Blood and Iron

by Harry Turtledove

  Julia danced with other boys besides Ted Culligan. That helped ease McGregor’s mind. His daughter was having a good time, which made him feel good. He danced a dance with Mary, whose head, he realized in surprise, came almost to the top of his shoulder. When had she grown so big?

  There stood Julia, talking with Ted over a cup of the potent punch. Suddenly, McGregor didn’t mind the weather at all. In the summertime, courting couples might slip out to a barn for a while. Doing that now invited frostbite, not romance.

  McGregor shook hands with Ted Culligan’s father when it was time to go home. He pretended not to see Ted kiss Julia on the cheek. That wasn’t easy, not when she turned the color of a red-hot stove.

  “I had a wonderful time,” she said over and over on the drive back to the farm. “Simply wonderful.” She was young enough to forget for a while what had happened to her family and her country, and to enjoy the moment. McGregor wished he could do the same.

  Back at the farmhouse, he lit a lamp in the kitchen. His wife and daughters went yawning upstairs to bed. He brought the lamp outside and set it on the wagon while he unhitched the horse. Then he picked up the lamp again and carried it in his left hand while leading the horse to the barn.

  He put the beast in its stall and started out of the barn again. But he stopped after a couple of steps: stopped and held the lantern high, peering around in all directions. No, he wasn’t wrong. Someone had been in the barn while the McGregors were at the dance.

  Fear and fury warred inside him. At first, fear was uppermost. Whoever had pawed through his things hadn’t bothered trying to conceal his presence. Tools weren’t where they should have been. A couple of drawers under McGregor’s work table were open; he knew he’d left them closed, for he always did.

  Heart hammering in his throat, he went over to the old wagon wheel beneath which he hid his bomb-making paraphernalia. Holding the lamp close, he tried to see if the snooper had tampered with it. As far as he could tell, it was undisturbed. His secret remained safe.

  When he realized that, fury overtook fear. “God damn those sons of bitches,” he said softly. “They do still figure I might be a bomber.” He was, if anything, more indignant than if he’d been innocent. The Yanks had paid—no, the Yanks had seemed to pay—no attention to him the past couple of years. He’d thought they’d forgotten about him. He’d been wrong.

  But they hadn’t found anything. They’d have been waiting here for him if they had. “They’re trying to rattle me,” he murmured. “That’s got to be it.” They couldn’t prove he’d planted bombs, so they were showing their cards, trying to force him into a mistake. He shook his head. He didn’t intend to oblige them.

  By the time he went back to the farmhouse and upstairs to his bedroom, Maude was sound asleep. He shrugged. Even if she’d been awake, he wouldn’t have said a word. He got ready for bed himself.

  Before the presidential election, a lot of firms had put printed messages in their workers’ pay envelopes. The one Chester Martin got had read, If Upton Sinclair is elected on Tuesday, don’t bother showing up for work Wednesday morning. The capitalists had tried to the very end to keep the proletariat from voting its conscience and its class interest.

  They’d tried those games before, too, though not so aggressively: up till this election, they hadn’t been so worried about losing. Well, they’d lost anyhow. Martin laughed every time he thought about it. Come March 4, it would be out with the old and in with the new, and the United States would have their first Socialist president. He could hardly wait.

  Here it was late December, too, and he hadn’t been fired. He didn’t expect to be fired any time soon, either, not unless he hauled off and punched his foreman or something of that sort. His foreman was an idiot. Everyone on the foundry floor knew as much. The foreman’s boss didn’t, though, and his was the only opinion that mattered. But work went on as usual, in spite of there being a Socialist president-elect.

  “Did you really expect anything different?” Albert Bauer asked when Martin remarked on that one day at the Socialist hall near the steelworks.

  “I don’t know that I expected anything different,” Martin answered. “I will say I wondered.”

  “Mystification,” Bauer said scornfully. “That’s all it is—nothing but mystification. The capitalists tried to intimidate us, and tried to make us believe they had the power to get away with intimidating us. It didn’t work, and now they’ll have to learn how to walk a lot smaller.”

