NEWS OF BATTLE
There was a fascination in returning stride by stride to the rattle and
roar of the metal tyres upon London's stones. Denis felt it through the
depths of his blank misery and impotent rage; he only wondered that the
noise had never struck him in the morning. Now he picked it up plain at
Hendon, and it reminded him of its miniature--the first far sound of
Ballarat--as it seemed to rise with each ringing step he took. His body
was bathed in perspiration; never had he walked so many miles at such a
rate. But a vague object had developed on the way. By half-past nine he
was in London's throat; and now he might have been walking on
cotton-wool.
Never had he heard such an uproar: it was Saturday night. Edgware Road
was a vast trench of stalls and barrows, lurid with naked flames,
strident with hoarse voices, only Denis was not Londoner enough to know
that it was Edgware Road. He had the vaguest ideas as to where he was,
until, on asking his way to the London Tavern, he was invited to take
his choice between the glaring illuminations of several London taverns
before his eyes. After that he applied to a constable, and next minute
sat cooling in a hansom cab.
The hansom beat up into the east in a series of short tacks, grinding
endless curbstones as she went about, but at last emerging into
latitudes less unknown to Denis. There was St. Paul's Cathedral, perhaps
his westernmost landmark, though he had once or twice threaded Temple
Bar: so the London Tavern was somewhere in the city. The sailor began to
feel at home. The offices of Merridew and Devenish were in one of these
silent streets. How silent and deserted they were! What a change from
the Edgware Road! And this was London's hub, that he had imagined
deafening and congested at all hours of the twenty-four: that sleeping
palace was the Royal Exchange: this black monolith the Bank. At the
first oasis of light and life the cab drew up.
"London Tavern, sir," said a voice overhead.
Denis dismissed the cab and found himself confronted by an overpowering
Cerberus, who desired to know what he could do for him, but Denis
scarcely knew himself. His impressions in the cab had been acute but
superficial. The mind's core was still stunned. He had to think hard in
order to recall the resolve which had brought him hither; a burst of
applause through the tall lighted windows came to his aid in the nick of
time.
"I want to see a gentleman who is dining here."
"What, now?" sniffed Cerberus.
"Before he leaves."
"I could take in your card," condescended the other, who had probably
heard the thanks which Denis had earned from his cabman, "when the Lord
Mayor's said what he 'as to say, if it's anythink very important."
"To me it is," said Denis, "and I pray that it may prove equally so to
him; but it will be time enough after the banquet, and I can take care
of myself meanwhile."
He crossed the street slowly, pondering his resolve, which was simply to
impress his daughter's despair upon John Merridew's mind; to implore him
not to leave her too much alone, but to find her some bright companion
without a day's delay, to keep watch and ward over her from that day
forth.
That was the motive of which Denis found himself aware; if in the bottom
of his heart he yearned for a word of unforeseen sympathy, of
inconceivable comfort, of wildest hope, the thought never rose to the
surface of his mind.
But he was distracted from all his thoughts by cheer upon frantic cheer
from the great hall across the road. This was no ordinary after-dinner
enthusiasm. The lighted windows rattled in their leads. A crowd was
forming in the street. A whisper was running through the crowd.
"The Lord Mayor's there," said a voice near Denis. "He came on foot not
five minutes ago. It's something worth hearing, you mark my words!"
Denis marked them with the listless interest of one who had realized
neither his country's peril nor his countrymen's excitement. It was
impossible that he should. He had forgotten that England was at war.
"Here he comes back again!" exclaimed the same excited voice. "That's
his lordship, him in the gold chain. See the papers in his hand; see the
face on him! It's a victory, boys, and he's going to give us the news!"
The Lord Mayor wore a frilled shirt-front behind the massive chain of
office, and between its tufts of whisker his well-favoured face shone
like the sun. But he did not deliver his message from the steps of the
London Tavern; attended by one or two members of his household, he led
the way on foot toward the Royal Exchange. A handful of diners were at
his heels, and the gathering street-crowd at theirs; but Denis did not
think of joining them until among the former he recognized John
Merridew, himself brandishing some missive and gesticulating to his
friends.
It was Merridew alone whom Denis wished to keep in view, yet as he
slowly followed in the civic train he experienced a reawakening of that
impersonal curiosity which had possessed him in the cab. What had
happened? What was going to happen now? The answer came in the blare of
a bugle, even as Denis reached the steps of the Royal Exchange.
The bugle sounded again and again, waking the echoes of the silent
streets, filling them with answering cries and the shuffle of hastening
feet. Meanwhile the Lord Mayor had climbed the few steps, and taken his
stand under the grimy portico, behind the footlights improvised by
half-a-dozen policemen with their bull's-eyes.
"Fellow-citizens and gentlemen," he cried, "I have to announce to you
the intelligence of a splendid victory obtained by the Allied forces
over the Russians in the Crimea!"
A wild roar rose into the night, and the speaker himself prolonged it by
calling for cheers for the Queen before going any further. Heads were
uncovered and hats waved madly. Cheer after cheer rang to its height and
dropped like musketry in single shouts. The converging streets were
alive with running men. The blood was draining back into the City's
heart.
Denis wondered to find a moisture in his eyes; it brought back the
heart-break which had occasioned him less outward emotion, and he was
carried away no more. The Lord Mayor, indeed, was departing from the
point; he had paused to enlarge upon the delightful character of his
duty before completing its performance. Some few months since it had
fallen to his lot to announce that war had been proclaimed between that
country and Russia; he had now the great satisfaction of making known
to them that the Allied forces had taken the first step toward reducing
to reasonable limits the barbaric Power against which they were engaged.
