The King Who Went on Strike by Pearson Choate - HTML preview

 

CHAPTER XVII

T the top of the lane, a little group of Army officers in khaki service dress, who were standing on a strip of grass beside the hedge on the right, sprang smartly to attention, and saluted, as the car swept past them.

Mechanically, the King raised his hand to his cap.

A moment later, as the car rushed out on to the Great North Road, he realized, with a start, that this salute, and his acknowledgment of it, marked, definitely, his return to duty.

Alfred, the sailor, was indeed dead.

It was—the King—who had raised his hand to his cap.

Instinctively, he had resumed his place in the procession.

It had been just as Judith had said. The shadow thrown by his Royal rank had been waiting for him there in the lane, behind him—

"That was battalion headquarters, the Coldstreams, Colonel Varney Wilson in command," the Duke explained. "It is they who have been responsible for your safety, during the last twenty-four hours, sir."

The King nodded; but made no other reply.

The Duke shot one of his shrewd, penetrating glances at the King. Then the old statesman leant far back in his corner in the luxuriously upholstered car. He did not speak again.

The King was grateful to the Duke for his silence, and for the ready understanding of his mood which that silence implied.

"When an action speaks for itself, why use words? They will probably be the wrong words."

That was Uncle Bond!

He was going back to duty. That was quite enough at the moment. He did not want to talk about it—

The car rushed on up the broad, empty, sunlit road.

Although it was still so early in the day, the cattle were already lying under the green shade of the trees, in the fields. The hedges on either side of the road were white with the blossoms of the wild rose. Overhead the sky was a luminous blue, unflecked by cloud—

This was Paradise that he was rushing through. This was Paradise that he was leaving. Would he ever return? Perhaps he would. But never with his old recklessness, never with his old lightness of heart. So much had happened. He had been through so much. He had changed. There was a heaviness of thought, a deadness of feeling, within him, now, which he had never known before. It was as if he had lost something, lost some part of himself, which he would never be able to recover. Was it his youth?

The car swept on, smoothly, inexorably, without a check, at a high speed—

Was his real life beginning now? Uncle Bond again! Had he been living in a dream? Had he not often felt that he was living in a dream? a wild, grotesque, nightmare dream? But that had always been at the palace. Here, in Paradise, it had seemed to him that he was in touch with reality. And now, Paradise itself, and all that had happened there, seemed a dream. High time to awake out of sleep? He would be glad to awake. He would be glad to touch the real. But would he ever awake?

The rushing, throbbing car, the motionless figure of the Duke at his side, the broad, winding road, the sunlit, peaceful, countryside, his own thoughts—all these things were the very stuff of dreams, fantastic, unbelievable, unreal. His deadness of feeling, his heaviness of thought, were dream. His lost youth was dream. This silence? No one ever spoke in dreams—

At last the throbbing car slowed down suddenly; then stopped.

The Duke was up, and out of the car, in a moment.

The King followed the old statesman out on to the road more leisurely.

An odd, unexpected turn, this, in the dream, but dream, assuredly still dream—

It was a vivid little dream scene which followed.

The car had pulled up at the Paradise-Hades signpost of all places. That could only have happened in dream—

A little group of saluting soldiers, and bareheaded civilian officials, stood under the familiar signpost.

Half a dozen cars were parked in the side road, behind them.

In the centre of the main road stood an open state carriage, with a team of six grey horses, in the charge of postillions and out-riders, who were wearing the scarlet coats, and white breeches of the Royal livery.

A bodyguard of Household Cavalry, whose swords, breastplates and plumed helmets glittered in the sun, were drawn up near by.

The King turned to the Duke.

The veteran Prime Minister smiled.

"This is where you begin your triumphant return to your capital, sir," he said. "A great welcome awaits you, between here and the palace. The Cabinet were making the necessary arrangements when I left town this morning. You will permit me to follow you to the carriage, sir?"

People did speak in dreams, then—sometimes—

Mechanically, the King moved slowly along the sunlit road, towards the carriage, followed by the Duke at a distance of some half dozen paces.

An extraordinary dream this, amazingly vivid and minute in its detail; but dream, certainly dream. If only he could awake! Where would he awake? In the palace? In Paradise? He must awake soon—

The King got into the state carriage, and sat down.

The scarlet coated footman, who had held open the carriage door, was about to shut it again—when the King missed the Duke from his side—

A terrifying thrill of loneliness, a horror of his sudden isolation, ran through the King.

He turned hastily.

The Duke was standing, drawn up to his full height, with bared head, a magnificent, a real, a vital figure, in this sunlit world of phantom shadows, some yards away from the carriage.

The King beckoned to him desperately.

The Duke was at his side in a moment.

"You must not leave me. You must come with me. I cannot face this—nightmare—alone," the King said in an urgent whisper. "I shall—lose my reason—if you leave me. I am not sure now, at this moment, whether I am asleep or awake. Do people talk in dreams? You seem real. All the rest, everything else is—the stuff of dreams. You cannot leave me."

The Duke waved the scarlet coated footman to one side, and got into the carriage, and sat down beside the King. His mere physical presence, his vitality, his energy, at once steadied the King. For one terrible moment, it had seemed to him that he was falling through infinite space—

A couple of the cars parked in the side road, beyond the signpost, shot forward, and swept on ahead up the main road.

A momentary bustle, a general movement, at the cross road, followed.

A curt word of command rang out, and the Household Cavalry wheeled, with the precision of clockwork, into position, in front of, and behind, the state carriage.

The scarlet coated footmen sprang up on to their stand, at the back of the carriage. The out-riders swung clear into their places. The postillions whipped up their horses—

The carriage moved forward.

As the carriage moved forward, the Duke dropped his left hand on to the seat, between the King and himself.

"Take my hand. Grip it, sir!" he said. "I am real! Do not hesitate, sir. We are quite unobserved. A time comes in most men's lives when they need—the grip of the hand of a friend. I am an old man, sir; old enough to be your father. When you take my hand, it is as if you reached out and gripped your father's hand—

"I would have spared you all this, I would have spared you the ordeal of the wild enthusiasm which awaits you, a little further on, if it had been possible, sir. But it was not possible. I realized the risks involved—all the risks, and they are considerable. I counted the cost—to you. But the end to be attained far outweighs the price to be paid. The spectacular, the triumphant, return to the palace, which you are just beginning, sir, will do more to consolidate your hold on the people than anything else could have done. The psychology of the mob is, and must always remain, an incalculable force; but, with a little skill, with a little courage, with a little patience, it can be controlled, it can be used."

The King hardly heard what the Duke said. But the grip of the old man's hand on his was as a rock to cling to. This was what he had wanted; something tangible, actual, real to hold on to, in this dream world of sunlit phantoms which enveloped him. He was no longer alone. With the Duke like this at his side, he could face whatever twists and turns their dream might take. It was their dream, now—

The carriage moved slowly forward, but, slowly as it moved, it soon entered—the outskirts of Hades—

In the outer suburbs, all the scattered, decorous, red-tiled villas were gay with flags, gayer than they had been in that other life, ages ago, on the Coronation Day. At various points on the road now stood little groups of people, the vanguard of the thousand, flushed, curious faces, the thousand eyes—

With these people, the cheering began, the waving of flags, the wild frenzy.

The King felt the Duke's hand tighten on his—

The crowd thickened. The little groups became two continuous lines of people, on either side of the road, people closely packed in deep ranks, behind cordons of policemen.

The cheering grew in volume, took on a deeper note, became a continuous roar—

At first, the King smiled, and bowed, mechanically, to the left, and to the right, as he sat in the carriage.

Soon he found himself standing up, bareheaded, in the carriage, so that all the people could see him.

The Duke, who had sunk far back into the carriage, supported him from behind against his knees.

Yes. The Duke was there—

Always the crowd grew, and the cheering increased in volume.