  “Yeah,” Martin said, and then, “How much do you think Sinclair will be able to do once he gets in?”

  “Don’t know,” Bauer answered. “We’ve got a majority in the House, and I think the Socialists and Republicans and progressive Democrats make a majority in the Senate. The courts are full of reactionaries. They’ll give us trouble.”

  “If they give too much trouble, we’ll stop listening to them,” Martin said. “Let’s see them get their way if everybody ignores them. Or let’s see them get their way if the worst reactionaries start having accidents.”

  Bauer laughed at him. “This from the man who used to be a Democrat? I’ve heard people who’ve been revolutionaries since before you were born who didn’t sound half as fierce as you do.”

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” Chester Martin said, shrugging. “Besides, nobody who’s been through the trenches is going to fuss about killing a judge or two. Once you’ve had practice, killing looks pretty easy.”

  “Something to that, I shouldn’t wonder.” Bauer looked thoughtful. “The capitalists might not have realized what they were doing when they started the war, but they helped create opponents who wouldn’t back away from meeting force with force when they had to.”

  Martin nodded. “After artillery and poison gas and machine guns, cops are nothing special,” he said, a thought he’d had before. He paused, then asked, “What do you think of this Freedom Party down in the CSA, Al? They’re another bunch that doesn’t seem like it’s afraid of mixing things up with anybody they don’t like.”

  “Reactionary maniacs,” Bauer said with a toss of the head. “They want to turn back the clock to the way things were before the Great War. You can’t turn back the clock, and you have to be a fool to think you can.”

  “That’s about what I thought,” Martin said. “You believe the papers, though, a lot of people like what they’re saying. Stupid damn Rebs.”

  “Stupid damn Rebs,” Bauer agreed. “But if we’d lost the war, imagine how fouled up our politics would be. There’d be a bounty on Socialists now. You’d better believe there would—they’d be hunting us in the streets. And they’d go on electing Democrats president for the next fifty years. So maybe we shouldn’t blame the Rebs—too much—for being stupid.”

  “Hmp,” was all Chester Martin said to that. He’d spent three years with the Confederates shooting at him. Hell, they hadn’t just shot at him—they’d shot him. He had the Purple Heart to prove it, and the note of sympathy signed by Theodore Roosevelt, too. Even with the war almost three and a half years behind him, he wasn’t inclined to feel charitable toward the former enemy.

  Bauer slapped him on the back. “Go on, get out of here. Go home. Go Christmas shopping. Go somewhere. I keep having to tell you that. You’ve got a case of the mopes, looks like to me. You won’t do yourself any good till you get over ’em. You won’t do the Party any good, either, so go on. Scram.”

  Martin didn’t argue with him. He buttoned his overcoat and headed out of the Socialist hall. The trolley stop was a couple of blocks away. His breath smoked around him. The one thing he envied the Confederate States was their mild winter weather. Summer in Virginia, on the other hand, was a pretty fair approximation of hell. Of course, summer in Toledo wasn’t all that far removed from hell, either.

  Shops shiny with tinsel and bright with electric lights beckoned to people walking past them on the street. BIG SALE! signs in the window shouted. Some of them might even have meant it. But Martin had gone into more
than a few shops, and had yet to see much in the way of price cutting. The signs were just a come-on, like the tinsel and the bright lights.

  He would have to get presents for his father and his mother and his sister. He wanted to get something for Albert Bauer, too, though Bauer was the least sentimental man he’d ever known off the battlefield. Maybe some shaving soap, he thought. That would be thoughtful and useful at the same time.

  “Shaving soap,” he said several times. A woman walking past gave him an odd look. He didn’t care, or not too much. Saying something out loud helped him remember it.

  Coins jingled in his trouser pocket: only a faint noise through the thick wool of his coat. He wasn’t broke, as he had been through the labor strife after the war. With a Socialist administration, maybe there wouldn’t be any more labor strife. That had been his hope as he’d made an X in the square beside the names of Upton Sinclair and Hosea Blackford. The capitalists had had everything their way for a long time. Now, he thought, it’s labor’s turn.

  He unbuttoned his coat long enough to grab a nickel. A bum came up to him while he waited for the trolley. The fellow whined for change. He stank of unwashed hide and stale beer. Martin knew he’d just buy another mug with a nickel, but tossed him the coin anyway. “Merry Christmas, pal.” He dug another five cents out of his pocket.

  “God bless you, mister,” the bum said. Martin waved impatiently, wanting him to get out of there before he regretted his own generosity. The bum had had practice at what he did. He faded away.

  Up rattled the trolley, almost fifteen minutes late. Martin grumbled as he threw his nickel in the fare box. He grumbled some more when he saw he’d have to stand for a while: the car was full, with a lot of passengers festooned with packages. He did the best he could, positioning himself next to a pretty girl who also had no place to sit. She glanced over toward him once, a look colder than the weather outside. When she left a few blocks later, he was more relieved than anything else.

  He eventually did land a seat for himself; more people got off than on as the trolley rolled up to Ottawa Hills. Not for the first time, he thought about renting a place of his own as he walked to the apartment he shared with his parents and sister. He could afford it—as long as the work stayed steady, he could afford it. But his paycheck helped his folks pay the rent here, and they’d carried him when he was out on strike, carried him even though they’d disagreed with his stand. He didn’t have to do anything in a hurry.

  When he walked in the front door, his father was draping the Christmas tree with tinsel. A fresh, piney scent fought the usual odors of tobacco smoke and cooking. “That’s a good one, Dad,” Martin said. “You haven’t found such a nice, round, plump one in a long time.”

  “Haven’t gone looking for nice, round, plump ones, not since I married your mother,” Stephen Douglas Martin answered. Ignoring his son’s half-scandalized snort, he went on, “I am pretty happy with it, though. Found it at a little lot round the corner; I jewed ’em down to four bits for it.”

  “That’s a good price,” Martin agreed. “You recall where you hid the star and the other ornaments after last Christmas?”

  “I didn’t hide them,” his father said with dignity. “I put them away safe.” About every other year, he had to turn the apartment upside down because he’d put the decorations away so securely, he hadn’t the faintest idea where they were.

  This time, though, he came up with them and gave his son a superior look that Chester did his best to ignore. They hung the ornaments together. “Are we going to have candles on the tree this year?” Chester asked.

  “Unless you really want ’em, I’d say no,” Stephen Douglas Martin answered. “Every year, you read in the paper about some damn fool”—his eyes went toward the kitchen as he made sure Louisa Martin hadn’t heard him swear—“who burns down his house and burns up his family on account of those things. I don’t aim to be that kind of fool, thank you very much.”

  “All right,” Martin said. After bombs and barrels and shell fragments in the trenches, after cops and goons with pistols and clubs, candles struck him as a silly thing to worry about. But his father wasn’t wrong; people and houses did go up in flames every Christmas. Martin supposed that, absent big fears, small ones pushed their way to the fore.

  Sue came in while they were still decorating. She scaled her broad-brimmed flowered hat across the room as if it were an aeroplane and said, “I get to put the star on top. After the day I had today, I’ve earned it.”

  “What happened today?” Chester asked.

  “Everyone wanted everything typed at the same time, and it was all stupid,” his sister answered. “And everyone yelled at me because I couldn’t do sixteen different things at the same time. If half the people in the office would have thought for even a couple of seconds before they started piling stuff onto me, everything would have been fine. But throwing things at me and then yelling their heads off was easier, so they did that instead.”

  She took the gilded glass star and impaled it on top of the Christmas tree. Then she glared at her brother and her father, defying them to tell her she had no business getting angry. Chester was not about to take his life in his hands. He said, “Why don’t you go get a bottle of Schmidt’s out of the icebox?”

  Sue didn’t usually drink beer. Tonight, she nodded briskly. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Chester.” Off toward the kitchen she went. Chester Martin grinned at Stephen Douglas Martin. He might have been trained as a soldier, but he’d just served the cause of peace.

  Scipio seldom saw snow. Because he seldom saw it, he enjoyed it when he did. So did everyone else in Augusta. Pickaninnies made snow angels and threw snowballs. So did their parents. So did their grandparents, some of whom had hair as white as that snow.

  Because of the clogged, slippery streets, he got to Erasmus’ later than he should have, and with his hat askew on his head. More and more boys played football Yankee-style these days, which meant more of them threw the ball, which meant they had practice they used to good effect with snowballs.

  Erasmus’ eyes glinted with amusement, but all he said was, “Mornin’, Xerxes. How you be today?”

  “Cold,” Scipio answered. “This here nothin’ but damnyankee weather. Far as I is concerned, it kin stay up there wid they.”

  “Fish keep longer,” Erasmus said. “Don’t got to buy so much ice from that thief of an ice man for a couple days. Outside o’ dat, I ain’t gwine argue with you.”

  Scipio had just started his morning sweeping when the first breakfast customer came in. Erasmus had found he made money serving breakfast, so he’d started. The customer shouted for hot coffee. Scipio didn’t blame him. He had to pry himself away from the nice, warm stove to bring the fellow the steaming cup, and then the fried eggs and grits that followed.

  After pouring down several steaming cups and shoveling in his food, the black man got to his feet, stuck a hand in the pocket of his dungarees, and looked a question toward Scipio. Even if it was wordless, Scipio understood it. “A million and a half,” he said.

  “Was only a million last week,” the customer said with a sigh. He gave Scipio two crisp, new $1,000,000 banknotes, with Robert E. Lee’s portrait on one side and a picture of Jefferson Davis taking the oath of office as provisional president in Montgomery on the other. Scipio handed him five $100,000 banknotes (older and more worn, because they’d been in circulation longer) for change. As he’d hoped, the customer left a couple of hundred thousand dollars’ tip when he went on his way.

  “When was the last time you seen silver or gold money?” Erasmus asked, his voice wistful. “I ain’t even seen no pennies in a hell of a long time.”

  “Me neither,” Scipio said. “Not since the war jus’ over. Somebody put down a dime or a qua’ter, reckon I fall over. Somebody put down a Stonewall, I knows I fall over.”

  “How much paper you reckon a Stonewall buy these days?” Erasmus’ lips moved silently as he made his own calculation. “Somewheres around
twenty, twenty-five million, I reckon. What you think?”

  “Sound about right,” Scipio agreed. Erasmus had no formal education, but he was shrewd with figures. Scipio added, “Ain’t bad fo’ fi’ dollars in gold.”

  “Sure ain’t,” Erasmus said, and said no more. Scipio wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to find out his boss had a nice pile of Stonewalls hidden away somewhere. If he needed them, they’d come out. If times ever got better, so that money stopped stretching like India rubber, they’d come out then, too. Scipio wished he had his own pile.

  He wondered how many goldpieces Anne Colleton had these days. He was willing to bet she had a good many. She’d always been one to land on her feet. And, if the papers didn’t lie, she’d been pumping money into the Freedom Party. That worried Scipio. His former boss didn’t back losers. He’d seen as much, time and again. But if the Freedom Party was a winner, every black man and woman in the CSA lost. What the men in the white shirts and butternut trousers had already done in Augusta made that crystal clear.

  If it hadn’t been for Bathsheba, he wouldn’t have worried so much. He’d always been able to take care of himself. Even after the Congaree Socialist Republic collapsed in blood and fire, he’d taken care of himself. Taking care of somebody else, though, somebody he loved—that was different. It was harder, too: he didn’t dare take risks for Bathsheba that he would have cheerfully taken for himself.

  Another Negro came in, asking for flapjacks and eggs. He wore a ribbon on his jacket. After a moment, Scipio recognized what it was: the ribbon for a Purple Heart. Pointing to it, he asked, “Where you git that?”

  “Up in Virginia,” the man answered. “Some damnyankee shot me in the leg. I was damn lucky, let me tell you. All he did was blow off a chunk o’ meat. Bullet didn’t hit no bone or nothin’, or I reckon I’d be walkin’ around with a peg leg.”