by Jay Lake
“That is a good piece of war correspondence, Clarence; you are a first-rate newspaper man. Well—is the king all right? Did he get well?”
“Poor soul, no. He is dead.”
I was utterly stunned; it had not seemed to me that any wound could be mortal to him.
“And the queen, Clarence?”
“She is a nun, in Almesbury.”
“What changes! and in such a short while. It is inconceivable. What next, I wonder?”
“I can tell you what next.”
“Well?”
“Stake our lives and stand by them!”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The Church is master now. The Interdict included you with Mordred; it is not to be removed while you remain alive. The clans are gathering. The Church has gathered all the knights that are left alive, and as soon as you are discovered we shall have business on our hands.”
“Stuff! With our deadly scientific war-material; with our hosts of trained—”
“Save your breath—we haven’t sixty faithful left!”
“What are you saying? Our schools, our colleges, our vast workshops, our—”
“When those knights come, those establishments will empty themselves and go over to the enemy. Did you think you had educated the superstition out of those people?”
“I certainly did think it.”
“Well, then, you may unthink it. They stood every strain easily—until the Interdict. Since then, they merely put on a bold outside—at heart they are quaking. Make up your mind to it—when the armies come, the mask will fall.”
“It’s hard news. We are lost. They will turn our own science against us.”
“No they won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I and a handful of the faithful have blocked that game. I’ll tell you what I’ve done, and what moved me to it. Smart as you are, the Church was smarter. It was the Church that sent you cruising—through her servants, the doctors.”
“Clarence!”
“It is the truth. I know it. Every officer of your ship was the Church’s picked servant, and so was every man of the crew.”
“Oh, come!”
“It is just as I tell you. I did not find out these things at once, but I found them out finally. Did you send me verbal information, by the commander of the ship, to the effect that upon his return to you, with supplies, you were going to leave Cadiz—”
“Cadiz! I haven’t been at Cadiz at all!”
“—going to leave Cadiz and cruise in distant seas indefinitely, for the health of your family? Did you send me that word?”
“Of course not. I would have written, wouldn’t I?”
“Naturally. I was troubled and suspicious. When the commander sailed again I managed to ship a spy with him. I have never heard of vessel or spy since. I gave myself two weeks to hear from you in. Then I resolved to send a ship to Cadiz. There was a reason why I didn’t.”
“What was that?”
“Our navy had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared! Also, as suddenly and as mysteriously, the railway and telegraph and telephone service ceased, the men all deserted, poles were cut down, the Church laid a ban upon the electric light! I had to be up and doing—and straight off. Your life was safe—nobody in these kingdoms but Merlin would venture to touch such a magician as you without ten thousand men at his back—I had nothing to think of but how to put preparations in the best trim against your coming. I felt safe myself—nobody would be anxious to touch a pet of yours. So this is what I did. From our various works I selected all the men—boys I mean—whose faithfulness under whatsoever pressure I could swear to, and I called them together secretly and gave them their instructions. There are fifty-two of them; none younger than fourteen, and none above seventeen years old.”
“Why did you select boys?”
“Because all the others were born in an atmosphere of superstition and reared in it. It is in their blood and bones. We imagined we had educated it out of them; they thought so, too; the Interdict woke them up like a thunderclap! It revealed them to themselves, and it revealed them to me, too. With boys it was different. Such as have been under our training from seven to ten years have had no acquaintance with the Church’s terrors, and it was among these that I found my fifty-two. As a next move, I paid a private visit to that old cave of Merlin’s—not the small one—the big one—”
“Yes, the one where we secretly established our first great electric plant when I was projecting a miracle.”
“Just so. And as that miracle hadn’t become necessary then, I thought it might be a good idea to utilize the plant now. I’ve provisioned the cave for a siege—”
“A good idea, a first-rate idea.”
“I think so. I placed four of my boys there as a guard—inside, and out of sight. Nobody was to be hurt—while outside; but any attempt to enter—well, we said just let anybody try it! Then I went out into the hills and uncovered and cut the secret wires which connected your bedroom with the wires that go to the dynamite deposits under all our vast factories, mills, workshops, magazines, etc., and about midnight I and my boys turned out and connected that wire with the cave, and nobody but you and I suspects where the other end of it goes to. We laid it under ground, of course, and it was all finished in a couple of hours or so. We sha’n’t have to leave our fortress now when we want to blow up our civilization.”
“It was the right move—and the natural one; military necessity, in the changed condition of things. Well, what changes have come! We expected to be besieged in the palace some time or other, but—however, go on.”
“Next, we built a wire fence.”
“Wire fence?”
“Yes. You dropped the hint of it yourself, two or three years ago.”
“Oh, I remember—the time the Church tried her strength against us the first time, and presently thought it wise to wait for a hopefuler season. Well, how have you arranged the fence?”
