The Napoleon of Notting Hill Page 13

  CHAPTER II--_The Correspondent of the Court Journal_

  Journalism had become, like most other such things in England underthe cautious government and philosophy represented by James Barker,somewhat sleepy and much diminished in importance. This was partly dueto the disappearance of party government and public speaking, partlyto the compromise or dead-lock which had made foreign wars impossible,but mostly, of course, to the temper of the whole nation which wasthat of a people in a kind of back-water. Perhaps the most well knownof the remaining newspapers was the _Court Journal_, which waspublished in a dusty but genteel-looking office just out of KensingtonHigh Street. For when all the papers of a people have been for yearsgrowing more and more dim and decorous and optimistic, the dimmest andmost decorous and most optimistic is very likely to win. In thejournalistic competition which was still going on at the beginning ofthe twentieth century, the final victor was the _Court Journal_.

  For some mysterious reason the King had a great affection for hangingabout in the _Court Journal_ office, smoking a morning cigarette andlooking over files. Like all ingrainedly idle men, he was very fond oflounging and chatting in places where other people were doing work.But one would have thought that, even in the prosaic England of hisday, he might have found a more bustling centre.

  On this particular morning, however, he came out of Kensington Palacewith a more alert step and a busier air than usual. He wore anextravagantly long frock-coat, a pale-green waistcoat, a very full and_degage_ black tie, and curious yellow gloves. This was his uniform asColonel of a regiment of his own creation, the 1st Decadents Green. Itwas a beautiful sight to see him drilling them. He walked quicklyacross the Park and the High Street, lighting his cigarette as hewent, and flung open the door of the _Court Journal_ office.

  "You've heard the news, Pally--you've heard the news?" he said.

  The Editor's name was Hoskins, but the King called him Pally, whichwas an abbreviation of Paladium of our Liberties.

  "Well, your Majesty," said Hoskins, slowly (he was a worried,gentlemanly looking person, with a wandering brown beard)--"well,your Majesty, I have heard rather curious things, but I--"

  "You'll hear more of them," said the King, dancing a few steps of akind of negro shuffle. "You'll hear more of them, my blood-and-thundertribune. Do you know what I am going to do for you?"

  "No, your Majesty," replied the Paladium, vaguely.

  "I'm going to put your paper on strong, dashing, enterprising lines,"said the King. "Now, where are your posters of last night's defeat?"

  "I did not propose, your Majesty," said the Editor, "to have anyposters exactly--"

  "Paper, paper!" cried the King, wildly; "bring me paper as big as ahouse. I'll do you posters. Stop, I must take my coat off." He beganremoving that garment with an air of set intensity, flung it playfullyat Mr. Hoskins' head, entirely enveloping him, and looked at himselfin the glass. "The coat off," he said, "and the hat on. That lookslike a sub-editor. It is indeed the very essence of sub-editing.Well," he continued, turning round abruptly, "come along with thatpaper."

  The Paladium had only just extricated himself reverently from thefolds of the King's frock-coat, and said bewildered--

  "I am afraid, your Majesty--"

  "Oh, you've got no enterprise," said Auberon. "What's that roll in thecorner? Wall-paper? Decorations for your private residence? Art in thehome, Pally? Fling it over here, and I'll paint such posters on theback of it that when you put it up in your drawing-room you'll pastethe original pattern against the wall." And the King unrolled thewall-paper, spreading it over the whole floor. "Now give me thescissors," he cried, and took them himself before the other couldstir.

  He slit the paper into about five pieces, each nearly as big as adoor. Then he took a big blue pencil, and went down on his knees onthe dusty oil-cloth and began to write on them, in huge letters--

  "FROM THE FRONT.GENERAL BUCK DEFEATED.DARKNESS, DANGER, AND DEATH.WAYNE SAID TO BE IN PUMP STREET.FEELING IN THE CITY."

  He contemplated it for some time, with his head on one side, and gotup, with a sigh.

  "Not quite intense enough," he said--"not alarming. I want the _CourtJournal_ to be feared as well as loved. Let's try something morehard-hitting." And he went down on his knees again. After sucking theblue pencil for some time, he began writing again busily. "How willthis do?" he said--

  "WAYNE'S WONDERFUL VICTORY."

  "I suppose," he said, looking up appealingly, and sucking thepencil--"I suppose we couldn't say 'wictory'--'Wayne's wonderfulwictory'? No, no. Refinement, Pally, refinement. I have it."

  "WAYNE WINS.ASTOUNDING FIGHT IN THE DARK._The gas-lamps in their courses fought against Buck._"

  "(Nothing like our fine old English translation.) What else can wesay? Well, anything to annoy old Buck;" and he added, thoughtfully, insmaller letters--

  "Rumoured Court-martial on General Buck."

  "Those will do for the present," he said, and turned them both facedownwards. "Paste, please."

  The Paladium, with an air of great terror, brought the paste out of aninner room.

  The King slabbed it on with the enjoyment of a child messing withtreacle. Then taking one of his huge compositions fluttering in eachhand, he ran outside, and began pasting them up in prominent positionsover the front of the office.

  "And now," said Auberon, entering again with undiminishedvivacity--"now for the leading article."

  He picked up another of the large strips of wall-paper, and, laying itacross a desk, pulled out a fountain-pen and began writing withfeverish intensity, reading clauses and fragments aloud to himself,and rolling them on his tongue like wine, to see if they had the purejournalistic flavour.

  "The news of the disaster to our forces in Notting Hill, awful as itis--awful as it is--(no, distressing as it is), may do some good if itdraws attention to the what's-his-name inefficiency (scandalousinefficiency, of course) of the Government's preparations. In ourpresent state of information, it would be premature (what a jollyword!)--it would be premature to cast any reflections upon the conductof General Buck, whose services upon so many stricken fields (ha,ha!), and whose honourable scars and laurels, give him a right to havejudgment upon him at least suspended. But there is one matter on whichwe must speak plainly. We have been silent on it too long, fromfeelings, perhaps of mistaken caution, perhaps of mistaken loyalty.This situation would never have arisen but for what we can only callthe indefensible conduct of the King. It pains us to say such things,but, speaking as we do in the public interests (I plagiarise fromBarker's famous epigram), we shall not shrink because of the distresswe may cause to any individual, even the most exalted. At this crucialmoment of our country, the voice of the People demands with a singletongue, 'Where is the King?' What is he doing while his subjects teareach other in pieces in the streets of a great city? Are hisamusements and his dissipations (of which we cannot pretend to beignorant) so engrossing that he can spare no thought for a perishingnation? It is with a deep sense of our responsibility that we warnthat exalted person that neither his great position nor hisincomparable talents will save him in the hour of delirium from thefate of all those who, in the madness of luxury or tyranny, have metthe English people in the rare day of its wrath."

  "I am now," said the King, "going to write an account of the battle byan eye-witness." And he picked up a fourth sheet of wall-paper. Almostat the same moment Buck strode quickly into the office. He had abandage round his head.

  "I was told," he said, with his usual gruff civility, "that yourMajesty was here."

  "And of all things on earth," cried the King, with delight, "here isan eye-witness! An eye-witness who, I regret to observe, has atpresent only one eye to witness with. Can you write us the specialarticle, Buck? Have you a rich style?"

  Buck, with a self-restraint which almost approached politeness, tookno notice whatever of the King's maddening geniality.

  "I took the liberty, your Majesty," he said shortly, "of asking Mr.Barker to come here also."


  As he spoke, indeed, Barker came swinging into the office, with hisusual air of hurry.

  "What is happening now?" asked Buck, turning to him with a kind ofrelief.

  "Fighting still going on," said Barker. "The four hundred from WestKensington were hardly touched last night. They hardly got near theplace. Poor Wilson's Bayswater men got cut about, though. They foughtconfoundedly well. They took Pump Street once. What mad things dohappen in the world. To think that of all of us it should be littleWilson with the red whiskers who came out best."

  The King made a note on his paper--

  "_Romantic Conduct of Mr. Wilson_."

  "Yes," said Buck; "it makes one a bit less proud of one's _h's_."

  The King suddenly folded or crumpled up the paper, and put it in hispocket.

  "I have an idea," he said. "I will be an eye-witness. I will write yousuch letters from the Front as will be more gorgeous than the realthing. Give me my coat, Paladium. I entered this room a mere King ofEngland. I leave it, Special War Correspondent of the _Court Journal_.It is useless to stop me, Pally; it is vain to cling to my knees,Buck; it is hopeless, Barker, to weep upon my neck. 'When dutycalls'--the remainder of the sentiment escapes me. You will receive myfirst article this evening by the eight-o'clock post."

  And, running out of the office, he jumped upon a blue Bayswateromnibus that went swinging by.

  "Well," said Barker, gloomily, "well."

  "Barker," said Buck, "business may be lower than politics, but war is,as I discovered last night, a long sight more like business. Youpoliticians are such ingrained demagogues that even when you have adespotism you think of nothing but public opinion. So you learn totack and run, and are afraid of the first breeze. Now we stick to athing and get it. And our mistakes help us. Look here! at this momentwe've beaten Wayne."

  "Beaten Wayne," repeated Barker.

  "Why the dickens not?" cried the other, flinging out his hands. "Lookhere. I said last night that we had them by holding the nineentrances. Well, I was wrong. We should have had them but for asingular event--the lamps went out. But for that it was certain. Hasit occurred to you, my brilliant Barker, that another singular eventhas happened since that singular event of the lamps going out?"

  "What event?" asked Barker.

  "By an astounding coincidence, the sun has risen," cried out Buck,with a savage air of patience. "Why the hell aren't we holding allthose approaches now, and passing in on them again? It should havebeen done at sunrise. The confounded doctor wouldn't let me go out.You were in command."

  Barker smiled grimly.

  "It is a gratification to me, my dear Buck, to be able to say that weanticipated your suggestions precisely. We went as early as possibleto reconnoitre the nine entrances. Unfortunately, while we werefighting each other in the dark, like a lot of drunken navvies, Mr.Wayne's friends were working very hard indeed. Three hundred yardsfrom Pump Street, at every one of those entrances, there is abarricade nearly as high as the houses. They were finishing the last,in Pembridge Road, when we arrived. Our mistakes," he cried bitterly,and flung his cigarette on the ground. "It is not we who learn fromthem."

  There was a silence for a few moments, and Barker lay back wearily ina chair. The office clock ticked exactly in the stillness.

  At length Barker said suddenly--

  "Buck, does it ever cross your mind what this is all about? TheHammersmith to Maida Vale thoroughfare was an uncommonly goodspeculation. You and I hoped a great deal from it. But is it worth it?It will cost us thousands to crush this ridiculous riot. Suppose welet it alone?"

  "And be thrashed in public by a red-haired madman whom any two doctorswould lock up?" cried out Buck, starting to his feet. "What do youpropose to do, Mr. Barker? To apologise to the admirable Mr. Wayne? Tokneel to the Charter of the Cities? To clasp to your bosom the flag ofthe Red Lion? To kiss in succession every sacred lamp-post that savedNotting Hill? No, by God! My men fought jolly well--they were beatenby a trick. And they'll fight again."

  "Buck," said Barker, "I always admired you. And you were quite rightin what you said the other day."

  "In what?"

  "In saying," said Barker, rising quietly, "that we had all got intoAdam Wayne's atmosphere and out of our own. My friend, the wholeterritorial kingdom of Adam Wayne extends to about nine streets, withbarricades at the end of them. But the spiritual kingdom of Adam Wayneextends, God knows where--it extends to this office, at any rate. Thered-haired madman whom any two doctors would lock up is filling thisroom with his roaring, unreasonable soul. And it was the red-hairedmadman who said the last word you spoke."

  Buck walked to the window without replying. "You understand, ofcourse," he said at last, "I do not dream of giving in."

  * * * * *

  The King, meanwhile, was rattling along on the top of his blueomnibus. The traffic of London as a whole had not, of course, beengreatly disturbed by these events, for the affair was treated as aNotting Hill riot, and that area was marked off as if it had been inthe hands of a gang of recognised rioters. The blue omnibuses simplywent round as they would have done if a road were being mended, andthe omnibus on which the correspondent of the _Court Journal_ wassitting swept round the corner of Queen's Road, Bayswater.

  The King was alone on the top of the vehicle, and was enjoying thespeed at which it was going.

  "Forward, my beauty, my Arab," he said, patting the omnibusencouragingly, "fleetest of all thy bounding tribe. Are thy relationswith thy driver, I wonder, those of the Bedouin and his steed? Does hesleep side by side with thee--"

  His meditations were broken by a sudden and jarring stoppage. Lookingover the edge, he saw that the heads of the horses were being heldby men in the uniform of Wayne's army, and heard the voice of anofficer calling out orders.

  KING AUBERON DESCENDED FROM THE OMNIBUS WITH DIGNITY.]

  King Auberon descended from the omnibus with dignity. The guard orpicket of red halberdiers who had stopped the vehicle did not numbermore than twenty, and they were under the command of a short, dark,clever-looking young man, conspicuous among the rest as being clad inan ordinary frock-coat, but girt round the waist with a red sash and along seventeenth-century sword. A shiny silk hat and spectaclescompleted the outfit in a pleasing manner.

  "To whom have I the honour of speaking?" said the King, endeavouringto look like Charles I., in spite of personal difficulties.

  The dark man in spectacles lifted his hat with equal gravity.

  "My name is Bowles," he said. "I am a chemist. I am also a captain ofO company of the army of Notting Hill. I am distressed at having toincommode you by stopping the omnibus, but this area is covered by ourproclamation, and we intercept all traffic. May I ask to whom I havethe honour--Why, good gracious, I beg your Majesty's pardon. I amquite overwhelmed at finding myself concerned with the King."

  Auberon put up his hand with indescribable grandeur.

  "Not with the King," he said; "with the special war correspondent ofthe _Court Journal_."

  "I beg your Majesty's pardon," began Mr. Bowles, doubtfully.

  "Do you call me Majesty? I repeat," said Auberon, firmly, "I am arepresentative of the press. I have chosen, with a deep sense ofresponsibility, the name of Pinker. I should desire a veil to be drawnover the past."

  "Very well, sir," said Mr. Bowles, with an air of submission, "in oureyes the sanctity of the press is at least as great as that of thethrone. We desire nothing better than that our wrongs and our gloriesshould be widely known. May I ask, Mr. Pinker, if you have anyobjection to being presented to the Provost and to General Turnbull?"

  "The Provost I have had the honour of meeting," said Auberon, easily."We old journalists, you know, meet everybody. I should be mostdelighted to have the same honour again. General Turnbull, also, itwould be a gratification to know. The younger men are so interesting.We of the old Fleet Street gang lose touch with them."

  "Will you be so good as to step this way?" said the leader of Oco
mpany.

  "I am always good," said Mr. Pinker. "Lead on."