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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/24393-0.txt b/24393-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7edb68a --- /dev/null +++ b/24393-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7029 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Casualty And Other Stories, by +James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. Birmingham + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Our Casualty And Other Stories + 1918 + +Author: James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. Birmingham + +Release Date: January 21, 2008 [EBook #24393] +Last Updated: February 18, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR CASUALTY AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +OUR CASUALTY AND OTHER STORIES + +By G. A. Birmingham + +1918 + + + + +I ~~ OUR CASUALTY + +There is not in the whole British Isles a more efficient military body +than the Ballyhaine Veterans’ Corps. The men look like soldiers when +they have their grey uniforms on and their brassards on their sleeves. +They talk like soldiers. They have the true military spirit. There is +not a man in the company under fifty years of age, but if the Germans +attempt a landing on the Ballyhaine beach, by submarine or otherwise, +they will be sorry for themselves afterwards--those of them who remain +alive. + +Ballyhaine is a residential suburb, entirely built over with villas of +the better kind. Each villa has its garden. In times of peace we discuss +sweet peas or winter spinach or chrysanthemums on our way into town +in the morning, travelling, as most of us do, by the 9.45 train, with +season tickets, first class. + +When our boys went off from us, as they all did early in the war, we +felt that it was time for us to do something too. There was not the +least difficulty about enrolling the men. We all joined the corps, even +poor old Cotter, who must be close on seventy, and who retired from +business three years ago. He used to bore us all by talking about his +rheumatism, but when the Volunteer Corps was formed he dropped all that, +and went about saying that he had never suffered from pain or ache in +his life, and could do twenty miles a day without feeling it. We made +Cotter a corporal. + +Our Commanding Officer is Haines, who plays the best hand at bridge of +any man in the club. He held a commission in a line regiment before he +went on the Stock Exchange. That was thirty-five years ago, and it is +not to be supposed that his knowledge of soldiering is up-to-date, but +he is the only one of us who has any knowledge of soldiering at all, so +we chose him. + +The women were a difficulty at first. They insisted on regarding us as +a joke, and used to repeat the absurd witticism of the street boys. +I heard Janet say “Methusaleers” one day. She denied it, but I am +perfectly certain she did not say “Fusiliers,” My wife fussed about dry +socks and wanted me to take my umbrella on a route march one wet Sunday. + +Every other member of the corps had similar experiences. It was Tompkins +who hit on a way of dealing satisfactorily with the women. Tompkins is +our local doctor. He stays in Ballyhaine all day long when the rest +of us go up to town, so he naturally knows a good deal about women. He +enrolled them in a volunteer ambulance brigade, and after that they +were just as keen as any of us. We did the thing handsomely for them. We +bought six stretchers, a small motor ambulance waggon, and some miles +of bandages. Janet and Cotter’s youngest girl carried one of the +stretchers. I should not like to say that my wife actually hoped I +should be wounded, but I think she would have liked the chance of +bandaging any other man in the corps. The rest of the women felt as she +did. + +The drawback to Ballyhaine as a centre of military activity is the +difficulty of finding a place for practising field manoeuvres. There is +the golf links, of course, but we got tired of marching round and round +the golf links, and we did not want to dig trenches there. Haines, who +does not play golf, drew up a plan of trench digging which would have +ruined the golf links for years. But we would not have that. Nor could +we dig in each other’s gardens, or practise advancing over open country +in skirmishing order when there was no open country. The whole district +is a network of high walls with broken glass on top of them, a form of +defence rendered necessary by the attacks of small boys on our fruit +trees. + +Fortunately, we had the sea beach. The strand--there are three miles of +it--is one of the glories of Ballyhaine. We did most of our manoeuvring +there and dug our trenches there. Haines was opposed to this plan at +first. + +“If the Germans come at all,” said Cotter, “they’ll come from the sea. +They must, this being an island.” + +“Of course,” said Haines. + +“Then,” said Cotter, “the beach is the place where we shall have to meet +them, and the strand is where our trenches ought to be.” + +There was no answering that argument. Even Haines gave way. + +“With barbed wire entanglements,” said Cotter, “down to the water’s +edge.” + +The weather round about Christmas-time was extraordinarily severe in +Ballyhaine. We came in for a series of gales, accompanied by driving +rain, and the days at that time of year are so short that most of our +soldiering had to be done in the dark. + +I got one cold after another, and so did every other member of the +corps. Poor old Cotter limped pitifully on parade, but he did not say a +word about rheumatism. The spirit of the men was splendid, and not +one of us showed a sign of shirking, though Haines kept us at it with +ferocity. + +Haines varied the digging by making us practise a horrible manoeuvre +called “relieving trenches.” This was always done in the middle of +the night, between twelve and one o’clock. Part of the corps went out +early--about 10.30 p.m.--and manned the trenches. The rest of us marched +forth at midnight and relieved them. + +The worst evening we had all winter was December 8th. It was blowing +terrifically from the south-east The sea was tumbling in on the beach +in enormous waves, fringing the whole line of the shore with a broad +stretch of white foam. The rain swept over the country pitilessly. I +came out of town by the 5.10 train, and called at the club on my way +home. I found a notice posted up: + +“Ballyhaine Veterans’ Corps. + +“Tonight, December the 8th, trenches will be relieved at 12 midnight. +No. 1 and No. 2 Platoons to parade at 10.30, march to north end of the +strand, and occupy trenches.” + +That meant a six-mile march for those platoons--three there and three +back. + +“No. 3 and No. 4 Platoons to parade at 11 p.m., march to cliffs, descend +rocks, and relieve trenches as soon as possible after midnight.” + +I am in No. 3 Platoon, and I confess I shuddered. The rocks at the +north end of the beach are abominably slippery. A year ago I should have +hesitated about climbing down in broad daylight in the finest weather. +My military training had done a good deal for me physically, but I still +shrank from those rocks at midnight with a tempest howling round me. + +When I reached home I put a good face on the matter. I was not going to +admit to my wife or Janet--particularly to Janet--that I was afraid of +night operations in any weather. + +“Please have my uniform left out for me,” I said, “I shall put it on +before dinner.” + +“Surely,” said my wife, “you’re not going out to-night? I don’t think +you ought to.” + +“Duty, my dear,” I said. + +“Just fancy,” said Janet, “if the Germans came and father wasn’t there! +We might be murdered in our beds!” + +I am sometimes not quite sure whether Janet means to scoff or is in +serious earnest On this occasion I was inclined to think that she was +poking fun at the Veterans’ Corps. I frowned at her. + +“You’ll get dreadfully wet,” said my wife. + +“Not the least harm in that,” I said cheerily. + +“It’ll give you another cold in your head,” said Janet + +This time she was certainly sneering. I frowned again. + +“Of course,” said my wife, “it won’t matter to you. You’re so strong and +healthy. Nothing does you any harm.” + +I suspected her of attempting a subtle form of flattery, but what she +said was quite true. I am, for a man of fifty-three, extremely hardy. + +“I’m thinking,” she said, “of poor old Mr. Cotter. I don’t think he +ought to go. Mrs. Cotter was round here this afternoon. She says he’s +suffering dreadfully from rheumatism, though he won’t admit it, and if +he goes out to-night... But he’s so determined, poor old dear. And she +simply can’t stop him.” + +“Cotter,” I said, “must stay at home.” + +“But he won’t,” said my wife. + +“Military ardour is very strong in him,” said Janet. + +“I’ll ring up Dr. Tompkins,” I said, “and tell him to forbid Cotter to +go out. Tompkins is Medical Officer of the corps, and has a right to give +orders of the kind. In fact, it’s his duty to see that the company’s not +weakened by ill-health.” + +“I’m afraid,” said my wife, “that Dr. Tompkins can do nothing. Mrs. +Cotter was with him before she came here. The fact is that Mr. Cotter +won’t give in even to the doctor’s orders.” + +I rang up Tompkins and put the case very strongly to him. + +“It will simply kill Cotter,” I said, “and we can’t have that. He may +not be of any very great military value, but he’s a nice old boy, and we +don’t want to lose him.” + +Tompkins agreed with me thoroughly. He said he’d been thinking the +matter over since Mrs. Cotter called on him in the afternoon, and had +hit upon a plan which would meet the case. + +“If only the C.O. will fall in with it,” he added. + +Haines is in some ways a difficult man. He likes to manage things his +own way, and resents any suggestions made to him, particularly by men in +the ranks. However, Cotter’s life was at stake, so I undertook to tackle +Haines, even at the risk of being snubbed. Tompkins explained his plan +to me. I rang up Haines, and laid it before him. I put the matter very +strongly to him. I even said that the War Office would probably deprive +him of his command if it was discovered that he had been wasting the +lives of his men unnecessarily. + +“The country needs us all,” I said, “even Cotter. After all, Cotter is a +non-commissioned officer and a most valuable man. Besides, it’ll do the +Ambulance Brigade a lot of good.” + +It was this last consideration which weighed most with Haines. He had +felt for some time that our ambulance ladies were coming to have too +good an opinion of themselves. I had the satisfaction of going back to +the drawing-room and telling Janet that the stretcher bearers were to +parade at eleven o’clock, and march in the rear of the column--Numbers 3 +and 4 Platoons--which went to relieve trenches. + +“Rot,” said Janet “We can’t possibly go out on a night like this.” + +“C.O.’s orders,” I said. + +“The stretchers will be utterly ruined,” she said, “not to mention our +hats.” + +“C.O.’s orders,” I said severely. + +“If we must go,” said Janet, “we’ll take the ambulance waggon. + +“No, you won’t,” I said. “You’ll take your stretchers and carry them. +Yours not to reason why, Janet. And in any case you can’t take the +ambulance waggon, because we’re marching along the beach, and you know +perfectly well that the strand is simply scored with trenches. We can’t +have the ambulance waggon smashed up. It’s the only one we have. If a +few girls break their legs it doesn’t much matter. There are too many +girls about the place.” + +Platoons Numbers 1 and 2 marched off at 10.30 p.m. in a blinding +downpour of rain. We watched them go from the porch of the golf +pavilion, and promised to relieve them as quickly as we could. We +paraded, according to orders, at 11 sharp, and I was glad to see that +Janet and the other girls were wet and draggled long before we started. + +Haines made us a short speech. He had to shout at the top of his voice +because the storm was making a dreadful noise. But we heard what he +said. The business of relieving trenches, he told us, would be carried +out under strictly war conditions, precisely as if enemy submarines +were shelling us from the sea. There would necessarily, supposing the +submarines to be actually there, be casualties in our force. Haines told +off four men to act as casualties. The first on the list--this was the +way Tompkins’ plan worked out--was Corporal Cotter. + +“Corporal Cotter,” said Haines, “will drop out of the ranks as the +column passes the third bathing-box, numbering from the south end of the +beach, Mrs. Tompkins’ bathing-box, which is painted bright green.” + +Haines was, very properly, most particular about defining the +bathing-box exactly. + +“Corporal Cotter and the other casualties,” said Haines, “will take +waterproof ground-sheets with them--two waterproof ground-sheets +each--and keep as dry as possible. The stretcher bearers will follow +the column at a distance of two hundred paces to pick up the casualties, +affording first-aid on the spot, and, on reaching the field hospital, +will apply restoratives under the directions of the Company’s Medical +Officer. For the purposes of these manouvres. Corporal Cotter’s house +will be regarded as the Field Hospital.” + +The other three casualties, all elderly and rather delicate men, were +ordered to drop out of the ranks at places further along the beach. +If it was Janet’s luck to reach the furthest casualty she would walk, +carrying a stretcher, about a mile and a half altogether. When she got +home she would be less inclined to sneer at people who catch cold in the +service of their country. + +The night was extremely dark. I do not think I have ever experienced a +darker night. We could hear the sea roaring on our left, and could see, +when we looked back, a dim glow here and there from the windows of our +houses; but it was quite impossible to see anything on the beach. + +I missed Cotter when we had been stumbling along for about a quarter of +an hour, and felt glad that he had done his share. In a minute or so, I +hoped, he would be safe on a stretcher, and half an hour later would +be drinking whisky and water, hot. That, so Tompkins told me, was the +restorative which was to be administered to all the casualties. + +We got through the business of relieving the trenches in the end, though +we had a tough struggle. The great difficulty was to find them. If +Platoons Numbers 1 and 2 could have shouted to us or flashed their +electric torches we should have got them much sooner than we did. But +noise and light were strictly forbidden. They would, so Haines said, +attract the enemy’s fire, and result in our being wiped out by shrapnel. + +I got separated at one time from the rest of my platoon, and walked into +the sea twice. Afterwards I fell over the Company Sergeant-Major, who +was sitting in a pool beside a rock. He said he had sprained his ankle. +But that turned out not to be true. He had only twisted it a little, and +was able to limp home. In civil life our Company Sergeant-Major is one +of the directors of the Corporate Banking Company Ltd., and drives into +town in his own motor. + +Then I came on Haines, wandering by himself on a sandhill. He was +swearing viciously. It was, indeed, the sound of his oaths which led +me to him. They were not loud, but they were uttered with an intensity +which gave them the power of piercing through the tumult of the storm. +He and I and the Company Sergeant-Major stuck together, and at +1 a.m.--we took the time from Haines’ luminous-faced wrist watch--we +suddenly tumbled into the trench. + +We found the whole four platoons waiting for us; but they would not +have waited much longer. The senior Second Lieutenant--a very well-known +solicitor--had taken command of the company, assuming, as he said, that +Haines had become a casualty accidentally. His idea was to march the +men home, and then send the Ambulance Brigade to search for Haines, the +Company Sergeant-Major, and me. + +“That’s the sort of thing,” he said, “an ambulance is for. The men in +the fighting line can’t be expected to do it.” + +We marched home in pretty good order, considering that we were all very +wet, greatly exhausted, and many of us bruised in various parts of +our bodies. Our spirit was quite unbroken, and Haines, writing up the +official diary afterwards, said that our moral was excellent. He did us +no more than bare justice. There was not a man among us--except perhaps +the Company Sergeant-Major, whose ankle was swelling up--who would not +have welcomed a German attack. + +We got back to the golf pavilion, and found the whole place in an +uproar. Women, all of them very wet, were rushing about. Tompkins +was giving confused and contradictory orders to the twelve stretcher +bearers, who looked cowed and miserable. Mrs. Cotter was sitting on the +floor in a corner of the room crying bitterly. We got the explanation +out of Tompkins at last. + +Three of the casualties had, it appeared, been successfully picked +up and carried home. The stretcher bearers had somehow missed Cotter. +Search parties had been sent out. Tompkins himself had felt his way round +each of the fifteen bathing-boxes. The nursing section of the Ambulance +Brigade had waved electric torches and stable lanterns up and down the +beach from the edge of the sea to the sandhills. The stretcher bearers, +scourged by the remarks Tompkins made about their incompetence, had gone +shouting through the storm until they were hoarse and utterly exhausted. +Nothing had been seen or heard of Cotter. + +Haines took charge of the situation at once. He formed up the four +platoons, and marched us all back to the beach. There we assumed open +order, and skirmished in a northerly direction. We were told to keep +in touch with each other, and to leave no square yard of the sand +unexamined. We were to go on skirmishing until we found Cotter, dead or +alive. My own idea was that if we found anything it would be his corpse. + +I did my best to obey orders, but I almost immediately lost touch with +everybody else. The other men, so I learnt afterwards, had the same +experience. However, I had the good luck to find Cotter. He came towards +me, indeed he ran into me before I saw him. He was in charge of a +policeman, who held him firmly but kindly by the arm. The moment Cotter +saw me he burst out: + +“Tell this infernal fool that I’m not drunk,” he said. + +“If you’re acquainted with the gentleman,” said the policeman, “it would +be well for you to take him home to his bed. He’s not in a fit state to +be out by himself.” + +I drove off the policeman with some difficulty, making myself personally +responsible for Cotter’s safety. Then I questioned the old gentleman. + +“What have you been doing?” I said. + +“Waiting for the ambulance. I’d be waiting still if that ass of a +policeman hadn’t insisted that I was drunk and dragged me away.” + +“Good Lord!” I said, “and they’ve been looking for you for hours.” + +“I know that,” said Cotter. “I saw their lights all over the place and +heard them shouting.” + +“Then why on earth didn’t you shout back and let them know where you +were?” + +“Casualties don’t shout,” said Cotter. “They can’t. They’re too weak. I +groaned occasionally; but I suppose they didn’t hear me.” + +“And how long did you mean to lie out in this storm?” I said. + +“Till the stretcher bearers found me,” said Cotter. “Those were the +C.O.’s orders.” + +I do not know whether any medals will be given to volunteers after the +war. Cotter certainly deserves one. I have never heard a finer story +of devotion to duty than his. When I had got rid of the policeman he +actually wanted to go back and lie down again. + + + + +II ~~ GETTING EVEN + +The battalion awaited its orders to embark for France. A feeling of +expectation, a certain nervousness, a half-pleasurable excitement, +prevailed in the officers’ mess and among the men. No one thought +of service in France as a picnic, or anticipated a good time in the +trenches. But there was a general sense of relief that the period of +training--a long, tiresome, very dull business--was over at last over or +almost over. For the Colonel and certain remote authorities behind the +Colonel believed in working the battalion hard up to the last moment. +Therefore day after day there were “stunts” and “shows,” field +exercises of every conceivable kind. The weather was hot, as hot as +weather ought to be in the first week of August Long marches became +dusty horrors to the men. Manouvres meant hours of desperate toil. +Officers thought longingly of bygone summers, of the cool shade of +trees, of tennis played in white flannels, of luscious plates of +strawberries and cream. The Colonel, an old soldier, went on inventing +new “stunts” and more of them. He had laboured at the training of his +battalion, hammering raw boys into disciplined men, inspiring subalterns +with something of his own spirit. + +On the whole he had been successful. The men sweated, but grumbled very +little. The officers kept up a gallant pretence at keenness. Slackness +was regarded as bad form, and only one member of the mess made no secret +of his opinion that the Colonel was overdoing the “spit and polish” + business. This was McMahon, the medical officer; and he did not, +properly speaking, belong to the battalion at all. Men and officers +alike were drawn for the most part from the English midlands. McMahon +was an Irishman. They were born with a sense of discipline and the +Colonel worked on material responsive to his methods. McMahon, like +most Irishmen, was by temperament a rebel. Yet there was no more popular +officer than the Irish doctor. His frank good humour, his ready wit, his +unfailing kindliness, won him affection. Even the Colonel liked him, and +bore from McMahon behaviour which would have led to the sharp snubbing +of anyone else. + +There came a day--the 6th of August--for which the Colonel, or some +higher authority, devised a “stunt” of the most intense and laborious +kind. A very great and remote man, the General in command of the whole +district, promised to be present and to witness the performance. Orders +were issued in minute detail, and every officer was expected to be +familiar with them. Maps were studied conscientiously. Field glasses +were polished. Rations were served out. Kits were inspected. The affair +was an attack upon a hill supposed to be strongly held by an enemy well +provided with machine-guns. + +A genuine excitement possessed the battalion. This, so it was felt, was +very like the real thing. Just so, some day in France, would an +advance be made and great glory won. McMahon alone remained cheerfully +indifferent to the energetic fussiness which prevailed. + +The day dawned cloudless with promise of intense heat. Very early, after +a hurried and insufficient breakfast, B Company marched out. It was the +business of B Company to take up a position south of the enemy’s hill, +to harass the foe with flanking fire and at the proper moment to rush +certain machine-gun posts. B Company had some ten miles to march before +reaching its appointed place. McMahon gave it as his opinion that B +Company would be incapable of rushing anything when it had marched +ten miles in blistering heat and had lain flat for an hour or two in a +shadeless field. A party of cooks, with a travelling kitchen, followed +B Company. McMahon said that if the cooks were sensible men they would +lose their way and come to a halt in a wood, not far from a stream. He +added that he was himself very sensible and had already fixed on the +wood, about a mile from the scene of the attack, where he intended to +spend the day, with a novel. + +The other three companies, the Lewis gunners, and a battery of Stokes +gun men, attached to the battalion for the attack, marched out later, +under the command of the Colonel himself. Cyclist scouts scoured the +roads ahead of the advance. McMahon, accompanied by an orderly, marched +in the rear and complained greatly of the dust. A Brigadier appeared in +a motor and cast a critical eye on the men. Two officers in staff caps, +understood to be umpires, rode by. + +At noon, the heat being then very great, a motor cyclist dashed up, his +machine snorting horribly, the man himself plastered with dust, sweat +and oil. He announced that the battalion was under heavy fire from the +enemy artillery and that men were falling fast. The Brigadier had sent +an urgent message to that effect. The Colonel, who rather expected that +something of the sort would occur, gave the orders necessary in such a +situation. The men opened out into artillery formation and advanced, by +a series of short rushes, to take cover in some trenches, supposed to +have been abandoned, very conveniently, by the enemy the day before. +The Brigadier, seated in his motor-car in a wood on a neighbouring hill, +watched the operation through his field glasses, munched a sandwich, and +enjoyed a glass of sherry from his flask. McMahon, for whom short rushes +in artillery formation had no attractions at all, slipped through +a hedge, skirted a field of ripening oats, and settled himself very +comfortably under a beech tree on the edge of a small wood. His orderly +followed him and laid down a large package on the grass beside the +doctor. The Colonel, an enthusiastic realist, had insisted that McMahon +should bring with him a supply of surgical instruments, dressings and +other things necessary for dealing with wounds. McMahon opened the +package. He took out a novel, a tin of tobacco, a great many packages of +cigarettes, two bottles of soda water, two lemons and several parcels of +food. + +“This,” he said to the orderly, “is the advanced dressing station. When +the casualties begin to arrive, we shall be ready for them.” + +The Brigadier sent another motor cyclist to say that the battalion would +be wiped out if it stayed where it was. He suggested a move to the right +and an attempt to get into touch with B Company. + +The Brigadier, though he drove in a motor-car, was feeling the heat. If +a direct advance had been made on the hill from where the battalion lay +he would have been obliged to drive out of his wood in order to keep the +battle in view. A move to the right could be watched comfortably from +where he sat The Colonel explained the situation, not the Brigadier’s +feelings, to his officers, exposing himself with reckless gallantry as +he passed from company to company. He said that he himself would survey +the ground to the right and would try to discover the exact position of +B Company. + +“I shall,” he said to the Adjutant, “climb a tree so as to get a good +view.” + +The Adjutant remonstrated. He thought the Colonel was too old a man for +climbing trees. He recommended that a subaltern, a Second Lieutenant +whom nobody would miss much if he fell, should be sent up the tree. The +suggestion, as the Adjutant might have guessed, made the Colonel more +determined and slightly exasperated him. + +He gave orders that the Stokes gunners should shell the enemy while he +climbed the tree. The Stokes gunners did not want to shell anyone. Their +weapons are awkward to handle and their ammunition very heavy. They were +already as hot as any men ought to be. But they were well trained and +highly disciplined. They attacked the enemy with small dummy shells, +which rose gently into the air, made a half-circle, and fell about +fifteen yards from the muzzles of their guns. + +The Colonel, looking about him for a tree not too difficult to climb, +caught sight of the beech under which McMahon lay. It seemed exactly the +kind of tree he required. It was high. Its lower branches were close +to the ground. It looked strong and sound. The Colonel pushed his way +through the hedge, avoided the oats, and approached the tree across a +pasture field. He came on McMahon stretched flat on his back, a tumbler +full of lemon squash beside him and his novel in his hand. The Colonel +was still irritated by the Adjutant’s suggestion that he was too old +to climb trees. He was also beginning, now that he was near a tree, +to wonder uneasily whether the Adjutant had not been right He saw an +opportunity of expressing his feelings at the expense of McMahon. + +“What are you doing here?” he asked. + +McMahon, who had not seen the Colonel approach, stood up hurriedly, +upsetting his lemon squash, and saluting. + +“What the deuce are you doing here?” said the Colonel. “You’ve no +business to be idling, drinking and smoking under a tree, when the +battalion is in action.” + +“This is an advanced dressing station, sir,” said McMahon. “I’m waiting +for the casualties. + +“That’s not your duty,” said the Colonel. “Your duty is to be with the +men, in the firing line, ready to render first aid when required.” + +“Beg pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but I don’t think that you’re quite +right in saying----” + +“Do you mean to tell me,” said the Colonel, “that it isn’t the duty of a +medical officer to accompany the men into the firing line?” + +McMahon saluted again. + +“According to the instructions issued by the R.A.M.C., sir,” he said, +“my place is in the advanced dressing station when there’s only one +medical officer attached to the unit in action. If there is more than +one the position is, of course, quite different.” + +The Colonel, though a soldier of long experience, was not at all sure +what instructions the R.A.M.C. authorities might have issued to their +officers. And doctors are a powerful faction, given to standing together +and defying anyone who attempts to interfere with them. Besides, no one, +not even the strongest and healthiest of us, knows how soon he may find +himself under the power of a doctor, seized with a pain or other form of +discomfort which only a doctor can alleviate. It is never wise to push +things to a quarrel with any member of the R.A.M.C. + +The Colonel turned away and, somewhat laboriously, climbed his tree. +He was anxious, if possible, to make McMahon do a little work. It was +annoying to think that this young man, horribly addicted to slacking, +should be lying on his back in the shade. Yet he did not at once see his +way to any plan for making McMahon run about in the heat. + +It was while he scanned the position of B Company through his field +glasses that an idea suddenly occurred to him. He climbed down rapidly +and found McMahon standing respectfully to attention at the foot of the +tree. + +“You told me, I think,” said the Colonel, “that this is the advanced +dressing station?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And that you’re prepared to deal with casualties?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“I shall send some casualties down to you,” said the Colonel. + +“Yes, sir, certainly.” + +“I shall expect,” said the Colonel, “that each man shall be properly +treated, exactly as if he were really wounded, bandaged up, you know, +ready for the ambulance to take him to the casualty clearing station. +And a proper record must be kept for each case. You must have a list +made out for me, properly classified, with a note of the treatment +adopted in each case and the nature of the injury, just as if you +were going to send it to the medical officer at the casualty clearing +station.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And it must be done properly,” said the Colonel. “No shirking. No short +cuts. I don’t see why you shouldn’t practise your job like the rest of +us.” + +He turned away with a smile, a grim but well-satisfied smile. He intended +to keep McMahon busy, very busy indeed, for the rest of the day. + +McMahon lay down again after the Colonel left him. But he did not +attempt to read his novel. He saw through the Colonel’s plan. He +was determined to defeat it if he could. He was enjoying a peaceful +afternoon, and had no intention of exhausting himself bandaging up +men who had nothing the matter with them or compiling long lists of +imaginary injuries. After five minutes’ thought he hit upon a scheme. +Ten minutes later the first casualty arrived. + +“Sent to the rear by the Colonel, sir,” said the man. “Orders are to +report to you. Shrapnel wound in the left thigh, sir.” + +“Left thigh?” said McMahon. + +“It was the left the Colonel said, sir.” + +“All right,” said McMahon. “Orderly!” + +The orderly, who had found a comfortable couch among some bracken, +roused himself and stood to attention in front of McMahon. + +“Take this man round to the far side of the tree,” said McMahon, “and +let him lie down there flat on his back. You can give him a cigarette. +He is to stay there until he gets orders to leave.” + +The orderly saluted. The man grinned. He was quite ready to lie under +the tree without attempting to move until someone ordered him to get up. + +In the course of the next ten minutes six more casualties arrived. Their +injuries were of several different kinds. One man reported that his +thumb had been taken off by a machine-gun bullet. Another said he had a +scalp wound. A third had lost a whole leg, severed at the thigh. A fourth +had a fragment of shell in his stomach. A fifth was completely blinded. +A sixth was suffering from gas poisoning. McMahon’s treatment never +varied. Each man was given a cigarette and led off by the orderly to lie +down in the shade at the far side of the tree. McMahon kept quite cool, +refreshed himself occasionally with a drink of lemon squash, and smoked +his pipe. He began to admire the activity of the Colonel’s imagination. +For two hours casualties poured in and every one had a different kind of +wound. There was scarcely any part of the human body with which McMahon +was not called upon to deal. And the Colonel never once repeated himself. +Before four o’clock about a third of the battalion and half of the +officers were lying, very well content, in the shade under McMahon’s +care. Many of them were sound asleep. + +The orderly was a man with a sense of military propriety. He insisted on +the casualties lying in straight rows, as neatly aligned as if they were +on their feet at parade in the barrack square. At last the stream of +wounded grew slacker and finally ceased to flow. Between half-past +four and five o’clock not a single man came to report himself wounded. +McMahon, lighting a fresh pipe, congratulated himself. Either the +Colonel’s knowledge of anatomy was exhausted and he was unable to think +of any more wounds, or the battle was over, and there was no further +excuse for inventing casualties. McMahon got up and stretched himself. +He handed his novel, the two empty soda-water bottles, and his tobacco +tin to the orderly, and bade him pack them up. + +“No cigarettes left, I suppose?” he said. + +“No, sir, not one. In fact, sir, the last twenty men didn’t get any. +Weren’t enough to go round them all, sir.” + +“Ah,” said McMahon, “it’s been an expensive afternoon for me; but I +don’t grudge it. Those poor fellows wanted a smoke and a rest badly. +Besides, I’ve had a very pleasant time, pleasant and peaceful.” + +He strolled round to the far side of the tree and took a look at the men +who lay stretched out. One of the officers, a boy of untiring energy, +complained that he was bored. + +“I say, McMahon, can’t I get up and go back to the mess? What’s the good +of my lying here all the afternoon?” + +“You’ll lie there,” said McMahon severely, “until you get orders to go. +And it may be a long time before you do. In fact, you won’t be able to +stir till the padre comes, and I haven’t the least idea where he is, I +doubt if he’s out with us at all to-day.” + +“What the dickens has the padre got to do with it?” said the officer. + +“You’ll find that out in time. For the present you’ve nothing to do but +lie still.” + +“But hang it all---- I say, McMahon, can’t you finish off and let me +go?” + +“I?” said McMahon. “I’ve finished with you long ago. There’s nothing +more for me to do. The next man to take you in hand is the padre.” + +The orderly stood at his elbow while he spoke. He seemed a little +nervous and agitated. + +“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “The Colonel’s just coming, sir. He and the +General. He’s drove up in the General’s car; and I’m afraid they’re both +coming here, sir.” + +McMahon turned. What the orderly said was perfectly true. The Colonel, +and with him the General, and the two umpires in the fight, were +skirting the oats and making for the little grove of trees where the +casualties were. + +McMahon went to meet them. + +“Ah, McMahon,” said the Colonel, “I’ve come to see how you’ve treated +the wounded. I’ve brought the General with me. Casualties rather heavy, +eh? Had a busy afternoon?” + +The Colonel grinned. McMahon saluted respectfully. + +“Got your list made out?” said the Colonel, “and your report on each +case? Just hand them over to me, will you? The General would like to see +them.” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but have you given orders for +the padre to report here?” + +“Padre?” said the Colonel. “What do you want the padre for?” + +“The padre and a burying party, sir,” said McMahon. “The fact is, sir, +that the wounded all died, every one of them, on the way down from the +firing line. Arrived here stone dead. I couldn’t do anything for them, +sir. Dead before they got to me. I’ve had them laid out, if you’d like +to see them, sir. It’s all I could do for the poor fellows. It’s the +padre’s job now. I understand that he keeps a register of burials, so +there was no need for me to make a list, and of course I didn’t attempt +any treatment. It wouldn’t have been any use, sir, when the men were +dead.” + + + + + +III ~~ A MATTER OF DISCIPLINE + +O’Byrne, the Reverend Timothy, is our padre. We call him Tim behind his +back because we like him and Padre to his face because some respect is +due to his profession. Mackintosh is our medical officer. The Reverend +Tim used to take a special delight in teasing Mackintosh. It may have +been the natural antipathy, the cat and dog feeling, which exists +between parsons and doctors. I do not know. + +But the padre never lost a chance of pulling the doctor’s leg, and +Mackintosh spent hours proving that the things which the padre says he +saw could not possibly have happened. I should not like to call any padre +a liar; but some of the Rev. Tim’s stories were rather tall, and the +doctor’s scepticism always goaded him to fresh flights of imagination. + +The mess was a much livelier place after the Rev. Tim joined it. Before +he attached himself to us we used to wonder why God made men like +Mackintosh, and what use they are in the world. + +Now we know. Mackintosh exists to call out all that is best in our +padre. + +One night--the battalion was back resting at the time--we had an +Assistant Provost Marshal as a guest. The conversation turned on the +subject of deserters, and our A.P.M. told us some curious stories about +the attempts made by these poor devils to escape the net of the military +organization. + +“The fact is,” said the A.P.M., “that a deserter hasn’t a dog’s chance, +not here in France anyway. We are bound to get him every time.” + +“Not every time,” said the padre. “I know one who has been at large for +months and you’ll never lay hands on him.” + +The A.P.M., who did not of course know our padre, sat up and frowned. + +“I don’t think it’s his fault that he’s a deserter,” said the padre. “He +was forced into it. And anyway, even if I give you his name and tell you +exactly where he is, you’ll not arrest him.” + +“If he’s a deserter, I will,” said the A.P.M. + +“No, you won’t,” said the padre. “Excuse my contradicting you, but when +you hear the story you’ll see yourself that you can’t arrest the man. +Mackintosh here is protecting him.” + +“Is it me?” said Mackintosh. “I’d like you to be careful what you’re +saying. In my opinion it’s libellous to say that I’m protecting a +deserter. I’ll have you court-martialled, Mr. O’Byrne, padre or no +padre. I’ll have you court-martialled if you bring any such accusation +against me.” + +“I don’t mean you personally,” said O’Byrne. “I am taking you as a +representative of your profession. The man I am speaking of”--he turned +politely to the A.P.M.--“is under the direct protection of the Army +Medical. You can’t get at him.” + +Mackintosh bristled, to the padre’s great delight Anything in the way of +an attack on the medical profession excites Mackintosh fearfully. + +“Binny is the man’s name,” said the padre. “17932, Private Alfred Binny. +He was in the Wessex, before the hospital people made a deserter of +him. I will give you his address if you like, but you’ll not be able to +arrest him. If you try you’ll have every doctor in France down on you. +They back each other up through anything, don’t they, Mackintosh?” + +“I’d like you to understand,” said Mackintosh, “that you can’t be saying +things like that with impunity.” + +“Get on with the story, padre,” I said, “and don’t exasperate +Mackintosh.” + +“It was while I was attached to No. 97 General Hospital,” he said. “Know +No. 97, Mackintosh? No. That’s a pity. It’s a place which would just +suit you. Patients wakened every morning at five to have their faces +washed. Discipline polished till you could see your face in it, and so +many rules and regulations that you can’t cross a room without tripping +over one. The lists and card indexes that are kept going in that place, +and the forms that are filled in! You’d glory in it, Mackintosh. But it +didn’t suit my temperament.” + +“I believe you,” said Mackintosh grimly. + +“It was while I was there,” said the padre, “that Biimy came down the +line and was admitted to the hospital with a cushy wound in the fleshy +part of his arm. He’d have been well in three weeks and back with his +battalion in a month, if it hadn’t been for the doctors. It’s entirely +owing to them that he’s a deserter now.” + +“Malingered, I suppose,” said Mackintosh. “Got back to England by +shamming shell shock and was given his discharge. He wouldn’t have +pulled it off if I’d been there.” + +“You’ve guessed wrong,” said the padre. “It wasn’t a case of +malingering. As nearly as possible it was the exact opposite. The +doctors tried to make the poor fellow out much worse than he really was. + +“I don’t believe it,” said Mackintosh. + +“As a matter of fact,” said the padre, “the mistake--you’ll hardly deny +that it was a mistake when you hear the story--arose through too strict +attention to discipline, that and the number of lists and returns that +were made out. It doesn’t do to rely too much on lists, and there is +such a thing as overdoing discipline. + +“What happened was this. One evening, when Binny had been in the +hospital about a week, two orderlies came to his bed with a stretcher. +They told him they were going to carry him down to the mortuary and put +him into his coffin. Binny, of course, thought they were making some +new kind of joke, and laughed. But the orderlies were perfectly serious. +They said his name was on the list of those who had died during the day +and they had no choice except to obey orders and put him into a coffin. +They showed Binny the list, all nicely typed out, and there was no +mistake about it Binny’s name, number, regiment, and religion were all +there. + +“Binny began to get indignant. He said he wasn’t dead, that anyone could +see he wasn’t dead, and that it would be a barbarous thing to bury him. +The orderlies, who were very nice fellows, admitted that Binny seemed to +be alive, but they stuck to it that it was their business to carry out +their orders. Into the mortuary Binny would have to go. They tried +to console him by saying that the funeral would not be till the next +morning. But that did not cheer Binny much. In the end they took pity on +the poor fellow and said they would go away for an hour and come back. +If Binny could get the order changed they’d be very pleased to leave him +where he was. It wasn’t, so they explained, any pleasure to them to put +Binny into a coffin. + +“Binny did not get much chance during his hour’s reprieve. The only +person who came into the ward was a V.A.D. girl, quite a nice little +girl, good-looking enough to be bullied a lot by the sister-in-charge. +Binny told her about the fix he was in, and at first she thought he +was raving and tried to soothe him down. In the end, to pacify him, I +suppose, she went and asked the orderlies about him. She had not been +out in France long, that V.A.D., and wasn’t properly accustomed to +things. When she found out that what Binny had told her was true, she +got fearfully excited. She couldn’t do anything herself, of course, but +she ran off to the matron as hard as she could. The matron was a bit +startled just at first, but she kept her head. + +“‘Tell Private Binny,’ she said, ‘that if he has any complaints to make +they must be made at the proper time and through the proper channels. +The C.O. goes round the hospital every morning between 10 a.m. and 11 +a.m. Private Binny can speak to him then.’ + +“‘But by that time,’ said the V. A.D. girl, ‘the man will be buried.’ + +“‘I can’t help that,’ said the matron. ‘The discipline of the hospital +must be maintained. It would be perfectly impossible to run a place like +this if every man was allowed to make complaints at all hours of the day +and to all sorts of people.’ + +“That V.A.D. was a plucky girl, and persistent--they sent her home +afterwards in disgrace--and she talked on until the matron agreed to +take a look at Binny. I think she was staggered when she saw him sitting +up in bed and heard him cursing the orderlies, who had come back by +that time. But she couldn’t do anything. She wasn’t really a bad sort +of woman, and I don’t suggest for a moment that she wanted to have Binny +buried alive. But she had no authority. She could not alter an order. +And there the thing was in black and white. However, she persuaded the +orderlies to wait another half-hour. She went off and found one of the +surgeons. He was a decent sort of fellow, but young, and he didn’t see +his way to interfering. There had been several mistakes made in that +hospital, and the C.O. had been rather heavily strafed, which meant +of course that everyone under him was strafed worse, on the good old +principle of passing it on. That surgeon’s idea was to avoid trouble, +if possible. Somebody, he said, had made a mistake, but it was too late, +then, to set things right, and the best thing to do was to say nothing +about it. He was sorry for Binny, but he couldn’t do anything. + +“When the V.A.D. girl heard that, she lost her temper. She said she’d +write home and tell her father about it, and that her father was a +Member of Parliament and would raise hell about it She didn’t, of +course, say hell!” + +“She couldn’t do that,” said Mackintosh. “The censor wouldn’t pass a +letter with a story like that in it.” + +“Quite right,” said the padre, “and it wouldn’t have been any good if +her father had got the letter. He couldn’t have done anything. If he’d +asked a question in Parliament he’d simply have been told a lie of some +kind. It was a silly sort of threat to make. The V.A.D. saw that herself +and began to cry. + +“That upset the surgeon so much that he went round and took a look at +Binny. The man was pale by that time and in the deuce of a funk. But he +wasn’t in the least dead. The surgeon felt that it was a hard case, and +said he’d take the risk of speaking to the C.O. about it. + +“The C.O. of No. 97 General at that time was an oldish man, who suffered +from suppressed gout, which is the regular medical name for unsuppressed +temper. He said emphatically that Private Binny was reported dead, +marked dead, removed from the hospital books, and must stay dead. The +whole system of the R.A.M.C. would break down, he said, and things would +drift into chaos if dead men were allowed to come to life again whenever +they chose. + +“The surgeon was a plucky young fellow in his way. Remembering how +pretty the V.A.D. looked when she cried, he pressed Binny’s case on +the C.O. The old gentleman said he might have done something two hours +sooner; but the hospital returns had gone to the D.D.M.S. and couldn’t +possibly be got back again or altered. In the end, after a lot more talk +about regulations and discipline, he said he’d telephone to the D.D.M.S. +office and see if anything could be done. It is greatly to his credit +that he did telephone, explaining the case as well as he could over a +faulty wire. The staff colonel in the office was perfectly civil, but +said that the returns had been forwarded by a motor dispatch rider to +G.H.Q. and could not be recalled by any possibility. The C.O., who seems +to have begun to realize the horrible position of Binny, asked advice as +to what he ought to do. The staff colonel said he’d never come across a +case of the kind before, but it seemed plain to him that Binny was dead, +that is to say, officially dead. The Chaplain’s Department, he thought, +might be able to do something for a man after he was dead. If not nobody +could. + +“That,” said O’Byrne with a smile, “is where I came in. The C.O. sent for +me at once.” + +“I suppose,” said Mackintosh, “that you straightened the whole thing out +without difficulty?” + +Mackintosh is always irritated at a suggestion that anyone connected +with the medical profession can possibly make a mistake. When irritated +he is apt to attempt a kind of heavy sarcasm which O’Byrne sucks in with +obvious delight. + +“No,” said the padre, “I couldn’t straighten it out. But I did the best +I could. I went to see poor Binny. He was in the mortuary by that time. +I found him sitting up in his coffin crying like a child. I comforted +him as well as I could.” + +“Poor devil,” said Mackintosh. “Not that I believe a word of this story. +It couldn’t have happened. But you may as well go on and tell us what +you did. Sang hymns to him, I suppose.” + +“Not at all,” said the padre. “I got him something to eat and a couple +of blankets. That mortuary is a cold place, and, though you mightn’t +think it, a coffin is draughty. Next morning I buried him.” + +“God bless me!” said the A.P.M. explosively. “Do you mean to say you +buried a man you knew to be alive?” + +“Couldn’t help it,” said the padre. “It was in orders, matter of +discipline, you know. Can’t go back on discipline, can you, Mackintosh? +I got through it as quickly as I decently could. Then I let Binny out. +The graves in that cemetery are never filled in for an hour or two after +the coffins are let down, so I had lots of time. Jolly glad poor Binny +was to get out. He said he’d shivered all over when he heard ‘The Last +Post.’ I had a suit of clothes for him; of course, civilian clothes.” + +The padre filled himself a glass of whisky and soda and lit his pipe. +He looked round with a smile of triumph. Most of us applauded him. He +deserved it. The story was one of his best imaginative efforts. I suppose +the applause encouraged him to go further. + +“I’ll give you his address if you like,” he said to the A.P.M. “He’s +working on a French farm and quite happy. But I don’t see that you can +possibly arrest him without getting the whole medical profession on your +back. They said he was dead, you see, and, as Mackintosh will tell you, +they never own up to making mistakes.” + + + + + +IV ~~ THE SECOND BASS + +“Be careful, Bates,” said Miss Willmot; “we don’t want your neck +broken.” + +“No fear, miss,” said Lance-Corporal Bates; “I’m all right.” + +Lance-Corporal Bates had three gold bars on the sleeve of his tunic. +He might fairly be reckoned a man of courage. His position, when Miss +Willmot spoke to him, demanded nerve. He stood on the top rail of the +back of a chair, a feeble-looking chair. The chair was placed on a table +which was inclined to wobble, because one of its legs was half an inch +shorter than the other three. Sergeant O’Rorke, leaning on the table, +rested most of his weight on the seat of the chair, thereby balancing +Bates and preventing an upset. Miss Willmot sat on the corner of the +table, so that it wobbled very little. Bates, perilously balanced, +hammered a nail, the last necessary nail, into the wall through the +topmost ray of a large white star. Then he crept cautiously down. + +Standing beside Miss Willmot he surveyed the star. + +“Looks a bit like Christmas, don’t it, miss?” he said. + +“The glitters on it,” said Sergeant O’Rorke, “is the beautifullest that +ever was seen. The diamonds on the King’s Crown wouldn’t be finer.” + +The star hung on the wall of the canteen opposite the counter. It was +made of cotton wool pasted on cardboard. The wool had been supplied by +a sympathetic nurse from a neighbouring hospital. It was looted from +the medical stores. The frosting, which excited Sergeant O’Rorke’s +admiration, was done with sugar. It was Miss Nelly Davis, youngest and +merriest of Miss Willmot’s helpers, who suggested the sugar, when the +powdered glass ordered from England failed to arrive. + +“There can’t be any harm in using it,” she said. “What we’re getting now +isn’t sugar at all, it is fine gravel. A stone of it wouldn’t sweeten a +single urn of tea.” + +Miss Willmot took the sugar from her stores as she accepted the looted +cotton-wool, without troubling to search for excuse or justification. +She was a lady of strong will. When she made up her mind that the +Christmas decorations of her canteen were to be the best in France she +was not likely to stick at trifling breaches of regulations. + +She looked round her with an expression of justifiable satisfaction. The +long hut which served as a canteen looked wonderfully gay. Underneath +the white star ran an inscription done in large letters made of ivy +leaves. Miss Willmot, in the course of two years’ service in the canteen +of a base camp, had gained some knowledge of the soldier’s heart +Her inscription was calculated to make an immediate appeal. “A Merry +Christmas,” it ran, “And the Next in Blighty.” The walls of the hut were +hung round with festoons of coloured paper. Other festoons, red, blue, +and green stretched across the room from wall to wall under the low +ceiling. Chinese lanterns, swinging on wires, threatened the head of +anyone more than sixmore than six feet in height. Sergeant O’Rorke, an Irish Guardsman +until a wound lamed him, now a member of the camp police force, had +to dodge the Chinese lanterns when he walked about. Jam-pots and +cigarette-tins, swathed in coloured paper, held bunches of holly and +sprigs of mistletoe. They stood on the tables and the window sills. + +But the counter was the crowning glory of the canteen. In the middle of +it stood an enormous Christmas cake, sugar-covered, bedecked with flags. +Round the cake, built into airy castles, were hundreds of crackers. Huge +dishes, piled high with mince pies, stood in rows along the whole length +of the counter on each side of the cake. Behind them, rising to +the height of five steps, was a long staircase made of packets of +cigarettes. + +“Sure, it’s grand,” said Sergeant O’Rorke; “and there isn’t one only +yourself, miss, who’d do all you be doing for the men.” + +Miss Willmot’s eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often given +to expressing tender feeling. At home in the old days men spoke of her +as a good sport, who rode straight and played the game; but they seldom +tried to make love to her. Women said she was a dear, and that it was a +thousand pities she did not marry. It was no sentimental recollection of +bygone Christmases which brought the look of softness into her eyes. She +was thinking that next day the men for once would feast to the full in +the canteen--eat, drink, smoke, without paying a penny. She knew how +well they deserved all she could do for them, these men who had done so +much, borne so much, who still had so much to do and bear. Miss Willmot +thanked God as she stood there that she had money to spend for the men. + +“Tea! tea! tea! Tea’s ready. Come along, Miss Willmot.” + +The call came from behind the counter. Miss Nelly Davis stood there, a +tall, fair girl in a long blue overall. + +“I’ve made toast and buttered it, and Mr. Digby’s waiting.” + +“Good evening, miss, and a happy Christmas to you,” said Bates. + +“If there’s a happy Christmas going these times at all,” said Sergeant +O’Rorke, “it’s yourself deserves it.” + +“Thank you, thank you both,” said Miss Willmot “If it hadn’t been for +your help I’d never have got the decorations done at all.” + +The men left the hut, and Miss Willmot locked the door behind them. +The canteen was closed until it opened in all its glory on Christmas +afternoon. + +She passed through a door at the back of the counter, slipped off her +overall, stained and creased after a long day’s work, then she went into +the kitchen. + +Miss Nelly Davis was bending over a packing-case which stood in the +middle of the kitchen floor. It served as a table, and she was spreading +a cloth on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform, +wearing the badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This was +Mr. Digby. Once he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga’s, the +most fashionable of London churches. In those days Miss Willmot would +have treated him with scorn. She did not care for curates. + +Now he was a fellow-worker in the Camp. His waterproof hung dripping +behind the kitchen door. Drops of rain ran down his gaiters. He was +trying to dry the knees of his breeches before the stove. Miss Willmot +greeted him warmly. + +“Terrific night,” he said; “rain coming down in buckets. Water running +round the camp in rivers. I say, Miss Davis, you’ll have to get out +another cup. The Major’s coming to tea.” + +“There isn’t a fourth cup,” said Miss Nelly. “You’ll have to drink out +of a mug.” + +“Right-o! Mugs hold more, anyway.” + +“All padres are greedy,” said Miss Nelly. “What’s bringing the Major +here?” + +“I’ve arranged a practice of the Christmas carols,” said Digby. + +“Bother your old carols,” said Miss Nelly. + +“Must have a practice,” said Digby. “You and Miss Willmot are all right; +but the Major is frightfully shaky over the bass. It won’t do to break +down to-morrow. By the way, Miss Willmot, there’s something I want to +speak to you about before the Major comes. There’s----” + +“Before the Major comes, Nelly,” said Miss Willmot, “give me some tea. +He always looks shocked when I drink four cups, so let me get through +the first two before he arrives.” + +“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” said Digby. + +“There’s a drip coming through the roof just there which will get you on +the back of the neck every time you lean forward.” + +Miss Willmot shifted the biscuit-tin. It was not easy to find a spot to +put it. The roof of the kitchen leaked badly in several places. + +“Look here, Miss Willmot,” said Digby. “I wonder if you could do +anything about this. I’ve just been round to the guard-room. There’s a +poor devil there----” + +“Language! language!” said Miss Nelly. + +She was on her knees beside the stove rescuing her plate of toast from +danger. Drops of water were falling on it from the knees of Digby’s +breeches every time he moved. + +“There is,” said Digby, speaking with great precision, “an unfortunate +man at this moment incarcerated in the cell behind the guard-room, under +the stern keeping of the Provost Sergeant. I hope that way of saying it +satisfies you, Miss Davis.” + +“For goodness’ sake, don’t talk Camp shop,” said Miss Davis. “Let’s have +our tea in peace.” + +“Drink, I suppose,” said Miss Willmot “Why will they do it, just at +Christmas, too?” + +“This isn’t a drunk,” said Digby. “The wretched devil has been sent down +here under arrest from No. 73 Hospital. He’s to be court-martialled. +He’s only a boy, and a decent-looking boy, too. I hate to think of his +being shut up in that cell all by himself at Christmas with nobody to do +anything for him.” + +“What can we do?” said Miss Willmot. + +“I can’t do anything, of course,” said Digby, “but I thought you might.” + +“I don’t see what I can do.” + +“Well, try,” said Digby. “If you’d seen the poor fellow---- But you’ll +do something for him, won’t you?” + +Digby had a fine faith in Miss Willmot’s power to do “something” + under any circumstances. Experience strengthened his faith instead of +shattering it. Had not Miss Willmot on one occasion faced and routed a +medical board which tried to seize the men’s recreation-room for its own +purposes? And in the whole hierarchy of the Army there is no power more +unassailable than that of a medical board. Had she not obtained leave +for a man that he might go to see his dying mother, at a time when all +leave was officially closed, pushing the application through +office after office, till it reached, “noted and forwarded for your +information, please,” the remote General in Command of Lines of +Communication? Had she not bent to her will two generals, several +colonels, and once even a sergeant-major? A padre, fourth class, though +he had once been curate of St. Ethelburga’s, was a feeble person. But +Miss Willmot! Miss Willmot got things done, levelled entanglements of +barbed red tape, captured the trenches of official persons by virtue of +a quiet persistence, and--there is no denying it--because the things she +wanted done were generally good things. + +The Major opened the door of the kitchen. He stood for a moment on the +threshold, the water dripping from his cap and running down his coat, +great drops of it hanging from his white moustache. He was nearer sixty +than fifty years of age. The beginning of the war found him settled +very comfortably in a pleasant Worcestershire village. He had a house +sufficiently large, a garden in which he grew wonderful vegetables, and +a small circle of friends who liked a game of bridge in the evenings. +From these surroundings he had been dug out and sent to command a base +camp in France. He was a professional soldier, trained in the school of +the old Army, but he had enough wisdom to realize that our new citizen +soldiers require special treatment and enough human sympathy to be +keenly interested in the welfare of the men. He grudged neither time nor +trouble in any matter which concerned the good of the Camp. He had very +early come to regard Miss Willmot as a valuable fellow-worker. + +“Padre,” he said, “I put it to you as a Christian man, is this an +evening on which anyone ought to be asked to practise Christmas carols?” + +“Hear, hear,” said Miss Nelly. + +“We’ve only had one practice, sir,” said Digby, “and I’ve put up notices +all over the Camp that the carols will be sung to-morrow evening. It’s +awfully good of you to come.” + +“And of me,” said Miss Nelly. + +“You’re here, in any case,” said Digby. “The men are tremendously +pleased, sir,” he added, “that you’re going to sing. They appreciate +it.” + +“They won’t appreciate it nearly so much when they hear me,” said the +Major. “I haven’t sung a part for, I suppose, twenty years.” + +Christmas carols have been sung, and we may suppose practised +beforehand, in odd places, amid curious surroundings. But it is doubtful +whether even the records of missionaries in heathen lands tell of a +choir practice so unconventional as that held on Christmas Eve in the +kitchen of Miss Willmot’s canteen. + +The rain beat a tattoo on the corrugated iron roof. It dripped into a +dozen pools on the soaking floor, it fell in drops which hissed on to +the top of the stove. There was no musical instrument of any kind. The +tea-tray was cleared away and laid in a corner. The Major, white-haired, +lean-faced, smiling, sat on the packing-case in the middle of the room. +Miss Willmot sat on her biscuit-tin near the stove. Miss Nelly perched, +with dangling feet, on a corner of the sink in which cups and dishes +were washed. Digby, choir-master and conductor, stood in front of the +stove. + +“Now then,” he said, “we’ll begin with ‘Nowell.’ Major, here’s your +note--La-a-a”--he boomed out a low note. “Got it?” + +“La-a-a,” growled the Major. + +“Miss Willmot, alto,” said Digby, “la-a-a. That’s right. Miss Davis, a +third higher, la-a-a. My tenor is F. Here’s the chord. La, la, la, la. +Now, one, two, three. ‘The first Nowell the angels did say----’” + +The rain hammered on the roof. The Major plodded conscientiously at his +bass. Miss Nelly sang a shrill treble. Digby gave the high tenor notes +in shameless shouts. “Good King Wenceslas” followed, and “God rest you +merry, gentlemen.” Then the Major declared that he could sing no more. + +“I wish you’d get another bass, padre,” he said. “I’m not trying to back +out, but I’m no good by myself. If I’d somebody to help me, a second +bass----” + +“There’s nobody,” said Digby. “I’ve scoured the whole camp looking for a +man.” + +“If only Tommy were here,” said Miss Nelly. + +“Tommy has a splendid voice. And I don’t see why he mightn’t be here +instead of stuck in that silly old hospital. He’s quite well. He told me +so yesterday. A bullet through the calf of the leg is nothing. +Major, couldn’t you get them to send Tommy over to the Camp just for +to-morrow?” + +The Major shook his head. He had every sympathy with Miss Nelly. He knew +all about Tommy. So did Miss Willmot. So did Digby. Miss Nelly made no +secret of the fact that she was engaged to be married to Tommy Collins. +She was proud of the fact that he was serving as a private in the +Wessex Borderers, wishing to work his way up through the ranks to the +commission that he might have had for the asking. No Wessex man ever +entered the canteen without being asked if he knew Private 7432 Collins, +of the 8th Battalion. Every one--even the sergeant-major--had to listen +to scraps read out from Tommy’s letters, written in trenches or in +billets. When Tommy was reported wounded, Miss Willmot had a bad day of +it with an almost hysterical Nelly Davis. When the wound turned out +to be nothing worse than a hole in the calf of the leg, made by a +machine-gun bullet, Miss Nelly cried from sheer relief. When, by the +greatest good luck in the world, Private 7432 Collins was sent down to +73 General Hospital, no more than a mile distant from the Camp, Miss +Nelly went wild with joy. + +“Can’t be done,” said the Major. “If it were any other hospital--but the +people in No. 73 don’t like me.” + +The Major was a stickler for extreme accuracy in the filling in of all +official papers. The staff of No. 73 Hospital cured its patients +of their wounds, but sometimes turned them loose afterwards, +insufficiently, occasionally even wrongly, described and classified. The +Major invariably called attention to these mistakes. + +The Major, though particular on some points, was a kindly man. He did +not want to speak evil of the hospital authorities. He was also a little +tired of hearing about Tommy Collins. He changed the subject abruptly. + +“By the way, Miss Willmot,” he said, “it’s all right about the men’s +Christmas dinner. I spent an hour this morning strafing everybody in +the cook-house. I told them they must try to make the Yorkshire pudding. +Heaven knows what it will be like?” + +“If they’ll only follow the receipt I gave them----” said Miss Willmot. + +“_If_,” said Digby. “But those cooks are rotters.” + +“Anyhow,” said the Major, “there’ll be a decent dinner. Roast beef, +plum pudding, oranges, and then all the things you have for them in the +canteen. They’ll not do badly, not at all badly.” + +He rubbed his hands together and smiled with benevolent satisfaction. He +had arranged to eat his own Christmas dinner at the unholy hour of +three in the afternoon. He meant to see that all went well at the men’s +dinner, and that their tea was sufficient. He meant to look in for +an hour at the canteen festivities. He had promised to sing Christmas +carols. From three to four was the only time left at which he could +dine. But that thought did not spoil his satisfaction. + +Digby saw, or thought he saw, his opportunity. + +“There’s one poor fellow in the guard-room, sir,” he said. “Will he get +any Christmas dinner?” + +He winked at Miss Willmot as he spoke. This was the time for her to back +up his charitable appeal. + +“Ah,” said the Major, “I’m afraid I can’t do much for him. It’s a +serious charge, a case of a Field General Court Martial. I’m afraid +there’s no doubt about the facts. I’m sorry for him. He’s quite young; +but it’s a disgraceful thing for any man to do.” + +The Major’s face hardened. For many offences and most offenders he had +some sympathy; but a man who sinned against the code of military honour +had little pity to expect from the Major. + +Miss Willmot looked up. + +“Is it very bad?” she asked. + +“One of those cases of self-wounding,” said the Major. “Shot himself in +the leg with his own rifle.” + +There are cases of this kind, a few of them. Some wretch, driven half +frantic by terror, worn out with hardships, hopeless of any end of his +sufferings, seeks this way out. He gains a week of rest and security in +a hospital ward. Then he faces the stern judgment of a court martial, +and pays the penalty. + +“Poor fellow!” said Miss Willmot. “Poor boy! What he must have gone +through before he did that!” + +“He went through no more than any other man went through,” said the +Major; “but they stuck it and he shirked. There are men enough who +deserve our pity, Miss Willmot. We can’t afford to waste sympathy on +cowards.” + +Miss Willmot was of another mind. For her there was a law higher even +than the Major’s lofty code of chivalry and honour. She had pity to +spare for cowards. + +The Major himself was not wholly consistent. As he rose to leave the +kitchen he spoke of the prisoner again. + +“He doesn’t look like a man who’d do it. He looks like a gentleman. That +makes it worse, of course, much worse. All the same, he doesn’t look +it.” + +“Well?” said Digby, when the Major left. + +“I can’t do anything,” said Miss Willmot “In a case of this kind there’s +nothing to be done.” + +But Miss Willmot made up a little parcel before she left the canteen. +There were cigarettes in it, and chocolate, and a couple of mince pies, +and a large slice of cake, and some biscuits. Afterwards she acted +lawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulations +with contempt. + +Sergeant O’Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience when +Miss Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted. + +“Terrible weather, miss. I’ll never say again that it rains in the +County Galway. Sure, it doesn’t know how. A man would have to come to +France to find out what rain is.” + +“Sergeant,” said Miss Willmot, “I want to speak to your prisoner.” + +Sergeant O’Rorke scratched his ear doubtfully. Miss Willmot had no right +to see the prisoner. He had no right to open the door of the cell for +her. They had hammered some respect for discipline into Sergeant O’Rorke +when he served in the Irish Guards. But they had not hammered the Irish +nature altogether out of him. He was willing to go to great lengths, to +take risks in order to oblige a friend whom he liked and respected. He +had an Irishman’s feeling that laws and regulations are not meant to +apply to ladies like Miss Willmot. + +“Did you think to ask leave of the Major, miss?” he said. + +“No,” said Miss Willmot, “I didn’t ask anybody’s leave.” + +“That’s a pity now,” said O’Rorke; “but sure the Major would never have +said no if you’d have asked him.” + +He fitted the key into the lock and flung open the door of the cell. + +“Prisoner, ‘tention,” he said. + +Miss Willmot entered the small square room, lit by a single electric +light. It was entirely bare of all furniture, save a single rug, which +lay rolled up in a corner. The walls and floor were lined with sheets of +zinc. A young man stood stiffly to attention in the middle of the room. +Miss Willmot stared at him. + +Then she turned to Sergeant O’Rorke. “Shut the door please, sergeant, +and wait outside.” + +The young man neither stirred nor spoke. + +“Tommy!” said Miss Willmot. + +“7432! Private Collins, miss, 8th Wessex Borderers.” + +He spoke in a tone of hard, cold fury. + +“Tommy,” said Miss Willmot. + +“Awaiting trial by Field General Court Martial on a charge of +deliberately wounding himself in the leg.” + +“Tommy,” said Miss Willmot again, “you didn’t do that.” + +The boy broke down suddenly. The hardness and the anger vanished. + +“Miss Willmot,” he said, “for God’s sake don’t tell Nelly that I’m +here.” + +“You didn’t do it,” said Miss Willmot. + +“Of course I didn’t do it,” he said. “There’s been some infernal +blunder. I didn’t know what the damned idiots meant when they put me +under arrest I didn’t know what the charge was till they marched me in +to the C.O. here. He told me. Oh, the Army’s a nice thing, I can tell +you. I was expecting to get my stripe over that raid when I got hit +with a bullet in my leg, and here I am charged with a coward’s trick. I +suppose they’ll prove it. I suppose they’ve got what they call evidence. +I only hope they’ll shoot me quick and have done with it I don’t want to +live.” + +Miss Willmot went over to the boy and took his hand. She led him to the +corner of the bare room. They sat down together on the folded blanket +She talked to him quietly, sanely, kindly. For half an hour she sat +there with him. Before she left, hope had come back to him. + +“Don’t you worry about my being here,” he said “If things are cleared +up in the end I shan’t mind a bit about spending a night or two in this +cell. With all the things you’ve brought me”--the cake, chocolate, and +cigarettes were spread out on the floor--“I’ll have a merry Christmas, +better than the trenches, anyhow. But, I say, don’t tell Nelly. She +might fret.” + +The Christmas festivities in the Camp were enormously successful. The +men had cold ham for breakfast, a special treat paid for by the Major. +They assembled for church parade, and Digby gave them the shortest +sermon ever preached by a padre. The Major, who liked to play the piano +at church service, was so startled by the abrupt conclusion of the +discourse, that he started “O Come, All ye Faithful,” in a key so +low that no one could sing the second line. The Major pulled himself +together. + +“As you were,” he said, and started again. + +The men, thoroughly roused by the novelty of the proceedings, yelled the +hymn. The dinner was all that could be hoped. Sweating cooks staggered +into the dining-hall with huge dishes of meat and steaming cauldrons of +potatoes. Sergeants, on that day acting as servants to the men, bore off +from the carving-tables plates piled high. The Yorkshire pudding looked +like gingerbread, but the men ate it. The plum pudding was heavy, solid, +black. + +The Major, smiling blandly, went from table to table. Miss Nelly, +flushed with excitement and pleasure, laughed aloud. Only Miss Willmot +looked on with grave eyes, somewhat sad. She was thinking of Tommy +Collins in his cell, with the weight of an intolerable accusation +hanging over him. + +Later on, not even Miss Willmot had time to be thoughtful. There was +a pause in the festivities for an hour or two after dinner. The men +smoked, slept, or kicked at a football with spasmodic fits of energy. +Then the canteen was opened. Miss Willmot’s great cake was cut. The men +passed in a long file in front of the counter. Miss Willmot handed each +man a slice of cake. Other ladies gave crackers and mince pies. Digby, +garrulous and friendly, distributed cigarettes. The Major stood at the +far end of the room under the glistening white star. He was waiting for +the moment to arrive at which he should make his speech, a speech sure +to be received with genuine applause, for it was to be in praise of Miss +Willmot. The Major did that kind of thing well. He had the proper touch, +could catch the note appropriate for votes of thanks. He knew his +talent, and that Christmas Day he meant to do his best. + +An orderly entered the canteen, looked round it, caught sight of the +Major. He pushed his way through a crowd of laughing men who munched +cake, smoked furiously, and decked each others’ heads with paper caps +from crackers. He reached the Major at last, and handed him a note. +The Major read it and swore. Then he began to push his way towards the +counter. The orderly followed him. + +“Gangway,” he