ran his tongue across his lips like a cat after a visit to a bowl of cream. He rocked his hips forward and back. He was always talking about women or illegal whiskey. A lot of men did that, but most of them did their jobs better than Leonidas, which meant their talk about what they did when they weren’t working was somehow less annoying.
Pinkard tossed him a rake. “Come on, let’s straighten up the edges of that mold in the sand pit,” he said. “We don’t want the metal leaking out when they do the next pouring.”
Leonidas rolled his eyes. He couldn’t have cared less what the metal did in the next pouring, and didn’t care who knew it. Without the war, he would have had trouble getting a janitor’s job at the Sloss works; as things were, he’d been out here with Pinkard for months.
He kept Leonidas from getting killed, and so wondered, as he often did, whether that made the day a success or a failure. Pericles, now, Pericles had been a good worker, and smart as a white man. But he’d also been a Red, and now he was a dead Red. A lot of the smart Negroes were Reds. Pinkard supposed that meant they weren’t as smart as they thought they were.
When the quitting whistle blew, he headed out of the foundry with barely a good-bye to Leonidas. That was partly because he didn’t have any use for Leonidas and partly because he was heading off to vote and Leonidas wasn’t. Given what Leonidas used for brains, that didn’t break Jeff’s heart, but rubbing the black man’s nose in it at a time like this seemed less than clever.
Sometimes a couple of weeks would go by between times when Jefferson Pinkard left company grounds. He spent a lot of time in the foundry, his friends-those who weren’t in the Army-lived in company housing as he did, and the company store was conveniently close and gave credit, even if it did charge more than the shops closer to the center of town.
The polling place, though, was at a Veterans of the War of Secession hall a couple of blocks in from the edge of company land. He saw two or three burnt-out buildings as he went along. Emily had seen more damage from the uprising than he had, because she took the trolley every day. He shook his head. Steelworkers armed with clubs and a few guns had kept the rampaging Negroes off Sloss land; the black workers, or almost all of them, had stayed quiet. They knew which side their bread was buttered on.
A line of white men, a lot of them in dirty overalls like Pinkard’s, snaked out of the veterans’ hall, above which flapped the Stars and Bars. He took his place, dug a stogie out of his pocket, lighted it, and blew out a happy cloud of smoke. If he had to move slowly for a bit, he’d enjoy it.
By their white hair and beards, the officials at the polling place were War of Secession veterans themselves. “Pinkard, Jefferson Davis,” Jeff said when he got to the head of the line. He took his ballot and went into a booth. Without hesitation, he voted for Gabriel Semmes over Doroteo Arango for president; as Woodrow Wilson’s vice president, Semmes would keep the Confederacy on a steady course, while Arango was nothing but a wild-eyed, hot-blooded southerner. Jeff methodically went through the rest of the national, state, and local offices, then came out and pushed his ballot through the slot of the big wood ballot box.
“Mr. Pinkard has voted,” one of the elderly precinct workers said, and Pinkard felt proud at having done his democratic duty.
He walked home still suffused with that warm sense of virtue. If you didn’t vote, you had no one to blame but yourself for what happened to the country-unless, of course, you were black, or a woman. And one of these years, the way things looked, they’d probably let women have a go at the ballot box, no matter what he thought about it. He supposed the world wouldn’t end.
Emily came out onto the porch as he hurried up the walk toward the house. “Hi, darlin’!” he called. Then he saw the buff-colored envelope she was holding.
III
Lieutenant Nicholas H. Kincaid raised a forefinger. “Another cup of coffee for me here, if you please,” the Confederate cavalry officer said.
“I’ll take care of it,” Nellie Semphroch said quickly, before her daughter Edna could. Edna glared at her. Half the reason Kincaid came into the coffeehouse the two women ran in occupied Washington, D.C., was to moon over Edna, his eyes as big and glassy as those of a calf with the bloat.
That was also all the reason Nellie tried to keep Edna as far away from Kincaid as she could. She’d caught them kissing once, and who could say where that would have led if she hadn’t put a stop to it in a hurry? She shook her head. She knew where it would have led. She’d been down that path herself, and didn’t intend to let Edna take it.
Edna filled a cup with the blend from the Dutch East Indies that Kincaid liked, set the cup on a saucer, and handed it to Nellie. “Here you are, Ma,” she said, her voice poisonously sweet. She knew better than to argue out loud with Nellie when the coffeehouse was full of customers, as it was this afternoon. That didn’t mean she wasn’t angry. Far from it.
Nellie Semphroch glared back at her, full of angry determination herself. Given a generation’s difference in their ages-a short generation’s difference-the two women looked very much alike. They shared light brown hair (though Nellie’s had some streaks of gray in it), oval faces, fine, fair skin, and eyes somewhere between blue and green. If Nellie’s expression was habitually worried, well, she’d earned that. In this day and age, if you were an adult and you didn’t have plenty to worry about, something was wrong with you.
She carried the steaming cup over to Lieutenant Kincaid. “Obliged, ma’am,” he said. He was polite, when he could easily have been anything but. And, when he dug in his pocket, he put a real silver quarter-dollar on the table, not the Confederate scrip that let Rebel officers live like lords in the conquered capital of the USA.
Outside in the middle distance, a sudden volley of rifle shots rang out. Nellie jumped. She’d been through worse when the Confederates shelled Washington and then fought their way into town, but she’d let herself relax since: that had been well over a year ago now.
“Nothin’ to worry about, ma’am,” Kincaid said after sipping at the coffee. “That’s just the firing squad getting rid of a nigger. Waste of bullets, you ask me. Ought to string the bastards up. That’d be the end of that.”
“Yes,” Nellie said. She didn’t really like talking with Kincaid. It encouraged him, and he didn’t need encouragement to come around. But Confederate soldiers and military police were the only law and order Washington had these days. The Negro rebellion that had tried to catch fire here hadn’t been against the CSA alone; a good part of the fury had been aimed at whites in general.
Kincaid said, “Those niggers were damn fools-beg your pardon, ma’am-to try givin’ us trouble here. Places where they’re still in arms against the CSA are places where there weren’t any soldiers to speak of. They take a deal of rooting out from places like that, on account of we can’t empty our lines against you Yankees to go back and get ’em. But here-we got plenty of soldiers here, coming and going and staying. Why, we got three regiments comin’ in tonight, back from whipping the Reds in Mississippi and heading up to the Maryland front. And it’s like that every day of the year. Sometimes I don’t think niggers is anything but a pack of fools.”
“Yes,” Nellie said again.
“Bring me another sandwich here, ma’am?” a Confederate captain at a far table called. Nellie hurried over to serve him. Despite the rationing that made most of Washington a gray, joyless place, she never had trouble getting her hands on good food and good coffee. Of themselves, her eyes went across the street for a moment. She didn’t know exactly what connections Mr. Jacobs had, but they were good ones. And he liked having the coffeehouse full of Confederates talking at the top of their lungs-or even quietly, so long as they talked freely.
“You had a ham and cheese there?” she asked. The captain nodded. She hurried back of the counter to fix it for him.
Nicholas H. Kincaid was not without resource. He gulped down the coffee Nellie had given him and asked for another refill while she was still making the sandwich. That meant Edna had to take care of him. Not only did she bring him the coffee, she sat down at the table with him and started an animated conversation. The person to whom she was really telling something was Nellie, and the message was simple:
