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[Frontispiece: He Moved a Step Nearer the Steel Rail.]
THE
MEN WHO WROUGHT
By
RIDGWELL CULLUM
_Author of "The Night Riders," "The Way of the Strong," "The LawBreakers," etc._
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1916, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
_All rights reserved_
Printed in U. S. A.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Golden Woman The Law-Breakers The Way of the Strong The Twins of Suffering Creek The Night-Riders The One-Way Trail The Trail of the Axe The Sheriff of Dyke Hole The Watchers of the Plains
CONTENTS
I. The Danger II. A Strange Meeting III. The Mystery IV. Mr. Charles Smith V. The Lure VI. The Old Mill Cove VII. On the Grey North Sea VIII. Borga IX. The Friendly Deep X. The Future XI. Back at Dorby Towers XII. Kuhlhafen XIII. News XIV. "Kamerads" XV. The Ineradicable Strain XVI. Enemy Movements XVII. The Crouch of the Tiger XVIII. From Beneath the Waters XIX. The Tiger Springs XX. Bar-Leighton XXI. Enemy Movements XXII. A Means of Escape XXIII. The Wreck at Dorby XXIV. Ruxton Arrives at a Great Decision XXV. The Sweetness of Life XXVI. Ruxton Wins a Trick XXVII. The Week-End Begins XXVIII. The Week-End XXIX. The Close of the Week-End XXX. Gazing Upon a New World XXXI. After Twelve Months
ILLUSTRATIONS
He moved a step nearer the rail . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
Out of the grey waters rose the submersible
"Go on," he said sharply
THE MEN WHO WROUGHT
CHAPTER I
THE DANGER
"Amongst the many uncertainties which this deplorable, patched-up peacehas brought us, there is, at least, one significant certainty, my boy.It's the inventor. He's buzzing about our heads like a fly insummer-time, and he's just about as--sticky."
Sir Andrew Farlow sighed. His sigh was an expression of relief; reliefat the thought that he and his son, dining together at Dorby Towers forthe first time since the dissolution of Parliament had released thelatter from his political duties, had at last reached the end of a longdiscussion of the position brought about by the hopelessly patched-uppeace, which, for the moment, had suspended the three years of terriblehostilities which had hurled the whole of Europe headlong over theprecipice of ruin.
The great ship-owner toyed with the delicate stem of his liquor glass.There was a smile in his keen blue eyes. But it was a smile withoutlightness of heart to support it.
"Yes, I know. They've been busy enough throughout the war--and to somepurpose. Now we have a breathing space they'll spread like a--plague."
Ruxton Farlow sipped his coffee. The weight of the recent discussionwas still oppressing him. His mind was full of the appalling threatwhich the whole world knew to be overshadowing the future.
The dinner was drawing to its close. The butler, grown old in SirAndrew's service, had finally withdrawn. The great Jacobean dining-hallof Dorby Towers, with its aged oak beams and beautifully carvedpanelling, was lost in the dim shadows cast by the carefully shadedtable lights. Father and son were occupying only the extreme end of thedining-table, which had, at some far-distant age, served to bear theburden of the daily meals of half a hundred monks. There were no otherlights in the room, and even the figures of the two diners were onlyilluminated by the reflected glow from the spotless damask on thetable, a fashion to which the conservative habits of the householdstill ardently clung. It was a fitting setting for such a meeting asthe present.
Sir Andrew Farlow, Baronet, was one of the greatest magnates ofshipping and ship-building in the country, and was also one of thegreatest sufferers by the German submarine warfare during the late war.His extreme wealth, and the fact of the enormous Government contractsin his ship-building yards, had left him practically immune from theconsequences of his losses, but the losses to his fleet had been feltby the man, who was, before all things in the world, a shipmaster.
His son, and only partner, had spent those past three years in theservice of his country. Not in the actual fighting line but in the workof organization, an important position which his wealth and capacityhad entitled him to.
Sir Andrew pierced and lit a cigar.
