STARA.

Then back rushed remembrance; he knew, and laughed aloud. Everybody

looked up; the man with the deep-set eyes made a half step forward; Mary

clutched her husband's arm; and the priest, scandalised, stopped, and

then went hurriedly on: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes dust to dust."

Graeme's head nodded slowly in approval, for here were words of sense at

last, little as the mumbling fool that uttered them knew it. To him

they were but a formula, the fine words spoken by the hero of some stage

drama, the finale bringing down the curtain to a burst of hysterical

applause. He alone knew how true they were, and that in death lay no

sting and in the grave no victory, but defeat, and in an hour from now

the proof of that truth would be given him.

The throng melted away, and moved slowly homeward across the veldt. Two

men approached, spade in hand, glanced at Graeme, and then set swiftly

to work. The dull thud of earth on wood sounded from below, then earth

on other earth, till the yawning chasm had gone and only a brown scar

remained.

One final stamp on the loosened soil, and they too, shouldering their

tools, went homeward, and Graeme was alone in the fast-falling night.

The sun had long since died--to be born again in another world--and over

his fiery western grave a pall of blue storm-cloud hung, rapidly rising

and spreading over the heavens. The wind moaned fretfully, and the low

mutter of thunder came from the distant mountains.

The hour was at hand, its herald the tempest, the birth-pangs of earth

in travail of a soul.

A sudden fearful excitement shook Graeme. His knees knocked together,

he rocked and swayed, and then the mood passed, and, steady once more,

he strode forward till he stood over the lifeless body below, his livid

face raised to the darkened sky.

"Stara!" he called, but only the thunder of an outraged God responded.

"Stara! Stara!" he shouted again, and then stopped, for the answer had

come.

A flash of blue light, a rending crash overhead, and, to the swell of

harp and organ, the heavens yawned slowly asunder, and the dead woman,

white fire rolling around her, stood looking down upon him. For a

moment he remained, with face lit up and hands outstretched towards her,

and then, with one loud triumphant cry of "Stara!" fell forward on his

face, quivered for a moment, and was still.

Almost as quick as the lightning-flash, from behind the wall at the far

side of the cemetery a man came running up, followed slowly and

seemingly unwillingly by another.

"Quick, Selbourne," said the first, "fetch a Cape cart; look sharp, man,

the storm will be on us in a minute. God! did you ever see anything like

that last flash?"

Richard came slowly up to where the speaker was kneeling, with Graeme's

head against his shoulder, while he was forcing the neck of a small

phial between the clenched teeth.

"What's the matter," he said coolly, "lightning struck him? If so, he

ought to be dead. Is he?"

"Nothing of the kind; he's as alive as you or I."

"What's wrong, then?"

"I don't quite know--fit of some sort, I should say."

"Leave him to get over it then. Rain will bring him to. I'm going, I

was a fool to stay, don't know why I did, except that you made such a

point of it."

The other looked up, frowning. "Look here, Selbourne, what your quarrel

is with this fellow I don't know, and don't want to; but I'm a doctor,

and if he's the biggest blackguard under the sun, he's my patient now,

and I don't leave him. You go if you like, but in common humanity order

the Cape cart."

"I'll ... see ... him ... rotting first."

"See here, Richard Selbourne, I'm a good friend of yours, and I think

I've shown it, haven't I? I wasn't in time, I know, for ... but that

was not my fault, I came as quick as I could, and there was nothing to

be done, but you know what I risked over signing the certificate as I

did."

"I do, and you've Mary's and my eternal gratitude, Lees ... but----"

"Show it now, then, by fetching that cart."

"If you knew what I do, Lees, you'd leave him here to die."

The other laughed. "Don't be a fool, Selbourne," he said.

"Where do you propose to take him? If it's my house you're thinking of,

you can save yourself the trouble of a journey, I warn you."

"I'm not, I'll take him to the hotel, and get him away to-morrow or the

day after. You shan't see him again, I give you my word."

Richard rose from the wall on which he was sitting.

"On that understanding then," he said, "I'll send a cart, but don't ask

me to touch the fellow, because I won't. You and the boy can lift him, I

suppose, or shall I send a man?"

"The boy and I can manage all right; he's light enough, poor devil.

Please be quick, Selbourne."

The latter walked slowly away, leaving Dr. Lees looking down on the

still unconscious figure in his arms.

"Good thing I was watching you, my friend," he muttered. "I knew when I

saw you at the funeral you couldn't last much longer. I wonder what it

all means, and what you saw just now? for you did see something, I know

that, and probably will to the end of your days. You'll be an

interesting study in the future, Colonel Graeme, or I'm much mistaken.

'Stara,' you called, and that was her name, poor girl; she poisons

herself, and my friend Dick, the most amiable fellow I know, hates you,

hates you so much that he'd leave you here to die. For you would die of

exposure if I left you now; as it is, you'll be pretty bad for a day or

two. Still, I think I've got the story all right; it's an old enough

one, God knows. Oh yes, you're a bad lot, Colonel, right enough, but

it's possible you're not quite so much to blame as they think. I doubt

if you're quite ... responsible; not mad--I'm sure of that--but not

quite responsible. Ah, the cart at last! Hi, you, this way; fasten the

mules to the wall here, then come and help lift the Baas. Easy, that's

right now." Together they lifted the light figure into the Cape cart,

and, Lees still holding it in his arms, drove away to the Spring Bok

Hotel, Duikerport, the mules shying and plunging at the lightning

playing on the rocks around.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

"Oh, do hurry up, for heaven's sake, Graves; it's past three, and we're

playing in the second chukker."

"Don't fidget me, but come in and sit down. Throw that dog out of the

chair;" whereupon Captain Annesley, white-breeched and brown-booted,

entered his friend's room, and having lifted the sleeping dachshund, and

placed him carefully on his knee, sat down, his eyes resting morosely on

the scantily-clad figure before him.

"We'll be late," he observed.

"You've said that before. I'm shoving on all I know. There's a

drill-book on the table there; take it and read it for once. It will do

you good."

Annesley declined the monstrous proposition.

"Drill-books," he remarked, "are for those with no ideas of their own."

"That's why I suggest your reading it, Worm, but that ain't yours,

that's Graeme's. I recognise the brand; there's enough about, too,

goodness knows, of the same sort."

"Madder every day," continued Annesley. "He pow-wowed the squadron this

morning in a white top-hat. A--white--top-hat! I'm not lying, Graves."

"I saw him, it's sickening. Lord! what a second in command, or rather

C.O., for Royle's only a dummy. I thought too, after that last show-up

before Bumps, he meant putting his foot down. Talked enough about it,

but he ain't done it. Graeme wins another silly battle or two, and it's

worse than ever. He daren't say "Damn it" to him now. Cavalry officer

in a white top-hat, God!"

"Funny thing, the men never laughed. They did when they saw him first,

but once he began to talk they shut up, and sat listening with their

mouths open; so did Fanshawe and I, made us think, Graves, no end, felt

I'd like to be--Napoleon."

"You--Napoleon?"

"Well, why not? Every soldier, you know, carries a field-marshal's

what-you-may-call-it in his ruddy----"

"Shut up, for God's sake, you make me ill, Worm."

"Think he's really mad, Graves? Pa says he is."

"Pa?"

"Pa says--his room's next to Graeme's, you know--that he hears him

talking to himself at night. Damn sick about it Pa is, says it stops

him sleeping. It's ever since he came back three weeks ago. Where did

he go, d'you know?"

"You can see it in the leave-book, if you're interested, I'm not."

"Graves, I believe it's a girl's put Graeme wrong."

"You've not the slightest reason for thinking such a thing, Worm, Graeme

never speaks to a woman."

"I know, but, all the same, I'm sure of it. What did he go on leave for

then, why does any fellow go on leave in this cursed country, except

he's after a girl, or looking for one? If that's so, and he's taken the

knock, I'm sorry for him; must be damnable to be chucked by a girl.

Gad, if Fanny were to play it low down on me, I'd ... I don't know what

I would do, Graves. You've heard me speak of Fanny, haven't you?"

"I have, many times. Are you coming to polo?"

"Yes, wait a minute though; there's something else I wanted to tell you,

only it went out of my head, talking of Graeme. I had a letter from

Johnson, at Cape Town, this morning, and he says the Mahonga show is all

on again, and we shall be for it."

"Johnson's a fool, always spreading some shave. Come on, if you _are_

coming, that is." The pair went out, and mounting their waiting ponies

rode off to the polo ground.

Johnson, however, though a fool, as Graves justly observed, proved

himself on this occasion a true prophet, for next day into the

ante-room--at the time crowded with officers drinking afternoon

tea--burst Porky, pregnant with great news. For a moment he stood

surveying them, his face bright with anticipation of the unwonted

delights of an attentive audience, and then, as they, as usual, paid no

heed to his presence, he let loose the torrent fighting for escape

within him.

"I've news," he said, in a would-be indifferent manner, but again no one

heeded.

"I've news," he roared, "listen, damn you!"

"Don't shout, Porky," said a voice, "what's the matter?"

"Matter, why war's the matter," and at the word "war" a hush fell, and

everybody looked up. "Bloody war!" he continued, having an audience at

last, "and this gallant corps is for it, whether or no. The Mahongas

have risen, and are playing hell all round, so sharpen your swords and

spears, my sons, and make your last will and testament."

"It's a lie," said Graves crossly, from his corner.

"It's no lie, it's all right, I tell you; no damned shaves or leg-pulls

this time. I had it straight from Cape Town ten minutes ago."

"It's begun, thank God," muttered a voice, and Graeme rose and made his

way out, his departure being unnoticed in the general uproar.

"And I thank God too," said young Fanshawe, overhearing the latter part

of the sentence, "that it's you, and neither Porky nor Royle who will

run the show in this same bloody war."

*BOOK III*

*CHAPTER XXIV*

A wild December morning was breaking over the great British camp.

Masses of storm-cloud swept overhead, the wind howled, and gusts of rain

and sleet beat against the black streaming tents. In the broad lanes

and square parade grounds, deep in mud and patched with rapidly-widening

pools, arms and accoutrements could be seen lying, thrown down by their

owners, and left to rot and rust at will.

Some distance away from the camp rose a cluster of huge marquees, their

flags of white marked with the red cross of Geneva proclaiming them to

be the field hospital, and towards them, phantom-like in the drear

half-dark of morning, an apparently never-ending procession was moving.

Swaying ambulance waggons and creaking litters--their canvas bottoms

red-stained and dripping--toiled through the slush of the road, their

path impeded by a throng of limping, maimed, and cursing pedestrians.

The heart of Surgeon-General Macpherson, standing at the main entrance

of the hospital, grew heavy as he watched, and his face dark with shame

and grief, for never before in a life of more than sixty years had he

seen a sight like this.

"Poor old England," he muttered, "you're done at last," and then

suddenly his spare form stiffened, and his lips twisted into a smile,

for a young officer was approaching; and to Macpherson, and such as he,

the maintaining of a stiff upper lip before juniors is a rule of life

never to be forgotten, no matter how imminent and certain disaster.

"Hullo, Newton," he said, "what's the matter with you now? Can't have

the A.D.C.'s going sick, you know, or who's to run the army?"

"I'm all right, sir," answered the new-comer, touching his cap; "it's

not about myself I've come to see you, but Lord Harford, Sir Archibald

wants to know how he is."

Macpherson looked away, for despite his efforts the mask for a second

had slipped, though this was the question he had known was coming, and

one which would have to be answered, not once, but many times that day.

At that moment he would have given the half of his small worldly

possessions to be no longer Surgeon-General Macpherson, Principal

Medical Officer to the British Forces, but instead a junior

officer--nay, even a private soldier--in one of his beloved Highland

regiments. Still, there was no use burking it, and he answered:

"Lord Harford died two hours ago, Newton; he was shot through the lungs;

there was no chance of saving him from the first."

The boy's face fell, and an expression of dismay, almost of terror, was

displayed on it.

"Dead," he repeated, "the Commander-in-Chief dead? Good God, sir, what

an utter damnable mess we're in!"

