“Ah, curious-like,” murmured Ernest. But he was listening with odd attention.
“Yes, sir, curious-like. There was a moon, shining on the river, but there wasn’t a sign of a boat on it, out where it was bright, so my brother went soft down the banks, behind the trees, watching. And a big boat came by, with three sets of oars, hugging the banks and slipping along as well as it could against the current, very slow, for they were afraid, it seems, to use the oars too much. My brother saw that there were six men in the boat, bent over, as if trying to hide themselves. He followed them along the bank, and they finally got to the pier that runs out from the Heckl house, and they jumped out of the boat and scrambled real fast to the house. A man stayed behind, fastening the boat, and the moon came out, brighter than ever, and it was that young fellow there, Carl. My brother couldn’t see the faces of the other men at all, for they ran so fast, and dipped down behind bushes and such, but he did see that Carl.”
“Well,” said Ernest impatiently, as the clerk stopped, “is that all? Didn’t your brother investigate further?”
“No, sir. He was afraid. You know, there used to be river robbers along these parts, and sometimes they creep up on lonely houses, yet. And my brother didn’t like the looks of things, so he went away, glad he was still alive and not seen.”
Ernest grinned. “Carl doesn’t look particularly ferocious to me,” he said. “He’s a German, and Germans are usually docile and timid people. And I can’t believe that old Hans and his son are up to anything very bad. Your brother, I am afraid, has been drawing on his imagination.” He held out a sheaf of papers. “Check this up at once, please.”
But when the clerk bent his head over the papers industriously, Ernest sat motionless, frowning and biting his lip.
When Martin saw Carl, he was startled. He motioned his own two clerks into the small office they shared beyond his office.
“What is it, Carl? Don’t you know you ought not to come in to see me so openly?” His voice was sharp, but his expression was kind, so Carl did not feel much apprehension.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Martin. But I’ve tried to see you for a long time, and couldn’t. And you haven’t been to see us lately, either. And now, I just had to come here, for things are so bad—”
He came closer to Martin, and lowered his voice. His long fair face flushed, and his light blue eyes began to flash.
“Awful bad, Mr. Martin. I had to tell you.”
“What’s the matter?” Martin was alarmed, and he glanced uneasily at the shut door of Ernest’s office. “Didn’t the last lot get through all right?”
“Oh, yes, sir. They’re in Canada now. It isn’t about—them, that I came. Mr. Barbour, have you ever been over to the place where the Kinsolving shop men live? You know, they built them a lot of shacks on the grounds, and they put a big fence around them, and the men and their families never get out. They buy from the company stores—everything—and they don’t get money. It’s something new, worse than we’ve got right here around the shops. They get little pieces of paper for so much, and they spend it in the company shops, like money. But that ain’t the worst—”
Martin had turned very pale. “I didn’t know anything about it,” he muttered. His eyes fixed in horror upon Carl Heckl. “Are you sure? Oh, I’ve been a selfish fool! But are you sure? I’ve never been over there, to the Kinsolving works. I knew that Raoul Bouchard had brought back a boatload of men and their families, but I thought things over there were as they are here. Bad enough, God knows, but the men are free. My God, do you know what you are saying, Carl? You are saying we have slaves here, white slaves! This is intolerable. I can’t believe it. Even Ernest—I mean, no one would do this thing to these helpless men and women! The Government wouldn’t stand for it—”
“The Government’s standing for it all right, Mr. Barbour. Whether it knows or not, I don’t know. But that ain’t the worst.
“If they get sick, they can’t call a doctor. If they get real bad, the foreman calls a doctor for them, and stands right there all the time. When they die, they can’t even have a priest. They die like dogs, sir,” and Carl’s eyes filled with tears and his nose reddened. “And then they ship them out like dogs, in boxes. They never get out, unless they die. They work twelve and fourteen and more hours a day, and the only life they’ve got is in the company saloon. Oh, yes, sir, they’ve got a saloon down there, where they spend their little pieces of paper that ain’t money. They drink themselves blind and drunk, and so their wives and children half-starve all the time.”
