The Turnbulls

by Taylor Caldwell

  He knew the history of each and every one. He inquired about each man’s health, the health of his wife and family. And he listened with intentness and sober interest to the faltering replies, spoken in cracked and patient voices. They were children to him, though even the youngest was old enough to be his father. As he listened, his keen and searching glance saw the sunken and feverish gleam of the eyes under the shades.

  He began to cough, as if embarrassed. He brought forth his fine linen kerchief, and coughed in it. His apparent embarrassment grew.

  “Well, now,” he began, “blast me if I had time before my passage back to buy you chaps anythin’. Wot with the bloody weather over there, and rushin’s abaht, and me cold, I was fair put to it to do me own job.”

  He fumbled in his pocket as every old man heartily disclaimed any expectancy of a gift. It was enough for them, wasn’t it, Joe, Harry, Will and Jack, that Mr. Wilkins had returned safely, the weather being what it was this time of year? Every gray head nodded vehemently; every eye burned upon Mr. Wilkins with deep love.

  He coughed again. “Well, now, it’s nice of you chaps to say that! But, I didn’t forget you. I said to meself only this morning: ‘Bob Wilkins, are you one as forgets old friends, partiklarly old friends as works for Gorth? No, Bob Wilkins,’ I says to meself, ‘never be it said of you that you forgets.’”

  He withdrew a thickly stuffed leather case and opened it, revealing sheafs of banknotes. Under their stupefied eyes he withdrew eight of them, each of the value of fifty dollars. “It’s Christmas soon, lads!” he cried, jovially, and thrust into each numb and trembling hand one of the banknotes. Then he stood up, shaking himself like a fat dog. No one spoke. Every eye gazed in complete stupefaction at the banknotes. Not one man there earned so much in a month as this.

  And then a thing happened which seemed quite terrible to Mr. Wilkins, and caused him an acute and genuine embarrassment. For, all at once, the old men began to weep, soundlessly, standing there under the swaying oil-lamps, their heads bent, their eyes fixed on the banknotes in their hands. There was complete silence in the dusky room. Each man was alone with his emotions, with his thoughts, and his own tears. Mr. Wilkins scowled, poked at the floor with his cane. The lurching in his heart was an actual physical pain. He knew that none of these old men saw the money; they saw only what it would buy in terms of warm mufflers, in new boots, in medicine for sick old wives, in fuel, in food, in relief from constant terror. And all this seemed very dreadful to Mr. Wilkins. He could never endure the tears of children and the old.

  Despite his short bulk, Mr. Wilkins could move like a swift shadow when he desired. Before any of the old men was aware of it, Mr. Wilkins had gone. A door had shut softly behind him. In the dark corridor beyond, he stood for a few moments, wiping his steaming face. There was a fierce look in his eyes.

  Then he smiled again, tilted his hat, opened another door. He found himself in a large and warm familiar office, where a fire burned between two high and luxuriously curtained windows. There was a thick soft rug under his feet, dark crimson and velvety. The walls were panelled in gleaming wood, along which were a few heavy chairs covered with crimson velvet. In the center of the room stood a great mahogany desk, polished and rich, littered with papers and with silver objects. At this desk sat Mr. Richard Gorth, busily signing letters under the bright light of a hanging crystal chandelier.

  “Ha!” shouted Mr. Wilkins, removing his hat and bowing elaborately.

  Richard Gorth started, and looked up with that sharp and piggish alertness which distinguished him. He was as short and casklike as Mr. Wilkins himself, but where Mr. Wilkins gave the impression of jovial rotundity, Mr. Gorth’s figure was all hard compactness for all it resembled a broad squat keg. Moreover, his thighs were not plump, as were his agent’s. His large belly sloped down to lean shanks, so that he resembled a fat egg standing on end on two wooden sticks. His arms, too, were lean, ending in narrow voracious hands, bony and veined. Like Mr. Wilkins, he had practically no neck, but he had no triple chins. His face was broad and angular, rather than plump like Mr. Wilkins’, and of a dull and pasty colour with a streak of rough red on his hard cheekbones. Like Mr Wilkins, he had a broad and flattish nose, but whereas Mr. Wilkins’ was a red and shining blob, his gave a snoutlike impression. If Mr. Wilkins had a round and rosy little mouth, fat and smiling, his was a mere broad slash in his face, implying, in its colourlessness and its viselike quality, all cruelty, meanness and avarice. His eyes, too, were not round and protruding like Mr. Wilkins’, but were of a shallow grayness, bleak and dead, like the eye of a cold dead fish. There was even the glaucous veiled quality of that fish’s eye over them, like phlegm. He was not bald, like Mr. Wilkins; he had rough gray hair growing at strange angles over his bullet-shaped head.

  Whereas Mr. Wilkins’ expression was warm, rosy and sympathetic, Mr. Gorth’s was all harshness, cunning and brutality. He affected a severity in dress, quite unlike Mr. Wilkins’ resplendent attire. Almost always, he wore black broadcloth, well cut and rich, with plain white linen and a black stock. He was secretly proud of his little effeminate hands, and kept them exquisitely manicured. But he could not conceal their malevolence and their cruelty and their greed.

  Upon discovering Mr. Wilkins, he smiled grimly, and a baleful light invaded his pale slits of eyes. He stood up, and, leaning across his desk, he extended his cold dry hand to his agent. All his movements were swift, if abrupt, giving evidence of his enormous vitality.

  “Well, well!” he exclaimed, in his hoarse and toneless voice. “So, you have returned. A week early, too. Sit down, man. From the look of you, you were successful.”

  His eye bored into Mr. Wilkins’ glassy hazel eyes, which revealed nothing. Mr. Wilkins sat down, carefully lifting the tails of his coat, and laying his tall hat on the shining desk. Still beaming, he daintily removed his kid gloves, smoothed them, laid them beside his hat. He carefully balanced his cane against the desk, and crossed his fat legs.

  “Aye, if I may say it, sir, I was successful,” said Mr. Wilkins, in his suetty voice.

  Mr. Gorth sat down slowly, never taking his hard stare from Mr. Wilkins. His slash of a mouth smiled faintly.

  “Then, we shall celebrate, shall we?” he said.

  He produced keys and unlocked a drawer in his desk, bringing forth a bottle of brandy and two little silver cups. He filled them precisely, not a drop too much or a drop too little. Then he replaced the bottle, and pushed a cup towards Mr. Wilkins, who raised it high. Mr. Gorth touched that cup with his own, and they drank slowly.

  “Ah,” murmured Mr. Wilkins, smacking his lips. Mr. Gorth’s livid tongue licked the corners of his mouth in order not to lose a drop. Mr. Wilkins glanced approvingly at the fire, and about the office.

  “Good, this, after that blasted ship,” he said.

  Mr. Gorth’s eye had never moved from his agent’s face. His pale brows drew together, impatiently. But he knew Mr. Wilkins. One could never hurry him, foul vulgar Cockney though he was. Mr. Gorth was a gentleman, and an Englishman. It was necessary to hire such as Mr. Wilkins, but Mr. Gorth never forgot the difference in their stations. It infuriated him that such as he had to defer on the pleasure of this abominable upstart and thief, who, by rights, ought to be sojourning in Old Bailey.

  “Shall we get down to business, eh?” said Mr. Gorth, trying to smile pleasantly, but only succeeding in bringing a most disagreeable expression to his countenance.

  But Mr. Wilkins seemed fallen into deep thought, which gave him pleasure, for he kept smiling and nodding in a mysterious fashion as if communing with some unseen friend. Mr. Gorth’s little hands clenched and tightened on the desk. After a moment, he ostentatiously drew out his big gold watch and frowned at it. Mr. Wilkins remained oblivious.

  “Well, now,” said Mr. Gorth, in a sarcastic tone, “if it is not too much trouble, Mr. Wilkins, I’d like your report. After all, I am a busy man.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Wilkins, softly, putting dow
n his cup, “you are a busy man, sir.”

  He fumbled in the tails of his coat and brought out a thick envelope. Mr. Gorth eyed it voraciously. Mr. Wilkins laid his pink hand on the envelope. He smiled with tender embarrassment, and actually blushed. He cleared his throat.

  “There’s the little matter, sir, of a cheque,” he murmured.

  Mr. Gorth scowled. “Why should I pay you before I know the value of what you have brought?”

  Mr. Wilkins sighed. “You must trust me, Mr. Gorth, beggin’ your pardon. Am I one as ’as got a reputation like I have without gentlemen trustin’ me?”

  Mr. Gorth threw himself back in his velvet chair, and gazed at Mr. Wilkins with a look that never failed to intimidate. But Mr. Wilkins was not in the least intimidated. He stared back at Mr. Gorth, his glassy eyes shining but opaque.

  Mr. Gorth coughed roughly. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Wilkins,” he said, ironically. “But it seems I must trust you, eh?”

  “You really must, sir,” said Mr. Wilkins, with gentle regret.

