We keep showing them and showing them that we can run rings around every other barrel in the United States. If that won't make them build more like this one, I don't know what will.'
Odds were, nothing would make the Socialists build new, improved barrels. The political fight back in Philadelphia at the moment had to do with old-age pensions, not the War Department. Morrell was convinced he'd have a better chance of living to collect an old-age pension if the Army got better barrels, but he had no friends in high places, not in President Sinclair's administration.
After the barrel returned to the shed that sheltered it from the elements-and at whose expense the quartermasters had grumbled-Morrell climbed out and headed for the Bachelor Officer Quarters. Then he stopped, did a smart about-face, and went off in the other direction. As he went, he shook his head and laughed at himself. He'd been married only a little more than a month, and the habits he'd acquired over several years died hard.
The cottage toward which he did go resembled nothing so much as the company housing that went up around some factories. It was small and square and looked like the ones all around it. It was also the first time Irving Morrell had had more than a room to himself since joining the Army more than half a lifetime before.
Agnes Hill-no, Agnes Morrell; the habit of thinking of her by her former name died hard, too-opened the door when he was still coming up the walk. 'How did it go today?' she asked.
He kissed her before waggling his hand and answering, 'Soso. We blew a bunch of Great War barrels to smithereens, the way we always do, but I got shot in the middle of the exercise.'
To his surprise, Agnes looked stricken. She needed a few seconds to realize what he meant. Even when she did, her laugh came shaky. 'An umpire decided you got shot,' she said, sounding as if she needed to reassure herself.
Morrell nodded. 'That's right. See? No blood.' He did a neat pirouette. When he faced Agnes again, she still wasn't smiling. Now he had to pause to figure out why. When he did, he felt stupid, not a feeling he was used to. Her first husband had died in combat; was it any wonder she didn't find cracks about getting shot very funny? Contritely, Morrell said, 'I'm sorry, dear. I'm fine. I really am.'
'You'd better be.' Agnes' voice was fierce. 'And now come on. Supper's just about ready. I've got a beef tongue in the pot, the way you like it-with potatoes and onions and carrots.'
'You can spend the rest of the night letting out my trousers, the way you feed me,' Morrell said. Agnes laughed at that with real amusement. However much Morrell ate-and he was a good trencherman-he remained skinny as a lath.
After supper, Morrell stayed in the kitchen while his wife washed dishes. He enjoyed her company. They chatted while she worked, and then while she read a novel and he waded through reports. And then they went to bed.
Though he'd hardly been a virgin before saying 'I do,' Mor-rell's occasional couplings with easy women had not prepared him for the pleasures of the marriage bed. Every time he and his wife made love, it was as if they were getting reacquainted, and at the same time learning things about each other they hadn't known before and might have been a long time finding out any other way. 'I love you,' he said afterwards, taking his weight on elbows and knees while they lay still joined.
'I love you, too,' Agnes answered, raising up a little to kiss him on the cheek. 'And I love-this. And I would love you to get off me so I can get up and go to the bathroom, if that's all right.'
'I think so,' he said. Agnes laughed and poked him in the ribs. When she came back to bed, he was nearly asleep. Agnes laughed again, on a different note. She put on her nightgown and lay down beside him. He heard her breathing slow toward the rhythms of sleep, too. Feeling vaguely triumphant at staying awake long enough to notice that, he drifted off.
Anne Colleton had always fancied that she had a bit of the artist in her. Back before the war, she'd designed and arranged the exhibition of modern art she'd put on at the Marshlands mansion. Everyone had praised the way the exhibit was laid out. Then the world went into the fire, and people stopped caring about modern art.
Now Anne was working with different materials. This Freedom Party rally in Columbia would be one of the biggest in South Carolina. She was bound and determined it would also be the best. She'd done her best to get permission to hold the rally on the grounds of the State House, but her best hadn't been good enough. The governor was a staunch Whig, and not about to yield the seat of government even for a moment to Jake Feather-ston's upstarts. She'd hoped for better without really expecting it.
