The Center Cannot Hold

X

Clarence Potter had to wait to see his broker. He spent the time in Ulysses Dalby's waiting room drumming his fingers on his thigh. To the outside world, he showed only impatience. He kept the fear and rage he felt bottled up inside. No one would have known from his stolid, impassive face the way his heart pounded or how cold and damp the palms of his hands were.

At last, the broker's secretary said, "Mr. Dalby will see you now, Mr. Potter."

"Thank you, Betty." Potter strode past her without another word. She was a redhead whose generous contours could usually be counted on to distract male investors from their worries. Today, Potter was too worried to be distracted.

He closed the door behind him as he went into Ulysses Dalby's office. The broker was a few years older than he: a plump, gray-haired man with a jovial manner who wore sharp suits. He extended a well-manicured hand with a glittering pinkie ring for Potter to shake. "Good morning, sir," he said, his Low Country accent sweet and syrupy. "What can I do for you this fine day?"

"Get me out," Clarence Potter said.

Dalby raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Get me out," Potter repeated. "Sell every stock I have, fast as you can do it, best price you can get, but sell. Richmond and New York exchanges both. I'll be back for the cash this afternoon."

"Mr. Potter, I hesitate to carry out an order like that," Dalby said. "Are you sure you've considered carefully?"

"Maybe you'll call me a fool a month from now," Potter answered. "If I'm wrong, I can buy back in. But I'll have something to buy back in with. My opinion is that there's a fire in the woods. If I don't get out now, it will burn me out."

"Panic selling, sir, will only make the fire worse," Dalby said.

"Sitting around while the woods burn won't do me any good," Potter said. "I'll take my chances on the other. What have you done with your portfolio, Mr. Dalby?"

"I've diversified as much as possible," Dalby replied.

"That's fancy talk. It means you're already out of the markets, doesn't it?" Potter asked. When the broker didn't answer right away, Potter nodded. "I thought so. I'm getting out while the getting is at least tolerable, if not good. Place those sell orders right this minute. I want to make sure you do it. I'll be back for my money this afternoon, mind you, and I expect to have it." He didn't quite say, I know where you live, Dalby, but it hung in the air.

Only after the broker made the necessary telephone calls did Clarence Potter leave his office. When he stepped back out onto the streets of Charleston, he still felt panic in the air. A newsboy shouted, "France leaves the gold standard!" Another one called, "London market plunges again! Big selloff in Richmond!" And yet another cried, "President Mitchel calls for calm! Confederate dollar still sound, he says!"

Potter hoped Burton Mitchel was right about that last. If the currency went out the window as it had right after the war, there'd be hell to pay, but no money for the Devil. Will I have to buy gold? Potter wondered. Is there any gold to buy? I'll worry about that later. First things first. Banknotes. Nice brown banknotes. Let me get a good, fat wad of them and I can laugh at the world for a while.

When he went back to Ulysses Dalby's office that afternoon, the newspaper hawkers were talking about the beating the Richmond exchange had taken, and about the one the New York exchange had taken, too. He set his teeth and hoped the broker hadn't decamped with his money.

Betty the decorative secretary led him into Dalby's office. Just seeing Dalby made him let out a sigh of relief. He let out another one when Dalby handed him a thick sheaf of brown banknotes. What he let out after counting the money was more on the order of a grunt of pain. "This is all?" he demanded.

"That's all, Mr. Potter. I tried to warn you: you don't get top dollar in a bear market," Ulysses Dalby said. "Here are the transaction records. I'm not cheating you."

"Well, maybe you don't," Potter said after carefully checking the records. He did his best to sound philosophical. "But I would have got a lot less if I'd waited till tomorrow or the day after or next week, wouldn't I?"

Dalby nodded. "I have to say you would have. I'm also going to ask you one thing more: in what bank do you intend to put your money now that you've got it?"

"Why, the First Secession Bank and Trust," Potter answered. "I've been doing business with them since I came down here after the war. You must know that. How come?"

"Mm… It may be nothing. You're a good judge of banks-I think the First Secession is a pretty solid outfit. It may come through all this just fine."

Clarence Potter stared at him. "It may, you say?" Dalby nodded again. Potter whistled softly. "You think it's going to be as bad as that? Banks going under, the way they did in '88 and '04?"

"Yes, it may be that bad," the broker answered after a little thought. "On the other hand, it may be a good deal worse." Potter started to laugh, thinking Dalby had made a grim sort of joke. But Dalby's face was serious, even somber. "I'm not kidding, Mr. Potter," he said. "I'm not kidding at all. In the last couple of panics, our markets took a beating, and so did Wall Street up in the USA, but the rest of the world went on about its business. It's not like that this time, sir. I wish to heaven it were. This time… It won't do much to Africa, I suppose, and maybe not to China, either-the heathen Chinese are already about as bad off as they can be. But I don't believe anyplace else will get off untouched."

Potter whistled again, an even lower, even more mournful note. He might have been tolling the passing of an era. Maybe I am, he thought. "My God," he said aloud. "And I thought I was a pessimist."

"I watched the ticker tape all day, Mr. Potter. I watched it get further and further behind the sales it was supposed to be listing," Dalby said. "When I saw you this morning, I still had some hope. I'd say it died about an hour and a half ago. Maybe I'm wrong. I hope I'm wrong. I hope so. But I don't think so, not any more."

He looked shellshocked. That was exactly how he looked, Potter realized. He'd been through too much, like men in the Army of Northern Virginia during the war. They'd got that stunned, beaten look on their faces, too. Half the time after that, they didn't care if they lived or died. Dalby didn't seem to, not right now.

Stowing your money in your mattress was a joke that went at least as far back as money and mattresses. Potter wondered which of those had come first. Joke or not, he did just that with the banknotes he'd got from Ulysses Dalby. The next morning, he closed out his account at the First Secession Bank and Trust. The lines at the bank weren't too bad. "I assure you, sir," said the young clerk who gave him his money, "we are perfectly sound."

"I believe you, son," Potter answered. "That's why I'm doing this now. Who knows how the devil you're going to be in a couple of weeks, though?"

The clerk didn't try to tell him everything would be fine. He found himself wishing the fellow would have.

He went to the Whig Party meeting the following Tuesday more out of morbid curiosity than for any other reason. The stock exchanges hadn't got any better. They'd kept right on sinking, Richmond faster than New York. Lines outside the banks were starting to get longer-and more anxious.

The meeting went very much as Potter expected-very much as he'd feared-it would. It put him in mind of a lot of maiden ladies talking-or rather, trying not to talk-about sex. The lawyers and businessmen circled the building crash like a man circling a rattlesnake in a small room. They couldn't ignore it, but they didn't want to deal with it, either. They kept making noises about "changing conditions" and "uncertainty" and "a seeming slump in the business cycle."

Clarence Potter stuck up his hand. He needed a while to be recognized. He wasn't surprised; he'd expected they wouldn't want to notice him. He'd proved himself a gadfly, and they didn't like that. But he was, or could be, a patient gadfly. At last, the chairman had no choice but to turn his way and ask, "Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Boys," Potter said, "the jig is up."

