Mars burned on the horizon; the six stars of Orion, the seven misty
Pleiads, the eight suns of the Bear, and all the lamps of Heaven were
shining steadfast. Suns spin their course, the constellations
change, and all things pass, but yet eternal gleams the Milky Way
spanning the night from everlasting unto everlasting--the perfect
arch of God's restraining hand. We may lie down to rest in utter
faith, for, with the failing glory of our day, the night reveals His
visible providence. But those who cannot sleep most need His
comfort, and our Lady Margaret kept vigil that last night.
From the high solitude of her tower, she watched the passing stars
until the black ruins of the city loomed ragged against white dawn
light. Ashen grey were the ruins of Mayfair to the north; gaunt and
gigantic wrecks of Belgravia's palaces went up in white against the
velvet west. The day was breaking--the last day of all. Mist lay
beneath where all the Palace slept, and in the gardens the waking
doves crooned softly. Far off in the south, trains rumbled at some
junction of the rails; a car whirred in the Palace Road; an aerial
yacht slid past in the western gloom, and London was alive.
The sun would come up presently; how few of all the thousands asleep
in the Palace were destined to see him set! The trooper who stood by
the parapet watching the pale light climb the eastern sky prayed with
a boy's fervour that the sun might never rise. "Jehovah of the
Thunders, Lord God of Battles, don't let that sun rise! Have pity;
destroy the earth, hurl us away into the night, but don't let the sun
rise upon Margaret's death--the end of human liberty, and all the
glory of manhood that was England! Oh, stay the sun! Have mercy and
stay the sun!"
The trooper knelt down, and, reaching out his arms towards the east,
begged the Almighty Father to stay the sun.
Our Lady's voice broke in upon his silence. "Browne," she called,
"Browne, come here to me, I need you."
He came, standing at the salute.
"Look to the west," said Margaret. "The light is growing--look to
the west and tell me--are there any ships?"
He looked into the violet gloom, hung like a funeral curtain over the
west, then his arm fell to his side, but he dared not answer.
"The armistice," said Margaret, "ends when the sun comes up--the
three days' armistice--they would not give me more. Not just in the
west, Browne," said our Lady, gently, "a little to the southward,
look again. Lyonesse is a little south of west, above the copper
beech tree down in the garden."
But still Browne answered nothing.
"Are you short-sighted, Browne?" asked Margaret, patiently, knowing
that he was noted for long sight. "Or is the sky still dark over to
westward?"
But he answered nothing.
"Or are you crying, Browne?"
The man threw himself suddenly at her feet and there lay until the
dawn light found our Lady's face.
"If it were all to do again," she said; "and I knew what must come,
seeing the future clearer than the past, and judging as God judges
even to the end of Destiny--I wonder--should I have let my country be
betrayed? Vassalage to Russia! No, I think not. Ulster betrayed
me, and in that treason was the seed of all. Now we must reap where
Ulster sowed the seed. I could not keep back the harvest, nor can we
stop the sun from rising. It is not the rising of the sun which
gives the signal to the Russian Fleet. The sun stands still in
heaven--it is the earth that sets--man's world going down into this
vassalage, into this Russian night.
"They wanted me to surrender, to lay down my arms, my crown, my
kingdom, my religion; my Ministers and my Generals, all with one
voice begged me to save my people, by surrender. They asked me to
make my people subjects of Russia--they called that serving my
people! I would rather they died free, and took their freedom into
the life to come, going to their Master rich with honour--and not
afterwards beggarly, and ashamed, whining like slaves.
"There is the Siberian Fleet," Margaret was gazing upwards at the
vast line of battle in the eastern sky. "When the sun reddens their
wings, they will destroy my fortresses, murder my people, make the
Thames run blood. My place is with my people--I am their Queen, and
still I shall labour for them, pray for them in that other world,
leading my spirit people, my free people. Then I shall leave no
children on this earth borne of my shame, descended from British
Kings to be vassals of Russia.
"But, oh, if only my people might be saved! Stand up again! Stand
up--the sun is reddening the Russian Fleet. Stand up--look to the
west--there must be ships in the west--his ships from Lyonesse! No
ships! Still no ships! Let us go down and take our horses out; I
shall die with my Guard to-day! I shall ride with my Guard, Beyond!"
* * * * *
"Fours right! Left wheel--by y'r left, march! Carry ar-r-r-ms!"
The old avenue lay ahead of us, the Mall, and as we rode out slowly
past the Victoria Monument, our Lady looked back, once, lifting her
hand in farewell--perhaps to Miss Temple on some balcony. Our
wounded were with us, all who could keep the saddle, and Lancaster,
still very weak, carried the Guidon of the Regiment. The early
sunlight, dappled through green leaves, caught gold and scarlet,
silver and blazonry; our horses played like great babies because of
the dewy freshness in the air; and so we broke to a trot, every man
with his eyes set straight to the front, his hand gently on the curb,
his thoughts--so far away!
All round the white horizon, guns of position thundered, shells
burst, and spluttering rifles kept up the long monotony of battle,
white dust went up, and rolling smoke, flame, and the souls of men.
A shell burst close beside us as we swung through St. James' Palace
into Pall Mall, another, as we entered Waterloo Place, struck the
Crimean Monument just ahead; but we breasted the hill in lower Regent
Street between dead shuttered buildings all asleep, as though it were
Sunday morning in times of peace.
We crossed the circus set round with familiar theatres, and hotels,
their porches still bearing torn playbills on the columns, their
cornices and domes just caught by the morning light.
A falling shell scattered the rear ranks and burst. Ambrose was
killed, O'Hagan wounded, Joubert, the Transvaaller, was unhorsed.
Drawing his sword, he saluted her Majesty, then set the point to his
neck, drove the blade home, and fell. We rode on through the
Quadrant, entering Regent Street.
We were a troop of cowards, ashen white and shaken, ready to run if a
dog barked. The hot blood tingling in our veins, young strength, the
desires of manhood, all the powers of nature cried out within us
demanding life. Why should we die!
The elder empires died, and England's time was come. She should fall
gloriously as became her life, still great, still mighty, before age
sapped her strength, before decay rotted her honour. Nations born of
her loins should pass her freedom on to distant ages, and teach their
royal posterity of peoples the discipline and speech of the English
race.
Our part was not in her death but in the living future--why should we
die?
But Margaret led us on.
The sparrows fluttered about our horses' feet, a mist rose on the
pavement, and above, the warm light glowed on the high pavilions,
colonnades, and roofs crowning the cliff-like walls on either hand.
How empty the street was! Grave bronze statues looked down as we
rode by, there were the sparrows fluttering, a cyclist was coming up
behind, and an old woman venturing across our front, very much
frightened at our trampling.
In an instant all was changed. A cluster of cars came whirling down
from the north, killing the woman under their ruthless wheels, and as
they passed, the occupants yelled and beckoned. The cyclist had come
up abreast shouting to her Majesty some message from the Palace, but
we could not listen.
A man came running out of Oxford Street, then three others and a
score behind him, as a shell struck the ground in front of that first
man. We saw him shrink away looking back, then fearing the shell
less, try to jump clear of it. The shell burst flinging his body
against a lamp-post, but the other men came on at the head of a
roaring crowd blocking the thoroughfare from wall to wall. There
were soldiers among them, their rifles thrown away, civilians mad
with fright trampling down the weak, cars rocking from side to side
as their wheels rolled over the fallen, police carried helpless in
the flood. Fresh crowds poured out from byways on the right, and the
main tide of panic came roaring down. We galloped into line to beat
the crowd back, yelled to the police to help us with barricades, but
all these men were changed to beasts in their terror, shells burst in
their midst, and the great rush swept us away.
We rallied about our Lady gradually, cut through the tide and
reformed in Conduit Street. On our west lay the ruins of Mayfair, on
our east the ruins of Soho, and between no human power could stem
that cataract of headlong maniac flight. A shell burst on a roof
above our heads scattering ruins of brick-work in our midst; so,
sorely reduced and driven from our shelter, we kept together as best
we might through street after street on fire, and alleys blocked with
men.
The smoke hung like a canopy above, and ashes fell like snow through
the red gloom. Poisonous vapours spread from bursting shells, low on
the ground but rising inch by inch until with taut rein we held up
our horses' heads, and swaths of people, strangled by that mist,
perished around us. Our way was barred by falling masonry, by sheets
of flame; then we were lost in the darkness all alone, and turning a
corner found ourselves in the Mall.
So Russia dealt with our defenceless crowds, murdering in cold blood
from the decks of her battleships. The Grand Duke Alexander was in
command, and thus he came to pay his court to the Queen.
Slowly we rode along the avenue, thirty-eight left of us out of all
the Guard. And having seen so many kinds of death, we were
fastidious, not caring to fight our own poor countrymen, or to be any
longer jostled through the streets, or butchered by the Russians
without a blow returned. Our Lady suggested that we should ride out
to the southern lines, but we demurred, having an easy tolerance
rather than respect for the French. Neither would she enter the
Palace lest the sick and the wounded be disturbed in their beds. It
was better to wait in the open. As to our horses we unsaddled the
dear beasts for the last time, and because there was no need for them
to die--since they had done no wrong--we turned them into the Green
Park.
Our Lady sat upon the base of the Victoria Monument, and we, drawing
away to a little distance, tried to be quiet lest we intrude upon her
thoughts. But we could not help looking to see that she was safe, to
behold her face, perhaps for the last time, or wonder if we might
make her seat more comfortable. Then Lancaster whispered that she
must be lonely, thinking herself deserted. So one by one with
awkward pretences, we came about the balustrade where she sat,
attempted to make conversation, to tell her stories, trying to win
her laughter for the last time. They were such tame stories, fell so
flat, and none of us could remember which she would like best. At
last we made fat Branscombe sing--he had led the Palace choir.
"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide,
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, Lord abide with me.
"Swift to its close, ebbs out life's little day,
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away----"
"Stop," cried our Lady, "I can't bear it, Branscombe!"
Then looking out through the red gloom of that unearthly day, we saw
an immense crowd surging down the Mall. At first we thought the
people were fugitives, but as they drew nearer, by their torches and
weapons, the hags who led them and the song they screamed, "The
Marseillaise," we knew them for outlaws and gaol-delivered felons.
Once more it had broken loose, that bloody and horrible beast mob of
anarchy and chaos, but now with hands lifted against our Lady's life.
Falling back upon the portico of the Palace, she sent a dozen men to
barricade the alabaster stairs, and at all costs we must gain them
time to do their work lest the Palace be sacked and thousands of our
sick murdered in their beds. Her Majesty stood with her back against
the fluted shaft of a column, bullets splashing all round her against
the marble, while with an imperious gesture she demanded silence.
"Do you want to die?" she cried to the thieves. "The Russians are
slaughtering--they are coming here--they may come at any moment.
Will you die with me?"
The leaders of the mob drew back amazed, then thrust their spokesman
forward, who touched his cap, asking quite respectfully for the
treasure in the Palace lest it fall into the hands of the enemy.
"If there's anything left," cried Margaret, "you're welcome. My
Guardsmen will bring whatever there is to you here, for I'd rather
you shared it than my enemies--on one condition, that you stay here
outside. I will not have my hospital disturbed."
"Who brought us to this pass!" screamed a shrill hag. "Kill her!
Kill her!"
"We're the people," shouted a man behind the hag. "We'll 'ave our
rights!"
"You shall have your rights," said Branscombe, running him through
the body.
Then beastly words were used, the man who first had spoken implored
her Majesty to escape, lead spattered against the columns, and the
mob charged. Driven back step by step, we fought with clubbed
carbines, covering her Majesty's retreat. The leaders were felled,
the thieves behind them stumbling and pushed forward, went down under
the heavy wave of that attack, which hurled us, whether we liked or
no, into the Palace. We made a stand behind the main doors, a second
stand behind the beginnings of a barricade; and there we opened fire
for the first time. Nothing could live before that fusilade, yet the
rush drove in through the open doors a writhing mass of frantic,
shrieking men, hurled by the pressure of their fellows, screaming for
mercy under the very muzzles of our guns. There could be no mercy.
