Blood and Iron (42 page)

Then he saw the envelope franked with a two-cent stamp with an
ONTARIO
overprint. His heart neither fluttered nor leaped. He let out a resigned sigh. He wouldn’t throw that envelope into the wastebasket unopened, as he would a lot of others, but he’d learned better than to get too excited about such things.

When he got up to his apartment, he slit the envelope open. It held just what he’d expected: a postal money order and a note. The money order was for $12.50. The note read,
Dear Mr. Moss, With this latest payment I now owe you $41.50. I hope to get it all to you by the end of the year. The crops look pretty good, so I should have the money. God bless you again for helping me. Laura Secord.

She’d been sending him such money orders, now for this amount, now for that, since the middle of winter. He’d written her that it wasn’t necessary. She’d ignored him. The only thing he’d managed to do—and it hadn’t been easy—was persuade her she didn’t owe him any interest.

“Lord, what a stiff-necked woman,” he muttered. He’d realized that when he was up in Canada during the war. She hadn’t bent an inch in her animosity toward the Americans.

He’d made her bend to the extent of being polite to him. He hadn’t made her bend to the extent of wanting to stay obligated to him one instant longer than she had to. As soon as she’d paid off the last of what she owed, she could go back to pretending he didn’t exist.

He couldn’t even refuse to redeem the money orders. Oh, he could have, but it wouldn’t have made things any easier for Laura Secord. She’d already laid out the cash to buy the orders. Not redeeming them would have been cutting off his nose to spite his face.

“Haven’t you done enough of that already?” he asked himself. Since he had no good answer, he didn’t try to give himself one.

He cooked a little beefsteak on the stove, then put some lard in with the drippings and fried a couple of potatoes to go with it. That didn’t make a fancy supper, but it got rid of the empty feeling in his belly. He washed the plate and silverware and scrubbed the frying pan with steel wool. His housekeeping was on the same order as his cooking: functional, efficient, uninspired.

Once he’d taken care of it, he hit the books. Bar examinations would be coming up in the summer. Much as he’d enjoyed most of his time at the Northwestern law school, he didn’t care to wait around another semester to retake the exams after failing.

A tome he studied with particular diligence was titled,
Occupation Law: Administration and Judicial Proceedings in the New American Colonial Empire.
The field, naturally, had swollen in importance since the end of the Great War. Before the war, it had hardly been part of U.S. jurisprudence at all, as the United States, unlike England, France, and Japan, had owned no colonial empire. How things had changed in the few years since! Occupation law was said to form a large part of the examination nowadays.

Moss told himself that was the only reason he worked so hard with the text. Still, if he decided to hang out his shingle somewhere up in Canada, it behooved him to know what he was doing, didn’t it? He didn’t think about hanging out his shingle anywhere near Arthur, Ontario…not more than a couple of times, anyway.

He realized he couldn’t study all the time, not if he wanted to stay within gibbering distance of sane. The next morning, he met his friend Fred Sandburg at the coffeehouse where they’d whiled away—wasted, if one felt uncharitable about it—so much time since coming to law school.

“You’ve got that look in your eye again,” Sandburg said. Moss knew he was a better legal scholar than his friend, but he wouldn’t have wanted to go up against Fred in a courtroom: Sandburg was ever so much better at reading people than he was at reading books. He went on, “How much did she send you this time?”

“Twelve-fifty,” Moss answered. He paused to order coffee, then asked, “How the devil do you do that?”

“All in the wrist, Johnny my boy; all in the wrist.” Sandburg cocked his, as if about to loose one of those newfangled forward passes on the gridiron. Moss snorted. His friend said, “No, seriously—I don’t think it’s something you can explain. Sort of like card sense, if you know what I mean.”

“Only by hearing people talk about it,” Jonathan Moss confessed sheepishly. “When I played cards during the war, I lost all the damn time. Finally, I quit playing. That’s about as close to card sense as I ever got.”

“Closer than a lot of people come, believe me,” Fred Sandburg said. “Some of the guys I played with in the trenches, it’d take inflation like the damn Rebs are having to get them out of the holes they dug for themselves.”

