THE CAPTURE OF THE JUDGES
The weather had suddenly turned to bitter cold, and, in spite of
prevailing alarms, every one had something more or less obvious to say
on the unfailing subject. Disaster may impend, kingdoms may totter to
their fall, but through all the steadfast Briton harps on the text of
the barometer. “Dry and much colder; freshening north-easterly wind,”
was the record of the morning, and the afternoon abundantly confirmed
its truth. His Majesty’s judges, for the most part elderly gentlemen,
and necessarily leading sedentary lives, felt, and liked not, the
eager, nipping air. They reached the Law Courts in the dusk of the
afternoon for their projected conference, feeling not a little ill-used
that, on Christmas Eve of all days in the year, such a conference
should be needed.
Most of them drove by roundabout routes to the judges’ entrance in
Carey Street; others deemed it safer to approach on foot, and entered
the great building either east or west, from Bell Yard, or Clement’s
Inn. None but the police were using the great main entrance in the
Strand, which had been closed and strongly guarded ever since the
rising of the Courts for the vacation. The street scenes of the past
few days, and the threatening conduct of the people towards those who
drove in private carriages or motors, had produced a notable effect
upon the traffic. Many of the omnibuses had been taken off the streets.
Numbers of the cabmen, long discontented with their lot, had joined
the Leaguers, and people who did hire a hansom or four-wheeler had
to submit to what the driver considered the fare should be in the
special circumstances of the moment. But the Strand, like other main
thoroughfares, was thronged with foot passengers, roadway as well as
pavement, and any sort of wheeled traffic could only be carried on
under slow and apologetic conditions. All of which tended to prevent
punctuality on the part of the functionaries of the law, and to
increase their sense of hardship and uneasiness. The Law had so long
ridden rough-shod over the people, that it seemed especially surprising
that things were taking such a different turn.
By a quarter past four, however, all but three of the judges and
magistrates and Sir Robert Hill, Chief Commissioner of Police, had
arrived, and in the big room selected for the discussion, scattered
groups stood in earnest conversation on the urgent questions of the
hour.
It was a memorable gathering. The Master of the Rolls was supported
by all the Lords Justices of the Court of Appeal. The Lord Chief
Justice had as his judicial satellites a dozen judges of the King’s
Bench Division--all, in fact, save those who were incapacitated by
serious illness. Both the Judges of the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty
Division were present, and also those important but lesser lights of
the law, the three City judges, and the Chairmen and deputy-Chairmen
of Sessions for the Counties of London and Middlesex. The Lord Mayor
had been invited to attend, but a serious nervous disorder from which
he had suffered ever since the riotous scenes at the Mansion House on
the tenth of November, made his presence impossible. Twenty of the
stipendiary magistrates from the Metropolitan Police Courts had come
in obedience to the summons, two having recently died, and the others
being confined to their beds through illness.
Sir John Westwood, who was known to have been suffering from insomnia,
stood, haggard and silent, by one of the windows, while Lord Malvern
expounded to him and a few others his personal views as to the drastic
measures required to meet the crisis. His lordship was of opinion that
the King, who unfortunately still lay ill at Windsor Castle, should be
advised to summon a special session of Parliament for the purpose of
passing an Act for the suppression of the League, after the precedent
adopted many years earlier in dealing with the Land League in Ireland.
“I doubt whether we want more legislation, my lord,” said Westwood.
“But we do need a stronger executive.”
“I agree with Sir John,” said one of the group--Mr Justice Wigham, a
man of downright type and resolute manner. “The plain fact is that
the civil power has broken down. When that happens order can only be
restored by the military arm.”
“Hear, hear!” chimed in several; for the group was now growing larger.
“Kitchener would be the man, if he were back from India,” said the
Master of the Rolls.
“He is back, my lord; he arrived yesterday; but he’s ill,” said the
Solicitor-General.
“Everybody’s ill,” observed Mr Justice Barling. “Illness has its
advantages at the present time. I think I shall be ill myself.” The
pleasantry was received with coldness.
The learned judge was known to be a judicial joker of an inveterate
type, but his brethren of the bench considered there was a “time for
all things.” Similarly, Mr Harrowden, the well-known merrymaker of the
magisterial bench, talking to some colleagues at the other end of the
room, received no encouragement when he essayed to launch a little
witticism and support it with a laugh.
“Order, order!” exclaimed the Chief Justice, raising his voice. “This
is quite unseemly.”
“My brother Barling shouldn’t set such a bad example,” whispered Mr
Justice Hartmill to his neighbour.
“Things are pretty bad, but I suppose you know there is a possibility
of something worse behind?” The speaker was Sir Gwilliam Ranthorn,
a well-known judge, amongst whose excellent qualities a discreet
reticence could not be numbered. “I had it on excellent authority,”
said his lordship.
“Had what?” asked some one.
“Why, Germany is working at the wires, as usual. All this domestic
disorder in England is being utilised abroad. Don’t be surprised at
anything you hear within the next few days.” He nodded wisely.
“Of course we’ve all heard rumours,” said Sir George Wigham, rather
bluntly. “But even if they mean war, England can’t be attacked without
some reasonable pretext.”
“A pretext, if you like, but not necessarily a reasonable one,”
returned Sir Gwilliam, warmly. “When will their army be stronger;
and hasn’t the Kaiser got all the ships he wanted while we’ve been
twiddling our thumbs?”
“That is not the worst of it,” chimed in Sir Borrall Carnes, who, as
President of the Admiralty Division, knew more about shipping and
seamen than all the rest. “German seamen swarm in our mercantile
marine, and German pilots can do as they please with hundreds upon
hundreds of British vessels.”
“It’s monstrous! It’s madness!” declared Sir Gwilliam.
“Yes, yes,” assented the Chief Justice. “I am disposed to endorse
all you say. But that’s the business of the Admiralty and the Board
of Trade. We, as guardians of civil order, and bound to preserve the
King’s peace, must confine ourselves to our proper functions.”
As his lordship ended, the electric light went out, and loud
exclamations were followed by a curious silence, broken in a moment by
the voice of Mr Justice Barling. “Why are his Majesty’s judges like the
heathen?” he was asking. From a shadowed corner came the prompt reply
of Mr Harrowden: “Because they sit in darkness.”
“Lights, please; lights of some sort,” demanded Lord Malvern, testily.
Alert attendants soon procured them--lamps and candles, always in
readiness for an emergency, were brought in and placed on the great
baize-covered table. At a sign from the Chief Justice there was a
general move to the surrounding chairs.
“The business of the meeting must not be delayed any longer,” said
his lordship, looking round before he took the presidential chair.
“Probably all who were summoned are now present?”
“All but Sir Robert Hill,” said an attendant, who had checked the
arrivals at the door.
“It is very desirable that the Chief Commissioner should be here,”
remarked the Master of the Rolls.
A knock came on the door, and the attendant, opening it, had a
whispered conversation with some one who could not be seen from the
table. The attendant looked round: “My lord, Major Rollin, one of the
Assistant Commissioners, is here.”
“Let him come in,” said the Chief Justice, dropping wearily into his
chair.
The Assistant Commissioner advanced into the room, and it was noticed
by all that, though self-possessed, he was extremely pale.
“I regret to say, my lord, that Sir Robert cannot possibly be here.”
The judges exchanged glances. Major Rollin hesitated a moment, and
then continued: “The fact is, we have had a very urgent message over
the wires from Windsor. A large demonstration of the Leaguers is being
organised near the Castle, and every man that we can spare must be
despatched there. The Chief Commissioner is now making the necessary
arrangements. Your lordship will perhaps excuse me?”
The Assistant Commissioner bowed and was gone almost before his hearers
realised to the full the ominous information he had given them.
