by John Masters
Stephen pulled out his watch and peered at it. All that had to be said had been said. This was so much rhetoric. The President was good at rhetoric; now he had brought himself to face, and deal with, facts.
War, then! His grandchildren (if Johnny and Betty ever got down to having any) would grow up into a world almost unimaginably different from the one he had known as a child … although the war, for all its horrors, had caused some amazing and in themselves wonderful advances, particularly in the sciences. Look at aviation, look at medicine. It was only a few days ago that he had read a piece in The New York Times where the writer, a military expert, had pointed out that, according to current figures, the battle casualties in this war would far exceed those caused by disease – for the first time in history.
To such a task we dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured.
God helping her, she can do no other.’
Stephen rose, clapping … Carnegie staggered up beside him. All round the gallery the people were now visibly aroused. Faces that had been sombre and reserved were open, turning red, mouths agape. The Chief Justice was again on his feet, his white mane shining like a halo, his arms upraised. From the floor Southern senators and representatives set up the flesh-creeping Rebel yell of the Confederacy – in whose ranks the Chief Justice had carried a rifle fifty-two years earlier. The clapping became frenzied. War fever … Betty had told him about dachshunds being kicked to death in the streets of England – by the English, of all people! … anyone with a German name pilloried and spat upon. Stephen felt a gloomy certainty that it was going to happen here.
Mellon said, ‘Well, that’s that … a brilliant stroke that, at the end – paraphrasing Luther at Worms, to win over the German-Americans. It only remains for Congress to declare war, which they certainly will.’
‘La Follette will hold it up for a few days, but that’s all,’ Carnegie said. ‘Well, I must get back to Pittsburgh, so …’
He shuffled off. Mellon said, ‘There’ll certainly be some form of compulsory military service.’
Stephen said, ‘Yes. I have a son of military age. But he’s engaged in work of what will I am sure be regarded as national importance.’
Mellon said, ‘My Paul’s too young – thank heavens!’
With brief nods, they parted.
Stephen leaned back in the heavily upholstered swivelling armchair of the parlour car, and drew thoughtfully on his cigar. At Union Station he had run into George Neidorf, president of the Lackawanna Southern, and a member of the board of directors of his own company, Fairfax, Gottlieb, investment bankers; and now George was sitting opposite him as the train drew out of Philadelphia and raced on through the blustery night toward New York on the Pennsylvania Railroad’s quadruple-tracked main line. Stations passed as a blur of light … Frankford, Bridesburg, Tacony, Homesburg Junction … smoke from the new K4 Pacific far ahead blew back past the windows. The car rumbled heavily on over the rail joints.
The attendant came to their chairs, white napkin over his arm – ‘Any orders, gentlemen?’
Stephen looked up. ‘A small Scotch and water, please.’ ‘Same for me,’ George said.
The porter said, ‘Right away, gentlemen.’
… Torresdale, Cornwall Heights, Bristol, Morrisville. The engine whistled, the train slowed.
‘Trenton,’ Neidorf said.
Stephen said, ‘As you know, Johnny’s doing amazingly well with the Hedlington Aircraft Company. Of course, Richard Rowland’s been generally supervising, but Richard himself assures me that that is all he has had to do. In fact, he said, their biggest problem – labour trouble – came when he did not listen to what Johnny advised.’
Neidorf pulled on his cigar – ‘Whatever legislation the Congress passes will certainly contain some provision for keeping men vital to the civilian war effort – to production – in their jobs. We have surely learned that from the experience of the British. Johnny’ll be safe.’
‘I hope so, but he’s been itching to get into the war for two and a half years now.’
The porter came with their drinks and the two men leaned back, drinking, staring out of the blind window, thinking their own thoughts; for both carried heavy responsibilities, public as well as private; and the war, which had seemed so far away, safely chained up across the Atlantic like some dangerous beast, was now at their throats.
Stephen said, ‘I think I must go over to England.’
Neidorf glanced up in surprise, ‘Yourself? Can’t it be done by letter or cable?’
Stephen shook his head. He said, ‘I want to see whether it’s possible to expand the Hedlington Aircraft Company – and the J.M.C. perhaps … with a veiw to selling our government our trucks and aircraft, almost on the battlefield, instead of the government buying them from someone else here and shipping them across the Atlantic. The Royal Flying Corps seem to like our Leopard and Lion, but we can’t get a definitive answer on the Buffalo – the heavy long-range bomber. Perhaps I can help there. I’ve done business with Lloyd George.’
‘They don’t want to put any of their money into our dirty Yankee pockets,’ Neidorf said, grinning.
‘Perhaps … I’ll go back to Washington as soon as war is actually declared, and talk to the Secretary of War about all this.’
‘Newton Baker?’
‘Yes … I can give him the specification and performance figures he needs. Prices too, for trucks delivered at a British port for shipment to France.’
‘The last report I read from Hedlington,’ Neidorf said, ‘Richard Rowland and Johnny were anxious about the supply of engines. They thought that the British government might commandeer all Rolls Royce Eagles – which Johnny needs for the Baffalo.’
Stephen said, ‘That’s another reason I want to see Newton. I intend to ask for an allotment of Liberty engines … As soon as I have answers from the Secretary, I’ll go to England. Overfeld and Morgan have both told Richard they want to come back Stateside soon, and I’ll try to persuade them to hang on over there for another year at least, or until the war’s over.’
‘I’ll pray for you,’ Neidorf said seriously. ‘That’s not a very safe trip these days, Stephen.’
Stephen said, ‘I know it, George. But, when you think what our young men will soon be facing … we have to face a few perils ourselves.’
The train sped on … Princeton Junction, Plainsboro, Monmouth Junction … Newark … New York, Pennsylvania Station.
April 6, 1917
Stella Merritt sat in a deep chair by the fire in the cottage’s drawing room, a book rested in her lap, her eyes closed. Johnny looked at her fondly, his own book on his lap. She was a little flushed, perhaps from the port that she had been drinking – three small glasses since dinner. He felt guilty and responsible, for although he had tried, he had not in fact succeeded in giving her appreciably more of his attention. So she had been lonely. So she sipped sherry all day – he knew that, because he had to buy the sherry; and in the evenings, port. Sometimes she was on top of the world when he came home, other times dull and lethargic.
He glanced at the little ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Ten o’clock. The telephone in the hall rang and he got up. Stella stirred uneasily as he went out. He took the receiver off the hook – ‘Johnny Merritt.’
‘Good evening, Mr Merritt. Stanley Barstow here.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Johnny said. ‘What is it? ‘Barstow was a clerk at Reuters’ head office in London, a man Johnny had contacted by chance early in 1916, and later retained to pass on at once urgent war news, particularly about ship sinkings that might affect the delivery of American engines to the Jupiter Motor Company.
Barstow said, ‘The American Congress declared war on Germany at a quarter past two o’clock, this afternoon, Eastern Stand
ard Time.’
‘What was the vote, Mr Barstow?’ Johnny asked.
‘82 to 6 in the Senate and 373 to 50 in the House of Representatives. The resolution ends with “To bring the conflict to a successful termination all the resources of the country are hereby pledged by the Congress of the United States.”’
‘Nothing about compulsory military service?’
‘No, Mr Merritt.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Barstow … You’ll keep me informed?’
‘Yes, sir. Either at your house or direct to the factory, as you ordered.’
Johnny replaced the receiver and walked slowly back into the drawing room. He went to the fire, and stood there a long time, thinking. Then he bent down and shook his wife. At last she woke up. He said, ‘Well, it’s done. We’ve declared war.’
She mumbled, ‘War? Oh, America … good.’ Her eyes closed again.
Johnny said, talking almost to himself, ‘It’s come at last. I’ll be miserable leaving you, but you know I’ve got to go. We’ve talked about it a hundred times, haven’t we? … I must call Richard … It’s been hard to keep one’s self-respect. I’ve never told you this before but, last September, at the height of the Battle of the Somme, I was in the train to London, reading about the fighting. There was a young officer in the carriage – British, lieutenant. Just as we were nearing Victoria I read about some particularly bloody engagement and blurted out “Some fight!” The British officer was getting up, putting on his cap, and he said softly, “And some don’t.” … Hey, are you listening, darling?’
‘’Course,’ … but she did not open her eyes.
He looked down at her. The eyelids were a little puffy, the cheeks, too; her complexion wasn’t the perfection of rose petals and cream that it had been; but she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He said, ‘I’ll go to London tomorrow, and book a passage on the first ship I can.’
She mumbled, ‘Going … where?’
‘You know, darling. To America! To join up and fight.’
Stella began to cry, quietly, passionlessly, the tears rolling silently down her cheeks, her face almost unmoving. She said, ‘I’m pregnant.’
Johnny stared, aghast. He dropped to one knee beside her – ‘You’re sure? When?’
She said, ‘I’ve missed three periods. The baby’s due in the middle of October.’
‘Have you seen Dr Kimball?’ She shook her head. ‘Then, how do you … ? ’
‘I know,’ Stella said. Couldn’t tell Johnny that Charles Deerfield had examined her, and assured her of the fact, and the date.
Johnny felt an even heavier sense of guilt descend on him and weigh him down; but he could not escape his duty, renege on his own promises – made to himself as well as to others. He said, ‘I must go, my darling. I must! … Betty will be here. And Aunt Isabel … and Mrs Rowland, Fiona … Louise.’ An idea struck him and he said excitedly, ‘Why don’t you come over with me? You can live with Daddy in Nyack, and have the baby there, or in New York, with the best and most modern medical attention in the world! And perhaps I’ll have a few days’ leave before they ship me overseas. …’
‘I want to stay here,’ she said, almost snapped.
He was about to respond, when he held his tongue. This was her country; it was quite understandable that she would want to wait out her pregnancy and have the baby here close to her father and among her family.
She said, ‘What will you join?’
He said, ‘When I get over I’ll find out from Mr Baker – he’s Secretary of War, and an old friend of ours – he’s been a house guest at Nyack many times … just which outfit is likely to go first, and I’ll join that, wherever it is.’
Stella struggled to her feet, as Johnny stooped to help her up, and mumbled, ‘I’m going to bed.’
Johnny glanced at the clock – a quarter past ten. He made it a rule to read official reports, and technical papers on aircraft construction until eleven every night, otherwise he would fall behind, so rapidly were advances being made in the field. But, good heavens, he wasn’t going to be in the field any more! He’d go up with Stella, and they’d rejoice together over the baby to come, fruit of their love and passion. But she said, ‘No, no, Johnny … Come up at eleven.’
She went slowly up the stairs. Johnny watched her go and then sat down. What now? From force of habit, he picked up the book he had been reading, The Aeroplane Speaks by Captain Barber, R.F.C., and tried to concentrate.
In their bedroom Stella undressed. Charles had told her she was pregnant a month ago. But whose was the baby – his or Johnny’s? How could she find out? Would anyone ever find out? Her head ached and her tongue was dry, her eyeballs burning. Charles had been cutting down on her heroin ever since he had discovered her pregnancy, saying that she must be free of her addiction as soon as possible, or the baby would be born with it, and could die soon after birth from withdrawal symptoms. But damn him, he must give her some more … more than this last dose which she was carefully preparing to swallow. Four months ago he had been giving her injections of it – paradise! She swallowed and lay down, lay back. She knew what was coming – dear God, not for the last time, not that! … a perfect drowsy content, no need to struggle, to wonder – no desire to search for finality in the thrust of a man’s body in hers, perfect confidence in Johnny’s love for her and hers for him, all right to make love to Charles, too, he’d look after her when Johnny went away, give her more, whatever he said … more … more. She felt superb, glowing, warm …
Sunday, April 8
Isabel Kramer, her nephew, Johnny Merritt, and his sister, Betty, walked briskly on Beighton Down into the teeth of a spring wind from the north-east that tugged at the women’s heavy tweed skirts and the hair piled under well-anchored tweed hats. Isabel swung a walking stick in her hand, for she was not as sure footed as she used to be; and in any case was happier on horseback than on foot.
