Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  But there was no sign that the news was even being taken seriously, which at first suggested ignorance, or stupidity, or bravado. But it soon became evident to Mr Franklin that the crossing-sweepers on the Strand, the old ladies puffing on to buses with their parcels, the shop assistants and cab drivers, the men propping up the saloon bars, knew quite as well as he did what was in the news, and what it might portend; their attitude to it, however, seemed to be either genuinely nonchalant or simply flippant.

  Of course, this was supposedly in the national character; it was proverbial that the Englishman displayed emotion only when faced by some truly earth-shaking crisis, like a cricket match, or the illtreatment of an animal, or a rise in the price of beer; for such trivia as death, destruction, and national catastrophe he was supposed to reserve an indifference bordering on insanity. Drake had not played bowls before the Armada battle for nothing. But even with Mr Franklin's close experience of his adopted country, it only began to occur to him on that first Saturday of August, 1914, that perhaps the

  international joke might not be a joke at all; that the famous imperturbability, so beloved of cartoonists and humorous journalists, might not be assumed, but based on a stolid realism and common sense, not untinged by macabre humour, which was neatly summed up for him in a Fleet Street bar where he stopped in for refreshment.

  'I 'eard,' said a Jewish cab-driver, 'as the Germans 'ave declared war on Russia.'

  "Ave they, though?' said a burly labourer. 'Goin' to be bloody cold for 'em, then.'

  'Reckon we'll be in it, too,' said a small Cockney in a cloth cap. 'The Fleet's at sea, an' my bruvver-in-law's been called up -'e's an Army reservist. Another 'alf-and-'alf, Gladys!

  'All depends on the Frogs,' he added. 'An' that's a bloody 'orrid thought, if you ask me.'

  'Why does it?' asked the Jew.

  'Well, if the Germans fight the Russians, they'll 'ave a slap at the Frogs an' all, won't they?' said the Cockney. 'That's wot it says in the Mail. An' if they 'ave a slap at the Frogs, we'll 'ave to 'elp the Frogs.'

  'Though why the 'ell we should, beats me,' said the labourer.

  'Bastards wouldn't lift a finger for us.'

  'It's the balance o' power,' said the Cockney. 'Can't 'ave the Germans conquerin' France, can you?'

  'Couldn't I? Just you watch me, mate. But I reckon,' added the labourer, 'the Germans won't rest easy till they've 'ad a go at us. Stupid sods. The Kaiser's got this 'Igh Seas Fleet, see, an' he wants to bring us dahn a peg or two.'

  'The Navy'll sort 'im out,' remarked the Jew. 'There's a German lives over me - third-floor front. Nice feller; plays the accordion.'

  'Well, just you watch 'im, Izzy, 'cos as soon as the war starts 'e'll be over your missus an' all,' said the labourer. 'Wot you 'avin'?'

  'Same again, ta,' said the Jew. 'Still, there's nothin' to be done abaht it, is there? I mean, if the war starts.'

  'It depends on Belgium,' said the Cockney. 'But if it does start, it'll be a 'ell of a business. I don't reckon the Army'll be big enough - my bruvver-in-law reckons we'll all 'ave to go.'

  'Does 'e, now?' said the labourer. "E must be a right ray o' sunshine, your bleedin' bruvver-in-law. Mind you, I don't mind meself. I wouldn't mind flattenin' a few o' the buggers - an' a few o' their frauleins, an' all. Be a nice change from the missus.'

  'It's a question o' colonies, too, of course,' said the Cockney. 'The Mail reckons the Germans want to 'ave some more in Africa, same as we've got. An' the Frogs.'

  'I don't see that,' said the Jew. 'They don't need 'em, do they? I mean, we've always 'ad 'em, 'aven't we? For a long time, anyway. Dunno abaht the Frogs. Anyway, I don't reckon the Germans would look after the niggers proper- I mean, they 'aven't the experience, 'ave they? Not like us.'

  'Well, we've got the Empire,' conceded the Cockney. 'That's the point. The Mail reckons the Kaiser wants one, too.'

  'Well, 'e's too bloody late in the day, isn't he?' said the labourer. 'If 'e wanted one, he shoulda been fightin' for one, like we was, wiv Kitchener and Gordon an' them. An' Wellin'ton, I expect,' he added. 'An' Nelson, an' them.'

  'My Dad was in the Soo-dan,' said the Cockney. "E liked it.'

  "E would, wouldn't 'e - bein' yore Dad?' said the labourer. 'Right bloodthirsty lot, yore family - yore bleedin' Dad, an' yore bleedin' bruvver-in-law. I can see we'll 'ave to turn you loose on the Kaiser, first thing.'

  'I wouldn't mind,' said the Cockney. 'Always fancied bein' in the Buffs. My Dad was in the Buffs. Wot's everybody avin', then?' They gave their orders, and the Jew said:

  'I reckon it'll 'appen. I reckon we'll all finish up fightin' the Germans.'

