Marshlands, and I'd take paper. I'd turn it into gold, but I'd take paper. If that doesn't prove I'm desperate, I don't know what would.'
'A hundred years,' Tom said. 'More than a hundred years- gone.' He snapped his fingers. 'Like that. Gone.' He snapped them again. 'Better than fifty years of good times for the whole country. That's gone, too.'
'We have to put the pieces back together,' Anne said. 'We have to make the country strong again, or else the damnyankees will run over us again whenever they decide they're ready. Even if they don't decide to run over us, they can make us their little brown cousins, the way we've done with the Empire of Mexico.'
'I'm damned if I'll be anybody's little brown cousin,' Tom Colleton ground out. He swore with studied deliberation. He'd never cursed in front of her before he went off to the trenches. He still didn't do it in the absentminded style he'd no doubt used there. But when he felt the need, the words came out.
'I feel the same way,' Anne answered. 'Anyone with an ounce of sense feels the same way. But the Congressional elections prove nobody knows how to take us from where we are to where we ought to be.'
'What?' Her brother raised an eyebrow. 'Split as near down the middle between Whigs and Radical Liberals as makes no difference? And a couple of Socialists elected from Chihuahua, and one from Cuba, and even one from New Orleans, for Christ's sake? Sounds to me like they'll have everything all straightened out by day after tomorrow, or week after next at the latest.'
Anne smiled at Tom's pungent sarcasm, but the smile had sharp corners. 'Even that mess shouldn't get things too far wrong. We have to do enough of what the Yankees tell us to keep the USA from attacking us while we're flat. Whatever dribs and drabs we happen to have left after that can go to putting us back on our feet. Lean times, yes, but I think we can come through them if we're smart.'
'Outside of a couple of panics, we haven't had lean times before,' Tom said. 'We do need better politicians than the gang we've got. We could use somebody who'd really lead us out of the wilderness instead of stumbling through it for forty years.'
'Of the current crop, I'm not going to hold my breath,' Anne said. 'I-'The telephone interrupted. She picked it up. 'Hello?' Her mouth fell open, just a little, in surprise. 'Commander Kimball! How good to hear from you. I was hoping you'd come through the war all right. Where are you now?'
'I'm in Charleston,' Roger Kimball answered. 'And what the hell is this 'Commander Kimball' nonsense? You know me better than that, baby.' Unlike her brother, Kimball swore whenever he felt like it and didn't care who was listening. He not only had rough edges, he gloried in them. And he was right-she did know him intimately enough, in every sense of the word, to call him by his Christian name.
That she could, though, didn't mean she had to. She enjoyed keeping men off balance. 'In Charleston? How nice,' she said. 'I hope you can get up to St. Matthews before long. You do know my brother, Lieutenant-Colonel Colleton, is staying with me here in town?' You do know that, even if you get up to St. Matthews, you 're not going to make love with me right now?
Kimball was brash. He wasn't stupid. Anne couldn't abide stupidity. He understood what she meant without her having to spell it out. Laughing a sour laugh, he answered, 'And he'll whale the living turpentine out of me if I put my hands where they don't belong, will he? Sweetheart, I hate to tell you this, but I haven't got the jack for pleasure trips without much pleasure. I'm on the beach, same as every other submarine skipper in the whole goddamn Navy.' Where he could banter about passing on a chance to pay a social call that was only a social call, his voice showed raw pain when he told her the Navy had cut him loose.
'I'm very sorry to hear that,' she said, and trusted him to understand she understood what grieved him most. 'What are you going to do now?'
'Don't know yet,' Kimball said. 'I may try and make a go of it here, or I may head down to South America. Plenty of navies there that could use somebody who really knows what he's doing when he looks through a periscope.'
That was likely to be true. The South American republics had chosen sides in the Great War as the rest of the world had done. Losers would be looking for revenge. Winners would be looking to make sure they didn't get it.
Anne said, 'Whatever you decide to do, I wish you the very best.'