Macpherson made no answer, for of a truth there was none to be made.

They were in a mess, such a one as probably no British army had been in

before, save perhaps in the earlier days of the Peninsular War. Then,

however, a great leader was there to guide them, one in whom all

trusted, but now it seemed that there was no one, for he in whose hands

their destiny had lain was dead. For the great war that had been

prophesied for years past by countless Cassandras had come upon England

at last, and as always, prophecies as to its course and method had been

totally false. A guarding fleet, the Balaams had declared, lured away,

then the horrors of invasion, the enemy successful at first, but in the

end gloriously repulsed, the British lion having awakened from his

slumbers. But here there had been no invasion--at least, not on the

enemy's part--nor any thought of such yet, though a hundred thousand

citizens, with guns and uniform, designated the Hearts of Oak--once

known as the Territorials, before then as the Volunteers--were waiting

on the coasts to receive them, patriotic rage inflaming their breasts.

No, the fleet had not been decoyed away, or destroyed; on the contrary,

it had done its work right well, and what remained of the enemy's fleet

was now safely shut up in blockaded ports.

Then a strange thing happened, and yet perhaps not strange, but as

certain to take place as the sun to shine in the heavens--England

herself determined to invade.

What does our Army exist for? This is the question invariably

propounded to a listening House by the merchant, lawyer, or doctor on

appointment to the charge of Army fortunes, and equally invariably

answered in accordance with party dictates, which demand at all costs

retention in Office. Not for aggression, most emphatically not, he

shouts, but for defence, and this being so, large numbers are but a

useless expense and conscription an unnecessary hardship. Never can

there be any question of England's invading a Continental or other

power, he goes on to declare, and party dogs and Little Englanders

bow-wow applause, and a slothful country smiles well pleased.

In this, as in many other political matters, he lies, for an army exists

to fight whenever and wherever it is called upon so to do, and the

military history of our own and other island nations is a story of

successful invasion--from Crecy to South Africa it is one and the same

story. For history, as the record of human nature, can never lie, and

must always repeat itself, and a nation, unless degenerate, demands the

striking of blows, not the mere waiting to receive them. And so

England, flushed with success, began to seethe and clamour for more; but

alas, of the Army there was only a handful, and the Hearts of Oak, by

special decree, existed merely for defence against invasion.

A deadlock ensued, and Europe began to laugh. Under the sting of its

laughter fury arose, and with it clamorous demands for an expedition,

the greater now, because the balance was beginning to fall against

England. The enemy had annexed countries she was bound by treaty to

defend, and with a lengthy coastline thus secured, was hard at it

building warships and repairing those disabled. It was but a question of

months now, and England's fleet would be overwhelmed by numbers.

The fury increased, mass meetings were held, and the Government rocked

where it sat. Expedition or resignation was demanded. Naturally the

former won, and a special decree was passed by which the Hearts of Oak

became liable for Service abroad. In vain they protested, deserted

even; it was all no good, for public sympathy was against them, and in a

few weeks a heterogeneous force of soldiers, sailors, and Hearts of Oak

was packed on transports and sailed away to war.

In chief command was Lord Harford, a man of remarkable ability as an

organiser, though notoriously deficient as a leader in the field, and

assisting him as Chief of the Staff was Sir Thomas Moleyns, also a man

of ability. His talents, however, were not those of a soldier, but

rather of a political intriguer, his present eminence being mainly owing

to the assistance given by him to the War Minister in a recent

difficulty connected with the public discovery of a shortage of

Government stores.

He was a strong, pushing person, however, and fully meant having the

control of the present expedition, an aim which the age and infirmities

of the Commander-in-Chief rendered comparatively easy of attainment.

Contrary to expectation, the landing of the army was unopposed, and,

that having been carried through without a hitch, the force marched on

unmolested for three days, the few hostile cavalry scouts met with

invariably retiring before its advance.

Almost it seemed as though the enemy invited invasion, which indeed was

the case, it having exceeded their most sanguine expectations, and

consequently the strictest orders had been issued to allow the British

to come on unopposed till well out of reach of their ships.

At home, however, this was not realised, and the news of the successful

debarkation aroused much enthusiasm. An unopposed occupation of the

capital was now confidently predicted, and preparations were already in

progress, and festivities organised to celebrate the event.

Their joy was but short-lived, the next news to hand being that of a

crushing disaster.

On the morning of the fourth day, the march was suddenly brought to a

halt by the tidings of a large force in position on a wooded ridge

ahead, completely barring the road by which they were moving to the

north. To the same message was added another to the effect that General

Sir Hector Graeme, commanding the cavalry division, had taken over

charge of the advanced guard, and was now preparing to attack. This

having been telephoned on to Moleyns, he at once directed General Graeme

to desist from his preparations, and, further, to recall all his

advanced scouts and patrols. His ostensible object in so doing was to

lull the enemy into security; his real one being the determination to

thwart a man for whom he had a whole-hearted dislike, and also, should

things go wrong, the securing of a scapegoat on whom he could lay the

blame.[#] Moleyns was a far-seeing man, and he knew, moreover, that

Graeme's downfall would be most gratifying in high places, particularly

to his friend and patron, Mr. Quibble, a Manchester solicitor, at that

time Secretary of State for War.

[#] This, it may be remarked, was a scheme played with success on many

occasions by generals during the time of the South African War.

This message sent, Moleyns issued orders for the advanced guard to fall

back on the main body, the whole army being further directed to camp one

mile north of the village of Rass. This done, and plans drawn up and

despatched to the various divisions, he sought out Lord Harford, whom he

found seated in a motor car some miles in rear, and propounded a scheme

for attack to be carried out that night; and, as usual, he gained his

point.

Night came; the attack was made by a third of the whole force, the

result being a crushing defeat.

Ignorant of the country, whole divisions went astray, and wandered

aimlessly about in the dark, and when eventually the bulk of the force

reached the place appointed, the night was suddenly illumined by the

glare of searchlights and star shells, and a tempest of lead and iron

burst upon the huddled mass. In vain did the foremost ranks turn to

fly, the pressure from behind was too great, and though at last they did

manage to get away and stream back into camp in the small hours of the

morning, it was as a rabble they reached it--a rabble, moreover, shorn

of at least half its numbers, the Commander-in-Chief himself being

mortally wounded by a chance bullet.

This reverse by itself was bad enough, but worse still was the news sent

in by the Cavalry leader--who, despite orders, had not withdrawn his

patrols, but instead sent out more and farther ahead--to the effect that

a huge body of hostile troops was coming up from the north, while from

the east another large column was rapidly advancing.

Lieutenant Newton, therefore, A.D.C. to Sir Archibald Townsend, was but

stating a fact in describing the situation as a "mess"; indeed, it was

considerable odds on the capture or annihilation of the British army

within the next forty-eight hours.

Meanwhile two other officers had joined the pair, bent on the same

errand as the first. "Poor old Harford!" said one on hearing the news,

"this is what comes of having an Office man as Chief of the Staff. I

suppose he'll run the show now. Lord help us! Who's the nominal head,

though, it's your fellow, ain't it, Newton?"

"No, it isn't, worse luck; it's Lieut.-General Sir Hector Graeme, better

known as Mad Jack. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it, friend

Caldwell."

"Thank ye, Newton. I've no wish to be sick."

"That's no way to speak of a general officer, Caldwell, let alone the

Commander-in-Chief," said Macpherson, his rugged face red with anger.

"Man, but I've a devilish good mind to clap ye under arrest, Sir

Archibald's A.D.C. though ye be."

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Caldwell sullenly. "I shouldn't have

said that, but my family and I have special reasons for hating this

General Graeme."

They were all silent; the new Commander-in-Chief's matrimonial

differences were well known.

"That may be, Caldwell," said Macpherson at last, "but those are private

matters, and best kept to yourself. Before me, at all events, ye'll

kindly remember Sir Hector Graeme is your superior officer, and as such

to be spoken of with respect."

"It's salvation this, a godsend, no less," said the third officer, who

hitherto had taken no part in the conversation; "we'll be in the capital

in a week now." Everyone turned to stare at the speaker, a somewhat

quaint-looking youth, with long hair and a uniform deviating from the

regulation pattern.

"And who may you be, young sir?" said Macpherson. "I thought I knew most

of the A.D.C.'s, but yours is a new face to me."

"My name's Glover, sir; I'm Sir Hector's A.D.C. Hulbert went sick three

days ago, and I got his place."

"Might have known it from his clothes and hair," muttered Caldwell.

"They all get like that; Hulbert was just the same. Pick it up from

him, I suppose; even his orderlies look like Merry Andrews. Gad, if I

were Commander-in-Chief, I'd soon----"

"I beg yer pardon, Mr. Caldwell."

"Nothing, sir. I should like to know, though, what Glover means by

salvation."

"The man's quite right to stand up for his General, Caldwell."

"It's not only because I'm that, sir," answered Glover, with sudden

animation, "it's because I, and all who have been under him, know what

he can do. Oh, I know it's said he's only fought against savages

hitherto, but, all the same, savages though they were, the Mahongas were

giving us a pretty bad time till the Coney's Drift affair. Precious

little thanks he got for it too, only abuse from the Radicals, and the

name of Butcher Graeme. It was a bloody business, I own, but that's his

way, and in my opinion the right way too. Anyhow, it finished the war;

the Mahongas hadn't a kick left in them after that. There was his work

in Georgistan, too----"

"Tell us about the ghost, Glover," interrupted Newton, yawning.

"Ghost, what do you mean, Newton?" asked Macpherson.

"Surely you've heard the yarn, sir? General Graeme's supposed to keep a

tame spook, which he consults before fighting a battle. It's common

talk, sir; I thought everyone knew."

Macpherson looked at Glover, despite himself, a Highlander's interest in

the subject gleaming in his eyes.

"A lie, I suppose, like most of the gossip about him," he said. "Eh,

Glover?" But the boy hesitated, at a loss what to say.

"There's no ghost, sir," he said at length, "at least, neither I nor any

one else I know has seen it."

"I should think not," broke in Caldwell, temper and prudence going

together. "The story's on a par with the rest of the humbug he and his

gang love to surround themselves with. Thank the Lord, I say, I'm only

a straightforward soldier's A.D.C., not a ruddy Jack o' the Green.

Why... What the devil's up, Newton, seen the gho----?" He finished the

rest of the sentence inside his helmet, which an unseen hand had

suddenly banged down over his eyes--Caldwell had become what is vulgarly

known as "bonneted."

"Jack o' the Green," he heard a harsh voice say. "Who calls the bloody

Commander-in-Chief a Jack o' the Green? Mutiny, mutiny! String him up,

old Clan na Gael! Scots wha hae! Where's a rope?"

With a wrench, Caldwell tore off the muffling headpiece, and stood

staring, for before him, with his wild eyes gleaming through a shock of

grey hair, stood the man of whom they had been speaking. On his head

was his usual white top-hat, a covering which no orders could induce him

to discard, and bound around it a green scarf. A sheepskin coat, dyed

red, hung on his wasted body, a common worsted muffler of orange and

green was wound round his scraggy neck, the costume being completed by

breeches of yellow leather and long india-rubber boots. Sign of

orthodox uniform there was none; indeed, had Sir Hector Graeme fallen

into the enemy's hands in his present attire, his instant execution as a

civilian in arms would have been amply justified by the rules governing

modern warfare.

His had been a somewhat chequered career during the last fifteen years,

short-lived bursts of fame alternating with lengthy periods of

obscurity. First brought into notice by the affair, already alluded to,

at Coney's Drift, where, taking advantage of his senior's absence for

the day, he had collected such force as he could lay hands on, and with

them fallen on and practically annihilated the Mahongas' main army, he

had signalised his victory by such subsequent outspoken criticism of his

superiors as had ensured his speedy supersession from further command.

