Blood and Iron

by Harry Turtledove

  “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!” 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.”

  Scipio had hoped he would never hear of the Freedom Party again after that one rally in May Park. He hadn’t thought such a hope too unreasonable: he’d never heard of it till that rally. With any luck, the so-called party would turn out to be one angry white man going from town to town on the train. The times were ripe for such cranks.

  But, as summer slowly gave way to fall, the Freedom Party opened an office in Augusta. The office was nowhere near the Terry; even had more than a handful of Negroes been eligible to vote, the Freedom Party would not have gone looking for their support. Scipio found out about the office in a one-paragraph story on an inside page of the Augusta Constitutionalist.

  He showed the story to his boss, a grizzled Negro named Erasmus who ran a fish market that doubled as a fried-fish café. Erasmus, he’d seen, was a shrewd businessman, but read only slowly and haltingly, mumbling the words under his breath. When at last he finished, he looked over the tops of his half-glasses at Scipio. “Ain’t such a bad thing, Xerxes, I don’t reckon,” he said.

  “The buckra in this here party hates we,” Scipio protested. After close to a year in Augusta, he’d grown as used to his alias as he was to his right name. “They gets anywheres, ain’t gwine do we no good.”

  Erasmus peered at him over those silly little spectacles again. “Most o’ the white folks hates us,” he answered matter-of-factly. “These ones here, at least they’s honest about it. Reckon I’d sooner know who can’t stand me than have folks tell me lies.”

  That made a certain amount of sense—but only, Scipio thought, a certain amount. “The buckra wants to be on top, sure enough,” he said. “But these here Freedom Party buckra, they wants to be on top on account o’ they wants we in de grave, six feets under de ground.”

  His boss shook his head. “White folks ain’t that stupid. We dead an’ buried, who gwine do their for work them? You answer me dat, an then I’ll worry ’bout this here Freedom Party.”

  “Huh,” Scipio said. He thought for a little while, then laughed a bit sheepishly. “Mebbe you’s right. Cain’t you jus’ see de po’ buckra out in de cotton fields, wid de overseer yellin’ an’ cursin’ at they to move they lazy white backsides?”

  “Lawd have mercy, I wish to Jesus I could see me that,” Erasmus said. “I pay money to see that. But it ain’t gwine happen. White folks ain’t about to get their soft hands all blistered an’ dirty, an’ we’s safe enough because o’ that.” A Negro in overalls came in and sat down at one of the half dozen rickety little tables in front of the counter where fish lay on ice. Erasmus pointed. “Never mind this stupid stuff we can’t do nothin’ about anyways. Get yourself over there an’ see what Pythagoras wants to eat.”

  “Fried catfish an’cornbread,” the customer said as Scipio came up to him. “Lemonade on the side.”

  “I gets it for you,” Scipio answered. He turned to see whether Erasmus had heard the order or he’d have to relay it. His boss had already plucked a catfish from the ice; an empty spot showed where it had been. A moment later, hot lard sizzled as the fish, after a quick dip into egg batter, went into the frying pan.

  Scipio poured lemonade and cut a chunk from the pan of moist, yellow cornbread Erasmus had baked that morning. He took the lemonade over to Pythagoras. By the time he got back, Erasmus had slapped the fried catfish onto the plate with the cornbread. He also dipped up a ladleful of greens from a cast-iron pot on the back of the stove and plopped them down alongside the fish.

  “He don’t ask for no greens,” Scipio said quietly.

  “Once he sees ’em, he decide he wants ’em,” Erasmus said. “He been comin’ in here better’n ten years. You reckon I don’t know what he wants?”

  Without another word, Scipio took the plate over to Pythagoras. He had spent years learning to anticipate Anne Colleton’s needs and to minister to them even before she knew she had them. If Erasmus had done the same with his regular customers, how could Scipio argue with him?

  And, sure enough, Pythagoras waved to Erasmus and ate the greens with every sign of enjoyment. He ordered a slab of peach pie for dessert. Only after he’d polished that off did he turn a wary eye on Scipio and ask, “What’s all that come to?”

  “Thirty-fi’ dollars,” Scipio answered, and waited for the sky to fall.

  Pythagoras only shrugged, sighed, and pulled a fat wad of banknotes from a hip pocket. He peeled off two twenties and set them on the table. “Don’ fret yourself none about no change,” he said as he stood up. “Foe the war, I don’t reckon I never had thirty-five dollars, not all at the same time. Money come easy now, but Lord! it sure do go easy, too.” He lifted his cloth cap in salute to Erasmus, then went back out onto the street.

  “Do Jesus!” Scipio said. “He sure enough right about dat.” Erasmus was paying him $500 a week after his latest raise, and feeding him dinner every day besides. Despite what would have looked like spectacular wealth in 1914, Scipio remained just one more poor Negro in the Terry.

