The Mouse That Roared (4 page)

Count Mount joy exchanged a surprised look with Benter.

“He pointed out that even if the plan were successful and the money obtained from the United States, Grand Fenwick would be guilty of perpetrating an international fraud which would besmirch the honourable record we have maintained over so many centuries.”

“But, Your Highness,” interposed Mountjoy, “we cannot feed our people on honour. If it is a choice between honour and want, between spiritual or physical survival, then the material things must come first. Man did not discover he had a soul until he was well fed, with prospects of that condition continuing for some time. Hungry people cannot afford honour and hungry nations cannot indulge in too nice manners.”

“You’re wrong there,” said Benter. “I’m beginning to like that man Tully, though in the past I found him too contrary for comfort. To my way of thinking, neither men nor nations can survive without keeping their self-respect.“

“Precisely what Bascomb himself had to say,’’ said Gloriana. “In any case, he refused to form a Communist party because he said he didn’t agree with Communism, and from what I could gather he didn’t agree with democracy either. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure what he did agree with.”

“We had better get back to watering the wine,” interposed Benter. “It is the only way out of our difficulties. And there is nothing dishonourable about it. There is no statement on the Grand Fenwick label as to what is the water content in the bottle.”

“You will ruin the major source of revenue of the country if you do,” rejoined Mountjoy, with some heat.

“I don’t believe either of you are right,” said Gloriana.

“Perhaps Mr. Bascomb had a solution to propose?” asked Mountjoy, with more than a trace of sarcasm.

“That is precisely why I called this meeting,” replied Gloriana. “Mr. Bascomb has got a solution which will provide us with the money we need from the United States and leave our national honour unbesmirched.” She paused to give emphasis to what was to follow.

“Mr. Bascomb,” she said, separating each word distinctly from the next, “has convinced me that we should declare war on the United States.”

For the second time that morning Count Mountjoy dropped his monocle. Mr. Benter gave a little start, as if he had been dozing and someone had poked him hard in the back with a finger.

“Go to war with the United States?” he said, in such disbelief that he seemed scarcely able to credit having heard the appalling words.

“Go to war with the United States?” echoed the Count, so profoundly shocked that he had not yet replaced his monocle, without which, he was wont to maintain, no man could claim to be fully dressed.

“Go to war with the United States,” repeated Gloriana, grimly, evenly and, indeed, with a savour of approval.

The Count shuddered. He picked up his monocle and put it in place, as if this gesture, by some special magic of its own, might help restore the world to sanity. He smoothed his silver hair with long fingers that trembled slightly. He so far forgot himself as to wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“The man’s mad,” he said, at last. “Completely bereft of his senses. He’s dangerous. Talk like that could result in the most serious trouble. Reported in certain sections of the United States Press, it might arouse such popular feelings against us as to cost us the greater part of our American market for Pinot. If that should happen, we might as well go to war with the United States indeed, or with the whole world, for that matter. For all would be lost anyway. Bascomb, Your Highness, should be locked up for a raving lunatic. He has been at large too long.”

Benter was inclined to agree. The unparalleled proposal, so calmly presented by the ruler of the duchy, had robbed him for a while of his ability to as much as frame a thought, let alone say a word. But the denunciations of the opposition, represented by the Count, had loosed his tongue, and he was now intensely curious to know the reason why such a remarkable plan had been advanced.

“Your Grace,” he said, when the Count had calmed down, “what advantage did Bascomb believe we could reap from a declaration of war against the Americans?”

“He said that traditionally war was the only way in which one nation, in need of money and without the credit to borrow any, could obtain it from another.”

“That may be so,” said Benter, still quite at a loss. “But there are a lot more things to be thought of. First there’s the outcome of the war. The population of the United States is around one hundred and sixty million, I believe. Ours is but six thousand. Then the United States has great fleets of ships and airplanes, masses of tanks and heavy guns, small arms by the millions and of all kinds, and, to cap everything, an unknown quantity of atomic and hydrogen bombs. We have only longbows, spears and maces. And the biggest army we could raise would be only a thousand men and boys. It is hardly necessary to say that we would lose this war just as soon as we started it.”

“Hardly necessary to say it at all,” agreed the Duchess, serenely. “I am quite aware that we would lose the war.”

“Then what would be the reason for fighting it?” persisted Benter.

The Duchess leaned back in her chair, feeling nicely superior at the thought that she had the leaders of the two political parties of Grand Fenwick completely mystified. She picked up the silver fruit knife and felt the blade with a pretty finger.

“The Americans,” she said, almost as if musing aloud to herself, “are a strange people. They do not behave like other nations in any way. In fact, in many ways, they behave exactly the opposite of other nations. Where other countries rarely forgive anything, the Americans will forgive anything. Where others rarely forget a wrong, the Americans rarely remember one. Indeed, they are so quick to forgive and forget that there it almost a race in their minds which to do first.”

“That is perhaps quite true, Your Grace,” said Benter, “but I do not see that it has anything to do with our declaring war on the United States and being defeated by them.”

“That,” replied the Duchess, with a smile of mild rebuke, “is because you have not paid much attention to history; and you, Count Mountjoy, have become an expert on the history of Grand Fenwick to the exclusion of that of other nations. The fact is, that there are few more profitable undertakings for a country in need of money than to declare war on the United States and be defeated. Hardly an acre of land is forfeited in such wars.

“It is usually agreed, to be sure, that heavy industries and other installations and activities which could be used in future wars are to be dismantled, destroyed, and their re-establishment banned. And it usually evolves that this is not done, because it is decided that to follow such a plan would either wreck the economy of the defeated nation, or make it incapable of defending itself against other foes. In either or both cases, the Americans would feel called upon, such is their peculiar nature, to help out at their own expense.

“Again, it is usually decided that the nation and people which lose to the United States shall be made to suffer national and individual hardship for the aggression. And the ink is no sooner dry on such agreements than the United States is rushing food, machinery, clothing, money, building materials, and technical aid for the relief of its former foes.

“Once more, it is always laid down that the defeated armies must be disbanded and never again be allowed to re-form. But, a little later, it is discovered that these armies are in an oblique but none the less definite manner essential to the security of the United States itself. Either the defeated enemy must have an army and navy and air force of its own, or the Americans must remain there in an indefinite occupation.

“Americans, particularly American soldiers, do not like to remain long outside their own country. And in a matter of months, or at the most years, the United States is first requesting and then begging its former enemies to raise an army to defend their own territory. It is not unheard of that these defeated foes are able to state the terms under which they will raise an army for their own policing and defence. Those terms have involved the payments of large sums of money by the United States, or the extension of generous credits, revision of trade agreements in favour of the defeated nation, return of shipping, rehabilitation of factories destroyed in the war, and even the gift of the equipment needed for the army.

“All in all, as I said before, there is no more profitable and sound step for a nation without money or credit to take, than declare war on the United States and suffer a total defeat.” She smiled indulgently at the two of them.

Count Mountjoy, who had commenced listening to the discourse as if he were hearing a sentence of doom pronounced, was, when it ended, filled with lively interest.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “the plan has possibilities that border on brilliant. We declare war on Monday, are vanquished Tuesday, and rehabilitated beyond our wildest dreams by Friday night. I must confess that I misjudged Bascomb completely. The man is gifted with flashes of purest genius.”

“This is not completely Bascomb’s plan,” Gloriana cautioned slyly. “The being defeated part is mine. His proposal is that we attack the United States--and win.”

“A madman,” said the Count, sadly. “A madman.”

“But,” continued the Duchess, “there is no reason why we should not let him continue in his madness since we know in advance what the outcome will be.”

“None at all,” commented Mountjoy, happily.

“I think we are going too fast,” interrupted Benter. “There are still some things that I do not understand. If Bascomb is, and rightly in my opinion, so anxious about preserving the international honour and standing of the duchy, what grounds, other than lack of money, does he offer for going to war? To declare war on a peace-loving state, even a big one, without good reason, is nothing more than barbarism.”

“Oh, he has a good reason--or rather, we have,” the Duchess replied. “Indeed, we have a reason which must, if it becomes known, swing world sympathy to our side.”

“What is that?”

“United States aggression against the Duchy of Grand Fenwick.” She rang a heavy bell on the table before her and the court chamberlain entered discreetly.

“Bring in the bottle,” the Duchess commanded.

He was gone only a minute and returned with a bottle of familiar size, colour, and proportions.

“Look at the label,” Gloriana said, placing the bottle before them. They looked and read, with growing horror, the words:

PINOT GRAND ENWICK
The Wine of Connoisseurs

There was a picture of the castle of Grand Fenwick and the label was in every way similar to that used on their Own precious wine. But at the bottom, in type so small as to be almost invisible, was the phrase:

Product of San Rafael, Calif., U.S.A.

“The dogs,” cried Mountjoy, leaping to his feet and flinging back his chair. “Rich as they are, with abundance on every hand, they still seek to deprive us of our only source of livelihood. For a few dollars more for themselves they would beggar every man, woman, and child in Grand Fenwick. They shall pay heavily for this.”

The vote, both in the Privy Council and subsequently in the Council of Freemen, to declare war on the United States of America was unanimous.

Chet Beston, correspondence clerk for the Central European Division of the United States Department of State, decided that the time had come for him to start taking some exercise again. He was a man in his mid-thirties with an active and not undistinguished career behind him. He had been graduated from Columbia with a major in political science and a minor in journalism just in time to join the army at the outbreak of World War II.

His professors had advised him to apply for some special position in the armed services, in view of his university background. But a sincere and deep patriotism had convinced Chet that there would be something morally wrong in doing this. It would look like asking for special favours, a place of security and safety for himself, when his country needed every fighting man who could be mustered. So he started as a private in an infantry regiment, went to sergeant, volunteered as a paratrooper and eventually joined the Office of Strategic Services, making several secret parachute drops in the Balkans on special missions.

The end of the war found him with more than his quota of decorations, a love of exercise and nowhere to go. His background suggested the diplomatic service and resulted in his appointment as clerk in the Central European Division of the Department of State.

“There is no substitute for learning any business from the ground up, son,” said Senator Griffin, who helped him to the post. “Learn all you can about those foreigners--but especially keep your eye on our own men. It takes three years for an alien, resident in the United States, to become an American citizen; but it takes only six months for a citizen, resident in the State Department, to become an alien. Report anything you find to me.”

Chet hadn’t found anything except that he didn’t have to work very hard or know too much to keep his job. He found himself developing what he called a State Department jog--a kind of preoccupied, learned, but not unkindly shuffle down the corridors from office to office. He found, too, that this was about the only exercise he got. So to-day he decided that he would go down to Georgetown, pick up a canoe and paddle it a couple of miles up and down the Potomac to tone him up.

He was just at the point of leaving his office when a messenger came by and threw a long and impressive envelope on his desk.

“What’s cooking?” Chet asked by way of being friendly. He felt sorry for the messenger, who had been padding around the State Department for twenty years. Sometimes he thought of him as a sort of captive, a trustee in a huge diplomatic prison.

“Nothing much,” the messenger replied. “The boys in the Press-room are up to their usual tricks. That’s about all.” He nodded and padded out and Chet picked up the envelope. There were some heavy, old-fashioned seals on it which was unusual and made him think for a moment that this was something special. But when he opened the envelope, he started chuckling.