Chapter XIV.
The King’s Own
The King’s Own
They went up one black street and down another, coming gradually to a very poor section of the city and onto a street that ran down between two rows of very dilapidated and dubious-looking buildings.The man entered a forbidding doorway in one of the buildings, went up several rickety flights of stairs, and at last stopped to put a key in the hole of a begrimed door. The faint glow from a street lamp outside shone through the dirty window and illuminated a dull number 47 that hung on the door.
The man seemed to have some trouble opening the door but he got it open at last after turning the key back and forth several times, vociferating against the stubborness of the lock, and finally delivering a series of violent blows to the rotten wood with his foot.
‘There!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but I’ll turn on the light—no there’s no electricity, that’s right—well, light a candle, then, and then we can talk.’
Cecil followed him in. A faint light from the street lamp came in through the blind-less windows, but not much could be discerned in the semi-obscurity until the man had lighted a candle. Even then Cecil did not see much because there was not much to be seen. The little room was bare except for a bed made up on the floor, the candle, a shaving glass hung on the wall, and a lot of dirt collected in one corner.
The man saw Cecil’s glance resting on the dirt and hastened to explain.
‘I borrow a broom from the family downstairs to sweep up each morning, but they haven’t a dustpan so I just sweep it into the corner.’
He seemed rather embarrassed about it so Cecil changed the subject.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Eugensz Mikhailov. What’s yours?’
‘Cecil Montellescue. How long have you been out of the army?’
‘Ever since Wakjavotski came to power. The Guards were disbanded then.’
‘I know,’ said Cecil, walking around the bare room to examine it closer. ‘Well, what did you do after that?’
‘I tried to get a job but it wasn’t so easy. First I was a clerk in a goods store, but that didn’t suit me so I went to sea on an oil tanker, but I didn’t like the sea so I came back and tried my hand at journalism, but I couldn’t make it pay so I got a job in a factory. I hated it, but I stuck to it until two months ago when the economy went down again and they turned me out. I don’t know where I’ll go next.’
‘How do you manage to live in the meantime?’ asked Cecil.
‘Oh, I get by. First I sold my chairs and ate standing up, then I sold my table and ate sitting on the bed. Then I sold the bed. I haven’t had electricity for over a week because I haven’t paid the electric bill—there it is hanging on the doorknob; it won’t be paid for a while, I guess. I have to be out of this apartment by morning because the rent’s due then and I haven’t got it. I only had a few coppers left this evening and they weren’t enough for the rent, so I went down to the bar to get a drink with them. But I didn’t have enough to get drunk on so here I am sober and with no money and that’s a bad place to be.’
Cecil looked around the little room and saw that the guardsman had not forgotten his military discipline. The floor certainly corroborated his story of being swept regularly, the one window was free of dirt, and the bed, though only made up of one blanket, was neatly made. Mikhailov himself was equally presentable. His clothes, although shabby, were brushed and mended and Cecil could see that, if he had spent the last of his money on a drink, he had spent what little he had had before that on a shave and a haircut. It was the sign of a gentleman to think about his appearance first and his stomach afterwards.
‘But what became of your inheritance?’ asked Cecil. ‘All the Guardsmen came from the aristocracy.’
‘There is no aristocracy anymore,’ said Mikhailov. ‘Wakjavotski abolished all the titles and redistributed all the wealth. Anyway, I’m a younger son and didn’t have much to begin with. My poor brother lost everything.’
‘I suppose all the other Silver Heels are as badly off as you?’ inquired Cecil.
‘Lots of them,’ said Mikhailov. ‘Most of them are vagabonds looking for work and barely managing to scrape by. Some went into other branches of the armed forces but most of them that did were imprisoned, sent to labour camps, reduced to the ranks, or shot. It is to the credit of the battalion that not one of the Guardsmen have made it to a high rank in the army: only knaves get up there.’
‘Are there very many Silver Heels left?’
‘There were a thousand when we were disbanded,’ Mikhailov replied. ‘I don’t know how many are left now.’
‘I suppose they’re all scattered about the country?’ said Cecil.
‘Most of them, I suppose. Every once in awhile I come across one—you can always tell a Silver Heel by his boots. We never sell our boots.’
‘I know,’ said Cecil.
‘It’s sort of a point of honour with us. It’s a symbol of the battalion and all that, you know—where we got our nickname after all. And they’re first-rate boots besides.’
‘What was the silver on the heels for in the first place?’ asked Cecil.
Mikhailov snapped to attention, bringing his heels together with a professional click.
‘That’s what they’re for,’ he said. None of the other battalions have boots like it—ours is the only one.’
‘Do you think,’ said Cecil; ‘that the other Silver Heels—any that are left—would still be loyal to the monarchy?’
‘They would,’ said Mikhailov. ‘I can vouch for any Silver Heel that he’d be loyal yet after all these years. We don’t change—and we don’t like dictators.’
‘If that’s the case, then I’ve a job for you,’ said Cecil.
‘What’s that?’ asked Mikhailov, drawing himself up to attention while his eyes gleamed with interest. ‘Shall we storm the palace and arrest Wakjavotski and his henchmen?’
‘I should like to,’ said Cecil; ‘but it’s more complicated than that.’
‘Say the word! There isn’t a Guardsman who wouldn’t come like a dog to the whistle if he heard you were here to lead us. We’ve been knocked around a good bit, but we’re tough and ready to fight.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Cecil. ‘You know what happens to people the Javotskis catch, don’t you?’
