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

by Michael Moorcock

  I was becoming alarmed by their numbers and by their silence, which seemed to have a sinister quality to it. Those hungry, unhealthy features might have belonged to cannibals. They made me feel sick. Black or white, there seemed little difference to me. They pressed around us in their torn, patched rags, with thin ungainly limbs, rolling, vacant eyes, red mouths, stinking of sweat. I could feel my hysteria building. I longed for some cocaine to steady my nerves but that was still in my luggage. Major Sinclair seemed unperturbed. I said nothing of my fears, yet I became convinced these people would never allow us to leave the ground, that they would jump us at any second, strip us of all we owned, tear the very flesh from our bones, and feast off it. I sensed a tremor in my legs as more and more of those ill-fed bodies touched mine. Sinclair was smiling. He was joking with them. Could he not see what I saw? This was Carthage indeed! The degenerate dregs of humanity greedy for everything I had worked for; the ignorant, hopeless, unconscious enemies of civilisation, as unable to imagine or create a better world as the wretches I had left behind in Kiev, as the Jews I escaped in Alexandrovskaya villages or the subhuman tribespeople of the Anatolian hinterland. Only by a massive effort of will could I make myself move forward. My mouth grew dry, my knees weak; my heart beat at terrifying speed. Sinclair would have thought me utterly irrational; this poverty did not for a moment threaten him. But I knew if we did not reach the ship as soon as possible we could be submerged by this mob. It wanted what we carried in our ship. It hated us for what the ship represented. It was jealous because I had managed to make something of myself. It loathed all that was different. Innovation threatened change, threatened the hideous familiarity of their lives. They would protect this familiarity at all costs. The metal shifted in my stomach. I was dizzy. I could not run. Desidero un antisettico! They stank of disease. The mass swelled, the pressure increased. I could not breathe. They were skeletons with huge, yearning eyes, reaching out their ragged claws for something they could not even name. I refused to join them in the camps, though they said I was a brother. That is how they recruit you. I never became a Mussulman. Seductive Carthage was resisted. I fought against her with wits and courage. I know her tricks. I know her ingratiating whine, her beggar’s pretence at poverty, her pleading attempts to win sympathy, her cajoling murmur. They would do anything to drag me back. They call you the same, but you are not. An accident with a knife and they say you are one of them! A misguided decision of my father and I am denied my fame. My future is stolen, together with my true place in the world. Carthage crowds in like poison gas. Brodmann leered out of the cloud. My stomach churned. I could hardly climb the ladder into the cockpit. I stared down at those awful eyes. The blacks yelled wordless exclamations and began to caper. Some of the children tittered. Others wept. Major Sinclair was speaking to me as he slid his body into the forward compartment but I could not hear him. My breathing was erratic. They could still drag us down into that yellow mud. I put my goggles over my eyes so they should not see my tears. Major Sinclair waved. He was confident and relaxed. The wretches had our ropes and were towing us across the field. The whole crowd had begun to run. They cried out: strange, bestial ululations. Major Sinclair was shouting at me. ‘Winch in the mooring line, man!’ I needed water. I could not reply. Still shaking, I obeyed. I could see those voracious mouths twisting to display rotting teeth, those greedy hands clutching at my very substance. I owe nothing to Carthage. I am a true Slav. I was not of their blood. I had no debt of pity or charity or brotherhood. Poverty stank on their breath. They were my enemies. It reeked in their rags, in the food they ate, in their huts and their fields. I screamed down at them to release me, to let go of the rope. They were running like a single wave escaped from a dam; a flood of human flotsam. Scarecrow boys still swung on the mooring line, refusing to relinquish it. Their shrieking voices filled my head.

  I had not sought any of this. I had been ill-prepared for it. They are the wretched servants of despair, the enemies of optimism, the willing slaves of Bolshevism. Carthage rose again, not merely in Arkansas, or Missouri, or Louisiana, but in every part of the United States, like the warning signs of cancer. In Europe, too. In the East it already conquered the entire organism. Everywhere was ignorance, hunger, fatalism, corrupted blood, blind hunger. It had been dormant in the shtetls until the great drums began to beat and the brazen trumpets rang, when Carthage shook herself from sleep and reached with a red grin for her spear and shield. She licked her thick lips and looked with confident envy upon the fruits of our labours: our harvest of civilisation. Her hot black eyes glared and there was a deep growl in her throat as she stretched and tested her limbs, her heart filling with anger against those who had sought to destroy her, who had, through their superior morality and courage, meanwhile enriched themselves. And her swarthy hands curled in anticipation. Her hungry, stinking breath is heard in the alleys of the city, the shadows and shacks and shelters, the tents and camps of the countryside, until the sound threatens to drown all others. It drowns the hymns and prayers of true Christians. Our beautiful songs and our poetry, our pure-voiced little girls, our sacrament is extinguished by the roar. Carthage stands laughing on the ruins of our just dreams; our blood runs down her chin; our monuments are ashes beneath her sandalled feet. The beast has conquered! The mindless mob rules on Earth. Chaos becomes the sole condition of Man. This I predicted. And we who were given signs (like the sign God sent when He brought the airship to rest) took heed. It became our duty to warn anyone who will listen. The fight is not completely over, though we have lost so many battles. They never made me a Mussulman. I do not stumble. I keep my back straight. I will not be seduced by the comforts of the trance. I will survive even the most terrible mistakes. Gehorsam nicht folgn. Ich bin baamter! Bafeln! A mol, ich bin andersh. Can’t they see? I do not know their language. Podol is nothing. One must work where one can.

  They were laughing their mockery as they finally let go of the rope and our ship flew free. They had been playing with us, showing off their power. Arms, white and black, waved like sickly reeds. I fought to recover my self-control. Major Sinclair had still not realised how close I had been to losing consciousness. We were still climbing into a silvery sky. I was so glad to leave Carthage behind. Little Rock lay clear ahead. I could imagine no experience before us as terrifying as that which we had already escaped.

  They put me in Springfield when the roses were in bloom. Oh, Esmé, my sister, you never came to see me. They removed me from your memory. I know now how they work. They told you I did not exist. They desired you for themselves. Carthage descended upon us and carried you away. They destroyed my mother. Mother, did they turn you into ash? Did your bones smoke in their hideous pits where starving soldiers floundered through smouldering human flesh, while machine-guns chattered night and day and the voices of the damned echoed in the gorge where I and Esmé used to play? Were you with her, Esmé, or were you already dead, churned to fertiliser by the Steel Tsar’s implacable machines? Or had you sought the consolation of the Mussulman in a Carthaginian prison camp? I did not see you in Springfield, but Springfield is a dozen different places. The maps change and the locations move. My flying cities will know where to go. They tell me at the police station there is nothing they can do about the blacks. They sympathise, but their hands are tied. We are all afraid to speak our minds. The great movements have been suppressed; our heroes are dying in chains or already murdered. Only grey people are allowed to survive. They are the shadows left by Carthage to deceive us into believing our world still exists. But I am not deceived. I have not been dragged down. They shall not confine me in their camps, nor to their ghettoes, their nigger towns and stateless barbed wire pens. I shall not wear their pe’os. I am not the same as them. I deserve better. What right have they to call me mishling? Halbjuden? I was betrayed before I was born. Das Blutt gerinnt. Das Blutt gerinnt.

  As Major Sinclair had promised, we were in Little Rock by noon. Our printed handbills fell into the neat furrows of her street
s like seeds at springtime. A small crowd cheered us when we moored in a small park on the outskirts, took aboard the money we had come for, refuelled our tank and were quickly on our way again to Tuscaloosa. The illness which had seized me in Carthage seemed to disappear not long after we left Little Rock. As we sailed above the unremarkable rooftops of Tuscaloosa I was completely free of it. I began to think I had suffered food poisoning, for pork has never much agreed with me. With the wind behind us and clear skies ahead we set course for Atlanta, Emperor City of the South, core of a world once thought crushed and defeated but now growing into a golden, avenging phoenix. Atlanta, burned to the ground by ruthless enemies, raped and robbed and left for dead, rapidly gathered back her strength. Her great silver towers were rising from the wasteland. White, curving roads would sweep through her skies. I saw her in the distance and she was impressive. At her heart was a massive crown of gold. Major Sinclair was in excellent form now that the weather was clearer. Below the countryside steadily became more varied and pleasant. The city, seen above a line of dark green pines, had a clean, modern appearance which I had not expected. Before we reached the golden dome we turned north of Stone Mountain, heading for the extensive grounds of Klankrest mansion, seat of the Imperial Wizard, hub of the Invisible Empire.