Up came the waitress. She set coffee in front of Moss and Sandburg. Sandburg patted her on the hip—not quite on the backside, but close—as she turned away. She kept walking, but smiled at him over her shoulder. Moss was gloomily certain that, had he tried the same thing, he’d have ended up with hot coffee in his lap and a slap planted on his kisser. But Fred had people sense, no two ways about it.

Moss decided to put his pal’s people sense to some use and to change the subject, both at the same time: “You think Teddy Roosevelt can win a third term?”

“He’s sure running for one, isn’t he?” Sandburg said. “I think he may very well, especially if the Socialists throw Debs into the ring again. You’d figure they’d have better sense, but you never can tell, can you? As a matter of fact, I hope Teddy loses. Winning would set a bad precedent.”

“Why?” Moss asked. “Don’t you think he’s done enough to deserve to get elected again? If anybody ever did, he’s the one.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” Sandburg said. “What bothers me is that, if he wins a third term, somewhere down the line somebody who doesn’t deserve it will run, and he’ll win, too.”

“All right. I see what you’re saying,” Moss told him, nodding. “How many other people will worry about that, though?”

“I don’t know,” Sandburg admitted. “I don’t see how anybody could know. But I’ll bet the answer is,
more than you’d think.
If it weren’t, we’d have elected someone to a third term long before this.”

“I suppose so.” Moss sipped his coffee. He watched people stroll past the coffeehouse. When a man with only one leg stumped by on a pair of crutches, he sighed and said, “I wonder how the fellows who didn’t come through the war would vote now if they had a chance.”

“Probably not a whole lot different than the way our generation will end up voting,” Sandburg said. Moss nodded; that was likely to be true. His friend continued, “But we’re in the Half Generation, Johnny my boy. Every vote we cast will count double, because so many of us haven’t even got graves to call our own.”

“The Half Generation,” Moss repeated slowly. “That’s not a bad name for it.” He waved for the waitress and ordered a shot of brandy to go with the coffee. Only after he’d knocked back the shot did he ask the question that had come into his mind: “Did you ever feel like you didn’t deserve to come back in one piece? Like fellows who were better than you died, but you just kept going?”

“Better fighters? I don’t know about that,” Fred Sandburg said. “Harder to tell on the ground than it was in the air, I expect. But I figured out a long time ago that it’s just fool luck I’m still breathing and the fellow next to me caught a bullet in the neck. I don’t guess that’s too far from what you’re saying.”

“It’s not,” Moss said. For that matter, Sandburg had caught two bullets and was still breathing. No doubt luck had a great deal to do with that. Moss wished there were something more to it. “I feel I ought to be living my own life better than I am, to make up for all the lives that got cut short. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Some, yeah.” Sandburg cocked an eyebrow. “That’s why you’re still mooning over this Canuck gal who sends you rolls of pennies every couple of weeks, is it? Makes sense to me.”

“God damn you.” But Moss couldn’t even work up the energy to sound properly indignant. His buddy had got him fair and square. He defended himself as best he could: “You don’t really have much say about who you fall in love with.”

“Maybe not,” Sandburg said. “But you’re not quite ready to be a plaster saint yet, either, and don’t forget it.”

“I don’t want to be a plaster saint,” Moss said. “All I want is to be a better person than I am.” This time, he caught the gleam in Fred’s eye. “You tell me that wouldn’t be hard and I’ll give you a kick in the teeth.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,” Sandburg answered primly. “And I’ll be damned if you can prove anything different.”

“You’re not in court now, Counselor,” Moss said, and they both laughed. “But what the devil are we going to do—the Half Generation, I mean, not you and me—for the rest of our lives? We’ll always be looking over our shoulders, waiting for the other half to come up and give us a hand. And they won’t. They can’t. They’re dead.”

“And you were the one who just got through saying Teddy Roosevelt deserved a third term,” Sandburg pointed out. “And I was the one who said I couldn’t argue with you. God help us both.”

“God help us both,” Jonathan Moss agreed. “God help the world, because there’s hardly a country in it that doesn’t have a Half Generation. With the Canucks, it’s more like a Quarter Generation.”

