Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  In his agitation and shock he stood up, abruptly. Martin smiled bleakly to himself; he had hit Ernest there when he had spoken of May and Gregory! A sense of returning power came to him. But he could not control his trembling. He looked at Ernest, standing there before the fire, his fists clenched at his side. There was a disordered air about him, as if he had been struck vitally. I have him down, thought Martin, amazed. For the first time in my life, I have him down!

  He began to speak, slowly and carefully, to the silent man on the hearth.

  “There can never be any peace between us after this. We can never meet again, as friends. I don’t think I could ever stand seeing you or speaking to you again. It’s all over between us. I’ve known all my life what you were, but I didn’t really believe all of it until tonight. Now, I can’t bear to be in the same room with you, or looking at you. I’ll go.” He stood up, also, and buttoned his coat. Ernest gave no sign that he had heard him or was conscious that he was there. He was extraordinarily pale, as if he had suffered some profound shock.

  “So, I’ll resign from Barbour & Bouchard, if that is what you wish. But I won’t sell you my stock or bonds. And I’ll resign only on your promise that Hans and Carl will be released at once. I’ll go on with my plans, with the exception of the hospital. I’ll build that hospital near the gates of the Kinsolving works. And something tells me that you’ll let the sick out from behind those wooden walls of yours. I’ll spend every cent of my dividends on these people you have oppressed, and you can’t stop me. I’ll see the Mayor, or even the Governor, about some things, too.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll send you my resignation. And I’ll tell Ma that I’m still behind her and the girls, watching to see that they aren’t robbed.”

  Ernest stirred; he turned to his brother. He was quite calm.

  “I shall expect your resignation tomorrow morning. I’ll see that Hans and Carl are released tonight.” His voice was heavy and listless as though he had lost interest in the whole matter.

  Martin went to the door. On the threshold he stopped, and turned.

  “I’ll never have anything more to say to you. But I want to say this: You can’t shut your strong doors tight enough to keep out the disease you’re breeding down there among your laborers. You can’t close your windows close enough to keep out the malaria you’re creating in your swamps. There aren’t bolts strong enough to protect you and your children from the wild dogs you’re setting loose. Every child that dies down there from hunger and neglect threatens the life of your children. Every woman you make husbandless and homeless makes your wife’s bed the harder. You poison their water and the water will seep through the ground to your own wells. You can’t keep out the misery and the ruin you are making.” His voice became eloquent with prophecy, the great glow came out on his face again. “You’re making death for others, but you’re making it for yourself, too. Mentally and physically, you’re making death for yourself and your children, and your children’s children. You are breaking down dams, but some day the water will drown you, too. And your children. You can’t sow the whirlwind, and build a house strong enough to stand in it!”

  “The door,” said Ernest, “is to your right, and straight ahead.”

  CHAPTER XL

  Martin told Amy what had taken place with such passionate simplicity, resolution and sadness that she was moved and shaken. She shuddered when he told her of the child he had rescued; she exclaimed faintly when he described the street bounded by the wooden walls. And when he had finished, she burst into tears, went into his arms and kissed him. “You have done the only thing it is possible for you to do,” she said, and even Martin missed the significance of her accent on the last pronoun. Later, she said: “It doesn’t matter what others say about you, Martin: you must not let them confuse you or turn you aside again. According to your lights, you are right. Don’t let yourself be betrayed. Whatever you do, I am your wife, and whatever you decide is my decision, too.”

  Sometimes she would watch him as he covered paper with figures, sighing and combing his light thick hair with his fingers, and her eyes would fill humbly. Never had she loved him so much; never had she so appreciated and valued him for what he was. It seemed a privilege to her to be his wife. When he told her that he wished she would never go again to the Sessions house, she felt ill with grief, but her voice was steady when she told him that she would respect his wishes. He had, he said gently, nothing against May and her little boy, and she could come to their home as often as she and Amy desired, but he did not want his wife to come into contact, however trifling, with “that man.” When he spoke of his brother with loathing and heaviness, Amy was silent. She was too clear-sighted to blame herself for any emotion she had for Ernest; it was something inevitable, she thought, something to be endured, like wind or rain or darkness or cold. She had no control over it; she would have thought an exercise of conscience stupid, like the beating of drums to call attention to one’s own ambush. Or, she would have thought it self-dramatization.

  Martin was determined to sell the house he lived in. It was impossible for him to endure it any longer. His first impulse had been to return it to Ernest, but he thought of something better. It would be his planned hospital. In the meantime, he looked about for another home.

  Gregory Sessions, outraged and vituperative, came to see him. But before he could even say more than a few words, Martin stopped him. He looked at the older man with such new sternness and resolution that Gregory was struck into silence. “I don’t want any discussion with any one about this,” said Martin. “My life is my own to live, and I must live according to the rules which seem right to me. I, too, Mr. Gregory, have a right to happiness and peace.”

