The Minions of Midas
Wade Atsheler is dead--dead by his own hand. To say that this was entirelyunexpected by the small coterie which knew him, would be to say an untruth;and yet never once had we, his intimates, ever canvassed the idea. Rather hadwe been prepared for it in some incomprehensible subconscious way. Before theperpetration of the deed, its possibility is remotest from our thoughts; butwhen we did know that he was dead, it seemed, somehow, that we had understoodand looked forward to it all the time. This, by retrospective analysis, wecould easily explain by the fact of his great trouble. I use "great trouble"advisedly. Young, handsome, with an assured position as the right-hand man ofEben Hale, the great street-railway magnate, there could be no reason for himto complain of fortune's favors. Yet we had watched his smooth brow furrow andcorrugate as under some carking care or devouring sorrow. We had watched histhick, black hair thin and silver as green grain under brazen skies andparching drought. Who can forget, in the midst of the hilarious scenes hetoward the last sought with greater and greater avidity--who can forget, Isay, the deep abstractions and black moods into which he fell? At such times,when the fun rippled and soared from height to height, suddenly, without rhymeor reason, his eyes would turn lacklustre, his brows knit, as with clenchedhands and face overshot with spasms of mental pain he wrestled on the edge ofthe abyss with some unknown danger.He never spoke of his trouble, nor were we indiscreet enough to ask. But itwas just as well; for had we, and had he spoken, our help and strength couldhave availed nothing. When Eben Hale died, whose confidential secretary hewas--nay, well-nigh adopted son and full business partner--he no longer cameamong us. Not, as I now know, that our company was distasteful to him, butbecause his trouble had so grown that he could not respond to our happinessnor find surcease with us. Why this should be so we could not at the timeunderstand, for when Eben Hale's will was probated, the world learned that hewas sole heir to his employer's many millions, and it was expressly stipulatedthat this great inheritance was given to him without qualification, hitch, orhindrance in the exercise thereof. Not a share of stock, not a penny of cash,was bequeathed to the dead man's relatives. As for his direct family, oneastounding clause expressly stated that Wade Atsheler was to dispense to EbenHale's wife and sons and daughters whatever moneys his judgement dictated, atwhatever times he deemed advisable. Had there been any scandal in the deadman's family, or had his sons been wild or undutiful, then there might havebeen a glimmering of reason in this most unusual action; but Eben Hale'sdomestic happiness had been proverbial in the community, and one would have totravel far and wide to discover a cleaner, saner, wholesomer progeny of sonsand daughters. While his wife--well, by those who knew her best she wasendearingly termed "The Mother of the Gracchi." Needless to state, thisinexplicable will was a nine day's wonder; but the expectant public wasdisappointed in that no contest was made.It was only the other day that Eben Hale was laid away in his stately marblemausoleum. And now Wade Atsheler is dead. The news was printed in thismorning's paper. I have just received through the mail a Ietter from him,posted, evidently, but a short hour before he hurled himself into eternity.This letter, which lies before me, is a narrative in his own handwriting,linking together numerous newspaper clippings and facsimiles of letters. Theoriginal correspondence, he has told me, is in the hands of the police. He hasbegged me, also, as a warning to society against a most frightful anddiabolical danger which threatens its very existence, to make public theterrible series of tragedies in which he has been innocently concerned. Iherewith append the text in full:It was in August, 1899, just after my return from my summer vacation, that theblow fell. We did not know it at the time; we had not yet learned to schoolour minds to such awful possibilities. Mr. Hale opened the letter, read it,and tossed it upon my desk with a laugh. When I had looked it over, I alsolaughed, saying, "Some ghastly joke, Mr. Hale, and one in very poor taste."Find here, my dear John, an exact duplicate of the letter in question.OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. August 17, 1899.MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:Dear Sir,--We desire you to realize upon whatever portion of your vastholdings is necessary to obtain, in cash, twenty millions of dollars. This sumwe require you to pay over to us, or to our agents. You will note we do notspecify any given time, for it is not our wish to hurry you in this matter.You may even, if it be easier for you, pay us in ten, fifteen, or twentyinstalments; but we will accept no single instalment of less than a million.Believe us, dear Mr. Hale, when we say that we embark upon this course ofaction utterly devoid of animus. We are members of that intellectualproletariat, the increasing numbers of which mark in red lettering the lastdays of the nineteenth century. We have, from a thorough study