“Italy came through all right,” Sandburg said. “The Japs didn’t get hurt bad, either, damn them.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to have a heart-to-heart talk with the Japs one day, sure enough,” Moss said. “They’re like England, only more so: they don’t really know they were on the losing side.” He thought for a moment. “The only thing worse than going through the Great War, I guess, would have been going through the Great War and losing. Roosevelt saved us from that, anyway.”

“So he did.” Sandburg’s whistle was low and doleful. “Can you imagine what this country would be like if the Rebs had licked us
again
? We’d have had ourselves another revolution, so help me God we would. I don’t mean Reds, either. I just mean people who’d have wanted to hang every politician and every general from the nearest lamppost they could find.”

“Like this Freedom Party down in the CSA,” Moss said, and Sandburg nodded. Moss went on, “You know, maybe TR really does deserve a third term. Even if he didn’t do anything else, he spared us that.” His friend nodded again. Moss discovered he still had a couple of drops of brandy in the bottom of the shot glass. He raised it again. “To TR!” he said, and drained them.

“Down with TR! Down with TR! Down with TR!” Along with everyone else in the great hall in Toledo, Flora Hamburger howled out the chant. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. It was also thick with an even headier scent, one never caught before at a Socialist Party national convention: the smell of victory.

“We can do it this time.” Flora didn’t know how often she’d heard that since coming to Toledo. Whether it was true or not remained to be seen. True or not, though, people believed it. Scarred and grizzled organizers who’d been coming to conventions since long before the turn of the century were saying it, and saying it with wonder in their voices and on their faces. They’d never said it before.

“Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!” Half a dozen people here on the floor clamored for the attention of the august personage on the rostrum.

Bang!
The gavel came down. “The chair recognizes the leader of the delegation from the great state of Indiana.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” that worthy bellowed. The chairman rapped loudly once more, and kept rapping till something a little quieter than chaos prevailed. The leader of the Indiana delegation spoke into it: “Mr. Chairman, in the interest of victory and unity, the state of Indiana shifts twenty-seven votes from its own great patriot and statesman, Senator Debs, to the next president of the United States of America, Mr. Sinclair! We so act at the specific request of Senator Debs, who understands that the interests of the Party should, indeed must, come ahead of all personal concerns.”

Flora had never been on the battlefield. If the roar that went up at that announcement didn’t match that of a great cannonading, though, she would have been astonished. More men, including the chairman of the delegation from New York, waved hands or hats or banners to attract the chairman’s attention. After five indecisive ballots, the Socialists had their presidential nominee. Someone moved that the nomination be made unanimous; the motion passed by overwhelming voice vote. That done, the proud and happy delegates voted to adjourn till the next day.

But they did not want to leave the floor. As if they had already won the election, they milled about in celebration, meeting old friends, making new ones, and having themselves a terrific time.

Being taller than most of the men at the convention, Hosea Blackford was easy for Flora to spot as he made his way from the small Dakota delegation to the large one from New York. “It’s done,” he said. “The first part of it’s done, anyhow, and done well.” When he grinned, he shed years. “Ain’t it bully, Flora?”

“Yes, I think so,” she answered. “And the second part—who knows what the second part may be?” She wanted to take him in her arms. She couldn’t, not in public. She couldn’t, even in private, not while the convention was going on: no privacy in Toledo was private enough. “When you find out the second part, please let me know, whenever it is you happen to hear.”

“Whether it goes one way or the other, I will do that,” Blackford promised solemnly. “Shall we have supper now?”

“Why not?” Flora said. They left the hall and went back to the hotel where they were both staying. Neither of them minded being seen in public with the other; their friendship was common knowledge in Philadelphia. That they were anything more than friends, they kept to themselves.

They were working their way through indifferent beef stew when an excited-looking young man in a brightly checked jacket approached the table and said, “Congressman Blackford?”

“That’s right,” Blackford answered. The young man in the gaudy jacket glanced toward Flora. Understanding that glance, Blackford said, “Do I understand that you come from Mr. Sinclair?” The newcomer nodded. “Speak freely,” Blackford urged him. “You may rely on Congresswoman Hamburger’s discretion no less than my own.”

