Captains and the Kings

by Taylor Caldwell

  Rory waited for him to continue, but he had fallen silent, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand. So Rory said, "What brings you to Boston, General?" The general looked up. "You, Senator." Rory lifted his brows and gave the general all his attention. "I?" The general sipped at his drink. "While we military men are under the control of the politicians we are alert to politicians. We dare be nothing else. So, I have been reading some of your speeches, Senator, from all over the country. I have studied them very closely, very closely indeed." Rory's brows shot up, but Timothy became alert. "General," said Rory, "the speeches were just for the troops, as you would call it yourself. Happy generalizations. Handsome vague promises. Lampooning Tail and Roosevelt. Issues, excitable issues, not too well defined." He shrugged. "You know politicians." "I know," said the general. "You are all genial frauds and expert liars. The public wouldn't have you anything else. But the reason I am here is because I think you will be elected President." Rory grinned. "I wish I were that sure, General." The general studied his glass again. "I am sure," he said at last. "The Republican Party is being divided by Roosevelt, and whether or not that is by design I don't know. So, if nominated by your Party you will be elected." He lifted his hand. "Let me finish, please. It is not just your father's wealth, though that is the main factor. You will be elected because the voters want something new, perhaps something more vital than the average politician, perhaps someone younger, someone more attractive and original. You are not a boring man, Senator." Rory looked at Timothy with amusement, but Timothy was listening sharply to the soldier. "I wouldn't have taken this incognito trip to Boston if I did not think you would be nominated, and probably elected, Senator. Delegates? Local politicians? Your father has already bought them. So, let us confidently assume you will be nominated and elected." Rory frowned a little. "I have heard a rumor," he said. "About the Governor of New Jersey, Woodrow Wilson, who may contest my nomination, if I am ever considered seriously by the pols. It is just a rumor." The planes of the general's face suddenly became stonelike and expressionless. "Not a rumor," he said. He put down his glass. As if magnetized three pairs of eyes stared at the empty glass in silence. Then the general said, "But I feel you know that, Senator." Rory's face became smooth, closed. He waited. "I wish to refer to the clippings of your speeches," said the general. "The major newspapers left out a very salient ending to them. Only a very few and obscure newspapers printed it. No doubt the major newspapers felt it was irrelevant in these days. You end your speeches like this: 'Above all, I will work for peace not only for America but for the world.'" The general's eyes became penetrating as they fixed themselves on Rory.: "Now," he said, "why should you speak of peace in a world at peace, except for a few minor skirmishes in remote parts of the globe, which are always skirmishing? Even the Balkans are quiet. The Hague never mentions wars any longer, but only a hope for a future league of nations. Russia is enjoying an unusual era of well-being, freedom and prosperity, under an intelligent Czar, and the elected Duma. The British Empire is well ordered, the balance wheel of the world. Germany is prosperous and enlightened. America is recovering from the Panic of '07. In short, Senator, peace is now an acceptable and taken-for-granted state in the world. So, why do you invariably speak of peace? There is no threat of war anywhere. So, Senator?" Rory and Timothy looked quickly at each other and the general saw it, and he leaned back in his chair with a sigh, as if relieved. Rory's face was still closed and bland. He smiled broadly. "Well, General, it does no harm to speak of peace, does it? A little flourish."

  "Senator," said the general with deliberation, "I don't believe you. That is why I am here, with hope: I don't believe you. I think you know something only a few know, including myself. Tell me, sir, have you ever heard of the Committee for Foreign Studies?" Rory, before he could control himself, felt his face involuntarily change, but after a moment he gave the general his candid relaxed blue look. "I may have heard of it, somewhere. Isn't it a private organization devoted to the study of foreign trends in business, banking, tariffs? Boring things like that?" The general smiled again. "And no doubt, too, you have only casually heard of the Scardo Society in America, composed of self-declared intellectuals and 'liberals'?" Rory shrugged. "I may have heard. Politicians hear everything." But the general was still smiling. Rory felt a slight sweat between his shoulder blades. "Your father," said the general, "belongs both to the Committee for Foreign Studies and the Scardo Society." "If he does, I don't know it, General." But Timothy was studying his hands.[ The general closed his eyes briefly. "Senator, let us not play with each, other. I am trying to be frank enough with you, but you are not frank with me. I can't be explicit. It isn't necessary. You know what I am talking about. So, let us assume that we have a mutual base of knowledge, if only I as a hypothesis." Rory nodded. "As only a hypothesis," he said. The general stood up and began to march around the room, his head bent as if he were alone and reflecting only to himself. "There are those who believe that military men, like myself, can only be alive and functioning during wars, and that we are eager for wars. That is a fallacy. We do not make wars. The function of a military man is to defend his country, when called on by the President of the United States, and the Congress, who alone-up to now-has the power to declare war. It is being said now, and it is a lie, and I know the reason for it, that big military establishments 'provoke' wars. It is the civilians who goad a ruler into declaring war, who arrange for munitions, who buy munitions, who supply munitions. "As of today, no nation is threatening another nation. Do you follow me, gentlemen? This is the twentieth century. No war will be fought in this century except by flat alone of civilians-and not for mere conquest of territories or even solely for world markets." He paused, and said, almost humbly, "Soldiers are not eloquent. We have a hard time with words, and we are not politicians. Let me say this: Wars of this century will be fought to control men's minds and souls, to dehumanize mankind. It will be a war of powerful civilians against other civilians." He looked at the others. "But you know that. You know all about Cecil Rhodes. He is dead now, but his ideas, and those of Ruskin, live on and are gathering force." He added, "Such ideas are hateful to military men like myself." He stopped in front of Rory and his light brown eyes were almost fierce. "Wars won't be fought by one aggressive nation against another. They will be wars of governments against their own people, for tyranny over their own nations." He threw out his hands. "If I did not believe that you gentlemen already know this I should not be here now." He waited for their comments, but they had averted their brooding faces. The general said, "I was a Rhodes scholar." He sat down, as if exhausted. They knew all about the enormously wealthy Fabian English Socialist, Cecil Rhodes. They knew that his ideas, directed worldwide, were as jaded as worn stones, as ancient as dust, as hopeless for mankind as death. But modem political students and many politicians spoke of them as "new, exciting, progressive, dynamic, and above all, compassionate." And the ingenuous masses were listening, as if to humane good spokesmen. The general said, "Though you can hardly believe it now, of course, I was a dedicated scholar in those days. But one year in England, as a Rhodes scholar, was enough! I returned and went to West Point. It was my way of learning to defend my country against the men who had taught me in England, during my scholarship." Rory and Timothy were staring at him now, but they still said nothing.

  The general continued: "You may, or may not, know it but the opening guns against mankind will be lifted in a few years, perhaps in 1917, or 1918, or 1920, or even earlier. We must try to teach our people that America is the ultimate target against which the money power of the world is directed, for she alone, now, stands in the way of ambitious men. This is the crucial issue: Military power versus Money. That is the modern, hidden struggle. There is no other." He stood up before the silent men. He said, "Your friends in the other rooms have begun to shout impatiently for you, Senator. Now you know why I came to you today. I think you will keep our country out of war, or even prevent foreign wars. Diplomacy backed up by strengt
h, and the willingness to use that strength in the suppression of wars; even the threat will be enough. When you are nominated, you can tell our people the truth." "My God, no!" exclaimed Timothy. "That would never do, General. Even as it is-they-suspect Rory, though I don't know why. He's been amenable enough. They claim they are only 'doubtful' of his nomination because of his race and religion. You and I know about coups d'etat. Rory must wait until he is President, and even then he would be in the most desperate danger-and you know that, too." "A soldier is always in danger," said the general. "So is a man who insists on telling the truth." He held out his hand to Rory and his smile was suddenly warm. "Irishmen are rarely, if ever, traitors. They also know that only the strong can keep the peace." "Yes," said Timothy, "but Rory still has to get the nomination of the Party, you know, against very-formidable-opposition." "He will," said the general. "And that's why you must take the utmost care-" He hesitated. "Would you accept a contingent of my men, in civilian clothes, in addition to your own guards?" "Yes," said Timothy at once, but Rory laughed. "No," he said. "It's ridiculous. Here I am-just letting the people see me throughout the country and get acquainted with me. I have broadly hinted that I'd like to be elected. President next year, but I haven't even yet entered the primaries. But f thank you, anyway, General." The general looked at him long and hard and thought how splendid this young man was in both appearance and magnetism. He was to remember* his last sight of Rory the balance of his life. When the general had left Rory said, all his sunniness gone and his face as harsh as his father's: "There are New York reporters downstairs as well^ as other reporters. Bring them up here, Tim. I am going to tell them some ) of the truth." Timothy was stupefied for several seconds. Then he said, "Are you out' of your mind?" But Rory said, "In spite of everything, I just don't feel I will get the nomination, let alone be President, and so I must tell some of the truth now-today-before it is too late. Go on, Tim. Bring them up here. I mean it." Later Timothy was to wonder whether or not that interview with the Press had anything to do with what was to happen that night.