  Erasmus said, “It ain’t all bad. Couple weeks ago, I done took me a thousand dollars down to the bank so I could pay off the note on my house. Should have seen them white bankers fuss an’ flop—jus’ like a catfish on a hook, they was.” His reminiscent grin showed a couple of missing front teeth. “Wasn’t nothin’ they could do about it, though. Money’s money, ain’t that right?” He laughe
d.

  So did Scipio. “Money’s money,” he agreed, and laughed again. These days, the Confederate dollar would scarcely buy what a penny had bought before the war. For anyone in debt, cheap money was a godsend. For those who weren’t, it was a disaster, or at best a challenge to make last week’s salary pay for this week’s groceries.

  The eatery got more sit-down trade as afternoon darkened into evening. More women, though, threw down brown banknotes for fish they carried away wrapped in newspaper to fry for their husbands and brothers and children. Scipio watched Erasmus throw the story about the Freedom Party around a fat catfish that a fat woman with a bandanna on her head took off under her arm like a loaf of bread.

  He wasn’t sorry to see the story go. He wished somebody—God, perhaps—would use the Freedom Party itself to wrap fish. Whatever else you said about the skinny man who spoke for the party, he’d been terribly earnest. He’d believed every word of what he was saying. If that didn’t make him all the more frightening, Scipio didn’t know what would.

  At last, Erasmus said, “Might as well go on home, Xerxes. Don’t reckon we’s gwine get much more trade tonight. I see you in the mornin’.”

  “All right.” Scipio left the little market and café and headed back to his roominghouse. He kept an eye open as he hurried along. The street lights in the Terry were few and far between; the white men who ran Augusta didn’t waste a lot of money on the colored part of town. If anybody was thinking of equalizing the wealth in an altogether un-Marxist way, Scipio wanted to see him before being seen.

  No one troubled him on the way to the roominghouse. No one troubled him when he got there, either. “Evenin’, Xerxes,” the landlady said when he walked up the stairs and into the front hall. “Not so hot like it has been, is it?”

  “No, ma’am,” Scipio said. He’d been paying the rent regularly for some time now. He was working steady hours, too, which made him a good bet to be able to go on paying the rent. Under those circumstances, no wonder the landlady sounded friendly.

  He went on up to his neat little third-floor room, got out of his white shirt and black pants, and threw on a cheap, flimsy cotton robe over his drawers. Then, barefoot, he padded down to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Being butler at Marshlands had left him as fastidious about his person as he was about his surroundings, which meant he bathed more often than most of the people who shared the roominghouse with him.

  But when he tried the bathroom door, it was locked. A startled splash came from within, and a woman’s voice: “Who’s there?”

  Scipio’s ears heated. Had he been white, he would have blushed. “It’s Xerxes, Miss Bathsheba, from up the hall,” he said. “I’s right sorry to ’sturb you.”

  “Don’t fret yourself none,” she said. “I’m just about done.” More splashes: he judged she was getting out of the cramped tin tub. He smiled a little, letting his imagination peek through the closed door.

  In a couple of minutes, that door opened. Out came Bathsheba, a pleasant-looking woman in her early thirties. Scipio thought she had a little white blood in her, though not enough to be called a mulatto. She wore a robe with a gaudy print, of the same cheap cotton cloth as his. She didn’t hold it closed as well as she might have. At Marshlands, Scipio had mastered the art of looking without seeming to. He got himself a discreet eyeful now.

  “See you later, Xerxes,” Bathsheba said, and headed up the hall past him. He turned his head to watch her go. She looked back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes sparkled.

  “Well, well,” Scipio murmured. He hurried into the bathroom, ran the tub half full, and bathed as fast as he could. He would have bathed in a hurry anyhow; sitting down in a tub of cold water was a long way from a sensual delight. Now, though, he had an extra incentive, or hoped he did.

  He went back to his room almost at a trot, and put on a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers. Have to take the laundry out soon, he thought. He started out the door again, then checked himself. When he did leave, he was carrying a flat pint bottle of whiskey. He didn’t do a lot of drinking, but there were times…He knocked on the door to Bathsheba’s room.

  “That you, Xerxes?” she asked. When he admitted it, she opened the door, then shut it after him. She was still wearing that robe, and still not bothering to hold it closed very well. She pointed at the whiskey bottle. “What you got there?” Her voice was arch; she knew perfectly well what he had—and why, too.

  “Wonder if you wants to take a nip with me,” Scipio said.

  By way of reply, Bathsheba got a couple of mismatched glasses and sat down at one end of a ratty sofa. When Scipio sat down, too, close beside her, he contrived—or maybe she did—to brush his leg against hers. She didn’t pull away. He poured a healthy shot of whiskey into each glass.

