Chapter XI: Part 11

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."