True, before this had happened, his promotion to the rank of

Major-General had been wired out from home, but he was given plainly to

understand that no further advancement would be his; and thenceforth, by

most, his military career was regarded as finished. So undoubtedly it

would have been, had not hostilities broken out five years later in

Georgistan, and, after a succession of reverses, the papers began to

clamour for the despatch to the scene of General Graeme. For some time

the demand was ignored, but, the reverses continuing, he was eventually

sent out, and entrusted with the command of the Lines of Communication,

in which capacity it was thought he would have no chance of making

himself conspicuous. Fortune, however, favoured Hector, in the shape of

a fierce attack on a post in which he happened to be resting for the

night, and not only did he repel that assault, but, following up the

retiring enemy, completely routed them, although they were double his

strength in numbers. Probably owing to the fact that this was the first

British success since the war's commencement, Hector's name, as a

saviour, was blazoned forth on the placards of every evening paper, and

so great became the clamour for his advancement that reluctantly the

authorities placed him in command of the cavalry division. This

division--a failure hitherto--straightway began to harry and destroy,

their movements being conducted with such energy and ferocity that in a

short time the mere sight of a horseman would send the Georgistan

warriors scuttling hurriedly away to their hills.

For these services he was made Knight Commander of the Bath, and, on the

termination of the war, was given the command of one of the great Indian

Presidencies. Here, however, disaster overtook him; for shortly after

his appointment a certain member of the British Parliament made his

appearance, and proceeded to preach sedition to the natives living in

Hector's district. Graeme had been given the strictest orders to

refrain from interfering with this person, and for some weeks he ignored

his presence, though the effect of Mr. Belch's words on the ill-balanced

native mind was daily becoming more apparent.

Unfortunately for both, however, Hector one day happened to be walking

through the bazaar, accompanied by his A.D.C. and orderly, and, coming

upon the orator haranguing the mob, stopped to listen. For some time he

stood there, till at length the man perceived him, and, goaded to fury

at the sight of his country's uniform, commenced a tirade not only

against the army but against His Majesty the King. Now, devoid of most

human feelings as Hector was, being filled with an unreasoning hatred

and contempt for his fellows, there was yet one contradictory trait in

his character, and that was a great veneration for his Sovereign.

Hearing the King's name bawled forth in a native bazaar, he was seized

with sudden rage, and moved forward. Calling on his A.D.C. and orderly

to follow him, he charged through the mob, and seizing the now terrified

Belch, bore him to a shop hard by, where, with the aid of the other two,

he proceeded to tar and feather him. Not till the work was thoroughly

completed did he release the fellow, after which, thanks to a liberal

use of their fists, the three made their way through the crowd, and

though somewhat battered, reached home in safety.

Thereupon ensued a lively time at Headquarters. Cable upon cable poured

in, some from individuals unknown to Hector, of a congratulatory nature,

others from high quarters, demanding instant explanations. The former

he tore up contemptuously--he had no wish for the approval of his

fellow-men--the latter he answered in a letter couched in official

terms, to the effect that, thanks to him, Mr. Belch being now quite

black, was more wholly one with his friends; and as regarded the

feathering, that, he considered, improved the man's personal appearance.

He concluded by announcing his intention of burning the native city, now

in an uproar.

Further cables followed in quick succession, suspending, threatening,

and finally entreating, but to no purpose. Hector continued his

preparations for destruction.

At the eleventh hour His Majesty himself intervened. A telegram was

received making known his pleasure to Hector, whereupon he at once

ordered the troops, already in position round the city, back to

barracks, and he himself started for England. Here he entered

Parliament, where he soon became a very terror to the War Minister, a

member of his own--nominal--party, exposing many things, and piercing

through all shufflings and evasions. But his animosity was mainly

directed against the Territorial scheme--as it was then known--his

crowning indiscretion being an address, delivered to a regiment of these

warriors drawn up for inspection before the Mansion House.

"My dear fellow," the War Minister had said to him some minutes

previously, "for goodness' sake give these chaps a pat on the back. I

know you don't think much of them--nor, between ourselves, do I--but the

country won't stand conscription, though we all know it's the only

thing. For the Lord's sake remember your party--we're a bit dicky as it

is--and say something civil."

Whereupon Graeme spoke, his words being audible not only to those he was

addressing, but also to the assembled crowd.

"I've been asked to speak to you," he said, "and damme, I will. Listen,

then. Soldiers I know, sailors I know, but you, you're neither flesh,

fowl, nor good red herring. I give you my word one regiment of regulars

would play the bloody bear with an Army Corps of such a scratch mob as

you. My friend Jampots here"--this in graceful allusion to the firm of

which the present War Minister was a member--"says he don't think much

of you, nor, begad, do I."

This peroration completed, Graeme rode off, well pleased with himself,

and his speech having been reported in every paper, the result was a

vote of censure on Jampots, a division in the House, and the subsequent

defeat of the Government.

For Hector, for some strange reason--the stranger considering the

contempt he had for them--was beloved by the British public. The very

Socialistic spirit of the age, which he abhorred, being almost

reactionary in his own views, worked in his favour; for Hector was

always at war with authority, and the hearts of the mob warmed to him as

they viewed his fierce battling with overwhelming odds. He made them

laugh too--a certain passport to their favour--and yet with this

laughter was mingled no contempt, his reckless bravery and constant

brilliant success forbade that. Added to which, there was much sympathy

felt towards him on account of his well-known marital differences, for

that Hector was responsible for them no one save the Caldwells and their

relations believed. For the man, though notorious throughout the

Service for an outrageously blasphemous tongue, was yet renowned for his

austere morality, whereas Lady Graeme was now one at whom a good many

looked askance. For in that way had Lucy taken her trouble, and few

would have recognised in the full-busted, dyed-haired, and loud-voiced

Lady Graeme the modest country-loving Lucy of former days. Of her

husband she would talk openly, and as openly ridicule. "Mad Jack

again!" she would exclaim, to the crowd of boys always in attendance.

"Gracious, what a nuisance the man's getting! Give me a cigarette, like

a dear, and talk of something else. You forget I lived with the

treasure for ten years, and, heavens, how bored I was!" And so, as

usual, the least guilty received the blame, and Lucy, in men's eyes, was

the sinner, and Hector the injured--liked the better for his injuries.

Further--and probably this was the chief factor in their regard--there

was about Graeme an undefined element of mystery; the strange story of

the ghost, derided by some but believed in by many, invested with a

weird charm his successes, which, brilliant as they were, they would

have lacked without.

All these things, together with his utter disregard of consequences to

himself, his obvious disinterestedness, and his contempt of party

shufflings, impressed the variable mob; and such an expression of

opinion as that uttered before the Mansion House completely damned the

Territorial scheme, and destroyed all public faith in the party then in

power. Graeme, however, did not seek re-election--he was already sick

of the dirty political game--but proceeded on a tour round the world,

from which he had returned but a few weeks before the declaration of

war. Again the same attempt was made to ignore him--and this time it was

stronger then ever, for both parties were now against him--but the

public would have none of it, and though the authorities refused the

demand for his appointment to the chief command, they so far yielded to

pressure as to give him the leadership of the two cavalry divisions,

from the camp of which he had just arrived, unfortunately in time to

hear Caldwell's last remark.

"A hanging job this, Cockaleekie," he went on, looking around him;

"where's a rope? Aha!" Then running to the marquee he drew a knife

from his pocket, and cutting through one of the tent cords, returned

with it in his hand to the now silent quartette.

"Round his neck, so!"--fitting the noose over Caldwell's head as he

spoke, and then tossing the other end over the bracket of an adjacent

lamp-post--"Ready now? Sound the dead march then, whack your tummy for

the drum, old Mac; what the devil are you laughing at?" seeing abroad

smile on the surgeon's and Newton's faces. There was no smile on the

faces of Caldwell and Glover, however, but an expression of scorn on the

one and terror on the other, for well Glover knew Hector Graeme, and

also Hector Graeme's idea of a joke.

"Think I don't mean it?" he cackled. "Gad, I'll show you, then." He

drew the rope tighter, but the boy never flinched, and his eyes now

expressed hatred as well as scorn.

"Sir," said Macpherson, his smile suddenly fading, "Caldwell was only

joking, very wrong, I own, but he's young, sir."

The cord dropped from Graeme's hands.

"What did you say his bloody name was?"

"Caldwell, sir, General Belfield's A.D.C."

A slash of the knife, and the rope lay in pieces on the ground.

"Be off," he said, "cackle as much as you like, I won't touch you. It's

the way you and the rest of the brood have been brought up. Go and

chatter about your Commander-in-Chief, if you will; I've stood it for

years, and despise it. Clear!"

Silently Caldwell saluted and went, and for a minute an awkward pause

followed. Graeme stood looking after the retreating figure, and, then

suddenly throwing himself forward on to his hands, he turned a couple of

cartwheels and once more came back to the group.

"What's the night's bag," he said, "a good un, ain't it, and mixed?"

"I don't know yet for certain, sir," answered Macpherson. "There are

four generals killed, and close on seven thousand officers and men

either dead or wounded. The missing, of course, I don't count."

"Hurrah! That'll make 'em sing _Rule Britannia_ at home; a jolly good

lesson to 'em, though they'll forget it in a year. Think we're going to

win, Mac?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't, that drawn mug of yours gives you away, we shall, though.

The old green-backs, yonder," waving his hand to the north, "are in for

a hell of a hiding. Like my hat?" suddenly addressing the open-mouthed

Newton.

"N-no, sir."

"Boil my lights," suddenly becoming furious, "d'ye hear that,

MacSporran? He don't like my hat. Well, well, nor does Moleyns; and

that reminds me I'm due at the talking shop at nine. Holy trousers!"

pulling out a frying pan of a watch, "half-past by my old chest

protector. Tra la! tra la!" and gathering up his skirts the

Commander-in-Chief skipped nimbly over the rails guarding the hospital

entrance, and jumping on his horse galloped away to Headquarters, flakes

of mud and sprays of dirty water flying around him.

From the marquee behind a man emerged, his white apron and sleeves

splashed with blood, and joined Macpherson, who was now alone, Glover

and Newton having ridden away together.

"Morning, Sir George," said the P.M.O., turning to the new-comer;

"pretty busy in there, aren't you? Gad, but the country ought to be

grateful to you."

"Bah!" said the latter, a famous London surgeon, now on self-imposed

duty with the British expeditionary force, while a thousand patients

were left lamenting in town behind him.

"Isn't that Sir Hector Graeme riding away?"

"Yes."

"Commander-in-Chief, now, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"I'm one of his admirers, General."

"So am I, Sir George."

The other smiled--for an admirer, the speaker's voice was singularly

unenthusiastic.

"I believe in the ghost too," Romford continued.

The P.M.O. frowned, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke out. "Look

here, Sir George, you're one of us, so there's no harm in you and me

discussing the question. Tell me what do you make of this ghost

business--epilepsy?"

"Decidedly not--Graeme's no epileptic; nor were Joan of Arc, St. Paul,

and other visionaries, as used to be supposed. That idea's exploded.

An epileptic never remembers what he's seen in his seizures--they did."

"What is it, then--mania?"

"Nor that either. All that eccentricity, in my opinion, is only a pose,

probably to attract attention. Diseased vanity's at the bottom of that,

I should say; it's quite separate from the vision part--that's a form of

hysteria."

"Purely physical, you think?"

"Partly and partly metaphysical. I'll tell you my theory, if you like;

it's my own, and probably worthless, but such as it is you can have it.

It's this. In every human being there exists something--call it soul,

call it subconscious self if you like--and that something, which I hold

to be immortal, passes at death to another body. But in the majority,

though it controls, it works underground, and is silent; in others,

however--the abnormal--it makes itself heard, and at certain moments

takes charge and speaks; then we have what are called flashes of genius.

A genius does not reason or think a matter out as we do. His ideas come,

and are followed. And to my thinking they come not from the man

himself, but from his soul, endowed with the knowledge and experience of

thousands of years. That's what makes the characters and masterpieces

of poets and painters that were drawn ages ago true to present-day life.

It is universal, not individual, human nature they describe."

"But the visions--how do you account for them, a man can't see his own

soul?"

"Something or someone seen when the mind, from certain causes, is

extraordinarily excited, and so it becomes indelibly photographed on the

mental vision; thenceforth, by a very natural sequence, the voice of

subconscious self becomes that of the vision."

