THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN

A FANTASY

BY

ROGER POCOCK

LONDON CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD. 1910

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

TALES OF WESTERN LIFE THE RULES OF THE GAME THE ARCTIC NIGHT, Chapman & Hall THE BLACKGUARD, Chapman & Hall ROTTENNESS A FRONTIERSMAN (AUTOBIOGRAPHY), Gay & Hancock CURLY, Gay & Hancock SWORD AND DRAGON, Hodder & Stoughton THE FRONTIERSMAN'S POCKET BOOK (EDITED), John Murray.

CONTENTS

Prologue I. Chancellor of the Empire II. The Master of Lyonesse III. Our Lady the Queen IV. The Coronation V. The Gathering Storm VI. The Penance Chamber VII. The Taming of Lyonesse VIII. The Mother of Parliaments IX. The Royal Prerogative X. The Dawn of the Terror XI. The World-Storm XII. The Third Day XIII. The Queen's Messenger XIV. The Story of the Ships XV. Cast Out of Heaven XVI. The Queen's Days XVII. Her Majesty in Council XVIII. The Queen's Madness XIX. The Tale of the Dun Horse XX. Victory XXI. The Queen's Retreat XXII. The Last Battle XXIII. Prisoner of Love Epilogue

PROLOGUE

LONDON, December 31st, 2000.

This is the story of the World-Storm. Leaders in every field of thought have described the events of the year 1980, but we who have come aged and shaken out of that chaos, know well that the half was not told.

The World-Storm was a human affair, and human events are ever based on love. For the love of woman a man gives all the labour of his life, or in the loss or lack of love will cast his life away. For the love of women men have built cities, or burned them, won thrones or lost them, have staked things present and the things to come. This is the story, then, of a man's love for a woman. And if the life of a man is a love tale, so is the life of a nation, which ends when the people cease to love their country. And so is the life of mankind, which will end when the love of God dies out from the human heart. Life is a plant which has its roots in love.

Reading over many histories of the World-Storm, by divines, by students, and admirals of the air, the whole of which have failed to reach down to the truth: I think that these eminent exact thinkers were mostly dry at the roots. Only a lover can write history.

We set sweet Margaret on the Imperial Throne, we prayed for her, and all the millions of our prayers like subtle spirits wrought upon her soul creating her a queen. We looked again, and behold she was august, inspired, beautiful, terrible—England! Who but a lover could write of such a queen? To me, a plain man who has loved, it is given that I should tell of that transfiguration, and how the lovely child, translated by our prayers moved through the darkness.

Looking back upon those days when frightened and starving, we saw the old order changed, and the Millennium born, I see the persons of the drama, vague, gigantic, fighting in a region of mist and flame to one great end of Peace. Yet I knew all the time that they were human, a woman, and certain men who loved and sinned, who fought and suffered. The evil was burned out of us, the good survives; the scorched and shaken earth is purified.

The Greeks, who were very wise, invented that old myth of Phaeton who dared to drive the chariot of the Sun, but lost his head, and failed, and burned the world.

There is to be no more war, so I doubt if there will be any more progress. Take this heresy if you will, as the maunderings of an old fighter; but have not the ages of suffering been ever the ages of growth? Strength is the child of pain, and in her agony the world gave birth to saints and heroes. The millennial peace will never know the like. Never again will there be such a woman as our Lady the Queen, such men as John Brand, or Lord Sydney. Their age is memorable, their race illustrious, and for my part, I do not greatly care to live on after them. My work is done, and sitting at my window as I write these last words of my prologue, I see with dim eyes the roofs of London reaching away into the night, the moonlight faint upon her hanging gardens, her palaces and towers, her spires and soaring domes. The bells have been tolling the hours of the dying twentieth century, but now they have broken into one great peal of triumph, they are ringing in the Millennium. "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace; For mine eyes have seen Thy Salvation."

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN

I CHANCELLOR OF THE EMPIRE

"Margaret, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India."

In the Year of our Lord, 1980, and on the third day of June in that year was Margaret crowned.

