“Are you all finished?” she demanded, perhaps half an hour later. The surliness in her tone—which, from Rebecca, was unheard of—brought everyone up short.
“Children!” she snapped. “Squabbling over your toys!”
She glared around the room. “What
difference
does it make? You have your Bill of Rights—no quarrel there. You have your citizenship requirements—no quarrel there either. You have your elections and all the other trappings of democracy—any arguments over
that
petty matter?”
Silence. “So what is it then?” In a little singsong: “’I think we should register people at-large. I think we should register them by residence.’” She took a deep breath. Then:
“
Who gives a shit?
”
Dead silence. Rebecca
never
used that kind of—
“Ha! As I said—
children.
”
At that moment, the door opened and Frank Jackson entered the room. Behind him came Gretchen.
Rebecca pointed dramatically at the new arrivals.
“Ask them!” she commanded. “Go ahead!”
After the issue was explained, Frank spoke first. “Don’t much care,” he said, shrugging. “Six of one, half dozen of the other. So I figure since Mike’ll be running the show—he’s got my vote anyway—let him have what he wants.”
Gretchen was terser still. “Vat he says,” she stated, pointing at Frank.
Gretchen and Frank’s remarks, combined with Rebecca’s profanity, had produced a sharp break in the room’s tension. The members of the committee stared at each other, for a moment. Then, collectively, they heaved a sigh and relaxed.
Mike cleared his throat. “Look, I’m not trying to make pronouncements about abstract political principles. I’m just trying to give us a political system that does the best job for our current needs. We can always hold another constitutional convention later, when circumstances change. Remember what I said. We’re at the equivalent of 1776, not 1789. The Constitution which our old United States adopted came out of years of experience and discussion.
After
the revolution, not at the start of it. So let’s give ourselves the same breathing room. For now, I want to keep our eyes focused on the struggle ahead of us.
Today. Right now.
”
Mike nodded toward Gretchen. At Frank’s quiet insistence, the young German woman had taken a seat at the table. “The reason I asked Gretchen to sit in—which I plan on making a permanent thing, by the way—is because later on in the meeting I want you all to hear her report. As far as I’m concerned, the work that Gretchen’s started is going to be a lot more important, in the long run, than any victories we win on a battlefield. Or whether we register people to vote at-large or by residence.”
He almost laughed, seeing the simultaneous looks of discomfort which came over the faces of Melissa and Quentin. Each in their different ways, both people were a bit aghast at the way Mike and Rebecca were shaping Melissa’s original proposal. Melissa was upset because practice was proving to be a lot
messier
than theory. And, she already understood, was going to be a lot bloodier. Her semiromantic idealism about the “underground” was now in the firm grip of a woman who had no romanticism about it at all. Just a determination to
win
, driven by an iron will.
Quentin, of course, had never been fond of the theory in the first place. He found himself in the peculiar position of helping to lead a revolution—a task for which, temperamentally, he had no sympathy at all. By nature and habit, Quentin Underwood was a man of the establishment.
Mike turned his eyes upon him. Quentin and Melissa formed the poles of the committee. Both of them were often unhappy with the way Mike drove things forward. But Melissa’s support, at least for the moment, was a given. If nothing else, she had no alternative. Quentin, on the other hand—
Underwood heaved a sigh. “Oh, hell. All right, Mike. I’ll go along with at-large elections, much as it rubs me the wrong way.”
The victory was only half won. Mike gave Underwood his own sharp eye. “Not good enough, Quentin. Not good enough by half. ’Going along’ is one thing. Standing up and being counted is another. We’ve already decided to call for new elections for delegates to a constitutional convention, since that voice-vote ’election’ a few days after the Ring of Fire was too casual and too far back. You’re bound to be elected one of those delegates, Quentin. But how are you going to
run
?” Mike pointed to the proposed constitution in front of him. “Based on
that
platform? Or someone else’s?”
He didn’t bother to specify the “someone else.” There was no need.
