Not till they got into the motorcar that had brought Darrow to the prison and the driver was taking them away did Cincinnatus turn to the lawyer and say, “God bless you, suh, for what you done there.”
“I don’t believe in God, any more than I believe in Mother Goose,” Darrow said. “Foolish notion. But I do believe in justice, and you deserve that. Everyone deserves that.”
Cincinnatus had known some Reds who said they didn’t believe in God. With them, he’d always thought that was a pose, or that they substituted Marx for God. With Clarence Darrow, it was different. The man spoke as if he needed no substitute for the Deity. Cincinnatus sensed that, but couldn’t fully fathom it. He said, “Well, God believes in you, whether you believe in Him or not.”
Darrow gave him an odd look. “You’ve got grit, son, if you can joke after you get out of that place.”
“I wasn’t jokin’, suh,” Cincinnatus said. They eyed each other in perfect mutual incomprehension. Cincinnatus asked, “How’d you even know I was stuck there, suh, to come and get me out?”
“Your wife finally raised a stink that was big enough for me to notice it,” Darrow answered. “It took her a while, because people in the USA don’t want to notice a colored woman even when she’s screaming her head off. But she kept at it. Remarkable woman. Stubborn as a Missouri mule.”
“Yes, suh,” Cincinnatus said happily. “God bless Elizabeth, too.” Clarence Darrow let out a long, rasping sigh. Cincinnatus took no notice of it. He went on, “But even if you knew I was in trouble, how’d you get Luther Bliss to turn loose o’ me? That’s one ornery man.”
“That’s one first-class son of a bitch, is what that is,” Darrow said. “Even after I got the court order, he kept denying he’d ever heard of you. But I managed to persuade a judge otherwise—and here you are.”
“Here I am,” Cincinnatus agreed. Seeing farms and woods out the window, not stone and concrete and barbed wire, made him feel like a new man. But the new man had old problems. “What do I owe you, suh?” Lawyers didn’t come cheap; he knew that. Even so . . . “Whatever it is, I pays it. May take me a while, you understand, but I pays it.”
Darrow’s grin displayed crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “Your wife told me you’d say that. You don’t owe me a dime—I did your case pro bono publico.” He saw the Latin meant nothing to Cincinnatus, and added, “For the public good.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, suh, but it ain’t right,” Cincinnatus said. “I want to pay you back. I owe you.”
“Your wife said you’d say that, too,” Clarence Darrow told him. “But there’s no need—I’ll make more from publicity than you could pay. If you must, pay the favor forward—do something good for someone else. Bargain?”
“Yes, suh—so help me God,” Cincinnatus said.
“More of that claptrap.” Darrow sighed. “Well, never mind. I hope you know better than to stick your nose back into Kentucky again?”
“Long as my folks ain’t poorly for true, sure,” Cincinnatus answered. “That’s what got me here before. I be more careful ‘bout the message nowadays, but if I reckon it’s so, what choice have I got but to come?”
Clarence Darrow gave him a long, measuring stare. The lawyer delivered his verdict in one word: “Fool.”
Coal smoke pouring out the stack, the train hurried toward the Salt Lake City station. Sparks flew as the brakes ground its iron wheels against the iron rails that carried it. Colonel Abner Dowling would rather have been somewhere, anywhere, else than on the platform waiting for that train to pull in. By the expression on his mustachioed face, General Pershing felt the same way.
“No help for it, though,” Dowling murmured, more than half to himself.
He hadn’t been quiet enough. But Pershing only nodded and said, “He has earned the right to do as he pleases.”
“I know that, sir,” Dowling answered. “I just wish he would have pleased to do something—anything—else.”
“Yes.” Pershing nodded again. “There is that, isn’t there?”
The train stopped right at the platform. Dowling had irrationally hoped against hope that it wouldn’t, but would keep right on going. The leader of the military band gathered on the platform caught Pershing’s eye. Pershing looked as if he wished the fellow hadn’t. At last, reluctantly, he nodded. The band leader either didn’t notice the reluctance or thought it wise to pretend he didn’t. With a proud flourish, he began to wave his baton. The band struck up “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
No sooner had the vaunting music begun to blare forth than the door to one of the Pullman cars opened. Out came a bent ancient whose mustache and what Dowling could see of his hair—he always wore a hat, to keep the world from knowing he was bald—were a peroxided gold, defying time. A woman of about the same years followed him onto the platform.