Bang! The chairman rapped loudly for order. "Have you anything more germane to say, Mr. Potter, or may we move on to the next order of business?"

"What is the next order of business in the middle of a crash?" Potter demanded. "Sending out for more strings so we can fiddle while the market burns?" Bang! went the gavel again. Potter ignored it. "Next Congressional elections are only a few months away," he said harshly. "If this is as bad as it looks, how do we intend to send one single solitary Whig incumbent back to Richmond for the new Congress? We'd better be thinking about that, eh, before we worry about anything else. And we'd better try to keep the country on its feet so it'll be in some sort of shape to want to vote for us. How are we supposed to go about that?"

Bang! Bang! Bang! "Mr. Potter, you are as thoroughly out of order as it is possible for one man to be," the chairman all but shouted.

"You're right," Potter agreed. "But the country is a lot further out of order than I can be, and so are the Whigs. I have one last question, gentlemen, and then I'm done: if this turns out to be as bad as it looks right now, how the hell do you propose to keep those Freedom Party yokels from trying to pick up the pieces?"

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The gavel descended again and again, a veritable fusillade of banging. That succeeded in silencing Clarence Potter. But, he noticed, no one tried to answer his question. He'd expected nothing different, nothing better. He'd hoped for something better, but he knew too well the difference between hope and expectation. He walked out of the meeting gloomy, but he'd figured he would.

A couple of days later, after watching stocks tumble lower yet, after listening on the wireless to a speech by President Mitchel that was as full of misplaced optimism as any he'd ever heard, he decided to telephone Anne Colleton. He wasn't even sure she would remember him; a brief acquaintance in a political squabble a couple of years before didn't necessarily constitute an introduction.

But she said, "Oh, yes, Mr. Potter. I do appreciate the help you gave me against that fool of a Braxton Donovan. What's on your mind today?"

"I don't know, frankly," he answered. "The main reason I called was to see how you were doing. If anyone could land on her feet in this mess, you're the one."

"I'm not too bad," she said. "As soon as I saw which way the wind was blowing, I sold out as fast as I could. I got hurt. I didn't get wiped out. If I'd stayed in the market a little longer, I would have. How about you, Mr. Potter?"

"About the same," he told her. "I could have done better if I'd left a couple of days sooner, but I'm getting by for the time being. An awful lot of people aren't, though, and it may get worse before it gets better."

"I'm afraid you're right," Anne Colleton said. "Not many people can see that. In a way, it's good to know someone can."

"Belshazzar needed Daniel to read the writing on the wall," Potter said. "I hope someone can do the job for us."

"I wish there were no job to do," Anne answered.

"Well, so do I," he answered. "But I'm very much afraid this is only the beginning, and not just for the Confederate States. In a way, misery loves company. In another way, if everyone's in trouble, nobody can help anybody else get out of it."

Anne Colleton didn't say anything for perhaps half a minute. At last, she told him, "That makes good sense to me." Another pause. "You seem to make very good sense, Mr. Potter. Maybe we should talk some more if we get the chance."

And what am I letting myself in for if I say yes to that? Potter wondered. But the answer seemed obvious. Trouble. Only question is, how much trouble? He too paused, but not for long. "Maybe we should, Miss Colleton. Maybe we should."

W hen Chester Martin got off his shift at the Toledo steel mill, he went straight to the Socialist Party hall not far from the factory. He could have had himself a beer there, but opened a bottle of Nesbit's instead. He wanted to keep his wits about him.

Spotting Albert Bauer, he called, "What do you think of this management notion?"

"Cutting shifts from eight hours to six, you mean?" Bauer answered.

"Yeah, that's what I mean, all right, unless there's another brand-new management notion I haven't heard about yet," Chester said.

Bauer didn't look happy. "Way I see it, we've got two choices," he said. "We can say yes, and let 'em cut our pay by a quarter. Or we can so no, and have 'em fire one out of four of us." He was drinking a beer. He drained it, then added, "This is what you call being between the Devil and the deep blue sea."

"I don't trust those management bastards," Martin said. "Like as not, it's a trick to pump up their profits and hurt us at the same time. Instead of hiring goons and scabs, they play these games nowadays."

"I know." But Bauer looked mighty unhappy. "Hate to tell you, Chester, but I don't think so, not this time. I've seen the orders going through the pipeline. They've fallen right off a cliff. Nobody's buying steel, not to speak of. There's no point in making it if nobody's ordering. Less than no point, in fact-a big inventory just drives prices down when orders do start picking up. I don't think the bosses are playing games for the sake of playing games, not this time. I wish they were. I'd strike in a red-hot minute."

"Fine. Wonderful. But somebody'd better tell me how the hell I'm supposed to make ends meet on three-quarters of my proper pay."

"Well, that depends," Bauer said slowly. "Would you rather try to make ends meet on none of your proper pay? The company's trying hard not to get rid of people. I don't like the bosses, and I never will, but I have to give them credit for that."

Martin told him exactly where he'd like to give the bosses credit. Bauer laughed. Martin said, "It's not funny, dammit. If my wife didn't have work, we wouldn't make it on three-quarters of a paycheck. I'd sooner take my chances on getting the sack. If I did, I'd look for something else. And if I didn't, I'd be all right."

"So much for the solidarity of the proletariat," Bauer observed, and Martin felt himself flush. Bauer went on, "But if they didn't get you in the first round of firings, how do you know they wouldn't the next time? Because there will be a next time, Chester, sure as you're standing there."

"A next time." Martin scowled. "Hadn't thought of that. Bet you're right, though. Who would have thought a loan the Russians couldn't-or maybe wouldn't-pay back would cause all this trouble?"

"For want of a nail," Bauer said, and then sighed. "We're all going to be wanting nails before too long."

"Oh, yeah?" Chester said. "If we're all going to be wanting nails, how come they're cutting back on how much steel they're making?"

"Because whether we want them or not, we won't be able to afford them," Bauer answered.

"Of course we won't be able to afford them. They're cutting our hours."

Bauer's smile was full of anything but amusement. "Welcome to the vicious circle."

That circle was anything but welcome to Martin. He hung around the Party hall till he saw no one had any firm notion of how to respond to the bosses' proposal for cutting hours. No one could decide if it was good because it saved jobs or bad because it cut pay. Martin concluded the proposal would probably go forward. Strong opposition from the workers might have stopped it. If they couldn't decide whether it was good or bad, they would find out by experiment-on themselves.

He rode the trolley back to the flat he shared with Rita. His own mood was glum, or worse than glum. He'd told Albert Bauer the exact truth. If his hours and pay got cut to three-quarters of what he had now, the only thing that would keep him afloat was his wife's salary.

And Rita seemed anything but happy when he came through the door. After a perfunctory kiss, she said, "Orders have taken a real tumble since the market started going down. Nobody wants pipe any more-not new pipe, anyway."

