Date: Tue, 3 Jan 2017 21:26:29 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 3 (Revision) Chapter 12

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully
protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
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Noblesse Oblige

by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno

Book 3
The Bells of Hell Go Ting a-ling, a-ling

Chapter 12
Till the Clouds Roll By

The scent of blossom filled the valley and already many of the trees were
festooned with golden fruit.  The existence of such a place--an inland
empire of oranges--was almost hard to believe and the sheer abundance of
the crop, and indeed of the fruits of life itself, smacked of a certain
profligacy to those who came from colder, more dour climes.

The Sunset Limited paused to take on water at a pretty town called Ontario,
where a fountain played in the dusty square opposite a Mission-style
`depot' whose adobe walls baked in the strong sunlight and were dappled by
the feathery plumes of a row of old pepper trees.  It was only then that
Martin and Stephen felt they could speak.

"So tell us again, Plunger, what you're doing here?" asked Martin.

The Plunger put his hat on the rack and stretched out his long legs.
"Well, I was sent to Halifax to work on Dazzle.  I must have got there only
a couple of weeks after you did.  I'm with a group who are trying to convey
movement in the two dimensions." Martin and Stephen nodded and, thus
encouraged, he went on: "Well, if it is accepted that emotions can be
portrayed on a flat canvas I don't see why movement can't be.  Of course
there is a difference between painting a thing that causes an emotive
response in the viewer and the artist expressing pure emotion in a painting
...but I'm digressing.

"Then the War office lent me to the Americans who wanted me to look at
camouflaging the roofs at Norfolk in Virginia and at the Brooklyn Navy
Yard.  I can paint them so they look like roads and houses or fields when
seen from a great height--I'm quite good at it now and I can even put in
sleeping dogs and hay wains--I saw the Constable in the National Gallery.
Of course for urban commissions I can do motors and tramlines.

"You know, the Americans are more vulnerable than they think; a zeppelin, a
submarine or a cruiser could easily shell those bases or, even easier,
reach civilian targets like Cape Cod or Boston.  Coney Island and Atlantic
City are a perfect blaze of lights.  We have heard that the Germans are
building a new type of airship with the intention of flying to Africa,
which is a distance of 4,000 miles.  Anyway, in the end, they weren't
really interested.

"Then I was told that Lloyd George was anxious to help make a moving
picture about the War.  He is going to appear on the screen and introduce
it himself and Lord Gray is going to have a small part in it too--playing
himself.  The Army wanted to encourage it so they sent me to help with the
sets and the details.  Then the director said they could get two big
stars--famous sisters they are--to play these French girls who are
brutalised by the Huns with whips and things-- the audience loves that sort
of stuff, apparently-- and the whole project became much bigger and they
moved the `shooting' from New Jersey to Hollywood and here I am."

"But how did the film go?" asked Stephen.

"Not very well.  They wanted a scene where the American soldier meets the
King-- I can't remember why--and so I drew a sketch of Buckingham Palace.
Then they said they wanted `a real castle', not just a mansion.  `The
American public expects the King to live in a castle,' I was told, so I
drew Windsor.  Then Goldfish (that really is his name) said that wasn't
good enough and he then shows me a picture and says he wants a proper
king's castle like that.  Well, it was a picture of Neuschwanstein and I
told him that was a picture of a German castle and all he said was: `They
won't care in Pomona'.

"Then Paramount took over production and appointed a new director, Mr
Griffiths, and he wants to shoot the whole thing in England and France `for
more realism'.  I don't think they'll need me any more so I'm going back to
SCAT.

"Where's Gertie?" asked Martin, naming The Plunger's valet, Haines.  "Oh he
stayed with Mother in Philadelphia to help her plan a fund-raising ball for
the Daughters of the American Revolution.  Joseph Urban, the designer for
the Follies, is doing it.  It's in blackface."

"I'm very glad to see you, Lt Craigth," said Carlo who came into the
Pullman `drawing room' at that moment with the clothes brush.

"Thank you, Carlo," replied The Plunger, a bit puzzled.  "How are you?"
"I'm quite well, sir..." The Plunger turned from him to Martin and Stephen
who looked decidedly sheepish.

"I did not behave very well in Los Angeles, Archie," confessed Stephen.
"I'm ashamed."

"And neither did I," said Martin. "I was vain and stupid and cheated on
Derby because I thought I could make a moving picture."

"What did you do?" cried The Plunger, wide-eyed and unused to any trouble
between his two friends.

"I'd rather not say--but to think that scoundrel went to a Public School!"
said Martin in disgust, but no one else found that surprising.

"And I let myself be cruelly used by a famous actress who promised me a
part," confessed Stephen.  The others in the compartment silently thought:
In return for the promise of a part from Stephen.

"Which actress?" asked The Plunger, intrigued.

"I was not born one, but I'm enough of a gentleman not to tell.  Let's just
say I won't be appearing as the second gladiator at the Shepherd's Bush
Biograph any time soon."

"I still have your costume, sir," said Carlo.  "Should I send it back to
the studio?"

"Yes, Carlo, I suppose we can post it from somewhere."

"Do put it on, Derby.  Show us. Carlo wants to brush and press your uniform
anyway," said Martin excitedly.

Stephen politely demurred but then bowed to his public and left with Carlo
for their own compartment for the fitting while Martin settled down to talk
with The Plunger. Ten minutes later Carlo opened the door and made a
fanfare.  Behind him stood Lew Wallace's Ben-Hur.  Stephen was wearing a
very short leather tunic and bib that fastened at the shoulders.  His
muscular arms were bare, save for some leather thongs around his biceps and
several leather straps girded his torso.  His sandals were laced about his
calves and his hair was restrained by a leather band.  A blue cloak, which
had no practical value, covered one shoulder.

"You look wonderful, Derby," said Martin, "but it's just as well you
weren't born a Roman--or a Scotchman." For when Stephen took a step or
rested his leg on the edge of the seat, Caesar was indeed showing himself
to the senate and people of Rome. Stephen struck a few attitudes, employing
The Plunger's stick as a sword, but even he had to laugh as the leather
tunic caused his penis to harden obscenely.

"I'll take it off, Carlo..."

"No, Derbs, leave it on.  We like it, don't we, Plunger?"

So Stephen remained in the compartment for some hours in his heroic garb
where the slave had to fight off lions and wild boars in the form of Martin
and The Plunger until, shiny and dripping with sweat, he was made to spill
for both of them.  Carlo was told to repack the costume as it was decided
that the studio would be unlikely miss it from one of a cast of thousands
and Martin could envisage it being required for matinees of his own
devising.

It was suppertime when the express pulled into the town of Tucson.  The
boys stretched their legs. "What are your plans, Archie?  Are you going to
come with us?"  "I suppose I am.  I have to report back to Washington and
you're going there aren't you?  I better telegraph them so I don't get in
to trouble, but in all honesty, I think they've forgotten all about me.
Tell me about your tour.  You must have speaking to an audience down to a
fine art."

Stephen and Martin confessed that this was true.  Their early bouts of
nerves had slipped away and they now had three or four versions of their
performance that could be adapted to most occasions.  "I still feel uneasy
about encouraging others to enlist, Archie.  Any sensible person would be a
coward after the Somme.  I don't want to be like those girls who hand out
white feathers to young men not in uniform.  I also have doubts about why
we are continuing to fight.  I'm sure most of our boys in France do too."

The Plunger nodded but did not give an opinion.  Instead he related the
names of more school friends who had perished. "That's half the lacrosse
team.  It seems only yesterday they were at Croome for Christmas.  Remember
that, Derbs?" said Martin. Stephen did and set his mouth in a grim line.
"How is England ever going to recover from this, even if we do win the
War?" lamented Martin.

That night, Lt. Archie Craigth, out of consideration for his friends,
shared his compartment with Private Sifridi while Martin and Stephen
managed to squeeze into a lower berth and tried to put the world of
celluloid behind them.  "I'm sorry, Mala, I was a perfect fool," said
Stephen.

"Yes you were; nearly as bad as me, Derbs.  Do you know, I think that Mrs
Bryant was watching her husband and me from behind a curtain?  It is a
strange place and no mistake."

The next morning saw them in El Paso.  Fort Bliss, where many soldiers were
being sent to train, was nearby, but they were not scheduled to visit
there.  Instead, while the engine was being changed, the boys wandered over
to an awning stretched before a mean hut where an old and toothless Indian
woman was slowly working an ancient loom upon which a rug was being woven.
The old crone took a sip of water from an earthenware flagon and invited
the boys to inspect her handicraft.  The rug was bright and colourful and
had a sort of naïve charm.

"This would look very fine in Antibes, don't you think?" said Stephen
feeling it.  "It could go in the downstairs room.  Chris always complains
that it is..." and then he stopped, painfully remembering that Christopher
would complain of the cold no more.

Martin put his arm around his shoulder.  "It's a fine rug and Christopher
was right.  The room does need something.  Buy it Derby."

The old woman motioned with a gnarled finger to the hut and said something
about her grandson.  They walked inside and a remarkable sight greeted
their eyes.  In the wooden hut was a highly polished desk at which sat a
handsome young Indian boy in a smart suit and tie smoking a cigarette in a
short holder.  There was an electric lamp and telephone on his desk and a
fan was mounted to the wall moving the stifling air. An attractive
dark-haired young woman sat at a smaller desk next to a filing cabinet and
was hammering away at a typewriter.

"We would like to buy a rug," ventured Stephen. The young man smiled and
dexterously flipped open a sample book.  "We can make them in any size you
want and here is the price list, inclusive of tax."

"I rather liked the one out there--is that your grandmother on the loom?"

"It is and she is a director of the company.  That one is T (for Texas)
49B. The 49 C is 8 feet."  Stephen said he would take it, but then realised
the difficulty of transportation.

"That is not a concern, sir.  We can ship it anywhere in the world from our
warehouse in Newark.  Would you like us to forward it to England when
hostilities permit?" Stephen did and the pretty secretary consulted a
shipping schedule and a tentative delivery date was forthcoming.  The young
man operated an adding machine and an invoice and a receipt were generated
within minutes.  He bade them a good trip and the boys left.  They walked
past the old lady at the loom.  She had paused for a moment and was
applying rouge to her lips.

After a halt in Del Rio, it took them all day to cross the semi-arid plains
of Texas and it was late when they pulled into San Antonio.  Rooms were
found for them at the Gunter Hotel.  "This is handy, Derbs, because our
first speaking engagement is at the Empire Theatre opposite."

When Carlo found them in the morning, The Plunger was snuggled up in the
bed next to Stephen who had his arm over the top of his carroty head while
Martin was on the other side with his cheek resting on Stephen's chest,
listening to him snore.  "I'd like to spend all day in bed with Mr Stephen,
Carlo.  We still have some making up to do."

"Well, you have no engagements today, sir, but please don't wear him out
too much your lordship because he still has to give me my birthday
present."

In any event, they were up by lunchtime after Stephen had satisfied Martin
and had reacquainted himself with The Plunger's ginger form.  San Antonio
was a very curious and charming town with buildings that reflected its
Spanish as well as its American origins.  The wrought iron balcony that ran
around the second storey of their hotel looked down upon a busy
street. Workmen and machinery were gathered around a modern banking
building of five stories.  When they went down into the street they were
told that the whole building was being moved several yards back to widen
the thoroughfare to a uniform width for the streetcars and motor traffic.
Once again they were amazed at the energy and boldness of the people of
this land. "If they can do this and build the Panama Canal and cut the
railway through the Rockies, they can win us this War, Mala," said Stephen
as he inspected the works with a professional eye.

They walked around the jumbled Old Town where plaster and adobe buildings
still remained. "It reminds me of Provence; it's not like America at all,"
said The Plunger. They crossed the river and inspected the old mission,
which had seen fierce fighting eighty years before.

This being the land of cattle, they dined in a Mexican tavern on
`barbacoa', which involved Stephen consuming a great deal of spicy steak
and goat that had been cooked over a fire in a pit.  This was accompanied
by fried red beans and washed down with a great deal of local beer.  They
had a wonderful evening in the Texas warmth, but as Martin heaved open
their hotel window, he had to excuse himself and sleep with The Plunger and
Carlo while Stephen was destined, sadly, to sleep alone.  The next day, at
the theatre, they met the Mayor, a Mr Bell, and Governor Ferguson who was
an impressive speaker and, as he told them, an anti-prohibitionist.  The
talk went well and Texas seemed keen to participate in the War now that the
pro-German Governor, Mr Colquitt, was swept from power.  The city also had
a great many Army camps in the surrounding countryside and it was to the
largest of these that they went, accompanied by a crowd and an Army brass
band, in noisy procession led by a streetcar decorated for the occasion
with the flags of the United States, Texas and the Union Jack.  The
Commandant of the camp met them and they addressed more than a thousand
fine looking young men in the open air.  By the time they returned to Carlo
and The Plunger at the Gunter Hotel, their voices were quite gone.

The next day the train took them to the booming oil-rich city of Houston
where they stayed overnight and the following day they arrived in the
extraordinary city of New Orleans.

Like San Antonio, `N'yawlins,' did not seem to belong to the United States
at all and was possessed of an exotic feel, with French, Spanish and Creole
influences.  It seemed to lack the energetic desire for self-improvement
seen in every other city and was content to live for the present moment
itself in an atmosphere of elegant decay--rather like Venice, thought
Martin.  It was also the first city where they had seen Negroes in great
numbers and indeed the city seemed to belong to them, in part at least,
rather than being unwelcome guests as they seemed too often to be in the
cities of the north.  Even more than Texas, Louisiana was living in the
past amid the ruins of the Civil War, which was still vivid in the minds of
more than just its older citizens and this was not something they had
experienced until now.

The United States of today intruded in one respect: the red-light district
was now all but closed by order of the Secretary of War and something
fearsome called the American Social Hygiene Organization.  The three boys
walked through the sultry evening heat in mufti, with their shirts soaked
in sweat.  "Do you want to pick up some sailors?" asked The Plunger boldly.

Stephen and Martin looked excited, but then Stephen was unsure, not wanting
to further exploit the miserable Negroes he saw loitering in front of
certain saloons that the locals called `tonks'.  "I agree, Derbs," said
Martin. "But if we can find some boys who are up for it--white or black--it
might be fun.  Would you like to watch me getting fucked, like Mrs Bryant
did?  I could put on a real show for you."

"You're a bad lot, Lord Branksome," said Stephen, "and to think you read
the lesson in Church."

"That's not an answer, is it, Plunger?"  The Plunger shook his head.

"Let's find some boys then," said Stephen, with his eyes shining.

They went from saloon to saloon and drank American whisky made from maize
before changing to beer cooled on ice.  One place advertised itself by the
most marvellous piano music floating through the open door.  Martin begged
them to go in.  At the keyboard was a coloured pianist.  "This isn't
ragtime," said The Plunger.

"No," said Martin, "We heard this sort of music in Chicago. Doesn't it make
you just want to jump around or at least tap your feet," said Martin in
great excitement.  He rapped his walking stick on the bare boards in time
with the music.

The pianist was a man in his early thirties and he wore the sort of
sporting costume that The Plunger would have once affected: loud checks and
an Ascot tie with an ostentatious pin.  He looked over in their direction
and smiled and then glanced at a jar that sat on his instrument.  Martin
went over and placed several dollars in it and the pianist nodded his
thanks and commenced to play a new tune and sang the accompaniment,
demonstrating a wonderful vocal range.

Everybody loves a baby that's why I'm in love with you Pretty
baby... Pretty baby.  And I'd like to be your sister, brother dad and
mother too Pretty baby... Pretty baby.

As he sang, a group of attractive, young coloured sailors clustered around
him, wiggling their hips, one striking a cuspidor with a stick to make a
cymbal.  It soon became clear that Mr Jackson, for that was his name, was
singing to one of the boys in particular and they made mooneyes at each
other-- partly in amusement and partly from genuine affection.  Stephen
nudged the others and they saw what was happening.

When he finished playing Martin asked them all to come over to their table.
Mr Jackson's boyfriend, Charlie, said that they would like to, but that
wasn't permitted. Martin looked disappointed and explained that he was a
visitor and was unfamiliar with the customs of the town but that he liked
the music.  The fellow then suggested that they all might like to come out
into the kitchen.

They followed him, and Mr Jackson was found to be sitting at a table with
the others. Introductions were made and Martin paid for drinks, which the
owner brought to them out of sight of the customers in the front room.

Mr Jackson was a self-taught musician and could play anything after hearing
it just once.  He wrote music--or rather he played it and others wrote it
down-- like Pretty Baby.  He now lived in Chicago, but was paying a visit
to his old haunts.

"Your music is marvellous, Mr Jackson.  I heard similar music played in
Chicago by a clarinettist called Duhe."

"Yes, sah, Lawrence Duhe had his own band right here in N'yawlins and
played with the Kid and the King before gwin to Chicaga like me."

"Well, I love your music and I hope you'll make gramophone records."

"He done mean phonograph records, Tony," said Charlie, "that's what de
British folks call 'em."

Martin ordered more drinks and Mr Jackson went back out and played some
more, this time requests from the audience, and one cakewalk he played
while actually dancing at the piano.

"Add this music to my list of good things about America, Derbs," said
Martin at one point.

It was getting late and Jackson, putting on a grey bowler hat, left with
his boyfriend while the three sailors remained.  Their accents were thick
and they laughed at misunderstandings, but they were a pleasure to talk
to--their very speech being musical-- besides looking very attractive in
their whites.  Stephen invited them back to their hotel.  Clarence, the
oldest one said, "Coloured folk aren't allowed in the Grunewald, Mr
Stephen."

"We could sneak in through de kitchen," suggested Darnell.

"We'll have no trouble there," said Jerome, "my cousin done work
there--though I don't want him to lose his job or land us in gaol."

Fortified with drink, they walked along Canal Street to the Grunewald, not
too much notice being taken of three white men walking with three Negroes--
something Clarence explained would not be allowed in his own hometown,
which was in Alabama.

Stephen went in by the front entrance and secured the key while Martin and
The Plunger accompanied by the other three walked past the rubbish bins and
some astonished coloured staff in the kitchen and boldly climbed the
service stairs where they met nobody.

Whisky was produced and soon the boys were shirtless and lounging on the
bed, the available chairs and on the floor itself.  Clarence was their
leader and he talked melodiously as the alcohol was passed around, telling
them about his home where his parents were impoverished sharecroppers.

"Were your grandparents, slaves?" asked Martin a bit recklessly, but not
unkindly.

Two were and two had been born in freedom time.  "I joined the Navy because
I couldn't see no choice for me, Mr Martin, and now I spend most of my days
a-peelin' taters and emptyin' trash."

"But he's real smart, boys, and he is de bookie out at the de base," put in
Jerome.  "You should see him work out the odds!"  Darnell concurred in the
assessment and Clarence didn't deny it.

Jerome came from New Orleans somewhere in the Lower Ninth Ward and had
`teamed up' with Darnell whose father was a preacher in Greenville and
thought that the Navy would be a good career for a boy who would not stay
in school.  "We met Tony and Charlie before they closed down Storyville,"
said Jerome.  "He sure is famous down here and will be in Chicaga too."
The Plunger went to his room and returned with his sketchpad.  He wanted to
draw Darnell who was tremendously good looking with his shirt off.  However
it soon became apparent that The Plunger was filling the page with sketches
of Darnell's hands and naked feet, which puzzled his friends, but Martin
could see that indeed they did have a lyrical beauty in repose.  Clarence
and Jerome wanted to be drawn too and thought they could do better than
just Darnell's paws and big feet they said and took off their remaining
clothes and posed for The Plunger, who was trying to concentrate, at one
point even arraying their privates on the board and inviting The Plunger to
trace them.

"They should use Darnell--and you fellows too," The Plunger added
generously, "on a recruiting poster, don't you think?"  The others did.

Martin was sitting on the floor between Stephen's legs.  Clarence was
looking at them. "You his man?" he asked Martin. Martin looked up at
Stephen and said: "I'm his man and he is mine."

"But you'd still like to do it with us mighty fine lookin' coloured boys?"

Martin couldn't think of any other answer so he just nodded.  Darnell
already had The Plunger's trousers off and Martin had Stephen stand up and
undo his.  They fell to the floor.  The three sailors all looked,
wide-eyed.  "Are you sure your pa weren't a nigger?" asked Jerome.

"I don't know.  I never met him.  He was an American, though."

"Well I never knew my pa neither and my ma couldn't rightly recall his name
so I'll just call you brother, cuz I'm sure we're re-lated!"  Everyone
laughed.

"Thanks, Jerome, brother."

"De white folks have it all," muttered Jerome, despondently shaking his
head, to their further amusement.

When things became a little more heated, which was not difficult in the
foetid air of New Orleans at this time of year, Stephen produced the tube
of `Ee-zo'.

"We don't hold with that, Mister Stephen," said Clarence and found his
trousers again and produced a box of his own and handed it to Martin.  It
had a picture of a bearded soldier in a grey uniform astride a horse.  He
read aloud: "General Ease Konfedererate Kreem, Dixie Mfg Co, Atlanta Ga."

"Is it good stuff, Clarence?"

"Only the best, that's all.  I've never had no complaints.  Ain't that
right, boys?"

They nodded in testament and so the rebel balm was liberally applied and
pronounced satisfactory.

When all the desired couplings and triplings had been exhausted and the
party had fallen to telling jokes and laughing, they were interrupted by a
knock at the door; it was a porter, Darnell's cousin.  He looked about the
room in alarm for his relative and said breathlessly, "De house detective
is on his way. You bin laffin and hollering too loud.  Now git!"

The three sailors grabbed their clothes and fled down the hall to The
Plunger's room, which was empty.  When, a few moments later, a man in a
shabby suit, chomping a cigar-end announced that he was `Henderson', he
found only three British soldiers, with their tunics off reading the
Katzenjammer Kids comic strip in the newspaper.

"Y'all keep it down, boys, there's bin complaints," was all he said, but he
was clearly looking around for evidence of miscegenation or worse, of which
there was none.  When he was safely gone back to wherever he habitually
lurked they went to The Plunger's room and sent for Carlo to help smuggle
the sailors out the way they had come.  They left a trifle unsteadily and
with more than a few dollars in their pockets for expenses.


New Orleans was followed by Atlanta and then through the sweltering heat to
the Carolinas where they spoke in Colombia and Charlotte before settling
into an apartment hotel in Washington's DuPont Circle, where they planned
to make excursions to Baltimore, Wilmington and Richmond after they had
kept their appointment with the President.  The Plunger left for
Philadelphia to see his parents, promising to meet up with them in New York
in the hope of travelling across the Atlantic together.

As usual Carlo came into their room in the morning, catching his lordship
in the act of kissing Stephen's balls.  "Aren't they beautiful, Carlo?"

"Yes, sir.  Now you must get ready for your meeting."

"I think I want my strap on, today, Carlo.  Did we bring it?" asked Stephen
brightly. Carlo returned with the leather strap designed for Stephen's cock
and balls.

"He is so hard this morning, Carlo.  I think it must have been that fish
soup we had at Mrs Longworth's last night.  What was it called, Derby?"

"Clam chowder, Mala.  Tighter please Carlo.  I really want to feel it."

Carlo was shaving Stephen as he sat in a chair in front of a large mirror
in the modern bathroom. "You're doing a good job, Carlo, you've got my
moustache just right."  "Thank you sir, this is my favourite task."

"You like shaving me?"

"Yes, sir," said Carlo as the razor quietly scraped away Stephen's soft,
black whiskers in a sea of lather.  "It's quite exciting," he added as he
concentrated on the cleft in Stephen's chin.

"You mean it gets you hard?"

"Well, yes sir, it does," he admitted and Stephen insisted on feeling Carlo
through his trousers.  You should shave me naked, Carlo."

"There's no time for that, sir.  It is only half an hour until you meet the
President."

Martin was already dressed and looked immaculate, however, Carlo could not
get Stephen's trousers on because of the unfortunate effect of Mrs
Longworth's soup.  "It's no use sir," he said in desperation to Martin.
"If I try to take the strap off it makes it worse and he just stands there
grinning," he said, almost in tears. "I fear that Colonel Farmer, or worse,
Mr Chilvers, will tear strips off me if I send him out to meet President
Wilson in this state."

There was very little time and Martin tried to reason with Stephen who just
spluttered helplessly.  "Try some ice from the carafe, Carlo.  Stephen:
think of President Taft...Mrs Astor...the old lady who sells violets in
Piccadilly...rice pudding...Queen Victoria...come on, you're not trying."

Eventually Stephen was squeezed into his officer's trousers and, although
normally proud of his virility, Martin contrived to walk in front through
the foyer to the taxicab that had been waiting for fifteen minutes.

Stephen and Martin were shown to a pleasant anteroom that had a few pieces
of good eighteenth century furniture.  They were looking at some portraits
of important Americans done in colonial times.  They were rather crudely
executed and several had been given by the artist (presumably
inadvertently) crossed eyes, harelips and expressions of general
imbecility, which made the boys start to giggle as they attributed their
likenesses to people of their acquaintance, getting sillier all the time.

"I think it has worked, Mala," whispered Stephen, looking down at his
deflated trouser leg.  Martin was just about to feel for confirmation when
a man entered.  He introduced himself as Colonel House and said he was the
advisor to the President.

House was a tall Texan with a slightly ragged white moustache.  His manner
was very smooth and he mentioned several important people he had met in his
time in England. "The President's priority in this War, gentlemen, is that
it should not be allowed to happen again.  I have already spent fruitless
months trying to broker an armistice.  We are now devoting ourselves to
reshaping the old map of Europe to remove the evils that lay at the root of
this present War.  We want to outlaw war.

"A prohibition on war?" ventured Stephen.

"Yes, Captain, that is a very good way of putting it."

House talked for a few minutes about the politicians he had been the
confidential advisor to. "And then I hitched my star to Governor Wilson of
New Jersey as I saw he was the sort of progressive candidate we needed and
I have been honoured that he has valued my counsel ever since."

House took out his watch and looked at the time.  He ushered them into an
elliptical salon and Mr Wilson looked up from his desk.  He rose to greet
his British visitors, mentioning how much he loved the Lakes District,
which he had visited more than once.  "So you see I have some understanding
of the beauty of Europe from the point of view of a tourist."  Despite the
affection he felt for Windermere, Wilson seemed a rather cold and prim man
and one with whom one would be loath to share a joke.  His mouth was
thin-lipped and hard and Martin thought he looked rather like the dentist
he had visited in London when he had trouble with his wisdom teeth.  At any
moment he expected him to say: `Open wider please, your lordship'.

They moved to some comfortable chairs and Wilson asked them about their War
and Stephen was required to relate the story of his medal and something of
the role of sappers in the present conflict.

"I am setting up a National Food Administration similar to your one in
Britain.  Mr Hoover will be the head of it.  He has had tremendous
experience organising food relief to Belgium as you may know, Captain
Knight-Poole.  You may find it helpful to meet him as a fellow engineer.
He is in Washington now.

"I am leaving the conduct of the War itself to General Pershing, gentlemen.
I am an academic and don't pretend to be a general, unlike your Mr
Churchill."  He then asked about the mood of the country as they had found
it.

"There is still considerable feeling against the War, Mr President,
especially further west," said Martin.

"We found some Irish-Americans and German-Americans were hostile to us in
Boston and Milwaukee, sir," said Stephen, frankly.

"And some state governors who had been elected on anti-war and pro-German
`platforms' -- is that what you say?-- were reluctant to be seen with us.
However in Illinois, Ohio and Michigan for example, our reception was
overwhelming," said Martin.

"We were welcomed with parades in San Francisco and San Antonio" added
Stephen.

"Well I was elected on a `no war' platform form in 1916," said Wilson,
taking off his rimless pince-nez and rubbing his eyes, which looked
terribly tired, "and I now have found my hand has been forced.  The
American people I feel will come around to thinking that we must join in
this fight and take our place on the world stage if only to end it.  But I
am determined that we will use this War to fight for democracy."  Martin
and Stephen looked for an explanation of this.

"There will be no more wars when we can get nations to sit down together
and settle their disputes peacefully.  The United States will have to lead
of course, but when all the people of Europe have the freedom that we enjoy
here they will not feel that they need to attack their neighbours.  They
can settle down to farming and running their businesses and exchanging
their goods freely.  When they see themselves prospering and buying
automobiles they won't feel that they have to put on uniforms and march up
and down the streets."

"That would be a wonderful world, Mr President.  I am a farmer myself and
Britain has always wanted free trade.  But I am not a politician; how will
they settle disputes?" asked Martin.

"We will redraw the map so national groups are within their own borders.
The old empires with their secret treaties and bloody rivalries will be
broken up.  The Poles, for example will have their own state and so will
the Bosnians, the Armenians and the Hungarians.  They will all have
freedom."

"Captain Knight-Poole and I were in East Prussia in 1913, Mr President.  We
found that region of Germany had a very complex history and there was a
great mixture of nationalities, even from village to village-- German parts
and Polish parts; there were Jewish villages and Lithuanian regions as well
as Ukrainians, White Russians and Ruthenians."

"But they will all want freedom, Lord Branksome, that's the common
denominator. When they have freedom you will find they will be just like
American folks.  People are all the same underneath.  It is the yoke of
centuries of imperialism that has prevented them from thinking like us.
They can't even imagine democracy under the heel of the military and--if
you will pardon me--the aristocracy.

"I have set up a group of experts in the New York Public Library under
Colonel House to look at the problem.  I have the best brains in the
country-- judges, industrialists, men who run some of the biggest business
in the country as well as the finest minds from our colleges.  We will have
a blueprint--a blueprint for freedom and democracy-- that we can show to
the people and say, `this is the aim of our war effort; this is what we are
fighting for'.  That is what I meant earlier.  History will judge me
harshly if I cannot bring lasting peace and democracy and freedom to
Europe.  I have the capacity to do it, because I can clearly see the
principles we must adhere to without deviation.  Isn't that right Colonel
House?"

"Yes, Mr President.  We will set the principles before the world and work
from there."

"Have you been to the baseball, gentlemen?" asked the President of the
United States and the conversation switched to sports until Colonel House
coughed and their half an hour had expired.

They walked slowly down the grassy Mall with its view of the Capitol at one
end and an enormous obelisk at the other.  "What are you thinking about,
Derbs?" asked Martin.

"I was thinking about President Wilson.  He's very sincere and we simply
must have a better world after this War.  But I'm not sure that it's as
simple as he suggests--but I suppose that was just for our benefit.  I'm
not sure that everyone will simply evolve into versions of Americans; the
Americans are as unique as the Japanese and the Rumanians, that's why
America is so marvellous.  It's not an exemplar though, any more than
Britain or France is.  I also don't think that the Americans are very
experienced in dealing with other nations on the world stage.  That's where
our Empire has given us some practice, like the French.  What are you
thinking about, Mala?"

"It's my old dilemma with `freedom' again.  People will yearn to be free,
but they will also want to belong to their nation--especially the
President's new ones in Europe. The war greatly stirs up the desire to
belong--to be a part of something greater than the individual and swept
along with everyone else--more than it does wanting to be free.  That's why
we see millions in uniform marching in step.  I'm worried that many
countries will be clamouring for rewards and revenge afterwards rather than
caring about the freedom of their people when all this is over, don't you
think?"

Their next appointment was at the British Embassy where they met Colonel
Farmer, the military attaché, once again.  They went over their
reports, which he had received and Farmer asked what the President had
said.  Martin felt a bit deceitful relaying a private conversation, but he
was under orders.  Farmer listened and said nothing--probably already well
versed in the Wilsonian outlook on the world.

An aide brought them a bundle of letters and Farmer left the room so they
might read them in private.  There was news from home, none of it terrible.
Uncle Alfred was still working with the Indian troops in London.  Mrs
Capstick was worried that Mr Chilvers might be called-up if the age was
raised.  Stephen reported that his father was well and they had planted an
unprecedented acreage in grain, with the women on the estate doing the
majority of the work.  Lt Toomey reported that the San Culottes had been in
Boulogne implementing some of the restructure and that the reports were all
finished.  Stephen felt a pang for his beloved men.

There was another letter in an official envelope.  Stephen opened it and
read it wide-eyed and Martin looked at him for what seemed like an
eternity, trying to deduce from Stephen's expression what was contained in
it.  It was from General Monash.  It wasn't an order, but he was going to
request that Stephen and some of his men be attached to his forces.  Monash
was also going to work alongside the Americans under General Pershing who
were new to the front.  He wanted to see Stephen upon his return.

They lay in bed in the middle of the afternoon.  "Derby, when you are back
in France, I want to come too-- that is I want a posting in France.  I
don't want to stay behind a desk in Whitehall.  I feel such a funk.  Do you
understand that?"  Stephen's answer was just to kiss him on the top of his
head.  Martin continued: "Let's talk about `after the War'-- that would
cheer me up."

"Well, I'll have my motor, if Mr Pandolfo `comes through' as they say here.
Wouldn't it be nice to drive through France in peacetime?  We could drive
all the way to Antibes.  We'll open the house just like before."

"Oh that would be wonderful.  I'm just imagining it now.  I wonder how much
things will have changed?  It won't be the same I know."

"I want to take my degree, Mala.  Will you go back to Cambridge?"

"I don't know.  I suppose so.  Croome will take a lot of looking after.
This income tax will kill us; it is six shillings in the pound now.  We
will be rather hard up I fear."

Stephen nodded.

"There will be all the war widows and orphans... and the wounded.  We must
make them a priority--even before repairing the house.  You will still live
with me, Derby?"

"What a question!  Of course-- if you'll have me still."

"Oh I would come and live with you if you wanted it, it's just that Titus
will be getting older..."

"Yes, he will be 74 this year--but he's still got a few good years in him
yet, Mala.

Would you really have come and lived in the cottage?"

"Yes, of course, Derbs, as long as Chilvers and Carlo and Cook could come
too.  It's the simple life for me."

"Do you think we can continue this conversation in the bath?  Call Carlo,
he can assist."


The next day they had an appointment to see Mr Hoover.  He was a tall
cherubic-faced man, but underneath and behind a pair of narrow hazel eyes,
was a brilliant mind and a capacity to organise and see the details that
others missed.  He seemed to work tremendously hard but was a little
awkward at small talk, especially with members of the British aristocracy,
perhaps with an engineer's love of things and their efficient design rather
than for Washington society.  He was just about to return to Europe where
he was to meet D.A. Thomas-- now Baron Rhondda--who had replaced Lord
Devonport in the Ministry of Food.

"I knew him when he was here in Washington, Lord Branksome," confessed
Hoover with a slightly awkward smile, as if it were somehow and
embarrassing admission, "and he is just the sort of man you need to
organise rationing--a tireless worker and someone who can run the coal
industry efficiently.  Now Captain Knight-Poole, I understand you are a
West Australian.  I lived there when I was your age.  I was a mining
engineer myself and managed several gold mines--you must know the fabulous
Sons of Gwalia mine?"

Stephen had to interrupt and tell Mr Hoover that he had never been to
Australia. "Then Senator Thaddeus Buckweet must have had a wrong man," said
Hoover, distressed at having a faulty fact, "but it is just as well; the
Australians are lazy and hide behind labour unions.  I had to bring
Italians in to show them what hard work looked like.  But I have read your
report on supply problems, Captain.  It was very impressive.  You had
efficiency as your goal and you identified the problems fearlessly, but I
don't agree with some of your conclusions.  Your innovative system for
numbering and keeping track of consignments is commendable and I understand
that it is now being implemented.  We engineers see the prosecution of this
War as very much a matter of efficient supply."

"That part was largely the work of Lt Toomey, Mr Hoover, and I hope to be
alongside American troops in the near future, but we may well meet in
London or France, sir," said Stephen easily, as he and Martin took their
leave to the relief of Mr Hoover who, like all shy people, was slightly
glad when social ordeals were passed through.

Their last few days in New York were hectic.  They found The Plunger at the
St Regis and said goodbye to some of the kind people they had met weeks
before.  There was no time to see Lyendecker, but they wrote to him and
promised to call when they were next in New York--for they had firmly
decided that they would come back `after the War'.

"How was Lady Eudora's ball for the Daughters of the American Revolution,
Gertie?" asked Carlo pleasantly when they met.

"Oh dearie, you should have seen it.  What a riot!  They were all in
blackface and dressed like so many Topsies, Uncle Toms, Othellos and lord
knows what.

"Well, someone had reported to the Old Bitch that protesters--Wobblies--
disguised as policemen were coming to break up the ball."  He drew a big
breath.  "And then a terrible person telephones the police to report that
there is a hoard of Negroes marching in from Chester and trying to get into
the Hotel Adelphia.  Well, you should have seen it, fur and feathers
everywhere!  The Old Cow breaks a banjo on a policeman's head and Mrs Fish
is accused of selling dope.  Mrs Rittenhouse screams that she's a white
woman and the copper says, `All you high yellers try to pass as white' and
that he `wasn't having any of her sass' and then she `slugs him one', as
they say.

"I had to go down to the police station to bail the O.B. out.  She was
screeching and carrying on and the Spanish Infanta, who was dressed as a
`mammy', tells her to shut up and that she wants to get some sleep.  Mrs
Harrison and Miss Adams, who were mulatto women and were in the cell next
to her, complained that it's all her fault and that they will kick her out
of the D.A.R.

"I believe that Mrs Van Rensselaer has actually accepted the position as
cook to the Chief of Police--she's rather down on her uppers, poor dear,
since her husband left her, so that's one good thing to come out of it, I
suppose..."


Down at Pier 54 at the Cunard dock they greeted the beautiful Mauritania,
now renamed the Tuberose--an undignified christening they thought.  It was
being loaded with thousands of `doughboys' in their distinctive
broad-brimmed hats.  They were compelled by The Plunger to walk alongside
the ship to admire his Dazzle design which Archie claimed as one of his
best, having reinterpreted a work by George Fredrick Watts R.A. that he saw
in the Tate ("An underrated painter, Poole") into flat geometric shapes in
brown, fawn and blue, separated by angry, angular black lines.

Colonel Poole, the Marquess of Branksome, and his party, comprising Captain
Knight-Poole, MC (and bar), Lt. Archibald Craigth and Privates Carlo
Sifridi and `Gertie' Haines, were found two small cabins, one for officers
and one for men, and gave up a silent prayer for a safe crossing on the
enormous liner.

It was some hours before they slowly and majestically steamed down the
Hudson, farewelled by a military band whose cheerful sounds were
confidently returned by baritone blasts from the ship's horn.  As seagulls
wheeled above them in the summer sky, they increased their speed and headed
out into the uncertain green waters of the Atlantic.

To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.