CHAPTER XX.

A LOST OLIGARCH

But in remembering the old life I have run ahead of my story into the

new life. The wholesale jail delivery did not occur until well along

into 1915. Complicated as it was, it was carried through without a

hitch, and as a very creditable achievement it cheered us on in our

work. From Cuba to California, out of scores of jails, military

prisons, and fortresses, in a single night, we delivered fifty-one of

our fifty-two Congressmen, and in addition over three hundred other

leaders. There was not a single instance of miscarriage. Not only did

they escape, but every one of them won to the refuges as planned. The

one comrade Congressman we did not get was Arthur Simpson, and he had

already died in Cabañas after cruel tortures.

The eighteen months that followed was perhaps the happiest of my life

with Ernest. During that time we were never apart. Later, when we went

back into the world, we were separated much. Not more impatiently do I

await the flame of to-morrow’s revolt than did I that night await the

coming of Ernest. I had not seen him for so long, and the thought of a

possible hitch or error in our plans that would keep him still in his

island prison almost drove me mad. The hours passed like ages. I was

all alone. Biedenbach, and three young men who had been living in the

refuge, were out and over the mountain, heavily armed and prepared for

anything. The refuges all over the land were quite empty, I imagine, of

comrades that night.

Just as the sky paled with the first warning of dawn, I heard the

signal from above and gave the answer. In the darkness I almost

embraced Biedenbach, who came down first; but the next moment I was in

Ernest’s arms. And in that moment, so complete had been my

transformation, I discovered it was only by an effort of will that I

could be the old Avis Everhard, with the old mannerisms and smiles,

phrases and intonations of voice. It was by strong effort only that I

was able to maintain my old identity; I could not allow myself to

forget for an instant, so automatically imperative had become the new

personality I had created.

Once inside the little cabin, I saw Ernest’s face in the light. With

the exception of the prison pallor, there was no change in him—at

least, not much. He was my same lover-husband and hero. And yet there

was a certain ascetic lengthening of the lines of his face. But he

could well stand it, for it seemed to add a certain nobility of

refinement to the riotous excess of life that had always marked his

features. He might have been a trifle graver than of yore, but the

glint of laughter still was in his eyes. He was twenty pounds lighter,

but in splendid physical condition. He had kept up exercise during the

whole period of confinement, and his muscles were like iron. In truth,

he was in better condition than when he had entered prison. Hours

passed before his head touched pillow and I had soothed him off to

sleep. But there was no sleep for me. I was too happy, and the fatigue

of jail-breaking and riding horseback had not been mine.

While Ernest slept, I changed my dress, arranged my hair differently,

and came back to my new automatic self. Then, when Biedenbach and the

other comrades awoke, with their aid I concocted a little conspiracy.

All was ready, and we were in the cave-room that served for kitchen and

dining room when Ernest opened the door and entered. At that moment

Biedenbach addressed me as Mary, and I turned and answered him. Then I

glanced at Ernest with curious interest, such as any young comrade

might betray on seeing for the first time so noted a hero of the

Revolution. But Ernest’s glance took me in and questioned impatiently

past and around the room. The next moment I was being introduced to him

as Mary Holmes.

To complete the deception, an extra plate was laid, and when we sat

down to table one chair was not occupied. I could have cried with joy

as I noted Ernest’s increasing uneasiness and impatience. Finally he

could stand it no longer.

“Where’s my wife?” he demanded bluntly.

“She is still asleep,” I answered.

It was the crucial moment. But my voice was a strange voice, and in it

he recognized nothing familiar. The meal went on. I talked a great

deal, and enthusiastically, as a hero-worshipper might talk, and it was

obvious that he was my hero. I rose to a climax of enthusiasm and

worship, and, before he could guess my intention, threw my arms around

his neck and kissed him on the lips. He held me from him at arm’s

length and stared about in annoyance and perplexity. The four men

greeted him with roars of laughter, and explanations were made. At

first he was sceptical. He scrutinized me keenly and was half

convinced, then shook his head and would not believe. It was not until

I became the old Avis Everhard and whispered secrets in his ear that

none knew but he and Avis Everhard, that he accepted me as his really,

truly wife.

It was later in the day that he took me in his arms, manifesting great

embarrassment and claiming polygamous emotions.

“You are my Avis,” he said, “and you are also some one else. You are

two women, and therefore you are my harem. At any rate, we are safe

now. If the United States becomes too hot for us, why I have qualified

for citizenship in Turkey.”[1]

[1] At that time polygamy was still practised in Turkey.

Life became for me very happy in the refuge. It is true, we worked hard

and for long hours; but we worked together. We had each other for

eighteen precious months, and we were not lonely, for there was always

a coming and going of leaders and comrades—strange voices from the

under-world of intrigue and revolution, bringing stranger tales of

strife and war from all our battle-line. And there was much fun and

delight. We were not mere gloomy conspirators. We toiled hard and

suffered greatly, filled the gaps in our ranks and went on, and through

all the labour and the play and interplay of life and death we found

time to laugh and love. There were artists, scientists, scholars,

musicians, and poets among us; and in that hole in the ground culture

was higher and finer than in the palaces of wonder-cities of the

oligarchs. In truth, many of our comrades toiled at making beautiful

those same palaces and wonder-cities.[2]

[2] This is not braggadocio on the part of Avis Everhard. The flower

of the artistic and intellectual world were revolutionists. With the

exception of a few of the musicians and singers, and of a few of the

oligarchs, all the great creators of the period whose names have come

down to us, were revolutionists.

Nor were we confined to the refuge itself. Often at night we rode over

the mountains for exercise, and we rode on Wickson’s horses. If only he

knew how many revolutionists his horses have carried! We even went on

picnics to isolated spots we knew, where we remained all day, going

before daylight and returning after dark. Also, we used Wickson’s cream

and butter,[3] and Ernest was not above shooting Wickson’s quail and

rabbits, and, on occasion, his young bucks.

[3] Even as late as that period, cream and butter were still crudely

extracted from cow’s milk. The laboratory preparation of foods had not

yet begun.

Indeed, it was a safe refuge. I have said that it was discovered only

once, and this brings me to the clearing up of the mystery of the

disappearance of young Wickson. Now that he is dead, I am free to

speak. There was a nook on the bottom of the great hole where the sun

shone for several hours and which was hidden from above. Here we had

carried many loads of gravel from the creek-bed, so that it was dry and

warm, a pleasant basking place; and here, one afternoon, I was

drowsing, half asleep, over a volume of Mendenhall.[4] I was so

comfortable and secure that even his flaming lyrics failed to stir me.

[4] In all the extant literature and documents of that period,

continual reference is made to the poems of Rudolph Mendenhall. By his

comrades he was called “The Flame.” He was undoubtedly a great genius;

yet, beyond weird and haunting fragments of his verse, quoted in the

writings of others, nothing of his has come down to us. He was

executed by the Iron Heel in 1928 A.D.

I was aroused by a clod of earth striking at my feet. Then from above,

I heard a sound of scrambling. The next moment a young man, with a

final slide down the crumbling wall, alighted at my feet. It was Philip

Wickson, though I did not know him at the time. He looked at me coolly

and uttered a low whistle of surprise.

“Well,” he said; and the next moment, cap in hand, he was saying, “I

beg your pardon. I did not expect to find any one here.”

I was not so cool. I was still a tyro so far as concerned knowing how

to behave in desperate circumstances. Later on, when I was an

international spy, I should have been less clumsy, I am sure. As it

was, I scrambled to my feet and cried out the danger call.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, looking at me searchingly.

It was evident that he had no suspicion of our presence when making the

descent. I recognized this with relief.

“For what purpose do you think I did it?” I countered. I was indeed

clumsy in those days.

“I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head. “Unless you’ve got

friends about. Anyway, you’ve got some explanations to make. I don’t

like the look of it. You are trespassing. This is my father’s land,

and—”

But at that moment, Biedenbach, ever polite and gentle, said from

behind him in a low voice, “Hands up, my young sir.”

Young Wickson put his hands up first, then turned to confront

Biedenbach, who held a thirty-thirty automatic rifle on him. Wickson

was imperturbable.

“Oh, ho,” he said, “a nest of revolutionists—and quite a hornet’s nest

it would seem. Well, you won’t abide here long, I can tell you.”

“Maybe you’ll abide here long enough to reconsider that statement,”

Biedenbach said quietly. “And in the meanwhile I must ask you to come

inside with me.”

“Inside?” The young man was genuinely astonished. “Have you a catacomb

here? I have heard of such things.”

“Come and see,” Biedenbach answered with his adorable accent.

“But it is unlawful,” was the protest.

“Yes, by your law,” the terrorist replied significantly. “But by our

law, believe me, it is quite lawful. You must accustom yourself to the

fact that you are in another world than the one of oppression and

brutality in which you have lived.”

“There is room for argument there,” Wickson muttered.

“Then stay with us and discuss it.”

The young fellow laughed and followed his captor into the house. He was

led into the inner cave-room, and one of the young comrades left to

guard him, while we discussed the situation in the kitchen.

Biedenbach, with tears in his eyes, held that Wickson must die, and was

quite relieved when we outvoted him and his horrible proposition. On

the other hand, we could not dream of allowing the young oligarch to

depart.

“I’ll tell you what to do,” Ernest said. “We’ll keep him and give him

an education.”

“I bespeak the privilege, then, of enlightening him in jurisprudence,”

Biedenbach cried.

And so a decision was laughingly reached. We would keep Philip Wickson

a prisoner and educate him in our ethics and sociology. But in the

meantime there was work to be done. All trace of the young oligarch

must be obliterated. There were the marks he had left when descending

the crumbling wall of the hole. This task fell to Biedenbach, and,

slung on a rope from above, he toiled cunningly for the rest of the day

till no sign remained. Back up the canyon from the lip of the hole all

marks were likewise removed. Then, at twilight, came John Carlson, who

demanded Wickson’s shoes.

The young man did not want to give up his shoes, and even offered to

fight for them, till he felt the horseshoer’s strength in Ernest’s

hands. Carlson afterward reported several blisters and much grievous

loss of skin due to the smallness of the shoes, but he succeeded in

doing gallant work with them. Back from the lip of the hole, where

ended the young man’s obliterated trial, Carlson put on the shoes and

walked away to the left. He walked for miles, around knolls, over

ridges and through canyons, and finally covered the trail in the

running water of a creek-bed. Here he removed the shoes, and, still

hiding trail for a distance, at last put on his own shoes. A week later

Wickson got back his shoes.

That night the hounds were out, and there was little sleep in the

refuge. Next day, time and again, the baying hounds came down the

canyon, plunged off to the left on the trail Carlson had made for them,

and were lost to ear in the farther canyons high up the mountain. And

all the time our men waited in the refuge, weapons in hand—automatic

revolvers and rifles, to say nothing of half a dozen infernal machines

of Biedenbach’s manufacture. A more surprised party of rescuers could

not be imagined, had they ventured down into our hiding-place.

I have now given the true disappearance of Philip Wickson, one-time

oligarch, and, later, comrade in the Revolution. For we converted him

in the end. His mind was fresh and plastic, and by nature he was very

ethical. Several months later we rode him, on one of his father’s

horses, over Sonoma Mountains to Petaluma Creek and embarked him in a

small fishing-launch. By easy stages we smuggled him along our

underground railway to the Carmel refuge.

There he remained eight months, at the end of which time, for two

reasons, he was loath to leave us. One reason was that he had fallen in

love with Anna Roylston, and the other was that he had become one of

us. It was not until he became convinced of the hopelessness of his

love affair that he acceded to our wishes and went back to his father.

Ostensibly an oligarch until his death, he was in reality one of the

most valuable of our agents. Often and often has the Iron Heel been

dumbfounded by the miscarriage of its plans and operations against us.

If it but knew the number of its own members who are our agents, it

would understand. Young Wickson never wavered in his loyalty to the

Cause. In truth, his very death was incurred by his devotion to duty.

In the great storm of 1927, while attending a meeting of our leaders,

he contracted the pneumonia of which he died.[5]

[5] The case of this young man was not unusual. Many young men of the

Oligarchy, impelled by sense of right conduct, or their imaginations

captured by the glory of the Revolution, ethically or romantically

devoted their lives to it. In similar way, many sons of the Russian

nobility played their parts in the earlier and protracted revolution

in that country.