Had the world been a perfect place, an Irishman would have commanded the Remembrance. Captain Oliver Roland, though, was a swarthy man of French descent. He said, "The United States are delighted to welcome Ireland into the family of nations. Along with those of Poland and Quebec, her independence shows how the powers of the Quadruple Alliance respect the national aspirations of peoples whom our late foes for too long kept from the freedom they deserved."

The lord mayor bowed in delight. The Irish admiral clapped his hands. Beside Sam, Willie Moore let out a rude but quiet snort. The gun-crew chief proceeded to put words to it: "The Poles get to do what the Germans tell 'em, and the froggies in Quebec get to do what we tell 'em, and the micks have never been any goddamn good at doing what anybody tells 'em."

That was cynical. It was also very likely to be true. A chief gunner's mate could say it to a man in his crew. Had Captain Roland said it to the lord mayor of Dublin, it wouldn't have gone over so well. The skipper had to be, or at least had to act like, a politician here.

"We going to get liberty, Chief?" Sam whispered to Moore.

"I hear we are," Moore whispered back. "Other thing I hear is, anybody picks up a dose of the clap, they're going to cut his balls off so he never, ever gets a chance to do it again. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I sure do," Sam answered in a whispered falsetto.

Willie Moore's eyes opened wide for a moment. Then, in lieu of laughing, he started to cough. "Damn you, Carsten, you sly son of a bitch," he wheezed. He coughed again, and gave Sam a dirty look. Sam did his best to assume a mantle of angelic innocence. By Moore's expression, his best was none too good.

He did get liberty, but not till three days later: this close to England, Captain Roland wanted to keep as near a full crew aboard the Remembrance as possible. Maybe officers toured Dublin's cathedrals and other sights. Sam still thought about trying to become an officer himself. He wasn't interested in cathedrals, though. He went into the first bar-pubs, they called them here-he spotted, only a couple of blocks away from the quay on the River Liffey by which the Remembrance lay.

GUINNESS is GOOD FOR YOU! proclaimed a sign in the window. It showed a healthy-looking fellow pouring down a pint of stout. Sam had heard of Guinness, but he'd never drunk any. He couldn't imagine a better place to ease his thirst and improve his education at the same time. In he went.

When he asked for the famous stout, the publican beamed at him. "Indeed and I'm happy to serve a Yank," he declared, sounding much more like an Irishman than had the lord mayor. "If you haven't changed your money, a quarter of a dollar'll do it."

"I'll bet it will," Sam said, not very happily. Back in the States, he could buy five glasses of beer for a quarter. But he wasn't back in the States, and Guinness was supposed to be something special. He dug in his pocket and set a silver coin on the bar.

The Irishman did give him full measure, filling the pint pot to the brim and then using the last drips from the tap to draw a shamrock in the creamy head. Seeing Sam's eye on him, he smiled shyly. "Just showing off," he murmured.

"Thanks," Sam said, and lifted the glass in salute. "Cheers." He sipped at the Guinness. After a moment's thought, he nodded. It might not have been worth a quarter, but it came close. A lot more was going on in that taste than in the pale, watery beers he bought at home. It put him in mind of drinking pumpernickel bread. It packed a wallop, too. He could see where, after three or four pints, he wouldn't be hungry any more and he wouldn't be able to walk, either.

He wasn't ready to get blind. He had something else on his mind first. "You happen to know where I could find me a friendly girl?" he asked.

"I do that," the tapman answered. "You go round the corner here"-he pointed-"then knock at the house with the blue door. Tell 'em Sean sent you, and they'll take a wee bit off the price."

They'd give him his cut for sending trade their way, was what he meant. Sam had got that same answer from a good many bartenders in his time. It didn't bother him. They weren't in business for their health; they wanted to make a buck-no, a pound here-like anybody else.

He drank another pint of Guinness and then, feeling a pleasant buzz, found the house with the blue door. Sean's name got him inside. "Another one!" the madam said, seeing his uniform. "Christ, you Yanks are horny devils."

"We've been at sea a long time, ma'am," Sam answered.

Before long, he was happily settled upstairs with a plump blonde who said he could call her Louise. His first round ended almost before it started, as often happened after a long time without. He laid out some more cash and began again. Things were progressing most enjoyably when some sort of commotion broke out down below.

He concentrated on the business at hand till a raucous American-accented voice bellowed, "Any sailors off the Remembrance who ain't back aboard in an hour, you're damn well gonna get stranded! We're sailing then!" That blue door slammed shut.

"Jesus!" Sam said, and applied himself. He came in a few strokes. That spoiled things for Louise, who, he thought, had been warming up nicely beneath him. But he didn't have time to worry about her, not any more. She gave him an unhappy look as he scrambled into his clothes. He didn't have time to worry about that, either. He was right behind one American leaving the whorehouse, and right in front of another one.

Panting, he hurried up the gangplank to the Remembrance, "What the hell's going on?" he asked as he came aboard.

"Uprising in the north," a sailor answered. "They don't want to cut England's apron strings up there. The Irish have asked us to give 'em a hand with our aeroplanes and guns, and we're going to do it."

"Oh. All right." Sam thought for a moment, then chuckled. "Damn good thing they didn't rise up an hour earlier, that's all I've got to say."

Emily Pinkard said, "I swear to Jesus, Jeff, if I didn't know where you was goin' nights, I'd reckon you had yourself another girl on the side."

"Well, I don't." Jefferson Pinkard gave his wife a severe look. She was the one who'd been unfaithful, and now she had the nerve to think he might be? Emily dropped her eyes. She knew what she'd done. Jeff went on, "The Freedom Party's important, dammit. I don't think there's anything more important in the whole country right now."

What was she doing on nights when he wasn't home? Pinkard worried about that, especially since Bedford Cunningham, however much he'd thought of Jake Featherston's speech, hadn't followed up by joining the Freedom Party. Jeff had, and kept going to Party meetings. Before he'd signed up, everything had seemed pointless, useless. Now his life had a focus. He'd found a cause.

"It's bigger than I am," he said, trying to make Emily understand. "It's more important than I am. But I'm part of it. Things'll get better, and they'll get better partly thanks to me. To me." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest.

Emily sighed. "People carry on too much about politics, I swear they do. You come right down to it, none of that stuff means anything anyways."

"Weren't for politics, we wouldn't have fought the war." Jeff gave her a perfunctory kiss, then headed out the door. "I ain't got time to argue tonight. I don't want to be late."

He'd heard that the Freedom Party had started out meeting in a Richmond saloon. Since Alabama was a dry state, the Birmingham Party headquarters couldn't imitate those of the founding chapter. Jeff regretted that; he would have enjoyed sitting around with the new friends he'd made and hashing things out over a couple of schooners of beer or shots of whiskey.

He enjoyed sitting around with his new friends anyway, but doing it in a livery stable wasn't the same. Still, the stable owner was a Party member, and the money he got for renting the place out once a week as a meeting hall helped keep him afloat. With so many people going from carriages to motorcars these days, he needed all the help he could get.