  We sailed in towards evening, flying over the brow of a hill towards a wide lawn surrounding an ornamental lake in which a fountain gushed. Orderly paths ran through the lawns. Above them was a great house so beautiful it would have been the envy of the Tsar himself. It was the epitome of fine Southern taste, with marble columns and lintels, a neo-Grae-cian mansion, solid and serene in the warmth of the late February sun. One could imagine some Georgian cavalier strolling in these grounds in the golden days before the Civil War. As Major Sinclair brought The Knight Hawk to a gentle halt over the lake, negro servants impeccable in red, white and blue uniforms of the Colonial style came running from the house to catch hold of our lines, securing us to a pair of special posts erected near the house, evidently for this very purpose. Next we were gradually winched to the ground and the ship was firmly anchored, enabling us to step easily from our cockpits to the grass. Major Sinclair, with his usual pleasant good manners, thanked the negroes and instructed them to take our luggage into the house. Looking up at the blue-veined marble and polished stone, the tall windows of Klankrest, I decided the Imperial Wizard’s chief residence already rivalled the White House which I had seen in Washington and found disappointing.

  We began to walk round the extensive marble veranda towards the front of the building. Just before we turned Mr Clarke himself appeared. For me, it was more thrilling seeing this unassuming, intelligent looking man, than if I had actually come face to face with Mr Harding himself. In his lightweight grey suit he approached us with easy grace. He and his family might always have inhabited the mansion. Retaining the mild, academic manner I had noted before, he confirmed my opinion: he was a natural gentleman, bearing himself with quiet dignity as he warmly shook hands with us, enquiring how the journey had been, saying how pleased he was I had decided to join the service of the Klan.

  With some amusement. Major Sinclair told of our enforced stay in Carthage. ‘I’m not sure Colonel Peterson was too happy about the accommodations.’ He chuckled. ‘All niggers and poor white trash. Wasn’t that so, colonel?’

  ‘It’s a side of the South nobody’s greatly proud of, sir,’ said Mr Clarke soberly. ‘Not so bad, I suppose, as New York slums, but a living reminder of carpetbagging days. It will change in time, especially when the alien exploiters are finally driven out.’ He began to lead us towards the front entrance. ‘In those days, sir, as you may know, the Klan dealt harshly with thugs who took advantage of Reconstruction. More harshly than they do today.’

  Birth of a Nation had shown me this graphically. I nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

  ‘It was an economic war, whatever Yankees pretended to the contrary. They were no more interested in the lot of the slaves than Simon Legree. The welfare of the negro was treated as a duty and an enduring responsibility in the South. When we were ruined, those poor wretches were amongst the first to suffer. If we had been left in peace to found our Confederacy, this part of the world would be a paradise now, a model to the rest of America, to the whole world.’ We paused outside the glass and rococo-iron doors. Major Sinclair seemed singularly happy as he surveyed the tall hedges, the neatly raked gravel drive. ‘We’re too big and varied a country to be administered as a single nation. Each State knows where her best interests lie. It’s the Federal Government which always causes the trouble.’

  We entered a spacious hall, also predominantly of marble, hung with old canvases, its alcoves containing alabaster urns trimmed in gold. ‘You’ll reduce the influence of government locally as well as nationally, I understand?’ I wished to impress him with my sophisticated grasp of U.S. politics. I rested my hand lightly on the polished wood of a full-size grand piano and raised my eyes to the sweeping staircase with its huge Klan banner, the Grand Klensign.

  ‘The rights of the individual are of paramount concern to the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.’ Mr Clarke was about to expand on this when a tall, handsome raven-haired woman appeared on the stairs and began slowly to descend. ‘My dear! Colonel Peterson, this is my colleague, Mrs Mawgan. She has done as much as I to make this organisation the force it is today.’ Mrs Mawgan wore a formal black frock. Her jewellery was jet and silver. With her broad forehead and heavy jaw she had a manner more immediately striking than Mr Clarke’s own. I guessed at once she must be his mistress, even, to some degree, the power behind the throne. They were a splendidly well-matched couple. As she reached the bottom of the steps she extended her gloved hand, smiling pleasantly. ‘You’re the foreign gentleman who’ll help us drive our aliens back to where they came from.’

  ‘Now, Bessy, that’s not exactly right,’ began Mr Clarke chidingly, but I laughed heartily. She was a woman of considerable irony and I appreciated her wit.

  ‘Mrs Mawgan,’ I said with a bow, kissing her hand, ‘if I can stop America making the mistakes of Europe before I, myself, am driven out, I shall be more than satisfied.’

  ‘Oh, Colonel Peterson, you’re far too well-bred to overstay your welcome I’m sure. I appreciate your ideals. And it’s a good salary, too, I gather.’ With this she treated me to a ladylike wink to put me at my ease. In some ways she reminded me of my Baroness. ‘You two boys must be tired out. What d’you want first? A drink? Or would you rather clean up?’

  We chose the latter.

  ‘Wilson will show you to your rooms. We’ll meet down here before dinner.’ Mrs Mawgan acknowledged my subtle bow with a smile of equal delicacy and we parted.

  Wilson, the butler, took us up to the second floor, along a carpeted marble tunnel, to our suites. Mine was more luxurious than any hotel’s. I had never been in anything of this size or richness. The sensation of genuine opulence which swept through me reminded me exactly of the feeling I received at my Uncle Semya’s house in Odessa when I realised I was actually to have a whole room to myself, that many people thought it quite natural not to sleep in the same room as the one in which they ate! It was all I could do to stop from running from place to place opening cupboards and inspecting the elaborate toilet fittings. The whole was tastefully designed in the same patriotic colours, with the addition of gold and silver where appropriate. The wallpaper at first seemed fairly plain until inspected closely. Its chief motif was of lozenge shapes containing the initials KKK. The main feature of the suite, however, was my huge four-poster bed in the Napoleonic style, its headboards painted with scenes recalling the great triumphs of America’s struggle for freedom and honour. Inset over the tallest point of the headboard was a stylised Klan hood on which, in beautiful Gothic script, had been imposed the motto Suppressio veri suggestio falsi. This reference to the methods of our enemies could not be too frequently reiterated. The french windows of my sitting-room opened onto a balcony directly overlooking the lawns and
the lake. How I wish those fools who even now insist to me that the Klan was a gang of ill-bred ruffians could have visited Klankrest in the days of its glory. They, who would not even know which fork to use for fish, would have been speechless with amazement. It was the epitome of civilised and gracious living. Nobody there questioned my yichuss.

  EIGHTEEN

  IF I AM A MARTYR brought low by my beliefs, then I am in excellent company and should not complain. Certain contemporaries have suffered far worse than I. They were reviled, imprisoned, tortured, hanged or burned alive. No single individual betrayed me in my fight. I am history’s victim, but I have had many exquisite moments, seen the world in all her beauty, made love to delightful women, enjoyed lasting friendships and the warmth of public acclaim. I am not one to whine over misfortunes, or blame others for my failures. I stand by my actions. What if I no longer receive the general respect which perhaps is my due? I have at least been true to myself. The Sultans sail from the City of Dogs. They come out of Carthage on a black and bloody tide. Their ships ride at anchor in harbours blocked with corpses. Scarecrow boys hang in the yards, grinning at the ruined cities of the West. Only the Slav remains ready to resist them and the Slav is still in chains. The Steel Tsar died, forgetting to tell where he hid the key. Those girls are so lovely with their pale hair and blue eyes, picking at my clothes, looking for silk stockings and satin drawers like the ones Esmé might have worn. I cannot help myself. I give it away.