The Coming Conquest of England

by August Niemann

  “Well, I hardly believe that the English method in this respect is different from ours. Your Government, like the German, doubtless sent officers everywhere to obtain information. Just as the General Staff in Berlin collects information about all foreign armies, fortifications, and boundaries, I have no doubt that the same thing happens in London. Besides, it is a purely theoretical procedure, just like the drawing up of schemes of war to suit all cases. In reality, things usually turn out quite differently from what is expected. The present war is the most convincing proof of this. I was sent here to study the Anglo-Indian army and the Russo-Indian frontiers, although we had no presentiment that war was imminent, and had made no plans for attacking India. The folly of such an idea is obvious. Further, if you regard me as a spy, Mr. Kennedy, I beg you will have no scruple about informing the Governor of my real character. I am ready at any time to justify myself before the English authorities.”

  Mr. Kennedy held out his hand to him.

  “You have misunderstood me, my dear Mr. Heideck. Your personal honour is to me so far beyond all doubt, that I should never think for a moment of putting you on a level with those spies who are tried for their lives when caught.”

  At this moment one of the barefooted waiters, dressed in white, came running and shouting into the saloon, “Great victory near Delhi! total defeat of the Russian army!” at the same time triumphantly waving a printed paper in his hand.

  Mr. Kennedy jumped up, tore the paper from the boy’s hand, and read the news given out by the Bombay Gazette.

  “Yes, it is true,” he cried, his face beaming with joy. “A victory, a great, decisive victory! Heaven be thanked—the fortune of war has changed.”

  He gave the bearer of the joyful news a piece of gold and hastened to inform the ladies. Heideck, however, remained behind, immersed in thought. The hotel soon became lively. The English ran here and there, shouting to one another the contents of the despatch, while a growing excitement gradually showed itself in the streets. In the so-called fort, the European quarter of Bombay, torches were lighted and feux-de-joie fired. Heideck took one of the traps standing in front of the hotel and ordered the driver to drive through the town. Here he observed that the rejoicings were confined to the fort. As soon as the conveyance reached the town proper, he found that it presented the same appearance as on his first visit, and that there was nothing to show or indicate the occurrence of extraordinary events. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the narrow streets were busy and full of traffic. All the houses were lighted up, and all the doors open, affording a view of the interior of the primitive dwellings, of the artisans busy at their work, of the dealers plying their trade, of the housewives occupied with their domestic affairs. Evidently the inhabitants troubled no more about the war than about the terrible scourge of the Indian population—the plague. The despatch announcing the victory, although no doubt it was known in the native quarter, had evidently not made the slightest impression.

  About eleven o’clock Heideck returned to the hotel, where he found the Kennedys and Edith still conversing eagerly on the terrace.

  “Of course we shall not leave now,” he declared. “As soon as the Russians have evacuated the north, we shall return to Simla.”

  Heideck made no remark, and since the openly expressed and heartfelt joy of the English affected him painfully, he soon took leave of them, and went up to his room, which, like Edith’s, was on the second storey.

  According to the custom of the country, all the rooms opened on to the broad balcony which ran round the whole floor like an outer corridor. As a look from Edith had repeated her wish that he should wait for her there, he stepped out on to the balcony. His patience was not put to a severe trial. She must have quickly found an opportunity of escaping from the Kennedys’ society, for he saw her coming towards him even sooner than he had expected.

  “I thank you for waiting for me,” she said, “but we cannot stay here, for we should not be safe from surprise for a moment. Let us go into my room.”

  Heideck followed her with hesitation. But he knew that Edith would feel insulted if he expressed any scruples at her request, for her firm confidence in his chivalrous honour relieved her of all apprehension. Only the moon, shining faintly, shed a dim light over the room. The clock on the tower of the neighbouring university struck twelve.

  “Destiny is playing a strange game with us,” said Edith, who had seated herself in one of the little basket chairs, while Heideck remained standing near the door. “I confess that since the arrival of the news of the victory I have spent some terrible hours, for the Kennedys have, in consequence, abandoned their idea of leaving, and seem to take it for granted that I shall remain with them in India.”

  “And would you not, in fact, be forced to do so, my dearest Edith?”

  “So then you have already reckoned with this contingency? You would not, surely, think of travelling without me? But perhaps you would even feel relieved at being freed from me?”

  “How can you say such things, Edith, which, I am sure, you do not believe?”

  “Who knows? You are ambitious, and we poor women are never worse off than when we have to do with ambitious men.”

  “But there is probably no necessity for us to torment ourselves with the discussion of such contingencies. I have never for a moment believed in any alteration of our arrangements for the journey.”

  “That is to say you doubt the trustworthiness of the report of the victory?”

  “To speak frankly, I do. I did not wish to mortify the old gentleman and spoil his shortlived joy. That is the reason why I did not express my distrust in his presence. But the despatch does not really convey the impression of being true. It does not even contain a more exact statement of the place where the battle is said to have taken place. It must, at least, strike the unprejudiced observer as being very suspicious.”

  “But who would take the trouble to obtain the melancholy satisfaction of deceiving the world in such a manner for a short time?”

