THE INVASION OF 1910
THE INVASION OF
1910
WITH A FULL ACCOUNT OF
THE SIEGE OF LONDON
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
NAVAL CHAPTERS BY H. W. WILSON
INTRODUCTORY LETTER BY
FIELD-MARSHAL EARL ROBERTS, K.G., K.P., ETC.
Toronto
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LIMITED
1906
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: letter]
PREFACE
“_I sometimes despair of the country ever becoming alive to the danger
of the unpreparedness of our present position until too late to prevent
some fatal catastrophe._”
This was the keynote of a solemn warning made in the House of Lords on
July 10th of the present year by Earl Roberts. His lordship, while
drawing attention to our present inadequate forces, strongly urged that
action should be taken in accordance with the recommendations of the
Elgin Commission that “no military system could be considered
satisfactory which did not contain powers of expansion outside the limit
of the regular forces of the Crown.”
“_The lessons of the late war appear to have been completely forgotten._
The one prevailing idea seems to be,” said Earl Roberts, “to cut down
our military expenditure without reference to our increased
responsibilities and our largely augmented revenue. History tells us in
the plainest terms that an Empire which cannot defend its own
possessions must inevitably perish.” And with this view both Lord Milner
and the Marquis of Lansdowne concurred. But surely this is not enough.
If we are to retain our position as the first nation in the world we
must be prepared to defend any raid made upon our shores.
The object of this book is to illustrate our utter unpreparedness for
war, to show how, under certain conditions which may easily occur,
England can be successfully invaded by Germany, and to present a picture
of the ruin which must inevitably fall upon us on the evening of that
not far-distant day.
Ever since Lord Roberts formulated his plans for the establishment of
rifle-clubs I have been deeply interested in the movement; and after a
conversation with that distinguished soldier the idea occurred to me to
write a forecast, based upon all the available military and naval
knowledge--which would bring home to the British public vividly and
forcibly what really would occur were an enemy suddenly to appear in our
midst. At the outset it was declared by the strategists I consulted to
be impossible. No such book could ever be written, for, according to
them, the mass of technical detail was far too great to digest and
present in an intelligible manner to the public.
Lord Roberts, however, gave me encouragement. The skeleton scheme of the
manner in which England could be invaded by Germany was submitted to a
number of the highest authorities on strategy, whose names, however, I
am not permitted to divulge, and after many consultations, much
criticism, and considerable difference of opinion, the “general idea,”
with amendment after amendment, was finally adopted.
That, however, was only a mere preliminary. Upon questions of tactics
each tactician consulted held a different view, and each criticised
adversely the other’s suggestions. With the invaluable assistance of my
friend Mr. H. W. Wilson, we had decided upon the naval portion of the
campaign; but when it came to the operations on land, I found a wide
divergence of opinion everywhere.
One way alone remained open--namely, to take the facts exactly as they
stood, add the additional strength of the opposing nations as they will
be in 1910, and then draw logical conclusions. This, aided by experts,
was done; and after many days of argument with the various authorities,
we succeeded at last in getting them in accord as to the general
practicability of an invasion.
Before putting pen to paper it was necessary to reconnoitre carefully
the whole of England from the Thames to the Tyne. This I did by means of
a motor-car, travelling 10,000 miles of all kinds of roads, and making a
tour extending over four months. Each town, all the points of vantage,
military positions, all the available landing-places on the coast, all
railway connections, and telephone and telegraph communications, were
carefully noted for future reference. With the assistance of certain
well-known military experts, the battlefields were carefully gone over
and the positions marked upon the Ordnance map. Thus, through four
months we pushed on day by day collecting information and material,
sometimes in the big cities, sometimes in the quietest and remotest
hamlets, all of which was carefully tabulated for use.
Whatever critics may say, and however their opinions may differ, it can
only be pointed out, first, that the “general idea” of the scheme is in
accordance with the expressed and published opinions of the first
strategists of to-day, and that, as far as the forecast of events is
concerned, it has been written from a first-hand knowledge of the local
colour of each of the scenes described. The enemy’s Proclamations
reproduced are practically copies of those issued by the Germans during
the war of 1870.
That the experts and myself will probably be condemned as alarmists and
denounced for revealing information likely to be of assistance to an
enemy goes without saying. Indeed, on March 15th last, an attempt was
made in the House of Commons to suppress its publication altogether. Mr.
R. C. Lehmann, who asked a question of the Prime Minister, declared that
it was “calculated to prejudice our relations with the other Powers,”
while Sir H. Campbell-Bannerman, in a subsequent letter apologising to
me for condemning in the House a work he had not read, repeated that it
was likely to “produce irritation abroad and might conceivably alarm the
more ignorant public at home.”
