IV
Even months after getting over the Spanish influenza, Sam Carsten knew he wasn't quite the man he had been. The disease had done its best to steamroller him into the grave. Something like a dozen sailors aboard the USS Remembrance had died. Many more, like him, remained weaker and slower than they were before they got sick.
He could still do his job, though, and do the hundreds of jobs any sailor had to do when he wasn't at his battle station. And, as the Remembrance worked with the aeroplanes she carried, learning what they could and couldn't do, he occasionally found time to marvel.
This was one of those times. He stood by the superstructure as the Remembrance steamed in the North Atlantic, watching while a Wright two-decker approached the stern. A sailor with semaphore paddles directed the aeroplane toward the deck. The pilot had to pay more attention to the director than to his own instincts and urges; if he didn't, he'd end up in the drink.
"Come on," Sam muttered. He'd been watching landings for a while now. Just the same, they made him sweat. If he couldn't take them for granted, what were they like for the fliers? Pilots were the most nonchalant men on the face of the earth, but anyone who was nonchalant through one of these landings would end up dead. "Come on."
On came the aeroplane. Smoke spurted as its wheels slammed the deck of the Remembrance. The hook on the bottom of the Wright machine's fuselage missed the first steel cable stretched across the deck to arrest its progress, but caught on the second one. The two-decker jerked to a halt.
"Jesus." Carsten turned to George Moerlein, who'd watched the landing a few feet away from him. "Every time they do that, I think the aeroplane is going to miss the deck—either that or it'll tear in half when the hook grabs it."
His bunkmate nodded. "I know what you mean. It looks impossible, even though we've been watching 'em for months."
As the Wright's prop slowed from a blur to a stop, the pilot climbed out of the aeroplane. Sailors with mops and buckets dashed over and started swabbing down the deck. With oil and gasoline spilling all the time, swabbing was a more serious business than on most ships.
Sam said, "The thing I really fear is one of 'em coming in low and smashing right into the stern. Hasn't happened yet, thank God."
"Yeah, that wouldn't do anybody any good," Moerlein agreed. "Could happen, too, especially if somebody's coming in with his aeroplane shot to hell and gone—or if he just makes a mistake."
"What I hope is, we never come into range of a battleship's big guns," Carsten said. "Taking a hit is bad enough any which way—I've done that—but taking a hit here, with all the gasoline we're carrying . .. We'd go straight to the moon, or maybe five miles past it."
"It'd be over in a hurry, anyhow," his bunkmate answered. Before Sam could say he didn't find that reassuring, George Moerlein went on, "But that's one of the reasons we're carrying all these aeroplanes: to keep battlewagons from getting into gunnery range in the first place."
Carsten stamped the flight deck, which was timber lain over steel. "We can't be the only Navy working on aeroplane carriers."
"I've heard tell the Japs are," Moerlein said. "Don't know it for a fact, but I've heard it. It wouldn't surprise me."
"Wouldn't surprise me, either, not even a little bit," Sam said. "I was in the Battle of the Three Navies, out west of the Sandwich Islands. Those little yellow bastards are tougher than anybody ever gave 'em credit for."
Moerlein looked sour. "And they just walked away from the war free and clear, too. The Rebs are paying, England and France are paying, Russia's gone to hell in a handbasket, but Japan said, 'Well, all right, if nobody else on our side's left standing, we're done, too,' and we couldn't do anything but say, 'All right, Charlie—see you again some day.' "
"We will, too," Carsten said. "I was just a kid when they took the Philippines away from Spain right after the turn of the century. And now we've taken the Sandwich Islands away from England—I was there for that, aboard the Dakota. So they're looking our way, and we're looking their way, and nobody's sitting between us any more."
"That'd be a fight, all right. All that ocean, aeroplanes whizzing around, us bombing them and trying to keep them from bombing us." Moerlein got a faraway look in his eye.
So did Sam. "Hell, if both sides have aeroplane carriers, you could fight a battle without ever seeing the other fellow's ships."
