Oil, p.35
Oil!, page 35
And most appalling of all, a mutiny in the American army! The first mutiny in the whole history of “Old Glory”! Michigan lumbermen and farmer-boys, shipped up there under the Arctic circle, put under the command of British officers, and ordered out to shoot half-starved and ragged Russian workingmen at fifty degrees below zero—these boys laid down their arms! The facts were hushed up in the newspapers—but not in the higher circles of the army and of world diplomacy, nor yet in the office buildings where the gentlemen and lady-patriots planned the future of the world![28]
In the month of October the Allies made their last military effort. They sent in the tsarist General Yudenich to take Petrograd; they gave him all the supplies he could use, and troops of many nations, and he got within a few miles of the city, so that the Soviets had to move their capital to Moscow.[29] But the half-starved and ragged Communists drove back their foes, and Bolshevik propaganda proceeded to cause a revolution in Hungary and another in Bavaria![30]
Also at home there were portents. In spite of all the raids and jailings and deportations, great numbers of people could not be prevented from saying publicly and loudly that we had no business making war upon a friendly people. More and more there was discontent with the program of keeping our soldiers abroad after the war was over. “Radical” newspapers and magazines continued to be circulated, and in the big cities at any rate it was not possible to prevent mass meetings.
It was a little difficult to make any protest effective, because of the peculiar condition into which the government had fallen. The President had set out on a tour, to convince the people that they should be satisfied with the peace settlement. He had come to Angel City, and Dad and Bunny had gone to hear him—in a vast hall where ten thousand people were marshaled, and taught to stand up and sit down again, and cheer at signal, all very reverently, quite like royalty. The great man’s voice was strained, and his face had an unwholesome flush, and his arguments were as broken as his appearance. A few days later came word that his health had collapsed, and he was hurried back to Washington, where he had an apoplectic stroke. Now he lay, a helpless, half-conscious invalid, and the country was governed by a strange triumvirate—a Catholic private secretary, an army doctor, and one of the most fashionably dressed of Washington society ladies.
But somewhere, in the cabinet, perhaps, there was left a trace of intelligence, with which to realize the mounting dangers abroad and at home. At Christmastime, while Bunny was up at Paradise, hunting quail and watching the progress of Ross Consolidated, he went out one morning to meet the Ford car which brought the mail to the tract. He got his morning paper and opened it, and there on the front page was a dispatch from Washington, announcing that the army authorities had decided it was no longer necessary for them to police the Trans-Siberian Railway; we were going to leave the Japanese in charge, and come home. Bunny gave a shout, and rushed into the house, calling for Ruth. “Paul is coming back! Paul is coming back!” And then he had to run quick and catch her by the arm and help her to a chair!
CHAPTER XI
THE REBEL
I
At Southern Pacific University the class lines were tacitly but effectively drawn, and in the ordinary course of events a man of Bunny’s wealth, good looks and good manners, would have associated only with the members of fraternities and sororities. If some Negro boy were to develop eloquence as a debater, or if someone taking a course in millinery or plumbing were to display fleetness as a hurdler, the hurdler might hurdle and the debater might debate, but they would not be invited to tea parties or dances, nor be elected to prominence in the student organizations; such honors were reserved for tall Anglo-Saxons having regular features, and hair plastered straight back from their foreheads, and trousers pressed to a knife edge and never worn two days in succession.
But here was Bunny Ross, persisting in fooling with “dangerous thoughts,” that made his friends angry. Of course, as anyone would have foreseen, there were “barbs” and “goats,” anxious to break in where they were not wanted, and perfectly willing to pretend to think that our country ought not to intervene in Russia, if by so professing they could get to know one of the socially elite. So Bunny found himself on talking terms with various queer fish. For example, there was Peter Nagle, whose father was president of a “rationalist society,” and who seemed to have one dominating desire in life—to blurt out in class that what was the matter with the world was superstition, and that mankind could never progress until they stopped believing in God. In a university all of whose faculty were required to be devout Methodists, you can imagine how popular this made him. Peter looked just as you would expect such a boor to look, with a large square head and a wide mouth full of teeth, and a shock of yellow hair which he allowed to straggle round his ears and drop white specks onto his coat collar—his coat did not match his trousers, and he brought his lunch to the university tied with a strap!
And then there was Gregor Nikolaieff. Gregor was all right, when you got to know him, but the trouble was, it was hard to know him, because his accent was peculiar, and at critical moments in his talk he would forget the English word. He had jet black hair, and black eyes with a somber frown above them—in short, he was the very picture of what the students called a “Bolshevik.” As it happened, Gregor’s father had belonged to one of the revolutionary parties whom the Bolsheviks were now sending to jail; but how could you explain that to a student body which dumped into one common garbage can Socialists and Communists and Syndicalists and Anarchists, Communist-Anarchists and Anarchist-Syndicalists, Social Revolutionaries and Social Democrats, Populists, Progressives, Single-taxers, Nonpartisan Leaguers, Pacifists, Pragmatists, Altruists, Vegetarians, Anti-vivisectionists and opponents of capital punishment.