"But I've always understood that these visions are only seen

occasionally."

"Exactly, when the mind is in the same state as it was when the

apparition first appeared, that can and usually is as the mental picture

fades with physical powers, for delusion dies with or just before the

body, brought about by drugs or some other excitant to the nerves."

"What for?"

"Because he must have the vision to tell him what to do. It gives him

the inspiration, without which he's firmly convinced he cannot act--and

he couldn't."

"But Graeme's not a drug-taker; he won't touch even a sleeping-draught,

though ordered by a doctor; he smokes but little too, five cigarettes a

day, never more."

"What does he drink?"

"He's a teetotaler, save for an occasional bottle of champagne. Hullo,

Glover, what do you want?"

"Sir Hector, sir, I forgot to give him his flask; here it is."

In an instant Sir George had stretched out his hand, and coolly taking

the flask unscrewed the top, and put it to his nostrils. He then handed

it to Macpherson, who did the same.

"Hurry, Glover," said the P.M.O., "you'll catch him if you're quick,"

and the boy galloped away, leaving the two looking at each other.

"Good-day, General," said Romford at last; "I must get back to my work."

*CHAPTER XXV*

"Any sign yet of Sir Hector? It's past the half-hour, and our time's

short enough, goodness knows. You might look out, one of you, and see,

will you?"

The speaker, Sir Thomas Moleyns, glanced up from the desk at which he

sat, with a typewritten document before him. He alone of the assembled

crowd was seated, the remainder, all generals, were standing together in

a group some distance away.

Moleyns, however, had already assumed the mantle of Lord Harford, just

deceased. With this garment upon his back, he had now discarded his

former transparent cloak of subserviency, and was issuing orders boldly

in his own name, one of the said orders being the summons to attend the

present conference at Headquarters.

All had obeyed save one. That one was his nominal chief, for nominal

Moleyns intended him to be; if not, well, he had cards up his sleeve

higher than any the other was likely to possess. If necessary, he would

produce these, but such necessity, he felt confident, was hardly likely

to arise, for Graeme would certainly knuckle under, as Lord Harford and

all others with whom he had hitherto come in contact had done.

At his request, brigadiers, major-generals even, anxious to placate the

all-powerful, hastened to the door. Then they suddenly stopped, and

looked back over Moleyn's head, to where the upper half of a top-hatted

figure was to be seen busily engaged in cutting an entrance through the

side of the tent.

The Chief of the Staff was once more bending over his papers, and did

not note the rapidly-growing astonishment on the faces of his audience.

"Can't you see him?" he said, after a pause. "Really, this is----"

"It is. Good-morning, your Highness," and with an agile spring Graeme

leapt in front of the desk, and, doffing his hat, bowed low. "And what

may be your Nib's royal commands?" he continued. "Oh, pray be seated,"

as Moleyns rose, and with narrowing eyes stood regarding the quaint

figure before him.

"As Chief of the General Staff, sir," he said, with an almost open sneer

in his voice, "and the matter being urgent, I took the liberty of

summoning these gentlemen to a conference."

"A liberty, Thomas? Oh, don't say that."

Moleyns coloured. "In the absence of the Commander-in-Chief, sir, I

submit, with all respect, it's the duty of the Headquarter Staff to act

on their own responsibility. Lord Harford took that view, sir."

"Lord Harford's offed it, Thomas, flown away aloft, and now it's bloody

Hector Graeme who runs the show. 'Mad Jack' they call him. And Mad Jack

now says to Thomas, 'Shut up, you had your fun last night, and you ain't

going to have no more.'"

"Sir?"

"Stuff it! Jack commands his own bloody army his own bloody way, and

that way ain't Thomas's. Stop your cackling now; I jaw here. Off your

perch quick, and join the other blokes. Now, all of you get into line,

and let's have a look at your dials; there's a lot I don't know."

Mechanically the crowd shuffled into line and stood silently, while

Graeme passed along them, staring hard at each in turn. Opposite one he

stopped, and then suddenly held out his hand.

"Long Nose," he said, "I'd know that bill in a thousand. What are you

doing here?"

"I'm commanding the tenth division, sir," answered Godwin, for he it

was, a flush rising to his face at the instant recognition.

"Nose seems longer--regular curlew's beak," said Graeme, and passed with

a muttered "One good un, anyway." The inspection ended, he returned to

the desk, and, perching himself on it, sat there for a moment regarding

them.

"Blokes," he said at last, "I don't want ye here, nasty wet day to be

out, but you can thank Thomas for that, not me. Still, now that you've

come, I'm going to ask you all a conundrum. You know the hat we're in.

Uriel's lot of thirty thousand, full of buck after last night's

pantomime, in our front fifteen miles away; behind them one hundred

thousand under Gabriel--a scorcher, Gabriel, I tell you--and from the

west, coming up fast, another eighty thousand under Michael, almost as

hot as Gabriel. By to-morrow night we'll have at least two hundred

thousand of the best against our scratch lot of a hundred and fifty

thousand, that is, if they don't off it before then, which, from what I

saw as I came along, seems more than likely. There you have it in the

neck, and I hope you like it. Now each of you in turn answer this

question--what are we to do? I'll begin with old Archibald there."

"Retreat, sir, to the coast, as quick as we can," was the ready answer.

"Get back to the ships."

"Retire."

"Retire."

"Slip away to-night."

"Have another go at 'em, sir. I can beat last night's lot off my own

bat. My men ain't Hearts of Oak, sir."

"Oho! and who are you, my fighting ram?"

"Fellowes, sir, Guards division," answered the speaker, a huge

red-haired man with choleric, blue eyes.

"Hum ... and you?" passing on.

"Retire, sir, nothing else for it."

"Retire."

"Stay where we are, sir, and fight them as they come. We'll be wiped

out, but that don't matter much; it's better than slinking home,

anyway."

This from a skeleton of a man, with haggard face, large dark eyes, and

hair patched with grey.

"Who are you, Drink or Colney Hatch?"

"Roy, sir, Lancashire division."

"Roy," repeated Graeme, passing on, "Roy. And you, Boko?"

"Retire, sir, but fight them all the way," said Godwin. "Retreat to

Corunna, sir."

"And now we'll hear Thomas."

"Certainly retire, sir, it's the only possible course. The plans are

already drawn up, and here ready for your approval."

"Let's see them."

Moleyns' confidence returning at the request, he handed a document to

Graeme, who thereupon rolled it up into a ball and threw it at the

other's head. The Chief of the Staff, however, ducking in time, the

missile flew over his head, hitting Sir Archibald Townsend in the

stomach.

"Missed him!" cried Hector, annoyed, and then once more turned to his

audience.

"Clear, all of you," he said, "back to your commands, and shove some

heart into 'em, if you can; for, begad, they need it--so do you. Return

here at two o'clock. I'll have something to tell you then."

All save one saluted and withdrew in silence. Moleyns stood before

Graeme, with a mixture of defiance and uneasiness on his face.

"After what has occurred, sir," he said, with surface boldness, "there

is only one course, I think, for me to adopt, and with your permission,

sir, I now tender my resignation as Chief of the Staff."

"You can go to the devil for all I care," was the answer, "get out!" and

Sir Thomas also withdrew, leaving Graeme alone.

"He's off to cable to Quibble," he muttered, looking after him. "All

right, let him; he won't get an answer, if I know anything about it.

Hades, but I'm up against the politicians as usual, same as every

English general's been, Marlborough, Wellington, and now poor old

Hector. Cowardly brutes, sitting at home in the talking shop while we're

fighting their battles. The enemy's not enough, they think; must fight

them as well. Never mind, I'm equal to them; the more against me the

better I like it. Now what am I to do? Not an idea so far, except that

attack I must. It will come all right; I've only to ask. First thing

is to appoint a new Chief of the Staff, don't suppose though one of

those fellows would come, too frightened of Moleyns. Not much catch if

they did; of the lot only two were for fighting, the curs. Still it has

to be one of them, but which? Fellowes, no; thick-headed fighting man

and that only. Roy, too pessimistic. Ah, what about Godwin? He might

do, and his old fancy for me still lasts; I could see it when I spoke to

him."

"Orderly," he called, "here, run after General Godwin--he's a bloke with

a beak--and tell him I want him. Don't come back without him, d'ye

hear?"

The man vanished, and a quarter of an hour afterwards the sound of

galloping hoofs was heard, followed by advancing footsteps. Then the

curtain was pushed aside, the long-nosed one entered, and stood at

attention.

"I want you, Old Un," began Graeme, without preliminary, "as Chief of

the Staff. Moleyns has given me notice. What d'ye say?"

Godwin hesitated.

"I suppose you think," continued Hector, eyeing him, "that if I go under

over this, Moleyns being Quibble's boy, it's a poor look out for you. I

ain't going under, though; you mark that, old bird."

"I wasn't thinking that at all, sir," was the answer, "my career's

finished, in any case, by age."

"Do what I ask, and you shall be Commander-in-Chief when you get back."

"What about you then, sir?"

"Me? I've done with it after this. I'll pull them through now, and

then home I go and speak out--tell the nation what sort of troops

Quibble and his like send out to face the best soldiers in the world.

I'll do what Roberts ought to have done when he had the chance in 1900,

but wasn't man enough to take it. He told them afterwards when he was

outed and had no further advancement to hope for; but no one would

listen then, and rightly--he hadn't the weight of office behind him.

'Why didn't you speak then?' was a question he couldn't answer; 'we'd

have believed you if you had; now you're one of us, and we won't.

You're a nobody now.' But I'm rambling, what's your objection?"

"That Chief of the Staff, sir, is an appointment made by the Army

Council. What if they cancel mine by wire?"

"Leave that to me, will you or not?"

"Very well, sir, if you wish it; and I'm proud of the honour, sir."

"Here's what you're to do, then. Go back to your division and hand over

to your next senior. Then deliver these orders," writing as he spoke,

"to Sir Archibald Townsend and these five others. Out they go, that's

the first thing."

"Sir," stammered Godwin, aghast at this high-handedness--"six generals

relieved of their command. What reason, sir? They're bound to ask."

"Tell them I don't like their faces--nor I do. Now, see here,

Cockalorum. Once upon a time at a field day, fifteen years ago, I was

sold by a junior, and a lesson once given I never forget. I didn't

blaspheme, Godwin, I didn't whine, for no one cares why a fellow loses,

or believes his reasons. No, I took the blame, but I swore that never

should such a thing happen to me again. To keep those six generals

means six useless divisions, and every one of those divisions I shall

want. So ... out they go. Now, when you've done that, ride through the

following camps," giving him another paper, "don't ask questions, but

keep your eyes open, and let me know what you see. Be back here at

half-past one; that will give us half an hour before the generals

arrive. One thing more--tell the guard outside to post sentries round

this tent, and on no account to let anyone pass till you come yourself."

"Very good, sir. Is that all?"

"Replace the present telegraph staff with men you personally know and

can trust. Give them orders that all messages, no matter to whom

addressed, are to be given into your hands or mine. That's all."

"Very good, sir," and Godwin went out leaving Graeme once more alone.

"Now for the plan," he muttered, and rising, he closed every door of the

marquee in turn till the tent was plunged in gloom. Then, returning to

his seat, he dived into one of his voluminous pockets, from which he

produced the flask handed to him an hour before by Glover, and,

unscrewing the top, drained its contents.

This done, from a leather case he took two of the five thin black

cigarettes it contained, and proceeded to smoke them slowly through, one

after the other, with his head thrown back and eyes closed. Gradually

the drug and the cigarettes took effect, and Graeme stirred restlessly

in his chair, till at last, springing up, he commenced pacing rapidly up

and down the tent.

"Two short hours," he muttered, "only two. Stara, why don't you come?

I'm waiting."

Rapidly his excitement grew; the sweat poured down his grey, working

face, and he staggered as he walked.

"Stara, speak!" he shouted, and then stopped dead, with eyes glaring

into the gloom.

"Yes, yes," he whispered, "you're coming. I can hear those harps again,

they're sounding louder. Ah!" with a scream, "the light--the light,

Stara, beloved," and Hector threw out his arms, swayed for a moment, and

then, falling forward on to the ground, lay motionless.

A quarter of an hour passed, and then a faint tremor shook the still

figure. He moved restlessly, tossing out his arms, then painfully

raised himself on his elbow, and looked vacantly around.

Slowly the light of understanding returned to his eyes. He struggled to

his feet, and groping his way to a chair lay back in it for some

minutes, panting; then from his pocket he produced another flask--a tiny

gold one--and putting it to his lips gulped down the contents.

Rapidly the liquid fire ran through his numbed body, and a faint colour

returned to his cheeks. He sat up, his eyes bright with exultation.

"Koeniggratz, she said," he murmured, "only the one word, but enough,"

and then, with full strength restored, he hurried over to the desk, and

seizing pencil and paper began feverishly to write.

For over an hour he sat, covering sheet after sheet with his round

sprawling caligraphy, and flinging each sheet on the ground when

finished, till a heap of paper rose by his side. His task completed, he

gathered up the documents, pinned them together, and read them rapidly

through. This done, he flung the bundle on the desk, and striding across

to a large blackboard standing at one end of the tent chalked on it a

picture--if it could be so designated when the drawing would have

disgraced a child of ten.

Barely was the work completed and the artist's signature subscribed,

when footsteps were heard approaching. Hastily covering the board with a

cloth, Hector returned to his desk, which he reached as Godwin entered,

with gloom written on his face.

"Raven!" roared Hector at the sight, and then ran to the tent-pole and

began to shin rapidly up it, where he chanted, from the top:

"... grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore--

* * * * *

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my

door!"

He then slithered down again, and stood once more on the floor.

"I'm sorry, sir, if I look a bit down," answered Godwin, forcing a

smile, "but I've just been round those divisions, and it's been rather a

depressing experience. Honestly, sir, I believe that once the retreat

begins half of them will be off, and if the enemy have good cavalry

they'll cut them down like sheep."

"So much the better, teach them not to run in the future; there's

nothing like practical experience. But see here, take this and read,"

throwing over his recent work as he spoke, "look sharp, those fellows

will be here in a minute."

Godwin took the papers, and read as directed. Half-way through the

first page he stopped, and glanced up at the other, with a startled

look.

"It's not to be retreat, then?"

"It is not, Old Un; attack I will and must, till the sawdust's out of

me. But look here, those Napoleons are beginning to arrive. This will

explain quicker." He walked over to the blackboard, uncovered it, and

stood watching Godwin's face as he looked. "Got it, Old Un, I see," he

said, after a pause.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, take those papers with you and read them later; you will

find it all fully laid down there, numbers and everything. Your job

will be to get the main army in position by three a.m. to-morrow

morning. There are only three roads, so, to avoid jostling, some of the

divisions will have to move across country. You had better have

compass-bearings taken at once."

"And about Roy and Fellowes, sir?"

"I'll see them myself, and tell them what to do. Did you give those

orders to Archibald and the others?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing to me, sir, but I believe they're all in Moleyns' tent now. I

found out too that he has sent two cables this morning. I tried to see

their contents, but the clerk refused to give them."

"Send for that clerk here, and put the poker in the fire."

"No one knows where he is, sir; the man's disappeared."

"Oh, well, never mind; we'll have the answer, which is all that matters.

One thing more, what do you know of Roy?"

"First-rate man, sir, but ... reckless."

"Why?"

"Some trouble at home, sir, I believe," answered Godwin, colouring and

looking away.

"He'll do for the west road job, you think?"

"I believe he'd thank you for it, sir."

"Right; call those fellows in now; I can hear them shuffling about

outside."

In trooped the generals once more, with an even deeper cloud than before

on their faces, for Moleyns had many adherents, and the news of his

resignation, coupled with that of the suspension of six of their number,

had aroused ill-concealed resentment and alarm. They stood regarding

Graeme with a certain curiosity, but without any semblance of

confidence--nor were his opening words calculated to alter their

opinions.

"Rot me!" he said, staring at them, "a sadder-looking lot of blokes

blowed if I ever saw together in a lump. Glorious war don't seem to

agree with most of you, and that's a fact. Strike me stinking! how the

devil do you expect your men to chirp when you, their leaders, slope

along as happy-looking as a batch of oysters in the sun? Retreat, cut

away, back to your turkey and plum-pudding. That's all you're thinking

about, eh, Old Guts?" turning to a portly officer, whose face wore a

particularly grave expression.

A stir of anger ran through his audience. The stout General's face

crimsoned, and then grew white.

"You're pleased to insult me, Sir Hector," he said, with cold dignity.

"My opinion, asked for by you, was, it is true, for retreat. I

believed, and still believe, it's the only thing to be done. I was not

thinking of myself, but of the army. Now, however," he paused, biting

his lips, and then his voice rang out, "I say go on and fight. Lose the

army if you will, I don't care. After what you've said, I for one will

not return home. I will resign my command. I will scrape together such

men of my division as will follow me, and----"

"And how many will that be, do you think?" jeered Graeme.

"And attack Uriel's position to-night, while _you_ are off home. You

may call George Stanhope 'Old Guts,' if it pleases you, Sir Hector, but

coward you shall not, nor shall any other man."

A murmur of sympathy ran through the assembly--the speaker was known as

one of the bravest men in the army.

"Roused you, have I?" roared Graeme; "want to fight now, do you? Very

well then, you shall, George, my boy; we all will. And now stop

muttering, all of you, and ... listen." Hector rose from the chair in

which he had been lounging and stood erect, facing them; and, at

something, something indefinable in the tone of the last word, a sudden

silence fell. All eyes were fixed on the speaker, and as they looked

amazement grew, for over the shabby, grotesque figure before them a

startling change had come. In some strange way he seemed to have grown

bigger, and to fill the tent to the exclusion of all else; even the

gigantic Fellowes appeared to have become a pigmy like the others. Gone

too was the demeanour of the buffoon, and in its place there was visible

a dignity--almost a majesty--of bearing, unimpaired by the clown's

trappings of top-hat and sheepskin coat.

In that instant, at the one simple word, all had changed, and in a flash

the truth of the stories that they had heard was revealed--stories of

the strange power emanating from this man, of the ascendency of his mind

over those of his followers, stories at which they had so often scoffed,

but at which, having felt his power themselves, they scoffed no longer.

Nor did their mood change even when he ran to the black-board, and

uncovering the picture, proceeded to explain it in the jargon of the

streets. The palpitating vibrating speech held them silent and

thrilled, despite the words in which that speech was uttered.

"Yes, fight it is," he continued, "and, this time, win. I needn't tell

you that, you know it as well as I do now. Want to know how, do you?

See there then," and with outstretched hand he pointed to the board, on

which the following was depicted:

In the foreground lay a prostrate figure, looked down upon by another,

huge of stature and with bearskin on head. Over the pair were scrawled

the words: "Uriel, deceased, 6 a.m., December 25th." Beyond him a third

figure was to be seen sinking to the ground, under the blows of a man in

a top-hat. The falling figure was labelled "Gabriel," and the man in

the hat "Mad Jack." To the left was a tall thin man, with a long pole

in his hand, with which weapon he was pushing away another man twice his

size; the big man was labelled "Michael." Under the whole was written,

"One down, t'other come on.

"H. G., R.A."

"That's how," continued the artist, "there's the whole blasted scheme in

a square yard, better than fifty pages of Staff College clap-trap. Ha!

there's one who don't seem to tumble," looking at Lord Fellowes, whose

face wore a look of deep perplexity, "never mind, Flamingo Head, your

thinking-box may be thick, but your heart's right enough, and that's all

I want from you, for it's you, my lord, that's going to lead the bloody

cotillion. Hullo! there's another woolly brain. I'll have to hammer it

in, I see. Listen then.

"That fellow in the front is Uriel, as you see, old Uriel, sitting on

his hill yonder, rubbing his hands over what he gave us last night, and

praying for Michael and Gabriel to hurry up and catch us before we're

off to the briny sea. But to-night, when he and his men are dreaming of

medals and golden crosses--perhaps drawing lots for my Piccadilly

tile--old red-head there will be close by, waiting for the morning, and

when the light breaks he creeps up, nearer, nearer; the bayonets flash,

and then ... God help you, Uriel, and a merry Christmas to ye."

"Good," said Fellowes, a smile breaking over his face.

"And then up comes Mad Jack with the rest--Hearts of Oak, sailors,

soldiers, the whole bloody rag, tag and bobtail--and hurrying on to that

ridge beyond will wait there for Gabriel, poor old Gabriel, who's been

wearing his men out in his hurry to catch us before we're gone. Down he

goes too, with his hundred thousand with him. And away to the west,

Michael will hear Gabriel's death-yowl, but won't be able to chip in,

for there's a man there I know," and here Graeme looked directly at Roy,

who nodded slightly in answer, "a cove with a long pole, who says to him

'Keep off, Michael, old bird, leave Jack and Gabriel to fight it out;

it's their bloody scrap, not yours.'"

He stopped abruptly, and then went on:

"I beat them in detail, you see, blokes, what the Austrians should have

done before Koeniggratz, and would have, had Hector G. been driving the

coach and not Benedek. Now, go back to your divisions and pull them and

their arms out of the mud they're in. Your orders will be sent you

later, go. Fellowes and Roy stay behind; I want you both. You first,

Fellowes; Roy, wait outside." All except Fellowes saluted, and went

silently out.

"You said, Fellowes, you wanted another go at them. You shall have it;

you'll attack at dawn to-morrow with three divisions, your own guards,

the Highlanders, and Irish. Move off to-night and be at this point,"

indicating a spot on the map, "at 3 a.m. to-morrow morning. You'll give

the orders to your command yourself. Off you go, Roy."

"Sir?"

"You'd like the pole job?"

"Yes."

"The other fellow's much bigger than you. He'll break your pole and

kill you for certain, Roy."

"It's the luck of the game, sir."

"There'll be no luck for you--and no retreat either, mind that. Roy,

it's a fight to a finish, and the finish will be only one way."

"What can you give me, sir?"

"Two divisions only. Your own, and any other you like, bar Fellowes'

lot."

Roy thought for a moment.

"I'd like the Yorkshire men, sir, they're friends of my men."

"You shall have them. You'll start from here at eight to-night, moving

by the west road. Shove on as hard as you can till you meet Michael.

Then take up a position and fight him till you've not a man left. Under

no circumstances is he to be allowed to interfere with me. Send back

word now and again to let me know how it goes."

"That all, sir?"

"That's all, except to say good-bye. Perhaps meet you later in the

brimstone duck-pond." Roy went out with a light in his dark eyes,

leaving Hector considering.

"Thank God for a lunatic," he muttered, "stroke of luck for me striking

him. Now, what will I do to pass the time? Ah, I know. Godwin."

"You called, sir?" answered the long-nosed one, appearing.

"Which is the worst division, the absolute bloodiest bloody?"

"The 15th, sir."

"I'm going round to call on them. You carry on; you know what you have

to do."

"I--I--if I might suggest, sir, I shouldn't. They're almost in open

mutiny."

"That's how I like them." He picked up his gloves and hat, and walked

to the door, where he paused for a second. "Look out for cheering from

the 15th division, Old Un," he said, and went out.

"Trumpeter, come with me; not you, orderly--only Sykes there. On for a

lark, William?"

"Yes, sir," from the trumpeter, a friend of many campaigns.

"Come on, then," and mounting his horse he rode away through the driving

rain, the trumpeter following at some distance. At length they reached

an open space, deep in slush, in which could be seen lying rusty rifles

and accoutrements. These had been thrown down by their owners, who were

now in the surrounding tents, where they lay sleeping or cursing their

officers.

In the centre of the square Graeme stopped.

"Fifteenth division this, ain't it, Sykes?" he asked the trumpeter.

"That's her, sir," answered the man. "Gawd! look at them guns."

"Tu-whoo, tu-whoo then, bust yourself."

"What's it to be, sir?"

"We'll start with reveille."

