Lyonesse had been in a state of trance, her factories silent, her
house-fronts barricaded, her streets deserted, save for marching
troops, and the grim shadows of patrolling warships.
Then at noon on the fourth day of the Terror, the white-hot wreck of
the _Gigantic_ whirled down upon the fields beyond Penzance; and
Brand's orders flashed from the heavens commanding Lord Ulster's
squadron to surrender, his troops to evacuate the city. The _Mary
Rose_ had defeated the Channel Fleet, had destroyed the _Gigantic_,
was descending now in vengeance, while no man saw as yet that the
little yacht ran blood upon her decks, and barely held the tenure of
the air. The squadron fled in disorder, the regiments broke and
scattered, the officials hid themselves, and the master came to his
own. The _Mary Rose_ piteously broken, her engines hardly alive, and
half her crew slain or disabled, rolled slowly homeward, and fell at
the doors of Brand's office, never to rise again. One may see the
shattered hulk to-day resting with all her stains of blood and her
wounds of battle in the splendid chamber of gold and marble which
bears the legend of her victories.
Thousands of people gathered to welcome the master, but when he came
down the gangway they forebore to cheer. He still wore the golden
harness, but now it was stained and torn, his face was streaming with
blood, his eyes were terrible. Simpson had a broken arm roughly
bound, Lancaster an ugly wound across the shoulder. The master asked
if there were any surgeons present, and two who came forward were
sent on board the yacht. Then, through a lane of men standing
uncovered in silence, Brand went on to the doors of his office, while
Lancaster and Simpson returned to help with the wounded.
With the master's presence at once every nerve of the city thrilled
to life, for as message after message went out to the chiefs of
departments, electric yachts swarmed into the air, the streets were
thronged, the tramcars started, and, Sunday as it was, banks,
offices, and shops took down their shutters. The factories went to
work with three eight-hour shifts at double wages, and never was
there known such a fever of haste in the dockyards.
From St. Ives to Penzance earthworks were thrown up in defence, and
all explosives were removed to mine the approaches of the city.
Indeed, there was cause. The yards were a mass of ruins where no
less than twenty etheric liners had been blown to pieces by the
Government troops. Eighty-five ships of Brand's fleet were lying in
various cities throughout the world, their crews in prison, and many
of their engines disabled. There remained half a dozen old vessels
worth patching up for service, and these rang night and day with
preparation.
On the first day, late in the evening, the cargo ship _Lion_ came in
from Ballarat, and Captain Simpson took command of her in attendance
upon the master. So came the evening of the 18th of June, 1980, the
sixth day of the Terror.
In our National Portrait Gallery all the pictures have golden frames
except one. Please come and see that painting framed in iron--"To
the memory of Sarah Brand."
A woman, forty years of age, massively built, and of unusual stature,
she stands in a deep shadow draped with heavy folds of violet cloth,
her robe lashed at the breast with a chain of barbaric gold. She is
crowned with an unruly mane of harsh red hair. Her eyes are pale
blue, of startling brilliancy, her features of rugged, almost savage,
strength. So was she in her life, and only her brother knew the
deeds of mercy which she never avowed, the fierce love which found
its expression in wrath, the burning passions only revealed in
harshness, the mighty angel hid in the rough prison of her body.
She had built that granite cottage on the Tol Pedn cliffs, where the
Atlantic storms thundered against her walls; and there she ruled with
an iron discipline, keeping her chambers relentlessly bare and clean.
There on the sixth night of the Terror she entertained her brother's
guests at a dinner of Spartan severity, given in honour of Brand's
new Government.
"Sir," she said to Lancaster, "you take the head of the table. You
represent her Majesty to-night, so my Lord Bishop of London sits on
your right as Chancellor of the Empire, and his Grace of Clydesdale
on your left as Foreign Minister."