“But my God!” cried Martin under his breath, “there are hundreds of them! If they wanted to leave, they could. No one can force them to remain behind that fence if they don’t want to.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Hundreds of men. Why, they could overwhelm half a dozen foremen in a few minutes—”
“Oh, no, they couldn’t, Mr. Barbour,” replied Carl grimly. “You see, the foremen have got guns. And worse than that, there are ten men patrolling the fences all the time—”
Martin sprang to his feet. He was aghast, his face sick and working.
“How do you know all this?”
“Well, sir, one of the men got away, in the dark over the fence. It was a miracle. He ran down to the river, thinking he could get a boat and get away. But he was sick, and his hands were torn from the fence. He got into one of our boats, and couldn’t go any more. My father found him there in the morning, half dead with fever and chills, and bleeding. He brought him in, with me helping him, and then he told us. He’s home there now, and you can see for yourself if you want to. They can’t keep you out of there.”
They stared at each other in a long and shaking silence. Then Martin went to the window and looked out. Far over the thinning trees of autumn he could see the high thick chimneys of the Kinsolving works, fuming against a chill and colorless sky. He turned abruptly. He seemed changed, stern and drawn, but his eyes were steady as iron. He opened his wardrobe door and took out his coat and hat and put them on. Carl watched him.
“You go back to your work, Carl, and say nothing. I’m going out—there. I’ve got to see for myself.”
He waited until Carl had been gone for nearly five minutes, then he called his clerks, gave some instructions, and went out into Ernest’s office.
“Going out?” asked Ernest casually, raising his brows.
“Yes.” Martin did not glance at him, but continued toward the door.
“Will you be back?” Ernest called after him.
Martin stopped abruptly, at the door. Then, after a long moment or two he turned and gazed at his brother strangely. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “I—don’t—know.”
He had been gone only a short time when Ernest wrote a brief note, called a clerk, and asked him to take the note to the Sheriff’s office. Within half an hour two bulky constables arrived, and then Ernest sent for Carl Heckl, and his father, Hans.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Since its renewed activity Martin had not visited the Kinsolving works, which still operated under its old name. Therefore, he looked about him intently as he walked along the boardwalk that surrounded the building.
Ernest had spoken of secret parents and industrial thieves, so Martin had thought nothing of the high strong wooden fence with its pointed palings. It formed a wall, its joinings caulked. Now he studied it, computing its height to be at least ten feet. Moreover, it sloped inwards quite a bit, so that one climbing from the inside would have a difficult time. All at once the fence became sinister to Martin, and his imagination, already stimulated, ran away with him. His heart was beating thickly when he arrived at a strong iron-and-wood gate set in the wall. There was no outside handle, and when he pushed against the gate it resisted his efforts as easily as though he had been a fly. He noticed a bell, and pulled it with violence. It rang angrily behind the gate. He expected the gate to be opened within a few moments, but it remained shut. Then he noticed that near by was a small wooden building, not m
ore than four feet square, with a pointed roof, and from this building had emerged a short, thick man with a black beard, the rough clothes of a workman, and fierce, suspicious eyes. Martin saw that he carried a heavy club.
“And what would ye be wantin’?” he asked, in a rumbling, Irish voice, coming up and looking Martin up and down impudently.
Helpless anger, almost hysteria, began to rage through Martin.
“I want to go in there,” he said peremptorily. Under stress, he lost his usual timidity and shrinking from encounter with others.
The man stared at him again. It was evident that he had not the slightest idea who he was. But it was also evident that his appearance and his clothing were beginning to impress the watchman, for his manner became more pacific and respectful.
“I can’t let you in there, sir, unless I know who you are. That’s orders from himself.”
“And who,” exclaimed Martin with tight fury, “is ‘himself’?”
The watchman’s eyes narrowed with suspicion again. He lost a little of his respect, and his hoarse voice was somewhat contemptuous when he answered: “Now, then, who would be ‘himself’ but Mr. Barbour? Ye’re no townsman, or you’d know that without me tellin’ you.”
“Why is the gate locked? Why can’t any one go through as they do at other shops?” Martin demanded, after a pause. It occurred to him that he might get more information if he concealed his identity for a few moments longer.