  'Well, it won't be this arternoon,' observed the labourer. 'Good 'ealth. Nor tomorrow, neither. I fancy the Guards, meself. Grenadiers, I think - always fancied them, at Troopin' the Colour, an' that. Talkin' abaht yore Dad, I 'ad a great-uncle in the cavalry - aht in India. 'E settled aht there - married an Indian bint an' got a job on the railway. Mind you, 'e 'ad 'is share first, of booze an' crumpet - an' scrappin' with the niggers on the frontier. Kind of life that'd appeal to me.' He sipped his pint reflectively. 'D'you know - I just 'ope the bleedin' Germans start it. Straight, I do.'

  'Well, I don't mind,' said the Jew. 'I'm sick o' the cabs, I can tell you. I've just abaht 'ad my bellyful o' them. But if I get the chance, it's goin' to be the Rifle Brigade.'

  'Why the Rifle Brigade?' asked the labourer. 'Wot's special abaht them?'

  'No buttons to clean,' said the Jew. 'All black buttons, no brass. An' they learn you sharp-shootin'. I wouldn't mind bein' a sharpshooter, meself.'

  'It depends on Russia, too, of course,' said the Cockney. 'But I reckon it'll 'appen.'

  They drank for a moment in silence, and then the labourer said thoughtfully:

  'Well, like I said, it won't be this arternoon. Kaiser can't 'ave got his bags packed yet. Time enough when 'e 'as.'

  'I just 'ope it isn't over afore I can get in,' said the Cockney. 'They reckon it won't last long - the Mail reckons that.'

  'Always did fancy soldierin',' said the Jew. 'Nice change from the cabs. Good grub, an' all - an' a chance to travel. Drink up, an' let's 'ave another.'

  'Don't mind if I do,' said the Cockney. 'Course, it might not mean travellin' - not very far.'

  "Ow d'you mean?' said the labourer.

  'Well, suppose the Germans was to invade? Suppose the war was - 'ere?'

  'Don't talk bloody silly - 'ow could it? The Navy'd blow 'em to kingdom come afore they'd bought their steamer tickets, 'ardly!' 'That's right,' said the Jew. 'I remember, at school, they told us

  wot some ole Admiral said, in the ole days, when we was fightin' Napoleon or somebody. 'E says: "I do not say that they cannot come. I say only that they cannot come by sea." That's wot 'e said.'

  'Stands to reason,' said the labourer. 'Course they can't come by sea - an' we're surrounded by the bloody stuff, ain't we? There y'are, then.'

  'An' they couldn't beat the Navy,' said the Jew.

  'Mebbe not,' said the Cockney. 'But the Germans 'as nearly as many ships as we've got, 'cording to the Mail. Orlright, orlright - I know they're not as good, an' that, but our Fleet's gotta be spread out all round the British Isles, 'asn't it? An' it seems to me, if the Germans was to come sudden like, wiv all their ships, say at night, they might easy land a 'ell of a great big army somewhere, an' they got ten times more soldiers than we lave, 'an - '

  His exposition was drowned by derisive cries. 'An' wot'd 'appen to

  the German Navy, then? Fat lot there'd be left of it by that time.' The labourer grinned scornfully.

  'Wouldn't matter, would it? - not if they 'ad a million men landed, an' marchin' on London?' said the Cockney.

  'A million?' said the Jew. 'They ain't got that many.'

  'They got four an' a 'arf million, mate,' said the Cockney. 'Don't you bloody worry. An' airships, wiv bombs.,' He drank with satisfaction. 'It's sez so in the Mail.'

  "Oo prints the bleedin' Mail?' dema
nded the labourer. 'The bleedin' Kaiser?' But he scowled thoughtfully nonetheless.

  'Mind you,' added the Cockney, 'if they did land, I'm not sayin' they'd win.'

  'No,' said the Jew. 'There's that.'

  They considered the implications of German invasion, and then the labourer eased himself off his stool and went to look out of the window. He came back, shaking his head.

  'Wot is it, then?' asked the Cockney.

  'Jus' lookin',' said the labourer. 'Not a sign o' the bleedin' Kaiser. 'Oo's round is it, then?'

  Mr Franklin, who had some experience of violent action, wondered later if they would discuss the matter so lightly if the call to arms ever came. It was easy enough to talk in a pub - yet their talk, flippant though it was, had been far from foolish or uninformed. No, they would talk just the same if war did come, and they were forced to meet it personally; they were essentially practical - and quite probably spoiling for a fight, too, as General Flashman had predicted. They were ordinary enough men, but then the ordinary men of England had always demonstrated a great partiality and aptitude for warfare, in spite of the civilising mission of which the nation was so proud. It had just been pub talk, of course, about something they thought unlikely to happen - something they rather regretted might not happen.

