Book III
Chapter XXIV
A wild December morning was breaking over the great British camp. Masses of storm-cloud swept overhead, the wind howled, and gusts of rain and sleet beat against the black streaming tents. In the broad lanes and square parade grounds, deep in mud and patched with rapidly-widening pools, arms and accoutrements could be seen lying, thrown down by their owners, and left to rot and rust at will.
Some distance away from the camp rose a cluster of huge marquees, their flags of white marked with the red cross of Geneva proclaiming them to be the field hospital, and towards them, phantom-like in the drear half-dark of morning, an apparently never-ending procession was moving. Swaying ambulance waggons and creaking litters—their canvas bottoms red-stained and dripping—toiled through the slush of the road, their path impeded by a throng of limping, maimed, and cursing pedestrians.
The heart of Surgeon-General Macpherson, standing at the main entrance of the hospital, grew heavy as he watched, and his face dark with shame and grief, for never before in a life of more than sixty years had he seen a sight like this.
“Poor old England,” he muttered, “you’re done at last,” and then suddenly his spare form stiffened, and his lips twisted into a smile, for a young officer was approaching; and to Macpherson, and such as he, the maintaining of a stiff upper lip before juniors is a rule of life never to be forgotten, no matter how imminent and certain disaster.
“Hullo, Newton,” he said, “what’s the matter with you now? Can’t have the A.D.C.’s going sick, you know, or who’s to run the army?”
“I’m all right, sir,” answered the new-comer, touching his cap; “it’s not about myself I’ve come to see you, but Lord Harford, Sir Archibald wants to know how he is.”
Macpherson looked away, for despite his efforts the mask for a second had slipped, though this was the question he had known was coming, and one which would have to be answered, not once, but many times that day. At that moment he would have given the half of his small worldly possessions to be no longer Surgeon-General Macpherson, Principal Medical Officer to the British Forces, but instead a junior officer—nay, even a private soldier—in one of his beloved Highland regiments. Still, there was no use burking it, and he answered:
“Lord Harford died two hours ago, Newton; he was shot through the lungs; there was no chance of saving him from the first.”
The boy’s face fell, and an expression of dismay, almost of terror, was displayed on it.
“Dead,” he repeated, “the Commander-in-Chief dead? Good God, sir, what an utter damnable mess we’re in!”
Macpherson made no answer, for of a truth there was none to be made. They were in a mess, such a one as probably no British army had been in before, save perhaps in the earlier days of the Peninsular War. Then, however, a great leader was there to guide them, one in whom all trusted, but now it seemed that there was no one, for he in whose hands their destiny had lain was dead. For the great war that had been prophesied for years past by countless Cassandras had come upon England at last, and as always, prophecies as to its course and method had been totally false. A guarding fleet, the Balaams had declared, lured away, then the horrors of invasion, the enemy successful at first, but in the end gloriously repulsed, the British lion having awakened from his slumbers. But here there had been no invasion—at least, not on the enemy’s part—nor any thought of such yet, though a hundred thousand citizens, with guns and uniform, designated the Hearts of Oak—once known as the Territorials, before then as the Volunteers—were waiting on the coasts to receive them, patriotic rage inflaming their breasts. No, the fleet had not been decoyed away, or destroyed; on the contrary, it had done its work right well, and what remained of the enemy’s fleet was now safely shut up in blockaded ports.
Then a strange thing happened, and yet perhaps not strange, but as certain to take place as the sun to shine in the heavens—England herself determined to invade.
What does our Army exist for? This is the question invariably propounded to a listening House by the merchant, lawyer, or doctor on appointment to the charge of Army fortunes, and equally invariably answered in accordance with party dictates, which demand at all costs retention in Office. Not for aggression, most emphatically not, he shouts, but for defence, and this being so, large numbers are but a useless expense and conscription an unnecessary hardship. Never can there be any question of England’s invading a Continental or other power, he goes on to declare, and party dogs and Little Englanders bow-wow applause, and a slothful country smiles well pleased.
In this, as in many other political matters, he lies, for an army exists to fight whenever and wherever it is called upon so to do, and the military history of our own and other island nations is a story of successful invasion—from Crecy to South Africa it is one and the same story. For history, as the record of human nature, can never lie, and must always repeat itself, and a nation, unless degenerate, demands the striking of blows, not the mere waiting to receive them. And so England, flushed with success, began to seethe and clamour for more; but alas, of the Army there was only a handful, and the Hearts of Oak, by special decree, existed merely for defence against invasion.
A deadlock ensued, and Europe began to laugh. Under the sting of its laughter fury arose, and with it clamorous demands for an expedition, the greater now, because the balance was beginning to fall against England. The enemy had annexed countries she was bound by treaty to defend, and with a lengthy coastline thus secured, was hard at it building warships and repairing those disabled. It was but a question of months now, and England’s fleet would be overwhelmed by numbers.
The fury increased, mass meetings were held, and the Government rocked where it sat. Expedition or resignation was demanded. Naturally the former won, and a special decree was passed by which the Hearts of Oak became liable for Service abroad. In vain they protested, deserted even; it was all no good, for public sympathy was against them, and in a few weeks a heterogeneous force of soldiers, sailors, and Hearts of Oak was packed on transports and sailed away to war.
In chief command was Lord Harford, a man of remarkable ability as an organiser, though notoriously deficient as a leader in the field, and assisting him as Chief of the Staff was Sir Thomas Moleyns, also a man of ability. His talents, however, were not those of a soldier, but rather of a political intriguer, his present eminence being mainly owing to the assistance given by him to the War Minister in a recent difficulty connected with the public discovery of a shortage of Government stores.
He was a strong, pushing person, however, and fully meant having the control of the present expedition, an aim which the age and infirmities of the Commander-in-Chief rendered comparatively easy of attainment. Contrary to expectation, the landing of the army was unopposed, and, that having been carried through without a hitch, the force marched on unmolested for three days, the few hostile cavalry scouts met with invariably retiring before its advance.
Almost it seemed as though the enemy invited invasion, which indeed was the case, it having exceeded their most sanguine expectations, and consequently the strictest orders had been issued to allow the British to come on unopposed till well out of reach of their ships.
At home, however, this was not realised, and the news of the successful debarkation aroused much enthusiasm. An unopposed occupation of the capital was now confidently predicted, and preparations were already in progress, and festivities organised to celebrate the event.
Their joy was but short-lived, the next news to hand being that of a crushing disaster.
On the morning of the fourth day, the march was suddenly brought to a halt by the tidings of a large force in position on a wooded ridge ahead, completely barring the road by which they were moving to the north. To the same message was added another to the effect that General Sir Hector Graeme, commanding the cavalry division, had taken over charge of the advanced guard, and was now preparing to attack. This having been telephoned on to Moleyns, he at once directed General Graeme to desist from his preparations, and, further, to recall all his advanced scouts and patrols. His ostensible object in so doing was to lull the enemy into security; his real one being the determination to thwart a man for whom he had a whole-hearted dislike, and also, should things go wrong, the securing of a scapegoat on whom he could lay the blame.24 Moleyns was a far-seeing man, and he knew, moreover, that Graeme’s downfall would be most gratifying in high places, particularly to his friend and patron, Mr. Quibble, a Manchester solicitor, at that time Secretary of State for War.
This message sent, Moleyns issued orders for the advanced guard to fall back on the main body, the whole army being further directed to camp one mile north of the village of Rass. This done, and plans drawn up and despatched to the various divisions, he sought out Lord Harford, whom he found seated in a motor car some miles in rear, and propounded a scheme for attack to be carried out that night; and, as usual, he gained his point.
Night came; the attack was made by a third of the whole force, the result being a crushing defeat.
Ignorant of the country, whole divisions went astray, and wandered aimlessly about in the dark, and when eventually the bulk of the force reached the place appointed, the night was suddenly illumined by the glare of searchlights and star shells, and a tempest of lead and iron burst upon the huddled mass. In vain did the foremost ranks turn to fly, the pressure from behind was too great, and though at last they did manage to get away and stream back into camp in the small hours of the morning, it was as a rabble they reached it—a rabble, moreover, shorn of at least half its numbers, the Commander-in-Chief himself being mortally wounded by a chance bullet.
This reverse by itself was bad enough, but worse still was the news sent in by the Cavalry leader—who, despite orders, had not withdrawn his patrols, but instead sent out more and farther ahead—to the effect that a huge body of hostile troops was coming up from the north, while from the east another large column was rapidly advancing.
Lieutenant Newton, therefore, A.D.C. to Sir Archibald Townsend, was but stating a fact in describing the situation as a “mess”; indeed, it was considerable odds on the capture or annihilation of the British army within the next forty-eight hours.
Meanwhile two other officers had joined the pair, bent on the same errand as the first. “Poor old Harford!” said one on hearing the news, “this is what comes of having an Office man as Chief of the Staff. I suppose he’ll run the show now. Lord help us! Who’s the nominal head, though, it’s your fellow, ain’t it, Newton?”
“No, it isn’t, worse luck; it’s Lieut.-General Sir Hector Graeme, better known as Mad Jack. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it, friend Caldwell.”
“Thank ye, Newton. I’ve no wish to be sick.”
“That’s no way to speak of a general officer, Caldwell, let alone the Commander-in-Chief,” said Macpherson, his rugged face red with anger. “Man, but I’ve a devilish good mind to clap ye under arrest, Sir Archibald’s A.D.C. though ye be.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” answered Caldwell sullenly. “I shouldn’t have said that, but my family and I have special reasons for hating this General Graeme.”
They were all silent; the new Commander-in-Chief’s matrimonial differences were well known.
“That may be, Caldwell,” said Macpherson at last, “but those are private matters, and best kept to yourself. Before me, at all events, ye’ll kindly remember Sir Hector Graeme is your superior officer, and as such to be spoken of with respect.”
“It’s salvation this, a godsend, no less,” said the third officer, who hitherto had taken no part in the conversation; “we’ll be in the capital in a week now.” Everyone turned to stare at the speaker, a somewhat quaint-looking youth, with long hair and a uniform deviating from the regulation pattern.
“And who may you be, young sir?” said Macpherson. “I thought I knew most of the A.D.C.’s, but yours is a new face to me.”
“My name’s Glover, sir; I’m Sir Hector’s A.D.C. Hulbert went sick three days ago, and I got his place.”
“Might have known it from his clothes and hair,” muttered Caldwell. “They all get like that; Hulbert was just the same. Pick it up from him, I suppose; even his orderlies look like Merry Andrews. Gad, if I were Commander-in-Chief, I’d soon——”
“I beg yer pardon, Mr. Caldwell.”
“Nothing, sir. I should like to know, though, what Glover means by salvation.”
“The man’s quite right to stand up for his General, Caldwell.”
“It’s not only because I’m that, sir,” answered Glover, with sudden animation, “it’s because I, and all who have been under him, know what he can do. Oh, I know it’s said he’s only fought against savages hitherto, but, all the same, savages though they were, the Mahongas were giving us a pretty bad time till the Coney’s Drift affair. Precious little thanks he got for it too, only abuse from the Radicals, and the name of Butcher Graeme. It was a bloody business, I own, but that’s his way, and in my opinion the right way too. Anyhow, it finished the war; the Mahongas hadn’t a kick left in them after that. There was his work in Georgistan, too——”
“Tell us about the ghost, Glover,” interrupted Newton, yawning.
“Ghost, what do you mean, Newton?” asked Macpherson.
“Surely you’ve heard the yarn, sir? General Graeme’s supposed to keep a tame spook, which he consults before fighting a battle. It’s common talk, sir; I thought everyone knew.”
