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“Maybe so. But you got your revolver with you?”

“Why?”

“If there’s shooting, I want to be next to you. I get the feeling you wouldn’t go without a fight.”

Sam kept his mouth shut. He knew where his revolver was. Safe back at home. Teddy droned on, “Williams, Young, and Zimmerman. Okay, get a move on, get a move on.”

The sound of chairs being scraped and men walking away and the doors swinging open quieted down, and Sam saw that about a fourth of the room had filed out. Now the place was so quiet, he could hear a steam whistle blowing from the shipyard.

Teddy cleared his throat. “Okay. Now. The rest of you fellas, get ready for somethin’ important, okay?”

Sam looked at the rear door. It was unmanned, no sergeant at arms standing by. He could bail out right now and hit the street and—

Teddy carefully unfolded another sheet of paper. “Okay, these orders come straight from Party headquarters in Concord and Washington. Understand? Good. It’s been decided that the National Guard has to be expanded for future challenges. All the men that left, they’re already members of the Guard. You fellas aren’t. So you’re gonna volunteer this evening to join the New Hampshire National Guard. Understood?”

A voice came from the back. “Hey, Teddy! The hell with you! I got a bum knee! I ain’t gonna join the Guard, march around, and sleep on the ground. The hell with that!”

Teddy nodded, fat lips pursed. “That’s your right, then. And you know what happens next. We take note of who gets in and who doesn’t, right? Right. And then things happen. Maybe your uncle gets kicked off relief. Maybe your kid doesn’t get a summer job from the city. And maybe your boss, maybe he gets word that you’re not cooperative, that you’re not part of the team.”

The silence fell across the room like a cold, wet blanket. Teddy was right: Everyone knew what the threat meant. Not being part of the team, not being cooperative, meant you could get fired. Just like that. Whatever thin thread you were living by could be cut in an instant. No job, no government relief, no charity, and in a manner of weeks, you and your desperate family would be scratching out a living in the hobo camp out by Maplewood Avenue. Or selling cheap toys on the sidewalk.

Teddy looked about the hushed room. “Good. That’s more like it. I don’t want the word to get out that the Portsmouth district didn’t get one hundred percent enlistment. Good. Now. All you guys, stand up, raise up your right hand.”

There was the barest hesitation among the men, and Sam felt like here and now maybe somebody would make a stand, maybe somebody would push back. But nobody did. The room was still, and then one man got up, looking at his feet. He was joined by the man sitting next to him. A third man stood up, and another, and then the rest of the room joined in. Sam stood up with the rest, thinking, Not right, this is not right, and he realized with a sour taste in his mouth that it was just another step in that long descent into whatever was now passing for civil society, where you were conscripted and it was called volunteering, when the poor and homeless were called bums, and when you lied over the radio and it was called a frank talk with the American people.

So Sam raised his hand, his voice low and quiet, as he joined his fellow men in the American Legion hall in swearing to uphold and defend the constitutions of the state of New Hampshire and the United States, and to defend both the state and the country against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

Teddy folded the paper. “Okay. Word is, a couple of weeks, you’ll report to the armory to get a medical exam and get issued gear. More training will happen down the road. For you guys with bum knees or whatever, don’t fret, there’ll be something for you to do. We all pull together and we’ll do just fine.” He went through the quick and formal phase of dismissing the meeting, and by then Sam was out of his chair, joining everyone else to crowd out the rear door.

It seemed there was one more bit of business left undone. Two Long’s Legionnaires were blocking the door, holding up their hands.

“Jus’ hold on a second there, fellas,” the one on the left said. “We got somethin’ special for y’all.”

The other Legionnaire reached under his leather jacket. There was a slight gasp from someone, wondering what was going on as the man’s hand slipped in, and Sam watched, the hand came out, holding a—

A paper sack.

The tall young man jiggled the paper sack, held it out. “As you leave, boys, take one, okay? Gonna be a nice way to find out who our friends are up here.”

The first man up put a hand into the paper sack, came out with a flash of metal. Sean whispered, “Oh, crap, look at that,” and Sam saw “that” was a Confederate-flag pin. The two Legionnaires grinned.

“Welcome aboard,” the one on the left said.

* * *

With the flag pin in his hand, Sam rushed out of the meeting hall, his stomach sick, his head aching. He stood on the sidewalk, sucking in the cool air.

“Can you believe this?” Sean demanded, holding the pin up. “Just like Russia, just like Germany. Show your loyalty to nation and party by wearing a bloody pin.” He dropped his pin in an open drain grate. Sam, without even hesitating, did the same thing. It felt good, hearing the clink as the pin fell into the shadows.

“And another thing,” Sean raged. “Did you hear the oath we just took? It’s not the foreign enemies I’m worried about. It’s the other half. The domestic. Pretty big fucking blank check, if you know what I mean. That’s one of the reasons why our fair President got to keep control in Louisiana when he started out. He had the Guard in his pocket. Now we’re part of his shock troops. We do his dirty work wherever he wants us.”

Sam knew exactly what Sean meant. The National Guard was a trained reserve to help out the army overseas during a war, but more and more, it was used for other things. Breaking strikes in the big industrial cities in Pennsylvania and Illinois and Michigan. Burning down hobo encampments when they got too large outside of New York and Los Angeles and Chicago. Shooting at mobs when the relief money ran out in Seattle and Miami and Detroit. And now he and the others in that smoky hall were part of it.

“Christ, Sam.” Sean’s voice was harsh with anger. “What’s going to happen to us?”

“Damned if I know,” Sam said, moving away, wanting to get away from the hall, to get away from Teddy, to get away from the Party and everything else.

Just to get away.

But when he got to his Packard, he was brought back to ground very quickly.

As he opened the door, the overhead dome lit the front seat, and there, lined up in a row, lay three bound grass stalks. He froze. He started to crumple them but then gently placed the stalks back in the car, got in, started up the big engine, and motored home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sarah and Toby were both asleep, Sarah with the radio on low, Toby snoring, cuddled tight against his pillow. Out there was the Party, out there were the hoboes, out there armies and air forces and navies were grappling in the dark, men and women and children blown up, shot, drowned, burned…

Here it was peace. Inside this little frame house in this old port city, here was peace. A peace built on illusions, based on him doing his job, keeping his head down, not getting involved, and so far, the illusions were working.

But for how long?

He walked into the living room to the small bookcase. Among the books was a well-worn thick paperback with a faded green cover. The Boy Scout Handbook. His very own, and one that Toby liked to look through even though the boy was only old enough to be in the Cub Scouts. He opened the flyleaf, saw the little scrawl. Sam Miller. Troop 170. Portsmouth, N.H. Nearly twenty years ago.