“The King must go. We want gritty men. Flapdoodle is all very . . .;” and then broke off, followed by the note, “Good sound journalism4 safer. Try it.”
The experiment in good sound journalism appeared to begin —
“The greatest of English poets has said that a rose by any . . . ”
This also stopped abruptly6. The next annotation7 at the side was almost undecipherable, but seemed to be something like —
“How about old Steevens and the mot juste? E.g. . . . ”
“Morning winked8 a little wearily at me over the curt9 edge of Campden Hill and its houses with their sharp shadows. Under the abrupt5 black cardboard of the outline, it took some little time to detect colours; but at length I saw a brownish yellow shifting in the obscurity, and I knew that it was the guard of Swindon’s West Kensington army. They are being held as a reserve, and lining10 the whole ridge11 above the Bayswater Road. Their camp and their main force is under the great Waterworks Tower on Campden Hill. I forgot to say that the Waterworks Tower looked swart.
“As I passed them and came over the curve of Silver Street, I saw the blue cloudy masses of Barker’s men blocking the entrance to the high-road like a sapphire12 smoke (good). The disposition13 of the allied14 troops, under the general management of Mr. Wilson, appears to be as follows: The Yellow army (if I may so describe the West Kensingtonians) lies, as I have said, in a strip along the ridge, its furthest point westward15 being the west side of Campden Hill Road, its furthest point eastward16 the beginning of Kensington Gardens. The Green army of Wilson lines the Notting Hill High Road itself from Queen’s Road to the corner of Pembridge Road, curving round the latter, and extending some three hundred yards up towards Westbourne Grove17. Westbourne Grove itself is occupied by Barker of South Kensington. The fourth side of this rough square, the Queen’s Road side, is held by some of Buck18’s Purple warriors19.
“The whole resembles some ancient and dainty Dutch flower-bed. Along the crest20 of Campden Hill lie the golden crocuses of West Kensington. They are, as it were, the first fiery21 fringe of the whole. Northward22 lies our hyacinth Barker, with all his blue hyacinths. Round to the south-west run the green rushes of Wilson of Bayswater, and a line of violet irises23 (aptly symbolised by Mr. Buck) complete the whole. The argent exterior24 . . . (I am losing the style. I should have said ‘Curving with a whisk’ instead of merely ‘Curving.’ Also I should have called the hyacinths ‘sudden.’ I cannot keep this up. War is too rapid for this style of writing. Please ask office-boy to insert mots justes.)
“The truth is that there is nothing to report. That commonplace element which is always ready to devour26 all beautiful things (as the Black Pig in the Irish Mythology27 will finally devour the stars and gods); that commonplace element, as I say, has in its Black Piggish way devoured28 finally the chances of any romance in this affair; that which once consisted of absurd but thrilling combats in the streets, has degenerated29 into something which is the very prose of warfare30 — it has degenerated into a siege. A siege may be defined as a peace plus the inconvenience of war. Of course Wayne cannot hold out. There is no more chance of help from anywhere else than of ships from the moon. And if old Wayne had stocked his street with tinned meats till all his garrison31 had to sit on them, he couldn’t hold out for more than a month or two. As a matter of melancholy32 fact, he has done something rather like this. He has stocked his street with food until there must be uncommonly33 little room to turn round. But what is the good? To hold out for all that time and then to give in of necessity, what does it mean? It means waiting until your victories are forgotten, and then taking the trouble to be defeated. I cannot understand how Wayne can be so inartistic.
“And how odd it is that one views a thing quite differently when one knows it is defeated! I always thought Wayne was rather fine. But now, when I know that he is done for, there seem to be nothing else but Wayne. All the streets seem to point at him, all the chimneys seem to lean towards him. I suppose it is a morbid35 feeling; but Pump Street seems to be the only part of London that I feel physically36. I suppose, I say, that it is morbid. I suppose it is exactly how a man feels about his heart when his heart is weak. ‘Pump Street’— the heart is a pump. And I am drivelling.
