“So, you’re the new major!” he said in a loud, rough voice, regarding Durant with mingled contempt and umbrage.
“I am. Sit down,” said Durant courteously.
But Morrow did not sit down. He stood there and slowly and deliberately contemplated Durant, and every flick of his eyes was an insult. “What happened to the old major?” he asked abruptly.
“Why don’t you ask the Chief Magistrate of Section 7, who sent me here?” asked Durant, in return.
“Dead, eh?” Morrow smiled with unpleasantness.
Durant shrugged. “Why don’t you ask the Chief Magistrate?” he repeated.
Grandon and Keiser smirked. The other two officers merely stood like wooden replicas of themselves.
“Perhaps I will ask.” said Morrow, after another contemplation of Durant.
“Did you want to see me about anything?” demanded Durant impatiently. “I’ve been in an accident, and I’m tired and need a doctor. If what you have to say isn’t important—and these are not my business hours—please go, or make an appointment with Lieutenant Grandon here to see me in about four weeks’ time. Grandon,” and he glanced at the young lieutenant, “make an appointment four weeks from today for Mr. Morrow.”
Grandon made a considerable frowning show of glancing through an appointment book. “I’m sorry, Major,” he said, “but there is nothing open for six weeks. On a Thursday, perhaps, from one-thirty to one-forty-five P.M.”
Morrow inhaled a deep breath and exhaled it like the snort of a bull. “No,” he said. “Today. Now. I’ve just heard from Johnny Lincoln, Major, and I’ve come here to tell you that the Grange protects Lincoln, and all the other farmers—”
“From what?” asked Durant, with interest.
Morrow’s face paled but became stronger. “From you,” he answered, with calm simplicity.
Durant affected to be galvanized with fury. “Are you insane?” he demanded. “Who are you, or any of the oafs you represent, to insult the Army like this?” He struck the arm of his chair with his fist. “Who rules this country, but the Army? Who gives out absolute directives, but the Army? Who lives or dies, except by permission of the Army? I think it’s time that you and your followers learned this, Morrow. You’ll begin to learn it as of now.”
Morrow was silent. But he was not terrorized or cowed. He just stood and looked at Durant, still braced and belligerent.
“I was about to send out word that I wanted to see you tomorrow,” Durant went on. “You’ve anticipated me, and I’ve been fool enough to let you burst in on me like this. Well, you’ve had your answer. You’ve heard from Lincoln, so you know that the Army’s moving in on the farmers, and that the farmers in Section 7, hereafter, will be paid with paper money just like everyone else, and that the farmers are now subject to military law, and that they’ll have to give up the gold in the Grange banks for regular legal tender. That is the new law—my law—approved by the Chief Magistrate.”
“Your law,” said Morrow thoughtfully. “But there is the law of The Democracy. Oh, I know you’ll say that the President obeys the Military. He also obeys the Grange. If it comes to a contest, and with this new war on now, the President will listen first to the Grange. The country can’t live without the farmers.”
Durant smiled. “Well, that is something we’ll try. Unless, of course, Morrow, you intend to organize your yokels in a revolutionary force? Are you implying that?”
Again, Morrow was not cowed. He narrowed his eyes at Durant. “I don’t care what you’re trying to infer,” he answered. “What I imply is my own business. The country can’t work or fight without the farmers. Oh, I know what you told Lincoln! The Army’ll run the farms! Do you think the farmers are city sheep, Major?”
Durant pushed himself to his feet. “Morrow, what you’re saying is treason. Or are you threatening us? The Army? Or, as I said before, are you insane? There’ve been thousands of insane men in this country who ended up in hospitals—and never came out, Morrow. Would you like that? Or would you prefer to be shot as a traitor?”
Morrow said nothing.
“We are faced with a desperate war,” said Durant, watching him keenly. “Our very existence is at stake. Whether or not The Democracy survives depends upon the heroic American people. We must have Unity! We must stand together! There must be no division of interests, no selfish and private gains, no profits at the expense of the whole nation.”
