VII
Scipio was in love, and wondered why in God's name he'd never been in love before. The best answer he could come up with— and he knew it was nowhere near good enough—was that he'd always been too busy. First, he'd had an education forcibly crammed down his throat. Then he'd been butler at Marshlands, which under Anne Colleton was a job to keep any four men hopping. And after that, he'd been swept up into the affairs of the Congaree Socialist Republic.
Now . .. Now, as far as anybody in Augusta, Georgia, knew, he was Xerxes the waiter, an ordinary fellow who did his job and didn't give anybody any trouble. And Bathsheba, he was sure, was the most marvelous creature God had seen fit to set on the face of the earth.
He'd never had any trouble finding a woman to bed when he wanted one. But he'd never understood the difference between making love and being in love, not till now. He stroked Bath-sheba's cheek as they lay side by side on the narrow bed in his furnished room. "I is the most luckiest man in the whole wide world," he said—no originality, but great sincerity.
She leaned over and kissed him. "And you are the kindliest man," she said. No one had ever called Scipio anything like that before. He hadn't had many chances to be kindly, either. Now that he did, he was doing his best to make the most of them.
Bathsheba got out of bed and started to dress for the trip back across the hall to her room. "Don't want you to go," Scipio said.
"I got to," she answered. "Got to go clean for the white folks tomorrow mornin'. The work don't never go away."
He knew that. Among the reasons he loved Bathsheba was the solid core of sense he'd found in her. It wasn't that he wanted to make love with her again that made him want her to stay. Since he'd reached his forties, second rounds didn't seem so urgent as they once had. But he enjoyed talking with her more than with anyone else he'd ever met.
He wished he could recite some of the love poetry he'd learned. The only way he knew it, though, was in the educated white man's accent he'd been made to acquire. Using that accent might—no, would—make her ask questions he couldn't afford to answer.
That was the one fly in the ointment of his happiness: everything he said about his past had to be either vague or a lie. Even the name by which she knew him was false. He counted himself lucky that he quickly got used to the aliases under which he protected his real identity. Back in South Carolina, reward posters with his true name on them still hung in post offices and police and sheriff's stations. Some might even have come into Georgia, though he'd never seen one in Augusta.
As if to flick him on that wound of secrecy, Bathsheba said, "One of these days, I'm gonna know all about you—everything there is to know. And do you know what else? I'm gonna like every bit of it, too."
"I already likes everything there is to know 'bout you," Scipio said, and her eyes glowed. As for him, he was glad of the butler's training that let him think one thing and say another without giving any hint of what was going on behind the expressions he donned like convenient masks.
Bathsheba leaned down over the bed and gave him another kiss. "See you tomorrow night," she said, her voice rich with promise. Then she was gone, gently closing the door behind her.
Scipio rose and put on a light cotton nightshirt. In Augusta in early summer, no one wanted anything more. He picked up a fan of woven straw. He wished the roominghouse had electricity: he would have bought an electric fan and aimed it at the bed as he slept. It got every bit as hot and oppressive here as it did over by the Congaree. He'd heard it got even worse down in Savannah. He found that hard to believe, but you never could tell.
His cheap alarm clock jangled him awake the next morning. He yawned, got out of bed, and started getting dressed. He had his white shirt halfway buttoned before his eyes really came open. Bathsheba's door was closed when he left his room, and everything quiet within her place. She got up earlier than he did, to cram the most work she could into a day.
The fry joint where he worked didn't serve breakfast. He got eggs and grits and coffee at a place that did, and paid for them with a $500 banknote. "Need another hundred on top o' that," the black man behind the counter said.
With a grimace, Scipio peeled off another banknote and gave it to him. "Be a thousand tomorrow, I reckons," he said.
After considering, the counterman shook his head. "Not till next week, I don't think," he answered seriously.
Despite those serious tones, it was funny in a macabre way. Every day, Confederate paper dollars bought less and less. Scipio had just put down six hundred of them on a cheap breakfast. If it was a thousand tomorrow, or a thousand next week at the latest, so what? The printing presses would run off more banknotes with more zeros on them, and another cycle would begin.