“Our finest leader at the front is, beyond all question, General Wilson. He has adopted alone among the other Provosts the uniform of his own halberdiers, although that fine old sixteenth-century garb37 was not originally intended to go with red side-whiskers. It was he who, against a most admirable and desperate defence, broke last night into Pump Street and held it for at least half an hour. He was afterwards expelled from it by General Turnbull, of Notting Hill, but only after desperate fighting and the sudden descent of that terrible darkness which proved so much more fatal to the forces of General Buck and General Swindon.
“Provost Wayne himself, with whom I had, with great good fortune, a most interesting interview, bore the most eloquent38 testimony39 to the conduct of General Wilson and his men. His precise words are as follows: ‘I have bought sweets at his funny little shop when I was four years old, and ever since. I never noticed anything, I am ashamed to say, except that he talked through his nose, and didn’t wash himself particularly. And he came over our barricade40 like a devil from hell.’ I repeated this speech to General Wilson himself, with some delicate improvements, and he seemed pleased with it. He does not, however, seem pleased with anything so much just now as he is with the wearing of a sword. I have it from the front on the best authority that General Wilson was not completely shaved yesterday. It is believed in military circles that he is growing a moustache. . . .
“As I have said, there is nothing to report. I walk wearily to the pillar-box at the corner of Pembridge Road to post my copy. Nothing whatever has happened, except the preparations for a particularly long and feeble siege, during which I trust I shall not be required to be at the Front. As I glance up Pembridge Road in the growing dusk, the aspect of that road reminds me that there is one note worth adding. General Buck has suggested, with characteristic acumen41, to General Wilson that, in order to obviate42 the possibility of such a catastrophe43 as overwhelmed the allied forces in the last advance on Notting Hill (the catastrophe, I mean, of the extinguished lamps), each soldier should have a lighted lantern round his neck. This is one of the things which I really admire about General Buck. He possesses what people used to mean by ‘the humility44 of the man of science,’ that is, he learns steadily45 from his mistakes. Wayne may score off him in some other way, but not in that way. The lanterns look like fairy lights as they curve round the end of Pembridge Road.
“Later. — I write with some difficulty, because the blood will run down my face and make patterns on the paper. Blood is a very beautiful thing; that is why it is concealed46. If you ask why blood runs down my face, I can only reply that I was kicked by a horse. If you ask me what horse, I can reply with some pride that it was a war-horse. If you ask me how a war-horse came on the scene in our simple pedestrian warfare, I am reduced to the necessity, so painful to a special correspondent, of recounting my experiences.
“I was, as I have said, in the very act of posting my copy at the pillar-box, and of glancing as I did so up the glittering curve of Pembridge Road, studded with the lights of Wilson’s men. I don’t know what made me pause to examine the matter, but I had a fancy that the line of lights, where it melted into the indistinct brown twilight47, was more indistinct than usual. I was almost certain that in a certain stretch of the road where there had been five lights there were now only four. I strained my eyes; I counted them again, and there were only three. A moment after there were only two; an instant after only one; and an instant after that the lanterns near to me swung like jangled bells, as if struck suddenly. They flared48 and fell; and for the moment the fall of them was like the fall of the sun and stars out of heaven. It left everything in a primal49 blindness. As a matter of fact, the road was not yet legitimately50 dark. There were still red rays of a sunset in the sky, and the brown gloaming was still warmed, as it were, with a feeling as of firelight. But for three seconds after the lanterns swung and sank, I saw in front of me a blackness blocking the sky. And with the fourth second I knew that this blackness which blocked the sky was a man on a great horse; and I was trampled51 and tossed aside as a swirl52 of horsemen swept round the corner. As they turned I saw that they were not black, but scarlet53; they were a sortie of the besieged54, Wayne riding ahead.
“I lifted myself from the gutter55, blinded with blood from a very slight skin-wound, and, queerly enough, not caring either for the blindness or for the slightness of the wound. For one mortal minute after that amazing cavalcade56 had spun57 past, there was dead stillness on the empty road. And then came Barker and all his halberdiers running like devils in the track of them. It had been their business to guard the gate by which the sortie had broken out; but they had not reckoned, and small blame to them, on cavalry58. As it was, Barker and his men made a perfectly59 splendid run after them, almost catching60 Wayne’s horses by the tails.
“Nobody can understand the sortie. It consists only of a small number of Wayne’s garrison. Turnbull himself, with the vast mass of it, is undoubtedly61 still barricaded62 in Pump Street. Sorties of this kind are natural enough in the majority of historical sieges, such as the siege of Paris in 1870, because in such cases the besieged are certain of some support outside. But what can be the object of it in this case? Wayne knows (or if he is too mad to know anything, at least Turnbull knows) that there is not, and never has been, the smallest chance of support for him outside; that the mass of the sane63 modern inhabitants of London regard his farcical patriotism64 with as much contempt as they do the original idiotcy that gave it birth — the folly65 of our miserable66 King. What Wayne and his horsemen are doing nobody can even conjecture67. The general theory round here is that he is simply a traitor68, and has abandoned the besieged. But all such larger but yet more soluble69 riddles71 are as nothing compared to the one small but unanswerable riddle70: Where did they get the horses?
“Later. — I have heard a most extraordinary account of the origin of the appearance of the horses. It appears that that amazing person, General Turnbull, who is now ruling Pump Street in the absence of Wayne, sent out, on the morning of the declaration of war, a vast number of little boys (or cherubs72 of the gutter, as we pressmen say), with half-crowns in their pockets, to take cabs all over London. No less than a hundred and sixty cabs met at Pump Street; were commandeered by the garrison. The men were set free, the cabs used to make barricades73, and the horses kept in Pump Street, where they were fed and exercised for several days, until they were sufficiently74 rapid and efficient to be used for this wild ride out of the town. If this is so, and I have it on the best possible authority, the method of the sortie is explained. But we have no explanation of its object. Just as Barker’s Blues75 were swinging round the corner after them, they were stopped, but not by an enemy; only by the voice of one man, and he a friend. Red Wilson of Bayswater ran alone along the main road like a madman, waving them back with a halberd snatched from a sentinel. He was in supreme76 command, and Barker stopped at the corner, staring and bewildered. We could hear Wilson’s voice loud and distinct out of the dusk, so that it seemed strange that the great voice should come out of the little body. ‘Halt, South Kensington! Guard this entry, and prevent them returning. I will pursue. Forward, the Green Guards!’
“A wall of dark blue uniforms and a wood of pole-axes was between me and Wilson, for Barker’s men blocked the mouth of the road in two rigid77 lines. But through them and through the dusk I could hear the clear orders and the clank of arms, and see the green army of Wilson marching by towards the west. They were our great fighting-men. Wilson had filled them with his own fire; in a few days they had become veterans. Each of them wore a silver medal of a pump, to boast that they alone of all the allied armies had stood victorious78 in Pump Street.
“I managed to slip past the detachment of Barker’s Blues, who are guarding the end of Pembridge Road, and a sharp spell of running brought me to the tail of Wilson’s green army as it swung down the road in pursuit of the flying Wayne. The dusk had deepened into almost total darkness; for some time I only heard the throb79 of the marching pace. Then suddenly there was a cry, and the tall fighting men were flung back on me, almost crushing me, and again the lanterns swung and jingled80, and the cold nozzles of great horses pushed into the press of us. They had turned and charged us.
“‘You fools!’ came the voice of Wilson, cleaving81 our panic with a splendid cold anger. ‘Don’t you see? the horses have no riders!’
“It was true. We were being plunged82 at by a stampede of horses with empty saddles. What could it mean? Had Wayne met some of our men and been defeated? Or had he flung these horses at us as some kind of ruse83 or mad new mode of warfare, such as he seemed bent84 on inventing? Or did he and his men want to get away in disguise? Or did they want to hide in houses somewhere?
“Never did I admire any man’s intellect (even my own) so much as I did Wilson’s at that moment. Without a word, he simply pointed85 the halberd (which he still grasped) to the southern side of the road. As you know, the streets running up to the ridge of Campden Hill from the main road are peculiarly steep, they are more like sudden flights of stairs. We were just opposite Aubrey Road, the steepest of all; up that it would have been far more difficult to urge half-trained horses than to run up on one’s feet.
