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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Great War in England in 1897," William Le Queux crafts a gripping narrative that intertwines elements of speculative fiction and political thriller. Set against the backdrop of an imagined conflict where England faces invasion, the novel explores themes of nationalism, imperial ambition, and societal fragility. Le Queux employs a vivid literary style punctuated by dramatic dialogue and meticulous attention to detail, effectively creating a palpable tension that reflects the anxieties of the Victorian era. This work resonates within the context of late-19th-century fears surrounding foreign threats and the decline of British hegemony, foreshadowing the tumultuous realities that would unfold in the 20th century. Le Queux, an author and journalist with a keen interest in espionage and military affairs, was deeply influenced by the geopolitical climate of his time. His extensive travels across Europe and reporting on various conflicts informed his understanding of tensions between nations, which he adeptly translates into his fiction. This background not only enriches the narrative of "The Great War in England in 1897" but also positions Le Queux as a prescient commentator on the rising tide of global conflict. Readers who appreciate historical fiction interwoven with elements of speculative narrative will find "The Great War in England in 1897" an engrossing exploration of fear and resilience. It serves not only as a thrilling story but also as a reflective lens on the socio-political landscape of its era, making it essential reading for anyone fascinated by the interplay of fiction and history. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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The Great War in England in 1897
Table of Contents
Introduction
A near-future Britain faces a sudden, coordinated invasion that forces a reckoning with complacency, technology, and national resolve. William Le Queux’s The Great War in England in 1897 imagines a crisis designed to test the institutions, infrastructure, and spirit of a global empire. It frames the nation as both a military power and a vulnerable system of cities, ports, and railways. The narrative turns everyday life into a potential frontline, asking what happens when war arrives not on distant frontiers but at the heart of the metropole. The result is a tale pitched between prophecy and alarm, urgency and analysis.
This book belongs to the late-Victorian current of invasion-scare or future-war fiction, a genre that speculated about near-term conflict using contemporary technologies and geopolitics. Set primarily in Britain and envisioned to unfold in 1897, it was first published in the 1890s, when fears about shifting continental alliances and naval supremacy were widely discussed. Le Queux, a journalist and popular novelist, wrote with an eye to public debate as much as to entertainment. The scenario offers readers a recognizable landscape—London’s streets, coastal defenses, key transport routes—reimagined under stress. The combination of immediacy and plausibility was central to its appeal and controversy.
The premise is straightforward and bracing: a European coalition launches an unexpected strike against the United Kingdom, forcing rapid mobilization, improvised defenses, and urgent decisions by civilian and military authorities. Battles on land and at sea, disruptions to communication, and the pressure on urban life form the canvas. Le Queux presents events in a brisk, reportorial manner that simulates dispatches from a national emergency. Readers encounter the scale of modern logistics and the friction of war without being led into detailed outcomes beyond the early stages. The experience is one of immersion—strategic overview intercut with street-level tension and institutional strain.
Themes of preparedness and complacency dominate, as the novel tests the difference between perceived and actual readiness. It probes the fragility of networks—transport, supply, and information—that sustain a complex society, showing how they become conduits of strength or panic. Patriotism functions both as motivation and as a question: how is civic duty organized when danger is immediate and diffuse? The work also considers leadership under uncertainty, contrasting deliberation with haste, central command with local initiative. Through these pressures, it illuminates the moral and practical choices that define collective security, without reducing them to easy answers or guaranteeing success.
Stylistically, the book blends popular storytelling with a quasi-documentary voice. Its pacing is urgent, with short scenes and concise transitions that evoke headlines, briefings, and eyewitness accounts. Le Queux’s journalistic instincts privilege clear geography, operational detail, and the rhythm of evolving crises. The tone is serious and insistent rather than ironic, aiming to persuade as much as to thrill. Readers encounter a mood of looming consequence punctuated by tactical shocks. The language favors clarity over ornament, and the emphasis on process—movement of forces, flow of information, response by institutions—gives the narrative a procedural tension that feels modern.
Context matters: late nineteenth-century Britain wrestled with questions of naval investment, coastal defense, and the strategic implications of continental power blocs. Future-war fiction had become a forum for public argument, dramatizing potential vulnerabilities while showcasing proposed remedies. The Great War in England in 1897 participates in that conversation, channeling policy debates into narrative form. By choosing a near date and familiar settings, it narrows the distance between reader and scenario, encouraging practical reflection rather than abstract contemplation. The book exemplifies how popular literature can engage with national anxieties, translating white papers and editorials into scenes that invite imagining consequences.
For contemporary readers, the novel offers a historically grounded lens on issues that remain timely: resilience of critical infrastructure, civilian experience in wartime, the interplay of information and fear, and the ethics of preparedness. Its speculative method—taking present-day systems and pushing them to breaking point—anticipates later techno-thrillers and strategic fiction. It invites questions rather than prescribing doctrine, asking how open societies balance liberty, vigilance, and coordination. As an early example of mass-market security imagination, The Great War in England in 1897 illustrates literature’s capacity to test assumptions and to focus public attention where it most often wanders: the unexamined everyday.
