A Lost Oligarch

: The Iron Heel

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

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

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

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

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

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

fifty-two ongressmen, and in addition over three hundred other leaders.

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

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

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

already died in Cabanas after cruel tortures.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

comrades that night.



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

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

Biedenbach, who came down first; but the next moment I was in Ernest's

arms. And in that moment, so complete had been my transformation, I

discovered it was only by an effort of will that I could be the old Avis

Everhard, with the old mannerisms and smiles, phrases and intonations of

voice. It was by strong effort only that I was able to maintain my

old identity; I could not allow myself to forget for an instant, so

automatically imperative had become the new personality I had created.



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

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

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

certain ascetic lengthening of the lines of his face. But he could well

stand it, for it seemed to add a certain nobility of refinement to the

riotous excess of life that had always marked his features. He might

have been a trifle graver than of yore, but the glint of laughter still

was in his eyes. He was twenty pounds lighter, but in splendid

physical condition. He had kept up exercise during the whole period of

confinement, and his muscles were like iron. In truth, he was in better

condition than when he had entered prison. Hours passed before his head

touched pillow and I had soothed him off to sleep. But there was no

sleep for me. I was too happy, and the fatigue of jail-breaking and

riding horseback had not been mine.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Ernest's glance took me in and questioned impatiently past and

around the room. The next moment I was being introduced to him as Mary

Holmes.



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

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

noted Ernest's increasing uneasiness and impatience. Finally he could

stand it no longer.



"Where's my wife?" he demanded bluntly.



"She is still asleep," I answered.



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

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

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

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

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

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

and stared about in annoyance and perplexity. The four men greeted him

with roars of laughter, and explanations were made. At first he was

sceptical. He scrutinized me keenly and was half convinced, then shook

his head and would not believe. It was not until I became the old Avis

Everhard and whispered secrets in his ear that none knew but he and Avis

Everhard, that he accepted me as his really, truly wife.



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

embarrassment and claiming polygamous emotions.



"You are my Avis," he said, "and you are also some one else. You are two

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

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

citizenship in Turkey."*



* At that time polygamy was still practised in Turkey.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

those same palaces and wonder-cities.*



* This is not braggadocio on the part of Avis Everhard. The

flower of the artistic and intellectual world were

revolutionists. With the exception of a few of the

musicians and singers, and of a few of the oligarchs, all

the great creators of the period whose names have come down

to us, were revolutionists.



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

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

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

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

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

and butter,* and Ernest was not above shooting Wickson's quail and

rabbits, and, on occasion, his young bucks.



* Even as late as that period, cream and butter were still

crudely extracted from cow's milk. The laboratory

preparation of foods had not yet begun.



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

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

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

There was a nook on the bottom of the great hole where the sun shone for

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

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

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

asleep, over a volume of Mendenhall.* I was so comfortable and secure

that even his flaming lyrics failed to stir me.



* In all the extant literature and documents of that period,

continual reference is made to the poems of Rudolph

Mendenhall. By his comrades he was called "The Flame." He

was undoubtedly a great genius; yet, beyond weird and

haunting fragments of his verse, quoted in the writings of

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

by the Iron Heel in 1928 A.D.



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

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

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

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

and uttered a low whistle of surprise.



"Well," he said; and the next moment, cap in hand, he was saying, "I beg

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



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

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

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

to my feet and cried out the danger call.



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



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

descent. I recognized this with relief.



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

clumsy in those days.



"I don't know," he answered, shaking his head. "Unless you've got

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

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

and--"



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

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



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

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

imperturbable.



"Oh, ho," he said, "a nest of revolutionists--and quite a hornet's nest

it would seem. Well, you won't abide here long, I can tell you."



"Maybe you'll abide here long enough to reconsider that statement,"

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

inside with me."



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

here? I have heard of such things."



"Come and see," Biedenbach answered with his adorable accent.



"But it is unlawful," was the protest.



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

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

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

brutality in which you have lived."



"There is room for argument there," Wickson muttered.



"Then stay with us and discuss it."



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

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

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



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

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

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



"I'll tell you what to do," Ernest said. "We'll keep him and give him an

education."



"I bespeak the privilege, then, of enlightening him in jurisprudence,"

Biedenbach cried.



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

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

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

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

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

a rope from above, he toiled cunningly for the rest of the day till no

sign remained. Back up the canyon from the lip of the hole all marks

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

demanded Wickson's shoes.



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

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

hands. Carlson afterward reported several blisters and much grievous

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

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

the young man's obliterated trial, Carlson put on the shoes and walked

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

through canyons, and finally covered the trail in the running water of

a creek-bed. Here he removed the shoes, and, still hiding trail for a

distance, at last put on his own shoes. A week later Wickson got back

his shoes.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

underground railway to the Carmel refuge.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

contracted the pneumonia of which he died.*



* The case of this young man was not unusual. Many young

men of the Oligarchy, impelled by sense of right conduct, or

their imaginations captured by the glory of the Revolution,

ethically or romantically devoted their lives to it. In

similar way, many sons of the Russian nobility played their

parts in the earlier and protracted revolution in that

country.