"That would be pretty strange," Moerlein said, "but I guess it could happen."
"Sure it could," Sam said. "And you'd want to sink the other bastard's aeroplane carriers just as fast as you could, because if he didn't have any aeroplanes left, he couldn't stop your battleships from doing whatever they wanted to do." He stamped on the flight deck again. "And if the aeroplane carrier is the ship you have to sink first, that makes the Remembrance the most important ship in the whole Navy right now."
For a moment, he felt almost like a prophet in the middle of a vision of the future. He also felt pleased with himself for having had the sense to figure out that aeroplanes were the coming thing, and grateful to Commander Grady for having brought him to the Remembrance, no matter how ugly she was.
Then something else occurred to him. He hurried away. "Where's the fire at?" George Moerlein called after him. He didn't answer, but hurried down a hatch to go below.
He guessed Grady would be checking one sponson or another and, sure enough, found him in the third one into which he poked his head. The officer was testing the elevation screw on the gun there, and talking about it in a low voice with the gunner's mate who commanded the crew for that sponson. Sam stood at attention and waited to be noticed.
Eventually, Commander Grady said, "You'll want to make sure of the threads there, Reynolds. Good thing we're not likely to be sailing into combat any time soon." He turned to Sam. "What can I do for you, Carsten?"
"I've been thinking, sir," Sam began.
A smile spread across Grady's rabbity features. "Far be it from me to discourage such a habit. And what have you been thinking?"
"We've taken the Confederates' battleships away from them, sir, and we've taken away their submersibles," Carsten said. "What do the agreements we've made with them say about aeroplane carriers?"
"So far as I know, they don't say anything," Commander Grady said.
"Shouldn't they, sir?" Sam asked in some alarm. "What if the Rebs built a whole raft of these ships and—"
Grady held up a hand. "I understand what you're saying. If the Remembrance turns out to be as important as we think she is, then you'll be right. If she doesn't, though—" He shrugged. "There are a lot of people in Philadelphia who think we're pouring money down a rathole."
"They're crazy," Sam blurted.
"I think so, too, but how do you go about proving it?" Grady asked. "We need to have something to do to prove what we're worth. In any case, I believe the answer to your question is no, as I said: if the Confederate States want to build aeroplane carriers, they are not forbidden to do so. When the agreements were framed, no one took this class of ship seriously."
"That's too bad," Carsten said.
"I think so, too," Grady repeated. "Nothing I can do about it, though. Nothing you can do about it, either."
Carsten looked southwest, in the direction of the Confederacy. "Wonder how long it'll be before the Rebels have one of these babies." Then he looked east. "Wonder how long it'll be before England and France do, too."
"It'll take the Rebs a while, and the frogs, too, I expect," Commander Grady said. "We're sitting on the CSA, and Kaiser Bill is sitting on France. England... I don't know about England. They didn't have the war brought home to them, not the way the Confederates and the French did. Yeah, they got hungry, and the Royal Navy finally ended up fighting out of its weight, but they weren't whipped—you know what I mean?"
"Yes, sir," Sam said.
Grady went on as if he hadn't spoken: "And from Australia through India and Africa, they're still cocks o' the walk. If they decide they want to get even and they find some friends .. ." His laugh was anything but mirthful. "Sounds like the way we won this last war, doesn't it, Carsten? We decided we were going to get even, and we cozied up to the German Empire. I hope to God it doesn't work for them ten years down the line, or twenty, or thirty."
"Yes, sir," Sam said again. "I guess we just have to do our best to keep ahead of them, that's all." He sighed. "I wonder where all this ends, or if it ever ends."
"Only way I can see it ending is if we ever figure out how to blow a whole country clean off the map," Grady said. He slapped Sam on the back. "I don't figure that'll happen any time soon, if it ever does. We'll have work to do for as long as we want it, the two of us."
"That'd be good, sir," Carsten said equably. "That's the big reason I wanted to transfer to the Remembrance. As soon as they bombed us off Argentina, I knew aeroplanes were going to stay important for a long, long time."
"You're a sharp bird, Carsten," Grady said. "I was glad to see you get that promotion at the end of ' 16. You're too sharp to have stayed an able seaman for as long as you did. If you were as pushy as you're sharp, you'd be an officer by now."
"An officer? Me?" Carsten started to laugh, but Commander Grady wasn't the first person who'd told him he thought like one. He shrugged. "I like things the way they are pretty well. I've got enough trouble telling myself what to do, let alone giving other people orders."
Grady chuckled. "There's more to being an officer than giving orders, though I don't suppose it looks that way to the ratings on the receiving end. I think you've got what it takes, if you want to apply yourself."
"Really, sir?" Sam asked, and Commander Grady nodded. Sam had never aspired to anything more than chief petty officer, not even in his wildest dreams. Now he did. He'd known a few mustangs, officers who'd come up through the ranks. Doing that wasn't impossible, but it wasn't easy, either. How much did he want it? Did he want it at all? "Have to think about that."
Jake Featherston rubbed brilliantine into his hair, then combed a part that might have been scribed with a ruler. He looked at himself in the tiny mirror above the sink in his room. He wasn't handsome, but he didn't figure he would ever be handsome. He'd do.
He put on a clean shirt and a pair of pants that had been pressed in the not too impossibly distant past. Again, he didn't look as if he were about to speak before the Confederate Congress, but he didn't want to speak before the Confederate Congress, except to tell all the fat cats in there where to go. He grinned. He was going to tell some fat cats where to go today, too, but they weren't so fat as they wanted to be, nor so fat as they thought they were.
He donned a cloth workingman's cap, put his pistol on his belt, and left the room. Fewer people bothered wearing weapons on the streets in Richmond than had been true in the first desperate weeks after the Great War ended, but he was a long way from the only man sporting a pistol or carrying a Tredegar. Nobody could be sure what would happen next, and a good many people didn't care to find out the hard way.
Featherston hurried down Seventh toward the James River. The back room in the saloon where the Freedom Party had met wasn't big enough these days, but a rented hall a couple of doors down still sufficed for their needs. After meetings, the Party veterans would repair to the saloon and drink and talk about the good old days when everyone had always stood shoulder to shoulder with everyone else.
Sometimes Jake was part of those gatherings, sometimes he wasn't. After tonight, either he would be or he wouldn't have anything to do with the Party any more. He saw no middle way— but then, he'd never been a man who looked for the middle way in anything he did.
A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the meeting hall: men in caps and straw hats crowding around the doorway, jostling to get in. They parted like the Red Sea to let Jake by. 'Tell the truth tonight, Featherston!" somebody called. "Tell everybody the whole truth."
"Don't you worry about that," Jake answered. "I don't know how to do anything else. You wait and see."
Several people clapped their hands. But somebody said, "You don't want to be Party chairman. You want to be king, is what you want."
Whirling to turn on the man, Jake snapped, "That's a goddamn lie, Bill Turley, and you know it goddamn well. What I want is for the Freedom Party to go somewhere. If it wants to go my way, fine. If it doesn't, it'll go however it goes and I'll go somewhere else. No hard feelings."
No matter what he'd said a moment before, that was a thumping lie. Hard feelings were what made Jake Featherston what he was. If the Freedom Party rejected him tonight, he would never forget and never forgive. He never forgot and never forgave any slight. And this rejection, if it came, would be far worse than a mere slight.
Inside, people buzzed and pointed as he walked up the aisle toward the long table on the raised stage at the front of the hall. Anthony Dresser already sat up there, along with several other Party officials: Ernie London, the treasurer, who was almost wide enough to need two chairs; Ferdinand Koenig, the secretary, a headbreaker despite his fancy first name; and Bert McWilliams, the vice chairman, a man who could be inconspicuous in almost any company.
Dresser, London, and Mc Williams all wore business suits of varying ages and degrees of shininess. Koenig, like Jake, was in his shirtsleeves. As Jake sat down at the table, he looked out over the audience. It was a shirtsleeves crowd; he saw only a handful of jackets and cravats and vests. He smiled, but only to himself. Dresser and his chums no doubt thought they looked impressive. The crowd out there, though, would think they were stuffed shirts.
"And they are," Jake muttered to himself. "God damn me to hell and gone, but they are."
Anthony Dresser rapped a gavel on the tabletop. "This meeting of the Freedom Party will now come to order," he said, and turned to Ferdinand Koenig. "The secretary will read the minutes of last week's meeting and bring us up to date on correspondence."
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman," Koenig said in a rumbling baritone. Jake Featherston listened with half an ear as he droned through the minutes, which were approved without amendments. "As for correspondence, we've had a good many letters from North and South Carolina and from Georgia concerning joining the Party and forming local chapters, this as a result of Mr. Featherston's speaking tour. We've also had inquiries from Mississippi and Alabama and even one from Texas, these based on newspaper stories about the speaking tour." He displayed a fat sheaf of envelopes.
Dresser gave him a sour look. "Kindly keep yourself to the facts, Mr. Koenig. Save the editorials for the papers." He nodded to Ernie London. "Before we proceed to new business, the treasurer will report on the finances of the Party."
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman." London's voice was surprisingly high and thin to be emerging from such a massive man. "As far as money goes, we are not in the worst situation. Our present balance is $8,541.27, which is an increase of $791.22 over last week. I would like that better if it were in dollars from before 1914: then we would have ourselves a very nice little piece of change. But even now, it is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick."
"Question!' Jake Featherston said sharply. "Where did all that new money come from?"
Dresser brought the gavel down sharply. "That doesn't matter now. Only thing that matters is how much money we've got." He banged the gavel again. "And now, if nobody else has got anything to say, we'll get on with the new business. We—"
"Mr. Chairman, I reckon Jake's got himself a point," Ferdinand Koenig said, "especially on account of the new business you've got in mind."
Bang! "No, sir," Dresser said, angry now. "I said it doesn't matter, and my ruling stands, by Jesus."
"Mr. Chairman, I appeal that ruling to a vote from the floor," Jake said. He hated parliamentary procedure, but he'd started learning it anyhow, even if he did think it was only a way to cheat by the numbers.
"Second," Koenig said.
"Never mind," Dresser said in a low, furious voice. He wasn't ready for a floor vote, then. Jake wasn't nearly sure he was ready for a floor vote, either. When one came, he wanted it to be for all the marbles. Dresser said, "Go ahead, Ernie. Tell 'em what they want to know, so we can get on with things."
Reluctantly, London said, "Some came from dues, some came from contributions from people who heard Featherston's speaking tour."
"How much came from each?" Jake demanded.
Fat as he was, Ernie London looked as if he wished he were invisible. "I don't have the figures showing the split right here with me," he said at last.
"Hell of a treasurer you are," Featherston jeered. "All right, let me ask you an easy one: did I bring in more or less than half the week's take? You tell me you don't recollect, I'll call you a liar to your face. Everybody knows bookkeepers like playing with numbers. They don't forget 'em "
Most unwillingly, London said, "It was more than half."
"Thank you, Ernie." Jake beamed at him, then nodded to Anthony Dresser. "Go on ahead, Tony. It's your show for now." He put a small but unmistakable stress on the last two words.
"All right, then." Dresser looked around the room, no doubt gauging his support. Featherston was doing the same. He didn't know how this would come out. He knew how it would come out if there were any justice in the world, but that had been in short supply for a while now. If there were any justice in the world, wouldn't the CSA have won the war? Maybe the same sorts of thoughts were going through Anthony Dresser's mind as he banged the gavel down once more and announced, "New business."
"Mr. Chairman!" Bert McWilliams' voice was more memorable than his face, but not much. When Dresser recognized him, he went on, "Mr. Chairman, I move that we remove Jake Featherston from his position as head of propaganda for the Freedom Party."
