… where else were they going to go?
Again, the police were going easy on them. Clearing them from the shantytown by force would have made dreadful headlines. Another guard said, "Those people shouldn't ought to be in a mess like that. Ain't their fault, not most of the time. But that ain't the only shantytown in the country, neither."
"Damn right it ain't, Joe," Featherston agreed. "There's one outside of every town in the CSA. And you're right-most of the people in 'em are decent, hardworking folks who're just down on their luck." He slapped Joe on the back, hard enough to stagger him. "And I'll be go to hell if you didn't just give me next week's wireless talk on a silver platter."
By then, going into the studio was second nature for him. When the red light came on, he rasped out the greeting he'd been using for years: "This is Jake Featherston of the Freedom Party, and I'm here to tell you the truth."
Inside the glassed-in room next to the studio, the engineers nodded at him-everything was going the way it should. And his words were going out to far more people in the CSA than they had a few years before. A whole web of stations, a nationwide web, was getting this broadcast now. It went everywhere, from Richmond to Miami to deep in Sonora. And stations near the postwar, U.S.-imposed border beamed it up into Kentucky and Houston and Sequoyah.
"Truth is," Jake went on, "all across our country people are losing their jobs. Truth is, all across our country they're losing their homes. Truth is, all across our country they're trying to get by in shacks and tents a God-fearing dog wouldn't want to live in. And the truth is, my friends, the Whig Party doesn't care. "
He banged his fist down on the table, hard enough to make papers jump in front of him-but not hard enough to make them fall off or to tip over the microphone. He'd had practice with that thump. "So help me God, friends, that is the truth. I'm ashamed to say it about anybody in these Confederate States, but it is. What are the Whigs doing to help these folks get new jobs? Nothing! What are the Whigs doing to help 'em hang on to their houses? Nothing! What are the Whigs doing to keep 'em from starving? Nothing, one more time! 'That's not the government's job,' is what they say.
"Well, friends, I'm going to tell you something. The Whigs proved how useless they were two years ago, when the big floods came. Did they do anything much for the poor, suffering people in Tennessee and Arkansas and Mississippi and Louisiana? Did they? In a pig's ear they did. They patted 'em on the head and said, 'Sure wish you good luck. Y'all'll be just fine.' Were they just fine? You know better'n I do.
"I'll tell you something else, too. This here panic, this here crash, is dragging more people under than Mother Nature ever dreamt of doing. And that's happening all over the Confederate States, not just in the Mississippi Valley. God help us all, there's a shantytown in Capitol Square here in Richmond. The fat Whig Congressmen could look out their windows and see the poor hungry folks. They could, but they don't."
On and on he went, finishing, "Two years ago, the Supreme Court-the bought and paid-for Supreme Court-said Burton Mitchel could run for president again. Well, he did, and he got himself elected again, too. And now we're all paying for it.
"So if you want things to work again, if you want us to be strong again, if you want to tie a can to the Whigs' tail-and to the Supreme Court's tail, too-if you don't want to have to live in a shack like a nigger cotton-picker, vote Freedom in November. God bless you all, and thank you kindly!"
The lead engineer drew a finger across his throat. The red light in the studio went out. Jake Featherston leaned back in his chair, then gathered up his papers and left the small, soundproofed room.
Saul Goldman, the station managed, waited in the hallway. "That was a strong speech, Mr. Featherston, a very strong speech," he said.
"Let's hope it does some good," Jake answered.
"I've heard a lot of your speeches the past few years, Mr. Featherston," Goldman said. "I think this one will sway people, especially… with things the way they are."
"Yeah. Especially," Featherston said. "I think this one'll do some good, too. High time people got the wool pulled away from over their eyes. High time they see you don't have to be a Whig to run the country. High time they see we'd be better off with people who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty, who aren't afraid to pitch right in and do what needs doing. We've got to fix things. We can't go on like this."
"No." Goldman shook his head. "Times are very hard." He risked a smile at Jake. "You should be glad you have a job."
"I am," Jake said. "I've had a job ever since the war ended: to see the Confederate States back on top. It's taken me a long time to start doing that job. But I think my hour's coming round at last."
"I think you may be right," the station manager agreed. "If not now, when will it come?"
If not now, will it ever come? But Jake Featherston pushed that thought to the back of his mind, as he did whenever it cropped up. He couldn't afford to doubt, and so he didn't. "I'm going to tell you something, Mr. Goldman," he said. "This here station and the web you've set up have done the Freedom Party a hell of a lot of good. We don't forget our enemies. Everybody knows that. But we don't forget our friends, either. You'll see."
"Thank you," Goldman said. "That I should be your friend surprises me. We've had that talk before, a long time ago. But thank you. Thank you very much. It has passed over me."
"What's that?" Featherston asked. The Jew only shrugged and changed the subject. Jake didn't push it. He had other things to worry about. The world wasn't his, as he thought it should be. But now, at least, he had the hope it was going his way.
W hen Jefferson Pinkard opened his pay envelope at the Sloss Works, he discovered it contained a pink slip along with his salary. His curses were soft and bitter and heartfelt. "I should've stayed in Mexico, by God," he said. "If I'd known the company was going to treat me like a nigger, I would've."
The paymaster, a gray-haired man named Harvey Gordon, had known Pinkard since before the Great War. He shook his head. "You never should have gone to Mexico in the first place. You forfeited all the seniority you had. Now they're treating you like a new hire. I'm sorry as hell, Jeff, but them's the rules."
"Fuck the rules," Pinkard said. "How am I gonna eat?"
Gordon didn't answer that. It wasn't a question that had an answer, except maybe, God knows. If God did know, He hadn't bothered telling Jefferson Davis Pinkard.
"Get moving," the fellow in line behind him said. "Don't hold up the works."
"Fuck you, too," Jeff answered, hoping for a fight. He didn't get one, only a stony glare. Muttering under his breath, he strode out of the steel mill. Won't be coming back, either, he thought. Ain't that a son of a bitch?
He wondered where he would live, too. A fired man had two weeks to leave company housing. If he didn't go after that, they'd pitch his belongings out of his cottage and onto the sidewalk.
At least the yellow clapboard house he had now was a long way from the one he'd shared with Emily back in happier times. How can I afford a new place if I just got fired?
It was a good question. Again, he wished he had a good answer for it. He wished he had any answer at all. Inside the cottage, he had a cheap iron bed and a cheap iron stove, an icebox, a rickety table, and one chair. A furnished room would have had more in it. He didn't want to think about a room. Thinking about one reminded him he didn't know what he'd do when they threw him out of here.
He made a mess of bacon and eggs for supper. He'd had them for breakfast, too. He was no kind of cook. He never had been. He did a tolerable job on bacon and eggs most of the time. He'd started getting sick of them. But he did so few things well, he didn't have much choice.