He stepped out into the cool air, buttoning up his light yellow coat, and blowing great clouds from his cigar, when a figure dashed up to him in another yellow overcoat, but unbuttoned and flying behind him.
“Hullo, Barker!” said the draper. “Any of our summer articles? You’re too late. Factory Acts, Barker. Humanity and progress, my boy.”
“Oh, don’t chatter,” cried Barker, stamping. “We’ve been beaten.”
“Beaten — by what?” asked Buck, mystified.
“By Wayne.”
Buck looked at Barker’s fierce white face for the first time, as it gleamed in the lamplight.
“Come and have a drink,” he said.
They adjourned6 to a cushioned and glaring buffet7, and Buck established himself slowly and lazily in a seat, and pulled out his cigar-case.
“Have a smoke,” he said.
Barker was still standing8, and on the fret9, but after a moment’s hesitation10, he sat down as if he might spring up again the next minute. They ordered drinks in silence.
“How did it happen?” asked Buck, turning his big bold eyes on him.
“How the devil do I know?” cried Barker. “It happened like — like a dream. How can two hundred men beat six hundred? How can they?”
“Well,” said Buck, coolly, “how did they? You ought to know.”
“I don’t know; I can’t describe,” said the other, drumming on the table. “It seemed like this. We were six hundred, and marched with those damned poleaxes of Auberon’s — the only weapons we’ve got. We marched two abreast11. We went up Holland Walk, between the high palings which seemed to me to go straight as an arrow for Pump Street. I was near the tail of the line, and it was a long one. When the end of it was still between the high palings, the head of the line was already crossing Holland Park Avenue. Then the head plunged12 into the network of narrow streets on the other side, and the tail and myself came out on the great crossing. When we also had reached the northern side and turned up a small street that points, crookedly14 as it were, towards Pump Street, the whole thing felt different. The streets dodged15 and bent16 so much that the head of our line seemed lost altogether: it might as well have been in North America. And all this time we hadn’t seen a soul.”
Map of the Seat of War.
Map of the Seat of War.
Buck, who was idly dabbing17 the ash of his cigar on the ash-tray, began to move it deliberately18 over the table, making feathery grey lines, a kind of map.
“But though the little streets were all deserted19 (which got a trifle on my nerves), as we got deeper and deeper into them, a thing began to happen that I couldn’t understand. Sometimes a long way ahead — three turns or corners ahead, as it were — there broke suddenly a sort of noise, clattering21, and confused cries, and then stopped. Then, when it happened, something, I can’t describe it — a kind of shake or stagger went down the line, as if the line were a live thing, whose head had been struck, or had been an electric cord. None of us knew why we were moving, but we moved and jostled. Then we recovered, and went on through the little dirty streets, round corners, and up twisted ways. The little crooked13 streets began to give me a feeling I can’t explain — as if it were a dream. I felt as if things had lost their reason, and we should never get out of the maze22. Odd to hear me talk like that, isn’t it? The streets were quite well-known streets, all down on the map. But the fact remains23. I wasn’t afraid of something happening. I was afraid of nothing ever happening — nothing ever happening for all God’s eternity24.”
He drained his glass and called for more whisky. He drank it, and went on.
“And then something did happen. Buck, it’s the solemn truth, that nothing has ever happened to you in your life. Nothing had ever happened to me in my life.”
“Nothing ever happened!” said Buck, staring. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing has ever happened,” repeated Barker, with a morbid25 obstinacy26. “You don’t know what a thing happening means? You sit in your office expecting customers, and customers come; you walk in the street expecting friends, and friends meet you; you want a drink, and get it; you feel inclined for a bet, and make it. You expect either to win or lose, and you do either one or the other. But things happening!” and he shuddered27 ungovernably.
“Go on,” said Buck, shortly. “Get on.”
“As we walked wearily round the corners, something happened. When something happens, it happens first, and you see it afterwards. It happens of itself, and you have nothing to do with it. It proves a dreadful thing — that there are other things besides one’s self. I can only put it in this way. We went round one turning, two turnings, three turnings, four turnings, five. Then I lifted myself slowly up from the gutter28 where I had been shot half senseless, and was beaten down again by living men crashing on top of me, and the world was full of roaring, and big men rolling about like nine-pins.”
Buck looked at his map with knitted brows.
“Was that Portobello Road?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Barker —“yes; Portobello Road. I saw it afterwards; but, my God, what a place it was! Buck, have you ever stood and let a six foot of man lash29 and lash at your head with six feet of pole with six pounds of steel at the end? Because, when you have had that experience, as Walt Whitman says, ‘you re-examine philosophies and religions.’”