"We mustn't ridicule them, though," he said, in his hearty Yorkshireway. "We've laughed at 'em too often in the past. It's a laugh whichcost our country a couple of thousand millions, and a world-widesuffering which mankind will never forget." Then his manner lightened."Henceforth the inventor must be to us a rare and precious orchid. Wemust spend hundreds of thousands of pounds on him, the same as I spendthousands on my orchid houses. I count myself well repaid if I succeedin raising one single perfect bloom on some rare plant. That is, if myrivals have failed with the same plant. The inventor is the orchid ofmodern civilization, and the perfect blooms he produces are very, veryprecious and--rare."
"You are thinking of those diabolical engines of destruction which wereprepared for this war."
Ruxton helped himself to a cigar.
"On the contrary, I am thinking of the defence, not the offence, ofthis old country of ours."
The younger man nodded as he lit his cigar.
"That is it. We must prepare--prepare. We have only a breathing spacefor it."
"There must be no more slumbering."
"And no more sacrificing the country to self-seeking demagogues."
"Yes, and no more slavery to Party prejudices, as antique as thetimbers of this house."
"Nor the knaveries of men who seek power through dividing the countryinto classes, and setting each at the other's throat."
"Nor must we ever again allow the nation's security, economic ormilitary, to be hurled into the cockpit of Party politics."
"Gad! It makes me shiver when I think how near--how near----"
"We were to destruction," added Sir Andrew gravely.
It was again a moment of intense thought. Each man was regarding fromhis own view-point that intangible threat inspired by theunsatisfactory termination of the war, which left the Teutonic races ina position to brew further mischief with which to flood the world.
The pucker of thought, the drawn brows, completed the likeness of SirAndrew Farlow to England's national symbolic figure. His broadshoulders and shortish figure; his round, strong, Yorkshire face, withits crowning of snow-white, curly hair, and the old-fashioned, crispside whiskers made him a typical John Bull, even in his modern eveningdress.
In the case of his son Ruxton it was almost in every respect anantithesis.
No foreigner would have taken Ruxton Farlow for anything but anEnglishman, just as no Englishman but would have charged him withpossessing foreign blood in his veins. And the Englishman would havebeen right.
Sir Andrew Farlow had spent a brief married life of a few months overone year with one of the most beautiful women amongst the Russiannobility, and the birth of his son left him a widower.
From his mother young Ruxton had inherited all those characteristicswhich foreign Europe assigns to the British born; his great size, hisfair, waving hair and his darkly serious eyes. These things all camefrom his Russian mother, who had possessed them herself in a markeddegree. Furthermore he inherited other qualities which could never beclaimed for his Yorkshire father. The boy from his earliest childhoodwas an idealist: an idealist of but a single purpose which developedinto a brilliant specimen of the modern product of an old-fashionedpatriotism.
But he brought more to bear upon his patriotism than the merepassionate devotion to his country. He was a fine product of publicschool and university with the backing of a keen, well-balanced brain,and a natural aptitude for statecraft in relation to the rest of theworld. He saw with eyes wide open to those interests dearest to hisheart, and clearly, without one single smudge of the fog of personalself-interest.
"It's never out of my thoughts, Dad," Ruxton said at last. "It is withme at all times. It is the purpose of my life to devote myself to, andassociate myself with, only those who will place their country beforeall else in life."
"An ideal difficult to realize in Great Britain," observed his fatherdrily.
"Do you think that? Do you really think that?"
Sir Andrew stirred impatiently.
