The man spoke English, of a sort: 'Friends, ja?'
'Yes, friends,' Carsten said, before any of the O'Brien 's men could say anything like, No, not friends.
'Gut, gut,' the German said. 'England, Frankreich — ' He shook his head. 'No, France…' He made it sound more like a man's name-Franz-than a country's, but Carsten nodded to show he got it. 'England, France-so.' The squarehead made a thumbs-down gesture that might have come from a Roman amphitheater.
All the Americans got that. 'Yeah,' one of the sailors said. 'To hell with England and France, and the horse they rode in on.'
The German plainly didn't know about the horse they rode in on, but the smiles from the Americans encouraged his pals and him to come in and order beers for themselves. Sam noticed the tapman took their money, where he hadn't for any of the Americans. If the Germans noticed that, too, it might cause trouble.
Picking up his pint of Murphy's, he went over and sat down by the German who knew a little English. 'Hello,' he said.
'Good day, sir,' the veteran said. He didn't come to ramrod attention, the way he would have for one of his own officers-the Germans were devils for discipline, even by the tough standards of the U.S. Navy-but he wasn't far from it. One of his own officers probably wouldn't have deigned to talk with him at all.
'We should stay friends, your country and mine, eh?' Sam said.
'Jawohl, mein Herr!' the petty officer said. He translated that for his pals. They all nodded. Sam got out a pack of cigarettes. He offered them to the Germans. The tobacco was as good as prewar, imported from the CSA. All the Germans took a cigarette or two except one man who apologetically showed him a clay pipe to explain why he didn't. 'Danke,' the petty officer said. 'Thank you.'
'You're welcome.' Carsten raised his mug. 'Let's stay friends.'
Again, the petty officer translated. Again, his men solemnly nodded. They all drank with Sam. A couple of the Americans came over. One spoke a little German, about as much as the petty officer spoke English. A couple of hours passed in a friendly enough way-especially since the tapman had the sense to stop charging the Germans. But Sam knew he would have to draft a report when he got back to the O'Brien. He suspected the German petty officer would be doing the same thing on the S135.
Friends? he thought. Well, maybe. He eyed the capable-looking German sailors. The fellow with the clay pipe sent up a cloud of smoke. Maybe friends, yeah. But rivals? Oh, you bet. Rivals for sure.
W inter, spring, summer, fall-they didn't matter much in the Sloss Works. It could be snowing outside-not that it snowed very often in Birmingham, Alabama-but it would still be hell on earth on the pouring floor in the steel mill.
Jefferson Pinkard shook his head. Sweat ran down his face. It was hot as hell in here, no doubt about that. But he'd seen hell on earth fighting the Red Negro rebels in Georgia, and again, worse, fighting the damnyankees in the trenches in west Texas. You could hurt yourself-you could kill yourself-right here, but nobody was trying to do it for you.
When the shift-change whistle screamed-a sound that pierced the din of the mill like an armor-tipped shell plowing through shoddy concrete-he nodded to his partner and to the men who'd come to take his crew's place. ' 'Night, Fred. 'Night, Calvin. 'Night, Luke. See y'all tomorrow.'
He clocked out by himself. Once upon a time, he'd worked side by side with his best friend and next-door neighbor, Bedford Cunningham. But Bedford had got conscripted before he did, and had come back to Birmingham without most of his right arm. Pinkard had stayed at the Sloss Works a while longer, working side by side with black men till he got conscripted, too.
But after he'd put on butternut… After he'd put on butternut, Emily had got lonely. She'd been used to getting it regular from him, and she wanted to keep getting it regular regardless of whether he was there or not. He'd come home on leave one night to find her on her knees in front of Bedford Cunningham, neither of them wearing any more than they'd been born with.
Pinkard growled, deep in his throat. 'Stinking tramp,' he muttered. 'It was the war, it was the goddamn war, nothin' else but.' Even after he'd come back when the fighting stopped, their marriage hadn't survived. Now he lived in the yellow-painted cottage-company housing-all by himself. It was none too clean these days-nothing like the way it had looked when Emily took care of things-but he didn't care. He had only himself to please, and he wasn't what anybody would call a tough audience.
