Noblesse Oblige
Book Three
The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling
By:
Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2014 by the authors)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
Chapter 10
The Dogs of War
A chilly night wind blew in from Lake Michigan and whipped around the passengers on the Goodrich Dock as they filed up the gangplank of the S.S. Atlanta. The three boys had one large suitcase between them and trusted that elaborate clothes would not be required for their trip. They found their cabin and dumped the suitcase on the fourth berth. In the commodious saloon a cold supper had been laid.
“We’ll be in Grand Haven first thing in the morning,” said Bunny, “and then it’s only a short trip up to Grand Rapids. This is sure better than the train, don’t you think?”
Stephen and Martin did think so; they were sick of trains and trying to dress and undress behind heavy curtains in stifling berths with the sounds and the smells of many others just inches away.
They lay in their separate berths as the throbbing vessel made its way out onto the wine dark lake, which was mercifully calm and free of the terrible winter ice they had been told about. Stephen felt his cock throbbing but tried to think of other things.
*****
They had just finished a satisfying day in Chicago. The Institute of Art held an impressive collection of European masterpieces, although little from the brushes of Americans. Then, along with Bunny, they had been out to Lake Forest to lunch at Mr Armour’s pretty Italian house that rejoiced in the name of ‘Melody Farms’ and was set in grounds of over a thousand acres, (he said) and cost a vast sum, he also said, but Martin couldn’t rightly remember the exact but staggering figure. Armour talked business to Bunny while Stephen and Martin engaged Mrs Armour who talked about the house and garden.
On the way back they called in at another big house on a large corner lot not far from the business district of the ‘village’. It was Bunny’s house—or rather that of his father. He was anxious for Martin and Stephen to meet him.
Mr Wilbur was an old man and had one lively eye, the other side of his face hideously contorted by the stroke. He sat in his wheelchair and talked with difficulty, Bunny interpreting where necessary. “I had to teach myself to talk again,” he said, proudly.
Bunny explained the origins of the British visitors and the old man nodded in understanding. “I’m going with them to Detroit and Cleveland,” said Bunny. His father nodded again and took his hand and squeezed it with affection. Shortly afterwards, a nurse came in; it was time for his nap, the talking had tired him.
Mr Wilbur’s large motorcar returned them to Chicago through Highland Park and Evanston, which they knew from their previous excursions.
*****
“What are you thinking, Mala?” called down Stephen.
“I was thinking of Vesta and Billy. They probably won’t know us when we get home. Job will.”
“Are they dogs?” asked Bunny from across the way. Martin gave him descriptions.
“And I wonder how Plunger is,” continued Martin.
“A goldfish?” ventured Bunny.
“No, he’s our friend. He’s a painter, Bunny. He’s painting camouflage now. He’s very good and quite amusing. We saw his parents in Philadelphia. You’d like him; he’s become quite bohemian even though his family are wealthy brewers. He’s an ‘Hon.’”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, his father was made a baronet—or was it his grandfather? Anyway it’s kind of a junior lord.”
“Not as high as you, your lordship?”
“No.”
“Well perhaps he can buy a higher one or maybe marry a duke’s daughter.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Bunny. Anyway, I don’t see The Plunger marrying.”
“Oh,” said Bunny in slow realization. “And do you and Stephen…like you did with me and Dwight…? I suppose it’s none of my business; I’m sorry.”
“No that’s all right; you’re our friend too, Bunny,” said Stephen from somewhere in the dark. “Yes we do sometimes. Especially when we’re in France. We’ve even been out together and picked up soldiers. It was fun, but we do it together; we don’t think of it as cheating.”
“Golly!” exclaimed Bunny, a little shocked. “You Europeans are sure fast.”
“We’re English, not European, Bun,” laughed Martin, “Although Derby’s father was an American. When are you going to come and visit us? You can stay in our house in Piccadilly and come down to Croome which is in the country.”
“And you and Dwight can come to Antibes—if you don’t mind camping out,” added Stephen. “After this awful war is over,” he added wistfully.
“Is Croome a castle?” asked Bunny, getting excited.
“No it’s a jumbled old house. Some bits are very lovely though,” said Martin, with a sigh. “I must be getting homesick.”
“There are three villages on the estate and Martin is ‘lord of the manor’,” volunteered Stephen, eager to stimulate Bunny’s imagination and wondering why curiosity had not prompted him to ask before this.
“Do you own serfs?” asked Bunny.
