Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  Another thought occurred to him, and he stared at them with open curiosity across the table. He noted their contentment and serenity, the understanding smiles they gave each other, their air that they were quite alone and pleased to be in that condition. What if—! By God, the girl looked happy again, as if she had come home, into a safe place. And the young man looked alive for the first time in his life! What if—! But the girl was penniless, and if things went on as they were going, Martin would have little money, either. Ernest would take damn good care of that. And then another thought occurred to Gregory Sessions, and it was so stupendous, so delicious, so full of hate and pleasure and malice and joy, that he burst into a roar of laughter, and threw himself back in his chair. What a joke that would be! The others regarded him with open-mouthed surprise. The conversation had become serious for a moment, and no one could understand the laughter. Seeing their blank faces, he stopped laughing abruptly, and apologized. “Only a thought I had,” he explained. Ernest resumed what he was saying, and Gregory listened courteously. But the delighted laughter lurked in the corner of his eyes.

  With the coffee and the cordials everyone relaxed. There was a coming and going between the tables. Long yellow shadows mingled with the tree-shade on the grass; the wind had died down a little, and only the tops of the trees rustled in golden light. The western windows of the house were already ruddy and hot, its gray walls drenched in brightness. Some of the guests were already leaving, coming to the table of their hosts to say their laughing good-bys; carriages were already appearing on the driveway, their wheels twinkling in the beaming sunset light, their horses sleek under polished harness. From the town came the loud clangor of the bells of the First Reformed Church calling sinners to worship in a harsh and domineering voice, and then the low, almost timid but musical bells of the Church of the Annunciation. The young city stretched herself, yawned, sighed contentedly in the last warmth of the golden day.

  Gregory and Nicholas and Ernest were talking together with increasing seriousness, their elbows on the table as they sat sideways, in order to face each other. May listened also, her sparkling and intelligent eyes going from one face to another; she was not speaking now, only listening, and comprehending much. Her fan moved slightly and steadily, throwing reflections on her pretty face. Ernest was skirmishing mentally for position. He knew that his natural directness would be offensive to Nicholas. He could be direct with Gregory, and openly ruthless, for Gregory was no hypocrite if occasionally a smiling rascal. Gregory was amused, almost delighted, when caught shrewdly, appreciated an eye that could not be deceived. But Nicholas, though also a rascal, hated ruthlessness that did not disguise itself in graceful hypocrisy, was terrified at a straight coming to an inevitable point; he perferred circumlocutions, mental starings at an innocent sky, roundabout approaches, delayed arrivings at a position he had refused to recognize until arrival. He had the politician’s necessary deference and respect for public opinion; he knew the success of a politician was not in the honest and intelligent support of a competent minority, but in the support of the average man with all his pious hypocrisies, his timidity, his hatred for definite issues, his love for pleasant generalities and sticky platitudes. So in his very successful attempts to win this vast majority, their color had flowed into his personality, infusing it with their own dislike of quick decisions, ruthless conversation, bitter reality. Once, Gregory had told his brother that the tragedy of being a politican was that one lost his own soul and acquired a perfect menagerie of little monkey-souls to take its place. A politician had to be all things to all men, and as the majority of men were simians, a politician eventually became a simian, too.

  While Ernest skirmished for position, Nicholas gravely affected to be entirely unaware of this, and Gregory watched, delighted. May listened, sometimes smiling faintly. Amy and Martin had pushed their chairs back from the table and were again softly absorbed in each other, utterly oblivious of anything or any one else. And Nicholas waited with an air of grave innocence to be wooed.

  Ernest proceeded cautiously. He knew that a too-quick word would send the timid and tender moralities of the Senator into a wild retreat. He knew that Nicholas was waiting for the proper and discreet approach to the thing for which he had returned to Windsor. So Ernest began by praising the growing and robust vitality of the town. A few more industries, an expansion, building—and Windsor’s population would more than treble itself in ten years. He infused into his voice a sectional enthusiasm and eagerness, a provincial patriotism.

  Nicholas sighed gently, glanced about him with the expansive manner of a contented paterfamilias, the simple landowner, shook his head slightly.

  “And then,” he said in a melancholy voice, “we shall have a veritable roaring metropolis.”

  “But also great prosperity, wealth,” suggested Ernest, smiling.

  “But my dear young man,” said the Senator, with a pained but gentle expression, and a glance for approbation at the silent others, “we shall then have destroyed what is the greatest charm of this little city: its simple faith, its innocence, its modest way of life, its hardy nobility, strength. The simple things, the simple life! Ah, that is truly beautiful—the very spirit of a young and devoted country.”

  This, thought Ernest, with a wry mouth, is a very dangerous rascal indeed. I must be careful. He studied the Senator carefully, and despised him. Why, his thought continued, the scoundrel actually believes he believes this! I wonder just how disappointed he would be if I pretended to take a hint and said nothing more? He glanced at Gregory; the latter was regarding him with uplifted and pointed eyebrows, uplifted and pointed mouth of silent and delighted mirth. There was something almost fiendishly satyr-like in all those pointed, thin and lifted angles, something pitiless and objectively amused.

  “But the spirit of this country is growth,” Ernest said respectfully. “We cannot help but grow. Or, if we try to delay its growth, merely for love of an old state, we are really unpatriotic. Don’t you think so? We cannot help but grow; we must help America grow.”

  “Ah, that is true, also,” agreed the Senator, with the gracious and benevolent gesture of a man who is not afraid to admit himself out-argued.

  “So, we are all doing our share. I flatter myself I have done my share. It is little enough to do for a country that has given us refuge and hospitality and kindness.” Ernest resolutely kept his eyes from Gregory now, but he knew, without seeing, the broadening of his ecstatic smile.

  “You speak very nobly, young man,” said the Senator, returning to his customary bluff heartiness. He winked. “I hope your politics are as circumspect, also?”

  “I am not a Whig,” answered Ernest, smiling.

  “But not too much of a Tory, I hope?” The Senator shook his head, pleased. “Neither Whig nor Tory: just American. Simple American. But are you not an Englishman?”

  “Yes. But we are citizens. American citizens. Have been, for the past three years or so. And very proud to be, I assure you.

  “My vision of America, Senator, is not provincial. I would like to see America expand, become the greatest of nations. And how can she do that? By conquest? We hope not, for that is the dishonorable way. By industry? Yes! Peaceful conquest of the world’s markets. We, all of us, must help so. And I believe I have already helped. I am sure that you know a little of my—our—activities—”

  “Yes, I believe Gregory mentioned a few,” said the Senator with a vague but benevolent smile.

  Ernest could hardly restrain a grimace. He paused. Dare he mention the fact that the Sessions Steel Company owned thirty-three and one-third per cent of the stock of Barbour & Bouchard? No, not outright. That would offend the Senator. So he said: “What I have been able to do has not been entirely without help. As you may know, Senator, Mr. Gregory helped me considerably, first by money and then by approving my notes for the purchase of the Kinsolving works.”

  “You acquired the Kinsolving works? But how very rash, young man! Is this not too big
for you?” The Senator affected concern and surprise.

  “No, sir. I believe in the future of America. I believe in the future of Windsor. Nothing is too big for such a country and such a city. Perhaps I am overly hopeful, but I think not. You see, what we make is the finest in the country, quite possibly the finest in the world. America has the right to that. America has the right to acquire our arms and our ammunition for her army.” He looked full into the Senator’s narrowed eyes and nodded with pretended mystery. There was a long silence.

  “What do you mean?” asked the Senator at last, with great naïveté. “You cannot mean military contracts!”

  “That is precisely what I mean,” said Ernest soberly. He struck his fist on the table. “Military contracts.”

  “But that is impossible, that is preposterous, young sir! You cannot know the situation. The National Powder Company has been getting all the military contracts for the past twelve years, and has the confidence of the War Department, due not only to their ability to produce large quantities of good materials, but by proving their trustworthiness in guarding valuable Government secret patents. The War Department would oppose any bid from any other company. This Company employs a number of ex-army men whose loyalty has never been questioned. You, you know, are really a new and almost unknown concern, though I grant you that more than one rumor has come to me of the superiority of your arms and powder.

  “The officers and owners of the National Powder Company are very old and faithful men. They have the respect and trust of all Government officials.”

  Ernest listened with passionate care to this. All the time the Senator was speaking, he had been watching his face, its bluff frankness of expression, its appearance of sober sincerity, its manly gravity. For the life of him, Ernest could not read now beyond that face. His own lips tightened grimly.

  “I have set my heart on military contracts,” he said quietly. “It will be the end of a dream if I do not get them. Men may serve their country in many ways, in politics or on the battlefield, or in supplying necessary supplies as honestly as possible. I can supply the Government with the finest of arms, the best of powder. We hold patents which I believe are superior to Government patents. We have been offered thousands upon thousands for them. The National Powder Company practically begged us to sell them our new smokeless powder.”

  Nicholas listened with an air of paternal seriousness and affection. Then he appeared to sink into deep and sober thought. He played with the stem of his cordial glass. He frowned, twitched his lips, sighed. Ernest, impatient and a little frightened, presently glanced at Gregory. The latter’s face was inscrutable; he still seemed to be enjoying an objective comedy.

  Finally Nicholas stirred weightily and said very slowly, as if thinking over each word before speaking it: “It is possible, though I do not say probable, that when the National Powder Company next bids for its annual contracts in September, a whisper in the right place to the effect that a new but substantial company holding valuable patents, and able to produce and deliver any amount of superior arms and ammunition, able, into the bargain, to underbid the National Powder, may have an interesting effect. This rumor would undoubtedly reach the National Powder, who are no doubt aware of your existence and the possibility that you may eventually become their strongest competitor. They will send gentlemen to see you, who, after a lot of anxious hemming and hawing, will offer you a consideration. What that consideration will be I am not in a position to say, but it ought to be a share in the business. What bargains you may drive then, young man, I leave to your acumen and judgment, which I hear are prodigious.”

  Ernest held his eye steadily. “The National Powder Company is not a large concern. They have old equipment. A better company ought to be able to underbid them, or arrange a very nice settlement with them. Is that what you mean?”

  “Exactly.” Nicholas smiled brilliantly.

  “And the whisper? The rumor that might bring this about?”

  Nicholas waved his hand loftily, his expression bland. “Oh, that. Any gentleman of position in Washington can start that whisper in exactly the proper place. After all, one must have the best interests of the Government at heart.”

  There was a long pause. Martin had begun to listen, his wide white forehead wrinkling in mingled perplexity and suspicion as he looked from Nicholas to Ernest, and back again. But Ernest turned to Gregory. The latter faintly nodded, faintly grinned. Ernest heaved a deep and satisfied sigh, sat back in his chair. He moved his head in May’s direction, and she, too, nodded, her dimples flashing in and out of her cheeks. To his pleased surprise, she seemed genuinely and generously elated at his success. She leaned toward him and whispered; he was obliged to bend his head to her ear, after a glance at Gregory and Nicholas, who had begun to argue as to the merits of their own cigars. He thought as he listened to May: I have won!

  May whispered: “It is my birthday on Thursday. I am having a small party, only a few friends. I may expect you?”

  He looked into her eyes very gravely. “Assuredly,” he said, as if she had proposed something of tremendous importance in which he concurred.

  Martin was saying eagerly to Nicholas, in his usual breathless and hurried fashion when speaking to strangers: “I have a copy, sir, of your speech last winter in favor of abolishing slavery. I want to tell you, Senator Sessions, that that was the noblest, simplest, most comprehensive speech I have ever heard!” He stopped abruptly, red of face and confused of eye.

  No flattery is too humble for a politician, and Nicholas was quite touched at this tribute to his eloquence. “Ah, you are interested in the slavery problem, sir? So am I. A nefarious business, young man, a nefarious business! A grave situation will eventually be created, in which arms may be taken up in a righteous cause against the Southern States. I hope not, I sincerely hope not. But unless these States will be brought to realize the un-Christian, the inhuman cruelty of slavery, we may have to bring it to their realization with iron and powder and steel.”

  “Great-grandfather Prentice was a slave trader,” said Gregory idly.

  “Posterity,” thundered the Senator, turning crimson, “is not responsible for the crimes of past generations, my dear Gregory.”

  Everyone, even Amy, laughed a little; only Martin did not see the humor of it. He was still gazing at Nicholas, his face full of innocent anxiety.

  “I hope there will be no war, sir,” he said. “That would be frightful. Almost worse than slavery. I do not think it advisable, or right, for men to kill even to save other men.”

  Nicholas delighted in human beings like Martin. They are effortlessly swayed by argument, because they cannot usually detect fallacy and hypocrisy; if a man speaks to them loudly and incisively, appealing to their simple and uncomplicated emotions and integrity, they will believe him utterly. It had surprised even Nicholas to discover that the bigger a mountebank or blackguard a politician is, the easier he can convince the pure of heart and the unsmirched of soul. Children, he had thought to himself, are easily taken in by plausibility, by rascality that, having no scruples whatsoever, can speak with authority.

  “Dear Mr. Barbour,” he said somberly, “have you forgotten that God allowed Christ to be killed in order to save other men? Have you for gotten that freedom has sprung from the blood of the faithful, that democracies are built on the graves of the brave? If we have a war, which I pray we shall not, I think the young men of the North will realize it is a holy war, a just war, a war blessed by God.”

  “Perhaps,” said Martin in a low and almost terribly earnest voice, “you are right.”

  His brother was annoyed. The old scoundrel had no right to put such ideas into Martin’s head; he would believe any wickedness or stupidity if it were suggested to him in fine and noble words. He spoke with unusual impulsiveness, and abruptly: “No wars are righteous, sir. I must disagree with you. Perhaps they are necessary, at times, to prevent invasion, to put down would-be internal destroyers. Men must defend themselves, and so must
nations. But except for these occasions wars are brutal and stupid.”

  Immediately, he could have bitten off his tongue. He had spent hours placating and wooing this old buzzard, and now, on a silly impulse, had put his foot in it. Gregory was staring at him in delighted surprise, May’s eyes had widened, Amy was regarding him with softness, and Nicholas’ face had swollen to the bursting point. But Martin said, turning to his brother with a bitter look: “If you believe so, why do you manufacture the materials with which men can kill each other?”

  This question seemed so childish to Ernest that he colored with embarrassment, did not know where to look. Then he saw that all the others, except Amy, were waiting maliciously for his reply. So he turned his back full on his brother and said to Nicholas, with an unpleasant smile: “My brother appears to think that we manufacture armaments out of sheer hatred for humanity and depravity of soul.”

  May thought: What extremely bad taste! And regarded him with admiration. Martin had become scarlet, Amy gazed at Ernest reproachfully, Nicholas fumed, and Gregory seemed more delighted than ever. He nodded imperceptibly to May and Amy, and the girls rising, the men were forced to rise also. Twilight, warm and duskily blue, was setting down over the house and its grounds. Almost all the guests had gone, and the sky was a clear and distant heliotrope. The wind had died, and except for a faint and melancholy rustling the trees were still. A robin’s evening song, one long cascade of pure and mournful notes, ran down the pellucid curve of the evening like silver drops. Someone began to light candles and lamps in the house, and one window after another began to glow.

  “What a lovely day this has been,” said Amy softly, looking at her relatives and guests. “It could not have been more perfect.” Everyone concurred. Ernest and his brother were invited to supper later, but refused. Nicholas still appeared to have been wounded, and wore an aggrieved expression. Ernest decided to leave him to the adroit ministrations of his brother. So he said good night, with formality. In the dusk Amy’s face was like a pearl, and May’s eyes had a warm flash. Their dresses had lost color, and had become soft clouds about them.