THE DEFENCE OF THE PALACE.
"That," said Lieutenant Tiro to a Captain of Artillery, as they got
inside the gate, "is about the best I've seen so far."
"I thought it was a bad business all through," replied the other; "and
when they brought the guns up it was a certainty."
"It wasn't the guns that did us," said the Lancer Subaltern, who had no
exaggerated idea of the value of artillery; "we wanted some cavalry."
"We wanted more men," answered the Gunner, not anxious at that moment
to argue the relative values of the different arms. "These rear-guard
actions are the devil."
"There was a damned sight more action than there was rear-guard about
that last bit," said Tiro. "Do you suppose they cut up the wounded?"
"Every one of them, I should think; they were like wolves at the end."
"What's going to happen now?"
"They're going to come in here and finish us off."
"We'll see about that," said Tiro. His cheery courage could stand a
prolonged test. "The fleet will be back soon; we shall hold this place
till then."
The palace was indeed not unsuited to defence. It was solidly built of
stone. The windows were at some distance from the ground and the lower
strongly barred, except on the garden-side, where the terrace and its
steps gave access to the long French windows. But it was evident that
a few good rifles could forbid the bare and narrow approaches in that
quarter. Indeed it seemed as though the architect must have
contemplated the occasion that had now arrived, for he had almost built
a stronghold disguised as a palace. The side which faced the square
seemed to afford the best prospects to an assault; yet the great gate
was protected by two small towers containing guard-rooms, and the wall
of the courtyard was high and thick. As it seemed, however, that on
this front the enemy would be able to use their numbers to the greatest
effect, the majority of the little garrison were concentrated there.
The rebels were wisely and cautiously led. They did not at once push
on to the attack of the palace; sure of their prey they could afford to
wait. Meanwhile the surviving adherents of the Government endeavoured
to make their last foothold secure. Rough-hewn cobblestones from the
pavements of the courtyard were prized up, and the windows were with
these converted into loopholes through which the garrison might fire
without much exposure. The gates were closed and barred, and
preparations made to strut them with baulks of timber. Ammunition was
distributed. The duty and responsibility of each section of the
defence was apportioned to the various officers. The defenders
recognised that they had entered on a quarrel which must be carried to
a definite conclusion.
But Molara's mood had changed. The fury of the night had cooled into
the hard, savage courage of the morning. He had led the desperate
attempt to capture the Mayoralty, and had exposed himself freely and
even recklessly in the tumult of the fight that followed; but now that
he had come through unhurt, had regained the palace, and realised that
his last chance of killing Savrola had passed, death appeared very
ugly. All the excitement which had supported him had died away; he had
had enough. His mind searched for some way of escape, and searched
vainly. The torture of the moment was keen. A few hours might bring
help: the fleet would surely come; but it would be too late. The great
guns might take vengeance for his death; they could not save his life.
A feeling of vexation shook him, and behind it grew the realisation of
the approaching darkness. Terror began to touch his heart; his nerve
flickered; he had more to fear than the others. The hatred of the
multitude was centred in him; after all it was his blood they
wanted,--his above all others. It was a dreadful distinction. He
retired in deep despondency to his own room, and took no part in the
defence.
At about eleven o'clock the sharpshooters of the enemy began to make
their way into the houses which surrounded the front of the palace.
Presently from an upper window a shot was fired; others followed, and
soon a regular fusilade began. The defenders, sheltered by their
walls, replied carefully. Lieutenant Tiro and a sergeant of the
Guards, an old war-time comrade of Molara's, were holding the window of
the guard-room on the left of the great gate. Both were good shots.
The Subaltern had filled his pockets with cartridges; the Sergeant
arranged his on the sill in neat little rows of five. From their
position they could shoot right down the street which led into the
square and towards the gate. Outside the guard-room a dozen officers
and men were still engaged in making the entrance more secure. They
tried to wedge a great plank between the ground and the second
cross-piece; should the rebels try to rush the gate-way, it would thus
be strong enough to resist them.
The fire from the surrounding houses was annoying rather than
dangerous, but several bullets struck the stones of the improvised
loopholes. The garrison fired carefully and slowly, anxious not to
expend their ammunition, or to expose themselves without a result.
Suddenly, about three hundred yards away, a number of men turned into
the street which led to the gate, and began rapidly pushing and pulling
something forward.
"Look out," cried Tiro to the working-party; "they're bringing up a
gun;" and taking good aim he fired at the approaching enemy. The
Sergeant, and all the other defenders of this side of the palace, fired
too with strange energy. The advancing crowd slackened speed. Among
them men began to drop. Several in front threw up their hands; others
began carrying these away. The attack dwindled. Then two or three men
ran back alone. At that all the rest turned tail and scurried for the
cover of the side street, leaving the gun (one of the captured
twelve-pounders) standing deserted in the middle of the roadway, with
about a dozen shapeless black objects lying round it.
