He sat down again, quite exhilarated by his dramaturgy, laughing silently to himself. He could imagine the anxious flurry among those of the FBHS who were doubtlessly listening intently. He hoped he had singed their ears and had inspired fright among them. He was confident that he had. Then he had a qualm. What if the FBHS attempted to murder this rambunctious and obstreperous military brute? Then the qualm subsided. He had threatened like one given all authority, and he doubted if a single hand would dare to raise itself against him, in spite of panic. He had routed Zimmer and the others too well, today.
The meal Mrs. Lincoln had brought him was very appetizing, and he ate with sudden and overwhelming hunger. He smoked one or two cigarets, then realized, with dismay, that he had nothing to read. This was a catastrophe to him. He forgot everything else as he prowled through all the rooms on the second floor looking for books or magazines. He found some publications in Captain Edwards’ room, all lewd and lascivious, but not a single book of any merit. But I ought to have known, he thought, remembering how all literature of value or seriousness had been suppressed for the past decade by the Government. The people were encouraged to read only propaganda or novels extolling militarism, “patriotism, devotion to the public welfare, the history of democratic wars, sacrifice of personal interests, and the moral disease of private enterprise and capitalism.” Literature of a free and valuable and thoughtful kind had been one of the first victims of military totalitarianism, for the latter could not exist in an inquiring society.
Becoming almost frantic at the thought of having no reading matter, Durant descended to the first floor. There was not a single soul about, though every room was lighted. He went from room to room, and his footsteps echoed. The infection of militarism had driven every living thing from this house; he saw his uniform in long gilt mirrors and stopped to look at it with aversion. His flesh crawled and itched. He moved up and down, opening cabinets and drawers, searching for a single book. He found garish magazines, published the supervision of the Government, and he tossed them aside. He threw himself into a chair and stared before him, disgustedly, and smoked several cigarets in quick succession.
The great clock in the hall struck nine, and Durant started, rousing himself from his brooding irritation. He went upstairs, walking as softly as possible in order not to hear the hollow sound of his own footsteps. Someone had removed his tray, he found, and this disconcerted him, for he had heard no one, and had seen no one. On the table he found a pile of old and tattered books, and, somewhat disturbed, he examined them. There had been part of ancient sets: Thoreau, Balzac, Tolstoi, Dickens. There was also an Iliad, and a copy of Dante’s Inferno, and Milton’s Paradise Lost. They had appeared out of nowhere, these ghosts of a noble past. Who had brought them? Who had known of his unspoken need? It could only be Dr. Dodge. A prickle of sweat broke out on Durant’s forehead. The old man was a desperate danger. He surmised too much.
However, the books were an irresistible lure, and Durant picked up one. He examined it carefully. It had been published in 1945, twenty-five years ago, and the pages were already so brittle that little slivers of stiff yellow paper sifted through Durant’s fingers. Inside the cover he found a book-plate, with faded writing: William S. Dodge. He stared at it, and all at once he was overcome with the pathos of the books, and the muteness with which they had been tendered to him. Durant stroked the book gently.
There was a faint knock on the door, and Durant, managing a frown, put down the book. He expected Dr. Dodge, but when the door opened he saw that Grace Lincoln stood there, her face as white as the breast of a chicken, her eyes flooding with tears. She shrank as he looked at her, and clasped her hands tightly together. She was terrified of him, and Durant let himself enjoy this for a moment. Then he was ashamed, and obscurely angered.
“Come in, come in,” he said irritably.
She crept to a chair, and sat on the edge, looking at him in paralyzed silence. Her pretty hair was disheveled, her mouth open and drooling with her fright. Durant studied her dispassionately, she had not closed the door behind her, and he finally got up and shut it. She began to tremble then, and raised her clasped hands convulsively to her breast. She tried to speak, and could only utter a whine.
“Well, Gracie,” said Durant, in a jocular tone. “Glad to see you at last. You’re ahead of time, too. I like promptness.”
