Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt

Chapter 369 - 175: We Don’t Want Ideology

His last speech had been a masterful deflection, successfully redirecting the crowd’s fury toward Washington and the distant, untouchable Russell Warren.

But it wasn’t enough.

The crowd had stopped throwing rocks at him, but their eyes were still filled with suspicion.

A young man shouted from the back of the crowd, "Ron, don’t think you can clear your name just by pinning the blame on Warren! You signed a contract with that radical from Pittsburgh. You’re selling Erie out to the socialists! You betrayed the principles of the Republican Party!"

The words were a sharp spike, puncturing the somber mood that had just begun to coalesce.

The anger, which had started to subside, now threatened to flare up again.

The crowd began to stir, their suspicious gazes once again fixed on Smith.

It was a dangerous sign.

Smith stood on the steps, looking from the red-faced young man to the shifty-eyed citizens around him.

’These people.’

Smith inwardly shook his head.

When he’d returned from Pittsburgh with the contract and announced the factories were about to reopen, these were the same people raising their glasses in bars, praising him on every street corner as a great mayor who got things done.

Back then, no one asked where the money came from.

No one cared if Leo Wallace was a radical or a conservative.

All they cared about was whether they’d have a few more greenbacks in their pockets.

As long as the money came through, they would’ve gladly invited the Mayor of Pittsburgh over for Thanksgiving dinner.

But now?

Now the money’s stuck, the roads are blocked, and times are tough.

And just like that, they’d changed their tune.

Suddenly, they were talking about principles, political parties, and some vague notion of political purity.

They needed an outlet for their frustration, a reason for their current predicament. So they picked up the cudgel of morality.

This was human nature.

When greedy, it’s not enough to eat the meat—they have to complain it isn’t fat enough. When afraid, it’s not enough to flee—they have to trample over the bodies of others to get away.

But this naked reality, paradoxically, gave Smith an unprecedented sense of confidence.

Because he saw right through them.

Their so-called principles, their so-called beliefs—when survival was on the line, they were all just bargaining chips.

’If they want to talk principles, fine. Let’s talk about the principle of survival.’

Smith picked up the megaphone and took a step forward.

His entire demeanor shifted.

"Betrayal?"

Smith shot back at the young man, his voice as cold and hard as iron.

"What’s your name, kid?"

The young man froze, then answered automatically, "Jason."

"All right, Jason," Smith said, staring at him. "You say I betrayed our principles. Then let me ask you: when I announced at the press conference that the contract from Pittsburgh was a done deal, that your father and your uncle might get to go back to work at the factory..."

"What were you doing?"

Jason froze, momentarily at a loss for words.

"You were cheering," Smith answered for him.

A few stifled chuckles rippled through the crowd.

"Back then, did you know that money was from Leo Wallace? Did you know he’s a Democrat?"

Smith’s voice was relentless.

"You knew. Everyone in Erie knew."

"But back then, I didn’t hear a single word out of you. I didn’t hear anyone stand up and say, ’Oh, Mayor, that money’s too hot to handle! It’s got the Democratic Party’s drool all over it. We can’t take it! We’d rather starve to death than give up the Republican Party’s chastity!’"

"Not one."

"Not a single person."

Smith raised a finger, jabbing it forcefully in the air.

"Back then, you only cared about one thing: when you’d get your paychecks."

"Now, the roads are cut off, the money is held up, and you’re all panicking."

"You’re getting scared."

"So you dig up those so-called principles you’d long since tossed in the garbage, dust them off, and use them as a weapon against me."

"You’re trying to hide your fear, to hide your own powerlessness in the face of the future."

"That’s not standing on principle. That’s hypocrisy."

The plaza fell deathly silent.

The young man, Jason, flushed beet-red, unable to utter a single word in his defense.

"Listen up!"

Smith’s voice boomed across the plaza.

"I don’t care what ideology you subscribe to, and I don’t care who you pull the lever for at the polls."

"I only know one simple truth."

Smith pulled a one-dollar bill from his pocket and held it high.

"Look at this."

"It’s got Washington’s face on it. It’s green."

"It isn’t Republican, and it isn’t Democrat. It has no ideology. It doesn’t pick sides between left and right."

"Its only attribute is that it buys bread, buys medicine, and puts gas in your car!"

"When you take this to the supermarket, does the cashier ask if it came from Leo Wallace or Russell Warren? They don’t!"

Smith crumpled the bill in his fist.

"Senator Warren talks principles in Washington, but he cut our budget."

"Leo Wallace talks business in Pittsburgh, but he gave us a contract."

"So you tell me, who’s our real friend here? Who’s the one who actually wants us to survive?"

"If it takes shaking hands with that radical from Pittsburgh, if it takes signing that damned contract just to make sure you have food to eat and to keep this city from becoming a ghost town..."

"Then I’m telling you, Jason—and every last one of you here."