The good, sweet smell of baking cornbread filled Scipio's nostrils when he went into Erasmus' fish store and restaurant. The grizzled Negro who ran the place nodded to him and said "Mornin'."
"Mornin'," Scipio answered. He grabbed a broom and dustpan and started sweeping the floor. He kept his furnished room as neat as he could, and he did the same here, even though Erasmus had given him no such duty.
Erasmus watched him now as he plied the broom. The cook rarely said anything about it. Maybe he didn't know what to make of it. Maybe he was afraid that, if he said anything, Scipio would quit doing it.
A couple of minutes later, Erasmus took the pan of cornbread out of the oven and set it on the counter to cool. Then he said, "Make sure nobody steal the store, Xerxes. I'm gonna git us fish fo' today. The ice man come before I git back, put it in the trays there like you know how to do."
"I takes care of it," Scipio promised.
Erasmus, by now, had good reason to know his promises were reliable. He headed out the door. A fat bankroll made a bulge in his hip pocket. The roll would be considerably thinner after he came back from the riverside fish market. He'd get good value for the money he spent, though. Even in these times of runaway prices, he always did.
Off he went. Left behind to his own devices, Scipio went right on cleaning. The ice man did come in. Scipio stuck some of the slabs of ice in the display trays and put the rest in the damp sawdust underneath those trays so it wouldn't melt before it was needed. Then he got a hammer and an ice pick and began to break up the ice in the trays from slabs to glistening chunks.
By the time he'd finished dealing with the ice, Scipio wasn't hot any more. His teeth chattered, and he could barely feel his fingers. He wondered if that was what living through a winter up in the USA felt like. He doubted he'd ever find out.
He didn't stay cold for long. Nothing could stay cold very long, not in that weather. He took a little chunk of cracked ice and dropped it down the back of his shirt. It made him squirm and felt good at the same time.
Erasmus came back with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder. He grunted when he saw the ice in the trays. "Come on," he said to Scipio. "Got to clean us these here fish."
He did most of the cleaning himself. He'd long since seen that Scipio knew how, but he was an artist with the knife; had he had a fancy education, he might have made a surgeon instead of a fry cook. Scipio carried fish and set them on ice. He also carried pink, bloody fish guts out to the alley in back of the shop and flung them into a battered iron trash can. He always hosed the can out right after the refuse collectors emptied it. It still stank of stale fish. Flies buzzed around it. Flies buzzed everywhere in Augusta when the weather was warm.
People knew when Erasmus would be getting back with his fish. Within fifteen minutes of his return, housewives started coming in to buy for their husbands and families. When Scipio first started working there, they'd viewed him with suspicion, as people had a way of viewing anyone or anything new with suspicion. By now, they took him for granted.
One woman, carrying away a couple of catfish wrapped in old newspapers, turned back and said to Erasmus, "That Xerxes, he jew me down better'n you ever could, old man."
"It ain't so hard these days, not with money so crazy ain't nobody knows what nothin' supposed to cost," Erasmus answered. The woman took her fish and departed. Scipio glanced over to his boss, wondering if her comments had annoyed him. Erasmus gave no sign of that; catching Scipio's eye, he grinned at him, as if to say the housewife had paid him a compliment.
Business picked up as noon approached. Men started coming in and having their fish fried in the shop for dinner. Erasmus fried potatoes to go with them, too, and a big pot of greens never seemed to go off the stove. A man could leave the table hungry, but it wasn't easy.
And how the money flowed in! Hundred-dollar banknotes, five hundreds, thousands, even a ten-thousand now and then— Scipio felt like a bank cashier as he made change. He would have felt even more like a bank cashier and less like a poor Negro if he hadn't been making $40,000 a week himself. Next week, Erasmus would probably give him fifty or sixty or seventy. However much it was, it would keep food in his belly and a roof over his head, and it wouldn't go a great deal further than that.
One more reason to marry Bathsheba as soon as he could was that then they'd need only one roof over their two heads, and save the cost of the second—not that anyone could save anything much with prices as mad as they were.
