have given warning of the great Red uprising. And now the general wanted to see him? Slowly, Jake said, 'Well, I reckon you can bring him on in.'
Jeb Stuart, Jr., was in his late fifties. He looked very much like an older version of his handsome son, save that he wore a neat gray chin beard rather than the little strip of hair under the lower lip Jeb Stuart III had affected. After cautious greetings, Stuart said, 'You're probably wondering why I've called on you now, after pretending for so long that you and the Freedom Party and all the insults you've thrown at me don't exist.'
Jake did his best to sound dry: 'I'd be a liar if I said it hadn't crossed my mind-and I'm no liar.'
'You say that. I wonder if even you believe it.' Stuart looked at him. No-Stuart looked through him. He'd had upper-crust Confederate officers give him that look a great many times. It showed without words that they relegated him to the outer darkness: he wasn't quite a nigger in their eyes, but he might as well have been.
It also made Featherston want to punch those upper-crust Confederates right in the face. 'You've got anything to say, say it and then get the hell out,' he snapped. 'Otherwise, just get the hell out.'
'I intend to say it. You needn't worry about that,' Jeb Stuart, Jr., replied. 'I came to say good-bye.'
'Good-bye?' Jake echoed. 'Why? Are you leaving? If you are, it's about ten years too late, but good riddance anyway. I'm sure as the devil not going anywhere.'
To his surprise, Stuart smiled. 'I know you're not. You're not going anywhere at all in the Confederate States of America, not in politics, not any more you're not. And so, Sergeant Featherston'-he laced the title with contempt-'good-bye.' He waved, a delicate fluttering of the fingers.
Jake laughed in his face. 'Go ahead and dream, General.' He showed what he thought of Stuart's title, too. 'You fancy-pants boys won't be rid of me that easy.' He couldn't help a nasty stab of fear, though. Nothing had gone right for him or the Freedom Party since Grady Calkins took a Tredegar out to the Alabama State Fairgrounds and shot down Wade Hampton V
Stuart might have picked his pocket for that very thought. 'People know what the Freedom Party is now, Featherston: a pack of murdering ruffians. They'll run your henchmen out of Congress in a few months, and you'll never, ever be president of the Confederate States. And for that, believe me, I get down on my knees and thank God.'
'Go ahead and laugh,' Featherston said. 'The fellow who laughs last laughs best, or that's what they say. I fought the damnyankees till I couldn't fight any more, and I reckon I'll keep on fighting the traitors here the same way.' Not for the life of him would he let Jeb Stuart, Jr., see how closely his words reflected Jake's own nightmares.
'There are no traitors, damn you,' Stuart said.
'Hell there aren't,' Featherston returned. 'I'm sitting across the desk from one. God damn you, that nigger Pompey, your son's body servant, was as Red as he was black. They were going to take him away and grill him, but your precious brat didn't want 'em to, and they didn't. Who stopped 'em? You stopped 'em, that's who. If that doesn't make you a traitor, what the hell are you?'
'A man who made a mistake,' Stuart answered. 'I don't suppose you've ever made a mistake, Featherston?'
'Not one that big, by Jesus,' Jake said.
Stuart startled him again, this time by nodding. 'It couldn't have been much bigger, could it? It ended up costing me the life of my only son.'
'It cost a lot more than that,' Featherston said. 'It cost thousands dead, by God. If any one thing cost us the war, that was it. And all you do is think about yourself I reckon I ought to be surprised, but I ain't.'
'You don't know what I think, so don't put words in my mouth,' Jeb Stuart, Jr., said. Slowly, sadly, he shook his head. 'I blamed you for my son's death, you know.'
'I never would have guessed,' Jake said with a fine sardonic sneer. 'That's why I spent the next year and however long commanding a battery and staying a sergeant. I could have been in the Army for the next five wars- hell, the next ten wars-and I never would've had more than three stripes. Thank you very kindly, General goddamn Stuart, sir.'