  Martin moved about alertly and with vitality. He had so much to do. His strength seemed to himself to be prodigious. Life flowed and pounded in his body, and he never tired. He was exalted, not feverishly, but with growing power. One night when he knew that Armand and his sons would be at home together, he went to see them. Armand’s cousin from Canada had changed the ugly old house so that it had a sprightly and knowing air of more modern comfort, but Armand seemed less at ease in it than he had been in its former genial gay disorder. He looked like a nut that had become dried out with age, so that its kernel had lost its juices and flavor. Browner, more wizened than ever, somewhat more silent, more twisted, he sat before his fire, booted, not bootless as of old. He smoked cigars now, for the sprightly cousin objected to pipes. But Eugene and Raoul were more satisfied in the new cleanliness and primness. They could bring their friends here without imagining that these friends were making odious comments to themselves.

  They all received Martin with rather surprised reserve and embarrassment. They glanced furtively at each other, smiled uneasily at the visitor. Armand recovered almost at once, offered Martin a seat with grave courtesy, inquired about the health of his family. He knew that Amy was expecting another child, and he had always admired her, and had been touched by her steady gentleness and soft manners. Raoul had been polite enough, but there were derisive lines about his sparkling eyes and smiling lips; Eugene was inclined to be sullen and restive with Martin, muttered something about business outside requiring his attention.

  “Please stay, Eugene,” said Martin with such earnest sadness that the other young man was startled, and sat down again. Even Raoul became serious. As for Armand, he removed the despised cigar from his mouth, and waited.

  Martin looked from one to the other for several moments before he spoke. They saw how pale he was, how much thinner. They saw that his eyes burned with weariness and unshakable courage.

  “Before I came here,” he said, “I was already convinced that it was hopeless, that I would be wasting your time and mine. But I felt that I must leave nothing undone, and neglect nothing.

  “You know what has happened. Except for being a large stockholder I am no longer connected with your Company. But because I was once a member, and am still a stockholder, I wanted to make a last app
eal to you. You know why I left the Company; you know the intolerable conditions that forced me to do that. You know what I am doing now. I can’t believe you are made of stone, without feeling and mercy. I can’t believe that profits are more to you than the lives and rights of other human beings. I can’t believe that you would take money that has cost the life of a child. I can’t believe you can enjoy something that is bought with misery. There are three of you against one man. Perhaps two men, if you count Gregory Sessions. But he has not so much to say. But the three of you might be able to do something.

  “So, I am asking you, though I feel it is hopeless to ask, to change things. To have a little mercy. You, Raoul and Eugene, each have a dog that you are fond of and take care of. You would fight the man that would kick them. You shelter them and feed them and protect them. Are men less than dogs?”

  There was a long silence. No one looked at Martin. Armand regarded the fire, and Eugene and Raoul stared at the floor. Then Eugene, still without looking at Martin, made an irritable gesture. “What are we to do?” he asked with asperity. “We are in business. We have competitors. We have large Government contracts because we have underbid everyone else. If we do not continue doing what we do, we cannot exist as a company. To employ American workmen, even to treat our foreign laborers as we would have to treat American workmen, would ruin us. We are not responsible for this industrial situation. The roots are deeper than our house. They lie in the whole system. We must do as our competitors do or go out of business.

  “Yes, the roots lie deeper than you suspect. The only cure is in the prohibition of these laborers being brought to America for this purpose. Then, of course, if they are stopped, we can absorb what is here. Things generally tend to get better. Conditions would improve for these people, and they would soon be demanding as much wages as our American workmen. But so long as there is no restriction on their coming, and our competitors can bring in as many as they like, we can do nothing to improve the condition of things. We must run with the wolves if we are to survive. We must get these people for ourselves, however much misery it costs, or how many American men cannot make a living.”

  “Eugene has said it exactly,” said Armand thoughtfully. “And I can see that you have not given this point of view much serious thought, my Martin.”

  Martin regarded them in silence for a long time. Then he said, almost in bewilderment: “You are right. I overlooked something. The cure, as you say, is the stopping of this importation of foreign labor. You have given me something to think of, to try to cure. So, after all, I haven’t wasted my time in coming here.” He stood up. “Still, you are not guiltless, any of you. Barbour & Bouchard has a lot of influence in America. You could start the movement against foreign labor if you wanted to. But you won’t. However, I’m grateful for the help you have given me already. I suppose I ought not to ask any more favors.”

  Armand went to the door with him. He put his hand on the young man’s arm. “Martin,” he said kindly, “I wish you would move more slowly. I wish you would consider many things. The newspapers are already commenting on what you have done. I am certain that you understand, now, that we aren’t the sole culprits, that, in fact, we are also victims. Too, you are prone to look on the dark side of things. Human misery is no new story. Exploitation of man by man is history. You cannot reform the world.” He patted Martin’s arm, and laughed a little grimly. “Remember what the world does to its reformers. And its saints. Nevertheless, I admire you. You believe in something, and that is very enviable.”

  “I believe that every man has the right to live,” said Martin bitterly.

  Armand shook his head. “No, he must earn the right to live,” he replied. “No man has the right to anything, neither to breathe nor to eat, unless he has earned it. The world owes nothing to any one. But we owe the world a great deal.” He poked Martin’s chest with one small brown finger, like a twig. “Go on, my Martin. You have a vision. Perhaps you are right; perhaps you are wrong. But at least you have a vision. In a way, I, too, have a vision. I shall get enough money so that my dear fellow men shall never have me at their mercy again.”