So she placed the guests in order of their dignity. General Lord
Fortescue, V.C., as Minister for War, the Earl of Rothschild as First
Lord of the Admiralty, the Lords Commissioners for Canada,
Australasia, Africa, the Secretaries for India and the Treasury, and
the President of the Board of Trade.
"Jack O'Brien," she said to the last, "you and I will share the foot
of the table."
Mr. O'Brien, President of the United Trades Unions, whose presence
was resented by the rest, sat down at the humblest place in obvious
triumph.
"But surely, Mistress Brand," he said, "where's the master?"
"My lords and gentlemen," said Sarah Brand, "my brother asks for no
place at the table of the Imperial Council. He will wait upon you
afterwards. Bishop, will you say grace?"
A murmur of astonishment went round the table, and the Ministers,
doubtful until then, lest they be lifting a Dictator to the throne,
saw clearly that the master did them honour. So was the absence of
the host--late for dinner--construed not as an insult to his guests,
but as the greatest compliment he could pay them.
The Ministers had been in council all day long, now they talked
anything but politics, nor, after our Lady's health was drunk, would
they consent to the absence of Mistress Brand.
"We have, indeed, no business left to discuss," said the Bishop,
cheerfully. "Everything is settled."
"There's only one thing you've all forgotten," answered the hostess,
smoothing her turbulent red hair, as she glanced from face to face.
"You left out Ulster."
"My dear Miss Brand," said Clydesdale, "we've laid that ghost."
"He's not dead yet,"--the woman's eyes were kindling. "John never
supposed he would dare to defy Lyonesse, or make himself Dictator, or
depose the poor little Queen. You don't know what a man you're
dealing with. Do you suppose he'll sit down meekly now?"
"Sure," cried O'Brien, "he could stuff all his meekness into one back
tooth."
"You mark my words," said Mistress Sarah, gravely. "His Meekness has
fangs in him yet, and if I know him, he will strike to-night."
"Not if I'm dentist," said Brand of Lyonesse. He stood in the
curtained doorway deadly pale, and, by reason of throbbing, insistent
wounds a bandage about his head. To-night in token of service he
wore again the splendid golden harness of the Guard.
"I ask your forgiveness, gentlemen," he murmured.
"Give him some wine!" cried Fortescue, "he's fainting!"
"Wine," said the master, as reeling to the table he splashed
champagne into a glass. "Yes, drink with me to our Lady Margaret,
the Queen!"
He swallowed the draught of wine, and gaining strength stood
presently erect.
"Yes!" He flung the glass shattering to the floor. "So ends Ulster
to-morrow, and so perish all her enemies!"
He fell into a seat beside the table.
"I'm not very well," he explained; "my doctor's at his wits' end.
Poor Boyes believes he can't keep me going another hour. Let me
see,"--he was looking down at the table, his eyes half closed, trying
to piece the words together--"I have a report to make; yes, it's
about the ships.
"The _Lion_ first, she's on guard. Two more are ready in the
yards--old crocks, but they'll do to defend our base. I have good
news. The--what's her name--I can't remember her name--brand-new
ship of 25,700 tons under arrest at Glasgow, crew in gaol, ah, yes,
the _Golden Hind_. It seems her people have broken out of gaol,
captured the ship--left Glasgow heading south--coming to help. She
hasn't reported to me yet--but she ought to have before now. That
makes two ships to defend the base, with the _Lion_ and the _Golden
Hind_ to fight. With these we can recapture ships enough to
overthrow our Lady's enemies. Am I talking sense? I must be a
little delirious. Here's a list of the ships to be recaptured. I
forgot to bring the list."
He held his forehead now with both hands, and his eyes strayed until
they fastened on Lancaster.
"How's your shoulder, lad? It hurts, eh? Will you be able to
command the _Lion_ to-morrow? And you, my dear Lord Rothschild? And
you, Lord Fortescue? Will you command the ships? The captains I
trusted have been betraying me, all except Ross of the _Golden Hind_
and Simpson, commanding the _Lion_, but he's wounded.
