The Scarlatti Inheritance Page 5

Ulster’s birthday invitations seem to have become a minor problem. The dear boy can’t make up his mind who are his best friends—he has so many—and as a result he has given out a number of invitations and taken them back in favor of other boys. I’m sure the Parkleigh School would waive the twenty-five limit in Ulster Stewart’s case.

  That night Elizabeth asked Ulster about it.

  “Yes. I took some of the invitations back. I changed my mind.”

  “Why? That’s very discourteous.”

  “Why not? I didn’t want them to come.”

  “Then why did you give them the invitations in the first place?”

  “So they could all run home and tell their fathers and mothers they were coming over.” The boy laughed. “Then they had to go back and say they weren’t.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “I don’t think so. They don’t want to come to my birthday party, they want to come to your house!”

  While a freshman at Princeton, Ulster Stewart Scarlett displayed marked tendencies of hostility toward his brothers, his classmates, his teachers, and for Elizabeth the most unattractive, her servants. He was tolerated because he was the son of Elizabeth Scarlatti and for no other reason. Ulster was a monstrously spoiled young man, and Elizabeth knew she had to do something about it. In June of 1916 she ordered him to come home for a weekend, and told her son he had to take a job.

  “I will not!”

  “You will! You will not disobey me!”

  And he didn’t. Ulster spent the summer at the Hudson mill while his two brothers in Oyster Bay enjoyed the pleasures of Long Island Sound.

  At the end of the summer, Elizabeth asked how he had done.

  “You want the truth, Madame Scarlatti?” asked the youngish plant manager in Elizabeth’s study one Saturday morning.

  “Of course I do.”

  “It’ll probably cost me my job.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Very well, ma’am. Your son started out in raw baling as you ordered. It’s a tough job but he’s strong.… I yanked him out of there after he beat up a couple of men.”

  “Good Lord! Why wasn’t I told?”

  “I didn’t know the circumstances. I thought that maybe the men had pushed him around. I didn’t know.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “The pushing was at the other end.… I put him in the upstairs presses and that was worse. He threatened the others, said he’d get them fired, made them do his work. He never let anyone forget who he was.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t know myself until the other week. Three men quit. We had to pay a dentist bill for one of them. Your son hit him with a lead strip.”

  “These are terrible things to hear.… Would you care to offer an opinion? Please, be frank. It will be to your advantage.”

  “Your son is big. He’s a tough young fella.… But I’m not sure what else he is. I just have an idea he wants to start at the top and maybe that’s what he should do. He’s your son. His father built the mill.”

  “That gives him no such right. His father didn’t start at the top!”

  “Then maybe you should explain that to him. He doesn’t seem to have much use for any of us.”

  “What you’re saying is that my son has a birthright, a temper, certain animal strength … and no apparent talents. Am I correct?”

  “If that costs me my job, I’ll find another. Yes. I don’t like your son. I don’t like him at all.”

  Elizabeth studied the man carefully. “I’m not sure I do, either. You’ll receive a raise starting next week.”

  Elizabeth sent Ulster Stewart back to Princeton that fall, and the day of his departure she confronted him with the summer’s report.

  “That dirty little Irish son of a bitch was out to get me! I knew that!”

  “That dirty little Irish son of a bitch is an excellent plant manager.”

  “He lied! It’s all lies!”

  “It’s the truth! He kept a number of men from pressing charges against you. You should be grateful for that.”

  “To hell with them! Groveling little snot-noses!”

  “Your language is abhorrent! Who are you to call names? What have you contributed?”

  “I don’t have to!”

  “Why? Because you’re what you are? What are you? What extraordinary capabilities do you possess? I’d like to know.”

  “That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it? Isn’t it!? What can you do, little man? What can you do to make money?”

  “It’s one measure of success.”

  “It’s your only measure!”

  “And you reject it?”

  “You’re damned right!”

  “Then become a missionary.”

  “No, thanks!”

  “Then don’t cast aspersions at the marketplace. It takes a certain capability to survive there. Your father knew that.”

  “He knew how to maneuver. You think I haven’t heard? How to manipulate, just like you!”

  “He was a genius! He trained himself! What have you done? What have you ever done but live on what he provided? And you can’t even do that graciously!”

  “Shit!”

  Elizabeth suddenly stopped for a moment, watching her son. “That’s it! My God, that’s it, isn’t it?… You’re frightened to death. You possess a great deal of arrogance but you have nothing—absolutely nothing—to be arrogant about! It must be very painful.”

  Her son raced out of the room, and Elizabeth sat for a long time pondering the exchange that had just taken place. She was genuinely afraid. Ulster was dangerous. He saw all around him the fruits of accomplishment without the talent or the ability to make his own contribution. He’d bear watching. Then she thought of all three sons. Shy, malleable Roland Wyckham; studious, precise Chancellor Drew; and the arrogant Ulster Stewart.

  On April 6, 1917, the immediate answer was provided: America entered the World War.

  The first to go was Roland Wyckham. He left his senior year at Princeton and sailed for France as Lieutenant Scarlett, AEF, Artillery. He was killed on his first day at the front.

