THE BLACK CHRISTMAS
The elements ignore, and thus subdue, the rage of men. Wind alone
would not have cleared the streets, but wind and snow together drove
loiterers and roisterers alike to shelter. And in the midst of
the snowstorm Henshaw’s prediction was fulfilled. The lighters of
London--the men at the gasworks and electric lighting stations--threw
down their tools; the lamplighters “struck,” and presently a great
horror of darkness fell on the distracted citizens. The hours went on,
and the snow still fell, deadening the sounds of night, muffling the
city in a mighty shroud. This gradual hush of London seemed to many far
more appalling than its familiar roar.
But towards midnight, here and there, custom asserted itself, in spite
of adverse influences, and the church bells reminded residents, at any
rate those in the central districts, that this, in very truth, was
Christmas Eve.
Over the broad squares south of St Pancras the deep-toned bells chimed
out the ancient hymn:
“Glad tidings of great joy I bring
To you and all mankind.”
Yet darkness and distress weighed on the silent dwellings, and the
“shining throng” of angels that once appeared to Eastern shepherds
brought no message to the British Babylon, nor showed a glimmer of
their glorious wings. The last chime died away; and soon the snowfall
ceased. Then London slept, or tried to sleep, till, once again, after a
long night of moaning wind, wan daylight stole across the white-draped
roofs. Once more the bells were heard, but this time not in chimes;
and through the streets, upon the frozen snow, dim muffled figures
hastened to the churches. Mostly these worshippers were girls and
women--courageous keepers of the Christian feast! Thus was it aforetime
in that mysterious Easter dawn, when a woman, first of all,--a woman of
the town--came hurrying to the Holy Sepulchre.
It was not till the grey dusk of the afternoon that the first warning
of most portentous happenings reached the ears of London citizens.
Suddenly shrill-voiced newsboys came yelling through the gloom; and
then the croaking note of hoarse-toned men was heard--at first far off;
then nearer, nearer, coming and going through the streets and squares.
_Epoch! Epoch!! Epoch_, SPECIAL!!!
Puzzled faces peered from behind blinds, and eager people rushed out to
their doorsteps.
_Epoch! Epoch!_ SPECIAL EDITION!
GERMAN FLEET OFF PLYMOUTH!
PORTSMOUTH DOCKYARD ON FIRE!
HOSTILE SQUADRON IN NORTH SEA!!!
Thus, on the anniversary of the day that centuries ago had brought the
glorious greeting, “Peace on Earth,” came the dire news that England’s
foe, the Prussian Eagle, at last was going to make the long-intended
swoop. The bugles sounded over land and sea, “War, son of hell” was
loose--
“Contumelious, beastly, mad-brained war.”
* * * * *
It seemed incredible! Talk of invasion there had been from time to
time, but long immunity had made men disbelieve in such a possibility.
In like manner it had seemed inconceivable that such upheavals as had
recently convulsed many a continental town could be repeated here in
England. Yet London was bearing reluctant witness to the fact.
And now--
“There is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the South that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war.”
Would English hearts respond this time to the old war-song? Would
English grit once more avail to hurl back the advancing enemy?
Even now, in many minds, after the first shock of such intelligence,
there was a disposition to discredit it as based on exaggerated or
sensational reports. Yet here in black and white the _Epoch_ gave the
circumstantial story. In brief, it was as follows:
German spies had discovered, or pretended to discover, an intrigue
between the Duke of Saxe-Cobourg Gotha and the British Government.
The Duke’s sympathies, as well as the ties of relationship, it was
said, allied him to the royal house of England. English by birth, and
Prussian only by adoption, on succeeding to the Duchy this grandson of
Queen Victoria had found his position one of exceptional difficulty.
Political controversy in the Duchy had been revived or manufactured.
The Premier had found occasion to resign, and rumours of a stormy
interview between the Kaiser and the Duke had got abroad.
At the same time the Emperor, whose navy had now attained most
formidable proportions, found himself checkmated by Lord Downland in
respect of a long-cherished German scheme for acquiring Madeira from
the Portuguese. It was supposed to be a purely commercial project, but
the British Foreign Secretary knew better. The island of Madeira, lying
only four hundred miles from Morocco, and not remote from England,
possessed much to recommend it in German eyes. It was, in truth, a
Naboth’s Vineyard. The owners of Madeira could not only cultivate the
vine, but they could find plenty of accommodation for a coaling station
for the German navy. All of which was well understood, though politely
disguised, in diplomatic circles. Lord Downland’s management of the
situation had been supplemented by the invaluable influence of his
royal master, with whom the King of Portugal and the King of Portugal’s
ambassador at St James’s had a complete and cordial understanding.
