The last gun sounded in the salute. The floodlights rushed out again, blindingly. The flag soared and the soldiers re-formed into the patrol. Mr. Regis dropped the curtains over the windows, and smiled at his friends.
“We haven’t quite won, yet,” he said. “But we have thrown down our challenge.”
They went back to their table, smiling at each other. Morrow said. “But surely no one can resist us now.”
Mr. Burgess replied: “All the commanding officers of all the Sections are with us, except two, and those two are ugly and determined men. They are under the President’s command, and they control their soldiers. If those soldiers revolt, on their own initiative, if they hear of the revolt of the other Sections, then we can be sure we have won. In the meantime, we have to wait.”
“But what can these commanders, and their men, do with a whole nation in a state of passive rebellion?” asked Durant. “The bureaucrats are revolting, the MASTS are revolting, the farmers are revolting. It’s true that they have been working for the restoration of the Republic, but they’ve been working for their own ends, believing that the overthrow of The Democracy would return their power to them. They’ll eventually learn that they’ve been deceived, by themselves, of course. However, they’ve helped to stimulate this revolt. How can a few overpower the many?”
“The few have always done that,” said Mr. Regis sadly. “It’s a fact we must never forget.” He added: “And the people are not without guilt, as you know.”
The dinner was excellent, but no one was aware of it. In the middle of the meat course there was a sudden crackling in the direction of the screen, and the screen glimmered, an image shifted and rippled over it, and finally the life-size face of a news commentator appeared, full of excitement.
“The President of The Democracy has just issued a statement!” he shouted. “It is no longer a rumor that a few traitors among the Military have dared to declare that the old Republic of the United States has been restored! However, the President has made this statement: ‘I am confident that the people of The Democracy will remain calm, and loyal to their free Government, and will not respond to the appeal of the traitors. The People’s Government is not alarmed, here in Washington. We know that the people will not endure this insane assault on their liberties and their dignities, this wild insurrection of a minority of the Military and certain other groups who wish to enslave and control our free and mighty Nation, for their own evil ends. On this Democracy Day, dedicated to the people, we are firm in our determination that right and justice and liberty will prevail, the traitors be routed and punished, and our enemies be overcome.’”
Durant thought of the hundreds of thousands of implacable and silent faces which had filled all the streets that day in Philadelphia. He thought of the immobilizing of the people in every city in the country. Millions were listening to the President’s statement now. Millions were thinking. Would they be deceived again, to their death?
No one was eating in the dining room, now. All attention was fixed on the screen. Another commentator from the nation’s capital appeared. Behind him were ranks of furiously writing men, and men listening at telephones.
The Section formerly called Canada was in full revolt. An hour ago an unknown spokesman in Ottawa had declared Canada free from The Democracy, a nation in its own right. The armies of The Democracy had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from the ancient border, and were reported in complete and disorderly retreat. The people of Canada, armed and revengeful though they were, had not pursued the soldiers. It was rumored that the soldiers of The Democracy, in certain sections along the old border, had saluted the flag of Canada as it had ascended on quickly improvised flagpoles, and had cheered it. It was only a rumor, of course, said the commentator, who was stammering in his excitement, his face gleaming with sweat, his shirt open. The people were implored by President Slocum to understand it was only a rumor, conjured up to confuse the nation.
Another commentator appeared; there were five others lining up behind him.
The Section once called Mexico was in bloody mutiny: “Thousands” of The Democracy’s troops had been slaughtered. But it was only a rumor, only a rumor! cried the commentator hysterically, as he wiped his sweating face. Wait a moment, please! The commentator scanned, feverishly, a dispatch which had been given him. Now he faced his audience and screamed: “Mexico has declared herself free from The Democracy only an hour ago, according to rumor! The bridges over the Rio Grande swarm with the retreating armies of The Democracy. The armies are not firing as they retreat, nor are they blowing up the bridges. The flag of Mexico has been raised—but it is all only a rumor—a rumor—the people are not to believe, they are to remain calm—”
Mr. Regis and his company looked at each other in profound but silent emotion. They sat in their chairs and waited.
The people were begged to remain in their homes or official meeting-places for the next few hours. “News of momentous importance would be broadcast from time to time, to acquaint the people with the full treachery of ‘a few’ and to dispel dangerous rumor.” The screen became blank again.
“They’ve called off the other commentators, temporarily, at least,” said Mr. Regis: “Something is happening, somewhere—”
A voice blurted from the darkened screen, and no image appeared: “The President has just informed this station that the Chief Magistrate, disturbed and annoyed by the persistent, unfounded and malicious rumors, has hastened to the White House for a consultation with the President as to the means to be employed in overcoming these rumors, and to assure the President of the devotion of the Armed Forces and their loyalty. In the meantime, wait for further announcements.”
“All good men,” said Mr. Regis, of the commentators. “It’s taken two years to pick them.”
He rose, a glass of wine in his hand, and the others rose with him. He smiled at them all, one by one. He lifted his glass.
“To the Republic of the United States of America!”