"It is not what I think. It is not what any of us think. It is what wesee and hear--and _know_. This war has shown up so many weaknesses inthe armor of our social economy as well as the psychology of our peoplethat one hardly knows where to hurl one's condemnation the mostforcefully. So many weaknesses and failures stand out crying aloud forthe bitter castigations of national conscience that it is difficult topoint out one worthy feature. Oh, you think that too sweeping," criedthe baronet with flushed rugged cheeks and brow, as his son raisedquestioning eyes in his direction. "That is what every other man andwoman in the country would say in their purblind vanity. But it istrue. True of the country. True of us all. There is one thing whichappeals to me as our greatest failure, however. One failure preeminentover all others that has sunk deep down in my heart, and the scar ofwhich can never be obliterated. I was brought up in the early Victoriandays when patriotism was no mere head-line in a sensation-loving press.It was something real. Something big. Something which gripped the senseof duty and made our men and women yearn for active participation whendanger threatened our Empire, even to the sacrifice of all they helddear in life. That national spirit was sick to death when this warbroke out. Our press was divided, our politicians were divided, and,yes, our people were largely indifferent. But for the strength of a fewof our leaders, men who have deserved far better of our country thanour country has ever yielded them, thanks to indifference and Partypolitics, the end of this war would have come with even more terribleconsequences to our Empire than all that is signified by the position,almost approaching _in status quo ante_, in which we now findourselves. The ramifications of our lack of national spirit are somultifarious that it is impossible to go into them as a whole. One ortwo, however, are so prodigious, and have been so pronouncedly marked,that the veriest optimist has not failed to observe. One which stoodout remarkably was the attitude of the reigning Government when war wasdeclared. Every newspaper cried aloud that our ranks had closed up tomeet the peril. They did close up, as far as the will of the countrywas concerned, but our machinery was geared to certain movement, amachine built through years of partizanship in politics. The result waspitiful. When the party in power was faced with Labor troubles whichthreatened our downfall in the war, they dared not face their task ofdrastic remedy because they saw in the dim future the loss of voteswhich would return their opponents to power at the next election. Hencethe political crisis, at a time when we could ill afford such crises,and the formation of a coalition. Ten months were thus lost in driftingwhile Labor played, and our soldiers, inadequately armed, went to theirdeaths. The press, a divided press, mark you, sought a scapegoat in theindividual, when they, no less than our national machinery, were toblame for the disaster. Is such a condition conceivable in a ferventLatin race, or an iron-shod Teuton? No, no. Is it right to blame Labor,who, for the past decade and more, has been coddled and pampered intothe belief that like any baby in its cradle it has only to cry loudenough to obtain the alleviating fluid? It at least has cunning enoughto realize that its weight of vote in the country is sufficient tocontrol the destiny of the demagogues who seek place and power throughits ignorance. Man, but it makes me sweat to think of it. Nationalspirit? Faugh! Look at the manufacturers. Patriotism? They were full ofnewspaper patriotism until those who were executing Governmentcontracts discovered that their profits were to be limited. The Army?Our voluntary system? The Army was all right. Oh, yes, the Army wasgreat. But the system? The system was probably the most painful amongall our national systems. The most hopelessly inadequate. And, from anational spirit view, was hideously grotesque. But the men who joinedand shed their blood upon those terrible battle-fields abroad were asthe worker in the vineyard who engaged for one penny. They gave theirall, and made up in the execution of their duty for those who shelteredbehind the skirts of their womenkind, and the race of shopkeepers theyleft behind. The spirit of our country when the war broke out was asordid commercial spirit. 'Business as usual' was the cry. Then ourpress, our wonderful divided press, said the country was not awake. Itwas slumbering! I tell you it was a lie!" The old man banged his fistupon the table and set the glasses jumping. "Our country was notasleep. Every man, woman, and child capable of common understandingrealized our peril from the start. It was the hateful commercial mindseeking to make gain out of the disaster which had overtaken the world,that mind that has acquired for us the detestable sobriquet of 'a raceof shopkeepers,' that hindered and deterred us. We were not slumbering.We were awake. Wide awake! To think that I have lived to see the daywhen our women's fair hands should be called upon to distribute thewhite feather. Our present-day musicians and our national bards willtell you that the old songs of England are out of date. They are right.Our girls and boys look askance at your Marryats, your Dickenses, yourThackerays, your Stevensons, and all those great masters who foundtheir strength in our country's greatest ages. When war broke out wewere floundering in the mire of sensualism brought about by the yearsof peace and security, and so we bred the cult of the sensualistwriters on sex problems, and all the accompaniment of the other arts tomatch."
The white-haired veteran, who had spent his early youth fighting hiscountry's battles on the Empire's frontiers, and, in later days, haddevoted all his energies to the furthering of Britain's supremacy onthe seas, passed one strong hand over his lined brow. He swallowed likea man choking back an emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Then theflush died out of his rugged cheeks, and he smiled at the son he loved,and who was his one remaining relative. "Forgive me, my boy, but--butall I've said is true. I don't think many will deny it. Anyway thosewho do are lying to their own consciences, or--or are purblind in theirinsane egoism."
