Boothby Guy
Long Live the King!
CHAPTER XVIII
Max's surprise may be imagined when, after he had fallen unconscious, he opened his eyes to find Bertram kneeling beside him.
"Thank God!" said the latter, as soon as he saw that his friend recognised him. "We had begun to think it was all over with you."
Max endeavoured to speak, but his voice was too weak to utter a word. A moment later he had closed his eyes once more. Though so near death's door, he had managed to slip out before that grim portal had actually closed upon him. The effect of all that he had been through, however, was not to be shaken off in a day. For a week he hovered between life and death, devotedly attended by Bertram, who scarcely left his side for a moment. Needless to say, the curiosity of the trio was painfully excited to know what had become of Moreas, and how it was that Max had returned alone. The bullet-wound in his shoulder and the marks upon his chest, which, by the way, were beginning to heal, only added to their wonderment. But, anxious as they were to hear the story, Bertram would not allow him to give them as much as a hint of it until he was strong enough to do so without fear of injury to himself. Then, for one never-to-be-forgotten hour, Max spoke. He described all that had befallen them since they had said farewell to each other; he told them of the success that had attended their labours on the field, and then went on to speak of Moreas' treachery, and of the last great discovery he had made.
"Feeling that it was the only thing to be done, I returned to the camp and taxed him with it," he continued. "As soon as he knew that he was discovered, and not only discovered, but that his precious stones had been found and hidden elsewhere, he was beside himself with rage. For my own part, I believe it was his intention, in any case, to have shot me as soon as I should return; be that as it may, however, he certainly fired at me, and his bullet pierced my shoulder. In return, I shot him dead. Then, without thought of anything else, save to see the last of it, I gathered my goods together and fairly bolted from the plain."
"But what about the second bag of diamonds?" cried Rodriguez, and Pereira echoed the question.
"I left them in the place I had chosen for them," Max replied. "There let them remain."
"Hear, hear!" said Bertram. "I for one will have nothing to do with them."
The two Spaniards, however, thought otherwise. If Moreas were dead, and the two others were willing to forego their share, here was a chance of a glorious fortune for both of them. Max, however, encouraged by Bertram, remained obstinate. He was determined that the two men, even provided they were willing to run the risks attendant on reaching the plain, should not obtain the stones. They might curse, implore, threaten, and cajole, but without success.
"There are diamonds there," said Max. "If you are desirous of making your fortunes, go and search for yourselves; but the stones which cost Moreas his life, and very nearly cost me mine, shall remain where they are hidden."
With that decision the two men were compelled to be content, but black looks and sinister mutterings became the order of the day, and more than once it was necessary for Bertram to give them very plainly to understand what course he should adopt in the event of certain contingencies arising.
"And what are we going to do now?" Bertram inquired of Max, when the latter had recovered sufficiently to make it possible for them to think of retracing their steps to civilisation.
"That's more than I can say," Max replied. "Let us get back into the world first."
Next day they accordingly started on their homeward journey, but for the first week they were compelled to travel slowly, on account of Max's still enfeebled condition. Little by little, however, his strength returned to him, until, by the time they had reached the forest, which alone separated them from the village at the end of the railway, the same at which they had purchased the mules, he was almost himself again. On arrival they installed themselves at the hospederia, the same at which Bertram had announced his recognition of Max as the Crown Prince of Pannonia, and at which Moreas and the Spaniards had indulged in their orgie so many months before. What a variety of things had happened since they had said good-bye to it! Then, they had been setting out on the expedition, full of hope and confidence; now, they had returned, minus one of their party, and without the great wealth which they expected to bring with them. They had, however, the small bag which Max had brought with him, and this being so, on the morning following their arrival, Bertram set off for Rio, returning next day with an elderly individual who weighed, tested, and valued the stones. A price having been agreed upon between them, the money was paid over and each man received his share, after which the old gentleman returned to the capital, and all that was left was for Max and Bertram to decide what their future movements should be. The two Spaniards had determined to take a holiday, then they intended purchasing fresh mules with which to make another attempt to reach the place where the diamonds were hidden. Again and again they had endeavoured to induce Max to reveal the hiding-place, but without success. Finding entreaty useless, they attempted to bribe him, promising him first a quarter and at last half the stones, if he would supply them with the necessary information. But he was not to be tempted. Bertram and he had decided that since Moreas had paid for the stones with his life, they should not be touched. Accordingly, they departed next day for Rio.