“‘Left wheel!’ hallooed Wilson. ‘They have gone up here,’ he added to me, who happened to be at his elbow.
“‘Why?’ I ventured to ask.
“‘Can’t say for certain,’ replied the Bayswater General. ‘They’ve gone up here in a great hurry, anyhow. They’ve simply turned their horses loose, because they couldn’t take them up. I fancy I know. I fancy they’re trying to get over the ridge to Kensingston or Hammersmith, or somewhere, and are striking up here because it’s just beyond the end of our line. Damned fools, not to have gone further along the road, though. They’ve only just shaved our last outpost. Lambert is hardly four hundred yards from here. And I’ve sent him word.’
“‘Lambert!’ I said. ‘Not young Wilfrid Lambert — my old friend.’
“‘Wilfrid Lambert’s his name,’ said the General; ‘used to be a “man about town;” silly fellow with a big nose. That kind of man always volunteers for some war or other; and what’s funnier, he generally isn’t half bad at it. Lambert is distinctly good. The yellow West Kensingtons I always reckoned the weakest part of the army; but he has pulled them together uncommonly well, though he’s subordinate to Swindon, who’s a donkey. In the attack from Pembridge Road the other night he showed great pluck.’
“‘He has shown greater pluck than that,’ I said. ‘He has criticised my sense of humour. That was his first engagement.’
“This remark was, I am sorry to say, lost on the admirable commander of the allied forces. We were in the act of climbing the last half of Aubrey Road, which is so abrupt a slope that it looks like an old-fashioned map leaning up against the wall. There are lines of little trees, one above the other, as in the old-fashioned map.
“We reached the top of it, panting somewhat, and were just about to turn the corner by a place called (in chivalrous86 anticipation87 of our wars of sword and axe) Tower Cre?y, when we were suddenly knocked in the stomach (I can use no other term) by a horde88 of men hurled89 back upon us. They wore the red uniform of Wayne; their halberds were broken; their foreheads bleeding; but the mere25 impetus90 of their retreat staggered us as we stood at the last ridge of the slope.
“‘Good old Lambert!’ yelled out suddenly the stolid91 Mr. Wilson of Bayswater, in an uncontrollable excitement. ‘Damned jolly old Lambert! He’s got there already! He’s driving them back on us! Hurrah92! hurrah! Forward, the Green Guards!’
“We swung round the corner eastwards93, Wilson running first, brandishing94 the halberd —
“Will you pardon a little egotism? Every one likes a little egotism, when it takes the form, as mine does in this case, of a disgraceful confession95. The thing is really a little interesting, because it shows how the merely artistic34 habit has bitten into men like me. It was the most intensely exciting occurrence that had ever come to me in my life; and I was really intensely excited about it. And yet, as we turned that corner, the first impression I had was of something that had nothing to do with the fight at all. I was stricken from the sky as by a thunderbolt, by the height of the Waterworks Tower on Campden Hill. I don’t know whether Londoners generally realise how high it looks when one comes out, in this way, almost immediately under it. For the second it seemed to me that at the foot of it even human war was a triviality. For the second I felt as if I had been drunk with some trivial orgie, and that I had been sobered by the shock of that shadow. A moment afterwards, I realised that under it was going on something more enduring than stone, and something wilder than the dizziest height — the agony of man. And I knew that, compared to that, this overwhelming tower was itself a triviality; it was a mere stalk of stone which humanity could snap like a stick.
“I don’t know why I have talked so much about this silly old Waterworks Tower, which at the very best was only a tremendous background. It was that, certainly, a sombre and awful landscape, against which our figures were relieved. But I think the real reason was, that there was in my own mind so sharp a transition from the tower of stone to the man of flesh. For what I saw first when I had shaken off, as it were, the shadow of the tower, was a man, and a man I knew.