He wanted to fight with Stuart. He would have loved to spring out of his chair, smash the general to the floor, and stomp him. Every muscle quivered. Give me an excuse, he said silently. Come on, you son of a bitch. Give me even apiece of an excuse.
But Stuart only looked sad. 'And that was the other half of my mistake. Yes, I blocked your promotion. It seemed the right thing to do at the time, but it turned out wrong, so wrong. If you'd ended the war a lieutenant or a captain, would you ever have done what you did with-and to-the Freedom Party?'
Featherston stared at him. That question had never crossed his mind. He tried to imagine himself without the smoldering resentment he'd carried since 1916. For the life of him, he couldn't. That endless burning inside was as much a part of him as his fingers.
He said, 'It's a little fucking late to worry about that now, don't you reckon?'
'I do. I certainly do.' Stuart got to his feet. 'And it's a little fucking late to worry about you, Featherston. You're yesterday's news, and you won't be tomorrow's. You don't need to get up for me.' Jake hadn't been about to get up for him, as he must have known. 'I can find my own way out.'
'Don't come back, either,' Jake snarled.
Leaving the inner office, Jeb Stuart, Jr., got the last word: 'I wish you the same.' He closed the door behind him.
With another snarl, this one wordless, Jake snatched up his pen and began to write furiously. He filled two pages in Over Open Sights in something less than half an hour. But even venting his anger through the growing book was not enough to satisfy him. He slammed his pad shut, threw it into his desk, and locked the drawer that held it. Until he was ready for it to see the light of day, it wouldn't.
He sprang up and paced the inner office like a caged wolf. The Party would lose ground when elections came, and they were only four months away. He saw no way around it. The trick was going to be holding as much as he could-and making people think the Freedom Party would be a force to reckon with in elections after 1923. He'd known it wouldn't be easy long before General Stuart stopped by to gloat.
He wished he could talk with Roger Kimball. But Kimball was dead, and the damnyankee woman who'd murdered him had got off scot-free. That was one more on the list he'd already started compiling against President Mitchel. 'Go ahead, kiss the USA's ass,' he muttered.
He wished he could talk with Anne Colleton, too. He valued her money, he valued her sense of theatrics, and he valued her brains. But she didn't value him or the Freedom Party any more. Of all the defections he'd had to endure over the past year, hers might have hurt most.
Since he couldn't talk with either of them, he telephoned Ferdinand Koenig. 'Jeb Stuart, Jr.?' his former running mate exclaimed. 'Well, isn't that a kick in the head? Stopped by to gloat, you say?'
'That's just what he did,' Jake answered. 'Said the Party was as good as dead and buried, God damn him to hell.'
'Don't take it too much to heart,' Koenig said. 'If he's as right about that as he was during the war, we're in fine shape.'
'Yeah!' Featherston said gratefully; he hadn't thought of it like that. 'You've got a good way of looking at things, Ferd.'
'Don't reckon you'll let us down, Sarge,' Koenig answered. 'I remember where we were back in 1917, and I can see where we are now. Maybe we haven't climbed all the way to the top of the mountain, but we'll get there.'
Thousands of Party stalwarts might-would-have said the same thing. But Jake set no special stock in what stalwarts said. They weren't stalwarts because they were long on brains. They were stalwarts because they were long on muscle and short on temper. Ferdinand Koenig was different. He not only had good sense, he wasn't embarrassed about showing it.
'Of course we'll get there,' Jake said, sounding more confident than he felt. 'Just have to come through this November without getting skinned.'
'Figure we will?' Koenig asked.
'That's the question, all right,' Jake allowed. He let out a long, slow sigh. 'We'll get hurt some. We'll have to put the best face on it we can, and then we'll have to start building toward 1925. We can't afford to waste a minute there. I only hope to God we don't lose so much, people won't take us serious any more.' With Kimball dead and
