CHAPTER XXXII

MARCUS WHITE AND THE MOB

With that mocking perversity which confutes the weatherwise, the frost and bitter wind had given place to heavy rainstorms. The wind, veering round to south-west late on Boxing Day, blew with an ever-growing force and fury, and made the night of December 26th one of terrible memory for many years to come. In London and Westminster alone a million pounds’ worth of damage resulted from the tempest, and the tale of ships wrecked and lives lost all round the coast was only to be told later on and by instalments.

The traffic on nearly every railway was now disorganised, and a strike of the railway men had become imminent. The cutting of telegraph wires by the Leaguers had already gone far to keep Londoners in ignorance of momentous events happening outside the metropolitan area, and the great storm almost completed the work the Leaguers had left unfinished. But the partial isolation of the great town in other respects, and particularly the threatened dearth of food supplies, constituted a yet further cause of apprehension. Early on the morning of the 27th, the provision shops were besieged by people of all ranks, eager to lay in stores of every description--meat, vegetables, groceries, bread, and every kind of household necessaries. In many cases it became a raid, in which some paid monstrous prices, while in the scramble others secured provisions without paying for them at all. Great numbers of shops and stores were wholly cleared of stock, tradesmen and their assistants being overpowered, while customers hurrying homewards were frequently waylaid, maltreated, and robbed of their purchases. The tumult and excitement in the streets became appalling. Military patrols were now seen in some of the principal thoroughfares, but not in sufficient numbers to maintain good order. Here and there a band of hooligans, who smashed all the street lamps as they passed, were chased by troopers, but they generally escaped into side streets and alleys, and resumed their work of destruction in another quarter. Shutters were closed, and boarded windows met the eye in all directions. Wild rumours went round. There were, it was said, barricades at the West End. Martial law would be declared before the day was out. Stories were told of disaffection among the troops at Aldershot; of a night muster on Ascot Heath and a march through Windsor Great Park to the Castle. Another organised mob was reported to have assembled at Grange Wood, near Croydon, marching thence, with increasing swarms of adherents, through Camberwell, Walworth, and Lambeth, making, as some said, for the Archbishop’s Palace, or, as others declared, for the Houses of Parliament.

The truth, and the whole truth could not be ascertained, but in all the passion and excitement of the hour, scarcely a word of disloyalty was breathed of the King individually. On the contrary, the vast majority believed that, but for the illness which lately had prevented his Majesty from taking an active part in the affairs of State, his tact and courage would have remedied existing evils before they had come to such a dangerous head.

The dangers of civil conflict were greatly augmented by the strong and avowed resentment that had at last broken forth against the tyranny of the Leaguers; and this peril in turn was accentuated by splits in the ranks of the Leaguers themselves. The proximate cause of the schism was found in the _Epoch_, which, appearing in the streets about midday, contained a remarkable article, printed prominently in leaded type. In effect, the writer declared in forcible language that though he had no cause to love England, he would fight side by side with Englishmen rather than see her trodden under the iron heel of Germany or any other continental nation. Eschewing the cautious language of the average leader-writer, he roundly stated that there was a deadly conspiracy developing in certain of the chancelleries of Europe. He warned Great Britain to beware lest her enemies, by a swift and sudden stroke, should lay her, fettered, in the dust. There would soon be news, he said, of the doings of the powerful German squadron in the south and west, and of a dual fleet, Russian and German, in the North Sea. These were but the vanguard of an enormous fleet of transports, prepared in sections in various German ports, and designed to land 100,000 foreign soldiers on our shores.

Then came a great surprise. This, said the writer, was the last time the _Epoch_ would appear.

The article was signed, “Marcus White,” and his last warning words to the nation were those written by a laureate of England half a century before:

“Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm!”

The article produced at first a staggering effect upon the Leaguers, and the extreme section, led by Raggett, but consisting mainly of foreign anarchists, vowed vengeance on the leader who they swore had betrayed and hindered them in the moment of impending triumph. A vast and threatening mob gathered on the Embankment, and crash after crash of broken glass startled the neighbourhood. A beast-like roar went up when Marcus White came forward to a window and looked down upon the crowd.

It was as he stood thus, with folded arms, that Aldwyth Westwood and Herrick entered the room, unannounced in the confusion of the moment. But Marcus White turned instantly, and the same swift look of recognition that Aldwyth remembered noticing in the Folkestone hotel came into his eyes as he gazed at her. Her own eyes were strained and sad; but, though her face was very pale, there was courage and firmness in its expression.

She spoke at once: “I have come to ask you about my father’s safety.”

For a moment Marcus White gazed from her face to her companion’s, answering nothing.

“Why should it be supposed that I am Sir John Westwood’s keeper?” he asked quietly.

Herrick broke in: “It is known that you had a strong personal hostility to Miss Westwood’s father, and that a monstrous outrage has been committed, in which you----”

Marcus White raised his hand. “You are not addressing a Court of Law,” he said scornfully.

“I wish to Heaven I were!” answered the barrister hotly. “And, more than that, I wish you were standing in the dock, where you ought to be.”

Aldwyth laid her hand entreatingly on her lover’s arm.

“What has this to do with Sir John Westwood?” asked Marcus White, almost indifferently.

Aldwyth stepped forward. “I ask you this question: Is my father alive?”

“Miss Westwood,” was the slow answer, “I cannot tell you.”

“You will be called to account for this,” said Herrick sternly.

A roar arose from the mob below the window.

“I am being called to account for many things,” said Marcus White, listening, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“Are you mad?” cried Herrick.

The other laughed bitterly. “Perhaps I am. I have played for a great stake and I won the trick, but”--glancing towards the broken windows--” I may not win the rubber.”

“Do you refuse to give us any information?” It was Aldwyth who spoke now.

“No, I don’t refuse. Your father and those who were with him were left to the mercy of that God in whose name they administer law and justice in this country. Can you complain of that?” He looked at Herrick as he spoke.

“What do you mean?” asked Aldwyth breathlessly.

“Miss Westwood, can those who are entrusted with the quality of mercy towards their fellow-creatures--can they complain if they are left to the mercy of the elements?”

“It is madness and worse than madness--murder!” said Herrick, stepping forward.

“You have courage,” answered Marcus White, regarding him. “Perhaps,” he added significantly, “that is why you have been spared.”

“But my father!” interrupted Aldwyth. “What is to be done?”

Heedless of the tumult without, Marcus White advanced to the table and sat down. He wrote a few lines rapidly. “If you take this to the Admiralty,” he said, “they may be able to get you a report; or, better still, go to the Foreign Secretary. He is more likely to be able to give you information.” He folded the paper and gave it into Aldwyth’s hands.

“Let us go at once,” she said, turning to Herrick.

As she spoke a great stone came hurtling through the window and smashed the mirror over the mantelpiece. Heavy blows were heard upon a door below. A white-faced, breathless clerk burst into the room. “The mob are threatening to break down the outer door,” he said.

“I am afraid,” said White quietly, looking at Herrick, “you have brought Miss Westwood at an awkward moment.”

But she answered for herself. “It was I who insisted on coming.”

“I will see that you are not molested,” was White’s reply. He paused a moment. More stones came flying through the windows. There was a sharp crack of firearms, and a bullet shattered the great chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. Marcus White crossed quickly to the door; the frightened clerk drew aside and watched him anxiously.

“Great heavens! where are you going?” asked Herrick.

“Outside, to face these curs.”

“It is not safe, sir; there’ll be murder done,” cried the affrighted clerk.

But White ignored him. “Keep Miss Westwood here for a few moments,” he said to Herrick, speaking in clear, emphatic tones. “Then you will be able to get away in safety. When you hear me fire,” he drew a shining revolver from his pocket, “go--at once!”

Without another word, and bare-headed as he was, he passed out of the room. They stood in breathless suspense until a hoarse yell of execration came from the street, attaining increased violence and menace as it was taken up by the greater crowd on the Embankment.

An irresistible impulse hurried them to the window. Surrounded by a small bodyguard of adherents, Marcus White was seen, forcing his way across the road. Fists and sticks were shaken at him on every side, and vile epithets in half a dozen languages fouled the air as the human wedge drove through the clamouring, struggling mass and reached the pavement on the river side of the Embankment. The next moment he was standing on the parapet, looking down with dauntless eyes upon the sea of furious faces that was now turned towards him. His voice rang out above the uproar.

“Fools! fools, that you are, listen!”

The mob responded with a howl of wrath.

“Traitor!” cried Raggett, shrill above the din; “Traitor!” and the vast excited multitude took up the cry, yelling it with indescribable ferocity.

The gleam of a revolver caught the eye. There were those who thought he fired above their heads. Others believed the shot was meant for Raggett.

At any rate it was the promised signal; but Aldwyth and Herrick stood for a moment, held by the overmastering excitement of the scene. Then, with savage curses and screams of fury the mob rushed at the parapet, reckless in their rage. Some clambered up; others fell and were trampled under foot. Swaying and reeling, gripped and torn on either side, Marcus White for a moment held his ground.

Covering her eyes, and with a low cry of horror, Aldwyth turned from the window now, and in a moment, supported by Herrick, she had reached the street.

Close at hand, in Howard Street, the Westwoods’ carriage, a closed landau, was waiting.

“Quick, to Berkeley Square,” cried Herrick.

Aldwyth sank back against the cushions, almost fainting, as the horses plunged forward under the sharp lash of the driver’s whip.