Underwood returned Mike’s stare with his own. Everyone else in the room found themselves holding their breath. They had reached a decisive moment, they suddenly realized, without anyone other than Mike—and maybe Rebecca—seeing it coming. For months, the group of people in that room had worked together as a team. But—
In the universe they had left behind, Quentin Underwood—capable, narrow-minded, intelligent, stubborn, energetic, hard-driving manager that he was—would have been a natural ally of John Simpson.
Establishment. Tory through and through.
Would he break ranks now?
“Cut it out, Mike,” growled Underwood. “Do I look like an idiot? If Simpson was running this show, we’d have been dead by now.”
Suddenly, he grinned. That cheerful expression was not seen often on Quentin’s face.
“So. You thought up a name yet?”
Mike’s face was blank. Quentin’s grin widened. “For our political party, dope. Gotta have one, if you want to be president of a revolution-in-progress. None of that above-the-fray Washington business for
you,
young man!”
Blank.
“What a genius,” chuckled Underwood. “Leave it to a UMWA
mi-li-tant.
” The chuckle grew into a soft laugh. “This calls for managerial skills. I think we oughta call ourselves the Fourth of July Party.”
“Fourth of July
Movement
,” came Melissa’s immediate riposte.
And that, of course, startled another wrangle. But Rebecca wasn’t reduced to quoting verses. The argument was sharp, short—and ended in an overwhelming victory. Everything else against Melissa.
Fourth of July Party
it was. The announcement was made the following morning, along with the declaration that the constitutional convention was to go into session.
Simpson protested immediately, even though he had been calling for the convention for weeks. “To bridle the Stearns military dictatorship,” as he had often put it.
No matter. The iron heel of democracy was on Grantville’s neck. The victim of that tyranny reacted as could be expected.
Politicking! Whoopee!
Chapter 41
“Americans ae a daft breed,” stated Lennox. Firmly, he drained his mug; and, just as firmly, set it down on the table. “No daft enough, howe’er, t’keep brewin’ they sorry excuse f’r beer. So I will make allowances.”
The man sitting across from him at the large table, Moses Abrabanel, ignored the remarks. He was gazing about the main room of the recently opened and jampacked Thuringen Gardens. He seemed in a bit of a daze. So did the man sitting next to him, his distant cousin Samuel. For all their relative youth—both men were still short of thirty—they were experienced negotiators and men of affairs, accustomed to navigating the corridors of power in Vienna and Italy. At the moment, however, they seemed like country rubes.
Smiling, Lennox glanced to his left. Balthazar returned the smile with one of his own. Clearly enough, the two “old America hands” were enjoying the discomfiture of the newcomers. Moses and Samuel had arrived only a few days earlier, and were still in a state of semi-shock.
Some of that was caused by their own folk. The small number of Jews who had settled in Grantville over the past months had acclimatized with a vengeance. To a degree, that was expected. The Jews were all Sephardim who, unlike the Ashkenazim of eastern Europe, had a long tradition of cosmopolitanism. The saw “When in Rome . . .” might have been invented by them.
Still—
It was hard to know what startled Samuel and Moses the most. Perhaps the open manner in which Grantville’s practicing Jews were overseeing the construction of their new synagogue. The temple was being built in the rehabilitated shell of an abandoned building right in the middle of town. Perhaps. But—
The night before, Michael Stearns had spent hours in Balthazar’s living room, engaged in a frank and freewheeling discussion with the two Abrabanel representatives as well as Balthazar himself. This, of course, was as it should be. But Rebecca had spent the hours with them—and participated just as fully as anyone else.
So much was bad enough.
Then!
When the discussion was finally ended, Rebecca’s father retired for the night—with his two young male relatives firmly in tow. Rebecca, on the other hand, had remained behind.
Unchaperoned? Shocking! Her father permits this? And a gentile! Shocking!