'But not enough for you to send your brother out to hunt possums or something, eh?' Kimball laughed again. 'Never mind. We'll get another chance one of these days, I reckon. Good luck to the lieutenant-colonel, too, the son of a bitch.' Before she could answer, he hung up.
So did she, and she laughed, too. She admired the submariner; he was, she judged, almost as thoroughly self-centered as herself. Tom raised an eyebrow. 'Who's this Commander-Kimball, is it?'
'That's right. He captained a submarine,' Anne answered. 'I got to know him on the train to New Orleans not long after the war started.' He'd seduced her in his Pullman berth, too, but she didn't mention that.
'How well do you know him?' Tom asked.
'We're friends,' she said. / was in bed with him down in Charleston when the Red Negro uprising broke out She didn't mention that, either.
She didn't have to. 'Are you more than… friends?' her brother demanded.
Before the war, he wouldn't have dared question her that way. 'I've never asked what you did while you weren't fighting,' she said. 'What I did, or didn't do, is none of your business.'
Tom set his jaw and looked stubborn. He wouldn't have done that before the war, either. No, she couldn't control him any more, not with certainty. He said, 'If you're going to marry the guy, it is. If he's just after your money, I'll send him packing. What you're doing affects me, you know.'
Nor would he have had that thought in 1914. 'If he were just after my money, don't you think / would have sent him packing?' she asked in return. 'I can take care of myself, you know, with a rifle or any other way.'
'All right,' Tom said. 'People who fall in love are liable to go all soft in the head, though. I wanted to make sure it hadn't happened to you.'
'When it does, you can shovel dirt on me, because I'll be dead.' Anne spoke with great conviction. Tom came over and kissed her on the cheek. They both laughed, liking each other very much at that moment.
In the trenches down in Virginia, Chester Martin had heard New Englanders talk about a lazy wind, a wind that didn't bother blowing around a man but went straight through him. The wind coming off Lake Erie this morning while he picketed the Toledo steel mill where he would sooner have been working was just that kind. In spite of coat and long underwear, in spite of hat and ear muffs, he shivered and his teeth chattered as he trudged back and forth in front of the plant.
His sign was stark in its simplicity. It bore but one word, that in letters a foot high: THIEVES! 'They want to cut our wages,' he said to the fellow in front of him, a stocky man named Albert Bauer. 'We went out and got shot at-hell, I got shot-and they stayed home and got rich. No, they got richer; they were already rich. And they want to cut our wages.'
Bauer was a solid Socialist. He said, 'This is what we get for reelecting that bastard Roosevelt'
'He's not so bad,' Martin said. A Democrat himself, he walked the picket line with his more radical coworkers. 'He visited my stretch of the front once; hell, I jumped on him when the Rebs started shelling us. Later, when I got wounded, he found out about it and sent me a note.'
'Bully!' Bauer said. 'Can you eat the note? Can you take it to the bank and turn it into money? Roosevelt will oblige. Feudal nobles do. But does he care about whether you starve? Not likely!'
'Hush!' Chester Martin said suddenly. He pointed. 'Here come the scabs.' The factory owners always had people willing to work for them, no matter how little they paid. They also had the police on their side.
Jeers and curses and all manner of abuse rained down on the heads of the workers taking the places of the men who'd gone on strike. So did a few rocks and bottles, in spite of Socialist calls for calm and in spite of the strong force of blue-uniformed policemen escorting them into the steel mill. 'Well, now they've gone and done it,' Albert Bauer said in disgusted tones. 'Now they've given the goddamn cops the goddamn excuse they need to go on and suppress us.'
He proved a good prophet. As soon as the police had hustled the scabs into the plant, they turned around and yanked the nightsticks off their belts. A whistle blew, as if an officer during the war were ordering his men out of the trenches and over the top. Shouting fiercely, the police charged the strikers.
Chester Martin had not been an officer. But, thanks to casualties in the ranks above him, he'd briefly commanded a company in Virginia not long before the CSA asked for an armistice. Almost all the men on the picket line had seen combat, too. 'Come on!' he shouted. 'We can take these fat sons of bitches! Let's give 'em some