Trouble started about half past twelve. The first hint of it Scipio got was an angry shout from not far away: "Freedom!" A moment later, it came again, from a lot of throats: "Freedom!"
"They's buckra!' Scipio exclaimed. "Why fo' buckra come into de Terry carryin' on like dat?"
"Don't know." Erasmus tucked a knife into his belt. "Don't much fancy the notion, neither. They ain't got no business in this part o'town."
Whether they had business or not, here they came, straight up the street past the cafe: a dozen or so white men, all of them in white shirts and butternut trousers. "Freedom!' they shouted, again and again. As they shouted, they knocked down any Negro in their path, man, woman, or child.
"What we do 'bout dat?" Scipio said. "What can we do 'bout dat? I know they's white folks, but they got no call to do nothin' like that. You reckon yellin' fo' the police do any good, Erasmus?"
Erasmus shook his gray head. "Not likely. Two-three of them fellas, they was the police." Scipio thought about that for a little while. He thought he'd escaped terror for good when he'd got free from the last wreck of the Congaree Socialist Republic.
Now he discovered he'd been wrong.
"I never thought I'd live to see the day," Sam Carsten said as the USS Remembrance steamed through St. George's Channel. If he looked to starboard, he could see England—no, Wales. Ireland lay to port.
George Moerlein nodded. "I know what you mean," he said. "Pretty damn crazy, us paying a courtesy call in Dublin harbor."
"Only way a U.S. warship would've been able to get into Dublin harbor before the war or during it would've been to kick its way in," Sam agreed. "Of course, Ireland belonged to the limeys then, and we weren't exactly welcome visitors."
"Well, we are now," Moerlein said. "And if England doesn't like it, let her try and start something. She'll get the idea pretty damn quick after we give her a good boot in the ass."
Despite that bravado, he looked east more than a little nervously. The Royal Navy had been beaten in the Great War, but it hadn't been crushed. England hadn't been crushed, not the way the Confederate States and France had been. He had no doubt the USA and the German Empire could crush her if they had to. He also had no doubt they'd know they'd been in a scrap by the time they were through.
A destroyer flying a green-white-orange flag with a harp in the middle of the white led the way for the Remembrance. The destroyer had started life as a U.S. four-stacker; dozens much like her had gone into the water during the Great War. Her crew consisted of Irishmen who'd begun their careers in the Royal Navy. Men like that, thousands of them, formed the basis for the Irish Navy.
"I hope they've got a good pilot up there," Carsten said. A moment later, he added, "I hope he's got good charts, too." A moment later still, he made another addendum: "I hope none of the mines from the fields are drifting loose through the Irish Sea."
He thought that covered everything, but his buddy showed him he was wrong. "As long as you're doing all that hoping, hope the limeys haven't snuck out and planted a few of those little bastards right in our path," George Moerlein said.
"That wouldn't be very nice of them, would it?" Sam grimaced. "And they could always say something like, 'Oh, we're very sorry—we didn't have any notion that one was there.' How would anybody prove anything different?"
"You couldn't," Moerlein said. "You wouldn't have a prayer of doing it. Of course, the good thing is that Teddy Roosevelt wouldn't need any proof. If we come to grief here, he'll make England pay. The limeys have to know it, too. I don't think they'll get gay with us."
"Here's hoping you're right." Carsten glanced up at the sky, which was full of thick gray clouds. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Moerlein thought he was being sarcastic. "Yeah, if you're moss on a tree," he answered. "I was hoping we'd get sent down to South America myself, to give Brazil a hand against Argentina. That's my kind of weather."
"No, thanks," Carsten said with a shudder. "I burn like a rib roast in the galley after the cooks forgot about it."
When the Remembrance came into Dublin harbor, she got a welcome about the size of the one the Dakota had enjoyed coming into New York City after the end of the Great War. New York City boasted more people than the whole country of Ireland, but the ones who lined both sides of the River Liffey cheered loud enough to make up for their lack of numbers. As the Remembrance drew near its assigned wharf, Sam was bemused by the sight of tens of thousands of people, almost all of them as fair-skinned as he was.
