CHAPTER XIII.A ROYAL SALUTE.
“Then I take your bishop, major,” said Colonel Murphy,
as he made a move that he had taken since the previous
evening to consider.
“I was afraid you would,” replied Major Oliphant,
looking intently at the chess-board.
Such was the way in which a long silence was broken
on the morning of the 17th February by the old calendar.
Another day elapsed before another move was made.
It was a protracted game; it had, in fact, already lasted
some months—the players being so deliberate, and so
fearful of taking a step without the most mature consideration,
that even now they were only making the twentieth
move. Both of them, moreover, were rigid disciples of
the renowned Philidor, who pronounces that to play the
pawns well is “the soul of chess;” and, accordingly, not
one pawn had been sacrificed without a most vigorous
defence.
The men who were thus beguiling their leisure were
two officers in the British army—Colonel Heneage Finch
Murphy and Major Sir John Temple Oliphant. Remarkably
similar in personal appearance, they were hardly less
so in personal character. Both of them were about forty
years of age; both of them were tall and fair, with bushy
whiskers and moustaches; both of them were phlegmatic
in temperament, and both much addicted to the wearing
of their uniforms. They were proud of their nationality,
and exhibited a manifest dislike, verging upon contempt,
of everything foreign. Probably they would have felt no
surprise if they had been told that Anglo-Saxons were
fashioned out of some specific clay, the properties of which
surpassed the investigation of chemical analysis. Without
any intentional disparagement they might, in a certain
way, be compared to two scarecrows which, though perfectly
harmless in themselves, inspire some measure of
respect, and are excellently adapted to protect the territory
intrusted to their guardianship.
English-like, the two officers had made themselves
thoroughly at home in the station abroad in which it had
been their lot to be quartered. The faculty of colonization
seems to be indigenous to the native character; once let
an Englishman plant his national standard on the surface
of the moon, and it would not be long before a colony was
established round it.
The officers had a servant, named Kirke, and a company
of ten soldiers of the line. This party of thirteen
men were apparently the sole survivors of an overwhelming
catastrophe, which on the 1st of January had transformed
an enormous rock, garrisoned with well-nigh two thousand
troops, into an insignificant island far out to sea. But
although the transformation had been so marvellous, it
cannot be said that either Colonel Murphy or Major Oliphant
had made much demonstration of astonishment.
“This is all very peculiar, Sir John,” observed the
colonel.
“Yes, colonel; very peculiar,” replied the major.
“England will be sure to send for us,” said one officer.
“No doubt she will,” answered the other.
Accordingly, they came to the mutual resolution that
they would “stick to their post.”
To say the truth, it would have been a difficult matter
for the gallant officers to do otherwise; they had but
one small boat; therefore, it was well that they made a
virtue of necessity, and resigned themselves to patient
expectation of the British ship which, in due time, would
bring relief.
They had no fear of starvation. Their island was
mined with subterranean stores, and these were furnished
with supplies more than ample for thirteen men—nay, for
thirteen Englishmen—for the next five years at least. Preserved
meat, ale, brandy—all were in abundance; consequently,
as the men expressed it, they were in this respect
“all right.”
Of course, the physical changes that had taken place
had attracted the notice both of officers and men. But the
reversed position of east and west, the diminution of the
force of gravity, the altered rotation of the earth, and her
projection upon a new orbit, were all things that gave
them little concern and no uneasiness; and when the
colonel and the major had replaced the pieces on the
board which had been disturbed by the convulsion, any
surprise they might have felt at the chess-men losing
some portion of their weight was quite forgotten in the
satisfaction of seeing them retain their equilibrium.
One phenomenon, however, did not fail to make its
due impression upon the men; this was the diminution in
the length of day and night. Three days after the catastrophe,
Corporal Pim, on behalf of himself and his comrades,
solicited a formal interview with the officers. The
request having been granted, Pim, with the nine soldiers,
all punctiliously wearing the regimental tunic of scarlet
and trousers of invisible green, presented themselves at
the door of the colonel's room, where he and his brother-officer
were continuing their game. Raising his hand
respectfully to his cap, which he wore poised jauntily over
his right ear, and scarcely held on by the strap below
his under lip, the corporal waited permission to speak.
After a lingering survey of the chess-board, the colonel
slowly lifted his eyes, and said with official dignity—
“Well, men, what is it?”
“First of all, sir,” replied the corporal, “we want to
speak to you about our pay, and then we wish to have a
word with the major about our rations.”
“Say on, then,” said Colonel Murphy. “What is it
about your pay?”
“Just this, sir; as the days are only half as long as they
were, we should like to know whether our pay is to be
diminished in proportion.”
The colonel was taken somewhat aback, and did not
reply immediately, though by some significant nods towards
the major, he indicated that he thought the question very
reasonable. After a few moments' reflection, he replied—
“It must, I think, be allowed that your pay was calculated
from sunrise to sunrise; there was no specification of
what the interval should be. Your pay will continue as
before. England can afford it.”
A buzz of approval burst involuntarily from all the
men, but military discipline and the respect due to their
officers kept them in check from any boisterous demonstration
of their satisfaction.
“And now, corporal, what is your business with me?”
asked Major Oliphant.
“We want to know whether, because the days are only
six hours long, we are to have but two meals instead of
four?”
The officers looked at each other, and by their glances
mutually agreed that the corporal was a man of good sound
common sense.
“Eccentricities of nature,” said the major, “cannot
interfere with military regulations. It is true that there
will be but an interval of an hour and an half between
them, but the rule stands good—four meals a day. England
is too rich to grudge her soldiers any of her soldiers'
due. Yes; four meals a day.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the soldiers, unable this time to
keep their delight within the bounds of military decorum;
and, turning to the right-about, they marched away, leaving
the officers to renew their attention to the all-absorbing
game.
However confident every one upon the island might
profess to be that succour would be sent them from their
native land—for Britain never abandons any of her sons—
it could not be disguised that that succour was somewhat
tardy in making its appearance. Many and various were
the conjectures to account for the delay. Perhaps England
was engrossed with domestic matters, or perhaps she was
absorbed in diplomatic difficulties;[1] or perchance, more
likely than all, Northern Europe had received no tidings of
the convulsion that had shattered the south. Some good
reason there doubtless was; but it was undeniable that
forty-nine complete days had been registered since the
memorable 1st of January, and yet no ship, British or
otherwise, had ever been sighted, and although the sea
that washed the shores of their island was notoriously one
of the most frequented on the face of the globe, it had
been uniformly desolate, and untraversed by a single sail.
Neither officers nor men, however, permitted themselves to
express much surprise or discouragement, but continued
their habitual routine; guard relieved guard, and daily drill
was practised with the usual precision. The whole party
throve remarkably well upon the liberal provision of the
commissariat department, and if the officers failed to show
the same tendency to embonpoint which was fast becoming
characteristic of the men, it was only because they deemed
it due to their rank to curtail any indulgences which might
compromise the fit of their uniform.
On the whole, time passed indifferently well. An
Englishman rarely suffers from ennui, and then only in
his own country, when required to conform to what he
calls “the humbug of society;” and the two officers, with
their similar tastes, ideas, and dispositions, got on together
admirably. It is not to be questioned that they were deeply
affected by a sense of regret for their lost comrades, and
astounded beyond measure at finding themselves the sole
survivors of a garrison of 1895 men, but with true British
pluck and self-control, they had done nothing more than
draw up a report that 1882 names were missing from the
muster-roll.
The island itself, the sole surviving fragment of an
enormous pile of rock that had reared itself some 1600 feet
above the sea, was not, strictly speaking, the only land that
was visible; for about twelve miles to the south there was
another island, apparently the very counterpart of what
was now occupied by the Englishmen. It was only natural
that this should awaken some interest even in the most
imperturbable minds, and there was no doubt that the two
officers, during one of the rare intervals when they were
not absorbed in their game, had decided that it would be
desirable at least to ascertain whether the island was deserted,
or whether it might not be occupied by some others,
like themselves, survivors from the general catastrophe.
Certain it is that one morning, when the weather was
bright and calm, they had embarked alone in the little
boat, and been absent for seven or eight hours. Not even
to Corporal Pim did they communicate the object of their
excursion, nor say one syllable as to its result, and it could
only be inferred from their manner that they were quite
satisfied with what they had seen; and very shortly afterwards
Major Oliphant was observed to draw up a lengthy
document, which was no sooner finished than it was formally
signed and sealed with the seal of the 33rd Regiment. It
was directed—
To the First Lord of the Admiralty,
London,
and kept in readiness for transmission by the first ship
that should hail in sight. But time elapsed, and here
was the 18th of February without an opportunity having
been afforded for any communication with the British
Government.
At breakfast that morning, the colonel observed to the
major that he was under the most decided impression that
the 18th of February was a royal anniversary; and he went
on to say that, although he had received no definite instructions
on the subject, he did not think that the peculiar
circumstances under which they found themselves should
prevent them from giving the day its due military honours.
The major quite concurred; and it was mutually agreed
that the occasion must be honoured by a bumper of port,
and by a royal salute. Corporal Pim must be sent for.
The corporal soon made his appearance, smacking his lips,
having, by a ready intuition, found a pretext for a double
morning ration of spirits.
“The 18th of February, you know, Pim,” said the
colonel; “and we must have a salute of twenty-one
guns.”
“Very good,” replied Pim, who was a man of few
words.
“And take care that your fellows don't get their arms
and legs blown off,” added the officer.
“Very good, sir,” said the corporal; and he made his
salute and withdrew.
Of all the bombs, howitzers, and various species of
artillery with which the fortress had been crowded, one
solitary piece remained. This was a cumbrous muzzle-loader
of 9-inch calibre, and, in default of the smaller
ordnance generally employed for the purpose, had to be
brought into requisition for the royal salute.
A sufficient number of charges having been provided,
the corporal brought his men to the reduct, whence the
gun's mouth projected over a sloping embrasure. The two
officers, in cocked hats and full staff uniform, attended to
take charge of the proceedings. The gun was manœuvred
in strict accordance with the rules of “The Artilleryman's
Manual,” and the firing commenced.
Not unmindful of the warning he had received, the
corporal was most careful between each discharge to see
that every vestige of fire was extinguished, so as to prevent
an untimely explosion while the men were reloading; and
accidents, such as so frequently mar public rejoicings
were all happily avoided.
Much to the chagrin of both Colonel Murphy and
Major Oliphant, the effect of the salute fell altogether
short of their anticipations. The weight of the atmosphere
was so reduced that there was comparatively little resistance
to the explosive force of the gases, liberated at the
cannon's mouth, and there was consequently none of the
reverberation, like rolling thunder, that ordinarily follows
the discharge of heavy artillery.
Twenty times had the gun been fired, and it was on the
point of being loaded for the last time, when the colonel
laid his hand upon the arm of the man who had the
ramrod.
“Stop!” he said; “we will have a ball this time. Let
us put the range of the piece to the test.”
“A good idea!” replied the major. “Corporal, you
hear the orders.”
In quick time an artillery-waggon was on the spot, and
the men lifted out a full-sized shot, weighing 200 lbs.,
which, under ordinary circumstances, the cannon would
carry about four miles. It was proposed, by means of
telescopes, to note the place where the ball first touched
the water, and thus to obtain an approximation sufficiently
accurate as to the true range.
Having been duly charged with powder and ball, the
gun was raised to an angle of something under 45°, so as
to allow proper development to the curve that the projectile
would make, and, at a signal from the major, the
light was applied to the priming.
“Heavens!” “By all that's good!” exclaimed both
officers in one breath, as, standing open-mouthed, they
hardly knew whether they were to believe the evidence of
their own senses. “Is it possible?”
The diminution of the force of attraction at the earth's
surface was so considerable that the ball had sped beyond
the horizon.
“Incredible!” ejaculated the colonel.
“Incredible!” echoed the major.
“Six miles at least!” observed the one.
“Ay, more than that!” replied the other.
Awhile, they gazed at the sea and at each other in
mute amazement. But in the midst of their perplexity,
what sound was that which startled them? Was it mere
fancy? Was it the reverberation of the cannon still booming
in their ears? Or was it not truly the report of another
and a distant gun in answer to their own? Attentively and
eagerly they listened. Twice, thrice did the sound repeat
itself. It was quite distinct. There could be no mistake.
“I told you so,” cried the colonel, triumphantly. “I
knew our country would not forsake us; it is an English
ship, no doubt.”
In half an hour two masts were visible above the
horizon.
“See! Was I not right? Our country was sure to
send to our relief. Here is the ship.”
“Yes,” replied the major; “sure enough, she has responded
to our gun.”
“It is to be hoped,” muttered the corporal, “that our
ball has done her no damage.”
Before long the hull was full in sight. A long trail of
smoke betokened her to be a steamer; and very soon, by
the aid of the glass, it could be ascertained that she was
a schooner-yacht, and making straight for the island. A
flag at her mast-head fluttered in the breeze, and towards
this the two officers, with the keenest attention, respectively
adjusted their focus.
Simultaneously the two telescopes were lowered. The
colonel and the major stared at each other in blank astonishment.
“Russian!” they gasped.
And true it was that the flag that floated at the head
of yonder mast was the white ground and blue cross of
Russia.
1^ Amongst
other suggestions, it was surmised that England, astonished at
the success of the Sahara Sea lately formed by Captain Roudaire, and
unwilling to be outdone by France, was occupied in a great scheme for the
formation of a similar sea in the centre of Australia.
