The Undefeated

by J. C. Snaith

Biologists say that all forms of organic life are determined by climate. Blackhampton owed much, no doubt, to its happy situation as the exact center of the Empire, but no city in the kingdom could have lived more consciously in that fact. London was not without importance as places went; the same might be said for New York; but in the eyes of the true Blackhamptonian, after all, these centers of light were comparatively provincial.

This evening the streets of the city were alive with true Blackhamptonians. In the sight of these only Blackhampton mattered. Its attitude was of decisive consequence in this unparalleled crisis. No matter what other places were doing and thinking, Blackhampton itself was fully determined to pull its weight in the boat.

The press of citizens was very great by the time Bill Hollis arrived in the Market Place. In particular, they were gathered in serious groups before the City Hall, the Imperial Club and the offices of the Blackhampton Tribune, which continued to emit hourly editions of the Evening Star with fuller accounts of the proceedings in Parliament and the latest telegrams concerning the fighting in Belgium.

The British Cabinet had given Germany until midnight, but Blackhampton had fully made up its mind in the matter by five minutes past nine, which was the precise hour that Mr. William Hollis arrived to bear his part in the local witenagemot. His part was the relatively humble one of standing in front of the Imperial Club and gazing with rather wistful eyes into that brightly tiled and glazed and highly burnished interior as it was momentarily revealed by the entrance of a member.

Even so early in the world’s history as five minutes past nine it was known to those privileged sons of the race who had assembled in front of the sandstone and red brick façade of the Blackhampton Imperial Club that Germany “was going to get it in the neck.” There must be a limit to all things and Germany had already exceeded it. The Cabinet having unluckily omitted to provide itself with even one Blackhampton man was yet doing its best to keep pace with informed Blackhampton opinion, but events were moving very quickly in front of the Imperial Club. At a quarter past nine Sir Reuben Jope, the chairman of the Party, drove up in his electric brougham, a bearded fierce-eyed figure whose broadcloth trousers allied to a prehistoric box hat seemed to make him a cross between a rather aggressive Free Kirk elder and an extraordinarily respectable pirate. At twenty minutes past nine Mr. Whibley, the Club porter, an imposing vision in pale brown, gold braid, and brass buttons, came down the steps and informed a friend on the curb “that the Fleet was fully mobilized.”

Other luminaries continued to arrive. It was like the night of a very hotly contested election, except for the fact that every one of the thousands of human beings thronging the Market Place were of one mind. But there was neither boasting nor revelry. This was a sagacious, a keen-bitten, a practical race. A terrible job was on hand, but it was realized already that it would have to be done. The thing had gone too far. There were no demonstrations; on the contrary, a quietude so intense as to seem unnatural gave the measure and the depth of Blackhampton’s feeling upon the subject.

Had Bill Hollis used the forty-one years of his life in a way to justify his early ambitions he would have been inside the Club on this historical evening, sitting on red leather and smoking a cigar with the best of them. As it was he had to be content with a foremost place in the ever-growing throng outside the Club portals, from which point of vantage he was able to witness the arrival of many renowned citizens and also to gaze through the famous bow window which abutted on to the Square at the array of notables within. In the intensity of the hour the Club servants had omitted to draw down the blinds.

At ten minutes to ten Mr. Alderman Munt, sustained by roast saddle of mutton and green peas, fruit tart and custard, appeared in the embrasure with a large cigar. Seen from the street he looked a tremendously imposing figure. Even in the midst of the men of light and leading who surrounded him he was a Saul towering among the prophets. Not even his admirers, and in the city of his birth these were singularly few, ventured to call him genial, but there was power, virility, unconscious domination in the far flung glance that marked the press beyond the Club windows. Somehow there was a bulldog look about him that was extraordinarily British. Somehow he looked a good man in a tight place and a bad one to cross.

Had the question been asked there was not one among that throng of hushed spectators who could have explained his own presence in the Market Place, nor could he have said just what he was doing there. A powerful magnet had drawn the many together into a limited space on an airless evening in August to gaze at one another and to wonder what was going to happen, yet well knowing that nothing could happen as far as that evening was concerned. But in this strange gathering, in the solemn hush that came upon it from time to time, was the visible evidence that the people of Blackhampton were standing together in a supreme moment. Perhaps it gave a feeling of security that each was shoulder to shoulder with his neighbor in this hour so fateful for themselves, for Blackhampton, for the human race.