'Yeah,' he answered, and let it go at that.
'It isn't me.' Knight's voice was flat, uninflected.
'No, Willy, it isn't you.' Jake looked him over. 'And if you want to raise a stink, go right ahead. You can run your own little outfit, do whatever you want. Would you sooner be a general in a little tinpot army or a colonel in a real one?'
He waited. He didn't know how he'd answer that question himself. Knight glared at him, but finally said, 'I'll stick.' He didn't add, Damn you, not quite. His eyes said it for him.
Jake didn't care. From that moment on, he seemed to hold the world in his hands and turn it as he desired. The convention-the convention he hadn't wanted-went smooth as silk, slick as petroleum jelly. The platform called for ending reparations to the USA, restoring a sound currency, punishing the people who'd botched the war, putting Negroes in their place, and making the Confederate States strong again (by which Jake meant rearming, but he remained too leery of the United States to say so openly). It passed by thunderous voice vote; Jake hoped it would grab lots of headlines.
The next day was his. People made speeches praising him. He'd helped draft some of them. His nomination went forward as smoothly as the Confederate advance on Philadelphia should have gone at the start of the Great War. No one else's name was raised. He became the Freedom Party's choice on the first ballot.
He let it be known he wanted Ferdinand Koenig to run with him. The Freedom Party secretary had backed him when he needed it most, and deserved his reward. That didn't go quite so smoothly as the first two days of the convention had. Willy Knight let his name be placed in nomination, and his followers made fervent speeches about balancing the ticket geographically. Having made their speeches, they sat down-and got steamrollered. Knight sent Jake a note saying he hadn't known they would do it. It might possibly have been true. Jake wouldn't have bet a postage stamp on it.
On the night after the convention nominated Koenig, Feather-ston stood on the stage at the front of the smoke-filled hall and stared out at the throng of delegates calling his name. The hair at the nape of his neck tried to stand up. Three and a half years before, he'd climbed up on a streetcorner crate to take Anthony Dresser's place because the founder of the Freedom Party wasn't up to speaking to even a couple of dozen people. Thousands waited for Jake's words now. Millions-he hoped-would vote for him come November.
'We're on the way!'' he shouted, and the hall erupted in cheers. He held up his hands. Silence fell, instantly and completely. God must have felt this way after He made the heavens and the earth. 'We're on the way!' Jake repeated. 'The Freedom Party is on the way-we're on the way to Richmond. The Confederate States are on the way-they're on the way back. And the white race is on the way-on the way to settling accounts with the coons who stabbed us in the back and kept us from winning the war. And we should have won the war. You all know that. We should have won the war!'
Not even his upraised hands could keep the Freedom Party delegates from yelling their heads off. He basked in the applause like a rosebush basking in the sun. When he began to speak again, the noise cut off. 'The Whigs say vote for them, everything's fine, nothing's wrong, nothing's really changed a bit.' Jake's guffaw was coarse as horsehair. 'Bet you a million dollars they're wrong.' He pulled a $1,000,000 banknote from his pocket, crumpled it up, and threw it away.
Laughter erupted, loud as the cheers had been. Jake went on, 'The Rad Libs say everything's fine, and all we need to do is cozy on up to the USA.' He looked out at the crowd. 'You-all want to cozy on up to the USA?' The roar of No! almost knocked him off his feet.
'And the Socialists-our Socialists, not the fools in the United States-say everything will be fine, and all we need to do is cozy on up to the niggers.' He paused, then asked the question everyone waited for: 'You-all want to cozy on up to the niggers?' No! wasn't a roar this time, but a fierce and savage howl. Into it, through it, he said, 'If we'd have gassed ten or fifteen thousand of those nigger Reds at the start of the war and during the war, how many good clean honest white Confederate soldiers would we have saved? Haifa million? A million? Something like that. And the ones who did die, by God, they wouldn't have died for nothing, on account of we'd have won.
'But the dirty cowards in Richmond, the corrupt imbeciles in the War Department, didn't have the nerve to do it. So the niggers rose up, and they dragged us down. But like I said before, we're on the way again. This time, nobody stops us-nobody, do you hear me? Not the Congress. Not the jackasses in the War Department. Not the niggers. Not the USA. Nobody! Nobody stops us now!'