  Mr. Gorth thrust his hands deeply within his pantaloon pockets. His pale smile was grim and dark. Then, shrugging, he drew his chequebook towards him, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and wrote upon the cheque. He tore it out of the book with a thin and savage sound and tossed it at his agent. Mr. Wilkins lifted it, gazed at it, tilted his sandy tufts of brows with a satisfied air, and carefully tucked the little paper in his weskit pocket. Now he assumed a look of business-like efficiency. He tossed the envelope neatly across the desk, and Mr. Gorth seized on it with a pounce, tore it open and began to scan the contents with swift darts of his eyes. Mr. Wilkins, in the meantime, leaned back in his chair, one foot swaying, smiling at the ceiling.

  There was no sound in the room but the dropping of coals, the hiss of smoke, and the dry quick rustling of the papers which Mr. Gorth was perusing with malignant smiles. Occasionally he muttered: “Ah!”, in a tone of intense satisfaction.

  Finally he exclaimed loudly, with exultation, slapping the papers:

  “Ah, old Appleton in Massachusetts will pay well for this!” Then he looked piercingly at Mr. Wilkins, and smiled his malignant smile again. “You know, of course, Mr. Wilkins, that Old England could have you extradited as a thief, for stealing these patents from the cotton mills there?”

  But Mr. Wilkins was not startled. He raised his eyebrows with injured innocence. “Well, now, Mr. Gorth, is American cotton mills goin’ to be hamstrung forever by those English rascals? ’Ere we got 3,500,000 spindles in Ameriky, but England’s got 21,000,000. Ruinous, sir! Right is right, whether it’s law or no law. ’Ere they’re floodin’ the bloody country with cheap cotton goods, and what’s to become of our own mills? I ask you, Mr. Gorth, what’s to become of ’em?”

  He seemed very wrought up, and leaned towards Mr. Gorth, his face expressing patriotic indignation and concern. But Mr. Gorth merely leaned back in his chair, smiling unpleasantly, and waited.

  Mr. Wilkins waved his hands. “We’ve got the best of conditions, right ’ere in New England, Mr. Gorth, sir. Water, cheap labour, coal, and the world’s best business ability! That’s wot we’ve got, sir! And wot does England do? Hides her bloody patents from us, smirkin’ all the while, and floodin’ Ameriky with cheap cotton goods, all to the disadvantage of our on workmen. ’Tisn’t right, sir, damned if it is!”

  He thumped his fist resoundingly on the desk, and glared righteously at Mr. Gorth, who laughed shortly.

  “It seems we have a patriot here,” he said, in a meditative voice. “You aren’t an American citizen yet, Mr. Wilkins?”

  “Not yet, sir, but soon! Another six months, and it’s done.”

  He smiled genially. “And if you think, Mr. Gorth, after me ’avin’ ’elped you, with your own blasted cash, that you can do me in with the law, for—’elpin’ myself to English patents, well, then, you don’t understand American patriotism. There’s some in Washington, all worked up abhat the cotton industry, as will thank Bob Wilkins.”

  Mr. Gorth laughed loudly. “I thought you had a sense of humour, Mr. Wilkins! Don’t you understand that I’m grateful to you? Why, you don’t know what this means to me, Mr. Wilkins. I’m a patriot, too. Why, I’m an American citizen! Damn me, if we won’t be manufacturing cotton goods here very soon, with these patents, so that we can produce them in New England cheaper and better than in the old country. I’m grateful to you, Mr. Wilkins! You’ve saved me thousands, I might say even millions, in cargo costs alone! New England gets my cotton, now.”

  He smiled delightedly at the papers in his hands. “Why, with this patent, we’ll double the mule for 300 spindles to 600 in no time. And this power loom, too! Gad, Mr. Wilkins, this means the beginning of a cotton industry in America beyond that ever dreamed of in England, thanks to you!”

  “There’s some as would be grateful to you, Mr. Gorth, for sendin’ me for these patents,” said Mr. Wilkins, slyly, watching his patron very closely meanwhile. “Down in Washington, like.”

  Before he could stop himself, Mr. Gorth said brutally: “You’ve got no proof, Mr. Wilkins.” Then, he bit his lip and his eyes narrowed upon Mr. Wilkins so that they were only gleaming slits in his broad face.

  Mr. Wilkins shook his head, smiling widely. “Now, ’aven’t I, Mr. Gorth?” he asked, very softly. “’Aven’t I, just?”

  There was a deep silence in the room, while glassy hazel eye and baleful gray eye engaged each other.

  Then Mr. Gorth laughed loudly, reaching forward to pat Mr. Wilkins on the hand. He winked. “We have our secrets together, Mr. Wilkins. I still insist you have no sense of humour.”