Such a reflection, cast by the Prime Minister upon the British nation,
is, to say the least, curious, yet it only confirms the truth that the
Government are strenuously seeking to conceal from our people the
appalling military weakness and the consequent danger to which the
country is constantly open.
Mr. Haldane’s new scheme has a number of points about it which, at first
sight, will perhaps commend themselves to the general public, and in
some cases to a proportion of military men. Foremost among these are the
provision made for training the Militia Artillery in the use of
comparatively modern field-guns, and the institution of the County
Associations for the administration of the Volunteers and the
encouragement of the local military spirit. Could an ideal Association
of this kind be evolved there is little doubt that it would be capable
of doing an immense amount of good, since administration by a central
staff, ignorant of the widely differing local conditions which affect
the several Volunteer corps, has already militated against getting the
best work possible out of their members. But under our twentieth-century
social system, which has unfortunately displaced so many influential and
respected county families--every one of which had military or naval
members, relations or ancestors--by wealthy tradesmen, speculators, and
the like, any efficient County Association will be very hard to create.
Mr. Haldane’s scheme is a bold and masterly sketch, but he will find it
very hard to fill in the details satisfactorily. Unfortunately, the
losses the Army must sustain by the reduction of so many fine battalions
are very real and tangible, while the promised gains in efficiency would
appear to be somewhat shadowy and uncertain.
To be weak is to invite war; to be strong is to prevent it.
To arouse our country to a sense of its own lamentable insecurity is
the object of this volume, and that other nations besides ourselves are
interested in England’s grave peril is proved by the fact that it has
already been published in the German, French, Spanish, Danish, Russian,
Italian, and even Japanese languages.
WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
LONDON, _July 26, 1906_.
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE SURPRISE 3
II. EFFECT IN THE CITY 20
III. NEWS OF THE ENEMY 30
IV. A PROPHECY FULFILLED 48
V. OUR FLEET TAKEN UNAWARES 60
VI. FIERCE CRUISER BATTLE 77
VII. CONTINUATION OF THE STRUGGLE AT SEA 94
VIII. SITUATION IN THE NORTH 108
IX. STATE OF SIEGE DECLARED 118
X. HOW THE ENEMY DEALT THE BLOW 131
XI. GERMANS LANDING AT HULL AND GOOLE 154
XII. DESPERATE FIGHTING IN ESSEX 171
XIII. DEFENCE AT LAST 202
XIV. BRITISH SUCCESS AT ROYSTON 221
XV. BRITISH ABANDON COLCHESTER 235
XVI. FIERCE FIGHTING AT CHELMSFORD 255
XVII. IN THE ENEMY’S HANDS 266
XVIII. THE FEELING IN LONDON 279
BOOK II
I. THE LINES OF LONDON 287
II. REPULSE OF THE GERMANS 299
III. BATTLE OF EPPING 310
IV. BOMBARDMENT OF LONDON 326
V. THE RAIN OF DEATH 344
VI. FALL OF LONDON 357
VII. TWO PERSONAL NARRATIVES 372
VIII. GERMANS SACKING THE BANKS 393
IX. WHAT WAS HAPPENING AT SEA 413
X. SITUATION SOUTH OF THE THAMES 444
XI. DEFENCES OF SOUTH LONDON 456
XII. DAILY LIFE OF THE BELEAGUERED 466
XIII. REVOLTS IN SHOREDITCH AND ISLINGTON 477
BOOK III
I. A BLOW FOR FREEDOM 495
II. SCENES AT WATERLOO BRIDGE 511
III. GREAT BRITISH VICTORY 520
IV. MASSACRE OF GERMANS IN LONDON 531
V. HOW THE WAR ENDED 540
LIST OF MAPS AND PLANS
BOOK I
PAGE
POSITION OF THE IVTH GERMAN ARMY CORPS TWELVE
HOURS AFTER LANDING AT WEYBOURNE, NORFOLK 57
POSITION OF THE SAXON CORPS TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
AFTER LANDING IN ESSEX 148
POSITION OF THE GERMAN FORCES TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
AFTER LANDING AT GOOLE 157
GERMANY’S POINTS OF EMBARKATION 167
BATTLE OF PURLEIGH, 6TH SEPTEMBER 193
BATTLE OF SHEFFIELD 218
POSITIONS OF OPPOSING FORCES, 8TH SEPTEMBER 227
BATTLE OF ROYSTON, SUNDAY, 9TH SEPTEMBER 232
BATTLE OF CHELMSFORD. POSITION ON THE EVENING OF 11TH SEPTEMBER 258
THE DEFENCE OF SHEFFIELD 268
BOOK II
THE LINES OF LONDON 288
BATTLE OF HARLOW--FIRST PHASE 296
BATTLE OF HARLOW--FINAL PHASE 307
GERMAN ATTACK ON THE LINES OF LONDON 315
THE BOMBARDMENT AND DEFENCES OF LONDON ON 20TH AND 21ST SEPTEMBER 337
LONDON AFTER THE BOMBARDMENT 365
DAMAGE DONE IN THE CITY BY THE BOMBARDMENT 369
DAMAGE DONE IN WESTMINSTER BY THE BOMBARDMENT 384
SHETLAND ISLANDS 433
THE DEFENCES OF SOUTH LONDON ON 26TH SEPTEMBER 457
SCENE OF THE STREET FIGHTING IN SHOREDITCH ON 27TH SEPTEMBER 478
BOOK I
THE ATTACK
CHAPTER I
THE SURPRISE
Two of the myriad of London’s night-workers were walking down Fleet
Street together soon after dawn on Sunday morning, 2nd September.