“Lambert stood at the further corner of the street that curved round the tower, his figure outlined in some degree by the beginning of moonrise. He looked magnificent, a hero; but he looked something much more interesting than that. He was, as it happened, in almost precisely96 the same swaggering attitude in which he had stood nearly fifteen years ago, when he swung his walking-stick and struck it into the ground, and told me that all my subtlety97 was drivel. And, upon my soul, I think he required more courage to say that than to fight as he does now. For then he was fighting against something that was in the ascendant, fashionable, and victorious. And now he is fighting (at the risk of his life, no doubt) merely against something which is already dead, which is impossible, futile98; of which nothing has been more impossible and futile than this very sortie which has brought him into contact with it. People nowadays allow infinitely99 too little for the psychological sense of victory as a factor in affairs. Then he was attacking the degraded but undoubtedly victorious Quin; now he is attacking the interesting but totally extinguished Wayne.
“His name recalls me to the details of the scene. The facts were these. A line of red halberdiers, headed by Wayne, were marching up the street, close under the northern wall, which is, in fact, the bottom of a sort of dyke100 or fortification of the Waterworks. Lambert and his yellow West Kensingtons had that instant swept round the corner and had shaken the Waynites heavily, hurling101 back a few of the more timid, as I have just described, into our very arms. When our force struck the tail of Wayne’s, every one knew that all was up with him. His favourite military barber was struck down. His grocer was stunned102. He himself was hurt in the thigh103, and reeled back against the wall. We had him in a trap with two jaws104. ‘Is that you?’ shouted Lambert, genially105, to Wilson, across the hemmed-in host of Notting Hill. ‘That’s about the ticket,’ replied General Wilson; ‘keep them under the wall.’
“The men of Notting Hill were falling fast. Adam Wayne threw up his long arms to the wall above him, and with a spring stood upon it; a gigantic figure against the moon. He tore the banner out of the hands of the standard-bearer below him, and shook it out suddenly above our heads, so that it was like thunder in the heavens.
“‘Round the Red Lion!’ he cried. ‘Swords round the Red Lion! Halberds round the Red Lion! They are the thorns round rose.’
“His voice and the crack of the banner made a momentary106 rally, and Lambert, whose idiotic107 face was almost beautiful with battle, felt it as by an instinct, and cried —
“‘drop your public-house flag, you footler! drop it!’
“‘The banner of the Red Lion seldom stoops,’ said Wayne, proudly, letting it out luxuriantly on the night wind.
“The next moment I knew that poor Adam’s sentimental108 theatricality109 had cost him much. Lambert was on the wall at a bound, his sword in his teeth, and had slashed110 at Wayne’s head before he had time to draw his sword, his hands being busy with the enormous flag. He stepped back only just in time to avoid the first cut, and let the flag-staff fall, so that the spear-blade at the end of it pointed to Lambert.
“‘The banner stoops,’ cried Wayne, in a voice that must have startled streets. ‘The banner of Notting Hill stoops to a hero.’ And with the words he drove the spear-point and half the flag-staff through Lambert’s body and dropped him dead upon the road below, a stone upon the stones of the street.
“‘Notting Hill! Notting Hill!’ cried Wayne, in a sort of divine rage. ‘Her banner is all the holier for the blood of a brave enemy! Up on the wall, patriots111! Up on the wall! Notting Hill!’
“With his long strong arm he actually dragged a man up on to the wall to be silhouetted112 against the moon, and more and more men climbed up there, pulled themselves and were pulled, till clusters and crowds of the half-massacred men of Pump Street massed upon the wall above us.
“‘Notting Hill! Notting Hill!’ cried Wayne, unceasingly.
“‘Well, what about Bayswater?’ said a worthy113 working-man in Wilson’s army, irritably114. ‘Bayswater for ever!’
“‘We have won!’ cried Wayne, striking his flag-staff in the ground. ‘Bayswater for ever! We have taught our enemies patriotism!’
“‘Oh, cut these fellows up and have done with it!’ cried one of Lambert’s lieutenants115, who was reduced to something bordering on madness by the responsibility of succeeding to the command.
“‘Let us by all means try,’ said Wilson, grimly; and the two armies closed round the third.