“I start twelve immensely strong wires—naked, not insulated—from a big dynamo in the cave—dynamo with no brushes except a positive and a negative one—”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“The wires go out from the cave and fence in a circle of level ground a hundred yards in diameter; they make twelve independent fences, ten feet apart—that is to say, twelve circles within circles—and their ends come into the cave again.”
“Right; go on.”
“The fences are fastened to heavy oaken posts only three feet apart, and these posts are sunk five feet in the ground.”
“That is good and strong.”
“Yes. The wires have no ground-connection outside of the cave. They go out from the positive brush of the dynamo; there is a ground-connection through the negative brush; the other ends of the wire return to the cave, and each is grounded independently.”
“No, no, that won’t do!”
“Why?”
“It’s too expensive—uses up force for nothing. You don’t want any ground-connection except the one through the negative brush. The other end of every wire must be brought back into the cave and fastened independently, and without any ground-connection. Now, then, observe the economy of it. A cavalry charge hurls itself against the fence; you are using no power, you are spending no money, for there is only one ground-connection till those horses come against the wire; the moment they touch it they form a connection with the negative brush through the ground, and drop dead. Don’t you see?—you are using no energy until it is needed; your lightning is there, and ready, like the load in a gun; but it isn’t costing you a cent till you touch it off. Oh, yes, the single ground-connection—”
“Of course! I don’t know how I overlooked that. It’s not only cheaper, but it’s more effectual than the other way, for if wires break or get tangled, no harm is done.”
“No, especially if we have a tell-tale in the cave and disconnect the broken wire. Well, go on. The gatlings?”
“Yes—that’s arranged
. In the center of the inner circle, on a spacious platform six feet high, I’ve grouped a battery of thirteen gatling guns, and provided plenty of ammunition.”
“That’s it. They command every approach, and when the Church’s knights arrive, there’s going to be music. The brow of the precipice over the cave—”
“I’ve got a wire fence there, and a gatling. They won’t drop any rocks down on us.”
“Well, and the glass-cylinder dynamite torpedoes?”
“That’s attended to. It’s the prettiest garden that was ever planted. It’s a belt forty feet wide, and goes around the outer fence—distance between it and the fence one hundred yards—kind of neutral ground that space is. There isn’t a single square yard of that whole belt but is equipped with a torpedo. We laid them on the surface of the ground, and sprinkled a layer of sand over them. It’s an innocent looking garden, but you let a man start in to hoe it once, and you’ll see.”
“You tested the torpedoes?”
“Well, I was going to, but—”
“But what? Why, it’s an immense oversight not to apply a—”
“Test? Yes, I know; but they’re all right; I laid a few in the public road beyond our lines and they’ve been tested.”
“Oh, that alters the case. Who did it?”
“A Church committee.”
“How kind!”
“Yes. They came to command us to make submission. You see they didn’t really come to test the torpedoes; that was merely an incident.”
“Did the committee make a report?”
“Yes, they made one. You could have heard it a mile.”
“Unanimous?”
“That was the nature of it. After that I put up some signs, for the protection of future committees, and we have had no intruders since.”
“Clarence, you’ve done a world of work, and done it perfectly.”
“We had plenty of time for it; there wasn’t any occasion for hurry.”
We sat silent awhile, thinking. Then my mind was made up, and I said:
“Yes, everything is ready; everything is shipshape, no detail is wanting. I know what to do now.”
“So do I; sit down and wait.”
“No, sir! rise up and strike!”
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes, indeed! The de fensive isn’t in my line, and the of fensive is. That is, when I hold a fair hand—two-thirds as good a hand as the enemy. Oh, yes, we’ll rise up and strike; that’s our game.”
“A hundred to one you are right. When does the performance begin?”
“Now! We’ll proclaim the Republic.”
“Well, that will precipitate things, sure enough!”
“It will make them buzz, I tell you! England will be a hornets’ nest before noon to-morrow, if the Church’s hand hasn’t lost its cunning—and we know it hasn’t. Now you write and I’ll dictate thus:
“PROCLAMATION
“BE IT KNOWN UNTO ALL. Whereas the king having died and left no heir, it becomes my duty to continue the executive authority vested in me, until a government shall have been created and set in motion. The monarchy has lapsed, it no longer exists. By consequence, all political power has reverted to its original source, the people of the nation. With the monarchy, its several adjuncts died also; wherefore there is no longer a nobility, no longer a privileged class, no longer an Established Church; all men are become exactly equal; they are upon one common level, and religion is free. A Republic is hereby proclaimed, as being the natural estate of a nation when other authority has ceased. It is the duty of the British people to meet together immediately, and by their votes elect representatives and deliver into their hands the government.”