Without a word, Sykes raised his trumpet and blew, the first notes

evoking a faint "booing" from the closed tents. This ceased, however, as

the call continued, and it dawned upon the hearers that it was the

reveille sounding at three o'clock in the afternoon. Soon a few heads

were thrust out to ascertain what the unusual departure portended.

"Again, William," and a second time the notes rang out. More heads

appeared, followed by bodies, and then there was a general exodus from

the tents. All faces were turned toward the quaint figure in the middle

of the parade ground, and faint sounds of mirth arose.

"Laughing, that's something, anyway," muttered Graeme; "now the

'Assembly' quick, Bill."

The man obeyed. The figures hesitated for a moment, a buzz of

conversation arose, and then a few came lounging forward. The

remainder, a lead having once been given, followed, till a sea of sullen

upturned faces surrounded the pair.

"Men of the 15th division," said Graeme, regarding them. "I'm the

Commander-in-chief. 'Mad Jack' they call me. Allow me to introduce

myself." He took off his hat and bowed all round.

There was a puzzled silence, broken by a voice:

"Go to 'ell! We don't want no bloody Commander-in-Chiefs 'ere."

Graeme turned, and for a second sat looking at the speaker, a pale-faced

Cockney; then, pulling out his revolver, he forced his way to where the

man was standing, and shot him through the head. After this, wheeling

his horse about, he faced each section of the crowd in turn, with the

smoking weapon brandished in his hand. Back surged the mob, growling

and calling on their leaders, but one was now gone and the others failed

to appear.

"Dogs!" shouted Graeme, "hounds! Oh, snarl away if you like; it's all

you can do, and I'm not afraid of you, though I'm only one against your

thousands. Small wonder you got beat last night; they're soldiers

yonder, but you, you're only jackals, noisy enough when there's no

fighting, but slinking to your holes once a gun's fired. Hullo, you want

to speak, do you?" pressing forward again; "out with it then."

"Nuthin', sir, I ain't got no call to say nothink."

"Forgotten it, eh? Funny how one does sometimes. Anyone else got a call

to say anything, what, no one? Then I have," and thereupon Hector

proceeded to let loose on the now silent crowd a torrent of blasphemous

abuse, before which their own limited vocabularies sank ashamed. For

full five minutes the flow poured on unchecked, nor was a single epithet

repeated, and gradually at such proficiency a faint feeling of

admiration dawned in his hearers' hearts, and replaced their former

resentment. In this, at all events, he was their master, and, their

minds admitting it, they listened in silence, with growing interest on

their faces.

Graeme, noting the change, thereupon abandoned the mere bludgeon work of

vituperation--for of sarcasm, knowing soldiers, not one word had he

uttered--and then, discussing the matter in the light of cold common

sense, he asked them if they wished for death, death at the lance-point

and sabre, for such would assuredly be theirs in their present helpless

state. On a memory that never failed he drew now, giving them many

instances of what flight with cavalry in pursuit meant, painting its

horrors in terms that caused a general feeling of uneasiness.

While he spoke, Graeme was closely watching them--waiting for the change

of mood when he could make the final effort. Till then he knew he must

refrain from an appeal to the emotions, which proves irresistible when

the ground is ready, but when made too soon only excites ridicule.

At last it came. A voice from the crowd said: "We aren't afraid of no

green-coats, we're Englishmen," a speech that was followed by a murmur

of applause. At the sound Graeme stopped, the thrill running through

him that every orator knows when he feels that his audience is his.

For a moment his throat seemed to close, and his heart to swell in his

breast; then off went his hat, and he stood bareheaded before them,

holding up his hand in an appeal for silence. Shouts of "Order" arose,

and then there was a hush. For a few seconds Hector sat motionless,

gazing over their heads with eyes blurred with tears, and then, as if

fire were running through his veins, he threw back his head and spoke.

With a face pale with exaltation, with eyes alight and grey hair

streaming in the wind, he addressed them--his voice now sinking to a

whisper, now rising to a shout.

"Men, soldiers of England," he concluded, "the eyes of those who love

you are on you now. They are misty with tears for your wounds, men;

they run over with water for the dead. But torn with grief though they

are, that grief is tempered with pride, for those they mourn have given

their lives for the Flag. Will you change that pride into shame, men?

Will you bring disgrace on your homes?"

Fustian, emotional fustian, of the lowest, but now was the time and here

the audience for fustian.

"No. No."

"We ain't no cowards."

"Take us there; we're ready for 'em, sir."

"I will. That's what I've come here to tell you, for fight you shall,

and this time, men, it's not defeat, but ... victory. I promise it

you.... I----"

He got no further, for at the word a roar burst from the men, whose

faces were white with emotion, and caps were thrown in the air. Then

again there was silence, for Hector's hand a second time was raised.

"Now, go back to your lines, pick up those arms lying there in the

mud"--a rush for the discarded weapons--"you'll want them soon enough.

See, the rain has stopped and the sun is shining. Go and get ready."

The crowd melted away, leaving Graeme and the trumpeter alone, save for

a rigid figure lying huddled in the mud, with a blue mark on its

forehead. With tired eyes Hector looked around him, for he was worn out

and shaken with the strain of his emotions.

"Sykes, I'm done, tired out."

"Why not 'ave a sleep, sir?"

"Why not? You're right, I will. We must get rid of that, though,

first," glancing down; "it's as poisonous dead as alive. Here you," he

called to a passing sergeant, who instantly came running up at the

summons, and, smartly saluting, stood at attention before him, "take

that away, and bury it. Dig a hole anywhere and shove it in."

The man touched the corpse with his foot contemptuously. "Very good,

sir," he answered, "I'll have him put in the refuse pit--best place for

'im. Glad he's dead, sir; he was the cause of 'arf the trouble."

Graeme made no answer, but rode away, with a cynical look on his face,

for he had seen the speaker amongst his late audience, as sullen-looking

and mutinous as any; but there was no purpose to be gained by alluding

to that now. He passed on, through the lines of tents--alive with men,

polishing, cleaning, now and again bursting into snatches of song--and

made his way back to his tent, where he found Glover awaiting him, with

a face of contrition.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I didn't know you were going out, or I'd

have been ready. I tried to find you, but no one knew where you had

gone."

"I didn't want you, Bobby," answered Graeme. "I shan't till ten

to-night. Be here then with the horses and one orderly. I don't wish a

crowd."

"Your dinner, sir?"

"Bring a bottle when you come. I shan't want anything till then. I'm

going to sleep." He turned into the tent, closed the flap, and lying

down on the bed, covered himself with rugs and blankets. "Stara," he

murmured, "I want sleep; give it to me." He sighed, smiled happily, and

then almost instantly fell asleep.

* * * * *

Darkness fell, and confused sounds began to arise from the camp. They

soon swelled to a clamour: words of command were heard; the clang of

rifle-butts; then the steady tramp of marching feet and the rumble of

passing wheels. The army was starting on its way. The hours flew by,

the beat of feet and rattle of wheels died to a dull murmur, and ceased.

The heap of rugs stirred and were cast aside. Graeme got up, unfastened

the tent-flaps, and looked out.

The muffling canopy of storm-clouds was gone from overhead, leaving the

black vault a-glitter with a myriad points of flame. It was Christmas

Eve and freezing hard.

Through the darkness a figure loomed dimly, its footsteps crushing the

rapidly hardening ground.

"That you, Glover?"

"No, sir, it's I--Godwin, may I come in? It's urgent." He lowered his

voice as he spoke.

"Men refused to turn out?"

"No, sir, no trouble at all. It seems what you said to the 15th

division has gone all over the camp, and----"

"Bah! What is it then?"

"Two cables, sir, one for you and one for Sir Thomas. You told me to

bring any that came. You have the cipher, sir."

"Yes, hand them over and wait outside." He tore open the envelopes, and

with the aid of the cipher read the contents in turn, that addressed to

Moleyns first. It bore no signature.

"Acted on your suggestion," it ran; "wire again if necessary."

"Oh, have you?" muttered Graeme, "and now for the suggestion." He

opened the second. It came from Whitehall, and was signed "Gribble."

"Commence retreat to coast at once; on no account assume offensive."

Graeme stared at the paper for a moment, and then laughed.

"I suppose," he said slowly, "there are some who might obey that. I ...

won't."

He tore the cables into small pieces, and striking a match carefully

burnt the fragments.

"Godwin," he called, "old Gneisenau, come in."

"What is it, sir? Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Serious be hanged, nothing is serious in this life, haven't you found

that out in your sixty years? It's all a big joke, Old Un, with someone

overhead splitting his sides over it. We don't laugh sometimes, because

we're fools; but we should, if we were wise. Ah, there's Bobby outside

with the bottle. Come in, Bobby, and fill the glasses. It may be the

last we'll have together, and this time to-morrow we'll be laughing at

the moon as we pass. We'll have wings up there, Long Nose, bloody wings,

and a harp apiece. God! I'll be a trial to the bandmaster, I'll never

get the damned thing in tune, give me a month of Sundays to do it. Pop!

there she goes; fill up and drink. Here's the bloody toast:

"Damnation to our green friends yonder, and a rope to their best friend,

Lawyer Quibble, Secretary of State for War. He'll have it too, when I

get back, I promise him.

"But that's treason, Bobby, or near it, anyway, so I'll change it to one

we can all drink.

"Here's to the one gentleman in the whole scurvy crowd--the King." He

paused. Then with a loud cry of "The King! The King!" he drained his

glass, dashed it to the ground, and rushing out of the tent, he mounted

his waiting horse, and galloped away into the night.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

The shadow of death hovered over the sleeping armies. But a few miles

apart they lay, thousand upon thousand, covering the frozen earth like a

pall--the one exultant with victory gained, and eager for the morning to

reap their harvest, the other equally eager and equally confident. But

Death, looking down, laughed, well pleased. What mattered to him the

paltry triumph of green or red. His feast he knew was assured.

The hours passed, the darkness deepened, and then rapidly began to fade,

the splendour of the stars dulled. A figure--one of three British

soldiers lying apart from the rest--stirred in his sleep, and suddenly

awoke. He sat up, with a loud clanging in his ears, for the

telephone-bell at his feet had spoken sharply, and now it was ringing

again, a continuous vibrating sound.

The signal for the curtain's rising had come.

"That you, Sir Hector?" breathed a voice along the wires, that of Lord

Fellowes, five miles ahead. "I'm going on, sir."

A quarter of an hour, half an hour, three-quarters of an hour passed,

but still the silence remained unbroken, though the black was all grey

now. Then suddenly Graeme sprang up, his body quivering and his eyes

staring ahead.

"Surely that was a shot? And, yes, another; heavy firing now and--and

it is--it is cheering. They've done it," and Hector pounced on the

sleeping Godwin and shook him awake.

"Bloody victory!" he shouted. "D'ye hear, Old Slugabed? Get up, blast

you, and rouse the army. Bring 'em on at a double after me, Hearts of

Oak leading, don't forget that. Sound the 'rouse,' Trumpeter; Bobby,

come on with me," and away flew Graeme to his horse, the high notes of

the bugles now ringing through the dawn--their sound soon to be drowned

in the swelling roar of the waking army.

"Forward, forward," he shouted, and was gone, swallowed up in the icy

morning mist. His horse's hoofs rang on the iron-bound road, as he

thundered on to the ridge ahead, whence a confused shouting was heard,

punctuated with the dull thudding of shots and the scream of dying

horses. On he rushed, the ridge rising darkly before him, and then he

was at its foot, and up and through the trees that clothed it, his horse

shying at prone green figures and grim silent shapes of guns.

At length he reached the top and drew rein, looking down into a huge

cauldron of mist beyond, where a mighty conflict was now raging--a

strange phantasmagoria of overturned tents, riderless horses, and

fleeing phantom shapes of men.

Truly, a merry Christmas for Uriel, lying still and silent, with a

broken bayonet in his breast, and his erstwhile jubilant army a

shrieking mob of fugitives.

