Moontrap - Don Berry Page 20

  There was a long wait. Thurston peered off to the right frowning very slightly. Someone in the audience cleared his throat noisily. Meek tried to engage one of the Methodist preachers from down in the valley in a staring contest, but the other looked down, embarrassed, at his folded hands.

  At last the Reverend Andrews entered from the side and walked across the platform, his face set, looking neither at the seated dignitaries nor at the crowd in the tiny church. He strode to the pulpit with a few sheets of paper in his hand. His long, dour face showed no expression. He was clean-shaven, and the heavy bones of his face were like planes hacked out of a stone.

  Meek leaned over to Monday and whispered, "Wagh! Bringin' up the heavy artillery."

  Monday nodded. Andrews was a hard man, one of Thurston's, more political than religious. Though with the mission settlement it was often difficult to tell where one left off and the other began. Monday had a moment of uneasiness. Andrews, with his rigid Scot Puritanism, was one of the American Party's most implacable enemies, and the dedicated adversary of anything that smacked of frivolity.

  Andrews leaned forward, bracing both hands against the edge of the pulpit, his head lowered, looking at his notes. Gradually the murmur of conversation quieted, until there was only a low buzz.

  Suddenly his head came up, and his savage black eyes scanned the room. Instantly the last remaining sound was arrested. He held the crowd immobile for a long moment, as if debating whether to speak to them or not. Then he relaxed, pushing himself away from the pulpit, and began to speak in a slow, strong voice.

  2

  "Friends," he said quietly. "Fellow Oregonians." He paused, and there was no sound. Satisfied with his control, he continued, beginning in an almost conversational tone.

  "Seventy-four years ago today, and three thousand miles from this place, the Continental Congress created a sovereign nation under God, The United States of America."

  He paused, looking down at the floor. When he looked up again there was a trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

  "That sounds simple enough, does it not? In less than five seconds I have said it: 'created a sovereign nation under God.' Is that what we are gathered to celebrate this Independence Day?"

  He paused for a moment. "No," he went on. "It is not. The celebration of the Fourth of July is a symbol, as the Cross of His Crucifixion is the symbol of Our Lord Jesus Christ. The Declaration of Independence itself is merely a scrap of paper, gentlemen, a scrap of paper. And further, I spoke in irony when I said the Continental Congress created this nation. They did not. This nation—this continental nation—is built, not on a scrap of paper, but on a foundation of blood and agony. The Founding Fathers, to whom we pay our respects, signed a brave document, yes. But it remained for the common man to give flesh and life to that document; to make a living reality of what that declaration described.

  "It was our fathers and our grandfathers who wrenched this continent from the tyrannical grasp of King George. and they did so, many of them, at the highest price of all. Let us, indeed. give credit to the men of vision and genius who conceived this free nation. But let us not ignore those men of strength—ordinary men like yourselves—who fought the war that made it real! The soldiers of the Revolution!"

  There was applause, as was inevitable at the mention of the Revolution. When it had subsided Andrews leaned forward on the pulpit and stared out across the rows of pews.

  "Yes, applaud," he said. "Our ancestors suffered and died that you might be here to applaud. Here, in the Territory of Oregon, by the great Pacific Ocean. The men of Bunker Hill and Lexington and Concord had never heard the word Oregon, and yet they fought for it and died for it. Many of them did not understand why they had to die in the cold and mud of Valley Forge; but they fought and died because they had faith in the vision of their leaders.

  "Is it their sacrifice that we celebrate today? Their faith in the continental destiny of that borning nation seventy-four years ago? Or is there yet more, on this day of days?"

  Monday glanced at Meek, and the marshal shrugged. He couldn't see what Andrews was getting at either.

  "We would like to believe that the soldiers of the Revolution were all men of high ideals, fighting for the principles of the Declaration of Independence. But we know it was not so. Vision—one vision—is given to some few men by the grace of God. And to the rest is given—faith.

