They ate breakfast in front of the screen, and listened intently. An officer came in, somewhat disturbed. Thousands of people from the city were congregating beyond the line of Army tanks and vehicles. They were shouting and pointing at the distant flag near the house. They were singing and calling and gesticulating. None of them attempted to rush the Military. They were content to stand in the snow, feasting their eyes on the banner.
“Perhaps I should go out to them and tell them that they are free,” suggested Durant, the actor in him clamoring for drama.
“No, sir,” replied Sadler seriously. “Remember? You are the hated officer who added to their miseries for nearly a year. You are their enemy. They’d kill you on sight, in spite of the soldiers.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Durant, crestfallen, and newly alarmed. How was he going to escape death, after all? He had no doubt that, in a case of necessity, he and his fellow commanding officers would be tossed to the implacable mob, honorable sacrifices to freedom.
“They don’t even know you are here, and for that we ought to be grateful,” Ben Colburn reminded him. “They don’t know who is here, in fact, or we’d probably all be killed.”
Durant thought passionately of the civilian clothes in his drawer at the farm. Very soon, he would be needed no longer, if he were needed even now. He might be able to escape anonymously, if his luck held. He had escaped death three times lately. Fate could be tempted too far, however.
After twelve o’clock, an abrupt announcement came from the screen. There would be no more news until six o’clock that night. At this, the guests decided that they should rest until that hour. Durant lingered until he could be alone with Alice Steffens, who was sitting by the fire in an attitude of profound loneliness and abandon, forgetful of everything. Her pretty face was strained and lost, and her lips were white. Durant said gently: “Perhaps it will be all right, Alice. Perhaps your father will persuade him—”
She shook her head, without looking at him. “No, he’ll never come back to me. He believes he must do what he must do.” She glanced up now and tried to smile. “It’s ‘Andrew’ isn’t it? Thank you, Andrew. Arthur admired you so much, and trusted you always. You see,” she added, “we can’t think of him as an ordinary man, but as a man who was willing to be reviled forever, if it would save his country. He thought of nothing else. Except once.” Her eyes filled with tears. “We were married the day you met my father, by an old clergyman we always knew. And I’m going to have Arthur’s child. It is something for me.”
She turned away, then, and Durant left the room, deeply moved. When he reached his bedroom he looked through the windows. Far off, beyond the line of tanks and Army vehicles, he could see the multitude which had gathered to look at the flag. They had been drawn by some mass instinct to this place. There they stood, swarming black ants on the white snow. Durant thought of Carlson, and all the many countless thousands of Minute Men who had worked and had died and had suffered for these people, and he was bitter. Were they worth it, these millions who had eagerly embraced slavery in the name of “security,” who had delivered up their freedom literally for thirty pieces of silver? Durant said to himself with as much firmness as possible: “I have compassion on the multitude.” But he was ill and weary and he could not feel the words.
Washington was the least orderly of all the cities. The wet streets seethed with mobs, both white and Negro, going nowhere aimlessly, but shouting and filled with violence. This was the infernal city of the beetle-bureaucrats, who had sucked away the juices of a nation for four decades, and had grown fat and sluggish with the juices. Here was the heart of corruption and all evil, a white parasitic city which had never produced anything, which had contributed nothing to the nation but oppression and disease and dishonor. Little wonder, then, thought Mr. Regis, that here there could be no order, no self-restraint, no dignity, no purpose. He thought of the malformed swarms of bureaucrats hiding and shivering in their homes, barricaded behind their doors or quivering in their cellars, while the mobs shouted and ran through the city, smashing windows and hurling stones with random wantonness at everything. General Freeman told him that the mob had invaded the empty Capitol, had overturned statues, had slashed paintings, had befouled the Senate Chamber, had even attempted to fire the majestic building.
“I’ve ordered the troops not to fire on them,” said General Freeman, with disgust. “They aren’t armed, this mob, so the troops just try to keep them moving and attempt to protect public buildings. If they had their way they’d sack Washington—for their own crimes. You should see the White House! They’ve pushed through the gates and are milling all over. But there are five lines of soldiers farther in, and it’s only here that we’ve given orders to restrain violence by shooting, if necessary.”
