In the end he had his way, with Mam’selle’s help, and had put some confidence into civic breasts. It took him the best part of the afternoon to collect his posse. He got every wounded Belgian that had the use of his legs, some well-grown boys, one or two ancients, and several dozen robust women. There was no lack of weapons, and he armed the lot with a strange collection of French and English rifles, giving pistols to the section leaders. With the help of the Procureur, he divided the city into beats and gave his followers instructions. They were drastic orders, for the situation craved for violence.
He spent the evening of his life. So far as he remembered afterwards, he was in seventeen different scraps. Strayed revellers were leniently dealt with—the canal was a cooling experience. Looters were rounded up, and, if they showed fight, summarily disposed of. One band of bullies made a stout resistance, killed two of his guards, and lost half a dozen dead. He got a black eye, a pistol-bullet through his sleeve, a wipe on the cheek from a carving-knife, and he lost the remnants of his bonnet. Fifty-two prisoners spent the night in the cellars of the Mairie.
About midnight he found himself in the tapestried chamber. “We’ll hae to get a Proclamation,” he had announced; “a gude strong yin, for we maun conduct this job according to the rules.” So the Procureur had a document drawn up bidding all inhabitants of Ypres keep indoors except between the hours of 10 a.m. and noon, and 3 and 5 p.m.; forbidding the sale of alcohol in all forms; and making theft and violence and the carrying of arms punishable by death. There was a host of other provisions which Galbraith imperfectly understood, but when the thing was translated to him he approved its spirit. He signed the document in his large sprawling hand—“Peter Galbraith, 1473, Pte., 3rd Lennox Highlanders, Acting Provost of Wipers.”
“Get that prentit,” he said, “and pit up copies at every street corner and on a’ the public-hooses. And see that the doors o’ the publics are boardit up. That’ll do for the day. I’m feelin’ verra like my bed.”
Mam’selle Omèrine watched him with a smile. She caught his eye and dropped him a curtsey.
“Monsieur le Roi d’Ypres,” she said.
He blushed hotly.
For the next few days Private Galbraith worked harder than ever before in his existence. For the first time he knew responsibility, and that toil which brings honour with it. He tasted the sweets of office; and he, whose aim in life had been to scrape through with the minimum of exertion, now found himself the inspirer of the maximum in others.
At first he scorned advice, being shy and nervous. Gradually, as he felt his feet, he became glad of other people’s wisdom. Especially he leaned on two, Mam’selle Omèrine and her father. Likewise the priest, whom he called the minister.
By the second day the order in Ypres was remarkable. By the third day it was phenomenal; and by the fourth a tyranny. The little city for the first time for seven hundred years fell under the sway of a despot. A citizen had to be on his best behaviour, for the Acting Provost’s eye was on him. Never was seen so sober a place. Three permits for alcohol and no more were issued, and then only on the plea of medical necessity. Peter handed over to the doctor the flask of brandy he had carried off from the estaminet—Provosts must set an example.
The Draconian code promulgated the first night was not adhered to. Looters and violent fellows went to gaol instead of the gallows. But three spies were taken and shot after a full trial. That trial was the master effort of Private Galbraith—based on his own regimental experience and memories of a Sheriff Court in Lanarkshire, where he had twice appeared for poaching. He was extraordinarily punctilious about forms, and the three criminals—their guilt was clear, and they were the scum of creation—had something more than justice. The Acting Provost pronounced sentence, which the priest translated, and a file of mutilés in the yard did the rest.
“If the Boches get in here we’ll pay for this day’s work,” said the judge cheerfully; “but I’ll gang easier to the grave for havin’ got rid o’ thae swine.”
On the fourth day he had a sudden sense of dignity. He examined his apparel, and found it very bad. He needed a new bonnet, a new kilt, and puttees, and he would be the better of a new shirt. Being aware that commandeering for personal use ill suited with his office, he put the case before the Procureur, and a Commission de Ravitaillement was appointed. Shirts and puttees were easily got, but the kilt and bonnet were difficulties. But next morning Mam’selle Omèrine brought a gift. It was a bonnet with such a dicing round the rim as no Jock ever wore, and a skirt—it is the truest word—of that pattern which graces the persons of small girls in France. It was not the Lennox tartan, it was not any kind of tartan, but Private Galbraith did not laugh. He accepted the garments with a stammer of thanks—“They’re awfu’ braw, and I’m much obliged, Mem”—and, what is more, he put them on. The Ypriotes saw his splendour with approval. It was a proof of his new frame of mind that he did not even trouble to reflect what his comrades would think of his costume, and that he kissed the bonnet affectionately before he went to bed.
That night he had evil dreams. He suddenly saw the upshot of it all—himself degraded and shot as a deserter, and his brief glory pricked like a bubble. Grim forebodings of court-martials assailed him. What would Mam’selle think of him when he was led away in disgrace—he who for a little had been a king? He walked about the