“I,” said Morrow, “am fifty-two years old. I’ve heard that story many times. I know all the words by heart. I can repeat them backwards. I only want you to know that the farmers won’t be collectivized or forced to harbor the Military without a fight. I intend to go to Washington tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Durant. “However, a word of advice: if you have a family say good-bye to them before you leave for Washington.”
Morrow’s features hardened. “No one ever threatened the farmers before, Major. Nobody is going to threaten them now. We’re free men, and we intend to live as free men.”
Durant laughed. “‘Free men’? You must be out of your mind, Morrow. This Democracy is ruled by the Army, and is at the mercy of the Army. You know that. You’ve known it for years. You’ve never said anything about it before, have you? Everything was wonderful so long as your yokels were safe and prosperous and collected their gold and had their big cars and their fat tables. When, before this, did you ever speak of ‘free men,’ Morrow? Don’t you know that under a military dictatorship there are no free men, and that is only a matter of time until everything and everybody is under Army control?” He paused. “Yes, you’ve thought of that, I see. But you still thought that the farmers could remain a privileged class. Leaders of the old unions thought that, too. Now, you’ll have to learn the lesson they learned.”
Morrow watched him, and there was a strange expression in his eyes.
“No country is free where any single man or group is regimented or exploited,” went on Durant. “The workingmen, twenty years ago, considered themselves very privileged and free when they permitted employers to be harassed and driven and threatened for their benefit. They didn’t see that they were next on the list for regimentation; later, they tried to protest. You know what happened to them. It is about to happen to the farmers, Morrow. Make up your mind to that. As a beginning, I want you to give me a complete report of all gold held in the Grange banks. I want that report in two days. Our country is in terrible danger, and—”
“The people must unite, must stand together, if the country is to be saved,” interrupted Morrow. “I told you, I know all the words.”
“Excellent,” said Durant. “You know the words: obey them.” He sat down again and regarded Morrow with amusement. “Yes, the words. Why didn’t you farmers, twenty or more years ago, say them to the whole country? Were you so stupid? No, I suppose not. You were just greedy.”
Again, Durant scrutinized the other man’s face. Would Morrow be broken? Would he do nothing, for the sake of his own skin? If he spoke, would he be followed? He, Durant, could tell nothing from Morrow’s expression, which had become shut and tight. However, here was a man who would at least struggle, if only briefly, before he was shot.
“Greedy,” repeated Morrow. “Yes, I suppose we were. And this thing always happens to the greedy, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.” Durant made his voice sonorous. “When any man puts his own advantage before the advantage of the country, he’s not only greedy but traitorous. I don’t know much about you farmers, Morrow, except that, probably, you’re subversive.”
Morrow smiled. “That’s just a word, too, Major. You can’t frighten me with it.”
Durant said, reasonably: “See here, Morrow, I’m new here, and I’m a tolerant man. I’m here to administer, and I’ve given you the new directive. Let us work together. You must admit, as a sensible man, that the Army has the right to enjoy the advantages of the farmers. We’ll give as little trouble as possible, but we demand our rights and are prepared for any
thing if you resist. This is war, Morrow.”
The farmer looked from one watchful face to the other. Then he straightened his shoulders. He said: “Yes, it is war.” He turned quickly and went from the room.
Durant sat down again, and sighed, shaking his head. “The farmers,” he muttered, as if to himself. “Who the hell do they think they are? Do they think they’re more important than the Military? If they do—we’ll break them.”
Bishop and Edwards said nothing. But Grandon said, with glee: “The old major was always scared half out of his pants by Morrow! All Morrow had to do was shout, and talk about Washington, and the old major curled up like burnt paper. But, there’s a new day a-coming eh, Major?”
“Yes, a new day,” said Durant, smiling. Or, he remarked to himself, I hope so.
He looked up as if impelled involuntarily. Keiser was regarding him closely and with intense interest. Bishop and Edwards stood at attention. Grandon smirked.