Seaboard Park would do well enough. Neither the governor nor the mayor nor the chief of police could ban the rally altogether, though they would have loved to. But the Confederate Constitution guaranteed that citizens might peaceably assemble to petition for redress of grievances. The Freedom Party wasn't always perfectly peaceable, but it came close enough to make refusal to issue a permit a political disaster.
Tom Colleton touched Anne's arm. 'Well, Sis, I've got to hand it to you. This is going to be one devil of a bash.'
'Nice of you to decide to come up from St. Matthews and watch it,' Anne replied coolly. 'I didn't expect you to bother.'
'It's my country,' Tom said. 'If you remember, I laid my life on the line for it. I want to see what you and that maniac Feather-ston have in mind for it.'
'He's not a maniac.' Anne did her best to hold down the anger in her voice. 'I don't deal with maniacs-except the ones I'm related to.'
'Heh,' her brother said. But then he surprised her by nodding. 'I suppose you're right-Featherston's not a maniac. He knows what he wants and he knows how to go after it. You ask me, though, that makes him more dangerous, not less.'
Anne wondered and worried about the same thing herself. Even so, she said, 'When he does win, whether it's this year or not, he'll set the Confederate States to rights. And he'll remember who helped him get to the top.' Tom started to say something. She shook her head. 'Can't talk now. The show's about to start.'
Gasoline-powered generators came to life. Searchlights began to glow all around Seaboard Park. Their beams shot straight up into the air, making the park seem as if it were surrounded by colonnades of bright, pale light. Anne had come up with that effect herself. She was proud of it. Churches wished they made people feel the awe those glowing shafts inspired.
More electric lights came on inside the park. Tom caught his breath. They showed the whole place packed with people. Most of the crowd consisted of the ordinary working people of Columbia in their overalls and dungarees and cloth caps and straw hats, with a sprinkling of men in black jackets and cravats: doctors and lawyers and businessmen, come to hear what the new man in the land had to say.
At the front, though, near the stage a team of carpenters had spent the day running up, stood neat, military- looking ranks of young men in white shirts and butternut trousers. Many of them wore tin hats. If the Whigs and the Radical Liberals tried imitating Freedom Party tactics and assailing the rally, the protection squads would make them regret it.
The foremost rows of Party stalwarts carried flags-some Confederate banners, some C.S. battle flags with colors reversed, some white banners blazoned with the red word FREEDOM. The tall backdrop for the flag-draped stage was white, too, with FREEDOM spelled out on it in crimson letters twice as tall as a man.
'You don't need to worry about investing money,' Tom said. 'You could make billions designing sets for minstrel shows and vaudeville tours. Christ, you might make millions even if Confederate dollars were really worth anything.'
'Thank you, Tom,' Anne Colleton said. She wasn't altogether sure whether he offered praise or blame, but took it for the former. 'Look-here comes Featherston.' Her own vantage point was off to the right, beyond the edge of the crowd, so she could see farther into the left wing than any of the regular audience. She tensed. 'If those spotlight men have fallen asleep on the job, God damn them, they'll never work in this state again.'
But they hadn't. As soon as Jake advanced far enough to be visible to the crowd, twin spotlight beams speared him. One of the Freedom Party bigwigs from Columbia rushed to the microphone and cried, 'Let's hear it for the next president of the Confederate States, Jaaake Featherstonl'
'Free-atom! Free-atom! Free-atom!'' The rhythmic cry started among the stalwarts in white and butternut. At first, it had to compete with the unorganized cheers and clapping and the scattered boos from the larger crowd behind them. But the stalwarts kept right on, as they'd been trained to do. And, little by little, the rest of the crowd took up the chant, till the very earth of Seaboard Park seemed to cry out: 'Free-c/om! Free-atom! Free-c/om!'
The two-syllable beat thudded through Anne. She'd orchestrated this entire performance. Thanks to her, Jake
