Various - "Notes & Queries, No. 43, Saturday, August 24, 1850"

E. Arnold Bennett - "The Human Machine"

Arnold Bennett - "Leonora"

Gustave Flaubert - "Over Strand and Field"

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Broken to the Plow written by Charles Caldwell Dobie

C >> Charles Caldwell Dobie >> Broken to the Plow




Fred wondered how he lived through these dreadful evenings with the
air thick to choking. Indeed, he used to wonder what had saved him
from death at any stage of the game. Storch had permitted him the use
of a maggoty couch, had shared scraps of indifferent food at irregular
intervals, and set a cracked pitcher of water within reach. But beyond
that, he had been ignored. The nightly assembly did not even cast
their glances his way.

During the day Fred was left alone for the most part, and he felt a
certain luxury in this personal solitude after the months at Fairview
with its unescapable human contacts. He would lie there, his ears
still ringing with the echoes from the nightly gathering of
malcontents, trying to reconstruct his own quarrel with life. He had a
feeling that he would remain a silent onlooker only until Storch
decreed otherwise. If he stayed long enough the night would come when
Storch would call upon him for a testimonial of hatred. He knew that
deep down somewhere within him rancors were stirring to sinister life.
He had experienced the first glimmerings of cruelty in that moment
when he had felt Brauer tremble under his grasp. What would have been
his reaction to physical fear on Helen Starratt's part? Suppose on
that afternoon when he had watched her wheeling Mrs. Hilmer up and
down with deceitful patience he had gone over and struck her the blow
which was primitively her portion? Would the sight of her whimpering
fear have stirred him to further elemental cruelties? Would he have
ended by killing her? ... Physically weak as he was, he could still
feel the thrill of cruelty that had shaken him at the realization of
Brauer's dismay. As a child, when a truant gust of deviltry had swept
him, he had felt the same satisfaction in pummeling a comrade who
backed away from friendly cuffs turned instantly to blows of malice.
Even now he had occasionally a desire to seek out Brauer again and
worry him further. He was fearing indifference. What if, after all
that he had suffered at the hands of others, he should find himself in
the pale clutch of an impotent indifference? He felt a certain shame
back of the possibility, and at such moments the words of Storch used
to ring in his ears:

"Wounds heal so quickly ... so disgustingly quickly!"

And again, watching Storch at night, touching the quivering cords
which might otherwise have rusted in inactive silence, he remembered
further the introduction to this contemptuous phrase:

"I like to get my recruits when they're bleeding raw. I like them when
the salt of truth can sting deep..."

How Storch lived Fred could only guess. But he managed always to
jingle a silver coin or two and keep a crust of bread in the house.
His fare was frugal to the point of being ascetic. Once or twice, as
if moved by Fred's physical weakness, he brought some scraps of beef
home and brewed a few cups of steaming bouillon, and again, one Sunday
morning he went out and bought a half dozen eggs which he converted
into an impossibly tough omelet. But for the most part he lived on
coffee and fresh French bread and cheese. It was on this incredible
fare that Fred Starratt won back his strength. His exhaustion was an
exhaustion of the spirit, and food seemed to have little part in
either his disorder or his recovery.

Whatever Storch's specific grievance with life, he never voiced it and
in this he won Fred's admiration. He liked to jangle the discordant
passions of others, but his own he muffled into complete silence. He
had worked at almost every known calling. It seemed that he came and
disappeared always as suddenly and in his wake a furrow of men
harrowed to supreme unrest yielded up a harvest sown of dragon's
teeth. He was an idea made flesh, patient, relentless, almost
intangible. He flashed upon new horizons like a cloud from the south
and he vanished as completely once he had revived hatred with his
insinuating showers. He was, as he had said on that first meeting with
Fred, a fanatic, a high priest. He called many, but he chose few.

One night after the others had left Fred said to him:

"Do you realize what you are doing? ... You are working up these men
to a frenzy. Some morning we shall wake to find murder done."

"How quickly you are learning," Storch answered, flinging his coat
aside.

"Are you fair?" Fred went on, passionately. "If you have your
convictions, why not risk your own hide to prove them? Why make
cats'-paws of the others?"

Storch took out his pipe and lighted it deliberately. "Prospective
martyrs are as plentiful as fish in a net," he answered. "Of what good
is the sea's yield without fishermen? ... I sacrifice myself and who
takes my place? Will you?"

Fred turned on him suddenly. "You are not training me to be your
successor, I hope," he said, with a slight sneer. "Because I lie here
without protest is no reason that I approve. Indeed, I wonder
sometimes if I do quite right to permit all this... There are
authorities, you know."