  Amy’s cousin, May Barbour, was exceedingly disturbed by the whole situation. But she could get no satisfaction from Ernest. He forbade her to enter Martin’s house again. But Martin had probably forbidden Amy to enter the Sessions house! May exclaimed in consternation. She set her red mouth mutinously. The silly men, she said, could have their quarrels, but she would not abandon Amy. Amy, she insisted, no doubt needed every friend she had now. Ernest might frown and thunder and curse, but she would see Amy, either in this house or in Amy’s own house. She would not abandon Amy, however much their husbands might quarrel. To her surprise, Ernest suddenly backed down, became milder, grudgingly admitted that perhaps she was right.

  So May called on her cousin, and was not at all nonplussed at seeing Martin, who treated her with every courtesy. She had the good sense not to discuss the situation either with Amy or with Martin. Her sprightliness, her chatter of her coming child and Amy’s coming child, her laughter, shrewd gaiety and kindliness, vivacity and cheerfulness, did Amy considerable good. Amy reproached her for not bringing little Godfrey James with her. May shrugged. “I despise children,” she said with disarming frankness. “It is very annoying that I am about to have another. But what is one to do? It is fortunate that I have an excellent nurse for Godfrey James: I hardly need to see him more than once a day.” She studied Amy with sympathy and concern. Amy looked tired and pale and sad, and her brown eyes were enormous in her quiet face. But she had about her an air of reserve strength and steadfastness that May respected. She demanded to see the twins. They were brought downstairs by their nurse, handsome and pugnacious babies with fierce blue eyes and hard red cheeks. May felt a pang of envy. Little Godfrey James was frail and silent and timid; sometimes he trembled without cause. She thought of how he liked to be seated in a big chair and listen to her play on her piano; at those times he smiled with such sweetness and infant radiance that she often burst into tears for no reason. Thinking of her child, she no longer envied Amy her roaring babies. “They have eyes just like their father,” she said, and knew this was only partially true.

  Martin loved his children passionately, but he was ill at ease with them. Their robustness of voice and body bewildered him. They crawled over him with astounding vigor and disregard, poking his ears and his eyes with tiny hard fingers. He was a deer that had fathered a pair of lion cubs. One could not tell one child from another, so almost identical they were. But Amy claimed that Paul was getting larger than Elsa every day, and that he was showing his sex in a new tendency to bully his sister.

  One day Armand said to Ernest: “Martin is preparing his house as a hospital. What are you going to do? There is considerable strange talk, also, about the dividends he is depositing for our men. Are you planning on trying to stop this in some way?”

  Ernest laughed shortly. “Stop it? My dear Armand, do not be absurd! Of course, I shall not stop it! Why should I? It is a great help to me. We can reduce the amount of scrip we give the men and there will be no complaints. They will show no desire to leave us; in fact, less than ever. For, you forget that my dear brother has arranged it so that the longer they are in my employ the more money they will receive when they leave. I think it is all a very excellent arrangement.” He paused. “As for the hospital business, I shall put a stop to that. Any man who takes advantage of it, of course, shall be given the sack. And I have given orders not to admit any doctors to the grounds except Dr. Withers. That will spike that business.”

  He waited for Armand’s usual wry comment, and was somewhat surprised that Armand merely walked away without speaking.

  Martin went to the Governor. The Governor was a kindly man, but bored. He had read the newspapers, and on principle he disliked reformers. However, he received Martin courteously and with friendship. He listened attentively to what his visitor had to say, and his face was thoughtful. Finally he said: “
I grant you everything, Mr. Barbour. The situation is abominable. But what can we do? After all, as you admit, the men can leave at any time. You have generously supplied them with funds when they leave. There is no law we can enforce to prevent these people from being brought to this country like slaves in wholesale lots. For some time there has been agitation in Washington about this, but so far nothing has been done. At the present time slavery in the South seems to be occupying everyone’s attention. Perhaps after that is out of the way Congress can take up this alien labor affair. There is already a small lobby in Washington that you might investigate. Lobbies are always grateful for funds. Now about the doctor and hospital business: Barbour & Bouchard are a private concern; they have Government contracts; the land is their own. This is a free country, however paradoxical that may sound to you, I admit, and no one has the right to demand admittance to the grounds of Barbour & Bouchard, nor to trespass, however humanitarian his object. You are dependent on the consent of your brother, or other members of the firm, to give aid and comfort to the poor men inside their walls. From what you tell me, and from what I have read, I doubt very much that you will get that consent. To be sure, the men could leave the grounds and apply to you for medical help and hospital treatment, but who is to tell them that there is such a thing outside for them? They are so ignorant, so stupid, really, so sunken and submerged, that they would never know, or if threatened, which is quite possible, they might not accept even if they did know.” He stood up, and Martin had to rise also. “No, my dear Mr. Barbour, I am afraid that if you are to accomplish anything you must walk a little softer. Exhortations, however just and eloquent, attempts at force, however righteous, always antagonize your opponent to the point where even reason has no chance with him. I advise you to use other methods. Softer, softer.” He continued in this strain.