They dared not speak of this to Alice Steffens, but they knew that she had understood. There was a quiet white dignity about her which fended off sympathy and even kindness. She told them that she would join her father, the President of the United States of America, in Washington, and she made her few preparations to leave them. When her hour of departure came, she smiled at them gently, shook hands with them, and then left in silence.
Durant wondered if they should remain in the house. But when he saw that the others were leaving rapidly, to go their unknown and anonymous ways, he prepared to leave also. Most of the Picked Guard had melted away, and then there came a morning when only Durant, Grandon and Edwards were left in the empty and echoing house. The soldiers had gone, and the dogs. The flag flew in a brilliant snowy stillness, but no one moved in or near the grounds.
For days these three had watched the television screens with a hope that was rapidly dying. There was no mention of the Chief Magistrate at any time. The news commentators merely reported incidents of joy and courage and resolution occurring in the nation, and of the orderly establishing of European governments. In the ruined cities of London, Moscow, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Oslo, Stockholm and Copenhagen and Brussels and Vienna, and many more capitals, the peoples were electing their new free rulers. It was apparent that a furious and resolute activity was prevailing everywhere. The news from Asia was somewhat vague, in comparison, but there were reports that similar activity was under way there, also. The sweet quiet of peace lay over the world while men worked together to restore their earth.
There is no use staying here any longer, thought Durant. He was confident that the message pertaining to the whereabouts of his family was authentic. Now a wild haste and anticipation came to him. He needed only to return to the Lincoln house for his few belongings, and the civilian clothes which had been secreted for him. However, it was still somewhat dangerous for a commanding military man to appear openly on the streets of the cities. He, like the others, would have to move at night. So, on the last evening, he called Grandon and Edwards to him and told them of his plans.
Grandon and Edwards were dismayed. “But, Colonel, you have to wait for orders, don’t you? You have to be mustered out—”
Durant laughed. He pointed at himself. “Remember me? I’m not a real soldier. I did not enlist, as you did. I have no commander at all. My chief was Arthur Carlson, and my oath was to the Minute Men.” He hesitated, and became sad. “We don’t know where the Chief Magistrate is, but my orders were to disband, and to disappear. My work is done. In due time, you will be released from the Army; there’s no obligation on me, your fake colonel, to wait for official notification.”
Grandon said: “It was confusing to me, and to Edwards, here. We knew you must have had some military training, at one time, but you didn’t act like an officer.” He grinned affectionately at Durant. “You didn’t know the words; you didn’t know what to do, some of the time. That’s what confused us. If we hadn’t been confused you’d have been dead a long time ago—Colonel.”
“We used to talk about you,” added Edwards laughing. “Were you, or were you not, what you were supposed to be? We’d watch you, and you muddled us up. Once we had it all fixed to shoot you in the back, one dark night, and then you’d do something, or say something, that made us suspicious that you were one of us, in your own way. There was that time in your office when you were talking with Mr. Schaeffer. I knew one or two of the signals of the Minute Men; we’d been taught them so we could catch them. We saw you exchange the signals; but even then, we weren’t sure. It could have been an accident.”
“I’m sorry about the ham,” said young Grandon. “That was my own idea. The captain, here, had told me to wait. But I was thinking of Gracie. By the way, Bob Lincoln told me she has come home, and I want to see her.”
“So, we’ll leave tonight, and I’ll get my civilian clothes and go home,” said Durant.
He was tired and drained and full of a strange lassitude. He was free to go, and he would find his family. The future was uncertain. No reward would come to him in the way of money, he was convinced. He did not want the money. However, it would be hard to begin again, even in a free country, with nothing at all. In his listless state, the result of too much past strain, he felt that he was old and without vitality. He sometimes wondered how it would be to have nothing but the independence and self-responsibility of a free man. He began to sympathize with the millions of his fellow citizens in their thirties and forties and fifties—men who had never known self-reliance before. It would be much easier for the very young, who were resilient, and adaptable. They could accept the rigors of liberty and maturity with no effort at all. But men who had been guided, channeled and directed all of their lives would have some hours of bewilderment and dejection. Like invalids, they would have to learn to walk on their own legs. The winds of freedom would be very harsh for a time, thought Durant. To make one’s own decision would require much courage, and much remembrance. The young were striding strongly throughout the nation; but a great part of the population was crippled, their crutches taken away. One painful step at a time, Durant told himself. We’ll walk, but it will hurt.