He could not help adding that he considered the interests of humanity,
and the happiness of the whole human race, were all deeply concerned in
the victory.
Denis did not join in the renewed cheering. His brow was contracted, but
not from want of sympathy with the excellent sentiments expressed. He
was himself engaged against the sudden onslaught of an impossible
thought.
"I will now read to you," continued the Lord Mayor, "the letter with
which I have been honoured by the Duke of Newcastle. 'My Lord,' he
writes, 'I have the honour and high gratification of sending your
lordship a proof copy of an extraordinary Gazette containing a
telegraphic message from her Majesty's Ambassador at Constantinople, by
which the glorious intelligence of the success of the Allied arms in a
great battle in the Crimea has been received this morning.--I am, my
lord, your lordship's obedient humble servant, Newcastle.' And this,
fellow citizens," the Lord Mayor proceeded in higher key, "and this is
the text of that message: 'The intrenched camp of the Russians,
containing 50,000 men, with a numerous artillery and cavalry, on the
heights of the Alma, was attacked on the 20th inst., at 1 P. M., by the
Allied troops, and carried by the bayonet at half-past three, with the
loss on our side of about 1,400 killed and wounded, and an equal loss on
the side of the French. The Russian army was forced to put itself in
full retreat.'"
There was perhaps one second of profound silence.
"Fourteen hundred!" said an awed voice.
And then arose such a storm of shouting and of cheering as Denis had
never heard in all his life; and he was roaring with the lustiest,
roaring as if to expel his thoughts in sound. But in the first pause
another voice said, "Fourteen hundred!" and the figure passed below the
breath from lip to lip till one exclaimed, "The poor Guards!" Thereat
the creases cut deep across Denis's forehead--so deep you might have
looked for them to fill with blood--and he asked the man next to him if
the Guards were in it.
"In it?" cried the man next Denis. "In the thick and the front of it,
you may depend!"
The Lord Mayor had not finished. He was thanking one and all for their
attendance. He was expressing a pious belief that this victory of the
Alma would promote the civilization and happiness of the world more than
anything that had happened for the last fifty years. He was bowing to
the cheers that echoed his remarks. He was proposing the cheers for our
soldiers. He was leading the cheers for the French. He was descending
with dignity from the portico, with the policemen's lanterns still
playing upon his great gold chain and rubicund face, a hearty figure in
spirited contrast to the dark colonnade at his back.
But Denis bent glowering at the flag on which he stood. His neighbour's
answer to his query about the Guards was still rattling in his head; he
had heard nothing since with that part of the ear which communicates
with the brain.
The group of gentlemen from the London Tavern followed the Lord Mayor
down the steps; one of them passed close to Denis, waving a telegram as
if it were a flag.
"He must have got it off with the dispatches," said he. "It has been
delivered at my office this evening, but fortunately the housekeeper
knew where I was."
"And your son-in-law has come through safe and sound?"
"Safe and sound, thank God!"
It was Mr. Merridew, still flushed and flustered with sentiment and
satisfaction; as he passed, Denis scanned the smug, well-meaning face;
but he had withdrawn deliberately from the path of the man whom he had
driven across London to see. Talk to him about Nan!
"Now, sir, move on, please!"
The swollen crowd was streaming down Cheapside, shouting, cheering, and
singing "Partant pour la Syrie," as it bore the great news westward.
Already the sounds came faintly to the steps of the Royal Exchange,
where Denis was the last man left to blink in the rays of the last
policeman's lantern.
"All right, constable; but I only landed from Australia this morning,
and I wish you'd tell me a thing or two first."
"Indeed, sir?" said the policeman. Denis felt in the pocket that was
full of notes and gold.
"About this war," he pursued: "you see I never heard of it before
to-day. Can you tell me which of the Guards have gone?"
"Coldstream and Grenadiers, sir."
"But not all of them?"
"The first battalion of the Coldstream and the third of the Grenadiers."
The man's prompt answer drew Denis's attention to the man himself. He
was over six feet in height, and not an inch of it thrown away. But
still more noticeable was a peculiar pride of countenance--some secret
enthusiasm which added a freshness to the patriotic emotion to be found
in any other face.
"An old Guardsman?" inquired Denis.
"An old Grenadier, sir!" cried the policeman. "And I would give ten
years of my life to be with them now!"
"Do you suppose they have lost very heavily?" Denis was searching the
old soldier's face.
"If the losses altogether are fourteen hundred I'll back ours to run
well into three figures!"
"But they'll keep the regiment up to strength, I take it?"
"No doubt they'll send out a draft as soon as possible."
"Of course there'd be no chance for a recruit in such a draft?"
Denis had hesitated, and then forced a grin. The old Grenadier shook his
head.
"I doubt it, sir; but a very good man, who knew his drill, they might
take him over the heads of others. They want all the good men they can
get in time of war. Why, sir, that's a sovereign!"
"It was meant to be; it's not a night for less. And now can you tell me
where the rest of the Grenadiers are?"
"Wellington Barracks, sir."
Denis fell into his natural smile.
"I don't know London very well. Will you do one more thing for me before
I move on?"
"That I will, sir."
"Will you tell me how to find my way to Wellington Barracks?"