The garrison raised a cheer, which was answered from the surrounding
houses by an increase of musketry.
A quarter of an hour passed and then the rebels debouched from the side
streets into the main approach and began pushing up four carts filled
with sacks of flour. Again the defenders fired rapidly. Their
bullets, striking the sacks, raised strange creamy white clouds; but
the assailants, sheltered by their movable cover, continued to advance
steadily. They reached the gun, and began emptying the carts by
pushing the sacks out from behind, until a regular breastwork was
formed, behind which they knelt down. Some began firing; others
devoted their efforts to discharging the gun, on which the aim of the
garrison was now directed. With a loss of two men they succeeded in
loading it and pointing it at the gate. A third man advanced to fix
the friction-tube by which it was fired.
Tiro took steady aim and the distant figure collapsed to the shot.
"Bull's eye," said the Sergeant appreciatively, and leaned forward to
fire at another, who had advanced with desperate bravery to discharge
the piece. He paused long on his aim, wishing to make certain; holding
his breath he began gently to squeeze the trigger, as the
musketry-books enjoin. Suddenly there was a very strange sound, half
thud, half smash. Tiro, shrinking swiftly to the left, just avoided
being splashed with blood and other physical details. The Sergeant had
been killed by a bullet which had come to meet him as he looked through
his loophole. The distant man had fixed his tube, and, catching up the
lanyard, stood back and aside to fire.
"Stand from the gate," shouted Tiro to the working-party; "I can't hold
'em!" He raised his rifle and fired on the chance. At the same
instant a great cloud of smoke burst from the gun and another sprang up
at the palace gate. The woodwork was smashed to pieces and, with the
splinters of the shell, flew on, overtaking with death and wounds the
working-party as they scampered to cover.
A long loud burst of cheering arose on all sides from the surrounding
houses and streets, and was taken up by the thousands who were waiting
behind and heard the explosion of the gun. At first the rebel fire
increased, but very soon a bugler began to sound perseveringly, and
after about twenty minutes the musketry ceased altogether. Then from
over the barricade a man with a white flag advanced, followed by two
others. The truce was acknowledged from the palace by the waving of a
handkerchief. The deputation walked straight up to the shattered
gateway, and their leader, stepping through, entered the courtyard.
Many of the defenders left their stations to look at him and hear what
terms were offered. It was Moret.
"I call upon you all to surrender," he said. "Your lives will be
spared until you have been fairly tried."
"Address yourself to me, Sir," said Sorrento stepping forward; "I am in
command here."
"I call upon you all to surrender in the name of the Republic,"
repeated Moret loudly.
"I forbid you to address these soldiers," said Sorrento. "If you do so
again, your flag shall not protect you."
Moret turned to him. "Resistance is useless," he said. "Why will you
cause further loss of life? Surrender, and your lives shall be safe."
Sorrento reflected. Perhaps the rebels knew that the fleet was
approaching; otherwise, he thought they would not offer terms. It was
necessary to gain time. "We shall require two hours fro consider the
terms," he said.
"No," answered Moret decidedly. "You must surrender at once, here and
now."
"We shall do no such thing," replied the War-Minister. "The palace is
defensible. We shall hold it until the return of the fleet and of the
victorious field-army."
"You refuse all terms?"
"We refuse all you have offered."
"Soldiers," said Moret turning again to the men, "I implore you not to
throw away your lives. I offer fair terms; do not reject them."
"Young man," said Sorrento with rising anger, "I have a somewhat
lengthy score to settle with you already. You are a civilian and are
ignorant of the customs of war. It is my duty to warn you that, if you
continue to attempt to seduce the loyalty of the Government troops, I
shall fire at you." He drew his revolver.
Moret should have heeded; but tactless, brave, and impulsive as he was,
he recked little. His warm heart generously hoped to save further loss
of life. Besides, he did not believe that Sorrento would shoot him in
cold blood; it would be too merciless. "I offer you all life," he
cried; "do not choose death."
Sorrento raised his pistol and fired. Moret fell to the ground, and
his blood began to trickle over the white flag. For a moment he
twisted and quivered, and then lay still. There were horrified murmurs
from the bystanders, who had not expected to see the threat carried
out. But it is not well to count on the mercy of such men as this
War-Minister; they live their lives too much by rule and regulation.
The two men outside the gate, hearing the shot, looked in, saw, and ran
swiftly back to their comrades, while the garrison, feeling that they
must now abandon all hope, returned to their posts slowly and sullenly.
