THE RAISING OF THE FLAG.
Mr. Windsor's guests had all departed, the lights were out in the rooms
so lately filled with the pleasant discord of animated voices, and the
kindly old American host had gone to his rest with the satisfaction of
believing that his last night in England would be enjoyably remembered
by his new friends when he and his daughter were far on their voyage
home.
But Mr. Windsor knew, a few weeks later, that beneath the smooth surface
of his farewell party, as he had seen it, ran a secret current of fatal
force and purpose. He had entertained unaware on that night nearly all
the Royalist leaders, who had taken advantage of his invitation to meet
in a place where suspicion of their movements could not follow.
The gentlemen left Mr. Windsor's house not in groups or even pairs, but
singly. It was remarkable that none of them had a carriage, and that
after leaving the house every one turned and walked in the same
direction.
About an hour after the last guest had gone, in a large house belonging
to a banished earl, where Featherstone had resided for the past two
weeks, there was a full meeting of the Royalist chiefs, including those
who had been at Mr. Windsor's, and many more. They had come singly from
many quarters, but all on foot, and they had entered by a door on a
quiet side street. There were perhaps forty men in all.
Here were old and dignified noblemen, more than one of whom wore
threadbare coats and other signs of actual poverty; and here were young
spirits aflame with the hope of action. Here a lot of antiquated
baronet-squires flock together, and yonder stands a knot of grizzled
colonels with the professional air of men awaiting orders. Here is the
old Duke of Bayswater, listening through his eyeglasses, while Geoffrey
Ripon and Featherstone have a quiet jest with Mr. Sydney.
Shortly after midnight--at about the same moment that Mrs. Oswald Carey
received the bank-notes from Mr. Bugbee--the hum of conversation ceased
in this meeting of the Royalists, and all eyes were turned toward a
table in the centre of the long drawing-room, where stood John Dacre,
who had just entered the room, his hands filled with papers.
Dacre was in the uniform of a staff officer, and on his breast he wore
the battle-cross he had won in his first campaign, and also some gaudier
honors awarded him for loyalty and devotion to the cause of the King.
The strong light of the chandelier showed the tense lines of his
finely-cut face, which was white with excitement, and his eyes burned
beneath his brows with a flame too strong to be subdued by any outer
light.
Before he had uttered a word he had in some way imparted to many of
those around him something of his own exaltation and intensity of
spirit. He laid on the table the papers he had carried, and looked
round the room with his face proudly raised.
"Gentlemen!" he said, holding his voice from an exulting cry, "our
campaign has begun. We are no longer without a leader. Our monarch has
come to claim his throne, and, if necessary, to win it by the sword.
This night King George sleeps in London. To-morrow he will sit upon the
throne of England. GOD SAVE THE KING!"
But, though death might be the consequence, a brave cheer burst from the
hearts of some of those who heard--some, but only a few, and among these
were Geoffrey, Featherstone, and the grizzled colonels.
To many others that cheer seemed as deadly an outburst as the roar of
artillery. For a moment all stood as before; then they broke and
mingled, talking excitedly, and a goodly number edged toward the door,
and soon made their way out of the house.
But at least twenty men remained, while Dacre issued orders, handed
instructions already written, or verbally repeated important words to
the officers who should the next day head the revolution.
"Colonel Arundel," said Dacre, addressing a white-haired but erect man
of sixty years, "to you belongs the first word of the restoration."
The old colonel walked to the table opposite Dacre and bowed, as if
awaiting instructions.
"At the hour of noon to-morrow," continued Dacre, speaking to Colonel
Arundel, "the King's banner will be raised at Aldershot, and at that
hour you will proclaim to the brigade under your command the restoration
of the Monarchy and his Majesty's presence in the camp." The veteran
withdrew with a proud smile.
"Colonel Featherstone, Sir James Singleton, Lord Arthur Towneley, Mr.
Blaney Balfour;" as Dacre read from a list, the gentlemen named drew
near the table. "You are of the royal escort; you will await the arrival
of the King at Aldershot and accompany him to the camp."
When Dacre had issued all the prepared orders for the outbreak, the
meeting broke up.
As Geoffrey walked with Dacre to their quarters, the streets of London
were deserted and quiet, as if no danger lay hid in the clouds of the
morrow. Dacre was filled, body and soul, with the assurance of a
glorious success; but cool-headed Geoffrey felt none of his enthusiasm,
though his step was light and his voice as full of cheer as his friend's
mood required. But when they met a burly, quiet policeman on his beat,
who placidly wished them, "Good-morning, gentlemen," Geoffrey could not
restrain a burst of hearty laughter--which, however, he did not explain
to Dacre.
Geoffrey slept soundly for a few hours, and was up early to keep his
appointment with Dacre. He could scarcely credit his senses to find
himself on such an errand, as he strode through the already busy
streets, meeting the quiet folk at their early occupations, while he was
bent on civil war in two hours' time, with his overcoat pockets heavy
with loaded pistols!
Dacre and he breakfasted in a private room at the old Army and Navy Club
almost in silence. They had met at the door, coming from opposite
directions, and greeted each other with a firm grip of the hand. Under a
large overcoat Dacre wore his old staff uniform, and he smiled proudly
as Geoffrey took off his outer coat and showed his ancestors'
silver-hilted sword buckled high round his body, so that it should not
strike the ground or be seen below the coat.
As they drove to the railway station it was a dull, drizzling morning.
At the station they saw many of those who had attended the meeting the
previous night; but, by arrangement, the conspirators did not recognize
each other, even by a sign. When they arrived at the Aldershot Station
there was no indication of anything unusual. A few orderlies from the
camp came and went, but this was an every-day sight.
The Royalists dispersed at once, some walking, some in the common camp
omnibuses, and some in cabs. The point of assembly was in the officers'
lines of the infantry camp, where Colonel Arundel, who was acting
brigadier, had provided a large mess tent for their reception--and on
this morning, by his arrangement and for their guidance, no other tent
but this in the camp was marked by a flag.
On arriving at the tent, Dacre and Geoffrey found only two of their
fellow-conspirators, both youths, awaiting them. But it was very early,
not 9.30, and the hour of meeting was 11. The next man to arrive was Mr.
Sydney, who, fearing a shot from his old enemy, the gout, more than a
bullet from a Republican rifle, stepped gingerly from the omnibus that
dropped him near the lines. As Geoffrey shook his hand, a pang went
through his conscience for ever having made a jest of so simple and
brave a heart.
By ones and twos, as the hours passed, the Royalists came to the
rendezvous. Not once had they met with question or opposition. The
sentries, as they passed, stood to "attention," evidently regarding them
as officers belonging to the camp.
The mess tent was well removed from the regular roads of the camp, and
only a few soldiers passed near it all the morning.
Once, while Geoffrey stood at the open door, a mounted artillery officer
rode past. He was a young man, with a strongly-marked, stern face, and
as he passed the tent it seemed to Geoffrey that he cast a sudden, keen
glance within. At first, Geoffrey was so convinced of this that he
turned to speak to Dacre; but glancing after the officer, he saw him
stop and speak to a man who was coming toward the tent, and whom
Geoffrey recognized as one of the military men of the previous night's
meeting. After a few words they saluted like friends and separated.
"You know that officer, sir?" asked Geoffrey, as the old soldier came to
the tent door. "I thought he looked this way in an odd manner as he
passed."
"Oh, yes," answered the other; "that is young Devereux, the clever
fellow who has invented the tremendous gun, you know, and revolutionized
the old tactics. An able fellow, sir--and a colonel at thirty-six. I
knew his father forty years ago at Woolwich, when we were cadets."
"You think I was mistaken, then, in fancying that he looked this way?"
asked Geoffrey.
"I should say so--bless my soul! I should hope so, too. That's the
cleverest fellow in the whole service; and we don't want to meet him at
the very start."
"Perhaps he may be with us?" suggested Geoffrey.
"No; it isn't likely. Devereux is with nothing but science and
discipline. But if he were with us he would be better than twenty
regiments."
"And against us?"
"Ah! there are circumstances that alter cases. With us he would be free
to act on his own devising, for we should make him commander of the
forces. Against us he is only a subordinate, controlled by some stupid
major-general."
Eleven o'clock came, and there were twenty-seven men in the tent.
Besides these were the several officers of the regiment in camp, who
were in their quarters ready for the signal.
At the door of the mess tent rose a tall flag-pole, with halyards
attached, which entered the tent. To these, by the hands of Dacre, was
fastened the Royal Standard of England, to be given to the breeze at the
sound of the noonday gun.
At half-past eleven the bugles of the infantry regiments were heard
sounding for a general parade; and in a few minutes the scarlet lines
were seen on the parade ground, forming, wheeling, and marching into
brigade formation.
The commanding officer and the colonels of six out of seven regiments
would call on the troops to cheer for King George when they saw the
royal banner at the mast. Inside the mess tent there was a scene of
quiet preparation, which had its ludicrous as well as pathetic features.
Many of the Royalists had come in military uniforms of various kinds and
countries. As the hour drew near they laid aside their overcoats, and
composed an odd group for a military critic. The Duke of Bayswater wore
an old red tunic of the yeomanry cavalry, which he had commanded in his
county half a century before; Mr. Sydney a lancer's fatigue jacket,
which he had worn as a lieutenant in King Edward's time; there was one
in the tunic of a captain of French artillery, and several others wore
continental uniforms. Every one was armed in some way or other.
As the infantry brigade wheeled into line on the parade-ground a distant
trumpet sounded far in the rear.
"Dacre, what is that trumpet?" asked Geoffrey, in a low tone.
Dacre looked at his watch as he listened. He did not reply, but shook
his head and smiled at Geoffrey.
"That is an artillery trumpet," said the old officer to whom Geoffrey
had spoken before, and who now came quietly to Dacre. "It came from the
direction of Colonel Devereux's battery--though I remember distinctly he
told me that this was not a field day."
It was clear to Geoffrey's eye that Dacre was suffering under some heavy
fear or despondency that quelled his excitement. There was a look in his
face of tense expectancy that was pitiful to his friend.
"The King was to have been here at eleven," said Geoffrey to him at
last. "It is now twenty minutes to twelve. Can anything have happened,
Dacre?"
Dacre looked at him reproachfully; but only shook his head, without a
smile. Geoffrey walked to the door, and turned suddenly, almost with a
shout.
"Here's Featherstone!" he cried. "He was in the King's escort; he has
news."
The Royalists crowded around Featherstone as he entered, but their eager
eyes found no reassurance in his face, which was pale, and, still more
unlike Featherstone, full of anger and gloom.
He did not reply to the hail of questions which met him, but looked
around for Dacre, and went to him.
"The King?" asked Dacre, sternly.
"The King has disappeared," answered Featherstone, "and no one knows
where he has gone."
There was a dead silence in the tent; not a man moved. Dacre looked at
his watch. It was ten minutes to twelve.
"He may be on the way here by another route," suggested the old Duke.
"What have you done to obtain information?" asked Dacre.
"At eleven o'clock the escort waiting at the station in London
telephoned us that the train had gone and the King had not arrived. We
waited ten minutes and then I telephoned direct to the house of the
King's banker and received in answer these words: 'The King left here at
two o'clock this morning to go on board his steam-yacht. He has sailed
for America.' In reply to my questions, no reason was given for his
going, as no one there knew, and Bugbee had not returned since the
King's departure."
Featherstone folded his arms and looked at Dacre, on whom again all eyes
turned. He held in one hand the royal banner, fast to the halyards, and
in the other hand his watch.
At this moment the artillery trumpet heard before sounded much nearer,
and it was answered, apparently, by other trumpets at different points
of the camp.
"Gentlemen," said Dacre, drawing up his tall figure with superb pride,
and looking calmly round the tent, "in two minutes it will be noon--the
hour of our movement. Yonder rides the brave man who will proclaim the
Monarchy, and it is too late now to warn him or his fellow-officers and
patriots. We may draw back; but they will go on. The world will be the
witness. If the King has been false to us--and we do not know that he
has--we shall be true to our cause and to ourselves."
There was a pause. Dacre's eyes were on the dial in his hand.
"Gentlemen!" he cried, as he placed the watch in his pocket, "it is
twelve o'clock! Shall I raise the King's flag?"
"Ay! Up with it!" rang out the brave shout.
At that instant the noonday gun boomed, and had the Royalists listened
they might have heard the rumble of artillery and the rattling of
cavalry surrounding them in a vast circle. But had they heard it they
would not have been stayed. To withdraw now, to sneak away from the very
brink of danger, would be worse than death. They must go on to the end.
The world's eyes were on them, or would be to-morrow; the world is
always looking at yesterday.
Like bees from a hive they swarmed, a handful of men, from the door of
the mess-tent, drawing their swords to conquer a kingdom for a king who
had run away. There was a noble despair in their hearts.
"Up with the King's banner!" shouted Featherstone, and Dacre went to the
mast and drew up the flag.
"God save the King!" shouted every throat, as the heavy folds went
upward.
But there was a hitch in the halyards, and Dacre's excitement did not
allow him to remove it quickly. The royal banner stopped on its way
aloft--stopped at the half mast--and there ominously remained for a full
half minute before the lines were cleared and it soared to the masthead.
On the parade-ground seven regiments of infantry had wheeled into line,
and presented arms as the commander rode to the front of the brigade.
When the noonday gun boomed, a thrill went through the scarlet ranks,
for even the linesmen knew that a tragedy was about to be enacted. The
word had been passed through the camp that the Royalist traitors would
at that hour declare themselves.
Never was drama seen upon the stage in which the actors approached the
tragic ending so fatuously, so deliberately.
Colonel Arundel, riding in front of the staff, halted and faced the
brigade. The troops presented arms; the band played the national anthem,
"God Save the People!" When the music had ceased the eyes of Colonel
Arundel were turned to the flag-pole at the mess-tent. His heart leaped
within him when he saw the lines shake, and then, true to the moment of
time, up went the flag of the King.
"Soldiers!" shouted the old commander, baring his white head and
pointing to the royal banner; "behold the flag of your King and country!
King George has come to claim his own again, and he is now in personal
command of this camp. God save the King!"
The whole brigade stared at the flagstaff where the big banner of King
George had stopped at the half-mast like a mourning emblem. A round of
suppressed laughter came from the troops--a sound that sent a shudder
through the old colonel's heart, which no violent outcry could have
done.
The vibration of the commander's voice was still in the air when a
horseman dashed down to the head of the brigade, a man with a face of
terrible power and purpose. It was Colonel Devereux. He faced the
brigade like a man cast in iron, so still he sat for half a minute. He
was an electric centre, reaching the eyes and nerves of every man in the
brigade.
"Present--arms!" and the brigade sprang into motion beneath his
thrilling voice.
"Men!" he said slowly, but with a force that sent his voice to both
flanks of the brigade, "the command of this camp has this day been given
to me by the only power on earth able to give it--the President of the
British Republic."
"And I, sir--what am I?" indignantly demanded Colonel Arundel, but in a
voice too low to reach the soldiers' ears. Insulted as he was he would
have no altercation in front of the troops.
"You, sir!" answered Colonel Devereux, and his voice rang like a
trumpet, "you are a traitor to the people!"
While this scene was in action, an insignificant movement took place on
the inner flank of one regiment in the brigade. A sergeant and six men
were detached, and the squad marched at a quick step along the rear till
they came to the centre, when they wheeled to the front, passed through
the formation, and halted directly in front of Colonel Arundel. The
grounding of their arms completed the terrible charge of the new
commander.
"Soldiers," cried Colonel Devereux, turning to the brigade, "behold the
death of a traitor!"
The sergeant gave the word to his men in a low voice, and seven rifles
were levelled at Colonel Arundel, who sat still in his saddle, hat in
hand, as he had saluted the King's flag. One swift turn of his head now
and he saw the great emblazoned banner in the air; the next moment his
breast was torn to pieces, and the old man fell forward as his horse
swerved, and then the body tumbled from the saddle and lay in front of
the brigade.
"Colonel Gardener, take command here," said Devereux to an officer in
the horror-struck staff; "and you, gentlemen," designating three or four
of the staff by a motion of his hand, "follow me." He wheeled his horse
and rode straight for the mess-tent, where the royal banner was flying.
A young artillery officer, with one Gatling gun and a dozen troopers,
were galloping toward the place from another direction. They reached the
tent at the same moment as Colonel Devereux.
"Halt!" he shouted to the gunners, and the mounted party stopped as if
turned to stone.
"Haul down that flag!" he ordered Dacre, pointing with his naked sword.
"Never!" answered Dacre, standing at the foot of the mast.
Colonel Devereux gave a stern command to the officer of the gun; the
piece was trained on the flagstaff, and next instant, with a hellish
roar, its sixty bullets tore the flag-pole into shreds, and the enormous
banner cumbered the wet earth.
Before the discharge Geoffrey had bodily seized Dacre and dragged him
out of range. Better, perhaps, had he left him to his fate, for death at
that moment, with his duty done, his sword in hand and his flag above
him, would have saved him the deeper agony of shame and disappointment,
which walked with him like shadows henceforward to the grave.
The officer in charge of the gun ordered his troopers and drivers to
ride across the fallen banner; and the hoofs and muddy wheels rent it to
pieces and befouled it in the mire.
"You are a coward!" cried Dacre, and rushing to the front he crossed
swords with the mounted officer, wounding him in the arm. Next moment he
was stretched senseless on the ill-fated flag, a gunner having struck
him down with the stock of his carbine.
The others yielded without a word. The artillery officer, his hand
dripping blood, took their swords one by one and flung them
contemptuously on the flag, beside John Dacre's senseless body.
As they were marched off, surrounded by a cavalry guard, to be taken to
London, Mr. Sydney, seeing that the Duke of Bayswater could hardly keep
up, gave his arm to the infirm old man.
"This is a grim joke," said Sydney; "I wonder what they will do with our
friend Dacre."
"Thanks," said the poor old fellow, leaning heavily on Sydney, and
putting up his collar to keep out the rain. Then he turned a last look
at Dacre, still lying as he had fallen. "If he is dead, I suppose they
will bury him like a Christian gentleman, as he was." And, raising his
hat, the courtly old man saluted the fallen soldier.
Featherstone handed Geoffrey a cigar, and lighted one himself as the
procession started.
"I wonder where King George the Fifth is about this time," he said, with
a forlorn smile.
"No matter where he is," answered Geoffrey, in a voice of settled
belief; "one thing is certain: Monarchy is dead forever in England--and
it is time!"