey wasn't the best saloon in Covington, Kentucky. It wasn't even the best saloon in the colored part of Covington. But it was the closest one to the house where he lived with his father and his senile mother. He walked with a cane and had a permanent limp. Close counted.

A couple of old black men sat in a corner playing checkers. They were regulars, and then some. As far as Cincinnatus could tell, they d.a.m.n near-d.a.m.n near-lived at the Bra.s.s Monkey. They'd nurse a beer all day long as they shoved black and red wooden disks back and forth. Every so often, they would stick their heads up and join in some conversation or other. More often, though, they stayed in their own little world. Maybe they were smart. The one outside looked none too appetizing to any Negro in the Confederate States of America. near-lived at the Bra.s.s Monkey. They'd nurse a beer all day long as they shoved black and red wooden disks back and forth. Every so often, they would stick their heads up and join in some conversation or other. More often, though, they stayed in their own little world. Maybe they were smart. The one outside looked none too appetizing to any Negro in the Confederate States of America.

Talk in the saloon reflected that. A middle-aged man named Diogenes blew cigarette smoke up at the ceiling, smiled, and said, "Shoulda got outa here when the gettin' was good. Too d.a.m.n late now."

"Do Jesus, yes!" another man said, and knocked back his shot. He set a quarter on the bar for another one. "We is nothin' but the remnants-the stupid remnants, I should oughta say. Remnants." He repeated the fancy word with an odd, somber relish.

He wasn't wrong. After Kentucky voted to return to the CSA in early 1941, a lot of blacks voted with their feet, heading across the Ohio to states that remained in the USA. Cincinnatus had intended to do that with his father and mother. He'd been sure ahead of time how the plebiscite would go. If he hadn't stepped in front of a car searching for his mother after she wandered off . . .

Diogenes savagely stubbed out his cigarette. "G.o.d d.a.m.n Al Smith to h.e.l.l and gone. Reckon he fryin' down there now, lousy, stinkin' son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Several men nodded, Cincinnatus among them. Al Smith hadn't had to give Jake Featherston that plebiscite. He hadn't had to, but he'd done it. Cincinnatus wasn't sorry he was dead, not even a little bit.

The bartender ran a rag over the smooth top of the bar. The rag was none too clean, but neither was the bar. Cincinnatus couldn't tell what, if anything, went on behind that expressionless face. Nodding while somebody else cursed Al Smith had probably been safe enough. He wouldn't have cursed Smith himself, not where people he didn't know could hear. Even if everybody here was black, that was asking for trouble. Anybody-anybody at all-could be an agent or a provocateur.

And sometimes trouble came without asking. The doors to the Bra.s.s Monkey flew open. In stormed half a dozen Freedom Party guards, all in what looked like C.S. Army uniforms, but in gray cloth rather than b.u.t.ternut. They all had submachine guns and mean looks on their faces. When the one with a sergeant's stripes on his sleeve said, "Don't n.o.body move!" the saloon suddenly became a still life.

The white men fanned out. They weren't quite soldiers, but they knew how to take charge of a situation. The three-striper (he wasn't officially a sergeant; the Freedom Party guards had their own silly-sounding names for ranks) barked, "Let's see your pa.s.sbooks, n.i.g.g.e.rs!"

No black in the CSA could go anywhere or do anything without showing the book first. It proved he was who he was and that he had the government's permission to be where he was and do what he was doing. Cincinnatus dug his out of the back pocket of his dungarees. He handed it to the gray-uniformed white man who held out his hand. The guard checked to make sure his photo matched his face, then checked his name against a list.

"Hey, Clint!" he exclaimed. "Here's one we're looking for!"

Clint was the noncom in charge of the squad. He pointed his submachine gun at Cincinnatus, then gestured with the weapon. "Over here, n.i.g.g.e.r! Move nice and slow and easy, or that spook back of the bar's gonna have to clean you off the floor."

Cincinnatus couldn't move any way but slowly. The noncom was careful not to let him get close enough to lash out with his cane. He hadn't planned to anyhow. He might knock the gun out of the man's hand, but then what? He wasn't likely to shoot all the Freedom Party guards before one of them filled him full of holes. He couldn't run, either, not with his ruined leg. He was stuck.

They hauled him away in a paddy wagon. He felt some small relief when they took him to a police station, not a Freedom Party meeting hall. The police still stood for law, no matter how twisted. The Party was a law unto itself, and beyond anyone else's reach.

And a police captain rather than a Freedom Party guard questioned him. "You know a man named Luther Bliss?" the cop demanded.

That told Cincinnatus which way the wind was blowing. "I sure do, an' I wish to Jesus I didn't," he answered.

"Oh, yeah? How come?" The policeman exuded skepticism.

