VICTORY

"In five days more I'll come with my ships."

Five days had passed since Brand's promise reached the Queen, it was

the twenty-first of the Terror, and the master was not come.

Trooper Browne had been on duty all night, slept through the morning,

and now at two in the afternoon came hungry to the mess-room for

luncheon. The tables were gone since daybreak, surgeons and nurses

had taken possession, the pavement, the aisles, even the triforium

gallery, were crowded with the beds of the sick and the dying taken

from the streets. In the ante-chamber he found some biscuits, and

with these and a glass of water fled to the guard-room.

That beautiful gallery was at least unchanged, its precious columns

of azurite and malachite reflected in the polished slabs of the

floor. The alabaster stairs came up from the portico, and went on to

the chambers of state, now turned into hospital wards and Government

offices. One man was on guard, Sergeant Jack Branscombe, fat, lazy

old Jack sole garrison of the Palace, and him Browne relieved that he

might get his breakfast. So the trooper sat on a bench eating

biscuits, and watched the endless procession of sufferers being

carried past upon the stairway.

One man on guard! Of the two hundred gentlemen-at-arms, and their

two hundred orderlies, only seventy were left--all as brothers

now--to ride with her Majesty. She would come back with her riders

at four o'clock, tired out, and here on the table stood a gold cup,

and a flagon of wine left by Miss Temple, for our Lady's refreshment.

Stealthily Browne lifted the cup, and pressed his lips against the

rim. Even as he did that a little chuckle sounded close at his

elbow--so startlingly like our Lady's laugh that he set down the cup

in haste.

"Caught red-handed," said Tom of Lancaster, and sitting down on the

bench, laid a white hand on Browne's knee. "My dear Browne, you must

not poison her cup, even with kisses."

Browne grinned nervously. "Good morning, sir," he said, his eyes on

Lancaster's deathly white face, "the doctor said you'd be in bed for

months."

"Doctor's a fool," said Lancaster, then very faintly added--"Give me

some of that wine."

Browne drank the water in his glass, and filled it with wine from the

flagon.

"Here, sir."

"Drop that 'sir,'" said the young Prince, then with a sigh as he set

down the empty glass, "How is she to-day?"

"Slept heartily these four nights, so Miss Temple says. She looks

herself again since you came, Prince, with your message."

"Prince! I wish you fellows would drop that rot, and let me be a

trooper. My name's Tom, and I'm as good as any man in the crowd. So

the message cheered her up?"

"Saved her reason, I think."

"Browne," the Prince turned round with a short, sharp laugh, "you're

in love with her. Bah, you flush like a girl--of course, you're in

love with her. So am I, man, and the rest of the fellows are just as

bad or worse. What's the use of trying to hide what hurts. Does it

make the thing hurt less? She's not for us.

"She and Brand are in love, and by my honour, Browne, I'm glad, yes

glad. That man is royal, the real thing, which I'm not. By our

Lady, if you'd seen him fight the _Gigantic_!

"And all that time in the cave, six mortal days while he lay raving

mad with his wound, he called to her: 'Margaret! Margaret!' Look

what he was before, and what he's fallen to because he was loyal."

"In love with him," said Browne, under his breath.

"Of course she is, I saw them part. Didn't she burst into tears, so

that she had to run away."

"The message," Browne's voice was broken now; "it saved her reason.

I thought----"

"The message," said Lancaster, "I forged that message."

"Forged it?"

"Of course. How could I come to her without a message? That's what

Brand would have written if he could. Do you think it was easy for

me bringing that message?"

"I'd never have dared," said Browne, humbly. "Fancy lying to her!"

"Well, I'm her cousin, you know, and you'd have dared all right if

you had been there. He was conscious, the fever gone--awful weak, of

course, and he couldn't have written a letter to save his life. I

did it out of my own head, too, and I hate writing letters. That

night I climbed the cliff, and at the top found a young fisherman

asleep. The man was in hiding, a criminal, I suppose; but he helped

me, and we got Brand up with ropes. Neither of us knew that Ulster

was dead, or that the royal yacht was out searching for Brand, or

that Lyonesse was retaken for the Queen. I found out all that

afterwards.

"All we knew was that Brand must escape from England; and he told me

to search for a shed, close by where his cottage used to stand.

Inside the shed we found a little old ship, the first one that

Brand's father ever built, the mother of the Fleet."

"What, the _Experiment_? I've read about that."

"Yes, the _Experiment_; she was in perfect order, and we got her

alive within the hour. I begged Brand to take the fisherman or me,

but he would have neither of us. The fisherman must search for Miss

Brand, he said, and take her a message. I must go to the Queen.

Then he began to get delirious."

"You let him go like that!"

"He cheated me--said I could come with him, but first I must coil up

the rope--he wanted the rope. While I was coiling up the rope the

port clanged home, the ship rose with a whirr, drawing up a hurricane

of dust and stones. I was dragged off my feet into the air, then

fell nearly over the edge of the cliff. He was gone!"

"To his death," said Browne.

"Who knows?"

"And she believes that message!"

"I had to confess to some one," said Lancaster, dolefully. "Hello,

here's old Branscombe. What's the trouble, Jack?"

"Thought you'd gone back to bed, sir."

"Bed be damned," said Lancaster, cheerfully. "Why that bereaved

smile? More bad news?"

Fat Jack sat down panting, leaning his hands on his sword.

"Bad news? Well, sir, that's hardly the word, we're a little nearer

the end, perhaps." He watched the long procession of the sick--borne

one by one on stretchers up the stairway. "I'd rather the end came

quick."

"Oh, go and be an angel," said Lancaster, scornfully. "Go and croak

at the moon, Jack, weep to the clouds all alone on a damp battlement.

We've had more fun and adventure this last month."

Browne laughed heartily.

"Well," old Branscombe smiled at the two lads; "I suppose I'm a

fool," he wheezed. "Just now I was talking with one of our wounded

men--Bill Sothern. He saw the whole Republican army in camp, two

hundred and fifty thousand men at least, the pick of the Midland

counties, well fed, in fine condition, and our poor half-starved

troops, what can they do? How could our Lady so much as offer

battle. The thing was hopeless--she was right to decline. Well,

to-day, the Republican colours are flying on Hampstead Hill.

To-morrow, their flag will be hoisted here."

"Come," said Lancaster, "cheer us up--go on, Jack."

"I wonder"--Jack grunted, looking steadily at the Prince. "You, sir,

may be pleased. I'm of a different make. The French and German

armies landed yesterday, covering the coast from Dungeness to

Portsmouth--half a million men, with two hundred ships of the line to

sweep our army away as they advance."

"Anything more?" asked Tom of Lancaster.

"The Russian Fleet has appeared off the coast of Essex."

Lancaster was whistling softly. "'Three blind mice--three blind

mice; see how they run.' Well, Jack, I'll lay you three to one in

anything you like on Margaret."

"In my country," said Browne, yawning, "the sun goes down in the fall

of the year and never comes up again. The Arctic Sea is all shifting

ice pack, the land all white drifts, and you think the night is never

going to end. Yet it does; the sun comes up in the spring, and the

mosquito season begins. Perhaps things will come out all right even

in this England."

"Perhaps," answered Branscombe. "How long is it, Browne, since you

joined the Guard--you're only a recruit, eh?"

"Thirty-one days and thirty-one nights," said Browne, "and it feels

like thirty-one years. Another month of your London will make me a

doddering old patriarch."

"Another month?" Branscombe rose and walked away with a sigh.

"Another month!" echoed young Lancaster.

"Why, gentlemen," came a voice from the upper stairway. "Are the

Queen's Blackguards so far gone as that? All out of curl, no

swagger--like a covey of widows?"

Lancaster turned with an acid smile to the civilian.

"Who the deuce are you?"

"I have the honour," said the civilian grinning, "to be her Majesty's

Chief Poisoner."