Also there was Rachel Menzies, who belonged to a people that had been chosen by the Lord, but not by the aforesaid student body. Rachel was rather good-looking, though in a dark, foreign way; she was short—what feminine enemies would have called “dumpy”—and made no pretense at finery, but came to the university in black cotton stockings and a shirtwaist that did not match her skirt. There was a rumor that her father worked in a clothing factory, and her brother was pressing students’ pants for an education.
And here was the discoverer and heir apparent of the Ross Junior oil field, letting himself be seen in public with these people, and even trying to introduce them to his fraternity brothers; excusing himself by saying that they believed in “free speech.” As if it were not obvious that they would, having everything to gain and nothing to lose! Proletarians of all universities unite!
Poor Bunny got it from both sides. “Look here,” said Donald Burns, president of the sophomore class, “don’t you introduce me to any more of your Yid fairies.” And then, “Look here,” said Rachel Menzies, “don’t you introduce me to any more of your male fashion plates.” Bunny protested, he had the idea that all kinds of people ought to know one another; but Rachel informed him that she thought too much of herself. “Probably you’ve never been snubbed in your life, Mr. Ross, but we Jews learn the lesson early in our lives—not to go where we aren’t wanted.”
Said Bunny, “But Miss Menzies, if you believe in ideas, you’ve got to teach people—”
“Thank you,” she said; “I believe in my ideas, but not enough to teach Donald Burns.”
“But how can you tell?” Bunny protested. “You’re teaching me, and I don’t belong to the working class.” He had learned that this girl was a member of the Socialist party, and it was “class consciousness,” as well as Jewish consciousness.
Rachel insisted that Bunny was one person in a million, capable of believing what was contrary to his economic interests. But Bunny had no awareness of anything extraordinary about himself. Instead of being a conspicuous and shining leader, as his high destiny directed, he was always looking for someone he could lean on, someone who was positive, and whom he could trust. He found some of this in Henrietta Ashleigh, who knew exactly what was proper; and he found some more of it in Rachel Menzies, who knew exactly what was true, and said it with energy and frankness that were like flashes of lightning in the twilight of Southern Pacific culture.
The only trouble was, the contradiction between his two authorities; it appeared almost as if what was true was not proper and what was proper was not true! For Henrietta considered Rachel an impossible person, and was cold as a corpse in her presence; while Rachel’s idea of being insulting was to tell Bunny that it was with Henrietta he really belonged, his Creator had made him to take her to church.
II
Amid this perplexity, Bunny found comfort in the backing of Billy George, who was Anglo-Saxon and broad-shouldered, and a senior besides. Billy assured him he was right, and suggested that they take some steps to make their ideas understood to the rest of the student body. Why not organize a little group, the Society for the Study of Russian Problems, or something of that sort? Bunny should ask Mr. Irving to advise them, and perhaps join them—it would be much better if they could have the backing of one of the teachers. So Bunny went to Mr. Irving, who said at once that he could not give any advice on the subject, for the reason that it would jeopardize his position to do so; the students would have to follow their own judgment. The young instructor did add this much, they ought surely not use the name “Russian,” but take some inoffensive title, the “Liberal Club,” or the “Social Problems Society.”
Bunny took that advice to the others, meeting in one of the classrooms after hours. Billy George said it didn’t seem very “spunky” of Mr. Irving; whereupon Rachel Menzies flared up, he had no right to hint at such a thing, they all knew what the teacher’s position was, and he had a perfect right to keep out of trouble. What business had Mr. George to be finding fault, when he himself had done nothing publicly?
The other demanded to know what he could do, and the girl was not backward in suggestions. Why not start a student paper, a little four-page sheet, once a week or even once a month? It would cost very little, and would make a hit, they could be sure; look how many people had wanted to read Mr. Ross’s letter about Siberia! If they printed that letter they would set the campus on fire. Mr. George could have the honor of being editor, and Rachel would contribute her share of the cost. There was obvious irony in that, considering the quantity of iron pipe which Billy’s father was known to be marketing in Angel City. But they discussed it gravely, and Billy didn’t think he could take any responsibility; his old man would pull him out of college, and put him to work on a bookkeeper’s stool.
Then, automatically, the eyes of the group turned to Bunny. What did he think? Bunny found his cheeks growing red. He had wanted to explain his ideas to other people, but had thought of doing it in some dignified way, privately and quietly. A paper would make such a noise! Rachel Menzies apparently didn’t mind a noise, but Henrietta would, she would be horrified by the bare idea. Also there was Dad—the “education business” would be damned forever by such a venture. So Bunny had to say no; and Rachel Menzies said that was all right, there were plenty of excuses, and she didn’t blame anybody for finding the best one, but at least they had no business criticizing Mr. Irving for lack of courage!
III
Soon after that Bunny read in the paper that the transport “Bennington” had arrived in San Francisco with two thousand troops from Siberia. Paul’s unit was listed; so Bunny called up Ruth on the telephone and told her the news, and said, be sure to let him know as soon as she got word. Two days later Ruth called him—Paul had arrived at Paradise. It was a Friday, so Bunny “cut” his afternoon courses, and jumped into his car. Dad had gone over to Lobos River, to see to a “fishing” job, and so missed this first meeting.
