Part 26 (1/2)

”Closer than a lot of people come, believe me,” Fred Sandburg said. ”Some of the guys I played with in the trenches, it'd take inflation like the d.a.m.n Rebs are having to get them out of the holes they dug for themselves.”

Up came the waitress. She set coffee in front of Moss and Sandburg. Sandburg patted her on the hip-not quite on the backside, but close-as she turned away. She kept walking, but smiled at him over her shoulder. Moss was gloomily certain that, had he tried the same thing, he'd have ended up with hot coffee in his lap and a slap planted on his kisser. But Fred had people sense, no two ways about it.

Moss decided to put his pal's people sense to some use and to change the subject, both at the same time: ”You think Teddy Roosevelt can win a third term?”

”He's sure running for one, isn't he?” Sandburg said. ”I think he may very well, especially if the Socialists throw Debs into the ring again. You'd figure they'd have better sense, but you never can tell, can you? As a matter of fact, I hope Teddy loses. Winning would set a bad precedent.”

”Why?” Moss asked. ”Don't you think he's done enough to deserve to get elected again? If anybody ever did, he's the one.”

”I won't argue with you there,” Sandburg said. ”What bothers me is that, if he wins a third term, somewhere down the line somebody who doesn't deserve it will run, and he'll win, too.”

”All right. I see what you're saying,” Moss told him, nodding. ”How many other people will worry about that, though?”

”I don't know,” Sandburg admitted. ”I don't see how anybody could know. But I'll bet the answer is, more than you'd think. more than you'd think. If it weren't, we'd have elected someone to a third term long before this.” If it weren't, we'd have elected someone to a third term long before this.”

”I suppose so.” Moss sipped his coffee. He watched people stroll past the coffeehouse. When a man with only one leg stumped by on a pair of crutches, he sighed and said, ”I wonder how the fellows who didn't come through the war would vote now if they had a chance.”

”Probably not a whole lot different than the way our generation will end up voting,” Sandburg said. Moss nodded; that was likely to be true. His friend continued, ”But we're in the Half Generation, Johnny my boy. Every vote we cast will count double, because so many of us haven't even got graves to call our own.”

”The Half Generation,” Moss repeated slowly. ”That's not a bad name for it.” He waved for the waitress and ordered a shot of brandy to go with the coffee. Only after he'd knocked back the shot did he ask the question that had come into his mind: ”Did you ever feel like you didn't deserve to come back in one piece? Like fellows who were better than you died, but you just kept going?”

”Better fighters? I don't know about that,” Fred Sandburg said. ”Harder to tell on the ground than it was in the air, I expect. But I figured out a long time ago that it's just fool luck I'm still breathing and the fellow next to me caught a bullet in the neck. I don't guess that's too far from what you're saying.”

”It's not,” Moss said. For that matter, Sandburg had caught two bullets and was still breathing. No doubt luck had a great deal to do with that. Moss wished there were something more to it. ”I feel I ought to be living my own life better than I am, to make up for all the lives that got cut short. Does that make any sense to you?”

”Some, yeah.” Sandburg c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. ”That's why you're still mooning over this Canuck gal who sends you rolls of pennies every couple of weeks, is it? Makes sense to me.”

”G.o.d d.a.m.n you.” But Moss couldn't even work up the energy to sound properly indignant. His buddy had got him fair and square. He defended himself as best he could: ”You don't really have much say about who you fall in love with.”

”Maybe not,” Sandburg said. ”But you're not quite ready to be a plaster saint yet, either, and don't forget it.”

”I don't want to be a plaster saint,” Moss said. ”All I want is to be a better person than I am.” This time, he caught the gleam in Fred's eye. ”You tell me that wouldn't be hard and I'll give you a kick in the teeth.”

”I wasn't going to say anything of the sort,” Sandburg answered primly. ”And I'll be d.a.m.ned if you can prove anything different.”

”You're not in court now, Counselor,” Moss said, and they both laughed. ”But what the devil are we going to do-the Half Generation, I mean, not you and me-for the rest of our lives? We'll always be looking over our shoulders, waiting for the other half to come up and give us a hand. And they won't. They can't. They're dead.”

”And you were the one who just got through saying Teddy Roosevelt deserved a third term,” Sandburg pointed out. ”And I was the one who said I couldn't argue with you. G.o.d help us both.”

”G.o.d help us both,” Jonathan Moss agreed. ”G.o.d help the world, because there's hardly a country in it that doesn't have a Half Generation. With the Canucks, it's more like a Quarter Generation.”

”Italy came through all right,” Sandburg said. ”The j.a.ps didn't get hurt bad, either, d.a.m.n them.”

”Yeah, we'll have to have a heart-to-heart talk with the j.a.ps one day, sure enough,” Moss said. ”They're like England, only more so: they don't really know they were on the losing side.” He thought for a moment. ”The only thing worse than going through the Great War, I guess, would have been going through the Great War and losing. Roosevelt saved us from that, anyway.”

”So he did.” Sandburg's whistle was low and doleful. ”Can you imagine what this country would be like if the Rebs had licked us again again? We'd have had ourselves another revolution, so help me G.o.d we would. I don't mean Reds, either. I just mean people who'd have wanted to hang every politician and every general from the nearest lamppost they could find.”

”Like this Freedom Party down in the CSA,” Moss said, and Sandburg nodded. Moss went on, ”You know, maybe TR really does deserve a third term. Even if he didn't do anything else, he spared us that.” His friend nodded again. Moss discovered he still had a couple of drops of brandy in the bottom of the shot gla.s.s. He raised it again. ”To TR!” he said, and drained them.

”Down with TR! Down with TR! Down with TR!” Along with everyone else in the great hall in Toledo, Flora Hamburger howled out the chant. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. It was also thick with an even headier scent, one never caught before at a Socialist Party national convention: the smell of victory.