Lancaster whispered to Browne. "Another bounder come to cheer me up.

Well," he turned to the civilian. "Tell us all the bad news, there's

still room for a fourth invading army from the west."

The Chief Poisoner lighted a cigarette, sat down, crossed his legs

and chuckled.

"Don't mind me," said the Prince.

"What!" the civilian started to his feet. "I beg your Royal

Highness--I mean, sir--I didn't----"

"Sit down," said the Prince. "Tell lies, we need amusing. Proceed,

my Lord Chief Poisoner."

"Oh--ah--well, sir," the Poisoner smiled and writhed. "I have good

news, sir, and at last I'm at liberty to speak. I had the honour to

hear you mention, sir, the armies of the invasion."

"Yes, sir."

"They can't march on London without roads and railways, and they

depend, sir, more or less on the country for supplies--of water, for

instance."

"Water?"

"The first of all necessities. The Franco-German forces, as you

know, sir, have landed on the coast of Kent, Sussex, and Hampshire.

Now in these three counties, her Majesty has called out the

Territorials, and ordered them to retreat on London sweeping the

whole population before them, driving the live-stock in to feed the

capital, burning all provisions and ricks that couldn't be moved.

The railways have been mined, and the roads blocked with felled

timber and mines. Yesterday I had the honour to direct the poisoning

of every well, pond, and running stream. Her Majesty sends word

advising the enemy that she will supply pure water when the troops

lay down their arms."

"But they can march across?"

"Yes, sir, they can march across without transport or artillery, or

food, or water, to attack the fortified positions on the north downs.

Meanwhile the live-stock and provisions are restoring life and hope

to the armies and citizens in London."

"You mean to say," cried Lancaster, "that the Queen has done all that

in five days?"

"It's seven days since her Majesty seized the Government."

"How about the Russian landing in Essex?"

"I'm not at liberty to speak as yet."

"I see," Lancaster had both hands to his bandaged head. "But there

are still the enemy's Fleets."

Browne chuckled.

"Hello," Lancaster flashed round on him. "Who told you to laugh?"

"Something," said Browne, "about eagles and bones out of the

Bible--wish I could remember what Miss Temple did say. She reviewed

them yesterday."

"Miss Temple held a review? Well, I'll be boiled!"

"No," Browne was irritable, "our Lady, of course, reviewed the

What-d'ye-call-um's ships--Brand's ships--eleven of them."

"You're dreaming, Browne."

"It's no dream," said Browne. "Our Lady has kept the crews alive in

gaol; she's got the squadron together, reviewed them yesterday, and

she's going to send them against the enemy's fleets. They've got

some sort of vibrations for touching off explosives, but none of

their captains ever heard of these vibrations, and Brand is the only

man who knows the secret. That seems to trouble our Lady."

"Vibrations be damned," said Lancaster, hotly. "I know all about

etheric ships. Wasn't I in the _Mary Rose_ when we rammed the

_Gigantic_? Brand's ships are rams, and they'll go through an

electric battleship like a shell through a paper balloon. Eleven

rams like that could wipe out all the electric fleets of Europe. Why

with the fleets destroyed and the country impassable----"

Browne yelped with delight.

"Here," cried Lancaster, "Jack Branscombe, you old fool. I'll bet

you every horse in my stables, bar Sharon and the Dun--against your

spotted dog, our Lady wins the game!"

Branscombe had been listening at the stairhead, now he rolled over to

Lancaster.

"I can't," he panted. "I can't bet against our Lady."

"That the League don't capture London--my horses against your beastly

spotted cur."

"Your horses are a scandalous lot of crocks, and I wouldn't have them

at a gift; but done, sir! and I hope you'll win my dog."

"And so do I!"

The voice, our Lady's voice, came thrilling clear from the head of

the lower stairway, at which the three Guardsmen sprang to attention,

and the civilian bolted. So her Majesty came forward attended by her

retinue of the Guard, and wearing her uniform as its captain.