  The two remaining boys immediately made plans to avenge their brother’s death. For Chancellor Drew the revenge had meaning; for Ulster Stewart it was an escape. And Elizabeth reasoned that she and Giovanni had not created an empire to have it terminated by war. One child must stay behind.

  With cold calculation she commanded Chancellor Drew to remain a civilian. Ulster Stewart could go to war.

  Ulster Stewart Scarlett sailed for France, had no mishaps at Cherbourg, and gave a fair account of himself at the front, especially at Meuse-Argonne. In the last days of the war he was decorated for bravery in action against the enemy.

  CHAPTER 4

  November 2, 1918

  The Meuse-Argonne offensive was in its third or pursuit stage in the successful battle to break the Hindenburg line between Sedan and Mézières. The American First Army was deployed from Regneville to La Harasée in the Argonne Forest, a distance of some twenty miles. If the chief German supply lines in this sector were broken, the Kaiser’s General Ludendorff would have no alternative but to sue for an armistice.

  On November 2, the Third Army Corps under the command of General Robert Lee Bullard crashed through the demoralized German ranks on the right flank and took not only the territory but also eight thousand prisoners. Although other division commanders lived to dispute the conclusion, this breakthrough by the Third Army Corps signaled the final arrangements for the armistice a week later.

  And for many in B Company, Fourteenth Battalion, Twenty-seventh Division, Third Corps, the performance of Second Lieutenant Ulster Scarlett was a superb example of the heroics that prevailed during those days of horror.

  It started early in the morning. Scarlett’s company had reached a field in front of a small forest of pine. The miniature forest was filled with Germans trying desperately to regroup under cover in order to execute an
orderly retreat farther back into their own lines. The Americans dug three rows of shallow trenches to minimize their exposure.

  Second Lieutenant Scarlett had one dug for himself just a bit deeper.

  The captain of Scarlett’s company did not like his second lieutenant, for the lieutenant was very good at issuing orders but very poor at executing them himself. Further, the captain suspected him of being less than enthusiastic about being shifted from a reserve division to the combat area. He also held it against his second lieutenant that throughout their reserve assignment—the major portion of their stay in France—he had been sought out by any number of ranking officers, all only too happy to have their photographs taken with him. It seemed to the captain that his second lieutenant was having a hell of a good time.

  On this particular November morning, he was delighted to send him out on patrol.

  “Scarlett. Take four men and scout out their positions.”

  “You’re insane,” said Scarlett laconically. “What positions? They’re hightailing it out of the whole area.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I don’t give a God damn what you said. There’s no point in a patrol.”

  Several of the men were sitting in the trenches watching the two officers.

  “What’s the matter, Lieutenant? No photographers around? No country club colonels to pat you on the back? Get four men and get out there.”

  “Go shag, Captain!”

  “Are you disobeying your superior officer in the face of the enemy?”

  Ulster Stewart looked at the smaller man with contempt. “Not disobeying. Just being insubordinate. Insulting, if you understand the term better.… I’m insulting you because I think you’re stupid.”

  The captain reached for his holster, but Scarlett swiftly clamped his large hand on his superior’s wrist.

  “You don’t shoot people for insubordination, Captain. It’s not in the regulations.… I’ve got a better idea. Why waste four other men.…” He turned and glanced at the soldiers watching. “Unless four of you want to be candidates for Schnauzer bullets, I’ll go myself.”

  The captain was stunned. He had no reply.

  The men were similarly and gratefully surprised. Scarlett removed his hand from the captain’s arm.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour. If not, I suggest you wait for some rear support. We’re quite a bit ahead of the others.”

  Scarlett checked the magazine of his revolver and quickly crawled around the captain to the west flank, disappearing into the overgrown field.

  The men mumbled to each other. They had misjudged the snotty lieutenant with all the fancy friends. The captain swore to himself and frankly hoped his second lieutenant would not return.

  Which was precisely what Ulster Scarlett had in mind.

  His plan was simple. He saw that about two hundred yards to the right of the wooded area in front of Company B was a clump of large rocks surrounded by autumn-foliaged trees. It was one of those rough-hewn spots that farmers can not dig out, so the fields were planted around it. Too small an area for any group but ample space for one or two individuals to hide themselves. He would make his way there.

  As he crawled through the field, he came upon a number of dead infantrymen. The corpses had a strange effect upon him. He found himself removing personal items—wristwatches, rings, tags. Ripping them off and dropping them seconds later. He wasn’t sure why he did it. He felt like a ruler in some mythical kingdom, and these were his subjects.

  After ten minutes he wasn’t sure of the direction of his refuge. He raised his head just high enough to orient himself, saw the tips of some small trees, and knew he was headed toward his sanctuary. He hurried forward, elbows and knees pounding the soft earth.

  Suddenly he came to the foot of several large pines. He was not in the rocky knoll but on the edge of the small forest his company planned to attack. His preoccupation with the dead enemy had caused him to see what he wanted to see. The small trees had actually been the tall pines above him.

  He was about to crawl back into the field when he saw, about fifteen feet to his left, a machine gun with a German soldier propped up against the trunk of a tree. He drew his revolver and remained still. Either the German had not seen him or he was dead. The gun was pointed directly at him.

  Then the German moved. Only slightly with his right arm. He was trying to reach his weapon but in too much pain to accomplish the task.

  Scarlett rushed forward and fell upon the wounded soldier, trying to make as little noise as possible. He could not let the German fire or raise an alarm. Awkwardly he pulled the man away from the gun and pinned him on the ground. Not wanting to fire his revolver and draw attention to himself, he began to choke him. Fingers and thumbs on his throat, the German tried to speak.

  “Amerikaner! Amerikaner! Ich ergebe mich!” He held his palms up in desperation and gestured behind him.

  Scarlett partially released his grip. He whispered. “What? What do you want?” He let the German raise himself as much as he was able to. The man had been left to die with his weapon, holding off whatever assault came while the rest of his company retreated.

  He pushed the German machine gun out of the wounded man’s reach and, while alternately looking forward and backward, crawled several yards into the forest. All around were signs of evacuation. Gas masks, emptied knapsacks, even bandoliers of ammunition. Anything too heavy to carry easily.

  They’d all gone.

  He rose and walked back to the German soldier. Something was becoming very clear to Ulster Scarlett.

  “Amerikaner! Der Scheint ist fast zu Ende zu sein! Erlaube mir nach Hause zu gehen!”

  Lieutenant Scarlett had made up his mind. The situation was perfect! More than perfect—it was extraordinary!

  It would take an hour, perhaps longer, for the rest of the Fourteeenth Battalion to reach the area. B Company’s Captain Jenkins was so determined to be a hero he had run hell out of them. Advance! Advance! Advance!

  But this was his—Scarlett’s—way out! Maybe they’d jump a rank and make him a captain. Why not? He’d be a hero.

  Only he wouldn’t be there.

  Scarlett withdrew his revolver and as the German screamed he shot him in the forehead. Then he leapt to the machine gun. He started firing.

  First to the rear, then to the right, then to the left.

  The crackling, shattering noise echoed throughout the forest. The bullets entering trees thumped with a terrible finality. The sound was overpowering.

  And then Scarlett pointed the weapon in the direction of his own men. He pulled the trigger and held it steady, swinging the gun from one flank to the other. Scare the living Jesus out of them! Maybe kill a few!

  Who cared?

  He was a power of death.

  He enjoyed it.

  He was entitled to it.

  He laughed.

  He withdrew his pressed finger and stood up.

  He could see the mounds of dirt several hundred yards to the west. Soon he would be miles away and out of it all!

  Suddenly he had the feeling he was being watched! Someone was watching him! He withdrew his pistol once again and crouched to the earth.

  Snap!

  A twig, a branch, a crushed stone!

  He crawled on his knees slowly, cautiously into the woods.

  Nothing.

  He allowed his imagination to take over his reason. The sound was the sound of a tree limb cracked by the machine-gun fire. The sound was the sound of that same limb falling to the ground.

  Nothing.

  Scarlett retreated, still unsure, to the edge of the woods. He quickly picked up the remains of the dead German’s helmet and began to run back to Company B’s position.

  What Ulster Stewart did not know was that he was being watched. He was being watched intently. With incredulity.

  A German officer, the blood on his forehead slowly congealing, stood upright hidden from the American by the trunk of a wide
pine tree. He had been about to kill the Yank lieutenant—as soon as his enemy left the gun—when he saw the man suddenly turn his fire on his own men. His own troops.

  His own troops!

  He had the American in his Luger’s sight but he did not wish to kill this man.

  Not yet.

  For the German officer, the last man of his company in that small forest—left for dead—knew precisely what the American was doing.

  It was a classic example under maximum conditions.

  An infantry point, a commissioned officer at that, turning his information to his own advantage against his own troops!

  He could put himself out of range of combat and get a medal in the bargain!

  The German officer would follow this American.

  Lieutenant Scarlett was halfway back to Company B’s position when he heard the noise behind him. He flung himself to the ground and slowly turned his body around. He tried to stare through the slightly weaving tall grass.

  Nothing.

  Or was there nothing?

  There was a corpse not twenty feet away—face down. But there were corpses everywhere.

  Scarlett didn’t remember this one. He remembered only the faces. He saw only the faces. He didn’t remember.

  Why should he?

  Corpses everywhere. How could he remember? A single body with its face down. There must be dozens like that. He just didn’t notice them.

  He was letting his imagination overwork again! It was dawn.… Animals would come out of the ground, out of the trees.

  Maybe.

  Nothing moved.

  He got up and raced to the mounds of dirt to Company B.

  “Scarlett! My God, it’s you!” said the captain, who was crouched in front of the first trench. “You’re lucky we didn’t shoot. We lost Fernald and Otis in the last fire! We couldn’t return it because you were out there!”

  Ulster remembered Fernald and Otis.

  No loss. Not in exchange for his own escape.

  He threw the German helmet he had carried from the forest to the ground. “Now, listen to me. I’ve wiped out one nest, but there are two others. They’re waiting for us. I know where they are and I can get them. But you’ve got to stay put! Down! Fire off to the left in ten minutes after I leave!”