The Pomp of Yesterday Part 1

"The Pomp of Yesterday"

by Joseph Hocking.

FOREWORD

It is now fast approaching four years since our country at the call of duty, and for the world's welfare entered the great struggle which is still convulsing the nations of the earth. What this has cost us, and what it has meant to us, and to other countries, it is impossible to describe. Imagination reels before the thought. Still the ghastly struggle continues, daily comes the story of carnage, and suffering, and loss; and still the enemy who stands for all that is basest, and most degraded in life, stands firm, and proudly vaunts his prowess.

Why is Victory delayed?

That is the question which has haunted me for many months, and I have asked myself whether we, and our Allies, have failed in those things which are essential, not only to Victory, but to a righteous and, therefore, lasting peace.

In this story, while not attempting a full and complete answer to the question, I have made certain suggestions which I am sure the Nation, the Empire, ought to consider; for on our att.i.tude towards them depends much that is most vital to our welfare.

Let it not be imagined, however, that _The Pomp of Yesterday_ is anything in the nature of a polemic, or a treatise. It is first and foremost a story--a romance if you like--of incident, and adventure.

But it is more than a story. It deals with vital things, and it deals with them--however inadequately--sincerely and earnestly. The statements, moreover, which will probably arouse a great deal of antagonism in certain quarters, are not inventions of the Author, but were related to him by those in a position to know.

Neither are the descriptions of the Battle of the Somme the result of the Author's imagination, but transcripts from the experiences of some who pa.s.sed through it. Added to this, I have, since first writing the story, paid a Second Visit to the Front, during which I traversed the country on which Thiepval, Goomecourt, La Boiselle, Contalmaison; and a score of other towns and villages once stood. Because of this, while doubtless a military authority could point out technical errors in my descriptions, I have been able to visualize the scenes of the battle, and correct such mistakes as I made at the time of writing.

One other word. More than once, the chief character in the narrative antic.i.p.ates what has taken place in Russia. While I do not claim to be a prophet, it is only fair to say that I finished writing the story in August, 1917, when very few dreamt of the terrible chaos which now exists in the once Great Empire on which we so largely depended.

JOSEPH HOCKING.

_March_, 1918.

CHAPTER I

THE MAN WITHOUT A PAST

My first meeting with the man whose story I have set out to relate was in Plymouth. I had been standing in the harbour, hoping that the friends I had come to meet might yet appear, even although the chances of their doing so had become very small. Perhaps a hundred pa.s.sengers had landed at the historic quay, and practically all of them had rushed away to catch the London train. I had scrutinized each face eagerly, but when the last pa.s.senger had crossed the gangway I had been reluctantly compelled to a.s.sume that my friends, for some reason or other, had not come.

I was about to turn away, and go back to the town, when some one touched my arm. 'This is Plymouth, isn't it?'

I turned, and saw a young man. At that time I was not sure he was young; he might have been twenty-eight, or he might have been forty-eight. His face was marked by a thousand lines, while a look suggestive of age was in his eyes. He spoke to me in an apologetic sort of way, and looked at me wistfully.

I did not answer him for a second, as his appearance startled me. The strange admixture of youth and age gave me an eerie feeling.

'Yes,' I replied, 'this is Plymouth. At least, this is Plymouth Harbour.'

He turned toward the vessel, and looked at it for some seconds, and then heaved a sigh.

'Have you friends on board?' I asked.

'Oh, no,' he replied. 'I have just left it. I thought I remembered Plymouth, and so I got off.'

'Where have you come from?'

'From India.'

'Where did you come from?'

'From Bombay. It was a long journey to Bombay, but it seemed my only chance.' Then he shuddered.

'Aren't you well?' I asked.

'Oh, yes, I am very well now. But everything seems difficult to realize; you, now, and all this,' and he cast his eyes quickly around him, 'seem to be something which exists in the imagination, rather than objective, tangible things.'

He spoke perfect English, and his manner suggested education, refinement.

'You don't mind my speaking to you, do you?' he added somewhat nervously.

'Not at all,' and I scrutinized him more closely. 'If you did not speak English so well,' I said, 'I should have thought you were an Indian,'--and then I realized that I had been guilty of a _faux pas_, for I saw his face flush and his lips tremble painfully.

'You were thinking of my clothes,' was his reply. 'They were the best I could get. When I realized that I was alive, I was half naked; I was very weak and ill, too. I picked up these things,' and he glanced at his motley garments, 'where and how I could. On the whole, however, people were very kind to me. When I got to Bombay, my feeling was that I must get to England.'

'And where are you going now?' I asked.

'I don't know. Luckily I have a little money; I found it inside my vest. I suppose I must have put it there before----' and then he became silent, while the strange, wistful look in his eyes was intensified.

'What is your name?' I asked.

'I haven't the slightest idea. It's very awkward, isn't it?' and he laughed nervously. 'Sometimes dim pictures float before my mind, and I seem to have vague recollections of things that happened ages and ages ago. But they pa.s.s away in a second. I am afraid you think my conduct unpardonable, but I can hardly help myself. You see, having no memory, I act on impulse. That was why I spoke to you.'

'The poor fellow must be mad,' I said to myself; 'it would be a kindness to him to take him to a police station, and ask the authorities to take care of him.' But as I looked at him again, I was not sure of this. In spite of his strange attire, and in spite, too, of the wistful look in his eyes, there was no suggestion of insanity.

That he had pa.s.sed through great trouble I was sure, and I had a feeling that he must, at some time, have undergone some awful experiences. But his eyes were not those of a madman. In some senses they were bold and resolute, and suggested great courage; in others they expressed gentleness and kindness.

'Then you have no idea what you are going to do, now you have landed at Plymouth?'

'I'm afraid I haven't. Perhaps I ought not to have got off here at all. But again I acted on impulse. You see, when I first saw the harbour, I had a feeling that I had been here before, so seeing the others landing, I followed them. My reason for speaking to you was, I think, this,'--and he touched my tunic. 'Besides, there was something in your eyes which made me trust you.'

'Are you a soldier, then?' I asked.

'I don't know. You see, I don't know anything. But I rather think I must have been interested in the Army, because I am instinctively drawn to any one wearing a soldier's uniform. You are a captain, I see.'

'Yes,' I replied. 'I'm afraid my position in the Army is somewhat anomalous, but there it is. When the war broke out, I was asked by the War Office to do some recruiting, and thinking that I should have more influence as a soldier, a commission was given me. I don't know much about soldiering, although I have taken a great deal of interest in the Army all my life.'

He looked at me in a puzzled sort of way. 'War broke out?' he queried.

'Is England at war?'

'Didn't you know?'

He shook his head pathetically. 'I know nothing. All the way home I talked to no one. I didn't feel as though I could. You see, people looked upon me as a kind of curiosity, and I resented it somewhat.

But, England at war! By Jove, that's interesting!'

His eyes flashed with a new light, and another tone came into his voice. 'Who are we at war with?' he added.