“I have no doubt,” said Buck. “If that was Portobello Road, don’t you see what happened?”
“I know what happened exceedingly well. I was knocked down four times; an experience which, as I say, has an effect on the mental attitude. And another thing happened, too. I knocked down two men. After the fourth fall (there was not much bloodshed — more brutal30 rushing and throwing — for nobody could use their weapons), after the fourth fall, I say, I got up like a devil, and I tore a poleaxe out of a man’s hand and struck where I saw the scarlet31 of Wayne’s fellows, struck again and again. Two of them went over, bleeding on the stones, thank God; and I laughed and found myself sprawling32 in the gutter again, and got up again, and struck again, and broke my halberd to pieces. I hurt a man’s head, though.”
Buck set down his glass with a bang, and spat33 out curses through his thick moustache.
“What is the matter?” asked Barker, stopping, for the man had been calm up to now, and now his agitation34 was far more violent than his own.
“The matter?” said Buck, bitterly; “don’t you see how these maniacs35 have got us? Why should two idiots, one a clown and the other a screaming lunatic, make sane36 men so different from themselves? Look here, Barker; I will give you a picture. A very well-bred young man of this century is dancing about in a frock-coat. He has in his hands a nonsensical seventeenth-century halberd, with which he is trying to kill men in a street in Notting Hill. Damn it! don’t you see how they’ve got us? Never mind how you felt — that is how you looked. The King would put his cursed head on one side and call it exquisite37. The Provost of Notting Hill would put his cursed nose in the air and call it heroic. But in Heaven’s name what would you have called it — two days before?”
Barker bit his lip.
“You haven’t been through it, Buck,” he said. “You don’t understand fighting — the atmosphere.”
“I don’t deny the atmosphere,” said Buck, striking the table. “I only say it’s their atmosphere. It’s Adam Wayne’s atmosphere. It’s the atmosphere which you and I thought had vanished from an educated world for ever.”
“Well, it hasn’t,” said Barker; “and if you have any lingering doubts, lend me a poleaxe, and I’ll show you.”
There was a long silence, and then Buck turned to his neighbour and spoke38 in that good-tempered tone that comes of a power of looking facts in the face — the tone in which he concluded great bargains.
“Barker,” he said, “you are right. This old thing — this fighting, has come back. It has come back suddenly and taken us by surprise. So it is first blood to Adam Wayne. But, unless reason and arithmetic and everything else have gone crazy, it must be next and last blood to us. But when an issue has really arisen, there is only one thing to do — to study that issue as such and win in it. Barker, since it is fighting, we must understand fighting. I must understand fighting as coolly and completely as I understand drapery; you must understand fighting as coolly and completely as you understand politics. Now, look at the facts. I stick without hesitation to my original formula. Fighting, when we have the stronger force, is only a matter of arithmetic. It must be. You asked me just now how two hundred men could defeat six hundred. I can tell you. Two hundred men can defeat six hundred when the six hundred behave like fools. When they forget the very conditions they are fighting in; when they fight in a swamp as if it were a mountain; when they fight in a forest as if it were a plain; when they fight in streets without remembering the object of streets.”
“What is the object of streets?” asked Barker.
“What is the object of supper?” cried Buck, furiously. “Isn’t it obvious? This military science is mere39 common sense. The object of a street is to lead from one place to another; therefore all streets join; therefore street fighting is quite a peculiar40 thing. You advanced into that hive of streets as if you were advancing into an open plain where you could see everything. Instead of that, you were advancing into the bowels41 of a fortress42, with streets pointing at you, streets turning on you, streets jumping out at you, and all in the hands of the enemy. Do you know what Portobello Road is? It is the only point on your journey where two side streets run up opposite each other. Wayne massed his men on the two sides, and when he had let enough of your line go past, cut it in two like a worm. Don’t you see what would have saved you?”
Barker shook his head.
“Can’t your ‘atmosphere’ help you?” asked Buck, bitterly. “Must I attempt explanations in the romantic manner? Suppose that, as you were fighting blindly with the red Notting Hillers who imprisoned43 you on both sides, you had heard a shout from behind them. Suppose, oh, romantic Barker! that behind the red tunics44 you had seen the blue and gold of South Kensington taking them in the rear, surrounding them in their turn and hurling45 them on to your halberds.”
“If the thing had been possible,” began Barker, cursing.