They skirted Caesar’s Camp Copse on the south side, and Betty peered in, trying to imagine Fletcher living there, for so many long months. It looked pretty now, with pink and yellow buds bursting on the boughs and the leaves sprouting green and the tall elms swaying in the wind, the earth rain-soft and dark.
Isabel said, ‘What are you going to do, Betty?’
Betty answered without hesitation – ‘Stay here, Aunt Isabel. I have a job – work – and a responsibility to Mr Rowland.’
What she had said was true enough; but, far stronger in her mind was the fact that whenever Fletcher Gorse could get leave, or if he were wounded – this was where he would come … to England, and in the end to Kent, to Walstone, down there in the Weald, beside the meandering Scarrow. But her aunt did not know about Fletcher. If she did, would she understand, or would she see only the difference in their social class, and education? Betty could hardly blame her for that; too often, she found those differences weighing on her own mind – and she was Fletcher’s lover, and he hers.
Mrs Kramer said, ‘Would you consider moving in with Stella … until Johnny comes home again?’
Betty shot a quick glance at her aunt. Was she asking her to keep an eye on Stella? Prevent her drinking too much? Stop her going to Hedlington so often?
Johnny said, ‘That would be nice – for Stella, I’m sure. But perhaps Betty prefers to be her own mistress.’
They passed out of the shelter of the copse and the wind blew stronger again, whistling through the short grass and moaning in the scattered thorn bushes. Far to the east a shepherd in a long, heavy coat moved his flock slowly toward them, his crook on his shoulder, his dog a small black and grey shape floating from flank to flank behind the grazing Southdowns.
Betty said, ‘I do value that – being independent – but, yes, I’d be very happy to live at the cottage with Stella as long as I’m needed. You understand that I’ll still be working at Hedlington Aircraft.’
‘Of course you must, child,’ Aunt Isabel said. ‘Stella and Johnny wouldn’t dream of preve
nting you. Stella doesn’t need a nanny, or a keeper … just a friend, a friendly relative.’
I hope you’re right, Betty thought. She had felt it necessary to stake out the boundaries of her commitment to Stella; though, privately, she did not expect to be going out much until Fletcher came back to take her in his arms … and … she half closed her eyes, seeing him … to carry her into that land of total giving, total accepting, that they had entered in the little hotel on the Deal front, facing the winter sea.
Aunt Isabel looked at the gold watch pinned to her lapel and said, ‘We’ve been out over an hour, and it’ll take us at least a half an hour to get back to the car, and then another fifteen minutes to the Manor.’
‘Turn down here,’ Johnny said, ‘head for those three thick bushes. I’ve been up here often, with Guy and Laurence and Stella, before …’ He trailed into silence.
Christopher Cate was waiting for them in the doorway of Walstone Manor, his long face a little grave. He said, ‘You’ve all got a nice colour … A telegram came half an hour ago for you, Johnny.’ He held out the pink envelope, still sealed. ‘The telegraph boy went to the cottage, of course, and Stella told him to bring it on here.’
They scraped the mud off their boots on the footscraper, and then the doormat, and went into the old house. Laurence Cate was standing by the fire, tall and good looking in his uniform of a 2nd Lieutenant of the Weald Light Infantry. He had been at the Regimental Depot in Hedlington for four months now, and would be sent overseas as soon as he reached eighteen and a half, next month. Johnny nodded toward him and then opened the envelope. He read aloud – ‘It’s from Dad:
Am coming to England soonest attempting book passage SS Baltic sailing New York [deleted by censor, that must be the date of the ship’s sailing] important plans for Hedlington Aircraft and J.M.C. under study make no plans of your own till my arrival inform Betty hope she will return with me for job in Newton Baker’s office inform Richard Rowland of contents of this cable much love to you and Stella – [signed] Stephen Merritt.’