The girl, after a struggle to speak, broke out into wild sobs, covering her face with her hands. Durant stood near her, frowning. Now, what the hell was he going to do with this wench? He felt no desire for her, and nothing at all but an impatient pity. He had forgotten her entirely during the last hour or so. He yawned elaborately, to mask his rapid thinking, while the girl continued to sob distractedly.
“I’m tired, Gracie,” he said loudly. “Get undressed, and let’s go to bed.”
The girl crouched in her chair and her sobs became wilder. Durant stood, irresolute. He could dismiss her. But that would not save her from the other officers. Hell, he thought, why should I care? Let them have her. She was no better than millions of other defenseless girls who had been ruthlessly sacrificed to the Military. She was certainly less to be pitied than hundreds of thousands of starving young women who had prostituted themselves in The Democracy for a little extra bread, or a bit of meat. Her life had been spent in pleasant luxury and protection and warmth, while her betters had died of malnutrition, from overwork in the terrible war-factories, in the fields of their masters, the farmers, and on actual battlefields in Europe and Asia. She was a parasite; she had lived delightfully on the bodies of her sisters, and had been happy in the fact.
Besides, her despoliation would increase the frenzy and active despair and hatred of her parents, and probably of her brothers. She was a weapon to be used against oppression. Let the other boys have her! She deserved nothing better.
Durant listened to the girl’s helpless weeping, and tried to harden himself against her. “Shut up!” he exclaimed. “And get your clothes off. Are you a patriotic American girl, or are you a traitor? Answer me that, you fool!”
He began to curse her. He raised his hand and slapped her cheek violently; the sound was loud in the room. Grace stopped sobbing; she screamed faintly, and cowered before him. She crossed her arms over her breasts and bowed her head to her knees. Durant glanced at the landscape; the girl had her back to it. He went to the wall swiftly, lifted aside the picture, and, with delicate care, detached the wires.
He went to Grace, and tore her hands from her shoulders. “Listen to me!” he whispered fiercely. “You’ve got to get out of here. Have you any money? Have you your identification papers handy? Your cards?”
She lifted her drenched white face, bewildered and astounded. “Hurry!” he went on. “Have you money, your papers? The keys to your car?”
Glazed with fear and bafflement, she could only nod. “Leave a note for your parents. Tell them you ran away from me, while I was asleep. Get into your car, and drive as far as you can, tonight, and all day tomorrow. And hide yourself, somewhere. Don’t communicate with your parents at all.” He paused, and said with harsh sincerity: “If you do, I’ll have them shot. Do you understand?”
She pushed herself to her feet and stared at him with intense concentration. She was a danger to him, Durant thought. He said: “Remember, your parents will die if you write them, and I’ll hunt you out, too. I’m giving you a chance, Gracie. You have five minutes to leave.”
She whimpered: “Why, Major—”
“If you stay, you idiot, the others will get you. I don’t know why I’m doing this—Get out!”
She gasped. Then, before he could stop her, she had caught his hand and was kissing it. He wrenched it away from her. Then he seized her and pushed her rapidly and roughly from the room. “Five minutes,” he whispered. “If you’re here after that, God help you.” Her hair fell over her face; she tossed it back, and gave him a quivering smile of joy.
She ran now, and was so far recovered that she could sl
ip off her shoes and rush down the stairway in her stocking feet. Durant went back to the hateful little black box behind the landscape and reattached the wires. “That’s a good girl, Gracie,” he said, making his voice hoarse. “Into bed with you, now.”
He imitated Gracie’s whimper, sat on the bed and bounced up and down rapidly, so that it creaked. He began to laugh at himself, and he wondered again why he had rescued this silly, petty and worthless girl. Nevertheless, he felt no real regret. He got up cautiously, and went to his window, after first turning off the lights. The stars were bright and clear, and he could see the garages. A slender figure moved silently below; the door of one garage opened with the slightest of noises. A moment later a car rolled out silently down the incline to the road. It was not until it was some distance from the house that Grace Lincoln turned on the ignition and the headlights. Then she was gone into the darkness, and there was nothing but the soft swish of trees, the cries of tree-toads and the chirp of crickets in the night.
