“Like hell,” Rountree said. “Why wasn’t I consulted about this?”

MacRae turned up his pink palms. “There was no need.”

“I’m on the Executive Committee of the Democratic—”

“It’s gone beyond that now, George. This is phase two.”

“You can’t just—”

“It’s done, George.” MacRae stared at him, practically nose to nose. Rountree was the larger man, but he backed off. “Now, you can either go along, or you can just plain go,” MacRae said. “Your choice.”

Rountree was confused. They had won—what more was there to gain? “We got what we wanted already.”

“You got what you wanted. There’s still some unfinished business.”

“Don’t give me that shit!” Rountree was talking too loud, trying to be heard above the rising din of the unruly crowd. While he was talking to MacRae, Solly Fishblate had left his seat and mounted the judge’s bench. He raised his hands for silence. All at once, the crowd hushed, and in the sudden instant of silence, the tail end of Rountree’s last remark rang out over the house: shit!

The audience erupted in laughter. Even Fishblate broke up—it was always a treat to see a blue blood make an ass of himself in public. Rountree was puzzled at first, then, realizing his voice had carried to every corner of the courtroom, he ducked his head and massaged his temples with his fingers. Now, he had a headache to go with his burning eyes.

Solly Fishblate stood behind the bench, gripping it hard, as if to keep himself from falling. He slouched, apparently overwhelmed by the weight of the crowd, and in a reedy voice made a few opening remarks. Fishblate yielded the floor to Senator-elect Bellamy, who opened with a standard acceptance speech full of purple sentiment and hyperbole. Striding back and forth in front of the bench like a prosecuting attorney, he expressed his gratitude in as many words as possible. He reminded them that he would not soon forget who had sent him to Washington: the Anglo-Saxon race.

The crowd gave him a thunderous standing ovation. They were in a jubilant mood this morning. Bellamy bowed and soaked up the applause till it began to peter out into sporadic clapping. Then he sat down.

Hugh MacRae was on the edge of his chair, holding a sheaf of white pages in his hand, when Fishblate, still on the bench, blurted out, “And now, a special treat. I direct your attention to that champion of our Cause—”

Hugh MacRae smiled and winked sideways at Rountree.

“—that sterling citizen of the world and the Old North State—”

MacRae straightened his cuffs and adjusted his tie.

“—that paragon of Southern chivalry, who has sacrificed so much to bring about the victory we now enjoy—”

MacRae leaned forward in his chair, ready to stand.

“Colonel Alfred Moore Waddell!”