  “Oh, there are many who would be interested in doing so. In the course of every war such false reports are always floating about, in most cases without their origin being known. It may be a money-market manoeuvre.”

  “So you think it quite impossible that we can beat the Russians?”

  “Not exactly impossible, but extremely improbable—at least while the military situation remains what it is. Again, it is the absence of definite information that surprises me. A victorious general always finds time to communicate details, which the vanquished is only too glad to defer. I am convinced that the bad news will soon follow, and that, as far as our plans for the journey are concerned, everything will remain as before.”

  Edith was silent. Her belief in Heideck was so unbounded that his words had completely convinced her. But they did not restore the joyful confidence of the last few days.

  “Everything will remain as before?” she said at length. “That means you will leave us at Brindisi.”

  “Certainly. There is no other way for me to reach the army.”

  “And suppose you abandon the idea of returning to the army altogether? Have you never thought that we might find another foundation on which to build our future happiness?”

  Heideck looked at her in amazement.

  “No, dearest Edith, I have not thought of it. It would have been a useless and foolish idea, so long as my duty and honour prescribe most definitely what I have to do.”

  “Duty and honour! Of course, I ought to have known that you would at once be ready again with fine words. It is so convenient to be able to take shelter behind so unassailable a rampart, if at the same time it falls in with one’s own wishes.”

  “Edith! How unjust the melancholy events of the last few weeks have made you! If you think it over quietly, you will see that my personal wishes and my heart’s desires are not in question at all. And really I do not understand what you think I could possibly do.”

  “Oh, there would be more than
one way of sparing us the pain of a separation, but I will only mention the first that occurs to me. Couldn’t we very well remain together in India? If it is the question of money that makes you hesitate, I can soon make your mind easy on that point. I have enough money for both of us, and what is mine is yours. If we retire to a part of the country which the war cannot reach, a hill station such as Poona or Mahabeleshwar, no one will trouble you with questions or think of following you. And if you live there and devote yourself to your love instead of slaying your fellow-men, it will be more acceptable to God.”

  In spite of the seriousness with which she spoke, Heideck could not help smiling as he answered: “What a wonderful picture of the world and its affairs is sometimes drawn in a pretty woman’s little head! It is really fortunate that we sober-minded men do not allow our heart to run away with our head so easily. Otherwise we should come badly off, for you yourselves would certainly be the first to turn away from us with contempt, if we tried to purchase the happiness of your love at any price—even at the price of your respect.”

  Edith Irwin did not contradict him. Silent and sorrowful, for a long time she looked out upon the bright moonlight Indian night. Then, when Heideck approached her, to take leave of her with tender words, she said in a voice which cut him to the heart: “Whether we understand each other or not, in one thing at least you shall be under no delusion. Whereever you may go—into a paradise of peace or the hell of war—I will not forsake you.”

  With passionate impetuosity she flung herself into his arms and pressed her burning lips upon his. Then, as if afraid of her own heart’s passion, she gently pushed him towards the door.

  XXIII

  HOMEWARD BOUND

  As Heideck had foreseen, the announcement of the victory was followed by disastrous tidings for the English. Up to noon on the following day Bombay had waited in vain for confirmation of the despatch and fuller particulars. Very late in the evening, amidst a general feeling of depression, the Governor published the following despatch from the Commander-in-Chief:—

  “The enemy having been reported in great force yesterday to the north of Delhi, our army took up a favourable defensive position, and a battle was fought with great honour to the British arms. The Russians suffered enormous losses. The approach of darkness preventing us from following up the advantages we had gained, I ordered the main body of the army to carry out a strategic retreat on Lucknow, chiefly along the railway. Simpson’s brigade remained behind to defend Delhi. The heavy guns of the Sha, Calcutta gate, and north gate bastions were very effective. All arms distinguished themselves, and deserve the highest praise. The bridge over the Jumna is intact and affords direct communication with General Simpson.”

  While Mr. Kennedy was sitting pondering over this despatch, Heideck came up to him.

  “A decisive defeat, isn’t it, Mr. Heideck?” said he. “As a military man, you can read between the line, better than I can. But I know Delhi. If the Jumna bridge batteries have been firing, the Russians must be on the point of capturing this passage. The north gate bastion is the head of the bridge.”

  Heideck was obliged to agree; but he had read more in the despatch, and drew the worst conclusions from the general’s retreat on Lucknow.

  No more despatches from the theatre of war were published during the day, since the Governor was desirous of concealing the melancholy state of affairs from the people. But Mr. Kennedy, who had been in Government House, knew more. He told Heideck that the English army had fled in complete disorder, having lost 8,000 killed and wounded, twenty guns, and a number of colours and standards. The Government had already abandoned all hope of saving Delhi, for General Simpson could not possibly hold it. “We have lost India,” sorrowfully concluded Mr. Kennedy. “It is the grave of my last hopes.”

  . . . . . . .

