Part 24

"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."

"You shall have them. You'll start from here at eight to-night, moving by the west road. Shove on as hard as you can till you meet Michael. Then take up a position and fight him till you've not a man left. Under no circumstances is he to be allowed to interfere with me. Send back word now and again to let me know how it goes."

"That all, sir?"

"That's all, except to say good-bye. Perhaps meet you later in the brimstone duck-pond." Roy went out with a light in his dark eyes, leaving Hector considering.

"Thank God for a lunatic," he muttered, "stroke of luck for me striking him. Now, what will I do to pass the time? Ah, I know. Godwin."

"You called, sir?" answered the long-nosed one, appearing.

"Which is the worst division, the absolute bloodiest bloody?"

"The 15th, sir."

"I'm going round to call on them. You carry on; you know what you have to do."

"I--I--if I might suggest, sir, I shouldn't. They're almost in open mutiny."

"That's how I like them." He picked up his gloves and hat, and walked to the door, where he paused for a second. "Look out for cheering from the 15th division, Old Un," he said, and went out.

"Trumpeter, come with me; not you, orderly--only Sykes there. On for a lark, William?"

"Yes, sir," from the trumpeter, a friend of many campaigns.

"Come on, then," and mounting his horse he rode away through the driving rain, the trumpeter following at some distance. At length they reached an open space, deep in slush, in which could be seen lying rusty rifles and accoutrements. These had been thrown down by their owners, who were now in the surrounding tents, where they lay sleeping or cursing their officers.

In the centre of the square Graeme stopped.

"Fifteenth division this, ain't it, Sykes?" he asked the trumpeter.

"That's her, sir," answered the man. "Gawd! look at them guns."

"Tu-whoo, tu-whoo then, bust yourself."

"What's it to be, sir?"

"We'll start with reveille."

Without a word, Sykes raised his trumpet and blew, the first notes evoking a faint "booing" from the closed tents. This ceased, however, as the call continued, and it dawned upon the hearers that it was the reveille sounding at three o'clock in the afternoon. Soon a few heads were thrust out to ascertain what the unusual departure portended.

"Again, William," and a second time the notes rang out. More heads appeared, followed by bodies, and then there was a general exodus from the tents. All faces were turned toward the quaint figure in the middle of the parade ground, and faint sounds of mirth arose.

"Laughing, that's something, anyway," muttered Graeme; "now the 'Assembly' quick, Bill."

The man obeyed. The figures hesitated for a moment, a buzz of conversation arose, and then a few came lounging forward. The remainder, a lead having once been given, followed, till a sea of sullen upturned faces surrounded the pair.

"Men of the 15th division," said Graeme, regarding them. "I'm the Commander-in-chief. 'Mad Jack' they call me. Allow me to introduce myself." He took off his hat and bowed all round.

There was a puzzled silence, broken by a voice:

"Go to 'ell! We don't want no bloody Commander-in-Chiefs 'ere."

Graeme turned, and for a second sat looking at the speaker, a pale-faced Cockney; then, pulling out his revolver, he forced his way to where the man was standing, and shot him through the head. After this, wheeling his horse about, he faced each section of the crowd in turn, with the smoking weapon brandished in his hand. Back surged the mob, growling and calling on their leaders, but one was now gone and the others failed to appear.

"Dogs!" shouted Graeme, "hounds! Oh, snarl away if you like; it's all you can do, and I'm not afraid of you, though I'm only one against your thousands. Small wonder you got beat last night; they're soldiers yonder, but you, you're only jackals, noisy enough when there's no fighting, but slinking to your holes once a gun's fired. Hullo, you want to speak, do you?" pressing forward again; "out with it then."

"Nuthin', sir, I ain't got no call to say nothink."

"Forgotten it, eh? Funny how one does sometimes. Anyone else got a call to say anything, what, no one? Then I have," and thereupon Hector proceeded to let loose on the now silent crowd a torrent of blasphemous abuse, before which their own limited vocabularies sank ashamed. For full five minutes the flow poured on unchecked, nor was a single epithet repeated, and gradually at such proficiency a faint feeling of admiration dawned in his hearers' hearts, and replaced their former resentment. In this, at all events, he was their master, and, their minds admitting it, they listened in silence, with growing interest on their faces.