He thought of Major Erlich and he wanted to be sure he was not getting anyone into danger without his realising it.
‘Oh, never mind their silly secret police: we’re not afraid of them. We’re going to change all that,’ said Mikhailov, optimistically. ‘We’ll make so many changes in this country you won’t know it anymore.’
‘Do you really think we will?’ asked Cecil.
He gazed at Mikhailov’s face as the candle light flickered over it. It was a handsome face, with plenty of youthfullness despite the hard times it had seen. It looked like a brave, good face too, Cecil thought. Mikhailov was not like Karotski with his alternating fits of devotion and defeatism, nor like Leiber with his solid determination and cheerful endurance. The Silver Heel was a different sort of person entirely and Cecil was still trying to decide just what sort.
‘Of course we will!’ Mikhailov exclaimed, flapping his cap vigourously against his arm to dust it. ‘We’ll give Pyromania the regular go-over. Everything Wakjavotski changed we’ll change back again. We’re going to stage the grandest coup d’etat that was ever seen in history!’
He paused in his enthusiasm.
‘Aren’t we?’
‘Yes,’ said Cecil. ‘We are.’
‘Well, I thought so. That’s why you’re here, after all, isn’t it? Ho! but it’ll be fun, pitching into the Javotskis. I’ve been wanting to for a good long while—ever since they knocked us to pieces in the overthrow. We’ve an old score to settle with them, all right.’
He had grown very excited and marched up and down the room, swinging his arms. Cecil watched him and grew excited as well.
‘Your last stand, you mean,’ he said. ‘—when you defended my father against the rebels?’
‘Last stand? Pooh! We’ll show Wakjavotski we’ve fight left in us still. The last stand will be on his side, you can bet on it. We’ll run the dirty propagandists out of the city.’
‘So we shall!’ said Cecil.
‘We’ll show them a thing or two! We’re the old Guards yet! Do you know what day it is to-morrow?’
Cecil didn’t.
‘It’s the birthday of the battalion. Nobody knows who organised it or when or what for but we know what day is its birthday. We used to celebrate it every year in fine style with oysters and champagne and songs—you know the battalion song, don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Cecil.
‘Call yourself a Guardsman—even an honourary one—and don’t even know the Guards Song? Listen, I’ll sing it for you.’
He threw back his head and threw out his chest and seemed for the moment to forget entirely that he was in a rickety apartment with sleeping people in the rooms around him. For a brief moment he was back in the old Pyromania, singing for a table full of the King’s Own and his strong baritone rang out like a trumpet call.
Here is the Guards Song:
When Attila came down to waste the plain
With all his howling hordes,
Who sent him back to the hills again?
The King’s Own Royal Guards!
When Charlemagne of the Franks appeared
Who made his armies flee?
Who tweaked his nose and pulled his beard?
The Seventh Cavalry!
Chorus:
We never have run from danger;
We always have faced the foe;
Wherever it’s hot we’re on the spot
And we never have missed a show! (ho! ho!)
So here’s to the Seventh Royal Guards
And here’s to the men who are made
Of Iron and Steel and a Silver Heel
To serve in the King’s Brigade (hurrah!)
To fight for the King’s Brigade!
When Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Rome was the prize he won;
But the King’s Own Guards would have scampered on
And come back home with the sun!
Alexander cried when he had no more
Nice worlds to conquer, ‘tis true,
But we would have hunted up three or four
And conquered ‘em for him too.
2nd Chorus:
We never have run from danger;
We always have faced the foe;
Wherever it’s hot we’re on the spot
And we never have missed a show! (ho! ho!)
Then cheer for the King’s Own Royal Guards,
And cheer for the hearts that are free;
Then hip hurrah! for a lark and a row,
Cheer, boys, cheer! We’ll show them how
For the tow-row-row-row-tow-row-row
Seventh Royal Guards Cavalry!
It was a bold, boastful, robust sort of song that made you want to jump up on the table to sing it. Cecil felt when he heard it as if he wanted to go out and hit someone in the eye or make some other violent demonstration.
‘It’s bully!’ he exclaimed.
‘I used to play it on my trombone,’ said Mikhailov; ‘but I haven’t got it anymore.’
One of the other lodgers pounded on the wall just then and shouted at them to be quiet. Cecil’s and Mikhailov’s voices dropped to lower tones.
‘We’ve got to get down to business,’ said Cecil. ‘How many Silver Heels can you get?’
‘I don’t know for sure. I only know the whereabouts of a few, but they might know of others.’
‘Well how many can you get together by to-morrow night?’
‘By to-morrow night?’
‘Yes, we need them by then at the very latest.’
‘I don’t know… they’re scattered all about the country, you know. It would take more than one day, I should think.’
‘But we haven’t any more time!’ said Cecil desperately. ‘We’ve got to have them to-morrow.’
‘We can’t,’ said Mikhailov simply. ‘There’s no way to get the word out to them all by to-morrow. We have to be careful anyhow or we’ll all be arrested.’
‘I know,’ groaned Cecil.
He put his head into his hands and thought hard.
‘That song—’ he said; ‘the battalion song—if you sang that to-morrow in some public place, wouldn’t they remember what day it is and think something was afoot—a rebandment or something like that? Perhaps we could put in an extra verse or something to tell them that they’re needed, and if they knew that, I’m sure they’d come to help us. If we could only find a place where a lot of ‘em would be!’
‘We could try the unemployment office,’ said Mikhailov. ‘There’s always a long line outside it and I daresay there’d be quite a few Silver Heels there.’
