Part 22

"Drill-books," he remarked, "are for those with no ideas of their own."

"That's why I suggest your reading it, Worm, but that ain't yours, that's Graeme's. I recognise the brand; there's enough about, too, goodness knows, of the same sort."

"Madder every day," continued Annesley. "He pow-wowed the squadron this morning in a white top-hat. A--white--top-hat! I'm not lying, Graves."

"I saw him, it's sickening. Lord! what a second in command, or rather C.O., for Royle's only a dummy. I thought too, after that last show-up before Bumps, he meant putting his foot down. Talked enough about it, but he ain't done it. Graeme wins another silly battle or two, and it's worse than ever. He daren't say "Damn it" to him now. Cavalry officer in a white top-hat, God!"

"Funny thing, the men never laughed. They did when they saw him first, but once he began to talk they shut up, and sat listening with their mouths open; so did Fanshawe and I, made us think, Graves, no end, felt I'd like to be--Napoleon."

"You--Napoleon?"

"Well, why not? Every soldier, you know, carries a field-marshal's what-you-may-call-it in his ruddy----"

"Shut up, for God's sake, you make me ill, Worm."

"Think he's really mad, Graves? Pa says he is."

"Pa?"

"Pa says--his room's next to Graeme's, you know--that he hears him talking to himself at night. Damn sick about it Pa is, says it stops him sleeping. It's ever since he came back three weeks ago. Where did he go, d'you know?"

"You can see it in the leave-book, if you're interested, I'm not."

"Graves, I believe it's a girl's put Graeme wrong."

"You've not the slightest reason for thinking such a thing, Worm, Graeme never speaks to a woman."

"I know, but, all the same, I'm sure of it. What did he go on leave for then, why does any fellow go on leave in this cursed country, except he's after a girl, or looking for one? If that's so, and he's taken the knock, I'm sorry for him; must be damnable to be chucked by a girl. Gad, if Fanny were to play it low down on me, I'd ... I don't know what I would do, Graves. You've heard me speak of Fanny, haven't you?"

"I have, many times. Are you coming to polo?"

"Yes, wait a minute though; there's something else I wanted to tell you, only it went out of my head, talking of Graeme. I had a letter from Johnson, at Cape Town, this morning, and he says the Mahonga show is all on again, and we shall be for it."

"Johnson's a fool, always spreading some shave. Come on, if you _are_ coming, that is." The pair went out, and mounting their waiting ponies rode off to the polo ground.

Johnson, however, though a fool, as Graves justly observed, proved himself on this occasion a true prophet, for next day into the ante-room--at the time crowded with officers drinking afternoon tea--burst Porky, pregnant with great news. For a moment he stood surveying them, his face bright with anticipation of the unwonted delights of an attentive audience, and then, as they, as usual, paid no heed to his presence, he let loose the torrent fighting for escape within him.

"I've news," he said, in a would-be indifferent manner, but again no one heeded.

"I've news," he roared, "listen, damn you!"

"Don't shout, Porky," said a voice, "what's the matter?"

"Matter, why war's the matter," and at the word "war" a hush fell, and everybody looked up. "Bloody war!" he continued, having an audience at last, "and this gallant corps is for it, whether or no. The Mahongas have risen, and are playing hell all round, so sharpen your swords and spears, my sons, and make your last will and testament."

"It's a lie," said Graves crossly, from his corner.

"It's no lie, it's all right, I tell you; no damned shaves or leg-pulls this time. I had it straight from Cape Town ten minutes ago."

"It's begun, thank God," muttered a voice, and Graeme rose and made his way out, his departure being unnoticed in the general uproar.

"And I thank God too," said young Fanshawe, overhearing the latter part of the sentence, "that it's you, and neither Porky nor Royle who will run the show in this same bloody war."

*BOOK III*

*CHAPTER XXIV*

A wild December morning was breaking over the great British camp. Masses of storm-cloud swept overhead, the wind howled, and gusts of rain and sleet beat against the black streaming tents. In the broad lanes and square parade grounds, deep in mud and patched with rapidly-widening pools, arms and accoutrements could be seen lying, thrown down by their owners, and left to rot and rust at will.

Some distance away from the camp rose a cluster of huge marquees, their flags of white marked with the red cross of Geneva proclaiming them to be the field hospital, and towards them, phantom-like in the drear half-dark of morning, an apparently never-ending procession was moving. Swaying ambulance waggons and creaking litters--their canvas bottoms red-stained and dripping--toiled through the slush of the road, their path impeded by a throng of limping, maimed, and cursing pedestrians.

The heart of Surgeon-General Macpherson, standing at the main entrance of the hospital, grew heavy as he watched, and his face dark with shame and grief, for never before in a life of more than sixty years had he seen a sight like this.

"Poor old England," he muttered, "you're done at last," and then suddenly his spare form stiffened, and his lips twisted into a smile, for a young officer was approaching; and to Macpherson, and such as he, the maintaining of a stiff upper lip before juniors is a rule of life never to be forgotten, no matter how imminent and certain disaster.

"Hullo, Newton," he said, "what's the matter with you now? Can't have the A.D.C.'s going sick, you know, or who's to run the army?"

"I'm all right, sir," answered the new-comer, touching his cap; "it's not about myself I've come to see you, but Lord Harford, Sir Archibald wants to know how he is."

Macpherson looked away, for despite his efforts the mask for a second had slipped, though this was the question he had known was coming, and one which would have to be answered, not once, but many times that day. At that moment he would have given the half of his small worldly possessions to be no longer Surgeon-General Macpherson, Principal Medical Officer to the British Forces, but instead a junior officer--nay, even a private soldier--in one of his beloved Highland regiments. Still, there was no use burking it, and he answered:

"Lord Harford died two hours ago, Newton; he was shot through the lungs; there was no chance of saving him from the first."

The boy's face fell, and an expression of dismay, almost of terror, was displayed on it.

"Dead," he repeated, "the Commander-in-Chief dead? Good God, sir, what an utter damnable mess we're in!"

Macpherson made no answer, for of a truth there was none to be made. They were in a mess, such a one as probably no British army had been in before, save perhaps in the earlier days of the Peninsular War. Then, however, a great leader was there to guide them, one in whom all trusted, but now it seemed that there was no one, for he in whose hands their destiny had lain was dead. For the great war that had been prophesied for years past by countless Cassandras had come upon England at last, and as always, prophecies as to its course and method had been totally false. A guarding fleet, the Balaams had declared, lured away, then the horrors of invasion, the enemy successful at first, but in the end gloriously repulsed, the British lion having awakened from his slumbers. But here there had been no invasion--at least, not on the enemy's part--nor any thought of such yet, though a hundred thousand citizens, with guns and uniform, designated the Hearts of Oak--once known as the Territorials, before then as the Volunteers--were waiting on the coasts to receive them, patriotic rage inflaming their breasts. No, the fleet had not been decoyed away, or destroyed; on the contrary, it had done its work right well, and what remained of the enemy's fleet was now safely shut up in blockaded ports.

Then a strange thing happened, and yet perhaps not strange, but as certain to take place as the sun to shine in the heavens--England herself determined to invade.

What does our Army exist for? This is the question invariably propounded to a listening House by the merchant, lawyer, or doctor on appointment to the charge of Army fortunes, and equally invariably answered in accordance with party dictates, which demand at all costs retention in Office. Not for aggression, most emphatically not, he shouts, but for defence, and this being so, large numbers are but a useless expense and conscription an unnecessary hardship. Never can there be any question of England's invading a Continental or other power, he goes on to declare, and party dogs and Little Englanders bow-wow applause, and a slothful country smiles well pleased.

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.