"Number two, all's well!"
"Number three, all's well!"
Then faintly in the distance of the gardens, "Number four, all's well!" Forty-five gentlemen of the corps had fallen in the confused fighting of these last two days; many more had been sent away by yacht, or by road with messages on the business of the State. How we grudged every man who was taken away from guarding Margaret. We all had our private troubles—those who were dear to us did not escape ruin and hunger, and one trooper who visited his home, came back to the Palace insane. These matters we kept to ourselves, but there was an understanding in the mess that each man must keep his life at our Lady's service so long as she had need of the Guard.
This had been midsummer day, the longest in all the year; but Margaret was at work from dawn to dusk, and her Ministers had barely time for food.
The Departments of State found themselves quarters in the Palace, and the Postmaster-General contrived the telegraphs, some sort of money was arranged for the public—what kind of currency mattered nothing now. A power station was got to work in the Midlands so that electric shipping was able to take the air. The Fleet reserve was mobilized, and the royal yacht squadron assembled. The railways were seized, and a service of trains commenced. The Imperial army began to concentrate upon London, regiment after regiment, brigade after brigade being quartered and fortified to protect the main supplies of food.
And so her Majesty began to reign. The fallen lifted their eyes, those who despaired ventured to think and to hope, those who were weak had strength to work for her, the wounded forgot their pain, the stricken their bereavement, the mourners their dead, and dying England lived for Margaret.
"Number one, all's well!"
"All's well."
"All's well."
"All's well."