“Yes,” replied Martin. “They toil in my fields in dreadful rags and I’m allowed to fuck their daughters on their wedding night if they aren’t too horribly disfigured by scrofula. Sorry about the cussing Bunny.”
“You’re kidding me right?”
“Yes, Bunny,” called down Stephen. “He’s pulling your leg. English humour again. I’m one of the serfs. It’s more like your great uncle Levi Leiter and all the properties he owns, except Martin can’t sell them.”
Bunny wondered who would inherit it all, but though he’d better not voice that question. “Can I get into bed with you, Martin?”
“No Bunny, Stephen promised Dwight there’d be no hanky-panky on this trip. It won’t kill Stephen not to, either.”
“It might, Mala. These pyjamas are making me boil.”
*****
The boys slept well (despite the above) and did not even realise the Atlanta had smoothly docked at Grand Haven on the Michigan side of the lake. They had a hurried breakfast in the saloon and climbed up the steps with the suitcase to find the electric car waiting at a little timber station. Some freight was being loaded and the passengers who were not staying to ‘vacation’, climbed aboard as the trolley pole was swung around to make contact with the overhead wire. They set off at quite a clip through sandy farmland and scattered settlements until they drew in to the small city of Grand Rapids, which sat astride a river. The case was ‘checked’ into the railway station and the boys washed and shaved (well, Stephen and Bunny shaved) and went for a walk about the pleasant, though not greatly ‘improved’, town until it was time for their talk. There were half a dozen bridges over the river and many factories with tall chimneys, including one right in the middle of a park.
“They’re auto factories and furniture shops,” explained Bunny. “Dwight’s father has a factory here too.” They looked at the cathedral and in the store windows along Division and Fulton Streets before finding the hall where they were to speak.
They were greeted warmly by Mr Tilma, the Mayor, and by several other people, including a Mr May. “Are you the Mr May who owns the department store near here?” asked Martin.
“Yes I am, your lordship, my father started it,” Mr May was a little round gentleman, possibly Jewish, thought Martin, and was full of praise for the civic virtues of Grand Rapids. “My wife, Sophie, and I would be honoured if you gentlemen could come to luncheon afterwards, if you have time before your train.” They did and accepted gratefully.
The gathering had none of the riot or unpleasantness of past days. This lunch hour audience consisted principally of local business worthies and ladies—quite a few young ladies— who had clearly read of Martin and Stephen’s progress through their nation, and they were very eager to see a British lord and a handsome war hero at close quarters. There were lots of questions about life at home with the War on and even some questions about conditions in the trenches. They tried to answer honestly.
Mr May took them in his automobile the short distance to his home in an old residential section of Madison Street. Never had Martin seen such a house. In contrast to its fussy neighbours, Mr May’s new home was low and stretched horizontally under a wide roof. The front door was hard to spot and when they were inside they were bathed in warm autumn-tinted light from beautiful leaded windows. “It’s like our swimming place, Derby,” said Martin, “in October.” Everywhere were beautiful fittings in plain oak—cabinets, lamps, tables and chairs and the rooms flowed into one another without doors. Martin lifted his arm to try to touch the ceiling. He nearly could. It was wonderful. Mr May let them stare, without speaking.
“Mr May,” said Martin at last, “Was the architect of your wonderful house the same man who designed the beer garden on the Midway in Chicago?” asked Martin with a sudden flash of recognition. It was, and his name was Mr Wright, although he no longer lived in Chicago.
They lunched out on a glazed ‘porch’— windows all around— where they were joined by Mr Tilma and by Mrs May and her parents, Mr and Mrs Amberg, who said they had just finished a similar house of their own, designed by a lady. It was all so delightfully informal, yet the spaces remained dignified. Martin wondered why there were not such porches in England. They were the best thing in America.
The ladies were obviously delighted to have a Marquess in their midst, but were quite reserved about it. The conversation, not fuelled by alcohol, fell to the War. Stephen said he was concerned that the war was dividing those communities that had families of German origin, like the Mays and the Ambergs, as well as Martin’s own family and indeed the Royal family itself. “I don’t like the idea that we are fighting the German people or people of German blood. I always consider I am fighting the German state or the German Army and even then I try to think about the ordinary soldiers. I can’t hate a whole people.”
“Yet that is what they are starting to ask us to think, Captain Knight-Poole,” said Meyer May. “They’ve let slip the dogs of war and I expect a rock through my shop window any day now. We are Americans. This War is truly awful in what it does to people’s morals.”
