The Moon Is Down (6 page)

“They won't come in,” Colonel Lanser said. “It's only military procedure.”

Madame said icily, “Annie, if you have anything to say, let Joseph bring the message.”

“I didn't know but they'd try to get in,” Annie said. “They smelled the coffee.”

“Annie!”

“Yes, Madame,” and she withdrew.

The colonel said, “May I sit down?” And he explained, “We have been a long time without sleep.”

The Mayor seemed to start out of sleep himself. “Yes,” he said, “of course, sit down!”

The colonel looked at Madame and she seated herself and he settled tiredly into a chair. Mayor Orden stood, still half dreaming.

The colonel began, “We want to get along as well as we can. You see, sir, this is more like a business venture than anything else. We need the coal mine here and the fishing. We will try to get along with just as little friction as possible.”

The Mayor said, “I have had no news. What about the rest of the country?”

“All taken,” said the colonel. “It was well planned.”

“Was there no resistance anywhere?”

The colonel looked at him compassionately. “I wish there had not been. Yes, there was some resistance, but it only caused bloodshed. We had planned very carefully.”

Orden stuck to his point. “But there was resistance?”

“Yes, but it was foolish to resist. Just as here, it was destroyed instantly. It was sad and foolish to resist.”

Doctor Winter caught some of the Mayor's anxiousness about the point. “Yes,” he said, “foolish, but they resisted?”

And Colonel Lanser replied, “Only a few and they are gone. The people as a whole are quiet.”

Doctor Winter said, “The people don't know yet what has happened.”

“They are discovering,” said Lanser. “They won't be foolish again.” He cleared his throat and his voice became brisk. “Now, sir, I must get to business. I'm really very tired, but before I can sleep I must make my arrangements.” He sat forward in his chair. “I am more engineer than soldier. This whole thing is more an engineering job than conquest. The coal must come out of the ground and be shipped. We have technicians, but the local people will continue to work the mine. Is that clear? We do not wish to be harsh.”

And Orden said, “Yes, that's clear enough. But suppose the people do not want to work the mine?”

The colonel said, “I hope they will want to, because they must. We must have the coal.”

“But if they don't?”

“They must. They are an orderly people. They don't want trouble.” He waited for the Mayor's reply and none came. “Is that not so, sir?” the colonel asked.

Mayor Orden twisted his chain. “I don't know, sir. They are orderly under their own government. I don't know how they would be under yours. It is untouched ground, you see. We have built our government over four hundred years.”

The colonel said quickly, “We know that, and so we are going to keep your government. You will still be the Mayor, you will give the orders, you will penalize and reward. In that way, they will not give trouble.”

Mayor Orden looked at Doctor Winter. “What are you thinking about?”

“I don't know,” said Doctor Winter. “It would be interesting to see. I'd expect trouble. This might be a bitter people.”

Mayor Orden said, “I don't know, either.” He turned to the colonel. “Sir, I am of this people, and yet I don't know what they will do. Perhaps you know. Or maybe it would be different from anything you know or we know. Some people accept appointed leaders and obey them. But my people have elected me. They made me and they can un-make me. Perhaps they will if they think I have gone over to you. I just don't know.”

The colonel said, “You will be doing them a service if you keep them in order.”

“A service?”

“Yes, a service. It is your duty to protect them from harm. They will be in danger if they are rebellious. We must get the coal, you see. Our leaders do not tell us how; they order us to get it. But you have your people to protect. You must make them do the work and thus keep them safe.”

Mayor Orden asked, “But suppose they don't want to be safe?”

“Then you must think for them.”

Orden said, a little proudly, “My people don't like to have others think for them. Maybe they are different from your people. I am confused, but that I am sure of.”

Now Joseph came in quickly and he stood leaning forward, bursting to speak. Madame said, “What is it, Joseph? Get the silver box of cigarettes.”

“Pardon, Madame,” said Joseph. “Pardon, Your Excellency.”

“What do you want?” the Mayor asked.

“It's Annie,” he said. “She's getting angry, sir.”

