"It's good training for Congress," Maria Tresca answered. The look she sent toward Flora was speculative, to say the least. Flora didn't answer, not in words, but her smile was jauntier than she would have thought possible, considering how tired she was.

Herman Bruck never noticed the byplay. He was busy, too-impressively, ostentatiously busy-drafting his speech.

May Day dawned warm and muggy, a day right out of July. More than a few men in the crowds lining Broadway sported straw hats instead of homburgs or caps, as if it truly were summer. The band at the head of the parade-not so fancy as the military bands that strutted down the avenue on Remembrance Day-struck up the "Internationale," then the "Marseillaise," and last the "Star-Spangled Banner." Everyone cheered the national anthem; the other two brought mingled cheers and boos.

"The hell with the frogs, and the hell with their song!" somebody shouted.

"It's a song of revolution," Flora shouted back as she marched along. "It's a song against tyranny and oppression, and for freedom. Don't you think we need that?"

"They're the enemy!" the heckler yelled to her.

"They've forgotten freedom," she returned. Defiantly, she added, "And so have we."

A few eggs flew out of the crowd toward the parade. The cops didn't do anything about that. When somebody threw a bottle instead, though, they waded in, nightsticks swinging. Flora gave a judicious nod. Throwing eggs wasn't that far from heckling, and the Constitution protected heckling no matter who did it. A bottle, now, a bottle was liable to be lethal.

One of the red banners the Socialists carried showed a bare-chested Negro carrying a rifle. REVOLUTION OF THE CSA-1915. REVOLUTION IN THE USA-19??.

"The Rebs put the niggers down!" That cry came out of the crowd at least twice every city block.

The Socialists were ready for it: "Does that mean you want us to act just like the Confederates?" Identifying U.S. actions with those of the hated enemy reduced all but the most politically savvy hecklers to confusion-better yet, to speechless confusion.

Jews and Irishmen, Italians and a few Negroes, Anglo-Saxons and Germans, too, the marchers made their way up to Central Park, where they congregated for the speeches. Herman Bruck and Flora climbed up onto the platform packed with politicians and labor leaders. Bruck eyed her with complacent glee and introduced her to some of the Socialist bigwigs (something even an egalitarian party possessed) she hadn't yet met.

Big Bill Haywood eyed her, too, in a manner that tempted her to take out the hatpin. He had only one eye that tracked and he stank of whiskey, but the furious energy he brought to any cause-whether organizing or striking-made him a force for the money power to reckon with. "Give 'em hell, missy," he said in a gravelly bass. "They deserve it."

Senator Debs of Indiana was more urbane but no more ready to back down. "TR wants to deal with us as the French dealt with the Paris Commune," he said. "We'll show him we are stronger, even in the midst of this foolish war we never should have agreed to help finance." He grimaced at the tactical blunder his party had made back in 1914. Flora wondered, though, whether he would say the same thing if, as seemed likely, he gained the Socialist nomination for president later in the year.

One speaker after another went up to the podium, blasted the Democrats, praised labor to the skies, and withdrew. "And now, from the Fourteenth Ward, home of the late, great Congressman Zuckerman, Mr. Herman Bruck!" yelled the fellow in charge of keeping the speeches in some kind of order.

He stepped back. Herman Bruck stepped forward. He delivered his speech. Flora stopped listening to it about a minute and a half in. It was everything she'd thought it would be, in its strengths and weaknesses, the latter summarized by the yawns she saw out in the crowd.

Bruck finished and stepped back to polite, tepid applause. "Also from the Fourteenth Ward, Miss Flora Hamburger!" the presenter shouted.

Trying to ignore the pounding of her heart, Flora looked out over the podium at the sea of faces out there. "Birds have nests!" she cried, and pounded a fist down on the polished wood. "Foxes have dens! What does the proletariat have? Nothing but the strength of its right arms, for the capitalists have stolen everything else! And now, not content with that, they send the workers of our country-the workers of the world-out to die by millions in a war that has nothing to do with them. Do we sit idly by and let that happen? Or do we take action, brothers and sisters?"

Maybe fear for David, who would go in for his examination tomorrow, lent her even more passion than she would have had otherwise. However that was, by the time she finished, the applause she got lifted her far higher above the crowd than could have been accounted for by the platform alone. She stepped back dazed, hardly knowing what she'd done.

Big Bill Haywood's hungry stare put her in mind of a wolf eyeing a slab of steak. Eugene Debs said, "Young lady, I think I shall tear up my own speech." Herman Bruck looked half astonished, half terrified. That, somehow, was sweetest of all.

Tom Kennedy put a friendly arm around Cincinnatus'shoulder. "Come on into the back room," he said. "Have a cigar with us." He laughed. So did Joe Conroy. The storekeeper waved Cincinnatus into that back room.

With no small reluctance, he followed the two white men in there. Inside, he was sighing-no, worse, he was sweating. He didn't want to have anything to do with the Confederate underground still operating in Covington, Kentucky, not any more he didn't. But, quite literally, they knew where he lived. If they wanted him to play along, he either had to do it or betray them to the U.S. occupying authorities and then live in fear for the rest of his life. For now, going along seemed less dangerous.

The back room smelled of tobacco and spices and sweets and leather, with a faint undertone of potatoes going bad. To his surprise, Conroy reached into a cigar box and handed him a plump panatella. "Thank you, suh," he said in some surprise. Kennedy was the one who'd always treated him pretty well. To Conroy, he'd been just another hired nigger.

"Hear tell you've been drivin' trucks all over creation for the damnyankees these past few weeks," Conroy said. "Reckon that's why you ain't been in to see us much, even when we put the signal up in the window for you."

"It's a fact, suh," Cincinnatus agreed, gratefully seizing on the excuse the storekeeper offered him. "Sometimes I'm gone fo' days at a time."

"That's fine," Tom Kennedy said. He was thin and dapper and clever; it wasn't by accident he'd been running the hauling firm for which Cincinnatus had worked before the war. "I always knew there was a lot to you, Cincinnatus. Once we win the war, smart black fellows like you will have a lot more chances in the CSA, I reckon. It's in the cards."

"You say that even after the Red uprisin'?" Cincinnatus asked. Kennedy and Conroy didn't know he was a part-time Red himself, but he was in no danger of blowing his cover with the question-the only people who didn't know about the Red Negro attempted revolution were dead.

Kennedy nodded, quite seriously. "Hell, yes, I say that. Richmond won't ever want that kind of thing to happen again, not ever, I tell you. Too many niggers to hold down all of you, so I figure they'll have to give you some of what you want. Don't you?"

Cincinnatus shrugged. He eyed Joe Conroy. The storekeeper nodded, however unenthusiastically. That made Cincinnatus think Kennedy might be right. The next question was, did he care? That was harder to answer. A few weeks before, he would have said a Confederacy with some rights for blacks didn't sound too bad. But now that he'd met Lieutenant Straubing, it didn't sound too good, either. He'd seen that men who didn't care about color were rare in the USA. In the CSA, they weren't rare-they simply didn't exist.