of economics,decided to enter upon this business. It has many merits, chief among which maybe noted that we can indulge in large and lucrative operations withoutcapital. So far, we have been fairly successful, and we hope our dealings withyou may be pleasant and satisfactory.Pray attend while we explain our views more fully. At the base of the presentsystem of society is to be found the property right. And this right of theindividual to hold property is demonstrated, in the last analysis, to restsolely and wholly upon might. The mailed gentlemen of William the Conquerordivided and apportioned England amongst themselves with the naked sword. This,we are sure you will grant, is true of all feudal possessions. With theinvention of steam and the Industrial Revolution there came into existence theCapitalist Class, in the modern sense of the word. These capitalists quicklytowered above the ancient nobility. The captains of industry have virtuallydispossessed the descendants of the captains of war. Mind, and not muscle,wins in to-day's struggle for existence. But this state of affairs is none theless based upon might. The change has been qualitative. The old-time FeudalBaronage ravaged the world with fire and sword; the modern Money Baronageexploits the world by mastering and applying the world's economic forces.Brain, and not brawn, endures; and those best fitted to survive are theintellectually and commercially powerful.We, the M. of M., are not content to become wage slaves. The great trusts andbusiness combinations (with which you have your rating) prevent us from risingto the place among you which our intellects qualify us to occupy. Why? Becausewe are without capital. We are of the unwashed, but with this difference: ourbrains are of the best, and we have no foolish ethical nor social scruples. Aswage slaves, toiling early and late, and living abstemiously, we could notsave in threescore years--nor in twenty times threescore years--a sum of moneysufficient successfully to cope with the great aggregations of massed capitalwhich now exist. Nevertheless, we have entered the arena. We now throw downthe gage to the capital of the world. Whether it wishes to fight or not, itshall have to fight.Mr. Hale, our interests dictate us to demand of you twenty millions ofdollars. While we are considerate enough to give you reasonable time in whichto carry out your share of the transaction, please do not delay too long. Whenyou have agreed to our terms, insert a suitable notice in the agony column ofthe "Morning Blazer." We shall then acquaint you with our plan fortransferring the sum mentioned. You had better do this some time prior toOctober 1st. If you do not, in order to show that we are in earnest we shallon that date kill a man on East Thirty-ninth Street. He will be a workingman.This man you do not know; nor do we. You represent a force in modern society;we also represent a force--a new force. Without anger or malice, we haveclosed in battle. As you will readily discern, we are simply a businessproposition. You are the upper, and we the nether, millstone; this man's lifeshall be ground out between. You may save him if you agree to our conditionsand act in time.There was once a king cursed with a golden touch. His name we have taken to doduty as our official seal. Some day, to protect ourselves against competitors,we shall copyright it.We beg to remain,THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.I leave it to you, dear John, why should we not have laughed over such apreposterous communication? The idea, we could not but grant, was wellconceived, but it was too grotesque to be taken seriously. Mr. Hale said hewould preserve it as a literary curiosity, and shoved it away in a pigeonhole.Then we promptly forgot its existence. And as promptly, on the 1st of October,going over the morning mail, we read the following:OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., October 1, 1899.MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:Dear Sir,--Your victim has met his fate. An hour ago, on East Thirty-ninthStreet, a workingman was thrust through the heart with a knife. Ere you readthis his body will be lying at the Morgue. Go and look upon your handiwork.On October 14th, in token of our earnestness in this matter, and in case youdo not relent, we shall kill a policeman on or near the corner of Polk Streetand Clermont Avenue.Very cordially,THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.Again Mr. Hale laughed. His mind was full of a prospective deal with a Chicagosyndicate for the sale of all his street railways in that city, and so he wenton dictating to the stenographer, never giving it a second thought. Butsomehow, I know not why, a heavy depression fell upon me. What if it were nota joke, I asked myself, and turned involuntarily to the morning paper. Thereit was, as befitted an obscure person of the lower classes, a paltryhalf-dozen lines tucked away in a corner, next a patent medicineadvertisement:Shortly after five o'clock this morning, on East Thirty-ninth Street, alaborer named Pete Lascalle, while on his way to work, was stabbed to theheart by an unknown assailant, who escaped by running. The police have beenunable to discover any motive for the murder."Impossible!" was Mr. Hale's rejoinder, when I had read the item aloud; butthe incident evidently weighed upon his mind, for late in the afternoon, withmany epithets denunciatory of his foolishness, he asked me to acquaint thepolice with the affair. I had the pleasure of being laughed at in theInspector's private office, although I went away with the assurance that theywould look into it and that the vicinity of Polk and Clermont would be doublypatrolled on the night mentioned. There it dropped, till the two weeks hadsped by, when the following note came to us through the mail:OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. October 15, 1899.MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:Dear Sir,--Your second victim has fallen on schedule time. We are in no hurry;but to increase the pressure we shall henceforth kill weekly. To protectourselves against police interference we shall hereafter inform you of theevent but a little prior to or simultaneously with the deed. Trusting thisfinds you in good health,We are,THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.This time Mr. Hale took up the paper, and after a brief search, read to methis account:A DASTARDLY CRIMEJoseph Donahue, assigned only last night to special patrol duty in theEleventh Ward, at midnight was shot through the brain and instantly killed.The tragedy was enacted in the full glare of the street lights on the cornerof Polk Street and Clermont Avenue. Our society is indeed unstable when thecustodians of its peace are thus openly and wantonly shot down. The policehave so far been unable to obtain the slightest clue.Barely had he finished this when the police arrived--the Inspector himself andtwo of his keenest sleuths. Alarm sat upon their faces, and it was plain thatthey were seriously perturbed. Though the facts were so few and simple, wetalked long, going over the affair again and again. When the Inspector wentaway, he confidently assured us that everything would soon be straightened outand the assassins run to earth. In the meantime he thought it well to detailguards for the protection of Mr. Hale and myself, and several more to beconstantly on the vigil about the house and grounds. After the lapse of aweek, at one o'clock in the afternoon, this telegram was received:OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. October 2I, 1899.MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:Dear Sir,--We are sorry to note how completely you have misunderstood us. Youhave seen fit to surround yourself and household with armed guards, as though,forsooth, we were common criminals, apt to break in upon you and wrest away byforce your twenty millions. Believe us, this is farthest from our intention.You will readily comprehend, after a little sober thought, that your life isdear to us. Do not be afraid. We would not hurt you for the world. It is ourpolicy to cherish you tenderly and protect you from all harm. Your death meansnothing to us. If it did, rest assured that we would not hesitate a moment indestroying you. Think this over, Mr. Hale. When you have paid us our price,there will be need of retrenchment. Dismiss your guards now, and cut down yourexpenses.Within minutes of the time you receive this a nurse-girl will have been chokedto death in Brentwood Park. The body may be found in the shrubbery lining thepath which leads off to the left from the band-stand.Cordially yours,THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.The next instant Mr. Hale was at the telephone, warning the Inspector of theimpending murder. The Inspector excused himself in order to call up PoliceSub-station F and despatch men to the scene. Fifteen minutes later he rang usup and informed us that the body had been discovered, yet warm, in the placeindicated. That evening the papers teemed with glaring Jack-the-Stranglerheadlines, denouncing the brutality of the deed and complaining about thelaxity of the police. We were also closeted with the Inspector, who begged usby all means to keep the affair secret. Success, he said, depended uponsilence.As you know, John, Mr. Hale was a man of iron. He refused to surrender. But,oh, John, it was terrible, nay, horrible--this awful something, this blindforce in the dark. We could not fight, could not plan, could do nothing savehold our hands and wait. And week by week, as certain as the rising of thesun, came the notification and death of some person, man or woman, innocent ofevil, but just as much killed by us as though we had done it with our ownhands. A word from Mr. Hale and the slaughter would have ceased. But hehardened his heart and waited, the lines deepening, the mouth and eyes growingsterner and firmer, and the face aging with the hours. It is needless for meto speak of my own suffering during that frightful period. Find here theletters and telegrams of the M. of M., and the newspaper accounts, etc., ofthe various murders.You will notice also the letters warning Mr. Hale of certain machinations ofcommercial enemies and secret manipulations of stock. The M. of M. seemed tohave its hand on the inner pulse of the business and financial world. Theypossessed themselves of and forwarded to us information which our agents couldnot obtain. One timely note from them, at a critical moment in a certain deal,saved all of five millions to Mr. Hale. At another time they sent us atelegram which probably was the means of preventing an anarchist crank fromtaking my employer's life. We captured the man on his arrival and turned himover to the police, who found upon him enough of a new and powerful explosiveto sink a battleship.We persisted. Mr. Hale was grit clear through. He disbursed at the rate of onehundred thousand per week for secret service. The aid of the Pinkertons and ofcountless private detective agencies was called in, and in addition to thisthousands were upon our payroll. Our agents swarmed everywhere, in all guises,penetrating all classes of society. They grasped at a myriad clues; hundredsof suspects were jailed, and at various times thousands of suspicious personswere under surveillance, but nothing tangible came to light. With itscommunications the M. of M. continually changed its method of delivery. Andevery messenger they sent us was arrested forthwith. But these inevitablyproved to be innocent individuals, while their descriptions of the persons whohad employed them for the errand never tallied. On the last day of December wereceived this notification:OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., December 31, 1899.MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:Dear Sir,--Pursuant of our policy, with which we flatter ourselves you arealready well versed, we beg to state that we shall give a passport from thisVale of Tears to Inspector Bying, with whom, because of our attentions, youhave become so well acquainted. It is his custom to be in his private officeat this hour. Even as you read this he breathes his last.Cordially yours,THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.I dropped the letter and sprang to the telephone. Great was my relief when Iheard the Inspector's hearty voice. But, even as he spoke, his voice died awayin the receiver to a gurgling sob, and I heard faintly the crash of a fallingbody. Then a strange voice hello'd me, sent me the regards of the M. of M.,and broke the switch. Like a flash I called up the public office of theCentral Police, telling them to go at once to the Inspector's aid in hisprivate office. I then held the line, and a few minutes later received theintelligence that he had been found bathed in his own blood and breathing hislast. There were no eyewitnesses, and no trace was discoverable of themurderer.Whereupon Mr. Hale immediately increased his secret service till a quarter ofa million flowed weekly from his coffers. He was determined to win out. Hisgraduated rewards aggregated over ten millions. You have a fair idea of hisresources and you can see in what manner he drew upon them. It was theprinciple, he affirmed, that he was fighting for, not the gold. And it must beadmitted that his course proved the nobility of his motive. The policedepartments of all the great cities cooperated, and even the United StatesGovernment stepped in, and the affair became one of the highest questions ofstate. Certain contingent funds of the nation were devoted to the unearthingof the M. of M., and every government agent was on the alert. But all in vain.The Minions of Midas carried on their damnable work unhampered. They had theirway and struck unerringly.But while he fought to the last, Mr. Hale could not wash his hands of theblood with which they were dyed. Though not technically a murderer, though nojury of his peers would ever have convicted him, none the less the death ofevery individual was due to him. As I said before, a word from him and theslaughter would have ceased. But he refused to give that word. He insistedthat the integrity of society was assailed; that he was not sufficiently acoward to desert his post; and that it was manifestly just that a few shouldbe martyred for the ultimate welfare of the many. Nevertheless this blood wasupon his head, and he sank into deeper and deeper gloom. I was likewisewhelmed with the guilt of an accomplice. Babies were ruthlessly killed,children, aged men; and not only were these murders local, but they weredistributed over the country. In the middle of February, one evening, as wesat in the library, there came a sharp knock at the door. On responding to itI found, Lying on the carpet of the corridor, the following missive:OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., February 15, 1900.MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:Dear Sir,--Does not your soul cry out upon the red harvest it is reaping?Perhaps we have been too abstract in conducting our business. Let us now beconcrete. Miss Adelaide Laidlaw is a talented young woman, as good, weunderstand, as she is beautiful. She is the daughter of your old friend, JudgeLaidlaw, and we happen to know that you carried her in your arms when she wasan infant. She is your daughter's closest friend, and at present is visitingher. When your eyes have read thus far her visit will have terminated.Very cordially,THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.My God! did we not instantly realize the terrible import! We rushed throughthe dayrooms--she was not there--and on to her own apartments. The door waslocked, but we crashed it down by hurling ourselves against it. There she lay,just as she had finished dressing for the opera, smothered with pillows tornfrom the couch, the flush of life yet on her flesh, the body still flexibleand warm. Let me pass over the rest of this horror. You will surely remember,John, the newspaper accounts.Late that night Mr. Hale summoned me to him, and before God did pledge me mostsolemnly to stand by him and not to compromise, even if all kith and kin weredestroyed.The next day I was surprised at his cheerfulness. I had thought he would bedeeply shocked by this last tragedy--how deep I was soon to learn. All day hewas light-hearted and high-spirited, as though at last he had found a way outof the frightful difficulty. The next morning we found him dead in his bed, apeaceful smile upon his careworn face--asphyxiation. Through the connivance ofthe police and the authorities, it was given out to the world as heartdisease. We deemed it wise to withhold the truth; but little good has it doneus, little good has anything done us.Barely had I left that chamber of death, when--but too late--the followingextraordinary letter was received:OFFICE OF THE M. of M., February 17, 1900.MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:Dear Sir,--You will pardon our intrusion, we hope, so closely upon the sadevent of day before yesterday; but what we wish to say may be of the utmostimportance to you. It is in our mind that you may attempt to escape us. Thereis but one way, apparently, as you have ere this doubtless discovered. But wewish to inform you that even this one way is barred. You may die, but you diefailing and acknowledging your failure. Note this: We are part and parcel ofyour possessions. With your millions we pass down to your heirs and assignsforever.We are the inevitable. We are the culmination of industrial and social wrong;.We turn upon the society that has created us. We are the successful failuresof the age, the scourges of a degraded civilization.We are the creatures of a perverse social selection. We meet force with force.Only the strong shall endure. We believe in the survival of the fittest. Youhave crushed your wage slaves into the dirt and you have survived. Thecaptains of war, at your command, have shot down like dogs your employees in ascore of bloody strikes. By such means you have endured. We do not grumble atthe result, for we acknowledge and have our being in the same natural law. Andnow the question has arisen: Under the present social environment, which of usshall survive? We believe we are the fittest. You believe you are the fittest.We leave the eventuality to time and law.Cordially yours,THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.John, do you wonder now that I shunned pleasure and avoided friends? But whyexplain? Surely this narrative will make everything clear. Three weeks agoAdelaide Laidlaw died. Since then I have waited in hope and fear. Yesterdaythe will was probated and made public. Today I was notified that a woman ofthe middle class would be killed in Golden Gate Park, in faraway SanFrancisco. The despatches in to-night's papers give the details of the brutalhappening--details which correspond with those furnished me in advance.It is useless. I cannot struggle against the inevitable. I have been faithfulto Mr. Hale and have worked hard. Why my faithfulness should have been thusrewarded I cannot understand. Yet I cannot be false to my trust, nor break myword by compromising. Still, I have resolved that no more deaths shall be uponmy head. I have willed the many millions I lately received to their rightfulowners. Let the stalwart sons of Eben Hale work out their own salvation. Ereyou read this I shall have passed on. The Minions of Midas are all-powerful.The police are impotent. I have learned from them that other millionnaireshave been likewise mulcted or persecuted--how many is not known, for when oneyields to the M. of M., his mouth is thenceforth sealed. Those who have notyielded are even now reaping their scarlet harvest. The grim game is beingplayed out. The Federal Government can do nothing. I also understand thatsimilar branch organizations have made their appearance in Europe. Society isshaken to its foundations. Principalities and powers are as brands ripe forthe burning. Instead of the masses against the classes, it is a class againstthe classes. We, the guardians of human progress, are being singled out andstruck down. Law and order have failed.The officials have begged me to keep this secret. I have done so, but can doso no longer. It has become a question of public import, fraught with thedirest consequences, and I shall do my duty before I leave this world byinforming it of its peril. Do you, John, as my last request, make this public.Do not be frightened. The fate of humanity rests in your hand. Let the pressstrike off millions of copies; let the electric currents sweep it round theworld; wherever men meet and speak, let them speak of it in fear andtrembling. And then, when thoroughly aroused, let society arise in its mightand cast out this abomination.Yours, in long farewell,
WADE ATSHELER.
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