"If you towed this place down to Brazil, you'd give everybody here heatstroke in about a day and a half," he said. No one else paid him any attention. If the other sailors on deck contemplated Irishwomen's skins, as they doubtless did, they had different things on their minds. So, for that matter, did Sam.
A couple of light gray German cruisers were berthed only a few piers over from the Remembrance. Sailors aboard them waved toward the aeroplane carrier. Sam and his comrades waved back. Here in Dublin, Americans and Germans were both about the business of giving England a black eye. All the same, Sam sent those cruisers an appraising glance, wondering what going into battle against the squareheads would be like. And officers aboard the German ships were bound to be photographing the Remembrance so their bosses in Berlin could figure out how to fight her and whether to build ships like her.
After she'd been made fast, the lord mayor of Dublin and a redheaded fellow in a fancy naval uniform came aboard to welcome her to their country. The lord mayor, who wore a green-white-and-orange sash, made a speech. The admiral studied the Remembrance as if wishing he had a dozen of her class under the Irish flag.
"And so," the lord mayor said at last, in an accent that struck Carsten's ear as more nearly British than Irish, "we are proud indeed to welcome this magnificent warship to our port, a symbol of the affection between the United States and Ireland that caused you to aid us in at last regaining our freedom after so many centuries of oppression at the hands of the British Crown."
Along with the rest of the assembled American sailors, Sam dutifully applauded. During the war, the USA would have done anything to help give England a rough time. That, more than affection, had prompted U.S. help for the Irish rebellion. The mayor didn't look stupid; he had to know as much. Politicians looked to be the same on both sides of the Atlantic.
Had the world been a perfect place, an Irishman would have commanded the Remembrance. Captain Oliver Roland, though, was a swarthy man of French descent. He said, "The United States are delighted to welcome Ireland into the family of nations. Along with those of Poland and Quebec, her independence shows how the powers of the Quadruple Alliance respect the national aspirations of peoples whom our late foes for too long kept from the freedom they deserved."
The lord mayor bowed in delight. The Irish admiral clapped his hands. Beside Sam, Willie Moore let out a rude but quiet snort. The gun-crew chief proceeded to put words to it: "The Poles get to do what the Germans tell 'em, and the froggies in Quebec get to do what we tell 'em, and the micks have never been any goddamn good at doing what anybody tells 'em."
That was cynical. It was also very likely to be true. A chief gunner's mate could say it to a man in his crew. Had Captain Roland said it to the lord mayor of Dublin, it wouldn't have gone over so well. The skipper had to be, or at least had to act like, a politician here.
"We going to get liberty, Chief?" Sam whispered to Moore.
"I hear we are," Moore whispered back. "Other thing I hear is, anybody picks up a dose of the clap, they're going to cut his balls off so he never, ever gets a chance to do it again. You understand what I'm saying?"
"I sure do," Sam answered in a whispered falsetto.
Willie Moore's eyes opened wide for a moment. Then, in lieu of laughing, he started to cough. "Damn you, Carsten, you sly son of a bitch," he wheezed. He coughed again, and gave Sam a dirty look. Sam did his best to assume a mantle of angelic innocence. By Moore's expression, his best was none too good.
He did get liberty, but not till three days later: this close to England, Captain Roland wanted to keep as near a full crew aboard the Remembrance as possible. Maybe officers toured Dublin's cathedrals and other sights. Sam still thought about trying to become an officer himself. He wasn't interested in cathedrals, though. He went into the first bar—pubs, they called them here—he spotted, only a couple of blocks away from the quay on the River Liffey by which the Remembrance lay.
guinness is good for you! proclaimed a sign in the window. It showed a healthy-looking fellow pouring down a pint of stout. Sam had heard of Guinness, but he'd never drunk any. He couldn't imagine a better place to ease his thirst and improve his education at the same time. In he went.
When he asked for the famous stout, the publican beamed at him. "Indeed and I'm happy to serve a Yank," he declared, sounding much more like an Irishman than had the lord mayor. "If you haven't changed your money, a quarter of a dollar'll do it."
"I'll bet it will," Sam said, not very happily. Back in the States, he could buy five glasses of beer for a quarter. But he wasn't back in the States, and Guinness was supposed to be something special. He dug in his pocket and set a silver coin on the bar.