The sun had not yet risen. That main artery of London traffic, with its
irregular rows of closed shops and newspaper offices, was quiet and
pleasant in the calm, mystic light before the falling of the smoke-pall.
Only at early morning does the dear old City look its best; in that one
quiet, sweet hour when the night’s toil has ended and the day’s has not
yet begun. Only in that brief interval at the birth of day, when the
rose tints of the sky glow slowly into gold, does the giant metropolis
repose--at least, as far as its business streets are concerned--for at
five o’clock the toiling millions begin to again pour in from all points
of the compass, and the stress and storm of London life at once
recommences.
And in that hour of silent charm the two grey-bearded sub-editors,
though engaged in offices of rival newspapers, were making their way
homeward to Dulwich to spend Sunday in a well-earned rest, and were
chatting “shop” as Press men do.
“I suppose you had the same trouble to get that Yarmouth story through?”
asked Fergusson, the news-editor of the _Weekly Dispatch_, as they
crossed Whitefriars Street. “We got about half a column, and then the
wire shut down.”
“Telegraph or telephone?” inquired Baines, who was four or five years
younger than his friend.
“We were using both--to make sure.”
“So were we. It was a rattling good story--the robbery was mysterious,
to say the least--but we didn’t get more than half of it. Something’s
wrong with the line, evidently,” Baines said. “If it were not such a
perfect autumn morning, I should be inclined to think there’d been a
storm somewhere.”
“Yes--funny, wasn’t it?” remarked the other. “A shame we haven’t the
whole story, for it was a first-class one, and we wanted something. Did
you put it on the contents-bill?”
“No, because we couldn’t get the finish. I tried in every way--rang up
the Central News, P.A., Exchange Telegraph Company, tried to get through
to Yarmouth on the trunk, and spent half an hour or so pottering about,
but the reply from all the agencies, from everywhere in fact, was the
same--the line was interrupted.”
“Just our case. I telephoned to the Post Office, but the reply came back
that the lines were evidently down.”
“Well, it certainly looks as though there’d been a storm, but----” and
Baines glanced at the bright, clear sky overhead, just flushed by the
bursting sun--“there are certainly no traces of it.”
“There’s often a storm on the coast when it’s quite still in London, my
dear fellow,” remarked his friend wisely.
“That’s all very well. But when all communication with a big place like
Yarmouth is suddenly cut off, as it has been, I can’t help suspecting
that something has happened which we ought to know.”
“You’re perhaps right after all,” Fergusson said. “I wonder if anything
_has_ happened. We don’t want to be called back to the office, either of
us. My assistant, Henderson, whom I’ve left in charge, rings me up over
any mare’s nest. The trunk telephones all come into the Post Office
exchange up in Carter Lane. Why not look in there before we go home? It
won’t take us a quarter of an hour, and we have several trains home from
Ludgate Hill.”
Baines looked at his watch. Like his companion, he had no desire to be
called back to his office after getting out to Dulwich, and yet he was
in no mood to go making reporter’s inquiries.
“I don’t think I’ll go. It’s sure to be nothing, my dear fellow,” he
said. “Besides, I have a beastly headache. I had a heavy night’s work.
One of my men is away ill.”
“Well, at any rate, I think I’ll go,” Fergusson said. “Don’t blame me if
you get called back for a special edition with a terrible storm, great
loss of life, and all that sort of thing. So long.” And, smiling, he
waved his hand and parted from his friend in the booking-office of
Ludgate Hill Station.
Quickening his pace, he hurried through the office and, passing out by
the back, ascended the steep, narrow street until he reached the Post
Office telephone exchange in Carter Lane, where, presenting his card, he
asked to see the superintendent-in-charge.
Without much delay he was shown upstairs into a small private office,
into which came a short, dapper, fair-moustached man with the bustle of
a person in a great hurry.
“I’ve called,” the sub-editor explained, “to know whether you can tell
me anything regarding the cause of the interruption of the line to
Yarmouth a short time ago. We had some important news coming through,
but were cut off just in the midst of it, and then we received
information that all the telephone and telegraph lines to Yarmouth were
interrupted.”
“Well, that’s just the very point which is puzzling us at this moment,”
was the night-superintendent’s reply. “It is quite unaccountable. Our
trunk going to Yarmouth seems to be down, as well as the telegraphs.
Yarmouth, Lowestoft, and beyond Beccles seem all to have been suddenly
cut off. About eighteen minutes to four the operators noticed something
wrong, switched the trunks through to the testers, and the latter
reported to me in due course.”
“That’s strange! Did they all break down together?”
“No. The first that failed was the one that runs through Chelmsford,
Colchester, and Ipswich up to Lowestoft and Yarmouth. The operator found
that he could get through to Ipswich and Beccles. Ipswich knew nothing,
except that something was wrong. They could still ring up Beccles, but
not beyond.”
As they were speaking, there was a tap at the door, and the assistant
night-superintendent entered, saying--
“The Norwich line through Scole and Long Stratton has now failed, sir.
About half-past four Norwich reported a fault somewhere north, between
there and Cromer. But the operator now says that the line is apparently
broken, and so are all the telegraphs from there to Cromer, Sheringham,
and Holt.”
“Another line has gone, then!” exclaimed the superintendent-in-charge,
utterly astounded. “Have you tried to get on to Cromer by the other
routes--through Nottingham and King’s Lynn, or through Cambridge?”
“The testers have tried every route, but there’s no response.”
“You could get through to some of the places--Yarmouth, for instance--by
telegraphing to the Continent, I suppose?” asked Fergusson.
“We are already trying,” responded the assistant superintendent.
“What cables run out from the east coast in that neighbourhood?”
inquired the sub-editor quickly.
“There are five between Southwold and Cromer--three run to Germany, and
two to Holland,” replied the assistant. “There’s the cable from Yarmouth
to Barkum, in the Frisian Islands; from Happisburg, near Mundesley, to
Barkum; from Yarmouth to Emden; from Lowestoft to Haarlem, and from
Kessingland, near Southwold, to Zandyport.”
“And you are trying all the routes?” asked his superior.
“I spoke to Paris myself an hour ago and asked them to cable by all five
routes to Yarmouth, Lowestoft, Kessingland, and Happisburg,” was the
assistant’s reply. “I also asked Liverpool Street Station and King’s
Cross to wire down to some of their stations on the coast, but the reply
was that they were in the same predicament as ourselves--their lines
were down north of Beccles, Wymondham, East Dereham, and also south of
Lynn. I’ll just run along and see if there’s any reply from Paris. They
ought to be through by this time, as it’s Sunday morning, and no
traffic.” And he went out hurriedly.
“There’s certainly something very peculiar,” remarked the
superintendent-in-charge to the sub-editor. “If there’s been an
earthquake or an electrical disturbance, then it is a most extraordinary
one. Every single line reaching to the coast seems interrupted.”
“Yes. It’s uncommonly funny,” Fergusson remarked. “I wonder what could
have happened. You’ve never had a complete breakdown like this before?”
“Never. But I think----”
The sentence remained unfinished, for his assistant returned with a slip
of paper in his hand, saying--
“This message has just come in from Paris. I’ll read it. ‘Superintendent
Telephones, Paris, to Superintendent Telephones, London.--Have obtained
direct telegraphic communication with operators of all five cables to
England. Haarlem, Zandyport, Barkum, and Emden all report that cables
are interrupted. They can get no reply from England, and tests show that
cables are damaged somewhere near English shore.’”
“Is that all?” asked Fergusson.
“That’s all. Paris knows no more than we do,” was the assistant’s
response.