I signed it “The Boss,” and dated it from Merlin’s Cave. Clarence said—
“Why, that tells where we are, and invites them to call right away.”
“That is the idea. We strike—by the Proclamation—then it’s their innings. Now have the thing set up and printed and posted, right off; that is, give the order; then, if you’ve got a couple of bicycles handy at the foot of the hill, ho for Merlin’s Cave!”
“I shall be ready in ten minutes. What a cyclone there is going to be to-morrow when this piece of paper gets to work!… It’s a pleasant old palace, this is; I wonder if we shall ever again—but never mind about that.”
CHAPTER XLIII
THE BATTLE OF THE SAND BELT
In Merlin’s Cave—Clarence and I and fifty-two fresh, bright, well-educated, clean-minded young British boys. At dawn I sent an order to the factories and to all our great works to stop operations and remove all life to a safe distance, as everything was going to be blown up by secret mines, “and no telling at what moment—therefore, vacate at once.” These people knew me, and had confidence in my word. They would clear out without waiting to part their hair, and I could take my own time about dating the explosion. You couldn’t hire one of them to go back during the century, if the explosion was still impending.
We had a week of waiting. It was not dull for me, because I was writing all the time. During the first three days, I finished turning my old diary into this narrative form; it only required a chapter or so to bring it down to date. The rest of the week I took up in writing letters to my wife. It was always my habit to write to Sandy every day, whenever we were separate, and now I kept up the habit for love of it, and of her, though I couldn’t do anything with the letters, of course, after I had written them. But it put in the time, you see, and was almost like talking; it was almost as if I was saying, “Sandy, if you and Hello-Central were here in the cave, instead of only your photographs, what good times we could have!” And then, you know, I could imagine the baby goo-gooing something out in reply, with its fists in its mouth and itself stretched across its mother’s lap on its back, and she a-laughing and admiring and worshipping, and now and then tickling under the baby’s chin to set it cackling, and then maybe throwing in a word of answer to me herself—and so on and so on—well, don’t you know, I could sit there in the cave with my pen, and keep it up, that way, by the hour with them. Why, it was almost like having us all together again.
I had spies out every night, of course, to get news. Every report made things look more and more impressive. The hosts were gathering, gathering; down all the roads and paths of England the knights were riding, and priests rode with them, to hearten these original Crusaders, this being the Church’s war. All the nobilities, big and little, were on their way, and all the gentry. This was all as was expected. We should thin out this sort of folk to such a degree that the people would have nothing to do but just step to the front with their republic and—
Ah, what a donkey I was! Toward the end of the week I began to get this large and disenchanting fact through my head: that the mass of the nation had swung their caps and shouted for the republic for about one day, and there an end! The Church, the nobles, and the gentry then turned one grand, all-disapproving frown upon them and shriveled them into sheep! From that moment the sheep had begun to gather to the fold—that is to say, the camps—and offer their valueless lives and their valuable wool to the “righteous cause.” Why, even the very men who had lately been slaves were in the “righteous cause,” and glorifying it, praying for it, sentimentally slabbering over it, just like all the other commoners. Imagine such human muck as this; conceive of this folly!
Yes, it was now “Death to the Republic!” everywhere—not a dissenting voice. All England was marching against us! Truly, this was more than I had bargained for.
I watched my fifty-two boys narrowly; watched their faces, their walk, their unconscious attitudes: for all these are a language—a language given us purposely that it may betray us in times of emergency, when we have secrets which we want to keep. I knew that that thought would keep saying itself over and over again in their minds and hearts, All England is marching against us! and ever more strenuously imploring attention with each repetition, ever more sharply realizing itself to their imaginations, until eve
n in their sleep they would find no rest from it, but hear the vague and flitting creatures of the dreams say, All England—All England!—is marching against you! I knew all this would happen; I knew that ultimately the pressure would become so great that it would compel utterance; therefore, I must be ready with an answer at that time—an answer well chosen and tranquilizing.
I was right. The time came. They had to speak. Poor lads, it was pitiful to see, they were so pale, so worn, so troubled. At first their spokesman could hardly find voice or words; but he presently got both. This is what he said—and he put it in the neat modern English taught him in my schools:
“We have tried to forget what we are—English boys! We have tried to put reason before sentiment, duty before love; our minds approve, but our hearts reproach us. While apparently it was only the nobility, only the gentry, only the twenty-five or thirty thousand knights left alive out of the late wars, we were of one mind, and undisturbed by any troubling doubt; each and every one of these fifty-two lads who stand here before you, said, ‘They have chosen—it is their affair.’ But think!—the matter is altered—All England is marching against us! Oh, sir, consider!—reflect!—these people are our people, they are bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh, we love them—do not ask us to destroy our nation!”