Ruxton smiled responsively and thrust back his chair.
"There's no forgiveness needed, Dad," he said. "You have quoted but afew of the hundred signs, of which we all have proof, that when warbroke out patriotism had only the smallest possible part in the life ofthis country. From the beginning to the end of this war England has hadto pay out of her coffers, to those of her people whose services sheneeded, a price so extortionate that one wonders if it is not all somehideous nightmare and in truth unreal. But tell me, Dad," he went onafter a pause, "you spoke just now of inventors, and your mannersuggested that there was something--important."
Sir Andrew rose from the table and led the way towards the distantfolding doors.
"Well, I don't know if it will prove to be anything--worth while."
He fumbled at an inner pocket of his dinner coat, and produced a letterwritten on thin paper. When they reached the great hall and stood underthe brilliant electrolier he unfolded it and held it out for his son'sperusal.
"I get lots of them," he said almost apologetically, "and few enoughturn out worth while. This one reads a little different. That's all."
"Sir,
"You are a great shipmaster. You owned a fleet of merchant shippingwhen war broke out of forty-two coastwise and thirty-five ocean-goingships. At the end of the war you owned thirteen coastwise andtwenty-one ocean-going traders. I have a means of saving you any suchloss by submarine in the future. May I be permitted to show you myinvention?
"Truly yours, "Charles Smith.
"P.S.--Absolute se
crecy is necessary. A simple 'yes' addressed by wireto Veevee, London, will be sufficient."
"The wording of it is so unusual that it--interested me," Sir Andrewwent on, as Ruxton began to read the letter a second time.
Presently the younger man looked up from his reading.
"That's your imagination working, Dad," he said, smiling. Then headded: "Let it work. Let it run riot. That's what we want inEngland--now. I should see this man. I think he is a foreigner--inspite of his English name."
The John Bull face of the elder man wreathed into a warm smile as helooked up at his towering son.
"I had decided to," he said quietly.
Ruxton handed him back the letter. Then he moved across to the greatmullioned window and looked out upon the perfect summer night. The moonwas shining at its full and not a cloud was visible anywhere.
"I have some letters to write, my boy," Sir Andrew went on. "If youwant me I shall be in the library. What are you going to do?"
"I think I shall take a stroll along the cliffs. It'll do me good, Dad.I want to feel our beloved Yorkshire cliffs under my feet again, andmake sure they're--still there."
Ruxton laughed.
"The General Election is on August 21st, isn't it?" his father enquiredpresently. "You've got seven weeks in which to recuperate, and get thecobwebs blown off you."
"I always get rid of bad fancies up here in my native air," Ruxton saidlightly. "I'm glad we haven't a strenuous campaign."
"No. We shall win all right."
"Win?" Ruxton laughed. "The National Party will sweep the polls. Laborwill be opposed to us as Labor will oppose any party. They will alwaysbe with us. But even if the extreme Radicals were to link forces withthem, they couldn't obtain a twenty-five per cent. representation. No,Dad, whatever the country failed to realize during the first two yearsof war, it's been all brought home to it now. The English housewife hasbeen driven to a sweeping and garnishing of her home. We've driven herto that, and the National Party is--_going to see she does itthoroughly_."
The younger man's enthusiasm drew an approving smile from his father.Also a world of pride in this great, fair-haired idealist shone in hiseyes.
"Sweep and garnish. That's it, boy," he said ardently. "And what asweeping, what a garnishing is needed. I wonder. Can it be done?"
"That is what we intend to test. It is to that great effort mycolleagues have pledged their lives. I have pledged mine to another. Itell you, Dad, that the sweeping and garnishing isn't sufficient. Thatis only the moral side of the campaign that lies before us, and withoutit the other side can never be achieved. But all my future is to begiven up to the material security side of the problem. It may be onlymy dreaming, but I seem to see a terrible threat sweeping up over theeastern horizon. A threat so appalling for us as to make the late waralmost insignificant. Some day, if you have the patience to listen to adreamer, I will tell you of the dread that persistently haunts me.Meanwhile we have that--breathing space."
Without troubling himself to get a hat Ruxton Farlow passed through theentrance hall, out into the brilliant, warm summer night, and strode ontowards his destiny.