In the inner suburbs, the flags were thicker than ever. Every window was open, and full of flushed, excited, smiling faces. Many of the roofs of the shops and houses were black with people. Down below, in the road, as the carriage moved slowly forward, the crowd swayed to and fro, in a frenzy of enthusiasm. Flowers fell, thick and fast, in a multi-coloured rain, in front of the carriage. Here and there, at conspicuous street corners, men in working dress tore, or trampled upon, or burnt, the Red Flag of the revolutionary—

It was a universal outpouring of pent-up feeling, a delirium of enthusiasm, without parallel—

The King himself could not remain, for long, unaffected. In spite of himself, in spite of his determination not to be deceived by the chimeras of this fevered, sunlit, daydream, he was caught up on, he was thrilled by, the wild enthusiasm which surged about him. His pulse quickened. He trembled where he stood in the carriage—

And then, suddenly, a strange thing happened to him.

It was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he could see. It was as if some weight that had been pressing upon his brain was lifted, and he could think clearly, sanely. He had been not far from the verge of madness. Now he was himself again—

This was no dream. These people at whom he was smiling, these people to whom he was bowing, mechanically, right and left, were actual, real. This roar of cheers meant something. It rang true. It was genuine. It was sincere. These cheers, repeated, over and over again, never ending, had a new, deep, unmistakable personal note, which he had never heard before. This was no half-hearted, perfunctory enthusiasm. These people were glad to see him. They were cheering—him. And they meant it! They were—his people. And he was—their King—

A thrill of triumph, an exultation which shook him, from head to foot, as he stood in the carriage, ran through the King.

And then it left him, and, in its place, came a sickening chill.

But these people, his people, did not know what had happened, what he had done, how lightly he had held them. If they knew the true, the inner, history of the last twenty-four hours, would they cheer him like this?

All his former impatience with, his contempt for, himself, at that moment, returned to the King.

What right had he to be standing there, smiling and bowing in acknowledgment of this wild, this fervent, enthusiasm? He had done nothing to earn it. He had forfeited all right to it—

It was the old statesman behind him, sitting far back in the carriage, who ought to be standing there, in his place—in the place of honour—in the forefront of—this procession—

Swinging round in the carriage, the King beckoned, impetuously, to the Duke, to stand up beside him.

For a moment, the veteran Prime Minister hesitated.

Then he stood up beside the King, in the carriage, towering head and shoulders above him.

The King took the Duke's arm.

The cheering redoubled—

And so, with the Duke in as prominent a place as the King could give him, as prominent a place as his own, the carriage moved on, through the dust and the clamour, and the wild cheering, into the heart of the town—

By this time, the heat, the glitter and the glare, and the frenzied enthusiasm which surged all about him, had begun to tell upon the King. The physical strain of it all became almost unendurable, deadening the impressions which for some few minutes had been so vivid, so clear. The thousand, flushed, smiling faces, the thousand eyes troubled him no more. The crowd became a mere blurred, dark, clamorous mass, swaying to and fro, on either side of him. Only the Duke remained distinct, individual, standing bolt upright beside him in the carriage, impassive, immovable, a rock to lean upon, physically, and morally, as he smiled and bowed, this way and that, with unseeing eyes—

How long the torture of this later stage of their journey lasted, the King never knew. It had become torture now. All sense of time, and distance, and place left him. He had no clear idea of the route which the carriage followed. His body ached from head to foot. The roaring of the crowd was a mere whisper to the roaring within his own ears. He leant more and more heavily upon the Duke—

At last, at the end of an eternity of effort, an eternity of strained endurance, the carriage swung through Trafalgar Square, and so passed, under the lavishly decorated Admiralty Arch, into the Mall.

The white front of the palace, at the far end of the Mall, was now in sight.

This sudden, abrupt glimpse of the palace, and the promise of ultimate release and rest it afforded, served to arouse the King, and revived his interest, momentarily, in his immediate surroundings.

In the Mall, the Coronation flags still hung, flaunting and gay, in the sunlight. On either side of the road, the stands from which the guests of the Government had viewed the Coronation procession were once again crowded with people, whose enthusiasm was as wild, and whose cheering was as loud, as the carriage moved slowly past them, as that at any other point along the whole route.

One detail in the riot of colour, and the tumult, about him, caught the King's attention.

The road was no longer lined by the police, and the military. In their place stood men in every variety of civilian dress, alike alone in this, that every one of them was wearing war medals proudly displayed, in the majority of cases on very threadbare coats.

The King turned abruptly to the Duke.

"Who are these men with medals?" he asked.

"The Legion of Veterans, sir," the Duke replied. "Their old Commander-in-Chief raised his hand, and thousands of them fell in, at once, all over the country. They reinforced the police and the military. There was no need for us to enrol special constables. The Field Marshal asked that they might be given some post of honour today in recognition of their services. It was decided that they should line the Mall here, and provide an auxiliary guard at the palace."

And so, guarded now by men whose loyalty had been tried and tested on a dozen battlefields, the carriage passed up the Mall, and swung, at last, through the great central, wrought iron gates, into the quadrangle, in front of the palace—

The Duke was down, and out of the carriage, in a moment.

The King stepped out of the carriage, after him.

The Duke fell back, half a dozen paces behind the King, and a little to one side—

A massed band of the Guards, drawn up in the centre of the quadrangle began to play the National Anthem.

High up, on the flagstaff above the palace roof, the Royal Standard rose, and, caught by the wind, shook out, at once, every inch of its silken folds.

Above the flagstaff a score, or more, of decorated aeroplanes swerved, and dived, firing red, white, and blue rockets, a signal seen all over London.

The bells of Westminster rang out joyously, followed by the bells of all the city churches.

From the Green Park, on the right, came the sudden thunder of the guns of a Royal salute.

But louder than the guns, drowning their thunder, the joyous music of the bells, and the music of the band, rose the cheers of the people, near and far, a deep, rhythmical, continuous roar—

For a moment or two, the King remained motionless, rigid, in acknowledgment of the salute.

Then he turned sharply to his right, and moved across the quadrangle, followed by the Duke at a distance of some paces, to the main entrance door of the palace.

On either side of the palace steps, within the doorway, and in the hall beyond, were ranged Cabinet Ministers, military and naval representatives, and high officials of the Court, and the household staff.

The King passed them by only vaguely conscious of their presence, and made straight for the great central, main staircase in the palace.

He knew, now, by instinct, rather than by conscious thought, what he had to do.

His concern was with the immense crowd round the palace, whose wild cheering he could still hear, even here as he ascended the staircase.

He must show himself to the people—

At the head of the staircase, followed more closely now by the Duke, the King turned into the little withdrawing room, from which the huge windows, above the main entrance of the palace, opened.

The windows had been flung wide open.

The King crossed the room, and stepped through the windows out on to the stone balcony, above the main entrance.

A great roar of cheers, a wild waving of flags and hands, from which he all but recoiled, greeted his appearance.

The Duke halted, behind him, out of sight, just inside the windows—

For the next twenty or thirty minutes, save for brief rests in a chair, placed in readiness for him in the little withdrawing room behind him, the King was out on the balcony, bareheaded, in the blazing noon sunshine, smiling and bowing in acknowledgment of the wild enthusiasm of the crowd.

The people were insatiable.

Over and over again, when he sought to prolong his all too short rests in the little room behind him, he was compelled to return to the balcony, in response to the insistent, the tumultuous demands of the crowd.

Once or twice, he made the Duke appear on the balcony, at his side. But the people clearly preferred his solitary appearances—

The little room behind him gradually filled. A number of the more important Court officials, and certain privileged members of the household staff, gathered there, and stood in little groups, well back from the windows.

Once, as he threw himself into his chair, a tall, distinguished looking, grey-haired man, whom he recognized dully as his physician, detached himself from one of these little groups, approached him, held his pulse for a moment, and then, without speaking, handed him a glassful of some colourless stimulant which he drank, although it made no impression whatever on his palate.

Later, back in the glaring sunlight on the balcony once again, he was conscious of the help of the physician's draught. His senses were quickened. He felt less fatigued. But he knew, as the roar of the seething crowd round the palace came up to him once more, that this would have to be one of the last of his appearances. For a little longer, he could hold out, using the factitious energy with which the stimulant had temporarily endowed him. Then must come collapse—

At that moment, there was a sudden movement down below in the quadrangle.

A man, who seemed to dart out from amongst a little knot of men in civilian dress, on the left, just inside the quadrangle railings, a man on whose breast war medals glittered in the sun, dashed across the quadrangle, towards the main entrance of the palace.

The King watched him idly, curiously—

Suddenly, the man's right arm swung up, once, twice—

Then the King felt himself caught up, violently, from behind.

Flung, bodily, back from the balcony, through the huge open windows, he fell, heavily, on the floor of the little room within.

The windows were blocked now by a familiar tall figure, by a pair of familiar, broad shoulders—

A moment later there were two, short, sharp explosions. Bombs. Then a great clatter of falling glass—

The King was up on his feet, in a moment.

A great cry of horror went up from the immense crowd round the palace.

The King took a step forward.

Immediately half a dozen strong hands were laid upon him to hold him back.

There, on the balcony, immediately in front of him, in the litter of broken glass from the huge windows, lay the Duke, motionless, at full length, bleeding from a dozen jagged wounds.

A madness, a fury, which culminated in a passionate resentment of the hands that were holding him back, took possession of the King.

Hardly knowing what he did, he struck out, right and left, savagely, viciously, with all his force.

In a moment he was free—

He stepped out on to the balcony.

Led by the tall, grey-haired physician, four or five of the Court officials followed him, hard on his heels, picked up the Duke, and carried him back into the safety of the little room within—

Down below in the quadrangle, another limp, huddled figure was being borne, hurriedly, and unceremoniously by red-coated soldiers, whose fixed bayonets caught the sun, in the direction of the guardroom, on the right. There was no life in that figure—

Beyond the palace railings, the maddened, infuriated crowd swayed to and fro in great billows of pent-up fury, an ocean of clamorous, tumultuous passion, striving to break its bounds, to the accompaniment of animal cries of anger, and the confused shouting of a thousand voices.

The King took it all in at a glance. A sudden, strange calm, a sure, quiet confidence were with him now.

The anger of the crowd was hideous, menacing. The line of the military, and the police, between the crowd and the palace tossed up and down, like a line of corks on a wild, tempestuous sea. At any moment, that line might break, and the infuriated mob would be let loose, with its madness, its lust for blood, its wild shouting for lynch law.

Anything might happen, at any moment, unless something was done, and done quickly.

And he was the man who must take action—

Without haste, surely, and skilfully, the King climbed on to the stone parapet of the balcony.

Then he drew himself up to his full height, and held up his hand—

He had no fear. He knew no doubt. He had no anxiety.

He knew what he had to do.

This was his moment.

He had found himself.

Never again, it seemed to him, at the moment, would he know doubt, anxiety or fear—

For some time, the wild frenzy of the crowd, down below, beyond the palace railings continued unabated. Then some of the people caught sight of the bareheaded, slim, incredibly boyish figure, in the inconspicuous grey lounge suit, standing on his precarious, windswept perch, on the parapet of the balcony. Then others saw him. Slowly, the surge of the crowd slackened. Slowly, the pandemonium died down. At last, the tumult and the uproar gave place to a universal, joyous cry—

"The King! The King!"

Then a great silence fell.

The King dropped his hand to his side, and spoke. His voice rang out loud and clear, the voice of a sailor, trained to pitch his voice, instinctively, to carry as far as possible in the open air.

"My people"—the words rose simply and naturally to his lips, thrilling him as he used them—"this was to have been a day of great national rejoicing. It has been turned, in a moment, into a day of great national mourning. I am unhurt, untouched. But a greater man than I, the Duke of Northborough, lies dying in the room behind me. He gave his life for mine." His voice shook a little. "From this moment, I hold my life, a sacred trust, at his hands.

