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The Minions of Midas
Jack London
Wade Atsheler is dead--dead by his own hand. To say that this was entirely unexpected 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 had we been prepared for it in some
incomprehensible subconscious way. Before the perpetration of the deed, its possibility is
remotest from our thoughts; but when we did know that he was dead, it seemed, somehow,
that we had understood and looked forward to it all the time. This, by retrospective analysis,
we could 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 of Eben Hale, the great
street-railway magnate, there could be no reason for him to complain of fortune's favors.
Yet we had watched his smooth brow furrow and corrugate as under some carking care or
devouring sorrow. We had watched his thick, black hair thin and silver as green grain under
brazen skies and parching drought. Who can forget, in the midst of the hilarious scenes he
toward the last sought with greater and greater avidity--who can forget, I say, 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 rhyme or reason, his eyes would turn
lacklustre, his brows knit, as with clenched hands and face overshot with spasms of mental
pain he wrestled on the edge of the abyss with some unknown danger.
He never spoke of his trouble, nor were we indiscreet enough to ask. But it was just as well;
for had we, and had he spoken, our help and strength could have availed nothing. When
Eben Hale died, whose confidential secretary he was--nay, well-nigh adopted son and full
business partner--he no longer came among us. Not, as I now know, that our company was
distasteful to him, but because his trouble had so grown that he could not respond to our
happiness nor find surcease with us. Why this should be so we could not at the time
understand, for when Eben Hale's will was probated, the world learned that he was sole heir
to his employer's many millions, and it was expressly stipulated that this great inheritance
was given to him without qualification, hitch, or hindrance 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, one astounding clause expressly stated that Wade Atsheler was to dispense to
Eben Hale's wife and sons and daughters whatever moneys his judgement dictated, at
whatever times he deemed advisable. Had there been any scandal in the dead man's family,
or had his sons been wild or undutiful, then there might have been a glimmering of reason
in this most unusual action; but Eben Hale's domestic happiness had been proverbial in the
community, and one would have to travel far and wide to discover a cleaner, saner,
wholesomer progeny of sons and daughters. While his wife--well, by those who knew her
best she was endearingly termed "The Mother of the Gracchi." Needless to state, this
inexplicable will was a nine day's wonder; but the expectant public was disappointed in that
no contest was made.
It was only the other day that Eben Hale was laid away in his stately marble mausoleum.
And now Wade Atsheler is dead. The news was printed in this morning'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. The
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original correspondence, he has told me, is in the hands of the police. He has begged me,
also, as a warning to society against a most frightful and diabolical danger which threatens
its very existence, to make public the terrible series of tragedies in which he has been
innocently concerned. I herewith append the text in full:
It was in August, 1899, just after my return from my summer vacation, that the blow fell.
We did not know it at the time; we had not yet learned to school our 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 also laughed, 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 vast holdings is
necessary to obtain, in cash, twenty millions of dollars. This sum we require you to pay
over to us, or to our agents. You will note we do not specify 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 twenty instalments; 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 of action utterly
devoid of animus. We are members of that intellectual proletariat, the increasing numbers
of which mark in red lettering the last days 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 may be noted that we can indulge in large and lucrative operations without
capital. So far, we have been fairly successful, and we hope our dealings with you may be
pleasant and satisfactory.
Pray attend while we explain our views more fully. At the base of the present system of
society is to be found the property right. And this right of the individual to hold property is
demonstrated, in the last analysis, to rest solely and wholly upon might. The mailed
gentlemen of William the Conqueror divided and apportioned England amongst themselves
with the naked sword. This, we are sure you will grant, is true of all feudal possessions.
With the invention of steam and the Industrial Revolution there came into existence the
Capitalist Class, in the modern sense of the word. These capitalists quickly towered above
the ancient nobility. The captains of industry have virtually dispossessed 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 the less based upon might. The change has been qualitative. The old-
time Feudal Baronage ravaged the world with fire and sword; the modern Money Baronage
exploits the world by mastering and applying the world's economic forces. Brain, and not
brawn, endures; and those best fitted to survive are the intellectually and commercially
powerful.