‘No, I’ve got it!’ exclaimed Cecil, springing to the door. ‘It’s the very perfect idea! Come with me quickly!’
* * * * *
‘What is this place?’ asked Mikhailov, staring up at the solemn brick wall before which they stood.
‘It’s a theatre,’ said Cecil. ‘You’re going to give a performance of the Silver Heels song.’
‘How will we get in?’
‘There’s a window up there. I think I could get through it if you gave me a leg up.’
‘It might be locked.’
‘I’ve a tool that forces open windows. Boy scout motto, you know: ‘Be Prepared’. Now for the leg up.’
Getting in was not so very difficult for Cecil, but the window was too small for Mikhailov to get through.
‘Wait here,’ said Cecil. ‘I’ll go round and unlock the door.’
He stumbled about in the dark room until he found the door to the corridor. It was the same corridor he had come down only a few hours before and the floor of it was still covered with cables which tripped him up. He could not find a lightswitch anywhere and had to resort to his electric torch to find the outer door.
The door however could not be unlocked even from the inside without the key. Cecil tried for several minutes without any luck. He went back to the window and reported to Mikhailov, who was waiting in the alley.
‘What do we do then?’ asked Mikhailov.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Cecil. ‘Let me see if I can find the recording instruments.’
‘Are we going to record it? I’m not that good of a singer.’
‘You’ll have to do because I don’t know the words,’ said Cecil, his voice growing farther away as he made his way to the back of the room.
‘Got them!’ he said, appearing at the window a few minutes later. ‘Catch hold!’
A microphone came through the window and a long cord slithered after it.
‘What do I do with it?’ asked Mikhailov.
‘Wait until I get these wires connected,’ replied Cecil.
He was fumbling about inside the room where the recording equipment was, examining the instruments with the aid of his electric torch.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That ought to do the trick. All right now, sing! Sing good and loud.’
Mikhailov hesitated.
‘Are you sure it’s hooked up right?’ he asked.
‘It should be. Go ahead!’ said Cecil.
The guardsman cleared his throat and began the song with spirit. His voice sounded strange in the silent, empty alleyway and bounced off the hard walls at him as if he were singing in a very large shower cell.
‘That’s fine!’ whispered Cecil at the end of the first chorus. ‘Go on and sing the rest.’
As he spoke two dark figures appeared at the end of the alley and shone the beam of a torch down the length of it.
‘Keep singing!’ said Cecil.
The light shone full on Mikhailov, singing for all he was worth and Cecil, with his head sticking out of the window. There was a high-pitched squeal as one of the guards blew his whistle.
‘Don’t stop; I’ll hold them off,’ said Cecil.
A bevy of uniformed figures came down the alley at the run but half-way down they stopped as a sharp report echoed against the narrow walls.
‘Come on, it’s only a burst light-bulb!’ said the police-sergeant.
They came on with a vengeance. Cecil clambered out of the window to meet them and was collared by the foremost—but only for a moment, for the policeman retreated almost immediately with a shriek and a flash of blue light as Cecil electrocuted him with a frayed wire.
Mikhailov sang on in the midst of the cacophony with admirable calm. He had reached the middle of the second chorus before he was dragged bodily from the microphone by two policemen.
Then there was a regular row. Cecil and Mikhailov both did some good work in the alley that evening and accounted for five black eyes among the policemen, all told. More were arriving all the time though and the uneven fight was rapidly growing ever more lopsided.
Mikhailov fetched a policeman a good clip on the ear and sent him smashing up against the door in the wall, which burst with a loud crack.
‘Come on!’ said Cecil, catching hold of Mikhailov’s arm and pulling him through the aperture.
They stumbled down the dark back corridor, the policemen fumbling after them, and ducked into the room with the recording instruments. There were a lot of tripping and falling noises in the corridor and several of the policemen imprecated against wires in general and live wire specifically. Cecil had just time to take the record, slip it into a sleeve, and set it in lieu of the the original before the police found the door and entered. He and Mikhailov slipped through a second door, down a narrow passage, into the wings, and onto the stage.
The whole of the huge theatre was dark. The great crystal chandeliers were extinguished, the footlights were doused. Only a pale gleam shone from the exit signs above the rear doors. For a moment Cecil and Mikhailov experienced the awe of first-time performers, the next the pursuing policemen floundered out of the wings and made the worst stage entrance ever seen in that theatre.
There was a sharp scuffle in the dark and several policemen were precipitated into the orchestra pit. Then Cecil and Mikhailov escaped into the wings and dashed through a door, up a flight of steps, and onto a catwalk. They could hear, in the darkness, several policemen come onto the catwalk behind them, treading carefully so as not to trip and fall onto the stage, which was quite dangerously far below them. Cecil looked over his shoulder but could see scarcely anything. He got confused in the darkness and did not know which way he was going and the next instant set his foot down on vacuity. He felt himself plunge forward and threw out his arms, seeking for something to catch hold of.
His right arm was seized firmly, he was hauled bodily back onto the catwalk, and Mikhailov’s voice whispered in his ear, ‘That was a close shave.’
‘Thanks,’ whispered Cecil and followed Mikhailov more carefully to the end of the catwalk which descended in another flight of steps.
Here at last they were cornered. A group of the policemen had known the layout of the theatre better than Cecil and Mikhailov did and had and gone round to cut them off. They made a rush for it but it was useless against superior numbers. They were summarily handcuffed and led away to the station.