“What is the matter?” Madame demanded.

“Annie doesn't like the soldiers on the back porch.”

The colonel asked, “Are they causing trouble?”

“They are looking through the door at Annie,” said Joseph. “She hates that.”

The colonel said, “They are carrying out orders. They are doing no harm.”

“Well, Annie hates to be stared at,” said Joseph.

Madame said, “Joseph, tell Annie to take care.”

“Yes, Madame,” and Joseph went out.

The colonel's eyes dropped with tiredness. “There's another thing, Your Excellency,” he said. “Would it be possible for me and my staff to stay here?”

Mayor Orden thought a moment and he said, “It's a small place. There are larger, more comfortable places.”

Then Joseph came back with the silver box of cigarettes and he opened it and held it in front of the colonel. When the colonel took one, Joseph ostentatiously lighted it. The colonel puffed deeply.

“It isn't that,” he said. “We have found that when a staff lives under the roof of the local authority, there is more tranquillity.”

“You mean,” said Orden, “the people feel there is collaboration involved?”

“Yes, I suppose that is it.”

Mayor Orden looked hopelessly at Doctor Winter, and Winter could offer him nothing but a wry smile. Orden said softly, “Am I permitted to refuse this honor?”

“I'm sorry,” the colonel said. “No. These are the orders of my leader.”

“The people will not like it,” Orden said.

“Always the people! The people are disarmed. The people have no say.”

Mayor Orden shook his head. “You do not know, sir.”

From the doorway came the sound of an angry woman's voice, and a thump and a man's cry. Joseph came scuttling through the door. “She's thrown boiling water,” Joseph said. “She's very angry.”

There were commands through the door and the clump of feet. Colonel Lanser got up heavily. “Have you no control over your servants, sir?” he asked.

Mayor Orden smiled. “Very little,” he said. “She's a good cook when she is happy. Was anyone hurt?” he asked Joseph.

“The water was boiling, sir.”

Colonel Lanser said, “We just want to do our job. It's an engineering job. You will have to discipline your cook.”

“I can't,” said Orden. “She'll quit.”

“This is an emergency. She can't quit.”

“Then she'll throw water,” said Doctor Winter.

The door opened and a soldier stood in the opening. “Shall I arrest this woman, sir?”

“Was anyone hurt?” Lanser asked.

“Yes, sir, scalded, and one man bitten. We are holding her, sir.”

Lanser looked helpless, then he said, “Release her and go outside and off the porch.”

“Yes, sir,” and the door closed behind the soldier.

Lanser said, “I could have her shot; I could lock her up.”

“Then we would have no cook,” said Orden.

“Look,” said the colonel. “We are instructed to get along with your people.”

Madame said, “Excuse me, sir, I will just go and see if the soldiers hurt Annie,” and she went out.

Now Lanser stood up. “I told you I'm very tired, sir. I must have some sleep. Please co-operate with us for the good of all.” When Mayor Orden made no reply, “For the good of all,” Lanser repeated. “Will you?”

Orden said, “This is a little town. I don't know. The people are confused and so am I.”

“But will you try to co-operate?”

Orden shook his head. “I don't know. When the town makes up its mind what it wants to do, I'll probably do that.”

“But you are the authority.”

Orden smiled. “You won't believe this, but it is true: authority is in the town. I don't know how or why, but it is so. This means we cannot act as quickly as you can, but when a direction is set, we all act together. I am confused. I don't know yet.”

Lanser said wearily, “I hope we can get along together. It will be so much easier for everyone. I hope we can trust you. I don't like to think of the means the military will take to keep order.”

Mayor Orden was silent.

“I hope we can trust you,” Lanser repeated.

Orden put his finger in his ear and wiggled his hand. “I don't know,” he said.

Madame came through the door then. “Annie is furious,” she said. “She is next door, talking to Christine. Christine is angry, too.”

“Christine is even a better cook than Annie,” said the Mayor.