We, the M. of M., are not content to become wage slaves. The great trusts and business
combinations (with which you have your rating) prevent us from rising to the place among
you which our intellects qualify us to occupy. Why? Because we are without capital. We are
of the unwashed, but with this difference: our brains are of the best, and we have no foolish
ethical nor social scruples. As wage slaves, toiling early and late, and living abstemiously,
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we could not save in threescore years--nor in twenty times threescore years--a sum of
money sufficient successfully to cope with the great aggregations of massed capital which
now exist. Nevertheless, we have entered the arena. We now throw down the gage to the
capital of the world. Whether it wishes to fight or not, it shall have to fight.
Mr. Hale, our interests dictate us to demand of you twenty millions of dollars. While we are
considerate enough to give you reasonable time in which to carry out your share of the
transaction, please do not delay too long. When you have agreed to our terms, insert a
suitable notice in the agony column of the "Morning Blazer." We shall then acquaint you
with our plan for transferring the sum mentioned. You had better do this some time prior to
October 1st. If you do not, in order to show that we are in earnest we shall on 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 have closed in battle. As you will readily discern, we are
simply a business proposition. You are the upper, and we the nether, millstone; this man's
life shall be ground out between. You may save him if you agree to our conditions and act
in time.
There was once a king cursed with a golden touch. His name we have taken to do duty 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 a preposterous
communication? The idea, we could not but grant, was well conceived, but it was too
grotesque to be taken seriously. Mr. Hale said he would 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-ninth Street, a
workingman was thrust through the heart with a knife. Ere you read this 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 you do not relent,
we shall kill a policeman on or near the corner of Polk Street and Clermont Avenue.
Very cordially,
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
Again Mr. Hale laughed. His mind was full of a prospective deal with a Chicago syndicate
for the sale of all his street railways in that city, and so he went on dictating to the
stenographer, never giving it a second thought. But somehow, I know not why, a heavy
depression fell upon me. What if it were not a joke, I asked myself, and turned involuntarily
to the morning paper. There it was, as befitted an obscure person of the lower classes, a
paltry half-dozen lines tucked away in a corner, next a patent medicine advertisement:
Shortly after five o'clock this morning, on East Thirty-ninth Street, a laborer named Pete
Lascalle, while on his way to work, was stabbed to the heart by an unknown assailant, who
escaped by running. The police have been unable to discover any motive for the murder.
"Impossible!" was Mr. Hale's rejoinder, when I had read the item aloud; but the incident
evidently weighed upon his mind, for late in the afternoon, with many epithets denunciatory
of his foolishness, he asked me to acquaint the police with the affair. I had the pleasure of
being laughed at in the Inspector's private office, although I went away with the assurance
that they would look into it and that the vicinity of Polk and Clermont would be doubly
patrolled on the night mentioned. There it dropped, till the two weeks had sped 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 protect ourselves against police
interference we shall hereafter inform you of the event but a little prior to or simultaneously
with the deed. Trusting this finds 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 me this account:
A DASTARDLY CRIME
Joseph Donahue, assigned only last night to special patrol duty in the Eleventh 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 corner of Polk Street and Clermont Avenue. Our society is
indeed unstable when the custodians of its peace are thus openly and wantonly shot down.
The police have so far been unable to obtain the slightest clue.
Barely had he finished this when the police arrived--the Inspector himself and two of his
keenest sleuths. Alarm sat upon their faces, and it was plain that they were seriously
perturbed. Though the facts were so few and simple, we talked long, going over the affair
again and again. When the Inspector went away, he confidently assured us that everything
would soon be straightened out and the assassins run to earth. In the meantime he thought it
well to detail guards for the protection of Mr. Hale and myself, and several more to be
constantly on the vigil about the house and grounds. After the lapse of a week, 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. You have 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 by force your twenty millions.
Believe us, this is farthest from our intention.