‘Never mind,’ said Cecil to Mikhailov in a low voice. ‘A man is coming to the theatre to-night for the recording. He’ll take it to the—’
‘Hi! ’nough of your lip!’ said a policeman, cuffing him.
The two conspirators spoke no more but the mutual glances they exchanged said, ‘First chance we get, we shake these blighters.’
* * * * *
‘All right, you two,’ said the police chief as he sat behind the desk at the station, examining a paper the sergeant had given him. ‘Amassed quite a list of charges between the two of you, didn’t you?’
He whistled.
‘Out after curfew; disturbing the peace; singing subversive songs; housebreaking; assaulting the police; resisting arrest; damaging private property’ (that was the microphone—Mikhailov had hit one of the policemen with it); ‘and attempting to escape. Not a pretty record, I’m afraid. You’ll get quite a few years for it.’
‘Oh, sir,’ said Cecil. ‘Please don’t put us in prison, sir.’
‘We won’t do it again,’ said Mikhailov.
‘You certainly won’t,’ said the police chief sternly. ‘We’ve got enough evidence against you to dispense with a jury, but you’ll get your court date anyhow, seeing as we’re always fair and above-board here in Pyromania. You’re going to spend to-night in the lock-up and see that you don’t pile up a few more years on your sentence with bad behaviour. Give me your names and occupations and no dallying about it.’
‘I haven’t got an occupation,’ said Cecil. ‘I’m only twelve years old.’
‘You are, are you?’ asked the chief indignantly. ‘What do your parents mean, letting you run about the streets at night? They ought to be ashamed!’
‘I don’t have any parents; I’m an orphan.’
‘In that case, what do you mean by subverting an unprotected child?’ asked the chief, confronting Mikhailov angrily. ‘Don’t you realise you’re setting him up for a life of crime by your unhealthy influence? Isn’t it bad enough that you’ve ruined your own life without having to drag this poor boy down with you? You’re old enough to know better!’
‘What, me?’ asked Mikhailov, taken by surprise.
‘I will never understand why criminals delight so in felony,’ harangued the police chief, moved in spite of himself. ‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you that we police slave to keep this country free of crime? –Day and night, winter and summer, in all weather. Don’t you care that the crime rate is increasing? I don’t understand! Where’s the fun in it?’
‘The fun in what?’ asked Mikhailov.
‘In wrecking and smashing things. Doesn’t it matter to you that people spend hours at machines making useful items? Then you criminals come along and break in—steal—vandalise—all for the sheer devilry of it.’
‘Is that why you became a policeman?’ asked Cecil in surprise.
‘There certainly isn’t any other reason to become one,’ said the chief. ‘What thanks do we ever get for all the work we do? The pay isn’t very good, the work hours are terrible, and the SO is always coming in here and telling us our business just as if they owned us.’
‘I say,’ said Cecil, interrupting him and pointing to the paper. ‘What’s that for?’
‘What?’ asked the chief. ‘These are the charges against you. If you don’t like them you can say something at the trial, but it’s no good arguing here.’
‘I mean the Javotski thingummy at the top of the page,’ said Cecil. ‘Don’t they use the state seal on documents anymore?’
‘No, not anymore,’ said the chief. ‘We had to burn all the old letterhead when Wakjavotski came to power.’
The symbol for the Javotski party was a black circle on a red ground with a black bar placed across the circle diagonally—the symbol interpreted almost universally as ‘Do Not.’ You can see it on any Javotski flag.
‘That’s too bad,’ said Cecil. ‘The state seal is nicer and looks a lot more prestigious.’
‘Yes, it was a bit more colourful,’ admitted the chief. ‘That’s all part of the old regime, though—it was the king’s family crest.’
‘I still like it better,’ said Cecil.
‘You probably don’t even know what it looks like,’ scoffed the chief (he hadn’t yet figured out who Cecil was). ‘That was before your time, I should think.’
‘I know what it looks like,’ protested Cecil. ‘I can tell you the blazon: Gules, a bordure Or, a lion rampant Argent tongued Sable, all topped with an eagle displayed Or, a mantle covering all Gules bordered Or tied up with braid with tassels Or lined ermine, topped with a pavilion with eight tassels Sable interspersed with seven fleur-de-lys Or, and crowned with a royal crown Or. Below a banner Gules with fess Argent with the motto: Semper Idem Sable.’
(You will recall that Cecil was fond of Heraldry.) Here is what the Montellescue crest and state seal of Pyromania looks like.
The man seemed to have some trouble opening the door but he got it open at last after turning the key back and forth several times, vociferating against the stubborness of the lock, and finally delivering a series of violent blows to the rotten wood with his foot.
‘There!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but I’ll turn on the light—no there’s no electricity, that’s right—well, light a candle, then, and then we can talk.’
Cecil followed him in. A faint light from the street lamp came in through the blind-less windows, but not much could be discerned in the semi-obscurity until the man had lighted a candle. Even then Cecil did not see much because there was not much to be seen. The little room was bare except for a bed made up on the floor, the candle, a shaving glass hung on the wall, and a lot of dirt collected in one corner.
The man saw Cecil’s glance resting on the dirt and hastened to explain.
‘I borrow a broom from the family downstairs to sweep up each morning, but they haven’t a dustpan so I just sweep it into the corner.’
He seemed rather embarrassed about it so Cecil changed the subject.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Eugensz Mikhailov. What’s yours?’
‘Cecil Montellescue. How long have you been out of the army?’
‘Ever since Wakjavotski came to power. The Guards were disbanded then.’
‘I know,’ said Cecil, walking around the bare room to examine it closer. ‘Well, what did you do after that?’
‘I tried to get a job but it wasn’t so easy. First I was a clerk in a goods store, but that didn’t suit me so I went to sea on an oil tanker, but I didn’t like the sea so I came back and tried my hand at journalism, but I couldn’t make it pay so I got a job in a factory. I hated it, but I stuck to it until two months ago when the economy went down again and they turned me out. I don’t know where I’ll go next.’
‘How do you manage to live in the meantime?’ asked Cecil.
‘Oh, I get by. First I sold my chairs and ate standing up, then I sold my table and ate sitting on the bed. Then I sold the bed. I haven’t had electricity for over a week because I haven’t paid the electric bill—there it is hanging on the doorknob; it won’t be paid for a while, I guess. I have to be out of this apartment by morning because the rent’s due then and I haven’t got it. I only had a few coppers left this evening and they weren’t enough for the rent, so I went down to the bar to get a drink with them. But I didn’t have enough to get drunk on so here I am sober and with no money and that’s a bad place to be.’
Cecil looked around the little room and saw that the guardsman had not forgotten his military discipline. The floor certainly corroborated his story of being swept regularly, the one window was free of dirt, and the bed, though only made up of one blanket, was neatly made. Mikhailov himself was equally presentable. His clothes, although shabby, were brushed and mended and Cecil could see that, if he had spent the last of his money on a drink, he had spent what little he had had before that on a shave and a haircut. It was the sign of a gentleman to think about his appearance first and his stomach afterwards.
‘But what became of your inheritance?’ asked Cecil. ‘All the Guardsmen came from the aristocracy.’
‘There is no aristocracy anymore,’ said Mikhailov. ‘Wakjavotski abolished all the titles and redistributed all the wealth. Anyway, I’m a younger son and didn’t have much to begin with. My poor brother lost everything.’
‘I suppose all the other Silver Heels are as badly off as you?’ inquired Cecil.
‘Lots of them,’ said Mikhailov. ‘Most of them are vagabonds looking for work and barely managing to scrape by. Some went into other branches of the armed forces but most of them that did were imprisoned, sent to labour camps, reduced to the ranks, or shot. It is to the credit of the battalion that not one of the Guardsmen have made it to a high rank in the army: only knaves get up there.’
‘Are there very many Silver Heels left?’
‘There were a thousand when we were disbanded,’ Mikhailov replied. ‘I don’t know how many are left now.’
‘I suppose they’re all scattered about the country?’ said Cecil.
‘Most of them, I suppose. Every once in awhile I come across one—you can always tell a Silver Heel by his boots. We never sell our boots.’
‘I know,’ said Cecil.
‘It’s sort of a point of honour with us. It’s a symbol of the battalion and all that, you know—where we got our nickname after all. And they’re first-rate boots besides.’
‘What was the silver on the heels for in the first place?’ asked Cecil.
Mikhailov snapped to attention, bringing his heels together with a professional click.
‘That’s what they’re for,’ he said. None of the other battalions have boots like it—ours is the only one.’
‘Do you think,’ said Cecil; ‘that the other Silver Heels—any that are left—would still be loyal to the monarchy?’
‘They would,’ said Mikhailov. ‘I can vouch for any Silver Heel that he’d be loyal yet after all these years. We don’t change—and we don’t like dictators.’
‘If that’s the case, then I’ve a job for you,’ said Cecil.
‘What’s that?’ asked Mikhailov, drawing himself up to attention while his eyes gleamed with interest. ‘Shall we storm the palace and arrest Wakjavotski and his henchmen?’
‘I should like to,’ said Cecil; ‘but it’s more complicated than that.’
‘Say the word! There isn’t a Guardsman who wouldn’t come like a dog to the whistle if he heard you were here to lead us. We’ve been knocked around a good bit, but we’re tough and ready to fight.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Cecil. ‘You know what happens to people the Javotskis catch, don’t you?’
He thought of Major Erlich and he wanted to be sure he was not getting anyone into danger without his realising it.
‘Oh, never mind their silly secret police: we’re not afraid of them. We’re going to change all that,’ said Mikhailov, optimistically. ‘We’ll make so many changes in this country you won’t know it anymore.’
‘Do you really think we will?’ asked Cecil.
He gazed at Mikhailov’s face as the candle light flickered over it. It was a handsome face, with plenty of youthfullness despite the hard times it had seen. It looked like a brave, good face too, Cecil thought. Mikhailov was not like Karotski with his alternating fits of devotion and defeatism, nor like Leiber with his solid determination and cheerful endurance. The Silver Heel was a different sort of person entirely and Cecil was still trying to decide just what sort.
‘Of course we will!’ Mikhailov exclaimed, flapping his cap vigourously against his arm to dust it. ‘We’ll give Pyromania the regular go-over. Everything Wakjavotski changed we’ll change back again. We’re going to stage the grandest coup d’etat that was ever seen in history!’
He paused in his enthusiasm.
‘Aren’t we?’
‘Yes,’ said Cecil. ‘We are.’
‘Well, I thought so. That’s why you’re here, after all, isn’t it? Ho! but it’ll be fun, pitching into the Javotskis. I’ve been wanting to for a good long while—ever since they knocked us to pieces in the overthrow. We’ve an old score to settle with them, all right.’
He had grown very excited and marched up and down the room, swinging his arms. Cecil watched him and grew excited as well.
