The King Who Went on Strike

Now, as he leant against the roof balustrade, the same sense of unreality which had haunted him all day was still with him.

But he compelled himself to look at the blazing illuminations, none the less.

A man could not afford to live, indefinitely, in a fevered dream.

The trees in the densely thronged Mall were hung with innumerable, coloured electric lights. A blaze of yellow, smokeless flambeaux, on the left, marked the line of Carlton House Terrace. "God Save the King," and "God Save King Alfred the Second"--house after house, in the terrace, repeated the loyal prayers in glittering letters of fire. The same devices were reproduced, in a picturesque setting of crowns and flags, on the lavishly illuminated Admiralty Arch. Beyond was the glare of Trafalgar Square, where the Nelson Column, pricked out in red, white, and blue lamps, soared aloft, a shaft of vivid colours against the dark blue of the night sky. Further away, on the right, the familiar, luminous clock face of Big Ben, which showed that it was already nearing midnight, shone out, brightly, above the golden brilliance of Whitehall. Westminster Abbey towers were touched with fire. Queen Anne's Mansion was a broad, solid wedge of blazing, various colour. Up and down the square tower of the Westminster Cathedral ran a hand of flame, writing a loyal motto, in crabbed, monkish Latin, difficult to translate. On the left, beyond the Green Park, shone the lights of Piccadilly, where the fronts of the clubs vied in patriotic radiance. From the Green Park itself, and from Hyde Park, in the distance, soared rockets, which burst into clusters of red, white, and blue stars, and showers of multi-coloured rain. The cheers of the crowds, in the parks, and in the streets, rose with the rockets, in a regular, muffled roar. Overhead, above the lights, above the rockets, a score or more of illuminated aeroplanes hummed, diving, nose-spinning, side-slipping, and looping the loop, with the agility, the grace, and the breathless swiftness of the aerial acrobats who know not fear.

"God Save the King," and "God Save King Alfred the Second."

The mere repetition of the blazing words impressed them upon the King's notice.

Their irony was his second thought.

Did the people know, the cheering people, far down below there, in the crowded parks, and illuminated streets, that, stereotyped formulae as they were, there was real need, now, for those prayers?

And, if they did know, would they care?

Save him from his enemies?

Perhaps. Almost certainly.

But from himself--an unwilling King?

A light, night breeze from the west, blew softly across the palace roof, rustling the silken folds of the Royal Standard, as it hung limply against the fifty-foot flagstaff, immediately above the King's head. With the quick, subconscious instinct of the trained sailor, he looked up to see if the flag was in order. To be "a sailor, not a Prince" had been, for years, his publicly avowed ambition, an ambition which had only recently been thwarted. His interest in this, no doubt, trivial matter of a flag was typical of the lasting impression which his long and happy years of naval service had left upon his character. In most things, small and great, the Navy had taught him, the Navy had formed him.

The flag was correct. The very knots in the rope left no loophole for criticism.

The small, gilt Royal Crown, which normally surmounted the flagstaff had been removed. In its place a large crown of coloured, electric lamps had been erected, as a finishing touch to the palace illuminations. Above the lights of this crown, the pointed shaft of the lightning conductor, which ran up the flagstaff, protruded, clearly visible against the night sky.

The lightning conductor had been left in position.

A slow smile lit up the King's face, and something of his weariness fell from him, as he saw the pointed shaft of the lightning conductor.

Here, at last, was reality, presented, paradoxically enough, in the form of an allegory, a symbol.

The words of the old Duke of Northborough came back to the King.

At the close of one of the earliest of the many, long, informal talks, in the course of which the old Duke had set himself to explain to the young and inexperienced Prince, who had been called, so unexpectedly, to the throne, a few of the more urgent problems of Government, the King had brought the veteran Prime Minister up on to the palace roof, to see the new roof garden, which was the only innovation he had made, so far, in the palace arrangements, an innovation due to his pleasant recollection of nights of shore leave spent in the roof gardens of New York, during his service with the Atlantic Fleet. The old Duke had admired the flowers, and approved the tubbed trees; then he had looked up at the flagstaff, where the Royal Standard had been flying in a noble breeze; the juxtaposition of the pointed shaft of the lightning conductor, and the Royal Crown, at the top of the flagstaff, had caught his eye; and he had called the King's attention to it, at once, with an arresting gesture.