  Why should he suddenly remember Samson accepting the Remington that night at Lancing? The thoughtful nod, the outward calm that now, he realised, had masked a secret excitement. He could think of Samson, silent in the dark of the house, listening for the stealthy raising of a window, watching as Curry's dim figure crossed the hall and flitted silently up the stairs. Or Jack Prior, stolid and reserved, but secretly terribly proud. Or the policeman who had almost arrested Lady Helen outside the Waldorf, calm, purposeful and deliberate. Or Lacy, even - suddenly turning to charge him like a wild bull that night at Oxton. Or the man in the steeple-hat and the woman in the apron, whom he had seen in his mind's eye setting out from Castle Lancing in the long ago. Or Fisher with his bull-dog face, Churchill the dangerous placid cherub, old General Flashman, the dying eagle - or Lady Helen with her striking profile, waiting eagerly for her sentence - or Peggy, stepping suddenly beside him and taking his hand in front of Crawford ... but he did not want to think of Peggy, even though she was never out of his mind. It was a strange train of thought that had brought him back to her, from three Londoners in a pub looking forward to war. But all his thoughts came back to her eventually - would she come home this week-end?

  She did not come on Sunday - the day that England heard that Germany had declared war on Russia, had crossed the frontiers of Luxembourg, and had demanded passage through Belgium. Berlin had concluded an alliance with Turkey, France was mobilising and appealing to Britain to stand by her, to guard her northern shore from the naked menace of the German fleet. The little German ambassador, Lichnowsky, a familiar figure with his white sun-hat and cane, had called on Grey, the Foreign Secretary, and wept as he implored Britain to keep out of the war. Even Ireland was forgotten now; the rumour ran that both North and South would call a truce to their differences in the face of the common danger.

  And still people wondered if it could be true - if after all the generations of peace, the ninety-nine years since Britain had been involved in a general European war, after all the crises and alarms and alliances and ententes and threats and notes and incidents and diplomacies of a century, the fighting time had come again. No one could tell; no one knew what telegrams were flying between London and Paris and Berlin and Vienna, what fears and doubts and hopes were being expressed in the offices of power, in the throne and cabinet rooms. But a strange belief was beginning to grip the people, a sense that had nothing to do with the visible evidence, that the thing had happened at last, unforeseen and inexplicable, and there could only be one way in the end. Even on that warm, tranquil Sunday, as the governesses led their befrocked charges through Kensington Gardens and the engines of the great fleet throbbed off the Orkneys, as the crowds basked on the beaches and the Uhlans trotted through the lanes and fields towards Belgium, as grave-faced men stared uneasily at each other in Whitehall and Mr Franklin sat in the garden and wondered where Peggy was and tried to concentrate unsuccessfully on a new book called Dubliners, as the millions of the French army stood to arms and the Kaiser assured his intimates that it was absurd to think that England would ever take the field against her fellow-Teutons - even then, before Mr Kipling had written his unforgettable line or coined the terrible nickname that would last for generations, everyone in England knew. The Hun was at the gate.

  That this sense was shared by the government was seen on Monday, when the nation continued to relax in the Bank Holiday sunshine, and the Foreign Secretary told a packed and attentive House of Commons that the British fleet would give all protection in its power to the northern coast of France. It was as simple as that: Britain would permit no one to make war in her Narrow Seas. Even more ominous, if more carefully-worded, was his further statement that Britain was interested in the independence of Belgium; by Tuesday afternoon it was common knowledge that Britain had demanded a categoric assurance from Berlin, to be delivered before midnight, that Belgian neutrality would be respected. But no one now believed that it would be; the Kaiser would not climb down. In a few hours the fever, which had started slowly and gradually gripped the national body, broke. It was going to be war. The holiday crowds in boaters and summer frocks began to converge, as drawn by some mystical magnet, on the Mall and the other streets leading to Buckingham Palace, people left their homes and began to stare about them in excitement and with strange exhilaration, and at Cessford Castle Lady Helen sat down and wrote, in her strong bold hand, a letter to the Home Secretary in which she assured him that, if war should come, she and all those on whom she could prevail in the suffrage movement - and she had no doubt that even the most militant of its leaders would share her views - would suspend their campaign for the duration of the emergency. Further, she urged that a general amnesty should be declared, and that all those suffragettes now in prison should be pardoned and released at once; in return she and they would place themselves at the country's disposal for whatever war work they could be given.

  Still there was no word from Peggy or Sir Charles. Mr Franklin, restless in Wilton Crescent, finally accepted an invitation which had been made three times during the past week, which he had consistently refused, once by letter and twice through Samson on the telephone. However, when it came a fourth time on the Tuesday afternoon, he finally thought, why not? It would serve to take his mind off his own affairs, and it might even be interesting to hear the views of one who probably knew more of war than any man then living.

  'Very well,' he told Samson, 'tell General Flashman I'll dine with him, but not at his club, or mine.' He had no intention of risking another Athenaeum scene in any place where he might be recognised. He named an obscure Hungarian restaurant off Knightsbridge where he and Peggy had dined once or twice over the years, and said he would be there at eight o'clock. If Peggy had not come home before then, he could reasonably assume that she would not arrive that day.

  In the event it was nearer to nine than eight when he kept his appointment; the eastern end of Knightsbridge was so crowded with traffic and pedestrians as a result of the war excitement that he had to take to the side-streets, and so eventually won to the cool, dark-panelled refuge of his restaurant, where he found his host ensconced in a corner, looking like a lecherous Old Testament prophet in evening dress and decorations, drinking bull's blood and trying to converse in what might have been a Balkan language with a buxom waitress in native costume.