  Chapter 55

  It was five o'clock before Rory could return to his rooms with the heavily silent and desperate Timothy. Rory said, "Don't nag me, Tim. I'm too tired and I have a speech to make tonight in the ballroom-if I need to remind you." The turbulent, half-sneering, partly derisive and skeptical and somewhat horrified Press had departed, after a session of wild questions, of smothered hoots, of eyes bulging with incredulity and excitement. "War?" one of them had shouted to Rory, waving both arms in the air. "With whom? Why? Are you serious, Senator?" "I thought I explained all that, at least twice," said Rory. Some of his splendor had dimmed during the past two hours and he had not once been jocular as was his custom, nor joking. He looked much older. He had not sat down once during the interviews, but had walked up and down in controlled agitation. "I have said the 'enemy' has not yet been chosen, but I think it will be Germany. 'They' haven't told me too much, because they suspect me. Perhaps," he said, "you might consult the Committee for Foreign Studies, yourselves." "But they are only businessmen and financiers and political students and political scientists, a private organization! Americans! They have no political influence-" "You may eventually learn, to your death, that they have all the political influence," said Rory. "Are you, sir," asked another reporter with a sly wink at his fellows, "just trying to throw dust into the voters' eyes because your Party indicates it prefers Mr. Woodrow Wilson, the Governor of New Jersey, to you? Or, at least, that is the rumor. Are you trying for a little personal revenge-or to influence the delegates, and the primaries to favor you and not Mr. Wilson?" Rory felt that unique and desperate impotence men feel who try to enlighten their people to the truth, and finally understand that the truth is one thing which will never be believed. It was a hopeless impotence. He had never experienced it before, and it shook him profoundly. He had expected some skepticism, some horror, some amazement. But the leering eyes below him, the knowing grins, the shakings of heads, the malicious glances, almost undid him. "You don't expect us to report this seriously, do you, Senator?" asked a young man who appeared to have taken the leadership. "I had hoped you would take me seriously, for I have told you the truth," said Rory. "I know there is nothing so incredible as the truth-but, strange to say, I have a feeling that some of you-perhaps only two or three- know that I have told you the truth, and you are the ones who pretend to take what I've said with the loudest laughter and the most contempt. I don't know who you are-but you know. Well, gentlemen, that is all.", Timothy, very pale, stood up then and said, "The senator will speak fully on this tonight in the ballroom of this hotel. We have given you this interview so that you might make the morning newspapers. Essentially, what the senator has told you will be repeated tonight and perhaps enlarged upon. That is all. Please excuse us. The senator is very tired. He has been traveling strenuously all over the country, speaking and meeting tens of thousands of citizens, and needs to rest before the speech." They straggled to their feet reluctantly when Rory turned to go, and there was not a single handclapping or show of respect. One reporter mut* tered to others, "What's he got against Socialism, anyway? 'Slavery!' 'Plotters!' 'International bankers!' 'Worldwide Conspiracy!' I heard the Armaghs were pretty levelheaded bastards. All that money," and he wet his lips with venomous envy. "The senator's gone dippy." "Wars!" laughed another. "Can you imagine Americans agreeing to an international war, a war in Europe, for God's sake! 'To advance Socialistic- Communism,' he says. Who listens to Karl Marx, anyway? That boy senator has hot water on the brain! Wars! Didn't Governor Wilson say only last week that the world has entered on a permanent era of prosperity, peace, and progress? Now, there's a man I could vote for!" "Me, too," said another. "Well, anyone going to report this drivel?" "Not me," said still another. "My editor would fire me after asking if I'd, been drunk. Well, let's listen to him tonight, if you can stand it. Wars! He's out of his mind." Two or three only smiled, but they looked significantly at each other./ Then one muttered, "The Golden Boy.' Well, he might just as well go .' and bury himself in the Armagh multimillions and forget the nomination. He's cut his throat as far as sensible men are concerned." "Cecil Rhodes. Everybody knows what a philanthropist he was, humane and generous-" I "Ridiculous. War! He never did get very explicit, did he? Well, somey politicians will try anything to get elected, but this is the worst I ever ' heard. His Dad should call an alienist for him, and let him be decently j institutionalized."