“Then the Norfolk and Suffolk coasts are completely isolated--cut off
from post office, railways, telephones, and cables!” exclaimed the
superintendent. “It’s mysterious--most mysterious!” And, taking up the
instrument upon his table, he placed a plug in one of the holes down the
front of the table itself, and a moment later was in conversation with
the official in charge of the traffic at Liverpool Street, repeating the
report from Paris, and urging him to send light engines north from
Wymondham or Beccles into the zone of mystery.
The reply came back that he had already done so, but a telegram had
reached him from Wymondham to the effect that the road-bridges between
Kimberley and Hardingham had apparently fallen in, and the line was
blocked by débris. Interruption was also reported beyond Swaffham, at a
place called Little Dunham.
“Then even the railways themselves are broken!” cried Fergusson. “Is it
possible that there’s been a great earthquake?”
“An earthquake couldn’t very well destroy all five cables from the
Continent,” remarked the superintendent gravely.
The latter had scarcely placed the receiver upon the hook when a third
man entered--an operator who, addressing him, said--
“Will you please come to the switchboard, sir? There’s a man in the
Ipswich call office who has just told me a most extraordinary story. He
says that he started in his motor-car alone from Lowestoft to London at
half-past three this morning, and just as it was getting light he was
passing along the edge of Henham Park, between Wangford village and
Blythburgh, when he saw three men apparently repairing the telegraph
wires. One was up the pole, and the other two were standing below. As he
passed he saw a flash, for, to his surprise, one of the men fired
point-blank at him with a revolver. Fortunately, the shot went wide, and
he at once put on a move and got down into Blythburgh village, even
though one of his tyres went down. It had probably been pierced by the
bullet fired at him, as the puncture was unlike any he had ever had
before. At Blythburgh he informed the police of the outrage, and the
constable, in turn, woke up the postmaster, who tried to telegraph back
to the police at Wrentham, but found that the line was interrupted. Was
it possible that the men were cutting the wires, instead of repairing
them? He says that after repairing the puncture he took the village
constable and three other men on his car and went back to the spot,
where, although the trio had escaped, they saw that wholesale havoc had
been wrought with the telegraphs. The lines had been severed in four or
five places, and whole lengths tangled up into great masses. A number of
poles had been sawn down, and were lying about the roadside. Seeing that
nothing could be done, the gentleman remounted his car, came on to
Ipswich, and reported the damage at our call office.”
“And is he still there?” exclaimed the superintendent quickly, amazed at
the motorist’s statement.
“Yes. I asked him to wait for a few moments in order to speak to you,
sir.”
“Good. I’ll go at once. Perhaps you’d like to come also, Mr. Fergusson?”
And all four ran up to the gallery, where the huge switchboards were
ranged around, and where the night operators, with the receivers
attached to one ear, were still at work.
In a moment the superintendent had taken the operator’s seat, adjusted
the ear-piece, and was in conversation with Ipswich. A second later he
was speaking with the man who had actually witnessed the cutting of the
trunk line.
While he was thus engaged an operator at the farther end of the
switchboard suddenly gave vent to a cry of surprise and disbelief.
“What do you say, Beccles? Repeat it,” he asked excitedly.
Then a moment later he shouted aloud--
“Beccles says that German soldiers--hundreds of them--are pouring into
the place! The Germans have landed at Lowestoft, they think.”
All who heard those ominous words sprang up dumbfounded, staring at each
other.
The assistant-superintendent dashed to the operator’s side and seized
his apparatus.
“Halloa--halloa, Beccles! Halloa--halloa--halloa!”
The response was some gruff words in German, and the sound of scuffling
could distinctly be heard. Then all was silent.
Time after time he rang up the small Suffolk town, but in vain. Then he
switched through to the testers, and quickly the truth was plain.
The second trunk line to Norwich, running from Ipswich by Harleston and
Beccles, had been cut farther towards London.
But what held everyone breathless in the trunk telephone headquarters
was that the Germans had actually effected the surprise landing that had
so often in recent years been predicted by military critics; that
England on that quiet September Sunday morning had been attacked.
England was actually invaded. It was incredible!
Yet London’s millions in their Sunday morning lethargy were in utter
ignorance of the grim disaster that had suddenly fallen upon the land.
Fergusson was for rushing at once back to the _Weekly Dispatch_ office
to get out an extraordinary edition, but the superintendent, who was
still in conversation with the motorist, urged judicious forethought.
“For the present, let us wait. Don’t let us alarm the public
unnecessarily. We want corroboration. Let us have the motorist up here,”
he suggested.
“Yes,” cried the sub-editor. “Let me speak to him.”
Over the wire Fergusson begged the stranger to come at once to London
and give his story, declaring that the military authorities would
require it. Then, just as the man who had been shot at by German advance
spies--for such they had undoubtedly been--in order to prevent the truth
leaking out, gave his promise to come to town at once, there came over
the line from the coastguard at Southwold a vague, incoherent telephone
message regarding strange ships having been seen to the northward, and
asking for connection with Harwich; while King’s Cross and Liverpool
Street Stations both rang up almost simultaneously, reporting the
receipt of extraordinary messages from King’s Lynn, Diss, Harleston,
Halesworth, and other places. All declared that German soldiers were
swarming over the north, that Lowestoft and Beccles had been seized, and
that Yarmouth and Cromer were isolated.
Various stationmasters reported that the enemy had blown up bridges,
taken up rails, and effectually blocked all communication with the
coast. Certain important junctions were already held by the enemy’s
outposts.
Such was the amazing news received in that high-up room in Carter Lane,
City, on that sweet, sunny morning when all the great world of London
was at peace, either still slumbering or week-ending.
Fergusson remained for a full hour and a half at the Telephone Exchange,
anxiously awaiting any further corroboration. Many wild stories came
over the wires telling how panic-stricken people were fleeing inland
away from the enemy’s outposts. Then he took a hansom to the _Weekly
Dispatch_ office, and proceeded to prepare a special edition of his
paper--an edition containing surely the most amazing news that had ever
startled London.
Fearing to create undue panic, he decided not to go to press until the
arrival of the motorist from Ipswich. He wanted the story of the man who
had actually seen the cutting of the wires. He paced his room excitedly,
wondering what effect the news would have upon the world. In the rival
newspaper offices the report was, as yet, unknown. With journalistic
forethought he had arranged that at present the bewildering truth should
not leak out to his rivals, either from the railway termini or from the
telephone exchange. His only fear was that some local correspondent
might telegraph from some village or town nearer the metropolis which
was still in communication with the central office.
Time passed very slowly. Each moment increased his anxiety. He had sent
out the one reporter who remained on duty to the house of Colonel Sir
James Taylor, the Permanent Under-Secretary for War. Halting before the
open window, he looked up and down the street for the arriving
motor-car. But all was quiet.
Eight o’clock had just boomed from Big Ben, and London still remained in
her Sunday morning peace. The street, bright in the warm sunshine, was
quite empty, save for a couple of motor-omnibuses and a sprinkling of
gaily dressed holiday-makers on their way to the day excursion trains.
In that centre of London--the hub of the world--all was comparatively
silent, the welcome rest after the busy turmoil that through six days in
the week is unceasing, that fevered throbbing of the heart of the
world’s great capital.
Of a sudden, however, came the whirr-r of an approaching car, as a
thin-faced, travel-stained man tore along from the direction of the
Strand and pulled up before the office. The fine car, a six-cylinder
“Napier,” was grey with the mud of country roads, while the motorist
himself was smothered until his goggles had been almost entirely
covered.
Fergusson rushed out to him, and a few moments later the pair were in
the upstairs room, the sub-editor swiftly taking down the motorist’s
story, which differed very little from what he had already spoken over
the telephone.
Then, just as Big Ben chimed the half-hour, the echoes of the
half-deserted Strand were suddenly awakened by the loud, strident
voices of the newsboys shouting--
“_Weekly Dispatch_, spe-shall! Invasion of England this morning! Germans
in Suffolk! Terrible panic! Spe-shall! _Weekly Dispatch_, Spe-shall!”
As soon as the paper had gone to press Fergusson urged the
motorist--whose name was Horton, and who lived at Richmond--to go with
him to the War Office and report. Therefore, both men entered the car,
and in a few moments drew up before the new War Office in Whitehall.
“I want to see somebody in authority at once!” cried Fergusson excitedly
to the sentry as he sprang out.
“You’ll find the caretaker, if you ring at the side entrance--on the
right, there,” responded the man, who then marched on.
“The caretaker!” echoed the excited sub-editor bitterly. “And England
invaded by the Germans!”
He, however, dashed towards the door indicated and rang the bell. At
first there was no response. But presently there were sounds of a slow
unbolting of the door, which opened at last, revealing a tall, elderly
man in slippers, a retired soldier.
“I must see somebody at once!” exclaimed the journalist. “Not a moment
must be lost. What permanent officials are here?”
“There’s nobody ’ere, sir,” responded the man in some surprise at the
request. “It’s Sunday morning, you know.”
“Sunday! I know that, but I must see someone. Whom can I see?”