  They drank and talked, neither one of them in a hurry. After a while, Scipio slipped his arm around her. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He set down his glass, turned toward her, and tilted her face up for a kiss. Then his free hand slid inside her robe. He rapidly discovered she was naked under it.

  Bathsheba laughed at what must have been his startled expression. “I was hopin’ you might stop by,” she said.

  “Sweet thing, I ain’t stopped,” Scipio said. “I ain’t hardly even started.” He lowered his mouth to a dark-nippled breast. She pressed her hand to the back of his head, urging him on. His breath caught in his throat. He needed no urging.

  These days, the Lower East Side in New York City felt strange to Flora Hamburger. That it felt strange was strange itself. She’d lived her whole life there, till she’d gone off to Philadelphia to take her seat in Congress at the start of 1917. Now, as October 1918 yielded to November, she was home again, campaigning for a second term.

  But, though she’d visited the Lower East Side several times since, this long campaign swing forcibly brought home to her how much she’d been away. Everything seemed shabby and cramped and packed tighter with people than a tin of sardines was stuffed with little fish. Things surely hadn’t changed much in less than two years. But she’d taken them for granted before. She didn’t any more.

  Her posters—red and black, with VOTE SOCIALIST! VOTE HAMBURGER! in both English and Yiddish—were almost everywhere in the Fourteenth Ward, and especially in the Centre Market, across the street from the Socialist Party headquarters. Her district was solidly Socialist; the Democratic candidate, an amiable nonentity named Marcus Krauskopf, had for all practical purposes thrown in the sponge. The Democrats hadn’t been able to win two years before even with an appointed incumbent. Now that Flora held the advantage of incumbency, they looked to be saving their efforts for places where they had a chance to do better.

  Flora was not the sort who took anything for granted. She stood on a keg of nails and addressed the people who crowded into the Centre Market, even if many of them were after pickled tomatoes or needles or smoked whitefish, not speeches. “What have we got from our great victory? Dead men, maimed men, men who can’t get work because the capitalists care more for their profits than for letting people earn a proper living. That was the war the Democrats gave you. This is the peace the Democrats are giving you. Is it what you want?”

  Some people in the market shouted, “No!” About as many, though, went on about their business. Most of them—most who were citizens, at any rate—would vote when the time came. They’d known too much oppression to throw away the chance to have a say in government the United States offered them.

  “If you want to help the capitalists, you’ll vote for the Democrats,” Flora went on. “If you want to help yourselves, you’ll vote for me. I hope you vote for me.”

  Her breath smoked as she talked. The day was raw, with ragged gray clouds scudding across the sky. People sneezed and coughed as they went from one market stall to the next. The Spanish influenza wasn’t nearly so bad as it had been the winter before, but it hadn’t gone away, either.

  When Flora stepped down from the keg of nails, Herman Bruck reached out a hand
to help steady her. Bruck was dapper in an overcoat of the very latest cut: not because he was rich, but because he came from a family of master tailors. “Fine speech,” he said. “Very fine speech.”

  He didn’t want to let go of her hand. Her being away hadn’t made him any less interested in her. It had made her much less interested in him, not that she’d ever been very interested. Next to Hosea Blackford, he was a barely housebroken puppy. Freeing herself, Flora said, “Let’s go back to the offices. I want to make sure we’ll have all the poll-watchers we’ll need out on the fifth.” She was confident the Socialists would, but it gave her an excuse to move, and to keep Bruck moving.

  The Party offices were above a butcher’s shop. Max Fleischmann, the butcher, came out of his doorway and spoke in Yiddish: “I’ll vote for you, Miss Hamburger.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fleischmann,” Flora answered, genuinely touched—the butcher was, or had been, a staunch Democrat. His vote meant a lot to her.

  In a slightly different way, it also meant a lot to Herman Bruck. As he went upstairs with Flora, he said, “If people like Fleischmann are voting for you, you’ll win in a walk.”

  “We’ll know Tuesday night,” Flora said. Inside the office, people greeted her like the old friend she was. A term in Congress slipped away, and for a little while she was just the agitator she had been before Congressman Myron Zuckerman’s tragic accidental death made her run to fill his shoes and bring the seat back to the Socialist Party.

  Everyone cheered when Bruck reported what Max Fleischmann had said. Maria Tresca remarked, “If we keep on like this, in 1920 the Democrats won’t bother to run anybody at all in this district, any more than the Republicans do now.” The secretary was a lone Italian in an office full of Jews, but probably the most ardent Socialist there—and, by now, not the least fluent in Yiddish, either.

  “Maybe in 1920—alevai in 1920…the White House,” Herman Bruck said softly. Silence fell while people thought about that. When Teddy Roosevelt rode the crest of the wave after winning the Great War, such dreams from a Socialist would have been only dreams, and pipe dreams at that. Now, with the cost of the war clearer, with the strife that followed—maybe the dream could turn real.