The Final Hour

by Taylor Caldwell

  For he loved his heroism. He loved his publicity. He wore his medals with passionate egotism, for all his publicized ‘modesty and shyness.’

  At the age of thirty, he had married a wealthy buxom widow some ten years his senior. Some fatuous ladies declared she was a ‘mother symbol’ to him, and indeed he was often heard to admit shyly, with a deep look at his wife, that ‘Emma resembles my dear mother so much.’ Within a year after their marriage, he began to call her ‘Mama,’ though she had never borne a child. The widow was a woman of no small intelligence, and possessed considerable shrewdness. However much she resented the ‘Mama’ appellation (for she was handsome and had great style), she never betrayed it. She, too, loved publicity, and she had never been blessed with it before. Her first husband had been merely a fat businessman of remarkable skulduggery, and there had never been anything about him to inspire rhapsodies in the press. Indeed, as he had made his money by supplying inferior blankets to the Army, he preferred obscurity. So Mrs Jaeckle wore her new fame proudly, made over a considerable fortune to her ‘boy’ husband, simpered over him in public, often ostentatiously smoothing back his incorrigible lock of light hair, and posed with him girlishly for press photographers. She also gave out interviews to lady reporters in which she carolled over dear August’s ‘sweet boyishness, simplicity, profound and scientific mind, and lovable shyness.’ This spoke well for the woman’s histrionic ability, for she knew only too shrewdly her husband’s meanness of mind, stupidity, ignorance, avarice and tiny petulancies. She knew, too, that he was capable of only one largeness: hatred. She despised him. But she was grateful to him for lifting her from the anonymous mass, for she was a clever woman, of talents and accomplishments.

  But the public, however adoring, has a new hero every day. August could not compete forever with pretty male Hollywood actors, ball-players, radio singers and the newest colourful gangster. Mrs Jaeckle saw the cloud of worshippers thinning away into air. The shine of the medals was no longer bright enough to dazzle the capricious public eye.

  Mrs Jaeckle was indeed clever. Moreover, she had an authentic regard for truly great and noble men. Among her friends was a scientist of supreme achievement, a Belgian count who was, at that time, teaching trigonometry in some obscure New Jersey college. Apparently he was doomed to pass his life away in this backwater when he suddenly discovered some new system of mathematics which lifted him, for a time, to almost the same precarious fame as the latest Italian murderer in Chicago. Only a few brilliant men even pretended to understand this latest system in the realm of that most classical of the arts, mathematics. But the mystery and the newspaper acclaim made the public conscious of this new hero, though where his heroism lay the average man could not tell.

  Then, one man understood, one man among the five who pretended the system was no mystery to them. Of course, this man was Captain August Jaeckle, now almost forgotten. Fame does not always bring lucrative rewards. The Belgian count was only too well aware of this bitter truth, and he did not hesitate much more than a hour before he accepted Mrs Jaeckle’s cheque for ten thousand dollars, a permanent annuity of two thousand dollars a year, and a small new house near the campus of his college. For this quiet reward, he let it be known, very reluctantly, that Captain August Jaeckle had long been studying with him, Captain Jaeckle, in his shyness, never before having allowed the public to guess at his secret addiction to mathematics. ‘It was always a kind of vice with me,’ August admitted, with blushes and blnkings of his vapid shining eyes.

  Two of his elderly former teachers in the Shinehaha High School were greatly amazed at all this, but understanding acutely that there was no fame in rebuttal, they allowed themselves to be interviewed, with photographs, and declared that ‘dear little August was always the boy-genius of mathematics in their classes.’ They were very grateful for the substantial cheques sent to them by the more grateful Mrs Jaeckle.

  The fame of mathematics was good for one year of new and heightened publicity for August.

  Mrs Jaeckle was indefatigable. The lust for notoriety was a disease in her fifty-year-old body. She searched feverishly, while the new fame began to decline, for new fields for

  August to conquer. She hinted at divorce. The newspapers went wild. She denied the rumour. This was good for two months. She and August would adopt two children. Photographs of a multitude of orphans appeared in the newspapers, with large captions asking pertinently: ‘Is this the one?’ August, in turn, became famously interested in aviation, mechanics, economics, social problems. He was an authority on President Roosevelt, whom he hated. He gave lectures. (Mrs Jaeckle wrote the lectures.) He travelled about, speaking on practically every subject, always shy and modest and boyish.

  During this time, Mrs Jaeckle’s fortune began to show symptoms of attrition, due to the new social theories of the Administration. This induced a vast and hysterical hatred in her. She found its echo in August, who feared nothing more than poverty and obscurity. August began to speak on ‘American bolshevism,’ ‘the new American Communism,’ ‘Roosevelt dictatorship,’ ‘international plotters against pure Americanism.’ Somewhere, American womanhood, and the Home, were hinted to be under attack by nefarious conspirators in the background. August was famous again.

  August was invited by the German government to visit the Third Reich, and to see for himself how the new order was operating in Germany, how private property, private enterprise and initiative were rewarded and encouraged, how pure womanhood was protected, how the youth were trained in physical culture, how the Home was revered. August, accompanied by ‘Mama,’ went to Germany, was fêted, photographed, followed by loving crowds (carefully herded by Stormtroopers into strategic positions for photographers), and personally decorated by Hitler. He returned to America, dazed with adulation, his meagre and vicious little heart swelling with pride and emotion. He was consulted by State Department officials on the ‘truth’ about Germany, and his remarks delighted their hearts. His first lecture, after his return, was in the nature of an apology for German anti-Semitism. His second stated that Germany was invincible in the air, on land, and on sea. His third, that Hitler was a demi-god.

  ‘We must learn that there is a new and burgeoning spirit rising in the world!’ he cried, to an audience of fat middle-aged ladies who loved to hear of the masculine contempt of

  Hitler for everything female. ‘We must learn that the stream of human evolution cannot be damned by foolish idealists and outworn democrats! We cannot escape the dynamic revolution of the human soul, as it is expressed in politics. Politics are history. In Germany, one hears the rumbles of a mighty new birth of the world. However we shut our ears, the thunder will penetrate. The Future is in Germany. We cannot silence its voice. We can only ride in its train, if we are cowardly. Or, we can march in the vanguard, with Hitler, if we have courage and pride and the spirit of true America in our hearts.’

  Always, he spoke with authentic passion and noise, for lately the face of the little Jewish sniper had a terrible way of meeting him every night when he was alone.

  August was famous again, more famous than ever. The indignation and laughter and furious contempt of his enemies only made him the more famous. Violent controversies took place all over America, in the press, in public forums, in parlours and in kitchens. Bishop Halliday gave a series of radio addresses on this ‘vibrant young American hero who has heard the call of the Future.’ Subversive organizations, already forming in the dark, and bearing heroic names such as Friends of the American Constitution, Guardians of America, Soldiers of Washington, and so on, invited him to speak.

  The war gave August his greatest opportunity. He lectured inexhaustibly on the folly of ‘intervening in European conflicts,’ and of giving aid and comfort to Russia, the archenemy of Hitler. Hitler was the bulwark against universal bolshevism. Moreover, the war was none of our business. Hitler had never, at any time, dreamt of attacking America. That he intended to do so was the lie of ‘interventionists, Communists, anti-Ch
ristians, international bankers, warmongers who want profits from the deaths of our boys, first-generation Americans, “Moors” [a euphemistic term for Jews], New Deal politicians, who want a war to keep them in power,’ and practically everyone who disagreed with August. His slogan, ‘The Coming Thunder,’ inspired a small and bestselling volume written by Franz Haas, who was later indicted as an agent of the German Government.

  The American public, sweating in secret and terrible uneasiness since the ghastly attack on Poland by Hitler, finally became wildly vociferous and excited. Many sections, hereto fore adorers of August, began to despise him, to laugh at him, to call him a ‘pipsqueak,’ a fool, a trumpery hero, a masquerader, a petty mountebank, a bumbling numskull, a solemn idiot, an ignoramus and a faker. In their ire, they saw their hero as he was, and their fury against him was a fury against themselves for having been part of his adoring train. His pretensions to learning were unmasked. One of his school-teachers, who had never ceased to regret her duplicity, and who had an ancestor who had fought and suffered with Washington, now declared her folly and her seduction at the hands of Mrs Jaeckle. But, as no one had ever understood the fame of mathematics anyway, this one trembling voice was hardly heard.

  Serious and intelligent men attacked August in the press, in the pulpit, and over the radio waves. They stripped him naked. They exposed him to the jeers of their enlightened listeners. One by one, they demolished his foolish arguments. They denounced him as dupe and an imbecile, a two-penny actor, and cast doubt on his ancient claim to heroism, and on his alleged aversion to publicity.

  However, as these men were intelligent gentlemen of learning, wisdom and understanding, the American people disliked them intensely. They preferred the screamers who defended August, for these screamers were violent, colourful, dramatic and vicious. Their lies were extravagant and monstrous, and inspired the delight of the masses. They preached the vilest hatred, and the masses squirmed with sadistic lust. ‘Lie to the people, tickle them in their prejudicies, make them itch for blood, especially the blood of the defenceless, make them hate, make them long to destroy and murder, and you can do with them as you please,’ said Bishop Halliday, who was a very astute servant of Christ, and also a dear friend and servant of Baron von Teckle, Chargé d’Affaires at the German Embassy.

  In the South, where lived Americans of old British blood, August was anathema. In most parts of the West, this was also true, except in those regions infected with German strains. August’s great following was among the populations of the large Northern cities, whose people stemmed from Poland, Italy and Germany, and Ireland. After one telling lecture by August, many Jews were attacked on the streets of New York. Bishop Halliday was delighted.

  All this, however, while making August very famous, or infamous, did nothing to increase his fortune, or rather, Mrs Jaeckle’s fortune. August was ripe for subsidy.

  Rosemarie Bouchard knew Mrs Jaeckle quite well, and she sought her out very discreetly. The details were never known. But, suddenly, August became an officer in the America Only Committee, and under its auspices acquired a high and solid respectability. Rosemarie polished his scripts, wrote many of his public addresses. He, who in the past had adored no one but himself, began to adore her, to follow her about, to touch her hand shyly, to dream about her. This dark and vital woman, who in no wise resembled ‘Mama,’ nor Mrs Jaeckle (now quite fat and shapeless and moustached), wildly disturbed his senses. He would have worked for her for no reward at all but her smile, and the promise in that smile.

  Captain August Jaeckle became one of the most momentous and dangerous figures in contemporary American history during the first year of the second great World War.

  Rosemarie Bouchard had found her hero for the America Only Committee. Antoine’s faction was highly pleased.

  CHAPTER XXX

  Antoine, with those deft and graceful gestures, that insouciant manners, which he had inherited from his grandfather, Jules, poured another measure of cointreau into his Uncle Christopher’s delicate glass. He smiled as he did so. Christopher leaned back in his chair, held his glass to the light, appreciatively, and smiled also.

  ‘So, you’ve got Eagle Aviation, too,’ remarked Antoine, seating himself again, and lifting his glass in a light salute. ‘Good judgment on old Stone Face’s part. Give the devil his due, he generally picks the right man. You won’t be returning to Florida, then?’

  ‘I’ll be commuting between Windsor, Florida and Detroit. We have plans for building a large plant in Buffalo, also, and perhaps Los Angeles. Henri has hinted that the British Government has already approached him with an offer to assist in the building of the plants. The cash-and-carry plan will soon be in operation. There’s always a way of getting around the Neutrality Act, and good old Hugo is working on the State Department to that effect.’

