Re: Blood and Iron

It was November 2, 1920. The polls had come in and been tallied in totality. The vote was clear; perhaps more so than any other U.S. election in the brief history of the nation. President Charles Evans Hughes had been re-elected in a landslide victory.

He stood at the podium before the gathered crowd, delivering his victory speech beneath glowing electric lights and waving flags.

“Tonight, the American people have spoken… loudly, clearly, and without hesitation. You’ve asked for four more years of industry. Four more years of security. Four more years of American prosperity. And I intend to deliver.

“While my opponent ran an exceptional campaign, the people have made their will known. And that will is to continue forging our destiny; strong, sovereign, and secure.

I thank you all for your faith and I promise in this next term to pursue the interests of the United States and to ensure the American people are healthier, happier, wealthier, and safer than ever before.

So tonight, let us stand together as Americans, united not by party but by purpose. This great republic we call home is still the greatest experiment in human governance. God bless you all. And God bless America!”

The crowd erupted into cheers. Veterans saluted. Flags waved. Fireworks cracked overhead.

And then it ended.

As Hughes stepped off the stage, applause fading behind the White House gates, his shoulders sagged. The mask of enthusiasm dissolved the moment he was beyond the crowd’s sight.

By the time he reached the Oval Office, the weariness had settled into his bones. He dropped into the presidential chair. The silence was heavy.

Then the phone rang, once, twice, never a third time.

He answered immediately. He always did when the call came.

“Congratulations on your successful campaign… Mr. Hughes.”

Never “Mr. President.” Never since the moment Hughes had stepped into Bruno’s trap and realized just how deep it went.

Bruno von Zehntner had no respect for democratic titles. To him, a president was not a sovereign, merely a manager. The moment Hughes had accepted Bruno’s support, the facade of mutual respect had vanished.

Hughes loosened his collar, yanked off his tie, and tossed it to the floor. He poured himself a stiff glass of whiskey, biting back the bitterness in his throat.

“Thank you for your kind words… Your Royal Highness. Your support has meant the world to me this past year. Tell me, how fares your family?”

Bruno’s tone turned ice cold. “Irrelevant to the conversation at hand. You’d do well to remember that in our future discussions. Now, as for our agreement. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Hughes wanted to sigh. Instead, he drowned the urge in another sip of whiskey.

“Of course. I owe you a debt of gratitude, and so do the American people. You can expect full cooperation where our interests align.”

That last phrase was theater. It was for anyone else who might be listening. Especially with the suspicion that the Oval Office had been compromised. He’d never found the wiretap, never discovered which staff member had betrayed him. But Bruno always knew too much.

If Bruno noticed the hedging, he didn’t show it.

“Good. I look forward to our continued cooperation. Now… on to more pressing matters. I will be meeting with representatives of the National Restoration Government of France in Geneva next week. Whether or not you continue shipping them arms will depend on how these negotiations proceed. Stay available. Expect another call. And God bless America.”

The sarcasm in Bruno’s final words dripped like poison. The line went dead.

Hughes downed the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp and lowered his head into his hands.

“God bless America?” he muttered. “More like… God save her.”

He stared at the floor in silence, then poured himself another glass.

“What have I done? Was it worth it? Trading my soul, and the soul of this nation, for four more years?”

He scoffed to himself, voice barely audible.

“Who am I kidding? If I hadn’t, my opponent would have. That’s just how this country works now.”

He turned toward the window and looked out over the Capitol; the streetlamps burning like distant stars.

And drank.

—

The moment the line went dead, Bruno gazed up at the woman seated across from him. It was his daughter Eva, who, over the course of the last year, had continued with her daily lessons in politics.

Eva, more fair than ever, sat across from her father with a subtle smirk on her face, one filled with approval. As for Bruno, he sipped from the beer in his hand, proudly boasting of his victory.

“Remember, my child, when tightening the collar around a slave, do not make it so tight that they cannot breathe, but never slack enough that they feel comfortable. They must always have a pain digging into their throat, so they remember the weight of their bindings every time they draw breath, shift their head, or make any subtle movements.”

Eva sipped from her own mug of beer, saying nothing for a long while, until finally catching her father off guard with a jest.

“Father… has anyone told you that you might perhaps be a sadist?”

Bruno sighed and rolled his eyes before lecturing her further on the reasoning behind his metaphor.

“It has nothing to do with taking pleasure in others’ misfortunes. Rather, it’s the pragmatic necessity of keeping foreign rulers under your thumb. You must ensure they never believe they could feasibly break free from your control. Give them room to breathe, and they will try to cut the bindings. Remember that… and the world will bow beneath your feet.”

Eva remained silent. But the glistening look in her eyes told Bruno that she was committing his words to memory. She ultimately broke the silence, her gaze drifting to the globe on Bruno’s desk, her focus settling on their western neighbor.

“So… what are we going to do about France?”

Bruno scoffed, amused by her question, and responded incredulously.

“We? You’re not yet in a position to be dictating national foreign policy, baby girl. Hell, according to law, you’re not even yet fully an adult. But… I suppose I can let you in on what I have planned; since you asked politely, that is.”

And so, Bruno began to speak; measured, deliberate. Laying out the blueprint for what would come next in France.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!