We hardly knew what happened; supposedly some other gate was breached
into the Palace, for suddenly a concentrated fire of rifles poured
into us from behind. Looking up the stairs, we saw that the
guardroom above us was full of rioters, firing down from the side
galleries and the stairhead. To stay was to be butchered at the
doors, and so we charged the stairs, cleaved our passage through the
guardroom, and on the upper stairway, those who were left of us
turned again to fight.
A clergyman led the next onrush of the mob, a poor, gaunt curate,
unarmed, screaming like a woman.
"Rats--red rats," was his cry. "Away rats--know you not that I am
Julius Caesar! Rats! red rats!"
He fell, poor madman, with so many of his fellows that the stairs ran
blood, and our assailants, reeling before our fire, made barricades
of the dead to fight from cover. Only when we had spent our last
cartridge dared they charge again, led now by an old grey fanatic,
waving a banner looted from some church, and screaming of Babylon and
the Scarlet Woman. A bullet from his following gave him peace.
And then we had only our swords, our good straight swords, making a
fence of steel about our Lady's life. Her life? It sounds a little
inconsistent, but it was our turn first. We hoped for our Lady a
nobler death, in a greater quarrel than this fight with thieves--that
is, we ought to have so reasoned had there been time. It is only
after the fight that one has leisure to invent all the good reasons.
For the time we guarded her Majesty just because we loved her; fought
for her, not with reasoning but with sheer hard steel.
The surgeons came with their long knives, and stood with us shoulder
to shoulder for the defence of their wards; all sick and wounded men
able to stand joined us with crutch or stick to fight for the Queen;
the ladies, driven from their nursing, came to die with us, and many
a Palace servant and stray civilian. So went the fight reeling along
the corridor and into the rooms of state--a long, hard, desperate
defence against overwhelming numbers. The horror of that battle was
for the sick, thrown over in their cots, the dying trampled under,
the helpless nursing sisters, and those of us who fell.
Pretty things have been said about the Guard, but the word "Heroic"
is strangely misapplied to us who thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. We
were having a good fight, free from all doubts and misgivings; for
being to all intents and purposes already dead, we had nothing left
to be alarmed about. But her Majesty, covering Trooper Browne when
he was hurt, and engaging three assailants to her lone sword--that
was heroic.
How that great stormy spirit rose in danger! She had never seemed to
us so royal as when, wounded and bleeding, she rallied us in the
throne room, looked about her laughing, and said she would not
retreat another inch. She mounted the dais, sat in the chair of
state, and laying the red sword across her knees, looked down at her
enemies.
Tenuous wreaths of smoke hung midway up the columns, and blurred the
golden vault. The mob was dispersed after pillage, save for a few
maniacs still running on our swords. On every side the floor was
covered with long rows of beds, the air was filled with wailing,
screams and groans, and through the deep gloom one could see the
stunted felons of the slums, cursing and shrieking as they fought
over their plunder. Plate, robes, gems, porcelain, bronzes, the
gifts of kings, and trophies of great campaigns, were fought for by
the rabble, snatched from hand to hand, or shattered on the pavement.
Drunk with wine from the cellars, mad with bloodshed, fighting among
themselves, murdering at random, these obscene robbers forgot to
attack the Guard. We were dressing each other's wounds, rescuing
women from outrage, contriving a barricade to shelter our refugees;
and in her throne our Lady awaited the end.
We scarcely could see the further columns now, so dense the gloom, so
heavy the rolling smoke. Far on our right down the east corridor,
bright flames swept nearer and nearer, lighting the hall at last with
a crimson glare, and like sunset clouds rolled the red smoke above.
So the end came. We heard a bugle call, clear notes soaring above
all the tumult, sweet music for us who waited--the "Advance." We
left our work on the barricading about the dais, clasped hands one
with another, said "Good-bye." The Russian bugles called; one, then
another, and a third far off. Her Majesty cried to her surgeons and
able-bodied men to withdraw with the refugees, to hoist a white flag
and stand aside from death under the shelter of the colonnades. We
forced a swift obedience, we of the Guard.
And coming back we heard our Lady scream! She had half risen, one
knee on the seat of the throne, her eyes dilated with horror, set on
the east corridor. There under the flames, it seemed from the very
midst of the flames, Miss Temple came, walking slowly, as though in a
dream. She reached out her arms to us--her hands had been cut off at
the wrists--her grey hair streamed with blood, her gown of black
brocade was torn away at the breast. As she entered the throne-room
the robbers fell shrinking back on either side, opening a lane
through the beds to give her passage. Death was in her face, as
tenderly we led her to the Queen, and then at Margaret's feet she
found rest. Her Majesty was crying.
Saluting the throne as we passed, we formed before the dais, measured
each man his distance, and made ready. Lancaster, badly wounded and
barely able to stand, planted the Guidon on our Lady's right, our
lance-borne pennant charged with the royal arms, half seen through
low-rolling flame-hued smoke, glowing with golden and scarlet
blazonry.
Already the rioters in their thousands were being swept headlong as
though by a whirlwind through the chambers of state, their flight
converging in the throne-room, and, for one wild moment threatening
to roll insensate over our last defence. Like a rock in mid torrent
we split the rush in two, then free to breathe again wiped the blood
from our swords and waited. Through the red gloom, we could see
battalions of Russian seamen clearing a space with their bayonets on
the further side of the hall. Opposite, an Admiral attended by his
staff advanced midway to the throne and halted. On either side of
this group of officers, the battalions, far back against the columns,
halted, grounded arms with a crash, and unfixed bayonets. Their
rifles clattered to the "ready," the "present," then with a deafening
roar and a blaze of flame, delivered one volley. The floor was
littered with the broken cots of the hospitals, with heaps of
plunder, and with piles of the dead. We were alone with our enemy,
and in a momentary silence heard the sharp crackle of advancing
flames, felt the furnace heat, and saw the red glare deepen on
drifting wreaths of smoke.
The bugles were sounding the English general salute, and as the
Admiral advanced at the head of his staff, we could do no less than
respond to that courtesy with our swords. We looked at the Admiral's
face, and he was the man we had expelled in disgrace from the Palace,
his Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Alexander.
Our Lady never moved, nor would we draw aside one inch to give him
passage. Dymoke was facing him on the right, Branscombe on the left,
when at last he spoke to the Queen.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I have come to renew my suit, attended by
half a million of your devoted admirers."
Our Lady never stirred.
"I might," he continued, "have expected a more courteous reception
for the Emperor of All the Russias. Yes, my brother, Nicholas, is
with the saints, and I am Father of the Russians. My heroic
adversary, I have come to offer you the Russian throne in exchange
for the British."
"Sir," said Margaret, "my kingdom is all red flame, my people are the
dead, and I will not leave this throne. Of you I can ask nothing for
myself, but for my Guardsmen here, and for some poor fugitives
yonder--if you have not already murdered them, I ask life."
"Madam," cried Branscombe, "you ask too much! I speak for the whole
Corps of the Guard!"
"Death!" cried Lancaster, and Browne called "Death!" and all the rest
echoed "Death!" "Death!"
"Your Majesty," said Alexander, "I will provide for the refugees. To
these gallant gentlemen I offer commissions in my Imperial Guards; to
you, madam, the throne of my Empire and my devoted love."
Margaret looked down straight into his eyes. "You have a strange
way, sir, in revealing your love. How many thousands, and hundreds
of thousands of my people have you slaughtered this day in cold
blood--my helpless citizens, women, little children, the sick in
their beds, the wounded, the dying! You drunken libertine, you
pitiless coward, you butcher of women, I commend you to the Eternal,
the Everlasting Justice. No liberal and justly governed realm was
ever abandoned by Almighty God, and to Him I appeal now, to His
ordeal of battle."
"At last," cried Dymoke, hoarsely, as drawing off his gauntlet, he
struck the Russian Emperor in the face.
"Your Majesty!" Alexander drew back, almost choked with rage. "I
shall avenge this outrage!"
"Avenge! Avenge!" cried Dymoke. "I am Hereditary Champion of
England. Draw, I say, draw!"
"I do not fight with servants. Stand back, sir!"
"With servants, you cur? My ancestors were Champions of England
while yours gnawed horse bones round a camp fire. Draw!"
"Harold Dymoke," said our Lady. "No man shall slight you as my
Champion. I dub you knight, I give you the Duchy of Gloucester, I
create you a Prince of the United Kingdom. Prince Harold of
Gloucester, strike that man again!"
Several Russian officers sprang forward attempting to save their
master, who had scarcely time to draw, so swift, so furious the
assault. Dymoke disarmed the first, ran the second through, and
before he could disengage, was like to be killed when Branscombe
intervened. Now fat Branscombe was instructor to the Guard, had once
been the first swordsman in Europe, but even he was scarcely safe
against six blades at once, and must have fallen, but that Hylton
struck in vigorously. Dymoke was with the Emperor now.
The engagement was general and greatly to our liking--twenty-four
Queen's Blackguards against fifty Russians. Our middle-aged
opponents knew nothing of swordcraft, their tailor's swords buckled,
they were laced up in full-dress uniforms. We cut their line of
retreat, flicked the swords from their plump fingers, or, point to
throat, forced them to surrender. What could they hope against our
youth, our perfect training, our deadly skill at fence, our shirts of
mail? We knew that their massed battalions dared not fire, the
Emperor was dead, the General Staff was captured.
How can one trace a sequence through that wild confusion which
followed? Even while we compelled our prisoners on pain of death to
retire their battalions from the Palace, we saw the Russian seamen
breaking ranks. The captured officers yelled at them in vain, we
could gain nothing by killing our hostages, as the seamen rushed on
us brandishing their rifles, hundreds to one against our scattered
groups. No reach of sword could give us a fighting chance against
such bludgeons as the seamen used, nor had we time to rally round the
Queen. Taken flank, front, and rear, each for himself, we measured
our short blades against the sledgehammer blows, and some of us won
back to the steps of the dais--and some to the ranks of the Guard
beyond the Gates of Death.
Comparing one with another the memories of that last tremendous
struggle for existence, some of us have recalled a series of
explosions which made the pavement reel beneath our feet, and more
than one of the great onyx columns crash down in ruin on the
attacking force. The timbering of the golden dome was all aflame
above us littering red-hot wreckage through the smoke. It was a beam
of this burning timber which slew Dymoke, and we heard him calling on
Sydney before he died.
Some of us also have remembrance that with noble courtesy the
disarmed officers of the General Staff were attempting to save us
from their men. But, for the writer of this history, one
recollection only is engraved forever upon a sorely bewildered brain.
It is the picture of our Lady standing before her throne. All round
her upon the steps of the dais, the swords of her Guardsmen whispered
and sang, red gleaming blades, thrusting or slashing, resonant
against dark steel of whistling rifles. Above her the emblazoned
Guidon drooped in the coiling vapours, at her feet lay Lancaster, his
dead face wonderful in its perfect rest. Her hands were on the hilt
of her sword, the cloak was drawn about her, ruddy gold and red
streamed her hair in the fierce light. Her face was lifted in
prayer, radiant with an unearthly beauty, and fearless, and at peace.
And the fight raged on as though there never could be an end.
How strange the end was! One saw a Russian seaman, his bronzed face
glowing with fury, his rifle whirling for the blow--then somehow that
rifle was blown to pieces in mid-air; and the bandolier across the
man's shoulder changed to a bolt of lightning; and his body
dismembered, disrupted, gone. Then one looked out across the hall to
find it empty, save for the group of Russian officers--while the
floor seemed a sea of blood. A voice cried, "Margaret! Margaret!"
We saw a single man, a great, grim, bloodstained man, looming
gigantic in the flame-light, come running towards the dais, his arms
stretched out; and in a reeling, heaving vault of blood and flame,
John Brand lifting the Queen in his arms.
Margaret was saved!