“The thing would have been as possible,” said Buck, simply, “as simple as arithmetic. There are a certain number of street entries that lead to Pump Street. There are not nine hundred; there are not nine million. They do not grow in the night. They do not increase like mushrooms. It must be possible, with such an overwhelming force as we have, to advance by all of them at once. In every one of the arteries46, or approaches, we can put almost as many men as Wayne can put into the field altogether. Once do that, and we have him to demonstration47. It is like a proposition of Euclid.”
“You think that is certain?” said Barker, anxious, but dominated delightfully48.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” said Buck, getting up jovially49. “I think Adam Wayne made an uncommonly50 spirited little fight; and I think I am confoundedly sorry for him.”
“Buck, you are a great man!” cried Barker, rising also. “You’ve knocked me sensible again. I am ashamed to say it, but I was getting romantic. Of course, what you say is adamantine sense. Fighting, being physical, must be mathematical. We were beaten because we were neither mathematical nor physical nor anything else — because we deserved to be beaten. Hold all the approaches, and with our force we must have him. When shall we open the next campaign?”
“Now,” said Buck, and walked out of the bar.
“Now!” cried Barker, following him eagerly. “Do you mean now? It is so late.”
Buck turned on him, stamping.
“Do you think fighting is under the Factory Acts?” he said; and he called a cab. “Notting Hill Gate Station,” he said; and the two drove off.
A genuine reputation can sometimes be made in an hour. Buck, in the next sixty or eighty minutes, showed himself a really great man of action. His cab carried him like a thunderbolt from the King to Wilson, from Wilson to Swindon, from Swindon to Barker again; if his course was jagged, it had the jaggedness of the lightning. Only two things he carried with him — his inevitable51 cigar and the map of North Kensington and Notting Hill. There were, as he again and again pointed out, with every variety of persuasion52 and violence, only nine possible ways of approaching Pump Street within a quarter of a mile round it; three out of Westbourne Grove53, two out of Ladbroke Grove, and four out of Notting Hill High Street. And he had detachments of two hundred each, stationed at every one of the entrances before the last green of that strange sunset had sunk out of the black sky.
The sky was particularly black, and on this alone was one false protest raised against the triumphant54 optimism of the Provost of North Kensington. He overruled it with his infectious common sense.
“There is no such thing,” he said, “as night in London. You have only to follow the line of street lamps. Look, here is the map. Two hundred purple North Kensington soldiers under myself march up Ossington Street, two hundred more under Captain Bruce, of the North Kensington Guard, up Clanricarde Gardens.* Two hundred yellow West Kensingtons under Provost Swindon attack from Pembridge Road. Two hundred more of my men from the eastern streets, leading away from Queen’s Road. Two detachments of yellows enter by two roads from Westbourne Grove. Lastly, two hundred green Bayswaters come down from the North through Chepstow Place, and two hundred more under Provost Wilson himself, through the upper part of Pembridge Road. Gentlemen, it is mate in two moves. The enemy must either mass in Pump Street and be cut to pieces; or they must retreat past the Gaslight & Coke Co., and rush on my four hundred; or they must retreat past St. Luke’s Church, and rush on the six hundred from the West. Unless we are all mad, it’s plain. Come on. To your quarters and await Captain Brace’s signal to advance. Then you have only to walk up a line of gas-lamps and smash this nonsense by pure mathematics. To-morrow we shall all be civilians55 again.”
* Clanricarde Gardens at this time was no longer a cul-de-sac, but was connected by Pump Street to Pembridge Square. See map.
His optimism glowed like a great fire in the night, and ran round the terrible ring in which Wayne was now held helpless. The fight was already over. One man’s energy for one hour had saved the city from war.
For the next ten minutes Buck walked up and down silently beside the motionless clump56 of his two hundred. He had not changed his appearance in any way, except to sling57 across his yellow overcoat a case with a revolver in it. So that his light-clad modern figure showed up oddly beside the pompous58 purple uniforms of his halberdiers, which darkly but richly coloured the black night.
At length a shrill59 trumpet60 rang from some way up the street; it was the signal of advance. Buck briefly61 gave the word, and the whole purple line, with its dimly shining steel, moved up the side alley62. Before it was a slope of street, long, straight, and shining in the dark. It was a sword pointed at Pump Street, the heart at which nine other swords were pointed that night.
A quarter of an hour’s silent marching brought them almost within earshot of any tumult63 in the doomed64 citadel65. But still there was no sound and no sign of the enemy. This time, at any rate, they knew that they were closing in on it mechanically, and they marched on under the lamplight and the dark without any of that eerie66 sense of ignorance which Barker had felt when entering the hostile country by one avenue alone.
“Halt — point arms!” cried Buck, suddenly, and as he spoke there came a clatter20 of feet tumbling along the stones. But the halberds were levelled in vain. The figure that rushed up was a messenger from the contingent67 of the North.