"Have you formed any plans for the future?" inquired Bertram of Max, when they were alone together.
"None," Max replied, "except that I am determined to leave Brazil as soon as possible. Have you anything to propose?"
"Not at present," the other replied. "If only there were some fighting to be had, I should have liked to have tried my hand at soldiering. But when we left the world was so confoundedly peaceful, and I suppose it is still. There's one idea that I have at the back of my head, however. I don't know whether it would commend itself to you?"
"Tell me about it," said Max.
"Well, it concerns the South Sea Islands," said Bertram a little diffidently. "Ever since I was a youngster I've had a hankering to visit them. In fact, it was my original intention to do so, and if I hadn't got stranded in this country, who knows but what I might have been a king by this time."
"The South Sea Islands?" said Max at once. "I'm inclined to think that's not by any means a bad idea. And what was it your intention to do there besides founding a kingdom?"
"I thought of purchasing a schooner and going in for the island trade," the other answered. "It must be a jolly life, if all one hears is true. Sailing continually across blue seas, amongst the loveliest islands man can imagine, dealing with the pleasantest people on earth – "
"And figuring as the pièce de résistance at some native banquet, I suppose," answered Max with a laugh. "Seriously, I like the idea immensely. Why shouldn't we try it together? We're both in possession of a decent sum of money, and if we make our way to Buenos Ayres, and then across the Andes into Chili, we could easily get a boat from Valparaiso to Honolulu. We shouldn't find much difficulty in picking up a handy schooner I expect, and then the firm of Bertram & Mortimer could be placed on a definite footing. What do you say?"
"It's just the very thing I should enjoy," answered Bertram. "But what about yourself? Are you as determined as ever not to return to Europe?"
"Every bit as determined," Max replied. "In point of fact, I intend going a step further. As soon as we get to Rio I shall have a document drawn up in which I shall renounce, once and for all, any claim I may have upon the throne. Let my brother take it; he is a far better man in every way, and though you may think me a fool for saying so, I have felt for many years positively certain in my own mind that he is decreed by fate to occupy it."
With that, Max told Bertram the old legend of Michael's cross, and of the gipsy's prophecy concerning it.
"Do you really mean to say that you believe it?" asked Bertram when he had finished.
"I certainly do," Max answered, "and you can see for yourself how much of it has come true. Paul has Michael's cross upon his brow, and he will sit upon the throne as soon as the Republic shall come to an end. I am as confident of that as I am of anything. And now let us discuss the pros and cons of this South Seas business. I am all eagerness to embark upon it."
They did as he suggested, and for over an hour were busily engaged working out the details of the scheme. Eventually it was arranged that they should start for Rio next morning, and find some one there to draw up the deed of which Max had just spoken, and who could be trusted to keep his secret, and when it had been despatched to the proper quarter, make for the capital of the Argentine, and thence across the Andes into Chili, embarking as soon as a vessel could be found for the islands. That night Max dreamed of tropical islands lifting their palm-clad heads out of azure seas, of fast-sailing schooners, and a life that was all sunshine and excitement. When he woke he was even more keen on the notion than he had been on the previous day. They caught an early train for Rio, and towards the middle of the afternoon found themselves once more in the capital of the Republic. Now what Max had to do was to get his money out of the bank and to transact his legal business without Brockford or De Montezma becoming aware of it.
"I will give you my cheque," he said to Bertram, when they had taken up their abode at a small hotel at the opposite end of the town to that at which his friends had their offices. "You can cash it while I remain in the background."
Bertram agreed, and set off upon his errand. On entering the bank he placed the cheque upon the counter. The cashier picked it up and examined the signature with a look of surprise upon his face. The manager happened to be passing at the moment, and when the draft was shown to him he glanced sharply at Bertram.
"Pardon me," he began, "but might I request the favour of a few moments' conversation with you while the cashier is counting the money?"
"I shall be very pleased," said Bertram, and when the manager had given an instruction in an undertone to one of his clerks, he followed him into his private room. The door having been closed, and when the other had pushed forward a chair, Bertram inquired what he could do for him.