"Second!'" Ernie London said at once. Jake had expected London to bring the motion and McWilliams to second it; otherwise, he was unsurprised.
"It has been moved and seconded to remove Jake Featherston as head of propaganda," Anthony Dresser said. "I'll lead off the discussion." He rapped loudly with the gavel several times. "And we will have order and quiet from the members, unless they have been recognized to speak. Order!" Bang! Bang!
When something not too far from order had been restored, Dresser resumed: "I don't deny Jake has done some good things for the Party—don't get me wrong. But he's done us a good deal of harm, too, and it's not the kind of harm that's easily fixed. He's taken all the great things we stand for and boiled them down to hang the generals and hang the niggers. Not that they don't need hanging, mind you, but there are so many other things to get the country going again that need doing, too, and he never talks about a one of them. People get the wrong idea about us, you see."
London and McWilliams followed with similar speeches. Out in the hard, uncomfortable seats that filled the hall, the Freedom Party members were silent, listening, judging.
Confidence surged through Featherston. Even here, when they should be doing everything to crush him, his opponents beat around the bush and tried to see all sides of the question. He would never make that mistake. "Mr. Chairman!" he said. "Can I speak for myself, or are you just going to railroad me altogether?"
Warily, Dresser said, "Go ahead, Jake. Have your say. Then we vote."
"Right," Featherston said tightly. He looked out at the crowd. "Now is the time to fish or cut bait," he said. "The reason I'm head of propaganda is that I'm the only man up here people can listen to without falling asleep." That got him a laugh. Anthony Dresser, sputtering angrily, tried to gavel it down and failed. "I'm the one who brings in the money—Ernie said so himself. And I'll tell you why—I keep it simple. That's what propaganda is all about. I make people want to support us. I don't say one thing Monday and another thing Tuesday and something else on Wednesday. Like I say, I keep it simple."
He took a deep breath. "I shake things up. I make the people in high places sweat. That's the other thing propaganda is for, folks—to show people your way is better. So. Here it is: you can go on with me and see how much we can shake loose together, or
you can throw me out and spend your time pounding each other on the back, on account of it'll be a cold day in hell before you see any more new members." He rounded on Anthony Dresser. In tones of contemptuous certainty, he said, "Mr. Chairman, I call the question."
Dresser stared, the scales suddenly fallen from his eyes. "You don't want to be head of propaganda," he stammered. "You— You want to head the Party."
Jake grinned, hiding his own unease where Dresser let his show. "I call the question," he repeated.
Licking his lips, Dresser said, "In favor of removing Jake Featherston?" Somewhere between a quarter and a third of the men in the hall raised their hands. In a voice like ashes, Dresser said, "Opposed?" The rest of the hands flew high. So did a great shout of triumph. "The motion is not carried," Dresser choked out.
"Mr. Chairman!" Ferdinand Koenig said, and Dresser was rash enough to recognize the Party secretary. Koenig went on, "Mr. Chairman, I move that you step down and we make Jake Featherston chairman of the Freedom Party."
Another great shout rose. In it were two dozen cries of, "Second!"—maybe more. Featherston and Koenig grinned at each other as Anthony Dresser presided over voting himself out of office. In that glorious moment, Jake felt the world turned only because his hands worked its axis. He had his chance now. He didn't know what he would make of it, not yet, but it was there.
Stephen Douglas Martin looked at his son. "I wish you wouldn't do this," he said, worry in his voice.
"I know," Chester Martin answered. "You've got to understand, though—you have a place. The way the bosses are acting these days, I'll never have one, not unless I take it for myself."
His father pointed to the bulge of the pistol behind his belt. "You won't get it with that."
"I won't get it any other way," Martin said stubbornly. "I don't aim to shoot first—I'm not that stupid—but I'm not stupid enough to stand around and watch my friends on the picket lines get shot down like dogs, either. If there's no trouble, fine. But if those goons start banging away at me, I'm not going to run like a rabbit, not any more."