The car waiting at the deserted airport for Mr. Regis and the general flew the flag of the Republic. Four Picked Guards sat in the car with the two men, and Guards in cars and on motorcycles accompanied them. The banner flew high and free on every vehicle, and as the cars raced into the city the hot-faced mobs parted, stared, and burst into wild and thunderous cheers. They did not know who these men were; it was enough for them that they flew the Stars and Stripes.
“The accolades of mobs are as reliable as the temper of tigers,” said Mr. Regis. “If we were to lose, they’d cheer the flag of The Democracy with just as much frenzy. This isn’t true of the rest of the nation, but it is true of Washington.”
Pennsylvania Avenue ran with a flood of humanity, surging, beating back on itself, sending out disorderly waves into the side streets, littering the walks. The roar that came from it was the roar of a monster jungle, savage, bloodthirsty and mindless. The cars had to slow down in this river, and the Picked Guards showed their guns. But the flag was their passport, and the river divided like the Red Sea to admit the cavalcade. Hundreds of shabby men and women ran behind them on the grounds of the White House, shrieking screaming and cheering. The lines of soldiers parted, and closed after the cars, and Mr. Regis, with relief, saw that behind the soldiers everything was quiet.
They were taken at once to the President’s private chambers, where he waited alone with the Chief Magistrate and the magistrate’s father, old Mr. Carlson. The Chiefs of Staff had fled; the servants had fled. The huge building resounded with echoes. Silent rows of Picked Guards lined the walls like statues.
The President was drinking steadily, and weeping and cursing and threatening and imploring. When Mr. Regis and General Freeman entered, he jumped to his feet and burst into fresh tears. “My dear friends!” he sobbed. “I’m not deserted after all. Dear Howard, dear Pete! I knew you’d come back to me! What would I do without you and Arthur and old Bill? Did you see the mobs? It’s only Washington, isn’t it? You’ve got everything under control elsewhere, haven’t you?” He became frenzied, and clenched his fists. “What happened? Why can’t we arrest the traitors? Why can’t we do something!”
Mr. Regis shook hands with Arthur Carlson, who smiled at him gravely, and with old Mr. Carlson, who was too tired to speak. The President bounced around frantically at these formalities, and burst out: “Where are the Chiefs of Staff? Where are the officers? Where are the men of my Cabinet? Have they gone, the rats? Why have they left me here? Where are the Senators, and all my friends? Do you think those bastards and sons of bitches out there will break into the White House? I hear they’re hanging me in effigy.” He began to whimper. “What have I done, except work for the people? I’ve given up my life to the—dogs! Everything for the people. And here I am now—D’ya think they’ll break in?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Regis seriously. “It all depends on you. They’re in a vicious temper.”
The President stared, whisky glass in hand. “Depends on me? What d’ya mean? They’d kill me if I showed my face. That’s what they’ve been yelling: ‘Kill Slocum!’”
The others said nothing. The President examined each face with rising panic. “Freeman!” he shouted, finally.
“You’re the general in charge now. Why don’t you give orders, all over the country, for the soldiers to massacre the bastards? Shoot them down, everywhere. Turn guns and bayonets on them. Herd them into the war plants. Burn up their homes. Kill their kids in front of them. Why don’t you do something?”
General Freeman spoke quietly: “We have three million soldiers in the country now, your Excellency. All the others are fighting in South America. We have two hundred million people here. At least fifty percent of the Armed Forces are revolting. That leaves one and a half million soldiers. Do you think that they can subdue this whole nation and fight a civil war with their own troops? They could try, but they wouldn’t succeed. It would only result in anarchy; all order would go. Do you want the streets of the cities to run with blood, in a useless cause?”
