William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

present.
    Alberton observed it. “Mr. Monk is my guest,” he said coolly. “He has no interest in armaments and is not a rival for anything you would wish. But I have told you before, Mr. Breeland, the guns that interest you are already sold—”
    “No, they are not!” Breeland interrupted him. “You are in negotiation. You have not been paid, and believe me, sir, I know that. The Union has its ways of gaining information. You have been given a deposit, but the Rebels are short of funds, and you may be fortunate to see the second half of your price.”
    “Possibly,” Alberton said with a distinct chill. “But I have no reason to suppose those I deal with are not men of honor, and whether they are or not, it is not your concern.”
    “I have the money in full,” Breeland said. “Tell Philo Trace to produce the same! See if he can.”
    “I have given my word, sir, and I do not withdraw it,” Alberton replied, his face set in hard lines, his anger unmistakable.
    “You are conniving at slavery!” Breeland’s voice rose. His body was stiff, his shoulders high. “How can any civilized man do that? Or have you passed beyond civilization into decadence? Do you no longer care where your comforts come from or who pays for them?”
    Alberton was white to the lips. “I don’t set myself up as a judge of men or of nations,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I should? Maybe I should require every prospective purchaser to justify himself before me and account for every shot hewill take with any gun I sell him. And since that is manifestly preposterous, then perhaps I should not sell guns at all?”
    “You are reducing the argument to absurdity!” Breeland countered, splashes of pink in his cheeks. “The moral difference between the attacker and the defender is clear enough to any man. So is the difference between the slave owner and the man who would free everyone. Only a sophist of the utmost hypocrisy would argue differently.”
    “I could argue that the Confederate who wishes to set up his own government according to his belief in what is right has more justification to his cause than the Unionist who would oblige him to remain in a union he no longer wishes,” Alberton replied. “But that is not the issue, as you well know. Trace came to me before you did, and I agreed to sell him armaments. I do not break my word. That is the point, Mr. Breeland, and the only point. Trace has not misled me or deceived me in any way that would cause me to renege on my commitment to him. I have no guns to sell you; that is the sum of the situation.”
    “Give Trace back his deposit,” Breeland challenged him. “Tell him you are no slaver! Or are you?”
    “Insults offend me,” Alberton said grimly, his face dark. “They do not change my mind. I agreed to see you because I was afraid you would not leave my house until I had. There is nothing more for us to discuss. Good evening, sir.”
    Breeland did not move. His face was pale, his hands clenched at his sides. But before he could find the words to retaliate, the door opened behind him, and Merrit Alberton came in.
    Her gown was deep pink, her fair hair elaborately coiled but now in some disarray. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brilliant. She ignored Monk, glanced only briefly at Breeland, but deliberately stood close beside him. She addressed her father.
    “What you are doing is immoral! You have made a mistake in offering the guns to the Confederates. You would never have thought of doing it were they rebels against England!”Her voice was rising higher and sharper all the time in her indignation. “If we still had slavery here, would you sell guns to slave traders so they could shoot at our army, and navy, even our men and women in their own homes, because we wanted all people to be free? Would you?”
    “That is hardly a comparison, Merrit—”
    “Yes, it is! The Rebels keep slaves!” She was shaking with emotion. “They buy men and women, and children, and use them like animals! How could you sell guns to people like that? Have you no morality at all? Is it just money? Is that it?” Almost unconsciously she was moving even closer to Breeland, who was watching with an almost impassive face.
    “Merrit—” Alberton began.
    But she cut him off. “There’s no argument can justify what you are doing! I am so ashamed of you I can hardly bear it!”
    He made a gesture of helplessness. “Merrit, it is not so simple as—”
    Again she refused to