"On account of he lured me down here and threw me in jail back in the Twenties," Cincinnatus said, which was nothing but the truth. He didn't like and didn't trust Luther Bliss. He never had and never would. The U.S. secret policeman and secret agent with the hunting-hound eyes was too singlemindedly devoted to what he did.

His reply seemed to take the policeman by surprise. "How come?" the cop repeated. "He reckon you was a Red n.i.g.g.e.r?"

"h.e.l.l, no." Cincinnatus sounded as scornful as a black man in a Confederate police station dared. Before his interrogator could get angry, he explained why: "Reds didn't bother Luther Bliss none back then. They weren't out to overthrow the USA. Bliss was afraid I was too cozy with Confederate diehards."

"n.i.g.g.e.r, we can look all this s.h.i.+t up. If you're lyin', you're dyin'," the cop growled.

"Why you reckon I'm telling you this stuff? I want want you to look it up," Cincinnatus said. "Then you see I ain't done nothin' to hurt the CSA." The one didn't follow from the other, but he hoped with all his heart that the policeman wouldn't see that. you to look it up," Cincinnatus said. "Then you see I ain't done nothin' to hurt the CSA." The one didn't follow from the other, but he hoped with all his heart that the policeman wouldn't see that.

His att.i.tude did confuse the white man, anyhow. He sounded a little less hostile when he asked, "You seen Bliss since?"

That was a dangerous question, because the answer was yes. Since Luther Bliss was one of the worst enemies the Confederates had in Kentucky, Cincinnatus would be suspected for not reporting that he'd spotted him. Cautiously, he said, "I done heard tell he was in town, but I ain't set eyes on him. Don't want to set eyes on him, neither." The last sentence, at least, was true.

If the Confederates asked the right questions of the right people, they could show the rest was a lie. The cop pointed a warning finger at Cincinnatus. "Don't you go nowhere. I'm gonna check up on what you just told me. What happens next depends on whether you were tryin' to blow smoke up my a.s.s. You got me?"

"Oh, yes, suh. I surely do," Cincinnatus said. "An' I ain't goin' nowhere." He almost laughed at the policeman. If the fellow thought he could just waltz out of the station, that didn't say much for how alert the Covington police usually were.

He sat there in the little interrogation room and worried. After a while, he needed to use the toilet-the Jax he'd drunk was taking his revenge. He stuck his head out the door and asked another cop if he could. He was afraid the white man would say no, if only to pile more discomfort and indignity on him. But the cop took him down the hall, let him do his business, and then led him back.

Cincinnatus had almost started to doze when his interrogator came back. "Well, looks like you weren't lying about your run-in with Bliss," he said grudgingly. He pointed an accusing finger at Cincinnatus. "Why didn't you tell me you'd been living in Iowa? Why the h.e.l.l didn't you get your black a.s.s back there when you had the chance? What have you been doin' here since you came back?" He seemed sure Cincinnatus' answer would have to be something incriminating.

"Suh, I been takin' care o' my mama, an' my pa's been taking care o' me." Cincinnatus explained how he'd returned to Kentucky to get his parents out, and what had gone wrong. He finished, "You don't believe that, go check the hospital."

"I seen you walk. I know you're screwed up some kind of way," the cop said.

"Do Jesus! That is the truth!" Cincinnatus said.

"I know what we ought to do with you," the policeman told him. "We ought to send you over the d.a.m.n border. If the Yankees want you, they're welcome to you. Sounds like all you want to do is get the h.e.l.l out, and take your ma and pa with you. The longer you stay here, the more likely you are to get in trouble."

Hope flowered in Cincinnatus. He needed a moment to recognize it; he hadn't felt it for a long time. He said, "Suh, you do that for me, I get down on my knees to thank you. You want me to kiss your foot to thank you, I do that. I was laid up when I could have taken my folks out of here. By the time I could get around even a little bit, the border with the USA was closed."

"I'll see what we can cook up," the policeman said. "We deal with the d.a.m.nyankees every now and then under flag of truce. If they want to let you cross the border, we'll let you go."

"Suh, when them guards grabbed me, I reckoned I was a dead man," Cincinnatus said, which was also nothing but the truth. "But you are a Christian gentleman, an' I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"Don't get yourself all hot and bothered yet," the police captain said. "These things don't move fast. When we've got to talk to the Yankees or they've got to talk to us, though, you're on the list. For now, go on home and stay out of trouble."

"Yes, suh. G.o.d bless you, suh!" Cincinnatus had dished out a lot of insincere flattery to white men in his time. He didn't know any Negroes in the CSA-or, for that matter, in the USA-who hadn't. It was part of life for blacks in both countries. Here, though, he meant every word of what he said. This Confederate cop hadn't had to do anything for him. Cincinnatus had expected the man to do things to him. Maybe the policeman thought he would would turn subversive if he stayed in the CSA. (Fortunately, the man didn't know he'd already turned subversive.) Whatever his reasons, he wanted Cincinnatus out of the CSA and back in the USA. Since Cincinnatus wanted the same thing . . . turn subversive if he stayed in the CSA. (Fortunately, the man didn't know he'd already turned subversive.) Whatever his reasons, he wanted Cincinnatus out of the CSA and back in the USA. Since Cincinnatus wanted the same thing . . .

