"Going to rain tomorrow, I reckon," Reggie said to Bill Foster as the two druggist's assistants walked along Seventh Street together. He reached up with his right hand to touch his left shoulder. "Says so right here."
Foster nodded, which set his jowls wobbling. He was short and round and dark, where Bartlett was above average height, on the skinny side (and skinnier after his wound), and blond. He said, "I heard enough people say that in the trenches, and they were right a lot of the time." He'd spent his war in Kentucky and Tennessee, and come home without a scratch.
After touching his shoulder again, Reggie said, "This isn't so much of a much." He'd had a different opinion while the wound stayed hot and full of pus, but he'd been a long way from objective. "Fellow I worked for before the war, man name of Milo Axelrod, he stopped a bullet with his face up in Maryland. He wasn't a bad boss-better than this McNally I'm working for now, anyhow."
"From what you've said about McNally, that wouldn't be hard." Foster might have gone on, but a small crowd had gathered at the corner of Seventh and Cary. He pointed. "I wonder what's going on there."
"Shall we find out?" Without waiting for an answer from his friend, Reggie hurried over toward the crowd. Shrugging, Foster followed. "Oh, I see," Bartlett said a moment later. "It's a political rally. That figures, with the Congressional election next Tuesday. But what the devil is the Freedom Party? I've never heard of'em before."
"I've seen a couple of their posters," Bill Foster said. "Don't rightly know what they stand for, though."
"Let's get an earful. Maybe it'll be something good." Reggie scowled as his wounded leg gave a twinge, which it hadn't done in a while. "Couldn't be worse than the pap the Radical Liberals and the Whigs are handing out."
"That's about right." Foster nodded. "Everybody who's in is making noise about how he never much cared for the war, and everybody who's out is saying that if he'd been in he never would've voted one thin dime for it."
"And it's all a pack of lies, too," Bartlett said with deep contempt. "Why don't they admit they were all screaming their heads off for the war when it started? Do they think we've forgotten? And when Arango ran against Semmes for president two years ago, he said he'd do a better job of fighting the Yankees than the Whigs were. He didn't say anything about getting out of the war, not one word."
The Freedom Party spokesman didn't have a fancy platform or a fancy suit, which proved he belonged to neither of the CSA's major parties. He stood in his shirtsleeves on a box or a barrel of some kind and harangued the couple of dozen people who were listening to him: "-traitors to their country," he was shouting as Reggie and Bill Foster came up. "Traitors and fools, that's what they are!"
"A crackpot," Bartlett whispered. He folded his arms across his chest and got ready to listen. "Let's hang around for a while. He may be funny."
Somebody in the crowd already thought he was funny, calling, "By what you're saying there, the whole government is nothing but traitors and fools. You've got to be a fool yourself, to believe that."
"I do not!" the speaker said. He was an overweight, balding fellow of about fifty-five, whose fringe of gray hair blew wildly in the fall breeze. His name was Anthony Dresser-so said a little sign Reggie needed a while to notice. "I do not. I tell you the plain, unvarnished truth, and nothing else but!'' His eyes, enormous behind thick spectacles, stared out at his small audience. "And you, my friends, you hug the viper to your bosom and think it is your friend. Congress is full of traitors, the War Department is full of traitors, the administration-"
Reggie stopped paying much attention to him about then. "And the moon is full of green cheese!" the heckler shouted, drawing a roar of laughter from the crowd.
Dresser sputtered and fumed, the thread of his speech, had it ever had one, now thoroughly lost. Reggie and Foster grinned at each other, enjoying his discomfiture. The speech surely would have been boring. This was anything but. "Not as easy to get up on the stump as the old boy thought, is it?" Foster said with a chuckle.
"You are all traitors to your country, for not listening to the plain and simple truth!" Dresser shouted furiously.
"And you're a maniac, and they ought to lock you up in the asylum and lose the key!" It wasn't the first heckler, but another man.
Dresser looked to be on the point of having a fit. Somebody reached up and tugged at his trousers. He leaned over, cupping a hand behind his ear. Then, with a fine scornful snort, he jumped down from his perch. "All right," he said. "All right! You show them then, if you think you know so much. I can tell you what you will show them-you will show them you do not have any notion of what to say or how to say it."
Up onto the platform scrambled a lean man somewhere in his thirties, in a day laborer's collarless cotton shirt and a pair of uniform pants. He looked around for a moment, then said, "Tony's right. A blind man should be able to see it, too. The government is full of traitors and fools."
Dresser had been argumentative, querulous. The newcomer spoke with absolute conviction, so much so that before he caught himself Reginald Bartlett looked north toward Capitol Square, as if to spy the traitors in the act.
"Yeah? You can't prove it, either, any more than the other jerk could," a heckler yelled.
"You want proof? I'll give you proof, by Jesus," the lean man said. He didn't talk as if he had any great education, but he didn't seem to feel the lack, as did so many self-made men. "Look what happened when the Red niggers rose up, back at the end of' 15. They damn near overran the whole country. Now, why is that, do you reckon? It's on account of nobody in the whole stinking government had the least notion they were plotting behind our backs. If that doesn't make everybody from the president on down a damn fool, you tell me what in the hell it does do."
"He's got something, by God," Foster said, staring at the new speaker.
"He's got a lot of nerve, anyhow," Reggie said.
"That's why you ought to vote for Tony Dresser for Congress," the lean man continued: "on account of he can see the plain truth and you can't. Now the next thing you're going to say is, well, they're a pack of fools up there, all right, with their fancy motorcars and their whores, but they can't be traitors because they fought as long as they could and the Yankees are pretty damn tough.
"Well, this here is what I've got to say about that." The lean man let loose with a rich, ripe raspberry. "I know for a fact that people tried to warn the government the niggers were going to rise, on account of I was one of those people. Did anybody listen? Hell, no!" Contempt dripped from his voice like water from a leaky roof. "Some of those niggers were servants to rich men's sons, important men's sons. And the rich men in the Capitol and the important men in the War Department shoveled everything under the rug. If that doesn't make 'em traitors, what the devil does?"
"He has got something," Bill Foster said in an awed voice.
"He's got a big mouth," Bartlett said. "You throw charges like that around, you'd better be able to name names."
Instead of naming names, the newcomer on the stump charged ahead: "And after that-after that, mind you, after the niggers rose up-what did the government go and do? Come on. You remember. You're white men. You're smart men. What did they go and do?" The lean man's voice sank to a dramatic whisper: "They went and put rifles in those same niggers 'hands, that's what they did!' He whispered no more, but shouted furiously: "If that doesn't make 'em traitors, what the devil does?"
Reggie remembered Rehoboam, the Negro prisoner of war who'd shared his U.S. hospital ward after losing a foot in Arkansas-and after being a Red rebel in Mississippi. Things weren't so straightforward as this new Freedom Party speaker made them out to be. The older Reggie got, the more complicated the world looked. The lean man was older than he, but still saw things in harsh shades of black and white.