11 The Swoop Read online

  The abolition of the regular army had been the first step. Several causes had contributed to this. In the first place, the Socialists had condemned the army system as unsocial. Privates, they pointed out, were forbidden to hob-nob with colonels, though the difference in their positions was due to a mere accident of birth. They demanded that every man in the army should be a general. Comrade Quelch, in an eloquent speech at Newington Butts, had pointed, amidst enthusiasm, to the republics of South America, where the system worked admirably.

  Scotland, too, disapproved of the army, because it was professional. Mr. Smith wrote several trenchant letters to Mr. C. J. B. Marriott on the subject.

  So the army was abolished, and the land defence of the country entrusted entirely to the Territorials, the Legion of Frontiersmen, and the Boy Scouts.

  But first the Territorials dropped out. The strain of being referred to on the music-hall stage as Teddy-boys was too much for them.

  Then the Frontiersmen were disbanded. They had promised well at the start, but they had never been themselves since La Milo had been attacked by the Manchester Watch Committee. It had taken all the heart out of them.

  So that in the end England’s defenders were narrowed down to the Boy Scouts, of whom Clarence Chugwater was the pride, and a large civilian population, prepared, at any moment, to turn out for their country’s sake and wave flags. A certain section of these, too, could sing patriotic songs.

  It was inevitable, in the height of the Silly Season, that such a topic as the simultaneous invasion of Great Britain by nine foreign powers should be seized upon by the press. Countless letters poured into the offices of the London daily papers every morning. Space forbids more than the gist of a few of these.

  Miss Charlesworth wrote:—”In this crisis I see no alternative. I shall disappear.”

  Mr. Horatio Bottomley, in John Bull, said that there was some very dirty and underhand work going on, and that the secret history of the invasion would be published shortly. He himself, however, preferred any invader, even the King of Bollygolla, to some K.C.’s he could name, though he was fond of dear old Muir. He wanted to know why Inspector Drew had retired.

  The Daily Express, in a thoughtful leader, said that Free Trade evidently meant invaders for all.

  Mr. Herbert Gladstone, writing to the Times, pointed out that he had let so many undesirable aliens into the country that he did not see that a few more made much difference.

  Mr. George R. Sims made eighteen puns on the names of the invading generals in the course of one number of “Mustard and Cress.”

  Mr. H. G. Pelissier urged the public to look on the bright side. There was a sun still shining in the sky. Besides, who knew that some foreign marksman might not pot the censor?

  Mr. Robert FitzSimmons offered to take on any of the invading generals, or all of them, and if he didn’t beat them it would only be because the referee had a wife and seven small children and had asked him as a personal favour to let himself be knocked out. He had lost several fights that way.

  The directors of the Crystal Palace wrote a circular letter to the shareholders, pointing out that there was a good time coming. With this addition to the public, the Palace stood a sporting chance of once more finding itself full.

  Judge Willis asked: “What is an invasion?”

  Signor Scotti cabled anxiously from America (prepaid): “Stands Scotland where it did?”

  Mr. Lewis Waller wrote heroically: “How many of them are there? I am usually good for about half a dozen. Are they assassins? I can tackle any number of assassins.”

  Mr. Seymour Hicks said he hoped they would not hurt George Edwardes.

  Mr. George Edwardes said that if they injured Seymour Hicks in any way he would never smile again.

  A writer in Answers pointed out that, if all the invaders in the country were piled in a heap, they would reach some of the way to the moon.

  Far-seeing men took a gloomy view of the situation. They laid stress on the fact that this counter-attraction was bound to hit first-class cricket hard. For some years gates had shown a tendency to fall off, owing to the growing popularity of golf, tennis, and other games. The desire to see the invaders as they marched through the country must draw away thousands who otherwise would have paid their sixpences at the turnstiles. It was suggested that representations should be made to the invading generals with a view to inducing them to make a small charge to sightseers.

  In sporting circles the chief interest centered on the race to London. The papers showed the positions of the various armies each morning in their Runners and Betting columns; six to four on the Germans was freely offered, but found no takers.

  Considerable interest was displayed in the probable behaviour of the nine armies when they met. The situation was a curious outcome of the modern custom of striking a deadly blow before actually declaring war. Until the moment when the enemy were at her doors, England had imagined that she was on terms of the most satisfactory friendship with her neighbours. The foe had taken full advantage of this, and also of the fact that, owing to a fit of absent-mindedness on the part of the Government, England had no ships afloat which were not entirely obsolete. Interviewed on the subject by representatives of the daily papers, the Government handsomely admitted that it was perhaps in some ways a silly thing to have done; but, they urged, you could not think of everything. Besides, they were on the point of laying down a Dreadnought, which would be ready in a very few years. Meanwhile, the best thing the public could do was to sleep quietly in their beds. It was Fisher’s tip; and Fisher was a smart man.

  And all the while the Invaders’ Marathon continued.

  Who would be the first to reach London?

  Chapter 5

  THE GERMANS REACH LONDON

  The Germans had got off smartly from the mark and were fully justifying the long odds laid upon them. That master-strategist, Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig, realising that if he wished to reach the Metropolis quickly he must not go by train, had resolved almost at once to walk. Though hampered considerably by crowds of rustics who gathered, gaping, at every point in the line of march, he had made good progress. The German troops had strict orders to reply to no questions, with the result that little time was lost in idle chatter, and in a couple of days it was seen that the army of the Fatherland was bound, barring accidents, to win comfortably.

  The progress of the other forces was slower. The Chinese especially had undergone great privations, having lost their way near Llanfairpwlgwnngogogoch, and having been unable to understand the voluble directions given to them by the various shepherds they encountered. It was not for nearly a week that they contrived to reach Chester, where, catching a cheap excursion, they arrived in the metropolis, hungry and footsore, four days after the last of their rivals had taken up their station.

  The German advance halted on the wooded heights of Tottenham. Here a camp was pitched and trenches dug.

  The march had shown how terrible invasion must of necessity be. With no wish to be ruthless, the troops of Prince Otto had done grievous damage. Cricket-pitches had been trampled down, and in many cases even golf-greens dented by the iron heel of the invader, who rarely, if ever, replaced the divot. Everywhere they had left ruin and misery in their train.

  With the other armies it was the same story. Through carefully-preserved woods they had marched, frightening the birds and driving keepers into fits of nervous prostration. Fishing, owing to their tramping carelessly through the streams, was at a standstill. Croquet had been given up in despair.

  Near Epping the Russians shot a fox….

  The situation which faced Prince Otto was a delicate one. All his early training and education had implanted in him the fixed idea that, if he ever invaded England, he would do it either alone or with the sympathetic co-operation of allies. He had never faced the problem of what he should do if there were rivals in the field. Competition is wholesome, but only within bounds. He could not very well ask the other nations to withdraw. Nor
did he feel inclined to withdraw himself.

  “It all comes of this dashed Swoop of the Vulture business,” he grumbled, as he paced before his tent, ever and anon pausing to sweep the city below him with his glasses. “I should like to find the fellow who started the idea! Making me look a fool! Still, it’s just as bad for the others, thank goodness! Well, Poppenheim?”

  Captain von Poppenheim approached and saluted.

  “Please, sir, the men say, ‘May they bombard London?’”

  “Bombard London!”

  “Yes, sir; it’s always done.”

  Prince Otto pulled thoughtfully at his moustache.

  “Bombard London! It seems—and yet—ah, well, they have few pleasures.”

  He stood awhile in meditation. So did Captain von Poppenheim. He kicked a pebble. So did Captain von Poppenheim—only a smaller pebble. Discipline is very strict in the German army.

  “Poppenheim.”

  “Sir?”

  “Any signs of our—er—competitors?”

  “Yes, sir; the Russians are coming up on the left flank, sir. They’ll be here in a few hours. Raisuli has been arrested at Purley for stealing chickens. The army of Bollygolla is about ten miles out. No news of the field yet, sir.”

  The Prince brooded. Then he spoke, unbosoming himself more freely than was his wont in conversation with his staff.

  “Between you and me, Pop,” he cried impulsively, “I’m dashed sorry we ever started this dashed silly invading business. We thought ourselves dashed smart, working in the dark, and giving no sign till the great pounce, and all that sort of dashed nonsense. Seems to me we’ve simply dashed well landed ourselves in the dashed soup.”

  Captain von Poppenheim saluted in sympathetic silence. He and the prince had been old chums at college. A life-long friendship existed between them. He would have liked to have expressed adhesion verbally to his superior officer’s remarks. The words “I don’t think” trembled on his tongue. But the iron discipline of the German Army gagged him. He saluted again and clicked his heels.

  The Prince recovered himself with a strong effort.

  “You say the Russians will be here shortly?” he said.

  “In a few hours, sir.”

  “And the men really wish to bombard London?”

  “It would be a treat to them, sir.”

  “Well, well, I suppose if we don’t do it, somebody else will. And we got here first.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then—”

  An orderly hurried up and saluted.

  “Telegram, sir.”

  Absently the Prince opened it. Then his eyes lit up.

  “Gotterdammerung!” he said. “I never thought of that. ‘Smash up London and provide work for unemployed mending it.—GRAYSON,’” he read. “Poppenheim.”

  “Sir?”

  “Let the bombardment commence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And let it continue till the Russians arrive. Then it must stop, or there will be complications.”

  Captain von Poppenheim saluted, and withdrew.

  Chapter 6

  THE BOMBARDMENT OF LONDON

  Thus was London bombarded. Fortunately it was August, and there was nobody in town.

  Otherwise there might have been loss of life.

  Chapter 7

  A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS

  The Russians, led by General Vodkakoff, arrived at Hampstead half an hour after the bombardment had ceased, and the rest of the invaders, including Raisuli, who had got off on an alibi, dropped in at intervals during the week. By the evening of Saturday, the sixth of August, even the Chinese had limped to the metropolis. And the question now was, What was going to happen? England displayed a polite indifference to the problem. We are essentially a nation of sightseers. To us the excitement of staring at the invaders was enough. Into the complex international problems to which the situation gave rise it did not occur to us to examine. When you consider that a crowd of five hundred Londoners will assemble in the space of two minutes, abandoning entirely all its other business, to watch a cab-horse that has fallen in the street, it is not surprising that the spectacle of nine separate and distinct armies in the metropolis left no room in the British mind for other reflections.

  The attraction was beginning to draw people back to London now. They found that the German shells had had one excellent result, they had demolished nearly all the London statues. And what might have conceivably seemed a draw-back, the fact that they had blown great holes in the wood-paving, passed unnoticed amidst the more extensive operations of the London County Council.

  Taking it for all in all, the German gunners had simply been beautifying London. The Albert Hall, struck by a merciful shell, had come down with a run, and was now a heap of picturesque ruins; Whitefield’s Tabernacle was a charred mass; and the burning of the Royal Academy proved a great comfort to all. At a mass meeting in Trafalgar Square a hearty vote of thanks was passed, with acclamation, to Prince Otto.

  But if Londoners rejoiced, the invaders were very far from doing so. The complicated state of foreign politics made it imperative that there should be no friction between the Powers. Yet here a great number of them were in perhaps as embarrassing a position as ever diplomatists were called upon to unravel. When nine dogs are assembled round one bone, it is rarely on the bone alone that teeth-marks are found at the close of the proceedings.

  Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig set himself resolutely to grapple with the problem. His chance of grappling successfully with it was not improved by the stream of telegrams which arrived daily from his Imperial Master, demanding to know whether he had yet subjugated the country, and if not, why not. He had replied guardedly, stating the difficulties which lay in his way, and had received the following: “At once mailed fist display. On Get or out Get.—WILHELM.”

  It was then that the distracted prince saw that steps must be taken at once.

  Carefully-worded letters were despatched by District Messenger boys to the other generals. Towards nightfall the replies began to come in, and, having read them, the Prince saw that this business could never be settled without a personal interview. Many of the replies were absolutely incoherent.

  Raisuli, apologising for delay on the ground that he had been away in the Isle of Dogs cracking a crib, wrote suggesting that the Germans and Moroccans should combine with a view to playing the Confidence Trick on the Swiss general, who seemed a simple sort of chap. “Reminds me of dear old Maclean,” wrote Raisuli. “There is money in this. Will you come in? Wire in the morning.”

  The general of the Monaco forces thought the best way would be to settle the thing by means of a game of chance of the odd-man-out class. He knew a splendid game called Slippery Sam. He could teach them the rules in half a minute.

  The reply of Prince Ping Pong Pang of China was probably brilliant and scholarly, but it was expressed in Chinese characters of the Ming period, which Prince Otto did not understand; and even if he had it would have done him no good, for he tried to read it from the top downwards instead of from the bottom up.

  The Young Turks, as might have been expected, wrote in their customary flippant, cheeky style. They were full of mischief, as usual. The body of the letter, scrawled in a round, schoolboy hand, dealt principally with the details of the booby-trap which the general had successfully laid for his head of staff. “He was frightfully shirty,” concluded the note jubilantly.

  From the Bollygolla camp the messenger-boy returned without a scalp, and with a verbal message to the effect that the King could neither read nor write.

  Grand Duke Vodkakoff, from the Russian lines, replied in his smooth, cynical, Russian way:—”You appear anxious, my dear prince, to scratch the other entrants. May I beg you to remember what happens when you scratch a Russian?”

  As for the Mad Mullah’s reply, it was simply pure delirium. The journey from Somaliland, and his meeting with his friend Mr. Dillon, appeared to have had the worse effects on his sanity. He opened
with the statement that he was a tea-pot: and that was the only really coherent remark he made.

  Prince Otto placed a hand wearily on his throbbing brow.

  “We must have a conference,” he said. “It is the only way.”

  Next day eight invitations to dinner went out from the German camp.

  It would be idle to say that the dinner, as a dinner, was a complete success. Half-way through the Swiss general missed his diamond solitaire, and cold glances were cast at Raisuli, who sat on his immediate left. Then the King of Bollygolla’s table-manners were frankly inelegant. When he wanted a thing, he grabbed for it. And he seemed to want nearly everything. Nor was the behaviour of the leader of the Young Turks all that could be desired. There had been some talk of only allowing him to come down to dessert; but he had squashed in, as he briefly put it, and it would be paltering with the truth to say that he had not had far more champagne than was good for him. Also, the general of Monaco had brought a pack of cards with him, and was spoiling the harmony by trying to induce Prince Ping Pong Pang to find the lady. And the brainless laugh of the Mad Mullah was very trying.

  Altogether Prince Otto was glad when the cloth was removed, and the waiters left the company to smoke and talk business.

  Anyone who has had anything to do with the higher diplomacy is aware that diplomatic language stands in a class by itself. It is a language specially designed to deceive the chance listener.

  Thus when Prince Otto, turning to Grand Duke Vodkakoff, said quietly, “I hear the crops are coming on nicely down Kent way,” the habitual frequenter of diplomatic circles would have understood, as did the Grand Duke, that what he really meant was, “Now about this business. What do you propose to do?”

  The company, with the exception of the representative of the Young Turks, who was drinking creme de menthe out of a tumbler, the Mullah and the King of Bollygolla bent forward, deeply interested, to catch the Russian’s reply. Much would depend on this.

  Vodkakoff carelessly flicked the ash off his cigarette.