Read Online Blood and Iron by Harry Turtledove - Free Book Online
Authors: Harry Turtledove
Tags: Fiction
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lieutenant-colonel, too, the son of a bitch.” Before she could answer, he hung up.
So did she, and she laughed, too. She admired the submariner; he was, she judged, almost as thoroughly self-centered as herself. Tom raised an eyebrow. “Who’s this Commander—Kimball, is it?”
“That’s right. He captained a submarine,” Anne answered. “I got to know him on the train to New Orleans not long after the war started.” He’d seduced her in his Pullman berth, too, but she didn’t mention that.
“How well do you know him?” Tom asked.
“We’re friends,” she said.
I was in bed with him down in Charleston when the Red Negro uprising broke out.
She didn’t mention that, either.
She didn’t have to. “Are you more than…friends?” her brother demanded.
Before the war, he wouldn’t have dared question her that way. “I’ve never asked what you did while you weren’t fighting,” she said. “What I did, or didn’t do, is none of your business.”
Tom set his jaw and looked stubborn. He wouldn’t have done that before the war, either. No, she couldn’t control him any more, not with certainty. He said, “If you’re going to marry the guy, it is. If he’s just after your money, I’ll send him packing. What you’re doing affects me, you know.”
Nor would he have had that thought in 1914. “If he were just after my money, don’t you think
I
would have sent him packing?” she asked in return. “I can take care of myself, you know, with a rifle or any other way.”
“All right,” Tom said. “People who fall in love are liable to go all soft in the head, though. I wanted to make sure it hadn’t happened to you.”
“When it does, you can shovel dirt on me, because I’ll be dead.” Anne spoke with great conviction. Tom came over and kissed her on the cheek. They both laughed, liking each other very much at that moment.
In the trenches down in Virginia, Chester Martin had heard New Englanders talk about a lazy wind, a wind that didn’t bother blowing around a man but went straight through him. The wind coming off Lake Erie this morning while he picketed the Toledo steel mill where he would sooner have been working was just that kind. In spite of coat and long underwear, in spite of hat and ear muffs, he shivered and his teeth chattered as he trudged back and forth in front of the plant.
His sign was stark in its simplicity. It bore but one word, that in letters a foot high: THIEVES ! “They want to cut our wages,” he said to the fellow in front of him, a stocky man named Albert Bauer. “We went out and got shot at—hell, I got shot—and they stayed home and got rich. No, they got richer; they were already rich. And they want to cut our wages.”
Bauer was a solid Socialist. He said, “This is what we get for reelecting that bastard Roosevelt.”
“He’s not so bad,” Martin said. A Democrat himself, he walked the picket line with his more radical coworkers. “He visited my stretch of the front once; hell, I jumped on him when the Rebs started shelling us. Later, when I got wounded, he found out about it and sent me a note.”
“Bully!” Bauer said. “Can you eat the note? Can you take it to the bank and turn it into money? Roosevelt will oblige. Feudal nobles do. But does he care about whether you starve? Not likely!”
“Hush!” Chester Martin said suddenly. He pointed. “Here come the scabs.” The factory owners always had people willing to work for them, no matter how little they paid. They also had the police on their side.
Jeers and curses and all manner of abuse rained down on the heads of the workers taking the places of the men who’d gone on strike. So did a few rocks and bottles, in spite of Socialist calls for calm and in spite of the strong force of blue-uniformed policemen escorting them into the steel mill. “Well, now they’ve gone and done it,” Albert Bauer said in disgusted tones. “Now they’ve given the goddamn cops the goddamn
So did she, and she laughed, too. She admired the submariner; he was, she judged, almost as thoroughly self-centered as herself. Tom raised an eyebrow. “Who’s this Commander—Kimball, is it?”
“That’s right. He captained a submarine,” Anne answered. “I got to know him on the train to New Orleans not long after the war started.” He’d seduced her in his Pullman berth, too, but she didn’t mention that.
“How well do you know him?” Tom asked.
“We’re friends,” she said.
I was in bed with him down in Charleston when the Red Negro uprising broke out.
She didn’t mention that, either.
She didn’t have to. “Are you more than…friends?” her brother demanded.
Before the war, he wouldn’t have dared question her that way. “I’ve never asked what you did while you weren’t fighting,” she said. “What I did, or didn’t do, is none of your business.”
Tom set his jaw and looked stubborn. He wouldn’t have done that before the war, either. No, she couldn’t control him any more, not with certainty. He said, “If you’re going to marry the guy, it is. If he’s just after your money, I’ll send him packing. What you’re doing affects me, you know.”
Nor would he have had that thought in 1914. “If he were just after my money, don’t you think
I
would have sent him packing?” she asked in return. “I can take care of myself, you know, with a rifle or any other way.”
“All right,” Tom said. “People who fall in love are liable to go all soft in the head, though. I wanted to make sure it hadn’t happened to you.”
“When it does, you can shovel dirt on me, because I’ll be dead.” Anne spoke with great conviction. Tom came over and kissed her on the cheek. They both laughed, liking each other very much at that moment.
In the trenches down in Virginia, Chester Martin had heard New Englanders talk about a lazy wind, a wind that didn’t bother blowing around a man but went straight through him. The wind coming off Lake Erie this morning while he picketed the Toledo steel mill where he would sooner have been working was just that kind. In spite of coat and long underwear, in spite of hat and ear muffs, he shivered and his teeth chattered as he trudged back and forth in front of the plant.
His sign was stark in its simplicity. It bore but one word, that in letters a foot high: THIEVES ! “They want to cut our wages,” he said to the fellow in front of him, a stocky man named Albert Bauer. “We went out and got shot at—hell, I got shot—and they stayed home and got rich. No, they got richer; they were already rich. And they want to cut our wages.”
Bauer was a solid Socialist. He said, “This is what we get for reelecting that bastard Roosevelt.”
“He’s not so bad,” Martin said. A Democrat himself, he walked the picket line with his more radical coworkers. “He visited my stretch of the front once; hell, I jumped on him when the Rebs started shelling us. Later, when I got wounded, he found out about it and sent me a note.”
“Bully!” Bauer said. “Can you eat the note? Can you take it to the bank and turn it into money? Roosevelt will oblige. Feudal nobles do. But does he care about whether you starve? Not likely!”
“Hush!” Chester Martin said suddenly. He pointed. “Here come the scabs.” The factory owners always had people willing to work for them, no matter how little they paid. They also had the police on their side.
Jeers and curses and all manner of abuse rained down on the heads of the workers taking the places of the men who’d gone on strike. So did a few rocks and bottles, in spite of Socialist calls for calm and in spite of the strong force of blue-uniformed policemen escorting them into the steel mill. “Well, now they’ve gone and done it,” Albert Bauer said in disgusted tones. “Now they’ve given the goddamn cops the goddamn
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