The Irishman did give him full measure, filling the pint pot to the brim and then using the last drips from the tap to draw a shamrock in the creamy head. Seeing Sam's eye on him, he smiled shyly. "Just showing off," he murmured.
"Thanks," Sam said, and lifted the glass in salute. "Cheers." He sipped at the Guinness. After a moment's thought, he nodded. It might not have been worth a quarter, but it came close. A lot more was going on in that taste than in the pale, watery beers he bought at home. It put him in mind of drinking pumpernickel bread. It packed a wallop, too. He could see where, after three or four pints, he wouldn't be hungry any more and he wouldn't be able to walk, either.
He wasn't ready to get blind. He had something else on his mind first. "You happen to know where I could find me a friendly girl?" he asked.
"I do that," the tapman answered. "You go round the corner here"—he pointed—"then knock at the house with the blue door. Tell 'em Sean sent you, and they'll take a wee bit off the price."
They'd give him his cut for sending trade their way, was what he meant. Sam had got that same answer from a good many bartenders in his time. It didn't bother him. They weren't in business for their health; they wanted to make a buck—no, a pound here—like anybody else.
He drank another pint of Guinness and then, feeling a pleasant buzz, found the house with the blue door. Sean's name got him inside. "Another one!" the madam said, seeing his uniform. "Christ, you Yanks are horny devils."
"We've been at sea a long time, ma'am," Sam answered.
Before long, he was happily settled upstairs with a plump blonde who said he could call her Louise. His first round ended almost before it started, as often happened after a long time without. He laid out some more cash and began again. Things were progressing most enjoyably when some sort of commotion broke out down below.
He concentrated on the business at hand till a raucous American-accented voice bellowed, "Any sailors off the Remembrance who ain't back aboard in an hour, you're damn well gonna get stranded! We're sailing then!" That blue door slammed shut.
"Jesus!" Sam said, and applied himself. He came in a few strokes. That spoiled things for Louise, who, he thought, had been warming up nicely beneath him. But he didn't have time to worry about her, not any more. She gave him an unhappy look as he scrambled into his clothes. He didn't have time to worry about that, either. He was right behind one American leaving the whorehouse, and right in front of another one.
Panting, he hurried up the gangplank to the Remembrance, "What the hell's going on?" he asked as he came aboard.
"Uprising in the north," a sailor answered. "They don't want to cut England's apron strings up there. The Irish have asked us to give 'em a hand with our aeroplanes and guns, and we're going to do it."
"Oh. All right." Sam thought for a moment, then chuckled. "Damn good thing they didn't rise up an hour earlier, that's all I've got to say."
Emily Pinkard said, "I swear to Jesus, Jeff, if I didn't know where you was goin' nights, I'd reckon you had yourself another girl on the side."
"Well, I don't." Jefferson Pinkard gave his wife a severe look. She was the one who'd been unfaithful, and now she had the nerve to think he might be? Emily dropped her eyes. She knew what she'd done. Jeff went on, "The Freedom Party's important, dammit. I don't think there's anything more important in the whole country right now."
What was she doing on nights when he wasn't home? Pinkard worried about that, especially since Bedford Cunningham, however much he'd thought of Jake Featherston's speech, hadn't followed up by joining the Freedom Party. Jeff had, and kept going to Party meetings. Before he'd signed up, everything had seemed pointless, useless. Now his life had a focus. He'd found a cause.
"It's bigger than I am," he said, trying to make Emily understand. "It's more important than I am. But I'm part of it. Things'll get better, and they'll get better partly thanks to me. To me." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest.
Emily sighed. "People carry on too much about politics, I swear they do. You come right down to it, none of that stuff means anything anyways."
"Weren't for politics, we wouldn't have fought the war." Jeff gave her a perfunctory kiss, then headed out the door. "I ain't got time to argue tonight. I don't want to be late."