called, “gangway, men. Make way for the Major.” + +Way was made at last. The Major seized Digby by the arm. + +“It’s a damned nuisance,” he said. “I beg pardon, padre, an infernal +nuisance. I’ve got to go to the orderly room. Those fellows in No. 3 +Hospital are ringing me up. Why couldn’t they keep quiet on Christmas +Day? I must go though, and I may be kept. You’ll have to make the speech +and thank Miss Willmot.” + +Digby escaped making the speech in the end. Just as the distribution of +cakes and mince pies had finished, when Digby was searching frantically +for an opening sentence, the Major returned. He made two speeches. One +was in a low voice across the counter to Miss Willmot. The other was to +the men. It was all about Miss Willmot. It was beautifully phrased. +But she did not hear a word of it. She was scarcely aware of the men’s +cheers, though the paper festoons swayed to and fro, and the Chinese +lanterns shook with the violence of the shouting. For the Major had said +this to her: + +“It’s all right about that boy in the guard-room, the prisoner you know, +who was to have been court-martialled. Some blatant idiot of an orderly +sergeant mixed up two sets of papers, and put the wrong man under +arrest. They’re sending over the right man now. I told Sergeant O’Rorke +to bring that poor boy straight here from the guard-room. Keep a bit of +cake for him.” + +It was while the men were cheering the Major’s other speech that Tommy +Collins, guided by Sergeant O’Rorke, entered the canteen. + +Miss Nelly saw him at once. She stretched herself across the counter to +grasp his hands, upsetting the few remaining mince pies, and scattering +crackers right and left. If the counter had not been so broad and high +she would in all probability have kissed him. + +“Oh, Tommy!” she said. “And I’d given up all hope of seeing you. This is +just a perfect Christmas box. How did you get here?” + +Tommy Collins looked appealingly to Miss Willmot. His eyes begged her +as plainly as if words had crossed his lips not to tell the story of his +arrest. + +“Now you are here,” said Miss Nelly, “you must help us with the carols. +The Major’s a perfect darling, but he can’t sing bass for nuts. You’ll +do it, won’t you? I’m singing, and so is Miss Willmot.” + + + + + + +V ~~ HER RIGHT + +Mrs. Jocelyn was generally considered a clever woman. Her husband +respected her intellect. He was, and still is, Professor of Psychology +in one of our younger Universities, so he could give an expert’s opinion +on any question of mental capacity. Her sons said she was clever. There +were two young Jocelyns, Ned, a barrister, and Tom, a junior master in a +public school. Ned used to give me his opinion of his mother very often. + +“The mater is extraordinarily clear-headed,” he would say. “If you want +to see your way through a muddle, just you talk it over with her. It’s +an awful pity she----” + +Then Ned would shrug his shoulders. He was a loyal son, and he never +said in plain words what the pity was. Tom spoke in the same way. + +“Dad’s all right,” he used to say, “European reputation and all that; +but the mater has the brains of our family. If only she wouldn’t----” + +I agreed with both of them. Mrs. Jocelyn was one of the cleverest women +I ever met, but--well, on one subject she was an intolerable bore. That +subject was Woman’s Suffrage. She could not keep off it for very +long, and once she started there was no stopping her. All her friends +suffered. It cannot be said that she argued. She demanded, aggressively +insisted on sex equality, on justice and right for women, right in every +sphere of life, political right, social right, economic right, all kinds +of other right. + +This, of course, was in the old days before the war. Since August, 1914, +most things have changed. Professor Jocelyn, indeed, still lectures on +psychology, half-heartedly now, to a rapidly dwindling class of young +women. But Ned Jocelyn’s name is painted in black letters on a brown +wooden cross at the head of a grave--one of a long row of graves--in a +French cemetery. Tom is trying to learn to walk without crutches in the +grounds of an English hospital. Mrs. Jocelyn is out in France, working +in a canteen, working very hard. It is only occasionally now that she +demands a “right;” but when she does, she demands it, so I understand, +with all her old ferocious determination to get it. This is the story of +how she once demanded and took a “right.” + +It was nearly midday, and the camp lay under a blazing sun. It was early +in July, when all England and all France were throbbing with hope, pride +and terror as the news of the “Big Push” came in day by day. There +was little calm, and few hearts at ease in those days, but Number 50 +Convalescent Camp looked peaceful enough. It is miles from the firing +line. No shells ever burst over it or near it. Only occasionally can the +distant rumble of the guns be heard. A spell of dry weather had cracked +the clay of the paths which divided it into rectangles. The grass was +burnt and brown. The flower beds, in spite of diligent watering, looked +parched. The great white tents, marquees guyed up with many ropes, shone +with a blinding glare. In the strips of shade made by the fly sheets +of the tents, men lay in little groups. Their tunics were unbuttoned +or cast aside. They smoked and chatted, speaking slowly and briefly. +Oftener they slept. + +Only in one corner of the camp was there any sign of activity. Near the +main entrance is the orderly room. Inside, a sweating adjutant toiled +at a mass of papers on the desk before him. From time to time a sergeant +entered the room, saluted, spoke sharply, received his orders, saluted +and went out again. From the clerk’s room next door came the sound +of voices, the ceaseless clicking of a typewriter, and the frequent +clamorous summons of a telephone bell. Outside, orderlies hurried, +stepping quickly in one direction or another, to the Quarter-master’s +stores, to the kitchen, to the wash-houses, to twenty other points in +the great camp to which orders must go, and from which messages must +return. The bugler stood in the verandah outside the orderly room, +ready to blow his calls or strike the hours with a hammer on a suspended +length of railway line. At the entrance gate, standing sharply to +attention as a guardsman should, even under a blazing sun, was Private +Malley, of the Irish Guards, wounded long ago, now wearing the brassard +of the Military Police. He saw to it that no person unauthorized entered +the camp. Above him, limp from its staff, hung the Red Cross flag, +unrecognizable that day, since there was no faintest breeze to stir its +folds. + +Close by the flag staff is the little dressing station. Here the men in +the camp, men discharged from hospital, are seen by the doctors and +the period of their rest and convalescence is decided. They are marked +“Fit,” and go to the fighting again, or sent back and enjoy good +quarters and pleasant food for a while longer. Or--best hope--marked +“Blighty” and go home. This is the routine. But sometimes there is a +difference. There had been a difference every day since the “Big Push” + started. Outside the dressing station was a group of forty or fifty +men. They lay on the ground, most of them sound asleep. They lay in the +strangest attitudes, curled up, some of them; others with arms and legs +flung wide, the attitudes of men utterly exhausted, whose overpowering +need is rest. Some sat huddled up, too tired to sleep, blinking their +eyes in the strong sunshine. Most of these men wore bandages. Bandages +were on their heads, their hands, their arms and legs, where sleeves and +trousers had been cut away. Some of them had lost their caps. One +here and there had lost a boot. Many of them wore tattered tunics and +trousers with long rents in them. All of them were covered with mud, mud +that had dried into hard yellow cakes. These were men sent straight down +from the field dressing stations, men who had been slightly wounded, so +slightly that there was no need for them to go to hospital. Among them +there was one man who neither lay huddled nor sprawled. He sat upright, +his knees drawn up to his chest, held tight in his clasped hands. He +stared straight in front of him with wide, unblinking eyes. Of all the +men in the group, he was the muddiest His clothes were caked with mud. +His face was covered with mud. His hair was matted with mud. Also his +clothes were the raggedest of all. The left leg of his trousers was rent +from knee to waistband. The skin of his thigh shone white, strangely +white compared to his face and hands, through the jagged tear. The +sleeves of his tunic were torn. There was a hole in the back of it, +and one of his shoulder straps was torn off. He was no more than a boy, +youthful-looking compared even to the men, almost all of them young, who +lay around him. He had a narrow face with that look of alert impudence +which is common on the faces of gutter snipes in large cities. + +As he sat staring he spoke now and then, spoke to himself, for there was +no one to listen to him. + +“We beat them,” he said once. “We gave them the damnedest beating. We +strafed them proper, and they ran. The Prussian Guards they was.” + +His accent betrayed him. He must have come from Lancashire, from some +grimy Lancashire town, from Warrington or Bolton, from Liverpool itself +perhaps, or Manchester. Before the war there were crowds of such boys +there. They made up the football crowds on Saturday afternoons. They +made the countryside hideous on bank holiday afternoons. They were the +despair of church and chapel, of the social reformer, and often of +the police. This boy was under-sized, of poor chest development, +thin-limbed, weedy; but there was a curious light in those staring eyes +of his. + +He turned to the man on his right, a great, heavy-jawed Irishman with a +bandaged knee, who was sound asleep. + +“Wake up, Pat,” he says, “wake up till I tell you how we strafed Fritz. +Out in the open it was, the Prussian Guards.” + +But the Irishman slept on. Neither shaking nor shouting roused a sign of +intelligence in him. The boy turned to the man on his left, a Canadian, +an older man with a gentle, worn face. Perhaps because he was older or +more utterly wearied out, or in pain this man waked and raised himself +on one elbow. + +“We went for them proper,” said the boy. “Prussians they was and Guards. +They thought they’d walk over us; but by God we talked to them, talked +to them with the bayonet, we did.” + +A slow smile played across the Canadian’s face. + +“Say, Tommy,” he said, “what’s your name?” + +“Wakeman, Private Wakeman, No. 79362. Gosh, Canada, but we handled them +and they ran.” + +“They certainly did run some,” said the Canadian slowly. + +Then Wakeman poured out his story, a wonderful story, told in jerky +sentences, garnished with blasphemies and obscene words. He had been a +member of the Lewis Gun team. Very early in the advance the bursting of +a high explosive shell had buried him, buried the whole gun team with +its officer, buried the gun. Wakeman and three other men and the officer +had crawled out from the mud and débris. Somehow they had unearthed the +gun. Driven on by a kind of frenzy, they had advanced again, halting, +firing a drum of cartridges, advancing again. Once more a shell caught +them and buried them. Once more Wakeman crawled out, clawed his way out +with hooked fingers, bit the loose clay with his mouth, bored through +it with his head, dug at it with his toes. This time he and the officer +were alone. They struggled to recover their gun, working fiercely, till +a bullet hit the officer. After that Wakeman went on by himself, managed +somehow to get among the men of the company to which his gun team +belonged, and possessed himself of a rifle. At that point his story +became incoherent. But about one thing he was clear. He and the others +of his company had met in straight hand to hand fighting the proudest +troops of Germany. By stabbing, lunging, battering with clubbed rifles, +they had put the Prussian Guard to flight. + +“Well,” drawled the Canadian, “they did run. They certainly did run +some. And what’s the matter with you, sonny? Hit?” + +“Buried,” said Wakeman, “buried twice, and shrapnel in my leg, little +bits.” + +The bits were little, but there were a good many of them. Half an hour +later Wakeman passed into the dressing station in his turn. The doctor +looked him over, scribbled a word or two on the label which hung from +the lad’s breast pocket, and patted him on the shoulder. + +“You’ll be all right, my boy,” he said. “No shell shock. No D.A.H. Get +along with you. Feeling a bit hungry, eh?” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Wakeman. “Yes, sir, feel as if I could do with +a bit of something to eat. The way of it was this, sir. We strafed them +proper, we did. The Prussian Guards they was, and----” + +But the doctor had no time to listen to the story. “Get along now. +Get along. The sooner the dressing is done, the sooner you’ll get your +dinner.” + +The story, which the doctor would not hear, bubbled out into the ears +of the nursing sister who picked the scraps of shrapnel out of Wakeman’s +leg. They were tiny fragments, most of them, but there were a great +many, and it took the nurse twenty minutes to get through her job. The +story was told twice over in jerks and snatches, just as it had been +told to the Canadian, only the obscene words were unuttered and the +oaths, when they slipped out now and then, were followed by apologies. +Every soldier, even a Lancashire gutter snipe, has in him this curious +instinct. His talk is commonly full of blasphemies and obscenities, +devoid of all sense or meaning, efforts at futile emphasis, apparently +necessary and inevitable. But if there is a woman within earshot, no +such words pass his lips. A girl might sit all day among these men, and, +if they knew she was there, her ears would never be sullied with the +sound of a foul word. + +Released at last from the dressing station, Wakeman and five or six +others were taken to the bathhouse. The corporal who led the way, the +bath orderly who provided soap and towels, and the wounded Irishman who +was given the bath next to Wakeman’s, all heard scraps of the story, +learnt the essential fact that Wakeman and his pals had strafed the +Prussian Guard. It was the Irishman who reduced the excited boy to +silence for a few minutes. + +“What do you want to be talking that way for?” he said. “Didn’t we all +give them hell? Didn’t I bring back three prisoners myself. Three? It’s +five I would have had, only for a stray shell that bursted alongside of +the communication trench and lifted two of them off me. Bad luck to that +same shell, for a bit of it took me under the knee. But what matter? +Only, mind this, what you did to the Prussian Guard wasn’t in it with +what that shell did to them two Boches. You’d have been sorry for the +blighters, so you would, if so be you could have found a bit of either +of them big enough to be sorry for.” + +Wakeman had no reply to make to that. It is not possible with a bayonet, +or even with a Lewis gun, to cause the total disappearance of an enemy’s +body. + +After his bath, with a clean shirt on him and a clean pair of socks, +Wakeman dined. There is no lack of good food in Number 50 Convalescent +Camp, and men recovering from wounds often have healthy appetites. But +Wakeman ate, gorged himself, to the astonishment even of the kitchen +orderlies. Plateful after plateful of stewed meat and potatoes, steaming +and savoury, disappeared. Yet there was no sign about the boy of the +lassitude of repletion. His eyes remained bright and glanced rapidly +here and there. His body was still alert, the movements of his hands +quick and decisive. + +After dinner, rest. Wakeman found himself with other new-comers in a tent +in the corner of the camp. The Irishman was there, still lamenting in +picturesque phrases the loss of his two prisoners. + +“And the biggest of them--a fine figure of a man he was--had the +beautifullest helmet on him that ever was seen; worth twenty francs it +was, any day, and me without a penny in my pocket. But where was it after +the shell bursted? Tell me that if you can.” + +The Canadian was there, patiently ready to listen to any story, having +apparently no story of his own to tell. Wakeman began again. + +“It was the Prussian Guard,” he said, “and we gave them proper hell, we +did, out in the open. No blasted machine guns. Just them and us with the +bayonet. And----” + +He talked in vain. In the tent were beds, real beds with mattresses of +woven wire, and palliasses stuffed with straw. Stretched flat on his +back the Irishman snored. His head pillowed on his folded arm the +Canadian slept peacefully, a quiet smile, like a child’s, on his face. +Wakeman looked at them and snorted with contempt. For him no sleep was +possible. He pulled a bench to the door of the tent, and sat in the +sunshine. He found the lid of a cigarette tin and set to work to scrape +the mud off his clothes and boots. But the work wearied him. With a +piece of string he laced up the long rent in his trousers, cutting +holes in the material with the blade of a knife. Then, still obstinately +disinclined for sleep, he went out to explore the camp. + +At one end of the camp is a hut, a long, low building. It is one of +those canteens and recreation huts, which, working through various +organizations, the public at home provides for the men in France. They +are familiar enough to everyone in France, and the men know that there +is a welcome for them however often they pass the doors. In this hut +Mrs. Jocelyn works all day long and every day. + +Sometimes she cooks, making vast puddings, stewing cauldrons full of +prunes or figs. Sometimes she stands behind the counter serving bowls +of tea, coffee, cocoa, lemonade, to thirsty men. Sometimes, half +asphyxiated with tobacco smoke, she sits at the piano and hammers out +rag-time tunes, while the men crowd round her, their faces close to her +as they peer at the music, their voices threatening her with deafness +when they bellow in her ears. Sometimes she sits for an hour beside some +dull-eyed victim of shell shock, patiently trying to coax or trick him +back to some interest in life again, giving him, literally, her own +vitality, until, “virtue gone out” of her, she must seek fresh strength +for herself in the less exhausting toil of a scullery maid. Thus she +pays to man the debt she owes to God for the cross over the grave of one +son dead, and the unconquerable spirit of the other crippled. + +It was a slack hour when Private Wakeman, in his grotesquely tattered +clothes, limped through the door. Only a few men were in the hut, +writing or playing draughts. A boy at the piano was laboriously +beating out a discordant version of “Tennessee.” Mrs. Jocelyn sat on a +packing-case, a block of paper on her knee, writing a letter to a man +who had left the camp to go up the line again. Another woman, a fellow +worker, was arranging plates of cakes and biscuits on the counter, +piling bowls ready to hand for the crowd of men who would come later, +clamouring for tea. + +Private Wakeman stood in the middle of the hut and looked around him. He +sought companionship, longed to find some one to whom he could tell his +story and make his boast about the Prussian Guard. His eyes wandered +from one to another of the men who were writing or playing games. He +found little encouragement. It seemed impossible to join himself to any +one of them. He looked at the lady busy with the bowls and plates. His +eyes rested at last on a great dish of stewed figs which stood on the +counter. He had eaten an incredible quantity of food in the dining-hall +two hours before, soup, beef, potatoes, cabbage, pudding, cheese. But +he had not eaten stewed figs. His whole boy’s nature rose in him in one +fierce longing for stewed figs. He remembered. Before he went into the +attack he had possessed half a franc and two sous. He thrust his hand +into his one trouser pocket. It was empty. He tore at the string with +which he had laced up the slit in his trousers. On that side there was +not a pocket left. It and all it ever contained, were gone. He fumbled +in the pockets of his tunic, found three mangled cigarettes, the stump +of a pencil, a letter from his mother, and, at last, two English penny +stamps, survivals of days which seemed years ago, when he had been in +camp in England. + +His eyes were fixed on the stewed figs. The longing in him grew fiercer, +intolerable. He approached the counter slowly. He laid on it the two +stamps, dirty almost beyond recognition. He smoothed them out carefully. + +“Lady,” he said, “I haven’t got no money but----” + +The worker laid down her bowls, looked at the two stamps, and then +at the boy. She was a woman of experience and discernment She saw the +muddy, tattered clothes. She read the look of desire in the eyes. She +understood. + +“What do you want?” she said. + +“Stewed fruit, lady, and--and custard.” + +She turned from the boy to Mrs. Jocelyn. + +“It’s clean against all rules,” she said. “I know I oughtn’t to, but I +must---I simply must give this boy something.” + +Mrs. Jocelyn looked up from her writing. She saw all that the other had +seen. She had talked with many men. One glance was enough for her. She +knew what the boy had been through. With swift intuition she guessed at +what he felt and how he yearned. She saw the name of his regiment on his +one remaining shoulder strap. It was her dead boy’s regiment, and every +man in it was dear to her. Already the other lady was at work, putting a +spoonful of stewed figs on a soup plate. Mrs. Jocelyn seized her by the +arm and dragged her roughly back from the counter. + +“Don’t dare to do it,” she said, “it’s my right. No one else has so good +a right to do it as I have.” + +So Private Wakeman sat down to a plate piled with stewed figs, swamped +with a yellowish liquid called custard in canteens in France. Beside him +were jam tarts and great slabs of cake. From a mouth never empty, though +he swallowed fast, came in short gushes the story of the strafing of the +Prussian Guard, told at last to ears which drank in greedily every word +of it. + +So Mrs. Jocelyn claimed and took at last her dearest right. + + + + + +VI ~~ JOURNEY’S END + +I had a long journey before me, and I looked forward to it with dread. +It is my habit when forced to travel in France, the part of France +chiefly affected by the war, to resign myself to a period of misery. I +relapse into a condition of sulky torpor. Railway Transport Offices may +amuse themselves by putting me into wrong trains. Officers in command of +trains may detach the carriage in which I am and leave it for hours in +a siding. My luggage may be--and generally is--hopelessly lost. I may +arrive at my destination faint for want of food. But I bear all +these things without protest or complaint. This is not because I am +particularly virtuous or self-trained to turn the other cheek to the +smiter. I am morally feeble, deficient in power of self-defence, a lover +of peace with discomfort, rather than honourable strife. + +I felt no small joy when I discovered that Thompson was to be my +travelling companion on this particular journey. I had travelled with +Thompson before. I knew that he always secured food, that he never lost +his luggage, that he had an instinct for recognizing the right train +when he saw it, and that he had a healthy disregard for the dignity of +the official persons who clog the feet of wayfarers in France. + +We met at the station. Thompson’s breezy good humour gave me fresh +confidence at once. He looked energetic, hopeful and charged with +vitality. + +“Come along.” he said, “we’ll report to the R.T.O. at once and get it +over.” + +In France under existing conditions the traveller reports to the Railway +Transport Officer when he starts his journey, when he finishes it and +at all intervening opportunities. An R.T.O. must lead a harassed and +distressful life. He sees to it that the traveller has a fair share of +life’s trouble. + +This particular R.T.O. began by trying to get us into a wrong train. I +suppose that was the line of least resistance for him. It was easier to +put us into the first train that came along. We should have been off his +hands, and another R.T.O stationed somewhere else, would have had the +job of getting us switched back on to our proper track again. The first +man--and this was all he cared for--would have been rid of us. Thompson +was equal to the situation. He talked vigorously to that R.T.O.. +Thompson holds no very exalted rank in the army. I often wonder he is +not tried by Court Martial for the things he says. But the R.T.O., so +far from resenting Thompson’s remarks, offered us a sort of apology. + +“I’ve been on duty ten hours,” he said, “and there’s a whole battery +of artillery lost somewhere along the line. It never was my fault; but +every general in the whole army has been ringing me up about it. The +telephone bell hasn’t stopped all day. Damn! There it is again.” + +It was; loud, angry and horribly persistent. Even Thompson felt sorry +for the R.T.O. + +“Never mind,” he said, “you’ll get your Military Cross all right in the +end. All you fellows do. Now buck up a bit and find our train for us. +It’s X. we want to get to.” + +I mention this incident to show the kind of man Thompson is and his way +of dealing with difficulties. Under his care I felt that I should travel +safely and get to X. in the end. Comfort was not to be expected, but +Thompson did all that could be done to mitigate our misery. + +We made our start from a platform blocked with piles of officers’ +luggage and crowded with confused and anxious men. Subalterns in charge +of drafts asked other subalterns what they ought to do and received +counter inquiries by way of reply. Sergeants stormed blasphemously at +men who had disappeared in search of tea. Staff officers, red tabbed +and glorious, tried to preserve an appearance of dignity while their +own servants staggering under the weight of kit bags, bumped into them. +Hilarious men, going home on leave, shouted sudden snatches of song. +A decrepit Frenchman, patient in the performance of duty, blew +feeble blasts on a small horn. Thompson, alert and competent, found a +compartment. He put me in and then he bundled in my valise. After +that he found his own luggage, an enormous kit bag, two sacks, a camp +bedstead, a hammock chair and a number of small parcels. + +“Get them in somehow,” he said. “We’ll settle down afterwards.” + +Thompson did the settling afterwards. He so arranged our belongings that +we each had a seat The door by which anyone else might have to get in +at another station was hopelessly blocked. The small parcels were put on +the rack above our heads. Thompson gave me a list of their contents +as he put them in their places. They contained bread, butter, meat, +biscuits, cheese, a bottle of wine and a flask of brandy. + +“We’re here till two o’clock to-morrow morning--till two o’clock at best. +We must have something to eat.” + +A selfish traveller--I am profoundly selfish--would have been content +to keep that compartment secure from intrusion. We had completely +barricaded the door and no one could have got in if we had chosen to +defend our position. But Thompson was not selfish. The train stopped at +a station every quarter of an hour or so, and Thompson climbing up the +barricade, opened the window and took a look out every time we stopped. +At one station--it was then about 7 p.m. and quite dark--he discovered +a forlorn boy--a second-lieutenant--who was trying to find room for +himself and his belongings. Thompson hailed him. The next five minutes +were passed in fierce toil by all of us. But before the train started +Thompson got the boy and his belongings into our compartment. In my +opinion no second-lieutenants ought to be allowed to possess a suit-case +as well as a valise. This boy also had three top-coats and a Jaeger rug. +We spent nearly half an hour settling down again after that. Then we +dined, sharing the food--Thompson’s food--with the second-lieutenant. He +was a nice boy and very grateful. I thought him a little garrulous, but +Thompson encouraged him to talk. He told us all about his job. It was +his duty to go up in captive balloons and send down messages to the +artillery. It was, by his account, a sea-sicky business, worse by several +degrees than crossing the Channel in the leave boat. Thompson, who has +a thirst for every kind of information, questioned and cross-questioned +the boy. After dinner--dinner was Thompson’s name for our meal--I +prepared to go to sleep. Thompson arranged valises on the floor in such +a way that I could stretch my legs. The boy went on talking. He told +Thompson that he had dropped out of the ballooning business and that he +was going to X. to submit to a special course of training. I forget what +it was, bombing probably, or the use of trench mortars, possibly +map reading or--a subject part of the school curriculum of our +grandmothers--the use of globes. The army has a passion for imparting +knowledge of any kind to temporary lieutenants. I went to sleep while +Thompson was explaining just where the boy’s particular course of +instruction was given, a camp some three or four miles out of X. +Thompson has an amazing knowledge of what naturalists would call the +habitat of the various parts of the army. + +At 3 a.m. I was awakened from my sleep. We had reached, an hour late, +the junction at which we had to change. Thompson and the boy were both +alert and cheerful. They had, I fancy, been talking all the time. Our +junction proved to be a desolate, windswept platform, without a sign of +shelter of any kind except a bleak-looking cabin, the habitation of the +local R.T.O. Thompson roused him ruthlessly and learned that, with luck, +we might expect our next train to start at six. I shivered. Three hours, +the very coldest in the twenty-four, on that platform, did not strike me +as a pleasant prospect. Thompson used a favourite phrase of his. + +“After all,” he said, “it’s war; what the French call _La Guerre_.” + He professed to have discovered, not from the R.T.O. but from a sleepy +French railway official, that the train, our train in which we were to +travel, was somewhere in the neighbourhood, waiting for its engine. It +did not come to us from anywhere else; but made its start, so to speak +took its rise, at that junction. Thompson and our new friend, the boy, +proposed to get into the train when they found it. + +Thompson can speak French of a sort, but he does not understand the +language as spoken by the French people. I did not believe that he had +really found out about that train. I declined to join in the search. +He and the boy went off together. They came back in about half an hour. +They said they had found a train standing by itself in a field and that +it must be ours because there was no other. The reasoning did not seen +conclusive to me, but I agreed to go and sleep in whatever train they +had found. I suggested that we should leave our luggage on the platform +and pick it up when the train got there at 6 a.m. + +“That,” said Thompson, “is just the way luggage gets lost. Suppose--I +don’t say it’s likely or even possible--but suppose the train we get +into goes somewhere else. Nice fools we’d look, turning up in Paris or +Marseilles without a brush or comb among us. No. Where I go I take my +luggage with me.” + +Thompson was evidently not so sure about that train as he pretended +to be. But I had reached a pitch of hopeless misery which left me +indifferent about the future. It did not seem to me to matter much +just then whether I ever got to X. or not. We had to make three trips, +stumbling over railway lines and sleepers, in the dark, falling into +wet ditches and slipping on muddy banks; but in the end we got all our +luggage, including the boy’s top-coats, into a train which lay lifeless +and deserted in a siding. + +This time Thompson and the boy slept. I sat up stiff with cold. At +half-past five a French railway porter opened our door and invited us +to descend, alleging that he wanted to clean the carriage. I was quite +pleased to wake Thompson who was snoring. + +“Get up,” I said, “there’s a man here who wants to clean the carriage +and we’ve got to get out.” + +“I’m damned if I get out,” said Thompson. + +The Frenchman repeated his request most politely. If the gentlemen would +be good enough to descend he would at once clean the carriage. + +Thompson fumbled in his pocket and got out an electric torch. At first +I thought he meant to make sure that the carriage required cleaning. +Thinking things over I came to the conclusion that he felt he could talk +French better if he could see a little. He turned his ray of light on +the Frenchman and said slowly and distinctly: + +“Nous sommes officiers anglais, et les officiers anglais ne descendent +pas--jamais.” + +The Frenchman blinked uncertainly. Thompson added: + +“Jamais de ma vie.” + +That settled the French porter. He was face to face with one of +the national idiosyncrasies of the English, a new one to him and +incomprehensible, but he submitted at once to the inevitable. He gave up +all idea of cleaning the carriage and Thompson went to sleep again. The +boy slept soundly through the whole business. + +At half-past seven--the train had been jogging along since six--Thompson +woke and said he thought he’d better shave. The proposal struck me as +absurd. + +“We can’t possibly shave,” I said, “without water.” + +Thompson was quite equal to that difficulty. The next time the train +stopped--it stopped every ten minutes or so--he hopped out with a +folding drinking cup in his hand. He returned with the cup full of hot +water. He had got it from the engine driver. He and I shaved. The boy +still slept, but, as Thompson pointed out, that did not matter. He was +too young to require much shaving. + +“Nice boy that,” said Thompson. “Son of an archdeacon; was at Cambridge +when the war broke out. Carries a photo of his mother about with him. +Only nice boys carry photos of their mothers. He has it in a +little khaki-coloured case along with one of the girl he’s going to +marry--quite a pretty girl with tously hair and large eyes.” + +“Oh, he’s engaged to be married, is he?” + +“Of course he is. That sort of boy is sure to be. Just look at him.” + +As he lay there asleep his face looked extraordinarily young and +innocent. I admitted that he was just the sort of boy who would get +engaged to the first girl who took him seriously. + +“Girl’s out here nursing,” said Thompson. “V.A.D. Evidently has a strong +sense of duty or she wouldn’t be doing it. V.A.D.-ing isn’t precisely a +cushy job. He’s tremendously in love.” + +“Seems to have confided most of his affairs in you,” I said. + +“Told me,” said Thompson, “that the girl has just been home on leave. He +hoped to get back, too, to meet her, thinks he would have got a week if +he hadn’t been ordered off on this course, bombing or whatever it is.” + +Thompson washed while he talked. It could scarcely be called a real +wash, but he soaped his face, most of his neck and his ears with his +shaving brush and then dipped his handkerchief in the drinking cup and +wiped the soap off. He was certainly cleaner afterwards; but I felt that +what was left of the water would not clean me. + +Later on Thompson secured some rolls of bread, two jam pastries and six +apples. The bread and pastry I think he bought. The apples I am nearly +sure he looted. I saw a large basket of apples in one of the waggons of +a train which was standing in the station at which Thompson got out to +buy our breakfast. They were exactly like the apples he brought back. + +We woke up the boy then. It did not matter whether he shaved or not; but +at his age it is a serious thing to miss a chance of food. + +About midday we arrived at a large town. Thompson learned from the +R.T.O. who inhabited the railway station there that we could not get a +train to take us any further till ten o’clock that night. He said again +that was war, what the French call _guerre_, but he seemed quite pleased +at the prospect of the wait. He spoke of looking for a proper meal and +a Turkish bath. The bath we did not succeed in getting; but we had an +excellent luncheon: omelette, fried fish, some kind of stewed meat and a +bottle of red wine. The boy stuck to us and told us a lot more about his +girl. His great hope, he said, was that he would meet her somewhere in +France. I could see that what he really looked forward to was a wound of +a moderately painful kind which would necessitate a long residence, as +a patient, in her hospital. He was, as Thompson said, a nice boy; but +he talked too much about the girl. He was also a well-educated boy and +anxious to make the best of any opportunities which came his way. He +told us that there was an interesting cathedral in the town and proposed +that we should all go and see it after lunch. Thompson is not an +irreligious man. Nor am I. We both go to church regularly, though not to +excess, but we do not either of us care for spending week day afternoons +in a cathedral. Thompson still hankered after a Turkish bath. I had a +plan for getting a bedroom somewhere and going to sleep. We sent the boy +off to the cathedral by himself. + +The Turkish bath, as I said, was unobtainable. We walked through most of +the streets of that town looking for it. Then Thompson proposed that we +should have afternoon tea. That we got in a small room above a +pastry cook’s shop. The girl who served us brought us tea and a large +assortment of sticky pastry. Thompson hates sticky pastry. There is only +one kind of cake made in France which he will eat. I knew what it was, +for I had often had tea with Thompson before. I should have recognized +one if I had seen it; but I could not remember the French name for it. +Thompson insisted on describing its appearance to the girl. He gave his +description in English and the girl looked puzzled. I tried to translate +what he said into French and she looked still more puzzled. + +Then from the far corner of the room came a pleasant voice. + +“I think _brioche_ is the word you want.” It was. I recollected it +directly I heard it. I turned to thank our interpreter. She was a young +woman in the uniform of a V.A.D. She was sitting at a table by herself, +was, in fact, the only other occupant of the room. I thanked her. +Thompson joined in and thanked her effusively. There was not much light +in the room and her corner was decidedly gloomy. Still, it was possible +to see that she was a decidedly pretty girl. We both said that if there +was anything we could do for her we should be very pleased to do it +After the way she helped us out with the _brioche_ we could scarcely say +less. + +“Perhaps,” she said, “you may be able to tell me when I will be able to +get a train to----?” + +She mentioned one of those towns of which the English have taken +temporary possession, turning the hotels into hospitals, to the great +profit of the original proprietors. + +“Certainly,” said Thompson. “There’s a train at 9 p.m. But you’ll be +travelling all night in that. If I were you I’d stay here till to-morrow +morning and then----” + +“Can’t,” said the girl. “Properly speaking I’m due back to-day; but I +missed the early train this morning and only got here an hour ago. The +boat was horribly late.” + +“Ah,” said Thompson, “you’re coming back after leave, I suppose.” + +The girl sighed faintly. + +“Yes.” she said, “but I’ve had a fortnight’s leave; I can’t complain.” + +“I’ll just write down that train for you,” said Thompson. + +He scribbled 9 p.m. on a piece of paper and carried it over to the girl. +It seemed to me an unnecessary thing to do. Nine is a simple number, +easy to remember. Some thought of the same kind occurred to the girl. +She looked at Thompson, first with some surprise, and then, I thought, +rather coldly. She was evidently not inclined to accept any further +friendly offers from Thompson. He did not seem in the least abashed even +when she turned her shoulder to us and looked the other way. + +“Have you seen the cathedral here?” said Thompson. + +The girl made no answer. + +“I really think,” said Thompson, “that you ought to pay a visit to the +cathedral. You’ll like it, you really will. And you’ve got hours before +you. I don’t see how you can fill in the time if you don’t go to the +cathedral.” + +“Thank you,” said the girl without turning round. + +“I’m not going there,” said Thompson, “or I’d offer to show you the way. +But you can’t miss it. You can see the spire from the window. It’s the +finest specimen of early Gothic in the north of France. The glass is +superb. There’s an altar piece by Raphael or Botticelli, I forget which. +The screen is late Italian Renaissance, and there’s a tomb in the west +transept which is supposed to be that of the Venerable Bede.” + +The girl got up and walked out of the room. I was not surprised. + +“Thompson,” I said, “what do you mean by behaving like a cad? Any one +could see that she is a nice girl; a lady, not that sort at all.” + +Thompson grinned. + +“And as for that rigmarole of yours about the cathedral--what the +devil do you know about Italian Renaissance, or Botticelli or early +Gothic? I never heard such rot in my life. As a matter of fact I’ve +always heard that the glass in this cathedral is poor.” + +“All the same,” said Thompson, “if she goes there she’ll be pleased. +She’ll find something she’ll like a great deal better than stained +glass.” + +“As for the Venerable Bede,” I said, “he was buried in Oxford if he +was buried anywhere, and I don’t know that he was. He might have been +cremated, or minced up by high explosives so that they couldn’t bury +him.” + +“I thought I recognized her,” said Thompson, “I went over to her table +and had a good look to make sure.” + +“Don’t pretend you know her,” I said “She certainly didn’t know you.” + +“I looked at her photograph five times at least last night while you +were asleep.” + +I thought this over for a minute. Then I said: + +“You don’t mean to tell me that she’s the girl that boy is engaged to be +married to?” + +“The exact same girl,” said Thompson. “I couldn’t be mistaken.” + +I meditated on the situation. + +“I hope,” I said, “that he won’t have left the cathedral before she gets +there.” + +“No fear,” said Thompson, “he’s a most conscientious boy. Having started +out to do that cathedral he’ll look at every stone of it before he +leaves. He’ll be there for hours yet. What I’m afraid of is that she +won’t go there.” + +“She started in the right direction,” I said “I saw her out of the +window.” + +“I did my best anyhow,” said Thompson. “I told her I wasn’t going there. +She didn’t like me. I could see that. If I’d let her think I was going +to the cathedral she’d have marched straight off to the station and sat +in the Ladies’ Waiting-room till her train started.” + +The girl, it appeared, did visit the cathedral and the boy was there. He +was waiting for us on the platform at the railway station at half-past +nine. He talked half the night to Thompson about his wonderful stroke +of luck. Just as I dropped off to sleep I heard Thompson quoting +Shakespeare. It was, to the best of my belief, the only time in his life +that Thompson ever did quote Shakespeare. + + “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, + Every wise man’s son doth know,” + +he said. + + + + +VII~~ HIS GIRL + +There were thirty or forty officers in the lounge of the hotel, all +condemned, as I was, to spend the greater part of the day there. Some +men have better luck. It was the fourth time I had been held up in this +wretched place on my way back to France after leave. Dragged out of our +beds at an unreasonable hour, crammed into a train at Victoria, rushed +down to an embarkation port as if the fate of the empire depended on our +getting there without a minute’s delay, we find, when we get out of the +train, that the steamer will not start for three hours, four hours, +on this occasion six hours. We are compelled to sit about in an hotel, +desolate and disgusted, when we might have been comfortable in London. + +I looked round to see if there were anyone I wanted to talk to. There +were--I had seen them at Victoria--three or four men whom I knew +slightly, but I had no particular wish to spend hours with any one of +them. I had just decided to go out for a walk by myself when I felt a +slap on my shoulder. I turned and saw Daintree. I was uncommonly glad +to see him. Daintree and I were friends before the war and I have always +found him an amusing companion. He greeted me heartily. + +“Great luck,” he said, “running into you like this. I don’t see a single +other man I know in the whole crowd. And any way I particularly wanted +to talk to you. I’ve got a story to tell you.” + +We secured a corner and two comfortable chairs. I lit a pipe and waited. +Daintree is a wonderful man for picking up stories. The most unusual +things happen to him and he gets mixed up in far more adventures than +anyone else I know. And he likes telling stories. Usually, the men who +have stories to tell will not talk, and the men who like talking have +nothing interesting to tell. Daintree is exceptional. + +“What is it this time?” I asked. “What journalists call a ‘sob story,’ +or is it meant to be humorous?” + +“I should call it a kind of joke,” said Daintree; “but my wife says it’s +the most pathetic thing she’s ever heard. It makes her cry even to think +of it You can take it either way. I’ll be interested to see how you do +take it. I was thinking of writing it to you, ‘for your information and +necessary action, please.’ My wife wanted me to, but it’s too long for +a letter. Besides, I don’t see what you or anyone else could possibly +do in the matter. You may give advice--that’s what my wife expects of +you--but there’s really no advice to give. However, you can tell me how +it strikes you. That’s what I want to know, whether you agree with my +wife or with me. You know Simcox, don’t you, or do you? I forget.” + +“Simcox?” I said. “Is that a tall, cadaverous man in the Wessex? Rather +mournful looking?” + +“That’s the man. Came home from a remote corner of the Argentine, or +somewhere like that, early in the war, and got a commission. He’s a +captain now.” + +“I met him,” I said, “down Albert way, shortly before the push last +year. I can’t say I knew him. He seemed to me rather a difficult kind of +man to know.” + +“So my wife says,” said Daintree. “He’s older than most of us, for +one thing, and has spent twenty years all by himself herding sheep +or branding bullocks, or whatever it is they do out in those places. +Naturally he’d rather lost touch with life at home and found it +difficult to fit himself in; especially with a lot of boys straight +from the ‘Varsities or school. They were mostly boys in his battalion. +Anyhow, he seems to have been a bit morose, but he did his job all right +in the regiment and was recommended for the M.C.. He got knocked out in +the Somme push and jolly nearly lost a leg. They saved it in the end and +sent him down to my place to convalesce.” + +Daintree owns a very nice place in the Midlands. In the old days it was +one of the pleasantest houses I know to stay in. Daintree himself was +a capital host and his wife is a charming woman. The house is a +convalescent home for officers now, and Mrs. Daintree, with the help of +three nurses, runs it. Daintree pretends to regard this as a grievance, +and says it was all his wife’s doing, though he was just as keen on the +place as she was. + +“Damned nuisance,” he said, “finding the place full of boys rioting +when I get home on leave. And it’s full up now--twelve of them, no +less. There’s hardly a spot in the house I can call my own, and they’ve +spoiled the little lake I made at the bottom of the lawn. That young ass +Pat Singleton started what he called boat-races on it----” + +“Oh, Pat Singleton’s there?” I said. “I knew he’d been wounded, but I +didn’t hear he’d been sent to your place.” + +“Pat Singleton’s always everywhere,” said Daintree. “I’ve never come +across a place where he wasn’t, and he’s a devil for mischief. Remind me +afterwards to tell you about the trick he played on the principal nurse, +a Scotchwoman with a perfectly terrific sense of her own dignity,” + Daintree chuckled. + +“If you’d rather tell me that story,” I said, “instead of the one about +Simcox, I’d just as soon have it. In fact, I’d prefer it. Sob stories +are always trying.” + +“But I’m not sure that the Simcox one is a sob story, though there’s a +certain amount of slosh in it. Anyhow, I’ve got to tell it to you, for +my wife says you’re the only man she knows who can advise what ought to +be done.” + +“All right,” I said, “but Pat Singleton’s escapades always amuse me. I’d +like to hear about his making an apple-pie bed for that nurse.” + +Daintree chuckled again, and I gathered from the expression of his face +that the nurse had endured something worse than an apple-pie bed. + +“Or about the boat-races,” I said. “I didn’t know you had anything which +floated on that lake of yours.” + +“I haven’t,” said Daintree, “except the kind of wooden box in which the +gardener goes out to clear away the duck-weed. However, Pat Singleton +comes into the Simcox story in the end. It’s really about him that my +wife wants your advice.” + +“No one,” I said, “can give advice about Pat Singleton.” + +“Knowing the sort of man Simcox is,” said Daintree, “you’ll understand +that he was rather out of it at first in a house full of boys just out +of hospital and jolly glad to have a chance of running about a bit. Pat +Singleton wasn’t there when Simcox arrived. But the others were nearly +as bad; silly jokes from morning to night and an infernal row always +going on. My wife likes that sort of thing, fortunately.” + +“Simcox, I suppose, just sat by himself in a corner of the veranda and +glowered?” + +“Exactly. And at first my wife could do nothing with him. In the end, of +course----” + +“In the end,” I said, “she persuaded him to tell her his inmost secrets +and to confide to her the tragedy of his soul. That’s just what she +would do.” + +Mrs. Daintree is a very kind and sympathetic lady. When she talks to me +I feel ready to tell her anything. A man like Simcox, shy, reserved, and +wholly unaccustomed to charming ladies, would succumb to her easily and +pour out a love story or anything else he happened to have on his chest +at the time. + +“You see,” said Daintree, “his leg was pretty stiff and he couldn’t +get about much, even if he’d wanted to. There was nothing for him to do +except sit in a deck-chair. My wife felt it her duty to talk to him a +good deal.” + +Daintree seemed to be making excuses for Mrs. Daintree and Simcox. They +were unnecessary. Mrs. Daintree would have got his story out of him if +she thought he was really in need of sympathy, whether he sat in a chair +all day or was able to row races in the lake in the gardener’s punt. + +“Anyhow,” said Daintree, “what he told her--he told it to me afterwards, +so there’s no secret about it--was this: He got hit in the leg during an +advance through one of those woods north of the Somme, Mametz, I think. +It was a beastly place. Our fellows had been in there two days before +and had to clear out again. Then Simcox’s lot went in--you know the sort +of thing it was?” + +I nodded. + +“Shell holes, and splintered tree trunks,” I said. “Machine-guns +enfilading you, and H.E. bursting promiscuous. I know.” + +“Well, Sirmcox’ fellows went in all right, and stayed there for a while. +Simcox says he remembers noticing that the ground was strewed with +débris left by the Germans when they cleared out, and by our fellows +afterwards. Equipment, rifles and all the rest of it lying about, as +well as other things--pretty ghastly things.” + +“You needn’t go into details,” I said. “I can guess.” + +“I’m only telling you this,” said Daintree, “because all the stuff lying +about seems to have interested Simcox. It’s odd the feelings men have at +these times. Simcox says the thing he chiefly wanted to do was to tidy +up. He had a kind of strong desire to pick things up and put them +away somewhere. Of course he couldn’t; but he did pick up one thing, +a cigarette case. He showed it to me. It was one of those long-shaped, +flat white metal cases which fellows carry because they hold about +thirty cigarettes. Simcox says he doesn’t know why he picked it up. He +didn’t want it in the least. He just saw it lying there on the ground +and stuffed it into his pocket. Almost immediately after that he was hit. +Bit of shrapnel under the knee.” + +“I remember hearing about that business,” I said. “We were driven out +again, weren’t we?” + +“Exactly. And Simcox was left behind. He couldn’t walk, of course. But +he crawled into a shell hole, and there he lay. Well, for the next two +days that wood wasn’t healthy for either side. The Germans couldn’t +get back, because we were sprinkling the whole place with shrapnel. We +couldn’t advance for similar reasons. Simcox just lay in his shell hole. +He tied up his leg somehow. He had some brandy in a flask as well as his +iron rations. But he hadn’t much tobacco. There were only two cigarettes +in his own case. However, he had the other case, the one he picked up. +There were nearly twenty in it Also there was--I say, at this point the +story gets sloppy.” + +“Never mind,” I said. “Go on. What else was in the cigarette case? A +farewell letter to a loving wife? Love to little Willie and a text of +Scripture?” + +“Not so bad as that. A photo of a girl. He showed it to me when he told +me the story.” + +“Good looking girl?” + +“Very. Large eyes--sort of tender, you know, and appealing; and a +gentle, innocent face, and a mouth----” + +“I suppose,” I said, “that these raptures are necessary if I’m to +understand the story. Otherwise, you may skip them.” + +“Can’t possibly skip them,” said Daintree. “The whole point of +the story depends on your realizing the sort of girl she was. +Pathetic--that’s the word I want. Looked at you out of the photo as if +she was a poor, lonely, but uncommonly fetching little thing, who wanted +a strong, true man to shelter her from the evil world. She was got up +in some sort of fancy dress which kind of heightened the effect. I don’t +altogether profess to understand what happened, though my wife says she +does. But Simcox in a sort of way fell in love with her. That’s not the +way he put it. He didn’t feel that she was just an ordinary girl--the +sort one falls in love with. She was--well, he didn’t think of her as +flesh and blood--more a kind of vision--spiritual, you know.” + +“Angel?” I said. + +“That sort of thing. You know. That was the idea that gripped Simcox +while he lay there in the shell hole. Stars came out at night and Simcox +felt that she was looking down at him. In the day he used to lie and +gaze at her. When he thought it was all up with him and that he couldn’t +live, he seemed to hear her voice--I say, you ought to hear my +wife telling this part of the story. Simcox wouldn’t tell it to me, +naturally; but he seems to have enlarged on it a good deal to her. +He says that only for that photo he’d have given in and just died. I +daresay he wouldn’t really, but he thinks he would. Anyhow, he didn’t. He +stuck it out and his leg didn’t hurt nearly as much as he expected. He +attributes that to the influence of this--this----” + +“Angel visitant?” I said. + +“You can call her an angel if you like,” said Daintree. + +“This,” I said, “seems to me a pure sob story. If there’s any other part +less harrowing, I wish you’d hurry up and get to it.” + +“All right,” said Daintree. “I’ll cut out the rest of his experiences +in that shell hole, though, mind you, they’re rather interesting and +frightfully poetic the way my wife tells them. After two days our +fellows got back into the wood and kept it. The stretcher-bearers found +Simcox in his hole and they lugged him down to a Casualty Clearing +Station. From that he went to a hospital--the usual round. He had a +pretty bad time, first over there, and then, when they could move him, +in London. By degrees he got more sane about the photo. He stopped +thinking she was any kind of spirit and took to regarding her just as +a girl, though a very exceptional kind of girl, of course. He was +hopelessly in love with her. Do you think a man really could fall in +love with a photo?” + +“Simcox did,” I said, “so we needn’t discuss that point.” + +“The chances were, of course,” said Daintree, “that she was some other +fellow’s girl, possibly some other fellow’s wife. But Simcox didn’t +care. He was too far gone to care for anything except to get that girl. +Those morose, shy men are frightfully hard hit in that sort of way, I’m +told. That’s what my wife says, anyhow. They get it much worse than we +do when they do get it. Simcox would have dragged that girl out of +the arms of an archbishop if that was where he found her. Of course he +couldn’t go hunting her over England while he was in hospital with a bad +leg; but he made up his mind to find out who she was and where she +lived as soon as he was well enough to go about. He’d very little to go +on--practically nothing. The photo had been cut down so as to fit into +the cigarette case, so that there wasn’t even a photographer’s name on +it.” + +“He might have advertised,” I said. “There are papers which go in for +that sort of thing, publish rows of reproductions of photographs ‘Found +on the battle-field,’ with requests for identification.” + +“My wife thought of that,” said Daintree, “but Simcox didn’t seem +to take to the idea. He said the photo was too sacred a thing to be +reproduced in a paper. My own idea is that he was afraid of any kind +of publicity. You see, the other fellow might turn up--the fellow who +really had a right to the girl.” + +“How the deuce did he propose to find her?” + +“I don’t know. He told my wife some rotten yarn about instinct guiding +him to her; said he felt sure that the strength of his great love would +somehow lead him to her side. He didn’t say that to me, couldn’t, you +know. But it’s wonderful what a fellow will say to a woman, if she’s +sympathetic, and my wife is. Still, even so, he must be more or less +mad to think a thing like that. Mad about the girl. He’s sane enough in +every other way.” + +“He can’t be so mad as that,” I said. “Just fancy going out into a +field--I suppose that’s the way you’d do it--and hanging about until +your great love set you strolling off either to the right or to the +left. No man, however mad, could expect to come on a girl that way--no +one particular girl, I mean. Of course you’d meet several girls +whichever way you went. Couldn’t help it. The world’s full of girls.” + +“I don’t know what he meant,” said Daintree, “but my wife sympathized +with him and seemed to think he’d pull it off in the end. At first he +was a bit shy of letting her see the photo; but when he saw she was as +sympathetic as all that he showed it to her. Well, the moment she saw +it, she felt that she knew the face.” + +“That was a stroke of luck for Simcox.” + +“No it wasn’t,” said Daintree, “for my wife couldn’t put a name to the +girl. She was sure she had seen her somewhere, knew her quite well, in +fact, but simply couldn’t fix her. Funny thing, but it was exactly the +same when they showed me the photo. At the first glance I said right +away that I knew her. Then I found I couldn’t say exactly who she was. +The more I looked the more certain I was that I’d seen her somewhere, +her or someone very like her. And it wasn’t a commonplace face by any +means. Poor Simcox kept begging us to think. My wife went over our +visitors’ book--we’ve kept one of those silly things for years--but +there wasn’t a name in it which we couldn’t account for. I got out all +the old albums of snapshots and amateur photos in the house. You know +the way those things accumulate; groups of all sorts. But we couldn’t +find the girl. And yet both my wife and I were sure we’d met her. Then +one morning Simcox burst into my wife’s little sitting-room--a place +none of the convalescents have any right to go. He was in a fierce state +of excitement. Said that an officer who’d arrived the night before was +exactly like the photo and that the girl must be his sister or cousin, +or something. The only officer who came that night was--you’d never +guess!--Pat Singleton.” + +“Pat,” I said, “though a young devil, is cheerful, and I never saw him +anything but self-confident. I can’t imagine a girl such as you described +bearing the faintest resemblance to that boy. You said that she was a +kind of die-away, pathetic, appealing angel. Now Pat----” + +“I know,” said Daintree. “All the same, the likeness was there. The +moment I looked at the photo with Pat in my mind I knew why I thought I +recognized it My wife said the same thing.” + +“But Pat Singleton hasn’t any sisters,” I said. + +“No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t even a first cousin anything like the age of +the girl in the photo. I knew all the Singletons well, have for years. +But Simcox insisted his girl must be some relation of Pat’s, and in +the end I promised to ask the boy. In the first place, if she was a +relation, it seemed an impudent sort of thing to do, and if she wasn’t, +Pat would be sure to make up some infernal story about me and a girl and +tell it all over the place. However, my wife egged me on and poor Simcox +was so frightfully keen that I promised. + +“Well, I sent for Pat Singleton next morning. He was a little subdued at +first, as much subdued as I’ve ever seen him. He thought I was going to +rag him about the spoof he’d played off on the nurse. He did that +before he was twelve hours in the house. Remind me to tell you about +it afterwards. I don’t wonder he looked piano. She’d been going for +him herself and that woman is a real terror. However, he cheered up +the moment I showed him the photo of the girl. He asked me first of all +where the devil I’d got it. Said he’d lost it somewhere before he was +wounded.” + +“Oh, it was his, then?” I said. + +“Yes,” said Daintree, grinning, “it was his. He was particularly anxious +to know how I came by it. I didn’t tell him, of course. Couldn’t give +Simcox away, you know. Then Pat began to cheek me. Asked if I’d fallen +in love with the girl and what my wife would say when he told her. Said +he carried the photo about with him and showed it to fellows just to +watch them falling in love with her. It seems that nine men out of ten +admired her greatly. He asked me if I didn’t think she was the prettiest +girl I’d ever seen, and that I wasn’t the first man by any means who +wanted her name and address. He grinned in a most offensive way and said +that he never gave away that girl’s name to anyone; that I ought to know +better than to go running after a nice, innocent little thing like that +who wouldn’t know how to take care of herself. I wasn’t going to stand +much of that sort of talk from Pat Singleton. I told him straight that +if he didn’t tell me that girl’s name and where she lived I’d make +things hot for him. I threatened to report the little game he’d had +with the nurse and that if I did he’d be court-martialled. I don’t know +whether a man could be court-martialled for cheeking a nurse, but the +threat had a good effect on Pat. He really was a bit afraid of that +woman. I don’t wonder, though it’s the first time I’ve ever known him +afraid of anyone.” + +Daintree paused and chuckled horribly. + +“Well,” I said, “who was the girl?” + +“Haven’t you tumbled to it yet?” said Daintree. + +“No. Do I know her?” + +“I can’t say you exactly know her,” said Daintree. “You know _him_. It +was a photo of Pat himself dressed up as the Sleeping Beauty, or Fatima, +or some such person in a pantomime they did down at the base last +Christmas when he was there. The young devil carried the thing about +with him so as to play off his silly spoof on every fellow he met. I must +say he made a damned pretty girl.” + +“Good Lord!” I said. “And how did Simcox take it?” + +“Simcox hasn’t been told--yet,” said Daintree. “That’s just what my wife +wants your advice about. You see it’s an awkward situation.” + +“Very,” I said. + +“If we tell him,” said Daintree, “he’ll probably try to kill Pat +Singleton, and that would lead to a lot of trouble. On the other hand, +if we don’t tell him he’ll spend the rest of his life roaming about the +world looking for a girl who doesn’t exist, and never did. It seems a +pity to let that happen.” + +“My idea,” I said, “would be to get another girl, not necessarily like +the photo, but the same type, appealing and pathetic and all that. He’d +probably take to her after a time.” + +“I suggested that,” said Daintree, “but my wife simply won’t hear of it. +She says the story as it stands is a great romance and that it would be +utterly spoiled if Simcox switched off after another girl. I can’t see +that, can you?” + +“In a case like this,” I said, “when the original girl wasn’t a girl at +all----” + +“Exactly,” said Daintree, “but when I say that my wife brings up the +Angel in the Shell Hole part of the story and says that a great romance +is its own reward.” + +“I don’t know what to advise,” I said. + +“I didn’t think you would,” said Daintree, “though my wife insisted that +you’d be able to suggest something. But you can tell me what you think +of the story. That’s what I really want to get out of you. Is it a Sob +Story or just a rather unusual spoof?” + +“That,” I said, “depends entirely whether you look at it from Simcox’ +point of view or Pat Singleton’s.” + + + + +VIII ~~ SIR GALAHAD + +The order, long expected and eagerly desired, came at last. The +battalion moved out from dusty and crowded barracks to a camp in the +wilderness. Lieutenant Dalton, a cheerful boy who had been taught Holy +Scripture in his childhood, wrote to his mother that the new camp was +“Somewhere in the wilderness beyond Jordan between the river of Egypt +and the great sea.” This description of the situation was so entirely +inaccurate that the Censor allowed it to pass without complaint. Old +Mrs. Dalton told her friends that her son was living under the shadow +of Mount Sinai. He was, in fact, nowhere near either Jordan or Sinai. He +was some miles east of the Suez Canal. For a week or so officers and men +rejoiced in their new quarters. There was plenty of elbow room; no +more of the overcrowding they had suffered since they landed. They had, +indeed, miles of totally unoccupied desert at their disposal. Each +tent might have stood in its own private grounds, three acres or so in +extent, if that had not been felt by the colonel to be an inconvenient +arrangement. There was also--and this particularly pleased the +battalion--the prospect of a fight with the Turks. Everyone believed +when the move was made that a battle was imminent, and the battalion, +which had no experience of fighting, was most anxious to show what it +could do. + +After awhile the enthusiasm for the new camp began to fade. The Turks +did not put in an appearance, and life was as peaceful as it had been in +the English camp where the battalion was trained. The situation of the +camp, though roomy, was not exciting. Both officers and men began to +find existence exceedingly dull. Lieutenant Dalton, who at this time +wrote long letters to his mother, told her that he understood at last +why the Children of Israel were so desperately anxious to get back +to Egypt and were inclined to rag Moses about the want of melons and +cucumbers. At the end of the month the whole battalion was bored to +exasperation. + +The desert which stretched in front of the camp was intolerably flat. The +sun rose with pitiless regularity, shone with a steady glare for a great +many hours, and then set. That was all that ever happened. The coming +of a cloud into the sky would have been greeted with cheers. No cloud +appeared. A sandstorm, however disagreeable, would have been welcomed as +a change. The sand stayed quietly where it was. The men tried football, +and gave it up because of the blistering heat. They played “House” until +even the excitement of that mild gamble exhausted itself. No other form +of amusement suggested itself. There was not even any work to do. Had +the battalion belonged to the Brigade of Guards it would no doubt have +gone on doing barrack-square drill every day and all day long until the +men learned to move like parts of a machine. But this was a Territorial +battalion, and the colonel held reasonable views about modern warfare. +The value of drill, a mechanical business, was in his opinion easily +exaggerated. Had the battalion belonged to an Irish regiment there +would probably have been several interesting fights and some means of +obtaining whisky would have been devised. In such ways the men would +have escaped the curse of monotony, and the officers would have been +kept busy in the orderly room. But this battalion came from the +English Midlands. The men did not want to fight each other, and had no +overpowering desire to get drunk. When the morning parades were +over they lay in their tents and grumbled peacefully. Under such +circumstances tempers often wear thin, and a habit of bickering takes +possession of a mess. It is greatly to the credit of everyone concerned +that there was no sign of bad temper among the officers of the +battalion. The colonel lived a good deal by himself in his tent, but was +always quietly good-humoured. Lieutenant Dalton, an incurably merry boy, +kept the other subalterns cheerful. Only Captain Maitland was inclined +to complain a little, and he had a special grievance, an excuse which +justified a certain amount of grumbling. He slept badly at night, and +liked to read a book of some sort after he went to bed. The mess had +originally possessed an excellent supply of books, some hundred volumes +of the most varied kind supplied by the Camps Libraries’ Association at +home. Unfortunately, almost all the books were left behind when the +move was made. Only three volumes were to be found in the new camp--one +novel, a treatise on the culture of apple trees, and Mallory’s “Morte +D’Arthur.” + +Captain Maitland blamed the chaplain for the loss. + +“You ought to have looked after those books, padre,” he said. “It’s a +padre’s business to look after books.” + +The Rev. John Haddingly, C.F., was a gentle little man, liked by the +officers because he was entirely unassuming, and popular with the men +because he was always ready to help them. He accepted the whole blame +for the loss of the books without an attempt to defend himself. + +“I’m awfully sorry, Maitland,” he said. “I ought to have seen to those +books. I did look after the Prayer Books. They’re here all right; at +least most of them are.” + +“Prayer Books!” said Maitland. “If they were even whole Prayer Books! +But those little yellow tracts of yours! They haven’t even got the +Thirty-Nine Articles in them. If they were pukka Prayer Books I’d borrow +one and try to read it. I expect there are lots of interesting things +in the small print parts of the Prayer Book, the parts you padres never +read out. But what’s the good of the books you have? Nothing in them but +what we all know off by heart.” + +Haddingly sighed. He was painfully conscious of the shortcomings of the +Field Service Books supplied for the use of the troops. Dalton came to +his defence. + +“Don’t strafe the padre,” he said. “He brought along a church, an entire +church. Is there another padre in the whole Army who could have got a +church to a place like this?” + +Dalton’s almost incredible statement was literally true. Haddingly +had succeeded, contrary to all regulations, in bringing with him from +England a corrugated iron church. It was quite a small one, it folded up +and could be packed flat. When unpacked and erected it was undeniably +a church. It had a large cross at one end of it outside. Inside it +was furnished with an altar, complete with cross and candlesticks, a +collapsible harmonium and a number of benches. Chaplains have certainly +no right to load up troopships with churches, but Haddingly had somehow +got his to Egypt. By what blandishments the transport officer had been +induced to drag the thing out into the desert beyond the canal no one +knew. Haddingly was one of those uncomplainingly meek men who never +stand up for themselves. It is a curious fact, but it is a fact, that +a really helpless person gets things done for him which the most +aggressive and masterful men cannot accomplish. The success in life of +women of the “clinging” kind is an illustration of this law. + +Haddingly smiled with joy at the mention of his church. It stood, +securely bolted together, a little outside the camp. No one, the cross +being disproportionately large, could possibly mistake it for anything +but a church. In front of it was a notice board, a nice black notice +board with a suggestion of Gothic architecture about it. On the board, +in bright white letters, was a list of services and the name of the +church--St John in the Wilderness. + +Originally, before the move into the desert, it had been simply St John +the Evangelist, but Haddingly felt that the new circumstances demanded +a change of dedication. Everyone, from the colonel down to the humblest +private, was secretly proud of the church. The possession of such a +thing gave a certain distinction to the battalion. Haddingly was a good +deal chaffed about it; but the building was in a fair way to become a +regimental mascot. “I’m not strafing the padre,” said Captain Maitland, +“but I wish we had a few of the books we left behind.” + +“To listen to you talking,” said Dalton, “anyone would think you were +some kind of literary swell--Hall Caine and Wordsworth rolled into one, +whereas we all know that the only thing you take an interest in is +horses.” Captain Maitland was very far from being a literary swell or +claiming any such title. The books he really liked, the only books he +read when he had a free choice, were sporting stories with a strong +racing and betting interest. But in camp in the wilderness no sporting +stories were obtainable. The one novel which remained to the mess dealt +with the sex problem, a subject originally profoundly uninteresting to +Maitland, who had a healthy mind. He read it, however, as a remedy for +insomnia. It proved effective. A couple of chapters sent him to sleep +every night, so the book lasted a good while. + +Every morning at breakfast Maitland used to propound the problems raised +by the chapters which he had read the night before. The mess got +into the way of holding informal debates on the divorce laws. When he +finished the book, Maitland declared that he intended to devote himself +to Eugenics and the more enlightened kind of social reform as soon as +the war was over. + +“I never thought of it before,” he said, “but I can see now that the +future of the Empire really depends on the proper legislation for child +welfare, on ante-natal clinic, and the abolition of the old empiric +methods of marriage.” + +“Wait till after I’m married before you begin,” said Dalton. + +Haddingly was a little pained. He said things about the sanctity of +marriage and the family as a divine institution. No one else took +Maitland seriously. It was felt that when the war came to an end--if +it ever did--he would go back to horse-racing and leave the scientific +aspects of marriage in decent obscurity. + +When he had finished the novel he took the book on apple trees to bed +with him. He became, after a short time, interested in that subject. He +announced that when the war was over he intended to buy a small place in +Devonshire and go in for orchards. + +“Apple growing,” he said, “is just exactly the peaceable, shady kind of +life a man wants after being stuck down in a desert like this.” + +“With your taste for the turf,” said Dalton, “you’ll get into a shady +kind of life all right, whether you plant apple trees or not.” + +Dalton was