Storch looked at him steadily. "The door is open, my friend."

Fred gave a little gesture of resignation.

"You know perfectly well that I'm not built to betray the man who
gives me shelter."

"Oh, I'm not sheltering you for love!"

"You have some purpose, of course. I understand that. But you're
wasting time."

"Well, I'll risk it... I know well enough you're not a man easily won
to an abstract hatred... But a personal hatred very often serves as
good a turn... Everything is grist to my mill."

"A personal hatred?" echoed Fred.

Storch blew out the light.

"You're duller than I thought," he called through the gloom.

Fred turned his face away and tried to sleep.

The next day he decided to crawl out of bed and begin to win back his
strength. He couldn't lie there forever sharing Storch's roof and
crust. But the effort left him exhausted and he was soon glad to fling
himself back upon the couch.

Each succeeding day he felt a little stronger, until the time came
when he was able to drag himself to the open door and sit in the
sunshine. He had never thought much about sunshine in the old days. A
fine day had been something to be remarked, but scarcely hoarded. With
the steam radiator working, it had not mattered so much whether the
sun shone or not... He remembered the first time that a real sense of
the sun's beauty had struck him--on that morning which now seemed so
remote--when he had risen weakly from his cot at the detention
hospital and made ready for exile at Fairview. Less than a year ago!
How many things had assumed new values since then! Now, he could
exploit every sunbeam to its minutest warmth, he could wring
sustenance from a handful of crumbs, he knew what a cup of cold water
meant. He was on speaking terms with hunger, he had been comrade to
madness, he had looked upon sudden death, he was an outcast and, in a
sense, a criminal. He felt that he could almost say with Hilmer:

"I know all the dirty, rotten things of life by direct contact."

All but murder--yet it had brushed close to him. Even now he could
evoke the choking rage that had engulfed him on that night of his
arrest when his defenseless cheek had reddened to the blow of
humiliation. This had been, however, a flash of passion. But once,
meeting a man who blocked his path in the first upper reaches of the
hills, beyond Fairview, he had felt the even more primitive itch of
self-preservation urging him to the ultimate crime. Would he end by
going a step farther and planning the destruction of life in cold
blood?

It was curious how constant association with a sensational idea dulled
the edge of its novelty. The first time he had heard deliberate and
passionless murder all but plotted in Storch's huddled room he had
felt a quick heartbeat of instinctive protest. Had he been stronger at
that moment he would have leaped to his feet in opposition. But the
moment passed and when he heard the subject broached again he listened
curiously. Finally he ceased to feel the slightest tremor of revolt.
Was indifference always the first step toward surrender?

Finally Fred grew strong enough to desert his couch at evening. Up to
this point he had been ignored by the nightly visitors, but now they
made a place for him in the circle about the sputtering lamp. It
seemed, also, that, with his active presence, the talk began to assume
general point and direction. Storch had been giving them plenty of
tether, but now he was beginning to pull up sharply, putting their
windy theories to the test. They were for clearing the ground, were
they? Well, so far so good. But generalities led nowhere. Why not
something specific? Wasn't the time ripe for action--thousands of men,
walking the streets, locked out because they dared to demand a decent
and even break? And this in the face of all the altruistic
rumble-bumble which war had evoked? He played this theme over and over
again, and finally one night with an almost casual air he said:

"Take the shipyards, for instance ... forty-odd thousand men locked
out while the owners lay plans to shackle them further. Now is the
chance. Quit talking and get busy!"

It ended in a list being made of the chief offenders--owners,
managers, irascible foremen. Fred Starratt listened like a man in a
dream. When Hilmer was named he found himself shivering. These people
were plotting murder now--cool, calm, passionless murder! There was
something fascinating in the very nonchalance of it.

Storch's eyes glittered more and more savagely. He drew up plans,
arranged incredible details, delivered specific offenders into the
hands of certain of his henchmen.

"You are responsible for this man, now," he used to fling at the
chosen one. "How or where or when does not interest me--but get him,
you understand, _get him_!"

One night a member said, significantly:

"Everybody's been picked but Hilmer... What's the matter, Storch, are
you saving that plum for yourself?"

Storch rubbed his hands together, flashing a look at Fred.

"No... There's an option on Hilmer!" he cried, gleefully.

Fred tried to ignore the implication, but all night the suggestion
burned itself into his brain. So some one was to get Hilmer, after
all! Well, why not? Hilmer liked men with guts enough to fight--rabbit
drives were not to his taste... Among all the names brought up and
discussed at these sinister gatherings about Storch's round table
Hilmer's stood out as the ultimate prize. No one spoke a good word for
him and yet Fred had to admit that the revilings were flavored with a
certain grudging respect. He was an open and consistent tyrant, at any
rate.