Since he wanted the same thing, he didn't even complain about the long walk home. It didn't hurt as much as it might have, either. When he got there, he found his father almost frantic. "What you doin' here?" Seneca Driver exclaimed, eyes almost bugging out of his head in disbelief. "Some d.a.m.nfool n.i.g.g.e.r done tol' me them Freedom Party goons grab you."

"They did, Pa," Cincinnatus answered, and his father's eyes got bigger yet. He went on, "An' then they let me go." He told what had happened at the station.

"You believe this here po policeman?" His father didn't sound as if he he did. did.

But Cincinnatus nodded. "Uh-huh. I believe him, on account of he didn't have no reason to lie to me. I was there. there. He had me. He coulda done whatever he pleased. Who's gonna say boo if a cop roughs up a n.i.g.g.e.r? Who's gonna say boo if a cop kills a n.i.g.g.e.r, even? n.o.body, an' you know it as well as I do." He had me. He coulda done whatever he pleased. Who's gonna say boo if a cop roughs up a n.i.g.g.e.r? Who's gonna say boo if a cop kills a n.i.g.g.e.r, even? n.o.body, an' you know it as well as I do."

The older man thought it over. He screwed up his face in what was almost a parody of cogitation. "He don't mean nothin' good by it," he said at last. He wouldn't believe a Confederate cop could be decent, and Cincinnatus had a hard time blaming him.

Cincinnatus had a trump card, though. "I'm here," he said, and his father couldn't very well quarrel with that.

Congresswoman Flora Blackford clicked on the wireless set in her Philadelphia office. She usually left it off, turning it on at the hour and half hour to get what news she could. She had little-no, she had no-use for the music and advertising drivel that came out of the speaker most of the time.

Some people were saying television-wireless with moving pictures-was the next big thing. The war had put it on hold, and might have derailed it altogether. Flora wasn't sure she was sorry. The idea of having to watch advertis.e.m.e.nts as well as listen to them turned her stomach.

She wasn't listening to news now, though, or not directly. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to five. What were they waiting for? The announcer said, "Ladies and gentlemen, live from New York City and newly escaped from the Confederate States of America, we are proud to present . . . Satchmo and the Rhythm Aces!"

Out of the wireless poured music the likes of which was almost unknown in the United States. Negroes in the Confederate States had been oppressed for hundreds of years, and had no hope of anything else, anything better. They poured their wish for a different life-and a jaunty defiance of the life they were forced to live-into their music. Those sly rhythms and strange syncopations had no parallel in the USA. Satchmo might almost have been playing his trumpet in Portuguese rather than English.

And yet, a great singer could make an audience feel what he felt even in a foreign language-would opera have been so popular if that weren't true? Satchmo had the same gift. n.o.body in the United States played his kind of music. But joy and despair and anger came through just the same.

When the Rhythm Aces finished their number, the announcer said, "You know folks will hear this program in the CSA as well as the USA. What do you have to say to the people of the country you chose to leave?"

"Ain't got nothin' much to say to the white folks there," Satchmo answered, sounding like a gravelly bullfrog. "White folks down there don't listen to the n.i.g.g.e.rs anyways. If you is colored an' you is in the Confederate States, I gots one thing to tell you-git out if you can. You stays dere, you gwine end up dead. I hates to say it, but it's de Lawd's truth."

His English was almost as foreign to Flora's ear as his music. White Confederates had their own accent, or group of accents; she was used to those. People from the USA, though, seldom got to hear how uneducated Confederate Negroes spoke.

"How did you you get out of the CSA?" the announcer asked. get out of the CSA?" the announcer asked.

Flora already knew that story; she'd met Satchmo after he and his fellow musicians came to Philadelphia. Knowing what he was going to say helped her follow his account: "We was up in Ohio, playin' fo' de sojers dere. We done decided we better run, on account of we never gits no better chance. So we steals a command car-you know, one o' dem wid a machine gun on it." His accent got even thicker as excitement filled his voice. "We drives till we comes to de front. It's de nighttime, so de Confederate pickets, dey reckons we's ossifers-"

"Till we commences to shootin' an' drives on by," one of the other Rhythm Aces broke in. They all laughed at the memory.

