Arthur Griffiths - The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood

A >> Arthur Griffiths >> The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood

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This bold speech was not without its effect. The general consulted
with his staff, and a rather animated discussion followed, at the end
of which he said--

"I am not to be deterred by any such threats: still, it will be better
to refer your case to my superiors. I shall send you into Sebastopol,
to be dealt with as Prince Gortschakoff may think fit, only do not
expect more at his hands than at mine. Rope or rifle--one of them will
be your fate. See he is sent off, Colonel Golopine, will you? And now
take him away."

McKay was marched out of the marquee, still under the escort of
Cossacks. But outside he was presently handed over to a fresh party;
they brought up a shaggy pony--it might have been the fellow of the
one he had left behind the previous night--and curtly bade him mount.
When, with hands still tied, he scrambled with difficulty into his
saddle, they tied his legs together by a long rope under the pony's
belly, and, placing him in the centre of the escort, they started off
at a jog-trot in the direction of the town.

CHAPTER III.

A PURVEYOR OF NEWS.

Mr. Hobson gave his address at Duke Street, St. James's, a
lodging-house frequented by gentlemen from the neighbouring clubs. But
he was never there except asleep. There was nothing strange in this as
none of the occupants of the house were much there, except at
night-time--they lived at their clubs.

So, for all the landlady knew, did Mr. Hobson. But we know better. He
had no club, and his daily absence from breakfast--simply a cup of
coffee and a roll, which he took in the French fashion, early--till
late at night was to be accounted for by his constant presence at his
office or place of business, although it was both and neither. This
was in a little street off Bloomsbury, the first floor over a
newspaper shop.

Mr. Hobson passed here as an agent for a country paper. It was
supposed to be his business to collect and transmit news to his
principals at a large seaport town on the East Coast. These were days
before the present development of newspaper enterprise, when leading
provincial journals have their own London offices and a private wire.
Mr. Hobson's principles were very liberal according to the idea of
that time; they seemed to grudge no expense with regard to the
transmission of news.

Telegrams were costly things in those days, but Mr. Hobson sometimes
sent off half-a-dozen in the course of a morning. He was served too,
and exceedingly well, by special agents of his own, who came to him at
all hours--in cabs driven recklessly, or on foot, in a stealthy,
apologetic way, as though doubtful whether the news they brought would
be acceptable.

The office upstairs bore out the notion of the news-agency. Its chief
furniture consisted of two long, sloping tables, on which lay files of
daily papers. There was one big book-case handy near the fireplace,
and over the desk at which Mr. Hobson sat. On the shelves of this were
ranged a couple of dozen volumes, each bearing a label on which were
various letters and numerals.

On the desk itself were the usual writing appliances, a large pair of
scissors, and a wide-mouthed bottle of gum.

Let us look in at Mr. Hobson on his first arrival at his office, soon
after eight o'clock.

His first business was to ring his bell, which communicated with the
shop below.

"My papers! It is past eight."

"Here they are, sir, the whole lot--_Times_, _'Tizer_, _Morning
Chronicle_, and _Morning Post_."

"Why do you oblige me to ask for them? Can't you bring them as I have
told you? It makes me so late with my work." And, having delivered
himself of these testy remarks, he threw himself into an arm-chair
and proceeded to devour the morning's news.

"Nothing fresh from the East?" As he now talked to himself, this
smooth-shaven, typical Englishman spoke, strange to say, in French.
"Have Messieurs the correspondents no news? No letter in the _Post_?
None in the _Morning Chronicle_? How disappointing! Ha! what's this?
Two columns in the _Times_. How admirably that excellent paper is
served! Let's see what it says."

He hastily ran his eye down the columns, muttering to himself: "Ha!
mostly strong language--finding fault. How kind of you to be
dissatisfied with the administration, and to tell us why. The siege
practically suspended, eh? Fuses won't fit the shells--so much the
better, then the mortars can't fire.

"But that's no news: my friends and good masters will have found that
out for themselves. Anything else? 'Our new battery, which is only
seven hundred yards from the enemy's guns, is nearly completed.'
Which battery does he mean? Has he referred to it before?"

And Mr. Hobson, as we shall still call him, got up from his seat and
took a volume down from the shelf. It was labelled "T. 14, M. 55."
These expressions expanded meant that it contained extracts from the
_Times_, the 14th volume, for May, 1855.

After referring to an alphabetical index, he quickly turned over the
leaves of the book till he found a certain page.

