Through cheers, he repeated, “Yes, sir, I’m proud to set foot in the capital of the first state of the Confederacy—because I know South Carolina is going to help me, going to help the Freedom Party, give the Confederate States back to the people who started this country in the first place, the honest, hard-working white men and women who make the CSA go and don’t get a dime’s worth of credit for it. Y’all remember dimes, right? That’d be a couple million dollars’ worth of credit nowadays, I reckon.”
The crowd laughed and cheered. “He’s full of crap,” Tom said. “The people who started this country were planters and lawyers, just about top to bottom. Everybody knows that.”
“Everybody who’s had a good education knows that,” Anne said. “How many of those folks out there do you figure went to college?” Before Tom could answer, she shook her head. “Never mind now. I want to hear what he’s going to say.”
“Now I know the Whigs are running Wade Hampton V, and I know he’s from right here in South Carolina,” Featherston went on. “I reckon some of you are thinking of voting for him on account of he’s from here. You can do that if you want to, no doubt about it. But I’ll tell you something else, friends: I thought this here was an election for president, not for king. His Majesty Wade Hampton the Fifth.” He stretched out the name and the number that went with it, then shook his head in well-mimed disbelief. “Good Lord, folks, if we vote him in, we’ll be right up there with the Englishmen and George V.”
“He is good,” Tom said grudgingly as the crowd exploded into more laughter. Anne nodded. She was leaning forward again.
“Now, Hampton V means well, I don’t doubt it for a minute,” Jake said. “The Whigs meant well when Woodrow Wilson got us into the war, too, and they meant well when a War Department full of Thirds and Fourths and Fifths fought it for us, too. And you’d best believe they meant well when they stuck their heads in the sand instead of noticing the niggers were going to stab us in the back. If you like the way the war turned out, if you like paying ten million dollars for breakfast—this week; it’ll be more next Wednesday—go right ahead and vote for Wade Hampton V. You’ll get six more years of what we’ve been having.
“Or if you want a real change, you can vote for Mr. Layne. The Radical Liberals’ll give you change, all right. I’ll be…switched if they won’t. They’ll take us back into United States, is what they’ll do. Ainsworth Layne went to Harvard, folks—Harvard! Can you believe it? It’s true, believe it or not. And the Rad Libs want him to be president of the CSA? I’m sorry, friends, but I’ve seen enough damnyankees come down on us already. I don’t need any homegrown ones, thank you kindly.”
That drew more laughter and applause than his attack on Wade Hampton had done. The Radical Liberals, though neither very radical nor very liberal, had always been weak in hard-line South Carolina. Were Hampton not a native son, Anne would have thought Jake Featherston the likely winner here. Even with things as they were, she thought he had a decent chance to take the state.
Featherston went on, “The Whigs and the Rad Libs both say we have to learn from the war, to take what the Yankees dish out on account of we’re not strong enough to do anything else. What I say is, we have to learn from the war, all right. We have to learn that when we hit the United States, we have to hit ’em hard and we have to keep on hitting ’em till they fall down! They’ve stolen big chunks of what’s ours. I give you my word, friends—one fine day, it’s going to be ours again!”
The crowd exploded. Anne caught herself shouting at the top of her lungs. She thirsted for revenge against the USA. She glanced over toward her brother. Tom was shouting, too, his fist pumping the air. Whatever he thought of Jake Featherston and the Freedom Party, he wanted vengeance on the United States, too. That yen for revenge brought together people in the CSA who had nothing else in common. With luck, it would bring them together under the Freedom Party banner.
“Free-dom! Free-dom! Free-dom!” The stalwarts began the chant as Jake stepped back from the microphone. It swelled until the whole huge crowd bellowed the word as if it came from a single throat. Anne looked at Tom again. He was shouting it, too. She’d been shouting it till she made a deliberate effort of will and stopped. All of Columbia could hear that furious roar. By the time November came, all of the Confederate States would hear it.
Roger Kimball whistled cheerfully as he tucked his white shirt into a pair of butternut trousers. A lot of Freedom Party leaders didn’t care to join in the brawling that had marked the Party’s rise. Kimball shrugged. He’d never backed away from a fight, and he’d gone toward a good many. And Ainsworth Layne was speaking in Charleston tonight, or thought he was.
“I need a tin hat,” Kimball said, buttoning his fly. A helmet was useless aboard a submersible. It was a handy thing to have with clubs and rocks flying, though.
He picked up his own club and headed for the door. He was about to open it when somebody knocked. He threw it wide. There stood Clarence Potter. The former intelligence officer eyed him with distaste. “If you don’t agree with what I have to say, you could simply tell me so,” Potter remarked.
“I don’t agree with what you have to say,” Kimball snapped. “I don’t have time to argue about it now, though. Can’t be late.”
Potter shook his head. “When we first got to know each other, I thought better of you. You were a man who wanted to build up his country, not a ruffian tearing down the fabric of the republic. We used to talk about riding Jake Featherston. Now he rides you—and you’re proud of it.”
“He doesn’t ride me,” Roger Kimball said. “We’re both going the same way, that’s all.”
“Toward riot and mayhem.” Potter pointed to the stout bludgeon in Kimball’s hand. Then he added, “Toward murder, too, maybe.”
“Clarence, I had nothing to do with Tom Brearley going up in smoke,” Kimball said evenly. “I don’t miss him, but I didn’t have anything to do with it. Far as I know”—he carefully hadn’t asked Featherston any questions—“the Freedom Party had nothing to do with it, either. The jury found those fellows up in Richmond innocent.”
“No, the jury found them not guilty, which isn’t close to the same thing,” Potter answered. “And if the jury had found anything different, how many out of those twelve do you suppose would be breathing today?”
“I don’t know anything about that. What I do know is, maybe you’d better not come around here any more.” Kimball hefted the club.
Potter had very little give in him. Kimball had seen as much when they first met in a saloon. The club didn’t frighten him. “You needn’t worry about that,” he said. Slowly and deliberately, he turned his back and walked away.
Kimball pulled his watch out of his pocket. Good—he wasn’t late yet. He frowned, then set the watch on a table by the door. Some of the Radical Liberals were liable to have clubs, too, and that could be hard on a timepiece.
He passed a policeman on his way to Freedom Party headquarters. The gray-clad cop inspected him. He wondered if the man would give him trouble. But the cop called “Freedom!” and waved him on his way. Kimball raised the club in salute as he hurried along.
Freedom Party stalwarts spilled out onto the sidewalk and into the street around the headquarters. They’d drawn a few policemen on account of that. “Come on, fellows, you don’t want to block traffic,” one of the policemen said. The men in white and butternut took no special notice of him. Yes, he had a six-shooter, but there were more than a hundred times six of them, combat veterans all, and some no doubt with pistols of their own tucked into pockets or trouser waistbands.
“Form ranks, boys,” Kimball called. The Freedom Party men did. They didn’t just spill into the street then: they took it over, in a long, sinewy column that put Kimball in mind of the endless close-order drill he’d gone through down at the Naval Academy in Mobile. The comparison was fitting, because the stalwarts—mostly ex-soldiers, with a handful of Navy men—had surely done their fair share of close-order drill, to
o.
“You can’t do that!” a cop exclaimed. “You haven’t got a parade permit!”
“We are doing it,” Kimball answered. “We’re out for a stroll together—isn’t that right, boys?” The men in butternut and white howled approval. Kimball waited to see if the policeman would have the nerve to try arresting him. The cop didn’t. Grinning, Kimball said, “On to Hampton Park! Forward—march!”
The column moved out, the stalwarts raising a rhythmic cry of “Freedom!” Kimball had all he could do not to break into snickers. Here he was, leading Freedom Party men to attack Radical Liberals in a park named for the family of the Whigs’ presidential candidate. If that wasn’t funny, what was?