“I simply cannot describe what followed. I am sorry, but there is such a thing as physical fatigue116, as physical nausea117, and, I may add, as physical terror. Suffice it to say that the above paragraph was written about 11 p.m., and that it is now about 2 a.m., and that the battle is not finished, and is not likely to be. Suffice it further to say that down the steep streets which lead from the Waterworks Tower to the Notting Hill High Road, blood has been running, and is running, in great red serpents, that curl out into the main thoroughfare and shine in the moon.
“Later.— The final touch has been given to all this terrible futility118. Hours have passed; morning has broken; men are still swaying and fighting at the foot of the tower and round the corner of Aubrey Road; the fight has not finished. But I know it is a farce119.
“News has just come to show that Wayne’s amazing sortie, followed by the amazing resistance through a whole night on the wall of the Waterworks, is as if it had not been. What was the object of that strange exodus120 we shall probably never know, for the simple reason that every one who knew will probably be cut to pieces in the course of the next two or three hours.
“I have heard, about three minutes ago, that Buck and Buck’s methods have won after all. He was perfectly right, of course, when one comes to think of it, in holding that it was physically impossible for a street to defeat a city. While we thought he was patrolling the eastern gates with his Purple army; while we were rushing about the streets and waving halberds and lanterns; while poor old Wilson was scheming like Moltke and fighting like Achilles to entrap121 the wild Provost of Notting Hill — Mr. Buck, retired122 draper, has simply driven down in a hansom cab and done something about as plain as butter and about as useful and nasty. He has gone down to South Kensington, Brompton, and Fulham, and by spending about four thousand pounds of his private means, has raised an army of nearly as many men; that is to say, an army big enough to beat, not only Wayne, but Wayne and all his present enemies put together. The army, I understand, is encamped along High Street, Kensington, and fills it from the Church to Addison Road Bridge. It is to advance by ten different roads uphill to the north.
“I cannot endure to remain here. Everything makes it worse than it need be. The dawn, for instance, has broken round Campden Hill; splendid spaces of silver, edged with gold, are torn out of the sky. Worse still, Wayne and his men feel the dawn; their faces, though bloody123 and pale, are strangely hopeful . . . insupportably pathetic. Worst of all, for the moment they are winning. If it were not for Buck and the new army they might just, and only just, win.
“I repeat, I cannot stand it. It is like watching that wonderful play of old Maeterlinck’s (you know my partiality for the healthy, jolly old authors of the nineteenth century), in which one has to watch the quiet conduct of people inside a parlour, while knowing that the very men are outside the door whose word can blast it all with tragedy. And this is worse, for the men are not talking, but writhing124 and bleeding and dropping dead for a thing that is already settled — and settled against them. The great grey masses of men still toil125 and tug126 and sway hither and thither127 around the great grey tower; and the tower is still motionless, as it will always be motionless. These men will be crushed before the sun is set; and new men will arise and be crushed, and new wrongs done, and tyranny will always rise again like the sun, and injustice128 will always be as fresh as the flowers of spring. And the stone tower will always look down on it. Matter, in its brutal129 beauty, will always look down on those who are mad enough to consent to die, and yet more mad, since they consent to live.”
Thus ended abruptly the first and last contribution of the Special Correspondent of the Court Journal to that valued periodical.
The Correspondent himself, as has been said, was simply sick and gloomy at the last news of the triumph of Buck. He slouched sadly down the steep Aubrey Road, up which he had the night before run in so unusual an excitement, and strolled out into the empty dawn-lit main road, looking vaguely130 for a cab. He saw nothing in the vacant space except a blue-and-gold glittering thing, running very fast, which looked at first like a very tall beetle131, but turned out, to his great astonishment132, to be Barker.
“Have you heard the good news?” asked that gentleman.
“Yes,” said Quin, with a measured voice. “I have heard the glad tidings of great joy. Shall we take a hansom down to Kensington? I see one over there.”
They took the cab, and were, in four minutes, fronting the ranks of the multitudinous and invincible133 army. Quin had not spoken a word all the way, and something about him had prevented the essentially134 impressionable Barker from speaking either.
