"D'you know," said the other, "that Ulster is dead?"
"No such luck."
"But it's true. A woman stabbed him. Really."
"How do you know?"
"I crept into the porch, and there were two gentlemen of the
Bodyguard, talking. They turned me away into the rain. D'you know
there was something going on. All night I saw ships and private
yachts, hundreds of them, reporting at the Palace towers. The air
was black with them coming and going."
"It may be," muttered the lawyer. "Ulster dead!"
"Once," the curate went on bubbling with news, "a Guardsman rode out
with his servant, and the orderly stopped behind to tighten a girth.
I helped him. D'you know I smelt bread and real cold beef in his
wallet. He told me that the trades unions have proclaimed a
Republic--yes, at Manchester. Then I asked him for some of the meat,
and he was so rude."
"The Republic proclaimed already? Then Ulster must be dead. My
friend, do you realize what this means? The Republic? It means that
the Territorials have revolted, five hundred thousand men in arms
against the Government."
"We have the Fleet." The curate lifted his head and answered proudly.
"The Fleet, Mr. Parson? And when the Republicans seize the power
station, when they cut off the whole supply of electric force--what
becomes of your Fleet? Answer me that!"
"Oh, but my dear man, really, don't y'know, we have Malta, Gibraltar,
and the Newfoundland station. They can all flash electric power to
our ships."
"If they had warning, yes; but all the telegraphs are cut. I tell
you the power stations will be captured this very day, and nothing
can save the Fleet. I wonder--when the London guardships founder,
why, we may get some food from the wrecks! Yes, food! And the
London Unionists, too--they'll be revolting to-day--they'll attack
the departments of State. Parson, I know a house not far from here,
with five barrels of flour. There'll be no police to-day--come on,
let's rob that house!'
"Rob a house?" said the curate, wistfully. "Oh, but I'm in Holy
Orders, don't y'know." Then rolling over exhausted, "My dear
friend," he whispered, "couldn't you bring me just a little flour?"
"I might," the barrister sneered, "and I might not. All right, go
off to sleep, don't mind me." He looked round. "Hello, the boy's
got that pigeon!" The barrister scrambled to his feet. "The little
brute!"
He looked at the curate, who seemed to be asleep, then at the street
arab who was sucking the pigeon's blood. He felt the parson's
clothes for tobacco, but his eyes were on the lad who had captured
food.
Staggering with weakness he went for the street arab, drawing a knife
from his pocket. The lad crouched unheeding, tearing the bird apart.
The barrister, staring dreadfully about him, stole upon the lad, his
knife ready, his lips twitching, his teeth set. Then a rifle shot
rang out from one of the barricaded windows of St. Stephen's Palace,
the barrister leaped into the air, and fell doubled up upon the
pavement, his limbs relaxed, his mouth wide open, One of his legs
gave a last twitch and he lay quite still. The street arab had run
away.
Then from a distance came the steady tramp of marching men, and the
curate seemed to wake at the sound from a spell of sleep. He rose
upon his hands and knees, he tried to stand up, but he had not the
strength. He looked at the Palace, and just opposite to him was a
door which led into the purlieus of the House of Lords. He crawled
across the pavement, lifted himself wearily up the low steps, and
banged with a stone against the door.
Nearer and nearer came the tramp of men.
"Help!" screamed the curate. "The Republicans! Save me! Save me!"
* * * * *
In the Council Chamber at the Queen's Palace, my Lord Protector's
Ministers were assembled. The Duke of Ulster had warned them, the
Princess Margaret summoned them. Our Lady was to render her
submission, to repudiate the treason of John Brand.
Then upon a flourish of trumpets, entered, not his Grace of Ulster,
but her Imperial Majesty attended by a hundred gentlemen-at-arms.
Amid the consternation of Ulster's Ministers it was the First Lord of
the Admiralty who dared to come forward barring our Lady's passage to
the throne.
Waving his hands towards the foot of the table, "Madam," he cried,
"the place for the Princess Margaret is here."
For a moment the Queen fell back, surprised at old Lord Mendip's
audacity, then her eyes glittered ominously as she turned to the
adjutant of the Guard.
"Tell this gentleman," she said, "to stand aside."
So she swept on to the throne, and there turning, faced her enemies.
Our Lady was in mourning, robed in a cloud of dusky violet silk, some
folds of it veiling her head and making the sad face white in livid
contrast. Verily she was Queen, if only by right of sorrow, by
majesty of pain, and by dominion of men's love and worship.
