Part 23

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."