menu_book Chapter 17

100% The Story of a Patriot by Upton Sinclair. Sections 61 to 63. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 61. Peter awoke next morning with a vivid sense of the pain and terror of life.

He had been clamouring to have those Reds punished, but somehow or other he had thought of this punishment in an abstract way, a thing you could attend to by a wave of the hand. He hadn't quite realised the physical side of it, what a messy and bloody job it would prove. Two hours and more he had listened to the thud of a whip on human flesh, and each separate

stroke had been a blow upon his own nerves. Peter had an overdose of vengeance, and now, the morning after, his conscience was gnawing at him. He had known every one of those boys, and their faces rose up to haunt him. What had any of them done to deserve such treatment?

Could he say that he had ever known a single one of them to do anything as violent as the thing they had all suffered? But more than anything else, Peter was troubled by fear. Peter, the ant, perceived the conflict of the Giants becoming more ferocious, and realised the precariousness of his position under the Giants' feet.

The passions of both sides were mounting, and the fiercer their hate became, the greater the chance of Peter's being discovered, the more dreadful his fate, if he were discovered. It was all very well for McGivney to assure him that only four of Guffey's men knew the truth, and that all these might be trusted to the death. Peter remembered a remark he had heard Sean Grady make, and which had caused him to lose

his appetite for more than one meal. They've got spies among us, the young Irishman had said. Well, sooner or later we'll do a bit of spying of our own. And now these words came back to Peter like a voice from the grave. Suppose one of these reds who had money were to hire somebody to get a job in Guffey's

office. Suppose some red girl were to try Peter's device and seduce one of Guffey's men. By no means a difficult task. The man might not even mean to reveal that Peter Gudge was a secret agent. He might just let it slip, as little Jenny had let slip the truth about Jack Ibbots.

Thus Mac would know who had framed him up, and what would Mac do to Peter when he got out on bail? When Peter thought of things like that, he realized what it meant to go to war. He saw that he had gained nothing by staying at home. He might as well have been in the front-line trenches.

After all, this was war. Class war. And in all war, the penalty for spying is death. Also Peter was worried about Nell. She had been in her new position for nearly a week, and he hadn't heard a word from her.

She had forbidden him to write, for fear he might write something injudicious. Let him just wait. Edith Eustace would know how to take care of herself. And that was all right. Peter had no doubt about the ability of Edith Eustace to take care of herself.

What troubled him was the knowledge that she was working on another frame-up, and he stood in fear of the exuberance of her imagination. The last time that imagination had been pregnant, it had presented him with a suitcase full of dynamite. What it might bring forth next time, he did not know, and was afraid to think.

Nell might cause him to be found out by Guffy, and that would be nearly as horrible as to be found out by Mac. Peter got his morning times and found a whole page about the whipping of the Reds portraying the job as a patriotic duty heroically performed. And that naturally cheered Peter up considerably.

He turned to the editorial page and read a two-column leader that was one whoop of exultation. It served still more to cure Peter's ache of conscience. And when he read on and found a series of interviews with leading citizens giving cordial endorsement to the acts of the vigilantes, Peter became ashamed of his weakness and glad that he had not revealed it to anyone.

Peter was trying his best to become a real he-man, a 100% red-blooded American, and he had the times twice each day, morning and evening, to guide, sustain, and inspire him. Peter had been told by McGivney to fix himself up and pose as one of the martyrs of the night's affair, and this appealed to his sense of humour. He cut off the hair from a part of his head and stuck some raw cotton on top and plastered

it over with surgical tape. He stuck another big wad of surgical tape across his forehead and a crisscross of it on his cheek and tied up his wrist in an excellent imitation of a sprain. Thus rigged out, he repaired to the American house, and McGivney rewarded him with a hearty laugh and then proceeded to give some instructions which entirely restored Peter's usual freshness

of soul. Peter was going up on Mount Olympus again. The Rat-Faced Man explained in detail, There was a lady of great wealth, indeed, she was said to be several times a millionaire, who was an openly avowed red, a pacifist of the most malignant variety.

