Chapter X

Thirty-three miles away from Budapest is Aszod.

This town was almost as much a centre of Communism as Budapest; its people took kindly to the doctrine of upheaval, and so they hoisted a huge Red flag, which flapped in the wind from above the reformatory, while a similar flag above the station advertised the politics of the town.

In the days which followed Wenzel's unexpected trip to Bira, Szamuelly put down the railwaymen's strike by the aid of a firm and bloody hand. With a sullen, menacing growl they resumed work, but if to all outward appearances they quickly forgot their new woes, a dull resentment against a self-elected autocracy smouldered in their hearts, ready to blaze whenever the train to the torch of real freedom might be lit, a sentiment not shared by the huge crowd which, thronging the arrival platform, awaited the train from Budapest which bore among its passengers a commissary, come to address the people of Aszod.

As the commissary in question opened the carriage door he was greeted by flourished handkerchiefs and a rousing storm of cheers. It was Comrade Gonnard.

Short, fat, with an adipose face, an unshaven chin, the ribbons, floating around his neck, of an enormous Red cockade set in the lapel of his coat, he was typical of the Communists who governed the country.

His grossness was no less pronounced than was the evidence of low mentality and criminal tendencies, betrayed by a receding chin, a shelving, narrow forehead, and close, deep-set eyes; but this meant nothing to the crowds who flocked to welcome him, to listen to his bombastic eulogy, his crazy ranting.

The cheering having died down, he raised his hand, and obtained immediate silence. Striking a flamboyant attitude, he commenced his speech.

"Comrades," he bellowed, "fellow-proletarians, I am here to-day on behalf of the People's Council, to give you news of our satisfactory progress, to give you an outline of our future programme.

"'A short time back our worthy comrade, Bela Kun, on behalf of the Hungarian Soviet Republic, got into wireless communication with Comrade Lenin, of the Russian Soviet, and sent the following message to him:

"'Last night the Hungarian Proletariat seized all powers, established the Dictatorship of the Proletariat, and greets you as leader of the International Proletariat.

"'The Social Democratic Party has adopted the Communist point of view; the two parties have united. We have named ourselves the Hungarian Socialist Party. We ask for instructions in this matter. Bela Kun is Commissary for Foreign Affairs. The Hungarian Soviet offers the Russian Soviet a defensive and offensive alliance. Fully armed, we turn against all enemies of the Proletariat, and ask for information concerning the military situation.'"

There was an outburst of cheering, to which Gonnard smiled and smirked his acknowledgment. Presently, when there was silence once again, he continued:

"Comrades, to this historical message of love and goodwill to all fellow-proletarians there came a reply, dictated by Lenin himself, who spoke as follows:

"'Lenin speaking. Hearty greetings to the Hungarian Soviet's Proletarian Government, in particular to Comrade Bela Kun. I have just communicated your message to the Congress of the Communist Party of Bolshevik Russia. Enormous enthusiasm; we will send a report on the military situation as soon as possible. A permanent wireless communication between Budapest and Moscow is absolutely necessary. With Communistic greetings, Lenin.'"

The cheering with which the speaker's first message had been met was entirely eclipsed by the terrific roar which went up as he read out Lenin's reply. Hats were thrown into the air, Red flags were waved frantically, and in the madness which ensued there was scarcely one present who realized the shame of it; the dishonour of the Hungarians, descendants of the fiercest fighters, of the proudest aristocracy in Europe, appealing to a foreign Government for instructions.

So insidiously can propaganda work, the propaganda which had been secretly distributed in the Army, in the Navy, and throughout the workshops of Hungary for the past few months. The cankerous root is not more harmful to the animal body, the death-watch beetle does not rot the heart of wood so quickly, as the propaganda of the gospel of Bolshevism putrefies the common sense and saps the morality of a working people.

"Comrades," shouted Gonnard once again, "well may you cheer at such excellent news—Russia and Hungary hand in hand. Together we will spread the seed of Communism. Already England is ripe to hail the Red banner, and German workmen are more than willing to throw off the shackles of their capitalist taskmasters. France but awaits the word, Italy seethes with discontent. The workmen of the world await the hour with eagerness, and will soon follow the glorious example of Hungary by throwing off the heavy mantle laid upon them by the bourgeoisie.