“Well, Autie,” she sniffed, “they are giving you a proper welcome, anyhow.”
“What’s that, Libbie?” The old man cupped a hand behind his ear.
“I said, they’re giving you a proper welcome,” she repeated, louder this time.
“Can’t hear a thing over that music. At least they’re giving me a proper welcome.”
Colonel Dowling and General Pershing both stepped forward. They both saluted. They chorused, “Welcome to Utah, General Custer.” Dowling was lying in his teeth. He would have bet Pershing was doing the same.
“Thank you. Thank you both,” Custer said. He stiffly returned the salute, even though, having at last retired from the U.S. Army after more than sixty years of service, he wore a somber black suit and homburg. Three years before, he’d been as vigorous as a man in his eighties could be. Now . . . Dowling found himself surprised, dismayed, and surprised at being dismayed. He’d always thought—sometimes despairingly—that George Armstrong Custer was the one unchanging man on the face of the earth.
Here at last, he saw it wasn’t so. The retired general was visibly slower, visibly more feeble. Some spark had gone out of him since his retirement, and he seemed to know it.
Libbie Custer, by contrast, remained as she always had. “Hello, Colonel Dowling,” she said with a smile that showed white false teeth. “It’s good to see you again. Now that Autie and I are civilians, may I call you Abner?”
“Of course,” Dowling answered, though he’d always hated his Christian name.
Meanwhile, General Pershing was shaking hands with Custer and exchanging polite and, no doubt, insincere compliments. During the Great War, Pershing’s command had been just to the east of Custer’s. Pershing’s Second Army had captured Louisville and generally pushed south faster than Custer’s First—till Custer decided he knew more about barrels than anyone in the War Department . . . and, against all odds, turned out to be right. From things Pershing had said since Abner Dowling came to Utah, he still couldn’t figure out how Custer had pulled that off.
At the time, Dowling had been sure Custer’s lies to Philadelphia would get the general—and, not so incidentally, himself—court-martialed and sent to Leavenworth to do hard labor for the rest of their lives. Instead, his superior had ended up the USA’s greatest military hero since George Washington, and Dowling, by reflected glory, had ended up a minor hero himself.
Custer said, “Are you keeping the Mormons here on a tight rein, General? I hope to heaven you are, because they will cause trouble if they get half a chance.”
“Things have been tolerably quiet, anyway,” Pershing answered. “They don’t shoot at our men any more. Taking hostages worked pretty well for the Germans in Belgium, and for us in Canada and the CSA, and it works here, too. The Mormons may want us dead, but they don’t want their friends and neighbors and sweethearts going up against a wall with a blindfold.”
“And a cigarette,” Custer added automatically, but he shook his head before anyone could correct him. “No, the Mormons don’t even have that to console themselves. Poor devils. Nothing wrong with tobacco.”
Libbie sniffed. Custer had been smoki
ng and drinking and cursing ever since the disappointments of the Second Mexican War, and she still hated all three.
“It does work, cigarette or no,” Pershing said. “We even quelled trouble with polygamists down in Teasdale by taking several hundred hostages and making it ever so clear we’d do what we had to do if trouble broke out.”
Dowling wanted to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand and go, Whew! because of that. He didn’t, but he wanted to. Instead, he said, “General, Mrs. Custer, your limousine is waiting just outside the station. If you’d be kind enough to come with me . . .”
They came. They didn’t remark upon—perhaps they didn’t notice—the sharpshooters on the roof of the station. More riflemen were posted in the buildings across the street. Custer had served as General Pope’s right arm in the U.S. occupation of restive Utah during the Second Mexican War. Mormons had long memories, as everyone had found out in their uprising during the Great War. Someone might still want to take a potshot or two at Custer for what he’d done more than forty years before, no matter how many hostages’ lives it cost his people.