Graeme, noting the change, thereupon abandoned the mere bludgeon work of vituperation--for of sarcasm, knowing soldiers, not one word had he uttered--and then, discussing the matter in the light of cold common sense, he asked them if they wished for death, death at the lance-point and sabre, for such would assuredly be theirs in their present helpless state. On a memory that never failed he drew now, giving them many instances of what flight with cavalry in pursuit meant, painting its horrors in terms that caused a general feeling of uneasiness.

While he spoke, Graeme was closely watching them--waiting for the change of mood when he could make the final effort. Till then he knew he must refrain from an appeal to the emotions, which proves irresistible when the ground is ready, but when made too soon only excites ridicule.

At last it came. A voice from the crowd said: "We aren't afraid of no green-coats, we're Englishmen," a speech that was followed by a murmur of applause. At the sound Graeme stopped, the thrill running through him that every orator knows when he feels that his audience is his.

For a moment his throat seemed to close, and his heart to swell in his breast; then off went his hat, and he stood bareheaded before them, holding up his hand in an appeal for silence. Shouts of "Order" arose, and then there was a hush. For a few seconds Hector sat motionless, gazing over their heads with eyes blurred with tears, and then, as if fire were running through his veins, he threw back his head and spoke. With a face pale with exaltation, with eyes alight and grey hair streaming in the wind, he addressed them--his voice now sinking to a whisper, now rising to a shout.

"Men, soldiers of England," he concluded, "the eyes of those who love you are on you now. They are misty with tears for your wounds, men; they run over with water for the dead. But torn with grief though they are, that grief is tempered with pride, for those they mourn have given their lives for the Flag. Will you change that pride into shame, men? Will you bring disgrace on your homes?"

Fustian, emotional fustian, of the lowest, but now was the time and here the audience for fustian.

"No. No."

"We ain't no cowards."

"Take us there; we're ready for 'em, sir."

"I will. That's what I've come here to tell you, for fight you shall, and this time, men, it's not defeat, but ... victory. I promise it you.... I----"

He got no further, for at the word a roar burst from the men, whose faces were white with emotion, and caps were thrown in the air. Then again there was silence, for Hector's hand a second time was raised. "Now, go back to your lines, pick up those arms lying there in the mud"--a rush for the discarded weapons--"you'll want them soon enough. See, the rain has stopped and the sun is shining. Go and get ready."

The crowd melted away, leaving Graeme and the trumpeter alone, save for a rigid figure lying huddled in the mud, with a blue mark on its forehead. With tired eyes Hector looked around him, for he was worn out and shaken with the strain of his emotions.

"Sykes, I'm done, tired out."

"Why not 'ave a sleep, sir?"

"Why not? You're right, I will. We must get rid of that, though, first," glancing down; "it's as poisonous dead as alive. Here you," he called to a passing sergeant, who instantly came running up at the summons, and, smartly saluting, stood at attention before him, "take that away, and bury it. Dig a hole anywhere and shove it in."

The man touched the corpse with his foot contemptuously. "Very good, sir," he answered, "I'll have him put in the refuse pit--best place for 'im. Glad he's dead, sir; he was the cause of 'arf the trouble."

Graeme made no answer, but rode away, with a cynical look on his face, for he had seen the speaker amongst his late audience, as sullen-looking and mutinous as any; but there was no purpose to be gained by alluding to that now. He passed on, through the lines of tents--alive with men, polishing, cleaning, now and again bursting into snatches of song--and made his way back to his tent, where he found Glover awaiting him, with a face of contrition.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I didn't know you were going out, or I'd have been ready. I tried to find you, but no one knew where you had gone."

"I didn't want you, Bobby," answered Graeme. "I shan't till ten to-night. Be here then with the horses and one orderly. I don't wish a crowd."

"Your dinner, sir?"

"Bring a bottle when you come. I shan't want anything till then. I'm going to sleep." He turned into the tent, closed the flap, and lying down on the bed, covered himself with rugs and blankets. "Stara," he murmured, "I want sleep; give it to me." He sighed, smiled happily, and then almost instantly fell asleep.

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