Chapter XVII: Her Majesty in Council

The sun was rising, the keen still air had a tang of smoke from one or two parishes sacked and burned over-night. Under the barricaded windows of St. Stephen's Palace a starving street arab was at work with a few grains of banana meal and a string noose, trying to snare a pigeon. A man watched him furtively from beside one of the buttresses of the Abbey. That man had been a barrister before the World-Storm, now he was a tramp, and his coat was buttoned up because his underclothes had been sold for a meal. All night he had been with a crowd in the Strand wrecking the hotels in search of food. A dog or two had been dragged out of the flames, and torn to pieces; but the barrister won not so much as a taste of the blood, because some stronger desperadoes charged in a body and carried the food away. Now the Savoy district was a smouldering furnace, and the barrister watched the street arab, intending robbery if the lad got meat.

Something caught his wandering attention; the body of a man, which lay at the base of the statue of Richard Cœur de Lion, out in the bare paved square. The barrister stole across from the Abbey, but when he bent over the man, hoping for plunder, he found he had made a mistake. The supposed corpse proved to be alive, and remarked that he had nothing worth stealing.

The barrister shrank back, smiling vaguely. "Watching that boy in the hope of a pigeon, eh?"

"No," said the other; "it's better to rest and not use up one's tissue. That's economy."

The barrister sat down beside him, produced a pipe, and demanded tobacco.

The other shook his head, but the lawyer thought that a little friendly conversation might win him a fill for his pipe. So he looked at the starving wretch beside him.

"Oxford?" he ventured.

"Yes, Brasenose. Are you a college man, too?"

"Dublin," said the barrister. "I was a novelist."

"I was a curate; I used to preach about the Day of Judgment--but d'you know, it's quite different. The canonists never suggested that it would last so long, but it's extremely interesting, and I'm planning a work on contemporary Eschatology."

"Judgment be blowed," the barrister snorted, "it's the usual cause and effect, machinery broken down--passengers hungry. I'm beastly pinched."

"Are you really?" The curate still had a trace of his pulpit manner. "Now that is most curious. My hunger has gone away quite, but if my mind seems to wander pray correct me. Am I talking nonsense now?"

"No; what was your last meal?"

"A portion of rat," said the parson, smiling at the pleasant suggestion of memory. "But my landlady has taken to improper courses, led away, poor thing, by her daughter. She has joined one of the cannibal clubs. I felt that she was becoming untrustworthy, and withdrew to the streets."

The barrister laughed wearily. "My wife and children--" he said; "I shot them last night--well--who cares?"

"How shocking," said the curate. "Hope," he continued, "is dead, and our prayers break upon the brazen echoing heavens. Who would have supposed that the world would die so hard?"

"Don't preach," said the barrister, "it makes me sick."

The curate looked up with a vacant stare at the towering heights of the Abbey. From far away came the rumble of the organ, for this was the time for the early Celebration. By the calendar it was Monday, the Twelfth Day of the Terror.

"I think I could have hoped," the parson wiped a tear away with his torn sleeve, "only there's always such a crowd at the Government food shops. The men trample the women and children to death, and that takes away one's appetite."

"Yes, we're savages now," said the barrister, "we've shed our infernal skin of gentility."

He looked away towards the street arab. The lad was rejoicing on the verge of success, but rejoiced too early, for the pigeon flew clear of the snare. Then the lad cursed.

"I watched all night," said the curate, "by the Palace. Our poor little Queen works hard."

The other was cynical. "Does she?"

"D'you know," said the other, "that Ulster is dead?"

"No such luck."

"But it's true. A woman stabbed him. Really."

"How do you know?"

"I crept into the porch, and there were two gentlemen of the Bodyguard, talking. They turned me away into the rain. D'you know there was something going on. All night I saw ships and private yachts, hundreds of them, reporting at the Palace towers. The air was black with them coming and going."

"It may be," muttered the lawyer. "Ulster dead!"

"Once," the curate went on bubbling with news, "a Guardsman rode out with his servant, and the orderly stopped behind to tighten a girth. I helped him. D'you know I smelt bread and real cold beef in his wallet. He told me that the trades unions have proclaimed a Republic--yes, at Manchester. Then I asked him for some of the meat, and he was so rude."

"The Republic proclaimed already? Then Ulster must be dead. My friend, do you realize what this means? The Republic? It means that the Territorials have revolted, five hundred thousand men in arms against the Government."

"We have the Fleet." The curate lifted his head and answered proudly.

"The Fleet, Mr. Parson? And when the Republicans seize the power station, when they cut off the whole supply of electric force--what becomes of your Fleet? Answer me that!"

"Oh, but my dear man, really, don't y'know, we have Malta, Gibraltar, and the Newfoundland station. They can all flash electric power to our ships."

"If they had warning, yes; but all the telegraphs are cut. I tell you the power stations will be captured this very day, and nothing can save the Fleet. I wonder--when the London guardships founder, why, we may get some food from the wrecks! Yes, food! And the London Unionists, too--they'll be revolting to-day--they'll attack the departments of State. Parson, I know a house not far from here, with five barrels of flour. There'll be no police to-day--come on, let's rob that house!'

"Rob a house?" said the curate, wistfully. "Oh, but I'm in Holy Orders, don't y'know." Then rolling over exhausted, "My dear friend," he whispered, "couldn't you bring me just a little flour?"

"I might," the barrister sneered, "and I might not. All right, go off to sleep, don't mind me." He looked round. "Hello, the boy's got that pigeon!" The barrister scrambled to his feet. "The little brute!"

He looked at the curate, who seemed to be asleep, then at the street arab who was sucking the pigeon's blood. He felt the parson's clothes for tobacco, but his eyes were on the lad who had captured food.

Staggering with weakness he went for the street arab, drawing a knife from his pocket. The lad crouched unheeding, tearing the bird apart. The barrister, staring dreadfully about him, stole upon the lad, his knife ready, his lips twitching, his teeth set. Then a rifle shot rang out from one of the barricaded windows of St. Stephen's Palace, the barrister leaped into the air, and fell doubled up upon the pavement, his limbs relaxed, his mouth wide open, One of his legs gave a last twitch and he lay quite still. The street arab had run away.

Then from a distance came the steady tramp of marching men, and the curate seemed to wake at the sound from a spell of sleep. He rose upon his hands and knees, he tried to stand up, but he had not the strength. He looked at the Palace, and just opposite to him was a door which led into the purlieus of the House of Lords. He crawled across the pavement, lifted himself wearily up the low steps, and banged with a stone against the door.

Nearer and nearer came the tramp of men.

"Help!" screamed the curate. "The Republicans! Save me! Save me!"

* * * * *

In the Council Chamber at the Queen's Palace, my Lord Protector's Ministers were assembled. The Duke of Ulster had warned them, the Princess Margaret summoned them. Our Lady was to render her submission, to repudiate the treason of John Brand.

Then upon a flourish of trumpets, entered, not his Grace of Ulster, but her Imperial Majesty attended by a hundred gentlemen-at-arms.

Amid the consternation of Ulster's Ministers it was the First Lord of the Admiralty who dared to come forward barring our Lady's passage to the throne.

Waving his hands towards the foot of the table, "Madam," he cried, "the place for the Princess Margaret is here."

For a moment the Queen fell back, surprised at old Lord Mendip's audacity, then her eyes glittered ominously as she turned to the adjutant of the Guard.

"Tell this gentleman," she said, "to stand aside."

So she swept on to the throne, and there turning, faced her enemies. Our Lady was in mourning, robed in a cloud of dusky violet silk, some folds of it veiling her head and making the sad face white in livid contrast. Verily she was Queen, if only by right of sorrow, by majesty of pain, and by dominion of men's love and worship.

"My lords," she said, nervously, "and gentlemen," this with a gracious bow, and a smile of welcome. "I am shy at having to meet you here again--forgive that to a woman--here, where you honoured me with--with your homage. Do you remember, it was in this very room, and the gray light stole in through the frost on those windows. How bitterly cold it was, and I had just come from where my dear father lay in death. Don't you remember? You, my Lord Mendip, cried 'Long live Queen Margaret!' You, Mr. Jesmond, told me how I must wear the terrible white crown, sit on the stone of Destiny--and I cried. You, Sir Roderic Scott, were first to kiss my hand--this hand which has gone cold at the very thought of it. And afterwards, in the Abbey, before the altar, you swore to serve me--all of you. How have you kept that oath?"

The Ministers were standing in groups about the table, whispering one to another behind their hands. Lord Roderic Scott was inquiring of the impassive Guards as to his Grace of Ulster, when once again the Queen began to speak.

"You have come," this very gently, "to receive--what are the words? Yes, my repudiation of the treason of Mr. Brand. There are some other things mentioned, I think. Will you not sit down?"

Reluctantly, one by one, the Ministers took their seats in order of precedence.

"Thank you," said Margaret, "it is right that you should sit, and that I stand until I have dealt with this matter of treason. I am to repudiate treason. Oh, my lords and gentlemen of the Imperial Council, do you forget that by the Coronation oaths I must do more than repudiate every treason? I am bound to punish treason, to punish treason with death. And I am resolved this day, either to punish all treason in my realm, or die in the attempt--yes, die! I know the cost. I have been honoured with the service of many loyal men, and I have not failed any of them in love or gratitude. I have only found one strong friend in the whole world, and he is John Brand. I have not failed him in love or in gratitude. He has dared to be true, dared to be loyal, dared to be my friend--and he has paid the price. He was the richest man in the world--who is so poor now? He was the most powerful subject that ever a sovereign had--who is so fallen? He was desperately wounded fighting for me, he is a hunted outcast for my sake, and he is ready at any time to die for me.

"The man who is guilty of treason must die, or I refuse to live.

"You are wondering if I speak as the Princess Margaret, or as Queen and Empress? Well, for the present I am content to be one concerned for your honour, for your dignity. I have a letter here--see, this letter--bearing all your signatures. You wrote to me, twelve days ago--saying that a Bill was passed by Parliament deposing Margaret, appointing a Lord Protector, and tearing up the British Constitution. It took hundreds of years to create that Constitution, and it was destroyed in a few minutes. Without consulting the people, or their sovereign, the Parliament under your guidance did this thing, then blind with panic, wriggled away into dissolution, leaving its precious Bill to be dishonoured by all honest men. My lords and gentlemen, how about your oath?"

The Ministers were ill at ease, some passing furtive notes one to another, the rest consulting in whispers.

"You had the Lord Protector of your choice," said Margaret, bitterly. "He once betrayed the Indian Empire for a bribe, and laid the blame upon an innocent man--who died for it. Lately he divulged the Formula of the Fleets, gave shameful concessions to his Russian master, and would sell his Queen, even to such a buyer as Prince Alexander. Nay, silence! I command your silence, gentlemen, while I speak. Proof piled on proof in Ulster's own handwriting, condemns this felon. You are waiting for him now to sit in judgment on me. So you keep your oath!

"You swore to be faithful to Ulster? Why, half of you wrote privately to me betraying him! And others of you in privy conspiracy, offered the kingdom to my cousin Rupert--such is your honour! And having betrayed me, and betrayed Ulster, and betrayed Prince Rupert, you came back here to humble me, to punish me, to receive my abject submission, to demand my repudiation of John Brand! What a court of honour! Do you know where Rupert is--the Duke of Gloucester?"

Our Lady was breathing deep, but not another sound broke the silence until she spoke again.

"He is in Ulster's office, gentlemen. Your letters to him are lying upon his breast, and lest any of them be blown away by the wind, they are pinned down with a sword. My cypher is inscribed upon that blade. I am favoured, my lords and gentlemen, that you are polite enough to hear me now without whisperings or scribbling of notes, while you await the Lord Protector's coming. Are you wondering where next my sword will fall? Is Ulster late?"

Her Majesty ordered the barring of the doors. "Where is your leader?" she asked. "Are you deserted by the chief of your rebellion? Let the Guard salute!"

The gentlemen of the Bodyguard presented arms, and Margaret took the throne.

"Stand!" she commanded, and in amazement the Ministers obeyed. "I have to speak to you concerning the action of my dear friend now at rest, Trooper of the Bodyguard, James, Marquess of Sydney.

"By the hand of his own son, I have taken the Duke of Ulster's life for capital felony. Your Lord Protector is dead, and I am Queen."

The Guard ordered and grounded arms with a crash.

"Come, gentlemen," said Margaret, "I have made an end to your delirium of treason. You were once my people's chosen servants--who else shall I trust if I may not believe in you? I recall you to your oaths, your patriotism, your honour, your manhood. I ask you again to be my Ministers, to accept my love and confidence. One of you I except." And Margaret's eyes fell on Lord Roderic Scott. "Oh, be kind to me, gentlemen," her voice broke with a great sob. "I'd rather be a servant and scrub floors, yet I am Queen--you laid that burden on me, and I must reign until it pleases Heaven to let me die. But must I go on fighting all alone? Is there no one left who cares for England's honour?"

For a moment there was silence, then the First Lord, the aged Earl of Mendip, rose to answer.

"Dear madam, dear sovereign, please let me speak for my poor colleagues here, and comrades in wrong-doing. I am too old to blush--my blood is all needed at the heart which still beats only for the service of the Empire--but I'm sure I never dreamed I was such a villain. Your Majesty has youthful blood, and dauntless courage, but pardon me, not quite omniscient wisdom. Some vestiges of right remain to us, some quivering nerves of honour, even some shreds of manhood.

"In the evening of our lives we have had the grace to worship the Evening Star, we called her Margaret. The sun of our Finance was Mr. Brand. It is no censure if I say that the sun was sometimes rather hot for us. In a state of ecstasy, perhaps, he fell from the heavens, came too near, and burned us. Were we a little restive at being burned? Was it unnatural that, in the agony of a world destroyed, we forgot our worship of the Evening Star?

"Well, well, I shall pursue the metaphor no further. Mr. Brand has gone with Ulster, and the unfortunate Prince Rupert, to face a greater tribunal than ours."

"He is not dead!" cried Margaret.

"Stripped of his power, wounded, a fugitive----"

"The man who saved the honour of the Empire."

"The man who wrecked the world!"

"Gentlemen!" our Lady's white face was set in stern defiance. "As he was loyal to me, so am I Brand's loyal friend. I have sent the royal yacht to succour him, and he will come back with his ships to meet my enemies."

Lord Mendip bowed. "We are ready," he said, "to serve your Majesty, but----" a rifle shot rang out beyond the palace walls, then another and another.

"But what?" asked Margaret, scornfully.

"Madam, this Brand is an attainted traitor."

"Attainted by whom, pray?"

Again there were rifle shots in the distance, a dropping fire.

"Attainted, madam, by the Commonwealth."

"Am I not sovereign?"

"Madam, I spoke with unbecoming fervour of the gentleman who--his party, madam, the Labour Party----"

"His party? Listen, my lord, to that firing! Is this a time for parties? Lord Mendip, in the peril of the State there is but one party--mine! You serve me as Brand serves me, or you are rebels."

Sir Myles Strangford, Secretary for War, rose to give answer.

"Your Majesty," cried the War Secretary, "we are loyal. We will take the oath and serve!"

"Sir!" our Lady flushed with rage. "Do I hear you speak of oaths?"

For a moment her voice was drowned in a roar of musketry. "My patience is at an end. Rupert is dead, Ulster is dead; shall I spare you? I let you live while you are loyal to me, and at the slightest sign of treason I shall kill. As you tore up the Constitution, so I reign--I reign in the way of my fathers--so long as there is danger, absolute Monarch. Gentlemen of the Guard, you may withdraw--we need no protection while our Council sits!"

She rose from her throne, she turned her back upon the Council, and so stood waiting until she should be alone with her sullen, mutinous, vengeful officers. They saw that she looked out through the bayed windows; not the tears which blinded her or the forlorn gesture of her prayer for help.

The gentlemen-at-arms had swung to half sections and marched out from the chamber before our Lady moved. These windows, from a high salient of the Palace, commanded Whitehall. Half veiled in mist, the departmental buildings flashed with a thousand tiny points of fire, the rifle flame, the blaze from heavy artillery, then the glare of exploding shells. For now the crackling of musketry was drowned by spitting, shrieking machine guns, and the great roar of battle.

Sir Myles Strangford came and stood beside our Lady's throne as though on guard. A shell screamed close above the roof, a stray bullet crashed through the window and almost grazing Margaret's hair, lodged in the wall behind.

"Sir Myles," said our Lady, turning to the Secretary for War, "can the Departments hold out?"

"Your Majesty, for Heaven's sake, take shelter."

"Are the Departments safe?" she insisted, smiling.

"I had eight hours' warning, madam. The buildings can hold out until Lord Mendip's patrol ships come to the rescue."

"I have called them, madam," old Mendip touched his aerograph. "The Departments will be relieved in an hour."

"These Republicans, Sir Myles--are there many of them?"

"Twenty-eight thousand," answered the Secretary for War. "They're bringing up their batteries, and certainly, madam, we depend on the ships."

The firing slackened now, and Margaret, returning to her seat, questioned Lord Mendip as to affairs in the Midlands. It was true, he admitted, that the Republicans had attacked the power station, and, in the event of its capture, nothing could save the Fleet. But the position was an impregnable fortress, the Channel Squadron had been ordered north, and, indeed, there was nothing to fear.

"Nothing to fear," our Lady muttered to herself. "Nothing to fear. Then, my lord, are these Republicans mad? The Departments impregnable, the power station impregnable, the ships expected; on these conditions the Republicans would never dare to attack. They would not dare to attack unless they knew the Fleet could be destroyed. They expect to capture the power station; they're sure of it--they stake their lives on that. Are you sure, Lord Mendip, of this power station?"

"There's no stronger fortress in Europe."

"My lord, is any fortress proof against treachery? These rebels have staked their lives that the place will be betrayed to them. Call up the officer commanding."

The old lord, with tremulous fingers, signalled by aerograph, but there was no answer. Again and again he called, but there was no answer.

"Madam," he said, "I fear----"

The aerograph began to be disturbed; a rush of signals hummed from its armature.

"Position mined--rebels in possession. Ground the Fleet!--Ground the Fleet!--Ground the Fleet!"

"Oh, quick!" cried Margaret, in agony. "Order the ships to ground!"

The First Lord, poor Mendip, had fallen back in his chair, his white face convulsed, his fingers twitching and pulling in frenzy at the key of his instrument. Our Lady rushed to his side, seized the aerograph from him, begged him to dictate the orders to the ships. And all the while, the old man striving for utterance, the rest of the Ministers frantic to hear him speak, the gun-fire quickened in the distance, and some one was thundering for admittance outside the door of the room.

"He's dying!" Margaret's voice broke to a wail of misery. "Oh, who knows the cypher of the Fleet? We'll be too late--too late!"

The door burst open, an officer of the Bodyguard broke headlong into the room.

"Madam," he yelled, "the ships--the destroyers of the patrol are foundering!"

Lord Mendip's head had fallen back, his fingers were tearing at his breast, his eyes were glazing. Then his arms fell limp, and the change passed over his face, and the jaw dropped.

Our Lady bent and kissed the still dead face, then reaching out her hand beckoned the living.

"Kneel, gentlemen," she said in a low, awed voice. "Pray for the passing Fleet, for ninety thousand men called by their God."

So they all knelt, our Lady, the adjutant of the Guard, the Ministers of State, while outside, the crash of musketry, the roar of guns thundered the requiem of the English Fleet. Presently the body of the old lord slipped down and fell before Margaret's knees. Shrinking away, she went back to her place upon the throne.

Some of the Ministers were moving to take away the body, but our Lady checked them.

"No," she said, "do not take it away, but lay it there before us upon the table."

They laid the frail body upon the table, paying some reverent offices, closing the eyelids, folding the hands. Shrinking from that presence, dreading, fearing it, our Lady lifted her reluctant eyes.

"We need this reminder," she said faintly, "that we are all being judged."

Then that swaggering, gallant, old Lord Roderic Scott rose, bowing to her Majesty and to the dead.

"Madam," he said, "the Fleet is gone, the Departments may last an hour, and then the Republicans will turn their guns upon this building. If your Majesty is determined to wait, I trust we shall all have the decency to die like gentlemen. But I beg your Majesty to accept the use of my private yacht, and return to Windsor until we can raise an army."

"My dear Lord Roderic," our Lady smiled. "What armies would care to fight for a runaway Government? I think I have a better plan than that. Sir Myles, I see you have troops here guarding the Palace."

"Three thousand, madam, and a battery."

"You have not enough men to save both the Departments and the Palace?"

"Not nearly enough."

"But if we had all the troops here, we might save the Palace?"

"A desperate venture, madam."

"So in any case the Departments must be lost?"

"Better, madam, to give up the Palace itself, than to surrender the very seat of Government."

"The Palace," cried Sir Roderic, "is no safe place for your Majesty."

"I beg you, madam," urged Jesmond, "to retire."

"Why so nervous, gentlemen?" asked Margaret, bitterly. "I see anxiety in all your faces--so loyal, so moved for my safety. Is it because you mined my Palace with a hundred and fifty tons of dynamite? How thoughtful of you! How considerate! You supplied me with explosives enough to mine all your Departments of State; for two days, gentlemen, I have been considering your case. There, over by the wall, on that little table, stands an electric key--one touch on that key at any moment these two days past would have released you all from these dull cares of State. One of you--a gentleman seated at this table--is the very leader of these Republicans. His aerograph lies upon the table before him, and he appears anxious to warn his friends by signalling." Her Majesty's piercing stare was fastened upon none other than Lord Roderic Scott. "Lord Roderic, you will lower your hand, both hands, down against your sides. Mr. Jesmond, you will take away his aerograph. If he lifts his hands he dies. Sir Myles Strangford, you will signal the officer commanding at Whitehall to withdraw and fall back upon the Palace, and you will order the troops here on guard to cover the retreat."

* * * * *

Whitehall, a congeries of palaces, a city in itself of unusual grandeur, had never seemed so vast as when it loomed through the cloud of battle. Pale wreaths of smoke girded the walls, columns of dust went up from bursting shells, and little, innumerable spurts of fire lightened the windows, outlined the terraced roofs. A column of red flame waved high above the Admiralty, and, shattered by artillery from beyond the river, the Palace of St. Stephen's crashed down in acres of ruin. One by one the palaces were taken, barrier after barrier was broken through as the brigades of starving Republicans, mad with bloodshed, swept back the Imperial troops.

And all through the rooms and corridors, thousands of people went about their business, in the strange English way; the clerks who still worked at their desks or helped to bury the archives and treasures of their departments; the nurses, the surgeons, the chaplains who helped the wounded, gave comfort to the dying, closed the eyelids of the dead; the soldiers who fell back from the windows to fight the advancing flames.

It was long past noon when the Queen's orders came--the signal to retire upon her Palace.

Building after building was left to the next triumphant rush of the enemy, until the Imperial forces were jammed together at the Foreign Office, guarding the non-combatants, and, under cover of troops from the Palace, began the final movement of retreat. It was but half a mile to the Palace gates along Death's Avenue.

Up against the windows of the Council Chamber, nearer and nearer lashed the hurricane of sound--the yells of dying men, the rattle of musketry, scream of machine guns, roar of artillery, crash of falling walls, and, beyond all, the deep dull roar of the conflagration.

Within the Council Chamber the great lords of the administration sat still at their table. Before them all lay the body of the old Lord Mendip, the green cloth of the table casting a dreadful glow upon his face. By the left hand there was placed an electric key with covered wires trailing to the floor, and opposite to that two Ministers sat guarding Sir Roderic Scott, a prisoner. Bolt upright in the chair of state, our Lady never moved save once, when she covered her face with one fold of silken gauze from the hood of her violet robe.

Sir Myles Strangford at the windows reported from time to time how the battle went.

"Shot down like dogs," he cried. "Nurses, civilians, clergy, and broken troops, officers beating the poor fellows with their swords--and the retreat--by George they're falling by hundreds. The whole avenue jammed." For a moment his voice was drowned by the uproar.

"The rear guard's clear of the Department!"

Her Majesty leaned forward. "Lord Roderic Scott," she cried, "reach forward your right hand and touch that key! Mr. Jesmond, take the knife and drive it into that man's flesh until he obeys me. Now, Roderic Scott, reach out your right hand, and lay it on the key! and may God have mercy on your soul!"

* * * * *

And the river rushed in upon the site of Whitehall.