He headed back toward the cottage, part of the stream of big, weary men in overalls and dungarees heading home. He walked by himself, as he always did these days. Another, similar, stream was coming in: the swing shift. It had a few more blacks mixed in than the outgoing day shift, but only a few. Blacks had taken a lot of better jobs during the war; now whites had almost all of them back.
'Hey, Jeff!' One of the whites waved to him. 'Freedom!'
'Freedom!' Pinkard echoed. 'When you gonna get your ass to another Party meeting, Travis?'
'I be go to hell if I know,' the other steel worker answered. 'When they take me off swing, I reckon, but God only knows when that is. Remember me to the boys tonight, will you?'
'Sure will,' Pinkard said. 'That's a promise.' He walked on. When he got to the cottage, he lit a kerosene lamp (there was talk about putting electricity into the company housing, but so far it was nothing but talk), got a fire going in the coal-burning stove, and took a ham out of the icebox. He cut off a big slice and fried it in lard, then did up some potatoes in the same iron frying pan. The beer in the icebox was homebrew-Alabama had been formally dry since before the war-but it washed down supper as well as anything storebought could have.
He put the plate and the frying pan in the sink, atop a teetering mountain of dirty dishes. One day soon he'd have to wash them, because he was running out of clean ones. 'Not tonight, Josephine,' he muttered; he'd started talking to himself now that he was the only one in the house. 'I got important things to do tonight, by God.'
He scraped stubble from his chin with a straight razor, splashed on water, and then shed his overalls and work shirt for a clean white shirt and a pair of butternut wool trousers. He wished he had time to shine his shoes, but a glance at the wind-up alarm clock ticking on his nightstand told him he didn't, not if he wanted to get to the meeting on time. And there was nothing in the world he wanted more.
The trolley stopped at the edge of the company housing. Looking back over his shoulder, Jeff saw the mills throwing sparks into the night sky, almost as if it were the Fourth of July. A couple of other men came up to wait for the trolley. They too wore white shirts and khaki trousers. 'Freedom!' Jefferson Pinkard said.
'Freedom!' they echoed.
Jeff sighed. Back in the days before Grady Calkins had shot down President Hampton when he came to Birmingham, a lot more men would have come to Party meetings. The Freedom Party had looked like the wave of the future then. Now… Only the dedicated, the men who really saw something wrong with the CSA and saw that Jake Featherston knew how to fix it, went to Freedom Party meetings these days. And even now… 'Where's Virgil?' Jeff asked.
Both other men shrugged. 'Don't rightly know,' one of them said. 'He was at the foundry, so I don't reckon he's feelin' poorly.'
Bell clanging, the trolley came up. Jeff was glad to climb aboard and drop five cents in the fare box so he wouldn't have to think about what Virgil's absence might mean. He was also glad to pay a fare measured in cents and not in thousands or millions of dollars. After the war, inflation had ripped the guts out of the Confederate States. Its easing had hurt the Freedom Party, too, but that was one bargain Pinkard was willing to make.
Several more men in white shirts and butternut trousers got on the trolley at its next few stops. Jeff liked the uniform look they had. It reminded him of the days when he and a lot of others who were now Freedom Party members had worn Confederate butternut together. They'd been fighting for something important then, just as they were now. They'd lost then. This time, by Jesus, we won't!
The Freedom Party men all got out at the same stop. Not far away stood the old livery stable where the Party met in Birmingham. As a livery stable, the place was a failure, with motorcars and trucks driving more horses off the road every year. As a meeting hall, it was
… Tolerable, Jeff thought.
But he was smiling as he went inside. This was where he belonged. Emily was gone. She was gone, at least in part, because the Freedom Party had come to mean so much to him. Whatever the reason, though, she was gone. The Party remained. This was such family as he had left.
Party members crowded the floor. The hay bales on which men had once sat weren't there any more. Folding chairs replaced them. Their odor, though, and that of horses, still lingered in the building. The smells had probably
