He hadn't forgotten. He never forgot a slight, no matter how small. Anne knew as much. And hers hadn't been small, not at all. She said, "I know. I'm trying to pay you back." Her gesture encompassed the hall where he'd speak.
The answer seemed to catch him by surprise. Slowly, thoughtfully, he nodded. "Well, you're doing better than a lot of folks I can think of," he said.
"Good." Anne didn't like the way he looked at her. He'd been an artilleryman during the war, not a sniper, but he eyed her as she thought a sniper would: all cold, deadly concentration. She was used to intimidating, not being intimidated. Being on the receiving end of a glance like that chilled her.
But Featherston sounded warm and lively when he went into his speech. "I never had a fancy name," he declared. "I was only one more Confederate soldier, with a stamped tin identity disk around my neck. But every great idea draws men to it. Every idea steps out before the nation. It has to win from the nation the fighters it needs, so one day it's strong enough to turn the course of destiny. Our day is here!"
The hall erupted. Anne found herself clapping as hard as anyone else in the building. When she listened to Jake on the stump, she always believed what he said while he was saying it. She might not believe it later, when she thought about it, but at the time… She shivered, though she also went on clapping. She hadn't met many people who frightened her. He did.
He thundered on: "Lots of people in the Confederate States think the Freedom Party can't do the job if we get in. They're fooling themselves! Today our movement can't be destroyed. It's here. People have to reckon with it, whether they like it or not. We recognize three principles-responsibility, command, and obedience. We've built a party-a party of millions, mind-based on one thing: achievement. And if you don't like it, we say, 'We'll fight today! We'll fight tomorrow! And if you don't fancy our rally today, we'll hold another one next week, even bigger!' "
He slammed his fist down on the podium. More applause interrupted him. Anne looked down at her carefully tended, carefully manicured hands. Her palms were red and sore. She'd broken a nail without even noticing.
"I'm not just here to ask you for your vote, or to ask you to do this or that for the Party," Featherston said. "I'm here to tell you the truth, and what I aim to do. What I've got to give is the only thing that can pull our country back on its feet again. If all you Confederates had the same faith in your country that our Freedom Party stalwarts do, we wouldn't be in the mess we're in. We will pull ourselves together. We're on the way, and I know you'll help."
I'm already helping, Anne thought proudly. Not being in charge didn't bother her so much any more-not as long as she was listening to Jake, anyhow.
AmericanEmpire: TheCenterCannotHold
XIX
I n an odd way, Colonel Abner Dowling was glad to have something to worry about that didn't involve keeping the Mormons in Salt Lake City from erupting. The desultory war with Japan hadn't done the job. He'd wanted to go fight, and the War Department hadn't let him. That brought nothing but frustration.
Looking with alarm at events south of the border, though, did a fine job of distracting him. He rounded on his adjutant one morning, growling, "What the devil are we going to do if that Featherston maniac really does get elected in the CSA come November?"
"I don't know, sir," Captain Toricelli answered. "What can we do if he wins the election? We can't very well tell the Confederates to go back and vote again."
"No, but I wish we could," Dowling said. "That man is nothing but trouble waiting to happen. He wants another go at us. He hardly even bothers hiding it any more."
"I don't see how we can stop a politician from making speeches, sir," Angelo Toricelli said. "If he gets to be president and then starts building up the C.S. Army and violating the terms of the armistice the Confederates signed, we can do something about him. Till then…" He shrugged.
"But will President Hoover do anything?" Dowling said. "He certainly hasn't done much since he landed in Powel House six months ago."
Toricelli gave him a sly smile. "Would you rather we still had President Blackford?"
"Good God, no!" Dowling exclaimed; he'd always been a solid Democrat. "But I would like to see Hoover doing a little more. If things are any better than they were when Blackford went home to Dakota, I haven't seen it."
"It won't happen overnight, sir." His adjutant was a Democrat, too. Most officers were.
"Obviously," Dowling said. "I do wish it would show some signs of happening at all, though."
"The whole world has troubles," Toricelli said, and Dowling nodded, for that was obviously true.
"Utah probably has more troubles than the rest of the world." Abner Dowling corrected himself: "Utah certainly has worse troubles than the rest of the world. Maybe that's why we're not seeing things looking better here." He spoke as if trying to convince himself, hoping he could convince himself. But he remained incompletely convinced. He said, "If more people here had jobs, we wouldn't need to worry… quite… so much about this place going up in smoke."
"Yes, sir," Captain Toricelli agreed; his adjutant was nothing if not polite. But Toricelli was also stubborn. He went on, "If you know how to arrange that, sir, you should have run for president last year."
General Custer had always claimed he'd had a shot at the presidency in 1884. There were any number of ways in which Dowling didn't want to imitate the officer under whom he'd served for so long. He couldn't imagine any job he wanted less than that of the president, especially in these thankless times.
And yet… He snapped his fingers. "You know, Captain, we could put a lot of people to work if we cleared Temple Square of the rubble that's been sitting there for almost twenty years now."
Toricelli frowned. "Yes, sir, we could. But isn't the point of keeping the rubble there to remind the Mormons we gave them a licking? There's not going to be a new Temple in Salt Lake City, any more than there's going to be one in Jerusalem."
Dowling muttered under his breath. Not only was Captain Toricelli polite and stubborn, he was also smart. But Dowling still liked the idea, or part of it. "All right, suppose we cordon off the part of the square that held the Temple and get rid of the rest of the rubbish?" he said. "The Tabernacle and the other buildings weren't holy ground."
He waited, wondering what his adjutant would make of that. Toricelli spent close to a minute thinking it over. Then he said, "Shall I draft a telegram for you to send to the War Department?"
"Yes, Captain, if you'd be so kind." Dowling beamed. He suspected Captain Toricelli made a tougher audience than any he'd face back in Philadelphia.
The wire went out two days later. The afternoon it did, Dowling got a wire from the War Department: WINNING HEARTS AND MINDS IN UTAH DESIRABLE. YOUR IDEA FORWARDED TO SECRETARY OF WAR FOR APPROVAL. The printed signature on the sheet of yellow paper belonged to Lieutenant General Sam Sturgis, chief of the General Staff.
He heard from the Secretary of War the next day. PRESIDENT HOOVER PERSONALLY CONTROLS ALL DECISIONS ON UTAH, the wire said. I HAVE
PASSED THIS PROPOSAL TO HIM RECOMMENDING APPROVAL, WHICH IS EXPECTED.
Dowling understood that this Cabinet official, a distant relative of the last Democratic president before Hoover, remained in the service of his country despite being confined to a wheelchair by some rare, debilitating disease.
Though Captain Toricelli already knew what was in the telegram, Dowling set it on his desk anyhow. "If the chief of the General Staff says yes, and if the Secretary of War says yes, how can the president say no?" he exulted.