It was almost twenty months that Paul had been away, and Bunny was keyed up with eagerness. The first glance gave him a shock, for Paul looked quite terrible—gaunt and yellow, his khaki jacket hanging loose upon him. “You’ve been sick!” cried Bunny.
“Yes,” said Paul; “but I’m getting all right now.”
“Paul, tell me what happened!”
“Well, it was no picnic.” And he seemed to think that would satisfy both his sister and his friend—after a year and a half!
They were over in the cabin on the Rascum tract, where Ruth and Paul had first begun housekeeping. It was suppertime, and the girl had prepared a bounteous repast; but Paul wasn’t much on eating just now, he said—afraid to trust himself with good food. While they sat at the table he told them about Manila, where they had stopped; and about a storm on the Pacific; but not a word about Siberia!
Of course that wouldn’t do. After the meal they got Paul settled in an armchair, and Bunny said, “Look here, Paul, I’ve been trying to understand about this Russian business. I’m quarreling with most everyone I know about it, and I counted on you for the truth. So please do tell us about it—just what happened to you.”
Paul sat with his head lying back. His face had always been somber, a prominent nose and wide mouth with a tendency to droop at the corners; haggard as he was, this tendency was accentuated, he looked like a mask of sorrow. “What happened to me?” he said, in his slow voice; and then he seemed to raise himself to the effort of recalling it. “I’ll tell you what happened, son; I was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped!” The two of them echoed the word together.
“Yes, just that. I thought I went into the army to put down the Kaiser, but I was kidnapped by some Wall Street bankers, and put to work as a strikebreaker, a scab.”
Ruth and Bunny could only sit and gaze at Paul, and wait for him to say what he meant by these strange words.
“You remember our oil strike, Bunny? Those guards the Federation sent up here—husky fellows, with plenty of guns, and good warm clothes, raincoats and waterproof hats and everything. Well, that’s what I’ve been doing for a year and a half—putting down a strike for Wall Street bankers. The guards here at Paradise got ten dollars a day, and if they didn’t like it, they could quit; but I got thirty a month and beans, and if I tried to quit they’d have shot me. That was the cinch the bankers had.”
Again there was a pause. Paul had closed his eyes, and he told a part of his story that way, looking at things he saw inside his mind.
“First thing, the Allies took the city of Vladivostok. The strikers had that city, with a perfectly good government, everything orderly and fine. They didn’t make much resistance—they were too surprised at our behavior. We shot a few longshoremen, who tried to defend one building, and the strikers had a big funeral with a procession; they brought the red coffins to the American consulate with banners that asked us why we had shot their people. It happened to be the Fourth of July, and we were celebrating our revolution; why had we overthrown theirs? Of course we couldn’t answer; none of us knew why we had done it; but little by little we began to find out.”
Paul paused, and waited so long that Bunny thought he wasn’t going on. “Why, Paul?”
“Well, just outside that city, along the railroad track, there were fields—I guess there must have been ten or twenty acres, piled twenty feet high with stuff—guns and shells, railroad locomotives, rails and machinery, motortrucks—every kind of thing you could think of to help win a war. Some of it was in cases, and some without even a tarpaulin over it, just lying there in the rain, and sinking slowly—some of the heavy stuff two feet down in the mud. There was a hundred million dollars of it, that had been put off the steamers, intended to be taken across to Russia; but then the revolution had come, and there it lay. One of our jobs was to guard it. At first, of course, we thought it belonged to the government; but then little by little we got the story. Originally the British government had bought it for the Tsar’s government, and taken bonds for it. Later, when we came into the war, the firm of Morgan and Company took over the bonds from the British government, and these supplies were Morgan’s collateral, and we had overthrown the Vladivostok government to protect it for him.”
Again there was a pause. “Paul,” said Bunny, anxiously, “do you really know that?”
Paul laughed, but without any happiness. “Know it?” he said. “Listen, son. They sent out an expedition, two hundred and eighty men to run the railroad—every kind of expert, traffic men, telegraphers, linemen, engineers. They all wore army uniforms, and the lowest man had the rank of second lieutenant; of course we thought they were part of the army, like the rest of us. But they got fancy pay, and by God, it wasn’t army pay, it was checks on a Wall Street bank! I’ve seen dozens of those checks. It was a private expedition, sent to run the railroad for the bankers.”
“But why, Paul?”
“I’ve told you—to break the strike. The biggest strike in all history—the Russian workers against the landlords and the bankers; and we were to put the workers down, and the landlords and bankers up! Here and there were bunches of refugees, former officers of the Tsar’s army, grand dukes and their mistresses, landowners and their families; they would get together and call themselves a government, and it was our job to rush them supplies, and they would print paper money, and hire some adventurers, and grab a bunch of peasants and ‘conscript’ them, and that would be an army, and we’d move them on the railroad, and they’d overthrow another Soviet government, and slaughter a few more hundreds or thousands of workingmen. That’s been my job for the past year and a half; do you wonder I’m sick?”