Macpherson looked at Glover, despite himself, a Highlander’s interest in the subject gleaming in his eyes.
“A lie, I suppose, like most of the gossip about him,” he said. “Eh, Glover?” But the boy hesitated, at a loss what to say.
“There’s no ghost, sir,” he said at length, “at least, neither I nor any one else I know has seen it.”
“I should think not,” broke in Caldwell, temper and prudence going together. “The story’s on a par with the rest of the humbug he and his gang love to surround themselves with. Thank the Lord, I say, I’m only a straightforward soldier’s A.D.C., not a ruddy Jack o’ the Green. Why... What the devil’s up, Newton, seen the gho——?” He finished the rest of the sentence inside his helmet, which an unseen hand had suddenly banged down over his eyes—Caldwell had become what is vulgarly known as “bonneted.”
“Jack o’ the Green,” he heard a harsh voice say. “Who calls the bloody Commander-in-Chief a Jack o’ the Green? Mutiny, mutiny! String him up, old Clan na Gael! Scots wha hae! Where’s a rope?”
With a wrench, Caldwell tore off the muffling headpiece, and stood staring, for before him, with his wild eyes gleaming through a shock of grey hair, stood the man of whom they had been speaking. On his head was his usual white top-hat, a covering which no orders could induce him to discard, and bound around it a green scarf. A sheepskin coat, dyed red, hung on his wasted body, a common worsted muffler of orange and green was wound round his scraggy neck, the costume being completed by breeches of yellow leather and long india-rubber boots. Sign of orthodox uniform there was none; indeed, had Sir Hector Graeme fallen into the enemy’s hands in his present attire, his instant execution as a civilian in arms would have been amply justified by the rules governing modern warfare.
His had been a somewhat chequered career during the last fifteen years, short-lived bursts of fame alternating with lengthy periods of obscurity. First brought into notice by the affair, already alluded to, at Coney’s Drift, where, taking advantage of his senior’s absence for the day, he had collected such force as he could lay hands on, and with them fallen on and practically annihilated the Mahongas’ main army, he had signalised his victory by such subsequent outspoken criticism of his superiors as had ensured his speedy supersession from further command.
True, before this had happened, his promotion to the rank of Major-General had been wired out from home, but he was given plainly to understand that no further advancement would be his; and thenceforth, by most, his military career was regarded as finished. So undoubtedly it would have been, had not hostilities broken out five years later in Georgistan, and, after a succession of reverses, the papers began to clamour for the despatch to the scene of General Graeme. For some time the demand was ignored, but, the reverses continuing, he was eventually sent out, and entrusted with the command of the Lines of Communication, in which capacity it was thought he would have no chance of making himself conspicuous. Fortune, however, favoured Hector, in the shape of a fierce attack on a post in which he happened to be resting for the night, and not only did he repel that assault, but, following up the retiring enemy, completely routed them, although they were double his strength in numbers. Probably owing to the fact that this was the first British success since the war’s commencement, Hector’s name, as a saviour, was blazoned forth on the placards of every evening paper, and so great became the clamour for his advancement that reluctantly the authorities placed him in command of the cavalry division. This division—a failure hitherto—straightway began to harry and destroy, their movements being conducted with such energy and ferocity that in a short time the mere sight of a horseman would send the Georgistan warriors scuttling hurriedly away to their hills.
For these services he was made Knight Commander of the Bath, and, on the termination of the war, was given the command of one of the great Indian Presidencies. Here, however, disaster overtook him; for shortly after his appointment a certain member of the British Parliament made his appearance, and proceeded to preach sedition to the natives living in Hector’s district. Graeme had been given the strictest orders to refrain from interfering with this person, and for some weeks he ignored his presence, though the effect of Mr. Belch’s words on the ill-balanced native mind was daily becoming more apparent.
Unfortunately for both, however, Hector one day happened to be walking through the bazaar, accompanied by his A.D.C. and orderly, and, coming upon the orator haranguing the mob, stopped to listen. For some time he stood there, till at length the man perceived him, and, goaded to fury at the sight of his country’s uniform, commenced a tirade not only against the army but against His Majesty the King. Now, devoid of most human feelings as Hector was, being filled with an unreasoning hatred and contempt for his fellows, there was yet one contradictory trait in his character, and that was a great veneration for his Sovereign. Hearing the King’s name bawled forth in a native bazaar, he was seized with sudden rage, and moved forward. Calling on his A.D.C. and orderly to follow him, he charged through the mob, and seizing the now terrified Belch, bore him to a shop hard by, where, with the aid of the other two, he proceeded to tar and feather him. Not till the work was thoroughly completed did he release the fellow, after which, thanks to a liberal use of their fists, the three made their way through the crowd, and though somewhat battered, reached home in safety.
Thereupon ensued a lively time at Headquarters. Cable upon cable poured in, some from individuals unknown to Hector, of a congratulatory nature, others from high quarters, demanding instant explanations. The former he tore up contemptuously—he had no wish for the approval of his fellow-men—the latter he answered in a letter couched in official terms, to the effect that, thanks to him, Mr. Belch being now quite black, was more wholly one with his friends; and as regarded the feathering, that, he considered, improved the man’s personal appearance. He concluded by announcing his intention of burning the native city, now in an uproar.
Further cables followed in quick succession, suspending, threatening, and finally entreating, but to no purpose. Hector continued his preparations for destruction.
At the eleventh hour His Majesty himself intervened. A telegram was received making known his pleasure to Hector, whereupon he at once ordered the troops, already in position round the city, back to barracks, and he himself started for England. Here he entered Parliament, where he soon became a very terror to the War Minister, a member of his own—nominal—party, exposing many things, and piercing through all shufflings and evasions. But his animosity was mainly directed against the Territorial scheme—as it was then known—his crowning indiscretion being an address, delivered to a regiment of these warriors drawn up for inspection before the Mansion House.
“My dear fellow,” the War Minister had said to him some minutes previously, “for goodness’ sake give these chaps a pat on the back. I know you don’t think much of them—nor, between ourselves, do I—but the country won’t stand conscription, though we all know it’s the only thing. For the Lord’s sake remember your party—we’re a bit dicky as it is—and say something civil.”
Whereupon Graeme spoke, his words being audible not only to those he was addressing, but also to the assembled crowd.
“I’ve been asked to speak to you,” he said, “and damme, I will. Listen, then. Soldiers I know, sailors I know, but you, you’re neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring. I give you my word one regiment of regulars would play the bloody bear with an Army Corps of such a scratch mob as you. My friend Jampots here”—this in graceful allusion to the firm of which the present War Minister was a member—“says he don’t think much of you, nor, begad, do I.”
This peroration completed, Graeme rode off, well pleased with himself, and his speech having been reported in every paper, the result was a vote of censure on Jampots, a division in the House, and the subsequent defeat of the Government.
For Hector, for some strange reason—the stranger considering the contempt he had for them—was beloved by the British public. The very Socialistic spirit of the age, which he abhorred, being almost reactionary in his own views, worked in his favour; for Hector was always at war with authority, and the hearts of the mob warmed to him as they viewed his fierce battling with overwhelming odds. He made them laugh too—a certain passport to their favour—and yet with this laughter was mingled no contempt, his reckless bravery and constant brilliant success forbade that. Added to which, there was much sympathy felt towards him on account of his well-known marital differences, for that Hector was responsible for them no one save the Caldwells and their relations believed. For the man, though notorious throughout the Service for an outrageously blasphemous tongue, was yet renowned for his austere morality, whereas Lady Graeme was now one at whom a good many looked askance. For in that way had Lucy taken her trouble, and few would have recognised in the full-busted, dyed-haired, and loud-voiced Lady Graeme the modest country-loving Lucy of former days. Of her husband she would talk openly, and as openly ridicule. “Mad Jack again!” she would exclaim, to the crowd of boys always in attendance. “Gracious, what a nuisance the man’s getting! Give me a cigarette, like a dear, and talk of something else. You forget I lived with the treasure for ten years, and, heavens, how bored I was!” And so, as usual, the least guilty received the blame, and Lucy, in men’s eyes, was the sinner, and Hector the injured—liked the better for his injuries.