The watchman laughed abruptly. “And be stolen out by robbers? There’s Government contracts agoin’ on in there, my fine bucko, and we’ve got to watch. Nobody gets in there as have no business inside.”
“But how do the workmen get in and out, from their homes?”
Again the watchman laughed, now brutally. “They goes in, sir, but they don’t come out, unless in boxes.” The amusement disappeared from his uncouth face. “But what would ye be askin’ me these questions for? Is it business you have inside? And if it is business, what might your name be?”
Sudden wild impatience ran along all Martin’s muscles, a veritable fever to get inside these walls. His worst suspicions were aroused. His pale face flushed and his hands clenched.
“I’m Mr. Martin Barbour. I must go inside at once. Open this gate!” He had a confused and sweating feeling that behind those wooden walls hopeless men were waiting for his deliverance.
The watchman’s mouth fell open. Then he recovered himself and grinned slyly, shaking his head. “Ye’ll hot be gettin’ around me with such a tale, me lad. If ye were Mr. Martin Barbour, I’d be knowin’ you, for ye’d been here before. I’ll need a better story than that.”
Martin tried to control his trembling. “Mr. Bouchard is inside, isn’t he? Go and tell him that Martin Barbour wants to come in.”
The sneer left the watchman’s face; he regarded Martin with uncertain uneasiness. He cleared his throat, as he sidled around Martin to the gate. “Ye’ll be understandin’, Mr. Barbour, if you are Mr. Barbour, that it’s my duty I’ve been doin’, and no offense meant? Orders is orders.” As he fitted a big iron key into the lock he glanced over his shoulder at Martin with anxiety, and still unallayed suspicion.
Martin was astonished that, after turning the key, the watchman did not thrust the gate open. Instead, he rang the bell sharply, three times. A moment or two later there was the sound of a heavy bolt on the inside being withdrawn, the grating of a chain. Then the gate opened ponderously about six inches and another face peered out suspiciously. Under other circumstances Martin would have laughed, but now his alarm grew and he realized how grave this situation was. The watchman jerked a thumb over his shoulder in Martin’s direction, and one sharp eye on the other side of the gate examined him intently.
“There’s a gentleman here that says he is Mr. Martin Barbour,” said the watchman. “And says to tell Mr. Bouchard that he wants to come in.”
The eye continued its scrutiny. Then, abruptly, it was withdrawn, the gate closed and the bolt was shot.
“What now!” exclaimed Martin, becoming more feverish. The watchman, facing the gate, shrugged deprecatingly. “Ye’ll have to wait, sir. It’s orders.”
Martin fumed. The flush had receded from his face and had left blotches on it. He began to pace up and down, hardly able to control himself. The watchman followed him furtively with his eyes. His uneasiness was growing.
A long time passed. A carriage drove up, and two important gentlemen in black broadcloth, tall black hats, and carrying significant little leather bags, alighted. The watchman ran forward obsequiously to assist them. Their bearded faces were lean and sharp and cruel. “Ah, Mr. Judson, Mr. Stanton! Your foot, here, sir, where it’s not so muddy!” The two strange gentlemen glanced at Martin alertly, with long, narrowed eyes. The watchman, beaming, saw an opportunity to recover good favor, if the stranger were indeed Mr. Martin Barbour.
“Ye know Mr. Ernest Barbour, Mr. Judson? Mr. Stanton?”
“Yes, of course,” replied Mr. Judson impatiently.
“We’ve met him a dozen times in Washington, and three times in this mill,” supplemented Mr. Stanton, who was evidently meticulous.
“Would ye be knowin’ Mr. Martin Barbour by sight, too, sir?”
Mr. Judson frowned thoughtfully, looked at Mr. Stanton, who shook his head. “No,” said Mr. Judson, “I’ve never met the gentleman.”
“I, sir, am Mr. Martin Barbour,” said Martin. He had approached the two gentlemen. They gazed at him in incredulous astonishment; his face was scarlet and his eyes were a blue blaze of shame and anger.
“I’m sure there was no slight meant, sir,” stammered Mr. Stanton, at last, coloring in embarrassment. He held out his hand. “I’m happy to know you, sir.”