He suddenly realized he was dripping with sweat. He'd got the crowd all hot and sweaty, too. They were on their feet, screaming. He saw a sea of glittering eyes, a sea of open mouths. He had a hard-on. He didn't just want a woman. He wanted the whole country, and he thought he might have it.
Once upon a time, the town had been called Berlin. Then, when the Great War broke out, the Canadians rechristened it Empire, not wanting it to keep the name of an enemy's capital. Jonathan Moss had flown over it then, as the U.S. Army pounded it to pieces and eventually overran it during the long, hard slog toward Toronto. Now it was Berlin again. And now he was back, a brand-new lawyer with a brand-new shingle, specializing in occupation law.
He had himself a brand-new office, too. The Canadians and British had defended Empire as long as the last man who could shoot still had cartridges for his rifle. By the time the Americans forced their way into the town, hardly one stone remained atop another. The Romans could only have dreamt of visiting such destruction on Carthage. All the buildings that stood in Empire were new ones.
Arthur, Ontario, lay about thirty miles to the north. Jonathan Moss told himself over and over that that wasn't why he'd decided to set up his practice in Berlin. Sometimes he even believed it. After all, he hadn't hopped into his Bucephalus and driven up to Arthur, had he? Of course he hadn't. That meant he didn't have Laura Secord on his mind, didn't it? It did, at least some of the time.
But when days were slow, he had too much time to sit in his brand-new office and think. On days like that, he welcomed visitors not so much for the sake of the business they might bring as for their distraction value.
And so, now, he was happy to set a cigarette in the brass ashtray on his desk and greet the skinny man in the faded, shiny suit of prewar cut who came through the door and said, 'Mr. Moss, is it?'
'That's right.' Moss' swivel chair squeaked as he rose from it. He stuck out his hand. 'Very pleased to meet you, Mr.-?'
'My name is Smith. John Smith.' The skinny man sighed. 'Save the question, sir: yes, that really is my name. I can prove it if I have to. There are a lot of Smiths, and my father and his father were both Johns, so…' He sighed again. 'It's almost as much trouble as being named something like Cyrus Mudpuddle, or I think it must be, anyhow.'
'You're likely right, Mr. Smith,' said Moss, who'd taken his share of ribbing about his name over the years. 'Why don't you sit down, have a smoke if you care to, and tell me what you think I can do for you ' He glanced at that shabby suit again. 'No fee for the first consultation.' Smith was hungrier than he.
'Thank you, sir. You're very kind.' Smith sat, then made a show of patting his pockets. 'Oh, dear, I seem to have left my cigarettes at home.'
'Have one of mine.' Moss extended the pack. He'd half expected something like this. He lit a match for Smith, wondering whether he'd ever see any money from the man if he undertook to represent him. After the Canadian had taken a couple of drags, Moss repeated, 'What can I do for you?'
For a moment, he didn't know if he'd get an answer. John Smith seemed entranced with pleasure at the tobacco smoke. Moss wondered how long he'd gone without. After a few seconds, though, Smith seemed to recall he hadn't come into the office just to cadge a smoke. He said, 'I wish your assistance, sir, in helping me regain a piece of property taken from me without good reason.'
'Very well.' A lot of Moss' business was of that sort. He slid a pad toward himself and took a fountain pen from the middle drawer of his desk. 'First, the basics: did you serve in the Canadian Army during the Great War?'
'No, sir,' Smith said. 'I am badly ruptured, I'm afraid, and was not fit for duty. I have a doctor's certificate.'
'Good enough.' Moss scribbled a note. 'Next obvious question: have you taken the oath of loyalty to the occupation authorities?'
'Yes, I did that-did it not long after the war ended, as soon as I had the chance,' Smith answered. 'I am a peaceable man. I would not tell you a falsehood and say I am glad your country won the war-you are an American, I take it?' He waited for Moss to nod, then went on, 'Because I am a peaceable man, all I can do is make the best of