2

Upstairs in the little palace of the Mayor the staff of Colonel Lanser made its headquarters. There were five of them besides the colonel. There was Major Hunter, a haunted little man of figures, a little man who, being a dependable unit, considered all other men either as dependable units or as unfit to live. Major Hunter was an engineer, and except in case of war no one would have thought of giving him command of men. For Major Hunter set his men in rows like figures and he added and subtracted and multiplied them. He was an arithmetician rather than a mathematician. None of the humor, the music, or the mysticism of higher mathematics ever entered his head. Men might vary in height or weight or color, just as 6 is different from 8, but there was little other difference. He had been married several times and he did not know why his wives became very nervous before they left him.

Captain Bentick was a family man, a lover of dogs and pink children and Christmas. He was too old to be a captain, but a curious lack of ambition had kept him in that rank. Before the war he had admired the British country gentleman very much, wore English clothes, kept English dogs, smoked in an English pipe a special pipe mixture sent him from London, and subscribed to those country magazines which extol gardening and continually argue about the relative merits of English and Gordon setters. Captain Bentick spent all his holidays in Sussex and liked to be mistaken for an Englishman in Budapest or Paris. The war changed all that outwardly, but he had sucked on a pipe too long, had carried a stick too long, to give them up too suddenly. Once, five years before, he had written a letter to the
Times
about grass dying in the Midlands and had signed it Edmund Twitchell, Esq.; and, furthermore, the
Times
had printed it.

If Captain Bentick was too old to be a captain, Captain Loft was too young. Captain Loft was as much a captain as one can imagine. He lived and breathed his captaincy. He had no unmilitary moments. A driving ambition forced him up through the grades. He rose like cream to the top of milk. He clicked his heels as perfectly as a dancer does. He knew every kind of military courtesy and insisted on using it all. Generals were afraid of him because he knew more about the deportment of a soldier than they did. Captain Loft thought and believed that a soldier is the highest development of animal life. If he considered God at all, he thought of Him as an old and honored general, retired and gray, living among remembered battles and putting wreaths on the graves of his lieutenants several times a year. Captain Loft believed that all women fall in love with a uniform and he did not see how it could be otherwise. In the normal course of events he would be a brigadier-general at forty-five and have his picture in the illustrated papers, flanked by tall, pale, masculine women wearing lacy picture hats.

Lieutenants Prackle and Tonder were snot-noses, undergraduates, lieutenants, trained in the politics of the day, believing the great new system invented by a genius so great that they never bothered to verify its results. They were sentimental young men, given to tears and to furies. Lieutenant Prackle carried a lock of hair in the back of his watch, wrapped in a bit of blue satin, and the hair was constantly getting loose and clogging the balance wheel, so that he wore a wrist watch for telling time. Prackle was a dancing-partner, a gay young man who nevertheless could scowl like the Leader, could brood like the Leader. He hated degenerate art and had destroyed several canvases with his own hands. In cabarets he sometimes made pencil sketches of his companions which were so good that he had often been told he should have been an artist. Prackle had several blond sisters of whom he was so proud that he had on occasion caused a commotion when he thought they had been insulted. The sisters were a little disturbed about it because they were afraid someone might set out to prove the insults, which would not have been hard to do. Lieutenant Prackle spent nearly all his time off duty daydreaming of seducing Lieutenant Tonder's blond sister, a buxom girl who loved to be seduced by older men who did not muss her hair as Lieutenant Prackle did.

Lieutenant Tonder was a poet, a bitter poet who dreamed of perfect, ideal love of elevated young men for poor girls. Tonder was a dark romantic with a vision as wide as his experience. He sometimes spoke blank verse under his breath to imaginary dark women. He longed for death on the battlefield, with weeping parents in the background, and the Leader, brave but sad in the presence of the dying youth. He imagined his death very often, lighted by a fair setting sun which glinted on broken military equipment, his men standing silently around him, with heads sunk low, as over a fat cloud galloped the Valkyries, big-breasted, mothers and mistresses in one, while Wagnerian thunder crashed in the background. And he even had his dying words ready.