The Eagles Gather

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  No, this young man was no fool. He would do many things, before he died. Dangerous things, perhaps. But always with an awareness of this danger. That made him the more formidable. Courageous men were usually men without imagination. But here was a man of courage, with imagination, and with a full comprehension of danger. Regan frowned. But for some reason he could not feel annoyed. It was very good that the son of Honore Bouchard was this Peter! It would have been a little dreadful if he had been a man like Jules Bouchard. Honore would not have rested in his grave. It was bad enough that his other sons were so much like Jules. Regan pursed his lips. I’m getting virtuous in my old age! he thought, suddenly smiling at himself. Perhaps my pleasure in this boy is really nasty. Perhaps it’s because of that last day I ever saw that rascal, Jules. I’m still smarting. What a bastard he was! He put me in my place, and for that I’ll never forgive him. It’s pleasant, now, finding a Bouchard who doesn’t like his family!

  Memories seemed clearer to Jay Regan than the present. He could remember very distinctly every word of the last interview he ever had with Jules Bouchard, in his office, shortly before the end of the war. He had greeted Jules with great affability, for he did not yet know that he really hated this Bouchard with the hooded eyes and the soul of a Richelieu.

  He said to Jules: “I was about to ask you to come in. On Monday I am calling a conference of all you boys. I’ve got something to say. But, you look like hell. I’ve heard you were ill, and thought of going to Windsor to see you. Are you better?”

  Jules informed him that he was visiting Georges Bouchard, and Regan smiled. “Ah, yes, Georges. An exceptionally brilliant young man; he does Leon credit. But your family is noted for its brilliant sons. Francis, Jean, Hugo, and your sons, Armand, Emile and Christopher, and Leon’s boys, Georges and Nicholas. By the way, Mrs. Van Eyck, your former sister-in-law, dined with us last week. A charming woman. My wife tells me that her boy, Henri, looks for all the world like his great-grandfather, your Uncle Ernest. I have an idea that one of these days you fellows are going to hear from that young man. He’s a Barbour, and a Bouchard, all right!”

  “Brilliant!” Jules smiled musingly. “We are a fine pack of bandits, all of us. Except Peter, Honore’s youngest. Do you know Peter? He’s enlisted. Yes, some sentimental nonsense. But I like that boy. I like Georges, too. Georges would be a rascal if the occasion offered, but he’d not go out of his way to be a rascal. That was a fortunate thing, his marrying Professor Fitts’ girl. Fortunate for the Professor, too. The poor old devil was bankrupt.”

  Jules gazed at him thoughtfully. “Yes, wasn’t it fortunate for the Professor? But what seems to be disturbing you so much these days?”

  Regan’s agreeable expression vanished, and he picked up a sheaf of papers. “I’ve heard from Sazaroff. He’s been around to Clemenceau, Lloyd George, and Kronk. He’s of the opinion the war can’t last the year out. Germany is done in.” Jules tapped his fingers reflectively on Regan’s desk. “Peace, eh? There’s no doubt about it?”

  “None at all. Patriotism may go on and on, but money is not so self-renewing. So, you’d better pull in your horns and retrench. Propaganda? My dear Jules, don’t be foolish. At times, you are quite bright. But you, more than anyone else, ought to know that propaganda is a waste of time in the face of bankruptcy. I tell you, Germany’s done in. It’s just a matter of a few months at the most.”

  “Well, your news is not so good, considering the vast outlay we have been put to, and the tremendous preparations we have begun; I expected the war to last at least another two years. What the hell are we to do with our new plants that cover acres? Our new machinery? Our enormous equipment? Manufacture plowshares with them?” Suddenly his eyes narrowed, and his smile widened. He seemed greatly amused. “Who knows? Probably plowshares, after all. But it can be tried! But look here, we aren’t going to go into that seriously for a while! It is unthinkable.”

  Regan smiled cynically. “What do you intend to do? Start a little war of your own?”

  “But it is unthinkable. Do you actually believe that peace will come with the signing of peace treaties? Not at all. The world is too stirred up. Yes, I truly believe it. Bankruptcy? My dear Regan, a nation may deny itself bread, but it won’t deny itself armaments. Besides, bankruptcy is notoriously a breeder of desperation. Half a dozen, or even less, desperate defeated nations in Europe will be sufficient to keep armaments manufacturers busy for twenty, thirty years. What is the matter with Sazaroff? Has he lost his imagination?”