The limousine carried more armor than an armored car. Even the windows were of glass allegedly bulletproof. That was one more thing Dowling didn’t want to have to put to the test.
As they drove along the southern perimeter of Temple Square, Custer pointed to the ruins there and said, “That’s a bully sight—their temples to their false gods pulled down around their ears. May they never rise again.”
“Er, yes,” Dowling answered, wondering when he’d last heard anyone—anyone but Custer, that is—say bully. Hardly at all since the Great War ended; he was sure of that. The old slang was dying out with the people who’d used it. Custer still lingered. Now, though, Dowling could see he wouldn’t go on forever after all.
As old men will, Custer still dwelt on the past. “Do you know what my greatest regret is?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Dowling said, as General Pershing shook his head.
“My greatest regret is that we didn’t hang Abe Lincoln alongside the Mormon traitors he was consorting with,” Custer said. “He deserved it just as much as they did, and if we’d stretched his skinny neck the Socialists never would have got off the ground—I’m sure of that.”
“I suppose we’d have Republicans instead,” Pershing said. “They’d be just about as bad, or I miss my guess.” He was twenty years younger than Custer, which meant he’d been a young man the last time the Republican Party had amounted to anything much. It was a sad shadow of its former self, and had been ever since Abraham Lincoln took a large part of its membership left into the Socialist camp at the end of the Second Mexican War.
Custer sniffed and coughed and rolled his eyes. Plainly, he disagreed with General Pershing. For a wonder, though, he didn’t come right out and say so. Abner Dowling scratched his head in bemusement. Had Custer learned tact, or some semblance of it, at the age of eighty-six? There might have been less likely things, but Dowling couldn’t think of any offhand.
Odds were that Libbie had poked him in the ribs with her elbow when Dowling didn’t notice. As the great man’s longtime adjutant, Dowling had long since concluded Libbie Custer was the brains of the outfit. George put on a better show—Libbie, in public, was self-effacing as could be—but she was the one who thought straight.
Outside General Pershing’s headquarters, guards meticulously checked the limousine, front to back, top to bottom. At last, one of them told the driver, “You’re all right. Go on through.”
“Thanks, Jonesy,” the driver said, and put the motorcar back into gear.
“Still as bad as that?” Custer asked. “Will they blow us to kingdom come if we give them half a chance?”
“We hope not,” Pershing said. “Still and all, we’d rather not find out.”
“They don’t love us, and that’s a fact,” Dowling added.
“Good,” Custer said. “If they loved us, that would mean we were soft on them, and we’d better not be soft. If we let them up for even a minute, the Mormons will start conspiring with the limeys or the Rebs, same as they did in the last war and same as they did forty-odd years ago, too.”
There was another obsolete word. Only men of Custer’s generation still called the Confederates Rebels, and men of Custer’s generation, these days, were thin on the ground. The armored limousine stopped once more, this time inside the secure compound. A company stood at stiff attention, awaiting Custer’s inspection.
The retired general didn’t notice them till a soldier held the door for him and he got out of the automobile. When he did, he tried to straighten up as he made his slow way over to them. He reminded Dowling of a fire horse put out to pasture that heard the alarm bell once more and wanted to pull the engine again. Around soldiers, he came alive.
Most of the men there in the courtyard were conscripts, too young to have served in the Great War. They still responded to Custer, though, grinning at his bad jokes and telling him their home towns when he asked.
In a low voice, General Pershing said, “He looks like he wishes he were still in uniform.”
“I’m sure he does, sir,” Dowling answered, also quietly. “The Socialists practically had to drag him out of it.” He clicked his tongue between his teeth, remembering. “That was an ugly scene.”
“Those people . . .” Pershing shook his head. “It’s not for us to meddle in politics, and I know that’s a good rule, but there are times when I’m tempted to say exactly what’s on my mind.”
“Yes, sir,” Dowling said.
At the banquet that evening, Custer ate with good appetite and drank perhaps two glasses of white wine too many. Afterwards, Libbie told him, “Time to get to bed, Autie.” She might have been talking to a child that had stayed up too late.
