The Sleeper Awakes by H. G. Wells
CHAPTER IX
THE PEOPLE MARCH
He became aware of someone urging a glass of clear fluid upon hisattention, looked up and discovered this was a dark young man in a yellowgarment. He took the dose forthwith, and in a moment he was glowing. Atall man in a black robe stood by his shoulder, and pointed to the halfopen door into the hall. This man was shouting close to his ear and yetwhat was said was indistinct because of the tremendous uproar from thegreat theatre. Behind the man was a girl in a silvery grey robe, whomGraham, even in this confusion, perceived to be beautiful. Her dark eyes,full of wonder and curiosity, were fixed on him, her lips trembled apart.A partially opened door gave a glimpse of the crowded hall, and admitteda vast uneven tumult, a hammering, clapping and shouting that died awayand began again, and rose to a thunderous pitch, and so continuedintermittently all the time that Graham remained in the little room. Hewatched the lips of the man in black and gathered that he was making someexplanation.
He stared stupidly for some moments at these things and then stood upabruptly; he grasped the arm of this shouting person.
"Tell me!" he cried. "Who am I? Who am I?"
The others came nearer to hear his words. "Who am I?" His eyes searchedtheir faces.
"They have told him nothing!" cried the girl.
"Tell me, tell me!" cried Graham.
"You are the Master of the Earth. You are owner of the world."
He did not believe he heard aright. He resisted the persuasion. Hepretended not to understand, not to hear. He lifted his voice again. "Ihave been awake three days--a prisoner three days. I judge there is somestruggle between a number of people in this city--it is London?"
"Yes," said the younger man.
"And those who meet in the great hall with the white Atlas? How does itconcern me? In some way it has to do with me. _Why_, I don't know. Drugs?It seems to me that while I have slept the world has gone mad. I havegone mad.... Who are those Councillors under the Atlas? Why should theytry to drug me?"
"To keep you insensible," said the man in yellow. "To prevent yourinterference."
"But _why_?"
"Because _you_ are the Atlas, Sire," said the man in yellow. "The worldis on your shoulders. They rule it in your name."
The sounds from the hall had died into a silence threaded by onemonotonous voice. Now suddenly, trampling on these last words, came adeafening tumult, a roaring and thundering, cheer crowded on cheer,voices hoarse and shrill, beating, overlapping, and while it lasted thepeople in the little room could not hear each other shout.
Graham stood, his intelligence clinging helplessly to the thing he hadjust heard. "The Council," he repeated blankly, and then snatched at aname that had struck him. "But who is Ostrog?" he said.
"He is the organiser--the organiser of the revolt. Our Leader--inyour name."
"In my name?--And you? Why is he not here?"
"He--has deputed us. I am his brother--his half-brother, Lincoln. Hewants you to show yourself to these people and then come on to him. Thatis why he has sent. He is at the wind-vane offices directing. The peopleare marching."
"In your name," shouted the younger man. "They have ruled, crushed,tyrannised. At last even--"
"In my name! My name! Master?"
The younger man suddenly became audible in a pause of the outer thunder,indignant and vociferous, a high penetrating voice under his redaquiline nose and bushy moustache. "No one expected you to wake. No oneexpected you to wake. They were cunning. Damned tyrants! But they weretaken by surprise. They did not know whether to drug you, hypnotise you,kill you."
Again the hall dominated everything.
"Ostrog is at the wind-vane offices ready--. Even now there is a rumourof fighting beginning."
The man who had called himself Lincoln came close to him. "Ostrog has itplanned. Trust him. We have our organisations ready. We shall seize theflying stages--. Even now he may be doing that. Then--"
"This public theatre," bawled the man in yellow, "is only a contingent.We have five myriads of drilled men--"
"We have arms," cried Lincoln. "We have plans. A leader. Their policehave gone from the streets and are massed in the--" (inaudible). "It isnow or never. The Council is rocking--They cannot trust even theirdrilled men--"
"Hear the people calling to you!"
Graham's mind was like a night of moon and swift clouds, now dark andhopeless, now clear and ghastly. He was Master of the Earth, he was a mansodden with thawing snow. Of all his fluctuating impressions the dominantones presented an antagonism; on the one hand was the White Council,powerful, disciplined, few, the White Council from which he had justescaped; and on the other, monstrous crowds, packed masses ofindistinguishable people clamouring his name, hailing him Master. Theother side had imprisoned him, debated his death. These shoutingthousands beyond the little doorway had rescued him. But why these thingsshould be so he could not understand.
The door opened, Lincoln's voice was swept away and drowned, and a rashof people followed on the heels of the tumult. These intruders cametowards him and Lincoln gesticulating. The voices without explained theirsoundless lips. "Show us the Sleeper, show us the Sleeper!" was theburden of the uproar. Men were bawling for "Order! Silence!"
Graham glanced towards the open doorway, and saw a tall, oblong pictureof the hall beyond, a waving, incessant confusion of crowded, shoutingfaces, men and women together, waving pale blue garments, extended hands.Many were standing, one man in rags of dark brown, a gaunt figure, stoodon the seat and waved a black cloth. He met the wonder and expectation ofthe girl's eyes. What did these people expect from him. He was dimlyaware that the tumult outside had changed its character, was in some waybeating, marching. His own mind, too, changed. For a space he did notrecognise the influence that was transforming him. But a moment that wasnear to panic passed. He tried to make audible inquiries of what wasrequired of him.
Lincoln was shouting in his ear, but Graham was deafened to that. All theothers save the woman gesticulated towards the hall. He perceived whathad happened to the uproar. The whole mass of people was chantingtogether. It was not simply a song, the voices were gathered together andupborne by a torrent of instrumental music, music like the music of anorgan, a woven texture of sounds, full of trumpets, full of flauntingbanners, full of the march and pageantry of opening war. And the feet ofthe people were beating time--tramp, tramp.
He was urged towards the door. He obeyed mechanically. The strength ofthat chant took hold of him, stirred him, emboldened him. The hall openedto him, a vast welter of fluttering colour swaying to the music.
"Wave your arm to them," said Lincoln. "Wave your arm to them."
"This," said a voice on the other side, "he must have this." Arms wereabout his neck detaining him in the doorway, and a blacksubtly-folding mantle hung from his shoulders. He threw his arm freeof this and followed Lincoln. He perceived the girl in grey close tohim, her face lit, her gesture onward. For the instant she became tohim, flushed and eager as she was, an embodiment of the song. Heemerged in the alcove again. Incontinently the mounting waves of thesong broke upon his appearing, and flashed up into a foam of shouting.Guided by Lincoln's hand he marched obliquely across the centre of thestage facing the people.
The hall was a vast and intricate space--galleries, balconies, broadspaces of amphitheatral steps, and great archways. Far away, high up,seemed the mouth of a huge passage full of struggling humanity. The wholemultitude was swaying in congested masses. Individual figures sprang outof the tumult, impressed him momentarily, and lost definition again.Close to the platform swayed a beautiful fair woman, carried by threemen, her hair across her face and brandishing a green staff. Next thisgroup an old careworn man in blue canvas maintained his place in thecrush with difficulty, and behind shouted a hairless face, a great cavityof toothless mouth. A voice called that enigmatical word "Ostrog." Allhis impressions were vague save the massive emotion of that tramplingsong. The multitude were beating time with their feet--marking time,tramp, t
Faces came out of the confusion to him as he stood there, eyes met hisand passed and vanished. Men gesticulated to him, shouted inaudiblepersonal things. Most of the faces were flushed, but many were ghastlywhite. And disease was there, and many a hand that waved to him was gauntand lean. Men and women of the new age! Strange and incredible meeting!As the broad stream passed before him to the right, tributary gangwaysfrom the remote uplands of the hall thrust downward in an incessantreplacement of people; tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. The unison of the songwas enriched and complicated by the massive echoes of arches andpassages. Men and women mingled in the ranks; tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp.The whole world seemed marching. Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp; his brainwas tramping. The garments waved onward, the faces poured by moreabundantly.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp; at Lincoln's pressure he turned towards thearchway, walking unconsciously in that rhythm, scarcely noticing hismovement for the melody and stir of it. The multitude, the gesture andsong, all moved in that direction, the flow of people smote downwarduntil the upturned faces were below the level of his feet. He was awareof a path before him, of a suite about him, of guards and dignities, andLincoln on his right hand. Attendants intervened, and ever and againblotted out the sight of the multitude to the left. Before him went thebacks of the guards in black--three and three and three. He was marchedalong a little railed way, and crossed above the archway, with thetorrent dipping to flow beneath, and shouting up to him. He did not knowwhither he went; he did not want to know. He glanced back across aflaming spaciousness of hall. Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp.