David Blaize and the Blue Door

by E. F. Benson

The sun had got low when he descended to earth again, and the flowers had ceased ringing in the garden-beds. Birds were still moving in the bushes, but none was flying now, for it was getting quite dark, and David felt that both the desire and the power of flying were leaving him, as was only natural when night came on. Once or twice he ran and jumped off the ground, but he could no longer tread the air properly: it was as if his feet broke through it. Or when he tried to mount slowly, like the lark, just dabbling the air down with his hands, his hands went through it instead of pressing it below him. But he was sure that he remembered the way to do it still, though it didn’t seem quite as easy as it had this morning. However, if he was a bird-boy, he had to fly at bird-times, and not at night, and after falling rather heavily on the gravel-path, when he tried to do the swift-trick, he thought it better to give it up till morning.

He was not in the least sleepy, and he was sure that there were plenty of other adventures awaiting him. The only question was in which direction he should go to look for them. But his flying had made him thirsty again, and as the lake was so close it was worth while going down to it, to have another drink of that delicious lemonade before it got absolutely dark. So again he lay down on the bank, and was just going to drink, when he heard a tramp of feet, and, looking round, saw that the long gravel walk just behind him was entirely lined with soldiers; at least they were standing in two lines like soldiers, and they looked as if they had been put there on purpose, as soldiers do, not like a queue of people taking tickets, who look as if they had come there by accident. Then again in front of them, at the end of the line, was standing a very stout man in khaki, with a lot of ribands across him, so that if he was not a Brigadier-General, he certainly ought to have been one. Furthermore, on the lawn behind them were rows and rows of tents and a band was playing.

So David came to the conclusion that these were soldiers, and that he himself must be something, but he didn’t at present know what it was. It began to get clearer in a minute.

The Brigadier-General saluted, and came down the bank towards David, who got up at once, and tried to forget he was thirsty. It was evident that something was going to happen without his having to go in search of it. Half-way down the bank, the Brigadier-General suddenly tripped over his own spurs, which were on the toes of his boots, and began rolling down into the lake. He fell into it with a loud splash, and all the soldiers behind began laughing.

‘Silence in the ranks!’ said David very grandly, turning round, for he knew that he must be somebody tremendous to have a Brigadier-General salute him.

There was a loud coughing sound from the lake, and a water-logged voice spluttered out:

‘If your Grace would have the kindness to extend to me the tip of your Field-Marshal’s baton, I should easily be able to get to land without the least risk of pulling your Grace in.’

That shed a fresh light on the situation, for David now knew that he was either a duke or an archbishop, and was also a field-marshal. He couldn’t think of any archbishops who were field-marshals, but the names of the Duke of Marlborough and the Duke of Wellington instantly occurred to him as fitting the situation.

‘I suppose I must be one of them,’ thought David, ‘unless I’m just Field-Marshal the Duke of Blaize, and if I was I should surely have known it before. But let me get my poor Brigadier-General out first.’

He found that he had under his arm a long pole like a fishing-rod, which was almost certainly his baton, and so he tied his handkerchief to the end of it, and began fishing for the Brigadier-General. It had got quite dark by now, and he could only just see a line of foam where the Brigadier-General was splashing about. Then there came a tug at his handkerchief, which bent his baton nearly double.