The great army, as it moved up Kensington High Street, calling many heads to the numberless windows, for it was long indeed — longer than the lives of most of the tolerably young — since such an army had been seen in London. Compared with the vast organisation135 which was now swallowing up the miles, with Buck at its head as leader, and the King hanging at its tail as journalist, the whole story of our problem was insignificant136. In the presence of that army the red Notting Hills and the green Bayswaters were alike tiny and straggling groups. In its presence the whole struggle round Pump Street was like an ant-hill under the hoof137 of an ox. Every man who felt or looked at that infinity138 of men knew that it was the triumph of Buck’s brutal arithmetic. Whether Wayne was right or wrong, wise or foolish, was quite a fair matter for discussion. But it was a matter of history. At the foot of Church Street, opposite Kensington Church, they paused in their glowing good humour.
“Let us send some kind of messenger or herald139 up to them,” said Buck, turning to Barker and the King. “Let us send and ask them to cave in without more muddle140.”
“What shall we say to them?” said Barker, doubtfully.
“The facts of the case are quite sufficient,” rejoined Buck. “It is the facts of the case that make an army surrender. Let us simply say that our army that is fighting their army, and their army that is fighting our army, amount altogether to about a thousand men. Say that we have four thousand. It is very simple. Of the thousand fighting, they have at the very most, three hundred, so that, with those three hundred, they have now to fight four thousand seven hundred men. Let them do it if it amuses them.”
And the Provost of North Kensington laughed.
The herald who was despatched up Church Street in all the pomp of the South Kensington blue and gold, with the Three Birds on his tabard, was attended by two trumpeters.
“What will they do when they consent?” asked Barker, for the sake of saying something in the sudden stillness of that immense army.
“I know my Wayne very well,” said Buck, laughing. “When he submits he will send a red herald flaming with the Lion of Notting Hill. Even defeat will be delightful141 to him, since it is formal and romantic.”
The King, who had strolled up to the head of the line, broke silence for the first time.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” he said, “if he defied you, and didn’t send the herald after all. I don’t think you do know your Wayne quite so well as you think.”
“All right, your Majesty,” said Buck, easily; “if it isn’t disrespectful, I’ll put my political calculations in a very simple form. I’ll lay you ten pounds to a shilling the herald comes with the surrender.”
“All right,” said Auberon. “I may be wrong, but it’s my notion of Adam Wayne that he’ll die in his city, and that, till he is dead, it will not be a safe property.”
“The bet’s made, your Majesty,” said Buck.
Another long silence ensued, in the course of which Barker alone, amid the motionless army, strolled and stamped in his restless way.
Then Buck suddenly leant forward.
“It’s taking your money, your Majesty,” he said. “I knew it was. There comes the herald from Adam Wayne.”
“It’s not,” cried the King, peering forward also. “You brute142, it’s a red omnibus.”
“It’s not,” said Buck, calmly; and the King did not answer, for down the centre of the spacious143 and silent Church Street was walking, beyond question, the herald of the Red Lion, with two trumpeters.
Buck had something in him which taught him how to be magnanimous. In his hour of success he felt magnanimous towards Wayne, whom he really admired; magnanimous towards the King, off whom he had scored so publicly; and, above all, magnanimous towards Barker, who was the titular144 leader of this vast South Kensington army, which his own talent had evoked145.
“General Barker,” he said, bowing, “do you propose now to receive the message from the besieged?”
Barker bowed also, and advanced towards the herald.
“Has your master, Mr. Adam Wayne, received our request for surrender?” he asked.
The herald conveyed a solemn and respectful affirmative.
Barker resumed, coughing slightly, but encouraged.
“What answer does your master send?”
The herald again inclined himself submissively, and answered in a kind of monotone.
“My message is this. Adam Wayne, Lord High Provost of Notting Hill, under the charter of King Auberon and the laws of God and all mankind, free and of a free city, greets James Barker, Lord High Provost of South Kensington, by the same rights free and honourable146, leader of the army of the South. With all friendly reverence147, and with all constitutional consideration, he desires James Barker to lay down his arms, and the whole army under his command to lay down their arms also.”