Three weeks before the Coronation the sun was setting over St. Michael's woods, and changed the grey walls of Ulster House to luminous orange. A purple bloom of shadow lay on the terrace, but full in the glow from the windows sat the master of the house asleep. The cane chair creaked at times under his weight as he changed dreams. Dressed in the evening costume of the period—claret-coloured broadcloth, and silk stockings, low shoes with garnet buckles, and white ruffles—he was a picture of dignified innocence and stately rest: His Grace, the Duke of Ulster, Chancellor of the federated British Empire, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, full of years, honours, and a good dinner.

Close to him, in the ivy of the wall, a pair of ring-doves cooed and crooned between love and slumber. They were newly wed, and all the world was at rest.

Above the cedars to the eastward a ship rose like a planet, her aeroplanes in red glory against the deeps of heaven. She swept across the south, hovered for an instant, drooped her ethereal wings, and flashed in narrowing circles downward until she fell out of the afterglow and loomed vast in the lower shadows. With feathery lightness she poised on the lawn, her gauze propellers singing themselves to sleep with the whirr of humming-birds. Then from under the gloom of her shadow came a man—a gaunt old man in a grey military cloak—who climbed the steps of the terrace and crossed the gravel space until he came in front of the lighted windows. There the man stood looking down with austere disgust upon the sleeping Chancellor. His ship had risen into the afterglow before the visitor moved a chair and sat down, still intently studying Lord Ulster's face.

Under that prolonged stare, the Chancellor stirred in his sleep, and muttering to himself, awakened, lifting his heavy eyes. In the deepening shadows he saw that silent motionless figure, tried to dispel the impression with a wave of his hand, then found himself broad awake, face to face with Nicholas IV. Emperor of Russia.

At once the Chancellor rose to his feet, and made his royal guest welcome with many a courteous phrase. He offered apology that his servants were all at a church concert this Sunday evening, and that neither himself nor his son had been at hand to receive the Imperial yacht with proper honours. He offered hospitality, invited his Imperial Majesty to enter the house.

His words disappeared into the air, slow cold eyes followed his every movement, and the Emperor waited in freezing silence. Motionless, chilled, shocked, dismayed, the Chancellor stayed his speech.

"Your Grace will understand," said the Emperor, "that I do not come as a friend."

Germany and France had been gathering armaments, relations were strained to the breaking point, war might be declared at any moment, the allies were only held from attack by the ominous silence of Russia. Then Ulster had won the Emperor to his side, and an alliance was now in treaty between the Russian and the British Empires which would make the threatened war impossible. It was in the moment of the Chancellor's triumph that Nicholas IV. came to his house an enemy.

"For your own sake," said the Emperor, coldly, "you'd better see that we are not overheard."

Ulster seized this chance of covering his confusion, entered the house, surveyed the empty study and returned, saying again that his household were all at the church. The Emperor had taken one of the garden chairs, his back to the windows, and thoughtfully looked out upon the garden, his long lean fingers tapping a cigarette. By a gesture he told the Chancellor to sit down.

"There is," he began in his purring, sibilant English, "a young Indian prince now resident in England."

The Chancellor had been racking his brain to find the meaning of the Emperor's coldness. His head was lowered in thought, but now he glanced up sideways under his heavy brows.

"Lots of them," said he.

"I speak," said the Emperor, "of the Maharajah of Haidar."

"I remember, sir," answered Ulster, thoughtfully. "He is serving in Her Majesty's Bodyguard."

"Exactly," said the Emperor in a tone which forbade further comment. "This young prince is descended, your Grace, from the ancient royal line of the Moguls. On his elevation to the throne of Haidar, he was recognized by the Moslem as a sacred personage. He demanded of the Indian Government the restoration of the ancient Peacock Throne, which had been taken from his ancestors by the Persians, and later secured by the British from the Persian Treasury. He demanded also the right of a royal salute, claimed to be addressed as a Royal Highness, and asked for certain privileges of maintaining armed forces within his kingdom of Haidar. All these demands were granted."

"Sir," the Chancellor spoke satirically, "these statements are of the profoundest interest."

"They are," said the Emperor. "The concessions granted to this prince actually endangered the British supremacy in India. The restoration of the Peacock Throne met with violent protests both from the loyal princes and from the English press. When this throne was brought to Haidar, its arrival was attended by portents, so-called miracles, a ferment in the bazaars, riots in many cities, and at last a revolt in the North West Provinces. Of course revolt was crushed.

"The presence of Prince Ali, perfectly loyal as he was throughout, became so dangerous that he was hurried out of India, and gradually the country settled down. But the memory remained of gallant English officers who were slaughtered, mutilated, of innocent children dashed against stone walls, of women who were—we will pass that by. Whoever gave orders for the granting of Prince Ali's claims was guilty of all that, the massacres, and the vengeance. The man who had to face the rage of England then, might have envied Judas Iscariot. The Viceroy of India claimed to have received orders from the India Office in London. Then the Secretary of State for India proved that he had issued no such orders. So the Viceroy shot himself. Your Grace was at that time Secretary for India."

A bluish pallor had overspread Lord Ulster's face, and he answered nothing.

It was then that the Marquess of Sydney, the Chancellor's only son, returned from the church. Entering the house from the north, and making no sound upon the carpets, he passed through a curtained doorway into the study. In the afternoon he had been writing a letter at the desk set between the middle windows, and now, returning to finish it, he was glad to find the room unoccupied. He sat down, took the letter from his blotting-pad, and considered what he had written.

Then he heard the striking of a match outside on the terrace, and the sound of his father's voice. Lord Sydney was slightly annoyed, uncertain for the moment whether to take his writing elsewhere. Some neighbour, old Pollock probably, had dropped in to talk politics and would stay as usual lor supper. His father was still speaking in low, even tones, not likely to disturb him. Lord Sydney became absorbed in his letter. It is curious to note that pens and matches were still in those days used by old-fashioned people.

Outside, the Emperor, striking a match, and lighting his cigarette, heard the Chancellor patiently.

"Yes," he said, "I understand, of course. Your Grace was, comparatively speaking, a poor man, and could not as such aspire to the Chancellorship. A legitimate ambition thwarted by want of means, a career in jeopardy—yes, I understand. As to Prince Ali's demands they seemed quite innocent—a diamond throne, a royal salute, a few such trifles. He offered you two millions sterling if the Viceroy could be moved to grant his claims. The Viceroy was moved, had no writings to show in defence—and shot himself. The claims were granted, and babies were dashed against stone walls. His Grace of Ulster, with two millions of money, rose to the Chancellorship. It might be awkward for my Lord Duke if these facts became generally known."

The Chancellor gripped the arms of his chair, and leaning forward laughed in his throat.

"Your Majesty," he answered hoarsely, "has acted with rare prudence. I am grateful for the opportunity of dealing with this disgraceful slander, which might otherwise have endangered our relations with your Imperial Majesty's Government. The fabrications of some secret service agent——"

"Enough, my Lord; the agent in question was my agent, the money with which Prince Ali bought you was my money, and here," the Emperor produced from under his cloak the famous Russian papers, "I hold the written transactions."

"Am I a child, sir," cried Ulster, testily, "to be frightened with bogies?"

Nicholas opened the papers and bent forward that the Chancellor might see them.

"Is that enough," he asked, "or do you want to see more? Look," he turned the papers slowly page by page, "at this, and this, and this!"

"Forgeries," answered the other boldly, "forgeries all. How could your Majesty be so deceived?"

Nicholas with a smile turned to the last page, "and this?"

The Chancellor's eyes seemed starting from his head, his jaw dropped, a moan broke from his throat; then with a sharp effort he drew himself together, and pointed at the papers.

"That—that—" he gasped, "that accuses me, much more it accuses you. That you, an Emperor, set such a trap is a disgrace crying aloud to Europe, that—that your Majesty is unfitted for a throne. I dare you, I challenge you. Publish those papers, and not an ambassador would remain at the Russian capital!"

"That I set the trap?" Hot fury darkened the Russian's face, "This scullion work is not in the hands of kings. Would you make me your partner?"

"Sir," Ulster instantly shot out his arm, extended upwards over the papers. "Look! The yacht has signalled!"

The Emperor folded the papers, and jammed them back into the breast of his cloak.

"Let her signal," he answered; "I am not your partner, neither am I your dupe."

"Take the two millions," cried Ulster, "and give me these papers."

"I do not bargain with your Grace," answered Nicholas.

"What do you want me to do? I'll resign the Chancellorship, retire, anything!"

"And cheat me of what I bought?"

"If you expose me, you take my life."

"I have taken it, and paid for it such as it is."

"You can't force me to live! I repeat, to live!"

"As you please. If you die, these papers shall be published as a memorial volume. If you disobey me, they shall be published. If you attempt to cheat me, they shall be published. You have sold yourself to me, and I claim you."

Ulster shrank back into his chair, covering his face, and for some time remained in silence. At last in despair he muttered into his breast—

"What are the terms?"

"I will give you back these papers when you have earned them. You shall live on, Chancellor of the British Empire, honoured, reverenced. When you die a state funeral will attend you to the grave, and another truly British monument will disfigure that poor old Abbey."

Ulster cast about for a weapon, and the Emperor, divining this, chuckled.

"Under my cloak," he said, "I've got an automatic, over your house my yacht. You need have no fear. Indeed, I know the limitations of your power as Chancellor, and shall not press too hard. Now as to terms: I permit you, my Lord Duke, to save your country from the Franco-German invasion. But you will complete the Anglo-Russian Treaty on the terms proposed by my ambassador."

"My colleagues would never consent," cried Ulster, "I should be thrown out of office."

"Tell your colleagues that unless the treaty is signed, Russia will join the Franco-German alliance. My share is India. They will consent.

"Secondly, your Grace, I have to tell you that my brother the Grand Duke Alexander Alexandrovitch was lately slighted by the young Queen. She shall marry him."

"Sir, she would die first!"

"She shall marry him, and your Government shall make the offer of her hand.

"Thirdly, my Lord Duke, I will be secured from any future treachery. You will personally entrust me with the Formula of the Fleets."

When England's great enemy demanded the Formula of the Fleets, Ulster's brain refused to receive his meaning. The naval airship of the period carried no stored force, but the power driving her engines was flashed to her through space from the nearest fortified station of the Admiralty. Each station gave its ships a power-field extending two thousand miles in all directions. Thus the Home station was a fortified position in the coal measures of Staffordshire. Groups of stations covered Canada, the West Indies, and South America; South Africa was in the power-field of the Victoria Falls, Central Africa was controlled from the White Nile, West Africa from the Niger Valley. Another chain of power-fields centred in the Ocean Fortresses: Gibraltar, Malta, Alexandria, Aden, Colombo, Rangoon, Singapore, Hong Kong. From the Arctic regions to the Antarctic ice, no corner of the world was secured from the visitation of our fleets. To debar foreign navies from using our stores of power, each ship had her engines keyed to an exact adjustment known as the Formula of the Fleets. Given

that formula, a foreign ship could traverse the whole planet. The British Empire and the United States used one formula, entrusted only to the Chancellor, the President, and the Adjusters-General, and one can readily understand that this key of space conferred most awful powers.

And were the formula changed without due warning, every ship afloat would be plunged through space to destruction.

"The Formula of the Fleets," Ulster repeated vaguely. "You!" Then he seemed to awake. "You devil!" he cried furiously. "No!"

He choked, he could find no utterance, but wrung his hands, and, starting to his feet, shook his arms upward at the heavens. Then he saw the Emperor's cold face between the lamplight and the moonlight smiling, and at the sight drew back. A strangled sob broke from him. "I am trapped, shamed, broken; I have sinned, but still I am an Englishman, and all my years are given to England's service!"

The Chancellor had back his dignity and a new courage.

"The claims of the Russian ambassador insult this nation; the proposals of that drunken and disgusting beast, your brother, insult my sovereign; the demand for the Formula of the Fleets is a deadly insult to myself. You have forfeited all claims to treatment as a sovereign; but such claims as you have presumed to make to me, I shall lay before my colleagues, before the Empire, and before the world. As to your charges against me, they come not from a friendly prince, but from an enemy too base even for the courtesies of war. Our people will not see the sin of the Chancellor in this crime of Russia."

The Emperor's cruel eyes glittered, the moonlight caught a gleam from his teeth.

"Most noble patriot," he answered softly, "most courteous statesman, no doubt the English can be gulled into a belief that the Russian Emperor came secretly and at night, and behaved in an unseemly and ridiculous manner. They would even believe that I danced on your terrace by moonlight. Proof would at once appear that I never left my house at Pera, and the mad Chancellor would become the laughing-stock of Europe. Consider the cartoons!"

Ulster sank back into his chair, and his face writhed, for the most heroic are unarmed against ridicule.