“Nobody, until to-morrow morning. Come then.” And the old soldier was
about to close the door when the journalist prevented him, asking--
“Where’s the clerk-in-residence?”
“How should I know? Gone up the river, perhaps. It’s a nice mornin’.”
“Well, where does he live?”
“Sometimes ’ere--sometimes in ’is chambers in Ebury Street,” and the
man mentioned the number.
“Better come to-morrow, sir, about eleven. Somebody’ll be sure to see
you then.”
“To-morrow!” cried the other. “To-morrow! You don’t know what you’re
saying, man! To-morrow will be too late. Perhaps it’s too late now. The
Germans have landed in England!”
“Oh, ’ave they?” exclaimed the caretaker, regarding both men with
considerable suspicion. “Our people will be glad to know that, I’m
sure--to-morrow.”
“But haven’t you got telephones, private telegraphs, or something here,
so that I can communicate with the authorities? Can’t you ring up the
Secretary of State, the Permanent Secretary, or somebody?”
The caretaker hesitated a moment, his incredulous gaze fixed upon the
pale, agitated faces of the two men.
“Well, just wait a minute, and I’ll see,” he said, disappearing into a
long cavernous passage.
In a few moments he reappeared with a constable whose duty it was to
patrol the building.
The officer looked the strangers up and down, and then asked--
“What’s this extraordinary story? Germans landed in England--eh? That’s
fresh, certainly!”
“Yes. Can’t you hear what the newsboys are crying? Listen!” exclaimed
the motorist.
“H’m. Well, you’re not the first gentleman who’s been here with a scare,
you know. If I were you I’d wait till to-morrow,” and he glanced
significantly at the caretaker.
“I won’t wait till to-morrow!” cried Fergusson. “The country is in
peril, and you refuse to assist me on your own responsibility--you
understand?”
“All right, my dear sir,” replied the officer, leisurely hooking his
thumbs in his belt. “You’d better drive home, and call again in the
morning.”
“So this is the way the safety of the country is neglected!” cried the
motorist bitterly, turning away. “Everyone away, and this great place,
built merely to gull the public, I suppose, empty and its machinery
useless. What will England say when she learns the truth?”
As they were walking in disgust out from the portico towards the car, a
man jumped from a hansom in breathless haste. He was the reporter whom
Fergusson had sent out to Sir James Taylor’s house in Cleveland Square,
Hyde Park.
“They thought Sir James spent the night with his brother up at
Hampstead,” he exclaimed. “I’ve been there, but find that he’s away for
the week-end at Chilham Hall, near Buckden.”
“Buckden! That’s on the Great North Road!” cried Horton. “We’ll go at
once and find him. Sixty miles from London. We can be there under two
hours!”
And a few minutes later the pair were tearing due north in the direction
of Finchley, disregarding the signs from police constables to stop,
Horton wiping the dried mud from his goggles and pulling them over his
half-closed eyes.
They had given the alarm in London, and the _Weekly Dispatch_ was
spreading the amazing news everywhere. People read it eagerly, gasped
for a moment, and then smiled in utter disbelief. But the two men were
on their way to reveal the appalling truth to the man who was one of the
heads of that complicated machinery of inefficient defence which we so
proudly term our Army.
Bursting with the astounding information, they bent their heads to the
wind as the car shot onward through Barnet and Hatfield, then, entering
Hitchin, they were compelled to slow down in the narrow street as they
passed the old Sun Inn, and afterwards out again upon the broad highway
with its many telegraph lines, through Biggleswade, Tempsford, and Eaton
Socon, until, in Buckden, Horton pulled up to inquire of a farm labourer
for Chilham Hall.
“Oop yon road to the left, sir. ’Bout a mile Huntingdon way,” was the
man’s reply.
Then away they sped, turning a few minutes later into the handsome
lodge-gates of Chilham Park, and running up the great elm avenue, drew
up before the main door of the ancient hall, a quaint many-gabled old
place of grey stone.
“Is Sir James Taylor in?” Fergusson shouted to the liveried man who
opened the door.
“He’s gone across the home farm with his lordship and the keepers,” was
the reply.
“Then take me to him at once. I haven’t a second to lose. I must see him
this instant.”
Thus urged, the servant conducted the pair across the park and through
several fields to the edge of a small wood, where two elderly men were
walking with a couple of keepers and several dogs about them.
“The tall gentleman is Sir James. The other is his lordship,” the
servant explained to Fergusson; and a few moments later the breathless
journalist, hurrying up, faced the Permanent Under-Secretary with the
news that England was invaded--that the Germans had actually effected a
surprise landing on the east coast.
Sir James and his host stood speechless. Like others, they at first
believed the pale-faced, bearded sub-editor to be a lunatic, but a few
moments later, when Horton briefly repeated the story, they saw that
whatever might have occurred, the two men were at least in deadly
earnest.
“Impossible!” cried Sir James. “We should surely have heard something of
it if such were actually the case! The coastguard would have telephoned
the news instantly. Besides, where is our fleet?”
“The Germans evidently laid their plans with great cleverness. Their
spies, already in England, cut the wires at a pre-arranged hour last
night,” declared Fergusson. “They sought to prevent this gentleman from
giving the alarm by shooting him. All the railways to London are already
either cut, or held by the enemy. One thing, however, is clear--fleet or
no fleet, the east coast is entirely at their mercy.”
Host and guest exchanged dark glances.
“Well, if what you say is the actual truth,” exclaimed Sir James,
“to-day is surely the blackest day that England has ever known.”
“Yes, thanks to the pro-German policy of the Government and the false
assurances of the Blue Water School. They should have listened to Lord
Roberts,” snapped his lordship. “I suppose you’ll go at once, Taylor,
and make inquiries?”
“Of course,” responded the Permanent Secretary. And a quarter of an hour
later, accepting Horton’s offer, he was sitting in the car as it headed
back towards London.
Could the journalist’s story be true? As he sat there, with his head
bent against the wind and the mud splashing into his face, Sir James
recollected too well the repeated warnings of the past five years,
serious warnings by men who knew our shortcomings, but to which no
attention had been paid. Both the Government and the public had remained
apathetic, the idea of peril had been laughed to scorn, and the country
had, ostrich-like, buried its head in the sand, and allowed Continental
nations to supersede us in business, in armaments, in everything.
The danger of invasion had always been ridiculed as a mere alarmist’s
fiction; those responsible for the defence of the country had smiled,
the Navy had been reduced, and the Army had remained in contented
inefficiency.
If the blow had really been struck by Germany? If she had risked three
or four, out of her twenty-three, army corps, and had aimed at the heart
of the British Empire? What then? Ay! what then?
As the car swept down Regent Street into Pall Mall and towards
Whitehall, Sir James saw on every side crowds discussing the vague but
astounding reports now published in special editions of all the Sunday
papers, and shouted wildly everywhere.
Boys bearing sheets fresh from the Fleet Street presses were seized,
and bundles torn from them by excited Londoners eager to learn the
latest intelligence.
Around both War Office and Admiralty great surging crowds were
clamouring loudly for the truth. Was it the truth, or was it only a
hoax? Half London disbelieved it. Yet from every quarter, from the north
and from across the bridges, thousands were pouring in to ascertain what
had really occurred, and the police had the greatest difficulty in
keeping order.
In Trafalgar Square, where the fountains were plashing so calmly in the
autumn sunlight, a shock-headed man mounted the back of one of the lions
and harangued the crowd with much gesticulation, denouncing the
Government in the most violent terms; but the orator was ruthlessly
pulled down by the police in the midst of his fierce attack.
It was half-past two o’clock in the afternoon. The Germans had already
been on English soil ten hours, yet London was in ignorance of where
they had actually landed, and utterly helpless.
All sorts of wild rumours were afloat, rumours that spread everywhere
throughout the metropolis, from Hampstead to Tooting, from Barking to
Hounslow, from Willesden to Woolwich. The Germans were in England!
But in those first moments of the astounding revelation the excitement
centred in Trafalgar Square and its vicinity. Men shouted and
threatened, women shrieked and wrung their hands, while wild-haired
orators addressed groups at the street corners.
Where was our Navy? they asked. Where was our “command of the sea” of
which the papers had always talked so much? If we possessed that, then
surely no invader could ever have landed? Where was our Army--that brave
British Army that had fought triumphantly a hundred campaigns, and which
we had been assured by the Government was always ready for any
emergency? When would it face the invader and drive him back into the
sea?
When?
And the wild, shouting crowds looked up at the many windows of the
Admiralty and the War Office, ignorant that both those huge buildings
only held terrified caretakers and a double watch of police constables.
Was England invaded? Were foreign legions actually overrunning Norfolk
and Suffolk, and were we really helpless beneath the iron heel of the
enemy?
It was impossible--incredible! England was on the most friendly terms
with Germany. Yet the blow had fallen, and London--or that portion of
her that was not enjoying its Sunday afternoon nap in the smug
respectability of the suburbs--stood amazed and breathless, in
incredulous wonder.