Before the words were ended the King had run forward into the open space with shining eyes. The rest of the staff and the forefront of the army were literally148 struck breathless. When they recovered they began to laugh beyond restraint; the revulsion was too sudden.
“The Lord High Provost of Notting Hill,” continued the herald, “does not propose, in the event of your surrender, to use his victory for any of those repressive purposes which others have entertained against him. He will leave you your free laws and your free cities, your flags and your governments. He will not destroy the religion of South Kensington, or crush the old customs of Bayswater.”
An irrepressible explosion of laughter went up from the forefront of the great army.
“The King must have had something to do with this humour,” said Buck, slapping his thigh. “It’s too deliciously insolent149. Barker, have a glass of wine.”
And in his conviviality150 he actually sent a soldier across to the restaurant opposite the church and brought out two glasses for a toast.
When the laughter had died down, the herald continued quite monotonously151 —
“In the event of your surrendering your arms and dispersing152 under the superintendence of our forces, these local rights of yours shall be carefully observed. In the event of your not doing so, the Lord High Provost of Notting Hill desires to announce that he has just captured the Waterworks Tower, just above you, on Campden Hill, and that within ten minutes from now, that is, on the reception through me of your refusal, he will open the great reservoir and flood the whole valley where you stand in thirty feet of water. God save King Auberon!”
Buck had dropped his glass and sent a great splash of wine over the road.
“But — but —” he said; and then by a last and splendid effort of his great sanity153, looked the facts in the face.
“We must surrender,” he said. “You could do nothing against fifty thousand tons of water coming down a steep hill, ten minutes hence. We must surrender. Our four thousand men might as well be four. Vicisti Galil?e! Perkins, you may as well get me another glass of wine.”
In this way the vast army of South Kensington surrendered and the Empire of Notting Hill began. One further fact in this connection is perhaps worth mentioning — the fact that, after his victory, Adam Wayne caused the great tower on Campden Hill to be plated with gold and inscribed154 with a great epitaph, saying that it was the monument of Wilfrid Lambert, the heroic defender155 of the place, and surmounted156 with a statue, in which his large nose was done something less than justice to.
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1
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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2
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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3
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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4
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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5
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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6
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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7
annotation
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| n.注解 | |
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8
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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9
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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10
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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11
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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12
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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13
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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14
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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15
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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16
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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17
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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18
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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19
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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20
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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21
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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22
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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23
irises
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| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
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24
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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25
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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26
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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27
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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28
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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29
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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31
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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32
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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33
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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34
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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35
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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36
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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37
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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38
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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39
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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40
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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41
acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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42
obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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43
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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44
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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45
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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46
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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47
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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48
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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50
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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51
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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52
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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53
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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54
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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56
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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57
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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58
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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59
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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60
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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61
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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62
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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63
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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64
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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65
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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66
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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67
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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68
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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69
soluble
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| adj.可溶的；可以解决的 | |
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70
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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71
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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72
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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73
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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74
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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75
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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76
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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77
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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78
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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79
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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80
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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81
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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82
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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83
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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84
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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85
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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86
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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87
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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88
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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89
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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90
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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91
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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92
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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93
eastwards
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| adj.向东方（的），朝东（的）；n.向东的方向 | |
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94
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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95
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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96
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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97
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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98
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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99
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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100
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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101
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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102
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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104
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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105
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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106
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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107
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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108
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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109
theatricality
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| n.戏剧风格，不自然 | |
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110
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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111
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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112
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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113
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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114
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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115
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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116
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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117
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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118
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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119
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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120
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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121
entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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122
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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123
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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124
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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125
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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127
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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128
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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131
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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132
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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133
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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134
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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135
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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136
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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137
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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138
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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139
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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140
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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141
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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142
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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143
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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144
titular
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| adj.名义上的，有名无实的；n.只有名义（或头衔）的人 | |
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145
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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146
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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148
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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149
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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150
conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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151
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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152
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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153
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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154
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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156
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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