* * *
Rangers and guardsmen joined the arm-linked, walking wall as Juanita passed. Some, lacking faith in the result, did so only because they had faith in her. Schmidt had faith in neither, but was determined to see things through with Juani, wherever events might lead them.
Behind the line of arm-linked men and women, civilians, some with children, fell in behind.
Inevitably, an old black woman, certainly spurred by memories of an earlier struggle, began to sing in a high, weak voice. The words were simple and well known. In seconds, so it seemed, the crowd had drowned out the older woman.
* * *
The lyrics, when he first sensed—more than heard—them, touched a note with Forsythe. He, too, had once been young and idealistic. He, too, had once sung the simple song.
He pushed the feeling away, brutally.
* * *
Juani and her leading rank turned half right on Barton Springs. Keeping to a slow and stately pace, they crossed Riverside. At South Congress the point turned north again to cross the bridge over Town Lake. With each turn and each passing step a few more people, sometimes a few hundred more, added their weight to the procession.
By the time the lead reached Tenth Street the crowd had swollen to nearly 100,000 people.
The song had grown to be very loud by that point.
* * *
The Capitol was where the action was, where the threat was, and perhaps most importantly where his Zampolit, Forsythe, was. Thus, accompanied by his sergeant major, the commander of Third Corps made sure it was also where he was.
The troops along Eleventh Street had their faces turned away from him toward the approaching crowd. It didn't matter; the faces of his officers told the general everything he needed to know.
The boys just do not want to be here; do not want to be doing what they're doing.
This was followed by a more ominous thought: And they can't be relied on to do it, either.
Forsythe approached. "What are you going to do about this riot, General?" he asked, a trace of personal fear in his voice.
"What riot?"
"That riot; that unruly mob headed this way."
The general sneered. "I don't see any unruly mob. I see a peaceful procession of citizens coming to their state capitol in peaceable assembly."
"You idiot!" Forsythe exclaimed. "When I tell the President you'll be lucky to stay out of a cell at Leavenworth. You have one chance to avoid that and that is to disperse that mob."
The sneer never left the soldier's face. "That's what you want, eh, Mr. Forsythe? You should be careful what you ask for."
Turning to the sergeant major the general ordered, "Top, bring me a loudspeaker, would you?"
* * *
Even over the singing coming from behind her, Juani's heart skipped a beat when she heard the order coming over the loudspeaker, "First Squadron, Seventh Cavalry: one magazine, lock." The general was careful not to use the word "load."
* * *
Schmidt and Nagy both began to pull her back, even as the crowd behind them recoiled from the threat.
"No," she said with a calm she did not feel. "No, we go on," with determination.
Exchanging glances, Schmidt and Nagy tacitly agreed: If she's got the balls to go on . . . then so do we.
* * *
The sergeant major watched, horrified, as the general gave commands over the loudspeaker. Boss, this isn't balls. This is bullshit.
Unperturbed, the general continued, "Now I want you to aim for the women and the children first, boys. Extra points and a four day pass for drilling a mother carrying a baby. Don't sweat it, boys. Mr. Forsythe here, from the White House, says it's just 'okay.' He says if we don't shoot down these 'rioters,' we'll all go to Leavenworth for the long course."
Tilting his head to one side, the sergeant major asked silently, Are you trying to start a mutiny? The old soldier's eyes widened, By God, you are.
* * *
Spec Four Franklin Washington had seen and heard enough. He'd also had just about enough, too. Standing there on Eleventh Street, with a rifle in his hands, a bayonet on the end of it, a magazine seated firmly in the well; facing a crowd that looked no different and no more threatening than a crowd at a beach; for a government and a cause he neither understood nor very much liked—Washington had indeed had just about enough.
The crowd had reached the intersection and begun to spread out and around the street-wide line of arm-linked men and women. They were close enough for Washington to make out faces easily. There was a familiar one, right there in the center; the Texan Governor.
But that face wasn't the problem. It was all the others—those many, many others—that looked no different from folks back home.
How could he, Franklin Washington, ever go home to Alabama and tell his folks that he had shot at people that seemed so much the same? Bayoneted and clubbed them?
The simple answer was: he couldn't.
So while better than half the officers and men on that line were thinking much the same thing, it was left to a young black man of no great station in life to state the popular feeling first.
"Fuck this shit," said Franklin Washington, tossing his rifle on the ground. "I ain't a-gonna play anymore."
* * *
At the sound of not one, but hundreds of rifles being dropped and thrown to the ground, the general turned a beaming smile on Forsythe. "Did you hear that, sir? That sound? Why here I have given orders for my men to put down this 'riot' . . . and guess what? They didn't listen.
"The sound you've just heard, Mr. Forsythe, was the breaking of your government in Washington. I suggest you run, sir. To Canada, perhaps, because no place in the United—or even perhaps disunited—States is going to be quite safe for you.
"And—to quote that young man down on the street—'We ain't a-gonna play anymore.' "
The general turned from a shocked Commissioner Forsythe and said into the microphone for his loudspeaker, "First Squadron, Seventh Cavalry: on your feet and face this way. Pick up your rifles, boys. Now let's escort the Governor of Texas back to her job."
Interlude:
From: The End of the Dream: Reconstruction in
Post-Rottemeyer America by Patrick T. Hamilton
Copyright 2051, Baen Historical Publishing
The end, when it came, came suddenly.
With the Marines and soldiers to the west in rebellion against federal authority, with the main force, the Army's Third Corps having turned, it was a matter of hours before the Eighteenth Airborne Corps and 2nd Marine Division likewise pointed poignant fingers in Washington's direction. Even the Navy, shadowing the Texas coast, refused to continue the blockade imposed by President Rottemeyer.
At that point the federals could count on nothing but their own law enforcement agencies, already badly depleted and demoralized, and the states' National Guards.
The states' National Guards were, of course, under the authority first and foremost of the state governors. These came from states of two different classes: northern and western urbanized states where the National Guards suffered a considerable degree of both unpopularity and benign neglect, and southern and rural states where the guard remained rather popular.
Thus, when California mobilized its National Guard in response to a presidential demand, Arizona, Nevada, Wyoming, Utah, and Colorado did the same in response to California. Unlike California, however—which merely sat there, once those other National Guards were reinforced by the 1st Marine Division, they advanced and California's Guard simply melted away.
In the deep southern states, aggressive action was also contemplated. That no fighting took place was largely the result of more moderate, even centrist, states like Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia whose collective reaction to both sides might well be summed up as, "Oh, no, you don't. Not again."