"The Lord Mayor's there," said a voice near Denis. "He came on foot not five minutes ago. It's something worth hearing, you mark my words!"
Denis marked them with the listless interest of one who had realized neither his country's peril nor his countrymen's excitement. It was impossible that he should. He had forgotten that England was at war.
"Here he comes back again!" exclaimed the same excited voice. "That's his lordship, him in the gold chain. See the papers in his hand; see the face on him! It's a victory, boys, and he's going to give us the news!"
The Lord Mayor wore a frilled shirt-front behind the massive chain of office, and between its tufts of whisker his well-favoured face shone like the sun. But he did not deliver his message from the steps of the London Tavern; attended by one or two members of his household, he led the way on foot toward the Royal Exchange. A handful of diners were at his heels, and the gathering street-crowd at theirs; but Denis did not think of joining them until among the former he recognized John Merridew, himself brandishing some missive and gesticulating to his friends.
It was Merridew alone whom Denis wished to keep in view, yet as he slowly followed in the civic train he experienced a reawakening of that impersonal curiosity which had possessed him in the cab. What had happened? What was going to happen now? The answer came in the blare of a bugle, even as Denis reached the steps of the Royal Exchange.
The bugle sounded again and again, waking the echoes of the silent streets, filling them with answering cries and the shuffle of hastening feet. Meanwhile the Lord Mayor had climbed the few steps, and taken his stand under the grimy portico, behind the footlights improvised by half-a-dozen policemen with their bull's-eyes.
"Fellow-citizens and gentlemen," he cried, "I have to announce to you the intelligence of a splendid victory obtained by the Allied forces over the Russians in the Crimea!"
A wild roar rose into the night, and the speaker himself prolonged it by calling for cheers for the Queen before going any further. Heads were uncovered and hats waved madly. Cheer after cheer rang to its height and dropped like musketry in single shouts. The converging streets were alive with running men. The blood was draining back into the City's heart.
Denis wondered to find a moisture in his eyes; it brought back the heart-break which had occasioned him less outward emotion, and he was carried away no more. The Lord Mayor, indeed, was departing from the point; he had paused to enlarge upon the delightful character of his duty before completing its performance. Some few months since it had fallen to his lot to announce that war had been proclaimed between that country and Russia; he had now the great satisfaction of making known to them that the Allied forces had taken the first step toward reducing to reasonable limits the barbaric Power against which they were engaged.
He could not help adding that he considered the interests of humanity, and the happiness of the whole human race, were all deeply concerned in the victory.
Denis did not join in the renewed cheering. His brow was contracted, but not from want of sympathy with the excellent sentiments expressed. He was himself engaged against the sudden onslaught of an impossible thought.
"I will now read to you," continued the Lord Mayor, "the letter with which I have been honoured by the Duke of Newcastle. 'My Lord,' he writes, 'I have the honour and high gratification of sending your lordship a proof copy of an extraordinary Gazette containing a telegraphic message from her Majesty's Ambassador at Constantinople, by which the glorious intelligence of the success of the Allied arms in a great battle in the Crimea has been received this morning.--I am, my lord, your lordship's obedient humble servant, Newcastle.' And this, fellow citizens," the Lord Mayor proceeded in higher key, "and this is the text of that message: 'The intrenched camp of the Russians, containing 50,000 men, with a numerous artillery and cavalry, on the heights of the Alma, was attacked on the 20th inst., at 1 P. M., by the Allied troops, and carried by the bayonet at half-past three, with the loss on our side of about 1,400 killed and wounded, and an equal loss on the side of the French. The Russian army was forced to put itself in full retreat.'"
There was perhaps one second of profound silence.
"Fourteen hundred!" said an awed voice.
And then arose such a storm of shouting and of cheering as Denis had never heard in all his life; and he was roaring with the lustiest, roaring as if to expel his thoughts in sound. But in the first pause another voice said, "Fourteen hundred!" and the figure passed below the breath from lip to lip till one exclaimed, "The poor Guards!" Thereat the creases cut deep across Denis's forehead--so deep you might have looked for them to fill with blood--and he asked the man next to him if the Guards were in it.
"In it?" cried the man next Denis. "In the thick and the front of it, you may depend!"
The Lord Mayor had not finished. He was thanking one and all for their attendance. He was expressing a pious belief that this victory of the Alma would promote the civilization and happiness of the world more than anything that had happened for the last fifty years. He was bowing to the cheers that echoed his remarks. He was proposing the cheers for our soldiers. He was leading the cheers for the French. He was descending with dignity from the portico, with the policemen's lanterns still playing upon his great gold chain and rubicund face, a hearty figure in spirited contrast to the dark colonnade at his back.
But Denis bent glowering at the flag on which he stood. His neighbour's answer to his query about the Guards was still rattling in his head; he had heard nothing since with that part of the ear which communicates with the brain.
The group of gentlemen from the London Tavern followed the Lord Mayor down the steps; one of them passed close to Denis, waving a telegram as if it were a flag.
"He must have got it off with the dispatches," said he. "It has been delivered at my office this evening, but fortunately the housekeeper knew where I was."
"And your son-in-law has come through safe and sound?"
"Safe and sound, thank God!"
It was Mr. Merridew, still flushed and flustered with sentiment and satisfaction; as he passed, Denis scanned the smug, well-meaning face; but he had withdrawn deliberately from the path of the man whom he had driven across London to see. Talk to him about Nan!
"Now, sir, move on, please!"
The swollen crowd was streaming down Cheapside, shouting, cheering, and singing "Partant pour la Syrie," as it bore the great news westward.
Already the sounds came faintly to the steps of the Royal Exchange, where Denis was the last man left to blink in the rays of the last policeman's lantern.
"All right, constable; but I only landed from Australia this morning, and I wish you'd tell me a thing or two first."
"Indeed, sir?" said the policeman. Denis felt in the pocket that was full of notes and gold.
"About this war," he pursued: "you see I never heard of it before to-day. Can you tell me which of the Guards have gone?"
"Coldstream and Grenadiers, sir."
"But not all of them?"
"The first battalion of the Coldstream and the third of the Grenadiers."
The man's prompt answer drew Denis's attention to the man himself. He was over six feet in height, and not an inch of it thrown away. But still more noticeable was a peculiar pride of countenance--some secret enthusiasm which added a freshness to the patriotic emotion to be found in any other face.
"An old Guardsman?" inquired Denis.
"An old Grenadier, sir!" cried the policeman. "And I would give ten years of my life to be with them now!"
"Do you suppose they have lost very heavily?" Denis was searching the old soldier's face.
"If the losses altogether are fourteen hundred I'll back ours to run well into three figures!"
"But they'll keep the regiment up to strength, I take it?"
"No doubt they'll send out a draft as soon as possible."
"Of course there'd be no chance for a recruit in such a draft?"
Denis had hesitated, and then forced a grin. The old Grenadier shook his head.
"I doubt it, sir; but a very good man, who knew his drill, they might take him over the heads of others. They want all the good men they can get in time of war. Why, sir, that's a sovereign!"
"It was meant to be; it's not a night for less. And now can you tell me where the rest of the Grenadiers are?"
"Wellington Barracks, sir."
Denis fell into his natural smile.
"I don't know London very well. Will you do one more thing for me before I move on?"
"That I will, sir."
"Will you tell me how to find my way to Wellington Barracks?"
CHAPTER XXIX
GUY FAWKES DAY