He'd heard that the Freedom Party had started out meeting in a Richmond saloon. Since Alabama was a dry state, the Birmingham Party headquarters couldn't imitate those of the founding chapter. Jeff regretted that; he would have enjoyed sitting around with the new friends he'd made and hashing things out over a couple of schooners of beer or shots of whiskey.
He enjoyed sitting around with his new friends anyway, but doing it in a livery stable wasn't the same. Still, the stable owner was a Party member, and the money he got for renting the place out once a week as a meeting hall helped keep him afloat. With so many people going from carriages to motorcars these days, he needed all the help he could get.
The chairman of the Birmingham chapter was a beefy, red-faced fellow named Barney Stevens. He'd been a sergeant during the war; Pinkard would have bet he'd been a mean one. At eight o'clock on the dot, he said, "Come on, boys—let's get this show on the road."
Together, they sang "Dixie." The singing wasn't of the best, nor anywhere close. That didn't matter. Roaring out the words to the Confederacy's national hymn reminded Jeff—and everyone else—why they'd banded together. The good times the song talked about could come again. The Freedom Party would make them come again.
After the last notes died, Stevens said, "Boys, the force that will conquer in the end is the fire of our young Confederate manhood. Today new people who claim power are arising in the Confederacy, men who've shed their blood for the Confederate States and know their blood flowed in vain, through the fault of the men who ran the government."
Jeff clapped till his hard-palmed hands were sore. He looked around the stable. A handful of the men there were of solid middle years. Most, though, were like him: men in their twenties and early thirties who'd been through the crucible of war and were ready to be poured into some new shape.
"There are too damned many of us for the government to put down by force," Barney Stevens declared, and his audience applauded again. "We have to wreck what needs wrecking, and by God there's plenty of it. We have to be hard and tough. The abscess on the body of the country needs cutting out and squeezing till the clear red blood flows. And the blood needs to flow for a good long time before the body is pure again."
"Freedom!" Jeff and the others shouted. The stable, the heavy air inside smelling of hay and horses, echoed to the cry.
"Come this fall," Stevens went on, "you'll need a new chairman here, on account of the Ninth District is going to send me to Congress." More cheers. Through them, he said, "And when I get to Richmond, I'm going to have me a few things to say about—"
"Freedom!" Pinkard shouted again, along with his comrades. He had a hard-on. It made him laugh. Emily had been unfaithful to him with a man. He was being unfaithful to her with the Party.
Stevens said, "Between now and election day, we're going to make people notice us. This Saturday afternoon, I hear tell, the niggers our damnfool government gave the vote to are gonna hold a rally—like they was really citizens, like they deserve to be citizens " Scorn dripped from his words. He wasn't quite so good as the national chairman, but he wasn't bad, either. He grinned out at the crowd. "How many of you boys want to put on white shirts and butternut pants and pay 'em a call?"
Almost every hand shot into the air. One of the men Stevens picked was Jefferson Pinkard. The chairman of the Birmingham chapter said, "Meet me at the corner of Cotton and Forestdale two o'clock Saturday afternoon. We'll have ourselves a good old time, damned if we won't."
"What about the cops?" somebody called from the back of the stable.
"What about 'em?" Barney Stevens said contemptuously. "They ain't gonna do nothin' to hold us off a bunch of uppity niggers." He grinned again. "And besides, a lot of them is us."
Most of the men at the meeting whom Pinkard knew were steelworkers at the Sloss foundries. But there were plenty he didn't know well enough to have learned what they did. He wouldn't have been surprised had some been policemen. Cops needed freedom like everybody else.
On the way out of the meeting, he threw a $500 banknote into the tin hat one of Barney Stevens' friends was holding. Weekly dues would probably go to $1,000 before long. Money didn't seem real any more. It was dying, along with so much of what he held dear. I'll make it better, he thought. I will.
Emily was still up when he got home. He'd thought she would have gone to bed. "It's late, Jeff," she said. "You're gonna be walkin' around like you was drunk tomorrow, you'll be so tired."
"Don't start in on me," he growled.
"Somebody needs to start in on you," his wife answered. "Dangerous enough out on the foundry floor when you're awake." Her voice rose, shrill and angry and worried, too. "You go out there half asleep, and—"
"Don't start in on me, I said!" He slapped her. She stared at him, her eyes enormous with shock. He'd never raised a hand to her, not even when he'd walked in on her and Bedford Cunningham. Why the hell not? he wondered, and found no answer.
He shoved her down the hall toward the bedroom, then picked her up, threw her down, and took her by force. They'd played lots of rough games over the years. This was no game, and they both knew it. Emily fought back as hard as she could. Pinkard was bigger and stronger and, tonight, meaner. After he spent himself and pulled out, she rolled away from him and cried, her face toward the wall. He fell asleep, sated and happy, with her sobs in his ears.
She didn't speak to him the next morning, except to answer things he said to her. But she made him his breakfast and handed him his dinner pail and generally took care not to get him angry. He pecked her on the cheek and walked off to work whistling.
"Mornin', Mistuh Pinkard," Vespasian said when he came onto the manmade hell that was the foundry floor. "Just got here my ownself"
"Good morning, Vespasian," Jeff said cheerfully. Vespasian was the best kind of nigger, sure enough: one who knew his place. Pinkard could hardly wait for Saturday afternoon. He and his buddies would take care of some niggers who didn't know theirs. They'd learn, by God!
He glanced toward Vespasian. In a really proper world, even the best kind of nigger wouldn't be doing any sort of white man's work. He'd be shoveling coal into the furnaces or out in the cotton fields where blacks belonged. Jeff wondered what the Freedom Party would do about that when it got the chance. Something worth doing. He was sure of that.
After he finished his Saturday half-day, he hurried home and changed into a white shirt and trousers the color of the Confederate uniform. When he started toward the door, Emily asked, ever so cautiously, "Where are you going?"
"Out," he answered, and did.
He got to the meeting place in good time. Barney Stevens shook his hand. "Good man," Stevens said, and gave him a two-foot length of thick doweling—as formidable a club as any policeman carried. "We'll teach the niggers they can't get away with putting on airs like they was as good as white folks."
Some of the Freedom Party men brought their own lead pipes or bottles or other chosen instruments of mayhem. With seventy or eighty of them all together, all dressed pretty much alike, they made a formidable force. Jeff's spirit soared at being part of something so magnificent. It soared again when a gray-clad policeman on horseback waved and tipped his cap to the Freedom Party force.
"Let's go," Barney Stevens said, as if they were about to head out of their trenches and over the top. And so, in a way, they were. "Remember, this is war. Hurt the enemy, help your pals, stay together, obey my orders. If I go down and out, Bill McLana-han's next in line. Now—form column of fours." The veterans obeyed without fuss. They'd done it before, countless times. "For'ard—haarch!" Stevens barked.
Magnolia Park, where the Negroes were holding their rally, was only a few blocks away. Their speaker stood on a platform on which Confederate flags fluttered. That made Jeff's blood boil, even more than Birmingham summer did. A dozen or so cops sufficed to keep a couple of dozen white hecklers away from the rally. Those white men weren't organized. The company from the Freedom Party was.
Cries of alarm rose from black throats when the Freedom Party men came into sight. "Double line of battle to the left and right," Barney Stevens shouted, and the men performed the evolution with practiced ease. Stevens pointed with his club as if it were a British field marshal's baton. "Charge!"
"Freedom!" Jeff yelled, along with his friends. A couple of policemen made halfhearted efforts to get between the Freedom Party men and the Negroes. The tough young veterans in white and butternut rolled over them.
Jeff swung his club. It smacked into black flesh. A howl of pain rose. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a savage grin. He swung again and again and again. A few of the black veterans fought back. Far more fled, though. Some few of them might have gained the vote, but a Negro who fought a white man in the CSA fought not just his foe but also the entire weight of Confederate society and history.
Inside five minutes, the rally was broken up, destroyed. Some of the white hecklers had joined the Freedom Party men. None of the cops had made more than a token effort to hold them back. A lot of Negroes were down with broken heads. Jeff felt as if he'd just stormed a Yankee position in west Texas. He stood tall, the sweat of righteous labor streaming down his face. Just for the moment, he and his comrades were masters of all they surveyed.