【有声英语文学名著】不会发生在这里（30）

 It Can't Happen Here

by Sinclair Lewis
 
Chapter 30
But worse than having to be civil to the fatuous 1 Mr. Tasbrough was keeping his mouth shut when, toward the end of June, a newspaperman at Battington, Vermont, was suddenly arrested as editor of Vermont Vigilance and author of all the pamphlets by Doremus and Lorinda. He went to concentration camp. Buck 3 and Dan Wilgus and Sissy prevented Doremus from confessing, and from even going to call on the victim, and when, with Lorinda no longer there as confidante, Doremus tried to explain it all to Emma, she said, Wasn't it lucky that the government had blamed somebody else!
Emma had worked out the theory that the N.U. activity was some sort of a naughty game which kept her boy, Doremus, busy after his retirement 4. He was mildly nagging 6 the Corpos. She wasn't sure that it was really nice to nag 5 the legal authorities, but still, for a little fellow, her Doremus had always been surprisingly spunky--just like (she often confided 7 to Sissy) a spunky little Scotch 8 terrier she had owned when she was a girl--Mr. McNabbit its name had been, a little Scotch terrier, but my! so spunky he acted like he was a regular lion!
She was rather glad that Lorinda was gone, though she liked Lorinda and worried about how well she might do with a tea room in a new town, a town where she had never lived. But she just couldn't help feeling (she confided not only to Sissy but to Mary and Buck) that Lorinda, with all her wild crazy ideas about women's rights, and workmen being just as good as their employers, had a bad influence on Doremus's tendency to show off and shock people. (She mildly wondered why Buck and Sissy snorted so. She hadn't meant to say anything particularly funny!)
For too many years she had been used to Doremus's irregular routine to have her sleep disturbed by his returning from Buck's at the improper 9 time to which she referred as "at all hours," but she did wish he would be "more on time for his meals," and she gave up the question of why, these days, he seemed to like to associate with Ordinary People like John Pollikop, Dan Wilgus, Daniel Babcock, and Pete Vutong--my! some people said Pete couldn't even read and write, and Doremus so educated and all! Why didn't he see more of lovely people like Frank Tasbrough and Professor Staubmeyer and Mr. R. C. Crowley and this new friend of his, the Hon. John Sullivan Reek 10?
Why couldn't he keep out of politics? She'd always said they were no occupation for a gentleman!
Like David, now ten years old (and like twenty or thirty million other Americans, from one to a hundred, but all of the same mental age), Emma thought the marching M.M.'s were a very fine show indeed, so much like movies of the Civil War, really quite educational; and while of course if Doremus didn't care for President Windrip, she was opposed to him also, yet didn't Mr. Windrip speak beautifully about pure language, church attendance, low taxation 11, and the American flag?
The realists, the makers 12 of omelets, did climb, as Tasbrough had predicted. Colonel Dewey Haik, Commissioner 13 of the Northeastern Province, became Secretary of War and High Marshal of M.M.'s, while the former secretary, Colonel Luthorne, retired 15 to Kansas and the real-estate business and was well spoken of by all business men for being thus willing to give up the grandeur 17 of Washington for duty toward practical affairs and his family, who were throughout the press depicted 18 as having frequently missed him. It was rumored 19 in N.U. cells that Haik might go higher even than Secretary of War; that Windrip was worried by the forced growth of a certain effeminacy in Lee Sarason under the arc light of glory.
Francis Tasbrough was elevated to District Commissionership at Hanover. But Mr. Sullivan Reek did not in series go on to be Provincial 21 Commissioner. It was said that he had too many friends among just the old-line politicians whose jobs the Corpos were so enthusiastically taking. No, the new Provincial Commissioner, viceroy and general, was Military Judge Effingham Swan, the one man whom Mary Jessup Greenhill hated more than she did Shad Ledue.
Swan was a splendid commissioner. Within three days after taking office, he had John Sullivan Reek and seven assistant district commissioners 20 arrested, tried, and imprisoned 22, all within twenty-four hours, and an eighty-year-old woman, mother of a New Underground agent but not otherwise accused of wickedness, penned in a concentration camp for the more desperate traitors 23. It was in a disused quarry 24 which was always a foot deep in water. After he had sentenced her, Swan was said to have bowed to her most courteously 25.
The New Underground sent out warning, from headquarters in Montreal, for a general tightening 26 up of precautions against being caught distributing propaganda. Agents were disappearing rather alarmingly.
Buck scoffed 27, but Doremus was nervous. He noticed that the same strange man, ostensibly a drummer, a large man with unpleasant eyes, had twice got into conversation with him in the Hotel Wessex lobby, and too obviously hinted that he was anti-Corpo and would love to have Doremus say something nasty about the Chief and the M.M.'s.
Doremus became cautious about going out to Buck's. He parked his car in half-a-dozen different wood-roads and crept afoot to the secret basement.
On the evening of the twenty-eighth of June, 1938, he had a notion that he was being followed, so closely did a car with red-tinted headlights, anxiously watched in his rear-view mirror, stick behind him as he took the Keezmet highway down to Buck's. He turned up a side road, down another. The spy car followed. He stopped, in a driveway on the left-hand side of the road, and angrily stepped out, in time to see the other car pass, with a man who looked like Shad Ledue driving. He swung round then and, without concealment 28, bolted for Buck's.
In the basement, Buck was contentedly 29 tying up bundles of the Vigilance, while Father Perefixe, in his shirtsleeves, vest open and black dickey swinging beneath his reversed collar, sat at a plain pine table, writing a warning to New England Catholics that though the Corpos had, unlike the Nazis 30 in Germany, been shrewd enough to flatter prelates, they had lowered the wages of French-Canadian Catholic mill hands and imprisoned their leaders just as severely 31 as in the case of the avowedly 32 wicked Protestants.
Perefixe smiled up at Doremus, stretched, lighted a pipe, and chuckled 33, "As a great ecclesiast, Doremus, is it your opinion that I shall be committing a venial 34 or a mortal sin by publishing this little masterpiece--the work of my favorite author--without the Bishop's imprimatur?"
"Stephen! Buck! I think they're on to us! Maybe we've got to fold up already and get the press and type out of here!" He told of being shadowed. He telephoned to Julian, at M.M. headquarters, and (since there were too many French-Canadian inspectors 35 about for him to dare to use his brand of French) he telephoned in the fine new German he had been learning by translation:
"Denks du ihr Freunds dere haben a Idee die letzt Tag von vot ve mach here?"
And the college-bred Julian had so much international culture as to be able to answer: "Ja, Ich mein ihr vos sachen morning free. Look owid!"
How could they move? Where?
Dan Wilgus arrived, in panic, an hour after.
"Say! They're watching us!" Doremus, Buck, and the priest gathered round the black viking of a man. "Just now when I came in I thought I heard something in the bushes, here in the yard, near the house, and before I thought, I flashed my torch on him, and by golly if it wasn't Aras Dilley, and not in uniform--and you know how Aras loves his God--excuse me, Father--how he loves his uniform. He was disguised! Sure! In overalls 38! Looked like a jackass that's gone under a clothes-line! Well, he'd been rubbering at the house. Course these curtains are drawn 39, but I don't know what he saw and--"
The three large men looked to Doremus for orders.
"We got to get all this stuff out of here! Quick! Take it and hide it in Truman Webb's attic 40. Stephen: get John Pollikop and Mungo Kitterick and Pete Vutong on the phone--get 'em here, quick--tell John to stop by and tell Julian to come as soon as he can. Dan: start dismantling 41 the press. Buck: bundle up all the literature." As he spoke 16, Doremus was wrapping type in scraps 42 of newspaper. And at three next morning, before light, Pollikop was driving toward Truman Webb's farmhouse 43 the entire equipment of the New Underground printing establishment, in Buck's old farm truck, from which blatted, for the benefit of all ears that might be concerned, two frightened calves 44.
Next day Julian ventured to invite his superior officers, Shad Ledue and Emil Staubmeyer, to a poker 45 session at Buck's. They came, with alacrity 46. They found Buck, Doremus, Mungo Kitterick, and Doc Itchitt--the last an entirely 47 innocent participant in certain deceptions 48.
They played in Buck's parlor 49. But during the evening Buck announced that anyone wanting beer instead of whisky would find it in a tub of ice in the basement, and that anyone wishing to wash his hands would find two bathrooms upstairs.
Shad hastily went for beer. Doc Itchitt even more hastily went to wash his hands. Both of them were gone much longer than one would have expected.
When the party broke up and Buck and Doremus were alone, Buck shrieked 51 with bucolic 52 mirth: "I could scarcely keep a straight face when I heard good old Shad opening the cupboards and taking a fine long look-see for pamphlets down in the basement. Well, Cap'n Jessup, that about ends their suspicion of this place as a den 2 of traitors, I guess! God, but isn't Shad dumb!"
This was at perhaps 3 A.M. on the morning of June thirtieth.
Doremus stayed home, writing sedition 53, all the afternoon and evening of the thirtieth, hiding the sheets under pages of newspaper in the Franklin stove in his study, so that he could touch them off with a match in case of a raid--a trick he had learned from Karl Billinger's anti-Nazi Fatherland.
This new opus was devoted 54 to murders ordered by Commissioner Effingham Swan.
On the first and second of July, when he sauntered uptown, he was rather noticeably encountered by the same weighty drummer who had picked him up in the Hotel Wessex lobby before, and who now insisted on their having a drink together. Doremus escaped, and was conscious that he was being followed by an unknown young man, flamboyant 55 in an apricot-colored polo shirt and gray bags, whom he recognized as having worn M.M. uniform at a parade in June. On July third, rather panicky, Doremus drove to Truman Webb's, taking an hour of zigzagging 56 to do it, and warned Truman not to permit any more printing till he should have a release.
When Doremus went home, Sissy lightly informed him that Shad had insisted she go out to an M.M. picnic with him on the next afternoon, the Fourth, and that, information or no, she had refused. She was afraid of him, surrounded by his ready playmates.
That night of the third, Doremus slept only in sick spasms 57. He was reasonlessly convinced that he would be arrested before dawn. The night was overcast 58 and electric and uneasy. The crickets sounded as though they were piping under compulsion, in a rhythm of terror. He lay throbbing 59 to their sound. He wanted to flee--but how and where, and how could he leave his threatened family? For the first time in years he wished that he were sleeping beside the unperturbable Emma, beside her small earthy hillock of body. He laughed at himself. What could Emma do to protect him against Minute Men? Just scream! And what then? But he, who always slept with his door shut, to protect his sacred aloneness, popped out of bed to open the door, that he might have the comfort of hearing her breathe, and the fiercer Mary stir in slumber 60, and Sissy's occasional young whimper.
He was awakened 61 before dawn by early firecrackers. He heard the tramping of feet. He lay taut 62. Then he awoke again, at seven-thirty, and was slightly angry that nothing happened.
The M.M.'s brought out their burnished 63 helmets and all the rideable horses in the neighborhood--some of them known as most superior plow-horses--for the great celebration of the New Freedom on the morning of Fourth of July. There was no post of the American Legion in the jaunty 64 parade. That organization had been completely suppressed, and a number of American Legion leaders had been shot. Others had tactfully taken posts in the M.M. itself.
The troops, in hollow square, with the ordinary citizenry humbly 65 jammed in behind them and the Jessup family rather hoity-toity on the outskirts 66, were addressed by Ex-Governor Isham Hubbard, a fine ruddy old rooster who could say "Cock-a-doodle-do" with more profundity 67 than any fowl 68 since Æsop. He announced that the Chief had extraordinary resemblances to Washington, Jefferson, and William B. McKinley, and to Napoleon on his better days.
The trumpets 69 blew, the M.M.'s gallantly 70 marched off nowhere in particular, and Doremus went home, feeling much better after his laugh. Following noon dinner, since it was raining, he proposed a game of contract to Emma, Mary, and Sissy--with Mrs. Candy as volunteer umpire.
But the thunder of the hill country disquieted 71 him. Whenever he was dummy 72, he ambled 73 to a window. The rain ceased; the sun came out for a false, hesitating moment, and the wet grass looked unreal. Clouds with torn bottoms, like the hem 50 of a ragged 74 skirt, were driven down the valley, cutting off the bulk of Mount Faithful; the sun went out as in a mammoth 75 catastrophe 76; and instantly the world was in unholy darkness, which poured into the room.
"Why, it's quite dark, isn't it! Sissy, turn on the lights," said Emma.
The rain attacked again, in a crash, and to Doremus, looking out, the whole knowable world seemed washed out. Through the deluge 77 he saw a huge car flash, the great wheels throwing up fountains. "Wonder what make of car that is? Must be a sixteen-cylinder Cadillac, I guess," reflected Doremus. The car swerved 78 into his own gateway 79, almost knocking down a gatepost, and stopped with a jar at his porch. From it leaped five Minute Men, black waterproof 80 capes 81 over their uniforms. Before he could quite get through the reflection that he recognized none of them, they were there in the room. The leader, an ensign (and most certainly Doremus did not recognize him) marched up to Doremus, looked at him casually 82, and struck him full in the face.
Except for the one light pink of the bayonet when he had been arrested before, except for an occasional toothache or headache, or a smart when he had banged a fingernail, Doremus Jessup had not for thirty years known authentic 83 pain. It was as incredible as it was horrifying 84, this torture in his eyes and nose and crushed mouth. He stood bent 85, gasping 87, and the Ensign again smashed his face, and observed, "You are under arrest."
Mary had launched herself on the Ensign, was hitting at him with a china ash tray. Two M.M.'s dragged her off, threw her on the couch, and one of them pinned her there. The other two guards were bulking over the paralyzed Emma, the galvanized Sissy.
Doremus vomited 89 suddenly and collapsed 90, as though he were dead drunk.
He was conscious that the five M.M.'s were yanking the books from the shelves and hurling 91 them on the floor, so that the covers split, and with their pistol butts 92 smashing vases and lamp shades and small occasional tables. One of them tattooed 93 a rough M M on the white paneling above the fireplace with shots from his automatic.
The Ensign said only, "Careful, Jim," and kissed the hysterical 94 Sissy.
Doremus struggled to get up. An M.M. kicked him in the elbow. It felt like death itself, and Doremus writhed 95 on the floor. He heard them tramping upstairs. He remembered then that his manuscript about the murders by Provincial Commissioner Effingham Swan was hidden in the Franklin stove in his study.
The sound of their smashing of furniture in the bedrooms on the second floor was like that of a dozen wood-choppers gone mad.
In all his agony, Doremus struggled to get up--to set fire to the papers in the stove before they should be found. He tried to look at his women. He could make out Mary, tied to the couch. (When had that ever happened?) But his vision was too blurred 96, his mind too bruised 97, to see anything clearly. Staggering, sometimes creeping on his hands and knees, he did actually get past the men in the bedrooms and up the stairs to the third floor and his study.
He was in time to see the Ensign throwing his best-beloved books and his letter files, accumulated these twenty years, out of the study window, to see him search the papers in the Franklin stove, look up with cheerful triumph and cackle, "Nice piece you've written here, I guess, Jessup. Commissioner Swan will love to see it!"
"I demand--see--Commissioner Ledue--Dist' Commissioner Tasbrough--friends of mine," stammered 98 Doremus.
"Don't know a thing about them. I'm running this show," the Ensign chuckled, and slapped Doremus, not very painfully, merely with a shamefulness 100 as great as Doremus's when he realized that he had been so cowardly as to appeal to Shad and Francis. He did not open his mouth again, did not whimper nor even amuse the troopers by vainly appealing on behalf of the women, as he was hustled 101 down two flights of stairs--they threw him down the lower flight and he landed on his raw shoulder--and out to the big car.
The M.M. driver, who had been waiting behind the wheel, already had the engine running. The car whined 102 away, threatening every instant to skid 103. But the Doremus who had been queasy 104 about skidding 105 did not notice. What could he do about it, anyway? He was helpless between two troopers in the back seat, and his powerlessness to make the driver slow up seemed part of all his powerlessness before the dictator's power . . . he who had always so taken it for granted that in his dignity and social security he was just slightly superior to laws and judges and policemen, to all the risks and pain of ordinary workers.
He was unloaded, like a balky mule 106, at the jail entrance of the courthouse. He resolved that when he was led before Shad he would so rebuke 107 the scoundrel that he would not forget it. But Doremus was not taken into the courthouse. He was kicked toward a large, black-painted, unlettered truck by the entrance--literally kicked, while even in his bewildered anguish 108 he speculated, "I wonder which is worse?--the physical pain of being kicked, or the mental humiliation 109 of being turned into a slave? Hell! Don't be sophistical! It's the pain in the behind that hurts most!"
He was hiked up a stepladder into the back of the truck.
From the unlighted interior a moan, "My God, not you too, Dormouse!" It was the voice of Buck Titus, and with him as prisoners were Truman Webb and Dan Wilgus. Dan was in handcuffs, because he had fought so.
The four men were too sore to talk much as they felt the truck lurch 110 away and they were thrown against one another. Once Doremus spoke truthfully, "I don't know how to tell you how ghastly sorry I am to have got you into this!" and once he lied, when Buck groaned 112, "Did those ----- ----- hurt the girls?"
They must have ridden for three hours. Doremus was in such a coma 113 of suffering that even though his back winced 114 as it bounced against the rough floor and his face was all one neuralgia, he drowsed and woke to terror, drowsed and woke, drowsed and woke to his own helpless wailing 115.
The truck stopped. The doors were opened on lights thick among white brick buildings. He hazily 116 saw that they were on the one-time Dartmouth campus--headquarters now of the Corpo District Commissioner.
That commissioner was his old acquaintance Francis Tasbrough! He would be released! They would be freed, all four!
The incredulity of his humiliation cleared away. He came out of his sick fear like a shipwrecked man sighting an approaching boat.
But he did not see Tasbrough. The M.M.'s, silent save for mechanical cursing, drove him into a hallway, into a cell which had once been part of a sedate 118 classroom, left him with a final clout 119 on the head. He dropped on a wooden pallet with a straw pillow and was instantly asleep. He was too dazed--he who usually looked recordingly at places--to note then or afterward 120 what his cell was like, except that it appeared to be filled with sulphuric fumes 121 from a locomotive engine.
When he came to, his face seemed frozen stiff. His coat was torn, and foul 122 with the smell of vomit 88. He felt degraded, as though he had done something shameful 99.
His door was violently opened, a dirt-clotted bowl of feeble coffee, with a crust of bread faintly smeared 123 with oleomargarine, was thrust at him, and after he had given them up, nauseated 124, he was marched out into the corridor, by two guards, just as he wanted to go to the toilet. Even that he could forget in the paralysis 125 of fear. One guard seized him by the trim small beard and yanked it, laughing very much. "Always did want to see whether a billygoat whisker would pull out or not!" snickered the guard. While he was thus tormented 126, Doremus received a crack behind his ear from the other man, and a scolding command, "Come on, goat! Want us to milk you? You dirty little so-and-so! What you in for? You look like a little Kike tailor, you little -----"
"Him?" the other scoffed. "Naw! He's some kind of a half-eared hick newspaper editor--they'll sure shoot him--sedition--but I hope they'll beat hell out of him first for being such a bum 127 editor."
"Him? An editor? Say! Listen! I got a swell 128 idea. Hey! Fellas!" Four or five other M.M.'s, half dressed, looked out from a room down the hall. "This-here is a writing-fellow! I'm going to make him show us how he writes! Lookit!"
The guard dashed down the corridor to a door with the sign "Gents" hung out in front of it, came back with paper, not clean, threw it in front of Doremus, and yammered, "Come on, boss. Show us how you write your pieces! Come on, write us a piece--with your nose!" He was iron-strong. He pressed Doremus's nose down against the filthy 129 paper and held it there, while his mates giggled 130. They were interrupted by an officer, commanding, though leniently 131, "Come on, boys, cut out the monkeyshines and take this ----- to the bull pen. Trial this morning."
Doremus was led to a dirty room in which half-a-dozen prisoners were waiting. One of them was Buck Titus. Over one eye Buck had a slatternly bandage which had so loosened as to show that his forehead was cut to the bone. Buck managed to wink 132 jovially 133. Doremus tried, vainly, to keep from sobbing 134.
He waited an hour, standing 135, arms tight at his side, at the demands of an ugly-faced guard, snapping a dog whip with which he twice slashed 136 Doremus when his hands fell lax.
Buck was led into the trial room just before him. The door was closed. Doremus heard Buck cry out terribly, as though he had been wounded to death. The cry faded into a choked gasping. When Buck was led out of the inner room, his face was as dirty and as pale as his bandage, over which blood was now creeping. The man at the door of the inner room jerked his thumb sharply at Doremus, and snarled 137, "You're next!"
Now he would face Tasbrough!
But in the small room into which he had been taken--and he was confused, because somehow he had expected a large courtroom--there was only the Ensign who had arrested him yesterday, sitting at a table, running through papers, while a stolid 138 M.M. stood on either side of him, rigid 139, hand on pistol holster.
The Ensign kept him waiting, then snapped with disheartening suddenness, "Your name!"
"You know it!"
The two guards beside Doremus each hit him.
"Your name?"
"Doremus Jessup."
"You're a Communist!"
"No I'm not!"
"Twenty-five lashes 140--and the oil."
Not believing, not understanding, Doremus was rushed across the room, into a cellar beyond. A long wooden table there was dark with dry blood, stank 141 with dry blood. The guards seized Doremus, sharply jerked his head back, pried 142 open his jaws 143, and poured in a quart of castor oil. They tore off his garments above the belt, flung them on the sticky floor. They threw him face downward on the long table and began to lash 36 him with a one-piece steel fishing rod. Each stroke cut into the flesh of his back, and they beat him slowly, relishing 144 it, to keep him from fainting too quickly. But he was unconscious when, to the guards' great diversion, the castor oil took effect. Indeed he did not know it till he found himself limp on a messy piece of gunnysacking on the floor of his cell.
They awakened him twice during the night to demand, "You're a Communist, heh? You better admit it! We're going to beat the living tar 14 out of you till you do!"
Though he was sicker than he had ever been in his life, yet he was also angrier; too angry to admit anything whatever, even to save his wrecked 117 life. He simply snarled "No." But on the third beating he savagely 145 wondered if "No" was now a truthful 111 answer. After each questioning he was pounded again with fists, but not lashed 37 with the steel rod, because the headquarters doctor had forbidden it.
He was a sporty-looking young doctor in plus-fours. He yawned at the guards, in the blood-reeking cellar, "Better cut out the lashes or this ----- will pass out on you."
Doremus raised his head from the table to gasp 86, "You call yourself a doctor, and you associate with these murderers?"
"Oh, shut up, you little -----! Dirty traitors like you deserve to be beaten to death--and maybe you will be, but I think the boys ought to save you for the trial!" The doctor showed his scientific mettle 146 by twisting Doremus's ear till it felt as though it were torn off, chuckled, "Go to it, boys," and ambled away, ostentatiously humming.
For three nights he was questioned and lashed--once, late at night, by guards who complained of the inhuman 147 callousness 148 of their officers in making them work so late. They amused themselves by using an old harness strap 149, with a buckle 150 on it, to beat him.
He almost broke down when the examining Ensign declared that Buck Titus had confessed their illegal propaganda, and narrated 151 so many details of the work that Doremus could almost have believed in the confession 152. He did not listen. He told himself, "No! Buck would die before he'd confess anything. It's all Aras Dilley's spying."
The Ensign cooed, "Now if you'll just have the sense to copy your friend Titus and tell us who's in the conspiracy 153 besides him and you and Wilgus and Webb, we'll let you go. We know, all right--oh, we know the whole plot!--but we just want to find out whether you've finally come to your senses and been converted, my little friend. Now who else was there? Just give us their names. We'll let you go. Or would you like the castor oil and the whip again?"
Doremus did not answer.
"Ten lashes," said the Ensign.
He was chased out for half an hour's walk on the campus every afternoon--probably because he would have preferred lying on his hard cot, trying to keep still enough so that his heart would stop its deathly hammering. Half a hundred prisoners marched there, round and round senselessly. He passed Buck Titus. To salute 154 him would have meant a blow from the guards. They greeted each other with quick eyelids 155, and when he saw those untroubled spaniel eyes, Doremus knew that Buck had not squealed 156.
And in the exercise yard he saw Dan Wilgus, but Dan was not walking free; he was led out from the torture rooms by guards, and with his crushed nose, his flattened 157 ear, he looked as though he had been pounded by a prizefighter. He seemed partly paralyzed. Doremus tried to get information about Dan from a guard in his cell corridor. The guard--a handsome, clear-cheeked young man, noted 158 in a valley of the White Mountains as a local beau, and very kind to his mother--laughed, "Oh, your friend Wilgus? That chump thinks he can lick his weight in wildcats. I hear he always tries to soak the guards. They'll take that out of him, all right!"
Doremus thought, that night--he could not be sure, but he thought he heard Dan wailing, half the night. Next morning he was told that Dan, who had always been so disgusted when he had had to set up the news of a weakling's suicide, had hanged himself in his cell.
Then, unexpectedly, Doremus was taken into a room, this time reasonably large, a former English classroom turned into a court, for his trial.
But it was not District Commissioner Francis Tasbrough who was on the bench, nor any Military Judge, but no less a Protector of the People than the great new Provincial Commissioner, Effingham Swan.
Swan was looking at Doremus's article about him as Doremus was led up to stand before the bench. He spoke--and this harsh, tired-looking man was no longer the airy Rhodes Scholar who had sported with Doremus once like a boy pulling the wings off flies.
"Jessup, do you plead guilty to seditious activities?"
"Why--" Doremus looked helplessly about for something in the way of legal counsel.
"Commissioner Tasbrough!" called Swan.
So at last Doremus did see his boyhood playmate.
Tasbrough did nothing so commendable 159 as to avoid Doremus's eyes. Indeed he looked at Doremus directly, and most affably, as he spoke his piece:
"Your Excellency, it gives me great pain to have to expose this man, Jessup, whom I have known all my life, and tried to help, but he always was a smart-aleck--he was a laughing-stock in Fort Beulah for the way he tried to show off as a great political leader!--and when the Chief was elected, he was angry because he didn't get any political office, and he went about everywhere trying to disaffect people--I have heard him do so myself."
"That's enough. Thanks. County Commissioner Ledue . . . Captain Ledue, is it or is it not true that the man Jessup tried to persuade you to join a violent plot against my person?"
But Shad did not look at Doremus as he mumbled 160, "It's true."
Swan crackled, "Gentlemen, I think that that, plus the evidence contained in the prisoner's own manuscript, which I hold here, is sufficient testimony 161. Prisoner, if it weren't for your age and your damn silly senile weakness, I'd sentence you to a hundred lashes, as I do all the other Communists like you that threaten the Corporate 162 State. As it is, I sentence you to be held in concentration camp, at the will of the Court, but with a minimum sentence of seventeen years." Doremus calculated rapidly. He was sixty-two now. He would be seventy-nine then. He never would see freedom again. "And, in the power of issuing emergency decrees, conferred upon me as Provincial Commissioner, I also sentence you to death by shooting, but I suspend that sentence--though only until such time as you may be caught trying to escape! And I hope you'll have just lots and lots of time in prison, Jessup, to think about how clever you were in this entrancing article you wrote about me! And to remember that any nasty cold morning they may take you out in the rain and shoot you." He ended with a mild suggestion to the guards: "And twenty lashes!"
Two minutes later they had forced castor oil down him; he lay trying to bite at the stained wood of the whipping-table; and he could hear the whish of the steel fishing rod as a guard playfully tried it out in the air before bringing it down across the crisscross wounds of his raw back.