Hampton Park lay in the northwestern part of Charleston, across town from Freedom Party headquarters. The column of stalwarts was ten men wide and a hundred yards long; it snarled traffic to a fare-thee-well. Some automobilists frantically blew their horns at the men who presumed to march past them regardless of rules of the road. More than a few, though, shouted “Freedom!” and waved and cheered.
“What do you aim to do?” a nervous policeman asked Kimball as the stalwarts strode up Ashley toward Hampton Park. By then, a couple of dozen cops were tagging along with the Freedom Party men. Tagging along was all they were doing; they seemed shocked to find themselves such a small, shadowy presence.
In Hampton Park, a couple of searchlights hurled spears of light into the sky. The Rad Libs hadn’t adopted the glowing cathedral Anne Colleton had come up with, but they were doing their best to keep pace. Kimball pointed toward the searchlights. “We aim to have a talk with those folks yonder.” The cop spluttered and fumed. He knew the Freedom Party aimed to do a hell of a lot more than that. But knowing it and being able to prove it were two different critters.
Ainsworth Layne had provided himself with a microphone, too. His amplified voice boomed out from the park. “—And so I say to you, people of the Confederate States, that with goodwill we can be reconciled to those with whom we have known conflict in the past: with our American brethren in the United States and with the colored men and women in our own country.” He sounded earnest and bland.
“Are you listening to that crap, boys?” Roger Kimball asked. “Sounds like treason to me. How about you?” A low rumble of agreement rose from the men marching behind him. He asked another question: “What does this country really need?”
“Freedom!” The thunderous answer put Layne’s microphone to shame. The Freedom Party men advanced into the park.
Dark shapes rushed out of the night to meet them. The Radical Liberals had a cry of their own: “Layne and liberty!”
“Freedom!” Kimball shouted, and swung his club. It struck flesh. A Rad Lib howled like a kicked dog. Kimball laughed. If the other side felt like mixing it up, he and his comrades were ready.
Dozens of searchlights marked Freedom Party rallies these days. The Radical Liberals used only a couple. The Radical Liberals incompletely imitated the Freedom Party when it came to assembling a strong-arm force, too. They’d recruited a few dozen bullyboys: enough to blunt the first charge of the men in white and butternut, but nowhere near enough to halt them or drive them back.
“Layne and liberty!” A Radical Liberal swung at Roger Kimball’s head. Kimball got his left arm up in time to block the blow, but let out a yip of anguish all the same. He shook the arm. It didn’t hurt any worse when he did that, so he supposed the Rad Lib hadn’t broken any bones—not from lack of effort, though. Kimball swung his own club. His foe blocked the blow with an ease that bespoke plenty of bayonet practice. But the Radical Liberal couldn’t take on two at once. Another Freedom Party man walloped him from behind. He fell with a groan. Kimball kicked him, hard as he could, then ran on. “Freedom!” he cried.
Ainsworth Layne must have caught the commotion at the back of the park. “And now, I see, the forces of unreason seek to disrupt our peaceable assembly,” he boomed through the microphone. “They pay no heed to the rights enumerated in the Confederate Constitution, yet they feel they have the right to govern. We must reject their violence, their radicalism, for we—”
“Freedom!” Kimball shouted again. Only a few of the Radical Liberals’ muscle boys remained on their feet. Kimball smashed one of them down. Blood ran dark along his club. He guessed he’d fractured a skull or two in the fight. He hoped he had.
“Freedom!” the Party stalwarts roared as they crashed into the rear of the crowd. Some people tried to fight back. Others tried to run. They had a devil of a time doing it, with Layne’s partisans so tightly packed together. Men and women started screaming.
“Freedom!” It was not only a war cry for Kimball and his comrades, it was also a password. They did their best to maim anyone who wasn’t yelling their slogan.
They had fury on their side. They had discipline on their side, too. As they’d done in the trenches, they supported one another and fought as parts of a force with a common goal. The men in the crowd of Radical Liberals might have been their matches individually, but never got the chance to fight as individuals. The Freedom Party men mobbed them, rolled over them, and plunged deep into the heart of the crowd, aiming straight for the platform from which Ainsworth Layne still sent forth unheeded calls for peace.