Remembering the expressions on his relatives’ faces, Balthazar hastily drained his own mug—more to quench his outright laughter than his thirst. Moses and Samuel would have been considerably more shocked, he knew, if they had wandered into the living room a few minutes later. They would have found Rebecca planted in Michael’s lap, engaging in a
most
unseemly form of American behavior. For all his own cosmopolitanism, Balthazar himself had been shocked, the first time he accidentally stumbled across his daughter engaged in that particular practice. He had not intervened, although he did speak to Rebecca the next day. But she had defended herself vigorously and, under the circumstances, Balthazar had let the matter pass. He allowed that the American term for it had a certain rough charm. “Necking,” they called it.
But most of Moses and Samuel’s discomfiture was caused by the Americans themselves.
First and foremost, of course, was the manner of American female dress. Much of which was prominently displayed at this very moment in the Thuringen Gardens.
Samuel was trying not to ogle a young woman standing at the bar nearby. The woman was exchanging words with Rebecca, a discussion which seemed to amuse both of them. Given the shapeliness of her figure, brazenly displayed in tight-fitting blouse and pants, the task was clearly straining the young man’s will.
Lennox came to the rescue, in a manner of speaking. “Nae that one, laddie,” he said, shaking his head in solemn reproof.
Flushing, Samuel looked away. “She is married? Engaged?”
“Nayther, at t’moment.” There was an interruption, as one of the barmaids arrived and plunked a pitcher of beer on the table. “On the house,” she said in thickly accented English. “Compliments of the campaign.” Then she was off, plowing through the mob. The woman was stout and well past her youth. Like most of the barmaids at the Thuringen Gardens, she had been hired for her tenacity and determination as well as her experience. She was a former tavern-keeper herself, accustomed to maneuvering through rowdy throngs—and glad to do it again, now that she was earning more money than she’d ever dreamed of.
“At t’moment,” repeated Lennox. He gave the young woman in question a brief inspection. “Th’lass ’as risen soom in status lately, as it ’appens, an’ her former young man took it puirly. So ’e was unceremoniously given t’boot.”
He saw Rebecca give the woman a little nudge with her elbow, after glancing at the door. Smiling thinly, Lennox turned away and refilled all the mugs. “Bu’ I daresay there’ll be another along soon.” His eye caught motion, heading toward him. “An’ speak o’ t’devil.”
Mackay pulled up a chair next to Samuel and dropped into it. He seemed exhausted.
“Beer?” asked Lennox, pushing a mug toward him.
“
Yes
.” The word was almost hissed. “Please!” Alex was having a bit of difficulty talking. His mouth seemed stiff. But not so stiff that he wasn’t able to drain the mug at one quaff. Wordlessly, he extended it for a refill. Lennox obliged, and the refill went the way of its mate.
Mackay lowered the mug. A slight shudder rippled his shoulders. “There’s a man who’ll never lack for work,” he commented grimly. “Worse comes to worst, the Inquisition would treasure his talents.”
Lennox grunted. “Bad again, eh?” Mackay shrugged. Lennox shook his head. “Madness, what men will put theyselves through. D’ye think ’tis worth it, lad?”
“Do find another chair, would you?” murmured Balthazar to Samuel. “I think the young lady is coming for a visit.”
Lennox turned his head. Sure enough. Julie Sims was bouncing over with her inimitable stride. He was amused to spot Rebecca moving away through the crowd. Like a snake in the grass, having made her strike.
Treacherous Eve!
“Hi, Alex!” Julie called out. Samuel hastily arose and offered her his chair. Smiling, she accepted, while Samuel went in search of another.
The smile, transferred to Mackay, became very wide. “Daddy tells me you’ve been coming to see him,” she said, without preamble. “So lemme have a look.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mackay open his mouth. Slightly. Julie shook her head firmly. “Come on, Alex. Show me.”
Wider. The head shaking continued. Wider. Continued. Alex sighed. Gaped.
Julie half rose and inspected his teeth from close range. Nothing casual about that examination, either, as you might expect from a dentist’s daughter.
She sat back down. “Looking good,” she announced. The smile thinned, and the amusement in her eyes was replaced by something very warm. “That must hurt an awful lot,” she said softly. The statement was not one of commiseration, however. It was more in the way of an assessment. The look which accompanied the words seemed to belong to someone much older than eighteen.