Branscombe provided her a seat, Browne, kneeling, presented the cup

of wine, the escort, breaking ranks, piled arms and awaited her

pleasure.

"There," she said, laughing. "I'm tired enough to love my home.

Stand forward, Sergeant Branscombe," said our Lady, and her eyes

twinkled, for she dearly loved a jest. "You are charged with betting

one spotted dog against your sovereign."

Branscombe prayed for the pavement to swallow him.

"I had no more," he stammered.

"One spotted dog or fifty, the same crime, Sergeant. I condemn you

to quarter on your shield of arms a spotted dog proper bearing the

legend: 'I am Lancaster's.' And you, Tom of Lancaster, get to bed,

and behave yourself on pain of a severe course of mustard

plasters--off with you! Gentlemen," she raised her cup, "I pledge

the Guard."

We heard a trumpet blown outside the gates, and at the sound our Lady

let the cup fall, watching it roll slowly across the floor.

"Go down," she said, "Gentlemen of 'B' squadron--receive this

visitor--pay him all possible honour, and bring him here."

A dozen men, those of "B" squadron, parted from the rest, saluted,

formed, and marched clattering down the long stairs. The procession

of the sick and their bearers ceased. Then one could only hear the

impatient horses stamping in the porch. We looked at our Lady, and

saw that she was afraid.

"I want to warn you, gentlemen," she said faintly. "That trumpet was

blown for the President of the British Republic--yes, the Republic.

He has come to receive my surrender."

"Kill him! Kill him!" cried some, and every man in the chamber was

moved to break away from the Queen's discipline.

"Gentlemen," said our Lady. "President O'Brien comes under flag of

truce. If you are offended now, you will be furious when you hear

his demands, and if you love me, you will stand quite still, except

to salute him at his entrance. I warn you the slightest hostile

movement may ruin me. My envoys have failed to treat with this man,

my letters met with an insulting reply, and he holds North London in

overwhelming force. Ah, here he comes. Don't be uneasy, I assure

you I'm not going to surrender."

The President, attended by his staff, conducted by our troopers, came

to the stairhead and there stood surveying our Lady and her

war-stained Guard.

"Where is this woman?" he demanded hoarsely.

And in answer, Margaret rose to make him welcome, met him half-way

across the chamber, and frankly offered her hand.

"What," she asked gently, "will you not shake hands?"

General O'Brien lifted his eyes until they were level with her brave

sad face.

"Won't you shake hands?" she said, "you come to me in my utmost

need." Then addressing his retinue, "I am so glad to welcome

friends."

"This is all nonsense, madam. I am not a friend."

"That," answered our Lady, "is incredible. You are doing yourself

injustice. My enemies are Russians, Germans, French, not British.

You could not possibly be leagued with my enemies. I have sent my

messengers to welcome your reinforcements, cleared the northern

suburbs to quarter your troops, begged for your counsel as to meeting

the Russian advance, and now you come pretending enmity."

"I pretend nothing, madam. I come as President of the British

Republic to occupy this Palace."

Margaret laughed at him. "My dear good man, I can't spare room for

another cot, even for you. This hospital is jammed to the very doors

with my poor guests, the sick. See through that archway"--she

pointed to the entrance of the mess-room--"in that one ward there are

seven hundred cases of typhus. Come, General O'Brien, I'm badly in

need of ambulance, and you must help me."

"I will take charge of that," said the President, brusquely.

"Meanwhile, madam, a special train is waiting to take you with your

following to Balmoral."

Our Lady turned away from him, crossed to her chair and sat down.

She rested her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, and looked

up at this President thoughtfully.

"And so, General O'Brien," she said at last, "you want to sit in my

throne, my most comfortless throne."

"I want no throne," answered General O'Brien, "I have come to put an

end to this disastrous monarchy. I have no time for delay."

"And who are you?" Margaret lifted her proud head. "Who are you?"

"I command the armies of the Republic--three hundred thousand men."