The report of a truce had drawn the President from his room, with a
fresh prospect of life, and perhaps of vengeance, opening on his
imagination. As he came down the steps into the courtyard, the shot,
in such close proximity, startled him; when he saw the condition of the
bearer of terms, he staggered. "Good God!" he said to Sorrento, "what
have you done?"
"I have shot a rebel, Sir," replied the War-Minister, his heart full of
misgivings, but trying to brazen it out, "for inciting the troops to
mutiny and desertion, after due warning that his flag would no longer
protect him."
Molara quivered from head to foot; he felt the last retreat cut off.
"You have condemned us all to death," he said. Then he stooped and
drew a paper which protruded from the dead man's coat. It ran as
follows: _I authorise you to accept the surrender of Antonio Molara,
ex-President of the Republic, and of such officers, soldiers, and
adherents as may be holding the Presidential Palace. Their lives are
to be spared, and they shall be protected pending the decision of the
Government. For the Council of Public Safety_,--SAVROLA. And Sorrento
had killed him,--the only man who could save them from the fury of the
crowd. Too sick at heart to speak Molara turned away, and as he did so
the firing from the houses of the square recommenced with savage
vigour. The besiegers knew now how their messenger had fared.
And all the while Moret lay very still out there in the courtyard. All
his ambitions, his enthusiasms, his hopes had come to a full stop; his
share in the world's affairs was over; he had sunk into the ocean of
the past, and left scarcely a bubble behind. In all the contriving of
the plot against the Lauranian Government Savrola's personality had
dwarfed his. Yet this was a man of heart and brain and nerve, one who
might have accomplished much; and he had a mother and two young sisters
who loved the soil he trod on, and thought him the finest fellow in the
world.
Sorrento stood viewing his handiwork for a long time, with a growing
sense of dissatisfaction at his deed. His sour, hard nature was
incapable of genuine remorse, but he had known Molara for many years
and was shocked to see his pain, and annoyed to think that he was the
cause. He had not realised that the President wished to surrender;
otherwise, he said to himself, he might have been more lenient. Was
there no possible way of repairing the harm? The man who had
authorised Moret to accept their surrender had power with the crowd; he
would be at the Mayoralty,--he must be sent for,--but how?
Lieutenant Tiro approached with a coat in his hands. Disgusted at his
superior's brutality, he was determined to express his feelings,
clearly if not verbally. He bent over the body and composed the limbs;
then he laid the coat over the white expressionless face, and rising
said insolently to the Colonel: "I wonder if they'll do that for you in
a couple of hours' time, Sir."
Sorrento looked at him, and laughed harshly. "Pooh! What do I care?
When you have seen as much fighting as I have, you will not be so
squeamish."
"I am not likely to see much more, now that you have killed the only
man who could accept our surrender."
"There is another," said the War-Minister, "Savrola. If you want to
live, go and bring him to call off his hounds."
Sorrento spoke bitterly, but his words set the Subaltern's mind
working. Savrola,--he knew him, liked him, and felt they had something
in common. Such a one would come if he were summoned; but to leave the
palace seemed impossible. Although the attacks of the rebels had been
directed against the side of the main entrance only, a close investment
and a dropping musketry were maintained throughout the complete circle.
To pass the line of besiegers by the roads was out of the question.
Tiro thought of the remaining alternatives: a tunnel, that did not
exist; a balloon, there was not one. Shaking his head at the hopeless
problem he gazed contemplatively into the clear air, thinking to
himself: "It would take a bird to do it."
The palace was connected with the Senate-House and with the principal
Public Offices by telephone, and it happened that the main line of
wires from the eastern end of the great city passed across its roof.
Tiro, looking up, saw the slender threads overhead; there seemed to be
nearly twenty of them. The War-Minister followed his gaze. "Could you
get along the wires?" he asked eagerly.
"I will try," answered the Subaltern, thrilled with the idea.
Sorrento would have shaken his hand, but the boy stepped backward and
saluting turned away. He entered the palace, and ascended the stairs
which led to the flat roof. The attempt was daring and dangerous.
What if the rebels should see him in mid air? He had often shot with a
pea-rifle at rooks, black spots against the sky and among the branches.
The thought seemed strangely disagreeable; but he consoled himself with
the reflection that men who look through loopholes at the peril of
their lives have little leisure for aught but aiming, and rarely let
their eyes wander idly. He stepped out on to the roof and walked to
the telegraph-post. There was no doubt as to its strength;
nevertheless he paused, for the chances against him were great, and
death seemed near and terrible. His religion, like that of many
soldiers, was of little help; it was merely a jumble of formulas,
seldom repeated, hardly understood, never investigated, and a hopeful,
but unauthorised, belief that it would be well with him if he did his
duty like a gentleman. He had no philosophy; he felt only that he was
risking all that he had, and for what he was uncertain. Still, though
there were gaps in his reasoning, he thought it might be done and he
would have a dash for it. He said to himself, "It will score off those
swine," and with this inspiring reflection he dismissed his fears.
He swarmed up the pole to the lowest wire; then he pulled himself
higher until he could get his foot on the insulators. The wires ran on
both sides of the pole in two sets. He stood on the two lowest, took
the top ones under his arms, and, reaching down over, caught one more
in each hand. Then he started, shuffling awkwardly along. The span
was about seventy yards. As he cleared the parapet he saw the street
beneath him,--very far beneath him, it seemed. Shots were continually
exchanged from the windows of the houses and the palace. Sixty feet
below a dead man lay staring up through the wires undazzled by the
bright sun. He had been _under_ fire before, but this was a novel
experience. As he approached the middle of the span the wires began to
swing, and he had to hold on tightly. At first the slope had been on
his side, but after the centre was passed it rose against him; his feet
slipped often backwards, and the wires commenced to cut into his
armpits.
Two-thirds of the distance was safely accomplished, when the wires
under his left foot parted with a snap and dropped like a whip-lash
against the wall of the opposite house. His weight fell on his
shoulders; the pain was sharp; he twisted,--slipped,--clutched wildly,
and recovered himself by a tremendous effort.
A man at a lower window pulled back the mattress behind which he was
firing and thrust his head and shoulders out. Tiro looked down and
their eyes met. The man shouted in mad excitement, and fired his rifle
point-blank at the Subaltern. The noise of the report prevented him
from knowing how near the bullet had passed; but he felt he was not
shot, and struggled on till he had passed the street.
It was all up; yet to turn back was equally fatal. "I'll see it out,"
he said to himself, and dropped from the wires on to the roof of the
house. The door from the leads was open. Running down the attic
stairs and emerging on the landing, he peered over the bannisters; no
one was to be seen. He descended the narrow staircase cautiously,
wondering where his enemy could be. Presently he was opposite the
front room on the second floor. Keeping close to the wall he peered
in. The room was half-darkened. The windows were blocked by boxes,
portmanteaus, mattresses, and pillow-cases filled with earth; broken
glass, mingled with bits of plaster from the walls, littered the floor.
By the light which filtered in through the chinks and loopholes, he saw
a strange scene. There were four men in the room; one on his back on
the ground, and the others bending over him. Their rifles were leaned
against the wall. They seemed to have eyes only for their comrade who
lay on the floor in an ever-widening pool of blood, gurgling, choking,
and apparently making tremendous efforts to speak.
The Subaltern had seen enough. Opposite the front room was a doorway
covered by a curtain, behind which he glided. Nothing was to be seen,
but he listened intently.
"Poor chap," said a voice, "he's got it real bad."
"How did it happen?" asked another.
"Oh, he leaned out of the window to have a shot,--bullet hit
him,--right through the lungs, I think,--fired in the air, and
shouted." Then in a lower but still audible tone he added, "Done for!"
The wounded man began making extraordinary noises.
"Su'thin' he wants to tell 'is pore wife before he goes," said one of
the Revolutionaries, who seemed by his speech a workman. "What is it,
mate?"
"Give him a pencil and paper; he can't speak."
Tiro's heart stood still, and his hand stole back for his revolver.
For nearly a minute nothing audible happened; then there was a shout.
"By God, we'll cop him!" said the workman, and all three of them
stamped past the curtained door and ran up-stairs. One man paused just
opposite; he was loading his rifle and the cartridge stuck; he banged
it on the ground, apparently with success, for the Subaltern heard the
bolt click, and the swift footsteps followed the others towards the
roof.
Then he emerged from his hiding-place and stole downwards. But as he
passed the open room he could not resist looking in. The wounded man
saw him in an instant. He half raised himself from the ground and made
terrible efforts to shout; but no articulate sound came forth. Tiro
looked for a moment at this stranger whom chance had made his
implacable enemy, and then, at the prompting of that cruel devil that
lurks in the hearts of men and is awakened by bloodshed and danger, he
kissed his hand to him in savage, bitter mockery. The other sank
backwards in a paroxysm of pain and fury and lay gasping on the floor.
The Subaltern hurried away. Reaching the lowest storey he turned into
the kitchen, where the window was but six feet from the ground.
Vaulting on to the sill he dropped into the backyard, and then, with a
sudden feeling of wild panic, began to run at top speed,--the terror
that springs from returning hope hard on his track.