Devolution (23 page)

April wanted to speak, but she chose not to interrupt. It was rare that John spoke from the heart.

“I ask myself, ‘what is the patriotic thing to do?’ I love my country and I want to defend it. But what the government has done is wrong. They failed us. I can’t support that. Yet, if I join the resistance, history could view me as a traitor, even if the best option is a new government.” April’s austerity softened. “I mean, what is patriotism? Is it working to fix a flawed system? Or fighting to replace it with another one? I will do what
I
think is best for Great Britain. But the level of patriotism I have, it’s not for me to decide. Historians, not yet born will determine that. After I am gone no one will know what’s in my heart. They will only know my actions. That is terrifying to think about.” John loaded his empty lungs and released the breath slowly to settle his voice. “And the winner does not always write the history books. Look at
our
Civil War.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw how April reacted oddly to his last statement. She lost her quasi-domineering tone in favor of a more timid one. John’s bewildered eyes silently requested an explanation. But he could tell she was reluctant to speak.

“Remember how I once told you that my family was not too proud of our ancestors?” she said abashedly.

John erupted with excitement. This had bothered him for months. He did his best to conceal his euphoria. He nodded.

She tightly shut her eyes and grumbled. “I’m a descendant of Oliver Cromwell.” Her chin fell as the words leaked out.

“That’s awesome!” John blurted. “Why are you so ashamed? Many people see Oliver Cromwell as a hero.”

April peeked up at John from her shameful posture. “He was a dictator accused of genocide.” She didn’t find this as enchanting as John, although it did serve to lighten the mood. “People still hate him. Did you know when the Royalists returned to power after his death, his corpse was dug up, hung in chains, and beheaded?”

“Sure, that makes it seem bad. But…”

Her glare was unmistakable.
Don’t even try.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” April pled. “We don’t want people knowing.”

“All right,” John said, “but I’d tell people if
my
family had a legacy.”

RING!!!

April welcomed the interruption of John’s ringing phone.

“Hello?” He paused, listening. “Okay. I’ll be right out.”

John threw the phone back in his briefcase. “I have to go.”

“I’d like a little more time with you.”

John disregarded her polite request. “I told these guys I would meet with them.”

He stood up and walked to the front of the room, grabbing his coat. April remained seated, her eyes followed him.

“Is this about the resistance?” she asked, fearing the answer.

His back remained towards her and he did not respond.

“God, John. I don’t think you should go.”

“Please, April,” John said, “don’t do this. I know what I am doing.”

“No!” she fired back. “No, you don’t. You have
no
idea what you are doing!”

John knew she was right. Yet, his ego would prevail over her better judgment.

“Please be careful,” she pleaded as he approached the door. “You are a good person, John, a kind person.” She could see his mind was made up. There was no stopping him. But her final words came close. “The people you’re dealing with are not.”

*

John entered the rear passenger-side door of the long, black car head first. His initial scan found only one person in his company, his uncle, Tony Manning. The plush leather seats were nearly as black as the limousine’s tinted glass. Stained cherry-oak rails, bottles of Banyuls red wine, and ornate crystal goblets graced the elegant interior. Neon lights lined the ceiling and lush carpet separated the back seats. If the point was to prove the movement had financial backing, they pulled it off well.

“Today will be eye-opening, John,” Tony said with high optimism.

The professor grew less enthusiastic and more skeptical following his conversation with April. “Uncle Tony,” John asked, “why are you doing this?” The smile fell from his uncle’s face. John felt comfortable, asking the question. But the answer would determine if his poise would endure.

Tony acted calmly, as though he had anticipated the question. “I have not turned my back on the nation, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I am serving the people in their best interest. The current government is not.” Tony was a politician, so it was hard for John to determine if his heart matched his rhetoric. “The Crown and Parliament have failed us. Unemployment, inflation, crime, poverty - nothing is getting done. That is why I joined FreeGB. And you, John,” Tony pointed at his nephew, “are the reason we will not fail. Your book, your Constitution, has opened our eyes to how government should be. We want your Constitution as the new governing document of Great Britain. That is our purpose.
My
purpose. That is how I am serving my constituents, by giving them a better government. Just like you envisioned in your book. We will earn their trust and win at the election box.”

April was more right than John could have ever imagined. He hadn’t even come close to understanding the scope of the situation. He was not just an ancillary part of the revolution, he
was
the revolution.

Tony leaned forward in his seat to look deep into his nephew’s eyes. “I. Am. A. Patriot.” He placed heavy emphasis on each word. “I know you’ll be, as well.”

*

“My friends,” began Warren Wickham, speaking to the giant hall full of exuberant followers. “This movement is truly historic.” His words resonated off the splintering wood of the old barn as the faithful cheered wildly in agreement. “Historic, not in our actions but in our purpose. Our desire is not to control this nation, its resources, or its people. Our desire is to control those who want to.”

The ebullient crowd erupted. Wickham fed off the deafening ovation by gripping the microphone and proclaiming over their roar, “We are fighting to choose our own destiny as a people and avoid the inevitable failure of corrupt and greedy politicians!”

The fusion of his energized voice battling the crazed crowd made for a contagious atmosphere. If it wasn’t already, this movement would soon be formidable.

He raised his arms, signaling for quiet. The microphone rested atop a stand as his voice normalized. “Now, we have some important business.”

The hall in which he spoke was an old cattle barn. About 150 feet long and at least half that wide, it uncomfortably held a few thousand people. The thickening cloud of dust kicked up by the dirt floor steadily rose to the sharply-angled ceiling. In the rear, the incessant hum of powerful fans circulated and expelled much of the air, making conditions tolerable. Years of agricultural use had produced that unmistakable odor of stale urine and rotting hay. The fraying wooden planks that formed the building shell had been sloppily painted off-white. If not for the high density of the crowd, the temperature would surely be as frigid as the weather outside.

Hanging sporadically from the ceiling, and waving in the force of the fans, were red, white, and blue banners depicting their cause: “Freedom for All,” “For Love of Country.” A finely-groomed Wickham stood on a raised wooden podium dressed simply in blue-jeans and a brown cardigan. Behind him a giant national flag was draped proudly across the entire rear wall.

“In violation of our rights, the government is trying to break us,” he continued. “They have raided our factories, they have arrested our patriots, charging them with treason and other unfounded crimes. And as they continue their war against freedom, we continue to gain more support.”

The crowd erupted once more.

“In the coming days, weeks, and months expect to fall victim to the injustices of this Crown. Your rights may be stripped. You may be imprisoned. But as you sit in a jail cell, I challenge you to think.” His followers looked on with cult-like stares. “Think about what is happening to you and to our country. Think about our youth and the nation they will inherit. Most of all, never lose sight of the goal. In that cell you
are
the movement! You symbolize all we fight for. And as more people in this great country come to our side, pressure will be put on the government to free you, in so many ways. And never be mistaken about this...” He paused to let the cheers taper off. “We will not forget you. We will honor you and your heroic sacrifice.”

The assembly’s spirited acclaim morphed into a unified chant of “FreeGB!” The congregation’s raised arms pumped in unison as they loudly proclaimed their mantra.

Among the collective celebration, John and Tony entered the hall.

“They cannot imprison us all!” Wickham yelled, pumping his own fist into the air. “We are too many!” He and the masses fed off each other. “I want to leave you tonight with a quote.”

Off stage left, Wickham noticed the arrival of their guests and an insidious grin flashed across his face.

“The economist Adam Smith said,
‘Examine history, and you will find that misfortune arises from not knowing when we are well.’
My friends, many times we cause our own misfortune by taking action when action need not be taken. That is why our country is in disarray. We got what we voted for. But the time has come when we are no longer well. WE-MUST-NOT-BE-CONTENT!”

He signaled for the rowdy crowd to quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, before you leave, I have a very important announcement. Actually, why don’t I just let
them
make the announcement.” From atop the stage he waved for John and Tony to join him.

“I have some people I would like you to meet.” Wickham pulled the microphone off the stand and made his way towards the stairs. The mob had quieted in anticipation. While Tony made his way up the creaky wooden steps, John bashfully backed away.

“How are you, Tony?” Wickham gleefully extended his hand as his friend emerged onto the stage. “Tell them your name.”

With the microphone by his side, Wickham motioned for John to join them on stage; he didn’t budge.

Wickham turned to face the audience. “My friends, today is a big day for our cause.” He rotated his shoulders and proudly looked at the MP. “Tony, please introduce yourself.” Wickham extended the microphone.

“I am Tony Manning.”

“Tell everyone what you do,” instructed Wickham.

“I’m a Member of Parliament from the House of Commons. I represent the Kensington and Chelsea districts.”

The crowd wasn’t sure how to react. Despite his national celebrity with the
terrorists
, wasn’t it the government they had gathered against?

“That’s right, my friends,” Wickham announced, grabbing the microphone from Tony. “The government is now abandoning itself!”

With the meaning now clear, the mob cheered appropriately. A toothy smile expanded across Wickham’s face. He turned to silently thank his friend with a nod.

John stood a safe distance away by the stairs, engrossed in the spectacle. The energy was real, the passion was infectious.

“What did I walk into?” he murmured.

“We have one more special guest today.” Wickham walked towards the side of the stage were John stood. The freshman professor’s heart sank into his stomach, realizing all the attention was about to center on him. Unlike his uncle, he did not do well among unfamiliar crowds. “It’s not every day you come face to face with greatness. Today is one of those days.” He walked down the steps to escort the hesitant young man onto the stage.

“Would you please tell everyone your
first
name, sir?” Wickham’s right arm was anchored around John’s shoulders as they made their way up the steps.

“My name is John.” The large lump in John’s throat hardened and the knot in his stomach swelled. He had never been in front of so many people. The sea of faces—some friendly, some not so friendly—seemed to expand indefinitely.

The two reached the middle of the stage. “My friends, this is an exceptional man who has done exceptional things in his short life.” The crowd’s interest was now piqued.

The beads of sweat on John’s brow doubled every second, along with his heartrate and breathing. The now quiet crowd only intensified his desire to get off that stage. He could faint at any second.

This is not why I came here.

“Please,” Wickham continued, “tell everyone your full name.” He extended the microphone towards his guest’s mouth, and John apprehensively scanned the crowd. They awaited his identity with widened eyes, desirous of hope and longing for meaning.

“My name,” he swallowed hard, “is John Nolan.”

The monolithic mob was stunned. Some managed to cheer while others simply gasped. A few appeared spellbound as if the greatness of the person who stood before them caused temporary paralysis. Despite whatever initial reaction, everyone was taken aback. In front of them stood the man whose ideas the entire movement was based upon.

“That’s right, ladies and gentleman!” Wickham yelled into the microphone so loudly his words distorted. “The author of
Constitutional Correctness
, Professor John Nolan.” In grandiose nature he swung his right arm in John’s direction, as if to reveal his assistant following a magic act. This time the crowd knew exactly how to behave.

Wickham stepped up to John and leaned towards his ear. “They are cheering for you, John,” he all but screamed to overpower the energy that engulfed the building. “This is all for you and your ideas.”

John didn’t know how to respond. But standing on that stage all of a sudden felt real. His nerves vanished, giving way to a new type of overwhelming sensibility, one that he’d only felt briefly a few times before. For the first time in his life, as he gazed over the adoring crowd, it seemed as though he’d been called to a higher purpose. These people appreciated his work. They believed in him, and for that moment he felt worthy.