"And I," said her Majesty, "command the nation, the feudatories, the

colonies, the seas, the air--the British Empire. I am chosen by my

people their anointed sovereign, guardian of their liberty, Defender

of their Faith. The throne is not yours, General, or mine. It

belongs to the people who make the laws, and we are their

servants--their servants, General. When we have conquered the

League, I will ask my people what kind of Government they want, who

they will have as their President or their Sovereign. I will obey

their orders, but, by God, not yours!"

"You propose to fight my armies?"

"No, I would not have one of my people hurt in such a quarrel. I

have half a million men, to fight Russia, France, and Germany--not

one to spare for you."

"What do you propose?"

A man had come to the head of the upper stairway, Sir Myles

Strangford, Secretary for War.

"Where is the Queen?" he cried. "Gentlemen of the Guard, where is

the Queen? I have great news--victory! victory! Our squadron of

etheric rams has met the Franco-German fleets. Victory! Victory!"

How the Guard cheered!

Then her Majesty sent for Sir Myles, and he was brought to her.

"Tell me," she said, laughing as he kissed her hand, "who is this

General O'Brien? He claims to be the President of some Republic."

Sir Myles looked up towards General O'Brien and laughed also.

"Does he offer, madam, to meet the etheric rams in battle?"

"Woman," cried General O'Brien, "I am not here to be

insulted--surrender, or I shall take this Palace by assault."

"You would assault a hospital!"

Margaret rose from her seat, went over to the President, and, slowly

drawing her sword--

"You would assault a hospital!" The sword whirled above her head,

and with the flat of the blade, she struck heavily upon his shoulder.

"Sir George O'Brien," she cried, "are you my knight, or are you my

enemy? Take your choice."

"What do you mean?" he retorted in fury.

"I mean that you are knighted in my service, and commissioned

Lieutenant-General to meet the Russian invasion, or that you draw

your sword, Mr. O'Brien, and fight."

"This is an outrage!"

"Take it as an outrage, Mr. George O'Brien, rebel. It's easy enough

to assault hospitals, easy enough to send brave men to their death.

You have three hundred thousand soldiers, I half a million; but I

cannot spare one life in either army--I can spare you. What's that

sword at your side? Is it only an ornament? Have you no courage

beyond assaulting hospitals? Draw, you coward, and fight!"

Here, Dymoke, as Champion of England, demanded leave to engage, but

our Lady waved him aside, being in no mood for interference. As to

General O'Brien, he was not so eager.

"I cannot possibly fight you. This is madness!"

"Sir, choose your own weapons, broadsword or rapier; I value my life

less than I value yours. There's no room for both of us in the

world. Draw, or I'll kill you. Draw, I say, draw!"

"I do not fight with women."

"A man then! Gentlemen of the Bodyguard, he demands a man! Choose

your antagonist, sir, for fight you shall!"

"I refuse to fight!"

"Then," said one of the Generals of the staff, "I serve under no

coward. I am a gentleman, your Majesty," he crossed to her rear. "I

am at your Majesty's service."

In another minute President O'Brien stood alone, his staff gone over

to the Queen.

"I accept the inevitable," he said, angrily. "I accept the position

of Lieutenant-General in your Majesty's service."

"This coward," Margaret turned upon the Generals, pointing with her

sword to the late President, "this coward proposes to serve in my

armies. I send no cowards against my gallant enemies of the League.

Which of you gentlemen holds highest rank in the Republican forces?"

General McNeill saluted.

"'Tis to you, then, sir, I shall entrust my campaign against Russia.

You will consult with Sir Myles Strangford and receive my commands

through him. As to this coward here, I entrust him to your custody

as a prisoner. I order you to have him thrashed for cowardice in

presence of the army he was unfit to lead."

The Republic was at an end.

Mr. Dymoke was furious. "What's the use," he said afterwards.

"What's the use of being Hereditary Champion of England if I can't

have somebody to kill? I was cheated out of my fight with Prince

Ali, and here's the Queen herself getting in front of my rights."

He was to have his killing.