“Yes!” shouted the President. He banged his whisky glass so violently on the gilt table near him that it shattered in his hand. “I want to see that—I want millions of them to die, and lie slaughtered in the gutters! Why not? Haven’t they raised themselves against me? Haven’t they revolted? Shouldn’t they be punished? Damn it, even if I die, myself, it’ll be worth it, thinking of what’s happening to the rats that dared to—” He sobbed again, his meager face scarlet with insane rage. He looked at his bleeding hand, and wept in self-pity. “What about the atom bomb on the cities?” he added.
Then old Mr. Carlson spoke tranquilly: “There’ll be no more death than necessary, Slocum. You see, I was supposed to kill you today. But my son persuaded me to his point of view. If we killed you, we’d be giving our assent to anarchy and chaos and probably to civil war. What we must do we must do lawfully and with restraint and dignity, so as to impress the people with the necessity for order and justice.”
The President regarded him incredulously. “You—Bill?”
No one answered him. Aghast, he looked at the Chief Magistrate. “You—Arthur?” When Carlson did not reply, the President turned in anguish to General Freeman. “You—Pete?”
He saw their faces, and he cowered.
Old Mr. Carlson, slight, gray and haggard, raised himself in his chair, and his voice was soft: “Slocum, you must know by now that you can do nothing. The people have risen in passive rebellion. You can’t subdue them. And I’m afraid that unless you follow our advice the people will rise in active rebellion, and you’ll die. Cities will be burned to the ground. Neighbor will kill neighbor. The people will lose their minds. We’ve controlled them so far. I can’t promise that we can hold them much longer. And when that happens, you’ll have to die.”
The President moaned and wrung his hands. “I thought I had three friends, at least—you, and Arthur and Pete, here. But I’ve been betrayed. Enemies surround me. I did my best for the country. We’re fighting a war—”
“You never had any friends,” said the Chief Magistrate sternly. “Even your fellow-criminals were never your friends. They fawned on you while you had power, and they ran when they found themselves in danger. As for us, we’ve always been your enemies. Mr. Slocum, make up your mind. Shall we issue a statement that you are resigning, or shall we just wait here until the mobs rush into the White House and kill you?”
The President had turned a dull gray. He looked at Arthur Carlson, and said: “I loved you as my own son. I did everything for you.”
“And what I have done has been done for my country,” replied Carlson.
Slocum looked at all the somber faces. The windows of the beautiful room were shrouded in pale silk. Suddenly, a sound like savage thunder shook those windows, and Slocum shrank, fell into his chair. “Listen to them,” he muttered, forgetting all else in his terror. “They’re coming nearer.” He quailed, and cried like a woman.
“They’ve been coming nearer for a long time,” said Carlson.
The President ignored him, in his dazed agony. He said to General Freeman: “I’m your Commander-in-Chief. I order you to dispel the mob. I—”
“I never recognized you as my Commander-in-Chief,” replied General Freeman bitterly. “I worked, as thousands worked with me, for this day.”
Mr. Regis approached the President, slowly, and looked down at him with a terrible face. “Do you know me, Slocum?” he said, and his voice was relentless with hatred.
The President shrank from him. He stammered, incoherently: “You—you are Howard Regis. You are head of the FBHS—”
“Look at me more closely,” said Mr. Regis. “You haven’t seen me for fifteen years. You were a captain, then, and I was your general. You rarely saw me, and you do not remember me. My name is John Graham, and I am supposed to be dead. You issued orders for my assassination many years ago, when I retired because I could not endure you, because I knew what you were. I didn’t die, Slocum. I worked, as we all worked, for this day.”
The President glared at him in his mad fear. He stuttered: “John—Graham. Traitor—resigned after a speech about me, when I was elected—said I would enslave the country—campaigned for my impeachment—” He sat up, and yelled: “Why, you dirty yellow dog! You traitor! I’ll put you under arrest—shot—!”
“You’ll do nothing,” said the Chief Magistrate, rising and standing with Mr. Regis. “You’ll do nothing at all, ever again. Are you so stupid that you don’t realize what has happened in this country? Don’t you know that I could kill you this very moment and would be honored for it?”
His huge loathing made him tremble. “I will give you one minute to issue your statement of resignation, and the appointment of General John Graham as Acting President until due elections can take place. If, after one minute, you do not issue that statement, I shall kill you.”
The President thrust the fingers of his right hand into his mouth and whined like a dying animal. He was afraid to look away from Carlson. “You can’t do this to me; I’m the President of The Democracy. The People’s Democracy. You can’t kill me!” The whine rose to a shriek of uncontrollable terror. “Where shall I go? What shall I do?”
“I promise you that you will leave this building in safety, and go into hiding,” replied Carlson.
Another roar shook the windows, and now there was a volley of shots. Carlson turned pale. He seized the President with both his hands and shook him strongly. “They’re getting nearer. The soldiers have been forced to shoot. At any moment now, you dog and rascal, the mobs will overpower the soldiers, and they will roar into the White House, looking for you. And when they find you, you’ll be torn to shreds.”
The President pushed him away and sprang to his feet. His voice was hoarse and shrill with dread. “I’ll issue! I—I’ll give—Protect me! Don’t let them get me, Arthur! I promise you—” He babbled on and on, clutching the Chief Magistrate with frantic hands, affrighted and shocked beyond all control and all human dignity.
Carlson pushed the creature from him, and turned to Mr. Regis, and saluted.
“Speak to them, sir,” he said. He looked at his father, and smiled.
At five o’clock that night a whole nation was alerted. The people poured from their wretched homes to places of public meeting where broadcasting equipment was installed. Millions raced and walked and hurried through the broken streets where they could hear the public address systems; they swarmed into their halls and into what were, formerly, their churches. Women carried children; young men assisted legless veterans of many wars; old men were supported by their sons. Girls and youths ran side by side, shouting, eager, laughing. Soldiers hurried with them, clumsily. The cities lit up as they had not been lighted for years; buses roared over the battered pavements; cars flashed, loaded with humanity. Every house flared with lights, where private broadcasts could be heard, and these houses admitted every passerby who desired to enter. As one, the nation came to hear and millions of faces grew brilliant with hope.
At six o’clock, on every small and every great screen in the country, lights flashed and the face of a young man appeared, strained with excitement. Behind him sat batteries of newsmen, scribbling frantically
. Beyond them stretched the gold and white walls of the broadcasting room in the White House.
The commentator said simply: “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. John Graham, retired General of the Army of the United States of America!”
From millions of mouths a deep cry went up, and millions of eyes dimmed for a moment. “Did you hear?” voices called to each other. “The United States of America!”
Then John Graham stood before them, gently smiling, full of authority, and he looked out at the nation with affection and quiet passion.
“My dear people,” he said, “I have, today, been appointed as Acting President of the United States of America by former President Slocum, who has resigned. It was you who forced his resignation. Without you, this could not have happened. It was your revived spirit, your final rebellion against slavery, the end of your long meek patience, which has terminated the decades of your enslavement and your degradation.”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed tens of thousands of voices jubilantly. “We did it!” And eyes flashed with pride and heads, once bent so humbly, lifted themselves.
John Graham’s face darkened with somber sterness. “But you, my people, were not guiltless, not guiltless of your own ruin.
“Freedom, once so imbedded in the hearts of all Americans, was surrendered by Americans who believed the sinister men who were determined to enslave them. It was to be for a limited time only, we were assured. But tyrants never relinquish the powers they have gained; they incorporate them into perpetual law. It was done so quietly, so skillfully. A nation will fight when its full liberty is threatened, and the full plot exposed. But if liberties are subdued, little by little, no provocation for a nationwide revolt is given. Like thieves in the night, who move stealthily and without sound, so did the evil men move in your former free government, robbing away the heart and the body of your liberty, denuding your homes of its treasures, slowly stifling your tongues, imperceptibly silencing your press. They invaded the schoolrooms of your children, poisoning and debasing their minds, twisting them to their purposes so that future generations would know nothing of honor and pride and the might of free men. But you were not guiltless.