He was finished with law. He could never again live in a great city. He wanted the land. But how to live on the land? How to make adjustments?
That night he left for the Lincoln farm with Grandon and Edwards. He knew that Sadler was already on the farm, with his father, preparing to take the old man away. He hoped that he was not too late to see these two again, before the final parting. He was encouraged, in his thoughts, that Bob Lincoln would be on the farm to greet him. That would obviate any awkwardness. It was not pleasant to think of Bob’s parents. He had no doubt that they would hate him more than ever now knowing his real identity.
The three men drove off into the country, avoiding the city. Grandon said: “By the way, Colonel, what is your name? As you know, mine is really Burgess, and Edwards’ is Dahl. You’ve never told us yours.”
“Durant. Andrew Durant. Does it matter?”
Nothing mattered, all at once, but getting out of this uniform, and leaving this territory. He had two hundred paper dollars. Would that take him to Florida? He would have nothing in the way of clothing but those poor thin rags in his drawer at the Lincoln farm. Yes, freedom had its own peculiar stringencies.
The farm looked the same. Men were moving about it, working vigorously, free men with a wage. They held up lanterns, as they came from the barns, to inspect the newcomers. They smiled at Durant, and came forward eagerly to shake his hand. But Dr. Dodge was not in sight, nor Sadler. Durant leaned out of the window of the car and said: “George, are Sadler and old Dr. Dodge still here? I want to say goodbye to them.”
The man, workworn and gaunt from past suffering, became grave. “I’m sorry—Colonel. Dr. Dodge shot himself the day after—Christmas. We tried to stop him. But he told us he couldn’t live any longer. He said he was too tired.” George hesitated. “He said he had lived long enough, and now that we were free he wanted to go.”
Durant was profoundly shaken and distressed. With a pang, he remembered that he, himself, had given Dr. Dodge a gun. The old man must have been preparing for his own death all the time, and not the death of anyone else. Yes, he had been tired. He remembered too much, had suffered too much, and had been too guilty.
“And Sadler?” Durant asked, after some miserable reflection.
“He’s gone away, Colonel.”
They went to the door of the house. It was locked. Grandon banged on it, and in a few moments it opened. John Lincoln stood there, gray and shrunken. He stared at the three officers with detestation and hatred. “What do you want?” he demanded. “You’ve no right to come here. The Military’s been ordered out of private homes.”
Durant regarded the older man with his own hatred and detestation. “We only want our property. We’ll stay just a couple of minutes.”
A sly look crept over Lincoln’s haggard face. “No, y
ou don’t get into this house. You’ve done enough damage.” He shouted over them: “Hey, you, George, Henry! Get over here right away and find these—these men’s rubbish, and throw it at them!”
George and Henry came up without hurry, smiling somberly. John Lincoln had momentarily forgotten that they were free men now, and his shout had had in it all his old arrogance and bullying. “Don’t yell at us, Mr. Lincoln,” said George, with considerable pleasure. “Or you’ll find yourself without any help tomorrow morning. Bad for the cows and other stock.”
Lincoln immediately remembered, and became placating. “Now, then, boys, I was just kind of mad at these—” He glanced at the officers with loathing. “These bastards,” he added. “Coming here like they owned the place, or something. Please get their stuff, boys.”
“No,” said Durant. He eyed Lincoln coldly. “I want to be sure that nothing’s been stolen. De we have to go back to the city and get a warrant or something?”
“Stolen!” shouted Lincoln, turning crimson. “I want you to know I’m an honest man—”
“Since when?” asked Durant, contemptuously. “Reformed lately, Lincoln?”
Grandon, smiling, took a step forward and pushed Lincoln out of the doorway. At that moment Bob Lincoln appeared, and he exclaimed with pleasure at seeing the visitors. He held out his hands, roaring happily, and pulled them into the house, ignoring his father who had fallen back. “Come in! Come in!” he cried. “Wondered when you’d be coming. How are you, Colonel? How are you, boys? Come right in. Had your dinner? How about a drink, or something?”
