The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  “No.” Peter smiled. “Gas, instead, the men who cunningly use these unfortunate characteristics to make wars on more civilized peoples. Several eras of peace and understanding between peoples will cause universal intermingling, and we’ll breed out the worst traits in the German character, and leave the good ones of cleanliness, order, ambition and intelligence to grow.”

  Georges read on, shaking his head more and more with denial. He drew another ring about a paragraph. He could not help smiling a little, however. “Marion and her good American patriots won’t like this! This, what you say about patriotism: “the appendix of barbarism at the end of the human colon, which serves no useful purpose, and is a potential danger to life.’” He glanced at Peter, and laughed:

  “‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead—’ ”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Peter. “Haven’t we anything in our racial characters to be proud of, except our prowess in killing, and our egotism in believing that our particular plot of ground is more valuable than any other, and that the offal we have deposited there is bigger and better than any other offal?”

  “Too radical. We’ve got fine characteristics, mixed up, though, I must admit, with the offal—”

  “Then, our patriotism should expend itself in sorting the fine characteristics out, and decently burying the others.”

  “Nevertheless, even these would lead to war.” He smiled at Peter significantly. “Take our own family, for instance. Armand, through good fortune, perhaps, rules Bouchard and Sons. Christopher, through bad fortune, is in the poor house soup. They hate each other, Armand out of fear of Christopher, and Christopher out of envy of Armand. There you have the whole international situation at a glance. The question of right or wrong doesn’t exist when it is a question who gets the biggest part of the swag.”

  Peter shook his head stubbornly. “Swag won’t enter into it when we have finally formed a body of international ethics—”

  Georges burst out laughing. Ethics, he said, was the cultivated garden of the intelligent man, but the wilderness of the fool. Force, grim hard force, was the only answer to stupidity and aggression.

  He continued to read. He began to chuckle with enjoyment, when he reviewed the series of chapters in which Peter gave a frank and comprehensive survey of Bouchard and Sons, and their multitudinous interlocking subsidiaries. “You’ve lost no time, have you, Pete?” He remembered that Christopher had written him, and had called Peter “an amateur Cataline.” “Where did you get all this information?”

  “Observations. And questions. They’ll be surprised to find out how much they’ve told me, won’t they?”

  “I shouldn’t wonder.” He whistled softly as he read. “Are you certain of your facts? One small slip and you have a libel suit on your hands. Are you positive?”

  “Yes. Bouchard is linked up with Schultz-Poiret, Robsons-Strong, Skeda, Bedors and Kronk, and their subsidiaries. I tell you, I’ve worked hard for eight years! The information was very easy to get. That’s the appalling thing, the cynicism of their operations, and the openness. They either believe that people are too stupid to read, understand and care, or they believe themselves too strong to bother about people. Either way, it is ominous.

  “I have many friends in Germany, one or two of them connected with Kronk. I know what’s going on. I’ve seen Sir Charles Carmitchell and Lord Burton Blenfadden in Emil Kronk’s Paris home, with M. Alfonse Brenau and the President of France. My friends introduced me as one of the others’ dear friends, the American Bouchards, and so, I heard enough! Within a few years, they planned, Germany, with their help and the support of their various governments, would be in a position to threaten Europe again. The Englishmen, however, were more concerned with a strong Germany’s preventing ‘radical’ doctrines from seeping out of Russia into England, and so inducing the English working class to demand enough to eat. Besides, Sir Charles Carmitchell is a member of a well-known and extremely wealthy Manchester industrial family; he, himself, is ardently pro-German. He’s got an old brother, Melton, who’d like to be Prime Minister some day, and help Germany along with some real substantial diplomacy. He’ll get there, too.” Peter paused, and added grimly: “The Carmitchells own one-quarter of the common stock in Kronk, one-third in the Byssen Steel, and a fine share of the Reichindustrie Chemikal.

  Again, Georges whistled softly. “Of course, I had some idea. But not as bad as this. Sometimes I wonder—.” He shook his head. “But, hell. They wouldn’t dare start anything. This is not 1914. People have had a taste of war. They’d better wait another generation, until the war generation is dead. They’ll wait, too.”