Kimball stepped on someone. When she cried out, he realized her sex. He refrained from kicking her while she was down. Thus far his chivalry ran: thus far and no further. Swinging his club, he pressed on toward the platform.
Through the red heat of battle, he wondered what he and the rest of the Freedom Party men ought to do if they actually got there. Pull Layne off it and stomp him to death? A lot of the stalwarts would want to do that. Even with his blood up, Kimball didn’t think it would help the Party. Some people would cheer. More would be horrified.
When the shooting started, it sounded like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Roger Kimball didn’t know whether a stalwart or a man in the crowd first pulled out a pistol, aimed it at somebody he didn’t like, and squeezed the trigger. No sooner did one gun come out, though, than a dozen or more on each side were barking and spitting furious tongues of fire.
What had been chaos turned to a panicked stampede. All the people in the crowd tried to get away from the Freedom Party men—and from the gunfire—as fast as they could. If they trampled wives, husbands, children…then they did, and they’d worry about it later. The only thing they worried about now was escape.
“Let us have peace!” Ainsworth Layne cried, but there was no peace.
Kimball saw a Freedom Party man taking aim at Layne. “No, dammit!” he shouted, and whacked the revolver out of the stalwart’s hand with his club. The fellow snarled at him. He snarled back. “We’ve got to get out of here!” he yelled. “We’ve done what we came to do, but every cop in Charleston’s going to be heading this way now. Time to go home, boys.”
He thought the stalwarts might be able to take on the whole Charleston police force and have some chance of winning. He didn’t want to find out, though. If the Freedom Party won here, the governor would have to call out the militia. Either the citizen-soldiers would slaughter the stalwarts or they’d mutiny and go over to them, in which case South Carolina would have a revolution on its hands less than a month before the election.
Jake Featherston would kill him if that happened. It was no figure of speech, and Kimball knew as much. “Out!” he yelled again. “Away! We’ve done what we came for!” Discipline held. The Freedom Party men began streaming out of Hampton Park. Even they forgot about Ainsworth Layne.
November 8 dawned chilly and drizzly in Richmond. Reggie Bartlett got out of bed half an hour earlier than he usually would have, so he could vote before going to work at Harmon’s drugstore. Yawning in spite of the muddy coffee he’d made, he went downstairs and out into the nasty weather. It wasn’t raining quite hard enough for an umbrella. He pulled his hat down and his coat collar up and muttered curses every time a raindrop trickled along the back of his neck.
&nbs
p; A big Confederate flag flew in front of the house that served as his polling place. A couple of policemen stood in front of the polling place, too. He’d seen cops on election duty before. They’d always looked bored. Not this pair. Each of them had a hand on his pistol. After the riots that had ripped through the CSA in the weeks leading up to election day, Bartlett couldn’t blame them.
“Freedom! Freedom!” Four or five men in white shirts and butternut trousers chanted the word over and over again. They held placards with Jake Featherston’s name on them, and stood as close to the polling place as the hundred-foot no-electioneering limit allowed. The cops watched them as if they were enemy soldiers.
So did Reggie Bartlett. He carried a snub-nosed .38 revolver in his trouser pocket these days. A jury might have acquitted the Freedom Party goons who’d burned down Tom Brearley’s house around him, but Reggie knew—along with the rest of the world—who’d done what, and why. He’d signed his name on the letter that introduced Brearley to Tom Colleton. That presumably meant the Freedom Party knew it. No one had yet tried to do anything to him on account of it. If anyone did try, Reggie was determined he’d regret it.
As he walked past the policemen, they gave him a careful once-over. He nodded to them both and went inside. The voting officials waiting in the parlor all looked like veterans of the War of Secession. Reggie nodded to them, too; the next young voting official he saw would be the first.
They satisfied themselves that he was who he said he was and could vote in that precinct. Then one of them, a fellow with splendid white mustaches and a hook where his left hand should have been, gave Bartlett a ballot and said, “Use any vacant voting booth, sir.”
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