  Faith to follow the vision of their leaders, and, if necessaryg to die for that vision. And this, gentlemen, is the true greatness of the Revolution. "Again and again the Book refers to Our Lord in the image of the Shepherd; He who guides, He who keeps his flock safe from harm, and sees to their well-being. 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.' And the Lord has led us to the green pastures of Oregon, and He has led this nation to grow and fulfill its destiny from ocean to ocean.

  "I pose a question, and it is not merely rhetorical. Through following the shepherd, the flock remains safe. And what happens—I ask you to contemplate seriously—what happens if, in their confidence, the flock ceases to hear the shepherds call? Begins to wander over the green pastures, without leadership? They are decimated by the ravaging hordes of wolves that skulk just over each ridge.

  "For make no mistake—the wolves are there. At this moment even they are licking their chops, wanting no more than the opportunity to descend in ravenous hunger and devour us! At this moment even there are agents of foreign tyrannies living amongst us, hiding their time until they can strike the death blow to this colony!

  "And worse, gentlemen! Claiming rights to this land. Land that was bought by the blood and sacrifice of our ancestors. Our forefathers died that we might possess this continent and make it fruitful. And I say continent because it is not simply a matter of one more nation in the world, but a continent-nation, the greatest single achievement of mankind, the greatest nation that has ever been seen on the face of the earth!"

  There was a great wave of applause, and some shouting. Meek leaned over again to Monday. "McLoughlin just lost another five acres," he whispered. Monday grimaced.

  "Very well," Andrews continued, when the uproar had quieted. "But, when it comes to translating your noble sentiments into action—that is perhaps a different question. For I will tell you plainly, you have ceased to hear the voices of your shepherds. You tolerate what is intolerable, you clasp the viper to your bosom. And you gather here today to celebrate a historical occasion. But hear me! I tell you that Independence Day is not a ommemoration—it is a reminder! For the battle is not yet won, the Revolution is not yet over. The sacred trust our ancestors bequeathed to us has not been kept.

  "We are all soldiers in this great Revolutionary Army, and our task will not be completed while there remains one single jesuitical king's man in the whole of the Oregon Territory!"

  "Run the bastards out!" someone shouted. and there was a roar of agreement. Monday glanced toward the back, where Webb and Devaux stood near the door. Catching his eye, Devaux shrugged and pursed his lips. He brought his right hand casually up to his mouth and made the mountain sign for "talking at great length."

  Andrews paused, leaning forward on the pulpit again when the cheering and acclamation subsided.

  "This danger, then, is clear. But there are others. Dangers surround the flock, and because they have ceased to hear the voices of the shepherds, they risk destruction. This colony exists as an island of Good, surrounded by a turbulent ocean of Evil and Decay. The savages of the hills threaten us with their primitive brutality, yes. But there is more. The moral decay of these barbaric children of Satan threatens us even more than their bloody tomahawks.

  "It was President Madison himself who pointed out the evil tendency for a tiller of the soil to revert to herdsman, for herdsman to revert to hunter. The downward chute to Hell is easy, there is no question of that. Mankind, unclean at birth, must struggle perpetually against the forces of Evil that would drag him back to the primitive, to a life of irresponsibility, wandering over the face
of the earth, godless and soulless.

  "This is why the grinning wolves of the mountains must be rooted out and destroyed. They are the living representatives of Satan, with their nomadic existence, their worship of Satanic gods. It is not the physical harm they do, but the terrifying moral danger they represent.

  "It has been said the eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. And so it is—but, do you conceive, can you understand what eternal vigilance means? It does not mean posting guards on a fortification. Eternal vigilance means not merely physical protection, but watchfulness, watchfulness, The shepherd must ruthlessly eliminate the dangers to his flock, and so must the shepherds of civilization. Eternal watchfulness for sin, for weakness, for those elements of decay and disintegration that threaten the very security of the civilization for which our forefathers died.

  "Let me tell you exactly how the necessary eternal vigilance operates; I need go back no farther than six years, to the year eighteen forty-four, here in the Oregon Country. In that year, you will remember, the Provisional Government passed resolutions interdicting both liquor and Negroes from the country.

  "The interdiction of liquor is, of course, obvious. The terrible degradation wreaked by spiritous liquors is, unhappily, well known. But observe for a moment the second interdiction, against men of color. In keeping with the spirit of the colony, this law was passed to prevent the insidious entry of that devil's institution, slavery. But, did the lawgivers content themselves with prohibiting slavery? No! They struck far deeper, at the very core of the problem, making it a criminal offense for any man of color, free or slave, to be found in Oregon! One so discovered was to be sold to the lowest bidder and conveyed back to the slave states, after the price of passage had been repaid by work here.

  "I cannot communicate my admiration for the men who drafted this resolution, for they were men of foresight. Rather than attacking a mere symptom—slavery—they clear-sightedly struck at the very foundation of the disease, and that foundation is the simple existence of the black man.

  "Where the black exists, the possibility of slavery exists, and even that possibility was avoided by those men, devoted to making this land

  free.

  "It is not, in short, the Negro himself, but the way of life he represents, that is a threat. Equally, it is not the savage with his tomahawk that jeopardizes the well-being of this civilization—but the way of life he represents.

  "Thus, we can see that the danger is not always apparent, except to those who see clearly; that is to say the shepherds. And for the shepherds of this colony to succeed in what may justly be described as a God-given task, they must have the obedience and the cooperation of the flock. As those brave men of the Revolution had faith in their leaders, so must the people of this territory have faith in theirs, endless faith, faith to do what must be done, faith to sustain them through the years of eternal vigilance that are our lot.

  "But this community has not, I am sorry to observe, always manifested that singleness of purpose that has characterized the growth of this nation. Their vigilance has been halfhearted, ineffective.

  "I speak now of a taint, a stain, a corrosion that rots from within, which has been permitted to exist. I speak of the fabled wolves in sheep's clothing, the elements and agents of Satan, slinking silently amongst the flock. The elements of savagery, skulking unperceived in our midst, which pose as great a threat to the security of the community as the more obvious deviltry of the Jesuits.

  "In short, I speak of certain individuals of this community whose actions more closely resemble those of the savage than those of civilized men. Conscienceless individuals, men without moral strength, unwilling to listen to the voice of the shepherd.

  "Men whose manner of dress, manner of speech, manner of thought, reflect not the millennia of civilization since Our Lord Jesus Christ, but the primitive savagery of Satan's children.

  "The blood shed on the battlefields of freedom, Bunker Hill, Concord and Lexington, has been hallowed by history. And yet these men dare—daree, I say—to mingle this sacred blood with the taint of savagery! To satisfy their unnatural lusts they stop at nothing, sending forth upon this green land of Oregon the unclean spawn of animal couplings, neither red nor white, the taint and decay and ineradicable blot of mixed—blood children, fouling the—"

  Meek was standing at the aisle. Calmly, and without a word, he walked up to the pulpit, where Andrews watched him come in astonishment. The minister's face had suddenly turned from the twisted caricature of anger and hatred to surprise. He raised his hands in front of him in a faint gesture.

  Meek grabbed one shoulder and half-twisted him around. Gripping him by the seat of the pants and the collar, he dragged the long dark figure down from the platform and up the aisle, still silent, his face expressionless. At the back, René Devaux quickly reached out and opened the door. As Meek went through, the little Frenchman held the door for him, bowing deeply from the waist. Outside, Meek heaved with all his strength, sending the long figure of Andrews tumbling in the dust of the little square.

  Meek stood on the step with his fists on his hips, watching. Andrews raised himself to his knees, but went no farther. Meek spat in the dust, then wheeled and went back into the church. About half the assembly was standing, staring unbelievingly toward the door, and all the other faces were turned toward him.

  "All right," Meek said. "Show's over. Get the hell out of here."

  On the platform Thurston sat unmoved, watching it all carefully, while on either side of him the other dignitaries were agitated, showing shock and consternation. Monday watched Thurston's face, fascinated by its immobility and calm. Thurston caught his glance, met it casually, then turned away, dismissing him.

  Monday turned to Mary, but she seemed almost not to have heard or seen any of it. She was looking down at Little Webb, stroking his still fuzzy head lightly, with love.

  Chapter Thirteen

  1

  It was past noon when they reached the cabin again. Mary strangely, seemed wholly unmoved by Andrews vicious denunciation. For the first time Monday was almost grateful for her strange state of lethargy and inertia. Nothing could touch her deeply, hurt her deeply. She was too involved with subtle interior currents to be affected by the outside world. There were times. he thought. when it could be a considerable advantage.

  His own strongest feeling was regret that he had not been the one to throw Andrews out of the church. At first he had told himself it was because he was so far from the aisle—there was nothing he could have done. But, in fact, he had not been moved to do anything. He realized miserably that he would probably have sat through whatever was to come, head hanging lower and lower, accepting whatever vileness Andrews chose to dispense without protesting; allowing himself to be shamed.

  The comparative darkness of the cabin was like a refuge. Mary crossed the dim room and put Little Webb gently on the bed. The baby had fallen asleep again for the greater part of the trip, but now he woke and began to squall. It was very rare for him; Monday thought he was probably the most silent child ever born. Sometimes he was disconcerted by the baby's quiet regard, so distant and uncomprehending.

  Mary crooned to the child, tucking the blanket carefully around him. The wailing continued, and at last she picked him up from the bed, opened her dress and gave him the breast. He settled down quickly, closing his eyes.

  "He was hungry," Mary said, smiling at the little face.

  "Mary—don't feel bad. You know, about what Andrews said. It's just one man." But in his mind he saw the heads turn to stare at their pew, faces full of hostility.

  "No," Mary said quietly. "It is not important, that." She shrugged gently jogging the child's head. Little Webb opened his eyes briefly, reprimanding, then quietly clutched the breast again.

  "I'm sorry it turned out that way," Monday muttered, almost to himself. "I hoped—I don't know, I hoped things would be sort of new starting today."

  "It is nothing," Mary said. After a moment she repeate
d absently, "Nothing. It is just the same."

  "Mary, there's one more thing."

  "Yes."

  "I have to go back."

  "Go back?" she said softly.

  "If I don't go back—I mean, if I let the bastards drive me now, there's no end to it. Can you see that? "

  She nodded slowly.

  "If I let 'em run me out like this they'll figure I'm ashamed or something. Hell, I don't know. But I got to face 'em down."

  Little Webb had fallen asleep again. Gently she disengaged him from the breast and tucked him back under the blanket. With her fingertips she lightly caressed the still wrinkled forehead, and the child did not stir. She stood from the bed and turned to Monday.

  "Yes," she said, "it will be all right."

  He kissed her lifted forehead. "Thanks, Mary. We've got to fight this thing through. You understand that."

  "Yes. I understand now, better than before. You must do what you have to do."

  He went outside and unhitched his horse from the borrowed wagon. Hurriedly he saddled and mounted. Mary had come to the door and watched silently.

  "I'll be back early," he promised.

  He sat for a long moment, looking at her framed in the doorway. Her eyes were glistening, and he was afraid she was going to cry again, and he couldn't stand to see it. He pulled the reins suddenly and wheeled the animal off to the trail.

  Mary watched until he was out of sight and the dust had settled back to earth and there was no sign left of his going but his absence.

  She leaned back against the doorframe and let her eyes rove over the distant ridges lying open and clean under the summer sky The timbered hills of the horizon were endlessly far, wavering in the heat like the images of dreams dissolving.