"Good for you. Good Good for you," the announcer said. Flora didn't like his fulsome tones; she thought he was laying it on with a trowel. The idea wasn't to patronize the Negroes. It was to show the world they were human beings, too, human beings abused by their white Confederate masters. She couldn't think of a better word than that, even though the Confederates had formally manumitted their slaves in the 1880s. Neither side's propaganda was subtle these days. The announcer asked, "What will you play for us next?" for you," the announcer said. Flora didn't like his fulsome tones; she thought he was laying it on with a trowel. The idea wasn't to patronize the Negroes. It was to show the world they were human beings, too, human beings abused by their white Confederate masters. She couldn't think of a better word than that, even though the Confederates had formally manumitted their slaves in the 1880s. Neither side's propaganda was subtle these days. The announcer asked, "What will you play for us next?"

As usual, Satchmo spoke for the band: "This here is a song dat show we is glad to be where we's at."

They broke into "The Star-Spangled Banner." It was not the National Anthem as Francis Scott Key had written it. It was not the National Anthem as Flora had ever imagined it, either. They did things with and to the rhythm for which she had no names. But what they did worked. It made the staid old tune seem new and fresh to her again. Most of the time, she listened to "The Star-Spangled Banner" with half an ear, if that. She knew it too well to pay much attention to it. Not here, not now. She had to listen closely, because she couldn't be sure just what was coming next. She didn't think even the Rhythm Aces knew before the notes flowed from their instruments.

After the last proud wail of Satchmo's trumpet, even the bland announcer seemed moved when he murmured, "Thank you very much."

"You is mighty welcome, suh," Satchmo said. "You is mighty welcome, an' we is mighty glad to be in 'de land o' de free an' de home o' de brave.' If we was still in de CSA, maybe they fixin' to kill us."

The announcer still didn't seem to know what to make of that. Getting people in the USA to believe that whites in the CSA were systematically killing blacks wasn't easy. Getting people in the USA to care even if they did believe was harder yet. People in this country wanted as little to do with blacks as they could, and wanted as few blacks here as possible.

Flora wondered if Satchmo and his fellow musicians had b.u.mped up against that yet. They weren't valued for themselves; they were valued because their escape gave the Confederates a black eye.

"What will you do now that you're in our great country?" the wireless man asked at last.

"Play music." By the way Satchmo said it, he could conceive of no other life. "Wherever folks wants us to play music, we do dat."

How many people would want them to play music as alien to the U.S. tradition as that National Anthem had been? Flora couldn't know. One way or another, Satchmo and his band would find out. They wouldn't starve; the government wouldn't let them. And they wouldn't have to worry about pogroms and worse. People might not like them, but their lives weren't in danger anymore.

After farewells and commercials, the news did come on. It wasn't good. The big U.S. push in Virginia remained bogged down. U.S. counterattacks in Ohio hadn't come to much. The fight to grind down the Mormon uprising remained stalled in Provo. If the United States could have thrown their full might at Utah, the revolt would have been crushed in short order. The Mormons, of course, had the sense not to rebel when the USA could do that. Flora hoped Yossel stayed safe.

Other fronts were sideshows. Confederate-sponsored Indian uprisings in Sequoyah kept the occupied territory in an uproar. That wouldn't have mattered much if Sequoyah didn't have more oil than you could shake a stick at. As things were, the United States had trouble using what they could get, and sabotage ensured that they didn't get much.

Sequoyah was one more piece of trouble left over from the Great War and the harsh peace that followed. If the peace had been milder, maybe someone like Jake Featherston never would have arisen in the Confederate States. The smoldering resentments and hatreds that fueled the Freedom Party's growth wouldn't have existed. On the other hand, if the peace had been more draconian-more on the order of what the United States had visited on Canada-any sign of trouble would have been ruthlessly suppressed before it could turn dangerous.

Which would have been better? Flora didn't know. All she knew for sure, all anyone in the battered USA knew for sure, was that what they'd tried hadn't worked. That was particularly bitter to her because so much of what they'd tried had been under Socialist administrations, including her own late husband's.

The Democrats had ruled the USA almost continuously between the disaster of the War of Secession and the bigger disaster of the Great War. Teddy Roosevelt hadn't seen the Great War as a disaster; he'd seen it as a vindication, a revenge toward which the country had worked for two generations. Maybe he'd even been right. But the voters thought otherwise. They'd elected Socialists ever since, except for one four-year stretch.

And what had that got them? The economic collapse while Hosea Blackford was in the White House, and the rebirth of Confederate military power while Al Smith was. If only he hadn't agreed to the plebiscites in Kentucky and Houston and Sequoyah . . . But he had, and he'd won reelection on the strength of it, and none of Jake Featherston's solemn promises turned out to be worth the paper it was written on.

We aren't immune from mistakes, either, Flora thought, and laughed bitterly. There were times when the Socialists seemed to go out of their way-a long way out of their way-to prove that. Flora thought, and laughed bitterly. There were times when the Socialists seemed to go out of their way-a long way out of their way-to prove that.