Two cars brought Durant, Grandon, Keiser and the two other officers, Bishop and Edwards, to Lincoln’s farm that night. Durant was completely exhausted. It seemed incredible to him that so much had happened in twenty-four hours, and he was constantly afflicted with a sense of disorientation. Over and over, he had to repeat to himself the oath of the Minute Men: “We are at war with a totalitarian society, based on Communism and Fascism, and as soldiers, dedicated to the freedom and dignity of man and the Constitution of a vanquished United States of America, we swear solemnly that our lives, our freedom and sacred honor are now in the service of our country.”
Durant remembered what Goethe once said: “When the masses fight they are respectable.” But the masses had not fought, so they were no longer respectable, and in losing their self-respect they had become serfs. The fighting was left to a few men. But, thought Durant, hadn’t that always been so throughout the history of the world?
Lincoln’s wide, white house that afternoon had looked secure and prosperous and peaceful. But now, as the cars rolled up the gravel drive, the house had taken on a beaten aspect, a cowering aura. Terror had come to it. There was one light over the door, and a few dim lights upstairs. The tree-toads shrilled loudly in the country stillness; a cool spring wind sang in the new trees. Somewhere a stream rippled musically, and a new moon was a silver thread in the sky. It was beautiful and calm, but the house stood there, seeming to have shrunk and drawn in upon itself, quaking, in spite of the spring night.
The door had not been locked. Durant and his officers entered with loud laughing and the banging of boots. No one was about. The family seemed to have disappeared. The officers went upstairs, and they found that in their absence all preparations had been made for them, all the family’s clothing and possessions cleared away. They heard the big grandfather’s clock downstairs clanging eleven, and they looked at each other, smiled, and yawned, and went to their individual rooms. “They’ve got Gracie locked up somewhere,” said Grandon, with disappointment. “But they can’t keep her buried forever.”
Where the family was sleeping, or not sleeping, was of no importance to Durant. He called in Keiser to help him remove his clothing. The sergeant assisted him in silence, while Durant tried to catch some revealing expression on that blunt, dark face. It was useless, though once or twice Keiser glanced at him furtively with a faint smile.
When Durant was in Lincoln’s wide soft bed he thought that he would fall instantly to sleep to the sound of the tree-toads shrilling outside. But in spite of the darkness and the comfort, Durant could not sleep. The faces of his wife and children haunted him; he wondered where they were, and if his wife was not sleeping, either. Restlessly, he began to plot how, when the day arrived, he could rid himself of his uniform and begin his search for his family. Perhaps, furtively, he could begin to assemble some civilian clothing, stealing a shirt, a pair of trousers, a coat, a battered hat, over a period of time. He thought of his uniform with loathing. Besides, in it, he was a marked man, and would become a target for murder if and when the people revolted. He was quite determined that he would not be murdered, friend or enemy notwithstanding.
An hour passed, and another, while he turned and moved as much as his broken arm would permit. Then the arm began to ache dully. In the darkness, he found his bottle of pills, which the doctor had given him, and he took two with a sip of water. He stood in the center of his big and pleasant room, faintly shadowed with the frail light of the stars, and he listened. There was no sound anywhere but the crying of the tree-toads and the light wind. This might have been a home in a land of free and happy men, yet to Durant everything was fog-filled with fear and terror. In the past, he had had his companions; now he had no one for consolation or hope. The forms of slavery moved about him in the darkness like the motions of bats which he could not see. All at once the room, the house, became intolerable to him, in spite of his pain and exhaustion. Awkwardly, over his shoulders, he pulled his long Army coat and pushed his bare feet into his Army boots. He opened his door and stepped into the long dark hall. Somewhere, one of his men was snoring. He crept down the stairway, holding to the banister. He unlocked the hall door below, and walked out into the night.
It had turned colder, and Durant shivered. A city man, he found the darkness disconcerting. Aimlessly, but breathing easier, he moved away from the house toward the barns and the barracks. It was primordial instinct which drew him; in those barracks lived the conscripted farm labor, the slaves. He vaguely wanted to be near those who were as trapped as himself. They were sleeping, of course, but their proximity, he believed, would soothe him.