“Very well.” The eager youngster tipped his bowler to Flora. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He gave his attention back to Blackford. “Mr. Sinclair says I am to tell you that you are his first choice. It’s yours if you want it.”

Flora clapped her hands together. “Oh, Hosea, how wonderful!” she exclaimed.

“Is it?” Blackford said, more to himself than to anyone else. “I wonder. If I take it and lose, I go home. If I take it and win, I go into the shadows for four years, maybe for eight. It’s not a choice to be made lightly.”

“You can’t turn it down!” Flora said. “You
can’t
, not this year.”

“Can’t I?” Blackford murmured. She looked alarmed. The young man in the loud jacket didn’t. Pointing to him, Blackford smiled and said, “You see? He knows there are plenty of other fish in the lake.” Flora sputtered angrily. Smiling still, Blackford went on, “But no, I don’t suppose I can, not this year. Yes, sir: if it pleases Mr. Sinclair to have my name placed in nomination for the vice presidency, I shall be honored to run with him and see if we can’t tie a tin can to Teddy Roosevelt’s tail and send him yapping down the street.”

“Swell!” The youngster stuck out his hand. Blackford shook it. “My principal will be delighted, and I already am. This time, by thunder, we’re going to lick ’em.” He waved and departed.

“We’re going to lick them,” Blackford repeated. His smile was wide and amused. “Well, by thunder, maybe we are. What I’m afraid of is that tomorrow you’re going to have to listen to nominating speeches telling the convention what a saint I am, and you’ll laugh so loud, you’ll get yourself thrown out of the hall.”

“I would never do such a thing!” With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Flora added, “Not right out loud, I wouldn’t.”

And, indeed, she sat beaming with pride as speaker after speaker stood up to praise Hosea Blackford the next day. A couple of other names were also placed in nomination, but Blackford won on the first ballot. Flora clapped till her hands were red and sore, and she was far from the only one who did.

But, even in the nominating convention, the would-be vice president yielded pride of place to the man heading the ticket. A runner went to summon Hosea Blackford (custom had forbidden him from being in the hall while the nomination proceedings went on). The chairman of the convention said, “And now, my friends”—no
ladies and gentlemen
, not in the Socialist camp—“I have the privilege of presenting to you the next president of the United States, Mr. Upton Sinclair of New Jersey!”

More applause followed, louder and more prolonged than that which had announced Hosea Blackford’s nomination. Sinclair bounded up to the platform. Both his stride and the white summer-weight suit he wore proclaimed his youthful energy: Flora couldn’t remember whether he was forty-one or forty-two. Set against the sixtyish Roosevelt, he seemed boyish, bouncy, full of spit and vinegar.

He knew it, too. “My friends, it’s time for a change!” he shouted in a great voice, and cheers went up like thunder. Sinclair held up his hands, asking for quiet. Eventually, he got it. “It’s time for a change,” he repeated. “It’s time for a change in ideas, and it’s time for a change in the people who give us our ideas, too.” Flora, to whom even Sinclair was not all that young, clapped hard again.

“What this convention has done here in Toledo marks the first step in that great and necessary change,” Sinclair said. “This convention has passed the torch to a new generation, a generation born since the War of Secession, tempered by our troubles, disciplined by the harsh peace our neighbors forced upon us, and eager for the freedom and justice and equality of which we have heard so much and seen so little. Tell me, my friends: are you willing to witness or permit the slowing of those freedoms to which this nation has always been committed?”

“No!” Flora shouted, along with everyone else in the hall.

“Neither am I! Neither is the Socialist Party!” Upton Sinclair cried. “And I also tell you this, my friends: if our free country cannot help the men who are poor, it surely cannot—and should not—save the few who are rich!” Every time Flora thought the next round of applause could be no louder than the last, she found herself mistaken. When silence returned, Sinclair went on, “Now that we have suffered so much in the struggle against our nation’s foes, let us struggle instead against the common enemies of mankind: against oppression, against poverty, and against bloody-handed war itself!”

He went on in that vein for some time. It seemed more an inaugural address than an acceptance speech. No Socialist presidential candidate had ever spoken not only to the Party but also to the country with such easy confidence before. Upton Sinclair sounded as if he took it for granted that he might win. Because he took it for granted (or sounded as if he did), would not the rest of the country do the same?

And then, at last, he said, “And now, my friends, I have the pleasure and the honor of introducing to you the next vice president of the United States, Congressman Hosea Blackford of the great state of Dakota.”

Blackford got more than polite applause. Flora’s contribution was as raucous as she could make it. As the tumult died away, Blackford said, “I too am of the generation born after the War of Secession, if only just. And I am of the generation that learned of Socialism from its founders: in my case literally, for Abraham Lincoln pointed out to me the need for class justice and economic justice on a train trip through Montana—the Montana Territory, it was then—and Dakota.”

Lincoln’s name drew a nervous round of applause, as it always did: half pride in the role he’d played in making the Socialist Party strong, half fear of the contempt that still clung to him because he’d fought—and lost—the War of Secession. Flora hoped that, with victory in the Great War, the country would not dwell on the War of Secession so much as it had in earlier days.

“I stand foursquare behind Mr. Sinclair in his call for freedom and in his call for justice,” Blackford said. “The Socialist Party, unlike every other party in the USA, is committed to economic freedom and economic justice for every citizen of the United States. Others may speak of a square deal, but how, my friends, how can there be a square deal for the millions of workers who cannot earn enough to buy a square meal?”

That won him solid cheers, in which Flora joined. Possessive pride filled her: that was
her
man up there, perhaps—
no, probably,
she thought, defying a generation and a half of Democratic tenure in the White House—the next vice president, as Upton Sinclair had said. Hard on the heels of pride came loneliness. If Blackford was to become the next vice president, he’d be crisscrossing the country between now and November 2. They wouldn’t have many chances to see each other till the election.

More solid applause followed Blackford’s speech: the sort, Flora thought, a vice-presidential candidate should get. Blackford had spoken ably, but hadn’t upstaged Sinclair. “On to victory!” the chairman shouted, dismissing the delegates and formally bringing the convention to a close.

On the street outside the hall, a sandy-haired fellow in the overalls and cloth cap of a steelworker called Flora’s name. “Yes? What is it?” she asked.

“I wanted to ask how your brother’s getting along, ma’am,” the man said. “I was his sergeant, the day he got hurt. Name’s Chester Martin.” He took off the cap and dipped his head.

“Oh!” Flora exclaimed. “He spoke well of you in his letters, always. You know he lost the leg?”

“I thought he would—I saw the wound,” Martin answered. “Please say hello for me, next time you see him.”

“I will,” Flora answered. “He’s doing as well as he could hope on the artificial leg. With it and a cane, he gets around fairly well. He’s working, back in New York City.”

“That’s all good news, or as good as it can be,” Martin said.

“He’s a Democrat,” Flora added, as if to say all the news wasn’t good.

“I used to be, but I’m a Socialist now,” Martin said. “It evens out. And I think, with Sinclair running, we may win the election this time, ma’am. I really do.”

“So do I,” Flora whispered—she didn’t want to say it too loudly, for fear Something might hear and put a jinx on it. “So do I.”

Anne Colleton gave her brother an annoyed look. “I still don’t see exactly why you think I ought to meet this person.”

“Because I remember very well the soldier who wrote to me about him,” Tom Colleton replied. “If Bartlett says something is important, you can take it to the bank.” He looked sheepish. “These days, as a matter of fact, Bartlett’s word is a damn sight better than taking something to the bank.”

“I think you want me to meet this Brearley because you’re still trying to get me out of the Freedom Party,” Anne said.

“If the big wheels in the Party aren’t just the way you think they are, isn’t that something you ought to know?” her brother returned.

If Roger Kimball isn’t just the way you think he is, isn’t that a reason to stop your affair with him?
That was what Tom meant. Kimball could have been a Baptist preacher, and Tom would have disapproved of the affair. That Kimball was anything but a Baptist preacher made the disapproval stick out all over, like the quills on a porcupine.

Her brother did have a point, though. Anne was not so blindly devoted to either the Freedom Party or to Roger Kimball as to be blind to that. “He’s coming. I can’t stop him from coming. I’ll hear him out,” she said.