Black August (19 page)

‘Veronica Wensleadale. I'm Fane's sister,' she added.

‘I thought so.' He grinned. ‘Well, now we all know each other.'

‘You are a strange bird for a British General,' said Harker thoughtfully.

‘Any complaints?'

‘No, none at all.'

‘Right. Do you accept my absolute and unquestioned command of this party, or do you wish to clear out with your men?'

‘It suits me to stick to you for the time being if you're willing.'

‘Good, then let's get below and see if the men are getting their rations.'

Gregory buckled on his belt again and the American followed him out of the room.

‘What
is
he doing in that get-up?' asked Ann directly they had gone.

‘Do you know him then?' inquired Veronica.

‘Of course. He was living in Gloucester Road. He
said
he was a journalist then.'

‘Why worry,' Kenyon shrugged his shoulders wearily. ‘He's damned efficient, anyhow.'

Veronica raised her eyebrows. ‘But you must admit it's odd.'

‘Not really. He must have been doing Secret Service work before.' He sank his head between his hands; it was aching abominably now that the excitement was over.

When Sallust returned he found them sitting in silence, the flickering light of the fire the only relief to the shadows of the room; in another few moments they would all have been sound asleep. Behind him came Rudd, who switched on the lights and began to clear the big table of its charts and models. Ann looked at Gregory and marvelled. His lean face seemed ten years younger and he showed no trace of weariness despite the long day.

Silas Harker appeared carrying a couple of bottles. ‘All I could find,' he said. ‘The cellar's as dry as a bone so I had to rob the sanatorium.'

‘Better than nothing,' Gregory agreed, looking at the bottles, ‘although I'd give the earth for a quart of champagne.'

Rudd left them again and came back with a steaming dish of sausages and macaroni. ‘Sorry, sir,' he apologised, ‘but we're out of spuds. There's tinned goosgogs an' a bit of cheese to foller—will that be all right?'

‘Excellent.' Sallust drew his chair to the top of the table. ‘Let us go in to dinner,' he observed dryly; ‘Harker, will you take the bottom of the table and act as Mr. Vice?'

The American's plump face wrinkled into a smile. ‘Just what does that mean?'

‘Quite simple. After we've fed, Rudd will serve the Invalid Port, I shall stand up and say “Mr. Vice, The King!”—you will then spring smartly to your feet and say: “Ladies and Gentlemen, The King!” upon which we shall all drain a bumper to His Majesty. That clear?'

‘Sure,' Harker grinned.

‘Right, we shall then, ladies and gentlemen, return the compliment to my second-in-command by drinking the health of the President of the United States—after which we shall sink
into a drunken slumber. Let's eat the sausages while they're hot.'

His ironic humour had the effect of rousing the others from their lethargy. They had eaten nothing for the best part of twelve hours, and once they tasted food they fell to ravenously.

For twenty minutes they laughed and ate, forgetting for the moment their strange situation. The toasts were drunk as the General had directed, then he lit a cigarette and sank back in his chair.

‘We'll get some sleep in a minute,' he announced, ‘but first I want to talk to you. I suppose you realise that we are all in an appalling mess?'

A succession of nods greeted his statement.

‘Good. Well, quite frankly, I don't want you with me. Women are a handicap at such a time, but when Rudd spotted Ann at that window I couldn't very well leave her to be burnt alive—and my sentimentality having' got the better of my common sense, I had to save you all. Having gone so far, if you wish to stay with me I'll take you along, but it's on the understanding that you take your orders unreservedly from me, otherwise you must clear off tomorrow morning and face whatever is coming on your own.'

‘I've always adored soldiers,' said Veronica brightly, ‘and I should feel so safe under your protection,
Mon Général.
'

‘Thank you,' he smiled, ‘and since your request, Ann, of a few hours ago to take you with me, seems to have been granted by Providence despite my refusal, I know your answer already. What about you, Fane?'

‘My first duty is to the girls. If they are agreed about it I am quite prepared to take my orders from you.'

‘Good. Had any military experience?'

‘O.T.C. at Eton.'

