American Empire: Blood and Iron - By Harry Turtledove Page 0,56

Either the reporters had managed to sit out the war on the sidelines or they cared more about selling papers than telling the truth. Maybe both those things were true at once. It wouldn’t have surprised Martin a bit.

Today, nothing untoward happened. The strikers jeered and cursed the scabs and called, “Join us!” More than a few former scabs had quit their jobs and started on the picket lines. No one threw a stone or a horse turd this afternoon, though. No one started shooting, either, although Martin was sure he was a long way from the only striker carrying a pistol.

Having been through more gunfire than he’d ever wanted to imagine, he was anything but sorry not to land in it again. He trudged back to the strikers’ hall, turned in his sign, and dug a nickel out of his pocket for trolley fare. His father and mother would be glad to see him home in one piece. He wondered about his sister. From some of the stories Sue told, her boss exploited her, too.

As he stood on the streetcorner, he shook his head in slow wonder. “The bosses are too stupid to know it,” he murmured, “but they’re turning a whole bunch of good Democrats into revolutionaries.”

Scipio had hoped he would never hear of the Freedom Party again after that one rally in May Park. He hadn’t thought such a hope too unreasonable: he’d never heard of it till that rally. With any luck, the so-called party would turn out to be one angry white man going from town to town on the train. The times were ripe for such cranks.

But, as summer slowly gave way to fall, the Freedom Party opened an office in Augusta. The office was nowhere near the Terry; even had more than a handful of Negroes been eligible to vote, the Freedom Party would not have gone looking for their support. Scipio found out about the office in a one-paragraph story on an inside page of the Augusta Constitutionalist.

He showed the story to his boss, a grizzled Negro named Erasmus who ran a fish market that doubled as a fried-fish café. Erasmus, he’d seen, was a shrewd businessman, but read only slowly and haltingly, mumbling the words under his breath. When at last he finished, he looked over the tops of his half-glasses at Scipio. “Ain’t such a bad thing, Xerxes, I don’t reckon,” he said.

“The buckra in this here party hates we,” Scipio protested. After close to a year in Augusta, he’d grown as used to his alias as he was to his right name. “They gets anywheres, ain’t gwine do we no good.”

Erasmus peered at him over those silly little spectacles again. “Most o’ the white folks hates us,” he answered matter-of-factly. “These ones here, at least they’s honest about it. Reckon I’d sooner know who can’t stand me than have folks tell me lies.”

That made a certain amount of sense—but only, Scipio thought, a certain amount. “The buckra wants to be on top, sure enough,” he said. “But these here Freedom Party buckra, they wants to be on top on account o’ they wants we in de grave, six feets under de ground.”

His boss shook his head. “White folks ain’t that stupid. We dead an’ buried, who gwine do their for work them? You answer me dat, an then I’ll worry ’bout this here Freedom Party.”

“Huh,” Scipio said. He thought for a little while, then laughed a bit sheepishly. “Mebbe you’s right. Cain’t you jus’ see de po’ buckra out in de cotton fields, wid de overseer yellin’ an’ cursin’ at they to move they lazy white backsides?”

“Lawd have mercy, I wish to Jesus I could see me that,” Erasmus said. “I pay money to see that. But it ain’t gwine happen. White folks ain’t about to get their soft hands all blistered an’ dirty, an’ we’s safe enough because o’ that.” A Negro in overalls came in and sat down at one of the half dozen rickety little tables in front of the counter where fish lay on ice. Erasmus pointed. “Never mind this stupid stuff we can’t do nothin’ about anyways. Get yourself over there an’ see what Pythagoras wants to eat.”

“Fried catfish an’cornbread,” the customer said as Scipio came up to him. “Lemonade on the side.”

“I gets it for you,” Scipio answered. He turned to see whether Erasmus had heard the order or he’d have to relay it. His boss had already plucked a catfish from the