"Hold up, boys," Caleb Briggs said, and the Freedom Party men obeyed him, not the militia major. He spoke to the officer: "Who are you to tell us we can't protest against the so-called policies of the government in Richmond?"

"You can stay right here," the major answered. "You can shout your fool heads off. I don't give a damn about that. If you take one step forward from where you stand now, I will assume you are attempting to riot, not to protest, and I will order you shot down like dogs. Those are my orders, and I shall carry them out. So will my men. If you think we are bluffing, sir, I invite you to try us."

Jeff didn't think the major was bluffing. The soldiers behind him looked ready, even eager, to open fire. The governor had picked with care the troops he'd activated. Caleb Briggs came to the same conclusion. "You'll pay for this, Major, when the day comes," he hissed.

"If you take that step, sir, you'll pay for it now," the major told him. "Your ruffians have gotten away with too many things for too long. You will not get away with anything today, by God. You may do what the law allows. If you do even a single thing the law does not allow, you will pay for it."

The stalwarts jeered him and hooted at him and cursed him. He seemed to worry about that no more than a man with a good slicker and a broad-brimmed hat worried about going out in the rain. And not one of the Freedom Party men took the step forward that would have made the officer issue his fatal order.

"All right, boys," Briggs said. "Maybe we won't give Hampton the tyrant what-for today in person. But we can let him know what we think of him, right? This here country still has freedom of speech."

"Freedom!" was the chant they raised, a loud and mocking chant. Jefferson Pinkard bellowed out the word as ferociously as he could, doing everything in his power to drown out the president of the Confederate States. As far as he was concerned, Jake Featherston should have been up on the platform a few hundred yards away. He would have told the truth, not the bland lies Wade Hampton V spewed forth. The bland crowd ate them up, too, and cheered Hampton almost as if they had true spirit.

"Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!" All the stalwarts were roaring, doing their best to show Hampton and show the world the militia hadn't cowed them. Maybe next time we'll bring rifles, too, Pinkard thought. It had almost come to that during the presidential campaign. After fighting the damnyankees, he did not shy away from fighting his own government. "Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!"

When the first shot rang out from the grove of hackberry trees off to the right of the Freedom Party men, Jeff didn't hear it. But he saw Wade Hampton V stagger on the platform and clutch at his chest. He did hear the second shot. That second bullet must have caught Hampton in the head or the heart, for he stopped staggering and went down as if all his bones had turned to water.

A few of the stalwarts whooped when the president of the Confederate States fell. Most, though, Pinkard among them, stared in the horrified silence that filled the crowd of Hampton's backers. Men dashed across the platform to the president's side. Jeff didn't think they'd be able to do much for him. He'd seen too many men go down in that boneless way during the Great War. Hardly any of them ever got up again.

From the hackberry grove came a wild, exultant shout: "Freedom!"

"Sergeant Davenport! Sergeant Sullivan!" the militia major rapped out. "Take your troops in among those trees and bring that man to me. I don't care whether he's breathing or not, but bring him to me."

Two squads of militiamen trotted toward the hackberries. Another shot rang out. A man fell. Another shot from the trees- this one a miss, the bullet whining past not far from Pinkard. Without conscious thought, he threw himself flat. A lot of Freedom Party men and a lot of militiamen did the same. The advancing militiamen opened fire on the grove.

Caleb Briggs stayed on his feet. More than gas roughened his voice as he said, "That man is not one of ours, Major. My God, I-"

One of the dignitaries on the platform walked up to the microphone. "President Hampton is dead." He sounded astonished, disbelieving.

Jeff understood that. He felt stunned and empty himself. He'd been ready-he'd been eager-to fight for the Freedom Party, but this… No one had murdered-assassinated, he supposed was the proper word-a president in the history of the Confederate States, or in the history of the United States before the Confederacy seceded.

Drawing his pistol, the militia major aimed it at Briggs. More shots came from the hackberries. Another militiaman went down with a shriek. But some of the others were in among the trees. The major ignored that action. Infinite bitterness filled his voice: "'Not one of yours, you say? He shouts your shout. He uses your methods. Politics was not war till the Freedom Party made it so."

"Now listen here-" Briggs began.

Triumphant cries rang out from the hackberry grove. Through them, the major said, "No, sir. You listen to me. Get your rabble out of here by the count of five, or I will turn my men loose on them and we will have a massacre the likes of which this country has never seen. Maybe it's one we should have had a couple of years ago-then things wouldn't have come to this. One… two… three-"

"Go home, boys," Caleb Briggs said quickly. His face was gray. "For the love of God, go home. There's been enough blood spilled today."

"Too much," the militia major said. "Far too much. You disappoint me, Mr. Briggs. I would have liked to shoot you down."

Briggs stood silent, letting himself be reviled. As Jefferson Pinkard got to his feet, militiamen came out of the hackberry grove. They were dragging a body by the feet. The corpse wore butternut trousers and a green shirt, now soaked with blood. The gunman must have been almost invisible in among the trees. Jeff stared at his long, pale, sharp-nosed face. He'd seen that face at Party meetings, not regularly, but every so often. The fellow was named Grady… Grady Something-or-other. Jeff knew he'd talked with him. but couldn't remember his surname.

From the appalled looks on other Party stalwarts' faces, he knew they also recognized the assassin. The militia major saw that, too. "Not one of yours, eh?" he repeated. "Another lie. Get out of my sight before I forget myself"

Briggs went. Jeff stumbled after him, along with his comrades. Someone close by was moaning. After a moment, he realized it was himself What do we-what do I-do now? he wondered. Sweet suffering Jesus, what do I do now?

Anne Colleton was frying chicken for supper when her brother came into the kitchen of the large apartment they still shared. She started to greet him, then got a good look at his face. She hadn't seen that kind of dazed, horrified expression since the war. Above the cheerful crackling of the chicken, she asked, "My God, Tom, what's gone wrong?"

By way of answer, he held up the copy of the Columbia South Carolinian he carried under his arm. The headline was enormous and very, very black: