Sparkman's irritation shows in the pinch of his face. "Who, then?" the governor snaps. "You?" A speculative glint in Sparkman's eye and he cocks his head. "You and me," he says more thoughtfully. "Illinois and Alabama. A balanced ticket. It might work."
Stevenson recoils in horror. "I'm only a simple senator from the Midwest." And besides-although he does not voice the thought-as little as Stevenson relishes the role of president, he relishes the role of sacrificial lamb even less.
"Well, not that prancing popinjay from Massachussetts!" Wallace says in a belligerent growl. "Not that son of a goose-stepping Kaiser-kisser!"
"No, not 'Little Joe, either." Stevenson shudders at the thought of what might happen if presidents were chosen on their good looks and breezy self-assurance. "He's just the glove," he tells them. "His daddy's the hand, and none of us wanthim controlling the government. No, we've been talking up the junior senator from Missouri."
Sparkman shows surprise. "Truman? He's a Prendergast man. Why not just hand Big Jim the keys to Fort Knox? Besides, Missouri's a Southern state, too."
"No, John. I've worked with Harry in the Senate. Sure, he got his start with the Machine, but he's the only one of that crowd who everlost money in office. And Missouri is aborder state." He lets Sparkman think that over.
The governor is not happy, but he sees the point. "All right, we can pretend he's a Southern man and you-all can pretend he's northern. Maybe we squeeze out a few more votes that way." He runs his hand through his hair. "Republicans make up their minds yet?"
Stevenson shakes his head. "Still split between Taft and Warren. We may be able to exploit that. Divide the Republican vote the way Wilson did." Privately, Stevenson doubts they can pull it off. A solid run by a northern Democrat is all he asks for; something that will separate the Party from the clearings in the public mind. Afterwards… He thinks he can work with Earl Warren; but a congenial, cooperative term will only solidify the GOP's hold on the executive office, so he might as well butt heads with Taft for four years.
The four of them talk the pros and cons of Truman versus Warren or Taft. Sparkman promises to sound out the other Southern governors; but if the northern machines won't back a Southern man, he knows as well as Stevenson that they have no choice.
Wallace lingers after the other two leave and eyes Stevenson's bald pate. "You don't look like a man with much need of hair tonic," he says without preamble.
Stevenson hesitates, then closes the door, shutting the two of them in together. "So, you're the leader of-"
But Wallace holds up a hand. "I ain't leader of nothing. But maybe I know someone who knows someone. You wanted a meeting. This is it."
Stevenson takes a breath and walks to the other side of the room, where he leans against the dresser. He must reach deep down inside himself to pull the words out. "There has to be an accommodation," he tells the man who knows someone, "before it rips the Party in half."
Wallace grunts and crosses his arms. "Well, it's about time you-all got on board…"
"I beg your pardon?"
"… and we got some recognition for what we've done!"
The response startles Stevenson. The replies he had ready do not cover this comment. Again, he searches for words, but can do no better than to throw the same ones back. "Recognition? For what you've done?"
"Who's been fighting the Hun and his lickspittle, so-called 'allies' this past year-by ourselves? Generations of Southern men have bled and died so this land could be free. At King's Mountain, Yorktown, New Orleans, Pittsburgh Landing, Atlanta… We won't sit by idle while those Prussian pigs pollute it with every goose step they take. Even a Yankee should see that-if he can take his eye off the almighty dollar long enough."
"You have," Stevenson observes dryly, "an endearing way with words."
"But what do we hear from New York and Boston and Chicago? Silence, that's what. Where are the Northern boys now that our holy ground has been violated?"
"You need men," Stevenson guesses. The Germans must have cut deep into the nightriders' manpower.
Wallace juts his chin forward. "And guns."
"And what else?"
"And explosives!"
"And what else?"
"Some word of thanks from the rest of you sons of bitches!"
"Thanks? Thanks!" Some things Stevenson cannot swallow. "If it hadn't been for the clearings, none of this would be happening!"
Wallace is impervious to accusation. "Don't hand me that. Sure, there were some lynchings and things. Don't get me wrong-I never approved. A mob gets its dander up and they're likely to up and lynch the wrong nigra. That's not the American way."
"And lynching the right one is?"
"For murder or rape? Maybe not 'right, but not the same kind of 'wrong, either. But, like I said, I never approved. We would've worked things out. The coloreds and us, we been living side by side down here for a couple hundred years. We get along-as long as everybody knows his place. But then outside agitators come along and give folks uppity notions, fill them up with dreams their abilities can never achieve-so that they lash out like frustrated children and have to be spanked."
"I'd call what happened more than a spanking, Mr. Wallace."
Wallace says nothing for a moment. His eyes smolder; then he looks away. "Things… got out of hand."
"Just a little."
"The boys went crazy when the Huns landed. Pure loco. I couldn't stop them. No one could. No one planned what happened. No one meant for it."
"No one with responsibility, you mean, but I suspect there were plenty of your 'rednecks' just itching for the chance. When you use a mob, Wallace, it's a fine question who leads whom on the leash."
Wallace glares at him.
"Folks up north want the League out, too," Stevenson continues, "but we can't stand with you while the clearings go on."
"That's over with. The boys ain't killin' niggers any more. They're killing collaborators."
"Who happen to be mostly Negroes. Maybe there is a difference, but it doesn't look that way up north. It has to stop, Wallace, or you'll never get the support you need."
"Why? You Yankees too yellow to go toe-to-toe with the Huns?" Wallace taunts.
"With what? Potbellied men and gas-station jockeys toting shotguns and squirrel rifles? Against the army that sacked Tokyo?"
Wallace might play loose with the truth, but he knew it when he heard it. His next words are heavy with defeat. "Wilson should never have shrunk the Army. We would've had a first-class military of our own, not just a few regiments chasing bandits and renegades out west, afraid to fight because of some treaty, some 'scrap of paper. Then we could've taken on the Hun."
A Great Peace to follow the Great War, Wilson had proclaimed in ordering the reduction in forces-starting, of course, with the Negro regiments he so despised-and going on to grant independence to the Philippines and Puerto Rico-and barring the "golden door" against "little brown brother."
The League will enforce the Peace from now on, Wilson had proclaimed. Stevenson had been only nineteen, but he remembered it clearly. Seen with the idealism-and self-interest-of youth, Wilson's demilitarization had seemed bold and courageous.
In hindsight, Wilson seemed less wise. To keep American boys out of the meatgrinder of the Western Front was one thing. Boys who had trained with wooden rifles? Folly! It would have taken two years to build an American Expeditionary Force around the few professional regiments. And the Western Front ate regiments for breakfast. No, Wilson had been right about that.