“Victory, Mr. Buck!” he cried, panting; “they are ousted68. Provost Wilson of Bayswater has taken Pump Street.”
Buck ran forward in his excitement.
“Then, which way are they retreating? It must be either by St. Luke’s to meet Swindon, or by the Gas Company to meet us. Run like mad to Swindon, and see that the yellows are holding the St. Luke’s Road. We will hold this, never fear. We have them in an iron trap. Run!”
As the messenger dashed away into the darkness, the great guard of North Kensington swung on with the certainty of a machine. Yet scarcely a hundred yards further their halberd-points again fell in line gleaming in the gaslight; for again a clatter of feet was heard on the stones, and again it proved to be only the messenger.
“Mr. Provost,” he said, “the yellow West Kensingtons have been holding the road by St. Luke’s for twenty minutes since the capture of Pump Street. Pump Street is not two hundred yards away; they cannot be retreating down that road.”
“Then they are retreating down this,” said Provost Buck, with a final cheerfulness, “and by good fortune down a well-lighted road, though it twists about. Forward!”
As they moved along the last three hundred yards of their journey, Buck fell, for the first time in his life, perhaps, into a kind of philosophical69 reverie, for men of his type are always made kindly70, and as it were melancholy71, by success.
“I am sorry for poor old Wayne, I really am,” he thought. “He spoke up splendidly for me at that Council. And he blacked old Barker’s eye with considerable spirit. But I don’t see what a man can expect when he fights against arithmetic, to say nothing of civilisation72. And what a wonderful hoax73 all this military genius is! I suspect I’ve just discovered what Cromwell discovered, that a sensible tradesman is the best general, and that a man who can buy men and sell men can lead and kill them. The thing’s simply like adding up a column in a ledger74. If Wayne has two hundred men, he can’t put two hundred men in nine places at once. If they’re ousted from Pump Street they’re flying somewhere. If they’re not flying past the church they’re flying past the Works. And so we have them. We business men should have no chance at all except that cleverer people than we get bees in their bonnets75 that prevent them from reasoning properly — so we reason alone. And so I, who am comparatively stupid, see things as God sees them, as a vast machine. My God, what’s this?” and he clapped his hands to his eyes and staggered back.
Then through the darkness he cried in a dreadful voice —
“Did I blaspheme God? I am struck blind.”
“What?” wailed76 another voice behind him, the voice of a certain Wilfred Jarvis of North Kensington.
“Blind!” cried Buck; “blind!”
“I’m blind too!” cried Jarvis, in an agony.
“Fools, all of you,” said a gross voice behind them; “we’re all blind. The lamps have gone out.”
“The lamps! But why? where?” cried Buck, turning furiously in the darkness. “How are we to get on? How are we to chase the enemy? Where have they gone?”
“The enemy went —” said the rough voice behind, and then stopped doubtfully.
“Where?” shouted Buck, stamping like a madman.
“They went,” said the gruff voice, “past the Gas Works, and they’ve used their chance.”
“Great God!” thundered Buck, and snatched at his revolver; “do you mean they’ve turned out —”
But almost before he had spoken the words, he was hurled77 like a stone from catapult into the midst of his own men.
“Notting Hill! Notting Hill!” cried frightful78 voices out of the darkness, and they seemed to come from all sides, for the men of North Kensington, unacquainted with the road, had lost all their bearings in the black world of blindness.
“Notting Hill! Notting Hill!” cried the invisible people, and the invaders79 were hewn down horribly with black steel, with steel that gave no glint against any light.
Buck, though badly maimed with the blow of a halberd, kept an angry but splendid sanity80. He groped madly for the wall and found it. Struggling with crawling fingers along it, he found a side opening and retreated into it with the remnants of his men. Their adventures during that prodigious81 night are not to be described. They did not know whether they were going towards or away from the enemy. Not knowing where they themselves were, or where their opponents were, it was mere irony82 to ask where was the rest of their army. For a thing had descended83 upon them which London does not know — darkness, which was before the stars were made, and they were as much lost in it as if they had been made before the stars. Every now and then, as those frightful hours wore on, they buffeted84 in the darkness against living men, who struck at them and at whom they struck, with an idiot fury. When at last the grey dawn came, they found they had wandered back to the edge of the Uxbridge Road. They found that in those horrible eyeless encounters, the North Kensingtons and the Bayswaters and the West Kensingtons had again and again met and butchered each other, and they heard that Adam Wayne was barricaded85 in Pump Street.
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1
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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12
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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46
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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84
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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barricaded
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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