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A LOST OLIGARCH
But in remembering the old life I have run ahead of my story into the new
life. The wholesale jail delivery did not occur until well along into
1915. Complicated as it was, it was carried through without a hitch, and
as a very creditable achievement it cheered us on in our work. From Cuba
to California, out of scores of jails, military prisons, and fortresses,
in a single night, we delivered fifty-one of our fifty-two Congressmen,
and in addition over three hundred other leaders. There was not a single
instance of miscarriage. Not only did they escape, but every one of them
won to the refuges as planned. The one comrade Congressman we did not get
was Arthur Simpson, and he had already died in Cabanas after cruel
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
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
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
"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
"I bespeak the privilege, then, of enlightening him in jurisprudence,"
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
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