You will readily comprehend, after a little sober thought, that your life is dear to us. Do not
be afraid. We would not hurt you for the world. It is our policy to cherish you tenderly and
protect you from all harm. Your death means nothing to us. If it did, rest assured that we
would not hesitate a moment in destroying 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 your expenses.
Within minutes of the time you receive this a nurse-girl will have been choked to death in
Brentwood Park. The body may be found in the shrubbery lining the path 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 the impending
murder. The Inspector excused himself in order to call up Police Sub-station F and despatch
men to the scene. Fifteen minutes later he rang us up and informed us that the body had
been discovered, yet warm, in the place indicated. That evening the papers teemed with
glaring Jack-the-Strangler headlines, denouncing the brutality of the deed and complaining
about the laxity of the police. We were also closeted with the Inspector, who begged us by
all means to keep the affair secret. Success, he said, depended upon silence.
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 blind force in the dark. We could not
fight, could not plan, could do nothing save hold our hands and wait. And week by week, as
certain as the rising of the sun, came the notification and death of some person, man or
woman, innocent of evil, but just as much killed by us as though we had done it with our
own hands. A word from Mr. Hale and the slaughter would have ceased. But he hardened
his heart and waited, the lines deepening, the mouth and eyes growing sterner and firmer,
and the face aging with the hours. It is needless for me to speak of my own suffering during
that frightful period. Find here the letters and telegrams of the M. of M., and the newspaper
accounts, etc., of the various murders.
You will notice also the letters warning Mr. Hale of certain machinations of commercial
enemies and secret manipulations of stock. The M. of M. seemed to have its hand on the
inner pulse of the business and financial world. They possessed themselves of and
forwarded to us information which our agents could not 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 a telegram which probably was the means of preventing an anarchist crank
from taking my employer's life. We captured the man on his arrival and turned him over to
the police, who found upon him enough of a new and powerful explosive to sink a
battleship.
We persisted. Mr. Hale was grit clear through. He disbursed at the rate of one hundred
thousand per week for secret service. The aid of the Pinkertons and of countless private
detective agencies was called in, and in addition to this thousands were upon our payroll.
Our agents swarmed everywhere, in all guises, penetrating all classes of society. They
grasped at a myriad clues; hundreds of suspects were jailed, and at various times thousands
of suspicious persons were under surveillance, but nothing tangible came to light. With its
communications the M. of M. continually changed its method of delivery. And every
messenger they sent us was arrested forthwith. But these inevitably proved to be innocent
individuals, while their descriptions of the persons who had employed them for the errand
never tallied. On the last day of December we received 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 are already well
versed, we beg to state that we shall give a passport from this Vale of Tears to Inspector
Bying, with whom, because of our attentions, you have become so well acquainted. It is his
custom to be in his private office at 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 I heard the
Inspector's hearty voice. But, even as he spoke, his voice died away in the receiver to a
gurgling sob, and I heard faintly the crash of a falling body. 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 the Central Police, telling them to go at once to the Inspector's aid in his
private office. I then held the line, and a few minutes later received the intelligence that he
had been found bathed in his own blood and breathing his last. There were no eyewitnesses,
and no trace was discoverable of the murderer.
Whereupon Mr. Hale immediately increased his secret service till a quarter of a million
flowed weekly from his coffers. He was determined to win out. His graduated rewards
aggregated over ten millions. You have a fair idea of his resources and you can see in what
manner he drew upon them. It was the principle, he affirmed, that he was fighting for, not
the gold. And it must be admitted that his course proved the nobility of his motive. The
police departments of all the great cities cooperated, and even the United States
Government stepped in, and the affair became one of the highest questions of state. Certain
contingent funds of the nation were devoted to the unearthing of 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 their way and struck unerringly.
But while he fought to the last, Mr. Hale could not wash his hands of the blood with which
they were dyed. Though not technically a murderer, though no jury of his peers would ever
have convicted him, none the less the death of every individual was due to him. As I said
before, a word from him and the slaughter would have ceased. But he refused to give that
word. He insisted that the integrity of society was assailed; that he was not sufficiently a
coward to desert his post; and that it was manifestly just that a few should be martyred for
the ultimate welfare of the many. Nevertheless this blood was upon his head, and he sank
into deeper and deeper gloom. I was likewise whelmed with the guilt of an accomplice.
Babies were ruthlessly killed, children, aged men; and not only were these murders local,
but they were distributed over the country. In the middle of February, one evening, as we
sat in the library, there came a sharp knock at the door. On responding to it I 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 be concrete. Miss Adelaide
Laidlaw is a talented young woman, as good, we understand, as she is beautiful. She is the
daughter of your old friend, Judge Laidlaw, and we happen to know that you carried her in
your arms when she was an infant. She is your daughter's closest friend, and at present is
visiting her. 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 through the dayrooms--
she was not there--and on to her own apartments. The door was locked, 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 torn from the couch, the flush of life yet on her flesh, the
body still flexible and 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 most
solemnly to stand by him and not to compromise, even if all kith and kin were destroyed.
The next day I was surprised at his cheerfulness. I had thought he would be deeply shocked
by this last tragedy--how deep I was soon to learn. All day he was light-hearted and high-
spirited, as though at last he had found a way out of the frightful difficulty. The next
morning we found him dead in his bed, a peaceful smile upon his careworn face--
asphyxiation. Through the connivance of the police and the authorities, it was given out to
the world as heart disease. We deemed it wise to withhold the truth; but little good has it
done us, little good has anything done us.
Barely had I left that chamber of death, when--but too late--the following extraordinary
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 sad event of day
before yesterday; but what we wish to say may be of the utmost importance to you. It is in
our mind that you may attempt to escape us. There is but one way, apparently, as you have
ere this doubtless discovered. But we wish to inform you that even this one way is barred.
You may die, but you die failing and acknowledging your failure. Note this: We are part
and parcel of your possessions. With your millions we pass down to your heirs and assigns
forever.
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 failures of 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. You have crushed your wage
slaves into the dirt and you have survived. The captains of war, at your command, have shot
down like dogs your employees in a score of bloody strikes. By such means you have
endured. We do not grumble at the result, for we acknowledge and have our being in the
same natural law. And now the question has arisen: Under the present social environment,
which of us shall 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 why explain?
Surely this narrative will make everything clear. Three weeks ago Adelaide Laidlaw died.
Since then I have waited in hope and fear. Yesterday the will was probated and made
public. Today I was notified that a woman of the middle class would be killed in Golden
Gate Park, in faraway San Francisco. The despatches in to-night's papers give the details of
the brutal happening--details which correspond with those furnished me in advance.
It is useless. I cannot struggle against the inevitable. I have been faithful to Mr. Hale and
have worked hard. Why my faithfulness should have been thus rewarded I cannot
understand. Yet I cannot be false to my trust, nor break my word by compromising. Still, I
have resolved that no more deaths shall be upon my head. I have willed the many millions I
lately received to their rightful owners. Let the stalwart sons of Eben Hale work out their
own salvation. Ere you 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 millionnaires have
been likewise mulcted or persecuted--how many is not known, for when one yields to the
M. of M., his mouth is thenceforth sealed. Those who have not yielded are even now
reaping their scarlet harvest. The grim game is being played out. The Federal Government
can do nothing. I also understand that similar branch organizations have made their
appearance in Europe. Society is shaken to its foundations. Principalities and powers are as
brands ripe for the burning. Instead of the masses against the classes, it is a class against the
classes. We, the guardians of human progress, are being singled out and struck down. Law
and order have failed.
The officials have begged me to keep this secret. I have done so, but can do so no longer. It
has become a question of public import, fraught with the direst consequences, and I shall do
my duty before I leave this world by informing 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 press strike off millions of copies; let the electric currents sweep it round the world;
wherever men meet and speak, let them speak of it in fear and trembling. And then, when
thoroughly aroused, let society arise in its might and cast out this abomination.
Yours, in long farewell,
WADE ATSHELER.
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