  He laid aside the manuscript. “What is your outline for the rest of the book?’

  “The future. Don’t smile. You have only to live in Europe to see it coming. I was in Berlin during the ‘beer putsch.’ Ever hear of it?”

  “Vaguely. It wasn’t important, was it?”

  “Very. Perhaps the most important thing that has occurred in Europe since the Russians murdered their degenerate Czar and his perverted gang, and revenged themselves for centuries of bestiality and oppression and torment. For Hitler, the brilliant and demented Austrian maniac, is not just a laughable figure, springing up from nowhere, but the symbol of what is behind him, and who is behind him. The Byssens, the Kronks, the Skedas, the Schultz-Poirets, the Robsons-Strongs, the British Tories, the French Tories, the German Junkers—all the murderous enemies of all mankind, who care for nothing but investments and power. You don’t hear much about him just now? You will. For he, Adolf Hitler, madman and genius, is the future of all the world.”

  Georges laughed. “Now you’re being funny. But never mind. Go ahead and write what you have to write. It sounds interesting, anyway. I doubt he’d go far, though. We’ve got a fairly civilized world, now. Democracy is rapidly spreading. They’ll never be able to enslave the peoples again, or arouse much hatred among them—”

  “Oh, yes they will! Wait and see. You’ll see, within six years. Or less. Within ten or twelve years, there will be the beginning of the end. Don’t laugh. I’ve looked. You see things if you look. Mussolini was the first gun the enemies fired against the world, against democracy, and against civilization.”

  Georges listened reflectively. Finally he said: “By the way, I have a friend here in New York, a Doctor Adolf Schacht. A German by birth. A really clever man. Maybe you’re right! He’s told me a little of what you have just said, yourself. He gloats over it. I understand he used to be a member of the Ku Klux Klan, too, an idiotic organization, by the way. I’d like you to meet him. Entertaining and charming as the devil. I’ve invited him out over the weekend.”

  He read on, finished the last incomplete page. “Go ahead. But now I’ve got a suggestion, myself: use a pen name.”

  Peter answered with quick indignation: “I certainly won’t! Why should I? What? Family feeling? Well, anyway, you’re smiling, so I won’t take that seriously. I’ll use my own name.” “I wouldn’t. Or, at least, not until little Celeste has finally made her decision. Attack her beloved Christopher, and you’d better go into mourning. And your thumb-nail sketch of him isn’t nice at all, you know. Thinking the matter over, from my own point of view, I must insist on a pen name. After all, I’m a Bouchard, too.”

  “And if I won’t?”

  Georges shrugged. “Then I won’t publish the thing, or even consider it.”

  Peter was silent a moment. Their eyes met; Georges was tranquil but firm. He pushed the manuscript aside with a delicate, dismissing gesture.

  “Then,” said Peter, “I’ll take it somewhere else.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Pete.” He added, smiling a little: ‘I thought you were interested in getting these facts before the public, and not in any personal notoriety, or fame. So, what does it matter?”

  “It is cowardly.”

  Georges laughed heartily. “This’ll stink just as bad with any name on it, and the consequences will be just as mean. However, Endicott
James will go over it with a fine-tooth comb, you can be sure. And, somehow, I hope Bouchard sues!”

  “But you’re not afraid to publish it—”

  “No.”

  Georges got up. “But now Marion’s home, with a flock of guests, so I think we’d better join them. Shall we?”

  They left the study together, and went downstairs, where, on the lawns, Marion and her guests were chattering and laughing. “Ha!” said Georges. “I hear the rich voice of old Jay Regan himself. Didn’t you tell me he is the biggest supporter of the arms lobby in Washington? I shouldn’t wonder. He made millions out of the last war.”

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  Marion greeted her husband and Peter with high-bred British gabblings and chirpings. “My dears, to think you wasted this perfect day! Georges, pet, I did it in eighty-two! Isn’t that remarkable? Oh, Peter, do you know Ethel Bassett? Ethel, our favorite relative, Peter. Yes, he does look just like the rest of them, doesn’t he? Don’t scowl, Peter; I’ve just paid you the most precious compliment! Mr. Regan, do you know Peterr

  Old Jay Regan regarded Peter with a friendly eye, and chuckled. “Remember me? Your dad, Honore, brought you to my office a long time ago. Around 1912, I should say.”

  “Yes, I remember you, sir,” replied Peter. He shook hands with the huge stout old man, who had the most humorous eyes and the most sincerely genial smile he had ever seen. It was hard to realize the terrible influence this man had had upon the world, what enormous profits he had made from the blood of Europe and America, and what sinister plottings he was even now engaged in, to the further ruin of the world. But, Peter reminded himself sadly, he could not have done all this had not the world itself been so greedy, so ferocious, so full of cupidity and hatred and cruelty. Regan and his kind were merely panderers to a lust which already existed, and which men made no conscious effort to restrain. Even if Regan’s kind fomented wars, they could not do so without the enthusiastic response of men. They were the tempters, but they tempted a passion eager to be aroused, hopeful for excesses. To abolish Regan’s tribe, it was first necessary to civilize the world.

  Regan perhaps might have read some part of his thoughts, for his eyes became piercing, though increasingly friendly. The old man had no objections to good men; in fact, he preferred their company. And if they were intelligent as well as good, a rare combination he believed, he was delighted, sought them out, was proud of them. He said: “I know one of your relatives very well. Henri Bouchard. A very unusual young man.”

  Peter’s lips tightened, but he answered quietly: “Yes. Very unusual.” He began to move away, and Regan, interested and amused, followed. They found themselves walking alone. Peter had no desire for this gross old man’s company, but Regan, on the trail of the relief that good men invariably afforded him, would not let him go. The others remained behind; they were used to Regan picking out some one and monopolizing him, and they were too reverent of the financier to intrude. They pretended not to notice. But Georges, highly edified and curious, wished he could overhear a conversation that would no doubt be exceedingly interesting. As for Marion, she was amazed that Regan had singled out Peter, who was very dull.

  Old Regan found a seat under a tree. Peter, chained by politeness, was restive. He wanted to go away and think. But Mr. Regan evidently had no intention of dispensing with his company. “Sit down,” he said genially. “Too hot to be wandering around.” He took out a pale lavender silk handker-chief and mopped his huge scarlet face and partly bald head.

  Peter sat down reluctantly, frowning slightly. His head had begun to ache; the hot green dazzle of grass, the hot blue dazzle of the sky, tired him. He coughed a few times, with unusual violence. Regan regarded him curiously, and with a furtive concern. He knew the story. He experienced a qualm of uneasiness.

  “Marion tells me Georges is going to publish a book you are writing,” he said.

  “Yes,” replied Peter, with some hauteur. Regan waited, but Peter vouchsafed no further information. But the old man’s curiosity increased.

  “What about? Or is it a secret?”

  Peter hesitated. He was not much interested in Jay Regan as a person; he had all the information he needed about him as a condition. But now he looked at the old man consciously and personally. He could not help smiling a little. “About you. And your friends.”

  Regan raised his eyebrows and began to laugh. “Really? Are we that interesting, eh?”

  “No,” replied Peter calmly. “You’re not It’s just what you do.”

  “Oh.” The smile was still broad on Regan’s mouth, but his eyes had pointed a trifle. “My dear Peter, you aren’t a crusader or something, are you?” His manner refused to believe such idiocy of such a nice young man, whose father had been Honore Bouchard. He was disappointed.

  Peter had flushed. “I hope I’m not a crusader, sir. I don’t like that word. Do you call everyone a crusader who doesn’t agree with you?”

  “Not at all! I detest people who agree with me. They’re usually liars, or traitors, or want something I have. For heaven’s sakes, go on disagreeing with me. But I would like to know what you disagree with me about. I hope it’s something unique?”