"Ah! here it is," he said. "'We have commenced another battery just in
front of the quarries, the nearest to the enemy's works. It will be
armed with the heaviest ordnance,' &c. &c. And now it is nearly ready.
That must be passed on without delay."

Mr. Hobson turned to his desk and indited a telegram. It was addressed
to Arrowsmith, Hull, and said--

"New shop, as already indicated, will be opened at once. Let our
Gothenburg correspondent know."

"I will take it over myself. But let me first see whether there is
anything to add."

He resumed his reading, and presently came to the following passage:--

"'Lord Lyons had just returned from a cruise in the Black Sea. This
confirms my impression that some new movement is contemplated.
Regiments have been placed under orders, and there is great stir among
the fleet. A secret expedition is on the point of being despatched
somewhere, but the real destination no one as yet knows. Camp-gossip
is, of course, busy; but I will not repeat the idle and misleading
rumours that are on every lip.'

"Another expedition planned! I must know more of this. Where can it be
going? Is it meant for the Sea of Azof and Kertch, like the last,
which alarmed us so, and never got so far?

"What a business that was! We heard of it long beforehand;
preparations for transport, and the embarkation of the troops. The
fleet left Kamiesch, steering northward, past Sebastopol, and we
thought the latter would be attacked. But lo! next morning the enemy
were not in sight; the fleet had returned to Kamiesch Bay. What did it
mean? It was weeks before I learnt the right story, and then it came
from Paris. General Canrobert had changed his mind. The Emperor had
told him not to send away any troops, but to keep all concentrated
before Sebastopol. So the expedition to Kertch--for it was directed
against Kertch, and the northward move was only intended to deceive
us--all ended in smoke. Can they be going again to Kertch? It is
hardly likely. They have some deeper designs, I feel sure. This would
tally with my latest advice. Let me read once more what the Prince
says."

He took a key from his pocket, opened his desk, and unlocked an inner
receptacle, from which he took a letter in cypher.

"'We have learnt,' he read, fluently, without using any key, 'that the
enemy contemplate a great change in their plan of operations. It is
reported that they propose to raise the siege, or at least reduce it
to a mere blockade. The great bulk of the allied army would then be
transferred to sea to another point where it would take the field
against our line of communications. It is essential that we should
know at the earliest date whether there is any foundation in this
report. Use every endeavour to this end.'

"Yes; there can be no doubt that this surmise is corroborated by the
latest news. But I must have more precise and correct information
without delay. How is it to be obtained? Which of my agents can help
me best? Lavitsky? He works in Woolwich Arsenal--he might know if more
wheeled transport had been ordered. Or Bauer, at Portsmouth--he would
know of any movements in the fleet. Or--

"Of course!" and he slapped his forehead, despising his own stupidity.
"Cyprienne--she can, and must, manage this."

He proceeded to put back the papers into the secret drawer; he
replaced the volume on the shelf, and, taking the telegram he had
written in his hand, left the office, carefully locking the door
behind him.

Hailing a cab, he was driven first to a telegraph-station, where he
sent off his despatch, only adding the words:--

"Other important transactions in the shipping interest will shortly
be undertaken; more precise details will speedily follow."

Then he directed the cabman to drive to Thistle Grove, Brompton.

"Is Mrs. Wilders visible yet?" he asked the servant, on reaching her
house.

"Madame does not receive so early," replied the man, a foreigner,
speaking broken English, who was new to the establishment, and had
never seen Mr. Hobson before.

"Take in my name!" said Mr. Hobson, peremptorily. "It is urgent, say.
I must see her at once."

"I will tell madame's maid."

"Do so, and look sharp about it. Don't trouble about me--be off and
tell the maid. I know my way;" and Mr. Hobson marched himself into the
morning-room.

This room, in the forenoon, was on the shady side of the house--it
looked on to a pretty garden, a small, level lawn of intensely green
grass, jewelled with flowers. The windows, reaching to the ground,
were wide open, and near one was drawn a small round table, on which
was set a dainty breakfast-service of pink-and-white china, glistening
plate, and crimson roses, standing out in pleasant relief upon the
snowy damask.

"Beyond question, madame has a knack of making herself comfortable. I
have seldom seen a cosier retreat on a broiling summer's day, and in
this dusty, dirty town. She has not breakfasted yet, nor, except for
my cup of coffee, have I. I will do myself the pleasure of joining
her. A cutlet and a glass of cool claret will suit me admirably just
now, and we can talk as we eat."