Mr. Judson was slower to recover equanimity. But he was thorough in his attempt to cover up the situation. “Indeed, yes, it is a pleasure!” he exclaimed heartily. He, too, held out his hand. But Martin turned away, swinging on his heel, and went to a little distance without a word.
The two gentlemen, discomfited, regarded each other, and shrugged uncertainly. The watchman approached them, whispering hoarsely. “He says he’s Mr. Martin, Mr. Judson. But I ain’t never seen him before. He’s been a-shoutin’ to get inside, but we’ve sent for Mr. Bouchard. I can’t let him in till I know for sure.”
“Of course not, my man,” muttered Mr. Judson.
“Quite right,” added Mr. Stanton.
The watchman opened the gate, rang the bell, the bolt was withdrawn, and after a preliminary scrutiny, the Eye allowed the gentlemen to step inside the walls. The gate shut again and the watchman, half apologetically, locked his side.
Another galling interval elapsed. Martin paced back and forth. A light chill rain had begun to fall, and the approaching evening mingled with the smoke of the mills so that the atmosphere became acrid and gloomy with fog. From the unseen mills behind the walls came a steady and prolonged rumbling. Martin, shivering, pulled up the collar of his coat. The watchman tentatively offered him the shelter of his little shack, but Martin coldly refused. At last the inner bolt snored again in its socket, the watchman sprang agilely to unlock his side, and the gate opened grudgingly, then wider. Eugene himself stood there, frowning. In the dimness of the approaching evening, he looked singularly like Ernest, as though his attachment and admiration had helped to mould his body in conformance with the outlines of his friend.
“Martin! Diable! I did not expect you! Why was I not told? Come in, it is so very wet! If I had only known you were coming—”
He seized Martin’s arm, and tried to be cordial as he pulled him through the aperture past the grovelling watchman. “Ernest was here this morning and said nothing. How extraordinary this is! You have not been here before? No. This is really too bad, on such a day! And to have had this inconvenience with the guards! It is too appalling.” His harsh voice expressed his regret, impatience, annoyance and sympathy. “Let us hurry. I have business visitors, a Mr. Judson and a Mr. Stanton. You must meet them at o
nce.” He regarded Martin curiously and with increasing impatience. One never knew what to expect of him. He was so exceedingly singular. And now he was being more singular than ever, for he was withdrawing his arm from Eugene’s grasp.
“Eugene,” he said quietly, “I didn’t come here to visit you, or meet strangers, nor to see the shops. But I’ve heard stories about—about your workmen. I—I wanted to see for myself.”
Eugene stopped and stared at him incredulously, blinking in the gray dusk. The rain ran down his face, which was broad and brown, and which began to screw itself into knots as he tried to comprehend.
“What did you say? Stories? What stories? See for yourself? What is there to see?” He made a helpless gesture. “You mean, Martin, that you want to see the men at work?”
“No, I want to see how and where they live.”
This sounded like madness to Eugene. He could not cope with this impossible situation, and so could not speak, his features wrinkling and working in his perplexity. “Eh,” he muttered at last, and wiped away the rain that dripped into his eyes.
“You wouldn’t understand, Eugene,” said Martin sadly. “But I’ve heard that the men were prisoners, with their families, that they never got out, that they had no attention when they are ill, no priest when they were dying, no money, only some scraps of paper. That they were slaves, white slaves, in bondage, like the black men in the South.”
After a long moment of stupefaction, Eugene stammered: “It is you who do not understand, Martin. You must remember that we have Government contracts here, secret patents. We must protect ourselves from spies, from vandalism, sabotage. Many would like to know our patents. They are exceedingly valuable. So, we keep the men and their families incommunicado, to protect ourselves—”
“You are not always filling Government contracts, Eugene,” Martin said with increasing sadness. “And even if you were, this imprisonment would not be necessary. I do not remember hearing that the National Powder Company ever enslaved or locked up their men, and they had Government contracts, too. Nor have I heard of any other company giving men worthless paper, denying medical attention, imprisoning women and children. It’s frightful! I’ve never heard of anything so frightful! It must be against the law. If it is, I want to know it.”
Dynasty of Death Page 42