The black shapes of the long, wooden barracks came into view as he passed the barns when the horses stamped briefly and the cattle stirred. Not a single light burned anywhere. Durant suddenly collided with a tree, and held back his curses. Far off, there was a faint mutter of spring thunder, though the stars remained clear. Durant stopped to rub the pounding shoulder of his broken arm. It was then that he heard very low voices. He stepped quickly behind the tree again, and tried to listen. He could see no one, but after a few moments he could identify the voices of Grandon and Bob Lincoln. Where they were he could not know; the night quiet was deceiving, and the speakers might be within three feet or ten feet. Durant pressed himself against the tree and was able to catch disconnected sentences. Grandon gave a smothered laugh once, and Bob Lincoln answered that laugh with subdued ferocity.
“—yes, a spy,” said Grandon. “There’re always spies, you know that. Yet they still make you mad. Anyway, I guessed all about him after half an hour.”
“—kill—” muttered Bob Lincoln.
“Not so fast.”
Bob’s voice rose: “I’m not under Army orders, or anybody’s orders. I’ll find some way of killing him soon!”
Grandon laughed again. “Don’t be a stupid bastard, Bob. We know who he is, and I’ve a good guess why he’s here and what he’s looking for.”
“—here in this house! That’s what I can’t stand, Grandon. I’ll find him alone and then—”
“You’ll do nothing,” said Grandon easily, in his gay boy’s voice. “You’ll leave it to me. Or the rest of us.”
“—saw him looking, the goddamned swine, at Gracie! Look, Grandon, why don’t you report it to headquarters?”
The voices went down to a whisper. Durant stood behind his tree in a state of shock. He had liked Grandon. He had speculated on the courage and will of Bob Lincoln. Now it was only too evident that they knew too much about him, Durant, and that he was in danger, not from any Minute Men, but from the Army and its spies. Bob Lincoln had played his part as an independent farmer and a hater of the Army very well, and Grandon had deceived him, Durant, with very clever acting.
“—should have told me before,” said Bob angrily.
“Why should I? I know your temper. I wouldn’t have told you tonight if I hadn’t seen you were about to do something violent, you idiot. I had to warn you—”
Durant, in real fear, began to back away from the tree
, praying that he wouldn’t stumble over the two men in the darkness. The voices were silent. Had they detected him by a rustle of grass or a shadow? Were they watching him now? If they discovered that he had overheard them they would probably kill him. He was to be let alone, under their cunning eyes, and to be caught in his innocence! However, if they saw him now they would murder him without any compunction at all. He would be of no further use to them.
Step by step, holding his breath, Durant moved away, backwards, putting one foot behind another, tortuously. So it was that he made somewhat of a circular motion. He paused for a moment, to breathe slowly and silently. Then he saw the shape of another man behind another tree, only six feet away. He knew that square bulk, the attitude of alert watchfulness, even in the dim starlight. It was Sergeant Keiser, and he, too, had been listening to Bob and Grandon.
Keiser! Durant became rigid and very still. Keiser was spying on those two young men, as he had spied. There was only one explanation: as he, Durant, had suspected, Keiser was a Minute Man, himself, and he was in the Army for the reason that Durant was in the Army.
Without stopping to think, Durant backed away a few more feet, then whispered: “Keiser!”
The sergeant turned with silent swiftness, then came toward him. Durant motioned with his head, and the two went as fast and as quietly over the grass toward the house as it was possible to go. The sergeant put his hand under Durant’s arm and propelled him rapidly. They said nothing until they had reentered the house and had gone into Durant’s room. There they faced each other in the darkness.
“You heard them?” whispered Durant.
“Yes, sir, I heard,” came the answering whisper, and with savagery.
I’m not alone, after all, thought Durant. It was a liberating thought, and he laughed weakly. However, for a moment he felt sincere regret and despondency. He had believed in Grandon, had reflected on him, and had had his hopes. He opened his mouth to whisper again, then abruptly remembered the Chief Magistrate’s warning, that he was to trust in no one and confide in no one and was not to use his imagination at all about his comrades. It was hard, but it had to be done.
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