It was spring, a bright spring, the weather full of new-puppy warmth and hope. Ice walked Chester Martin's back even so. He tried to remember when he'd known fear like this. The Roanoke front? He shook his head. That terror had been different, and far more immediate: fear of death and pain and mutilation. This was something else. Fear of loss, fear of hunger, fear of endless misery without escape. Fear of bills. Fear of moving back in with his mother and father-if this quiet, creeping horror didn't lay hold of them, too.

When Martin laughed, he might have been whistling while walking past a graveyard. "It was just a few weeks ago when we figured we could have any old thing we wanted," he said, and went on to tell Rita about the company's plan to cut everybody's hours.

She listened to that, her face getting longer and longer. "I know what I want," she said. "I want us to keep our jobs, that's what."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's about what it boils down to, isn't it?"

"It's hard times when your neighbor's out of work," Rita said. "It's the end of the world when you are."

"Maybe if the government really had seized the means of production this wouldn't have happened," Chester said, trying to make himself believe it. He couldn't. Shaking his head, he went on, "No, they couldn't've done it, I don't think. It would have meant real class war-and it might not have helped."

"What are we going to do?" Rita asked. "What can we do?"

"Hang on tight," he said. "We're still working. We're going to lose most of the stocks we bought, though. I hated answering the last margin call-felt like throwing money away. And we probably won't be able to afford to answer the next one."

"We've got each other. We're healthy." Rita sounded as if she was trying to reassure herself, and not having much luck.

"It can't get much worse," Chester said. "How could stocks go any lower than they have already? There's got to be a floor somewhere."

"Yes, but where?" Rita asked, and he had no answer. He felt less ashamed of that than he might have otherwise-for no one else in the USA-no one else in the whole world, by all the signs-had any answer to it, either. No, he wasn't ashamed, but that didn't mean he wasn't frightened.

He went to work day by day, having nothing else he could do. Before long, his shift did go from eight hours to six. His pay dropped by a quarter, too. He hated that, but he supposed he would have hated being without a paycheck even more. As long as Rita had a job, too, they got by.

The market continued to sink. Reading the papers, Martin took occasional consolation in noticing Richmond stocks had fallen even further than those on Wall Street. Did misery really love company? He didn't know about that, either. What he did know was that, every day, there seemed to be more misery to go around.

People started telling stories about brokers jumping off bridges and diving out of windows. Nobody could say whether those stories were true. People told them anyhow. One day in the middle of June, Wall Street stopped sinking. It dove. Maybe brokers didn't, but the market did. The wave of sell orders overwhelmed the ticker tape. It lagged ever further behind the tidal wave of disaster. The last few shares Chester had so proudly held on to went then, on what the papers called Swan-Dive Wednesday. By that time, he'd almost stopped caring. Not till almost four hours after the market closed did the chattering tape finally spit out the last of the day's losses.

When Thursday dawned, the market didn't open. An eerie calm prevailed at the steel mill. "Reminds me of the day after a big attack that didn't work," Martin said to Albert Bauer as they opened their lunch pails together.

Bauer had been at the front, too. He nodded. "Or maybe it did," he said, "only we were on the receiving end." He took a bite out of his cheese sandwich. He'd usually eaten bologna or pastrami before the market tumbled. So had Martin. His sandwich had cheese in it, too. Cheese was cheaper. Bauer went on, "President Blackford's got almost four years left in his term, but he's a lame duck already. Poor sorry son of a bitch."

"He's doing everything he can," Chester said. "I like what he said in the paper this morning. 'We have nowhere to go but up.' That's good. He means it, too-you can tell."

"Oh, yeah. I'm not arguing with you," Bauer answered. "But even if things do go up, what will people remember? They'll remember how far down we went, and who was in the Powel House when we did. Come 1932, he'll have Democrats lined up six deep to run against him."

Martin thought about that. It made altogether too much sense to be comfortable. "Well, the class struggle takes a step back," he said. "Or probably takes a step back. You never can tell, not for sure."

"Want to bet?" Bauer said. "I'm as good a Socialist as any man around, and I've got twenty bucks says there'll be a Democrat in Powel House after the '32 elections."

"You won't get my twenty," Martin said. "Wish I could, but Rita'd kill me-and I think I'd lose the dough. Times are tough enough without throwing it away."

"Of course, by the time '32 rolls around, I might have forgotten who I made the bet with," Bauer said.

"Fat chance," Martin answered. "It's not just that you wouldn't forget between now and then, Al. It's that you wouldn't let me forget."

"Who, me?" Bauer did his best to sound indignant. "Come on. Eat up. We've got to get back to it pretty goddamn quick."

"Right," Martin said tightly. The company was also cracking down on people who violated its rules. He didn't want to end up on the street. Six hours' pay was better than none at all.

When he got home that night, he found Rita crumpled in tears on the sofa. "Oh, Lord!" he said. "What's the matter, sweetie?" He feared he knew the answer even without the question he had to ask.

And he was right. "They fired me," his wife answered. "They told me to clean out my desk and not come back tomorrow-they can't afford to keep me any more. I've been there seven years, and they threw me out like a piece of dirt. Where am I going to go? What am I going to do? What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," Chester said dazedly. "So help me God, I don't know." In a few weeks, they'd gone from having two paychecks to having three-quarters of one. That was bad enough-was worse than bad enough. But what was worse yet, what was really terrifying, was that, compared to an awful lot of people, they were still well off.

I n the Terry, times hadn't been good since the last hectic days of the Great War. Back then, with every white man possible at the front, Augusta's Negroes had filled factory jobs galore. They'd made less money than the whites they were displacing, but even that added up to more money than they'd ever seen in their lives till that time. Then the whites, those who'd lived, came back, and the factory jobs dried up. People began living hand-to-mouth again.

Erasmus' place was a case in point. Scipio would have thought a fish market and cafe in a poor part of town immune from anything so remote as a stock-market panic. After all, the worst had happened in the Terry a dozen years earlier… hadn't it?

He would have thought that, but he would have been wrong. Erasmus' wrinkled face got longer with each passing day. His grizzled hair got grayer, too, or so it seemed to Scipio.

One morning, while Scipio washed the pile of breakfast dishes, Erasmus put his discontent into words: "They ain't comin' in."

"Ain't that bad, boss," Scipio said. "They ain't comin', where we get all these here dishes?"

"They ain't comin'," Erasmus repeated. " 'Fore all this panic happen, woulda been twice the dishes. Woulda been twice the money, too."

He was right, of course. Scipio's denial meant very little. Erasmus' place remained busy. It wasn't packed, not the way it had been before the market plunged. Scipio put the best face on things he could: "People's bein' careful wid dey money."

Erasmus shook his head. "A month ago, say, people was bein' careful with their money. Ain't like that no more. Now what it's like is, folks who come here, they ain't hardly got no money to be careful with."

"Lotta white folks outta work," Scipio admitted. "Bathsheba, she done lost fo', five cleanin' jobs las' few weeks. De buckra ain't got the money to give her."

"Here in the Terry, ain't many of us works for our ownselves," Erasmus said. "We mostly works for the buckra, almost like it was still slavery days. If the buckra outta work, we outta work, on account of they can't afford to pay us no more. How is I supposed to make money when there ain't no money to make?"

"Dunno," Scipio said. He waved. "Doin' pretty good so far."

"Ain't broke yet," Erasmus said. "Dunno why not, 'specially the way you eats." He wagged a finger at Scipio.

Had Scipio been white, he would have turned red. But taking meals at Erasmus' place was as much a part of what his boss paid him as the banknotes he got every Friday. It saved him money. The way things were going, the way Bathsheba's cleaning jobs were drying up, he needed to save all the money he could.

And Erasmus said not a word when he fixed himself a fried-egg sandwich and a big plate of grits for lunch. He'd just finished when the first lunch customer came in: a cleaning woman whose latest job had been close by the edge of the Terry. "Don't know how long I kin keep comin' here," she said as she took a bite out of a bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich. "White folks is lettin' people go. Ain't got no money their ownselves, sure ain't got none to spend on cleanin' their houses."

"I seen that, too," Scipio said. "My wife, she done los' half she people."

"World's a crazy place nowadays," the woman said. "Lady at the house I was at jus' now, her husband, he been a Whig forever, an' his daddy before him, an' his daddy before him. She say he talkin' 'bout votin' Freedom when the 'lections come round this fall. I didn't say nothin'. You don't like to tell the lady what's payin' you her husband ain't got no brains." She took another bite.

From his station in front of the stove, Erasmus said, "When the white folks see their money goin' away, some of 'em liable to do some crazy things."

"How many of 'em do dem crazy things?" Scipio wondered as he fetched the cleaning lady a cup of coffee. "We gwine have buckra in de streets yellin', 'Freedom!' again? Reckoned we was done wid dat."

"God do what He want to do, not what we wants Him to do," the cleaning woman said. "Thank you kindly, Xerxes," she added when Scipio set the coffee on the table.

"You's welcome," he answered absently.

How many whites were losing their jobs or losing money? He had no way of knowing, not for sure. More than a few, though; the stories in the Constitutionalist made that very clear. So did what was happening to the jobs of Negroes who depended on whites for work. How many of the whites who lost their jobs would start voting for Jake Featherston and his party?

Scipio had no way of knowing that, either, not for sure. But he'd just heard of one, and that was one more than he wanted to know about.

The cleaning lady gulped the coffee and got to her feet. She left money on the tabletop and hurried away. Over her shoulder, she said, "Can't be late gittin' back. Miz Hutton, I reckon she grab the first excuse she find to put me on the street. Don't aim to give her none." Out the door she went, in a hurry because her tip was small.

A man who sold secondhand furniture across the street came in for some fried catfish. As he ate, he remarked, "Had me a couple-three buckra come in the last few days. Ain't seen none in a hell of a long time 'fore that."

"Buy anything?" Scipio asked.

"Sure enough did," the furniture dealer answered. "Sold me a couple beds and a good chest o' drawers."

"Good for you, Athenaeus," Erasmus said. " 'Bout time I hear of somebody doin' good right now."

"Fellas sellin' new furniture, they's the ones wouldn't be happy if they knowed," Athenaeus said. "White folks all say they look at the new stuff first, but they can't afford it, no way, nohow. So they come to me."

"Good to hear it," Scipio echoed; as Erasmus had said, any news of success was welcome. But Athenaeus wasn't wrong. What would the white furniture dealers whose goods hadn't sold think?

And it wasn't just what they would think. What would they do? What could any man do, when he stared at bills and had no money to pay them? Would they put on white shirts and butternut trousers and start shouting, "Freedom!" at the top of their lungs? If they did, could anybody blame them?

Scipio nodded. I can blame them, he thought, hearing inside himself the precise English he no longer dared speak loud. I can blame them, for the Freedom Party will not make their troubles disappear, even if they think it will. And what the Freedom Party will do to me and mine if ever it should come to power…

That fear had spread all through the colored communities of the CSA in the early 1920s, and then receded as the Party's fortunes ebbed. Now white men were seeing the Confederate States could still know hard times. What would that discovery, that rediscovery, mean for Negroes here? Scipio didn't know. He feared finding out. Try as he would, though, he saw no escape.

"What kin we do?" he said aloud, hoping one of the other men in the place would have a better idea than he did. "Can't go nowheres."

"Ain't noplace else wants us," Erasmus said. "Not the USA."

"That's for sure," Athenaeus agreed. "They don't like the niggers they got. Ain't got very many, an' sure don't want no more."

"Stock market in de USA down de sewer, too," Scipio said. "They ain't got no money, no spirit, to help nobody else, not when they got trouble helpin' they ownselves."

"Good things they's down, too, you wants to know what I thinks," Athenaeus said. "If they was up, they be lordin' it over us. They do that, jus' git more buckra listenin' to Jake Featherston on the wireless and gittin' all hot and bothered afterwards."

For a long time before the world finally went mad in 1914, respect for each other's strength had kept the United States and Confederate States from going to war. Scipio had never imagined mutual weakness could do the same, but he couldn't deny Athenaeus had a point. It wasn't one he'd thought of, either.

"Empire of Mexico, mebbe," he said. But neither Erasmus nor Athenaeus paid much attention to that. Scipio couldn't take it seriously himself. To a Negro in eastern Georgia, the Empire of Mexico might as well have been on the dark side of the moon. Besides, what were the odds that Mexicans had any more use for Negroes than white men did?

Erasmus asked a more immediately relevant question: " 'Fore long, some black folks gwine start runnin' out o' money. What happen to 'em?"

"They git hungry," Athenaeus said.

"Church help some," Scipio said.

"Church be swamped," Erasmus said. Scipio nodded. By all the signs, that would come true, and soon. His boss went on, "Ain't no use waitin' fo' the gummint to do somethin'. Wait till Judgment Day, gummint won't do nothin' fo' no niggers."

" 'Fore long, some white folks starts runnin' out o' money and gettin' hungry, too," Athenaeus said. "Plenty po' buckra, they ain't hardly better off'n niggers. Gummint worry 'bout the buckra first, you wait an' see."

"What's a po' nigger gwine do?" Erasmus asked. "Starve?"

The word hung in the air. Scipio had known a lot of hungry people; during the war, he'd been hungry himself after the Confederates destroyed the Congaree Socialist Republic. But there was a difference between being hungry and starving. He tried to imagine thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of Negroes (and whites, too) going without because they had no money with which to buy food.

Outside, the sun shone brightly. The day was hot and muggy. It would stay hot and muggy from now all the way till fall. Even so, Scipio felt a chill. This was liable to be a disaster of Biblical proportions.

"What kin we do?" Athenaeus asked mournfully. "What kin anybody do?"

"Pray," Erasmus answered. "God done made this happen. He kin make us come through it, too, so long as He take it in His mind He want to do dat."

"Amen," Athenaeus said. Scipio made himself nod. He didn't want to seem out of place-seeming out of place was one of his greatest fears, because it was deadly dangerous. But if God had really wanted to do something about this disaster, couldn't He have stopped it in the first place?

"More we pray, more He gonna know how much we loves Him," Erasmus said. Along with being a believer, though, he was a relentlessly practical man. He went on, " 'Course, we gots to work hard, too. God ain't never gonna pay no heed to nobody who don't work hard."

Scipio would have bet he'd say that. Erasmus not only believed in the virtues of hard work, he practiced what he preached. Scipio himself was sure it couldn't hurt. What he wasn't sure of was how much it could help.

S omething was wrong in Salt Lake City. Colonel Abner Dowling shook his head. Something was always wrong in Salt Lake City. It wouldn't have been the place, or the sort of place, it was if something hadn't been wrong all the time. But something now was different. Anything different in Salt Lake City automatically roused Dowling's suspicions. As far as he could tell, different and dangerous were two sides of the same coin.

"I'll tell you what it is, sir," Captain Angelo Toricelli said.

"Go ahead, Angelo," Dowling urged. "Tell."

"Nobody's building anything, that's what," his adjutant said. "It's quieter than it ought to be."

Slowly, Dowling nodded. "You're right. I'll be damned if you're not right. It isn't on account of they've got everything rebuilt, either. Still plenty of wreckage lying around."

"Yes, sir," Captain Toricelli agreed. "But an awful lot of money that would have paid for more construction all of a sudden isn't there-it's gone."

Dowling nodded again. He gave Toricelli a sidelong glance. Fortunately, his adjutant didn't notice. The way the younger man watched every penny, he might have been a Jew, not an Italian. Dowling didn't want Toricelli to know he was thinking that. He didn't want to insult his adjutant. And everybody had to pay special attention to money these days, because it was so very thin on the ground.

With a sigh, Dowling said, "Not much we can do about it. At least we've got the Army paying our salaries."

"Yes, sir, and I'm damn glad of it, too," Toricelli answered. "I just got a letter from New York, from home. My brother-in-law's out of a job."

"What's he do?" Dowling asked.

"He reads X rays, sir-went to night school to learn the trade," Toricelli said, not without pride. "My sister and he've got five children, and another one on the way. I don't know what they'll do if he doesn't find something quick."

"I hope he does," Dowling said, on the whole sincerely. "Who would have thought the bottom could drop out of things so fast?"

"Nobody," Captain Toricelli answered. "But it has."

He was right about that, too. The Army censored Salt Lake City papers pretty hard. Pain came through their pages even so. Stories of half-done buildings abandoned, of banks going under, of people losing jobs, couldn't very well be prettied up. And the only way to leave those stories out of the newspapers would have been to have no papers at all.

Captain Toricelli touched a fat document on his desk. "Don't tell me what that is," Dowling said. "Let me guess: another normalization petition."

"Right the first time," his adjutant said.

"It's not as though I haven't seen enough of them," Dowling said. Every few months, the Mormons of Salt Lake City-and the occasional gentile, too-would circulate petitions asking that Utah finally be treated like any other state in the USA. Dowling had got a couple of dozen since coming to the state capital. With a sigh, he went on, "They still haven't figured out I'm not the one they ought to send these to, because I have no authority to grant them. They should go to General Pershing-he's supreme commander of the military district."

A thoroughly precise man, Toricelli said, "He hasn't got authority to grant them, either. Only the president and Congress can do that."

"What do you think the chances are?" Dowling asked.

"Better than decent, if the Mormons can keep their noses clean," Captain Toricelli answered. "The Socialists seem to want to do it."

"I know." Dowling packed a world of meaning into two words. "They think a zebra can change its stripes, the way the one in that Englishman's fable did. I think…" He shook his head. "What I think doesn't matter. I don't make policy. I just get stuck with carrying it out." He picked up the petition. It was a hefty one; it had to weigh a couple of pounds. "I'll take this to General Pershing's office, if you like."

"Oh, you don't need to do that, sir," Toricelli said. "It's not important. I can fetch it next time I go over there."

"I'm on my way," Dowling said. "Better Pershing's adjutant should have it on his desk than you on yours."

He caught Toricelli's eye. They shared a slightly conspiratorial chuckle. "Thank you very much, sir," the young captain said.

"You're welcome," Abner Dowling answered. "I've got to go over there and talk with the general about his scheme for mounting better guard on Temple Square. We need to do it; every broken rock from the Temple and the Tabernacle counts for a sacred relic with the more radical Mormons these days."

"Yes, sir," Toricelli said. "But there's a certain problem in shooting anybody who bends to pick up a pebble in the square, too."

"A certain problem, yes," Dowling agreed. "And that's what I've got to talk to General Pershing about. How do we keep the Mormons from getting symbols of revolt without provoking them and ruining what ever bits of goodwill we've managed to build up since the war ended?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," his adjutant replied. "I hope you and the commanding general can find a way."

"So do I. Can't hope for much in the way of normalization if they're still picking up broken rocks and dreaming of treason." Dowling tucked the petition under his arm and strode down the hall to his superior's office. He took no small pleasure in dropping the document on Pershing's adjutant's desk, and in watching the papers already there jump as it thudded home.

"Thank you so much, sir," Pershing's adjutant, a major named Fred Corson, said with a sickly smile. "The general is waiting for you." He sounded reluctant to admit even that much to Dowling.

"Hello, Colonel," General Pershing said when Dowling walked in. A grin spread across his bulldog features. "Was that the thump of a normalization petition I heard just then?"

"It certainly was, sir," Dowling answered.

"Well, I'll forward it to Philadelphia," the commandant said. "That's my duty. And there that petition will sit till the end of time, along with all the others."

"Unless the Socialists decide to grant them all, that is," Dowling said.

"Yes. Unless. In that case, Colonel, you and I will both need new assignments, because normal states don't have soldiers occupying them. Part of me won't be sorry to get away." Pershing rose from behind his desk and went over to the window not far away. He looked at his fortified headquarters, and at Salt Lake City beyond. "Part of me, though, will regret leaving this state, because I'm convinced that, no matter what this administration may believe, Utah isn't ready for normalization. As a matter of fact, here we-"

Abner Dowling heard a distant pop! It might have been a motorcar backfiring, or a firecracker going off. It might have been, but it wasn't. At the same instant as he heard it, or perhaps even a split second before, the window in front of which General Pershing was standing shattered. Pershing made a surprised noise. That was the best way Dowling could have described it. It didn't hold much pain. Before Dowling fully realized what had happened, the military commandant of the state of Utah crumpled to the carpet in front of him.

"General Pershing?" Dowling whispered. He hurried over to the fallen man. He needed a moment to add two and two together. Only when he saw the neat hole and the spreading bloodstain in the middle of Pershing's chest did he fully understand what he was seeing. "General Pershing!" he said, sharply this time.

He grabbed for Pershing's wrist and felt for a pulse. He found none. Aside from that, the sudden sharp stink in the room told him what he needed to know. Pershing had fouled himself when the bullet struck home.

Thinking of a bullet made Dowling think of the man who'd fired it. He peered out through the shattered window. The U.S. perimeter around the headquarters ran out for several hundred yards. The gunman must have shot from well beyond it, which meant he had to be a brilliant sniper. In war-ravaged Utah, that was anything but impossible, as Colonel Dowling knew all too well.