Since the arrest of young Lackman, she had come forward and put up funds to finance the People's Council and the Anti-Conscription League, and all the other activities which for the sake of convenience were described by the term pro-German. The only trouble was this lady was so extremely wealthy it was hard to do anything to her. Her husband was a director in a couple of Nelson Ackerman's banks and had other powerful

connections. The husband was a violent anti-socialist and a buyer of liberty bonds. He quarrelled with his wife, but nevertheless he did not want to see her in jail and this This made an embarrassing situation for the police and the district attorney's office and even for the federal authorities who naturally did not want to trouble one of the courtiers

of the King of American City. But something's got to be done, said McGivney. This camouflage German propaganda can't go on. So Peter was to try to draw Mrs. God into some kind of overt action. Mrs. God, said Peter.

It seemed to him a singular coincidence that one of the dwellers on Mount Olympus should bear that name. The great lady lived on a hilltop out in the suburbs, not so far from the hilltop of Nelson Ackerman. One of the adventures looked forward to by Reds and pacifists in distress was to make

a pilgrimage to this palace and obtain some long green plasters to put over their wounds. Now was the time of all times for Peter to go, said McGivney. Peter had many wounds to be plastered and Mrs. God would be indignant at the proceedings of last night and would no doubt express herself without restraint. Section 62

Peter hadn't been so excited since the time when he had waited to meet young Lackman. He had never quite forgiven himself for this costly failure and now he was to have another chance. He took a trolley ride out into the country and walked a couple of miles to the palace on the hilltop and mounted through a grove of trees and magnificent Italian gardens.

According to McGivney's injunctions, he summoned his courage and went to the front door of the stately mansion and rang the bell. Peter was hot and dusty from his long walk, the sweat had made streaks down his face and marred the pristine whiteness of his plasters. He was never a distinguished looking person at best and now, holding his damaged straw

hat in his hands, he looked not so far from a hobo. However, the French maid who came to the door was evidently accustomed to strange-looking visitors. She didn't order Peter to the servant's entrance nor threaten him with the dogs. She merely said,

Visited, please, I will tell Madame, putting the accent on the second syllable, where Peter had never heard it before. And presently here came Mrs. God in her cloud of Olympian beneficence, a large and ample lady especially built for the role of divinity. Peter felt suddenly awestricken.

How had he dared come here? Neither in the Hotel de Soto with its many definities nor in the palace of Nelson Ackerman, the King, had he felt such a sense of his own lowliness as the sight of this calm, slow-moving great lady inspired. She was the embodiment of opulence.

She was the real thing. Despite the look of kindliness in her wide-open blue eyes, she impressed him with a feeling of her overwhelming superiority. He did not know it was his duty as a gentleman to rise from his chair when a lady entered, but some instinct brought him to his feet and caused him to stand blinking as she crossed

to him from the opposite end of the big room. How do you do? she said in a low, full voice, gazing at him steadily out of the kind, wide-open blue eyes. Peter stammered. How do you do?

Mrs. God. In truth Peter was almost dumb with bewilderment. Could it really, possibly be that this grand personage was a red? One of the things that had most offended him about all radicals was their noisiness, their But here was a grand serenity of looks and manner, a soft, slow voice.

Here was beauty, too, a skin unlined despite middle years and glowing with health and a fine cleanness. Nel Doolan had a glowing complexion, but there was always a lot of powder stuck on, and when you investigated closely, as Peter had done, you discovered muddy spots in the edges of her hair and on her throat.

But Mrs. God's skin shone just as the skin of a goddess would be expected to shine, and everything about her was of a divine and compelling opulence. Peter could not have explained just what it was that gave this last impression so overwhelmingly. It was not that she wore many jewels or large ones, for Mrs. James had beaten her at that. It was not her delicate perfume, for Nel Doolan scattered more sweetness on the air.

Yet somehow even poor, ignorant Peter felt the difference. It seemed to him that none of Mrs. God's costly garments had ever been worn before, that the costly rugs on the floor had never been stepped on before, the very chair on which he sat had never been sat on before. Little Ada Ruth had called Mrs. God the mother of all the world, and now, suddenly, she became

the mother of Peter Gudge. She had read the papers that morning, she had received a half-dozen telephone calls from horrified and indignant Reds, and so a few words suffice to explain to her the meaning of Peter's bandages and plasters. She held out to him a beautiful cool hand, and quite without warning, tears sprang into

the great blue eyes. Oh, you are one of those poor boys! Thank God they did not kill you! When she led him to a soft couch and made him lie down amid silken pillows, Peter's dream of Mount Olympus had come literally true.