Synopsis
Set in the late Victorian era, The Great War in England in 1897 imagines a modern war suddenly confronting a prosperous and confident Britain. The narrative opens with hints of diplomatic friction abroad and complacency at home, as debates over defense expenditure and volunteer forces play in Parliament and the press. Through the viewpoint of a vigilant journalist and figures in government and the services, rumors of foreign naval preparations and covert reconnaissance accumulate. Telegraph offices hum, coastal towns notice unfamiliar vessels, and military experts sound alarms. The stage is set for a test of national organization, highlighting strengths and vulnerabilities before the first shot.
When the crisis breaks, events move quickly. A combined enemy coalition declares hostilities following a diplomatic rupture, and Britain’s mobilization begins at once. Newspapers post extras, troop trains roll from depots, and the Admiralty concentrates squadrons to guard home waters and trade routes. Early encounters at sea reveal the lethality of torpedoes, mines, and night actions, complicating traditional fleet doctrine. Signals flash along the coast as scouts sight hostile cruisers and transports. Coastal forts and volunteer artillery are put on alert while the government issues emergency powers. The book’s documentary tone emphasizes orders of battle, timetables, and communiqués rather than individual heroics.
Despite efforts to contest the approaches, enemy landings take place on vulnerable stretches of the south and east coasts, aiming to seize rail junctions and ports. The Home Army concentrates, reservists are called in, and local yeomanry and rifle clubs augment the line. Railway stations fill with evacuees as well as ammunition and stores. Towns adopt blackouts, bridges are prepared for demolition, and telegraph censorship tightens. In London, ministries establish a War Council, arrange depots, and organize civil defense. The opening clashes are depicted as confused and costly, with fog, night, and misreported positions shaping outcomes more than grand gestures or speeches.
Le Queux builds momentum by intercutting perspectives. A correspondent travels with columns on the move, filing dispatches that list units, routes, and supplies. Naval officers describe convoy screens and patrol lines, while engineers detail signal stations, entrenchments, and telegraph repairs. At the same time, a family in the capital endures alarms, queues, and rumors, offering a civilian measure of the war’s strain. Medical services expand field hospitals and ambulance trains. Bicycle scouts and horse messengers hurry between commands. These vignettes maintain a factual tone, turning the invasion into a ledger of resources and decisions, and showing how coordination becomes the decisive resource.
As pressure mounts, the defense of the approaches to London becomes the organizing problem. Lines are drawn along river crossings and ridges, and railheads feed entrenched camps. Commanders seek to cut the invaders’ communications, isolate beachheads, and regain control of junctions. Intelligence and counterintelligence operate in the shadows, with codebooks, false orders, and decoys appearing at critical moments. At sea, dispositions are revised, new torpedo craft and picket boats thicken screens, and attention turns to choke points and tide tables. The narrative balances maps and orders with glimpses of uncertainty, stressing how plans depend on timing, weather, and reliable reports.
The international dimension steadily expands. Continental calculations shift as rivalries give way to expediency, and Britain gains unexpected support from powers wary of the coalition arrayed against it. Alliances are renegotiated with urgency, opening the way to combined operations and intelligence sharing. Theatres beyond the Channel matter: the North Sea, the Mediterranean, and imperial routes become arenas where commerce, coal, and cables are contested. Colonial garrisons release units, and merchant fleets face blockade and protection. The book follows these developments through official notes and embassy conversations, treating diplomacy as another front whose outcomes alter the tempo and direction of the campaign.
Life inside the capital acquires a wartime rhythm. The authorities impose curfews, regulate prices, and manage rations, while committees organize relief and employment for displaced populations. Searchlights, signal posts, and ambulances mark the streets at night. Banks, museums, and archives take precautions, and rail termini operate under strict schedules for troops and supplies. The Crown and ministers issue proclamations aimed at steadiness and endurance. Newspapers, now under tighter guidance, balance caution with the need to inform. The tone remains procedural rather than sentimental, showing how administration, policing, and public cooperation sustain resilience as batteries and observation posts monitor approaches toward the city.
As the campaign reaches its height, the narrative concentrates on decisive operations planned to break the stalemate. Coordinated attacks and feints attempt to draw the invaders off balance while naval thrusts seek command of critical waters. Weather, fog, and tide complicate signals and schedules, and misdirection plays a role in shaping perceptions on both sides. The action shifts quickly between map rooms and forward positions, underscoring how information determines options. Units are committed, reserves moved, and communications strained. Without detailing outcomes, the book arranges these scenes to convey the scale and risk of the turning point, with reputations and cities at stake.
The closing chapters summarize the consequences of the struggle at home and abroad and reflect on the adjustments it forces upon Britain and Europe. The narrative returns to its central argument: modern security depends on preparedness, coherent command, and reliable alliances, not on sentiment or tradition alone. By presenting the war as a chain of administrative decisions, logistics, and communications, the book frames patriotism as coordinated effort. It ends by surveying a reordered diplomatic landscape and the demands of reconstruction, while avoiding triumphalism. The overall message is cautionary and practical, urging vigilance and investment so that future alarms can be met without surprise.
Historical Context
Set in late-Victorian Britain, The Great War in England in 1897 imagines conflict at the zenith of Queen Victoria’s reign. London functions as the imperial nerve center, linked by submarine telegraph to Canada, India, Australasia, and Africa, while dense railways knit the home islands. Politically, Lord Salisbury’s governments favored “splendid isolation,” avoiding binding European alliances and relying on sea power to deter threats. Industrial prowess and naval supremacy—formalized by the Naval Defence Act of 1889—shaped both strategy and popular confidence. Le Queux situates danger along the Thames estuary, the Channel coast, and the Home Counties, where suburbs, arsenals, and ports such as Portsmouth, Dover, and Harwich would absorb the first shock of invasion.