His father shook his head, a troubled gesture. "You've been listening to the Socialists again. If I never see another red flag, it'll be too soon."
"You don't get it, Pa," Chester said, impatient with the ignorance of the older generation. "If it weren't for the Socialists, nobody'd make any kind of decent money—the bosses would have it all." Unending labor strife since he'd come home from the war had eroded his lifelong faith in the Democratic Party.
"You're going to end up on a blacklist," his father said gloomily. "Then you won't have any work at all, no matter how the strikes turn out."
"I won't have any steel work, maybe," Chester said with a shrug. "One way or another, though, I'll get along. There's plenty of things I can do if I have to. One of 'em or another is bound to work out. I'm a white man; I pull my weight."
"Aahhh." Stephen Douglas Martin made a disgusted noise. "You're in it for the glory. I remember the red flags flying back in the '90s, too, and the battles, and the blood in the streets. It was all foolishness, if you ask me."
"Glory?" Chester Martin laughed bitterly. He unbuttoned his left cuff and rolled the sleeve high to show the scar a Confederate bullet had left on his upper arm. "There's no such thing as glory, near as I can tell. If the machine guns didn't kill it, the artillery did. Teddy Roosevelt promised us a square deal, but I don't see him delivering. If I have to go out into the streets to get it, I'll do that—and to hell with glory."
"Aahhh," his father repeated. "Well, go on, then, since that's what you're bound and determined to do. I only hope you come back in one piece, that's all. You're playing for keeps out there."
Chester nodded. The thought did not bother him, or not unduly. He'd been playing for keeps since his first comrade got hung up on Confederate barbed wire and shot just inside the Virginia line back in August 1914. He said, "What was the war about, if it wasn't about having a better life after it was over? I don't see that, not for me I don't, not without this fight. I'm still here in the old room I had before I went into the Army, for heaven's sake."
"I buried one son, Chester, when the scarlet fever took your brother Hank," his father said heavily. "It tore my heart in two, and what it did to your mother. ... If I had to do it twice, I don't know how I'd get by afterwards."
Chester Martin slapped his father on the back. "It'll be all right. I know what I'm doing, and I know why I'm doing it." That wasn't the bravado he might have shown in the days before conscription pulled him into the Army. Instead, it was a man's sober assessment of risk and need.
His father said nothing more. His father plainly saw there was nothing more to say. With a last nod, Chester left the flat, went down to the corner, and waited for the trolley that would take him into the heart of Toledo and into the heart of the struggle against the steelmill owners.
The strikers, by now, had their own headquarters, a rented hall a couple of blocks away from the long row of steelworks whose stacks belched clouds of black, sulfurous smoke into the sky. The hall had its own forward guards and then a stronger force of defenders in red armbands closer to it. Most of the strike's leaders had served in the Great War. They understood the need to defend a position in depth.
An unusual number of trash cans and kegs and benches lined the street by the hall. If the Toledo police tried to raid the place, the strikers could throw up barricades in a hurry. They'd already done that more than once, when their struggle with the owners heated up. For now, though, motorcars whizzed past the hall.
For now, too, blue-uniformed police made their way past the strikers' guards. The men in blue strolled along as if they were in full control of the neighborhood. Only a few of them strolled along at any one time, though. A tacit understanding between the leaders of the strike and city hall let the police keep that illusion of control, provided they did not try to turn it into reality. The agreement was not only tacit but also fragile; when things heated up on the picket lines, the cops drew near at their peril.
"What do you say, Chester?" Albert Bauer called when Martin walked into the hall. The stocky steelworker made a fist. "Here's to the revolution—the one you said we didn't need."
"Ahh, shut up, Al," Martin answered with a sour grin. "Or if you don't want to shut up, tell me you were never wrong in your whole life ."
"Can't do it," Bauer admitted. "But I'll tell you this: I don't think I was ever wrong on anything this important."
"Teach me to be like you, then," Martin said, jeering a little.