He led them into the fine living room where a red fire spluttered. His father stood in the doorway, furiously silent. They pretended he was not there. Bob brought out whisky and glasses. He was no longer either the sullen farmer or the stern Picked Guard. He was a young man again, happy at the appearance of friends, and full of laughter. It was as if all the years of his misery and rebellion had been forgotten, and Durant thought again of the easy and joyful adaptability of the young.
Mrs. Lincoln joined her husband in the doorway, glowering. The two stood there like stout images of hate and resentment, arms akimbo, hands clutched into fists at their hips.
Bob smiled at Grandon. “By the way, Gracie wants to see you.” He suddenly lifted his voice, and shouted for his sister. At this, Lincoln started. “She can’t come here!” he protested. “I won’t have her seein’ this rabble, Bob. I’m warnin’ you.”
But there was a rush of steps on the stairs, and Grace Lincoln peered over her parents’ shoulders. When she saw Grandon standing near the fire with his glass in his hand, she squealed for joy. She pushed her mother aside, brushed off the restraining hands of her father and ran into the room. She fell into Grandon’s arms and they hugged each other passionately.
“That settles that,” said Bob Lincoln, with satisfaction. “Understand you’re a farming feller yourself, George. How about staying and helping us out?”
“No!” whimpered John Lincoln. “He ain’t comin’ here. Gracie’s not going to marry any goddamn Army bastard.”
George Grandon gave Gracie a loving and resounding smack. “No, thanks, Bob. I’ve got a big ranch in Wyoming. We’ll go there, after we’re married.”
“A ranch?” repeated John Lincoln. “In Wyoming.” His face changed. He came into the room. “Goin’ to get it back?”
Grandon stared at him. “It’s already ‘back.’ Taken away from the sons of bitches who stole it from my family. It was stolen, Lincoln, just as you stole the farms of your neighbors.”
Lincoln winced. He stammered: “Well, sir, it was legal—then. We didn’t do nothin’ that wasn’t legal. The other farmers were subver—” He stopped as he saw Grandon’s cold and bitter eyes. Helplessly, he glanced at his wife for support, and she came to his side. She was no longer sulking. She said: “Well, it’s all over. And maybe it’s for the best. How many acres, Lieutenant?”
“About four thousand or so. Don’t remember, exactly.” Grandon replied, kissing Grace again. “Maybe five thousand. Haven’t seen it in years.” He fondled Grace’s pretty hair. “A real ranch, honey, not just a farm. Room for half a dozen kids.”
Grace, in Grandon’s arms, held out her hand to Durant, shyly. “I haven’t forgotten you, Colonel Curtiss. You were so good to me. I’ve been telling Daddy and Mom all about it. They ought to be grateful,” she added severely, glancing at her parents.
“We are, we are!” exclaimed Lincoln, all effusiveness and bland hospitality again. “Bob, give us a glass, too. Want to celebrate. What do you know! A ranch! Thought you knew too much about farmin’, Lieutenant.”
Grandon winked at Durant. Yes, thought Durant, heavily, it’s easy for the young to forgive. Grandon would, in time, forget the murder of his father and his brothers. He would live on his land with Grace, and all the ugly and terrible past would have no more reality for them. The Lincolns would visit their daughter in the West, and there would be much exchange and argument about cattle, and there would be grandchildren. And Grandon would forget. For the young, there was always the future. For the middle-aged and the old, there would always be the past, and the pain, and the grief.
Lincoln was prepared to accept everyone now, and with affection. He was even cordial to Durant, who could not force himself to be affable. Finally, discomfited, Lincoln turned his cordiality on Edwards. He settled himself comfortably in a chair by the side of his beaming wife, who was blinking with sentimental tenderness at the two young lovers. Sometimes she patted Grandon’s shoulder maternally, and sighed. Durant sat alone, looking into the fire.
