The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny

by Taylor Caldwell

  The great clock in the hall below struck the hour of eleven, massive strokes full of music. Durant had often listened with pleasure. But tonight the strokes blended together in his ears in a mighty jangle of sound, discordant and without meaning. He put down his book. He was about to speak to Sadler, for he could no longer endure the silence which followed the striking of the clock, when he heard the noise of a car outside, and the robust laughter of men.

  Sadler got to his feet, crouched by the door, his gun in his hand, and Durant stood up. “Only my men,” he murmured. But Sadler listened, and Durant listened, also. The men were stamping into the house, speaking loudly and raucously, and joking. Apparently the party they had attended had been very satisfying, to judge from their voices. Then, all at once, there was a shocked silence. They had come upon the body of Beckett. The house still reverberated with the banging of doors, but now there was no laughter, no voices, no movement.

  The officers apparently were standing there in the living room, where Beckett lay. The wind screamed suddenly against the windows, wailed away into the night. Sadler still crouched by the door, and Durant could see that his finger was on the trigger of his gun and that all his muscles were tensed. Then Sadler half turned his head and motioned fiercely to Durant in the direction of the landscape on the wall. Durant ran to it, and attached the wires. He moved away, yawned with an effort, muttered, and said, sleepily: “What’s the matter? I heard something—”

  “Your officers, sir,” replied Sadler quietly.

  There was a pounding, now, up the stairs, the tramping of heavy boots, the harsh sound of gasping. Someone struck heavily on the door, and Durant exclaimed: “What is it? What’s all the row about?”

  Grandon answered him, excitedly: “Beckett, sir! Down there, dead. Shot!” There was a confused muttering behind him. Someone tried the handle of the locked door. Sadler lifted his gun. Now Durant’s heart began to leap and strain.

  He said as calmly as possible: “I know. Beckett, for some damned reason we don’t know about, committed suicide tonight. Terrible. Nothing we can do about it, though.”

  Who, among those men beyond the door, understood? Who, among them, did not need an explanation? The handle rattled again, and Bishop said: “Are you all right, sir? May we come in and talk about it?”

  But it was Sadler who answered, in his deadly voice: “No, you can’t. Orders from the Chief Magistrate. Three Picked Guards will be here by midnight.

  There was a smothered and startled cursing in the hall. Grandon said: “Colonel Curtiss? Are you sure you’re all right? Why can’t we come in?”

  Sadler pressed his body against the door. “The colonel is all right. You heard his voice. If any of you tries to force this door I’ll shoot to kill. And so will the colonel.”

  Durant could hardly breathe, in his quick fear. He made himself laugh. “Orders from the Chief Magistrate,” he parroted Sadler. “Go on to bed, boys.”

  “Did you hear the bastard Sadler?” cried Edwards incredulously. “He said he’d ‘shoot to kill’! Kill any of us!”

  “That’s right,” said Sadler. “Those are my orders.”

  “But why?” demanded Keiser truculently. “What’s this got to do with Beckett being shot?”

  “Nothing at all,” Durant replied irritably. “We don’t know why the Chief Magistrate issued those orders; we only know he did. Now, get the hell away from the door and go to bed. You woke me up, and I’ve taken a sedative.”

  They went away, but Durant doubted that they separated. He thought he could hear indignant murmurs and angry mutters for a long time. Sadler did not sit down again. He faced the door like a sentry, and Durant sat on his bed with his own gun in his hand. It was queerly like a siege. A siege. Yes. His heart continued to beat painfully, and he said to himself, as he had often said: “I’m just not the man for things like this!”

  It was half-past twelve before the Picked Guards arrived. Dr. Dodge admitted them. The three young men were curiously anonymous in appearance, all of a height, all young, all harsh-faced, all with bright and wary eyes. It was Sadler, rather than Durant, who carefully examined their credentials and scrutinized each one, while Durant watched.

  So, these were Minute Men. From their glances, from their quick movements, from the way they set themselves without direction in various strategic points in the room, Durant knew that they were only too well aware of the desperate danger that lived all about them. They had a covenant with death. That covenant would soon be broken, and they knew it. They looked back at Durant, and, in momentous silence, he looked back at them.

  Suddenly, Durant thought of what Darwin had once written: “To survive is to be valuable. To be is to be good.” Under those circumstances, he said to himself, I’m damned valuable, and I must be as good as all hell! Maybe that’s why I’m sweating, he added caustically.

  Durant took a sedative that night to quiet his nerves and to help lessen that awful cold trembling which had settled about his bones. But he slept only briefly, and the snatches of sleep were invaded by confused nightmares, all in vivid colors. He would awaken, drenched with sweat, to see the low lights in his room and the unsleeping faces of two of his Guards. Sadler sat there, back to door, a motionless stone of a man, and a Guard sat near the window. The other two Picked Guards were stationed outside the bedroom door, and sometimes they spoke in hushed mutters. It was extremely nonconducive to repose, and Durant after awakening, would lie with closed eyes remembering the events of the night and the pressure of coming violence.

  All his muscles ached from tension. He tried to fix his mind upon his wife and children, to remember their smiles and their voices. Then he would shake with overpowering terror, not for himself, but for his family. The success of a revolt no longer meant for him the emancipation of a country, but the deliverance of his family from evil. After all, he would ask himself, isn’t it impossible for any but a few of the heroes and saints to think in universal terms, in a state of self-abnegation? Man cannot divorce himself from his emotions and from his heart. Rather than be denounced for that, he should be praised and lauded and encouraged, for out of individual souls sprang the great fires of reform. Uniformity, even in virtue, was to be condemned.

  He slept a little better toward dawn, but woke about eight o’clock so exhausted and undone that he could hardly move. Sadler came to the bedside, and Durant blinked up at that haggard face which had become so much older during the last few hours. Durant said: “I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

  Sadler smiled involuntarily. Durant felt so much pity and concern for the younger man that he assumed irritability in order to hide his emotions. “Don’t smile. I’m not getting up. I’m going to stay in this damn bed all day. Perhaps for two days.”

  The idea suddenly had immense appeal for him. He contemplated the safety of his room and his bed with growing pleasure. Not to cower in his car; not to drive through broken and snow-blown streets for a while; not to look at the strained and savage faces on the streets; not to smell the fury in the stagnant air; not to plot and plot and plot incessantly! Surcease. It was a marvelous idea. After all, he consoled himself, even soldiers are permitted to rest after hard engagements.

  “I’m shell-shocked,” he said to Sadler. “Battle fatigue.”

  The other Picked Guard came to the bed and joined Sadler. He had not slept for a single instant during the night, yet his boy’s face was flushed with health and his eyes sparkled. For some reason Durant became resentful, and thought of himself as an old man. “What’s your name?” he asked. “And how old are you?”

  The name was Tom Griffis, the age, twenty-one. Durant regarded him enviously. He flipped over his hot pillow and again announced that he was ill and that he was going to remain in bed. “Perhaps for the rest of my life,” he added.

  The Guards laughed, and Durant was relieved that Sadler could laugh after the dreadful night. That comes of being young, he reminded himself, regarding his thirty-one years with distaste. He felt a
hand on his forehead, and Sadler said to his colleague: “The colonel does have a fever. We’d better call an Army doctor.” His voice was serious. Durant was alarmed. What if he were really ill? Certainly his bones ached and his head was a furnace. He tried to sit up; the whole room swam about him and he fell back.

  “I can’t be sick,” he said grimly. “I don’t dare, with Democracy Day the day after tomorrow. No, it’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “That’s why we must have a doctor,” said Sadler. “At once.” He picked up the telephone and called Philadelphia while Durant lay in his bed stiff with anxiety.

  Sadler called in the other Guards, who looked exactly like Tom Griffis. They were so young and so boyish and there was such an aliveness about them, and there was no somberness in their eyes, no bitterness about their mouths. However, in their backgrounds, there must have been devoted and determined parents of superior mentality, and teachers who had trained them in the proscribed ideals of the Republic. That would account for their air of compact fearlessness. These young men, who had been born in an enslaved country, had seen nothing but war and regimentation about them, yet had the fortitude and assurance that must have been the endowment of the old pioneers who had originally driven back the wilderness to create a once-great civilization. In spite of his weakness, Durant’s spirits rose.

  “May your tribe increase,” he said to them.

  They grinned at him, shifted their belts and saluted.

  “You boys have to sleep, sometime,” Durant remarked. “You’ll be with me all day; you can take turns sleeping. Sadler, you and Tom can lie down in the next room, which Captain Bishop occupies at night. Sleep for about four hours, then the other kids can have their turn.”

  There was a sudden and angry hubbub of protest and outrage in the hall outside, and Durant heard Edwards’ voice: “Damn you, you’re only sergeants, even if you are the Picked Guard! I’m a captain, and your superior, and when I say I and Bishop and Grandon and Keiser are going in to see our colonel, we’re going in!”

  “Yes, sir,” said one of the Guards. “That’s perfectly all right, sir. But you must all leave your weapons with us, down to your pocket knives. And only two of you can go in at a time. Orders, sir; sorry, sir.” He added, equably: “Maybe the captain forgets that the Picked Guard isn’t subject to the Army, not even to a captain, or even a general. We take our orders only from the Chief Magistrate.”

  “Our colonel is an Army man.” This was Grandon speaking. He raised his voice: “Colonel Curtiss! May we come in?”

  “An outrage!” exclaimed Bishop. “What’s the matter? Is our colonel under arrest or something? Something’s wrong, somewhere.”

  “I’m not under arrest,” replied Durant, with annoyance. “I’m just under guard. Too many incidents lately. I order you to obey the Picked Guards, boys.”

  There was more argument outside the door. Apparently the honor of the Military was being questioned, and the officers resented it angrily. Then the door was flung open and Grandon and Edwards marched in, weaponless, their faces dark with rage. Durant had a brief glimpse, before the door was shut firmly behind these two, of Keiser and Bishop, seething furiously, while the Picked Guard stood beside them, in possession of all weapons.

  Grandon and Edwards, pointedly ignoring Sadler and Griffis, came at once to the bed. They were breathing loudly, and their salutes were short. Durant looked up at them. One of these? Grandon’s youthful face was tight and his eyes were narrowed. Edward’s large and sturdy body expressed his sense of humiliation, and the hard hazel eyes glittered unpleasantly in his big and rugged face. Sadler and Griffis stood close by, negligently holding their guns.

  “Perhaps the colonel would be willing to give us an explanation of all this,” said Edwards.

  Durant pondered a little. Then he looked at them keenly. “Beckett committed suicide last night. I understand that he had some mental disturbance when he was very young. We were all out together, in the snow, and he suddenly began to rave. Before we could stop him, he pulled out his gun and shot himself.”

  Did Grandon’s face tighten and become closed and secret, and did Edwards’ face become smooth and shut? Durant asked himself. Or was it all his imagination?

  “What has that to do with the assignment of three more Picked Guards, and their arrogant attitude towards us, your executive officers?” demanded Grandon.

  “Nothing at all,” Durant assured them. “But, you remember all those rumors you boys have been feeding me? I have reason to believe, now, that they were facts, not rumors. And so the Chief Magistrate has assigned these extra Guards to me.”

  “And we, your four officers, aren’t enough to protect our colonel?” suggested Edwards. “Our loyalty is in question?”

  Durant pretended astonished shock. “Now where did you get that idea, you idiots? The Picked Guards are merely supplementing you. The people are in such a dangerous state of unrest that the Chief Magistrate wants to take extra precautions. To be sure that I survive,” added Durant.

  The two officers were silent. He could read nothing from their faces.

  “There’s only routine work today,” Durant continued. “You, Edwards and Bishop can handle that yourselves. I intend to rest. In fact, I’m sick, I think. I must be all right for Democracy Day, tomorrow.”

  “That doesn’t explain why our guns and knives were taken away from us at the door, by our inferiors in rank,” said Edwards, affronted. “Do they expect us to shoot you, or something? Our colonel?”

  Sadler interposed calmly: “If Captain Edwards will permit me. We have our orders that no one shall enter the colonel’s room armed, except the Picked Guards. Perhaps the Chief Magistrate was too upset, when the colonel reported Beckett’s—suicide—to him, to remember to make exceptions in favor of the colonel’s executive staff.”

  Durant waved his hand. “You boys go and collect more rumors for me,” he suggested. “The doctor’s coming, and, frankly, I feel shot to hell.”

  The two officers stalked out with umbrage, not looking again at Sadler and Griffis. Keiser and Bishop were then admitted. Durant examined them furtively. Keiser’s sullen face was even more sullen this morning, but Bishop’s typical Army face—stolid and blank—merely expressed angry bewilderment. Durant wearily permitted Sadler to repeat his explanations. Keiser’s sullenness increased, and he stared at Durant meaningly. Bishop was more bewildered than ever.

  The two officers pounded indignantly out of the room, rejoined their fellows and clattered downstairs for breakfast, making remarks about the Picked Guard that were extremely uncomplimentary and obscene. Durant laughed, in spite of his headache and general misery of mind and body. Then he sobered. He said to Sadler: “One of them? Two of them?”

  Sadler gestured in the direction of the landscape, and Durant caught his breath. Sadler replied: “I think one aspirin will be sufficient, Colonel.”

  “A nice time to be ill,” said Durant fretfully. He got out of bed with difficulty and went into his bathroom where he washed and shaved. Each motion, however small, brought cold sweat to his face. He examined himself in the mirror. He was gray, his eyes smudged with exhaustion. When he returned to his room, Dr. Dodge was entering with a large breakfast tray. The old man exhibited more feebleness this morning, and his hands shook. Griffis went to his aid with youthful kindness, chatting pleasantly. “That’s too heavy for you, Grandpa,” he said, taking the tray. He regarded Dr. Dodge with compassion, then patted the bent shoulder. But Sadler, by the door, did not look at his father.

  Dr. Dodge straightened and turned to the young Guard. The boy smiled at him pityingly. “We’ll take care of the colonel,” he said. “Bet you have enough work without playing waiter.”

  Dr. Dodge stood there, his worn hands hanging at his side. He could not take his filmed eyes from the boy’s face. His mouth quivered. Then, silently and without a change of expression, he began to weep, the slow tears rolling into the furrows about his mouth. He lifted one hand as to wipe them away, then
dropped it again. His head sank on his emaciated chest.

  “Hey!” said the boy, concerned. “What’s the matter, Grandpa?” He took out his own handkerchief and dabbed at Dr. Dodge’s face inexpertly. “Feeling bad this morning? They overwork you here? That’s a damned shame!”

  Durant could not refrain from glancing at Sadler, so stiff and unseeing at the door. Durant became angry. He could understand Sadler’s grief for his friend, and his rage that his father helped to bring about the circumstances under which Beckett had died. But enough was enough. A man, especially an old and broken man, can absorb just so much retribution.

  Dr. Dodge made a piteous effort to compose himself. He tried to smile at the young Guard. Then he turned away and tottered toward the door. Sadler moved aside. But the old man stood and gazed up at him, speechlessly, and he was visibly trembling. “You might unlock the door for him,” said Durant, in a loud voice.

  Sadler started, reached mechanically for the bolt. Then he stopped. Slowly, and as if without volition of his own, he looked at his father. A long moment passed. Then, with an involuntary moan, hardly audible, Sadler caught his father in his arms, and the two men clung together, clutching each other in an attitude of fierce desperation and sorrow, and one of Sadler’s arms pressed Dr. Dodge’s head against his shoulder.

  Tom Griffis stared, fascinated, at this tableau. Durant touched his arm, and soundlessly moved his lips in the words “his father.” The young Guard’s face filled with astonishment, and then pity, and then commiserating anger. He sat down, stared at the floor, shaking his head over and over.

  When Dr. Dodge had gone, Durant and Sadler and Griffis turned to the breakfast tray. But Sadler drank only a cup of coffee; he was preoccupied with his sorrow and personal agonies. Durant found himself unable to eat. Only young Griffis devoured his breakfast, and even he was silent. He kept peeping anxiously at Sadler, and it was evident that he was embarrassed as well as sympathetic.