"You're learning." Bauer was imperturbable. "You started out mystified by the capitalists, same as so many do, but you're learning. Before too long, you'll see them like they really are— nothing but exploiters who need to be swept onto the ash heap of history so the proletariat can advance."
"I don't know anything about the ash heap of history," Martin said. "I hope some of them get swept away in the elections. They're only a couple of months off. That would send the country the right kind of message "
"So it would," Bauer said. "So it would. That means we have to send the country the right kind of message between now and election day."
"You mean you don't want me to go out and start taking potshots at the ugly blue bastards who've been taking potshots at us?" Martin said.
"Something like that, yeah." Bauer's eyes went to the pistol concealed—but not well enough—in the waistband of Martin's trousers. "We aren't out to start any trouble now. If the police start it, we'll give them as much as they want, but the papers have to be able to say they went after us first."
"All right." That made sense to Martin. He headed over to the neat rows of picket signs. Choosing one that read a square deal means a square meal, he shouldered it as if it were a Springfield and headed out toward the line the striking steelworkers had thrown up around the nearest plant.
By then, the scabs who kept the plant running had already gone in. Martin was sure they'd gone in under a hail of curses. Perhaps they hadn't gone in under a hail of rocks and bottles today. That was the sort of thing that touched off battles with the police, and everything seemed quiet for the time being, as it had on the Roanoke front when both sides were gearing up to have a go at each other.
Martin marched along the sidewalk. Toledo police and company guards kept a close eye on the strikers. The police looked hot and bored. Martin was hot and bored, too. Sweat ran off him in rivers; the day was muggy, without a hint of a breeze. He kept a wary eye on the company guards. They looked hot, too, but they also looked like Great Danes quivering on the end of leashes, ever so eager to bite anything that came near.
"Scab-lovers!" the strikers taunted them. "Whores!" "Goons!" "Stinking sons of bitches!"
"Your mothers were whores!" the guards shouted back. "Your fathers were niggers, just like the ones who rose up in the CSA!'
"Shut up!" the cops shouted, over and over. "Shut the hell up, all of you!'1 They didn't want to have to do anything but stand there. Brawling on a day like this was more trouble than it was worth. Chester Martin knew a little sympathy for them, but only a little. He cursed the company guards along with everybody else on the picket line.
Socialist Party workers brought the picketers cheese sandwiches to eat while they marched. In the middle of the afternoon, a picketer and a cop keeled over from the heat within a few minutes of each other. No company guards keeled over. They had all the food and cold water they wanted.
Shift-changing time neared. Chester Martin tensed. The picketers' shouts, which had grown perfunctory, turned loud and fierce and angry once more as the scabs, escorted by guards and police both, left the steelworks.
"Back away!" a policeman yelled at the strikers. Martin had heard that shout so often, he was sick to death of it. The cop shouted again anyhow: "Back away, you men, or you'll be sorry!'"
Sometimes the striking steelworkers would back away. Sometimes they would surge forward and attack the scabs regardless of the cops and goons protecting them. Martin had been in several pitched battles—that was what the newspapers called them, anyway. To a man who'd known real combat, they didn't rate the name. Either the reporters had managed to sit out the war on the sidelines or they cared more about selling papers than telling the truth. Maybe both those things were true at once. It wouldn't have surprised Martin a bit.
Today, nothing untoward happened. The strikers jeered and cursed the scabs and called, "Join us!" More than a few former scabs had quit their jobs and started on the picket lines. No one threw a stone or a horse turd this afternoon, though. No one started shooting, either, although Martin was sure he was a long way from the only striker carrying a pistol.
Having been through more gunfire than he'd ever wanted to imagine, he was anything but sorry not to land in it again. He trudged back to the strikers' hall, turned in his sign, and dug a nickel out of his pocket for trolley fare. His father and mother would be glad to see him home in one piece. He wondered about his sister. From some of the stories Sue told, her boss exploited her, too.
As he stood on the streetcorner, he shook his head in slow wonder. "The bosses are too stupid to know it," he murmured, "but they're turning a whole bunch of good Democrats into revolutionaries."