"My lords," she said, nervously, "and gentlemen," this with a
gracious bow, and a smile of welcome. "I am shy at having to meet
you here again--forgive that to a woman--here, where you honoured me
with--with your homage. Do you remember, it was in this very room,
and the gray light stole in through the frost on those windows. How
bitterly cold it was, and I had just come from where my dear father
lay in death. Don't you remember? You, my Lord Mendip, cried 'Long
live Queen Margaret!' You, Mr. Jesmond, told me how I must wear the
terrible white crown, sit on the stone of Destiny--and I cried. You,
Sir Roderic Scott, were first to kiss my hand--this hand which has
gone cold at the very thought of it. And afterwards, in the Abbey,
before the altar, you swore to serve me--all of you. How have you
kept that oath?"
The Ministers were standing in groups about the table, whispering one
to another behind their hands. Lord Roderic Scott was inquiring of
the impassive Guards as to his Grace of Ulster, when once again the
Queen began to speak.
"You have come," this very gently, "to receive--what are the words?
Yes, my repudiation of the treason of Mr. Brand. There are some
other things mentioned, I think. Will you not sit down?"
Reluctantly, one by one, the Ministers took their seats in order of
precedence.
"Thank you," said Margaret, "it is right that you should sit, and
that I stand until I have dealt with this matter of treason. I am to
repudiate treason. Oh, my lords and gentlemen of the Imperial
Council, do you forget that by the Coronation oaths I must do more
than repudiate every treason? I am bound to punish treason, to
punish treason with death. And I am resolved this day, either to
punish all treason in my realm, or die in the attempt--yes, die! I
know the cost. I have been honoured with the service of many loyal
men, and I have not failed any of them in love or gratitude. I have
only found one strong friend in the whole world, and he is John
Brand. I have not failed him in love or in gratitude. He has dared
to be true, dared to be loyal, dared to be my friend--and he has paid
the price. He was the richest man in the world--who is so poor now?
He was the most powerful subject that ever a sovereign had--who is so
fallen? He was desperately wounded fighting for me, he is a hunted
outcast for my sake, and he is ready at any time to die for me.
"The man who is guilty of treason must die, or I refuse to live.
"You are wondering if I speak as the Princess Margaret, or as Queen
and Empress? Well, for the present I am content to be one concerned
for your honour, for your dignity. I have a letter here--see, this
letter--bearing all your signatures. You wrote to me, twelve days
ago--saying that a Bill was passed by Parliament deposing Margaret,
appointing a Lord Protector, and tearing up the British Constitution.
It took hundreds of years to create that Constitution, and it was
destroyed in a few minutes. Without consulting the people, or their
sovereign, the Parliament under your guidance did this thing, then
blind with panic, wriggled away into dissolution, leaving its
precious Bill to be dishonoured by all honest men. My lords and
gentlemen, how about your oath?"
The Ministers were ill at ease, some passing furtive notes one to
another, the rest consulting in whispers.
"You had the Lord Protector of your choice," said Margaret, bitterly.
"He once betrayed the Indian Empire for a bribe, and laid the blame
upon an innocent man--who died for it. Lately he divulged the
Formula of the Fleets, gave shameful concessions to his Russian
master, and would sell his Queen, even to such a buyer as Prince
Alexander. Nay, silence! I command your silence, gentlemen, while I
speak. Proof piled on proof in Ulster's own handwriting, condemns
this felon. You are waiting for him now to sit in judgment on me.
So you keep your oath!
"You swore to be faithful to Ulster? Why, half of you wrote
privately to me betraying him! And others of you in privy
conspiracy, offered the kingdom to my cousin Rupert--such is your
honour! And having betrayed me, and betrayed Ulster, and betrayed
Prince Rupert, you came back here to humble me, to punish me, to
receive my abject submission, to demand my repudiation of John Brand!
What a court of honour! Do you know where Rupert is--the Duke of
Gloucester?"
Our Lady was breathing deep, but not another sound broke the silence
until she spoke again.
"He is in Ulster's office, gentlemen. Your letters to him are lying
upon his breast, and lest any of them be blown away by the wind, they
are pinned down with a sword. My cypher is inscribed upon that
blade. I am favoured, my lords and gentlemen, that you are polite
enough to hear me now without whisperings or scribbling of notes,
while you await the Lord Protector's coming. Are you wondering where
next my sword will fall? Is Ulster late?"
Her Majesty ordered the barring of the doors. "Where is your
leader?" she asked. "Are you deserted by the chief of your
rebellion? Let the Guard salute!"