In his dreams death had found him, for the pickets, believing only too

readily his and their officers' words concerning British demoralisation,

had abandoned the irksome duty of watching, and, soundly sleeping, had,

like him, died where they lay. And over their dead bodies the Guards

had rushed, pouring into the sleeping camps, stabbing the half-naked

wretches as they sat up blinking at the bayonets, and, loudly laughing,

chased such as fled, pouncing on them when they tripped and fell over

the tent-ropes.

Lead by Mike Curran in person, a band of Irishmen had headed straight

for the Headquarter marquee, and in a second the ropes were cut and the

mass of canvas billowing on the ground. Into this men were now

thrusting bayonets and officers emptying revolvers, till through the

white canvas red patches began to show, which rapidly spread till they

merged into one great crimson pool, and the writhings and groanings

ceased.

Through the artillery and cavalry lines the skirted Highlanders were

running, some busy hamstringing the fast-tethered horses, whose screams

rang high and shrill above the uproar, others killing the hapless

owners, as they ran confusedly to and fro searching for sword, lance, or

carbine with which to defend themselves.

Beyond, barring escape to the north, east, and west, the cavalry

divisions were leisurely sweeping across the plain, picking up, as they

rode, such as sought refuge by flight from the death behind.

As Graeme looked, a loud shout of joy burst from his lips. "Coney's

Drift again," he roared, "oh, where, where are my Hearts of Oak? Turn

them loose in this; give them a taste of blood, and they're made.

They'll think it's all like this. Ah! here they are," as, panting and

breathless, a brigade of pale-faced volunteers came running up, gasping

with haste and astonishment at what they saw. "Leu in! Leu in!" he

cried; "have at 'em, boys, worry, worry!" and thereupon, with loud cries

of delight, off rushed the Hearts of Oak, tugging at their bayonets as

they ran. Graeme sat down and rocked with laughter.

"God, but it will be the death of me, this," he gasped. "Hullo, Long

Nose, you're here, are you? Good, I wouldn't have you miss this for the

world. Oh, look, man, look! See that tall chap there? He's prodded

his man three times, and ain't settled him yet.

"Holy God, what's _he_ up to, I wonder, he is--blow me tight--he _is_

going through his man's pockets. That ain't cricket quite, my friend;

but never mind, it will make his pals all the keener when they see that

watch.

"Ha! here are the regulars coming up; they'll be on to it too in a

minute. Damn, but the whole army will be all over the place if we don't

watch it. Hi, you blokes there," turning to a group of staff officers

who were now standing behind him, "three of you hurry off to Fellowes.

Tell him when he's finished to get his men together--not before he's

finished though, mind. Two more of you round up the Hearts of Oak; take

care they don't shoot you though; they're after loot, and fierce. The

rest of you cut away to the other divisions and tell them to halt as

they come up. Godwin."

"Yes, sir."

"That's our position over there," pointing to a long line of wooded

hills two miles ahead. "As soon as Fellowes has drawn off, bring the

whole lot on there and post them as I told you. Three divisions and six

batteries to line its length, the reserve in the centre behind that

conical hill there. Tell the three divisions to dig themselves in at

once; they'll have a thin time if they don't.

"Move as quick as you can; it's close on eight, and Gabriel will be

thereabouts by one. There's Fellowes' lot getting together now. I'm

going on with the cavalry; join me when you've finished by that tree

there. Come, Bobby," and Graeme galloped off, threading his way through

the muddle of fallen tents and corpses, the Guards roaring a welcome as

he passed. When clear of the ruined camp he joined Maitland, the

cavalry commander.

"What sport, Maitland?"

"A few, sir; nothing much."

"No prisoners, I hope."

"None, sir."

"Come on then," and the two rode off together, the cavalry following in

line of brigade mass, the ground being open and going good.

The plain crossed, the force halted and dismounted, Graeme, Maitland,

and the two A.D.C.'s ascending the ridge, from the top of which the

country could be seen for miles ahead and around.

The line of hills--on the highest point of which they now stood--was

about five miles in length, rocky in parts, and sparsely covered with

trees. Through the centre, close beside them, lay the road to the

north, along which, fifteen miles distant, Gabriel was known to be

advancing; while far away to the left could be seen a double line of

trees, marking the course of the Western Road. In front of them spread

a wide open plain, similar to that they had just traversed, but crossed,

parallel to their front and some two thousand yards away, by a brook, or

small river, with steep, overhanging banks. Towards this the ground

fell gently, subsequently rising till it reached another ridge, four

miles away, which was also crossed about its centre by the Northern

Road. The passage over the brook was by a small wooden bridge.

To the right and left the country was open for miles; the left, however,

being scantily covered with trees, which became thicker until they

formed a dense woodland, and somewhere in this Roy was now lying,

waiting for Michael.

Graeme surveyed the scene through his glasses, and regarded for some

minutes the ridge ahead, where a faint twinkle could now and again be

seen.

"Enemy there," he muttered, "cavalry, a good many of them too. Have to

turn them out of that, Maitland. Too close--see everything."

"I'll go now, sir," said Maitland, turning.

"And look here, when you've outed them, hold on to that ridge for a bit.

No heavy losses, mind; your time for that's later. Just tickle up

Gabriel, matador him, make him mad to come on. Then join the reserve."

Maitland went, and soon from below the sound of movement arose from the

waiting cavalry. A word of command rang out, taken up by other voices;

then followed a loud clatter and jingle as over the hill, close beside

Graeme and Glover, passed a cavalry division, which, on reaching the

level beneath, trotted briskly forward.

"Thud, thud, thud" came in instant greeting from the enemy's horse

artillery on the ridge ahead, followed later by the stuttering of a

maxim and then by a crackle of musketry.

The leading squadrons opened out fanwise, their front being now

well-nigh a mile in breadth; from a trot they broke into a canter, then

into a gallop, as they resolutely pressed on, despite the storm beating

in their faces. Small dark heaps began to strew the ground; tiny

figures could be seen running and clutching at the trailing reins of the

now numerous loose horses, or holding sturdily on to the

stirrup-leathers of more fortunate comrades.

The rattle swelled to a roar, for magazine fire, the last hope, had

opened; the clamour of the guns rose to one continuous rapid thudding,

and then suddenly ceased. The thin, clear notes of bugles sounding the

charge were borne back on the breeze, followed by a faint echo of

cheering, and over the distant ridge surged the black tide of horsemen,

their swords flashing and lance-points glittering as they rose and fell.

Graeme chuckled as he looked. "Ha, ha, Old Un," he said, turning to

Godwin, who had ridden up some minutes before, "that's one up, ain't it,

for the military expert? The term 'sabres' has lost its meaning, has

it, cavalry in the future must rely on rifles?[#] Poor old weak-kneed

Army Council! Thank the Lord, I never would have it, though they

threatened to break me if I didn't. What have you got to say, eh? You

were one of the Whitehall lights at the time, you know."

[#] Referring to a work by one Colonel Caldwell, at the time of its

writing a garrison artillery man. This masterpiece, probably in

deference to the British civilian public, who at that time developed

views on military matters, was for a while adopted as the text-book for

officers' promotion examinations in India till saner councils prevailed,

when it, and not the sword and lance, were relegated to obscurity.

During the short period of its existence, however, it was successful in

doing an infinity of harm. This and a somewhat similar effort by Sir

Arthur Conan Doyle exemplify the folly of writing on current events till

sufficient time has elapsed to allow of the mind being cleansed of

purely personal impressions.

"It was a fine performance, sir, though a bit risky, don't you think?"

"That's what cavalry are for, my friend. Stop their taking risks and

they're useless. Army up yet?" he asked abruptly.

"They're nearly all here, sir. The three divisions and the batteries

are now digging themselves in. There are some of them, sir," pointing

to a group of khaki-clad figures close by busy with picks and shovels.

"All we want now, then, is old Gabriel. Hope he will come on, and not

wait for Michael. That would dish us rather."

"I don't think you need fear that, sir; the two, I happen to know, have

little love for each other. It's jealousy, sir; they've been rivals for

years. Gabriel would sacrifice Michael, or Michael Gabriel, without the

smallest hesitation."

"Good heavens, man," said Graeme, turning furiously on him, "here's

information I'd have given a thousand pounds for, and you casually

mention it as if it were of no consequence whatever. How do you know

it, though?"

"I've relations in the country, sir, and they know both men. I'd have

told you if I'd thought it of consequence, sir."

"Of consequence? It's the whole blessed thing. It makes it a

certainty, can't you see? Why, but for knowing it I might have shoved

on to meet Gabriel--a risky job with my lot. Now I sit here and smoke

my cigarette in peace. Hullo, hear that?" suddenly gripping Godwin by

the arm, and staring westward, whence a faint dull boom had sounded.

"It must be Roy, sir."

"Of course it's Roy, don't be an obvious fool. There it is again," as a

second dull boom was heard, followed by another, and then more, merging

into a low, intermittent muttering.

"It's begun now, Old Un--seconds out of the ring, first round, time.

See there," pointing ahead, "Maitland's helio going; what does he say,

you?" to the officer in charge of the Headquarter signalling station

close by, whose own helio was now clicking violently in answer. The man

spelt out the message, rapidly jotting it down as it came, and then

brought it over to Graeme.

"To C.-in-C. (it ran) from O. C. Cavalry:

"Patrols report large column advancing North Road, about eight miles

distant. Artillery fire heard towards west."

"Eight miles only. Gad, but Gabriel's shoving on. Here, Bobby, give me

a cigarette, and don't talk to me, either of you, till I've finished.

You'll upset me for the day if you do." He lay back and luxuriously

proceeded to fill his lungs with smoke, his eyes closing in great

content.

"Message for you, sir, just come in," and a staff officer stood before

him holding out a missive.

"Eh, what?" answered Hector dreamily, and then burst out in sudden fury:

"Go to hell, sir, take your damned letter away and yourself too. I'm

having my first cigarette, blast you!"

Nonplussed, the officer stood staring, then, catching Godwin's warning

eye, handed him the letter and turned on his heel, with a sneer on his

face.

"Good sort of Commander-in-Chief, that," he muttered, "can't read an

important despatch because he's smoking a cigarette. Thank God for old

Godwin and Fellowes, that's all I can say. Beakey must be a blooming

wonder; no one thought it of him before this, either," and thus

reflecting he joined a group of his _confreres_, who were fidgeting

about in rear, anxious to do something, and to whom he proceeded to

retail his reception by the Commander-in-Chief.

"Read it out, Old Un, I've finished," said Hector, regretfully

discarding the last atom of the cigarette.

"It's from General Roy, sir, headed from Blay. He says, 'Taken up a

position here. Enemy three miles distant and coming on.'"

"Blay," repeated Graeme, "that's about twelve miles from here. They've

been at it now for close on an hour, and it's getting pretty hot,

judging from that," looking as he spoke towards the west, where the

intermittent cannonading had now become a steady, continuous rolling.

"Hullo, there's Maitland begun," as the sudden sharp rapping of a maxim

came from the ridge ahead, mingled with a few scattered shots, and then

heavy firing. "Noisy lot of devils they all are--on Christmas Day too!

Peace on earth and goodwill towards men. Lord, what a row. Ha! there's

his helio; look sharp with it. Well?"

"From O. C. Cavalry, to C.-in-C.:

"Enemy's advanced guard attacking me. Cavalry, infantry, and guns.

Shall hold on for a bit, and then fall back."

"That firing to the west's getting louder, seems coming this way. God!

it will be a near thing. Ah! there's Maitland coming back, about time

too, I should say. Lord, what a stampede; and, by Jove, there are the

enemy at last, up on the hill he's left, shooting after them. Shoot

away and be hanged to you. Ha, ha, like that, do you?" as the six

batteries in position on the ridge on which he was standing suddenly

roared out together, and the crest ahead grew blurred with a mist of

white smoke starred with tiny sparkles of flame.

"Keep it up, keep it up," he shouted, "long as you can; it's the last

chance you'll have, for outed you'll be soon enough once Gabriel gets on

to you. That's part of the game, though; if I made you too strong you

might check Gabriel, and I don't want old Gabriel checked. I want him

here."