‘Your last stand, you mean,’ he said. ‘—when you defended my father against the rebels?’
‘Last stand? Pooh! We’ll show Wakjavotski we’ve fight left in us still. The last stand will be on his side, you can bet on it. We’ll run the dirty propagandists out of the city.’
‘So we shall!’ said Cecil.
‘We’ll show them a thing or two! We’re the old Guards yet! Do you know what day it is to-morrow?’
Cecil didn’t.
‘It’s the birthday of the battalion. Nobody knows who organised it or when or what for but we know what day is its birthday. We used to celebrate it every year in fine style with oysters and champagne and songs—you know the battalion song, don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Cecil.
‘Call yourself a Guardsman—even an honourary one—and don’t even know the Guards Song? Listen, I’ll sing it for you.’
He threw back his head and threw out his chest and seemed for the moment to forget entirely that he was in a rickety apartment with sleeping people in the rooms around him. For a brief moment he was back in the old Pyromania, singing for a table full of the King’s Own and his strong baritone rang out like a trumpet call.
Here is the Guards Song:
When Attila came down to waste the plain
With all his howling hordes,
Who sent him back to the hills again?
The King’s Own Royal Guards!
When Charlemagne of the Franks appeared
Who made his armies flee?
Who tweaked his nose and pulled his beard?
The Seventh Cavalry!
Chorus:
We never have run from danger;
We always have faced the foe;
Wherever it’s hot we’re on the spot
And we never have missed a show! (ho! ho!)
So here’s to the Seventh Royal Guards
And here’s to the men who are made
Of Iron and Steel and a Silver Heel
To serve in the King’s Brigade (hurrah!)
To fight for the King’s Brigade!
When Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Rome was the prize he won;
But the King’s Own Guards would have scampered on
And come back home with the sun!
Alexander cried when he had no more
Nice worlds to conquer, ‘tis true,
But we would have hunted up three or four
And conquered ‘em for him too.
2nd Chorus:
We never have run from danger;
We always have faced the foe;
Wherever it’s hot we’re on the spot
And we never have missed a show! (ho! ho!)
Then cheer for the King’s Own Royal Guards,
And cheer for the hearts that are free;
Then hip hurrah! for a lark and a row,
Cheer, boys, cheer! We’ll show them how
For the tow-row-row-row-tow-row-row
Seventh Royal Guards Cavalry!
It was a bold, boastful, robust sort of song that made you want to jump up on the table to sing it. Cecil felt when he heard it as if he wanted to go out and hit someone in the eye or make some other violent demonstration.
‘It’s bully!’ he exclaimed.
‘I used to play it on my trombone,’ said Mikhailov; ‘but I haven’t got it anymore.’
One of the other lodgers pounded on the wall just then and shouted at them to be quiet. Cecil’s and Mikhailov’s voices dropped to lower tones.
‘We’ve got to get down to business,’ said Cecil. ‘How many Silver Heels can you get?’
‘I don’t know for sure. I only know the whereabouts of a few, but they might know of others.’
‘Well how many can you get together by to-morrow night?’
‘By to-morrow night?’
‘Yes, we need them by then at the very latest.’
‘I don’t know… they’re scattered all about the country, you know. It would take more than one day, I should think.’
‘But we haven’t any more time!’ said Cecil desperately. ‘We’ve got to have them to-morrow.’
‘We can’t,’ said Mikhailov simply. ‘There’s no way to get the word out to them all by to-morrow. We have to be careful anyhow or we’ll all be arrested.’
‘I know,’ groaned Cecil.
He put his head into his hands and thought hard.
‘That song—’ he said; ‘the battalion song—if you sang that to-morrow in some public place, wouldn’t they remember what day it is and think something was afoot—a rebandment or something like that? Perhaps we could put in an extra verse or something to tell them that they’re needed, and if they knew that, I’m sure they’d come to help us. If we could only find a place where a lot of ‘em would be!’
‘We could try the unemployment office,’ said Mikhailov. ‘There’s always a long line outside it and I daresay there’d be quite a few Silver Heels there.’
‘No, I’ve got it!’ exclaimed Cecil, springing to the door. ‘It’s the very perfect idea! Come with me quickly!’
* * * * *
‘What is this place?’ asked Mikhailov, staring up at the solemn brick wall before which they stood.
‘It’s a theatre,’ said Cecil. ‘You’re going to give a performance of the Silver Heels song.’
‘How will we get in?’
‘There’s a window up there. I think I could get through it if you gave me a leg up.’
‘It might be locked.’
‘I’ve a tool that forces open windows. Boy scout motto, you know: ‘Be Prepared’. Now for the leg up.’
Getting in was not so very difficult for Cecil, but the window was too small for Mikhailov to get through.
‘Wait here,’ said Cecil. ‘I’ll go round and unlock the door.’
He stumbled about in the dark room until he found the door to the corridor. It was the same corridor he had come down only a few hours before and the floor of it was still covered with cables which tripped him up. He could not find a lightswitch anywhere and had to resort to his electric torch to find the outer door.
The door however could not be unlocked even from the inside without the key. Cecil tried for several minutes without any luck. He went back to the window and reported to Mikhailov, who was waiting in the alley.
‘What do we do then?’ asked Mikhailov.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Cecil. ‘Let me see if I can find the recording instruments.’
‘Are we going to record it? I’m not that good of a singer.’
‘You’ll have to do because I don’t know the words,’ said Cecil, his voice growing farther away as he made his way to the back of the room.
‘Got them!’ he said, appearing at the window a few minutes later. ‘Catch hold!’