The gentlemen of the Bodyguard presented arms, and Margaret took the
throne.
"Stand!" she commanded, and in amazement the Ministers obeyed. "I
have to speak to you concerning the action of my dear friend now at
rest, Trooper of the Bodyguard, James, Marquess of Sydney.
"By the hand of his own son, I have taken the Duke of Ulster's life
for capital felony. Your Lord Protector is dead, and I am Queen."
The Guard ordered and grounded arms with a crash.
"Come, gentlemen," said Margaret, "I have made an end to your
delirium of treason. You were once my people's chosen servants--who
else shall I trust if I may not believe in you? I recall you to your
oaths, your patriotism, your honour, your manhood. I ask you again
to be my Ministers, to accept my love and confidence. One of you I
except." And Margaret's eyes fell on Lord Roderic Scott. "Oh, be
kind to me, gentlemen," her voice broke with a great sob. "I'd
rather be a servant and scrub floors, yet I am Queen--you laid that
burden on me, and I must reign until it pleases Heaven to let me die.
But must I go on fighting all alone? Is there no one left who cares
for England's honour?"
For a moment there was silence, then the First Lord, the aged Earl of
Mendip, rose to answer.
"Dear madam, dear sovereign, please let me speak for my poor
colleagues here, and comrades in wrong-doing. I am too old to
blush--my blood is all needed at the heart which still beats only for
the service of the Empire--but I'm sure I never dreamed I was such a
villain. Your Majesty has youthful blood, and dauntless courage, but
pardon me, not quite omniscient wisdom. Some vestiges of right
remain to us, some quivering nerves of honour, even some shreds of
manhood.
"In the evening of our lives we have had the grace to worship the
Evening Star, we called her Margaret. The sun of our Finance was Mr.
Brand. It is no censure if I say that the sun was sometimes rather
hot for us. In a state of ecstasy, perhaps, he fell from the
heavens, came too near, and burned us. Were we a little restive at
being burned? Was it unnatural that, in the agony of a world
destroyed, we forgot our worship of the Evening Star?
"Well, well, I shall pursue the metaphor no further. Mr. Brand has
gone with Ulster, and the unfortunate Prince Rupert, to face a
greater tribunal than ours."
"He is not dead!" cried Margaret.
"Stripped of his power, wounded, a fugitive----"
"The man who saved the honour of the Empire."
"The man who wrecked the world!"
"Gentlemen!" our Lady's white face was set in stern defiance. "As he
was loyal to me, so am I Brand's loyal friend. I have sent the royal
yacht to succour him, and he will come back with his ships to meet my
enemies."
Lord Mendip bowed. "We are ready," he said, "to serve your Majesty,
but----" a rifle shot rang out beyond the palace walls, then another
and another.
"But what?" asked Margaret, scornfully.
"Madam, this Brand is an attainted traitor."
"Attainted by whom, pray?"
Again there were rifle shots in the distance, a dropping fire.
"Attainted, madam, by the Commonwealth."
"Am I not sovereign?"
"Madam, I spoke with unbecoming fervour of the gentleman who--his
party, madam, the Labour Party----"
"His party? Listen, my lord, to that firing! Is this a time for
parties? Lord Mendip, in the peril of the State there is but one
party--mine! You serve me as Brand serves me, or you are rebels."
Sir Myles Strangford, Secretary for War, rose to give answer.
"Your Majesty," cried the War Secretary, "we are loyal. We will take
the oath and serve!"
"Sir!" our Lady flushed with rage. "Do I hear you speak of oaths?"
For a moment her voice was drowned in a roar of musketry. "My
patience is at an end. Rupert is dead, Ulster is dead; shall I spare
you? I let you live while you are loyal to me, and at the slightest
sign of treason I shall kill. As you tore up the Constitution, so I
reign--I reign in the way of my fathers--so long as there is danger,
absolute Monarch. Gentlemen of the Guard, you may withdraw--we need
no protection while our Council sits!"
She rose from her throne, she turned her back upon the Council, and
so stood waiting until she should be alone with her sullen, mutinous,
vengeful officers. They saw that she looked out through the bayed
windows; not the tears which blinded her or the forlorn gesture of
her prayer for help.
The gentlemen-at-arms had swung to half sections and marched out from
the chamber before our Lady moved. These windows, from a high
salient of the Palace, commanded Whitehall. Half veiled in mist, the
departmental buildings flashed with a thousand tiny points of fire,
the rifle flame, the blaze from heavy artillery, then the glare of
exploding shells. For now the crackling of musketry was drowned by
spitting, shrieking machine guns, and the great roar of battle.