They drank the toast solemnly, the glasses trembling in their hands. Mr. Regis said: “I’m not one to raise too many hopes. This will not end without violence. The two ‘loyal’ commanders of those ‘loyal’ Sections have large detachments of troops. They could do much damage—”
The screen came to light in a blaze. The broadcasting room was shown again. Another commentator was raising his right hand for attention, and was looking down at a sheaf of papers in his left hand.
“More rumors, I’m afraid,” he said mournfully. “In Sections 1 and 6 the people, who have been massing on the streets of various cities in those Sections, refused to go home. Or, rather, they passively and silently disobeyed the commands of the Military. On orders of the two loyal commanding officers, the troops fired on sections of the crowds. It is rumored that at least five thousand civilians were killed during the past hour. But here’s another rumor: mobs swarmed over the soldiers and inflicted many casualties on them, seizing their arms and trampling their bodies in the gutters. However, the mob seemed to be well disciplined and commanded, and after this rumored assault on the Military, they resumed their places on the streets. The President, hearing this rumor, regretted the hasty action of the Military in firing, unprovoked, on peacefully assembled citizens, and promises that the guilty shall be punished.”
The commentator moved aside, and another young man took his place. He regarded his audience of millions with sparkling eyes. He began to speak, in a distinctly Southern drawl.
“It is rumored—and remember, friends, it is only a rumor!—that the Southern Sections have revolted as a body. Traitors, allegedly speaking in the name of the Southern people, have declared that the South is free of The Democracy as of this hour, and that unless a Constitutional government is restored in Washington within the next three days the South will announce to the world that it is a nation distinct and apart—Friends, one must never believe in rumors. The President implores you not to believe in all these wild rumors! He is calm, he is firm,
he is eating his dinner, and when questioned five minutes ago he denied he will speak to the country at midnight because he is confident that all these rumors are lies, and the people loyal to their Government. The President laughed heartily—”
Again, the screen went blank.
Mr. Regis exchanged a long look with Mr. Burgess, and glanced at his watch.
The meats and fish and salads and wines stood on the table, but no one ate or drank, now. Alice Steffens sat with her head bent and tears on her cheeks. All the men were pale and grim, playing absently with their table silver and their wine glasses. The Picked Guards stood motionless. The young soldiers outside were singing again as they marched, the happy songs of youth and joy. The candlelight and the firelight flickered over the great warm room. Somewhere a clock struck ten loud and booming notes. Somewhere, outside, there was laughter, and the people in the dining room listened. Laughter! The people were laughing again in America; the young were laughing!
Durant thought of his family, and he said to himself that all his labor and all his suffering had been nothing compared with this free light laughter of liberty. All the work his fellows had done, all that they had endured, all the many deaths they had encountered, all the pain and the tears and the prayers and the bitterness, were a small price to pay.
Mr. Regis was speaking. “I often remember what Goethe said on the subject of truth and error: ‘The chief thing is to have a soul that loves the truth and harbors it where it finds it. And another thing: the truth requires constant repetition, because error is being preached about us all the time, and not only by isolated individuals but by the masses. In newspapers and encyclopedias, in schools and universities, everywhere error rides high and basks in the consciousness of having the majority on its side.’”
He regarded his friends with deep gravity. “Let us remember that. Let us remember that it is the few who love liberty and guard it and overthrow tyranny when it appears, and who teach the people what it means to be free, and who rescue them from slavery.
“This is the most fateful day in the history of America. It is a day which must never be forgotten. There must always be vigilant Minute Men, like sentries guarding a vulnerable border. Never again must we be complacent, conceding this small liberty and that small law, in the name of ‘security’ and ‘national welfare.’ Security and national welfare depend upon the most exact adherence to law, and no false or artificial ‘emergency’ should ever be permitted to abrogate the least of our laws, or to shackle them, or to modify them. Even wars, if they ever again arise to degrade us, should not be an excuse for an attack upon the Constitution. When one law of a nation is broken with impunity the rest are rendered ineffectual. A spot of disease on the body of a nation makes the whole body sick.”
Dr. Healy said respectfully: “I have been outlining, in my mind, a course of instruction which should be mandatory in all schools, public or private. The children, above all else, should be taught to be jealous of their liberty and to recognize the enemy when he appears.” He paused, and the delicate skin of his face flushed with enthusiasm. “I’m not merely speaking of American history. I mean that the children should be taught the meaning of liberty and self-reliance and dignity, and this course should be the most important in the curriculum. I’ve come to the conclusion,” he added, as he saw how the others were concentrating on his words, “that without liberty there can be no real arts and sciences, for the proletarian spirit inhibits them. The twentieth century produced no giants in any of the classic arts, for the aristocratic spirit declined as industrialism captured the minds of the people. Industrialism is not evil in itself; it is necessary. But its values are crude and materialistic, and these values must be changed.”
Ben Colburn spoke in his soft and hesitating voice. “The masses, as a mass, have no spirit, no heroic emotion, no creative passion, no dignity or splendor. It is only when the mass is broken up into its distinct individual units, acutely independent, and acting alone, that variety emerges, and with variety, the true arts and sciences.”
