The End Of The Old Order
From: When The Sleeper Wakes
So far as Graham was able to judge, it was near midday when the white
banner of the Council fell. But some hours had to elapse before it was
possible to effect the formal capitulation, and so after he had spoken
his "Word" he retired to his new apartments in the wind-vane offices.
The continuous excitement of the last twelve hours had left him
inordinately fatigued, even his curiosity was exhausted; for a space he
sat inert and passive with open eyes, and for a space he slept. He
was roused by two medical attendants, come prepared with stimulants to
sustain him through the next occasion. After he had taken their drugs
and bathed by their advice in cold water, he felt a rapid return of
interest and energy, and was presently able and willing to accompany
Ostrog through several miles (as it seemed) of passages, lifts, and
slides to the closing scene of the White Council's rule.
The way ran deviously through a maze of buildings. They came at last to
a passage that curved about, and showed broadening before him an oblong
opening, clouds hot with sunset, and the ragged skyline of the ruinous
Council House. A tumult of shouts came drifting up to him. In another
moment they had come out high up on the brow of the cliff of torn
buildings that overhung the wreckage. The vast area opened to Graham's
eyes, none the less strange and wonderful for the remote view he had had
of it in the oval mirror.
This rudely amphitheatral space seemed now the better part of a mile to
its outer edge. It was gold lit on the left hand, catching the sunlight,
and below and to the right clear and cold in the shadow. Above the
shadowy grey Council House that stood in the midst of it, the great
black banner of the surrender still hung in sluggish folds against
the blazing sunset. Severed rooms, halls and passages gaped strangely,
broken masses of metal projected dismally from the complex wreckage,
vast masses of twisted cable dropped like tangled seaweed, and from its
base came a tumult of innumerable voices, violent concussions, and
the sound of trumpets. All about this great white pile was a ring of
desolation; the smashed and blackened masses, the gaunt foundations and
ruinous lumber of the fabric that had been destroyed by the Council's
orders, skeletons of girders, Titanic masses of wall, forests of stout
pillars. Amongst the sombre wreckage beneath, running water flashed and
glistened, and far away across the space, out of the midst of a vague
vast mass of buildings, there thrust the twisted end of a water-main,
two hundred feet in the air, thunderously spouting a shining cascade.
And everywhere great multitudes of people.
Wherever there was space and foothold, people swarmed, little people,
small and minutely clear, except where the sunset touched them to
indistinguishable gold. They clambered up the tottering walls, they
clung in wreaths and groups about the high-standing pillars. They
swarmed along the edges of the circle of ruins. The air was full of
their shouting, and were pressing and swaying towards the central space.
The upper storeys of the Council House seemed deserted, not a human
being was visible. Only the drooping banner of the surrender hung
heavily against the light. The dead were within the Council House, or
hidden by the swarming people, or carried away. Graham could see only
a few neglected bodies in gaps and corners of the ruins, and amidst the
"Will you let them see you, Sire?" said Ostrog. "They are very anxious
to see you."
Graham hesitated, and then walked forward to where the broken verge
of wall dropped sheer. He I stood looking down, a lonely, tall, black
figure against the sky.
Very slowly the swarming ruins became aware of him. And as they did so
little bands of black-uniformed men appeared remotely, thrusting through
the crowds towards the Council House. He saw little black heads become
pink, looking at him, saw by that means a wave of recognition sweep
across the space. It occurred to him that he should accord them some
recognition. He held up his arm, then pointed to the Council House and
dropped his hand. The voices below became unanimous, gathered volume,
came up to him as multitudinous wavelets of cheering.
The western sky was a pallid bluish green, and Jupiter shone high in
the south, before the capitulation was accomplished. Above was a slow
insensible change, the advance of night serene and beautiful; below was
hurry, excitement, conflicting orders, pauses, spasmodic developments of
organisation, a vast ascending clamour and confusion. Before the Council
came out, toiling perspiring men, directed by a conflict of shouts,
carried forth hundreds of those who had perished in the hand-to-hand
conflict within those long passages and chambers.
Guards in black lined the way that the Council would come, and as far
as the eye could reach into the hazy blue twilight of the ruins, and
swarming now at every possible point in the captured Council House
and along the shattered cliff of its circumadjacent buildings, were
innumerable people, and their voices even when they were not cheering,
were as the soughing of the sea upon a pebble beach. Ostrog had chosen
a huge commanding pile of crushed and overthrown masonry, and on this
a stage of timbers and metal girders was being hastily constructed.
Its essential parts were complete, but humming and clangorous machinery
still glared fitfully in the shadows beneath this temporary edifice.
The stage had a small higher portion on which Graham stood with Ostrog
and Lincoln close beside him, a little in advance of a group of minor
officers. A broader lower stage surrounded this quarter deck, and on
this were the black-uniformed guards of the revolt armed with the little
green weapons whose very names Graham still did not know. Those standing
about him perceived that his eyes wandered perpetually from the swarming
people in the twilight ruins about him to the darkling mass of the White
Council House, whence the Trustees would presently come, and to the
gaunt cliffs of ruin that encircled him, and so back to the people. The
voices of the crowd swelled to a deafening tumult.
He saw the Councillors first afar off in the glare of one of the
temporary lights that marked their path, a little group of white figures
blinking in a black archway. In the Council House they had been in
darkness. He watched them approaching, drawing nearer past first this
blazing electric star and then that; the minatory roar of the crowd over
whom their power had lasted for a hundred and fifty years marched along
beside them. As they drew still nearer their faces came out weary, white
and anxious. He saw them blinking up through the glare about him and
Ostrog. He contrasted their strange cold looks in the Hall of Atlas....
Presently he could recognise several of them; the man who had rapped
the table at Howard, a burly man with a red beard, and one
delicate-featured, short, dark man with a peculiarly long skull. He
noted that two were whispering together and looking behind him at
Ostrog. Next there came a tall, dark and handsome man, walking downcast.
Abruptly he glanced up, his eyes touched Graham for a moment, and
passed beyond him to Ostrog. The way that had been made for them was so
contrived that they had to march past and curve about before they came
to the sloping path of planks that ascended to the stage where their
surrender was to be made.
"The Master, the Master! God and the Master," shouted the people. "To
hell with the Council!" Graham looked at their multitudes, receding
beyond counting into a shouting haze, and then at Ostrog beside him,
white and steadfast and still. His eye went again to the little group
of White Councillors. And then he looked up at the familiar quiet stars
overhead. The marvellous element in his fate was suddenly vivid. Could
that be his indeed, that little life in his memory two hundred years
gone by--and this as well?
Next: From The Crow's Nest