come to that during the presidential campaign. After fighting the damnyankees, he did not shy away from fighting his own government. 'Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!'
When the first shot rang out from the grove of hackberry trees off to the right of the Freedom Party men, Jeff didn't hear it. But he saw Wade Hampton V stagger on the platform and clutch at his chest. He did hear the second shot. That second bullet must have caught Hampton in the head or the heart, for he stopped staggering and went down as if all his bones had turned to water.
A few of the stalwarts whooped when the president of the Confederate States fell. Most, though, Pinkard among them, stared in the horrified silence that filled the crowd of Hampton's backers. Men dashed across the platform to the president's side. Jeff didn't think they'd be able to do much for him. He'd seen too many men go down in that boneless way during the Great War. Hardly any of them ever got up again.
From the hackberry grove came a wild, exultant shout: 'Freedom!'
'Sergeant Davenport! Sergeant Sullivan!' the militia major rapped out. 'Take your troops in among those trees and bring that man to me. I don't care whether he's breathing or not, but bring him to me.'
Two squads of militiamen trotted toward the hackberries. Another shot rang out. A man fell. Another shot from the trees- this one a miss, the bullet whining past not far from Pinkard. Without conscious thought, he threw himself flat. A lot of Freedom Party men and a lot of militiamen did the same. The advancing militiamen opened fire on the grove.
Caleb Briggs stayed on his feet. More than gas roughened his voice as he said, 'That man is not one of ours, Major. My God, I-'
One of the dignitaries on the platform walked up to the microphone. 'President Hampton is dead.' He sounded astonished, disbelieving.
Jeff understood that. He felt stunned and empty himself. He'd been ready-he'd been eager-to fight for the Freedom Party, but this… No one had murdered-assassinated, he supposed was the proper word-a president in the history of the Confederate States, or in the history of the United States before the Confederacy seceded.
Drawing his pistol, the militia major aimed it at Briggs. More shots came from the hackberries. Another militiaman went down with a shriek. But some of the others were in among the trees. The major ignored that action. Infinite bitterness filled his voice: ''Not one of yours, you say? He shouts your shout. He uses your methods. Politics was not war till the Freedom Party made it so.'
'Now listen here-' Briggs began.
Triumphant cries rang out from the hackberry grove. Through them, the major said, 'No, sir. You listen to me. Get your rabble out of here by the count of five, or I will turn my men loose on them and we will have a massacre the likes of which this country has never seen. Maybe it's one we should have had a couple of years ago-then things wouldn't have come to this. One… two… three-'
'Go home, boys,' Caleb Briggs said quickly. His face was gray. 'For the love of God, go home. There's been enough blood spilled today.'
'Too much,' the militia major said. 'Far too much. You disappoint me, Mr. Briggs. I would have liked to shoot you down.'
Briggs stood silent, letting himself be reviled. As Jefferson Pinkard got to his feet, militiamen came out of the hackberry grove. They were dragging a body by the feet. The corpse wore butternut trousers and a green shirt, now soaked with blood. The gunman must have been almost invisible in among the trees. Jeff stared at his long, pale, sharp-nosed face. He'd seen that face at Party meetings, not regularly, but every so often. The fellow was named Grady… Grady Something-or-other. Jeff knew he'd talked with him. but couldn't remember his surname.
From the appalled looks on other Party stalwarts' faces, he knew they also recognized the assassin. The militia major saw that, too. 'Not one of yours, eh?' he repeated. 'Another lie. Get out of my sight before I forget myself'
Briggs went. Jeff stumbled after him, along with his comrades. Someone close by was moaning. After a moment, he realized it was himself What do we-what do I-do now? he wondered. Sweet suffering Jesus, what do I do now?
Anne Colleton was frying chicken for supper when her brother came into the kitchen of the large apartment they still shared. She started to greet him, then got a good look at his face. She hadn't seen that kind of dazed, horrified expression since the war. Above the cheerful crackling of the chicken, she asked, 'My God, Tom, what's gone wrong?'
By way of answer, he held up the copy of the Columbia South Carolinian he carried under his arm. The headline was enormous and very, very black:
PRESIDENT MURDERED IN BIRMINGHAM!!!
Under it, a half-page subhead said, FREEDOM PARTY ASSASSIN SHOT DEAD AT ALABAMA STATE FAIRGROUNDS.
'My God,' Anne said again. 'Oh, my God.' Mechanically, she kept turning the floured chicken in the hot fat.
'I think you'd better do the same with your investments in the Freedom Party as you did with your Confederate investments right after the war,' Tom told her, 'and that's get rid of 'em. This time tomorrow, Jake Featherston's going to be worth less than a Confederate dollar, and that's saying something.'
She shook her head. 'Featherston would never order that kind of thing.'
'I didn't say he did, though I wouldn't put it past him if he thought he could get away with it,' Tom replied. 'But that hasn't got anything to do with it. You think what he ordered or didn't order matters? Only thing that matters is, one of his people pulled the trigger. Who's going to vote for a party that blows the head off the president if they don't care what he's up to?'
'No one,' Anne said dully. Tom was right. She wasn't so naive as to pretend otherwise. She'd been riding the crest of the Freedom Party wave up and up and up. She'd been sure she could ride it all the way into the president's residence in Richmond. And so she could have. She remained certain of that. But now… 'The son of a bitch,' she whispered. 'The stupid son of a bitch.'
'Who? The late Grady Calkins?' Tom said. 'You bet he was a stupid son of a bitch. But who built a whole party out of stupid sons of bitches? Who aimed 'em at the country and fired 'em off, first with bare knuckles and then with clubs and pistols? You know who as well as I do, Sis. Is it any wonder one of'em picked up a Tredegar and decided to go president hunting?'
Anne had never thought, never dreamt, such a thing might happen. That didn't necessarily mean it was any wonder, though, not when you looked at it the way her brother suggested. 'What do we do now?' she said. She rarely asked for advice, but her mind remained blank with shock.
Tom didn't have a lot of help to offer. 'I don't know,' he said. 'You burned a lot of bridges when you went with Featherston. How the devil do you propose to get back across them?'
'I don't know, either,' Anne said. 'Maybe things will straighten out somehow.' Even to herself, she didn't sound as if she believed that. Hot lard splashed up and bit the back of her hand. She swore with a fervor that wrung a couple of embarrassed chuckles from her brother.
The chicken was ready a few minutes later. In the years since Marshlands burned, she'd turned into a pretty fair cook. Before then, she'd have had trouble boiling water. But she took no pleasure in crispy skin or moist, juicy, flavorsome flesh. She hardly noticed what she ate, as a matter of fact: the chicken was bones and the baked potato that went with it reduced to its jacket without any apparent passage of time.
After supper, Tom pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf where it sat. That, Anne noticed. 'Pour me a slug, too, will you?' she asked.
'I sure will.' He did. Anne wanted to drink to the point of oblivion, but refrained. Far more than most in the Confederate States, she appreciated the value of a clear head. But oh, the temptation!
As she drank the one drink she allowed herself, she read the newspaper Tom had brought home. Grady Calkins was an out-of-work veteran who'd belonged to the Freedom Party. Past that, the reporters hadn't found out much about him. That was plenty. That was more than plenty.
'He shouted 'Freedom!' after he shot Hampton down,' Tom said, as if to rub salt in the wound.
'Yes, I read that,' Anne answered. 'It's a disaster. I admit it. I don't see how I can deny it. It's a disaster every way you look at it.'