Further—and probably this was the chief factor in their regard—there was about Graeme an undefined element of mystery; the strange story of the ghost, derided by some but believed in by many, invested with a weird charm his successes, which, brilliant as they were, they would have lacked without.
All these things, together with his utter disregard of consequences to himself, his obvious disinterestedness, and his contempt of party shufflings, impressed the variable mob; and such an expression of opinion as that uttered before the Mansion House completely damned the Territorial scheme, and destroyed all public faith in the party then in power. Graeme, however, did not seek re-election—he was already sick of the dirty political game—but proceeded on a tour round the world, from which he had returned but a few weeks before the declaration of war. Again the same attempt was made to ignore him—and this time it was stronger then ever, for both parties were now against him—but the public would have none of it, and though the authorities refused the demand for his appointment to the chief command, they so far yielded to pressure as to give him the leadership of the two cavalry divisions, from the camp of which he had just arrived, unfortunately in time to hear Caldwell’s last remark.
“A hanging job this, Cockaleekie,” he went on, looking around him; “where’s a rope? Aha!” Then running to the marquee he drew a knife from his pocket, and cutting through one of the tent cords, returned with it in his hand to the now silent quartette.
“Round his neck, so!”—fitting the noose over Caldwell’s head as he spoke, and then tossing the other end over the bracket of an adjacent lamp-post—“Ready now? Sound the dead march then, whack your tummy for the drum, old Mac; what the devil are you laughing at?” seeing abroad smile on the surgeon’s and Newton’s faces. There was no smile on the faces of Caldwell and Glover, however, but an expression of scorn on the one and terror on the other, for well Glover knew Hector Graeme, and also Hector Graeme’s idea of a joke.
“Think I don’t mean it?” he cackled. “Gad, I’ll show you, then.” He drew the rope tighter, but the boy never flinched, and his eyes now expressed hatred as well as scorn.
“Sir,” said Macpherson, his smile suddenly fading, “Caldwell was only joking, very wrong, I own, but he’s young, sir.”
The cord dropped from Graeme’s hands.
“What did you say his bloody name was?”
“Caldwell, sir, General Belfield’s A.D.C.”
A slash of the knife, and the rope lay in pieces on the ground.
“Be off,” he said, “cackle as much as you like, I won’t touch you. It’s the way you and the rest of the brood have been brought up. Go and chatter about your Commander-in-Chief, if you will; I’ve stood it for years, and despise it. Clear!”
Silently Caldwell saluted and went, and for a minute an awkward pause followed. Graeme stood looking after the retreating figure, and, then suddenly throwing himself forward on to his hands, he turned a couple of cartwheels and once more came back to the group.
“What’s the night’s bag,” he said, “a good un, ain’t it, and mixed?”
“I don’t know yet for certain, sir,” answered Macpherson. “There are four generals killed, and close on seven thousand officers and men either dead or wounded. The missing, of course, I don’t count.”
“Hurrah! That’ll make ’em sing Rule Britannia at home; a jolly good lesson to ’em, though they’ll forget it in a year. Think we’re going to win, Mac?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t, that drawn mug of yours gives you away, we shall, though. The old green-backs, yonder,” waving his hand to the north, “are in for a hell of a hiding. Like my hat?” suddenly addressing the open-mouthed Newton.
“N-no, sir.”
“Boil my lights,” suddenly becoming furious, “d’ye hear that, MacSporran? He don’t like my hat. Well, well, nor does Moleyns; and that reminds me I’m due at the talking shop at nine. Holy trousers!” pulling out a frying pan of a watch, “half-past by my old chest protector. Tra la! tra la!” and gathering up his skirts the Commander-in-Chief skipped nimbly over the rails guarding the hospital entrance, and jumping on his horse galloped away to Headquarters, flakes of mud and sprays of dirty water flying around him.