*****
Three hours by train saw them arrive in Detroit in the late afternoon. The Hotel Statler was another staggering American hotel. From the 14th floor they could look down on the traffic curving around a circular park. All the avenues were lined with parked automobiles beneath new and spectacular skyscrapers.
Everywhere there were signs of growth and prosperity in this attractive city. There were the great automobile factories of course, but Detroit was also the nation’s foremost producer of pharmaceuticals, overalls, stoves, varnish, adding machines and shipbuilding on the Great Lakes, explained Bunny.
The ballroom at the Pontchartrain Hotel was the venue for their talk. Here the most powerful men in the city had gathered. Bunny said that it was important that Mr Sibley and Mrs Campau, who had just been presented to the boys by the mayor, Mr Oscar Marx, had attended because they represented the ‘old money’ from Jefferson Ave and Grosse Pointe. “It’s a very snobbish town, Martin,” he said, “the new auto money doesn’t always cut it.”
Mr Marx was very ‘go ahead’ and a great ‘booster’ for his city. He declared that Detroit was ready to fight. “I came here from Germany when I was eleven, Lord Branksome, but I’m now an American, one hundred per cent!”
“What about Henry Ford, Mr Mayor, I heard that he has opposed the war and I see he is not here tonight?”
“Don’t let that fool you, young sir” replied Albert Kahn, for Marx. “He might have supported peace before America was involved, but he’s no fool and he’s now tooling up for supplying trucks to the Army and making engines for airplanes.”
“Kahn should know,” said Mr Dodge, “he’s building Ford a new factory on the Rouge River that’s a mile long. My brother and I are building army trucks for Olds—although we will also have our own autos on the market in a few weeks. I hope I can interest you in buying one.”
Stephen and Bunny came over with two more gentlemen. “This is Captain Henry Joy, Lord Branksome,” said Bunny, enjoying using his title. “He’s the president of Packard—they make fine cars.”
“Darn right they’re fine. Liked them so much I bought the company, although my father was a railroad man.”
“And this is Lt Newberry,” said Stephen, “He was secretary of the Navy in President Roosevelt’s administration.”
“That’s right, Captain Knight-Poole. I was a naval reserve right here on the Lake when I was your age. Loved boats. “One time I was swabbing the deck and this officer from Annapolis was leaning on the rail. A great big yacht steams majestically by and he says: ‘Sailor, do you know what yacht that is?’
‘It’s the Truant, sir,’ I said, and got back to swabbing.
‘Who owns her?’ this officer asks.
‘I do, sir,’ I sez”
He roared with laughter and his brother-in-law, Capt. Joy, joined in. Apparently they had been on the Yosemite together in the war with Spain.
Somehow the conversation turned to engineering and reinforced concrete. Kahn was proficient in its use and wrote Jack Thayer’s name on his shirt cuff. Newberry had a scheme for building a concrete motor road right across the country. “Think of this highway and what it would mean for the war effort: motor trucks could move goods more flexibly to factories and ports and the number of trucks required will increase vastly. That’s good for Ford and good for Olds, Dodge. Joy: it will be good for Packard too. We need to convince Congress that it should be a national priority.”
Detroit seemed ‘geared up’ for war indeed.
Despite an offer by Truman H. Newberry to take the boys across Lake Erie to Cleveland on his yacht, the boys took the train the next morning. The railway provided a stenographer and Stephen and Martin spent their time dictating their reports for the Embassy in Washington. They sketched descriptions of the important people they had met and characterised their attitudes to the War. They also gauged the mood of the populace as best they could and enclosed newspaper clippings, including the damning ones they received in Milwaukee.
Stephen had not slept well. Martin insisted that the enforced chastity remain while they were with Bunny. “You promised Dwight, Derbs. You made it a rule.”
“I promised we wouldn’t do anything with Bunny; I didn’t mention us. I ache for you, Mala.”
“That’s lovely Derbs, but it wouldn’t be fair to enjoy ourselves in front of Bunny. You’d want him to join in, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I can’t break my own rule.”
*****
If Detroit was gearing up for war, Cleveland was already in the thick of it. Never had Martin and Stephen seen such a city so committed to being American. There were flags everywhere and the hall in which they were to speak was groaning under the weight of red, white and blue bunting. Grey’s Armoury was a most unusual building; it was like a fortress with thick walls of redbrick-and-stone, grudgingly pierced by narrow windows with a prow in the form of a five- storey tower surmounted by battlements. The hall, which was used by the formidable Cleveland Grays (the city’s private military company), was also the chief venue for opera and other performances so its acoustics were very good; the boys had found their voices were becoming strained.
