Fall of Giants

Thinking it over as he smoked his after-breakfast cigar, Fitz realized that the thought of war did not horrify him. He had spoken of it as a tragedy, in an automatic way, but it would not be entirely a bad thing. War would unite the nation against a common enemy, and dampen the fires of unrest. There would be no more strikes, and talk of republicanism would be seen as unpatriotic. Women might even stop demanding the vote. And in a personal way he found himself strangely drawn to the prospect. War would be his chance to be useful, to prove his courage, to serve his country, to do something in return for the wealth and privilege that had been lavished on him all his life.

The news from the pit, coming at midmorning, took the sparkle off the party. Only one of the guests actually went into Aberowen-Gus Dewar, the American. Nevertheless, they all had the feeling, unusual for them, of being far from the center of attention. Lunch was a subdued affair, and the afternoon’s entertainments were canceled. Fitz feared the king would be displeased with him, even though he had nothing to do with the operation of the mine. He was not a director or shareholder of Celtic Minerals. He merely licensed the mining rights to the company, which paid him a royalty per ton. So he felt sure that no reasonable person could possibly blame him for what had happened. Still, the nobility could not be seen to indulge in frivolous pursuits while men were trapped underground, especially when the king and queen were visiting. That meant that reading and smoking were just about the only acceptable pursuits. The royal couple were sure to be bored.

Fitz was angered. Men died all the time: soldiers were killed in battle, sailors went down with their ships, railway trains crashed, hotels full of sleeping guests burned to the ground. Why did a pit disaster have to happen just when he was entertaining the king?

Shortly before dinner Perceval Jones, mayor of Aberowen and chairman of Celtic Minerals, came to the house to brief the earl, and Fitz asked Sir Alan Tite whether the king might like to hear the report. His Majesty would, came the reply, and Fitz was relieved: at least the monarch had something to do.

The male guests gathered in the small drawing room, an informal space with soft chairs and potted palms and a piano. Jones was wearing the black tailcoat he had undoubtedly put on for church this morning. A short, pompous man, he looked like a strutting bird in a double-breasted gray waistcoat.

The king was in evening dress. “Good of you to come,” he said briskly.

Jones said: “I had the honor of shaking Your Majesty’s hand in 1911, when you came to Cardiff for the investiture of the Prince of Wales.”

“I’m glad to renew our acquaintanceship, though sorry it should happen in such distressing circumstances,” the king replied. “Tell me what happened in plain words, just as if you were explaining it to one of your fellow directors, over a drink at your club.”

That was clever, Fitz thought; it set just the right tone-though no one offered Jones a drink, and the king did not invite him to sit down.

“So kind of Your Majesty.” Jones spoke with a Cardiff accent, harsher than the lilt of the valleys. “There were two hundred and twenty men down the pit when the explosion occurred, fewer than normal as this is a special Sunday shift.”

“You know the exact figure?” the king asked.

“Oh, yes, sir, we note the name of each man going down.”

“Forgive the interruption. Please carry on.”

“Both shafts were damaged, but firefighting teams brought the blaze under control, with the help of our sprinkler system, and evacuated the men.” He looked at his watch. “As of two hours ago, two hundred and fifteen had been brought up.”

“It sounds as if you have dealt with the emergency very efficiently, Jones.”

“Thank you very much, Your Majesty.”

“Are all the two hundred and fifteen alive?”

“No, sir. Eight are dead. Another fifty have injuries sufficiently serious to require a doctor.”

“Dear me,” said the king. “How very sad.”

As Jones was explaining the steps being taken to locate and rescue the remaining five men, Peel slipped into the room and approached Fitz. The butler was in evening clothes, ready to serve dinner. Speaking very low, he said: “Just in case it’s of interest, my lord… ”

Fitz whispered: “Well?”

“The maid Williams just came back from the pithead. Her brother was something of a hero, apparently. Whether the king might like to hear the story from her own lips…?”

Fitz thought for a moment. Williams would be upset, and might say the wrong thing. On the other hand, the king would probably like to speak to someone directly affected. He decided to take a chance. “Your Majesty,” he said. “One of my servants has just returned from the pithead, and may have more up-to-date news. Her brother was underground when the gas exploded. Would you care to question her?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the king. “Send her in, please.”