Between 1891 and 1894 France and Russia forged a formal alliance, after public demonstrations like the French fleet’s visit to Kronstadt (1891) and the Russian fleet’s to Toulon (1893). The 1892 military convention, ratified in 1894, aligned Paris and St Petersburg against Germany and, indirectly, Britain’s maritime interests. French revanchism after 1871 and Russia’s desire for Western support created a formidable coalition. British observers feared combined naval moves in the Channel and the North Sea. Le Queux turns this geopolitical reality into narrative engine: French armies and a Russian fleet mount a coordinated assault on Britain, their alliance explaining simultaneous threats to ports and shipping lanes.
The balance-of-power crisis of the early 1890s shaped the book most profoundly. Otto von Bismarck’s dismissal in 1890 and the lapse of the Reinsurance Treaty loosened the continental equilibrium, enabling the Franco-Russian Alliance (1891–94). Britain, under the 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, clung to “splendid isolation,” hedging with limited understandings but no formal treaties. The Heligoland–Zanzibar Treaty (1890) with Germany, which exchanged Heligoland for African concessions, reflected pragmatic calculation: London sought secure North Sea approaches while avoiding commitments. Naval planners watched French base development at Cherbourg and Brest and Russian Baltic capabilities, especially as the Kronstadt (1891) and Toulon (1893) naval visits signaled operational intimacy. In 1896, Nicholas II’s visit to France dramatized that alignment further, and British diplomats gauged the possibility that Berlin, wary of encirclement, might tilt toward London to balance Paris and St Petersburg. Le Queux extrapolates from precisely this matrix: Germany appears as a potential British partner of convenience, while the Franco-Russian bloc becomes the proximate invader. His chosen year, 1897, sits at the intersection of imperial pageantry—Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee—and strategic anxiety, when British power was most visible yet politically hedged. The press amplified debates over home defense, conscription, and coastal readiness; parliamentary majorities still rejected continental-style mass armies, assuming the Royal Navy could interdict any foe. By dramatizing surprise landings, rapid rail-borne mobilization, and contested command in the Home Counties, the novel operationalizes late-Victorian worries about how “isolation” might fare against a formal coalition. The scenario mirrors contemporary War Office appreciations that multiple threats could materialize simultaneously, that concentration on a distant “blue-water” cordon might fail under fog, tide, and torpedo, and that diplomatic ambiguity could force Britain to fight before alliances could be fashioned.
Naval policy after the Naval Defence Act of 1889 mandated a “two-power standard,” aiming to equal the next two navies combined. This produced Royal Sovereign-class battleships (laid down 1889–1891), powerful cruisers like the Blake class (from 1889), and, critically, torpedo-boat destroyers such as HMS Havock (1893) to counter the torpedo threat. Coastal defenses guarded Spithead, the Thames, and Dover, while Harwich, Chatham, and Portsmouth supported rapid sorties. French “Jeune École” thinking emphasized torpedo craft and commerce raiding, heightening British anxiety. Le Queux stages night attacks, torpedo craft surprises, and strained patrol lines, mapping technical debates over pre-dreadnought tactics directly onto fictional engagements near the Channel and the Thames.
The Great Game with Russia framed British strategy from the 1870s through the 1890s. The Panjdeh Incident (March 1885) on the Afghan frontier, and Russia’s construction of the Trans-Caspian Railway (1881–1888), suggested Moscow could mass troops toward India. Boundary settlements in the Pamirs in 1895 eased, but did not end, suspicion. British planners feared that a Franco-Russian maritime threat might coincide with pressure on India or the Eastern Mediterranean. Le Queux channels this anxiety by portraying Russian naval reach into the North Sea while hinting at Britain’s imperial overextension. The imagined simultaneity of threats reflects contemporary fears that the empire’s communications and manpower could be split fatally.
Anglo-French rivalry in the era of the Scramble for Africa compounded Channel tensions. Britain’s occupation of Egypt in 1882 to secure the Suez Canal antagonized French opinion; competing claims on the Niger and in the Upper Nile persisted through the 1890s and would culminate in the Fashoda crisis (1898). French investment in Cherbourg’s arsenal and torpedo flotillas, guided by Admirals Aube and later Courbet’s legacy, aimed to offset Britain’s battlefleet. Le Queux mirrors this antagonism: French forces spearhead the invasion from Channel ports, raiding Kent and Essex beaches and threatening London via the Thames approaches. The novel dramatizes the very scenario British newspapers warned about—rapid cross-Channel strikes leveraging torpedo craft and mobilized reserves.
Late-Victorian home defense relied on a small professional army and large auxiliaries. The Childers Reforms (1881) reorganized regiments, while the Volunteer Force—founded in 1859—numbered over 200,000 by the 1890s, drilling in urban halls across London, Manchester, and Glasgow. The London Defence Positions scheme (approved 1888) planned entrenchments and mobilization centers along the North Downs near Reigate, Caterham, and Guildford to shield the capital. Intelligence and internal security evolved unevenly: Special Branch formed in 1883 amid Fenian dynamite attacks (1883–1885), and the Naval Intelligence Department was created in 1887. Le Queux folds these realities into plots of surprise landings, railway mobilization, and lax counter-espionage, indicting peacetime complacency and fragmented command.
As social and political critique, the book indicts complacency born of imperial abundance and parliamentary parsimony. It exposes the risks of relying on seapower alone, highlighting the vulnerability of dockworkers, clerks, and the urban poor in the East End when supply lines falter. The portrayal of muddled mobilization rebukes elite amateurism and bureaucratic inertia at the War Office and Admiralty. Class divides appear in who suffers bombardment, requisitions, and dislocation, while well-connected figures secure protection. By staging catastrophe at the Diamond Jubilee’s threshold, Le Queux questions “splendid isolation,” urging systematic intelligence, fortified home defenses, and sober diplomacy rather than pageantry and newspaper jingoism.
The Great War in England in 1897
BOOK I
THE INVASION
THE GREAT WAR IN ENGLAND IN 1897.
CHAPTER I.
THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH.
ar! War in England!
Growled by thoughtful, stern-visaged men, gasped with bated breath by pale-faced, terrified women, the startling news passed quickly round the Avenue Theatre from gallery to boxes. The crisis was swift, complete, crushing. Actors and audience were appalled.
Though it was a gay comic opera that was being performed for the first time, entertainers and entertained lost all interest in each other. They were amazed, dismayed, awestricken. Amusement was nauseating; War, with all its attendant horrors, was actually upon them! The popular tenor, one of the idols of the hour, blundered over his lines and sang terribly out of tune, but the hypercritical first-night audience passed the defect unnoticed. They only thought of what might happen; of the dark cavernous future that lay before.
War had been declared against Britain—Britain, the Empire that had so long rested in placid sea-girt security, confident of immunity from attack, was to be invaded! The assertion seemed preposterous.
Some, after reading eagerly the newspapers still damp from the press, smiled incredulously, half inclined to regard the startling intelligence as a mere fabrication by alarmists, or a perfected phase of the periodical war-scare which sensational journalists annually launch upon the world during what is technically known as the "gooseberry" seas[2]on.
Other readers, however, recollecting the grave political crises on the Continent, set their teeth firmly, silent and dumfounded. Upon many merchants and City men the news fell like a thunderbolt, for financial ruin stared them in the face.
Evidently a desperate attempt would be made by the enemy to land on English soil. Already the startled playgoers could hear in their excited imagination the clash of arms mingling with the triumphant yell of the victor, and the stifled, despairing cry of the hapless victim. But who, they wondered, would be the victim? Would Britannia ever fall to the dust with broken trident and shattered shield? Would her neck ever lie under the heel of the foreign invader? No, never—while Britons could fight.
The theatre, in its garish blaze of electricity, and crowded with well-dressed men and women, presented a brilliant appearance, which had suddenly become strangely incongruous with the feelings of the audience. In the boxes, where youth and beauty smiled, the bouquets which had been provided by the management gave to the theatre a bright, artistic touch of colour. Yet the pungent odour they diffused had become sickening. Intermingled with other flowers there were many tuberoses. They are funereal blossoms, ineffably emblematic of the grave. There is death in their breath.
When the astounding news fell upon the house the performance was drawing to a close. A moment before, every one had been silent and motionless, listening with rapt attention to the tenor's plaintive love song, and admiring the grace of the fair heroine, but as the terrible truth dawned upon them they rose, amid a scene of the wildest excitement. The few papers that had been purchased at fabulous prices at the doors were eagerly scanned, many of the sheets being torn into shreds in the mad struggle to catch a glimpse of the alarming telegrams they contained. For a few moments the agitation nearly approached a panic, while above the hum and din the hoarse, strident voices of running newsmen could be heard outside, yelling, "War declared against England! Expected landing of the enemy! Extrur-speshal!"
There was a hidden terror in the word "War" that at first held the amazed playgoers breathless and thoughtful. Never before had its significance appeared so grim, so fatal, so fraught with appalling consequences.
War had been actually declared! There was no averting it! It was a stern reality.
No adroit diplomatic negotiations could stem the advancing hordes of foreign invaders; Ministers and ambassadors were as useless pawns, for two great nations had had the audacity to combine in the projected attack upon Great Britain.
It seemed incredible, impossible. True, a Great War had long been predicted, forecasts had been given of coming conflicts, and European nations had for years been gradually strengthening their armies and perfecting their engines of war, in the expectation of being plunged into hostilities. Modern improvements in arms and ammunition had so altered the conditions of war, that there had long been a feeling of insecurity even among those Powers who, a few years before, had felt themselves strong enough to resist any attack, however violent. War-scares had been plentiful, crises in France, Germany, and Russia of frequent occurrence; still, no one dreamed that Moloch[1] was in their midst—that the Great War, so long foreshadowed, had in reality commenced.
Yet on this hot, oppressive Saturday night in August the extra-special editions of the papers contained news that startled the world. It ran as follows:—
The most intense excitement has been caused here by a totally unexpected and amazing announcement made this afternoon by the Minister of Foreign Affairs to the French Ambassador. It appears that the Minister has addressed to the French representative a short note in which the following extraordinary passage occurs:—
"The earnest negotiations between the Imperial Government and Great Britain for a durable pacification of Bosnia not having led to the desired accord, His Majesty the Tsar, my august master, sees himself compelled, to his regret, to have recourse to force of arms. Be therefore so kind as to inform your Government that from to-day Russia considers herself in a state of war with Great Britain, and requests that France will immediately comply with the obligations of the alliance signed by President Carnot on February 23rd, 1892."
A circular note has also been addressed by the Russian Foreign Office to its ambassadors at the principal Courts of Europe, stating that, for reasons assigned, the Tsar has resolved to commence hostilities against Great Britain, and has given his Armies and Navy orders to commence the invasion.
This declaration has, no doubt, been contemplated by the Russian Government for several days. During the past week the French Ambassador has twice had private audience of the Tsar, and soon after 11 A.M. to-day he had a long interview at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It is understood that the Minister of War was also present.
No official notification of the Declaration of War has been given to the British Ambassador. This has created considerable surprise.
Large posters, headed "A Manifesto of His Majesty the Emperor of Russia," and addressed to his subjects, are being posted up in the Nevski Prospekt. In this document the Tsar says—
"Our faithful and beloved subjects know the strong interest which we have constantly felt in the destinies of our Empire. Our desire for the pacification of our western frontier has been shared by the whole Russian nation, which now shows itself ready to bear fresh sacrifices to alleviate the position of those oppressed by British rule. The blood and property of our faithful subjects have always been dear to us, and our whole reign attests our constant solicitude to preserve to Russia the benefits of peace. This solicitude never failed to actuate my father during events which occurred recently in Bulgaria, Austro-Hungary, and Bosnia. Our object, before all, was to effect an amelioration in the position of our people on the frontier by means of pacific negotiations, and in concert with the great European Powers, our allies and friends. Having, however, exhausted our pacific efforts, we are compelled by the haughty obstinacy of Great Britain to proceed to more decisive acts. A feeling of equity and of our own dignity enjoins it. By her recent acts Great Britain places us under the necessity of having recourse to arms. Profoundly convinced of the justice of our cause, we make known to our faithful subjects that we declare war against Great Britain. In now invoking a blessing upon our valiant armies, we give the order for an invasion of England."
This manifesto has excited the greatest enthusiasm. The news has spread rapidly, and dense crowds have assembled in the Nevski, the Izak Platz, and on the English Quay, where the posters are being exhibited.
The British Ambassador has not yet received any communication from the Imperial Government.
President Felix Faure has received a telegram from the French representative at St. Petersburg, stating that Russia has declared war against Great Britain. The President left immediately for Paris by special train.
An astounding piece of intelligence has this afternoon been received at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It is no less than a Declaration of War by Russia against Britain. The telegram containing the announcement was received at the Ministry from the French Ambassador at St. Petersburg soon after three o'clock. The President was at once informed, and the Cabinet immediately summoned. A meeting is now being held for the purpose of deciding upon the course to be pursued with regard to the obligations of France contracted by the Treaty of Alliance made after the Cronstadt incident in 1891. The news of impending hostilities has just been published in a special edition of the Soir, and has created the wildest excitement on the Boulevards. Little doubt is entertained that France will join the invading forces, and the result of the deliberations of the Cabinet is anxiously awaited. President Felix Faure has returned from Fountainebleau.
The meeting of the Cabinet has just concluded. It has been resolved that France shall unreservedly render assistance to Russia. There is great activity at the War Office, and troops are already being ordered on active service. The excitement in the streets is increasing.
Telegrams received here from St. Petersburg report that Russia has unexpectedly declared war against Great Britain, and called upon France to aid her in a combined attack. The report is scarcely credited here, and further details are being eagerly awaited. The Emperor, who was to have left for Bremen this afternoon, has abandoned his journey, and is now in consultation with the Chancellor.
The French Channel Squadron, which has been manœuvring for the past fortnight off the western coast of Norway, anchored outside the fjord here last night. This morning, according to rumour, the Russian Squadron arrived suddenly, and lay about thirty miles off land. Secret telegraphic orders were received at 6 P.M. by the Admirals of both fleets almost simultaneously, and the whole of the vessels left in company half an hour later. They sailed in a southerly direction, but their destination is unknown.
Ten transport vessels are embarking troops for England. Four regiments of cavalry, including the 4th Chasseurs and 16th Guards, are—[1]
Footnote
[1] The conclusion of this message has not reached us, all the wires connecting this country with France having been cut.
CHAPTER II.
A TOTTERING EMPIRE.
he excitement in the theatre had increased, and the curtain had been rung down. Death shadows, grimly apparent, had fallen upon the house, and the scene was an extraordinary and unprecedented one. No such wild restlessness and impetuous agitation had ever before been witnessed within those walls. Some enthusiast of the pit, springing to his feet, and drawing a large red handkerchief from his pocket, waved it, shouting—
"Three cheers for good Old England!" to which, after a moment's silence, the audience responded lustily.
Then, almost before the last sound had died away, another patriot of the people mounted upon his seat, crying—
"No one need fear. The British Lion will quickly hold the French Eagle and the Russian Bear within his jaws. Let the enemy come; we will mow them down like hay."
This raised a combined laugh and cheer, though it sounded forced and hollow. Immediately, however, some buoyant spirits in the gallery commenced singing "Rule, Britannia," the chorus of which was taken up vigorously, the orchestra assisting by playing the last verse.
Outside, the scene in the streets was one of momentarily increasing excitement. The news had spread with marvellous rapidity, and the whole city was agog. An elbowing, waving, stormy crowd surged down the Strand to Trafalgar Square, where an impromptu demonstration was being held, the Government being denounced by its opponents, and spoken of with confidence by its supporters. The Radical, the Socialist, the Anarchist, each aired his views, and through the throng a hoarse threatening murmur condensed into three words, "Down with Russia! Down with France!" The cry, echoed by a thousand throats, mingled weirdly with the shouts of the newsmen and the snatches of patriotic songs.
London was anxious, fevered, and turbulent, that hot, moonless August night. At that hour all the shops were closed, and the streets only lighted by the lamps. From the unlighted windows the indistinct shapes of heads looking out on the scene could be distinguished.
On the pavements of Piccadilly and Knightsbridge knots of people stood arguing and wrangling over the probable turn of events. From uncouth Whitechapel to artistic Kensington, from sylvan Highgate to the villadom of Dulwich, the amazing intelligence had been conveyed by the presses of Fleet Street, which were still belching forth tons of damp news-sheets. At first there was confidence among the people; nevertheless little by little this confidence diminished, and curiosity gave place to surprise. But what could it be? All was shrouded in the darkest gloom. In the atmosphere was a strange and terrible oppression that seemed to weigh down men and crush them. London was, it appeared, walled in by the unknown and the unexpected.
But, after all, England was strong; it was the mighty British Empire; it was the world. What was there to fear? Nothing. So the people continued to shout, "Down with France! Down with the Autocrat! Down with the Tsar!"
A young man, who had been sitting alone in the stalls, had risen, electrified at the alarming news, and rushing out, hailed a passing cab, and drove rapidly away up Northumberland Avenue. This conduct was remarkable, for Geoffrey Engleheart was scarcely the man to flinch when danger threatened. He was a tall, athletic young fellow of twenty-six, with wavy brown hair, a dark, smartly-trimmed moustache, and handsome, well-cut features. He was happy and easy-going, always overflowing with genuine bonhomie. As the younger son of a very distinguished officer, he contrived to employ himself for a couple of hours a day at the Foreign Office, where, although a clerk, he held a very responsible position. Belonging to a rather good set, he was a member of several fashionable clubs, and lived in cosy, well-furnished chambers in St. James's Street.
Driving first to the house of his fiancée, Violet Vayne, at Rutland Gate, he informed her family of the startling intelligence; then, re-entering the conveyance, he subsequently alighted before the door of his chambers. As he paid the cabman, an ill-clad man pushed a newspaper into his face, crying, "'Ere y'are, sir. Extrur-special edition o' the People. Latest details. Serious scandal at the Forrin' Office."
Geoffrey started. He staggered, his heart gave a bound, and his face blanched. Thrusting half a crown into the man's dirty palm, he grasped the paper, and rushing upstairs to his sitting-room, cast himself into a chair. In breathless eagerness he glanced at the front page of the journal, and read the following:—
An extraordinary rumour is going the round of the Service clubs to-night. It is alleged that the present Declaration of War would have been impossible but for the treachery of some person through whose hands the transcript of a secret treaty between England and Germany passed to-day.
A prominent Cabinet Minister, on being questioned by our reporter on the subject, admitted that he had heard the rumour, but declined to make any definite statement whether or not it was true.
There must be a good deal behind the rumour of treachery[1q], inasmuch as none of the prominent men who have already been interviewed gave a denial to the statement.
Geoffrey sat pale and motionless, with eyes fixed upon the printed words. He read and re-read them until the lines danced before his gaze, and he crushed the paper in his hands, and cast it from him.
The little French clock on the mantelshelf chimed the hour of one upon its silvery bell; the lamp spluttered and burned dim. Still he did not move; he was dumfounded, rooted to the spot.
Blacker and blacker grew the crowd outside. The density of the cloud that hung over all portended some direful tragedy. The impending disaster made itself felt[2q]. An alarming sense of calmness filled the streets. A silence had suddenly fallen, and was becoming complete and threatening. What was it that was about to issue from these black storm-clouds? Who could tell?
CHAPTER III.
ARMING FOR THE STRUGGLE.
ondon was amazed.
The provinces were awestricken, paralysed by the startling suddenness with which the appalling news of the invasion had been flashed to them. Bewildered, the people could not believe it.
Only slowly did the vivid and terrible truth dawn individually upon the millions north and south, and then, during the Day of Rest, they crowded to the newspaper and telegraph offices, loudly clamouring for further details of the overwhelming catastrophe that threatened. They sought for information from London; they expected London, the mighty, all-powerful capital, to act.
Through the blazing Sunday the dust rose from the impatient, perspiring crowds in towns and cities, and the cool night brought no rest from a turmoil now incessant. Never before were such scenes of intense enthusiasm witnessed in England, Wales, and Scotland, for this was the first occasion on which the public felt the presence of invaders at their very doors.
A mighty force was on its way to ruin their homes, to sweep from them their hard-earned savings, to crush, to conquer—to kill them!
Fierce antagonism rose spontaneously in every Briton's heart, and during that never-to-be-forgotten day, at every barracks throughout the country, recruiting-sergeants were besieged by all sorts and conditions of men eager to accept the Queen's shilling, and strike for their country's honour. Heedless of danger, of hardship, of the fickle fortune of the fight, the determination to assist in the struggle rose instantly within them.
At York, Chester, Edinburgh, and Portsmouth, volunteers came forward by hundreds. All were enthusiastic, undrilled, but ready to use their guns—genuinely heroic patriots of our land, such as are included in no other nation than the British. Pluck, zeal for the public safety, and an intense partisanship towards their fellows induced thousands to join the colours—many, alas! to sink later beneath a foeman's bullet, unknown, unhonoured heroes!
Already the Cabinet had held a hurried meeting, at which it had been decided to call out the whole of the Reserves. Of this the War Office and Admiralty had been notified, and the Queen had given her sanction to the necessary proclamations, with the result that telegraphic orders had been issued to general officers commanding and to officers commanding Reservists to mobilise instantly.
The posters containing the proclamation, which are always kept in readiness in the hands of officers commanding Regimental Districts, were issued immediately, and exhibited on all public places throughout the kingdom. On the doors of town halls, churches, chapels, police stations, military barracks, and in the windows of post offices, these notices were posted within a few hours. Crowds everywhere collected to read them, and the greatest enthusiasm was displayed. Militia, Yeomanry, Volunteers, all were called out, and men on reading the Mobilisation Order[4] lost no time in obtaining their accoutrements and joining their depôts. The national danger was imminent, and towards their "places of concentration" all categories of Her Majesty's forces were already moving. In every Regimental District the greatest activity was displayed. No country maintains in peace the full complement, or anything approaching the full complement of transport which its Armies require; hence vehicles and horses to complete the Army Service Corps companies, and for the supplemental service, were being immediately requisitioned from far and near.
One of the many anomalies discovered during this critical period was, that while transport could thus be rapidly requisitioned, yet the impressment of civilians as drivers and caretakers of the animals was not permitted by the law; therefore on all hands the organisation of this requisitioned transport was fraught with the utmost difficulty, the majority of owners and employees refusing to come forward voluntarily. Registered horses were quickly collected, but they were far from sufficient for the requirements, and the want of animals caused loud outcries from every Regimental District.
The general scheme was the constitution of a Field Army of four cavalry brigades and three army corps, with behind them a semi-mobile force made up of thirty-three Volunteer infantry brigades and eighty-four Volunteer batteries of position. The garrisons having been provided for, the four cavalry brigades and the 1st and 2nd Army Corps were to be composed entirely of Regulars, the 3rd Army Corps being made up of Regulars, Militia, and Volunteers. Organised in brigades, the Yeomanry were attached to the various infantry brigades or divisions of the Field Army, and the Regular Medical Staff Corps being much too weak, was strengthened from companies of the Volunteer Medical Staff Corps. In brief, the scheme was the formation of a composite Field Army, backed by a second line of partially trained Auxiliaries.
Such a general scheme to set in battle order our land forces for home defence was, no doubt, well devised. Nevertheless, from the first moment the most glaring defects in the working out of details were everywhere manifested. Stores were badly disposed, there was a sad want of clothing, camp equipment, and arms, and the arrangements for the joining of Reservists were throughout defective. Again, the whole Reserve had been left totally untrained from the day the men left the colours; and having in view the fact that all leading authorities in Europe had, times without number, told us that the efficiency of an Army depended on drill, discipline, and shooting, what could be expected from a system which relied in great part for the safety of the country on a Reserve, the members of which were undisciplined, undrilled, and unpractised in shooting for periods ranging from nine years in the Guards to five years in the case of the Line?
On the day of mobilisation not a single regiment in the United Kingdom was ready to move forward to the front as it stood on parade! Not an officer, not a man, was prepared. England had calmly slept for years, while military reforms had been effected in every other European country. Now she had been suddenly and rudely awakened!
Everywhere it was commented upon that no practical peace trial of the mobilisation scheme had ever been made. Little wonder was there, then, that incomplete details hampered rapid movements, or that the carrying out of the definite and distinct programme was prevented by gaps occurring which could not be discovered until the working of the system had been tested by actual experiment.
It was this past apathy of the authorities, amounting to little less than criminal negligence, that formed the text of the vehement outpourings of Anarchists, Socialists, and "No War" partisans. A practical test of the efficiency of the scheme to concentrate our forces should have taken place even at the risk of public expenditure, instead of making the experiment when the enemy were actually at our doors.
Another anomaly which, in the opinion of the public, ought long ago to have been removed, was the fact that the billeting of troops on the march on the inhabitants of the United Kingdom, other than owners of hotels, inns, livery stables, and public-houses, is illegal, while troops when not on the march cannot be billeted at all! At many points of concentration this absurd and antiquated regulation, laid down by the Army Act in 1881, was severely felt. Public buildings, churches, and schools had to be hired for the accommodation of the troops, and those others who could not find private persons hospitable enough to take them in were compelled to bivouac where they could. Of tents they had scarcely any, and many regiments were thus kept homeless and badly fed several days before moving forward!
Was there any wonder, then, that some men should lose heart? Did not such defects portend—nay, invite disaster?
Strange though it may seem, Geoffrey Engleheart was one of but two persons in England who had on that Saturday anticipated this sudden Declaration of War.
Through the hot night, without heed of the wild turbulence outside, regardless of the songs of patriots, of gleeful shouts of Anarchists, that, mingling into a dull roar, penetrated the heavy curtains before the window of his room, he sat with brows knit and gaze transfixed.
Words now and then escaped his compressed lips. They were low and ominous; utterances of blank despair.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SPY.
ount von Beilstein was a polished cosmopolitan. He was in many ways a very remarkable man.
In London society he was as popular as he had previously been in Paris and in Berlin. Well-preserved and military-looking, he retained the vigour, high spirits, and spruce step of youth, spent his money freely, and led the almost idyllic life of a careless bachelor in the Albany.
Since his partnership with Sir Joseph Vayne, the well-known shipowner, father of Geoffrey's fiancée, he had taken up a prominent position in commercial circles, was a member of the London Chamber of Commerce, took an active part in the various deliberations of that body, and in the City was considered a man of considerable importance.
How we of the world, however shrewd, are deceived by outward appearances!
Of the millions in London there were but two men who knew the truth; who were aware of the actual position held by this German landed proprietor. Indeed, the Count's friends little dreamed that under the outward cloak of careless ease induced by wealth there was a mind endowed with a cunning that was extraordinary, and an ingenuity that was marvellous. Truth to tell, Karl von Beilstein, who posed as the owner of the great Beilstein estates, extending along the beautiful valley of the Moselle, between Alf and Cochem, was not an aristocrat at all, and possessed no estate more tangible than the proverbial château in Spain.
Count von Beilstein[3] was a spy!
His life had been a strangely varied one; few men perhaps had seen more of the world. His biography was recorded in certain police registers. Born in the Jews' quarter at Frankfort, he had, at an early age, turned adventurer, and for some years was well known at Monte Carlo as a successful gamester. But the Fickle Goddess[6] at last forsook him, and under another name he started a bogus loan office in Brussels. This, however, did not last long, for the police one night made a raid on the place, only to discover that Monsieur had flown. An extensive robbery of diamonds in Amsterdam, a theft of bonds while in transit between Hanover and Berlin, and the forgery of a large quantity of Russian rouble notes, were events which followed in quick succession, and in each of them the police detected the adroit hand of the man who now called himself the Count von Beilstein. At last, by sheer ill-luck, he fell into the grip of the law.
He was in St. Petersburg, where he had opened an office in the Bolshaia, and started as a diamond dealer. After a few genuine transactions he obtained possession of gems worth nearly £20,000, and decamped.
But the Russian police were quickly at his heels, and he was arrested in Riga, being subsequently tried and condemned by the Assize Court at St. Petersburg to twelve years' exile in Siberia. In chains, with a convoy of convicts he crossed the Urals, and tramped for weeks on the snow-covered Siberian Post Road.
His name still appears on the register at the forwarding prison of Tomsk, with a note stating that he was sent on to the silver mines of Nertchinsk, the most dreaded in Asiatic Russia.
Yet, strangely enough, within twelve months of his sentence he appeared at Royat-les-Bains, in Auvergne, posing as a Count, and living expensively at one of the best hotels.
There was a reason for all this. The Russian Government, when he was sentenced, were well aware of his perfect training as a cosmopolitan adventurer, of his acquaintance with persons of rank, and of his cool unscrupulousness. Hence it was that one night while on the march along the Great Post Road to that bourne whence few convicts return, it was hinted to him by the captain of Cossacks, that he might obtain his liberty, and a good income in addition, if he consented to become a secret agent of the Tsar.
The authorities desired him to perform a special duty; would he consent? He could exchange a life of heavy toil in the Nertchinsk mines for one of comparative idleness and ease. The offer was tempting, and he accepted.
That same night it was announced to his fellow-convicts that the Tsar had pardoned him; his leg-fetters were thereupon struck off, and he started upon his return to St. Petersburg to receive instructions as to the delicate mission he was to perform.
It was then, for the first time, that he became the Count von Beilstein, and his subsequent actions all betrayed the most remarkable daring, forethought, and tact. With one object in view he exercised an amount of patience that was almost incredible. One or two minor missions were entrusted to him by his official taskmasters on the banks of the Neva, and in each he acquitted himself satisfactorily. Apparently he was a thoroughly patriotic subject of the Kaiser, with tastes strongly anti-Muscovite, and after his partnership with Sir Joseph Vayne he resided in London, and mixed a good deal with military men, because he had, he said, held a commission in a Hussar regiment in the Fatherland, and took the liveliest interest in all military matters.
Little did those officers dream that the information he gained about improvements in England's defences was forwarded in regular and carefully-written reports to the Russian War Office, or that the Tsar's messenger who carried weekly despatches between the Russian Ambassador in London and his Government frequently took with him a packet containing plans and tracings which bore marginal notes in the angular handwriting of the popular Count von Beilstein!
Early in the morning of this memorable day when the startling news of the Declaration of War had reached England, a telegram had been handed to the Tsar's secret agent while he was still in bed.
He read it through; then stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.
The message, in code, from Berlin, stated that a draft of a most important treaty between Germany and England had been despatched from the German Foreign Office, and would arrive in London that day. The message concluded with the words, "It is imperative that we should have a copy of this document, or at least a summary of its contents, immediately."
Although sent from Berlin, the Count was well aware that it was an order from the Foreign Minister in St. Petersburg, the message being transmitted to Berlin first, and then retransmitted to London, in order to avoid any suspicion that might arise in the case of messages exchanged direct with the Russian capital. Having read the telegram through several times, he whistled to himself, rose quickly, dressed, and breakfasted. While having his meal, he gave some instructions to Grevel, his valet, and sent him out upon an errand, at the same time expressing his intention of waiting in until his return.
"Remember," the Count said, as his man was going out, "be careful to arouse no suspicion. Simply make your inquiries in the proper quarter, and come back immediately."