"I will say nothing, now, of the madman, whose madness has been used as the instrument to strike down an old man, whose long and noble life has been devoted wholly to the best interests of our country. Death has already closed that madman's account. Nor will I speak, now, of the men, whose wild and reckless talk makes such madness possible. Such men turn, naturally, to assassination and murder, in defeat.

"I ask you, now, not to disturb the last moments of the great man, who has just crowned his long and noble life with the 'greater love,' before which we all bare and bow our heads, by any retaliation, by any outburst, by any demonstration, of the wilder passions against which he always set his face like flint. I ask you, now, to disperse, as quietly, and as quickly, as you can, and return to your own homes, the homes which the great man we mourn, within the last twenty-four hours, has guarded from the anarchy of revolution, and maintained in peace.

"I know I shall not ask in vain."

A low murmur rose from the crowd, while the King spoke. The people, on the edge of the crowd nearest to the palace, repeated what he said, to those behind them. They repeated it again. And so, in this almost miraculous way, something of what he said reached to the furthest limits of the immense crowd, and even spread beyond, through the thronged streets of the city.

There was a tense, breathless pause, when the King had finished speaking—

Then the bandmaster, down below in the palace quadrangle, had an inspiration.

He raised his baton.

A moment later the massed band of the Guards began to play "God Save the King."

For a time, the huge crowd still hesitated. Then some one began to sing. Next moment the whole crowd was singing, with a deep volume of sound, like the sound of many waters—

"Long to reign over us:

"God save the King"—

Over and over again, the band played the national melody. Over and over again, the crowd sang the familiar words, finding in them, at last, an outlet for all their pent-up passions—

And then, suddenly, still singing with undiminished fervour, slowly, and quietly, in marvellous order, as if they had been soldiers on parade, the people began to move away.

The King climbed down from his perilous, windswept perch on the parapet, on to the balcony again.

Then he turned, and passed through the shattered windows into the little room behind him—

They had laid the Duke on the floor of the room. The tall, grey-haired physician stood at the dying statesman's head. All that medical skill could do to ease his passing had been done. Already he was far beyond the reach of any human aid.

The brilliant summer sunshine shone full on the familiar, formidable, massive features, deathly white, now.

The eyes were closed.

The King knelt down at the old statesman's side.

Some obscure instinct prompted him to take the old man's hand—the hand which had done so much for him, the hand which had never failed him,—the hand which had saved him, from himself—

The Duke responded to his touch. Feebly he returned his pressure.

Then, slowly, he opened his eyes, luminous and clear even in death.

He recognized the King.

Faintly he smiled.

Then his lips moved as if in speech.

The King bent down over him.

"God—save—the King," the Duke muttered.

No doubt, the singing of the crowd outside the palace had reached the dying man's ears—

The King did not speak. It seemed to him that there was no need for words. He felt that the Duke knew all his thoughts. He knew that the Duke was glad to have him, now, at the last, at his side.

It was a strange moment of deep, and intimate communion between them—

Strangest of all, there was no sadness in it, now, for the King.

This man had done his work. This man had rounded off his life's work, with a completeness, which it is given to few men to achieve.

The lightning conductor had taken the full shock of the lightning flash, and then fallen.

For the future, he—the King—would be alone.

But that was a small matter, now—

In the presence of this great man's triumphant self-sacrifice, any thought of self seemed irreverence—

Some minutes passed.

Then the Duke's lips moved again—

"We shall not all sleep—but we shall all be changed—in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye—for the trumpet shall sound—and we shall be changed—"

The King bowed his head—

For this man, surely, all the trumpets would sound on the other side. For this man—they would crowd the battlements of Heaven to see him enter—

A little later, the physician touched the King on the shoulder.

The King stood up.

The physician bent down, and straightened the Duke's arms.

Then he turned, and faced the King.

"It is finished, sir," he said.