From the marquee behind a man emerged, his white apron and sleeves splashed with blood, and joined Macpherson, who was now alone, Glover and Newton having ridden away together.
“Morning, Sir George,” said the P.M.O., turning to the new-comer; “pretty busy in there, aren’t you? Gad, but the country ought to be grateful to you.”
“Bah!” said the latter, a famous London surgeon, now on self-imposed duty with the British expeditionary force, while a thousand patients were left lamenting in town behind him.
“Isn’t that Sir Hector Graeme riding away?”
“Yes.”
“Commander-in-Chief, now, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I’m one of his admirers, General.”
“So am I, Sir George.”
The other smiled—for an admirer, the speaker’s voice was singularly unenthusiastic.
“I believe in the ghost too,” Romford continued.
The P.M.O. frowned, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke out. “Look here, Sir George, you’re one of us, so there’s no harm in you and me discussing the question. Tell me what do you make of this ghost business—epilepsy?”
“Decidedly not—Graeme’s no epileptic; nor were Joan of Arc, St. Paul, and other visionaries, as used to be supposed. That idea’s exploded. An epileptic never remembers what he’s seen in his seizures—they did.”
“What is it, then—mania?”
“Nor that either. All that eccentricity, in my opinion, is only a pose, probably to attract attention. Diseased vanity’s at the bottom of that, I should say; it’s quite separate from the vision part—that’s a form of hysteria.”
“Purely physical, you think?”
“Partly and partly metaphysical. I’ll tell you my theory, if you like; it’s my own, and probably worthless, but such as it is you can have it. It’s this. In every human being there exists something—call it soul, call it subconscious self if you like—and that something, which I hold to be immortal, passes at death to another body. But in the majority, though it controls, it works underground, and is silent; in others, however—the abnormal—it makes itself heard, and at certain moments takes charge and speaks; then we have what are called flashes of genius. A genius does not reason or think a matter out as we do. His ideas come, and are followed. And to my thinking they come not from the man himself, but from his soul, endowed with the knowledge and experience of thousands of years. That’s what makes the characters and masterpieces of poets and painters that were drawn ages ago true to present-day life. It is universal, not individual, human nature they describe.”
“But the visions—how do you account for them, a man can’t see his own soul?”
“Something or someone seen when the mind, from certain causes, is extraordinarily excited, and so it becomes indelibly photographed on the mental vision; thenceforth, by a very natural sequence, the voice of subconscious self becomes that of the vision.”
“But I’ve always understood that these visions are only seen occasionally.”
“Exactly, when the mind is in the same state as it was when the apparition first appeared, that can and usually is as the mental picture fades with physical powers, for delusion dies with or just before the body, brought about by drugs or some other excitant to the nerves.”
“What for?”
“Because he must have the vision to tell him what to do. It gives him the inspiration, without which he’s firmly convinced he cannot act—and he couldn’t.”
“But Graeme’s not a drug-taker; he won’t touch even a sleeping-draught, though ordered by a doctor; he smokes but little too, five cigarettes a day, never more.”
“What does he drink?”
“He’s a teetotaler, save for an occasional bottle of champagne. Hullo, Glover, what do you want?”
“Sir Hector, sir, I forgot to give him his flask; here it is.”
In an instant Sir George had stretched out his hand, and coolly taking the flask unscrewed the top, and put it to his nostrils. He then handed it to Macpherson, who did the same.
“Hurry, Glover,” said the P.M.O., “you’ll catch him if you’re quick,” and the boy galloped away, leaving the two looking at each other.
“Good-day, General,” said Romford at last; “I must get back to my work.”
Notes
24 This, it may be remarked, was a scheme played with success on many occasions by generals during the time of the South African War.