While he stood there, admiring cynically, Mrs. Wilders came in.

She was in a loose morning wrapper of pale pink, and had seemingly
taken little trouble with her day's toilette as yet. Her _neglige_
dress hinted at hurry in leaving her room, and she addressed her
visitor in a hasty, impatient way.

"What is this so urgent that you come intruding at such an unseemly
hour?"

"You grow indolent, my dear madame. Why, it is half-past eleven."

"I have not yet breakfasted."

"So I see. I am delighted. No more have I."

"Was it to ask yourself to breakfast that you came here this morning?"

"Not entirely; another little matter brought me; but we can deal with
the two at the same time. Pray order them to serve: I am excessively
hungry."

Mrs. Wilders, without answering, pettishly pulled the bell.

"Lay another cover," she told the man, "and bring wine with the
breakfast. You will want it, I suppose," she said to her guest; "I
never touch it in the morning."

"How charmingly you manage! You have a special gift as a housewife.
What a delightful meal! I have seen nothing more refined in Paris."

There was a delicious lobster-salad, a dish of cold cutlets and jelly,
and a great heap of strawberries with cream.

"Now get to business," said Mrs. Wilders, in a snarling, ill-tempered
way; "let's have it out."

"It's a pity you are out of humour this morning," observed Mr. Hobson,
with a provoking forbearance. "I have come to find fault."

Mrs. Wilders shrugged her shoulders, implying that she did not care.

"It may seem ungracious, but I must take you to task seriously. How is
it you give me no news?"

"I tell you all I hear; what more do you want?"

"A great deal. Look here, Cyprienne, I am not to be put off with
stale, second-hand gossip--the echoes of the Clubs; vague, empty
rumours that are on everybody's tongue long before they come to me. I
must have fresh, brand-new intelligence, straight from the
fountain-head. You must get it for me, or--"

The old frightened look which we have seen on Mrs. Wilders's face
before when brought into antagonism with this man returned to it, and
her voice was less firm, her manner less defiant, as she said--

"Spare me your threats. You know I am most anxious to oblige you--to
help you."

"You have put me off too long with these vague promises. I must have
something more tangible at once."

"It is so difficult to find out anything."

"Not if you go the right way to work. A woman of your attractions,
your cleverness, ought to be able to twist any man round her finger.
You have done it often enough already, goodness knows. Now, there's
old Faulks; when did you see him last?"

"Not a week ago."

"And you got nothing out of him? I thought he was devoted to you."

"He is most attentive, most obliging, but still exceedingly wary. He
will talk about anything rather than business. I have tried him
repeatedly. I have introduced the subject of his nephew, of whom he is
now so proud."

"Your enemy, you mean--that young McKay."

"Exactly. I thought that by bringing the conversation to the Crimea I
might squeeze out something important. But no! he is always as close
as an oyster."

"He will be ready enough to talk about his dear nephew before long.
You may look out for some startling news about McKay."

"Really?" said Mrs. Wilders, growing suddenly excited. "Your plan has
succeeded, then?"

"Any day you may hear that he has been removed effectually, and for
ever, from your path. But for the moment that will keep. What presses
is that you should squeeze old Faulks. There is something that I must
know to-day, or to-morrow at latest. You must go and see him at once."

"At his office?"

"Why not?"

"But on what pretence? I have never been there as yet. He has always
come here to lunch or dine. He is fond of a good dinner."

"Ask him again."

"But I could do that by letter. He may suspect me if I go to him
without some plausible excuse."

"Trump up some story about his nephew. Only get to him; he will soon
give you an opening you can turn to account. I trust to your
cleverness for that; only lose no time."

"Must I go to-day?"

"This very afternoon; directly you leave the house."

CHAPTER IV.

IN WHITEHALL.

The Military Munitions' department was one of a dozen or more seated
at that period in and about Whitehall. Its ostensible functions, as
its title implied, were to supply warlike and other stores to the
British army when actively engaged. But as wars had been rare for
nearly half-a-century it had done more during that time towards
providing a number of worthy gentlemen with comfortable incomes than
in ministering to the wants of troops in the field.

It was an office of good traditions: highly respectable, very
old-fashioned, slow moving, not to say dilatory, but tenacious of its
dignity as regards other departments, and obstinately wedded to its
own way of conducting the business of the country.

The most prominent personage in the department for some little time
before the outbreak of hostilities with Russia, and during the war,
was Mr. Rufus Faulks, brother to the Captain Faulks we met on board
the _Burlington Castle_, and also uncle to Stanislas McKay.

Mr. Faulks had entered the office as a lad, and, after long years of
patient service, had worked his way up through all the grades to the
very top of the permanent staff. He had no one over him now but the
statesman who, for the time being, was responsible for the department
in Parliament--a mere politician, perfectly raw in official routine,
who had the good taste and better sense to surrender himself blindly
to the guidance of Mr. Faulks. What could a bird of passage know of
the deep mysteries of procedure it took a life-time to learn?

He was the true type and pattern of a Government official. A prim,
plethoric, middle-aged little man; always dressed very carefully;
walking on the tips of his toes; speaking precisely, with a priggish,
self-satisfied smirk, and giving his opinion, even on the weather,
with the air of a man who was secretly better informed than the rest
of the world.

He was very punctual in his attendance at the office, passing the
threshold of the private house in a side-street near Whitehall, where
the department was lodged all by itself, every morning at eleven, and
doing the same thing every day at the same time with the most
praiseworthy, methodical precision. His first step was to deposit his
umbrella in one corner, his second to hang his hat in another, his
third to take an old office-coat out of a bottom drawer in his desk,
substituting it for the shiny black frock-coat he invariably wore;
then he looked through his letters, selected all of a private and
confidential nature, and placing the morning's _Times_ across his
knees deposited himself in an arm-chair near the fire. He was supposed
to be digesting the morning's correspondence, and no one during this
the first half-hour of his attendance would have ventured to intrude
upon him unsummoned.

It was with a very black face, therefore, that when thus occupied upon
the morning that Mr. Hobson visited Mrs. Wilders he saw his own
private messenger enter the room.

"What is it, Lightowlar? I have forbidden you to disturb me till
twelve."

"Beg pardon, sir; very sorry, sir!" replied the messenger, who had
been confidential valet to a Cabinet Minister, and prided himself on
the extreme polish of his language and demeanour. "I am aware that you
have intimidated your disapprobation of unseasonable interruption,
but--"

"Well, well! out with it, or take yourself off."

"Sir 'Umphry, sir; he have just come to the office quite unforseen."

Sir Humphrey Fothergill was the Parliamentary head of the office at
this time.

"Sir Humphrey here! What an extraordinary thing!"

The proper time for the appearance of this great functionary was at 4
p.m., on his way to the House and Mr. Faulks felt quite annoyed at the
departure from the ordinary rule.

"Sir 'Umphry 'ave took us all aback, sir. His own messenger, Mr.
Sprott, was not in the way for the moment, and Sir 'Umphry expressed
himself in rather strong terms."

"Serve Sprott right. But what has all that to do with me?"

"Sir 'Umphry, sir, 'ave sent, sir"--the man could hardly bring himself
to convey the message; "he 'ave sent, sir, to say he wishes to see you
at once."

"Me? At this hour? Impossible!"

This pestilent Sir Humphrey was upsetting every tradition of the
office.

Mr. Faulks again settled himself in his arm-chair, with the air of a
man who refused to move--out of his proper groove.

"Mr. Faulks! Mr. Faulks!" Another unseemly intrusion. This time it was
Sprott, the chief messenger, flurried and frightened, no doubt, by
recent reproof. "Sir Humphrey's going on awful, sir; he's rung his
bell three times, and asked how long it took you to go upstairs."

Sullenly, and sorely against his will, Mr. Faulks rose and joined his
chief.

"I have asked for you several times," said Sir Humphrey Fothergill, a
much younger man than Mr. Faulks, new to official life, but a
promising party politician, with a great belief in himself and his
importance as a member of the House of Commons; "you must have come
late."

"Pardon me, I was here at my usual time; but in the thirty-five years
that I have had the honour to serve in the Military Munition
Department I never remember a Parliamentary chief who came so early as
you."

"I shall come when I choose--in the middle of the night, if it suits
me or is necessary, as is more than probable in these busy times."

Mr. Faulks waved his hands and bowed stiffly, as much as to say that
Sir Humphrey was master of his actions, but that he need not expect to
see him.

"You all want stirring up here," said Sir Humphrey abruptly. "It is
high time to give you a fillip."

"I am not aware--" Mr. Faulks began, in indignant protest, but his
chief cut him short.

"Did you read what happened in the House last night?"

"I have only just glanced at the _Times_," replied Mr. Faulks, in a
melancholy voice, thinking how rudely his regular perusal of the great
journal had been interrupted that morning.

