"If I had to guess," she said after an all but imperceptible pause, "he got killed when the United States bombarded Washington before they took it back. An awful lot of people did."
"No story in that, though," Edna said.
"I don't care," Nellie said. "That's what I'm telling you. There was no story."
"Ma, you're a stick."
"Well, maybe I am. I don't care. I worked too hard for too long to tell a bunch of fancy lies now that I'm on the edge of turning into an old lady. What would Hal say if I did?"
"Tell the truth, then," Edna said.
"I have been telling the truth," Nellie lied.
Her daughter threw her hands in the air. "What am I supposed to do with you, Ma?" she said, half affectionate, half exasperated.
"You could just leave me alone. That's what you told me and told me, and then I finally went and did it." Nellie came as close as she ever had to admitting she might have meddled too much and too long in Edna's life. "Now maybe I get to tell you the same thing."
"Why do you think I'll listen any better than you ever did?" Edna asked. Nellie had no answer to that, and not having one frightened her. A child outgrew a parent's efforts at care, but a parent wasn't likely to outgrow a child's.
M arch 4, 1934, was a Sunday. Church bells rang in Richmond. Some of them summoned the faithful to worship. Others, later, proclaimed the imminent inauguration of a new president of the Confederate States of America.
At Freedom Party headquarters, Lulu fussed over Jake Featherston, fiddling with his collar as if she were his mother and not his secretary. He put up with it for as long as he could. Then he stepped away and said, "I'm fine. You don't need to fool with it any more."
"I want it to be perfect," Lulu said, for about the fifth time that day.
"Come two o'clock this afternoon, the chief justice of the Supreme Court is going to swear me in," Jake said. "Nothing in the world-in the world, you hear me? — could be more perfect than that." He shook his head. "No, I take it back. Burton Mitchel, that… so-and-so"-he was careful of his language around Lulu-"has to stand there and watch me do it and shake my hand before I do it-and afterwards, too. That's even better than all the rest."
"I mean, I want you to look perfect." His longtime secretary had said that five or six times, too.
"I'm fine," Jake answered. And he was fine, too, as far as he was concerned. No clawhammer coat for him, no white tie and stiff-fronted white shirt, no top hat. The butternut outfit he had on was almost identical to what he'd worn during the three years of the war. He even had three stripes on his sleeve, though these were also of butternut, not artilleryman's red. The War Department had left him a sergeant, had it? Well, all right. Now the whole country had a sergeant heading it up. He wasn't ashamed of that. He was proud of it, by God.
Willy Knight strode into his office. The vice president-elect also wore a quasi-uniform, one a good deal fancier than Featherston's. Some European armies had a grade one step up from general. They usually called it field marshal. Had the CSA used that rank, the men who held it would have worn uniforms a hell of a lot like Knight's.
"Whoa!" Jake shielded his eyes against the glare of gold lace and brass buttons. "You look like the nigger doorman at an expensive hotel, you know that?"
"Go to hell," Knight said, and grinned enormously. He stuck out his hand. Featherston shook it. No furtive trial of strength today. For once, they both had all the strength they needed. "We did it!" Knight's grin got wider. Jake hadn't thought it could. "We really did it!"
"You bet we did," Featherston said, "and this is only the first day. What you got to remember, Willy, is that getting here's just the start. Now we've got to do what we set out to do with the Party-"
"And with the Redemption League," Willy Knight added.
"Yeah-and with the Redemption League," Jake allowed generously. "We're in. We keep going right on forward." That was where he had the edge on Knight and everybody else. He kept thinking about the next step, the step to take after the one he was on now. He looked at his pocket watch. "Where's Ferd?"
"I'm here." Ferdinand Koenig stepped into the office. He wore a plain business suit that seemed all the plainer next to the uniforms.
"Then let's get on with it," Jake said.
They went downstairs. Two identical limousines waited there. Featherston and Koenig got into one, Knight into the other. As they drove the short distance to Capitol Square, they traded places in the motorcade several times. An assassin wouldn't have an easy time figuring out who was who, not in the welter of escorting motorcycle cops and government bodyguards and Freedom Party bodyguards-who regarded one another like two rival packs of mean dogs. That instant rivalry suited Jake fine; the more everybody stayed on his toes, the better.
At his request, the platform where he would take the oath of office had gone up on the south side of the square, near the statue of Albert Sidney Johnston and near Bank Street. Congressmen and Freedom Party bigwigs and other important people packed the platform and nearby wooden bleachers. Party stalwarts in white and butternut and Party guards in not-quite-Confederate uniform kept order in the square. Featherston hadn't requested that. He'd insisted on it.
Among the important people on the platform and in the bleachers were a dozen or so men, most of them elderly, in perfectly genuine Confederate uniforms: the highest-ranking officers from the War Department. Jake chuckled as the limousine stopped near the platform. He pointed to the generals. "I hope those bastards are shaking in their boots."
"If they're not, they're even dumber than you always said they were," Koenig answered.
Jake got out of the motorcar. The stalwarts sprang to attention. The guards presented arms. "Freedom!" they shouted as one. Congressmen who weren't Party members-a minority, now-flinched. They'd never watched Party rallies up close. They'd stayed away on purpose, in fact. They had some lessons to learn, and Featherston looked forward to teaching them.
His boots thumped on the wooden stairs as he ascended to the platform, Knight and Koenig trailing him. Waiting to greet him were President Burton Mitchel and Chief Justice James McReynolds. Mitchel extended his hand. Featherston shook it. They'd had the four months since the election to get to know each other as Mitchel prepared to leave office and Featherston to take over. Getting to know each other hadn't meant getting to like each other; on the contrary.
"May I give you one last bit of advice?" Mitchel asked formally.
With newsreel cameras turning, Jake couldn't say no without looking ungracious. "Go ahead," he answered.
Mitchel looked weary unto death. He'd become president after a Freedom Party man murdered his predecessor. Now he handed his office over to the head of the Freedom Party. And how do you feel about that, Burton old boy? Jake wondered. The outgoing president said, "I believe, Mr. President-elect, that you and your followers will find it has been easier to criticize than it will be to govern."
"Do you?" Jake said. Mitchel nodded stiffly. For the benefit of the cameras, Featherston smiled and clapped him on the back. "Well, Mr. President," he went on quietly, smiling still, "I reckon some folks'll believe anything, won't they?"
He stood well away from the microphones. He didn't think they would pick that up. If by some mischance they did… Well, that bit of film could always end up on the cutting-room floor. Burton Mitchel winced as if bayoneted. Willy Knight laughed.
Chief Justice McReynolds was a handsome man with a long face, a jutting chin, and white hair that had receded just enough to give him a high, high forehead. He had frowned when Jake delivered his cut, but made himself rally. "Are you ready to take the oath, Mr. President-elect?"