A microphone came through the window and a long cord slithered after it.
‘What do I do with it?’ asked Mikhailov.
‘Wait until I get these wires connected,’ replied Cecil.
He was fumbling about inside the room where the recording equipment was, examining the instruments with the aid of his electric torch.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That ought to do the trick. All right now, sing! Sing good and loud.’
Mikhailov hesitated.
‘Are you sure it’s hooked up right?’ he asked.
‘It should be. Go ahead!’ said Cecil.
The guardsman cleared his throat and began the song with spirit. His voice sounded strange in the silent, empty alleyway and bounced off the hard walls at him as if he were singing in a very large shower cell.
‘That’s fine!’ whispered Cecil at the end of the first chorus. ‘Go on and sing the rest.’
As he spoke two dark figures appeared at the end of the alley and shone the beam of a torch down the length of it.
‘Keep singing!’ said Cecil.
The light shone full on Mikhailov, singing for all he was worth and Cecil, with his head sticking out of the window. There was a high-pitched squeal as one of the guards blew his whistle.
‘Don’t stop; I’ll hold them off,’ said Cecil.
A bevy of uniformed figures came down the alley at the run but half-way down they stopped as a sharp report echoed against the narrow walls.
‘Come on, it’s only a burst light-bulb!’ said the police-sergeant.
They came on with a vengeance. Cecil clambered out of the window to meet them and was collared by the foremost—but only for a moment, for the policeman retreated almost immediately with a shriek and a flash of blue light as Cecil electrocuted him with a frayed wire.
Mikhailov sang on in the midst of the cacophony with admirable calm. He had reached the middle of the second chorus before he was dragged bodily from the microphone by two policemen.
Then there was a regular row. Cecil and Mikhailov both did some good work in the alley that evening and accounted for five black eyes among the policemen, all told. More were arriving all the time though and the uneven fight was rapidly growing ever more lopsided.
Mikhailov fetched a policeman a good clip on the ear and sent him smashing up against the door in the wall, which burst with a loud crack.
‘Come on!’ said Cecil, catching hold of Mikhailov’s arm and pulling him through the aperture.
They stumbled down the dark back corridor, the policemen fumbling after them, and ducked into the room with the recording instruments. There were a lot of tripping and falling noises in the corridor and several of the policemen imprecated against wires in general and live wire specifically. Cecil had just time to take the record, slip it into a sleeve, and set it in lieu of the the original before the police found the door and entered. He and Mikhailov slipped through a second door, down a narrow passage, into the wings, and onto the stage.
The whole of the huge theatre was dark. The great crystal chandeliers were extinguished, the footlights were doused. Only a pale gleam shone from the exit signs above the rear doors. For a moment Cecil and Mikhailov experienced the awe of first-time performers, the next the pursuing policemen floundered out of the wings and made the worst stage entrance ever seen in that theatre.
There was a sharp scuffle in the dark and several policemen were precipitated into the orchestra pit. Then Cecil and Mikhailov escaped into the wings and dashed through a door, up a flight of steps, and onto a catwalk. They could hear, in the darkness, several policemen come onto the catwalk behind them, treading carefully so as not to trip and fall onto the stage, which was quite dangerously far below them. Cecil looked over his shoulder but could see scarcely anything. He got confused in the darkness and did not know which way he was going and the next instant set his foot down on vacuity. He felt himself plunge forward and threw out his arms, seeking for something to catch hold of.
His right arm was seized firmly, he was hauled bodily back onto the catwalk, and Mikhailov’s voice whispered in his ear, ‘That was a close shave.’
‘Thanks,’ whispered Cecil and followed Mikhailov more carefully to the end of the catwalk which descended in another flight of steps.
Here at last they were cornered. A group of the policemen had known the layout of the theatre better than Cecil and Mikhailov did and had and gone round to cut them off. They made a rush for it but it was useless against superior numbers. They were summarily handcuffed and led away to the station.
‘Never mind,’ said Cecil to Mikhailov in a low voice. ‘A man is coming to the theatre to-night for the recording. He’ll take it to the—’
‘Hi! ’nough of your lip!’ said a policeman, cuffing him.
The two conspirators spoke no more but the mutual glances they exchanged said, ‘First chance we get, we shake these blighters.’
* * * * *
‘All right, you two,’ said the police chief as he sat behind the desk at the station, examining a paper the sergeant had given him. ‘Amassed quite a list of charges between the two of you, didn’t you?’
He whistled.
‘Out after curfew; disturbing the peace; singing subversive songs; housebreaking; assaulting the police; resisting arrest; damaging private property’ (that was the microphone—Mikhailov had hit one of the policemen with it); ‘and attempting to escape. Not a pretty record, I’m afraid. You’ll get quite a few years for it.’
‘Oh, sir,’ said Cecil. ‘Please don’t put us in prison, sir.’
‘We won’t do it again,’ said Mikhailov.
‘You certainly won’t,’ said the police chief sternly. ‘We’ve got enough evidence against you to dispense with a jury, but you’ll get your court date anyhow, seeing as we’re always fair and above-board here in Pyromania. You’re going to spend to-night in the lock-up and see that you don’t pile up a few more years on your sentence with bad behaviour. Give me your names and occupations and no dallying about it.’
‘I haven’t got an occupation,’ said Cecil. ‘I’m only twelve years old.’
‘You are, are you?’ asked the chief indignantly. ‘What do your parents mean, letting you run about the streets at night? They ought to be ashamed!’
‘I don’t have any parents; I’m an orphan.’
‘In that case, what do you mean by subverting an unprotected child?’ asked the chief, confronting Mikhailov angrily. ‘Don’t you realise you’re setting him up for a life of crime by your unhealthy influence? Isn’t it bad enough that you’ve ruined your own life without having to drag this poor boy down with you? You’re old enough to know better!’
‘What, me?’ asked Mikhailov, taken by surprise.
‘I will never understand why criminals delight so in felony,’ harangued the police chief, moved in spite of himself. ‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you that we police slave to keep this country free of crime? –Day and night, winter and summer, in all weather. Don’t you care that the crime rate is increasing? I don’t understand! Where’s the fun in it?’
‘The fun in what?’ asked Mikhailov.
‘In wrecking and smashing things. Doesn’t it matter to you that people spend hours at machines making useful items? Then you criminals come along and break in—steal—vandalise—all for the sheer devilry of it.’
‘Is that why you became a policeman?’ asked Cecil in surprise.
‘There certainly isn’t any other reason to become one,’ said the chief. ‘What thanks do we ever get for all the work we do? The pay isn’t very good, the work hours are terrible, and the SO is always coming in here and telling us our business just as if they owned us.’
‘I say,’ said Cecil, interrupting him and pointing to the paper. ‘What’s that for?’
‘What?’ asked the chief. ‘These are the charges against you. If you don’t like them you can say something at the trial, but it’s no good arguing here.’
‘I mean the Javotski thingummy at the top of the page,’ said Cecil. ‘Don’t they use the state seal on documents anymore?’
‘No, not anymore,’ said the chief. ‘We had to burn all the old letterhead when Wakjavotski came to power.’
The symbol for the Javotski party was a black circle on a red ground with a black bar placed across the circle diagonally—the symbol interpreted almost universally as ‘Do Not.’ You can see it on any Javotski flag.
‘That’s too bad,’ said Cecil. ‘The state seal is nicer and looks a lot more prestigious.’
‘Yes, it was a bit more colourful,’ admitted the chief. ‘That’s all part of the old regime, though—it was the king’s family crest.’
‘I still like it better,’ said Cecil.
‘You probably don’t even know what it looks like,’ scoffed the chief (he hadn’t yet figured out who Cecil was). ‘That was before your time, I should think.’
‘I know what it looks like,’ protested Cecil. ‘I can tell you the blazon: Gules, a bordure Or, a lion rampant Argent tongued Sable, all topped with an eagle displayed Or, a mantle covering all Gules bordered Or tied up with braid with tassels Or lined ermine, topped with a pavilion with eight tassels Sable interspersed with seven fleur-de-lys Or, and crowned with a royal crown Or. Below a banner Gules with fess Argent with the motto: Semper Idem Sable.’
(You will recall that Cecil was fond of Heraldry.) Here is what the Montellescue crest and state seal of Pyromania looks like.
‘You must have read that somewhere,’ said the chief.‘It’s just the way of saying how it looks,’ said Cecil. ‘It’s easy to understand if you know what the terms mean.’
‘Yes, well; enough of all that,’ said the chief. ‘You’re wasting valuable time. Look here, I hate to have to put you in the clink at your age, but don’t you see I haven’t got any other choice? It will only be for one night.’
As he was speaking the outer door opened and several figures with familiar black uniforms entered the office.
‘Just a minute, Bubol,’ said the foremost of these to the police chief. ‘We’ll take control of the prisoners.’
At a signal from him, two of the SO officers presented pistols at Cecil and Mikhailov and motioned them towards the door.
‘Now see here,’ said the police chief, getting to his feet protestingly. ‘These prisoners were picked up by my force and they’re my responsibility. You can’t just come in here and carry them off.’
‘Take it up with the Superior!’ said the head SO officer.
‘I will!’ said the police chief firmly. ‘I’m tired of your high-and-mighty ways. You think you can just walk in here and do whatever you like. Well, this is my office and these are my prisoners. I won’t sign a release form.’
‘You don’t have to,’ said the SO officer. ‘You’re under arrest, former police chief Bubol. Don’t try to leave this building. Prisoners, march!’
And the whole bevy of them left the office as abruptly as they had entered it, leaving the police chief stunned at his desk.
It had all been done so fast that Cecil’s mind had barely been able to keep up. His heart sank as they were marched out. The police chief had at least been a principled person and Cecil might have been able to do something with him, but now that they were in the hands of the SO there was no hope for them.
He and Mikhailov were deposited into a black SO car and the steel shuttered doors closed upon them. They had no chance to speak to each other without being overheard because only a barred partition separated them from the front of the car. One of the three SO officers leaned over the back of the front seat and covered them with a pistol through the bars while the second talked with the third who was driving. Several more followed in a separate car, so the prisoners were very well-guarded.
The black automobiles wound down the streets far above the speed limits, impervious to the laws of their country. Cecil scarcely noticed where he was being taken: he was trying too hard to think of a way to escape. Things were looking the darkest they had yet—but he knew that he must get away. Everything depended on him now.
He was so intent on his problem that he did not look up until his eyes were half blinded by the glare of a search light. Then he blinked and squinted through the windshield at the place they were entering. It was a wide enclosure bounded by a high wire fence. At intervals along the fence stood sentry towers equipped with spotlights. The car was approaching a squared concrete building that bore on its front the symbol of the SO, for this was their headquarters and the place where all high-priority political prisoners were interned. None of them ever came back out.
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