“It seems to me.” said Walter Morrow, “that one of the best safeguards of the country would be to stimulate pride, and, yes, factionalism. A man should be proud if he is a mechanic or tool-maker, and he should believe his work the most important. The farmer should believe his acres are sacred, and he should act in accordance with that belief. The teacher, the doctor, the lawyer, the grocer, the plumber, the weaver and the miller—they should all cultivate an intense pride in their work, convinced that the country could not exist without them. Pride is the enemy of the mass-mind—”
“A nation without honor and self-respect must fall,” said Mr. Burgess, nodding.
The screen blazed and crackled again. A huge head floated into view, with enormous excited eyes. “It is rumored that the people are still standing in their hundreds of thousands—in their millions—on the streets of all the cities throughout The Democracy! Rain, snow, tropical downpours, hurricane winds, and sleet and ice, can’t dispel them! Friends, this is impossible! A nation stands and cannot be moved either by guns or persuasion. It is nearing the hour for the midnight shifts in our great warplants; the workers do not move. The farms and ranches and plantations have been deserted, and all have gathered in the villages, the towns and the cities. This is a most impressive and most awful demonstration! What are the people demonstrating? Why this appalling silence and motionlessness all over the country? They have apparently no leaders, no inciters. They just gather, the people, and remain where they have gathered.
“The ships stand dark and deserted in the harbors. The longshoremen have gone. War materials are piled up on the docks. No one guards them. Where are the soldiers who should be there? Where are the watchmen? Where are the sailors on the battleships in port? Why are the airfields abandoned? Why are the trains pulled off onto sidings?”
The voice cracked. Then the commentator spoke again.
“I am again warned to tell you that all these things are rumors—only rumors. It is only a rumor that the miners will not return to the mines, and the farmers to their farms. Surely the people have not lost their minds and their devotion to those noble words of our President: ‘Unity! Duty! Sacrifice!’ Surely the people are not betraying their country in this desperate hour of war with the enemy! But it is all rumors! There is no revolt! All is calm; all is quiet. The President is entertaining his friends—”
Mr. Regis looked at his friends, and they all smiled with quiet savagery. “If I know Slocum, and I know him well,” said Mr. Regis, “he is being fortified with whisky in large quantities, and someone is bathing his head. He is a very stupid man. Earlier tyrants of this century always left one country intact into which they could flee when matters got too hot for them. But Mr. Slocum has no place to go.”
The clock boomed eleven. “At dawn, I shall leave to join our President,” Mr. Regis continued. “I think he’d like my advice.”
The voice was shrieking: “Where are the civil service workers tonight? The offices of the bureaus all over the country should be filling now. But the buildings stand dark. There are no fires in the furnaces. Ah, another dispatch! A skeleton force of workers is appearing at the railroad yards, moving silently to their work. Trains containing food, and food only, are on their way again. The same small skeleton force is arriving to keep public utilities in restricted use. Another dispatch! All political prisoners are being freed by their jailers; the prisons have been opened! It’s rumored that word went out from the people that unless this was done mobs would descend on the places of incarceration and would attack prison officials, and would have no mercy. Anarchy! Mob violence! Will the Armed Forces permit this? But where are the Armed Forces?”
Another face swam into view on the screen. There was a flourish of recorded trumpet calls, a flutter of drums. The President would speak at midnight.
At midnight, precisely, the screen swam with jagged lightnings of color, very agitated and blinding. Apparently the engineers of the broadcasting station at
the White House were extremely nervous, for they had difficulty with transmission.
Then there was a jolt of color, and the President’s face, three times life-size, rushed into view. Another flourish of trumpets, another rifle of drums, a strain or two of the President’s favorite anthem, and an apprehensive voice, too shrill: “Ladies and gentlemen! The President of The Democracy!”
“They’re all out of sequence and proper order,” remarked Durant, watching Mr. Slocum’s confused expression, his attempts to speak, while the trumpets lagged, the drums stammered and the anthem became a jumble. Mr. Slocum made a distraught gesture, and everything became profoundly silent.
The silence evidently confounded the President even more than the ill-advised flourishes and music had done, for now that he held the floor alone he could not speak at all. His wide rodent’s mouth moved impotently; his cunning little eyes darted about frantically; his nose twitched. His face was pale and drawn, and a muscle jerked violently in his right cheek. He put the palms of his hands to his head and smoothed down his meager gray hair. It could be seen that he was breathing too fast, that he was trembling. He tried to smirk, as he dropped his hands, and then he stood there, the very image of terror and distraction, visibly quaking, swallowing spasmodically.
The silence grew longer. The musicians tried to fill it with tentative strains of the anthem. The President swung his head about on its narrow neck and apparently uttered an expletive. The music died abruptly.
There was no dignity in him, no courage, no fortitude, no pride. His voice when it came at last, was a womanish squawk, the voice of utter dread and fear. He grinned, and his haggard flesh pulled into folds.
“Fellow citizens. I addressed you before today, a few hours ago. On this our heroic Democracy Day, dedicated to the People and the People’s Government. I felt it fitting that it should so be dedicated, because without the enthusiasm and support and devotion of all of you, The Democracy could never have established and we should, in these days, be the slaves of reaction and reactionary Government.”
The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny Page 46