"Comrades, it is but a matter of time," he boasted. "There is nothing, now, to stand in the way of Proletarianism and the Commune."

From somewhere in the crowd a voice interrupted:

"What about the Enemy of the Commune? What about the White Knight?"

There was silence, broken by a sudden growl from the crowd. "Yes, what about the White Knight?" cried one. "What is the People's Council going to do about the Enemy of the Commune?" shouted another.

Gonnard, bewildered and perplexed by this sudden turn to his oratory, gazed stupidly at the crowd, and gave no reply.

"Speak louder. I cannot hear!" called some one waggishly, and there was a hoarse roar of laughter.

"But I don't understand," Gonnard spluttered. "What do you mean?—what are you talking about?—the Enemy of the Commune?—the White Knight?—I don't understand!"

"You are a fine People's Commissary! Never heard of the Enemy of the Commune? Ho! there's a fine comrade for you!" again some one from the crowd called out.

Gonnard flushed a dull red. "Well, then," he cried out angrily, "supposing you tell me."

"I'll tell you," called out the same voice again. "There's a man in Aszod who calls himself the White Knight, the Enemy of the Commune, who has vowed the downfall of the Soviet, and the death of all the proletariat who stand in his way."

"Bah!" answered Gonnard, "the bourgeois—are you then frightened of a bourgeois, comrades?"

There was dead silence again. Gonnard laughed harshly. "Cowards!" he cried, "cowards, all of you! Frightened by some half-witted bourgeois who calls himself by a strange name." He sneered, palpably.

"Ho, then, Comrade Gonnard," interrupted the same voice again, "can you explain the death of Comrade Fejer and Comrade Pauler? You may be the next, my friend—or me."

The blood drained away from Gonnard's face. Evidently this suggestion had not yet occurred to him, but as the force of the man's remarks struck him he twisted his head nervously from side to side, perhaps already anticipating the death which he so richly deserved.

There was a taunting cry from several in the mob who observed this fact. "Look," cried one or two, "our People's Commissary turns white about the gills!"

As the jeer sank home Gonnard heaved his heavy form more upright. "Afraid, am I?" he shouted nastily. "Well, then, if that's the case, I'll just show you how far you are wrong. If any of you before me knows of this so-called Enemy of the Commune you can tell him from me that in less than a week I'll string him up on the nearest tree I can find!"

At his words there was a dramatic interruption.

From one of the houses which overlooked the station there was a hearty roar of laughter, and then to the ears of Gonnard and the crowd which surrounded him came the echo of a mocking voice.

"I accept your challenge, Comrade Gonnard. But it is you who will swing, not I!"

* * * * * *

Comrade Gonnard, as befitted a People's Commissary and a representative of the Workers' Council, took up his headquarters at the château of Baron Szechenyi.

No formality about this. He, together with local commissaries, merely marched up to the château, seized it in the name of the Soviet Government, and informed the Baroness that henceforward she and her family would have to be content with three rooms. The rest of the house was then thrown open to the proletariat, and before nightfall the château was filled with the scum of Aszod.

Before the next day had passed the whole place was turned upside down, while everything of value had disappeared, confiscated by any who cared to help themselves, for was not the meaning of the Commune that anything possessed by one belonged to all? "What is yours is mine, what is mine is mine own," might have been the motto of the Communist; or—abbreviated—"Thine—mine."

Notwithstanding his doctrine, Gonnard took care that the finest room in the house should be allocated to himself, and, once settled down, he awaited the local detective whom he had immediately put on the track of the mysterious White Knight who had so publicly and audaciously taken up his challenge.

Not at once had the crowd moved when the White Knight announced himself. They were stupefied with astonishment, and it was not until Gonnard, in a paroxysm of temper, thrashed his arms about and ordered his audience to chase the man that anyone moved.

When at last a movement rippled through the crowd there ensued a scene of confusion.

"Which house?" "Where?" "What was he like?" were questions answered by "This house," "That house," "The one over in the corner," nearly every house being mentioned in turn. Confused, the mob sheepishly turned from side to side; while all the time Gonnard profanely swore at them to chase the interrupter, but no one moved until a young fellow at the back led the way.

Three or four houses in turn were entered, searched, and secretly looted, but there was no trace of the Enemy, who had long since made himself scarce. As to his description, so many had positively seen him and were able to give reliable information that, collectively, he might have been anything from a red-headed dwarf to a fiery-eyed, black-bearded giant.

Gonnard's anger over, fear stepped into its place, and, scarcely giving the people time to report their failure, he summoned detectives and ordered them to hunt down the "criminal" who had dared defy a People's Commissary, even though he were an ex-convict, released when Bela Kun opened wide the prison gates to enrol recruits as Red adherents.

In the evening came Gunzi.

"Well," snapped Gonnard, "what news?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders. "None."

"None!" exploded the Commissary. "The Devil take it, what are you men here for? No wonder the bourgeoisie still walk around, unchecked. I thought Aszod was loyal to the Commune. Are you all fools?"

The other man flushed. "Hold hard, comrade. Don't be too easy with your words. 'Tis not so long ago that you yourself were on the wrong side of cell bars at Budapest. I do not forget faces quite so easily. You had another name then. Let me see. It was for desertion, and robbery with violence. You, my friend, have reason to be thankful that the people are in power, and not the aristocracy."

There was an awkward silence. Gonnard had not realized that he might be recognized, though actually this could make little difference to his position. He was only one among many.

"I'm sorry, friend, if I spoke hastily," he mumbled presently. "Now tell me more of this White Knight. What is he? Who is he?"

Gunzi laughed. "The Devil himself, it would seem. The first we heard of him here in Aszod was about a week ago. One morning we found, pasted over the official posters of the Soviet Government, slips of paper bearing the words: 'Proletarians, beware. Nemesis is on your track. The White Knight. An Enemy of the Commune.'"

"Nemesis! Who is he? That's not a Hungarian name," said Gonnard.

"I knew not, till I asked the schoolmaster, who roared with laughter when I asked him." The detective's eyes narrowed. "He is a bourgeois, that schoolmaster. Him I will soon put into prison."

"But Nemesis?" prompted Gonnard.

"Oh, yes, Nemesis. He told me Nemesis was a daughter of Nyx, a person who metes out punishment to the unjust. Bah! They think to get the better of good proletarians with their long words and foreign names. Wait until I get my hands upon this woman, Nemesis, or the White Knight either."

"What about Fejer and Pauler?"

Gunzi pursed his lips. "Ask me not, Gonnard. All I know is that they were both found dead, and each had in one of his pockets—a white knight!"

His sibilant voice lowered itself toward the finish of the sentence, and Gonnard shivered. "It is you who will hang, not I." Again in his ears rang the confident challenge hurled at him across the heads of the populace. Supposing he failed in his boast, and, worse, supposing the Enemy of the Commune were successful! ...

Involuntarily his hand flew to his throat and he loosened his shirt collar. It was rather too tight to be pleasant. Gunzi's mouth slowly widened into a grin.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" cried Gonnard, and there entered a small boy of about eleven years of age, dressed in clothes far too large for him, which, judging from the cut and the material, had been filched from one of the bourgeois residences.

"A letter for you, comrade," announced the newcomer, his remark punctuated by an oath. The gamins of Hungary spent a royal time during the Commune. Released by order of the Soviet from all authority whatsoever, of their parents or of their school-teachers, they revelled in their freedom and made the most of their opportunity.

Gonnard glared at the boy. "What do you mean, son? A letter for me? Where from?"

The messenger grinned. "Don't get excited, comrade. It's not from a lady. I was walking down the Palyaudvar-utcza when a man came up to me and asked me if I would like to earn ten crowns. 'Make it twenty crowns,' I said to him, 'and I'm your man.' 'All right,' he growled. 'See, here's a letter. Take it up to Comrade Gonnard, who is living in the château of Baron Szechenyi. He will be pleased to get it.' Then he gave me this letter, and I immediately brought it along. Give me a crown, comrade, and you can have it."

Gonnard scowled. "Son of a pig, hand it over." He half rose from his seat, and the boy quickly tossed it on to the table in front of him.

Clutching the envelope Gonnard slit it open with his dirty thumb, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. This he opened, and then, as he read, choked with fury.

"My God," he called out hoarsely to the detective, "read this!" With a livid face he held it out to Gunzi, who perused it, his forehead lifting slightly in his surprise:

Within a week you will hang, Comrade Gonnard, and so the death of two honest Hungarian officers will be avenged.

THE WHITE KNIGHT

While Gunzi reread the message, studying the handwriting, searching for the watermark of the paper, or any other clue which might ultimately lead to the disclosure of the mysterious White Knight, Gonnard cast back his memory in retrospection.

It was one night some months before. Budapest lay covered in a white mantle of snow, which happily concealed the garbage and rubbish littering the streets. He and two other Communists were straggling home. Fortunately the streets were empty; people were afraid to wander much those nights, for parties of ex-Russian prisoners and numbers of ex-soldiers, disbanded but not disarmed, roamed the countryside, shooting and pillaging, even daring to enter the towns.

The three Communists wandered on, hazy with drink, their revolvers spitting fire, which, in lieu of finding human billets, broke lamp after lamp, window after window.

They had nearly reached their quarter when round the corner strode two officers of the demobilized Hungarian Army, their uniforms still glistening with the emblem of the royal crown.

The sight maddened the Communists, for the majority of ex-soldiers, who for four years had, day in and day out, pluckily withstood the forces of invading hordes, who, indeed, had fought for this very emblem, now would tremblingly hack it off at the command of a few of their own countrymen.

Lining up, they stopped the two officers, and hoarsely ordered them to strip, their revolvers pointing with unpleasant directness at the stomachs of the two men.

With a haughty motion of the chin the elder of the two, disdaining the drunken men, stepped forward, and would have passed, but Gonnard's pistol flashed, and a crumpled body slumped to the ground, where it was quickly accompanied by the corpse of the second officer. Thus died two who escaped the bayonets of Hungary's enemies to die of the bullets of Hungary's men—the red of their blood gradually dyed the pure white of the snow—the insignia of the Crown blemished by the symbol of Communism.

Like a wraith he saw again the haughty officer falling—falling toward him; the accusing eyes approaching nearer, the outstretched hands grasping for his throat....

He called out chokingly, and the ghost dissolved into the smoke of a cigarette which the placid urchin of the streets blew out of his mouth in thick clouds.

Gonnard's dazed glance wandered from side to side—from the face of the grinning messenger to the puzzled countenance of the detective. How came this spectre from the past? How knew the White Knight that he was the murderer?

"Well?" asked Gunzi inquiringly.

"Nothing—nothing," muttered Gonnard. "I want to know about that note."

The detective turned it over and over in his fingers. "No clue of any kind." He turned to the boy. "What was the man like who gave you this? Can you describe him?"

"Yes, of course," answered the urchin, and Gonnard and Gunzi leaned forward, a gleam of hope lighting up their faces. "He was tall, though not too tall, say about—about as high as my father, who is bigger than either of you, comrades. His eyes were a greeny blue, or perhaps brown, I forget now. His hair was a darkish brown, nearly black in parts, and he was dressed as you, not quite so well as I."

Gonnard groaned. The explanation might fit anyone in the world. "Get out!" he shouted. The boy turned tail and ran, wondering what had happened.

Gunzi grinned. "Not of very much assistance, comrade. Apparently the Devil is not as conspicuous as I had believed."

Gonnard turned upon the detective with an ugly snarl. "Cease your prattling, Gunzi. This is no laughing matter." His eyes narrowed into mere slits, and he leaned forward in the other's direction, gazing fiercely at him. "Listen, my friend. It is written that the past is past. I am a People's Commissary now, and have the ear of Bela Kun. It will be a bad day for you, Gunzi, if by next week you have not laid this cursed bourgeois by the heels. This day week some one is going to hang, and if it is not the White Knight—comrade, you have a nice soft neck. It would be a pity to see its tender skin black and blue, rasped and bruised by a rope. Do you think it within the bounds of possibility that you might bring this dog to me—soon?"

His bombast did not worry the rat-faced Gunzi. He shrugged his shoulders. "To-day week should be an interesting one. Yet it will not be I who will hang—and it might not be the White Knight, friend."

With that he strolled from the room and left the ex-convict and murderer alone with his thoughts.