"It's not pleasant reading. There was a set attack upon this
department, and they handled us very roughly, let me tell you. It made
my ears tingle."

"We have been abused cruelly--unfairly abused for the last twelve
months," said Mr. Faulks with a most injured air.

"You richly deserved it. Amongst you the troops in the Crimea have
been dying from starvation, perishing from cold."

"I can assure you that is distinctly unjust. I can assure you great
quantities of warm clothing were dispatched in due course."

"Ay, but when?"

"I can't give you the exact dates, but we have been advised of their
arrival these last few weeks."

"Warm clothing in May? A very seasonable provision! But it's all of a
piece. How about those fuzes?"

"To what do you refer, may I ask?" said Mr. Faulks very blandly; but
his blood was boiling at the indignity of being lectured thus by a
young man altogether new to the office.

"It is all in this morning's _Times_. The siege is at a standstill;
the fuzes won't fit the shells. There are plenty of 10-inch fuzes, but
only 13-inch shells. Who is to blame for that?"

"Our ordnance branch, I fear. But it shall be seen to: I will address
a communication to the head, calling his attention to the error."

"And when will he get the letter?"

"In the course of the next two or three days."

"And his reply will take about the same time to reach you, I suppose?"

"Probably: more or less."

"Where is the office of the ordnance branch? In this house?"

"Oh, no!" replied Mr. Faulks, in a voice full of profound pity for the
lamentable ignorance of his chief. "It is at No. 14."

"Just round the corner--in fact, half-a-dozen yards off?"

"Yes, about that."

"Well, look here, Mr. Faulks: you just put on your hat and go round
the corner and see the head of the ordnance branch, and settle all
this with him in the next five minutes, d'ye hear?"

"What, I? personally? That would be altogether against precedent and
contrary to the rules of the office. I really must decline to
introduce such a radical change."

"You will obey my order, this very instant! It is utterly preposterous
to waste six days sending letters backwards and forwards about a
paltry matter that can be settled by word of mouth in as many minutes.
No wonder the troops have died like rotten sheep!"

"I have been five-and-thirty years in this office--" began Mr.
Faulks.

"Oh! don't bother me with your historical reminiscences," said Sir
Humphrey, cutting him short.

"And never, during all that period--" went on Mr. Faulks, manfully.

"--Have you done anything to-day that could be put off till
to-morrow? But now go and see about this at once--do you
understand?--and then come back to me; I have other matters to
arrange. We have news that a fresh expedition will shortly start for
Kertch, and we are requested to send out with all dispatch
considerable supplies of salt rations."

"It will be necessary to refer to the Admiralty: they will require
proper notice."

"You will get the rations within twenty-four hours, notice or no
notice. But we will discuss that by-and-by. Meanwhile, hurry off to
the ordnance branch."

Mr. Faulks went to the door, protesting and muttering to himself.

"Stay! one word more! It is wrong of me, perhaps, to hint that your
zeal requires any stimulus, Mr. Faulks."

"Hardly, I hope. I have endeavoured for the last five-and-thirty
years--"

"Yes, yes, we know all about that. But I have been told that you
looked for some special recognition of your services--a decoration,
the Order of the Bath--from the last Administration. Now, unless you
bestir yourself, don't expect anything of the kind from us."

"I do not pretend to say that I have earned the favour of my
Sovereign; but in any case it would depend upon her most gracious
Majesty whether--"

"Don't make any mistake about it. You can only get the Bath through
the recommendation of your immediate superiors. There's stimulus, if
you want it. But don't let me detain you any more."

Mr. Faulks went slowly downstairs, and still more slowly resumed his
out-of-door frock-coat; he took up his hat and stick in the same
deliberate fashion, and started at a snail's pace for round the
corner.

He drawled and dawdled through the business, which five minutes' sharp
talk could have ended, and it was nearly lunch-time before he returned
to his chief.

"Well, you might have been to the Crimea and back!" said Sir Humphrey,
impatiently.

"Matters of such moment are not to be disposed of out of hand. Haste
is certain to produce dangerous confusion, and it has been my unvaried
experience during five-and-thirty years--"

"Which it has taken you to find the shortest way next door. But there!
let us get on with our work. Now, about this expedition to Kertch?"

And Sir Humphrey proceeded to discuss and dispose of great questions
of supply in a prompt, off-hand way that both silenced and terrified
Mr. Faulks.

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