Finally, he got up and went to his old room. There it was, as he had left it so hastily. He tore off his uniform, and replaced it with the worn and shabby clothing which Dr. Dodge had hidden for him. Now his grief for the old man, and for Sadler, returned. He wondered if Sadler had indeed gone back to marry Beckett’s sister. He fervently hoped so.
The clothing was a poor fit, and thin, He hesitated then stripped the insignia from his Army overcoat. He would have to wear it over his civilian clothing, for the weather was so cold. Sighing, he threw aside his uniform, then kicked it. He counted his money again, and thought of his wife and children.
Then, for the first time, he noticed a small square wooden box on the table near the bed. He examined it without curiosity. It was very heavy, and his name was neatly printed on it. It grew heavier in his hands, and now he began to wonder. He pried open the nailed wooden lid, then gasped. It was full of golden coins.
He sat down, weak and trembling, the weighty box on his knees. He had never seen golden money before, though yesterday the President had announced a return of the gold standard in the Republic. These were old coins; bemused and dazed, Durant saw the date on some of them. So long ago: 1929, 1930, 1931. He held a few in his hands, balancing them. They glittered in the light of the lamps. They were his. They were his new life, with his family. He began to laugh, shakily, and did not know there were tears on his cheeks. The Chief Magistrate had not forgotten him. This was not a payment for services; the money had been given him, not in gratitude, but in understanding.
But where was the Chief Magistrate? The broadcasts never mentioned him. It was as if he had never lived. The coins clinked in Durant’s hands. His joy and relief were like a haze of light in his mind, but now it was pierced with sorrow and anxiety.
He pounded the lid on the box again, tucked it under his arm. He went downstairs in a sort of mist.
The celebration in the living room had become quite uproarious. Mrs. Lincoln had gone off to prepare a supper for her guests. Grace was sitting on young Grandon’s knee. Bob Lincoln and Edwards were frankly drunk, and so was the old man. They shouted when they saw Durant in the doorway. He smiled at them, but refused to join them. He was obsessed with a desire to hurry.
“Will someone drive me to the railroad station?” he asked.
The cold winds and the snow had been gone for twenty-four hours. The train moved slowly, for there wa
s still some confusion on the railroads, and all trains were loaded to uncomfortable capacity with men and women and children returning to their homes and long-lost families. The shabby coaches, however, rang with laughter and singing and the excited roar of voices and the screams of infants. There was much drinking, too, and quantities of dust and dirt, and many packages of food, as the American refugees moved from city to city in their flight to liberty. What little new equipment had been built for the railroads during the past three decades had been assigned to the Military, and so it was that Durant lived and slept on a narrow coach-seat he shared with an old woman. He was dirty and exhausted, and as grimy as all the others in the crowded car, but like them, too, he smiled and laughed and talked in the fraternity of freedom. For two nights, he had shivered with them in the unheated coach, and had gotten off, with them, at way stations to purchase sandwiches and coffee.
He was still anonymous. He listened to dozens of harrowing tales of past slavery, suffering and abuse. He marveled, with the others, that America was now free. With the others, he good-naturedly insulted any young soldier who entered the coaches on his own way home. The common soldier was safe, but there were still incidents of bloody attacks on officers of the regular army. He told his new friends that he had been a worker in a factory in a Northern city, and that he was looking for his wife and children. They smiled at him sympathetically, assured him that he would find his family, and shared their oranges and sandwiches with him. They could not get used to the oranges, or the butter, or the white bread or the hot thick meat. They would devour them, wonderingly. They were full of exuberant plans, naïve, touching and pathetic. But many of them, when asleep, cried out in strangled anguish and had to be shaken awake. This was particularly true of the older people, and of women who had lost their children forever.
Never must it happen again, so help us God, Durant would think, with terror.
Each hour the winds were warmer and the sun brighter. People got off the train, were replaced by others. When Durant stood outside while the train halted it was a marvelous thing to him that now, in January, there were flowers blooming in the fields. He was in Georgia, and eager for his first sight of a palm. Back in the train, he would rub the filthy window and stare out, blinking in the warm sun, opening the neck of his shirt collar. The land was white and green; he rolled past shining blue water and shacks where Negro children played.