Only while Dowling was shouting for Pershing's adjutant did he pause to wonder whether the sniper was still out there, peering through a telescope on his Springfield and waiting for another shot. He was, at the moment, too shocked, too stunned, to worry about it.

Major Corson hurried in. In his outer office, he hadn't even heard the gunshot. Dowling's shouts were what drew him. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" he said, which summed it up as well as anything. "Is he-?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word.

Dowling did: "He's dead, all right. He dropped down like somebody let all the air out of him. He was dead before he hit the rug-never knew what hit him."

Out on the perimeter, soldiers had started shouting and pointing. A couple of them started running. Dowling noted all that as if from a very great distance. In one sense, whether they caught the sniper mattered a great deal. In another sense, it hardly mattered at all. The damage was done, and more than done.

Pershing's adjutant saw the same thing. He got the truth into four words: "So much for normalization."

"Yeah," Dowling said. "We just went back to square one."

"Sir, you're senior officer in the state right now," Corson said. Dowling nodded; the city commandants in both Provo and Ogden were lieutenant colonels. Pershing's adjutant looked to him with desperate appeal in his eyes. "What are your orders?"

You're in charge of Utah. God help you, you poor, sorry bastard. Dowling tried to pull himself together. "Fetch a doctor. It won't do any good, but fetch him. Send men after that sniper." He feared that wouldn't do any good, either, but he had to try. "Call the president and the War Department, in that order. Let them know what's happened. After that, we close Salt Lake City down. We take hostages. We do whatever we have to do to let the Mormons know that if they want to play rough, we're going to play ten times rougher. Have you got that?"

"Yes, sir," Major Corson answered. He saluted and hurried away, leaving Dowling alone with General Pershing's body.

If the Mormons want to play rough, we'll play ten times rougher? Dear God in heaven, had he really said that? He nodded. He had. And, in saying it, he'd sounded a great deal like General George Armstrong Custer. He hadn't wanted to. He hadn't intended to. But he had, all the same. Custer had rubbed off on him after all. And if that wasn't a chilling thought…

If that wasn't a chilling thought, maybe it was a reminder that Custer, for all his enormous flaws-and nobody knew them better than Dowling; a general had no more secrets from his adjutant than a man from his valet-had ended up the most successful soldier in the history of the United States.

I won't keep this command long, Dowling thought. They'll bring in someone with stars on his shoulder straps as fast as they can. Meanwhile, though, it was his. He had to do the best job he could while it remained his.

A doctor dashed into Pershing's office, little black bag in hand. "What do you need, Colonel?" he asked.

"Not me, Major," Dowling answered. "It's General Pershing who's dead." Along with any hope for peace in Utah for God only knows how long.

Jake Featherston strode through the streets of Richmond, his bodyguards surrounding him front and back, left and right. He moved swiftly and confidently, and with such abrupt decision that his turns would sometimes take even the alert guards by surprise, so they'd have to scramble to stay with him.

Richmond was not the city it had been before the war. By now, ten years after the Confederate States had yielded to the United States, almost all the damage from U.S. bombing aeroplanes had been repaired. Even so, something was missing from the city's heart. Before the Great War, everybody in Richmond had known the CSA sat on top of the world.

Nowadays… Nowadays, Richmond felt poor and shabby. Everything looked gray. It all needed cleaning up, hosing down, painting. Nobody bothered to give it any such thing. And the people seemed as gray and grimy and defeated as the town in which they lived. Jake had thought the same thing even before the stock market submerged, but it was much more noticeable now.

He hurried past a man with shoulders slumped from lugging heavy sample cases to firms that weren't buying, that wouldn't have been buying if he'd been selling gold for the price of lead. That luckless drummer was a dead man walking-till he saw Jake. He straightened up. His eyes got back their spark. "Freedom, Mr. Featherston!" he called.

"Freedom to you, pal," Featherston answered. "Hang on. Just remember, we'll lick those bastards yet."

"How?" the man asked. "What can we do?"

"Same thing I've been saying all along," Jake told him. "First thing is, we've got to get rid of the stupid bastards who landed us in this mess in the first place. They aren't fit to carry guts to a bear, but they've been running this country-and running it straight into the ground-ever since the War of Secession. That means the politicians and the bonehead generals in the War Department."

"Sounds good to me. Sounds mighty damn good to me," the salesman said. "What else?"

"Got to pay back the niggers," Featherston said. "Got to get strong again, so we can look the USA in the eye again. Got to get strong, so we can spit in the USA's eye, too, if we ever have to. How do you like that?"

"Me? I like it fine," the man said. "You go on and give 'em hell."

"Just what I intend to give 'em. But I'll need your help, buddy. Remember, vote Freedom come November. We've got to get this country on its feet again. I've been saying that for years. Now maybe people will start paying attention to me." He walked on, leaving the drummer with a last, "Freedom!"

"Freedom!" the fellow echoed.

Back in the middle of the 1920s, that luckless drummer had probably been comfortable enough to vote Whig. Bad times made the Freedom Party grow. Featherston knew as much. He looked around. He'd seen plenty of bad times right after the war, when the money went down the toilet. This… This felt worse. This felt as if the Confederate States were closing down, one store, one factory, at a time, and might never open for business again.

"Freedom!" somebody else called-a woman, her voice high and shrill with worry.

"Freedom, dear," Jake told her. "Everything's going to be just fine." He waved and kept going.

During the war, he'd usually had a pretty good notion of whether the troops in front of him would succeed in an attack-or, later, if they would succeed in holding back the damnyankees when they attacked. Now, after years wandering in the wilderness, he felt things in his own country turning his way again.

Shame it took a panic and a crash to do it, he thought. But that's the way it goes sometimes. If you don't grab with both hands when you get the chance, you deserve what ever happens to you. He intended to grab what ever the times gave him. He'd had one chance, and seen it go glimmering. God damn you to hell and gone, Grady Calkins. That had been the first time. He'd wondered if he would ever see another. Now, here it was again, if he could make it so.

He and his escorting guards rounded a corner. One of them pointed up Grace Street toward Capitol Square. "Look at that, boss," he said. "Isn't it a shame and a disgrace?"

"It's a judgment on the damn Whigs, that's what it is," Jake answered.

Back just after the Great War ended, Capitol Square had been full of soldiers fresh out of the Army. They'd had nowhere to go and nothing to do, so they'd camped there, many of them still with their weapons-enough to make the police leery of trying to clear them out, anyhow, even though they'd rioted more than once.

Now tents and shanties sprouted in the square once more. Jake didn't know who all was in them. Some veterans, certainly. But some men who weren't, and a lot of women and kids, too. People who'd lost jobs and lost their homes or couldn't pay the rent on a flat any more

… where else were they going to go?

Again, the police were going easy on them. Clearing them from the shantytown by force would have made dreadful headlines. Another guard said, "Those people shouldn't ought to be in a mess like that. Ain't their fault, not most of the time. But that ain't the only shantytown in the country, neither."

"Damn right it ain't, Joe," Featherston agreed. "There's one outside of every town in the CSA. And you're right-most of the people in 'em are decent, hardworking folks who're just down on their luck." He slapped Joe on the back, hard enough to stagger him. "And I'll be go to hell if you didn't just give me next week's wireless talk on a silver platter."

By then, going into the studio was second nature for him. When the red light came on, he rasped out the greeting he'd been using for years: "This is Jake Featherston of the Freedom Party, and I'm here to tell you the truth."

Inside the glassed-in room next to the studio, the engineers nodded at him-everything was going the way it should. And his words were going out to far more people in the CSA than they had a few years before. A whole web of stations, a nationwide web, was getting this broadcast now. It went everywhere, from Richmond to Miami to deep in Sonora. And stations near the postwar, U.S.-imposed border beamed it up into Kentucky and Houston and Sequoyah.

"Truth is," Jake went on, "all across our country people are losing their jobs. Truth is, all across our country they're losing their homes. Truth is, all across our country they're trying to get by in shacks and tents a God-fearing dog wouldn't want to live in. And the truth is, my friends, the Whig Party doesn't care. "

He banged his fist down on the table, hard enough to make papers jump in front of him-but not hard enough to make them fall off or to tip over the microphone. He'd had practice with that thump. "So help me God, friends, that is the truth. I'm ashamed to say it about anybody in these Confederate States, but it is. What are the Whigs doing to help these folks get new jobs? Nothing! What are the Whigs doing to help 'em hang on to their houses? Nothing! What are the Whigs doing to keep 'em from starving? Nothing, one more time! 'That's not the government's job,' is what they say.

"Well, friends, I'm going to tell you something. The Whigs proved how useless they were two years ago, when the big floods came. Did they do anything much for the poor, suffering people in Tennessee and Arkansas and Mississippi and Louisiana? Did they? In a pig's ear they did. They patted 'em on the head and said, 'Sure wish you good luck. Y'all'll be just fine.' Were they just fine? You know better'n I do.

"I'll tell you something else, too. This here panic, this here crash, is dragging more people under than Mother Nature ever dreamt of doing. And that's happening all over the Confederate States, not just in the Mississippi Valley. God help us all, there's a shantytown in Capitol Square here in Richmond. The fat Whig Congressmen could look out their windows and see the poor hungry folks. They could, but they don't."

On and on he went, finishing, "Two years ago, the Supreme Court-the bought and paid-for Supreme Court-said Burton Mitchel could run for president again. Well, he did, and he got himself elected again, too. And now we're all paying for it.

"So if you want things to work again, if you want us to be strong again, if you want to tie a can to the Whigs' tail-and to the Supreme Court's tail, too-if you don't want to have to live in a shack like a nigger cotton-picker, vote Freedom in November. God bless you all, and thank you kindly!"

The lead engineer drew a finger across his throat. The red light in the studio went out. Jake Featherston leaned back in his chair, then gathered up his papers and left the small, soundproofed room.

Saul Goldman, the station managed, waited in the hallway. "That was a strong speech, Mr. Featherston, a very strong speech," he said.

"Let's hope it does some good," Jake answered.

"I've heard a lot of your speeches the past few years, Mr. Featherston," Goldman said. "I think this one will sway people, especially… with things the way they are."

"Yeah. Especially," Featherston said. "I think this one'll do some good, too. High time people got the wool pulled away from over their eyes. High time they see you don't have to be a Whig to run the country. High time they see we'd be better off with people who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty, who aren't afraid to pitch right in and do what needs doing. We've got to fix things. We can't go on like this."

"No." Goldman shook his head. "Times are very hard." He risked a smile at Jake. "You should be glad you have a job."

"I am," Jake said. "I've had a job ever since the war ended: to see the Confederate States back on top. It's taken me a long time to start doing that job. But I think my hour's coming round at last."

"I think you may be right," the station manager agreed. "If not now, when will it come?"

If not now, will it ever come? But Jake Featherston pushed that thought to the back of his mind, as he did whenever it cropped up. He couldn't afford to doubt, and so he didn't. "I'm going to tell you something, Mr. Goldman," he said. "This here station and the web you've set up have done the Freedom Party a hell of a lot of good. We don't forget our enemies. Everybody knows that. But we don't forget our friends, either. You'll see."

"Thank you," Goldman said. "That I should be your friend surprises me. We've had that talk before, a long time ago. But thank you. Thank you very much. It has passed over me."

"What's that?" Featherston asked. The Jew only shrugged and changed the subject. Jake didn't push it. He had other things to worry about. The world wasn't his, as he thought it should be. But now, at least, he had the hope it was going his way.

W hen Jefferson Pinkard opened his pay envelope at the Sloss Works, he discovered it contained a pink slip along with his salary. His curses were soft and bitter and heartfelt. "I should've stayed in Mexico, by God," he said. "If I'd known the company was going to treat me like a nigger, I would've."

The paymaster, a gray-haired man named Harvey Gordon, had known Pinkard since before the Great War. He shook his head. "You never should have gone to Mexico in the first place. You forfeited all the seniority you had. Now they're treating you like a new hire. I'm sorry as hell, Jeff, but them's the rules."

"Fuck the rules," Pinkard said. "How am I gonna eat?"

Gordon didn't answer that. It wasn't a question that had an answer, except maybe, God knows. If God did know, He hadn't bothered telling Jefferson Davis Pinkard.

"Get moving," the fellow in line behind him said. "Don't hold up the works."

"Fuck you, too," Jeff answered, hoping for a fight. He didn't get one, only a stony glare. Muttering under his breath, he strode out of the steel mill. Won't be coming back, either, he thought. Ain't that a son of a bitch?

He wondered where he would live, too. A fired man had two weeks to leave company housing. If he didn't go after that, they'd pitch his belongings out of his cottage and onto the sidewalk.

At least the yellow clapboard house he had now was a long way from the one he'd shared with Emily back in happier times. How can I afford a new place if I just got fired?

It was a good question. Again, he wished he had a good answer for it. He wished he had any answer at all. Inside the cottage, he had a cheap iron bed and a cheap iron stove, an icebox, a rickety table, and one chair. A furnished room would have had more in it. He didn't want to think about a room. Thinking about one reminded him he didn't know what he'd do when they threw him out of here.

He made a mess of bacon and eggs for supper. He'd had them for breakfast, too. He was no kind of cook. He never had been. He did a tolerable job on bacon and eggs most of the time. He'd started getting sick of them. But he did so few things well, he didn't have much choice.

When he went to bed that night, he set the alarm clock, forgetting he wouldn't need to get up the next morning. The clock was cheap, too. Its tinny jangle jolted him awake. He was dressed and eating breakfast-bacon and eggs yet again-before he realized he had nowhere to go.

"Shit," he said, without originality but with great feeling.

That morning was one of the strangest of his life. He sat on the one chair in the cottage and watched men streaming toward the Sloss Works, and others coming off the night shift. He could have been one of them. Up till the day before, he had been one of them. Now he felt as far apart from them as a prisoner of war did from his army. He didn't go to work there, not any more.

After a while, the two streams of men stopped. Everything grew quiet. Wives came out of the cottages to shop or gossip with the neighbors. Children headed for school. The ones too little to go to school played in front of their houses. All that had gone on for years while he worked at the steel mill, but he'd seen it only when he was too sick to go in. Now he felt fine (except for being sick of bacon and eggs), but he had nowhere to go.

He started to read a magazine, a pulp called Aeroplane Adventures. Some of the tales in it were set in the Great War, others afterwards. It was printed in Richmond; all the war stories had Confederate pilots gunning down Yankees, or Englishmen knocking German aeroplanes out of the sky. The later tales were set in the Confederate West or in odd corners of the world.

Aeroplane Adventures had sat on the kitchen table for more than a week without his looking at it. He'd been too tired to read when he came back from the Sloss Works. Now, with nothing else to do, he went through the magazine twice. A young Texan from a town called Cross Plains had written an exciting story about the air war over West Texas, where Jeff had served. The fellow had a few details wrong-he hadn't been old enough to see combat-but he could tell a tale. The other pieces were much less memorable.

Jeff started the magazine for a third time late that afternoon, but set it aside instead. He wished he had a wireless set, to make time pass more quickly. But then he brightened. "Freedom Party meeting tonight!" he said: the first words he'd spoken since the morning. As he'd forgotten to leave the alarm alone, he'd almost forgotten the weekly meeting.

When the time came, he put on a white shirt and butternut trousers and hurried to the trolley stop where he could ride into central Birmingham. Crickets chirped. Lightning bugs winked on and off, on and off. The trolley stop was crowded. Several men had on the same kind of outfit as Jeff. "Freedom!" one of them said.

"Freedom!" Jeff echoed. "When was the last time you went to a Party meeting, Clem?"

"Been four-five years," the other steelworker answered. "I didn't reckon it was on the right track. Now I'm wondering if maybe I was wrong. Won't hurt none to come and find out."

"You stopped coming to meetings for a while, too, Jeff," another man said.

Pinkard shook his head. "Not me. Not like you mean, anyhow. I never walked away from the Party. What I did was, I went down to the Empire of Mexico."

"Oh," said the fellow who'd brought it up. He said not another word after that. Anybody who'd fought in Mexico took the Freedom Party and its business very seriously indeed. The trolley rolled up then, clanging its bell. The men bound for the Freedom Party meeting climbed aboard with everyone else at the stop. Pinkard threw a dime in the fare box. He hadn't worried about money since coming back from Mexico, not while he'd had work. But now, without it, those ten cents suddenly seemed to loom as large as ten dollars would have.

And here was the old livery stable again, the smell of horses fainter than ever but still there. Here were the old folding chairs, even more battered than they had been before he'd headed south. Here was the rostrum at one end of the hall, and the Stars and Bars and Confederate battle flag on the wall behind it. The two flags hadn't changed; they still carried the stars representing Kentucky and Sequoyah, though the states lay under U.S. occupation.

The meeting was crowded. That steelworker wasn't the only man returning after a long absence. And there were faces Jeff had never seen before, some of them belonging to men surely too young to have fought in the Great War. Jeff recognized the way those men bore themselves: stiff with a special, nervous sort of dignity. He carried himself the same way. It was the distinctive posture of men who'd lost their jobs but didn't want the world to know.

Somebody swigged from a bottle of homebrew. Pinkard grinned to see that. Some things hadn't changed. Alabama remained dry. But the police had never come around trying to enforce the temperance laws at a Party meeting. They had to know they would have had a fight on their hands if they'd been so rash.

He found a chair and sat down. He'd sat right about here, he remembered, when he'd got up and pushed past Grady Calkins on his way out of one meeting. People had still sat on hay bales in those days, not folding chairs. He cursed under his breath. Calkins, a Freedom Party man, had done more to hurt the Party by turning assassin than all its enemies put together.

Caleb Briggs stepped up onto the rostrum and took his place behind the podium. The dentist looked out over the crowd and called, "Freedom!"

"Freedom!" people shouted back.

Briggs cupped a hand behind one ear. "I can't hear you."

"Freedom!" This time, the yell shook the rafters.

"That's better." Briggs nodded. "Good to see some old familiar faces back with us again. Nice to know y'all have seen the light one more time. And you're welcome. We wish you'd've stayed with us all along, but it's good to have you back. And how many folks are here for the very first time?"

Several men raised their hands. Briggs nodded again. "Good to see new blood, too. We need you. We need everybody. For years and years now, we've been telling anyone who'd listen that the Confederate States were going over a cliff. Not enough people did listen, and over we went, dammit. Now we've got to get back up again, and we need help. We've got to fight for what we believe in. You new men, are you ready to do that?"

"Yes, sir!" the newcomers chorused. Jeff wondered whether they knew Briggs meant it literally. If they didn't, they'd find out.

Sure enough, the dentist said, "You'll have your chance, I promise you. We'll set this country to rights yet. Maybe people are starting to see what's wrong in Richmond. About time. And if we have to knock a few heads together, or more than a few, to get things going again, we'll do it, that's all. You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs."

"That's right," Pinkard said. "You bet that's right. If you aren't afraid to get blood on your clothes, you don't belong here. Remember, the stuff washes out with plenty of cold water."

"It sure does." Briggs turned his attention to Pinkard. "Did I hear right that the Sloss Works flung you out?"

"Yes, sir, you did." Jeff knew a certain amount of pride that the Birmingham head of the Freedom Party kept such close tabs on him. "You know of any other outfit that wants a man who's been on the casting floor since before the Great War, I'd be much obliged."

"Nooo," Briggs said slowly. "But don't I remember right that when you were down in Mexico, you were the fellow who ran a prisoners' camp for the rebels Maximilian's boys caught?"

"Yeah, that was me," Pinkard answered. "What about it?"

"I'll tell you what about it. I happen to know the Birmingham city jail's looking for an assistant jailer. If you want the job, fellow you ought to talk to is named Albert Sidney Griffith, over in city hall. He's a Party man, too. Let him know who you are and what you did down in Mexico. Tell him to give me a telephone call if he's got any questions. I'll set him straight."

"My Lord," Jeff whispered. He'd had hope machine-gunned with the pink slip in his pay envelope. Now, suddenly, it lived again. Tears stung his eyes. "God bless you, sir. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."

Caleb Briggs waved that aside. "Don't you worry about it, Pinkard. Don't you worry one little bit. This here is the Freedom Party, remember. We aren't the Whigs or the Radical Liberals. We take care of our own. You've been a good Party man for a long time. We owe you for that, and we pay our debts. We pay 'em to our enemies, and we pay 'em to our friends."

"I'll see this Griffith fellow first thing in the morning," Jeff said. With the chance of work ahead of him, he felt like a new man. And the new man was every bit as loyal to the Freedom Party as the old one had been. "This is the best outfit in the world!" he exulted.

Briggs smiled and nodded. "Damn right it is."