  Regan leaned back in his chair and stared at him in silence. After a few minutes, he replied surlily: “I’m not interested in your damned armaments just now. We’ve lent billions to the Allies. We’ve got to get it back. They won’t be able to pay us back if they re-arm again. There’s got to be an end to armaments for a while, until we get our money.”

  Jules smiled cynically. “Do you actually believe they’ll really pay their debts? For a few years, perhaps, if we’re lucky. You’ve talked before of forcing Germany to pay reparations. Well, go ahead. Do you know what you’ll do by that? You’ll create markets for armaments such as you can’t dream of now. Strip Germany, and you’ll let a hungry wolf loose in Europe, against which other nations will be compelled to re-arm. But, go ahead! Go ahead! I’ll not stop you by the lifting of my hand!”

  Regan turned crimson; he glowered at the other man and gnawed his lip. “Bah. We’ll make the Hun’s belly so flat that he won’t think of anything for a generation or two besides filling it. Hell! Aren’t you satisfied yet? Look what you made on aviation alone, or rather, on the airplanes you didn’t supply but got a large slice of the billion dollars expended for! Not one damned American-built combat or bombing plane supposedly manufactured by you ever reached the front You’ve got no complaint You’d better listen to your sons. After all, you’re not as young as you once were.”

  Jules laughed goodhumoredly. “Neither are you, Jay. Old age is making you cautious—”

  “Cautious be damned! I want my money. You’ve got yours; now I want mine. That’s why I’m calling in the rest of you; you’ve got to shut up for awhile.”

  “And I tell you you won’t get your money, or at least not all of it. Wait and see. You’d better just play along with us. We’re the masters now. You’ll do as we say, after this. If we want wars, you’ll finance them, and never a word from you. If we want peace, you’ll finance that, too, but I tell you it’ll cost you more for peace than it will for war. You don’t believe all this? Just wait. Desperation creates strange rulers. The desperate nations of Europe will set rulers over them that will take the money of financiers without the formality of asking. You’ll be controlled, regulated. Laugh, if you want to; you won’t laugh long. We’ve let out the wild beasts, and your plaints for your money won’t shut them up again. Boycott? Threats? Pressure? Don’t be silly. You’ll just be prodding the wild beasts.”

  Regan’s face swelled; there was an alarming and evil glint in his eye. Jules calmly lit one of his long cigars. Through the smoke he smiled at Regan amiably.

  “There’ll be no peace. We don’t dare have peace. It’s a luxury which Europe can’t afford, after all this. Let them sign treaties and talk peace. Let the Allies exact reparations and ‘reconstruct’ Germany and her allies. Let there be leagues formed for peace, and consultations and conferences. But I tell you, the more talk there is of peace the busier will be the armaments factories. We’ve been just a little too smart in our propaganda, and we haven’t the courage to say: We were just fooling, children. It was just our joke. Now kiss and make up, and forget all the naughty stories grandpa told you. The little boy next door isn’t really your enemy. It was just our joke.’”

  He shook his head with mock sadness. “If you try to stop it now, Jay, you’ll be riding the whirlwind. You won’t retrieve your money by hindering us. But you will make more by helping us.” He stood up and laughed a little. “You’ll help us, all right. There was a time when we came to you, but the time is com
ing when you’ll come to us. We’re your masters now, Jay.” He tapped himself gently on the chest. “‘I and Lazarus!’”

  Regan laughed contemptuously. “If we refuse to lend governments money for arms, where will you be?”

  “Ah, my good friend, we’ll put rulers in power who will be able to exist only by our will, and by our arms. Do you think they’ll let themselves perish by meekly allowing you to refuse them money? You lack vision, Regan, you lack vision! This war wasn’t really to make the world safe for democracy, in spite of what the schoolmasters say. It was a war to destroy democracy. You’ll see. I feel quite prophetic today,” and he smiled again.

  Regan shrugged. “I don’t doubt it. You’ve got one foot in the grave; no wonder you can prophesy. Well, we’ll see. We’ve still got the upper hand. I’d like to have you here when I read the riot act to all the other boys, too.”

  “But don’t forget: the world is ours, now, not yours.”

  Regan stared at that dying, smiling face, wrinkling and grimacing before him, and a sort of cold horror came over him, in spite of reason, in spite of confidence, in spite of the possession of power. He had the dizzy sensation that something had shifted, moved its base, silently yet frightfully. Something had been let loose, indeed, something deadly and implacable and not to be controlled. And all of this was embodied in this man before him.

  His thick nostrils dilated, and he exhaled a deep breath.

  Regan, remembering, as he sat under the hot shade of the summer trees, felt his spine prickling, and his blood running, with the memory of his hatred for Jules Bouchard, and his humiliation and anxiety. It was worse, remembering, to see how truly Jules had spoken. Yes, something had been let loose, by all of them. By Regan, and all of them. It was not the nicest thought, on this summer day, just after talking to Peter Bouchard.

  “I’m getting old,” said Regan, aloud, heavily pulling himself to his feet. “I’ll go to England for a little while. It’s peaceful there. It’s always most peaceful near the volcano.”

  CHAPTER XL

  When Peter returned to the lawn festivities, he became aware that Marion was regarding him with slightly affronted eyes. “Where have you been, Peter? You are very naughty, running away like this.”

  He disliked her, but he was sorry for her, and found her completely impossible. Her figure was tall and youthful, her hair still ungrayed, her fair athletic skin excellent, her gestures all quick and animated. Someone had told her that she was the typical American woman, which had pleased her tremendously. The flatterer, a European, had told her she possessed all the legendary American woman’s intelligence, alertness, “clear-eyed honesty,” simplicity and competence. As a result, she was careful to have little inanity in her conversation; she sought out “wholesome” epigrams to repeat (None of these sophisticated, demurely naughty epigrams for Marion!) She secretly loathed the outdoors, but she forced herself to become proficient in golf and tennis and swimming. She was so alert that it was painful to watch her. She was like a rather oldish spring pulled constantly to its last ability to hold together and rebound. She was like to interrupt any subtlety by a clear clarioning: “Do let us be fundamental and honest about this—” And then she would regard the offenders with serious earnestness, widening her empty gray eyes so that they strained at the sockets. She wore tweeds as much as possible, and tailored clothes at all times. In short, she had grown to be an exceedingly dull woman, an officer in the most prominent and intolerant patriotic societies, a bore and a sentimental nuisance, and a person guaranteed to infuriate the intelligent. At the present time she was engaged in “Americanism” (her own peculiar kind), which had for its base hatred of all that had no origin in America before the American Revolution, all “aliens,” the Roman Catholic Church, the Jews, liberalism and tolerance and humor, and was ardently supported by many members of the American Legion, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and kindred organizations. Georges’ friends loathed her, and even their regard for him could not prevent them from revealing their opinions. He was no longer offended. He knew his wife for a fool.

  Peter stood isolated, alone, thinking. Tomorrow, he would go to Crissons. Georges was right, in a way. Celeste could make up her mind, easily, if she wished. He would speak, for the first time. She had only to say yes or no. Whatever she said would be what she desired to say, in the last analysis. He looked up to see Georges approaching him across the grass, accompanied by two youngish men. He seemed to be in high good humor. One of the men, a small plump dark young man, with curly black hair and dimples and dancing gleaming eyes, was laughing quite loudly. The other young man was slight and very fair, with milk-blue eyes, a charming expression, and a quiet, almost contemplative, manner. Beside the dark plump young man, he seemed washed-out and somewhat nondescript, but when he looked directly at Peter, the latter saw how brilliant were the almost colorless eyes, how intense the pupils, how hypnotic their glance. He was actually startled by them, and took a step backwards, involuntarily.

  Georges said: “Peter, this is Doctor Schacht, and this, Doctor Weimer. Old friends of mine. Adolf, Wilhelm, my cousin, Peter Bouchard.”

  They shook hands. Doctor Weimer regarded the young man merrily. “Another Bouchard! Do you grow on trees?” Peter laughed. He decided he liked the little Austrian, with his gay expression and his impudent accented voice. But he did not like Doctor Schacht, who listened to everything, smiled faintly, and seemed to be hearing other meanings under the slightest remark.

  “Let’s get away from the gabble,” said Georges. “We’ll go somewhere and talk. Back of the house. We’ll have some drinks.” Peter was reluctant, but he accompanied the others to the rear. He had no desire for conversation with anyone, and was annoyed at Georges in consequence. His mouth was sulky as he sat down under a great mass of trees some distance from the house. The little Weimer refused a seat, and flung himself full-length on the grass. He pulled up a blade, and proceeded to chew on it as he made comments, or yawned. It was evident that he disliked serious conversation on such a beautiful day, and Peter felt sympathetically drawn to him.

  Georges spoke to Doctor Schacht, but looked pointedly at his cousin: “Peter is writing a book. A very somber thing, but very good. A fact He doesn’t think much of the future. Peter, Doctor Schacht is also concerned about the future. Maybe he can broaden your perspectives.”

  Peter regarded the pale German with no particular favor, but with polite attentiveness. He thought there was something malignant in Schacht’s slight smiles and soft voice, and felt his dislike quickening. Schacht looked at Peter thoughtfully as he said, “Georges tells me you have recently returned from Europe, Mr. Bouchard. I was born in Munich; you see, I’m very interested. Can you tell me what your opinion is, about Europe?”

  Peter hesitated. “Do you mean about the prospects of a future war? That’s what I’m personally interested in, you know. I don’t know if there will be an actual war— But I do think that something terrible is brewing in Europe. I don’t know just what it is; it is too early to say. But all the signs are there.”

  “What signs?” Peter looked at him sharply, expecting ridicule. But Schacht’s face was quick and intent, yet secret.

  “The signs are vague, I must admit. That is, some of them. In Italy, they are very clear. Tyranny, exploitation, feudal serfdom of the people, the violation of human dignity, worship of the State, no freedom, espionage, brutality, obedience, militarism, nationalism, concentration camps, intolerance. Italy is the European abscess. Unless its poison is confined within the borders of Italy, it will flow out and pollute all Europe. And all the world.”

  Little Weimer rolled over on his elbow, and stared at Peter over his shoulder. The blade of grass hung from his lips; he chewed the end absently. His dimples came and went in his cheeks, but he was not smiling.

  Georges laughed shortly. “That’s absurd. We haven’t any Mafia in America; no Black Hand. Mussolini has done good work for Italy. He’s had to use discipline and force, for the Itali
ans like laughter too much, and are too lazy. Besides, he’s an actor. Italians love actors. But can you imagine any other nation loving an actor, a hypocrite, a liar, and a psycopath?”

  “Yes,” said Peter quietly. “Germany.”

  Weimer grunted. Georges smiled broadly. But Schacht did not smile. He just gazed at Peter steadily. “Please go on,” he said. Peter turned to him. He began to speak; he felt that he was speaking only to this colorless German with the evil eyes and the charming expression.

  “I was in Germany a long time,” he said. “Germany, within two years, will be more integrated and more prosperous than she was in 1914. She has a great future, for her people are good and strong and healthy. She has a great future, because the Germans love progress and newness, and there’s something in the German air that encourages genius and mental clarity.” He paused, then continued in a lower but more passionate voice: “Yes, she has a great future. If she’s let alone. But—she won’t be let alone. You see, a strong and peaceful Germany isn’t good business for the bankers and the munitions makers. A liberal Germany, who can be friends with Soviet Russia, is a menace to Tory oppressors in England and France. So, Germany will have to die.”

  Weimer muttered something. But Schacht said gently: “Go on.” Georges said: “Germany die?”

  “Yes. They won’t call it dying, though. They’ll call it ‘nationalism,’ or ‘racialism,’ or something equally deadly and virulent. I’ve seen the signs. I’ve seen and heard Hitler. And I know who is behind him. I know the identity of those who hate Germany, and who are her deadliest enemies.”

  No one spoke. Schacht lit a cigarette, tapping it delicately on the back of one of his small hands. Then Weimer said: “Haven’t you a tendency to look on the black side? Besides, what has Germany to do with—us?”

  Peter shook his head a little. “Germany will have to die,” he repeated. “And her death terribly affects not only Europe, but America. Within a few years, unless a miracle happens, every government in the world will be in the hands of wicked and rapacious men, who will use wars, tyranny, murder, persecutions, massacres and brutality to make power and money for themselves. We’ll have the Dark Ages again. Maybe they’ll even strengthen some religion that is intolerant, greedy and voracious enough to obey them, and we’ll have superstition and intolerances again, strong enough to plunge us into medievalism, and make us complete slaves to the men in power.”