From all of which it came to pass that, like Ahab of old, the
monarch of united Germany was vexed in spirit. A powerful German
fleet appeared one day off Lisbon, but nothing untoward occurred.
The surprise visit was not a lengthy one, and the great engines of
destruction--battleships, armoured cruisers, and destroyers--vanished
as suddenly as they had arrived, in the enfolding mists of the Atlantic.
Then over the cables came intelligence of the indisposition of the
Kaiser, and of a projected sea voyage as the remedy recommended by the
royal physicians. The excellent advice of the faculty was promptly
followed. The magnificent Hamburg liner, _Schiller_, was made available
for his Majesty’s accommodation, and the cruise was said to afford
opportunity for testing certain remarkable improvements in turbine
engines, which keenly interested the Emperor.
Nor was this all. The Kaiser’s influence with the new Emperor of all
the Russias had become quite paramount, and concurrent rumours of a
combined movement of Imperial squadrons in the North Sea had added to
the already serious uneasiness of the British Lion. The Eagle and the
Bear were on the pounce!
Time and the hour had been well chosen. The British capital was in the
throes of internal discord, fomented by the industrious agencies of
foreign powers; and Christmas, with its holiday closure of all public
departments, admirably served to emphasise the opportunity.
Long ago the risks of invasion had been publicly discussed by a prime
minister of England, who had dismissed the idea as quite impracticable.
But there were naval and military experts and others who thought
otherwise. The unmasked landing of from 60,000 to 100,000 foreign
troops on these shores certainly would be a hazardous achievement
which many things might combine to defeat. But, assuredly, it was not
impossible; especially if the way should be cleared for such a landing
by the disablement of the naval ports, and the defeat of one or more of
the squadrons charged with watch and ward over our extended coast-line.
It was known to the naval authorities that Portsmouth and Portland
were peculiarly exposed to the form of attack which Admiral Togo had
so persistently tried at Port Arthur, and which, a few years earlier,
the Americans had adopted at Santiago. To bottle a harbour by sinking a
merchant ship in its mouth was a device that might be tried in England,
as it had been tried abroad. If such an attempt succeeded, invasion
in military force might become a comparatively easy task. Granted the
feasibility of an invasion, and then what France had suffered in the
annexation of Alsace-Lorraine, England might have to endure by ceding
Kent or Yorkshire to the strong man armed. What happened to the
Kingdom of Hanover might happen--preposterous though it seemed--to the
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
The Germans, almost insolently, had shown their hand for years. They
had said to Britain: “You cannot keep the sea for ever. We mean to take
it from you; the trade first, and then--the flag.” There were thousands
of Germans in our forecastles, scores of German masters and mates on
the bridges of our merchantmen, and German pilots had been allowed to
know all that charts and practical experience could tell them of our
coasts and harbours. One and all, they had an unconcealed aim--to make
the Teuton sea-lord of the world. Yet, knowing all this, England, like
a giant drugged with deadly wine, had slumbered in apathy.
Had the fateful hour really struck at last? Here, indeed, was a
Naboth’s Vineyard worth coveting, for England and the English-speaking
States on the other side of the Atlantic controlled between them
four-fifths of the gold production of the world; England and the
United States held a third of the dry land, owned four-sevenths of the
shipping, two-thirds of the coal, and more than half of the world’s
iron and steel. A splendid prize! A glorious heritage! Could Germany
wrest it in part from the Anglo-Saxons, or would Britain, aided or
unaided, rouse herself at last and hold her own?
“Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet,
Above her shook the starry lights,
She heard the torrents meet.”
But now? Could Freedom sit unmoved?
“Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple-forks,
And King-like wears the crown.”
But now? Could Britain’s navy hold the triple-forks against her foe?
It was a solemn question, which, in that dark Christmastide, many asked
themselves, in doubt and fear.
The old national spirit, proud and patriotic, that, spite of blood and
toil, had carried Freedom to the splendid heights, had lapsed from its
virility. What could England hope from the hordes of stunted, ill-fed,
debilitated men and youths who for months past had been thronging
the streets of her capital, and taking ransom from its nerveless and
submissive middle-class citizens?
The hour had come. The drugged giant must awake and fight for life, or
lie at the proud foot of a conqueror!