  “There’s sense of humour, Mr. Gorth, sir, and sense of humour. It hurts me, sir, to ’ear you talk, even in a joke.”

  Mr. Gorth waved this sad comment aside with a light lift of his hand. “A sense of humour, Mr. Wilkins, a discriminating sense of humour, is what makes the difference between vulgar barbarians and Englishmen. And, at the last, we remember that we are Englishmen, don’t we?”

  To celebrate this happy remembrance, Mr. Gorth brought forth the brandy again, and the two little silver cups. This time, with an abandoned air of extreme and reckless generosity, he filled Mr. Wilkins’ cup to overflowing. Mr. Wilkins, willing to forgive, was his happy self again. He tossed down the brandy, and then helped himself to another cup. Mr. Gorth winced, though his smile remained fixed.

  “That is rare Napoleon, Mr. Wilkins,” he said, delicately.

  “And blasted good, too,” Mr. Wilkins replied approvingly. “You are a gentleman as ’as taste, sir.”

  Mr. Gorth became curious. “I don’t imagine you used such as this Napoleon during your—little transactions—did you, Mr. Wilkins?”

  With another cup near his lips, Mr. Wilkins winked. “Perhaps I did, sir, and then again, perhaps I did not. The least my employers know about me methods, Mr. Gorth, the better for all concerned.” He tapped his brow with one knowing finger. “The more I keeps in me own mind, the less others get to know. And that’s capital, sir.”

  “You are a clever man,” said Mr. Gorth. “A very clever man. We’ll have other business to do together very soon.”

  He watched Mr. Wilkins toss off another cup of brandy. His brutal features hardened, for all the smile of his long and colourless mouth.

  Mr. Wilkins put down the cup, wiped his lips appreciatively with his handkerchief. His complexion had become quite crimson, and there were little beads of sweat not only on his brow but all over his pink dome of a head. He settled back in his chair and regarded Mr. Gorth seriously.

  “There’s another thing, Mr. Gorth, sir, as ’as been givin’ me thought. They say in England as there is to be trouble between the North and the South in Ameriky very soon. Blasted abolitionists, and such up ’ere.”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Wilkins! Civil war! Pah! Sheer nonsense.” Mr. Gorth, however, leaned towards Mr. Wilkins with quickened interest. “But just for the sake of discussion: in the event such an impossible thing should occu
r, what would be the sentiments of England?”

  “For the South, Mr. Gorth. I know that for a fact. There’s sympathy there, for the South. Why? There’s a lot of talk abhat the right of secession of States. Freedom, like.”

  Mr. Gorth scowled. He uttered an indecent expletive to express his contempt for the noble sentiments of his former countrymen. “Hell, Mr. Wilkins. That’s just an old pose. What they’re after is to help destroy our Northern industry. We’re going to be formidable competitors, Mr. Wilkins, of all of Europe. That’s what England can’t stomach. Let us get into a Civil War, and we’re ruined for years. That’s what England hopes for. I know all the tricks! Every time England comes out nobly for the rights of man, watch your purse, Mr. Wilkins, watch your purse!”

  Mr. Wilkins grinned. “I do that, Mr. Gorth.”

  Mr. Gorth had relapsed into deep and somber thought. This however, did not prevent him from removing the brandy bottle, replacing it in the drawer, and locking it up.

  “I know what the South’s after,” he said. “Taking the cotton trade away from New England. Cheap slave labour. Abominable! How can we compete with slave labour? Why, damn it, industry will steadily move South. Either the whole damn country should be slave, or free. No half measures.”

  “You’d prefer it slave, Mr. Gorth?” asked Mr. Wilkins, with a cunning smile.

  Gorth’s slit of a mouth twitched humourously. “We’d make a lot of money then, Mr. Wilkins!” he said, heartily. “But that’s too much to hope for.”

  “It’s practikly slave labour in India,” mused Mr. Wilkins, with a quickened eye. “Mark my words, India’s the next logical place for our cotton mills! But England’ll get there first, mind you. She allus does. We’ve got to look for a better place, all our own. I’ve been thinkin’ of Japan.”

  “Japan?” Mr. Gorth stared. “You’re daft, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Not I, sir,” said Mr. Wilkins, shaking his head vigorously. “There’s Japan, with all the women and the children. I’ll wager you could get ’em to work for practikly nothin’. Nothin’ at all. A few cents a day.” He grinned. “Bringin’ ’em the blessin’s of civilization into the bargain, sir, and no questions asked.”