The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2)

by Michael Moorcock

  It came as a welcome relief to be collected that evening in a large limousine and driven by Major Sinclair towards the levee. The steamboat, he told me, had been hired from the ailing Lee Company (who had owned the original RobertE. Lee of the song). ‘Not long ago there were a hundred big boats going up and down this river. Now there can’t be more than ten.’ Showboats and private tourist trips were mostly what maintained the little business there was. He asked if I had mentioned the meeting to anyone. I assured him that I had not. ‘Tonight’s a big night,’ he said. He repeated this several times on our way to the landing stage. ‘Important decisions are going to be made.’ I thought of asking him for help with my financial problem but stopped myself. It would be the most foolish thing I could do at that stage.

  The sun set over the muddy sluggish waters of the Mississippi. Filtered by cloudy moisture it gave a dull shine to the iron struts of the various massive bridges and made the wharves unreal, like a poorly focused cinema film. There were four boats moored at the landing stages, two of them fairly small and one impressively large. The sun stained their white paintwork a shifting, brownish red. A shadowy party of negroes trudging towards Front Street might have been Chickasaw Indians returning from a hunting expedition in the days when Davy Crockett drank at the Bell Tavern. A celebrated frontiersman and representative to Congress, a man of vision and action, like myself; and like myself abandoned by his friends. Crockett died a martyr in one of the earliest battles against the Pope’s minions. A dozen black cars, similar to our own, were already drawn up on the levee. From them issued a number of men wearing heavy overcoats and wide-brimmed hats. It was impossible to see more than a glimpse of their faces. Indeed, they seemed to be taking great pains not to be recognised as they went aboard the large stern-paddler which dominated the other boats moored nearby. Her name was newly painted in gold on her high cream-coloured sides. In the tower of her wheelhouse uniformed sailors could be seen preparing for departure. Other hands stood by to cast off. The Nathan B. Forrest was already making steam. Every so often she would hiss and shudder and her hull would bump against the sturdy wood of the wharf. With our own coat collars turned up to protect us from the cold we made our way through bales and casks to the gangway where we joined the line of men. Unlike the seagoing vessels I had grown used to, the steamboat had three decks topped by the wheelhouse, the first deck being virtually on the waterline, since in common with all such craft she had a flat bottom making her able to negotiate the river shallows. She smelled of paint. When I put my hand on a wooden pillar to steady myself it felt sticky. She had been redecorated not more than a day or two earlier, primarily in red, white and blue. Major Sinclair led me by a series of metal staircases up to the top deck occupied by a number of small private cabins. ‘We’ll share this one.’ He opened a louvred door and turned up an oil lamp which hung by a chain from the ceiling. ‘Make yourself at home.’ He spoke with all his usual courtesy, but it was plain his mind was on other matters. He pointed out the cabin’s facilities, the range of soft drinks in a small locker above the single bunk. The cabin was also done up in the national colours, with blue walls, red carpet, white sheets and pillows. On the wall over the bunk were arranged the crossed flags of the Union and the Confederacy. It now seemed obvious that this secret convention, so momentous it had to take place where there was not the slightest chance an outsider might witness it, was to do with State politics. I could not imagine what they wanted from me, unless they wished to offer me an official post, perhaps as Tennessee’s first Scientific Adviser. In that capacity I could oversee the development of revolutionary new aerodromes at Nashville, Memphis, Chattanooga and elsewhere. Tennessee could easily become the model for the rest of the United States. Within a matter of a few years I could see myself returning to Washington, perhaps as first Secretary of Science. I would coordinate massive scientific and engineering schemes from California to the Canadian border, building power stations, aerodromes, factories to produce my planes, cars and locomotives, modern shipyards to facilitate the new kinds of super-ship I dreamed of creating. I am no ligner, like that arrogant shnorrer Einstein who fooled them all so thoroughly they made him a national hero. My flying cities would rise from Kansas to hover, scintillating and roaring, over prairies where Sioux and Pawnee had once wandered. Man would become nomadic again, yet truly civilised. But where he had once used the wigwam and the travois, now he would use electrical energy, moving to wherever the weather was good and raw materials plentiful. By 1940 the United States would be a citadel of enlightenment and scientific wonders. She would stand firm against Oriental Africa, bring salvation to Europe and offer to Russia the promise of her new Byzantium. How could I know enough then? Carthage would creep through all our defences, attacking our most vigilant guardians while they slept. The gift of prophecy was granted me and I was too self-involved to make proper use of it. They put a piece of metal in my womb. It threatens to grow. All the time it threatens. But I can control it. I will not bear their monstrous child. I am not their n’div. I am a true son of the Dniepr and the Don. I am the light against dark. I am Science and Truth and I shall not be judged as you judge ordinary men. Ho lafebbre. I am Prometheus come down from Mount Caucasus. I bring the words of the Greek and the lamp by which ye shall read His words and know all heretics. I nachalnika zhizni nasheya. Christ is risen! Christ the son and the only God has cast down the Father who betrayed Him. He has exiled the Jewish Jehovah. Their God wanders the earth with a begging-bowl and an outstretched claw. Abraham betrayed his son. Jehovah betrayed us all. Let the Greek know we follow Him. Let the Pope and all his legions fall upon their knees crying: ‘Kyrios! We acknowledge thee!’ And Rome shall have a new master and He shall be a lord of strength. He shall look to the future and see that it is good. And His chosen ones shall be men of knowledge, builders of miracles, and wonders; captains of the flying cities.

  I must admit I was in an over-excited condition as Major Sinclair offered to show me the rest of the boat (‘since there’s a little time to kill’). The second deck, with tables and benches, was evidently a restaurant in the summer. Partly enclosed and partly covered by a canvas awning, it was deserted and there was plainly no intention to use it tonight. We descended to the first and largest deck, virtually one vast room, a miracle of ornament, of gilded scrolls and carved muses, of crystal and copper and silver filigree, of marbled columns and mirrors; all with the predominant theme of red, white and blue. Again the twin flags were prominently displayed everywhere in the hall, particularly on the good-sized stage at the far end. The Nathan B. Forrest had plainly once been a queen amongst the great showboats which in their heyday had plied the Mississippi for its entire negotiable length. Major Sinclair stood with arms folded, his back against a pillar, smiling a little as I marvelled at the opulence. ‘I used to come aboard as a boy,’ he said, ‘and watch the minstrels.’ His voice had a melancholy note. ‘But now the railroads and the movie theatres between ’em have almost made this kind of transport, not to mention entertainment, a thing of the past. And men like ourselves are to blame, eh, Max? We’ll be putting a lot of the modern world into the past soon, I should think.’

  I was sympathetic. ‘It’s ironic how we hurt ourselves with our own power of invention.’

  My friend looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get out of here.’ Taking a short cut between the rows of widely spaced seats, he led me from a side door out into the open air, then up to third deck. It was dark now. I heard a muffled shout from the wheelhouse and saw sailors busying themselves with ropes and chains below. The steam whistle sounded a long, low moan. There came a rattle and a massive shudder, then the great stern paddle smashed into the water. Electric light glittered on white foam. The boat’s machinery was engaged. Her boilers boomed and growled, her pistons squealed. Suddenly we were free of the wharf. We moved with slow majesty out into a dark infinity that was the Mississippi River. The lights of Memphis fell away from us as we sailed steadily into midstream. From other parts of the boat
I heard the tramp of feet. At this Major Sinclair hurried me inside our cabin. The whole vessel was filled with that regular beat, positive and military. It kept time with the sublime rhythm of oiled brass, rotating steel and trembling iron. My friend picked up a small bag, asking me to bear with him for a short while. He would be back to collect me as soon as he could. I poured myself a Coca-Cola and sat on the bunk, considering the prospect of meeting the Governor and his staff. Deciding to steady my nerve with cocaine, I was just able to return the packet to my pocket as the steam whistle sounded for the second time. The marching sound died away entirely. The boat was silent again, save for the vibration of the engines, the steady splashing and groaning of the paddle. I was tempted to go out on deck, but respected Major Sinclair’s wishes. A few moments later the pale-faced aviator opened our door, apparently more relaxed than before. He had something tucked under one arm and his body was covered from throat to feet by a long, blue silky robe. Upon the breast of the robe, over his heart, was embroidered a yellow Maltese cross in a blue circle. It was identical, save for the colours, to the one on his airship.

  ‘Are you ready, colonel?’ His voice was low, as serious as it had been when he first asked me those mysterious questions and issued his equally mysterious invitation. My immediate response was of relief. I was not to undergo the ordeal of meeting the Governor after all. I was to be inducted into a Society of Free Masons, in itself a useful honour. The long gown rippled in the breeze from the river and looked incongruous on the tall flyer as he stood aside to let me out onto the deck. Against the darkness he might have been a householder roused from his bed and caught accidentally wearing his wife’s housecoat. At his request I followed him back down the steps to the lowest deck. The water was black and the banks invisible. We could be drifting in space as easily as on the river, save for the spray from the paddle. He opened a small metal door in the stern and we passed through into dim electric light. We were evidently in a dressing-room area, where the coons had once blacked-up before going out to entertain their audience. The place had a musty smell to it and I thought I could still detect stale greasepaint.

  Then Major Sinclair had raised his arms over his head, pulling material down to obscure his face before opening a door. Light almost completely blinded me as he lead me out onto the stage.

  I blinked, trying to get my bearings. Gradually I saw that the stage was illuminated by a gigantic cross consisting of hundreds of tiny bulbs. In front of me curtains had been drawn back. In the gloom of the auditorium, lit only by the great crucifix behind me, was a mass of variously coloured hoods and robes, each robe bearing the bold insignia of encircled cross, each right hand raising a clenched, gauntleted fist in salute. There were other robed and masked figures around me on the stage. It was one of the most inspiring moments of my entire life. I gasped. Like some ancient, saintly hero in the presence of the Grail I had to resist an inclination to fall immediately to my knees. I knew now I was in the presence of those legendary Knights of the Fiery Cross, the Freedom Riders who had saved their land from total chaos, who until now I had seen only in news photographs or, of course, on the screen in Birth of a Nation. My legs began to tremble. Sweat formed on my skin. From these satin hoods stared several hundred pairs of eyes, as if in judgement on me. Ich war dort! I was under the steady gaze of the warrior-priests of America, the highest officiaries of the famous Ku Klux Klan!

  The sense of power emanating from the men in that room was tremendous. It was psychic energy so enormous I momentarily imagined that floating hall, unable to contain it, must burst like an exploding sun and bring sudden daylight to the shores of Mississippi and Arkansas. In the eerie brilliance of the fiery cross, amidst the rustle of robes—white, green, grey, crimson, black and blue—and the growing murmur of deep, manly voices, Major Sinclair led me to a seat at the side of the stage. An impressive banner hung behind the cross, a flying dragon with the legend Quod Semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus, red and black, framed by an isosceles triangle. My senses were profoundly affected by all this and especially by the vibrant presence of the mysterious figure which now stepped forward, his shining purple outlined against the cross, a ripple of light and shadow. It dawned on me how tremendous a privilege had been granted me as it was sonorously announced that we were graced by the presence of the Imperial Wizard himself. Then the opening ritual began.

  They bowed visored heads in prayer, led by the firm, musical tones of their Grand Kladd: a simple yet heartfelt plea to God to help them maintain and uphold at all times the most holy ideals of their Klan. The prayer completed, the Imperial Wizard raised flowing sleeves to bring complete and reverential silence upon the gathering.

  ‘All Genii, Grand Dragons and Hydras, Great Titans and Furies, Giants, Exalted Cyclops and Terrors, and all other citizens of the Invisible Empire, in the name of the Valiant and Venerated dead, I affectionately greet you and welcome you to this most Special and Secret Klonverse. Ye have been summoned from every Realm of our Empire on a matter of great and terrible import, to discuss the very future of these United States of America, to which ye have all sworn undying loyalty unto death.’

  I remember only hazily the rituals which followed. There were chants and counter-chants, declarations and revelations, most of which were conducted in the secret language of the Klan. It was impossible to follow the cries of ‘Ayak!’ and ‘Akia!’ or ‘Kigy!’ and ‘San Bog!’, but the chant of The Klansman’s Creed will never leave my memory, for I was to hear it more than once in the time which followed.

  I believe in God and the tenets of the Christian religion and that a godless nation cannot long prosper. I believe that a church not grounded on the principles of morality and justice is a mockery to God and to man. I believe that a church that does not have the welfare of the common people at heart is unworthy. I believe in the eternal separation of Church and State.

  I hold no allegiance to any foreign government, emperor, king, pope or any other foreign, political or religious power. I hold my allegiance to the Stars and Stripes next to my allegiance to God alone. I believe in just laws and liberty. I believe in the prevention of unwarranted strikes by foreign labour agitators. I believe in the limitation of foreign immigration.

  I am a native-born American citizen and I believe in my rights in this country as being superior to those of foreigners.

  The sound of those heartfelt voices moved me almost to tears. It was as if I was in the Alexander cathedral in Kiev again, listening to the chanting of the priests, hearing the names of the Heroes of Kiev pronounced in holy memory, though now they spoke of the Knights Kamelia, the Knights of the Midnight Mystery, the Order of American Chivalry, the Knights of the Great Forest. Pyered bogom klyanus klyatvoy vyernoyu: Klyatvoy tyazhkoyu, klyatvoy strashnoyu: Pyered bogom klyanus klyatvoy strashnoyu na Rusi Gosadaryu, kak pyos sluzhit Spasi, gospodi, lyudi tvoya! O Lord, save thy people! God Save The Tsar! How we wept and kissed that sacred book. And they called out the days, weeks and months according to the Klan: Deadly, Wailing, Hideous and so on. Even the years they dated from the first year of the third reincarnation of the Klan, which was 1915, only a short while after Birth of a Nation itself was first released as The Clansman. Here was religion and morality become militant and glowing with a just anger. O, the Greek has taken up his sword. Christ has risen! Christ has risen! Those noble, valiant men stood and listened in awed silence as the Imperial Wizard began to speak. It was a statement of the Klan’s ethic, a reminder to all present, of the noble ideals and true purpose of the Order. He quoted Colonel Winfield Jones who was not, he said, a Klansman, but an objective outsider who had written The Story of the Ku Klux Klan. The Imperial Wizard stressed the importance of winning and maintaining such friends.

  ‘Colonel Jones, fellow Klansmen, has told us that the Anglo-Saxon is the typeman of history. To him must yield the self-centred Hebrew, the cultured Greek, the virile Roman, the mystic Oriental. The Psalmist must have had him in mind when he struck his soundless harp and sang: “O Lord,
thou has made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou hast made him to have dominion over the works of thy hands, thou hast put all things under his feet.” The Ku Klux Klan desires that its ruling members shall be of this all-conquering Blood. The Ku Klux Klan stands for the noble, the true and the good, for the majesty of the Law, for the advancement of the human race. Our most mystical order, fellow Klansmen, now numbers millions. It has come to speak for the great mass of Americans of the old pioneer stock who are opposed to the intellectually mongrelised “Liberals”. A blend of various peoples of the so-called Nordic race, the race which, with all its faults, has given the world almost the whole of modern civilisation, these Americans have found themselves increasingly uncomfortable and distressed. The sacredness of our Sabbath, of our homes, of chastity, and finally even of our right to teach our own children in our own schools fundamental facts and truths were torn away from us. Those who maintained the old standards did so only in the face of constant ridicule. We suffered economic distress. The assurance for the future of our children dwindled. We found our great cities and the control of much of our industry and commerce taken over by strangers, who stacked the cards of success and prosperity against us. They came to dominate our government.’

  The Imperial Wizard’s speech was one of the most moving, one of the most truthful I have ever heard. He went on to say how native Americans were discriminated against in business, legislation and administrative government. He pointed out how the World War revealed that millions who had been allowed to share the Nordic American heritage actually had other loyalties. At last we realised an alien usually remains an alien no matter what is done to him, what veneer of education he gets. The melting-pot was a ghastly failure. The very name was coined by a Jew; a member of the race most determinedly refusing to melt. The American could outwork the alien, but the alien could underlive the American. Aliens from Eastern and Southern Europe were accustomed to squalor. And alien ideas were as dangerous as the aliens themselves no matter how plausible such ideas sounded.