"It is an allegory, a symbol, sir," he had said, in his vivid, forceful way. "You wear the Crown. I am the lightning conductor. It will be my duty, and the honour of my life, when the storm breaks, to take the full shock of the lightning flash, so that the Crown may remain on your head, unshaken."

There had been no need for the King to ask of what impending storm the old Duke spoke. From the first, in all his talk, the increasing menace of the world-wide revolutionary conspiracy had been the veteran statesman's most constant theme.

"In your grandfather's time revolution in England was impossible, sir. In your father's time it was possible, but unthinkable. If your brother had lived, it might have remained unthinkable for years, perhaps for the whole of his reign." "Like your father, your brother had the secret of arousing personal loyalty. The Prince smiled, and men and women loved him. For years he had been preparing himself, and consolidating his hold on the people, making ready for the struggle which he saw he must come." "It is not for me to disguise from you, sir, that your brother's death has given a new impetus to the revolutionary movement in this country. A younger son, a Prince who never expected, who was never expected, to reign--against you, sir, the international revolutionary forces feel that they have their first real chance in England. The Internationalists, and the Communists, on the Continent, and the extremists amongst our own Labour leaders, are likely to effect a working agreement. It is necessary that we should remember, that it has been by such agreements, that Europe has been swept almost clear of Kings, from end to end." "We must be prepared. We are prepared. But it is of vital importance that you, sir, should understand the position. Make no mistake, sir. They would haul down your Royal Standard, from the flagstaff here, sir, and run up their pitiable rag of a Red Flag, in its place."

A new understanding of the difficulties that his father had faced, of the heavy burden that he had borne, for so many years, without complaint, had come to the King, in recent weeks. More poignant still was the new understanding of, and the new sympathy with, his dead brother, the Prince, that the last few weeks had brought him. His father had always been remote. Between him, and his brother, the Prince, there had been real friendship, and familiar, easy intercourse, in spite of the Prince's splendid future, in spite of his own frequent absences at sea. But he had not known. He had not understood. With a sailor's contemptuous impatience in such matters, he had always turned an almost deaf ear to the Prince's talk of politics and parties. The Prince's splendid future! And he stood now, in the Prince's place.

It was the Prince who had urged him to trust, and to listen to, the old Duke.

Once again, the King stood by the bed, in his brother's room, late in the afternoon of the day, when the disease, which had stricken the Prince so inexplicably, within a few weeks of their father's death, had done its worst, and it was known that he, too, must die, die, after all, uncrowned.

Deathly white the Prince lay there, propped up in bed, with his eyes closed.

Outside the sun was setting, and the London sparrows were twittering their vesper hymn.

The blue uniformed nurse bent down over the bed, and spoke in the Prince's ear.

The Prince opened his eyes, saw him, recognized him, and smiled.

"They tell me that I have got 'the route' Alfred," he whispered painfully. "I am not afraid to die. But I would live if I could. I know, no one knows as I know, what this will mean to you. They tell me I mustn't talk. I can't talk.

"The Duke is your man. Trust the Duke! He will not fail you. He will be your sheet anchor. With the Duke to steady the ship, you will ride out the storm."

An hour later, the Prince lay dead.

The King flung up his head.

The Duke had not failed him.

Many men had mourned the Prince's death, but no man had mourned it, as had the veteran Prime Minister. Between the Duke and the Prince, it was notorious, there had been a friendship, a constant association, personal and political, closer than that between many a father and son. Politically, the Prince's death must have been a staggering blow to the Duke. And yet the wonderful old man had never faltered. Early and late, he had laboured, with inexhaustible patience, at times with a surprising freedom, and yet always with a tact which made his freedom possible, to place his unrivalled knowledge, and his ripe wisdom, untouched by party spirit, at the service of a new, a young, and an inexperienced King.

The King was not ungrateful.

Still leaning wearily as he was against the roof balustrade, he turned now, as he thought of the old Duke, and looked across the shadowed darkness of St. James's Park, at the golden glare thrown up by the illuminations in Whitehall. There, in the silent, rather comfortless, and closed in house, in Downing Street, where he had lived, with hardly a break, for so many years, his father's minister, his brother's friend, the old Duke, even now, as likely as not, was hard at work, indomitable, tireless, resourceful, sparing neither himself, nor his subordinates, so that he, the King, "a sailor, not a Prince," might reign.

Yes. The lightning conductor was in position.

He, the man who wore the Crown, must not fail.