  His air was so artless, so friendly, so open, that Peter felt himself smiling again, and less antagonistic. “It is unique,” he said. “At least, I hope my approach is. But do we have to talk about the book? It isn’t quite written yet. I’ve got a lot to learn before it is finished.”

  Regan waved his hand. “Can I help you? If it’s about me, I’m sure I can tell you things you don’t know.”

  They both laughed. Regan offered Peter one of his enormous and expensive cigars. Peter accepted; he lit the old man’s cigar, and then his own. Georges, at a distance, saw this amiable pantomime. He frowned. He hoped Regan wouldn’t disturb Peter too much, or confuse his singlepurpose. Regan was ingratiating and disarming, when he wished to be so, and so infernally reasonable and logical.

  Georges had acquired the publishing firm of Randorf and James, lock, stock and barrel. He had paid a huge sum for it. He was proud of it, for it had always had a robust and radical reputation, an exuberant and exciting quality. It was eternally new in approach, but had an old and solid reputation, mutual assets unusual in the history of American publishing. He was not exactly sure just why he had bought Randorf and James; his newspaper was sufficient, he told himself. He took up “causes” in his paper, for amusement, and to watch the “crows scream,” he said, but, secretly, because he felt some mysterious relief when he did so.

  He continued its policy of unusual and exciting and bold and radical publication. He enticed an eminent teacher from another publisher, a teacher famous for his fine and readable expositions of philosophy and history, non-fiction works which had rapidly become international best-sellers. Georges was not interested so much in learned treatment and rigid facts. He asked his famous writers only to be interesting, stimulating, colorful, courageous, cynical and passionate. They responded with heartfelt enthusiasm. He was careful in his editing, careful not to dim a phrase or inhibit an accusation. Some critic had accused him of being a Communistic iconoclast, which amused him tremendously.

  He wrote the editorials in his newspaper; his style was sharp and laconic. Sometimes he wrote “elevated nonsense” wryly, for his own amusement.

  But no one knew that his paper and his publishing business were his great passions, and that his concern for his authors was personal and unsleeping. From the beginning, he had recognized that Peter had just the fresh and powerful genius he was always looking for; he realized that he had discovered another writer who would go about blowing up the old towers, and splintering the old gates, all to the tune of excitement and profits. He had been accused of “sensationalism,” but though there was truth in this, it was not Hearst sensationalism. It was an educated, even profound, subtle and beautiful sensationalism, lavishly decorated with truth and anger, passion and strength. He publicly called it “balderdash,” but he knew that Confucius
and Buddha, Mohammed and Lao-Tse and all the others of the heavenly company, had spoken only balderdash, great and heroic and splendid though it had truly been. For, was not the impossible balderdash, the beautiful and the magnificent and the true and the holy, only balderdash in that it did not square with man, and had no verity in his works?

  Peter was a writer of this thundering balderdash, and Georges, watching him and Regan, hoped that the old financier would not imbue Peter with any devastating “common-sense.” Once let an author acquire common-sense, and he was ruined.

  But Regan was talking about Honore, Peter’s father, and Peter was listening intently, all the habitual tenseness and anxiety gone from his face.

  “No man ever questioned his integrity or sincerity,” Regan said. “I think, of all of your family, I liked only your father. He was a good man. But he suffered a lot. You wouldn’t know why he suffered, would you?”

  “Yes. I always knew,” said Peter in a low voice.

  Regan sighed. “But—you’ll forgive me, won’t you?—he had no courage. You wouldn’t understand that, would you?” “Yes. I understand.”

  Regan mopped his face and head again, and mused. “I liked him,” he repeated. “His death was a great shock to me.” He asked suddenly: “Have you courage?”

  He had expected Peter to be affronted, or embarrassed, or to reply quickly, and with annoyance. He was surprised to see how quiet and hard the young man’s expression had become, how fixed his eyes. He heard him saying: “I don’t know. I don’t know. I hope so. But I think I shall!”

  Peter, not out of discourtesy, but out of some profound confusion, began to walk away. Groaning, Regan attempted to hoist his huge body onto his protesting legs, and follow. Then he fell back again, and relapsed into thought.