  They marched out together, laughingly chanting, "War, war, war! To arms!" Rory undressed in his room in the heavy silence which Timothy had exuded. Timothy sat by the window, in despair. What had possessed the usually discreet and exigent Rory? Why couldn't he have waited until the primaries, at least? He could not help himself. He turned his head and watched Rory pull his nightshirt on. "Why couldn't you have waited for the primaries?" "Because," said Rory, behind the muffling silk, "I don't think I will even make the primaries." The telephone rang and Timothy, cursing, answered it. There had been orders not to disturb the senator, yet the damned phone was ringing. "Who?" shouted Timothy. "Never heard of her! Tell her to go away, Jesus! What, she insists? 'Old friend of the senator's?' Well, damn it, what's her name, and I will report this intrusion to the manager." Rory was sitting on the bed taking off his slippers. Timothy looked at him with sparkling eyes of rage out of proportion to the "intrusion." "Some damned female demands to speak with you, Rory. She won't go away. The assistant manager says she is of an 'old and notable family in Boston.' Knows the family well, and he doesn't want to tell her to get off. Well? She's on the telephone. Shall I tell her to go to hell?" Maggie, thought Rory at once, and his haggard face was excited and suddenly filled with color. He trembled, staring, sitting on the bed. Maggie. "Some female you've bedded in Boston, no doubt," said Timothy with anger. He could not get over that infernal interview and took his rage out on Rory. "Maybe she's got a wood's colt to try to saddle you with; make good newspaper copy." Maggie, thought Rory, and he pushed hims
elf to his feet and took the telephone. He moved like one in a daze, and did not look at Timothy. He could hardly speak for a moment. Then he almost whispered, "Maggie?" "Oh, Rory," she said, and her voice was filled with tears. "Oh, Rory, Rory." "Maggie," he said. The receiver had become wet in his hand. Her voice rang over the years, all those long years. And the years vanished. "Where are you, Maggie?" "At home, Rory. I don't know what made me call you, but I had to." Timothy could not believe what he saw. Rory's exhausted face was illuminated and smiling and shaken. He was a youth again, excited, bursting with joy, transfigured. He held the receiver in both hands, as if holding the hand of a beloved woman. "Maggie, Maggie," he said. "Why did you leave me, Maggie, my darlin'?" "I had to, Rory. Rory, I am still your wife. Your wife, Rory. I don't care that you married again. You are my husband. I've been faithful to you, Rory. I've loved you always." Her voice broke, and he could hear her sobbing. "It was your father, who separated us, Maggie. He did it, the-" She interrupted wildly. "No, Rory! It's time you knew the truth. I don't care what happens now. Papa and Aunt Emma are dead. I am all alone- your wife, Rory. It was your father who did it, who threatened Papa and me-and you, Rory. I did it for you, Rory. He would have ruined you, thrown you out, Rory. Your own father. We knew he meant it. So, I did it for you, more for you than for Papa and for myself." He stood in numb silence for a long moment or two. Then Marjorie said, "Rory? Are you still there, Rory?" "Yes," he said, in a most peculiar voice. He was staring at the wall now, and his pale blue eyes were wide and fixed, with the whites brightly glistening under the iris, and his face slack. Nothing showed in his expression, yet Timothy, watching with sudden intensity, felt that he was looking at a dangerous and deadly face, a mask that was terrifying. "You believe me, Rory," Marjorie was weeping. "I never lied to you, except in that last letter. I had to do it for you, my dearest." "Why didn't you tell me before, Maggie?" "I couldn't, not so long as Papa and Aunt Emma were alive. Papa died a month ago. Rory, perhaps I shouldn't have told you after all. What good does it do? But, I read you were here. I saw your photograph in the newspapers. Oh, Rory, I must be out of my mind to talk to you now! But I couldn't control myself; I had to hear your voice, for the very last time, Rory. It will have to content me the rest of my life, I am afraid. Oh, Rory." He shook himself all over, like someone shaking off dusty years and dead( grass and rising from them, renewed, after a long and lightless dream. "No, Maggie," he said. "Not for the last time. Maggie, I am giving a speech here tonight-" "I know, dear. I am coming to hear you. I should have been contentedt with that and not have intruded on you now-at this late day. Rory." "Maggie, afterwards, come up to my rooms." He paused. "Will you, Maggie?"," For God's sake, thought Timothy, who was astounded at the part of the' conversation he was hearing. A trollop, apparently. But Rory had a taste for trollops. This was no time in his career for a flaunting of strumpets in ( the face of public opinion. She must have been a memorable doxy to stir the experienced Rory like this. He was actually trembling. "Rory," he said. ) "Not tonight, for Christ's sake, Rory! You're in Boston!" Rory looked over his shoulder at him. "I am talking to my wife," he said, and his voice was full of a huge yet elated impatience. "Shut up." Timothy had been half-rising. He fell back weightily in his chair, his