"They've cleared, sir," said Godwin, suddenly pointing to the hill

ahead, whence the figures had now disappeared. "No, there they are

again--guns, sir, the whole crest's bristling with them."

"Time for umbrellas then, Old Un," answered Graeme, rising and

sauntering away to a rock hard by; "it's going to rain pretty hard, and

that rain will hurt if it hits. Come along, Bobby, what'll I do for

cigarettes if you get outed?" and reaching the rock he flung himself

down behind it, the other two crouching beside him.

Then with a sudden earthquake roar the storm burst, and the ridge seemed

to tremble and rock. Over the sun a curtain seemed to fall; the green

landscape vanished from before their eyes, hidden by a thick pall of

sulphurous smoke, torn with crimson flame and alive with flying

fragments of iron.

Crashing and shrieking, the huge shells thundered down on the quaking

ground, throwing up great fountains of earth and splintered stone,

splitting the trees, and seaming the green hill with ragged brown

wounds.

Faintly to be heard through the tumult, the sharp thudding of the

defenders' guns sounded in defiant answer, rapid and well-sustained at

first, then intermittent, and at last sinking into silence. But still

the tempest roared on, increasing in fury till blackness shrouded the

vision and the brain was numb from the continuous crash and hammer of

iron on stone.

A cloud of black stinking smoke eddied round the rock, under the lee of

which the three were crouching, with handkerchiefs bound round their

mouths and eyes streaming with grimy tears.

Glover's face was white and scared; on Godwin's there was a look of

studied calm; Graeme was staring out, his eyes vainly trying to pierce

the murk before him. A touch on his foot from behind made him start and

look round to where a staff officer, who had just crawled up, was

holding out a paper.

"Message from General Roy," he shouted.

"What? Speak louder, can't you? Oh, from Roy; give it here," and

taking the missive he tore it open and read:

"Heavily engaged. Forced to fall back to avoid being surrounded. At

least six divisions against me. Enemy's losses very heavy."

"Don't mention yours, I notice. God damn it, if only this infernal

smoke would clear away and I could see what Gabriel's up to. Row seems

to be slackening a bit; must be his infantry coming on. Ah, at last, a

breeze," as a sudden puff of wind moaned through the shattered trees,

and then, growing stronger, tore away the muffling veil, and he could

see.

A cry of delight broke from his lips at what he saw, for the plain in

front was no longer empty, but covered with line upon line of green-clad

infantry, rapidly advancing. The leading ranks--being more or less

opened out--were already almost up to the brook, but behind them came

dense masses of men, and beyond these, descending the hill, three huge

columns, the whole surging forward like some rolling dark-green sea.

"Means to rush us, Godwin," said Hector, "walk right over us. You're a

trump, Gabriel, old man."

"That firing to the west is coming nearer, sir."

"I know it is, so does Gabriel; that's what's bringing him on so fast,

the jealous old dog."

Hector was right, for the sound of the hourly swelling roar of the

western battle was rapidly goading Gabriel to frenzy. This victory was

his--his, not Michael's. It was all but won now, for no longer did the

British guns answer his, and though their infantry might make some show

of resistance, still that could be but short-lived, for half of them

were volunteers, demoralised, moreover, as his information had told him,

and not for a moment capable of withstanding such troops as his.

True, they had managed to destroy Uriel, but this, though possibly

unfortunate for Uriel, might nevertheless be viewed in the light of a

blessing, for by his death the British had been encouraged to stand, and

had thus given themselves into his hands; also, Uriel was one of the

Michael faction, and worthless, as were all that gang.

If only Michael too could be beaten--he was having a hard time out there

to the west, he knew--well, perhaps if fortune were kind, he would be,

and the Emperor no longer be blinded to his own superior merits. But

then a message had been received from that same Michael, telling not of

defeat, but success, and his hopes of being in time to aid Gabriel in

his battle; at this, Gabriel had thrown all remnants of prudence to the

winds. Scorning reserves, he launched his whole force to the attack,

shouting to his generals to rush their men on, and not to mind the

losses, assuring them that before them lay a beaten army, to crush which

they had only to press on.

Gabriel having, despite the one fatal flaw in his nature, the soul of a

great leader, the spirit that possessed him was felt in the hearts of

his followers, and forward they rushed, ignoring distance and interval,

for these meant delay, and delay was not now to be thought of. Into the

brook's swollen waters plunged the leading lines, their weapons held

aloft as they struggled through the torrent, and then, shaking

themselves like dogs, they hurried on to the smoking ridge ahead.

Fifteen hundred, one thousand yards only lay between, and with the

lessening of the distance the thunder from behind slackened, and then,

but for the tramp of feet, all was silent.

Then suddenly from among the trees a whistle blew, its shrill piping

echoed by others, and at the sound that battered shot-torn hill awoke to

life.

From crumbling trench and lead-splashed stones a line of thin brown

tubes rose up, wavered for a moment distractedly, and then together came

down, and row upon row of tiny, steel-ringed eyes peered inquiringly on

the green waves rolling towards them.

A second time the whistle was blown, which was again taken up to right

and left; and then the heavy silence was broken by the scream of cordite

and the stammering voice of maxims.

The leading ranks of the enemy went down, some falling forward on their

faces with a groan--this was death--others reeling sideways to the

ground, where they lay writhing and shrieking in the torture of

splintered bone or bullet-ripped vitals.

Those checked in rear flung themselves down, their hands tugging at

buckled cartridge-belts, but in a second their officers were on them,

kicking them up and driving them on with shouts and curses, and once

more the lines surged slowly forward, men dropping in hundreds as they

came.

"Two messages from General Roy, sir," shouted a voice in Hector's ear;

"they came within a few minutes of each other, sir." The speaker's

voice was strained and his face white.

Graeme opened them in turn. The first ran:

"Lost half my force and all guns. Enemy's losses enormous; shall hold

on here till all is over. Done my best.--Roy."

Hector's face was unmoved as he read. He opened the second:

"General Roy dead. All lost.--Maddox, Captain."

"Just where you're out, my friend," muttered Hector; "it's all won now."

"What does he say, sir?" asked Godwin.

"Nothing much. He's done what I wanted. Michael's had his bellyful."

"Wh--what are those, sir?" came suddenly from Glover, staring towards

the west. "They're wearing our uniform, but ... God!"

Together Graeme and Godwin looked towards the spot at which the boy was

pointing, and saw far away to the left a scattered band emerging from

the trees. A band of fugitives they were, seemingly, some thousand in

all, without order or semblance of order. Over their heads shells were

bursting, and clouds of dust were flying up around their feet; but,

unheeding, they slowly toiled on, till at last they were hidden from

view behind the left of the ridge upon which the three stood watching.

"It--it's Roy's force," stammered Godwin, "all that's left of twenty

thousand men."

"Well, what of it?" snapped Graeme. "We knew that would happen, didn't

we? You old corncrake you, what's the good of crying over it? Can't

you see he's won the battle for us. Look there, look at Michael's force

after him; see what a mob they are, bad as the lot they're pursuing.

Thank ye, Roy, the goose is cooked and now we'll eat it--for I'm

hungry." His teeth bared in a grin. "Come on, and God help Gabriel

now."

* * * * *

The leading ranks of the enemy were now but a few hundred yards

distant--ragged lines of weary, smoke-blackened men dragging painfully

onward. Behind them thick, green-clad masses, all pressing forward to

assured triumph, on towards those grimy figures, now opening on them

with magazine.

On they came, cheering lustily, their ranks glittering with bayonet and

waving sword, but even as victory's laurel seemed within their grip the

god of battles averted his head, and Death sat grinning in their faces.

For the ridge in front was now echoing to the blast of bugles and the

shrill tone of pipes, and at the summons the crouching khaki-clad

figures rose up together and stood looking calmly down upon them. And

as the green men halted, wondering what this might mean, with a

shattering roar the hidden batteries of the reserve, silent so long,

flamed into life, cleaving wide lanes in the crowd below, till their

cheering ceased and died.

"Charge!" clanged the bugles again, and obeying, carrying the lines

forward with them, the mass of the reserve came pouring over the hill,

fresh and thirsty for battle--a solid phalanx bristling with sharp,

gleaming bayonets.

For one moment, and for one only, the green men stood, wildly firing in

the face of the approaching host, who paid no heed, but with one loud

pealing shout of triumph rushed on, a living wave of steel, and rolled

like a sea over the now terror-stricken masses. Away to the left,

Michael and his men, toiling on in pursuit, heard the uproar, and as

they took in its meaning stopped and hesitated.

"March to the guns" is the soldiers' motto all the world over, and here

were guns thundering in their ears, comrades too in dire need of

assistance. But ... yet ... bad as was the case, their own was nearly

as desperate, for Roy and his men had done their work right well, and of

Michael's eighty thousand barely ten thousand had been scraped together

for pursuit.

While they stood debating, the cry of "Back!" arose from the rear:

"Back! back! see the cavalry waiting for us," and straightway the

groups, glad at heart, turned, and that same night were tramping

hurriedly away whence they came.... Gabriel was abandoned to his fate.

And the hand of that fate was heavy on Gabriel this Christmas evening,

as he stood looking down with desperate eyes on what, only one short

hour before, had been a jubilant army, but was now a shrieking,

terrified herd of humanity.

Almost superhuman efforts had he and his staff made to turn the tide, to

show a front, even to form a rear-guard, but in vain. With his own

self-control had also gone his and his officers' hold over the army; by

his own orders had the reins of discipline been abandoned, and, strive

as he and they might now, they had passed from his hands never to be

recovered. Plainly he could see now, so very plainly, the simple trap

into which he had fallen; like some maddened bull in the arena he had

rushed at the red flag held out, and fallen on the sword behind, and as

he stood staring down on the welter below, a horror of despair came upon

Gabriel and the will to live died. He raised his hand, fired, and fell.

Far away, on the ridge opposite, his figure sharp-cut against the pale

green of the sky, the British leader stood watching, with madness in his

eyes also--but the madness of a great triumph, and not of despair. For

here was glory at last--glory such as crowns the very few. But a few

short hours, and English steeples would be rocking with the clash of

joy-bells, and the voice of an empire would be shouting his name to the

skies. The adoration of a multitude, the approval of a King--all, all

was his. Ah! to die now, now when glory's gold was untarnished, and the

green of laurel fresh. "God kill me now, now," he breathed, and with

the prayer came the answer. A blinding flash overhead, the snap of a

breaking harpstring, and Hector was down on the frozen ground, life's

bright crimson bubbling from his breast.

In a second an arm was thrust beneath him where he lay, with his head

fallen back on a khaki-clad shoulder. Green eyes, horrified and

appalled, looked down into the dimming violet of a dying man's.

"Old Un," he gasped, "that--that you? What's h--happened, Old Un?"

"Shrapnel, sir, burst right over you. I--I am afraid you're hurt, sir.

Oh, fetch that doctor, damn you, damn you."

"Old Un, you're crying, blast you. There are tears running down that

long nose of yours. You look damned absurd. What's the harm in dying?"

"No, no. Oh, will you hurry?"

"Shut up. I'll be gone before he comes. Put your bill closer, I--I

want to say something; a bloody swan sings when he's dying, Old Un, and

I--I can't shout. Where the devil are ye? I can't see you."

"Here, sir, close beside you," sobbed the other.

"The devil's got his own at last, Godwin. D'ye hear him chuckling, the

old Satan? Ha! ha! Chuckle away, my friend; I'm not afraid; I'll twist

your tail yet, blast ye. Old Un."

"Yes, yes."

"I'll tell you something, Old Un, it's about the ghost. It was all

delusion, I know it now, death's laid the bloody phantom at last. But

come closer--closer. There was one thing real--no delusion, old boy, I

loved something once--a child--my own, sh--she was blind. Will that

count, d'ye think, where I'm going?"

"Of course it will, sir. God----"

"Damn your preaching, I want her--not G--God. A--ah!" His voice

suddenly rose to a scream, and he sat up, stretching out his arms.

"She's there--and--and look, Old Un, she sees, she sees. Ruby! Ruby!"

and Hector Graeme fell back dead.