  The Caledonia was moored in Victoria Dock, which formed part of the magnificent harbour on the east coast of the peninsula. In the midst of a seething crowd the passengers were making their way on board. Many wounded and sick officers and soldiers were returning on the fast steamer to England, and filled the places intended for passengers. No travellers to Europe on business or pleasure were to be seen. All the women on board belonged to the families of the military. The general feeling was one of extreme melancholy.

  Before embarking Heideck had discharged his faithful servant. Morar Gopal, with tears in his eyes, had begged him to take him with him, but Heideck was afraid that the European climate would be the death of the poor fellow. Besides, he would have been obliged to part with him on active service. So he gave him a hundred rupees—a fortune for Morar Gopal.

  The great steamer moved slowly out of the basin of the harbour, past English merchantmen and the white ships of war, which had brought troops and war material.

  As the Caledonia, continually increasing her speed, made her way through the outer harbour, Heideck saw some twenty men-of-war in the roadstead, including several large ironclads. English troops from Malta were being landed in boats from two transports, the decks of which glistened with arms.

  The Caledonia proceeded with increasing rapidity into the open sea. The city and its lighthouses disappeared in the distance, the blue mountains of the mainland and of the island were lost in a floating mist. A long, glittering, white furrow followed in the wake of the steamer.

  It was a wonderful journey for all whom a load of anxiety had not rendered insensible to the grandeur of Nature. Heideck, happy at being at last on the way home, enjoyed the beauty of sea and sky to the full. The uneasy doubts which sometimes assailed him as to his own and Edith’s future were suppressed by the charm of her presence. Her impetuosity caused him perpetual anxiety, but he loved her. Ever since she had declared that she would never leave him she had been all devotion and tenderness, as if tormented by a constant fear that he might nevertheless one day cast her off.

  So they sat once again, side by side, on the promenade deck. The azure billows of the sea splashed round the planks of the vessel. The boundless surface of ocean glittered with a marvellous brilliancy, and everything seemed bathed in a flood of light. The double awning over the heads of the young couple kept off the burning heat of the sun, and a refreshing breeze swept across the deck beneath it.

  “Then you would land with me at Brindisi?” asked Heideck.

  “At Brindisi, or Aden, or Port Said—where you like.”

  “I think Brindisi will be the most suitable place. Then we can travel together to Berlin.”

  Edith nodded assent.

  “But I don’t know how long I shall stay in Berlin,” continued Heideck. “I hope I shan’t be sent to join my regiment at once.”

  “If you are I shall go with you, wherever it may be,” she said as quietly as if it were a matter of course.

  “That would hardly be possible,” he rejoined, with a smile. “We Germans make war without women.”

  “And yet I shall go with you.”

  Heideck looked at her in amazement. “But don’t you understand, dear, that it would be something entirely novel, and bound to create a sensation, for a German officer to take the field with his betrothed?”

  “I am not afraid of what people think. I don’t care what the Kennedys may say if I leave the ship at Brindisi and go with you. Of course it will be a sad downfall for me. They would look on me as a lost woman from that moment. But I care nothing about that. I have long been cured of the foolish idea that we must sacrifice our happiness to what the world may say.”

  Of course Heideck refused to take her words seriously. He did not believe she meant to accompany him to the field, and seized the opportunity of making a proposal which he had already carefully considered.

  “I should think the best thing for you to do, my dear Edith, would be to go to my uncle at Hamburg and stay there till the war is over. Then—if Heaven spare my life—there will be nothing to prevent our union.”

  As she made no answer Heideck, who wanted to give her time to think, hastened to turn the
conversation.

  “Look how beautiful it is!” he said, pointing to the water.

  A long succession of white, foaming waves kept pace with the vessel on either side. The keel seemed to be cutting its way through a number of tiny cliffs, over which the sea was breaking. But closer inspection showed that they were no cliffs, but countless shoals of large fish, swimming alongside the ship, as if in order of battle. From time to time they leaped high out of the water, their bright, scaly bodies glistening in the sun.

  “I should like to be one of those dolphins,” said Edith. “Look, how free they are! how they enjoy life!”

  “You believe in the transmigration of souls?” said Heideck jestingly; “perhaps you have once been such a dolphin yourself.”

  “Then certainly I have made no change for the better. There is no doubt that our higher intellectual development prevents us from properly enjoying our natural existence. But it teaches us to feel more deeply the sorrows, which are far more numerous than the joys of human life.”

  . . . . . . .

  The journey through the Indian Ocean took six days, and Heideck frequently had an opportunity of hearing the views of English officers and officials on the political situation. All blamed the incapacity of the Government, which had brought England into so perilous a situation.

  “The good old principles of English policy have been abandoned,” said a Colonel, who had been severely wounded and was returning home invalided. “In former times England made her conquests when the continental Powers were involved in war, or she carried on war with allies, to enlarge her possessions. But she has never allowed herself to be so disgracefully surprised before. Of course we shall beat France and Germany, for it is a question of sea power. But even when they are beaten, we shall still have the worst of it; the loss of India is as bad for England’s health and efficiency as the amputation of my left leg for me. I am returning to England a cripple, and my poor country will only be a cripple after she has lost India.”