Blood and iron

"Thank you," Cinci

The truck rode heavy, the weight in back smoothing out its motion and making it laugh at bumps that would have jolted Cinci

His first two stops went smoothly, as he'd thought they would. He'd delivered to both Hank Twitchell and Calvin Dalyrimple before. Twitchell, a big, brawny fellow, even helped him lug barrels of oatmeal into his general store. Calvin Dalyrimple didn't; a strong breeze would have blown him away. They both signed their receipts and sent Cinci

He drove out to the west side of town with much more trepidation. That didn't shrink when he discovered Conroy's new general store sat between a saloon and a pawnshop. None of the looks he got from passersby as he stopped the truck in front of the store was friendly, or anything close. Most of them translated to, What the hell you doing here, nigger? He hoped the truck would still be there when he got done with his business with Conroy.

He also hoped the storekeeper wouldn't recognize him. When he brought the first barrel into the store, all he said was, "Here's your oatmeal, suh, straight off the docks. Got two more barrels in the truck; fetch 'em right in for you. All you got to do is sign the receipt shows you got 'em, and I be on my way."

Joe Conroy grunted. He was a round, middle-aged white man with narrow, suspicious eyes. He was also a Confederate diehard, and a friend of Cinci

Cinci

"Mornin', Mistuh Conroy." Cinci

But nobody came in except Cinci

"Yes, suh, that's a fact. Hear him say so my ownself," Cinci

"No, it wasn't the Reds," the storekeeper said. "But it was a friend of yours, just the same. We don't forget things like that, no indeed, we don't."

"I saved Tom Ke

"We know where you're at." Conroy put menace in his voice.

"And I know where you're at, too," Cinci

"Damn uppity nigger," Conroy growled.

"Yes, sir" Cinci

"Why do I give a damn about that?" Conroy said.

"On account of if you don't sign, I take this here oatmeal back to the docks and you don't get no more shipments." Cinci

But Conroy grabbed a pencil, scrawled his signature, and all but hurled the paper back at Cinci

"Much obliged, Mistuh Conroy." Cinci

"Come on," Sylvia Enos said to her children. "Get moving. I've got to take you over to Mrs. Dooley's so I can go to work."

"I like it better when you're not working, Ma," Mary Jane said. She would be five soon, which Sylvia found hard to believe. "I like it when you stay home with us."

"When she stays home with us, though, it's because she's out of work again, silly." George, Jr., spoke with the world-weary wisdom of his seven years-and wasn't shy about scoring points off his sister, either. "We have to have money."

He had a hard streak of pragmatism in him. His father had been the same way. George, Jr., looked very much like his father, though he was missing the brown Kaiser Bill mustache Sylvia's husband had worn. Seeing her son, Sylvia again cursed the fate that had put a submersible in the way of the USS Ericsson the night after the Confederate States yielded to the USA.

With the CSA out of the war, she thought, it had to be a British boat. George hadn't worried about the Royal Navy. A Confederate submarine had almost sunk his destroyer earlier in the war. He'd fought Rebel boats all the way up to the end. To have his ship sunk by the limeys after that… even now, it was hard to take. George hadn't deserved that much bad luck.

"Come on," Sylvia said again. "I can't be late on account of you. I can't be late at all."

That was nothing less than the gospel truth. With men home from the war in droves, jobs for women were harder and harder to come by. She didn't know how long the work at the galoshes factory would last, and she couldn't afford to anger the people over her in any way. She was the sole support for her family as much as any man was for his, but nobody looked at things that way. Men came first. Women had been fine during the war. Now…

Now she couldn't even vote for anyone who might better her plight. Massachusetts had no women's suffrage. Had she been able to cast a ballot, she would have voted Socialist in a heartbeat. The Democrats had been fine when it came to wi

She hurried the children out of the apartment and down to the clamorous streets of Boston. With a sigh of regret, she walked past a newsboy hawking the Globe. She couldn't justify laying out a couple of cents on it, not when she didn't know if she'd have work next week.

"England signs treaty!" the newsboys shouted, trying to persuade others to part with pe

It was, she supposed, good news. The best news, though, as far as she was concerned, would have been for the ocean to swallow England and all her works. And while the ocean was at it, it could swallow the CSA, too.

Mrs. Dooley was an aging widow with wavy hair defiantly he

After kissing George, Jr., and Mary Jane good-bye, Sylvia went back to the trolley stop, tossed another nickel in the fare box (and soon she would have to start paying Mary Jane's fare, too: one more expense), and headed to the galoshes factory. To her relief, she got there on time.