  Antoine laughed. ‘Playing both ends against the middle—the usual Bouchard game. In this war, we’ll do it for a while. Not that I approve of it, of course. We have our plans. Britain mustn’t be supplied with too much. That was our original idea. You still agree?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Christopher, gravely. He turned the glass in his fleshless and transparent fingers and regarded his nephew fixedly with his silvery grey eyes, so enigmatic and motionless.

  The two men were sitting together very cozily in the great gloomy library of Armand’s castle. A red fire burned on the black marble hearth, and a dim grey snow was falling softly outside, this early December day.

  ‘I think we’d better call a meeting, Chris,’ suggested Antoine, after a thoughtful stare at the fire.

  ‘The sooner the better. Hugo is coming home for Christmas, and I understand he is bringing Senator Briggs with him, and one or two others. We must move fast, now. I have it on excellent authority that France will collapse in the spring. That will be the beginning of the end.’

  Antoine’s glittering smile flashed in the darkness of the warm room. ‘The end! The end of the British Empire! You know, I’ve always hated the British. Perhaps it is the French in me. So, I’ve a personal reason. How long do you conjecture it will be before the Lion is smashed to a pulp?’

  Christopher was silent for a few moments. Then he said, softly: ‘Have you thought about Russia?’

  ‘Russia! Good God! Stalin’s signed a pact with Hitler, hasn’t he?’

  Now Christopher smiled his curious icy smile. ‘I’ll tell you something else. Hitler will attack Russia some time next summer.’

  ‘Impossible!’ But Antoine was staring piercingly at his uncle. ‘Not until England is done. You think England will be done by then, though?’

  ‘No,’ said Christopher, placidly, ‘I don’t. And because England won’t be smashed, Hitler will turn east. That’s always been his mission, you know.’

  Antoine rose swiftly to his feet and began to walk up and down the room. He was frowning intently. ‘I don’t like this. You never speak without knowing what you are talking about, Christopher. If Hitler attacks Russia before England is done—’

  ‘Then,’ said Christopher, very softly, ‘he is done.’

  There was silence in the room, as Antoine moved silently, up and down over the thick rugs. He glanced repeatedly at Christopher’s gaunt and sunken face. But he could read nothing there, though the red fire flashed up on the fragile taut bones and made vivid holes of the eye-sockets.

  ‘He must be stopped,’ said Antoine, at last, pausing before his uncle.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m going to New York next week. Von Teckle will meet me there.’

  ‘That’s dangerous, Antoine. If you are seen.’

  ‘I won’t be. Will you go with me?’

  Christopher hesitated. Then he said: ‘Yes.’

  Antoine sat down again on the edge of his chair, his sinewy thin arms folded on his knees. He regarded Christopher in a long silence, smiling in a peculiar fashion. ‘I’d like to be sure of you, Chris,’ he remarked, very softly.

  Christopher shrugged. ‘My dea
r Papa used to say: “Never trust anyone but the devil.”’

  ‘You are in this with us very deep, Chris,’ said Antoine, reflectively, turning to the fire again with a gentle expression.

  Now Christopher was smiling his enjoyment. ‘Are you blackmailing me, by any chance?’

  Antoine, smiling in return, made a Latin gesture with those agile brown hands of his. ‘Of course not! Certainly not! But, as my dear grandpapa said: “Never trust anyone but the devil.” You aren’t quite a devil, Chris. But old Stone Face would be hard to convince.’

  Christopher studied him oddly. ‘You are still afraid of him, eh?’

  Antoine flashed him a shrewd glance, full of light hatred and ire. But he said humorously: ‘You must remember that my darling papa is Annette’s papa, too. And while that fact remains, Henri’s got Bouchard. I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Christopher, softly.

  But Antoine turned his black and jerking eyes upon him penetratingly before he answered. ‘Do you think the Grey Glacier has forgotten his penchant for our little Celeste?’ Christopher did not move. But every nervous muscle along his body tightened. He said: ‘I don’t know. Has he?’