At that moment the telephone bell began to ring. The face of the
attendant, as he listened to the message, was watched by all with some
anxiety.
“Well?” demanded Sir Gwilliam. “What is the message?”
“Apparently from the Home Office, my lord--One moment.
Yes?”--listening--” Very well.” Then turning towards the table: “They
wish to communicate with the Lord Chief Justice.”
Lord Malvern rose at once and went across to the instrument. “Well,
what is it? Yes--I am Lord Malvern. What? Now--immediately?” The hum
and buzz of the machine continued, ringing the changes of question and
answer in the usual fashion. Then his lordship came back to the table,
looking very grave.
“Matters of great urgency have arisen, and our presence is desired
immediately to confer with the Lord Chancellor and the Home Secretary,
who are busily engaged on affairs of State. I am to request all who are
here to accompany me at once.”
“Where?--to Downing Street or Whitehall?” asked several voices.
“To the House of Lords--the Home Secretary is there with the Chancellor
at this moment.”
“Westminster!--easier said than done,” murmured one of the judges.
The telephone bell rang out again, and once more the Chief Justice
hurried to the instrument and listened. “Yes, I hear. Do you say at the
Temple Pier? What vessel?--the _John Milton_? Yes.”
He turned to his anxious colleagues. “It is considered unsafe and
impracticable to drive to Westminster, but a paddle-steamer--the _John
Milton_--has been sent to the Temple Pier to convey us to Westminster.
Come, gentlemen, we are the servants of the State and there is no time
to lose.”
And no time was lost. All rose from their seats, pushing the chairs
back in noisy haste. Very few of those present had taken off their
overcoats, owing to the coldness of the room. Hasty messages were
given to the attendants for the coachmen who were waiting in Carey
Street, and in a few minutes, split up into small parties, the whole
judicial company emerged by various doors on the Clement’s Inn side of
the building. They hurried across the crowded, turbulent Strand, with
a few constables acting as an escort, and made their way, some _via_
Essex Street, and others through Arundel Street, to the Temple Pier. A
cutting wind greeted them on the Embankment, and scattered snowflakes
heralded a coming storm.
The hiss of the escaping steam was heard, and the masthead light, with
here and there a lantern on the decks, showed them the outline of the
_John Milton_, lying alongside the pier, her bow towards Westminster.
“I thought the County Council had sold the _Milton_.”
“Well, here she is, and the sooner we’re on board and out of this the
better,” said one of the magistrates as they hurried down the steps.
The captain was already on the bridge, and one of his great earrings
gleamed in the faint light of a lantern. “All below, please,” he called
out sharply.
One of the seamen led the way to the saloon, and in a few moments the
complement of passengers was completed. The rattle of the movable
gangway was heard, as the men upon the pier withdrew it; then, as the
paddle wheels slowly began to revolve, the taut ropes strained and
throbbed ere they were thrown loose. The doors of the saloon were
closed.
“Prisoners for the first time in our lives. They’ve turned the tables!”
ventured Mr Justice Barling, but no one took any notice of the joke.
The sway of the steamer and churning of the water told them that she
was clear of the landing stage. But presently looks of inquiry and
surprise were exchanged amongst the passengers. “By Jove! Westwood,”
said one of them, “they’ve put the boat about!”
Sir John Westwood rushed to the doors of the saloon and tried to open
them. The doors were locked and barred.
“Great Scott! we’re heading for London Bridge!” exclaimed some one
else. “What does it mean?”
They made a dash to the portholes and tried to open them; but they were
fixed and firm.
The clang of a well-known signal from bridge to engine-room reached
their ears. “_That_ means ’full speed ahead!’” said the last speaker;
and they stood aghast and helpless as the _John Milton_ raced down the
river towards the open sea.
* * * * *
At his window, overlooking the Embankment, Marcus White was watching.
A grim smile played across his features as the lights of the steamer
rushed eastward, and soon were lost to view in the black and bitter
night.