Sallust nodded. ‘I'm glad of that. You see, present conditions are quite exceptional. Here am I, with the rank of Brigadier and entitled to the command of about four thousand men, stuck in charge of these lorries and a miserable platoon, without even a subaltern under me. But the whole Military Organisation is upside down so it's up to me to act on my own initiative and make the best arrangements that I can. If you travel with us you will have to do your whack, so I propose to appoint you
as temporary officer under Harker, who has some sort of claim to the job already, and the two of you can help me run this outfit.'

‘Well, I'm a little rusty on my drill, but I'll do my best,' Kenyon agreed.

‘That's settled then.' Gregory stood up. ‘Now you'd all better get what sleep you can—you two,' he looked swiftly at the girls, ‘will occupy the first room on the left down the passage. Fane and Harker the room that opens on the gallery over the hall. We move off at six-thirty tomorrow—or rather this morning, I should say.'

‘Where to?' asked Kenyon.

Gregory Sallust drew a big, official-looking packet from his pocket and smiled at the party. ‘Sealed orders,' he said abruptly. ‘That's why I'm only in charge of a platoon—but you'll all know more about it this time tomorrow. Good night,'

They were all up with the dawn—cold, miserable and still sleepy, their bruises from the night before giving renewed pain, their limbs stiff after the inadequate rest.

The weather had turned. The sky was overcast, and a gentle but persistent drizzle saturated everything. From the windows of the big house the grey sweep of the Thames, rolling towards the sea between the low mud flats, showed a cheerless and uninviting prospect.

After a hurried breakfast Gregory Sallust surveyed the scene through his binoculars. The sloping meadows of his boyhood had been levelled into fine playing fields, but the shipping was almost nil and the only sign of life in the near distance a small tug, about a quarter of a mile from the shore, which seemed to be in difficulties. He could make out two men and a woman on the bridge, but the vessel did not seem to be under power. It floated swiftly, broadside on in the sweep of the tide, turning a little—first to this side, then to that—as fresh eddies caught it. ‘Somebody trying to escape to the Continent,' thought Gregory, ‘but unable to handle the machinery, or perhaps their supply of fuel has already run out.'

He turned his glasses on H.M.S.
Worcester,
lying at her permanent anchorage just off the foreshore. The old wooden battleship, with her bulging sides neatly painted in longitudinal stripes of black and white, looked silent and deserted. The cadets would be on summer leave, he reflected, and only a skeleton staff of instructors left in charge, hence the tenantless condition of the Abbey.

‘All present and correct, sir.' The sergeant saluted stiffly at the door.

‘Very good, I'll come down then.' Gregory snapped his binoculars back into their case and glanced at the others. ‘We must move off in five minutes, so you'd better come too.'

They followed him meekly downstairs, and stood in a little group on the terrace in front of the house while he walked slowly down the ranks of his men, inspecting each rifle with meticulous care. He then addressed the whole platoon and the detachment of Greyshirts.

‘Now men, your own officer has failed to rejoin us, and as I cannot be everywhere at the same time it is important that I should have assistance in your leadership. Owing to the events of last night the services of one officer—of perhaps unorthodox, but commissioned rank—are available. I refer to Lieutenant Harker of the Greyshirts. We also have Lord Fane, who has been through the O.T.C. Unusual circumstances demand unusual steps, and therefore it is my intention to delegate authority over you to these two gentlemen for, shall we say, the duration!'

The sergeant's mouth twitched and one or two men tittered, Sallust smiled and went on evenly:

‘You will treat them in every respect as you would your own officers, so should any unforeseen accident occur to me you will take your orders from Lieutenant Harker, and failing him, from Lord Fane.' He paused, and turning strode towards the others with his curiously unmilitary slouch: ‘Mr. Harker, you will take the leading lorry please—Lord Fane, you will take the third and your sister will go with you. Miss Croome, you will come with me. Prepare to mount.' He waved his crop at the detachments; ‘Mount!' The lorries jolted their way slowly up the hill, past the lodge, and so out on to the road to Rochester.