It occurred to him that if Mrs. God were willing to play permanently the role of mother to Peter Gudge, he would be willing to give up his role of anti-Red agent with its perils and its nervous strains. He would forget duty, forget the world's strife and care, he would join the Lotus Eaters, the sippers of nectar on Mount Olympus.

She sat and talked to him in the soft, gentle voice, and the kind blue eyes watched him, and Peter thought that never in all his life had he encountered such heavenly emotions. To be sure, when he had gone to see Miriam Yankovitch, old Mrs. Yankovitch had been just as kind, and tears of sympathy had come into her eyes just the same. For then Mrs. Yankovitch was nothing but a fat old Jewess, who lived in a tenement

and smelt of laundry soap and partly completed washing. Her hands had been hot and slimy, and so Peter had not been in the least grateful for her kindness. But to encounter tender emotions in these celestial regions, to be talked to maternally and confidentially by this wonderful Mrs. God in soft white chiffons just out of a band

box, this was quite another matter. Section 63 Peter did not want to set traps for this mother of Mount Olympus, he didn't want to worm any secrets from her. As it happened, he found that he did not have to, because she told him everything right away, and without the slightest hesitation.

She talked just as the Wobblies had talked in their headquarters, and Peter, when he thought it over, realized that there are two kinds of people who can afford to be frank in their utterance. Those who have nothing to lose, and those who have so much to lose that they cannot possibly lose it.

Mrs. God said that what had been done to those men last night was a crime, and it ought to be punished if ever a crime was punished, and that she would like to engage detectives and get evidence against the guilty ones. She said furthermore that she sympathized with the reds of the very reddest shade, and if there were any color redder than red, she would be of that color.

She said all this in her quiet, soft voice. Tears came to her eyes now and then, but they were well behaved tears, they disappeared of their own accord, and without any injury to Mrs. God's complexion, or any apparent effect upon her self-possession. Mrs. God said that she didn't see how anybody could fail to be a red who thought about the

injustices of present-day society. Only a few days before she had been in to see the district attorney and had tried to make a red out of him. Then she told Peter how there had come to see her a man who pretended to be a radical, but she realized that he didn't know anything about radicalism and had told him she was

sure he was a government agent. The man finally admitted it and showed her his gold star, and then Mrs. God had set to work to convert him. She had argued with him for an hour or two and then had invited him to go to the opera with her.

And you know, said Mrs. God in an injured tone, he wouldn't go. They don't want to be converted those men. They don't want to listen to reason. I believe the man was actually afraid I might influence him. I shouldn't wonder, put in Peter sympathetically, for he was a tiny bit afraid himself.

I said to him, here I live in this palace and back in the industrial quarter of the city are several thousand men and women who slave at machines for me all day and now since the war all night too. I get the profits of these people's toil and what have I done to earn it? Absolutely nothing.

I never did a stroke of useful work in my life. And he said to me, suppose the dividends were to stop. What would you do? I don't know what I'd do, I answered. I'd be miserable of course, because I hate poverty.

I couldn't stand it. It's terrible to think of. Not to have comfort and cleanliness and security. I don't see how the working class stand it. That's exactly why I'm a red.

I know it's wrong for anyone to be poor and there's no excuse for it. So I shall help to overthrow the capitalist system, even if it means I have to take him washing for my living. Peter sat watching her in the crisp freshness of her snowy chiffons. The words brought a horrible image to his mind.

He suddenly found himself back in the tenement kitchen where fat and steaming Mrs. Yankovitch was laboring elbow deep in soap suds. It was on the tip of Peter's tongue to say, if you really had done a day's washing Mrs. God, you wouldn't talk like that. But he remembered that he must play the game.