”We can do it this time.” Flora didn't know how often she'd heard that since coming to Toledo. Whether it was true or not remained to be seen. True or not, though, people believed it. Scarred and grizzled organizers who'd been coming to conventions since long before the turn of the century were saying it, and saying it with wonder in their voices and on their faces. They'd never said it before.

”Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!” Half a dozen people here on the floor clamored for the attention of the august personage on the rostrum.

Bang! The gavel came down. ”The chair recognizes the leader of the delegation from the great state of Indiana.” The gavel came down. ”The chair recognizes the leader of the delegation from the great state of Indiana.”

”Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” that worthy bellowed. The chairman rapped loudly once more, and kept rapping till something a little quieter than chaos prevailed. The leader of the Indiana delegation spoke into it: ”Mr. Chairman, in the interest of victory and unity, the state of Indiana s.h.i.+fts twenty-seven votes from its own great patriot and statesman, Senator Debs, to the next president of the United States of America, Mr. Sinclair! We so act at the specific request of Senator Debs, who understands that the interests of the Party should, indeed must, come ahead of all personal concerns.”

Flora had never been on the battlefield. If the roar that went up at that announcement didn't match that of a great cannonading, though, she would have been astonished. More men, including the chairman of the delegation from New York, waved hands or hats or banners to attract the chairman's attention. After five indecisive ballots, the Socialists had their presidential nominee. Someone moved that the nomination be made unanimous; the motion pa.s.sed by overwhelming voice vote. That done, the proud and happy delegates voted to adjourn till the next day.

But they did not want to leave the floor. As if they had already won the election, they milled about in celebration, meeting old friends, making new ones, and having themselves a terrific time.

Being taller than most of the men at the convention, Hosea Blackford was easy for Flora to spot as he made his way from the small Dakota delegation to the large one from New York. ”It's done,” he said. ”The first part of it's done, anyhow, and done well.” When he grinned, he shed years. ”Ain't it bully, Flora?”

”Yes, I think so,” she answered. ”And the second part-who knows what the second part may be?” She wanted to take him in her arms. She couldn't, not in public. She couldn't, even in private, not while the convention was going on: no privacy in Toledo was private enough. ”When you find out the second part, please let me know, whenever it is you happen to hear.”

”Whether it goes one way or the other, I will do that,” Blackford promised solemnly. ”Shall we have supper now?”

”Why not?” Flora said. They left the hall and went back to the hotel where they were both staying. Neither of them minded being seen in public with the other; their friends.h.i.+p was common knowledge in Philadelphia. That they were anything more than friends, they kept to themselves.

They were working their way through indifferent beef stew when an excited-looking young man in a brightly checked jacket approached the table and said, ”Congressman Blackford?”

”That's right,” Blackford answered. The young man in the gaudy jacket glanced toward Flora. Understanding that glance, Blackford said, ”Do I understand that you come from Mr. Sinclair?” The newcomer nodded. ”Speak freely,” Blackford urged him. ”You may rely on Congresswoman Hamburger's discretion no less than my own.”

”Very well.” The eager youngster tipped his bowler to Flora. ”Pleased to meet you, ma'am.” He gave his attention back to Blackford. ”Mr. Sinclair says I am to tell you that you are his first choice. It's yours if you want it.”

Flora clapped her hands together. ”Oh, Hosea, how wonderful!” she exclaimed.

”Is it?” Blackford said, more to himself than to anyone else. ”I wonder. If I take it and lose, I go home. If I take it and win, I go into the shadows for four years, maybe for eight. It's not a choice to be made lightly.”

”You can't turn it down!” Flora said. ”You can't can't, not this year.”

”Can't I?” Blackford murmured. She looked alarmed. The young man in the loud jacket didn't. Pointing to him, Blackford smiled and said, ”You see? He knows there are plenty of other fish in the lake.” Flora sputtered angrily. Smiling still, Blackford went on, ”But no, I don't suppose I can, not this year. Yes, sir: if it pleases Mr. Sinclair to have my name placed in nomination for the vice presidency, I shall be honored to run with him and see if we can't tie a tin can to Teddy Roosevelt's tail and send him yapping down the street.”

”Swell!” The youngster stuck out his hand. Blackford shook it. ”My princ.i.p.al will be delighted, and I already am. This time, by thunder, we're going to lick 'em.” He waved and departed.

”We're going to lick them,” Blackford repeated. His smile was wide and amused. ”Well, by thunder, maybe we are. What I'm afraid of is that tomorrow you're going to have to listen to nominating speeches telling the convention what a saint I am, and you'll laugh so loud, you'll get yourself thrown out of the hall.”

”I would never do such a thing!” With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Flora added, ”Not right out loud, I wouldn't.”

And, indeed, she sat beaming with pride as speaker after speaker stood up to praise Hosea Blackford the next day. A couple of other names were also placed in nomination, but Blackford won on the first ballot. Flora clapped till her hands were red and sore, and she was far from the only one who did.

But, even in the nominating convention, the would-be vice president yielded pride of place to the man heading the ticket. A runner went to summon Hosea Blackford (custom had forbidden him from being in the hall while the nomination proceedings went on). The chairman of the convention said, ”And now, my friends”-no ladies and gentlemen ladies and gentlemen, not in the Socialist camp-”I have the privilege of presenting to you the next president of the United States, Mr. Upton Sinclair of New Jersey!”

More applause followed, louder and more prolonged than that which had announced Hosea Blackford's nomination. Sinclair bounded up to the platform. Both his stride and the white summer-weight suit he wore proclaimed his youthful energy: Flora couldn't remember whether he was forty-one or forty-two. Set against the sixtyish Roosevelt, he seemed boyish, bouncy, full of spit and vinegar.