Durant sat and read, being careful to make as little sound as possible. The curtains flapped against the windows in the warm spring wind. The clock downstairs struck eleven, then half-past. A horse neighed at a distance, and there was a drowsy flutter of disturbed fowl. Gradually, the deep silence of the country night began to oppress Durant, as it had done the night before. He stood up, restlessly, and moved up and down on quiet feet, smoking quickly and with impatience. He stood at the window and looked at the outlines of the barracks where the slave labor slept. Was Dr. Dodge there, or asleep in his attic? Were the other wretches sleeping, or staring sightlessly at their anguished memories? As he had been drawn to them before, Durant was drawn to them now. They suffered, as he had suffered, and was still suffering.
He took off his boots, crept to the door, and opened it inch by inch, so that any vigilant listeners in Philadelphia would hear nothing. He closed the door after him, and went like a shadow down the stairway. Everything was dark. He had heard no movement, but someone had turned off the lights. This gave him an eerie and anxious sensation. He waited in the hall below, scarcely breathing, and listened. He turned on his pocket flashlight and stabbed the beam into every corner. Only the gleam of paneled walls and the folds of draperies and the glisten of polished floors started in the darkness. He snapped off the light and opened the outside door, and the sweet scents of earth and grass and trees rushed at him. It was a great effort, closing the door behind him, soundlessly.
With some difficulty, he put on his boots, fumbling with his one free hand. Then he moved across the wet grass in the direction of the barracks. They loomed blackly against the stars, the dull glass of small windows glimmering a little in the starlight. If living creatures lay behind those windows and rough wooden walls it was not the least evident. Some windows were slightly open; Durant stood before them, listening. He could hear no groans, no sighs, no murmur, no mutter of any sleeper. He glanced back at the farmhouse; only his own light fell in a sharp stream to the ground. He toured the other side of the barracks, hopelessly. Then he heard the breath of a rustle.
He stopped, “freezing” as he had been taught in the Army. The rustle of new leaves? But the wind had dropped, and everything was still. Now he heard it again, and it came from behind a partially opened window, and he recognized it as the whispering of men. Someone grunted, someone sighed, someone moved; a bedspring creaked.
Durant ran to the door, opened it quietly. Stale dank air, loaded with the smell of sweat, hit him in the face. There was only silence, and he closed the door after him and stood in utter darkness. He put out his hand and foot cautiously, feeling for any object. He raised his hand and fumbled at each side. He encountered splintering wooden walls and knew that he stood in a corridor. He moved, holding his breath, bending down in a crouch. There were doors along the corridor. Step by step he slipped along, listening at each door for that rustle of whispering. He began to despair, stopping now and then to orient himself. He reached another door, which was probably the last, and pressed his ear against it. Now he heard the whispering again, hoarse and indistinct. He dropped his hand to the doorknob, and opened the door. No one saw him in the blackness, but now the whispers were very close and the stench of sweat very strong. He stood, stiff and unmoving, knowing that he was alone with several men. He let his hand grip his gun tightly, and now his heart quickened. He listened intently.
“I tell you, it won’t be long, Henry,” someone muttered. “You must believe that. No, I can’t tell you what I know, but it has to be soon.”
“You expect us to believe that there can be any deliverance?” whispered another man, in despair. “You tell us these vague things, and believe they’ll be of some comfort to us. But we can’t wait much longer. We’ll break away, somehow, or—”
“Or, we’ll kill, and take the consequences,” said still another voice.
There was silence, now, very profound, broken only by one miserable sigh.
Then another voice spoke, gently: “Kill. Yes, it will come to that, I suppose. But not yet. There are things I know. You must be very patient, very patient. The hour is coming; I have reason to believe it is almost here.”