They met the Governor, a very impressive figure called ‘Mr James M. Cox’ and the energetic Mayor, Mr Harry L. Davis, the American’s being fond of giving weight to a middle initial. The Mayor had formed an Advisory Committee to direct Cleveland’s war effort. On it were Maj. George W. Crile, a famous surgeon who was head of a hospital unit that was heading off to France in just a fortnight, Judge Morgan and Mr Starr Cadwallader, who directed municipal health and something he called ‘juvenile instruction’.
“We have 8000 volunteers already and will have more than 20,000 draftees by the end of the year, I estimate, Lord Branksome,” said Crile. “The Mayor has the American Protective League to investigate ‘draft dodgers’ and disloyal slackers. We’ve had some people —aliens mostly—who are not participating in our ‘Gasless Sundays’— we don’t use our automobiles on these days to conserve precious fuel.”
Judge Morgan said that Cleveland had already over-subscribed the Liberty Loan. “We’re the most loyal city in the United States,” he boasted.
Mr Davis told how Cleveland was expunging all traces of ‘Teutonism’ as he called it. Citizens of German origin were being compelled to take loyalty oaths and encouraged to change their names. Suspicious Germans were being dismissed from public office. Governor Cox explained that newspaper editorials must now be printed in English and he was having the teaching of the German language banned in schools.
“But I learned German, sir,” protested Stephen.
“Well, I can’t impugn your loyalty, sir,” he replied, “but you will notice your King has changed his name.” Martin and Stephen did not know what he was talking about and had to be told the news that this was indeed true.
“This is madness,” whispered Stephen to Martin. “They’re falling over each other to be American and it has given them an excuse to turn on their neighbours.”
“Yes, Cadwallader wants dachshund dogs to be put down or renamed ‘victory terriers’ at the very least.”
Thus the ‘Sixth City of the Republic’, as Mayor Davis ‘boosted’ his remarkable hometown, received a glowing report, but Martin and Stephen left with a bad taste in their mouths.
*****
They arrived back in Chicago late the next afternoon. Bunny was dismissed back to Lake Shore Drive and the exhausted but randy boys made for the Blackstone Hotel.
“I have our tickets for Minneapolis; we leave the morning-after-tomorrow, your lordship,” said Carlo, following them into the bedroom. Stephen and Martin were busy removing their uniforms. “I will have these cleaned and pressed tonight,” continued Carlo gathering them up.
Stephen was locked in a passionate embrace with Martin, sweat beading his shoulders and his dripping member pushed between Martin’s blonde thighs. “I’ve also been investigating Mr Wilbur and Mr Hoyts’ servant problem, sir,” he said as he handed Martin the Ee-zo. “I found a gentleman that might suit their requirements; I met him in a public house in Halstead Street.” Stephen had bent himself over and Martin now had his face in the cleavage of his muscular buttocks. “This gentleman, Mr Moses LeRoy, was formerly in the employ of the Pullman Palace Car Company, sir,” continued Carlo, who had bent down so Martin could hear him. Stephen was moaning and urging Martin to insert more fingers. “As an attendant he was called ‘George’. He thought this was both disrespectful to his parents’ choice and to the distinguished bearded gentleman hagiographized in Exodus—I think that is the right word, your lordship,” he said in an aside. Carlo helped part Stephen’s buttocks, whose dusting of dark hair was now matted with Martin’s saliva. “He had been dismissed from his last position as an attendant, quite summarily—let me assist you, your lordship—on the Lakawanna Railroad.” Martin inserted his cock into Stephen’s gaping hole.
“Phoebe says
And Phoebe knows
That smoke and cinders
Spoil good clothes
’Tis thus a pleasure
And delight
To take the road
Of Anthracite
“It concerned his being found in a compromising position with a gentleman, sir. Let me get you a pillow, Mr Stephen. It was on the bridge over the Susquhanna River. That is, it was in a train which was on the bridge; the actual incident took place in a lavatory—what the Americans call a ‘washroom’. The gentleman was white, sir, and Mr LeRoy is more anthracite in complexion. He narrowly avoided gaol,” continued Carlo, using his hands to pleasure Stephen who was lost to the world. “And so he is in need of a position but can’t, of course, provide a ‘character’—although the gentleman in the washroom might have given him one,” he mused as he wiped his hands with a towel.
“Anyway, I took the liberty of giving his particulars to Mr Hoyt. Their flat could certainly use the attention of a domestic,” he continued as he pulled the bedcovers back and Stephen, now locked in a ferocious embrace with Martin, tumbled in. “Mr Hoyt was waiting until Mr Wilbur returned before any interview took place, but he seemed keen. I hope I did not overstep my mark, sir.
“I’ll say goodnight to you both.”
*****
“Please get up your lordship,” implored Carlo in distress, “the reporter from McCall’s will be here soon and you have to meet Mr Wilbur for luncheon.”
“Go away Carlo, Mr Stephen is so nice and warm and he loves me,” said Martin dreamily.
“No doubt he does, sir— ‘in spades’ as they say over here, but it doesn’t alter the fact of it being 10 o’clock. I have the shower bath ready as there is no time for the other and you look particularly sticky to me.” He took a breath and violently pulled back the covers. There were yells. “Complain to the War Office,” challenged the bold private.
There was laughter and complaints as they were both chivvied in the direction of the luxurious tiled bathroom. To simplify matters, Carlo was invited to join them where he soaped, scrubbed and shampooed until they were cleansed of the night before. Carlo regretted having to postpone Stephen’s birthday treat, yet again, but he too needed to be able to walk, unaided, the several blocks to Carson Pirie Scott to buy supplies.
It was a quarter to eleven when the bell rang and Carlo, doing up his trousers, admitted the journalist and photographer. Presently Martin and Stephen emerged from the bathroom in their immaculate uniforms, Stephen brushing his neat little moustache that had been freshly trimmed by Carlo.
The interview went smoothly—the lady reporter ensuring them that they had given her ‘good copy’— and they proceeded to South Dearborn Street where they ascended to the office that Bunny Wilbur occupied. Apart from the painting of the Moulin Rouge in Paris on the wall, it was an efficient and business-like place. Over several floors there were accountants and lawyers dealing with the many companies that the Wilburs owned, including lumber, real estate, the tunnels and ‘a small railroad’ in West Virginia. Everyone was brisk and deferred to ‘Young Mr Wilbur’.
They lunched at the Commercial Club and found themselves at a table with important Chicago men. Afterwards they strolled down State Street and halted before one of the large plate glass windows in Marshal Field’s department store at which a small crowd of ladies had gathered, pausing from their shopping. This window was given over to a patriotic display, urging men to enlist and for Chicago citizens to subscribe to the Liberty Loan. However the centrepiece was a large poster in full colour. The American soldier, with his broad shoulders and narrow waist, was smiling radiantly in his deceitful khaki uniform; deceitful because the soldier was in fact a British officer—or more precisely half-British—for it was Stephen and the artist was Mr Leyendecker of New York.
Some of the ladies noticed Stephen standing among them and within seconds he and Martin were mobbed. They smiled and shook hands with as many as they could. Several kissed them on the cheeks. Some men—the ladies’ husbands and fathers—came up and pulled them away. With difficulty Martin and the counterfeit doughboy extricated themselves and marched away smartly down the sidewalk.
They went to afternoon tea with the British Consul whose office was on Michigan Avenue. Col Hamilton was there and they gave him a verbal account of what was in their written report that had been sent to Washington. Col Hamilton told them the latest news from home: more aeroplane raids on coastal towns, their success at Vimy Ridge and the appointment of General Petain.
“We are most concerned with the turmoil in Russia— the extremists want to sue for peace with the Huns and that will free up hundreds and thousands of men for the Western front. We need General Polivanov to launch a decisive attack. The government want to send a mission to the Tsar, but its tricky. Even with the Americans it looks grim.”
They left, feeling rather depressed. At the door, Hamilton said, “I think I can get the government to pay for some of your expenses—your fares at any rate. Good luck to you, young gentlemen; I enjoy reading about you. Salutes were exchanged.
On their last night in Chicago, they went out with Dwight and Bunny and ended up at the Dil Pickle, once again. Bunny was in high spirits, talking about coming to France with the Army and seeing Martin and Stephen in London and France, little understanding how hard that would be. The boys said nothing.
Dwight said that LeRoy would make a good factotum, but was still cautious about exposing their personal life and the risk of blackmail.
They purchased beer and sandwiches from the counter at the side of the main hall. There was a reading from a Mr Upton Sinclair from his new book on conditions in the coalmines in some remote state. More startling still was a small orchestra of coloured musicians led by a clarinettist called Duhe, who played wild and lively music. Bunny said they called it ‘jassing’. Several in the crowd covered their ears because the sound was so frightful but, after a while, Martin found himself tapping his foot to the infectious rhythm. “I love this!” he cried to Bunny and Stephen.
“They play it on the South Side where a lot of coloured folk live when they arrive from down south,” said Bunny. “I also heard white men play it in Schiller’s last year.”
They went back to the Blackstone where Carlo had champagne and beer waiting. “This will be our last night in Chicago,” said Stephen, “and it’s goodbye after that. When we’ve finished our tour it’s back to the proper War for us.”
“Well for him,” said Martin. “I don’t know what they’ll have me doing. Finding American translators perhaps, Derby?”
“Huh?” said Dwight.
“Nothing, Dwight; just a joke.”
“What’s this Derby and Mala stuff, anyway?” asked Dwight. “Bun and I can’t figure it.”
“I call him ‘Derby,’” answered Martin, “because when I first saw him chopping wood with his shirt off,” (he had removed Stephen’s coat and shirt) “I loved his black pits—like the coal mines of Derbyshire—our West Virginia. And I still do.” Stephen put his arms behind his head and Martin, without embarrassment, put his face into the sweaty, silky black hair of Stephen’s underarms.
“And I love his soft cheeks,” volunteered Stephen, removing Martin’s trousers. “The cheeks on what you would call his ‘fanny.’ I was doing Latin at school so he became my ‘Mala’.”
“That sure is cute,” said Bunny, with his arm around Dwight. “And what’s with this no shorts deal?”
Martin laughed. “Stephen doesn’t like to wear any. He likes the feel.”
“And the freedom,” he added.
“And so now he has the rest of us doing it, isn’t that right Carlo?” he said as Carlo came in to refill their glasses.
“Yes, your lordship. Mr Stephen is very concerned that we are all liberated and …er…enjoying ourselves.”
“Even his men in France don’t wear ‘shorts’ and they don’t smoke either,” said Martin.
“I can’t get Reeves to give up his pipe, but the others are working on him,” said Stephen.
“But smoking can’t hurt you. It’s good for the nerves,” said Dwight who was almost a doctor.
“Perhaps you’re right, but I don’t like it,” said Stephen. “Now are you boys going to join us in this big bed? It’s our last night and we might not see each other again.”
Dwight and Bunny had a hurried conversation. “You boys are sure swell fellas. We’re game,” said Bunny grinning.
“I’m sorry Carlo, there’s no room for you,” said Martin, putting on a sad face.
“Never mind your lordship; I will content myself at the keyhole, sir.”
“I don’t ‘get’ that guy,” said Bunny,
“He’s only kidding you, Bunny,” said Martin, “well, mostly.”
Stephen and Martin undressed their visitors. Martin loved their shoulders and Stephen prowled about them, licking portions that took his fancy. They repaired to the bed and Carlo filled their glasses again. Stephen kept feeling them under the covers and wanting to know how hard they were.
“We can play our favourite games. Stephen can try for the most unusual position—we award points for degree of difficulty and imagination. Or I can see how many times I can make Stephen come off—a simple tally is used. We can call Carlo for a pencil if he hasn’t gone to bed.”
“Oh, I won’t have,” called Carlo from behind the door.
“Martin’s favourite one is where I think of places or ways for us to do it, but that usually involves ‘cuss words’, Bunny,” said Stephen.
“The loser sits on the face of the winner,” added Martin. Bunny looked a little shocked when he computed what this meant.
“I always thought it was the winner?” said Stephen in surprise.
“I cheated, Derbs.”
And so the games began, with the Americans gradually participating, unabashed; the blond athletic physique of the boyish Bunny, and the muscular form of the former quarterback, Dwight, delighting Martin and Stephen.
When Carlo brought them tea and coffee in the morning the room was a mess and no one had had much sleep; even Carlo’s eyes were red (well, one of them) as he drew the bath, which would see some more sports before they bade each other an affectionate goodbye.
*****
The three of them dozed on the train. It would be eight hours before they reached Minneapolis. Later they went to the club car where cigar-chomping businessmen in shirtsleeves engaged the boys in their smart British Army uniforms. They talked about their businesses and their wives and children. Somehow the War seemed unreal to them, and indeed why should it be any more real than the price of hardware, this year’s wheat crop or the success of their boy in college?
In the dining car several young ladies came up to the boys and, giggling, asked for their autographs. Stephen smiled radiantly, pushing the hair from his eyes, and signed their books as he asked them about themselves— it seems they were returning to their school in St Paul and they begged Stephen to come and speak to their assembly. Martin was also asked for his autograph, and when he obliged one of the girls looked disappointed and crossly said to her friend: “Oh look Nettie, he only signed his last name. Don’t you have a proper name, mister?”
“Well,” said Martin blushing, “As I am actually Lord Branksome, I usually only just sign ‘Branksome.’”
“Oh I’m sorry if I sounded sore. Don’t you have a real name honey, that seems sad.”
“It’s Martin; Martin Poole.”
“Oh that’s a swell name, Marty. Do you like to dance?” Martin replied that he did. “Isn’t he cute, Zeralda? He looks just like a girl with those sweet lips.” Martin blushed again at the doubtful compliment and thus it went on until the train pulled into Minneapolis where Stephen had to ask Wilma to return his medal (and bar) and for Ida to get off his knee.
Minneapolis and its twin, St Paul, sat across the Mississippi and were raw-boned industrial towns with flourmills, grain exchanges and factories manufacturing a range of products. Carlo had booked them into the Athletic Club rather than a regular hotel. They had three separate rooms with single beds. Stephen came in to Martin’s room. “There’s a gymnasium and a swimming bath, Mala. They don’t wear costumes in the pool. Do you want to go?” Martin did and expressed the hope that Stephen would get good and sweaty at the punching bag, which he did and Martin enjoyed making love to him in that state in the confines of his narrow bed.
The Mayor, Mr Van Lear, was less than welcoming of the British visitors and indeed had only recently invited the People’s Council to speak. This organization vigorously opposed President Wilson and the United States’ entry into the War. Nevertheless Stephen engaged him in conversation and they managed to find some common ground, Stephen saying that he thought that municipal control of electric power and gas supplies was a good idea and that safety laws should indeed be strengthened.
Sheriff Langum, however, had the backing of the City Council and the large manufacturers who were in favour of the War. “Our soldiers can be used to break the violent strikes that socialists like Van Lear ferment and which could throw a spanner in the works of our war production-—especially in flour,” he predicted. He went on to tell with relish the story of a German-born opponent of the War that had lately been taken by a mob of good Minneapolis citizens across the state line and tarred and feathered in Iowa. “Jury wouldn’t convict the men—they knew how they felt about such un-American rotten apples in our midst.”
Their talk however was a success and many in the audience were from the State Guard who had only recently returned from the Mexican border and would be going to New Mexico as soon as the camp was constructed. The men of the Minnesota Field Artillery were also present. The recruiting officer did good business that night
Later that evening they gave a second talk, with hoarse voices, across the river in St Paul. Mayor Irvin was a grocer in a small way and a Republican who had no time for socialists like his neighbour, however the most distinguished person they met was Senator Kellogg who supported the War but wanted some better system to prevent future ones when this one was over. “You can’t expect the United States not to have a say after we have been asked to participate,” he said.
*****
“Where is St Cloud, Mala?” asked Stephen when as he climbed out of bed in the morning. Martin opened the map and spread it on the table and took Stephen’s hard cock and used it as a pointer. “Don’t Mala, you will ruin the map.”
“Do you want me to stop?” teased Martin, releasing his member suddenly.
“No Mala, please keep doing it,” he breathed huskily.
Martin did and soon Stephen erupted all over the Pacific North-West, where a trickle ran down the Missouri and a single spot landed on St Cloud, Minnesota.
“Here it is,” said Martin, scooping up some of the loveliness while it was still warm.
“Why are we going there?”
“Don’t you remember who lives there?” Stephen shook his head. “Senator Buckweet; we’re staying with them.”
“Oh Mala, why did you do this? You know what happened last time. I hurt you and I still feel dreadful about it. She’ll be after me; she’ll come into my room or lock me in the cellar or something.”
“How did you get your M.C. (and bar) again?”
“She’s worse than Kaiser Bill, Mala.”
*****
St Cloud was only a small city about an hour from Minneapolis in an area of rolling hills and scattered pine forests. A motorcar was waiting for them at the station and the driver took them out of the town for some distance until they passed through a white-painted gate and took a gravelled road that terminated in front of a pretty clapboard farmhouse with red shutters. Martin and Stephen looked at each other; it was not where they had expected the former Miss Orchard-Baird to be living.
Senator Buckweet was standing on the front porch in white moleskin trousers and boots, his legs proprietarily apart. His grey hair was now noticeably whiter and he wore it rather long. He was smiling toothily and held his arm in a frozen salute. The noise of the vehicle brought another figure through a screen door, which slammed behind her. She was dressed in plain skirt and a blouse that verged on being made of gingham. She gave a sort of half smile; it was Mrs Buckweet herself.
The boys climbed from the motor and Carlo and the chauffeur heaved out the trunk.
“Welcome to Winnebago,” cried Senator Buckweet. “It has been a long time, Lord Branksome.”
“Hello sir, is this a ranch?”
“No,” he said, chortling, “just a farm—a section and a half of prairie along the Mississippi with a couple of granite quarries.” He shook hands with them and was introduced to Carlo. They turned to Mrs Buckwheet who was blushing and trying unsuccessfully to tuck an errant piece of hair back in place. Martin shook her hand and Stephen did the same saying: “You look well, Mrs…” and paused.
“Yes,’ she said, “I am pregnant. It came as a surprise to us both.”
“Congratulations,” they chorused. She smiled and blushed some more.
“Yes, I’ll have someone to leave this spread to,” boomed the Senator. “Never thought I would; girl or boy I don’t care, they’ll be an honest-to-God gopher.”
“It’s a small rodent, the symbol of this state,” explained Mrs Buckweet.
“It’s not a rodent, my love,” corrected the Senator.
They went in out of the sun and immediately adjourned to yet another pleasant porch this time with the windows removed and replaced by insect screens. News from London was exchanged and Mrs Buckweet had already heard that Antony Vane-Gillingham was engaged to the Hon. Jean Craigth. They sketched something of their speaking tour. A Swedish servant came out with a jug of lemonade. “This is a tee-total household,” said Mrs Buckweet wearily.
“Liquor doesn’t go down well with the voters,” said the Senator.
“We’ve come across quite a deal of opposition to America joining in,” confessed Martin.
“Well, we think of ourselves as a long way from Europe out here, sir—not me of course—but most can’t imagine a world beyond the Mississippi; even New York might as well be Persia. Then there are the German Catholics who came here; they keep up their old traditions.”
“Senator Kellogg gave us heart when we were in St Paul, sir,” said Stephen.
“Yes, Frank is a good man. We both look outwards. He’d make a good Secretary of State in some future administration. I’d like Railroads—but I’m getting a bit too long in the tooth and now I will have home duties,” he said, smiling and looking at his wife.
“The whole town will be at your talk tonight, gentlemen,” said the Senator, changing the subject. He got up and went into another room and returned with a poster, which he unrolled with fanfare. It was the one of Stephen. “I’ve put these up all over town. The ladies have been fighting for tickets. And there is a town picnic tomorrow, Sunday, after church. I’m expecting you fellows to come—there’s no train until Monday morning. The ladies have been baking all week and there’s a prize— a Liberty Bond—for the best picnic basket.”
“And there’s square dancing and a kissing booth,” added Mrs Buckweet, “It’s for the Red Cross and…well… I said that you two will be in the booth…” The boys looked at each other and rolled their eyes. “…for 15 cents.”
They then fell to talking about farming. “Come and look at my new Ford tractor Lord Branksome.” Martin went with him in the direction of a barn. Stephen turned to Mrs Buckweet and said, “Honoria, are you happy out here? I mean it’s very different to Belgravia. Are you all right?”
She shrugged. “The baby is a surprise. Thad will be a good father. I’m all right I suppose. I could be unhappy in London just as easily, and here is as good as anywhere. That world is dead to me. Did it ever exist, or did I just dream I had a life before here?” She paused, lost in thought. “You know,” she began in a low voice, “I wish it were your baby, Stephen, and sometimes, in the night, I pretend that it is. Is that a wicked thing to do?”
“No, not wicked,” said Stephen going red and taking her hand, “it’s just some things are best not voiced.”
“No,” she said with a sigh. “And Thaddeus, as I said, is over the moon. Tell me about your medal. Were you terribly wounded?” she asked putting her hand on his chest.
*****
“It’s a fine little machine, Senator; just the thing Stephen was saying we need for our fields at home. Is it easy to drive?” The Senator said it was. They were now walking back to the house past the hands’ quarters where Carlo was chatting to a lean cowboy.
“Now tell me again about these tunnels that your friend owns in Chicago. What is the gauge of the track, sir?”
They regained the house and went out on to the porch. Stephen was sitting on the swing seat by the side of Mrs Buckweet who had a lace handkerchief in her hand. She had been crying.
“What is it honey bunch?” asked the Senator with kindness.
“It’s nothing, Thad. I’m just being silly. I’m just crying because I’m happy, that’s all. And remembering things from long ago— from before this awful War.”
To be continued…
Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.
Posted: 03/14/14