Sir Myles Strangford came and stood beside our Lady's throne as
though on guard. A shell screamed close above the roof, a stray
bullet crashed through the window and almost grazing Margaret's hair,
lodged in the wall behind.
"Sir Myles," said our Lady, turning to the Secretary for War, "can
the Departments hold out?"
"Your Majesty, for Heaven's sake, take shelter."
"Are the Departments safe?" she insisted, smiling.
"I had eight hours' warning, madam. The buildings can hold out until
Lord Mendip's patrol ships come to the rescue."
"I have called them, madam," old Mendip touched his aerograph. "The
Departments will be relieved in an hour."
"These Republicans, Sir Myles--are there many of them?"
"Twenty-eight thousand," answered the Secretary for War. "They're
bringing up their batteries, and certainly, madam, we depend on the
ships."
The firing slackened now, and Margaret, returning to her seat,
questioned Lord Mendip as to affairs in the Midlands. It was true,
he admitted, that the Republicans had attacked the power station,
and, in the event of its capture, nothing could save the Fleet. But
the position was an impregnable fortress, the Channel Squadron had
been ordered north, and, indeed, there was nothing to fear.
"Nothing to fear," our Lady muttered to herself. "Nothing to fear.
Then, my lord, are these Republicans mad? The Departments
impregnable, the power station impregnable, the ships expected; on
these conditions the Republicans would never dare to attack. They
would not dare to attack unless they knew the Fleet could be
destroyed. They expect to capture the power station; they're sure of
it--they stake their lives on that. Are you sure, Lord Mendip, of
this power station?"
"There's no stronger fortress in Europe."
"My lord, is any fortress proof against treachery? These rebels have
staked their lives that the place will be betrayed to them. Call up
the officer commanding."
The old lord, with tremulous fingers, signalled by aerograph, but
there was no answer. Again and again he called, but there was no
answer.
"Madam," he said, "I fear----"
The aerograph began to be disturbed; a rush of signals hummed from
its armature.
"Position mined--rebels in possession. Ground the Fleet!--Ground the
Fleet!--Ground the Fleet!"
"Oh, quick!" cried Margaret, in agony. "Order the ships to ground!"
The First Lord, poor Mendip, had fallen back in his chair, his white
face convulsed, his fingers twitching and pulling in frenzy at the
key of his instrument. Our Lady rushed to his side, seized the
aerograph from him, begged him to dictate the orders to the ships.
And all the while, the old man striving for utterance, the rest of
the Ministers frantic to hear him speak, the gun-fire quickened in
the distance, and some one was thundering for admittance outside the
door of the room.
"He's dying!" Margaret's voice broke to a wail of misery. "Oh, who
knows the cypher of the Fleet? We'll be too late--too late!"
The door burst open, an officer of the Bodyguard broke headlong into
the room.
"Madam," he yelled, "the ships--the destroyers of the patrol are
foundering!"
Lord Mendip's head had fallen back, his fingers were tearing at his
breast, his eyes were glazing. Then his arms fell limp, and the
change passed over his face, and the jaw dropped.
Our Lady bent and kissed the still dead face, then reaching out her
hand beckoned the living.
"Kneel, gentlemen," she said in a low, awed voice. "Pray for the
passing Fleet, for ninety thousand men called by their God."
So they all knelt, our Lady, the adjutant of the Guard, the Ministers
of State, while outside, the crash of musketry, the roar of guns
thundered the requiem of the English Fleet. Presently the body of
the old lord slipped down and fell before Margaret's knees.
Shrinking away, she went back to her place upon the throne.
Some of the Ministers were moving to take away the body, but our Lady
checked them.
"No," she said, "do not take it away, but lay it there before us upon
the table."
They laid the frail body upon the table, paying some reverent
offices, closing the eyelids, folding the hands. Shrinking from that
presence, dreading, fearing it, our Lady lifted her reluctant eyes.
"We need this reminder," she said faintly, "that we are all being
judged."
Then that swaggering, gallant, old Lord Roderic Scott rose, bowing to
her Majesty and to the dead.
"Madam," he said, "the Fleet is gone, the Departments may last an
hour, and then the Republicans will turn their guns upon this
building. If your Majesty is determined to wait, I trust we shall
all have the decency to die like gentlemen. But I beg your Majesty
to accept the use of my private yacht, and return to Windsor until we
can raise an army."