"I notice that you have presented a draft signed by Mr. Mortimer, who, a few months since, was employed in the firm of Montezma & Co., of this city. I also notice that the cheque is dated to-day, a circumstance which would seem to point to the fact that Mr. Mortimer is in Rio at the present moment."
"That is quite possible," Bertram returned stiffly. "He may be or he may not. I don't see how it concerns anyone but himself. I am not aware that he has done anything to necessitate his keeping out of the way!"
"I am afraid we are playing at cross purposes," said Doubleday. "Pray do not imagine that I am in any way antagonistic to his Royal – "
Bertram pricked up his ears. So the manager was also aware that Max was the Crown Prince of Pannonia? He was sorry for that; it might lead to complications.
"My only desire," the other continued, "for speaking to you about – well, about Mr. Mortimer, was that, should you know his address, you might be able to tell him how anxiously his friends have been seeking his whereabouts. If he would only grant them an interview, they would be so thankful."
"That, I feel sure, he will not do," said Bertram. "Nothing would induce him to think of such a thing."
The manager sighed.
"It seems a pity," he went on. "I cannot think why he should be so wilful."
"Nor I," answered Bertram. "The fact, however, remains that it is his own business, and he is entitled to conduct it as he pleases." As he said this he rose.
"I will see if your money is prepared," said the manager, following him.
"Many thanks," returned Bertram, and when he had received it from the cashier, he left the bank, the manager bidding him good-bye upon the doorstep. Then, having made sure he was not being followed by anyone from the bank, he set off as fast as he could go in the direction of the inn where he and Max had taken up their abode. He was not aware that Mr. Brockford had been standing on the opposite side of the street waiting for him to come out, and that as soon as he did so and had started on his walk, the other followed him, keeping a safe distance behind, but never for one moment losing sight of him. Reaching the inn, Bertram made his way to their sitting-room and handed Max the money. He was in the act of informing him of what had taken place at the bank, when there was a tap at the door. A moment later it opened, and Brockford stood before them.
Max sprang to his feet with an exclamation of astonishment.
"Brockford!" he cried, "what on earth does this mean? How did you know I was here?"
He looked at Bertram as if he thought he must be responsible for the other's presence.
"You do your friend an injustice if you suspect him," said Brockford. "He did not know that I was following him. It was Doubleday, the bank manager, who put me on the trail. He sent word to me that your friend was at the bank, and when he left I followed him here. Thank God, I have found you at last. We have searched the country for you. Oh, you foolish man, why did you run away like that?"
"Because my brother Paul was in Rio looking for me," Max replied simply. "To have remained here would have been to have fallen into his hands."
"And could you have fallen into kinder hands?"
"That is beside the point," said Max. "It is because of his love for me that I must keep out of the way. It may sound paradoxical to say so, but it is the truth."
"Well, you can keep out of the way no longer now," answered Brockford. "You have returned in the nick of time."
"Returned for what?" Max inquired in astonishment.
"Do you mean to say that you don't know?" asked the other.
"I know nothing," Max replied, with an unmistakable faltering in his voice. "We have been in the wilds so long that we are ignorant of all that has happened elsewhere. What is it?"
Bertram noticed that the hand resting on the back of the chair trembled.
"What have you to tell me?" he asked again.
"Is it possible that you are not aware that you are the King of Pannonia?" continued Brockford in an awed voice.
Max started back with an exclamation of horror.
"King!" he cried in a choking voice. "My God, man! What do you mean? You don't mean – that – that – "
"I mean that your father is dead, Sire," said Brockford quietly. "He died three months ago, and your mother followed him six weeks later."
This was more than Max could bear. He dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands. For some minutes silence reigned in the room. Then he rose and, with a face white and haggard as a sere cloth, turned to Brockford.
"Tell me everything," he said. "I'm stronger now and can bear it."
Thereupon, Brockford, to whom I had written, in case he should hear of him, gave a complete résumé of all that had occurred during his absence. He informed him of our father's death, just at the time when there was a possibility of Pannonia becoming a Monarchy once more. He told him of our mother's end such a short time afterwards; of the gradual crumbling away of the Republic, and of the war with Mandravia to which it had given rise. He revealed to him the fact that being unable to find Max, search how I would, and seeing that there was no time to lose, I had sprung into the breach, and, supported by the Count von Marquart, now a very old man, but as keen and self-assertive as of yore, and the majority of the nobles, had seized the throne and declared myself Regent in his stead. Max's face, so Brockford has since told me, when he heard the news, was almost transformed.
"I have heard a great deal during my life," said the latter, "of what is called kingly dignity. I never realised what it was, however, until I looked at his. At that moment he was every inch a king."
"Father and mother dead," he said, "and my country in danger. There is no doubt now; no doubt at all."
The others did not understand what he meant at the time, but they have learnt since.
"My friends," he began in a softer voice than he had yet used, "my kind friends, you see how this news has affected me. Will you give me time to think it over?"
They were about to withdraw in order to leave him alone with his thoughts.
"Will your Majesty believe that all I have is at your Majesty's disposal?" said Brockford, in an undertone before he left.
Max started as if he had been stung.
"No, no!" he cried, "you must not call me that."
An hour later he was back at Brockford's house at Paquetá, where for some hours he shut himself up and would see nobody. He was fighting the greatest battle of his life. During the afternoon he called for all the newspapers that could be procured, in order that he might study the war from its commencement. Later on he left his room and found the other two men in the garden. Traces of the struggle he had passed through still lingered on his face as he greeted them. It was plainly seen that he had arrived at a decision.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I ask you to give me your words of honour, that what I am about to say shall never pass your lips."
He waited for them to speak. They looked first at each other and then at him. At last they gave him their assurance that his wish should be respected.
"I have fought it out by myself," he said, "and have come to a conclusion. I shall return to Pannonia at once!"
"God bless you!" muttered Brockford, but not so low that Max could not hear it.
"My country is at war, and if she is to be victorious, every son who has the strength to wield a sword should rally to her assistance. It is my intention to go back and offer my services, not in the capacity of her king, but taking my place beside the humblest in the ranks. I place my life in the hands of God, and leave the issue with Him. If Pannonia is victorious, then I shall have proved my love for her, and it is possible that what you wish may some day come to pass. If not, then I shall have done what I shall always believe to have been my duty."
"In that case, I have a request to make," said Bertram nervously.
"What is it?" Max inquired. "It would be hard if I could not grant it, seeing that I already owe you a debt I never can repay."
"It is that, if you are going, you will allow me to accompany you?"
"You shall do so if you wish," said Max quietly, and as he said it he held out his hand, which the other took.
Two days later Max and Bertram sailed for Europe.
CHAPTER XIX
Of the various vicissitudes which befell our unhappy country from the time that, egged on to ruin by unscrupulous men, she drove her sovereign across the border to seek an asylum elsewhere, it would be impossible for me to speak in anything like detail. It must suffice, therefore, that the long record of chicanery and blundering, of mismanagement and oppression found its climax in the war to which I referred at the end of the previous chapter. Dark as the outlook seemed, it was destined to become even blacker before many months were passed. The battles which marked the opening of the campaign have long since become a matter of history, partly by reason of the desperate heroism shown by our troops, but more, I fear, on account of the inability and blunderings of their leaders. How heartrending that time was to us I must leave my readers to imagine. Max seemed lost for ever; I was in exile, and yet we were compelled to remain inactive, watching our devoted country rushing headlong to the ruin which had been so long prophesied for it. Had it not been for the counsels of my friends I should have returned to Pannonia at the outbreak of hostilities, and have offered myself for service in her army in any capacity they might have chosen for me. This, however, I was earnestly implored not to do. Accordingly I remained in England, watching the struggle with an aching heart, dreading the worst, yet unable to do anything to avert the catastrophe I felt sure must come. Then came the chance I was so eagerly awaiting, and, as all the world knows, on the sixteenth of September, a most fateful day in Pannonia's history, the Republic was overthrown, and, at the unanimous wish of the country, I returned to act as Regent until my brother's whereabouts should be discovered. Of the emotions I experienced when once more I set foot upon Pannonian soil, I will not speak here. They are too sacred for the cold publicity of print.
Having thus roughly summarised the events that occurred between the time that Max and Bertram had decided to see service in Pannonia, and my return to that country, I must now follow the record of my brother's doings. Of all the strange events in Max's life, there was not one stranger or more characteristic of him than his decision in this matter. It was on the 31st of July, that is to say, a fortnight before the battle of Depzig, the same in which our forces suffered such a disastrous defeat, that he set foot with his faithful companion upon his native soil. A week later, as if to make amends, General Groplau, with a zeal and gallantry that is beyond all praise, met and defeated a force of the enemy much greater than his own. It was with his army that Max took service, not as became his rank, but in the capacity of a private soldier. That he and his companion had seen service before soon became apparent, but little did anyone guess that the stalwart, handsome man, who did not know the meaning of the word fear, who was never tired, and whose only apparent desire was to be placed where the danger was greatest, was none other than their king. During the first month of his new life he was present at no less than three battles, in each of which he displayed conspicuous heroism. Brave as our soldiers were, such valour as his could scarcely fail to have passed unnoticed. But it was not until that dreadful day when Gredlau was lost, and all the officers of his own regiment had been killed, and he had rallied what remained of the men, continuing the fight until they were nearly all disabled and shot down, that any recognition of his bravery was afforded him. Then he was summoned to the general's presence. He had been wounded in the arm, and was still weak from loss of blood.
"Your conduct has been reported to me," said the general, who, being a brave man himself, could recognise courage in others. "I can only regret that your efforts were not rewarded with success. I am proud to offer you a commission in the regiment you have served so well. I know of no man who has a better right to it."
Max saluted.
"Pardon me, general," he said respectfully, but firmly, "but – but, with your permission, I must decline the honour."
"Decline the honour!" cried the other in surprise, and also with some asperity. "What do you mean? Surely you understand the honour that has been done you?"
"I understand perfectly," Max replied. "Yet I would prefer to remain as I am."
Whatever the general's thoughts may have been, it is certain that his surprise equalled them. His experience of men had shown them to be more ready to seek rewards than to decline them. However, he had no time to analyse such a phenomenon just then.
"As you please, as you please," he answered. "Remain in the ranks if you prefer it. It seems to me, however, that you are throwing away the one chance of your life."
Then calling one of his aides-de-camp, he turned his attention to another matter, and Max, having saluted, returned to his bivouac. But though the general appeared to have set the matter aside, it did not seem as if he had altogether forgotten it, for later on, commenting on the incident, he said to one of his officers, "That man's face worries me. He is like a person I have seen before, but I cannot, for the life of me, think whose face it is, or where I met its owner."
On two other occasions Max came even nearer to being discovered. A week or so later he was on sentry duty, when a man, who had for many years acted as intermediary between the Count von Marquart and our father in England, stopped his horse and addressed a question to him. For a moment Max thought he could scarcely fail to recognise him, but the beard he wore, and the uniform of a private soldier must have changed his appearance, for the officer passed on without comment. The third occasion, however, was more desperate than either I have yet described.
It was in the early morning on the day when the battle of Hehnsdorff was fought, and Max's regiment, with two others of the line, were sent to occupy the village on the right bank of the river. For hours they defended it with the tenacity of despair. At last, the general, seeing that it was hopeless to continue to hold it, despatched an aide with an order to the officer in command to abandon it and to fall back upon a wood some three-quarters of a mile or so to the rear. The aide had scarcely entered the main street of the little hamlet, when a shell burst in the road, killing his horse and tearing a great gaping wound in the young fellow's side. Seeing what had happened, Max, who, with Bertram and several others, was in a cottage close at hand, ran to his assistance. It was a shocking spectacle they had before them, but, despite the blood, Max recognised the man. Picking him up as tenderly as possible, he bore him to the cottage where the commander was located.
The poor fellow had just strength enough left to say, "The general bids you retire, and take up your position in the wood behind the church," when his head fell forward and he fainted. A moment later the order was given, the village was vacated, and the troops were slowly and sullenly retiring in the direction indicated. The aide-de-camp still lay where they had placed him, his life-blood slowly ebbing from him and forming a pool by his side.
"He's a man I've known all my life," said Max hoarsely to Bertram. "I can't leave him here. Between us we'll carry him to the rear, though I fear the surgeons can do nothing for him."
Thus encumbered they set off across the open ground, now being ploughed by the shells of the enemy. How it was they were not hit it is impossible to say, yet, incredible as it may appear, they reached the wood in safety. On the further side the surgeons were at work, and thither they bore the dying man. But officer or no officer, it was necessary that he should wait his turn, and seeing this, Max placed him upon the ground and endeavoured to make him as comfortable as possible. That his case was hopeless there could be no sort of doubt. Indeed, he was little more than a dead man as it was. Rising to his feet, for he had been kneeling beside the other, Max was about to return to where his comrades had taken up their position, when the wounded man opened his eyes and looked up at him. Max saw that he was trying to speak, and he accordingly knelt down beside him, for he saw that the other had recognised him.
"Your Majesty," he whispered. Then after a pause he added, "Thank God you are found at last!"
"Hush! hush!" Max replied. "I am no king, only a Pannonian soldier!"
"You are both," gasped the dying man. "They have searched everywhere for you. This must be told."
"No, no!" answered Max. "I can never consent."
But the other was not to be denied. Putting forth all the strength that remained in him, he raised himself and called one of the doctors by name.
The surgeon, who happened to be disengaged at the moment, hastened towards him. Before he could reach him, however, the poor fellow had fallen upon the ground, and was dead. With a cold sweat upon his forehead, such as the fear of battle had never been able to produce, Max staggered to his feet.
"He is dead," said the doctor, after a brief examination. "Poor Fritz! poor Fritz! it will break his mother's heart. Where did this happen, my man?"
"In the village yonder," Max replied. "He was conveying an order to our colonel to retire."
Then with a choking feeling in his throat he made his way, accompanied by Bertram, to the wood.
"That was a very near thing for you," said the latter, as they hurried along. "Oh, why won't you declare yourself and take up the position which is yours by right?"
"Not yet, not yet," said Max, shaking his head. "Fate will decide everything for me in good time. I intend to leave it to her."
Fate very nearly decided it for him on three occasions during the next few hours. Once his helmet was knocked off by a bullet, once he was only saved by the butt of his rifle, which he had lowered to reload, while on the third occasion he was giving water to a wounded man, who had fallen beside him, when a bullet shattered the bottle he held in his hand.
Next morning it was rumoured in the camp that I, Prince Paul, had returned to Pannonia, that the Republic was no more, and that the Ramonyi dynasty had come to its own again. Later in the day the news was officially communicated to the troops, and with his comrades, ragged, tattered, weary, half-starved, and altogether forlorn, Max swore allegiance to himself. A more grotesque situation could scarcely be imagined.
"Prince Paul is declared Regent for his brother," said a grey-haired sergeant, as they ate their frugal supper by the camp fire. "I wonder where the king is?"
I have often conjectured what he would have said had he known that the missing man was at that moment seated beside him.
Strange though it may seem, from the very moment of the return of our family to Pannonia, a change took place in the war. Success after success crowned our efforts, in consequence of which our troops took heart, until, at last, instead of carrying on the strife in our own country, on the twenty-second day of October we, for the first time, crossed the borders, driving the enemy before us. Little by little, but with a sureness and steadiness there could be no mistaking or denying, Groplau was working out the plan he had long since formed in his mind. With what sort of good fortune it was attended all those who have followed the history of the war will be familiar. They will recall how fifty thousand troops, by culpable negligence on the part of the enemy's leaders, were divided into two portions and were prevented from uniting again; how the Count von Leckstein, by a swift flank movement, cut off their retreat, thus compelling them to take refuge in the city of Zaarfburg. No success could have been more complete, no movement more thoroughly prepared, or more admirably carried out. Contesting every inch of the way, fighting with the fury that was the outcome of despair, for they must have known that they were lost, hemmed in on every side, they at length entered the gates of the same city as that into which Rudolf the Brave had once brought a victorious army and more than two thousand prisoners. Still working with the same mathematical precision, Groplau's army took up its position on the plain that surrounded it, and there and then the siege commenced. Winter came and found the garrison still holding out. It was, however, as impossible for them to escape as it was for us to get in. Their vigilance was only equalled by our own. In other parts of the country the war was proceeding with varying success; here, however, save for the continual artillery duel, there was little or no fighting. The suspense, to say nothing of the inactivity, was wearying in the extreme, until, at last, every one felt convinced that something must be done to relieve it.
