Hope Takes Flight (7 page)

However, when he did get in to see Secretary Bryan, he saw at once that the man had aged visibly. His face was lined, and his hands had a slight tremble that had not been there before.

“Come in, come in, Amos,” the secretary said in a friendly way. “Sit down, and let's hear what's on your mind.”

Amos shook Bryan's hand, took a chair, and the two of them began to talk. “I'd like to see the president,” Amos said, “but I don't suppose that's possible. I know he's not talking to anybody.”

Bryan shook his head. “No, I don't think he'd see you, my boy. He's not even seeing me very often these days.”

“Well, he's got a hard decision to make. What do you think he'll do about the German submarine problem?”

“I don't know,” Bryan answered, heaving a sigh, “but I'm afraid of what he might decide. He's against war, but he's got lots of warhawks in this country yelling for it…screaming, as a matter of fact.”

Bryan talked on about the situation. After a while he said, “I can't get you in to see the president, but I may be seeing him myself fairly soon.” He hesitated, then confided, “I'm afraid I'm going to have to resign as secretary of state.”

Shock ran along Amos Stuart's spine, and he knew he was on top of a big story. “Resign? You can't do that, Mr. Secretary. Mr. Wilson needs you.”

“I had hoped so, but we seem to be going in different directions. I've urged him to take some firm measures without declaring war. For example, I asked him to encourage, even
command
Americans to stop traveling on ships belligerent to the Germans. But he said, ‘That's impossible in a democracy.' I tried to get him to issue a warning to the British to observe the neutral zones, but he has even refused to do that.” Bryan regarded Amos sadly. “Now I'm afraid of what's going to happen.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go with you to talk to the president…if you have to, that is,” Amos said. He knew that by being with Bryan, he would absorb some of the things that were coming out of the White House.

Bryan smiled genially, if a little sadly. “Of course, of course, my boy. Be glad to have you.”

For the next three days, Amos stayed very close to William Jennings Bryan. And each day, it became more evident that things were not going well. Finally on Wednesday, Bryan spoke to him just before the office closed, and said in an unsteady voice, “I've decided to see the president. If you'd care to go along, I'd be glad to have you, Amos.”

“Certainly, Mr. Secretary,” Amos said quickly.

He did not question Bryan, but got into the automobile with him, and the two of them went to the White House. On Pennsylvania Avenue, they got out of the car and went inside.

When they handed their hats to the servant, Bryan turned to Amos. “You'll have to wait in the sitting room. I'll see you after I've talked with the president.”

“I'll be waiting. And I'll be praying for you, Mr. Bryan.”

Bryan looked at Amos gratefully, a warm light in his eyes. “I appreciate that, more than you know. And I know you mean it, Amos.”

He turned and left. The servant showed Amos into a large sitting room filled with uncomfortable chairs. He sat there for nearly an hour, wondering about the meeting between these two stalwart Presbyterian elders. Finally, when Bryan came back, one look gave him the answer.

“He would not see it my way,” Bryan said brokenly. There were tears in his eyes. He stared at Amos and said, “We will have war…although you mustn't print that. That's not my announcement to make. But I wanted you to know. Maybe you can say some things in your paper that will prepare the country for it.”

“I'll do the best I can, and of course I wouldn't print anything without your permission.”

William Jennings Bryan dropped his head. He seemed almost to be praying. Then he looked up at Amos. “A British duke—Lord Gray, I think it was—said something the other day.…” He hesitated, then dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Gray said, ‘The lights are going out all over the world.…We won't see a light again in our lifetime!'”

T
he audience at the Palace Theatre came to their feet as the curtain fell, the fine old building reverberating with their applause. Lylah, her eyes gleaming with excitement, grasped her friend, Helen Ulric, by the arm and whispered, “Listen to that! Isn't it wonderful!”

Helen, after three months, was still surprised at the effect an audience had on Lylah Stuart. She smiled and shook her head. “Go on and take your bow. It's you they want…not me.”

Helen watched as Lylah moved to the front of the stage, smiled, and waved gracefully at the audience. As Helen looked on, the thought came to her:
I'll never feel as strongly about the theater as she does. She loves it better than she loves air!

Helen thought back over the run of the play which had been a hit beyond the expectations of the backers. She remembered the first time she had met Lylah Stuart, how a hot streak of jealousy had run through her over Lylah's fresh beauty. She had quickly learned, however, that, unlike most actresses, Lylah had a gentle, sweet side to her nature. The two of them had agreed to take an apartment together in London, close to the theater, and it had worked out very well indeed.

Helen waited until Lylah took her bows, and then blew a kiss at the audience.
They'd laugh me off the stage if I tried a thing like that,
she thought.

When Lylah came back to the wings, she tossed Helen a bright smile. “C'mon. I'm starved to death. Let's get changed.”

They made their way to the small dressing room they shared, and they met up with a stage hand who was frankly admiring. “Good performance, Lylah.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Lylah replied, and Helen could not help thinking that the American actress really
was
a democrat, that her familiarity with those men was no act.

Inside, Helen began undressing. “Good job tonight, Lylah, as always.” She slipped out of her dress and reached for a robe. “But tonight was something extra.”

Lylah's eyes were still bright with excitement from the applause of the audience. As she changed, she talked about the play—reliving it, regretting her single miscue, laughing when she remembered the leading man tripping and falling over a chair. She came alive any time she was onstage…or even now, just talking about it.

As they removed their stage makeup, Helen brought up the war. Wiping the cold cream from her face, she turned a troubled gaze on Lylah. “This war is bad. I plan to leave for Germany soon.”

Helen was an attractive woman with blond hair and blue eyes—a true Nordic specimen. She came, Lylah knew, from an aristocratic family, although she had said very little about them. Now Lylah glanced at her with a puzzled expression. “Why would you have to do that, Helen?”

“Too much anti-German feeling.” Wiping her face with a clean cloth, she began carefully applying her regular makeup. “It won't be safe for any German here soon.”

Lylah fell silent and, caught up in their own reflections, the two women said no more. Lylah was aware of the truth of Helen's statement, but had hoped that the escalating war in Europe would not mean she would lose her friend.

When they were nearly dressed, someone knocked at the door, and one of the managers stuck his head inside and asked, “Will you see some of your admirers?”

“Send them in,” Helen said. “I could use a little admiration.”

The two women received the guests—two gentlemen and a lady. Both saw it as part of their profession. These were important visitors, they knew, wealthy people from Bristol who were prospective backers for their next play. They smiled and chatted, making themselves agreeable, and finally when the visitors left, Helen said with satisfaction, “I think they're hooked, Lylah. They've got more money than they know what to do with anyway. So they can pay us for the next play.”

“Oh, I hope this one runs a long time,” Lylah said quickly. “I love it!”

The two women were putting away their cosmetics when there was another knock at the door. A look of irritation swept across Helen's even features. “Another stage door Johnny,” she fumed. “I'll get rid of him.”

She went to the door and opened it barely enough to look outside. “Sorry. No more visitors tonight,” she said brusquely. “Come back tomorrow night.” She closed the door firmly, but she had no sooner settled again in her chair in front of the mirror than the knock came again.

“I'll get it,” Lylah said. She had been in the theater for ten years, but she had never tired of receiving those who came backstage—a trait which puzzled the rest of the troupe, who considered these devoted fans little more than pests. She opened the door, opened her mouth to say something…then froze where she was.

“Lylah! It's really you!” Gavin burst out. He stood there, a broad smile on his face, then stepped in and took her in his arms.

Lylah, too surprised to speak, could do nothing but cling to him. Finally she drew back and looked up at him. “Gavin,” she gasped, “what in the world—?”

“Surprised you this time, didn't I? Well, it took a lot of doing to work out this surprise, I can tell you for sure.” Gavin was dressed in a shapeless suit that looked as though it had come from a third-rate pawn shop. He grinned at her. “Aren't you going to ask me in, Sis?”

“Oh, come in, come in!” Lylah grabbed his arm, pulled him inside, and looked over at her friend. “Helen, this is my brother Gavin. Gavin, this is Helen Ulric.” Then she turned again and shook his arm almost fiercely. “What in the world are you doing? I just got a letter a week ago, saying you'd run away from home!”

Gavin stood there, looking pleased with himself. “Well,” he admitted, “reckon I'm a little bit old to be running away from home…at twenty-two. What I did was run away to New York and beg enough money from Amos to get me to England.”

“But…but what are you doing here?” Lylah stammered. She had not realized until this moment how much she missed her family, and now she held on to his arm firmly.

Gavin glanced at Helen Ulric, then decided he could speak freely. “You remember that pilot, Lincoln Beachey? I pestered him until he finally taught me to fly. I've come over here to join the French Air Force.”

The world seemed to stop for Lylah. It was all she had dreaded, and she had hoped it would never happen. She had seen the releases of the casualty lists and knew how men were dying like flies at the Marne and other awful places. “You can't, Gavin, you can't do it! This isn't your war!”

Helen got up quickly. “Well, I'll leave you two alone. I know you want to talk.” She put out her hand to Gavin and said, “I'm glad to meet you. This is some sister you have here, you know.”

Gavin took her hand and squeezed it so hard she winced. “Yes, ma'am. Reckon I know that.”

Helen left the room and Lylah said to her brother, “C'mon. Let's go somewhere else. We can't talk here.”

They left the theater, walked to a small restaurant only four blocks away and sat down at a table for two.

“You'll have to pay for it, Sis,” Gavin said with chagrin. “I just barely had enough money to get here.”

“All right now, tell me all about it,” Lylah said after they had ordered.

She listened as Gavin poured out his heart. He told her how miserable life at the farm had been—not just recently, but for years—and how he couldn't stand his stepmother another minute. He finally wound up by saying, “You ought to know, Lylah. You couldn't stand it even when Mom was alive. I just couldn't take any more of Agnes!”

Lylah shook her head and searched for the words that would make him change his mind. But she really knew that it was hopeless. Gavin was stubborn, she knew, with that same adamant quality that had driven her from the farm. As she sat looking at him, so youthful and handsome, she wanted to cry. But she willed back the tears.
What's done is done, and I'll have to do the best I can for him.
“All right, Gavin. I won't fuss at you anymore. Now, tell me about the family.”

They talked all through the meal, then sat drinking coffee for hours, until finally the owner of the restaurant approached, coughing slightly as he placed the bill on the table. Lylah looked up, startled, then turned to Gavin with a laugh. “We always could talk all night, couldn't we?” She paid the bill, and the two walked outside into the night air.

“I'll get you a room at my hotel,” Lylah said.

“Fine, Sis, but it'll just be for one night. Tomorrow I join the Foreign Legion.”

Lylah stopped dead still, her mouth agape. “You'll do
what?
Join the Foreign Legion?”

Gavin looked chagrined. “Well, I didn't know 'til I got here that the French Air Force doesn't accept anyone except Frenchmen. So, I've got to join the Foreign Legion so I'll be a Frenchman. They take volunteers with no questions asked.”

Holding onto Gavin's arm, Lylah began walking again, and when they reached the hotel, she said quietly, “All right, Gavin. If you've got to do it, I guess you've got to do it. Besides, I can't talk, can I? Look what I've done with my life.”

Gavin said quickly, “Aw, Sis, you haven't done so bad. You're a famous actress! Everybody back home is proud of you.”

Tears stung Lylah's eyes, and she shook her head without answering. At the desk, she registered Gavin for the night, saying no more than was necessary.

Upstairs, he walked her to her room, then said, “I'll be gone when you get up in the morning, Sis. But you'll be hearing from me. You'll see my name in the newspapers one of these days—‘Yankee Ace Shoots Down 10 Aircraft in One Day!'”

Lylah kissed him and whispered, “Good night, my dear, good night. Don't forget to write.” Then she went inside, fell across her bed, and wept as she had not wept since she was a child.

When Gavin walked into the room, he was startled to see that it was full of tough-looking specimens of every race under the sun. There were even a couple of dark-skinned Negroes and one or two whose real color was nearly indistinguishable, so colored were they with plain ordinary dirt.

Feeling very small and more than a little afraid, he backed up against the wall to wait until his name was called. But he had come this far, and he wouldn't back out now.

Finally his name was called and Gavin moved across the room, entering a small office. It was occupied largely by various charts and a much-harassed, beetle-browed individual with a booming voice. He had the caduceus of the Medical Corps on the deep red velvet tabs of his uniform collar.

“Strip,” he ordered, and Gavin immediately pulled off his clothes and dropped them to the floor.

Impersonally, as if Gavin were a horse, the doctor gave him a brief once-over and, seeing that he had the regulation torso—arms and legs—he grunted, and Gavin knew the first hurdle had been surmounted.

Then the doctor picked up a dirty, grease-spotted towel and laid it on Gavin's chest. Gavin shuddered at the thought of how many chests like those in the anteroom that same towel had already covered.

“Breathe deeply,” the doctor grunted.

Gavin breathed, his heart beating like a trip-hammer. With his ear to Gavin's chest, protected by the towel from contamination, the doctor listened for something—waterfalls? volcanic upheavals?—but didn't seem to hear anything alarming. Briskly he nodded approval, and Gavin drew a sigh of relief.

He stood Gavin in front of a chart, the letters of which looked as large as one of the signs in Times Square and commanded him to read. “The second line,” he said. “I see there a ‘B.' What do you see?”

“Uhh…I see a ‘B'.”

“
Bon!
” he exploded enthusiastically.

The doctor continued to read the chart, allowing Gavin to read it after him, never once trying to confuse him by calling the wrong letter. He wasn't taking any chances that Gavin would be wrong, and his ‘
Bon!
' grew even more enthusiastic with every answer.

They went on to the color chart, where the process was repeated.

“I see red. What do you see?”

“I see red, Major.”

“
Bon.
I see green. What do you see?”

“Oh, I see green, Major.”

Finally the major gave Gavin a friendly pat on the bare back, which sent him staggering across the room, signed his name to the papers with an official flourish, and congratulated him on being a perfect physical specimen. He said—as far as Gavin could make out—that Gavin was well qualified to get himself killed for France at any time.

Gavin dressed and went back to the outer office, where he signed his name to a paper that gave the French Foreign Legion permission to send him anywhere they saw fit.

“Wonderful!” the sergeant said, beaming. “Now, you can go to war for France!”

With his instructors and twenty-nine other pupils in his class watching from a safe distance, Lieutenant Manfred von Richthofen, lately of the Supply Corps, determined to appear as if what was about to take place was the most natural thing in the world. But when the engine of the ancient two-seater started, his look of composure slipped away in a blast of smoke and air. His safety helmet, strapped loosely under his chin, blew off and pulled taut against his neck. His partly unbuttoned jacket filled with air until it looked like an inflated brown sausage. His scarf unwound and disappeared. As the noise and the vibrations intensified, he touched the controls and the old biplane started to move.

As it bounced over the field and rapidly gained speed, von Richthofen squeezed the controls as tightly as he could and promised God that if he would let him complete his solo in safety, he would never do anything wrong again. When the tail lifted off the ground, he felt a little sick at his stomach. But suddenly the jouncing stopped. Although the ground seemed as close as before, now he was airborne, and he pulled back on the stick, bringing the nose up, and into the blue corridors of the open sky.