So he said, they're terrible fellows them federal agents. It was two of them pounded me over the head last night. And then he looked faint and pitiful and Mrs. God was sympathetic again and moved to more recklessness of utterance. It's because of this hideous war, she declared.

We've gone to war to make the world safe for democracy and meantime we have to sacrifice every bit of democracy at home. They tell you that you must hold your peace while they murder one another. But they may try all they please, they'll never be able to silence me. I know that the Allies are just as much to blame as the Germans.

I know that this is a war of profiteers and bankers. They may take my sons and force them into the army, but they cannot take my convictions and force them into their army. I am a pacifist and I am an internationalist. I want to see the workers arise and turn out of office these capitalist governments and

put an end to this hideous slaughter of human beings. I intend to go on saying that so long as I live. There sat Mrs. God with her lovely firm white hands clasped as if in prayer, one large diamond ring on the left, fourth finger shining defiance, and a look of calm, childlike conviction upon her face, confronting in her imagination all the federal agents and district attorneys

and capitalist judges and statesmen and generals and drill sergeants in the civilised world. She went on to tell how she had attended the trial of three pacifist clergymen a week or two previously, how atrocious that Christians in a Christian country should be sent to prison for trying to repeat the words of Christ. I was so indignant, declared Mrs. God, that I wrote a letter to the judge.

My husband said I would be committing contempt of court by writing to a judge during the trial, but I answered that my contempt for that court was beyond anything I could put into writing. Wait. And Mrs. God rose bravely from her chair and went over to a desk by the wall and got a

copy of the letter. I'll read it to you, she said. And Peter listened to a manifesto of Olympian Bolshevism. To his honour. As I entered the sanctuary, I gazed upward to the stained glass dome upon which were

inscribed four words, peace, justice, truth, law. And I felt hopeful. Before me were men who had violated no constitutional right, who had not the slightest criminal tendency, who were opposed to violence of every kind. The trial proceeded.

I looked again at the beautiful stained glass dome and whispered to myself those majestic sounding words. Peace. Justice. Truth.

Law. I listened to the prosecutors. The law in their hands was a hard, sharp, cruel blade seeking insistently, relentlessly for a weak spot in the armour of its victims. I listened to their truth.

And it was falsehood. Their peace was a cruel and bloody war. Their justice was a net to catch the victims at any cost, at the cost of all things but the glory of the prosecutor's office. I grew sick at heart.

I can only ask myself the old, old question, what can we, the people, do? How can we bring peace, justice, truth and law to the world? Must we go on bended knees and ask our public servants to see that justice is done to the defenceless rather than this eternal prosecuting of the world's noblest souls? You will find these men guilty and sentence them to be shot behind iron bars, which should

never be for human beings, no matter what their crime, unless you want to make beasts of them. Is that your object, sir? It would seem so. And so I say that we must overturn the system that is brutalizing rather than helping and

uplifting mankind. Yours for peace, justice, truth, law. Mary Angelica Gawd. What were you going to do with such a woman? Peter could understand the bewilderment of his honour and of the district attorney's

office and of the Secret Service Department of the Traction Trust, as well as of Mrs. Gawd's husband. Peter was bewildered himself. What was the use of his coming out here to get more information when Mrs. Gawd had already committed contempt of court in writing and had given all the information there was to

give to a federal agent? She had told this man that she had contributed several thousand dollars to the People's Council and that she intended to contribute more. She had put up bail for a whole bunch of Reds and pacifists and she intended to put up bail for McCormick and his friends just as soon as the corrupt capitalist courts had

been forced to admit them to bail. I know Mr. McCormick well and he's a lovely boy, she said. I don't believe he had anything more to do with dynamite bombs than I have. Now all this time Peter had sat there entirely under the spell of Mrs. Gawd's opulence. Peter was dwelling among the lotus eaters and forgetting the world's strife and care.

He was reclining on a silken couch, sipping nectar with the shining ones of Mount Olympus. But now suddenly Peter was brought back to duty as one wakes from a dream to the sound of an alarm clock. Mrs. Gawd was a friend of Mac's. Mrs. Gawd proposed to get Mac out on bail.

Mac, the most dangerous Red of them all. I sure thought that he must get something on this woman at once. End of sections 61 to 63.