An option on Hilmer! What a trick Storch had for illuminating phrases!
... And his divinations were uncanny. Why should he assume that Hilmer
was in any way bound up in Fred Starratt's life?

The next morning Fred decided to chance a walk in the open. He had a
vague wish to try his wings again, now that he had grown stronger. The
situation reminded him remotely of Fairview on those first days when
Monet and he had attempted to harden their muscles against the day of
escape. But this time he was struggling to free himself from a
personality, from an idea. He must leave Storch and his motley brood
as soon as possible; somehow the acid of their ruthless philosophy was
eating away the remnants of any inner beauty which had been left him.
At first he had been all revolt, but now there were swift moments in
which he asked himself what quarrel he could have with any blows
struck at authority. What had established order done for him? Acted as
a screen for villainy and inconstancy for the most part.

He turned all this over in his mind as he slunk furtively along the
water front, trying vaguely to shape a plan of action. He felt himself
to be a very unusual and almost terrible figure, and yet no one paid
any heed to him. His beard had lost its sunburned character and grown
jet black, his face, and particularly his hands, were pale to
transparence, his eyes burned too brightly in their sunken sockets. He
was not even a ghost of his former self, but rather a sinister
reincarnation. He felt that he was even more forbidding than on that
night when he had sent Brauer shivering from his presence. He doubted
whether Brauer would recognize him again, so subtle and marked was the
change. He hardly recognized himself, and the transformation was not
solely a matter of physical degeneration. No, there was something
indefinable in the quality of his decline.

He fluttered about the town, at first aimlessly, like a defenseless
fledgling thrust before its time from the nest. He was weak and
tremulous and utterly miserable. Yet he felt compelled to go forward.
He must escape from Storch! _He must_!

The docks, usually full of bustle, were silent and almost deserted.
Fred questioned a man loafing upon a pile of lumber. It appeared that
a strike of stevedores was the cause of this outward sign of
inactivity. Boats were being loaded quietly, but the process was
furtive and sullen. Occasionally, out of the wide expanse of brooding
indolence a knot of men would gather flockwise, and melt as quickly.
There was an ominous quality in the swiftness with which these
cloudlike groups congealed and disintegrated. The sinister blight of
repression was over everything--repressed desires, repressed joys,
repressed hatreds. It was almost as sad as the noonday silence of
Fairview.

Fred slunk along in deep dejection. He wanted the color and life and
bustle of accomplishment. A slight activity before one of the docks
beguiled him from his depression. A passenger steamer was preparing
for its appointed flight south and a knot of blue-coated policemen
maintained a safe path from curb to dock entrance. Here was a touch of
liveliness and gayety--the released laughter of people bent on a
holiday, hopeful farewells called out heartily, taxicabs dashing up
with exaggerated haste. He was warming himself at the flame of this
genial pageant, when an opulent machine came rolling up to the curb. A
sudden surge of arrivals had pressed into service every available
porter, and the alighting occupants, a man and a woman, stood waiting
for some one to help them with their luggage. Fred stared with
impersonal curiosity. Then, as instinctively, he fell back. The man
was Axel Hilmer and the woman was Helen Starratt! His shrinking
movement must have singled him out for attention, because a policeman
began to hustle him on, and the next instant he was conscious that
Hilmer was calling in his voice of assured authority:

"Here, there, don't send that man away! I need some one to help me
with these grips. This lady has got to catch the boat!"

The officer touched his hat respectfully and Fred felt himself gently
impelled toward Helen Starratt. He did not have time to protest nor
shape any plan of action. Instead, he answered Hilmer's imperious
pantomime by grasping a suitcase in one hand and a valise in the other
and staggering after them toward the waiting vessel.

They had arrived not a moment too soon; already the steamer was
preparing to cast off. In the confusion which followed, Fred had very
little sense of what was happening. He knew that a porter had relieved
him of his burden and that Helen Starratt had pressed a silver coin
into his hand. There was a scramble up the gangplank, a warning
whistle, a chorus of farewell, and then silence... He had a
realization that he had all but fainted--he looked up to find Hilmer
at his side.

"What's the matter?" Hilmer was asking, brusquely. "Are you sick?"

He roused himself with a mighty effort.

"Yes."

"You look half starved, too... Why don't you go to work? Or are you
one of those damned strikers?"

"No," he heard himself answer. "I'm just a man who's ... who's up
against it."

Hilmer took out a card and scribbled on it.

"Here, look up my superintendent at the yard to-morrow. He'll give you
a job. There's plenty of work for those who want it. But don't lose
that card ... otherwise they won't let you see him."

Fred took the proffered pasteboard and as he did so his fingers closed
over Hilmer's mangled thumb. He could feel himself trembling from head
to foot... He waited until Hilmer was gone. Then he crawled slowly in
the direction of the street again. Midway he felt some force impelling
him to a backward glance. He turned about--a green smile betrayed
Storch's sinister presence; Fred felt him swing close and whisper,
triumphantly:

"That was your wife, wasn't it?"

"How do you know?"

"Never mind. Answer me--it was your wife?"

"Yes."

"How much did she give you?"

Fred looked down at the coin in his hand.

"Fifty cents."

"Fifty cents ... for carrying two grips a hundred yards... Well, she
must have money... And she's taking a little trip south--for her
health, I suppose!... I wonder when friend Hilmer will follow?"

Fred tried to draw away, but Storch's insinuating clutch was too firm.

"Let me go!" he half begged and half commanded. "What business is all
this of yours?... Who has told you all this about me?"

Storch continued to hang upon Fred's arm. "You told me yourself."

"I told you? When?"

"You were delirious for a good week... Don't you suppose you babbled
then?"

"How much do you know?"

"Nearly everything, _Fred Starratt_! Nearly everything."

"Even my name!"

"Yes, even that."

Fred stood still for a moment and he closed both his eyes.

"Let's go home!" he said, hopelessly.

He heard Storch's malevolent chuckle answering him.

When they arrived at Storch's shack Fred was exhausted. He threw
himself at once upon the couch, drawing the tattered quilts over his
head, and thus he lay all night in a semistupor. He heard the nightly
gathering drift in, and there were times when its babble reached him
in vague faraway echoes. He sensed its departure, too, and the fact
that Storch was flinging himself upon the pile of rags which served as
his bed. His sleep was broken by a harried idea that he was attempting
to catch a steamer which forever eluded him, trotting aimlessly up and
down a gangplank which led nowhere, picking up a litter that spilled
continually from a suitcase in his hand. It was not a dreaming state,
but the projection of the main events of the preceding day distorted
by fancy.

Toward morning he fell into a heavy sleep. He did not hear Storch
leave. He woke at intervals during the day and relapsed into delicious
dozes. It was evening when he finally roused himself. He rose. He felt
extraordinarily refreshed, stronger, in fact, than he had been for
weeks. Storch came in shortly after. He had his inevitable loaf of
crisp French bread and a slice of cheese and in his hip pocket he had
smuggled a pint bottle of thin red wine.

Fred laid the table with the simple utensils that such a meal required
and the two sat down. Storch poured out two glasses of wine.

"I have had great fun to-day!" Storch said, gulping his claret with a
flourish. "They're on my track again. You should have seen how easily
I gave them the slip! As a matter of fact there is nothing duller than
a detective. He usually has learned every formula laid down for the
conduct of criminals and if you don't run true to form he gets sore."

"You mean you're being watched--shadowed?"

"Just that."

"What do you intend to do?"

Storch shrugged. "Being arrested and jailed is losing its novelty.
I'll stick around awhile longer until a pet job or two is
accomplished... I'm particularly anxious to see Hilmer winged...
What's your plan?"

"Plan?... I have no plan. I can't imagine what you're talking about. I
know one thing, though ... I'm going to leave this place at once."

Storch smiled evilly. "Going to start plunging on that capital your
wife threw your way yesterday?... Well, well, you've got more
initiative than I thought... But, one piece of advice, my friend--the
easiest way to walk into a trap is to suddenly try to change your
habits ... to rush headlong in an opposite direction. You'd better
stay here awhile and bluff it out. They'd gobble you in one mouthful."

Fred made no reply. Indeed, the meal was finished in silence.

Presently Storch's disciples began to drift in. The meeting lasted
almost until midnight. They were all at fever heat, strung tensely by
Storch's unerring pressure. At the last moment the man who had
previously put the question concerning Hilmer prodded Storch again.

Storch fixed Fred suddenly with a gaze that pierced him through. A
silence fell upon the room. Fred could feel every eye turned his way.
He rose with a curious fluttering movement of escape.

"There's one man in this room who has earned the honor of getting
Hilmer, if any man has," Storch said, finally, in an extraordinarily
cool and biting voice. "Losing a wife isn't of any great moment ...
but to be laughed at--that's another matter."

The silence continued. Fred Starratt sat down again... Shortly after
this the gathering broke up. Storch went to sleep immediately. Fred
blew out the light. But he did not throw himself upon his couch this
time. Instead he opened the door softly and crept out.

A bright moon was riding high in the sky. He went swiftly down the
lane and stood for a moment upon the edge of the cliff which plunged
down toward the docks. The city seemed like a frozen bit of
loveliness, waiting to be melted to fluid beauty by the fires of
morning. He must leave Storch at once, forever! He turned for a
backward glimpse of the house that had sheltered and almost entrapped
him. A figure darted in front of the lone street lamp and retreated
instantly. _Shadowed!_ Storch was right!

Suddenly Fred began to whistle--gayly, loudly, with unquestionable
defiance. Then slowly, very slowly, he went back into the house and
closed the door... Storch was snoring contentedly.




CHAPTER XIX


The next afternoon Fred Starratt took the fifty-cent piece that he had
earned as flunky to his wife and spent every penny of it in a cheap
barber shop on the Embarcadero. He emerged with an indifferently
trimmed beard and his hair clipped into a semblance of neatness. He
felt better, in spite of his tattered suit and gaping footgear.
Hilmer's card was still in his pocket.

His plans were hazy, nebulous, in fact. He was not quite sure as to
his next move. It seemed useless to attempt to flee from Storch's
shelter. He had no money and scarcely strength enough to tackle any
job that would be open to him. Even if he elected to become a strike
breaker he would have to qualify at least with brawn. The prospect of
snaring a berth from Hilmer had a certain fascination. It would be
interesting to stare defiantly at his enemy at close range, to speak
with him again man to man, to lure him into further bravados. And
then, if Storch's plans for Hilmer had any merits... He stopped short,
a bit frightened at the realization that the idea had presented itself
to him with such directness... He had a sudden yearning to talk to
some human being who would understand. If he could only see Ginger!

He had a feeling that somehow she must have experienced every
exaltation and every degradation in the calendar. Tenderness and
passion and the gift of murder itself were ever the mixed language of
the street. He remembered the gesture he first had made to her almost
timid advances toward helping him. He had been outwardly polite, but
inwardly how scornful of her suggestions! And once he even had
hesitated to let her carry a message to his wife! Now he was ready to
stand or fall upon the bitter fruits of her experience. He felt,
curiously, on common ground with her. And yet there were certain
intangibilities he had never attempted to make positive. Somehow the
mere fact of her existence had enveloped him like warm currents of air
which he could feel, but not visualize. But at this moment he felt the
need of a contact more personal. Suddenly, out of a clear sky, it came
to him that Mrs. Hilmer could tell him something of Ginger's
whereabouts. Mrs. Hilmer? Well, why not? The more he thought the idea
over the more it appealed to him. He ended by turning his steps in the
direction of the Hilmer home.

The maid who opened the door eyed him with more curiosity than
caution, and her protests that Mrs. Hilmer could see no one seemed
rather tentative and perfunctory. Fred had a curious feeling that she
was demanding a more or less conventional excuse for admitting him,
and in the end he flung out as a chance:

"Tell Mrs. Hilmer I have a message from Sylvia Molineaux."

The girl's pale-blue eyes sparkled with a curious glint of humor, and
without further protest she went away, and came back as swiftly with
an invitation for him to step inside. There was something
inexplainable about this maid who veiled her eagerness to admit him
with such transparencies. Even a fool would scarcely have left so
forbidding a character to dawdle about the living room while she went
to fetch her mistress.

He had expected to find this room changed, and yet he was not prepared
for quite the quality of familiarity which it possessed. Most of the
old Hilmer knickknacks had been swept aside, their places taken by
bits that had once enlivened the Starratt household. Here was a silver
vase that he had bought Helen for an anniversary present, and there a
Whistler etching that had been their wedding portion. His easy-chair
was in a corner, and Helen's music rack filled with all the things she
used to play for his delight. And on the mantel, in a silver frame,
his picture, with a little bowl of fading flowers before it... He went
over and picked it up. Instinctively he glanced in the mirror just in
front of him... _Dead ... quite dead!_ No wonder his wife put flowers
before this photographic shrine... For a moment he had a swooning hope
that he had misjudged her ... that he had misread everybody ... that
they had done everything for him that they thought was best. But he
emerged from this brief deception with a shuddering laugh... He would
not have cared so much if his wife had swept him from her life
completely ... but to trample on him and still use his shadow as a
screen--this was too much! What really pallid creatures these women of
convention were! How little they were prepared to risk anything! He
could almost hear the comments that Helen inspired: