THE FALL OF A NATION
[Illustration: “From every window they received a hail of bullets”
[_Page 315_]]
THE FALL
OF A NATION
_A SEQUEL TO
THE BIRTH OF A NATION_
BY
THOMAS DIXON
AUTHOR OF “THE CLANSMAN,” “THE SOUTHERNER,”
“THE FOOLISH VIRGIN,” ETC.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES WRENN
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1916
Copyright, 1916, by
THOMAS DIXON
Copyright, 1915, 1916, by THE NATIONAL SUNDAY MAGAZINE
_All rights reserved, including that of translation into
all foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_
_Printed in the United States of America_
TO
MY FRIEND
JAMES B. DUKE
TO THE READER
This novel is not a rehash of the idea of a foreign conquest of America
based on the accidents of war. It is a study of the origin, meaning and
destiny of American Democracy by one who believes that the time is ripe
in this country for a revival of the principles on which our Republic
was founded.
THOMAS DIXON.
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“From every window they received a hail of bullets” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
“‘In God’s name, what regiment’s that?’” 200
“‘It’s all love’s victory, dearest’” 258
“Tommaso staggered to the breastworks and stood one man against an army” 276
“A battery of artillery cleared the barricades and the slaughter began” 316
“Angela swept close ... fired and circled to fire again” 360
THE FALL OF A NATION
PROLOGUE
Over a bleak hillside in Scotland the sun is sinking in the sea. A group
of humble men and women stand before the King’s soldiers accused of
disobedience to Royal command. They have been found guilty of worshiping
God according to the dictates of their own conscience and not according
to the ritual of the Church of England.
The sheriff appeals in vain that they yield and live. The grim prelate
advances, reads the death warrant, and offers pardon if they renounce
their faith. With quiet smiles they lift their heads and pray.
The King on his throne has failed. The King within the soul of man is
rising to reign.
The martyrs are bound to a stake, the fagots piled high, the torch
applied. Above the crackle and roar of flames over the hills by the
western sea rises their song--the battle hymn of a coming republic of
freemen.
The women they reserve for kindlier treatment, these gallant servants of
the King. Beside old Margaret McLaughlin stands a beautiful girl of
nineteen with wide eyes hungry for the joy of living. The poor father,
faithful to the Church, has bought the life of his younger daughter for
a hundred pounds in gold. He offers more for his first born. The older
one they refuse to sell.
With generous chivalry the soldiers drive their stakes within the tide
line of the sea. Drowning they say is an easy death. Old Margaret sinks
quickly beneath the waves. Life has been hard for her. There’s a far-off
eager look in the old eyes as they are lifted to the sky.
The young girl fights for life with the instinctive will to live that
beats in every mother soul. The prelate watching smiles. He sees a
convert to his forms and signals to the guard. The girl is loosed and
dragged ashore. Bending over the prostrate figure on the sands he offers
life for an oath.
“Your King commands it!” the minion urges.
The girl answers in gentle tones:
“I am Christ’s child--I follow Him!”
The prelate frowns, rises and gives the sign to his executioners. The
soldiers tie her again to the stake, and the red shadow of the flames on
the bleak hill fall across the white young face and mingle with the
scarlet of the setting sun.
Every dungeon groans throughout the realm with the madness of the King.
The gentlest and the noblest are held as common felons. John Milton,
brooding within his soul his immortal song, is gripped by prison bars.
Roger Williams, his friend and fellow dreamer, sits by his side reading
to the blind poet the principles of liberty proclaimed by their Dutch
brethren across the channel.
From every dark port the ships lift their wings and sail westward. From
the decks of one our Pilgrim Fathers land on Plymouth Rock and pray.
Strange mixture of fine and common clay these ancestors of ours! They
land first on their knees and then on the aborigines. The pilgrim
becomes the invader. And he wins every battle for the simplest possible
reason. He carries a weapon superior to the one in the hand of the
untutored Indian. The bow and arrow goes down before the death dealing
bolt hurled by gunpowder.
The simple aboriginal had made no preparation against invasion. His
wigwam is burned, his land and goods taken, his children slain.
On other ships come nobler men who lift high the light of a new
civilization.
Roger Williams, exiled from England and driven from Massachusetts by the
Pilgrims, lands on Narragansett Bay, and proclaims religious liberty as
the first principle of human progress. William Penn in Pennsylvania and
Roger Williams in Rhode Island at least atone for some of our early
sins. The light they kindle on our shores streams across the sea to
far-off king-ridden Germany whose men and women starve and freeze on
snow-wrapped hills and mountains while crowned heads, aping the Court of
the Grand Monarch of France, dance and drink in their palaces. As the
snows melt an endless line of human misery pours along the banks of the
Rhine to Rotterdam--with eyes fixed on the far-off new western world.
From the green hills of Ireland leaps another stream toward the western
sea. An absentee landlord, wearing a coronet and loafing at the Court of
Royalty, needs more money for his games. He decides to double his income
by raising his rents. The Marquis of Donegal promptly evicts all tenants
who cannot pay. The lordly example is followed by his landowning
neighbors and thirty thousand Irish immigrants flee to America in a
single year.
But strangest sign of the ages, the children of the Inquisition
themselves at last feel the thumbscrew, rack and torch and turn their
frightened faces westward to the new free world! Lord Baltimore leads
his Catholic exiles to the shores of the Chesapeake and builds in
new-found wisdom a free state with religious liberty its cornerstone.
From a rose bower in the Royal gardens at Fontainebleau the blackest
cloud of a bloody century rises to darken the skies of sunny France. A
gayly dressed page places a cushion and footstool and prostrates himself
as before approaching divinity. A courtier enters, examines the cushion,
kneels, kisses the footstool and stands at attention. The Grand Monarch,
Louis XIV, approaches leaning heavily on the arm of his bespangled
attendant. The King is bent with the consciousness of a life of sin. His
fat legs totter, and there is a haunted look in his feverish eyes.
Remorse for a brutal career is gnawing at his fear-stricken soul. The
white hand of Death is beckoning and he sees.
Madame de Maintenon, his evil genius, hovers in the background, a
black-robed priest whispering in her willing ear.
The King is seated by his courtiers. He roughly commands that they call
his mistress-wife and waves them aside with imperious gesture.
De Maintenon’s keen eye catches the order, the priest disappears and the
harlot who rules a world approaches with cat-like tread, her face a
study of quiet triumphant cunning. She protests her undying love and
with pious eloquence points the way by which his gracious majesty may
yet earn his heavenly crown. A million industrious Huguenots have
unfortunately survived the massacre of St. Bartholomew. If the King
would win eternal salvation he can by ordering their death or submission
to the dishonor of denying their soul’s faith in God. She presents the
fatal document. The old roué with trembling hand signs the revocation of
the Edict of Nantes. France is again deluged in blood and two hundred
thousand of her noblest children driven into exile.
The sun of the new day rises on fields of flowers strewn with the bodies
of dead mothers and babes. As the night falls, terror-stricken refugees
creep across the dark sands of the beach, enter the little boats and
push off from their beloved motherland for the long exile, their
saddened faces turned westward.
The sea is wide but not so wide that the English King’s hand cannot
reach the throats of exiles and their children. By royal command Captain
Preston orders his soldiers to shoot the people down in the streets of
Boston on the night of March 5, 1770. Unarmed men shout defiance and the
troops are withdrawn to hush the turmoil.
The frontiersmen of the wilderness of North Carolina are not so easily
tamed. They seize their muskets and give the first armed resistance to
the might of kings the New World has dared. The Royal Governor defeats
the rebels in the Battle of Alamance on May 16, 1771, and hangs six of
their leaders. As young James Pough stands with his arms pinioned behind
his back he turns to his executioners and shouts: “My blood will be seed
sown on good ground!”
Our fathers in Boston hear the shout and when the King attempts to
enforce his stamp act they board his ship and throw the cargo into the
sea.
The Colonies are at war with the King. The big bell in Philadelphia is
calling all to unite in common defense and Thomas Jefferson reads his
immortal Declaration of Independence to the assembled leaders. His voice
rings with a strange prophetic elation:
“_We hold these truths to be self evident--that all men are created
equal!_”
The startled kings of the earth hear the new heresy in sullen wrath and
join hands to crush the rebels. The German rulers hire to George III
more than thirty thousand Teutonic soldiers with which to stamp out the
threatening conflagration. The Hessians land on our shores and join
hands with the scarlet ranks of the King of England.
To mock their shame a noble Prussian, trained in the school of Frederick
the Great, offers his sword to Washington and becomes the Inspector
General of our ragged half-starved army.
Steuben stands beside Lafayette and Rochambeau while Lord Cornwallis
surrenders the British army at Yorktown.
Through ten years of defeat and anguish, of blood and suffering God
leads the American Colonies at last into the sunlight of victory. George
Washington, first president of the established union of free sovereign
democratic States, delivers his inaugural address. A free nation rises
from blood-red soil to haunt the dream of kings.
The rulers of earth are not slow to note the signs of the times.
Democracy must be crushed. The handwriting on their palace walls is
plain. He who runs may read. Imperialism challenges Democracy for a
fight to the finish. The kings of Austria, Russia and Prussia meet in
Paris and form the Holy Alliance. The purpose of their treaty is
expressed in plain language. It has the ring of a bugle call to arms.
They do not mince words:
“_The high contracting parties, well convinced that the system of
representative government is as incompatible with the monarchical system
as the maxim of the sovereignty of the people is opposed to the
principle of Divine Right, engage in the most solemn manner to employ
all their means and unite all their efforts to put an end to the system
of representative government wherever it is known to exist in the States
of Europe and to prevent it from being introduced into those States
where it is not known._”
Alexander I of Russia, Frederick William III of Prussia, and Francis I
of Austria sign the solemn compact and fix their Royal seals. In due
time the Bourbon King of France joins the Alliance against the rising
Democracy. They would first crush the spirit of the French Revolution in
Europe and halt the spirit of 1776 in America. They must re-establish
the Crown over the revolting colonies of Central and South America and
establish Russia’s claim to Northwestern America.
James Monroe, president of the United States, answers this challenge
with the doctrine of a free America ruled by her own people. The leader
of world democracy does not mince words. His message rings also with the
note of a bugle call to arms:
“_The political system of the Allied Powers is essentially different
from that of America. To the defense of our own, which has been achieved
with the loss of so much blood and treasure, this whole nation is
devoted and we should consider any attempt on their part to extend their
system to any portion of this hemisphere as dangerous to our peace and
safety. It is impossible therefore that the Allied Powers should extend
their political system to either Continent of North or South America
without endangering our life._”
Imperial Europe has flung down the gantlet. American Democracy accepts
the challenge and the fight is on to a finish.
The King of Prussia wins the first skirmish and strangles with iron hand
the murmurs of the people of Germany for freedom. Karl Schurz, Franz
Siegel, Jacobi and their fellow students crawl through the sewers, elude
the Prussian soldiers, and reach our shores to swell the rank of
militant Democracy. All Europe rings with the headsman’s ax and from a
thousand hilltops the ropes of hangmen swing in the stark heavens.
Those corpses of young men,
Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets--those hearts
pierced by the gray lead,
Cold and motionless as they seem, live elsewhere with
unslaughtered vitality.
They live in other young men, O kings!
They live in brothers, again ready to defy you!
They were purified by death--they were taught and exalted.
Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,
But it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering,
counseling, cautioning.
Democracy hears these invisible councilors and sets her house in order
for the coming world crisis.
The old Federal Union of sovereign states has proven too frail for the
strain of the new era. A stronger Union must be laid with new and deeper
foundations. “Liberty and Union one and inseparable now and forever”
ceases to be merely the eloquent prayer of a great statesman. It has
become the first necessity of the political system of Democracy. Abraham
Lincoln realizes this in his soul stirring cry from the great
battlefield:
“_That Government of the people by the people and for the people shall
not perish from the earth!_”
From her baptism of blood and tears the New Nation, strong, free,
united, rises at last to face a hostile world, her house in order, her
loins girded for the conflict.
Imperial Europe hastens to test her mettle. A princeling is proclaimed
emperor of Mexico in a palace in Vienna, Austria, and sails for our
shores. His reign is brief.
A few short months and Maximilian stands beside an old Spanish wall in a
Mexican village and bids farewell to his friends. He is allowed to
embrace Miramon and Mejia. With imperial gesture he throws his gold to
the soldiers and bids them fire straight at his heart. The three fall
simultaneously and the smoke lifts once more on a Western nation ruled
by the people.
Europe has not forgotten. She is busy for the moment setting her own
house in order for the supreme conflict which her leaders foresee with
the advance of the dangerous heresy of people claiming the right to
govern themselves.
The Emperor of Germany sounds the keynote in an address to his
magnificent army--The Divine Right of Kings was never so boldly
proclaimed by any ruler of the world. He speaks the last word of
Imperial Culture to Modern Democracy:
“_We Hohenzollerns hold our crown from God alone. Who opposes me I shall
crush to pieces!_”
The American Republic is but a lusty youth of untried strength among the
nations of earth. The real battle between the Crown and the People for
the mastery of the world is yet to be fought. Eternal vigilance is the
price of liberty today as yesterday and forever.
CHAPTER I
The liveried flunkey entered the stately library and bowed:
“You rang, sir?”
He scarcely breathed the words. In every tone spoke the old servile
humility of the creature in the presence of his creator the King. He
might have said, “Sire.” His voice, his straight-set eyes, his bowed
body, did say it.
His master continued the conversation with the two men without lifting
his head. He merely flung the order with studied carelessness:
“Lights, Otto--the table only.”
The servant bowed low, pressed the electric switch, and softly left the
room, walking backward as before royalty.
The two men with Charles Waldron in his palatial house in New York
passed the incident apparently without knowledge of its significance. An
American-born boy of fourteen, seeing it twenty-five years ago, would
have wondered where on earth the creature came from. Of one thing he
would have been certain--this flunkey could not have been made in the
United States of America. Within the past quarter of a century, however,
the imported menial has become one of our institutions and he is the
outward sign of a momentous change within the mind of the class who have
ruled our society.
The crown-embossed electric lantern above the massive table in the
center of the room flooded the gold and scarlet cloth with light.
Waldron with a quick gesture of command spoke sharply:
“Be seated, gentlemen.”
The two men instinctively brought their heels together and took seats
within the circle of light. The master of the house paused a moment in
deep thought before the stately Louis XIV window looking out on the
broad waters of the Hudson.
His yacht, a huge ocean greyhound whose nose had scented the channels of
every harbor of the world, lay at anchor in the stream along the heights
of upper Manhattan, her keen prow bent seaward by the swift tide.
The strong face of the master of men was flushed with an inward fire.
His gray eyes glowed. His jaws suddenly came together with decision. He
turned from the window as if to join the two at the table and paused in
his tracks studying the face of Meyer, the tall angular fellow who was
evidently impatient at the delay.
Waldron had suddenly made up his mind to trust this man with a most
important mission. And yet he disliked him. He was the type that must be
used, but held with an iron hand--the modern enthusiast with scientific
knowledge.
The smaller man, Mora, was easy--the nose of a ferret, coarse black
cropped beard and thick sensuous lips. He could be managed--yes. He
could be trusted--yes.
The other--he studied again--the strongly marked angular features, the
large brilliant eyes, big nostrils and high forehead. He could be used
for the first steps--it might be necessary to hang him later. All right,
he would use him and then let him hang himself--suicide was common with
his type.
Waldron smiled, quickly approached the table and took his seat. He
nodded to Meyer and spoke suavely:
“Your invention has been perfected?”
The deep lines about the thinker’s mouth twitched. He suddenly thrust
his hand in his pocket, drew out a box and placed it under the light.
“I have it with me.”
Mora bent close and Waldron watched keenly as Meyer opened the leathern
case and exposed the new device which he had promised to perfect.
“Examine the mechanisms,” he said, passing it to Waldron. “It’s
perfectly harmless at present. The clockwork inside is as delicate as a
Swiss watch.”
The master of the house placed the smooth round surface to his ear,
listened, laughed softly and passed it to Mora.
Meyer spoke with the certainty of positive knowledge, holding Waldron’s
eye with a steady gaze.
“I guarantee to stop the trade of this money-grabbing nation with all
belligerents. I’ll sink a ship from inside her hold as slick as that
torpedo ten days ago got the _Lusitania_--”
Waldron made no reply. His jaw merely closed tightly.
The throb of an automobile climbing the steep roadway from the river
drive struck the window. Waldron rose, listened a moment, walked to the
casement and looked out.
A tall, distinguished-looking man with deep-cut lines in his strong
face, who moved with military precision, opened the door of the tonneau
without waiting for the chauffeur and leaped out.
The flunkey in the hall was evidently expecting his arrival. Villard
whispered to the servant who closed the door quickly and led the way to
the library.
The new guest was evidently nervous in spite of his well drilled
manners. In his right hand he gripped an extra edition of a New York
sensational evening paper.
Villard himself brushed the flunkey aside and rapped on the library
door. Waldron opened and closed it instantly on his entrance. There was
no mistaking the fact that the newcomer bore an important message. His
deep, cold, blue eyes glowed with excitement and his hand visibly
trembled. He drew his host to the window, opened the crumpled copy of
the paper and pointed to its huge head lines:
CONGRESSMAN VASSAR OF NEW YORK INTRODUCES BILL DEMANDING A GREAT
NAVY AND A MILLION TRAINED MEN FOR DEFENSE!
“This is a serious business”--Villard said curtly.
Waldron smiled:
“Serious--yes--unless we know how to meet the crisis. I happen to
know--”
“It can be defeated then?”
“It will be defeated,” was the quiet reply. “Many bills are introduced
into our supreme law-making body, Villard--but few are passed. This is
one that will die an early and easy death--”
“You are sure?”
“As that I’m living. Come--sit down.” Waldron moved toward the table and
Villard quickly followed.
Waldron handed the paper to Meyer without comment and quietly watched
him explode with excitement. Mora, too, was swept from his feet for the
moment.
“It means--sir?” Meyer gasped.
“That we will move a little more quickly--that is all,” Waldron
answered.
The three men leaned close, each awaiting with evident deference the
word of the master mind.
There was no mistaking the fact that one mind dominated the group. The
high intellectual forehead of the man of millions marked him at once as
a born leader and master of men. There was a consciousness of power in
the poise of his big body and the slow movement of his piercing eyes
that commanded attention and respect from his bitterest foe.
“Of course, gentlemen,” he began calmly, “if we had in this country an
intelligent and capable government we would be up against a serious
situation. We have no such government. The alleged Democracy under which
we live is the most asinine contrivance ever devised by theorists and
dreamers. It never makes an important move until too late and then will
certainly do the wrong thing in the moment of crisis. There is but one
thing you can always depend on at every session of Congress. They will
pass the bill dividing the Pork Barrel among the Congressional
Districts. The average Congressman considers this his first duty--the
rest is of but slight importance--”
Villard laughed heartily. The two others joined feebly. They were not so
sure of the situation. Their knowledge of Waldron’s power and the
accuracy of his judgment was not so clear as the older man’s.
“Not only have we the most corrupt and incompetent government of all
history,” Waldron went on, “but to add to its confusion and weakness we
have lately thrust the duties of the ballot upon millions of hysterical
women utterly unfitted for its responsibilities. It is an actual fact
that the women now enfranchised in the Middle and Western states hold
the balance of power--”
Villard suddenly leaped to his feet.
“And they will vote solidly against every programme of preparation!”
Waldron nodded.
“How fortunate at this moment!” Villard went on enthusiastically, “that
the women rule American men. I begin to see the reason for your
confidence. You will enlist of course the eloquent young leader who
addressed the mob in Union Square last week?”
“At once,” Waldron answered quickly. “Virginia Holland is one of the
feminine gods at the moment. It’s amazing with what blind worship her
disciples follow--”
“She’s a stunning young woman, sir!” Villard broke in gallantly. “By
Jove, she stirred me. You can’t neglect her--”
“I shall cultivate her at once,” was the quiet answer. “In the meantime,
Meyer”--Waldron paused and held the enthusiast’s eye for an instant and
went on rapidly--“we will forget the ships--”
Meyer frowned in surprise but had no time to answer before he received
the curt order in an undertone.
“Wait for me--I’ve more important work for you.” Waldron rose and drew
Villard and Mora aside.
Without ceremony he placed five yellow-backed one hundred dollar bills
in Villard’s hands and a single one in Mora’s.
“We hold a great Peace rally to launch the popular movement against this
bill to establish militarism in the United States. The classes who
cherish varied theories of peace will join us. The Honorable Plato
Barker is at the moment the leader of the peace yodelers. He is a
professional lecturer who loves the sound of his own voice. He knows
you, Villard, and prizes your opinions on Peace--”
Villard gave a dry little laugh.
“You will personally see the Honorable Plato and secure him as our
principal speaker. And you, Mora, happen to know the Reverend A.
Cuthbert Pike, D.D., President of the American Peace Union. His church
maintains some missionaries in your benighted native land. His office is
at the Bible House. I want him to introduce the Honorable Plato
Barker--”
Mora smiled and bowed, and the two hurried to execute their orders.
Villard’s car was waiting. The master of the house took Meyer’s arm, led
him to the corner of the library and for half an hour gave explicit
instructions in low tones.
Before showing Meyer to the door another roll of bills was duly
delivered for defraying the expenses of his important work. The
enthusiast brought his heels together with a sharp click, saluted and
hurried down the broad stairs. He declined the offer of an automobile.
He didn’t like millionaires. He only used them.
Waldron watched him go with a curious smile, drew on his gloves and
called for his hat and cane.
The flunkey who hovered near obeyed the order with quick servility and
stood watching his master go by the broad porte-cochère, wondering why
the order had not been given him for the car.
Waldron signaled his night chauffeur, and the big limousine darted to
the stoop. As the driver leaned out to receive his orders, Waldron spoke
in low tones:
“To Miss Virginia Holland’s on Stuyvesant Square--”
The driver nodded and closed the door of the limousine. He had been
there before.