Most of the inhabitants of Gravesend were still sleeping after the late night which they had shared with the rest of England. Strood was waking to the dreary day, and as they entered it Ann, who was seated between Gregory and Rudd, asked if they could stop for a moment when they passed a dairy so that she could buy a bottle of milk.

‘Do you wonder that I didn't want women on this trip?' said Gregory, but his tone was mocking rather than unkind, and when they passed a creamery he ordered Rudd to pull up.

The shop was open and a short man stood in the doorway; a light brown overall, several sizes too large for him, dangled to his boots.

‘Hi! Bring me a couple of quarts of milk, will you?' Gregory called, leaning from his seat.

The short man shook his head. ‘Wish I could sir, but I haven't got a drop.'

‘All been commandeered for rationing, eh?'

‘'Tain't that, sir, I'm afraid. The farmers won't send it in no more—lots o' people is going to miss the milk bottle from their doorstep this morning!'

‘Sorry, Ann—let her go, Rudd.' Gregory was waving a farewell to the dairyman when Ann gripped his arm and drew his attention to a pillar-box on the other side of the road. The slit had been pasted over and a square, white placard stood out in sharp relief against the red paint. In bold black letters it bore the legend:

In Rochester they tried to secure a paper but none were available. No trains had arrived since the previous afternoon; however, there were plenty of rumours; ‘The King was dead again … the King was quite recovered … the discontented sailors had volunteered in a body as Special Police … they had also attempted to burn down Buckingham Palace … the Lord Lieutenant of the County had been hanged from the porch of his own house by rioters … bombs filled with mustard and chlorine gas were being dropped by aeroplanes on the East End of London … the Bank of England had been blown up by International Crooks….'

The last man they spoke to declared that he had it on the very best authority that Field-Marshal Lord Plumer had been assassinated by the Reds.

‘You fool!' snapped Gregory angrily, ‘he died years ago. Let her go, Rudd.'

They rumbled on under the ancient castle of Bishop Odo, across the Medway Bridge, and so, while it was still early morning, into Chatham.

Sallust's lorry then took the lead and he piloted them straight down to the dockyard's gates. A Marine sentry called on them to halt—then catching sight of Gregory's hat—turned out the guard.

The General dismounted and spoke to the Marine Police sergeant who appeared to hesitate about letting them through without instructions, but Ann caught the words ‘with the country in a
State like this' and saw Gregory produce his bulky official envelope. The sergeant saluted and had the gates thrown open. Gregory climbed back into the lorry and they jolted down the hill between the lines of cheerless barrack buildings, workshops, and offices.

Leaning forward in his seat Gregory peered sharply from side to side as they advanced, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the naval township which lies hidden behind the high dockyard walls. One big battleship lay seemingly deserted in a far basin, two destroyers in another, and a group of submarines in a third. A sudden swift smile of satisfaction twitched Gregory's thin lips for a second as he caught sight of a single destroyer lying in the lock by the furthest quay—the haze from her funnels showing that she was apparently ready for sea. He ordered Rudd to drive towards her.

A few moments later they pulled up, and Gregory, dismounting, strode over to the gangway. The Quartermaster who stood there came quickly to attention.

‘Where's your Commanding Officer?' asked the General.

‘He's ashore sir, shall I fetch the officer of the watch?'

‘Yes, General Sallust's compliments and he would like to see him at once.'

The sailor disappeared and returned with a short, fair, square-faced naval lieutenant.

‘This is the
Shark,
isn't it?' Gregory questioned, although the name was inscribed in bold letters on the lifebuoys.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Your Commander is ashore, I understand, but how soon can you be prepared to sail?'

‘Sail? Well, I don't know, I'll ask the Executive Officer to speak to you.' The N.O. turned, and sent a messenger for his superior, and a few moments later a Lieutenant-Commander came on deck.

‘This is Brigadier-General Sallust,' the Lieutenant introduced Gregory.

The new-comer smiled as they exchanged salutes. ‘My name is Fanshawe. What can I do for you, sir?'

‘I was inquiring when you will be ready to sail?'