“You’re old, Dr. Dodge,” said a voice, bitterly. “And you’re resigned. You try to cheer us up, but it’s no use. What do you know?”
Durant breathed as shallowly as possible. Dr. Dodge. His hand fell from the gun.
Dr. Dodge spoke again. “I can’t tell you, Henry. I can only assure you I’m not speaking only in an effort to give you hope.”
“Hope!” Someone laughed miserably. “What hope is there for us? The Army’s here now, remember? Curtiss and his other murderers. I’m forty, Doctor. My family is scattered, perhaps dead. I can think of nothing for myself, not even freedom; I can only think of killing. And the word’s around now that Zimmer’s going to impose new restrictions on all farm labor. What more can we do, except hang chains on us?”
“Zimmer!” someone said, with a smothered exclamation.
“Zimmer!” said other voices, with hate and loathing.
Zimmer! thought Durant. Now there was a throbbing of excitement in his throat.
“If there was some way to get to the city!” whispered a voice.
“That’s impossible,” said Dr. Dodge. “Yes, I’ve heard the rumors about the new directives Zimmer is formulating. They’ll be more oppressive than ever. He hates three of us in particular. You, Henry; you, George. And me. We were teachers, and Zimmer has always had a particular hatred for teachers. Do you remember how he came out here last month and laughed at us, and taunted us? He would like to kill us.”
“He was my classmate,” a man recalled, and Durant heard the sound of spitting. “A rat, but a cunning one. He always had it in for me. There was still a little freedom left, in colleges, and I took all the honors. He never forgave me.” The man inhaled viciously. “When the time comes to kill Zimmer—if it ever comes, God help us!—I want to do it!”
Someone laughed faintly. “How? How will you get to the city, George?”
There was a noise as if a fist struck a knee. “I don’t know! But I’ll find a way.”
Andreas Zimmer, thought Durant. The enemy of Ben Colburn, the dirty-nailed, scheming spy for the FBHS, the crawling slime of mercilessness which called itself a man!
Durant fumbled in his pocket and brought out his flashlight. He suddenly turned on the narrow beam. He saw before him a group of five men sitting on the edge of rumpled cots. He had blinded them with his light, and they sat there, petrified, every gaunt brown face fixed in the sudden brilliance, every eye blazing, every mouth open in stupefaction.
He let them sit transfixed in the light for a moment or two. He saw Dr. Dodge standing beside a cot, white as death. And then he saw Dr. Dodge smile curiously.
“Don’t move, you dogs,” said Durant grimly. “So, you want to kill do you? You want to murder a member of our Government. You sit here and plot, in your slavery, plot, when it’s too late. Too late, do you hear me? You m
ight have been men, instead of sweating animals, if you had plotted years ago. But no, you buried your sniveling noses in your books, poured dust on your heads in your mildewed libraries. You were afraid to see, you refused to to see. And now, in your own death, you talk of killing!”
One of the younger men, his face stark and murderous, began to rise slowly from his cot, his hands clenched. But Dr. Dodge put his hand on his shoulder and gently pressed him down. He looked at Durant steadfastly, and his curious smile deepened.
Durant pushed the flashlight in his swollen right hand, and took out his gun with the other. “Don’t move,” he repeated. He grinned at them. “Brave men! Noble men! Scholars and teachers! Men of mind! Well, you’ve come to this, and you did it to yourselves. You turned the musty pages in your musty books, and whimpered that it wasn’t true. You watched a whole nation die, and you withdrew deeper into your learned stalls and pretended that it was only a nightmare. You might have saved your students, years ago; you might have scoffed a little less, and prayed a little more. But no, you never knew anything about prayer, did you? Look at you! If there are chains on you, you put them on your own hands, on your own legs. What are you now, you teachers? Beasts of burden in the fields, without family or friends or hope or life!”
No man moved. But no face showed rage or despair. Every eye was turned on Durant, and every man listened intently, gravely. Dr. Dodge watched the officer with profound reflectiveness, and his eyes sparkled in the beam of the flashlight.