"My dear Lord Roderic," our Lady smiled. "What armies would care to
fight for a runaway Government? I think I have a better plan than
that. Sir Myles, I see you have troops here guarding the Palace."
"Three thousand, madam, and a battery."
"You have not enough men to save both the Departments and the Palace?"
"Not nearly enough."
"But if we had all the troops here, we might save the Palace?"
"A desperate venture, madam."
"So in any case the Departments must be lost?"
"Better, madam, to give up the Palace itself, than to surrender the
very seat of Government."
"The Palace," cried Sir Roderic, "is no safe place for your Majesty."
"I beg you, madam," urged Jesmond, "to retire."
"Why so nervous, gentlemen?" asked Margaret, bitterly. "I see
anxiety in all your faces--so loyal, so moved for my safety. Is it
because you mined my Palace with a hundred and fifty tons of
dynamite? How thoughtful of you! How considerate! You supplied me
with explosives enough to mine all your Departments of State; for two
days, gentlemen, I have been considering your case. There, over by
the wall, on that little table, stands an electric key--one touch on
that key at any moment these two days past would have released you
all from these dull cares of State. One of you--a gentleman seated
at this table--is the very leader of these Republicans. His
aerograph lies upon the table before him, and he appears anxious to
warn his friends by signalling." Her Majesty's piercing stare was
fastened upon none other than Lord Roderic Scott. "Lord Roderic, you
will lower your hand, both hands, down against your sides. Mr.
Jesmond, you will take away his aerograph. If he lifts his hands he
dies. Sir Myles Strangford, you will signal the officer commanding
at Whitehall to withdraw and fall back upon the Palace, and you will
order the troops here on guard to cover the retreat."
* * * * *
Whitehall, a congeries of palaces, a city in itself of unusual
grandeur, had never seemed so vast as when it loomed through the
cloud of battle. Pale wreaths of smoke girded the walls, columns of
dust went up from bursting shells, and little, innumerable spurts of
fire lightened the windows, outlined the terraced roofs. A column of
red flame waved high above the Admiralty, and, shattered by artillery
from beyond the river, the Palace of St. Stephen's crashed down in
acres of ruin. One by one the palaces were taken, barrier after
barrier was broken through as the brigades of starving Republicans,
mad with bloodshed, swept back the Imperial troops.
And all through the rooms and corridors, thousands of people went
about their business, in the strange English way; the clerks who
still worked at their desks or helped to bury the archives and
treasures of their departments; the nurses, the surgeons, the
chaplains who helped the wounded, gave comfort to the dying, closed
the eyelids of the dead; the soldiers who fell back from the windows
to fight the advancing flames.
It was long past noon when the Queen's orders came--the signal to
retire upon her Palace.
Building after building was left to the next triumphant rush of the
enemy, until the Imperial forces were jammed together at the Foreign
Office, guarding the non-combatants, and, under cover of troops from
the Palace, began the final movement of retreat. It was but half a
mile to the Palace gates along Death's Avenue.
Up against the windows of the Council Chamber, nearer and nearer
lashed the hurricane of sound--the yells of dying men, the rattle of
musketry, scream of machine guns, roar of artillery, crash of falling
walls, and, beyond all, the deep dull roar of the conflagration.
Within the Council Chamber the great lords of the administration sat
still at their table. Before them all lay the body of the old Lord
Mendip, the green cloth of the table casting a dreadful glow upon his
face. By the left hand there was placed an electric key with covered
wires trailing to the floor, and opposite to that two Ministers sat
guarding Sir Roderic Scott, a prisoner. Bolt upright in the chair of
state, our Lady never moved save once, when she covered her face with
one fold of silken gauze from the hood of her violet robe.
Sir Myles Strangford at the windows reported from time to time how
the battle went.
"Shot down like dogs," he cried. "Nurses, civilians, clergy, and
broken troops, officers beating the poor fellows with their
swords--and the retreat--by George they're falling by hundreds. The
whole avenue jammed." For a moment his voice was drowned by the
uproar.
"The rear guard's clear of the Department!"
Her Majesty leaned forward. "Lord Roderic Scott," she cried, "reach
forward your right hand and touch that key! Mr. Jesmond, take the
knife and drive it into that man's flesh until he obeys me. Now,
Roderic Scott, reach out your right hand, and lay it on the key! and
may God have mercy on your soul!"
* * * * *
And the river rushed in upon the site of Whitehall.