“In a moment, my dear,” Custer answered. Before struggling to his feet once more, he turned to Dowling and said, “Do you know, Major, there are times since they took the uniform off me when I simply feel adrift on the seas of fate. Once upon a time, I mastered the helm. But no more, Major, no more. This is what the years have done.”
Dowling couldn’t blame Custer for forgetting his present rank and using the one he’d had when they served together during the war. “Yes, sir,” he said, and then, “I’m sorry, sir.” To his amazement, tears stung his eyes. Custer had lived too long, and knew it. Could any man suffer a worse fate? Dowling shook his head. He doubted it.
“God bless you, Major,” Custer said. He let his wife, still competent as always, lead him out of the dining hall. One of those tears slid down Dowling’s cheek. He would have been more embarrassed—he would have been mortified—if he hadn’t seen that General Pershing’s face was wet, too.
In a way, sitting in the Socialist Party offices in New York’s Fourteenth Ward took Flora Blackford back to the days when she’d been Flora Hamburger. Waiting for the latest batch of election returns made her remember how nervous she’d been when her name first appeared on the ballot ten years before.
In another way, though, coming back reminded her how much things had changed. She didn’t get back from Philadelphia all that often, even though the two cities were only a couple of hours apart by train. She didn’t hear Yiddish spoken all that often any more, either; she had to stop and think and listen to understand. What had been her first language was now on the way to becoming foreign to her.
A telephone rang. Herman Bruck picked it up. He’d been sweet on Flora while she still lived in New York City, and maybe his smile had a wistful quality to it when he looked at her now. On the other hand, maybe it didn’t. He had a four-year-old of his own, and a two-year-old, and a six-month-old besides. That was bound to be more than enough to keep anybody busy.
He scribbled something on a pad on his battered old desk. “Latest returns in our district—Hamburger, uh, Blackford, 9,791; Cantorowicz, 6,114.” Cheers filled the office. The Democrat, Abraham Cantorowicz, wasn’t quite a token candidate, but he hadn’t had any great chance of winnin
g, either. The Congressional district whose borders roughly corresponded to those of the Fourteenth Ward had been solidly Socialist since before the turn of the century.
On Flora’s lap, Joshua Blackford began to fuss. He was sleepy. At not quite one, he was up well past his bedtime, and in a strange place besides. She was surprised he hadn’t started making a racket before this.
The telephone rang again. Again, Herman Bruck picked it up. Then he laid his palm against the mouthpiece and said, “Flora, it’s for you. It’s Cantorowicz.”
More cheers—everyone knew what that had to mean. Flora passed her son to her husband. “Here—mind him for a few minutes, please,” she said.
Hosea Blackford took the toddler. “This is what the vice president is for,” he said with a laugh. “He takes over so somebody else can go do something important.”
That got two waves of laughter—one from those who followed it in English and another after it got translated into Yiddish. Flora made her way to the telephone. “This is Congresswoman Blackford,” she said.
“And you’ll have two more years of being a Congresswoman,” Abraham Cantorowicz told her. “I don’t see how I can catch you, and what’s the point in waiting to make this call after the handwriting goes up on the walls? Another election, another Democrat calling to concede. Congratulations.”
“Thank you very much. That’s gracious of you,” Flora said. “You ran a strong campaign.” He’d run as well as a Democrat in this district could.
“Someone had to be the sacrificial lamb—we weren’t about to let you run unopposed,” Cantorowicz answered. “We will keep fighting for this district, and we’ll win one of these days.”
“Not soon, I don’t think,” Flora answered.
“Maybe sooner than you think,” her defeated opponent answered. “Will you run for reelection when your husband runs for president?”
Flora sent Hosea Blackford a look half startled, half thoughtful. She knew perfectly well he was thinking of running in 1928. Upton Sinclair almost certainly wouldn’t seek a third term. The only president who’d ever run a third time was Theodore Roosevelt. He’d won the Great War, made himself twice a national hero—and lost anyhow. The United States weren’t ready for one man ruling on and on.
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