"Thank God there'll be no more _Gigantic_ to fight. The glass of the
cupola shattered about our heads, and the cold broke in, and the
yacht was rolling over and over, eh, Lancaster? But tomorrow, the
conquest of England!
"I know! I know!" The master spoke fretfully. "I'm hardly fit to
serve her. My Lords,"--he looked round hazily towards his
sister--"my Lords, you must take command--you must save Margaret, my
Queen. Tell her, my Lords, that the Chariot--the Chariot of the
Sun--has--has fallen. Tell her I tried--tried----"
He rolled out of his chair insensible.
The men were crowding about him to advise, to ask for assistance, to
help.
"Back! Back!" cried the woman. "He's mine! He's mine, I tell you!"
Her hands wrenched at the gorget of his mailed tunic, she released
the pressure on his throat, she bathed his head, all the time crying
angrily at the men--"Get away--off with you, out of my house, get to
your yachts, bring the list of the ships from his office. Bring the
Imperial Fleet to guard him until he can light. Stay, you! My Lord
Lancaster, quick, cut away this chain-mail. Are they all gone?"
Staggering to her feet, she called after Jack O'Brien. "Your yacht,
sir, bring Dr. Boyes--965, George Street. You, Lord Clydesdale,
telephone Boyes to be ready."
They laid the master on the bench in the window and when nothing more
could be done, waited with what patience they might, Lancaster on his
knees, fanning the still white face, Mistress Brand seated at the
head of the table against a galaxy of electric lamps. Beyond the
broad frame of the open window glowed sea and sky in one great sphere
of moonlight glory, and at times the perfume of seaweed came in on
the salt cool air.
From time to time she plied the bandages about her brother's head
with ice-cold water; and always, clutched in the death-like rigour of
Brand's left hand, the aerograph clicked message after message.
Presently above the low murmur of the pulsing sea, the tireless
instrument sounded insistent signals, so that the woman's quick brain
began to take in the words flashed down by Captain Simpson from the
_Lion_.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir. I'm getting anxious about the _Golden
Hind_. She ought to be here ninety minutes ago. I asked the towns
on her route, and she's not been seen either from Douglas, from
Holyhead, or from Pembroke. Manchester reported a first-class
etheric liner passing at 10 p.m. on the way to London. I asked the
London office, and find she was lying directly over Whitehall at 11
o'clock, then headed for the west. I fear that Ulster's up to some
new treachery. More news, sir--first-class etheric liner sighted
from Salisbury heading for Lyonesse."
Wrenching the aerograph from her brother's hand, Mistress Sarah gave
the signal "continue."
"Glad you read me, sir, my broken arm makes it hard to signal."
Mistress Sarah, little used to the instrument, spelled out an order
slowly.
"Call up the _Golden Hind_."
There was a long pause before the aerograph stirred again.
"No reply, sir. Exeter reports the _Golden Hind_. She will be here
in half an hour."
A servant announced Dr. Boyes.
"Doctor, come here,"--the woman spoke in low, even tones. "My
brother is in danger--wake him for me."
The physician, a strong, swart man of fifty, without one word of
answer, drew a chair to the master's side, and fell to instant study
of the case.
Ten minutes passed while the sea crooned, beat upon slow beat of her
everlasting music under the cliffs; and the clock against the wall
throbbed out the seconds.
Lancaster answered the doctor's whispered questions, and the woman
sat rigid by the table where glowing heaps of fruit, strewn lilies,
and cut glass cast their reflections on black polished oak.
The ticking of the clock became so unbearable that at last Mistress
Sarah, in feverish irritation, swept across the room, wrenched it
down from the wall, and threw it out of the window. The thing fell
and fell, but there was no answering from the sea, which still by
beat and beat crooned the slow song of times past and present and to
come, eternity unto eternity.
"Mistress Brand," said the doctor; "if this man sleeps he will
live--if he wakes he dies."
"Would he wake if I moved him?"
"No--nothing would wake him short of an electric battery."
The aerograph began to speak again.
"What shall I do, sir?"
"Destroy the _Golden Hind_," clicked the slow signals.
"You must be ill, sir," flashed the swift reply. "Remember her
power, her size, her speed. The _Lion_ can neither fight nor run."
"Mr. Brand is unconscious. I am Miss Brand. Come down--rescue the
master. He'll be captured--quick."
"Madam, it's too late. I should be caught aground. I must fight the
_Golden Hind_. It will give you time to get the master away."
"How can you fight?"
"With the formula for explosives, and if she has none on board, I'll
try the ram. Get the master away."
"Where are you?"
"Seven miles directly overhead. For Heaven's sake, be quick."
"He's right," said Mistress Sarah aloud. "Dr. Boyes, within ten
minutes this house will be attacked and my brother captured unless I
can get him away. There's only one place safe from treachery. Under
this window the cliff falls straight to the sea, but fifty feet down
there is a narrow ledge. From that ledge there are steps cut down to
my brother's bathing place. He uses a knotted rope to reach the
ledge. I'm going to lower him down."
"That I forbid," said Dr. Boyes. "It's almost certain death."
"To stay here is certain capture. He'd rather die."
Then looking up from his place by the master's head, "Our Lady is in
love with him," said Lancaster. "He's got to be saved!"
"It's impossible."
"In the Queen's name," cried Lancaster, "I command!"
"Quick!" said Mistress Brand. "Run, lad, to the dressing-room--it's
next to this; the coil of rope is in the window casing. There's no
time to lose."
Once more the aerograph spoke. "My engineers have mutinied. If I'm
rammed, your house is directly below--I can't move the ship--the
engineers----"
Then silence.
"I've read the signals, madam," said Dr. Boyes. "I'll help."
Lancaster was at hand dragging the coil of rope, and Mistress Sarah
seized the turk's head--a large knot finishing the end. Five feet
from that she bent a half-hitch. "Dr. Boyes, lift him by the arms!
There--" She passed the rope under her brother's back, slipped the
turk's head through the ring of her knot, hauled taut, and had a
sling under Brand's armpits ready. Breathing hard, she took up a
coil of rope and passed it round the heavy iron guard-bar outside the
window. She made the loose end of the rope well fast to the bar.
"Lad," she said quickly to Lancaster, "lift his feet as I haul; lift
him half out through the window."
Dr. Boyes laid on to the rope behind her, while Lancaster gently
guided the master's body outwards until it swung clear, suspended by
the armpits. Then the rope was lowered away until the weight was
taken by the rock ledge fifty feet below.
"Dr. Boyes," cried the woman, "leave the house at once--get to safety
outside. His life depends on yours--you'll send down food, and you
will rescue him. Lad--down the rope with you!"
Dr. Boyes ran to get the servants out of the house.
"Lad, get down that rope."
"Madam, I help you first."
"My place is here--get down, and I'll lower some bedding. Get down,
I say! He may die before you can reach him."
Lancaster swung himself out against the moonlight and the sea, and
once again the waves below beat in their slow monotony, the little
waves of time, beating against the eternities from everlasting to
everlasting.
The woman breathed a great sigh of content, reaching out her arms to
grasp the bar, and swing out upon the rope. Even then a new star
shone in the heavens, a growing glory lighting her red hair, her
violet robes, and finding majesty in her hard face.
The earth was calling the _Lion_--rammed in mid-air--the wind raged
against her flanks, she was red hot, she blazed white, and as a
falling star, cast her fierce splendour over land and sea, attended
by rushing hurricanes of wind, winged with the souls of dying men,
and freighted with the bodies of the dead.
Then in a crash of thunder the light went out, and again the moon was
shining on a silver sea, grey cliffs, lonely, desolate and gaunt,
crowned by a column of dust where a house had been.
And the little waves crept up one by one out of silence, to beat out
their lives against the eternal walls.