an irreverent boy. Haddingly was greatly pleased at the +thought of Maitland sitting innocently under an apple tree. + +The turn of Mallory came next. Maitland left it for the last because the +print was very small and the only light in his tent was a feeble candle. +When he got fairly started in the book he became profoundly interested, +and the other members of the mess were treated at breakfast time to a +good deal of information about medieval warfare. + +“As far as I can make out,” Maitland said, “every officer in those days +was knighted as soon as he got his commission.” + +“Jolly good idea,” said Dalton. “I should buck about like anything if +they made me a K.C.B.” + +“You wouldn’t have been an officer or a knight,” said Maitland. “You’d +have been the court fool. You’ve no idea whatever of chivalry.” + +Like most simple men who read very little, Maitland took the books he +did read seriously and was greatly influenced by them. The apple tree +treatise made him want to be a gardener. A slow and careful study of +Mallory filled him with a profound admiration for medieval romance. + +“The reason modern war is such a sordid business,” he said, “is that +we’ve lost the idea of chivalry.” + +“Chivalry is all very well,” said Dalton, “if there’s anyone to chival +about. I haven’t read much about those old knights of yours, Maitland; +but so far as I can make out from what you tell us they were always +coming across damsels, fair, distressed, and otherwise fetching. Now, +I haven’t seen a damsel since I left England. How the deuce can I be +chivalrous? I defy anyone, even that Lancelot blighter of yours, to go +into raptures about the old hag you turned out of the camp yesterday for +selling rotten dates to the men.” + +Dalton was not the only member of the mess who made jokes about the +knights of King Arthur’s fellowship. But Maitland went on reading out +selected passages from Mallory, and there is no doubt that everyone, +even Dalton, became interested. Haddingly, the padre, made no attempt to +conceal the fact that he was profoundly influenced. + +He had always been proud of his church, but had hitherto been content +to use it in the normal way for parade services on Sunday morning. The +services were undeniably popular. The men enjoyed singing hymns, and +they listened patiently to the sermons because they liked Haddingly. The +officers, who also liked Haddingly, attended the Sunday morning services +with great regularity. Dalton, though he preferred playing rag-time on +the piano, accompanied the hymns on the harmonium. + +Haddingly was greatly moved by Maitland’s account of the medieval +spirit. He took to spending half an hour in the church every morning +before breakfast Nobody knew what he did there. The officers, through +feelings of delicacy, never asked him questions about these new +devotions. The men, who were getting to know and like Haddingly better +and better as time went on, regarded his daily visits to the church as +proof that their padre was one who knew his job and did it thoroughly. + +One morning--the mess had then been discussing medieval chivalry for +about a fortnight--Maitland read out a passage from Mallory about a +visit paid by Sir Galahad to a lonely chapel among the mountains, “where +he found nobody at all for all was desolate.” Haddingly had just spent +his lonely half hour in the church of St John in the Wilderness. He +sighed. He found nobody there in the mornings, and could not help +wishing that the battalion contained a Galahad. Dalton felt that +something must be done to preserve the credit of the mess and the +dignity of English manhood. He felt sure that sentiment about desolate +chapels was an unwholesome thing. He scoffed: + +“All very well for Gallipot,” he said, “but----” + +“Galahad,” said Maitland. + +“Galahad, or Gallipot, or Golly-wog,” said Dalton. “If a man has a silly +name like that, it doesn’t matter how you spell it. The point is that it +would be simply ridiculous to attempt that sort of thing now. Suppose, +for instance---- I put it to you, padre. Suppose you saw Maitland +mounted on one of the transport gee-gees trotting up to that tin +cathedral of yours--on a week-day, mind! I’m not talking about Sundays. +Suppose he got down and went inside all by himself, what would you +think, padre? There’s only one thing you could think, that Maitland had +been drinking.” + +“Sir Galahad,” said Maitland, “went in to say his prayers. He was on his +way to a battle. They didn’t have to wait months and months for a battle +in those days. They had a scrap of some sort about once a week.” + +He sighed. The Turks had failed to do what was expected of them, and +life in the camp was intolerably dull. + +He looked at Haddingly. It was plainly a padre’s duty to support a +spiritual and romantic view of life against the profane jibes of Dalton. +Haddingly spoke judicially. + +“The general tone of society in those days,” he said, “seems to have +been very different from what it is now. Men had much less difficulty in +giving expression to their emotions. No doubt we still feel much as they +did, but----” + +Haddingly became aware that no one was listening to him. The attention +of everyone at the table was attracted by something else. The men sat +stiffly, listening intently. Haddingly heard a faint, distant humming +sound. It grew louder. + +“Jiminy!” said Dalton, “an aeroplane!” + +The breakfast table was laid in the open air outside the mess tent The +men rose from their seats and stared in the direction of the coming +sound. It was the first time that an aeroplane had approached the +camp in the desert. Its coming was an intensely exciting event, an +unmistakable evidence of activity somewhere; surely a sign that activity +everywhere might be expected. + +The sound increased in volume. The machine appeared, a distant speck in +the clear sky. It grew rapidly larger, flying fast. It was seen to be a +biplane. It passed directly over the camp, flying so low that the head +of the pilot was plainly visible. In a few minutes it passed from sight. +The hum of its engines grew fainter. But till the sound became inaudible +no one spoke. + +Then a babble of inquiry and speculation broke out. Where was the thing +going? What was it doing? What did its sudden swift voyage mean? For +the rest of the day the camp was less sleepy than usual. Men everywhere +discussed the aeroplane. Dalton was not the only one who envied the +members of the Flying Corps. It seemed a very desirable thing to be +able to rush through the air over unknown deserts; to have the chance +of seeing strange and thrilling things, Arab encampments, green +oases, mirages, caravans and camels; to drop bombs perhaps on Syrian +fortresses; to estimate the numbers of Turkish columns on the march, to +reckon their strength in artillery; to take desperate risks; to swerve +and dart amid clouds of bursting shrapnel. How much more gloriously +exciting such a life than that of men baking slowly in the monotony of a +desert camp. + +Maitland, stimulated by his reading to an unnatural effort of +imagination, recognized in the men of the Flying Corps the true +successors of Mallory’s adventurous knight-errants. For them war still +contained romance. Chivalry was still possible. Haddingly caught the +thought and expanded it. Knights of old had this wonderful spirit, +because to them the forests through which they roamed were unknown +wastes, where all strange things might be expected. Then when all the +land became familiar, mapped, intersected with roads, covered thick with +towns, sailors inherited the spirit of romance. Afterwards all the seas +were charted, policed, and ships went to and fro on ocean highways. The +romance of adventure was lost to seamen, lost to the world, until the +airmen came and found it again by venturing on new ways. + +In the evening the aeroplane returned. Once more its engines were heard. +Once more it appeared, a speck, a shape, a recognizable thing. But this +time it did not pass away. On reaching camp it circled twice, and then, +with a long swift glide, took the ground outside the camp a few yards +beyond Haddingly’s church of St. John in the Wilderness. The pilot +stepped out of the machine. + +“Good man,” said Dalton. “Friendly of him dropping in on us like this. +Must want a drink after that fly. Eight hours at least. I’ll go and +bring him along to the mess. Hope he’ll tell us what he’s been doing. +Wonder if the Turks potted at him.” + +The pilot left his machine. He walked stiffly, like a man with cramped +limbs, towards the camp. + +“Something wrong with the engine, perhaps,” said Dalton. “Or he’s short +of petrol. I’ll fetch him along. A whisky and soda in a big tumbler is +the thing for him. I dare say he’ll stay for dinner.” + +He started and walked quickly towards the machine. The airman, +approaching the camp, reached the church. Instead of passing it he +stopped, opened the door, and went in. Dalton paused and looked back. + +“Must have mistaken your tin cathedral for the mess, padre,” he said. +“I’ll run on and fetch him out.” + +“If he’s made a mistake,” said Haddingly, “he’ll find it out for himself +and come out without your fetching him.” + +Dalton stood still. His eyes were on the door of the church. Maitland +and Haddingly were gazing at it too. The other officers, gathered in a +group outside the mess tent, stood in silence, staring at the church. It +seemed as if hours passed. In fact, nearly half an hour went by before +the door of the church opened and the airman came out. He turned his +back on the camp and went towards his machine. Neither Dalton nor anyone +else made an attempt to overtake him. The noise of the engine was heard +again. The machine raced a few yards along the ground and then rose in +steep flight. It passed across the camp and sped westwards, its shape +sharply outlined for a minute against the light of the setting sun. Then +it disappeared. + +Maitland took Haddingly by the arm and led him to his tent. The two men +sat down together on the camp bedstead. Maitland opened Mallory’s “Morte +d’Arthur,” and read aloud: + +“Then Sir Galahad came unto a mountain, where he found an old chapel, +and found there nobody, for all was desolate, and there he kneeled +before the altar and besought of God wholesome counsel.” + +“I suppose it was just that,” said Haddingly. + +Dalton put his head into the tent. + +“I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “I just wanted to ask the +padre something. Was that Sir Golliwog come to life again or just some +ordinary blighter like me suffering from nerve strain?” + +Haddingly had no answer to give for a moment. + +“He can’t have really wanted to sit in that church for half an hour,” + said Dalton. “What the dickens would he do it_ for?_” + +“He might have wanted to pray,” said Haddingly. + +Not even his profession justified the saying of such a thing as that +outside church. But every excuse must be made for him. He had been +soaked in Mallory for a fortnight. Deserts, even when there are camps in +them, are queer places, liable to upset men’s minds, and the conduct of +the airman was certainly peculiar. + +“Of course, if you put it that way,” said Dalton, “I’ve nothing more to +say. All the same, he might have come into the mess for a drink. I’m +not complaining of his doing anything he liked in the way of going +to church; but I don’t see that a whisky and soda would have hurt him +afterwards. He must have wanted it.” + + + + +IX ~~ A GUN-RUNNING EPISODE + +Sam McAlister walked into my office yesterday and laid down a handful of +silver on my desk. + +“There you are,” he said, “and I am very much obliged to you for the +loan.” + +For the moment I could not recollect having lent Sam any money; though I +should be glad to do so at any time if I thought he wanted it. Sam is a +boy I like. He is an undergraduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and +has the makings of a man in him, though he is not good at passing +examinations and has never figured in an honours list. Some day, when +he takes his degree, he is to come into my office and be made into a +lawyer. His father, the Dean, is an old friend of mine. + +I looked at the money lying before me, and then doubtfully at Sam. + +“If you’ve forgotten all about it,” he said, “it’s rather a pity I paid. +But I always was honest. That’s one of my misfortunes. If I wasn’t---- +That’s the fine you paid for me.” + +Then I remembered. Sam got into trouble with the police a few weeks ago. +He and a dozen or so of his fellow-students broke loose and ran riot +through the streets of Dublin. All high-spirited boys do this sort of +thing occasionally, whether they are junior army officers, lawyers’ +clerks, or university undergraduates. Trinity College boys, being Irish +and having a large city at their gates, riot more picturesquely than +anyone else. Sam had captured the flag which the Lord Mayor flies +outside his house, had pushed a horse upstairs into the office of a +respectable stockbroker, and had driven a motor-car, borrowed from an +unwilling owner, down a narrow and congested street at twenty-five or +thirty miles an hour. He was captured in the end by eight policemen, and +was very nearly sent to gaol with hard labour. I got him off by paying +a fine of one pound, together with £2 4s. 6d. for the damage done by the +horse to the stockbroker’s staircase and office furniture. The motorcar, +fortunately, had neither injured itself nor anyone else. + +“I hope,” I said, pocketing the money, “that this will be a lesson to +you, Sam.” + +“It won’t,” he said. “At least, not in the way you mean. It’ll encourage +me to go into another rag the very first time I get the chance. As a +matter of fact, being arrested was the luckiest thing ever happened to +me, though I didn’t think so at the time.” + +“Well,” I said, “if you like paying up these large sums it’s your own +affair. I should have thought you could have got better value for your +money by spending it on something you wanted.” + +“Money isn’t everything in the world,” said Sam. “There is such a thing +as having a good time, a rattling good time, even if you don’t make +money out of it and run a chance of being arrested. I daresay you’d like +to hear what I’ve been at.” + +“If you’ve committed any kind of crime,” I said, “I’d rather you didn’t +tell me. It might be awkward for me afterwards when you are tried.” + +“I don’t think it’s exactly a crime,” said Sam, “anyhow, it isn’t +anything wrong, though, of course, it may be slightly illegal. I’d +rather like to have your opinion about that.” + +“Is it a long story? I’m rather busy to-day.” + +“Not very long,” said Sam, “but I daresay it would sound better after +dinner. What would you say now to asking me to dine to-night at your +club? We could go up to that library place afterwards. There’s never +anybody there, and I could tell you the whole thing.” + +Sam knows the ways of my club nearly as well as I do myself. There +is never anyone in the library in the evening. I gave the required +invitation. + +We dined comfortably, and I got a good cigar for Sam afterwards. When +the waiter had left the room he plunged into his story. + +“You remember the day I was hauled up before that old ass of a +magistrate. He jawed a lot and then fined me £3 4s. 6d., which you paid. +Jolly decent of you. I hadn’t a shilling in the world, being absolutely +stony broke at the time; so if you hadn’t paid--and lots of fellows +wouldn’t--I should have had to go to gaol.” + +“Never mind about that,” I said. “You’ve paid me back.” + +“Still, I’m grateful, especially as I should have missed the spree of +my life if I’d been locked up. As it was, thanks to you, I walked out of +the court without a stain on my character.” + +“Well, hardly that. You were found guilty of riotous behaviour, you +know.” + +“Anyhow, I walked out,” said Sam, “and that’s the main point.” + +It was, of course, the point which mattered most; and, after all, the +stain on Sam’s character was not indelible. Lots of young fellows behave +riotously and turn out excellent men afterwards. I was an undergraduate +myself once, and there is a story about Sam’s father, now a dean, which +is still told occasionally. When he was an undergraduate a cow was found +tied up in the big examination hall. + +Sam’s father, who was very far from being a dean then, had borrowed the +cow from a milkman. + +“There were a lot of men waiting outside,” said Sam. “They wanted to +stand me a lunch in honour of my escape.” + +“Your fellow-rioters, I suppose?” + +“Well, most of them had been in the rag, and, of course, they were sorry +for me, being the only one actually caught. However, the lunch never +came off. There was a queer old fellow standing on the steps of the +court who got me by the arm as I came out. Said he wanted to speak to me +on important business, and would I lunch with him. I didn’t know what he +could possibly have to say to me, for I had never seen him before; but +he looked--it’s rather hard to describe how he looked. He wasn’t exactly +what you’d call a gentleman, in the way of clothes, I mean; but he +struck me as being a sportsman.” + +“Horsey?” + +“Not the least. More like one’s idea of some kind of modern pirate, +though not exactly. He talked like an American. I went with him, of +course.” + +“Of course,” I said, “anyone with an adventurous spirit would prefer +lunching with an unknown American buccaneer to sharing a commonplace +feast with a mob of boys. Did you happen to hear his name?” + +“He said it was Hazlewood, but----” + +“But it may not have been?” + +“One of the other fellows called him Cassidy later on.” + +“Oh,” I said, “there were other fellows?” + +“There were afterwards,” said Sam, “not at first. He and I lunched +alone. He did me well. A bottle of champagne for the two of us and +offered me a second bottle. I refused that.” + +“He came to business after the champagne, I suppose?” + +“He more or less talked business the whole time, though at first I +didn’t know quite what he was at. He gassed a lot about my having +knocked down those two policemen. You remember that I knocked down two, +don’t you? I would have got a third only that they collared me from +behind. Well, Hazlewood, or Cassidy, or whatever his name was, had seen +the scrap, and seemed to think no end of a lot of me for the fight I put +up.” + +“The magistrate took a serious view of it, too,” I said. + +“There wasn’t much in it,” said Sam modestly. “As I told Hazlewood, any +fool can knock down a policeman. They’re so darned fat. He asked me if I +liked fighting policemen. I said I did.” + +“Of course.” + +Sam caught some note of sarcasm in my voice. He felt it necessary to +modify his statement. + +“Well, not policemen in particular. I haven’t a special down on +policemen. I like a scrap with anyone. Then he said--Hazlewood, that +is--that he admired the way I drove that car down Grafton Street. He +said he liked a man who wasn’t afraid to take risks; which was rot. +There wasn’t any real risk.” + +“The police swore that you went at thirty miles an hour,” I said. “And +that street is simply crowded in the middle of the day.” + +“I don’t believe I was doing anything like thirty miles an hour,” said +Sam. “I should say twenty-seven at the outside. And there was no risk +because everybody cleared out of my way. I had the street practically to +myself. It was rather fun seeing all the other cars and carts and things +piled up upon the footpaths at either side and the people bolting +into the shops like rabbits. But there wasn’t any risk. However, old +Hazlewood evidently thought there was, and seemed frightfully pleased +about it. He said he had a car of his own, a sixty h.p. Daimler, and that +he’d like to see me drive it. I said I’d take him for a spin any time he +liked. I gave him a hint that we might start immediately after lunch and +run up to Belfast in time for dinner. With a car like that I could have +done it easy. However, he wasn’t on.” + +“Do you think he really had the car?” + +“Oh, he had her all right. I drove her afterwards. Great Scott, such a +drive! The next thing he said was that he believed I was a pretty good +man in a boat. I said I knew something about boats, though not much.” + +Modesty is one of Sam’s virtues. He is, I believe, an excellent hand in +a small yacht, and does a good deal of racing. + +“I asked him what put it into his head that I could sail a boat, and he +said O’Meara told him. O’Meara is a man I sail with occasionally, and I +thought it nice of him to mention my name to this old boy. I can hoist +a spinnaker all right and shift a jib, but I’m no good at navigation. +Always did hate sums and always will. I told him that, and he said he +could do the navigation himself. All he wanted was a good amateur crew +for a thirty-ton yawl with a motor auxiliary. He had four men, and he +asked me to make a fifth. I said I’d go like a shot. Strictly speaking, +I ought to have been attending lectures; but what good are lectures?” + “Very little,” I said. “In fact, hardly any.” “I wasn’t going to lose a +cruise for the sake of any amount of lectures,” said Sam, “particularly +with the chance of a tour on that sixty h.p. car thrown in.” + +Sam paused at this point. It seemed to me that he wanted encouragement. + +“You’d have been a fool if you had,” I said. + +“Up to that time,” said Sam thoughtfully, “I hadn’t tumbled to what he +was at. I give you my word of honour I hadn’t the dimmest idea that he +was after anything in particular. I thought he was simply a good old +sport with lots of money, which he knew how to spend in sensible ways.” + +“The criminal part of the business was mentioned later on, I suppose?” + +“I don’t know that there’s anything criminal about it,” said Sam. “I’m +jolly well sure it wasn’t wrong, under the circumstances. But it may +have been criminal. That’s just what I want you to tell me. + +“I’ll give you my opinion,” I said, “when I hear what it was.” + +“Gun-running,” said Sam. + +Gun-running has for some time been a popular sport in Ireland, and I +find it very difficult to say whether it is against the law or not. The +Government goes in for trying to stop it, which looks as if a gun-runner +might be prosecuted when caught. On the other hand, the Government never +prosecutes gun-runners, even those who openly boast of their exploits, +and that looks as if it were quite a legal amusement. I promised Sam +that I would consider the point, and I asked him to tell me exactly what +he did. + +“Well,” he said, “when I heard it was gunrunning I simply jumped at the +chance. Any fellow would. I said I’d start right away, if he liked. As a +matter of fact, we didn’t start for nearly a fortnight. The boat turned +out to be the _Pegeen_. You know the _Pegeen_, don’t you?” + +I did not. I am not a sailor, and except that I cannot help seeing +paragraphs about _Shamrock IV_. in the daily papers I do not think I +know the name of a single yacht. + +“Well,” said Sam, “she’s O’Meara’s boat I’ve sailed in her sometimes in +cruiser races. She’s slow and never does any good, but she’s a fine sea +boat. My idea was that Hazlewood had hired her, and I didn’t find out +till after we had started that O’Meara was on board. That surprised me +a bit, for O’Meara goes in for being rather an extreme kind of +Nationalist--not the sort of fellow you’d expect to be running guns for +Carson and the Ulster Volunteers. However, I was jolly glad to see him. +He crawled out of the cabin when we were a couple of miles out of the +harbour, and by that time I’d have been glad to see anyone who knew one +end of the boat from the other. Old Hazlewood was all right; but the +other three men were simply rotters, the sort of fellows who’d be just +as likely as not to take a pull on a topsail halyard when told to slack +away the lee runner. I was just making up my mind to work the boat +single-handed when O’Meara turned up. There was a middling fresh breeze +from the west, and we were going south on a reach. I didn’t get much +chance of a talk with O’Meara because he was in one watch and I in the +other--had to be, of course, on account of being the only two who knew +anything about working the boat. I did notice, though, that when he +spoke to Hazlewood he called him Cassidy. However, that was no business +of mine. We sailed pretty nearly due south that day and the next, and +the next after that. Then we hove to.” + +“Where?” I asked. + +“Ask me another,” said Sam. “I told you I couldn’t navigate. I hadn’t an +idea within a hundred miles where we were. What’s more, I didn’t care. +I was having a splendid time, and had succeeded in knocking some sort of +sense into the other fellow in my watch. Hazlewood steered, and barring +that he was sea-sick for eight hours, my man turned out to be a decent +sort, and fairly intelligent. He said his name was Temple, but Hazlewood +called him O’Reilly as often as not.” + +“You seem to have gone in for a nice variety of names,” I said. “What +did you call yourself?” + +“I stuck to my own name, of course. I wasn’t doing anything to be +ashamed of. If we’d been caught and the thing had turned out to be +a crime--I don’t know whether it was or not, but if it was, I +suppose------” + +“I suppose I should have paid your fine,” I said. + +“Thanks,” said Sam. “Thanks, awfully. I rather expected you would +whenever I thought about that part of it, but I very seldom did.” + +“What happened when you lay to?” + +“Nothing at first. We bumped about a bit for five or six hours, and +Temple got frightfully sick again. I never saw a man sicker. Hazlewood +kept on muddling about with charts, and doing sums on sheets of paper, +and consulting with O’Meara. I suppose they wanted to make sure that +they’d got to the right place. At last, just about sunset, a small +steamer turned up. She hung about all night, and next day we started +early, about four o’clock, and got the guns out of her, or some of them. +We couldn’t take the whole cargo, of course, in a 30-ton yacht I don’t +know how many more guns she had. Perhaps she hadn’t any more. Only our +little lot Anyhow, I was jolly glad when the job was over. There was +a bit of a roll--nothing much, you know, but quite enough to make it +pretty awkward. Temple got over his sea-sickness, which was a comfort. +I suppose the excitement cured him. The way we worked was this--but I +daresay you wouldn’t understand, even if I told you.” + +“Is it very technical? I mean, must you use many sea words?” + +“Must,” said Sam. “We were at sea, you know.” + +“Well,” I said, “perhaps you’d better leave that part out. Tell me what +you did with the guns when you’d got them.” + +“Right. It was there the fun really came in. Not that I’m complaining +about the other part. It was sport all right, but the funny part, the +part you’ll like, came later. What _about_ another cigar?” + +I rang the bell, and got two more cigars for Sam. + +“We had rather a tiresome passage home,” he said. “It kept on falling +calm, and O’Meara’s motor isn’t very powerful. It took us a clear week +to work our way up to the County Down coast. It was there we landed, in +a poky little harbour. We went in at night, and had to wait for a full +tide to get in at all. We got the sails of the boat outside, and just +strolled in, so to speak, with the wretched little engine doing about +half it could. Hazlewood told me that he expected four motor-cars to +meet us, and that I was to take one of them, and drive like hell into +County Armagh. There I was to call at a house belonging to O’Meara, and +hand over my share of the guns. He said he hoped I knew my way about +those parts, because it would be awkward for me trying to work with road +maps when I ought to drive fast. I said I knew that country like the +palm of my hand. The governor’s parish is up there, you know.” + +Sam certainly ought to know County Down. He was brought up there, and +must have walked, cycled, and driven over most of the roads. + +“The only thing I didn’t know,” said Sam, “was O’Meara’s house. I’d +never heard of his having a house in that part of the country. However, +he said he’d only taken it lately, and that when I got over the border +into Armagh there’d be a man waiting to show me where to go. He told +me the road I was to take and I knew every turn of the way, so I felt +pretty sure of getting there. It was about two in the morning when we +got alongside the pier. The four motors were there all right, but there +wasn’t a soul about except the men in charge of them. We got out the +guns. They were done up in small bundles and the cartridges in handy +little cases; but it took us till half-past four o’clock to get them +ashore. By that time there were a few people knocking about; but they +didn’t seem to want to interfere with us. In fact, some of them came +and helped us to pack the stuff into the cars. They were perfectly +friendly.” + +“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” I said “The people up there +are nearly all Protestants. Most of them were probably Volunteers +themselves. I daresay it wasn’t the first cargo they’d helped to land.” + +“It was the first cargo they ever helped to land for the National +Volunteers,” said Sam with a grin. + +“The National Volunteers!” + +I admit that Sam startled me. I do not suppose that he has any political +convictions. At the age of twenty a man has a few prejudices but no +convictions. If he is a young fellow who goes in for being intellectual +they are prejudices against the party his father belonged to. If--and +this is Sam’s case--he is a healthy-minded young man, who enjoys sport, +he takes over his father’s opinions as they stand, and regards everybody +who does not accept them as an irredeemable blackguard. The Dean is a +very strong loyalist. He is the chaplain of an Orange Lodge, and has +told me more than once that he hopes to march to battle at the head of +his regiment of Volunteers. + +“Smuggling arms for the Nationalists!” I said. + +“That’s what I did,” said Sam, grinning broadly. “But I thought all +the time that I was working for the other side. I didn’t know the +Nationalists went in for guns; thought they only talked. In fact, to +tell you the truth, I forgot all about them. Otherwise I wouldn’t have +done it At least I mightn’t. But I had a great time.” + +“Of course,” I said, “I don’t mind. So far as I am concerned personally +I’d rather neither side had any guns. But if your father finds out, Sam, +there’ll be a frightful row. He’ll disown you.” + +“The governor knows all about it,” said Sam, “and he doesn’t mind +one bit. Just wait till you hear the end of the story. You’ll be as +surprised as I was.” + +“I certainly shall,” I said, “if the story ends in your father’s +approving of your smuggling guns for rebels. He’d call them rebels, you +know.” + +“Oh,” said Sam, “as far as rebellion goes I don’t see that there’s much +to choose between them. However, that doesn’t matter. What happened was +this. I got off with my load about five o’clock, and I had a gorgeous +spin. There wasn’t a cart or a thing on the roads, and I just let the +car rip. I touched sixty miles an hour, and hardly ever dropped below +forty. Best run I ever had. Almost the only thing I passed was a motor +lorry, going the same way I was. I didn’t think anything of it at the +time, but it turned out to be important afterwards. It was about seven +o’clock when I got out of County Down into Armagh. I began looking out +for the fellow who was to meet me. It wasn’t long before I spotted him, +standing at a corner, trying to look as if he were a military sentry. +You know the sort of thing I mean. Bandolier, belt, and frightfully +stiff about the back. He held up his hand and I stopped. ‘A loyal man,’ +he said. Well, I was, so far as I knew at that time, so I said ‘You +bet.’ ‘That’s not right,’ said he. ‘Give the countersign.’ I hadn’t +heard anything about a countersign, so I told him not to be a damned +fool, and that I’d break his head if he said I wasn’t a loyal man. That +seemed to puzzle him a bit. He got out a notebook and read a page or +two, looking at me and the car every now and then as if he wasn’t quite +satisfied. I felt pretty sure, of course, that he was the man I wanted. +He couldn’t very well be anyone else. So by way of cutting the business +short I told him I was loaded up with guns and cartridges, and that I +wished he’d hop in and show me where to go. ‘That’s all very fine,’ he +said, ‘but you oughtn’t to be in a car like that.’ I told him there was +no use arguing about the car. I wasn’t going back to change it to please +him. He asked me who I was, and I told him, mentioning that I was the +governor’s son. I thought that might help him to make up his mind, and +it did. The governor is middling well known up in those parts, and the +mention of his name was enough. The fellow climbed in beside me. We +hadn’t very far to go, as it turned out, and in the inside of twenty +minutes I was driving up the avenue of a big house. The size of it +rather surprised me, for I didn’t think O’Meara was well enough off to +keep up a place of the kind. However, I was evidently expected, for I +was shown into the dining-room by a footman. There were three men at +breakfast, my old dad, Dopping--you know Dopping, don’t you?” + +Dopping is a retired cavalry colonel. I do business for him and know him +pretty well He is just the sort of man who would be in the thick of any +gun-running that was going on. + +“There was another man,” said Sam, “whom I didn’t know and wasn’t +introduced to. The fact is there wasn’t much time for politeness. My dad +looked as if he’d been shot when he saw me, and old Dopping bristled all +over like an Irish terrier at the beginning of a fight, and asked me +who the devil I was and what I was doing there. Of course, he jolly well +knew who I was, and I thought he must know what brought me there, so I +just winked by way of letting him understand that I was in the game. +He got so red in the face that I thought he’d burst. Then the other +man chipped in and asked me what I’d got in the car. The three of +them whispered together for a bit, and I suggested that if they didn’t +believe me they’d better go and see. The car was outside the door, and +their own man was sitting on the guns. Dopping went, and I suppose he +told the other two that the guns were there all right. Dad asked me where +I got them, and I told them, mentioning Hazlewood’s name and the name +of the yacht. I was a bit puzzled, but I still thought everything was all +right, and that there’d be no harm in mentioning names. I very soon +saw that there was some sort of mistake somewhere. The governor and old +Dopping and the other man, who seemed to be the coolest of the three, +went over to the window and looked at the car. Then they started +whispering again, and I couldn’t hear a word they said. Didn’t want to. +I was as hungry as a wolf, and there was a jolly good breakfast on the +table. I sat down and gorged. I had just started my third egg when +the door opened, and a rather nice-looking young fellow walked in. The +footman came behind him, looking as white as a sheet, and began some +sort of apology for letting the stranger in. Old Dopping, who was still +in a pretty bad temper, told the footman to go and be damned. Then the +new man introduced himself. He said he was Colonel O’Connell, of the +first Armagh Regiment of National Volunteers. I expected to see old +Dopping kill him at sight. Dopping is a tremendous loyalist, and the +other fellow--well--phew!” + +Sam whistled. Words failed him, I suppose, when it came to expressing +the disloyalty of a colonel of National Volunteers. + +“Instead of that,” said Sam, “Dopping stood up straight, and saluted +O’Connell. O’Connell stiffened his back, and saluted Dopping. The +third man, the one I didn’t know, stood up, too, and saluted. O’Connell +saluted him. Then the governor bowed quite civilly, and O’Connell +saluted him. I can tell you it was a pretty scene. ‘I beg to inform +you, gentlemen,’ said O’Connell, ‘that a consignment of rifles and +ammunition, apparently intended for your force, has arrived at our +headquarters in a motor lorry.’ Nothing could have been civiller than +the way he spoke. But Dopping was not to be beat. He’s a bristly old bear +at times, but he always was a gentleman. ‘Owing to a mistake,’ he said, +‘some arms, evidently belonging to you, are now in a car at our door.’ +The governor and the other man sat down and laughed till they were +purple, but neither O’Connell nor old Dopping so much as smiled. It was +then--and I give you my word not till then--that I tumbled to the idea +that I’d been running guns for the other side. I expected that there’d +be a furious row the minute the governor stopped laughing. But +there wasn’t. In fact, no one took any notice of me. There was a long +consultation, and in the end they settled that it might be risky to +start moving the guns about again, and that each party had better stick +to what it had got. Our fellows--I call them our fellows, though, of +course, I was really acting for the others--our fellows got rather the +better of the exchange in the way of ammunition. But O’Connell scooped +in a lot of extra rifles. When they had that settled they all saluted +again, and the governor said something about hoping to meet O’Connell +at Philippi. I don’t know what he meant by that, but O’Connell seemed +tremendously pleased. Where do you suppose Philippi is?” + +“Philippi,” I said, “is where somebody--Julius Caesar, I think, but it +doesn’t matter---- What your father meant was that he hoped to have a +chance of fighting it out with O’Connell some day. Not a duel, you know, +but a proper battle. The Ulster Volunteers against the other lot.” + +“We shall have to wipe out the police first,” said Sam, “to prevent +their interfering. I hope I shall be there then. I want to get my own +back out of those fellows who collared me from behind the day of the +last rag. But, I say, what about the soldiers--the regular soldiers, I +mean? Which side will they be on?” + +“That,” I said, “is the one uncertain factor in the problem. Nobody +knows.” + +“The best plan,” said Sam, “would be to take them away altogether, and +leave us to settle the matter ourselves. We’d do it all right, judging +by the way old Dopping and O’Connell behaved to each other.” + +Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. I should never have suspected +Sam of profound political wisdom. But it is quite possible that his +suggestion would meet the case better than any other. + + + + +X ~~ IRELAND FOR EVER + + + + +I + +Lord Dunseverick picked his way delicately among the pools and tough +cobble stones. He was a very well-dressed young man, and he seemed out +of place amid the miry traffic of the Belfast quays. A casual observer +would have put him down as a fashionable nincompoop, one of those young +men whose very appearance is supposed to move the British worker to +outbursts of socialistic fury. The casual observer would, in this case, +have been mistaken. Lord Dunseverick, in spite of his well-fitting +clothes, his delicately coloured tie, and his general air of sleek +well-being, was at that moment--it was the month of May, 1914--something +of a hero with the Belfast working man. And the Belfast working man, +as everybody knows, is more bitterly contemptuous of the idle rich, +especially of the idle rich with titles, than any other working man. + +The Belfast working man had just then worked himself up to a degree of +martial ardour, unprecedented even in Ulster, in his opposition to Home +Rule. Lord Dunseverick was one of the generals of the Ulster Volunteer +Force. He had made several speeches which moved Belfast to wild +delight and sober-minded men elsewhere to dubious shaking of the head. +Enthusiasm in a cause is a fine thing, especially in the young, but when +Lord Dunseverick’s enthusiasm led him to say that he would welcome the +German Emperor at the head of his legions as the deliverer of Ulster +from the tyranny of a Parliament in Dublin, why then--then the rank and +file of the volunteer army cheered, and other people wondered whether +it were quite wise to say such things. Yet Lord Dunseverick, when not +actually engaged in making a speech, was a pleasant and agreeable young +man with a keen sense of humour. He even--and this is a rare quality in +men--saw the humorous side of his own speeches. The trouble was that he +never saw it till after he had made them. + +A heavy motor-lorry came thundering along the quay. Lord Dunseverick +dodged it, and escaped with his life. He was splashed from head to foot +with mud. He looked at his neat boots and well-fashioned grey trousers. +The black slime lay thick on them. He wiped a spot of mud off his cheek +and rubbed some wet coal dust into his collar. Then he lit a cigarette, +and smiled. + +He stepped into the porch of a reeking public-house and found himself +beside a grizzled man, who looked like a sailor. Lord Dunseverick turned +to him. + +“Can you tell me,” he said, “where Mr. McMunn’s office is?” + +“Is it coal you’re wanting?” asked the sailor. + +It is thus that questions are often met in Belfast with +counter-questions. Belfast is a city of business men, and it is not the +habit of business men to give away anything, even information, without +getting something in return. The counter-question may draw some valuable +matter by way of answer from the original questioner. In this case +the counter-question was a reasonable one. McMunn, of McMunn Brothers, +Limited, was a coal merchant. Lord Dunseverick, though a peer, belonged +to the north of Ireland. He understood Belfast. + +“What I want,” he said, “is to see Mr. Andrew McMunn.” + +“I’ve business with Andrew McMunn myself,” said the sailor, “and I’m +going that way.” + +“Good. Then we’ll go together.” + +“My name,” said the sailor, “is Ginty. If you’re intimate with Andrew +McMunn you’ll likely have heard of me.” + +“I haven’t. But that’s no reason why you shouldn’t show me the way.” + +“It’s no that far,” said Ginty. + +They walked together, sometimes side by side, sometimes driven apart by +a string of carts. + +“If it had been Jimmy McMunn you wanted to see,” said Ginty, “you might +have had further to go. Some says Jimmy’s in the one place, and more +is of opinion that he’s in the other. But I’ve no doubt in my own mind +about where Andrew will go when his time comes.” + +“You know him pretty well, then?” + +“Ay, I do. It would be queer if I didn’t, seeing that I’ve sailed his +ships this ten year. Andrew McMunn will go to heaven.” + +“Ah,” said Lord Dunseverick, “he’s a good man, then?” + +“I’ll no go so far as to say precisely that,” said Ginty, “but he’s a +man who never touches a drop of whisky nor smokes a pipe of tobacco. +It’ll be very hard on him if he doesna go to heaven after all he’s +missed in this world. But you’ll find out what kind of man he is if you +go in through the door forninst you. It’s his office, thon one with +the brass plate on the door. My business will keep till you’re done with +him.” + +Lord Dunseverick pushed open one of a pair of swinging doors, and found +himself in a narrow passage. On his right was a ground glass window +bearing the word “Inquiries.” He tapped at it. + +For a minute or two there was no response. Lord Dunseverick brushed +some of the mud, now partially dry, off his trousers, and lit a fresh +cigarette. The ground glass window was opened, and a redhaired clerk +looked out. + +“I want to see Mr. McMunn,” said Lord Dunseverick, “Mr. Andrew McMunn.” + +The clerk put his head and shoulders out through the window, and +surveyed Lord Dunseverick suspiciously. Very well dressed young men, +with pale lavender ties and pearl tie-pins--Lord Dunseverick had +both--are not often seen in Belfast quay-side offices. + +“If you want to see Mr. McMunn,” said the clerk, “--and I’m no saying +you will, mind that--you’d better take yon cigarette out of your mouth. +There’s no smoking allowed here.” + +Lord Dunseverick took his cigarette out of his mouth, but he did not +throw it away. He held it between his fingers. + +“Just tell Mr. McMunn,” he said, “that Lord Dunseverick is here.” + +The clerk’s manner altered suddenly. He drew himself up, squared his +shoulders, and saluted. + +The discovery that a stranger is a man of high rank often produces this +kind of effect on men of strong democratic principles, principles of +the kind held by clerks in all business communities, quite as firmly in +Belfast as elsewhere. But it would have been a mistake to suppose that +Mr. McMunn’s junior clerk was a mere worshipper of title. His salute +was not the tribute of a snob to the representative of an aristocratic +class. It was the respect due by a soldier, drilled and disciplined, +to his superior officer. It was also the expression of a young man’s +sincere hero-worship. The redhaired clerk was a Volunteer, duly +enrolled, one of the signatories of the famous Ulster Covenant. Lord +Dunseverick had made speeches which moved his soul to actual rapture. + +“Come inside, my lord,” he said. “I’ll inform Mr. McMunn at once.” + +Lord Dunseverick passed through a door which was held open for him. He +entered a large office, very grimy, which is the proper condition of a +place where documents concerning coal are dealt with. Six other clerks +were at work there. When Lord Dunseverick entered, all six of them stood +up and saluted. They, too, so it appeared, were members of the Volunteer +Force. The red-haired junior clerk crossed the room towards a door +marked “Private.” Then he paused, and turned to Lord Dunseverick. + +“Might I be so bold as to ask a question?” he said. + +“A dozen if you like,” said Lord Dunseverick. + +“What about the rifles? It’s only them we’re wanting now. We’re drilled +and we’re ready, but where’s the rifles?” + +“You shall have them,” said Lord Dunseverick. + +The clerks in Mr. McMunn’s office were accustomed to behave +with decorum. No more than a low murmur of approval greeted Lord +Dunseverick’s words; but the men looked as if they wished to cheer +vehemently. The red-haired boy tapped at the door which was marked +“Private.” A minute later he invited Lord Dunseverick to pass through +it. + +Andrew McMunn is a hard-faced, grizzled little man, with keen blue +eyes. He can, when he chooses, talk excellent English. He prefers, when +dealing with strangers, to speak with a strong Belfast accent, and to +use, if possible, north of Ireland words and phrases. This is his way of +asserting independence of character. He admires independence. + +His office is a singularly unattractive room. He writes at a large +table, and has a fireproof safe at his elbow. There are three wooden +chairs ranged against the wall opposite the writing-table. Four +photographs of steamers, cheaply framed, hang above the chairs. They are +_The Andrew McMunn, The Eliza McMunn_, and, a tribute to the deceased +Jimmy, _The McMunn Brothers_. These form the fleet owned by the firm, +and carry coal from one port to another, chiefly to Belfast. On the +chimney-piece under a glass shade, is a model of _The McMunn Brothers_, +the latest built and largest of the ships. + +“Good-morning to you, my lord!” said McMunn, without rising from his +seat. + +He nodded towards one of the chairs which stood against the wall. This +was his way of inviting his visitor to sit down. His eyes were fixed, +with strong disapproval, on the cigarette, which still smoked feebly in +Lord Dunseverick’s hand. + +“Your clerk gave me a hint,” said Dunseverick, “that you object to +tobacco.” + +“It’s my opinion,” said McMunn, “that the man who pays taxes that he +needn’t pay--I’m alluding to the duty on tobacco, you’ll understand--for +the sake of poisoning himself with a nasty stink, is little better than +a fool. That’s my opinion, and I’m of the same way of thinking about +alcoholic drink.” + +Lord Dunseverick deposited the offending cigarette on the hearth and +crushed it with his foot. + +“Teetotaller?” he said. “I dare say you’re right, though I take a +whisky-and-soda myself when I get the chance.” + +“You’ll no get it here,” said McMunn; “and what’s more, you’ll no’ get +it on any ship owned by me.” + +“Thank you. It’s as well to understand before-hand.” + +“I’m a believer in speaking plain,” said McMunn. “There’s ay less +chance of trouble afterwards if a man speaks plain at the start. But +I’m thinking that it wasn’t to hear my opinion on the Christian religion +that your lordship came here the day.” + +McMunn, besides being a teetotaller, and opposed to the smoking of +tobacco, was the president of a Young Men’s Anti-Gambling League. He +was, therefore, in a position to throw valuable light on the Christian +religion. + +“I came to settle the details about this expedition to Hamburg,” said +Lord Dunseverick. + +“Well,” said McMunn, “there’s no that much left to settle. _The +Brothers_ is ready.” + +“_The Brothers?_” + +“_The McMunn Brothers_. Thon’s the model of her on the chimneypiece.” + +Lord Dunseverick looked at the model attentively. It represented a very +unattractive ship. Her bow was absurdly high, cocked up like the snout +of a Yorkshire pig. Her long waist lay low, promising little freeboard +in a sea. Her engines and single funnel were aft. On a short, high +quarterdeck was her bridge and a squat deck-house. She was designed, +like her owner, for purely business purposes. + +“You’ll have the captain’s cabin,” said McMunn. “Him and me will sleep +in the saloon.” + +“Oh, you’re coming too?” + +“I am. Have you any objection?” + +“None whatever. I’m delighted. We’ll have a jolly time.” + +“I’ll have you remember,” said McMunn, “that it’s not pleasuring we’re +out for.” + +“It’s serious business. Smuggling rifles in the teeth of a Royal +Proclamation is----” + +“When I understand,” said McMunn, “and you understand, where’s the use +of saying what we’re going for? I’m taking risks enough anyway, without +unnecessary talking. You never know who’s listening to you.” + +“About paying for the--er--the--er--our cargo? Is that all arranged?” + +“They’ll be paid in bills on a Hamburg bank,” said McMunn. + +“Won’t they expect cash? I should have thought that in transactions of +this kind----” + +“You’re not a business man, my lord; but I’d have you know that a +bill with the name of McMunn to it is the same as cash in any port in +Europe.” + +“Well, that’s your part of the affair. I am leaving that to you.” + +“You may leave it. What I say I’ll do. But there’s one thing that I’m no +quite easy in my mind about.” + +“If you’re thinking about the landing of the guns----” + +“I’m no asking what arrangements you’ve made about that. The fewer there +is that knows what’s being done in a business of this kind, the better +for all concerned. What’s bothering me is this. There’s a man called +Edelstein.” + +“Who’s he? I never heard of him before.” + +“He’s the Baron von Edelstein, if that’s any help to you.” + +“It isn’t. He’s not the man we’re buying the stuff from.” + +“He is not. Nor he wasn’t mentioned from first to last till the letter I +got the day.” + +He turned to the safe beside him and drew out a bundle of papers held +together by an elastic band. + +“That’s the whole of the correspondence,” he said, “and there’s the last +of it.” + +He handed a letter to Lord Dunseverick, who read it through carefully. + +“This baron,” he said, “whoever he is, intends to pay his respects to us +before we leave Hamburg. Very civil of him.” + +“It’s a civility we could do without. When I’m doing business I’d rather +do it with business men, and a baron, you’ll understand, is no just----” + +“I’m a baron myself,” said Lord Dunseverick. + +“Ay, you are.” + +McMunn said no more. He left it to be understood that his opinion +of barons in general was not improved by his acquaintance with Lord +Dunseverick. + +“I don’t think we need bother about Von Eddstein, anyway,” said Lord +Dunseverick. “What harm can he do us?” + +“I’m no precisely bothering about him,” said McMunn; “but I’d be easier +in my mind if I knew what he wanted with us.” + +“We sail to-night, anyway,” said Lord Dunseverick. + +“Ay, we do. I tell’t Ginty. He’s the captain of _The McMunn Brothers_, +and a good man.” + +“I’ve met him. In fact----” + +“If you’ve met Ginty you’ve met a man who knows his business, though I +wish he’d give over drinking whisky. However, he’s a strong Protestant +and a sound man, and you can’t expect perfection.” + +“Capital!” said Lord Dunseverick. “It’s a great comfort to be sure of +one’s men.” + +“I wish I was as sure of every one as I am of Ginty,” said McMunn. “I’m +no saying that your lordship’s not sound. The speech you made last night +at Ballymena was good enough, and I’m with you in every word of it; +but----” + +“Oh, speeches!” said Lord Dunseverick. + +He was uneasily conscious that he had allowed himself to be carried away +by the excitement of the occasion when speaking at Ballymena. It was +right and proper to threaten armed resistance to Home Rule. It was +another thing to offer a warm welcome to the German Emperor if he +chose to land in Ulster. The cold emphasis with which McMunn expressed +agreement with every word of the speech made Lord Dunseverick vaguely +uneasy. + +“Ay,” said McMunn; “your speeches are well enough, and I don’t say, mind +you, that you’re not a sound man; but I’d be better pleased if you were +more serious. You’re too fond of joking, in my opinion.” + +“Good heavens!” said Lord Dunseverick. “I haven’t ventured on the ghost +of a joke since I came into your office!” He looked round him as he +spoke, and fixed his eyes at last on the fireproof safe. “Nobody could.” + +“It’s no what you’ve said, it’s your lordship’s appearance. But it’s too +late to alter that, I’m thinking.” + +“Not at all,” said Lord Dunseverick. “I’ll join you this evening in +a suit of yellow oilskins, the stickiest kind, and a blue fisherman’s +jersey, and a pair of sea-boots. I’ll have----” + +“You will,” said McMunn, “and you’ll look like a play actor. It’s just +what I’m complaining of.” + + + + +II + +_The McMunn Brothers_ lay, with steam up, at a single anchor a mile +below the Hamburg quays. The yellow, turbid waters of the Elbe swept +past her sides. Below her stretched the long waterway which leads to +the North Sea. The lights of the buoys which marked the channel twinkled +dimly in the gloom of the summer evening. Shafts of brighter light swept +across and across the water from occulting beacons set at long intervals +among buoys. Above the steamer lay a large Norwegian barque waiting for +her pilot to take her down on the ebb tide. Below _The McMunn Brothers_ +was an ocean-going tramp steamer. One of her crew sat on the forecastle +playing the “Swanee River” on a melodeon. + +McMunn, Ginty, and Lord Dunseverick were together in the cabin of _The +McMunn Brothers_. McMunn, dressed precisely as he always dressed in his +office, sat bolt upright on the cabin sofa. In front of him on the table +were some papers, which he turned over and looked at from time to time. + +Beside him was Ginty, in his shirt sleeves, with his peaked cap pushed +far back on his head. He sat with his elbows on the table. His chin, +thrust forward, rested on his knuckles. He stared fixedly at the +panelling on the opposite wall of the cabin. Lord Dunseverick, who had +a side of the table to himself, leaned far back. His legs were stretched +out straight in front of him. His hands were in his pockets. He gazed +wearily at the small lamp which swung from the cabin roof. + +For a long time no one spoke. It was Lord Dunseverick who broke the +silence in the end. He took his cigarette-case from his pocket. + +“You may say what you like about tobacco, McMunn,” he said, “but it’s a +comfort to a man when he has no company but a bear with a sore head.” + +“Ay,” said McMunn, “you’ll smoke and you’ll smoke, but you’ll no make me +any easier in my mind by smoking.” + +Ginty drew a plug of black tobacco from his pocket, and began cutting +shreds from it with a clasp knife. He was apparently of opinion that +smoking would relieve the strain on _his_ mind. + +“I’m no satisfied,” said McMunn. + +“I don’t see what you have to grumble about,” said Lord Dunseverick. +“We’ve got what we came for, and we’ve got our clearance papers. What +more do you want? You expected trouble about those papers, and there +wasn’t any. You ought to be pleased.” + +“There you have it,” said McMunn. “According to all the laws of nature +there ought to have been trouble. With a cargo like ours there ought to +have been a lot of trouble. Instead of that the papers are handed over +to us without a question.” + +“It’s peculiar,” said Ginty. “It’s very peculiar, and that’s a fact.” + +“Then there’s the matter of those extra cases,” said McMunn. “How many +cases is there in the hold, Ginty?” + +“A hundred, seventy-two.” + +“And the contract was for one-fifty. What’s in the odd twenty-two? Tell +me that.” + +“Pianos,” said Lord Dunseverick. “Look at your clearance papers. ‘Nature +of Cargo--Pianos.’” + +“You’d have your joke,” said McMunn, “if the flames of hell were +scorching the soles of your boots.” + +“It’s peculiar,” said Ginty. + +“It’s more than peculiar,” said McMunn. “I’ve been in business for +thirty years, and it’s the first time I ever had goods given me that I +didn’t ask for.” + +“Well,” said Lord Dunseverick, “if we’ve got an extra five hundred +rifles we can’t complain. There’s plenty of men in Ulster ready to use +them.” + +“Maybe you’ll tell me,” said McMunn, “why they wouldn’t let me pay for +the goods in the office this afternoon. Did anyone ever hear the like of +that--a man refusing money that was due to him, and it offered?” + +“It’s out of the course of nature,” said Ginty. + +“They told you,” said Lord Dunseverick, “that you could pay Von +Edelstein, and he’d give you a receipt.” + +“Ay, Von Edelstein. And where’s Von Edelstein?” + +“He’s coming on board this evening,” said Lord Dunseverick. “But you +needn’t wait for him unless you like. We’ve got steam up. Why not slip +away?” + +“Because it’s no my way of doing business,” said McMunn, “to slip +away, as you call it, without paying for what I’ve got. I’m a man of +principle.” + +“Talking of your principles,” said Lord Dunseverick, “what did you bring +on board in that basket this afternoon? It looked to me like beer.” + +“It was beer.” + +“I’m glad to hear it,” said Lord Dunseverick. “Let’s have a couple of +bottles.” + +Ginty took his pipe from his mouth and grinned pleasantly. He wanted +beer. + +“You’ll be thinking maybe,” said McMunn, “that I’m going back on my +temperance principles?” + +“We don’t think anything of the sort,” said Lord Dunseverick. “We think +that foreign travel has widened your principles out a bit. That’s what we +think, isn’t it, Ginty?” + +“My principles are what they always were,” said McMunn, “but I’ve some +small share of commonsense. I know there’s a foreigner coming on board +the night, a baron and a dissipated man----” + +“Come, now,’” said Lord Dunseverick, “you can’t be sure that Von +Edelstein is dissipated. You’ve never met him.” + +“He’s a foreigner and a baron,” said McMunn, “and that’s enough for me, +forbye that he’s coming here under very suspicious circumstances. If +I can get the better of him by means of strong drink and the snare of +alcoholic liquors----” + +“Good Lord!” said Lord Dunseverick. “You don’t expect to make a German +drunk with half a dozen bottles of lager beer, particularly as Ginty and +I mean to drink two each.” + +“There’s a dozen in the basket. And, under the circumstances, I consider +myself justified I’m no man for tricks, but if there’s any tricks to be +played, I’d rather play them myself than have them played on me. Mind +that now. It’s the way I’ve always acted, and it’s no a bad way.” + +“Gosh,” said Ginty, “there’s somebody coming aboard of us now. The +look-out man’s hailing him.” + +He left the cabin as he spoke. + +A few minutes later Ginty entered the cabin again. He was followed by +a tall man, so tall that he could not stand quite upright in the little +cabin. + +“It’s the baron,” said Ginty. + +“_Guten Abend_,” said McMunn. + +He possessed some twenty more German words, and knew that “beer” was +represented by the same sound as in English. The equipment seemed to him +sufficient for the interview. + +“I have the good fortune to speak English easily,” said Von Edelstein. +“Am I addressing myself to Mr. McMunn?” + +“Ay,” said McMunn, “you are. And this is Lord Dunseverick, a baron like +yourself.” + +Von Edelstein bowed, and held out his hand. + +“I prefer,” he said, “my military title, Captain von Edelstein. I +believe that Lord Dunseverick also has a military title. Should I say +colonel?” + +“As a matter of fact,” said Lord Dunseverick, “I’m not in the Army.” + +“I understand,” said Von Edelstein. “You are in the Volunteers, the +Ulster Volunteers. But, perhaps I should say general?” + +“I don’t call myself that,” said Lord Dunseverick. + +“As a matter of fact, my rank is not officially recognized, in England, +I mean.” + +“Ah, but here--we recognize it. I assure you, general, we regard the +Ulster Volunteers as a properly constituted military force.” + +McMunn had been groping in a locker behind him. He interrupted Von +Edelstein by setting a basket on the table. + +“Beer,” he said. + +Von Edelstein bowed, and sat down. + +“Ginty,” said McMunn, “get some tumblers. And now Baron----” + +“Captain,” said Von Edelstein. + +“Well get to business. What’s in them twenty-two cases that was dumped +into our hold today?” + +“Ah,” said Von Edelstein, smiling. “A little surprise. I hope, I feel +confident, a pleasant surprise, for my comrades of the Ulster Volunteer +Force.” + +Ginty entered the cabin carrying three tumblers and a corkscrew. The +beer was opened and poured out. Von Edelstein raised his glass. + +“To the Ulster Volunteer Force,” he said, “and to the day when the +pleasant little surprise we have prepared for you may prove a very +unpleasant surprise for--the enemy.” + +He bowed and drank. + +“What’s in them cases?” said McMunn. + +“Gentlemen,” said Von Edelstein, “something that will be of great value +to you--machine guns.” + +“We didn’t order them,” said McMunn, “and I’m not going to pay for +them.” + +“I am not authorized,” said Von Edelstein, “to reveal secrets of State; +but I think I may trust your discretion so far as to say that one +very highly placed desires that the Ulster Volunteer Force should be +thoroughly equipped for war. It is his wish:----” + +“Baron,” said McMunn, “here’s a bill drawn on my firm for the price of +the rifles. I’ll trouble you for a receipt, and in the matter of the +contents of them cases--I don’t say they’re not machine guns, but I’ve +no way of knowing at present. If it turns out that they’re any use to us +we may strike a bargain, but I’ll no pay for a pig in a poke.” + +He laid his bill and a form of receipt on the table. Von Edelstein +pushed them aside. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “between comrades in arms there is no question +of payment. It is the wish of one who is very highly placed that your +army----” + +“But look here,” said Lord Dunseverick, “we are not comrades in arms, as +you call it.” + +“Ah,” said Von Edelstein. “Not to-day, not to-morrow perhaps. But +who knows how soon? When the word is given, and some batteries of our +artillery land in Belfast to support your excellent infantry----” + +“What’s that?” said Ginty. + +“And a regiment of Prussian Guards----” + +“There’ll be no Prussians in Belfast,” said Ginty, “for we’ll not have +it.” + +“I am afraid,” said Lord Dunseverick, “that you’ve got some wrong idea +into your head.” + +“But,” said Von Edelstein, “you cannot fight alone. You would be--what +do you call it?--you would be wiped out. Even the English Army could do +that. You have no artillery. You have no cavalry. What are you but----” + +“Who said we were going to fight the English Army?” said Lord +Dunseverick. + +“If you think we’re a pack of dirty rebels,” said Ginty, “you’re making +a big mistake. We’re loyal men.” + +“But if you are not going to fight the English,” said Von Edelstein, +“God in heaven, who are you going to fight?” + +“Young man,” said McMunn, “you’re drinking beer in my ship, a thing +which is clean contrary to my principles, though I’m putting up with it; +but you’re going beyond the beyonds when you sit here and take the name +of the Almighty in vain. I’ll trouble you not to swear.” + +Von Edelstein stared at him in blank amazement. Then very slowly a look +of intelligence came over his face. He turned to Lord Dunseverick. + +“I think I understand,” he said. “You do not quite trust me. You fear +that I may be a spy in the pay of infamous Englishmen. But you are +mistaken--entirely mistaken. I offer you proof of my good faith. +General, be so kind as to read my commission.” + +He drew a folded document from his pocket, and spread it out before Lord +Dunseverick. + +“It is signed,” he said, “as you see, by the Emperor himself. It places +my services, the services of Captain von Edelstein, of the Prussian +Guard, at the disposal of the Ulster Volunteer Force, as military +organiser.” + +Lord Dunseverick glanced at the document before him. He read parts of +it with close attention. He laid his finger on the signature as if to +convince himself by actual touch that it really was what it seemed to +be. + +“You see,” said Von Edelstein, “I am to be trusted. When you and I +are fighting side by side against the cursed English, your enemies and +ours----” + +Von Edelstein was still smiling. What happened then happened in an +instant. Lord Dunseverick struck the German full on the mouth with his +fist. Von Edelstein’s head went back. His hands clutched convulsively at +the tablecloth. Before he had recovered, Lord Dunseverick hit him again, +beat him down on the cabin sofa, and struck blow after blow at his face. + +“You infernal scoundrel,” he said, “do you take me for a traitor?” + +“Quit it,” said McMunn. “Quit it when I tell you. You cannot kill the +man with your naked fists, and you’ll break the furniture.” + +Ginty drew a long coil of rope from a locker. He tied up Von Edelstein +and laid him, a helpless figure, on the table. + +“It’s my opinion,” said McMunn, “that we’d better be getting out to +sea.” + +“I’m thinking the same,” said Ginty. + +He went on deck. Soon _The McMunn Brothers_ was under way. + +Lord Dunseverick looked at the prostrate Von Edelstein. + +“What are we going to do with him?” he asked. + +“Drown him,” said McMunn. + +A trickle of blood was running down Von Edelstein’s chin. He spat out +some fragments of broken teeth. + +“It appears,” he said, “that I have made a mistake about your +intentions.” + +“You’ve offered an outrageous insult to loyal men,” said McMunn. + +“A mistake,” said Von Edelstein, “but surely excusable. I have in my +pocket at the present moment--would you be so kind as to feel in my +breast pocket? You’ll find some papers there, and a newspaper cutting +among them.” + +Lord Dunseverick slipped his hand into the prisoner’s pocket. He drew +out a number of letters and a newspaper cutting. It was a report, taken +from the _Belfast News Letter_, of the speech which he had made at +Ballymena a fortnight before. He had proclaimed the Kaiser the deliverer +of Ulster. His own words stared him in the face. McMunn took the cutting +and glanced at it. He thumped his fist on the table. + +“I stand by every word of it,” he said. “We will not have Home Rule.” + +“You are a curious people,” said Von Edelstein. “I thought--and even now +you say----” + +“That speech,” said McMunn, “was made for an entirely different purpose. +If you thought that we wanted a German Army in Ulster, or that we meant +to fire on the British flag----” + +“It is exactly what I did think,” said Von Edelstein. + +“You’re a born fool, then,” said McMunn. + +“Perhaps,” said Lord Dunseverick, “we ought not to drown him. Suppose we +take him home, and hand him over to the Ulster Provisional Government?” + +“I wish you would,” said Von Edelstein, “I am a student of human nature. +I should greatly like to meet your Ulster Government.” + +“You’ll maybe not like it so much when they hang you,” said McMunn, “and +it’s what they’ll do.” + + + + +XI ~~ SIR TIMOTHY’S DINNER-PARTY + +Mr. Courtney, the R.M., was a man of ideas, and prided himself on his +sympathy with progress, the advance of thought, and similar delights. If +he had been thirty years younger, and had lived in Dublin, he would have +been classed among the “Intellectuals.” He would then have written a +gloomy play or two, several poems and an essay, published at a shilling, +in a green paper cover, on the “Civilization of the Future.” Being, +unfortunately, fifty-five years of age, he could not write poetry +or gloomy plays. Nobody can after the age of forty. Being a Resident +Magistrate, he was debarred from discussing the Civilization of the +Future in print. No Government allows its paid servant to write books on +controversial subjects. But Mr. Courtney remained intellectually alert, +and was a determined champion of the cause of progress, even amid the +uncongenial society of a West of Ireland town. + +The introduction of Summer Time gave Mr. Courtney a great opportunity. +Almost everyone else in the neighbourhood objected to the change of the +clock. Cows, it was said, disliked being milked before their accustomed +hour. Dew collects in deep pools, and renders farm work impossible in +the early morning. It is unreasonable to expect labourers, who have +to rise early in any case, to get out of their beds before the day is +properly warm. Mr. Courtney combated all these objections with arguments +which struck him as sound, but irritated everybody else. When it +appeared that Ireland, worse treated as usual than England, was to +be fined an additional twenty-five minutes, and was to lose the proud +privilege of Irish time, Mr. Courtney was more pleased than ever. He +made merry over what he called the arguments of reactionary patriotism. + +Sir Timothy was the principal landlord, and, socially, the most +important person in the neighbourhood. Sir Timothy did not like Mr. +Courtney. He was of opinion that the R.M. was inclined to take a high +hand at Petty Sessions and to bully the other magistrates--Sir Timothy +was himself a magistrate--who sat with him on the Bench. He also thought +that Mr. Courtney was “too d----d superior” in private life. Sir Timothy +had the lowest possible opinion of the progress made by civilization in +his own time. The Civilization of the Future, about which Mr. Courtney +talked a great deal, seemed to Sir Timothy a nasty kind of nightmare. + +It was natural, almost inevitable, that Sir Timothy should take a +conservative view on the subject of the new time. + +“I don’t see the use of playing silly tricks with the clock,” he said. +“You might just as well say that I’d live ten years longer if everybody +agreed to say that I’m forty-eight instead of fifty-eight. I’d still +be fifty-eight in reality. It’s just the same with the time. We may all +make up our minds to pretend it’s eight o’clock when it’s really seven, +but it will still be seven.” + +Mr. Courtney smiled in a gentle, but very annoying manner. + +“My dear Sir Timothy,” he said, “don’t you see that what is really +wanted is a complete change in the habits of the population? We’ve been +gradually slipping into wasteful ways of living. Our expenditure on +artificial light------” + +“I know all about that,” said Sir Timothy. “If you’ve said it to me +once, you’ve said it a dozen times, and last year I did alter my clocks. +But this year--hang it all! They’re sticking another twenty-five minutes +on it. If they go on at this rate, moving us back an extra half hour +every May, we’ll be living in the middle of the night before we die.” + +“I’m sorry to hear you taking up that question of the so-called Irish +time,” said Mr. Courtney. “Reactionary patriotism----” + +Sir Timothy spluttered. Being an Irish gentleman, he hated to be accused +of patriotism, which he held--following Dr. Johnson--to be the last +refuge of a scoundrel. + +“There’s nothing patriotic about it,” he said. “What I object to hasn’t +anything to do with any particular country. It’s simply a direct insult +to the sun.” + +“The sun,” said Mr. Courtney, smiling more offensively than ever, “can +take care of itself.” + +“It can,” said Sir Timothy, “and does. It takes jolly good care not +to rise in Dublin at the same time that it does in Greenwich, and what +you’re trying to do is to bluff it into saying it does. When you come to +think of it, the sun doesn’t rise here the same time it does in Dublin. +We’re a hundred and twenty miles west of Dublin, so the real time +here----” + +“We can’t have a different time in every parish,” said Mr. Courtney. “In +the interests of international civilization----” + +“I don’t care a row of pins about international civilization. We’re +something like twenty minutes wrong already here. When you’ve made your +silly change to summer time, and wiped out that twenty-five minutes +Irish time, we shall be an hour and three quarters wrong.” + +“At all events,” said Mr. Courtney, “you’ll have to do it.” + +“I won’t.” + +“And when you’ve got accustomed to it, you’ll see the advantages of the +change.” + +Sir Timothy was profoundly irritated. + +“You may do as you like,” he said, “I mean to stick to the proper time. +The proper time, mind you, strictly according to the sun, as it rises +in this neighbourhood. I haven’t worked it out exactly yet, but I should +say, roughly, that there’ll be two hours’ difference between your watch +and mine.” + +Mr. Courtney gasped. + +“Do you mean to say that you’re actually going to add on two hours? + +“I’m going to take off two hours,” said Sir Timothy. + +Mr. Courtney thought for a moment. + +“You’ll be adding on those two hours,” he said, “not taking them +off----” + +“You’re an extraordinarily muddle-headed man, Courtney. Can’t you see +that if I call it six when you say it’s eight I’m taking off----” + +“You’re not. The way to look at it is this: A day is twenty-four hours +long. You say it’s twenty-six hours. Therefore, you add on.” + +“I don’t do anything of the sort,” said Sir Timothy. “Look here, the sun +rises, say, at 6 a.m. You and a lot of other silly people choose to say +that it rises at 8. What I’m doing--I and the sun, Courtney--mind that. +The sun’s with me---- What we’re doing is taking off two hours.” + +The argument went on for some time. Its result was that Sir Timothy +and Mr. Courtney did not speak to each other again for a fortnight. +Arguments, religious, political and economic, often end in this way. + +During that fortnight summer time established itself, more or less, in +the neighbourhood. Mr. Courtney, the local bank, the railway company, +and the police observed the new time in its full intensity. The parish +priest and most of the farmers took a moderate line. They sacrificed +the twenty-five minutes of the original Irish time, but resisted the +imposition of a whole extra hour. With them it was eight o’clock when +the nine o’clock train started for Dublin. A few extremists stood out +for their full rights as Irishmen, and insisted that the bank, which +said it opened at 10 a.m., was really beginning business at 8.35 a.m. +Sir Timothy, dragging his household with him, set up what he called +actual time, and breakfasted a full two hours after the progressive +party. + +The practical inconvenience of these differences of opinion became +obvious when Sir Timothy arrived at the Petty Sessions Court to take his +seat on the Bench just as Mr. Courtney, having completed the business of +the day, was going home for a rather late luncheon. + +“No cases to-day?” said Sir Timothy, coldly polite. + +“Oh, yes, there were, several. I’ve finished them off.” + +“But,” said Sir Timothy, “it’s only just the hour for beginning.” + +“Excuse me, it’s 2 p.m.” + +“12 noon,” said Sir Timothy. + +“2 p.m.,” repeated Mr. Courtney. + +Sir Timothy took out his watch. The hands were together at the hour of +12. He showed it to Mr. Courtney, who grinned. Sir Timothy scowled at him +and turned fiercely to a police sergeant who stood by. + +“Sergeant,” he said, “what time is it?” + +It is not the function of the Irish police to decide great questions of +State. Their business is to enforce what the higher powers, for the time +being, wish the law to be. In case of any uncertainty about which power +is the higher, the police occupy the uncomfortable position of neutrals. +The sergeant was not quite sure whether Sir Timothy or Mr. Courtney were +the more influential man. He answered cautiously. + +“There’s some,” he said, “who do be saying that it’s one o’clock at the +present time. There’s others--and I’m not saying they’re wrong--who are +of opinion that it’s half-past twelve, or about that. There’s them--and +some of the most respectable people is with them there--that says it’s 2 +p.m. If I was to be put on my oath this minute, I’d find it mortal hard +to say what time it was.” + +“By Act of Parliament,” said Mr. Courtney, “its 2 p.m.” + +“In the matter of an Act of Parliament,” said the sergeant, “I wouldn’t +like to be contradicting your honour.” + +Sir Timothy turned on his heel and walked away. The victory was with Mr. +Courtney, but not because he had an Act of Parliament behind him. Nobody +in Ireland pays much attention to Acts of Parliament. He made his point +successfully, because the police did not like to contradict him. +From that day on Sir Timothy made no attempt to take his seat on the +Magistrates’ Bench in the Court House. + +Late in the summer Sir Archibald Chesney visited the neighbourhood. Sir +Archibald is, of course, a great man. He is one of the people who are +supposed to govern Ireland. He does not actually do so. Nobody could. +But he dispenses patronage, which, after all, is one of the most +important functions of any Government. It was, for instance, in Sir +Archibald’s power to give Mr. Courtney a pleasant and well-paid post in +Dublin, to remove him from the uncongenial atmosphere of Connaught, and +set him in an office in the Lower Castle Yard. There, and in a house +in Ailesbury Road--houses in Ailesbury Road are most desirable--Mr. +Courtney could mingle in really intellectual society. + +Mr. Courtney knew this, and invited Sir Archibald to be his guest during +his stay in the neighbourhood. Sir Archibald gracefully accepted the +invitation. + +Then a surprising thing happened. Mr. Courtney received a very friendly +letter from Sir Timothy. + +“I hear,” so the letter ran, “that Sir Archibald Chesney is to be with +you for a few days next week. We shall be very pleased if you will bring +him out to dine with us some evening. Shall we say Tuesday at 7.30? I +shall not ask anyone else. Three of us will be enough for a couple of +bottles of my old port.” + +Sir Timothy’s port was very old and remarkably good. Mr. Courtney had +tasted it once or twice before the days when summer time was thought of. +No doubt, Sir Archibald would appreciate the port. + +He might afterwards take an optimistic view of life, and feel well +disposed towards Mr. Courtney. The invitation was accepted. + +Sir Archibald and Mr. Courtney dressed for dinner, as gentlemen +belonging to the high official classes in Ireland should and do. They +put on shirts with stiff fronts and cuffs. With painful efforts they +drove studs through tightly sealed buttonholes. They fastened white +ties round their collars. They encased their stomachs in stiff white +waistcoats. They struggled into silk-lined, silk-faced, long-tailed +coats. They wrapped their necks in white silk scarves. They even put +high silk hats on their heads. Their overcoats were becomingly open, for +the day was warm. They took their seats in the motor. Every policeman +in the village saluted them as they passed. They sped up the long, +tree-lined avenue which led to Sir Timothy’s house. They reached the +lofty doorway, over which crouched lions upheld a shield, bearing a coat +of arms. + +On the lawn opposite the door Sir Timothy, his two daughters and a young +man whom Mr. Courtney recognized as the police inspector, were playing +tennis. It was a bright and agreeable scene. The sun shone pleasantly. +Sir Timothy and the police inspector were in white flannels. The girls +wore pretty cotton frocks. + +Sir Archibald looked at Mr. Courtney. + +“We’ve come the wrong day,” he said, “or the wrong hour, or something.” + +“It _is_ Tuesday,” said Mr. Courtney, “and he certainly said 7.30.” + +“It’s infernally awkward,” said Sir Archibald, glancing at his clothes. + +Sir Timothy crossed the lawn, swinging his tennis racket and smiling. + +“Delighted to see you,” he said. “I’d have asked you to come up for a +game of tennis if I’d thought you’d have cared for it. Had an idea you’d +be busy all day, and would rather dress at your own place. Hullo, you +are dressed! A bit early, isn’t it? But I’m delighted to see you.” + +Sir Archibald stepped slowly from the car. Men who undertake the task +of governing Ireland must expect to find themselves looking like fools +occasionally. But it is doubtful whether any turn of the political or +administrative machine can make a man look as foolish as he feels when, +elaborately dressed in evening clothes, he is suddenly set down on +a sunny lawn in the middle of a group of people suitably attired for +tennis. Sir Archibald, puzzled and annoyed, turned to Mr. Courtney with +a frown. + +“He said half-past seven,” said Mr. Courtney. + +“I’m delighted to see you now or at any time, but, as a matter of fact, +it’s only half-past five,” said Sir Timothy. + +Sir Archibald looked at his watch. + +“It’s--surely my watch can’t have gained two hours?” + +“It’s half-past seven,” said Mr. Courtney, firmly. + +“Oh, no it isn’t,” said Sir Timothy. “I don’t dine by Act of +Parliament.” + +Sir Archibald frowned angrily. + +“We’d better go home again,” he said. “We mustn’t interrupt the tennis.” + +He climbed stiffly into the motor. + +“I suppose,” he said to Mr. Courtney a few minutes later, “that this is +some kind of Irish joke.” + +Mr. Courtney explained, elaborately and fully, Sir Timothy’s peculiar +views about time. + +“If I’d known,” said Sir Archibald, “that you were taking me to dine +with a lunatic, I should not have agreed to go.” + +Mr. Courtney recognized that his chances of promotion to a pleasant +post in Dublin had vanished. The Irish Government had no use for men who +place their superiors in embarrassing positions. + + + + +XII ~~ UNITED IRELAND + +“I’ll say this for old MacManaway, an honester man never lived nor what +he was; and I’m sorry he’s gone, so I am.” + +The speaker was Dan Gallaher. The occasion was the morning of the +auction of old MacManaway’s property. The place was the yard behind the +farmhouse in which MacManaway had lived, a solitary man, without wife or +child, for fifty years. Dan Gallaher held the hames of a set of harness +in his hand as he spoke and critically examined the leather of the +traces. It was good leather, sound and well preserved. Old MacManaway +while alive liked sound things and took good care of his property. + +“An honester man never lived,” Dan repeated “And I’m not saying that +because the old man and me agreed together, for we didn’t.” + +“How could you agree?” said James McNiece. “It wasn’t to be expected +that you would agree. There wasn’t a stronger Protestant nor a greater +Orangeman in the whole country nor old MacManaway.” + +James McNiece turned from the examination of a cart as he spoke and gave +his attention to the hames. His description of the dead man’s religious +and political convictions was just. No one in all the Ulster border land +ever held the principle of the Orange Society more firmly or opposed any +form of Home Rule more bitterly than old MacManaway. + +And Dan Gallaher was a Roman Catholic and a Nationalist of the extremest +kind. + +“They tell me,” said Dan Gallaher, in a pleasant conversational tone, +“that it’s to be yourself, James McNiece, that’s to be the head of the +Orangemen in the parish now that MacManaway is gone.” + +James looked at him sideways out of the corners of his eyes. Dan spoke +in a friendly tone, but it is never wise to give any information to +“Papishes and rebels.” + +“The Colonel,” he said, “is the Grand Master of the Orangemen in these +parts.” + +Colonel Eden, a J.P., and the principal landlord in the parish, drove +into the yard in his motor. A police sergeant slipped his pipe into his +pocket, stepped forward and took the number of the Colonel’s car. It has +never been decided in Ireland whether motor cars may or may not be used, +under the provisions of D.O.R.A., for attending auctions. + +We know that the safety of the empire is compromised by driving to a +race meeting. We know that the King and his Army are in no way injured +by our driving to market. Attendance at an auction stands midway +between pleasure and business; and the use of motors in such matters is +debatable. + +“It’s the D.I’s orders, sir,” said the sergeant apologetically. + +“All right,” said the Colonel, “but if the D.I. expects me to fine +myself at the next Petty Sessions hell be disappointed.” + +James McNiece and Dan Gallaher touched their hats to the Colonel. + +“Morning, James,” said the Colonel. “Morning, Dan. Fine day for the +sale, and a good gathering of people. I don’t know that I ever saw a +bigger crowd at an auction.” + +He looked round as he spoke. The whole parish and many people from +outside the parish had assembled. The yard was full of men, handling and +appraising the outdoor effects. Women passed in and out of the house, +poked mattresses with their fingers, felt the fabrics of sheets and +curtains, examined china and kitchen utensils warily. + +“There’s the doctor over there,” said the Colonel, “looking at the +stable buckets, and who’s that young fellow in the yellow leggings, +James?” + +“I’m not rightly sure,” said James McNiece, “but I’m thinking he’ll be +the new D.I. from Curraghfin.” + +“It is him,” said Dan Gallaher. “I was asking the sergeant this minute +and he told me. What’s more he said he was a terrible sharp young +fellow.” + +“That won’t suit you, Dan,” said the Colonel. “You and your friends will +have to be a bit careful before you get up another rebellion.” + +“It may not suit me,” said Dan, “but there’s others it won’t suit +either. Didn’t I see the sergeant taking the number of your motor, +Colonel, and would he be doing the like of that if the new D.I. hadn’t +told him?” + +The Colonel laughed. As commander of a battalion of the Ulster Volunteer +Force, he was fully prepared to meet Dan Gallaher on the field of +battle--Dan leading the National Volunteers. He looked forward with +something like pleasure to the final settlement of the Home Rule +question by the ordeal of battle. In the meanwhile he and Dan Gallaher +by no means hated each other, and were occasionally in full sympathy +when the police or some ridiculous Government department made trouble by +fussy activity. + +Mr. Robinson, the auctioneer, drove up in his dogcart. He touched his +hat to Colonel Eden, gave an order to his clerk and crossed the yard +briskly. He twisted the cigarette he smoked into the corner of his mouth +with deft movements of his lips, waved his hand to various acquaintances +and looked round him with quick, cheerful glances. No man in the country +was quicker to appreciate the financial worth of a crowd. He knew before +a single bid was made whether people were in a mood to spend lavishly. +He found himself very well satisfied with the prospect of this +particular auction. The stuff he had to sell, indoors and out, was good. +The farmers were enjoying a prosperous season. They had money in their +pockets which they would certainly want to spend. Mr. Robinson had +visions of a percentage, his share of the proceeds, running into three +figures. + +He began work in a corner of the yard with a cross-cut saw. The bidding +rose merrily to a point slightly higher than the cost of a similar saw +new in a shop. At 23/6 Mr. Robinson knocked it down to a purchaser who +seemed well satisfied. A number of small articles, scythes, barrows, +spades, were sold rapidly, Mr. Robinson moving round the yard from +outhouse to outhouse, surrounded by an eager crowd which pressed on him. +His progress was not unlike that of a queen bee at swarming time. He +made--as she makes--short flights, and always at the end of them found +himself in the centre of a cluster of followers. + +At about half-past twelve Mr. Robinson reached his most important lot. +He lit a fresh cigarette--his eighth--before putting up for sale a rick +of hay. + +“About four tons,” said Mr. Robinson, “new meadow hay, well saved, saved +with not a drop of rain. Gentlemen, I needn’t tell you that this is a +rare, under existing conditions, a unique opportunity. Hay--you know +this better than I do--is at present unobtainable in the ordinary market. +Now, don’t disappoint me, gentlemen. Let me have a reasonable offer. +Thirty pounds. Did I hear some one say fifteen pounds? Less than four +pounds a ton! Now, gentlemen, really----” + +But the crowd in front of Mr. Robinson knew just as well as he did that +four pounds a ton is not a reasonable offer. The bids succeeded each +other rapidly. The original fifteen pounds changed to twenty pounds, +then to twenty-five, rose a little more slowly to thirty pounds. At +thirty-two pounds the bidding hesitated. Mr. Robinson, dropping his +cigarette from his mouth, urged his clients on with gusts of eloquence. +There was a short spurt. The bids rose by five shillings at a time and +finally stopped dead at thirty-four pounds. The hay was sold at a little +over eight pounds a ton. Public interest, roused to boiling point by the +sale of a whole rick of hay, cooled down a little when Mr. Robinson went +on to the next lot on his list. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am now offering the hay stored in the loft +above the stable. A small lot, gentlemen, but prime hay. I offer no +guarantee as to the quantity in the loft; but I should guess it at +anything between ten and fifteen hundred-weight.” + +Several of the more important farmers drew out of the crowd which +surrounded Mr. Robinson. It was not worth while bidding for so small a +quantity of hay. Other members of the crowd, feeling that a breathing +space had been granted them, took packets of sandwiches from their +pockets and sat down in one of the outhouses to refresh themselves. +Mr. Robinson viewed the diminishing group of bidders with some +disappointment. He was gratified to see that the new police officer from +Curraghfin, a gentleman who had not so far made a single bid, crossed +the yard and took a place on the steps leading to the loft. Colonel +Eden, too, appeared interested in the new lot of hay. If the inspector +of police and Colonel Eden began to bid against each other the hay might +realize a good price. + +“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Robinson, “shall we make a start with three +pounds?” + +He glanced at Colonel Eden, then at the police officer. Neither +gentleman made any sign of wishing to bid. It was James McNiece who made +the first offer. + +“Two pounds,” he said. + +There was a pause. + +“Two pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “two pounds. Going at two pounds. +You’re not going to let this hay,--more than half a ton of it--go at two +pounds.” + +He looked appealingly at Colonel Eden and at the police officer. They +were entirely unresponsive. + +“And at two pounds, going----” said Mr. Robinson. + +“Two-ten,” said Dan Gallaher, in a quiet voice. + +“Two-fifteen,” said James McNiece. + +Dan Gallaher, still apparently bored by the proceedings, raised the +price another five shillings. James McNiece went half a crown further. +Dan Gallaher, becoming slightly interested, made a jump to three pounds +ten. McNiece, with an air of finality, bid four pounds. The contest +began to attract attention. When the price rose to five pounds interest +became lively, and those who had drawn out of the group round Mr. +Robinson began to dribble back. It seemed likely that the contest +was one of those, not uncommon at Irish auctions, into which personal +feelings enter largely and the actual value of the article sold is +little considered. There was a certain piquancy about a struggle of this +kind between a prominent Orangeman like James McNiece, and Dan Gallaher, +whom everyone knew to be the leader of the Sinn Fein party. + +Interest developed into actual excitement when the price rose to ten +pounds. A half ton of hay never is and never has been worth ten pounds. +But ten pounds was by no means the final bid. + +“Mr. McNiece,” said Mr. Robinson, “the bid is against you.” + +“Guineas,” said McNiece. + +“Eleven,” said Dan Gallaher. + +“Guineas,” said McNiece. + +The duet went on, McNiece capping Gallaher’s pounds with a monotonous +repetition of the word guineas until the price rose to twenty pounds. +At that point McNiece faltered for a moment. The auctioneer, watching +keenly, saw him turn half round and look at Colonel Eden. The Colonel +nodded slightly, so slightly that no one except Mr. Robinson and McNiece +himself saw the gesture. + +“At twenty pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “going, and at twenty pounds----” + +“Thirty,” said McNiece. + +The crowd of watchers gasped audibly. This was something outside of all +experience. A man might willingly pay a few shillings, even a pound, +too much for the sake of getting the better of an opponent; but to give +thirty pounds for half a ton of hay--not even the natural enmity of an +Orangeman for a Sinn Feiner would account for such recklessness. + +“Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher. + +It was his turn to say guineas now, and he repeated the word without +faltering until the price rose to fifty pounds. Mr. Robinson took +off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never in all his +experience of auctions had he heard bidding like this. He lit a fresh +cigarette, holding the match in fingers which trembled visibly. + +“You will understand, gentlemen, that I am only selling the hay, not the +barn or the stable.” + +“Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher. + +It was the last bid. As he made it Colonel Eden turned and walked out +of the group round the auctioneer. James McNiece took his pipe from his +pocket and filled it slowly. + +“The hay is yours, Mr. Gallaher,” said the auctioneer. + +Dan Gallaher, having secured the hay, left the yard. He found his horse, +which he had tethered to a tree, and mounted. He rode slowly down the +rough lane which led from the farm. At the gate leading to the high road +the police sergeant stopped him. + +“If you wouldn’t mind waiting a minute, Mr. Gallaher,” said the +sergeant, “the D.I. would like to speak to you.” + +“What about?” said Gallaher. + +The sergeant winked ponderously. + +“It might be,” he said, “about the hay you’re just after buying.” + +“If he wants it,” said Gallaher, “he can have it, and I’ll deliver it to +him at his own home at half the price I paid for it.” + +The District Inspector, smiling and tapping his gaiters with a riding +switch, explained in a few words that he did not want the hay and did +not intend to pay for it. + +“I’m taking over the contents of that loft,” he said, “in the name of +the Government under the provisions of D.O.R.A.” + +“I don’t know,” said Gallaher, “that you’ve any right to be taking over +what I’ve bought in that kind of way, and what’s more you’ll not be +able to do it without you show me a proper order in writing, signed by a +magistrate.” + +“If I were you,” said the D.I., “I wouldn’t insist on any kind of legal +trial about that hay. At present there’s no evidence against you, Mr. +Gallaher, except that you paid a perfectly absurd price for some hay +that you didn’t want, and I’m not inclined to press the matter now. +I’ve got what I wanted; but if you insist on dragging the matter into +Court----” + +“I do not,” said Gallaher. + +At ten o’clock that evening Dan Gallaher and James McNiece sat together +in the private room behind the bar of Sam Twining’s public-house. The +house was neutral ground used by Orangemen and Nationalists alike, a +convenient arrangement, indeed a necessary arrangement, for there was no +other public-house nearer than Curraghfin. + +“Dan,” said James McNiece, “I’m an Orangeman and a Protestant and a +loyalist, and what I’ve always said about Home Rule and always will say +is this:--We’ll not have it and to Hell with the rebels. But I’m telling +you now I’d rather you had them, papist and rebel and all as you are, +than see them swept off that way by the police. And what’s more, I’m +not the only one says that. The Colonel was talking to me after he +heard what happened, and what he said was this--‘The Government of this +country,’ said he, meaning the police, ‘is a disgrace to civilization.’” + +“Give me your hand, James McNiece,” said Gallaher. “Let me shake your +hand to show there’s no ill feeling about the way I bid against you at +the sale to-day.” + +McNiece laid down the glass of whisky which he was raising to his lips +and stretched out his hand. Gallaher grasped it and held it. + +“Tell me this now, James McNiece,” he said, “for it’s what I was never +sure of--How many was there behind that hay?” + +McNiece looked round him carefully and made sure that no third person +could hear him. Neglecting no precaution he sank his voice to a whisper. + +“Twenty rifles,” he said, “of the latest pattern, the same as the +soldiers use, and four hundred rounds of ball cartridge.” + +“Gosh,” said Gallaher, “but we’d have done great work with them. Either +your lads or mine, James McNiece, would have done great work with them. +But, sure, what’s the use of talking? The police has them now.” + +“Damn the police,” said James McNiece. + + + + +XIII ~~ OLD BIDDY AND THE REBELS + +The other servants--there were four of them--spoke of her as “the +ould cat” or in moments of extreme exasperation “that divil Biddy +O’Halloran.” When they spoke to her they called her “Mrs. O’Halloran,” + or even “Mrs. O’Halloran, ma’am.” Even Lady Devereux, though nominal +mistress of the house, did not dare to call her “Biddy,” She would as +soon have addressed an archbishop as “Dickie,” if, indeed, there is an +arch-bishop whose Christian name is Richard. There is probably not +a woman anywhere, however brave, who would venture to speak to Mrs. +O’Halloran face to face and call her “Biddy.” But a man, especially if +he be young and good-looking, is in a different case. Harry Devereux +called her “Biddy.” He had earned the right to be familiar with his +aunt’s cook. + +As a schoolboy Harry spent most of his holidays at his aunt’s house +in Dublin, and in those days Mrs. O’Halloran used to box his ears and +occasionally spank him. When he grew to be a man and was called in due +course to the Irish Bar, he was often at his aunt’s house and still +visited Mrs. O’Halloran in her kitchen. She gave up smacking him but +she still called him “Master Harry,” After the outbreak of war Harry +Devereux became a Second Lieutenant in the Wessex Regiment. He displayed +himself in his uniform to his aunt, who admired his appearance in her +placid way. He also showed himself to Mrs. O’Halloran, who snubbed him +sharply. + +“So it’s fighting you’re for now, Master Harry,” she said. “Well, it’s +what’ll suit you. It’s my opinion that you’re never out of mischief only +when you’re in something worse. It is that way with you as long as +I know you and that’s since you were born or pretty near. It’s the +Germans, is it? Well, I’m sorry for them Germans if there’s many like +you going to be soldiers.” + +Harry took this as a compliment. It was his hope that the Germans would +be sorry for themselves when he got out to France with his platoon of +Wessex men. + +After dinner, Molly, the parlourmaid, her day’s work ended, became +sentimental. She said it was a terrible thing to think of all the fine +men that would be killed, and maybe young Mr. Devereux among them. Mrs. +O’Halloran checked her flow of feeling. + +“Is it Master Harry be killed? Talk sense, can’t you? Sure you couldn’t +kill the like of that one. Haven’t I seen him, not once but a dozen +times, climbing out on the roof of the house and playing himself to and +fro among the chimneys. If that wasn’t the death of him, and him not +more than twelve years old at the time, is it likely the Germans would +be able to kill him? The like of him is the same as fleas that you’d +be squeezing with your finger and thumb or maybe drowning in a basin +of water. You know well they’d be hopping over you after the same as +before.” + +Molly sniffed. It was not wise to argue with “Ould Biddy,” who had a +talent for forcible speech. + +Mrs. O’Halloran had the best right in the world to the free use of +her tongue. She was a really good cook. She had satisfied Sir Joseph +Devereux while he lived. She satisfied Lady Devereux afterwards. And +Lady Devereux appreciated good cooking. Her husband dead, her three +daughters safely married, she had leisure to enjoy eating and had money +enough to pay for the best which the Dublin markets provided. Next to +good food Lady Devereux valued peace and the absence of worry. Mrs. +O’Halloran enjoyed strife and liked a strenuous life. She took all the +annoyances of the household on herself, and when they proved too few for +her, created unnecessary worry for herself by harassing the maids. Lady +Devereux slept untroubled at night, rose late in the morning, found all +things very much to her liking, and grew comfortably fat. + +For eight months of the year, from October till the end of May, Lady +Devereux lived in one of the fine Georgian houses which are the glory of +the residential squares of Dublin. It was a corner house, rather larger +than the others in the square, with more light and more air, because its +position gave it a view up and down two streets as well as across the +lawn which formed the centre of the square. + +Before the war Harry Devereux used to say that his aunt’s house was +the best in Dublin for a dance. It pained him to see its possibilities +wasted. After receiving his commission he looked at the world with the +eye of a soldier and gave it as his opinion that the house occupied +the finest strategic position in Dublin. There was not much chance of +persuading plump old Lady Devereux to give a ball. There seemed even +less chance of her home ever being used as a fortress. But fate plays +strange tricks with us and our property, especially in Ireland. It +happened that Lady Devereux’ house was occupied more or less by the +soldiers of one army, and shot at with some vigour by the soldiers of +another on Easter Monday, 1916. Oddly enough it was neither the rebels +nor the soldiers who earned credit by their military operations, but old +Biddy O’Halloran. + +Mrs. O’Halloran always enjoyed Bank holidays greatly. She did not go +out, visit picture houses or parade the streets in her best clothes. She +found a deeper and more satisfying pleasure in telling the younger maids +what she thought of them when they asked and obtained leave to go out +for the afternoon, and in making scathing remarks about their frocks and +hats as they passed through the kitchen to reach the area door. On +that particular Easter Monday she was enjoying herself thoroughly. A +kitchenmaid--she was new to the household or she would not have done +it--had asked Lady Devereux’ permission to go out for the afternoon and +evening. She got what she asked for. Everybody who asked Lady Devereux +for anything got it as a matter of course. The kitchenmaid ought to +have made her application through Mrs. O’Halloran. It is the rule in +all services that remote authorities must be approached only through +the applicant’s immediate superiors. Mrs. O’Halloran took her own way of +impressing this on the kitchenmaid. + +“I suppose now,” she said, “that you’ll be trapsing the streets of +Dublin in the new pink blouse that you spent your last month’s wages +on?” + +That was exactly what the kitchenmaid meant to do. Mrs. O’Halloran +looked the girl over critically. + +“I don’t know,” she said, “that I ever seen a girl that would look worse +in a pink blouse than yourself. The face that’s on you is the colour +of a dish of mashed turnips, and the pink blouse will make it worse, if +worse can be.” + +The kitchenmaid was a girl of some spirit. She felt inclined to cry, but +she pulled herself together and snorted instead. + +“I suppose,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “that you’ll be looking out for a +young man to keep you company?” + +The kitchenmaid did, in fact, hope to walk about with a young man; but +she denied this. + +“I’ll be looking for no such thing,” she said. + +“It’s well for you then,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “for I’m thinking you’d +look a long while before you found one. It’s very little sense men has, +the best of them, but I never met one yet that hadn’t more sense than +to go after a girl like you. If you were any good for any mortal thing a +man might be content to marry you in spite of your face; but the way +you are, not fit to darn your own stockings, let alone sew for a man, or +cook the way he could eat what you put before him, it would be a queer +one that would walk the same side of the street with you, pink blouse or +no pink blouse.” + +The kitchenmaid, though a girl of spirit, was still young. She was +washing potatoes in the scullery while Mrs. O’Halloran spoke to her. Two +large tears dropped from her eyes into the sink. Mrs. O’Halloran smiled. + +Then Molly, the parlourmaid, flung open the kitchen door and rushed to +Mrs. O’Halloran. Her face was flushed with excitement and terror. Her +eyes were staring. She was panting. Her nice frilly cap was over one +ear. She held her apron crumpled into a ball and clutched tightly in her +hand. + +“It’s murdered we’ll be, killed and murdered and worse! There’s them in +the house with guns and all sorts that’ll ruin and destroy everything +that’s in it. The mistress is dead this minute and it’s me they’re after +now. What’ll we do at all, at all?” + +The kitchenmaid, stirred from her private grief by the news, left her +potatoes and came to the kitchen. She and Molly clung to each other. + +“It’s the Sinn Feiners,” she said, “and they’re out for blood.” + +“Where’s the police?” said Molly. “What good is the police that they +wouldn’t be here and us being murdered?” + +“It’s blood they want,” said the kitchenmaid, “and it's blood they’ll +have.” + +“Molly,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “is there men in the house or is there +not? Stop your bawling now, and tell me.” + +“There is, there is,” said Molly, “with guns and cannons and knives. +Glory be to God, but I never thought to die this way. What’ll we do at +all, at all? Would it be any good hiding?” + +Mrs. O’Halloran, with cool deliberation, shifted the position of two +pots on the kitchen range. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. + +“It’s your place to attend the door and not mine, Molly,” she said, “but +if you’re afeard....” + +She looked scornfully at the two girls and left the kitchen. + +In the hall a young man stood just inside the door on the mat. He wore +a greenish-grey uniform and carried a rifle. Across his chest was +a bandolier. He looked uncomfortable, like a man who finds himself +unexpectedly in a public place when wearing a fancy dress. The door was +wide open. On the steps outside were two other young men. They also wore +uniforms and carried rifles. + +“Now what may you be wanting?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + +The man on the mat--he was really little more than a boy--fumbled in one +pocket after another. + +His uniform, like that of the British soldier, had a good many pockets. +Finally he drew out a sheet of paper. + +“This is my authority,” he said, “from the Provisional Government of the +Irish Republic.” + +He handed the paper to Mrs. O’Halloran. + +“If it’s a collection you’re making for the Irish Language Fund,” said +Mrs. O’Halloran, “her ladyship gave half a crown last week to one of +yees, and she’ll give no more, so you can take yourselves off out of +this as quick as you like.” + +“We are not collectors,” said the young man, with dignity. + +“Whether you are not, it’s what you look,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, +“dressed up in them clothes, with your toy guns and all. You ought to be +ashamed of yourselves.” + +The suggestion that his rifle was not a real weapon roused the spirit of +the young man. + +“In the name of the Irish Republic,” he said, “I take possession of this +house for military purposes.” + +“Musha, but that’s fine talk,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “Will nothing do +you, only military purposes?” + +“We shall do no harm to the inmates or the contents of the house,” said +the young man. + +“You will not, for you won’t be let.” + +“But I demand free entrance to the upper storeys for myself and my men.” + +He turned to the two boys on the steps outside the door. + +“Enter,” he said, “and follow me.” + +“Will you wipe your boots on the mat,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and not +be carrying all the mud of the streets into the house with you. Do you +think the girls that does be here has nothing to do only to be sweeping +carpets and polishing floors after the likes of you?” + +The army of the Irish Republic has had many crimes laid to its charge; +but it has not been said that its soldiers were guilty of any needless +discourtesy to the inhabitants of the houses of which they took +possession. The three young men wiped their boots on Lady Devereux’ +doormat with elaborate cafe. Mrs. O’Halloran watched them critically. + +“Is it the police you’re out after with them guns?” she said. “It’s a +pity, so it is, to see fine young fellows like you mixing yourselves +up with that foolishness. Sure they’ll get you at the latter end, and +you’ll be had up in Court.” + +The leader of the little party of Sinn Feiners was not inclined to +discuss the future prospects of the insurrection with Mrs. O’Halloran. +He moved across the hall towards the staircase, followed by his two +young men. They walked delicately, stepping carefully from one to +another of the rugs which lay on the floor and avoiding the polished +boards. They were courteous and considerate rebels. + +“Will nothing but the front stairs suit you?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. +“Cock you up, indeed, the likes of you, that never was in a lady’s house +before. The back stairs is good enough for me, so I’m thinking it’s good +enough for you. Come along with you now.” + +She led them past the foot of the great staircase and through a swing +door covered with green baize. That door, such was the fancy of the +designer of Lady Devereux’ house, concealed another, a very solid door, +made after the Georgian fashion, of thick mahogany. The baize-covered +door had a spring on it so that it swung shut of itself. Mrs. O’Halloran +held it open with one hand. With the other she turned the handle of the +solid door beyond. + +“Will you come along now,” she said to the three young men, “and take +care you don’t be scratching the polish off the door with them guns +you’re so proud of?” + +They were foolish rebels, those three. They were young and, though +Irish, this was the first time they had taken part in an insurrection. +They had marched forth to garrison Lady Devereux’ house expecting much, +hand-to-hand fighting perhaps in the hall, the tears and hysterics of +terrified women, revolver shots from outraged loyalists. Anything of +that sort, anything heroic they were prepared for. Old Biddy O’Halloran, +with her humorous eyes and her ready tongue, took them aback. They +walked through the mahogany door meekly enough. + +They found themselves in a small cloak room. There was a wash-hand basin +and a couple of towels in one corner. A pile of carriage rugs lay on a +shelf. Some waterproof coats hung from pegs. There were three umbrellas +in a stand. There was one small window which looked out on a back yard +and was heavily barred. There was not the smallest sign of a staircase +leading to the upper storey of the house or to anywhere else. + +A nervous and excitable woman who had trapped three young men would have +made haste to lock them in. Mrs. O’Halloran was in no hurry at all. The +key of the mahogany door was on the inside of the lock. She took it out +deliberately. + +“There you stay,” she said, “the three of yous, till you’ve sense enough +to go back to your homes, and it’s your mothers will be thankful to me +this day for keeping you out of mischief. Listen to me now before I lock +the door.” + +She fitted the key into the outside of the lock and half closed the door +while she spoke. + +“If I hear a word out of your heads or if there’s any shooting of them +guns, or if you start cracking and banging on that door, or kicking +up any sort of a noise that might disturb her ladyship, I’ll give you +neither bite nor sup, not if I have to keep you here for a week, so be +good now and mind what I’m telling you.” + +She shut the door and turned the key in the lock. + +At the head of the kitchen stairs stood Molly and the kitchenmaid. + +“Will I run for the police?” said the kitchenmaid. “Sure I wouldn’t be +afeard to do it if Molly would come with me.” + +“You’ll run down to the scullery,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and you’ll +go on washing them potatoes, and Molly along with you. That’s all the +running either the one or the other of you will do this day.” + +“Her ladyship’s bell is ringing,” said Molly. “Will I not go to her? It +could be she’s not dead yet and might be wanting help.” + +“It’s little help you’d give her if she was wanting it, you with your +cap on your ear, instead of the top of your head, and your apron like a +wrung dishclout I wonder you’re not ashamed to be seen. Get along with +you down to the kitchen and stay there. Anything that’s wanted for her +ladyship I’ll do myself.” + +Lady Devereux was in her morning room, a pleasant sunny apartment which +looked out on the square. The day was warm, but Lady Devereux was an old +woman. She sat in front of a bright fire. She sat in a very deep +soft chair with her feet on a footstool. She had a pile of papers and +magazines on a little table beside her. She neither stirred nor looked +up when Mrs. O’Halloran entered the room. + +“Molly,” she said, “I heard some men talking in the hall. I wish they +wouldn’t make so much noise.” + +Mrs. O’Halloran cleared her throat and coughed. Lady Devereux looked up. + +“Oh,” she said, “it’s not Molly. It’s you, Mrs. O’Halloran. Then I +suppose it must be plumbers.” + +The inference was a natural one. Mrs. O’Halloran always dealt with +plumbers when they came. She was the only person in the house who could +deal with plumbers. + +“Or perhaps some men about the gas,” said Lady Devereux. “I hope they +won’t want to come in here.” + +The pleasant quiet life in Lady Devereux’ house was occasionally +broken by visits from plumbers and gas men. No one, however wealthy or +easygoing, can altogether escape the evils which have grown up with our +civilization. + +“It’s not plumbers, my lady,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “nor it isn’t gas +men. It’s Sinn Feiners.” + +“Dear me, I suppose they want a subscription. My purse is on my writing +table, Mrs. O’Halloran. Will five shillings be enough? I think I ought +to give them something. I’m always so sorry for people who have to go +round from house to house collecting.” + +“I have the three of them in the cloakroom downstairs and the key turned +on them,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + +It is quite possible that Lady Devereux might have expressed some +surprise at this drastic way of treating men, presumably well-meaning +men, who came to ask for money. Before she spoke again she was startled +by the sound of several rifle shots fired in the street outside her +house. She was not much startled, not at all alarmed. A rifle fired in +the open air at some distance does not make a very terrifying sound. + +“Dear me,” she said, “I wonder what that is. It sounds very like +somebody shooting.” + +Mrs. O’Halloran went over to the window and opened it. There was a +narrow iron balcony outside. She stepped on to it. + +“It’s soldiers, my lady,” she said. “They’re in the square.” + +“I suppose it must be on account of the war,” said Lady Devereux. + +She had learned--before Easter, 1916, everybody had learned--to put down +all irregularities to the war. Letters got lost in the post. The price +of sugar rose. Men married unexpectedly, “on account of the war.” + +“But I don’t think they ought to be allowed to shoot in the square,” she +added. “It might be dangerous.” + +It was dangerous. A bullet--it must have passed very close to Mrs. +O’Halloran--buried itself in the wall of the morning room. A moment +later another pierced a mirror which hung over Lady Devereux’ writing +table. Mrs. O’Halloran came into the room again and shut the window. + +“You’d think now,” she said “that them fellows were shooting at the +house.” + +“I wish you’d go down and tell them to stop,” said Lady Devereux. “Of +course I know we ought to do all we can to help the soldiers, such +gallant fellows, suffering so much in this terrible war. Still I do +think they ought to be more careful where they shoot.” + +Mrs. O’Halloran went quietly down the two flights of stairs which led +from the morning-room to the ground floor of the house. She had no idea +of allowing herself to be hustled into any undignified haste either by +rebels or troops engaged in suppressing the rebellion. When she reached +the bottom of the stairs she stopped. Her attention was held by two +different noises. The Sinn Feiners were battering the door of their +prison with the butts of their rifles. Molly, the kitchenmaid and Lady +Devereux’ two other servants were shrieking on the kitchen stairs. Mrs. +O’Halloran dealt with the rebels first. She opened the baize-covered +door and put her mouth to the keyhole of the other. + +“Will yous keep quiet or will yous not?” she said. “There’s soldiers +outside the house this minute waiting for the chance to shoot you, and +they’ll do it, too, if you don’t sit down and behave yourselves. Maybe +it’s that you want. If it is you’re going the right way about getting +it. But if you’ve any notion of going home to your mothers with your +skins whole you’ll stay peaceable where you are. Can you not hear the +guns?” + +The three rebels stopped battering the door and listened. The rifle fire +began to slacken. No more than an occasional shot was to be heard. The +fighting had died down. It was too late for the prisoners to take any +active part in it. They began to consider the future. They made up their +minds to take the advice given them and stay quiet. + +Mrs. O’Halloran went to the head of the kitchen stairs. The four maids +were huddled together. Mrs. O’Halloran descended on them. She took +Molly, who was nearest to her, by the shoulders and shook her violently. +The housemaid and Lady Devereux’ maid fled at once to the coal cellar. +The kitchenmaid sat down and sobbed. + +“If there’s another sound out of any of yous,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, +“it’ll be the worse for you after. Isn’t it enough for one day to +have three young fellows in the house trying to get shot, and soldiers +outside trying to shoot them, and every sort of divilment in the way of +a row going on, without having a pack of girls bellowing and bawling +on the kitchen stairs? It’s mighty fond you are, the whole of you, +of dressing yourselves up, in pink blouses and the like” (she looked +angrily at the kitchenmaid) “and running round the streets to see if +you can find a man to take up with you. And now when there’s men enough +outside and in, nothing will do but to be screeching. But sure girls is +like that, and where’s the use of talking?” + +Mrs. O’Halloran might have said more. She felt inclined to say a good +deal more but she was interrupted by a loud knocking at the hall door. + +“I dursent go to it.” said Molly. “I dursent. You wouldn’t know who might +be there nor what they might do to you.” + +“Nobody’s asking you to go,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + +She went to the door herself and opened it. A sergeant and eight men +were on the steps. + +“And what may you be wanting?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “What right have +you to come battering and banging at the door of her ladyship’s house +the same as if it was a public-house and you trying to get in after +closing time? Be off out of this, now, the whole of you. I never seen +such foolishness.” + +“My orders are to search the house,” said the sergeant; “rebels have +been firing on us from the roof.” + +“There’s no rebels been firing out of this house,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, +“and what’s more----” + +“My orders,” said the sergeant. + +“There’s no orders given in this house,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “only +mine and maybe her ladyship’s at odd times.” + +She need scarcely have mentioned Lady Devereux. An order from her was a +very exceptional thing. + +“Our officer----” said the sergeant “Private Beggs, go and report to the +officer that we are refused admission to this house.” + +Private Beggs turned to obey the order. The officer in charge of the +party came out of the door of a house half-way along the side of the +square. Mrs. O’Halloran recognised him. It was Second Lieutenant Harry +Devereux. + +“Master Harry,” she called, “Master Harry, come here at once. Is it you +that’s been raising ructions about the square? Shooting and destroying +and frightening decent people into fits? Faith, I might have known it +was you. If there’s divilment going you’d be in it.” + +Harry Devereux, intensely conscious of his responsibility as commander +of men in a real fight, reached the bottom of the steps which led to his +aunt’s door. + +“Enter the house, sergeant,” he said, “and search it.” + +Mrs. O’Halloran stood right in the middle of the doorway. The sergeant +looked at her doubtfully and hesitated. + +“Come up out of that, Master Harry,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and don’t +be trying to hide behind the sergeant. It’s no wonder you’re ashamed of +yourself, but I see you plain enough. Come here now till I talk to you.” + +The sergeant grinned. Private Beggs, who was behind his officer, laughed +openly. + +“Was there nowhere else in the world for you to have a battle--if a +battle was what you wanted,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “only in front of +your aunt’s house? Many and many’s the time I’ve smacked you for less +than what you’ve done to-day. Isn’t there bullets in her ladyship’s +morning-room? Isn’t there a grand looking-glass in a gold frame gone to +smithers with your shooting? Isn’t Molly and the other girls screeching +this minute down in the coal cellar, for fear you’ll kill them, and now +nothing will do you seemingly only to be tramping all over the house. +Search it, moya, search it! But you’ll not be let, Master Harry; neither +you nor the sergeant nor any of the rest of you.” + +Second Lieutenant Harry Devereux pulled himself together and made an +effort to save what was left of his dignity. He had led his men across +the square under a shower of rebel bullets from the roofs of the houses. +He had taken cool advantage of all possible cover. He had directed his +men’s fire till he drove the rebels from their shelters. No one could +say of him that he was other than a gallant officer. But his heart +failed him when he was face to face with his aunt’s cook. + +“I think we needn’t search this house, sergeant,” he said. “I know it.” + +“If you’d like to come back in an hour or two, Master Harry,” said Mrs. +O’Halloran, “I’ll have a bit of dinner ready for you, and I wouldn’t say +but there might be something for the sergeant and his men. It’s what her +ladyship is always saying that we ought to do the best we can for the +lads that’s fighting for us against the Germans--so long as they behave +themselves. But mind this now, sergeant, if you do look in in the course +of the evening there must be no carrying on with the girls. The Lord +knows they’re giddy enough without you upsetting them worse.” + +That night, after dark, three young Sinn Feiners climbed the wall at the +end of Lady Devereux’ back yard and dropped into a narrow lane beyond +it. A fortnight later Mrs. O’Halloran received a large parcel containing +three suits of clothes, the property of Second Lieutenant Devereux, left +by him in his aunt’s house when he first put on his uniform. They were +carefully brushed and folded, in no way the worse for having been worn +by strangers for one night. + +In the bottom of Mrs. O’Halloran’s trunk there are three rebel uniforms. +And on the top of the cupboard in her room are three rifles, made in +Germany. + + + + +XIV ~~ CIVILIZED WAR + +“This,” said Captain Power, “is an utterly rotten war.” + +The rain was dripping through the roof of the shed which had been +allotted to Power as a billet. The mud outside was more than ankle deep. +The damp inside was chilly and penetrating. Ned Waterhouse, a Second +Lieutenant, the only other occupant of the shed, looked up from an old +newspaper which he was trying to read. + +“All wars are rotten,” he said. + +“Not at all,” said Power; “a properly conducted war, run in a decent way +by civilized men is quite agreeable, rather fun, in fact. Now the last +in which I was mixed up was rather fun.” + +Waterhouse eyed Power suspiciously. He suspected that he was being made +the victim of some kind of joke. Waterhouse was an Englishman and it +was not of his own desire that he was an officer in the Hibernian light +Infantry. He felt himself out of place among Irishmen whom he never +quite understood. He was particularly distrustful of Captain Power. +Power was an expert in the art of “pulling the legs” of innocent people. +Waterhouse had several times found himself looking like a fool without +knowing exactly why. + +“What I call a civilized war,” said Power, “is waged in fine weather for +one thing, and men have a chance of keeping clean. The combatants show +some regard for the other side’s feelings and don’t try to make +things as nasty for each other as they can. The business is done in +a picturesque way, with flags and drums and speeches. There are +negotiations and flags of truce and mutual respect for gallant +foemen--instead of this d____d coldblooded, scientific slaughter.” + +“No war was ever like that,” said Waterhouse. “Novelists and other silly +fools write about war as if it were a kind of sport. But it never was +really.” + +“The last war I was in, was,” said Power. + +“I don’t believe you ever were in a war before,” said Waterhouse. +“You’re not old enough to have gone to South Africa.” + +“All the same I was in a war,” said Power, “though I didn’t actually +fight. I was wounded at the time and couldn’t. But I was there. Our Irish +war at Easter, 1916.” + +“That footy little rebellion,” said Waterhouse. + +“You may call it what you like,” said Power, “but it was a much better +war than this one from every point of view, except mere size. It was +properly conducted on both sides.” + +“I suppose you want to tell a yarn about it,” said Waterhouse, “and if +you do I can’t stop you; but you needn’t suppose I’ll believe a word you +say.” + +“The truth of this narrative,” said Power, “will compel belief even in +the most sceptical mind. I happened to be at home at the time on sick +leave, wounded in the arm. Those were the days when one got months +of sick leave, before some rotten ass invented convalescent homes for +officers and kept them there. I had three months’ leave that time and I +spent it with my people in Ballymahon.” + +“The whole of it?” said Waterhouse. “Good Lord!” + +“You’d have spent it in the Strand Palace Hotel, I suppose, running in +and out of music halls, but I prefer the simple joys of country life, +though I couldn’t shoot or ride properly on account of my arm. Still I +could watch the sunset and listen to the birds singing, which I like. +Besides, I was absolutely stoney at the time, and couldn’t have stayed +in London for a week. As it happened, it was a jolly good thing I was +there. If I’d been in London I’d have missed that war. Perhaps I’d +better begin by telling you the sort of place Ballymahon is.” + +“You needn’t,” said Waterhouse. “I spent three months in camp in County +Tipperary. I know those dirty little Irish towns. Twenty public-houses. +Two churches, a workhouse and a police barrack.” + +“In Ballymahon there is also a court house and our ancestral home. My +old dad is the principal doctor in the neighbourhood. He lives on one +side of the court house. The parish priest lives on the other. You +must grasp these facts in order to understand the subsequent military +operations. The only other thing you really must know is that Ballymahon +lies in a hole with hills all round it, like the rim of a saucer. Well, +on Monday afternoon, Easter Monday, the enemy, that is to say, the +Sinn Feiners, marched in and took possession of the town. It was a most +imposing sight, Waterhouse. There were at least eight hundred of them. +Lots of them had uniforms. Most of them had flags. There were two bands +and quite a lot of rifles. The cavalry----” + +“You can’t expect me to believe in the cavalry,” said Waterhouse. ‘’But +I say, supposing they really came, didn’t the loyal inhabitants put up +any kind of resistance?” + +“My old dad,” said Power, “was the only loyal inhabitant, except four +policemen. You couldn’t expect four policemen to give battle to a whole +army. They shut themselves up in their barrack and stayed there. My dad, +being a doctor, was of course a non-combatant. I couldn’t do anything +with my arm in a sling, so there was no fight at all.” + +“I suppose the next thing they did was loot the public-houses,” said +Waterhouse, “and get gloriously drunk?” + +“Certainly not. I told you that our war was properly conducted. There was +no looting in Ballymahon and I never saw a drunken man the whole time. +If those Sinn Feiners had a fault it was over-respectability. I shouldn’t +care to be in that army myself.” + +“I believe that,” said Waterhouse. “It’s the first thing in this story +that I really have believed.” + +“They used to march about all day in the most orderly manner, and at +night there were sentries at every street corner who challenged you in +Irish. Not knowing the language, I thought it better to stay indoors. +But my dad used to wander about. He’s a sporting old bird and likes to +know what’s going on. Well, that state of things lasted three days and +we all began to settle down comfortably for the summer. Except that +there were no newspapers or letters there wasn’t much to complain about. +In fact, you’d hardly have known there was a war on. It wasn’t the least +like this beastly country where everyone destroys everything he sees, +and wretched devils have to live in rabbit-holes. In Ballymahon we lived +in houses with beds and chairs and looked after ourselves properly. +Then one morning--it must have been Friday--news came in that a lot of +soldiers were marching on the town. Some country girls saw them and came +running in to tell us. I must say for the Sinn Fein commander that he +kept his head. His name was O’Farrelly and he called himself a Colonel. +He sent out scouts to see where the soldiers were and how many there +were. Quite the proper thing to do. I didn’t hear exactly what the +scouts reported; but that evening O’Farrelly came round to our house to +talk things over with my dad.” + +“I thought you said your father was a loyal man.” + +“So he is. There isn’t a loyaller man in Ireland. You’d know that if +you’d ever seen him singing ‘God Save the King.’ He swells out an inch +all over when he’s doing it.” + +“If he’s as loyal as all that,” said Waterhouse, “he wouldn’t consult +with rebels.” + +“My dad, though loyal, has some sense, and so, as it happened, had +O’Farrelly. Neither one nor the other of them wanted to see a battle +fought in the streets of Ballymahon. You’ve seen battles, Waterhouse, +and you know what they’re like. Messy things. You can understand my +father’s feelings. O’Farrelly was awfully nice about it. He said that +the people of Ballymahon, including my father and even the police, were +a decent lot, and he’d hate to see licentious English soldiers rioting +through the streets of the town. His idea was that my dad should use his +influence with the C.O. of the troops and get him to march his men off +somewhere else, so as to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. O’Farrelly promised +he wouldn’t go after them or molest them in any way if they left the +neighbourhood. My dad said he couldn’t do that and even if he could, +he wouldn’t. He suggested that O’Farrelly should take his army away. +O’Farrelly said he was out to fight and not to run away. I chipped in +at that point and said he could fight just as well in a lonelier place, +where there weren’t any houses and no damage would be done. I said I +felt pretty sure the soldiers would go after him to any bog he chose to +select. O’Farrelly seemed to think there was something in the suggestion +and said he’d hold a council of war and consult his officers.” + +“What an amazing liar you are, Power,” said Waterhouse. + +Captain Power took no notice of the insult. He went on with his story. + +“The Council of War assembled next morning,” he said, “and sat for about +four hours. It might have all day if an English officer hadn’t ridden in +on a motor-bike about noon. He was stopped by a sentry, of course, +and said he wanted to see the C.O. of the rebel army. So the sentry +blindfolded him----” + +“What on earth for?” + +“In civilized war,” said Power severely, “envoys with flags of truce +are invariably blindfolded. I told you at the start that our war was +properly conducted; but you wouldn’t believe me. Now you can see for +yourself that it was. The sentry led that officer into the council, +which was sitting in the court house. I told you, didn’t I, that the +court house was the rebel H.Q.?” + +“You didn’t mention it, but it doesn’t matter.” + +“It does matter. And you’ll see later on it’s most important. Well, +O’Farrelly was frightfully polite to the officer, and asked him what he +wanted. The officer said that he had come to demand the unconditional +surrender of the whole of the rebel army. O’Farrelly, still quite +politely, said he’d rather die than surrender, and everybody present +cheered. The officer said that the town was entirely surrounded and that +there was a gun on top of one of the hills which would shell the place +into little bits in an hour if it started firing. O’Farrelly said he +didn’t believe all that and accused the officer of putting up a bluff. +The officer stuck to it that what he said was true. That brought the +negotiations to a dead-lock.” + +“Why the devil didn’t they shell the place and have done with it, +instead of talking?” + +“That’s what would happen out here,” said Power. “But as I keep telling +you our war was run on humane lines. After the officer and O’Farrelly +had argued for half an hour my dad dropped in on them. He’s a popular +man in the place and I think everyone was glad to see him. He sized up +the position at once and suggested the only possible way out. O’Farrelly, +with a proper safe conduct, of course, was to be allowed to go and see +whether the town was really surrounded, and especially whether there +was a gun on top of the hill, as the officer said. That, I think you’ll +agree with me, Waterhouse, was a sensible suggestion and fair to both +sides. But they both boggled at it. The officer said he’d no power to +enter into negotiation of any kind with rebels, and that all he could +do was take yes or no to his proposal of unconditional surrender. +O’Farrelly seemed to think that he’d be shot, no matter what safe +conducts he had. It took the poor old dad nearly an hour to talk sense +into the two of them; but in the end he managed it O’Farrelly agreed to +go if the safe conduct was signed by my dad as well as the officer, +and the officer agreed to take him on condition that my dad went too to +explain the situation to his colonel. I went with them just to see what +would happen.” + +“I suppose they made O’Farrelly prisoner?” said Waterhouse. + +“You are judging everybody by the standards of this infernal war,” said +Power. “That English colonel was a soldier and a gentleman. He stood us +drinks and let O’Farrelly look at the gun. It was there all right and +Ballymahon was entirely surrounded. We got back about five o’clock, with +an ultimatum written out on a sheet of paper. Unless O’Farrelly and his +whole army had marched out and laid down their arms by 8 p.m. the town +would be shelled without further warning. You’d have thought that would +have knocked the heart out of O’Farrelly, considering that he hadn’t a +dog’s chance of breaking through. But it didn’t. He became cheerfuller +than I’d seen him before, and said that the opportunity he’d always +longed for had come at last. His men, when he told them about the +ultimatum, took the same view. They said they’d never surrender, not +even if the town was shelled into dust and them buried in the ruins. +That naturally didn’t suit my dad--or for that matter, me. The soldiers +were sure to begin by shelling the rebel H.Q. and that meant that they’d +hit our house. I told you, didn’t I, that it was next door to the court +house? My poor dad did his best. He talked to O’Farrelly and the rest of +them till the sweat ran off him. But it wasn’t the least bit of good. +They simply wouldn’t listen to reason. It was seven o’clock before dad +gave the job up and left the court house. He was going home to make his +will, but on the way he met Father Conway, the priest. He was a youngish +man and a tremendous patriot, supposed to be hand-in-glove with the +rebels. Dad explained to him that he had less than an hour to live and +advised him to go home and bury any valuables he possessed before the +shelling began. It took Father Conway about ten minutes to grasp the +situation. I chipped in and explained the bracket system on which +artillery works. I told him that they wouldn’t begin by aiming at the +court house, but would drop their first shell on his house and their +next on ours, so as to get the range right. As soon as he believed +that--and I had to swear it was true before he did--he took the matter +up warmly and said he’d talk to O’Farrelly himself. I didn’t think he’d +do much good, but I went into the court house with him, just to see what +he’d say. I must say for him he wasted no time. It was a quarter past +seven when he began, so there wasn’t much time to waste.” + +“‘Boys,’ he said, ‘will you tell me straight and plain what is it you +want?’ O’Farrelly began a long speech about an Irish republic and things +of that kind. I sat with my watch in my hand opposite Father Conway and +every now and then I pointed to the hands, so as to remind him that time +was going on. At twenty-five past seven he stopped O’Farrelly and +said they couldn’t have an Irish republic just then--though they might +later--on account of that gun. Then he asked them again to say exactly +what they wanted, republics being considered a wash-out. You’d have been +surprised if you heard the answer he got. Every man in the place stood up +and shouted that he asked nothing better than to die for Ireland. They +meant it, too. I thought it was all up and Father Conway was done. But +he wasn’t.” + +“‘Who’s preventing you?’ he said. ‘Just form fours in the square outside +and you’ll all be dead in less than half an hour. But if you stay here +a lot of other people who don’t want to die for Ireland or anything else +will be killed too; along with having their homes knocked down on them.’ + +“Well, they saw the sense of that. O’Farrelly formed his men up outside +and made a speech to them. He said if any man funked it he could stay +where he was and only those who really wanted to die need go on. It was +a quarter to eight when he finished talking and I was in terror of my +life that there’d be some delay getting rid of the men who fell out. But +there wasn’t a single defaulter. Every blessed one of those men--and +most of them were only boys--did a right turn and marched out of the +town in column of fours. I can tell you, Waterhouse, I didn’t like +watching them go. Father Conway and my dad were standing on the steps of +the court house, blubbering like children.” + +“I suppose they weren’t all killed?” said Waterhouse. + +“None of them were killed,” said Power. “There wasn’t a shot fired. +You see, when the English officer saw them march out of the town he +naturally thought they’d come to surrender, and didn’t fire on them.” + +“He couldn’t possibly have thought that,” said Waterhouse, “unless they +laid down their arms.” + +“As a matter of fact,” said Power, “hardly any of them had any arms, +except hockey sticks, and the Colonel thought they’d piled them up +somewhere. He seems to have been a decent sort of fellow. He made +O’Farrelly and a few more prisoners, and told the rest of them to be off +home.” + +“Ireland,” said Waterhouse, “must be a d____d queer country.” + +“It’s the only country in Europe,” said Power, “which knows how to +conduct war in a civilized way. Now if a situation of that sort turned +up out here there’d be bloodshed.” + +“I suppose O’Farrelly was hanged afterwards?” said Waterhouse. + +“No, he wasn’t.” + +“Shot, then? Though I should think hanging is the proper death for a +rebel.” + +“Nor shot,” said Power. “He is alive still and quite well. He’s going +about the country making speeches. He was down in Ballymahon about a +fortnight ago and called on my dad to thank him for all he’d done during +the last rebellion. He inquired after me in the kindest way. The old dad +was greatly touched, especially when a crowd of about a thousand men, +all O’Farrelly’s original army with a few new recruits, gathered round +the house and cheered, first for an Irish republic and then for dad. +He made them a little speech and told them I’d got my company and was +recommended for the M.C. When they heard that they cheered me like +anything and then shouted ‘Up the Rebels!’ for about ten minutes.” + +“I needn’t tell you,” said Waterhouse, “that I don’t believe a word of +that story. If I did I’d say----” + +He paused for a moment. + +“I’d say that Ireland----” + +“Yes,” said Power, “that Ireland----” + +“I’d say that Ireland is a country of lunatics,” said Waterhouse, “and +there ought to be an Irish Republic I can’t think of anything to say +worse than that.” + + + + +XV ~~ THE MERMAID + +We were on our way home from Inishmore, where we had spent two days; +Peter O’Flaherty among his relatives--for everyone on the island was kin +to him--I among friends who give me a warm welcome when I go to them. +The island lies some seventeen miles from the coast. We started on our +homeward sail with a fresh westerly wind. Shortly after midday it backed +round to the north and grew lighter. At five o’clock we were stealing +along very gently through calm water with our mainsail boom out against +the shroud. The jib and foresail were drooping in limp folds. An hour +later the mainsheet was hanging in the water and the boat drifted with +the tide. Peter, crouching in the fore part of the cockpit, hissed +through his clenched teeth, which is the way in which he whistles for a +wind. He glanced all round the horizon, searching for signs of a breeze. +His eyes rested finally on the sun, which lay low among some light, +fleecy clouds. He gave it as his opinion that when it reached the point +of setting it “might draw a light air after it from the eastward.” + For that it appeared we were to wait. I shrank from toil with the heavy +sweeps. So, I am sure did Peter, who is a good man in a boat but averse +from unnecessary labour. And there was really no need to row. The tide +was carrying us homeward, and our position was pleasant enough. Save +for the occasional drag of a block against the horse we had achieved +unbroken silence and almost perfect peace. + +We drifted slowly past Carrigeen Glos, a low, sullen line of rocks. A +group of cormorants, either gorged with mackerel fry or hopeless of an +evening meal, perched together at one end of the reef, and stared at +the setting sun. A few terns swept round and round overhead, soaring or +sliding downwards with easy motion. A large seal lay basking on a bare +rock just above the water’s edge. I pointed it out to Peter, and he said +it was a pity I had not got my rifle with me. I did not agree with him. +If I had brought the rifle Peter would have insisted on my shooting at +the seal. I should certainly not have hit it on purpose, for I am averse +from injuring gentle creatures; but I might perhaps have killed or +wounded it by accident, for my shooting is very uncertain. In any case +I should have broken nature’s peace, and made a horrible commotion. +Perhaps the seal heard Peter’s remark or divined his feeling of +hostility. It flopped across the rock and slid gracefully into the sea. +We saw it afterwards swimming near the boat, looking at us with its +curiously human, tender eyes. + +“A man might mistake it for a mermaid,” I said. + +“He’d have to be a fool altogether that would do the like,” said Peter. + +He was scornful; but the seal’s eyes were human. They made me think of +mermaids. + +“Them ones,” said Peter, “is entirely different from seals. You might +see a seal any day in fine weather. They’re plenty. But the other +ones--But sure you wouldn’t care to be hearing about them.” + +“I’ve heard plenty about them,” I said, “but it was all poetry and +nonsense. You know well enough, Peter, that there’s no such thing as a +mermaid.” + +Peter filled his pipe slowly and lit it. I could see by the way he puffed +at it that he was full of pity and contempt for my scepticism. + +“Come now,” I said: “did you ever see a mermaid?” + +“I did not,” said Peter, “but my mother was acquainted with one. That +was in Inishmore, where I was born and reared.” + +I waited. The chance of getting Peter to tell an interesting story is to +wait patiently. Any attempt to goad him on by asking questions is like +striking before a fish is hooked. The chance of getting either story or +fish is spoiled. + +“There was a young fellow in the island them times,” said Peter, “called +Anthony O’Flaherty. A kind of uncle of my father’s he was, and a very +fine man. There wasn’t his equal at running or lepping, and they say he +was terrible daring on the sea. That was before my mother was born, but +she heard tell of what he did. When she knew him he was like an old man, +and the heart was gone out of him.” + +At this point Peter stopped. His pipe had gone out. He relit it +with immense deliberation. I made a mistake. By way of keeping the +conversation going I asked a question. + +“Did he see a mermaid?” + +“He did,” said Peter, “and what’s more he married one.” + +There Peter stopped again abruptly, but with an air of finality. He had, +so I gathered, told me all he was going to tell me about the mermaid. I +had blundered badly in asking my question. I suppose that some note +of unsympathetic scepticism in my tone suggested to Peter that I was +inclined to laugh at him. I did my best to retrieve my position. I sat +quite silent and stared at the peak of the mainsail. The block on the +horse rattled occasionally. The sun’s rim touched the horizon. At last +Peter was reassured and began again. + +“It was my mother told me about it, and she knew, for many’s the time +she did be playing with the young lads, her being no more than a little +girleen at the time. Seven of them there was, and the second eldest was +the one age with my mother. That was after herself left him.” + +“Herself” was vague enough; but I did not venture to ask another +question. I took my eyes off the peak of the mainsail and fixed them +inquiringly on Peter. It was as near as I dared go to asking a question. + +“Herself,” said Peter, “was one of them ones.” + +He nodded sideways over the gunwale of the boat. The sea, though still +calm, was beginning to be moved by that queer restlessness which comes +on it at sunset. The tide eddied in mysteriously oily swirls. The rocks +to the eastward of us had grown dim. A gull flew by overhead uttering +wailing cries. The graceful terns had disappeared. A cormorant, flying +so low that its wing-tips broke the water, sped across our bows to some +far resting-place. I fell into a mood of real sympathy with stories +about mermaids. I think Peter felt the change which had come over me. + +“Anthony O’Flaherty,” said Peter, “was a young man when he saw them +first. It was in the little bay back west of the island, and my mother +never rightly knew what he was doing there in the middle of the night; +but there he was. It was the bottom of a low spring tide, and there’s +rocks off the end of the bay that’s uncovered at the ebb of the springs. +You’ve maybe seen them.” + +I have seen them, and Peter knew it well. I have seen more of them than +I want to. There was an occasion when Peter and I lay at anchor in that +bay, and a sudden shift of wind set us to beating out at three o’clock +in the morning. The rocks were not uncovered then, but the waves were +breaking fiercely over them. We had little room for tacking, and I am +not likely to forget the time we went about a few yards to windward of +them. The stretch of wild surf under our lee looked ghastly white in the +dim twilight of the dawn. Peter knew what I was thinking. + +“It was calm enough that night Anthony O’Flaherty was there,” he said, +“and there was a moon shining, pretty near a full moon, so Anthony +could see plain. Well, there was three of them in it, and they playing +themselves.” + +“Mermaids?” + +This time my voice expressed full sympathy. The sea all round us was +rising in queer round little waves, though there was no wind. The boom +snatched at the blocks as the boat rocked. The sail was ghostly white. +The vision of a mermaid would not have surprised me greatly. + +“The beautifulest ever was seen,” said Peter, “and neither shift nor +shirt on them, only just themselves, and the long hair of them. Straight +it was and black, only for a taste of green in it. You wouldn’t be +making a mistake between the like of them and seals, not if you’d seen +them right the way Anthony O’Flaherty did.” + +Peter made this reflection a little bitterly. I was afraid the +recollection of my unfortunate remark about seals might have stopped him +telling the story, but it did not. + +“Once Anthony had seen them,” he said, “he couldn’t rest content without +he’d be going to see them again. Many a night he went and saw neither +sight nor light of them, for it was only at spring tides that they’d be +there, on account of the rocks not being uncovered any other time. +But at the bottom of the low springs they were there right enough, and +sometimes they’d be swimming in the sea and sometimes they’d be sitting +on the rocks. It was wonderful the songs they’d sing--like the sound +of the sea set to music was what my mother told me, and she was told by +them that knew. The people did be wondering what had come over Anthony, +for he was different like from what he had been, and nobody knew what +took him out of his house in the middle of the night at the spring +tides. There was a girl that they had laid down for him to marry, and +Anthony had no objection to her before he seen them ones; but after +he had seen them he wouldn’t look at the girl. She had a middling good +fortune too but sure he didn’t care about that.” + +I could understand Anthony’s feelings. The air of wind which Peter had +promised, drawn from its cave by the lure of the departing sun, was +filling our head-sails. I hauled in the main-sheet gently hand over hand +and belayed it The boat slipped quietly along close-hauled. The long +line of islands which guards the entrance of our bay lay dim before use. +Over the shoulder of one of them I could see the lighthouse, still a +distinguishable patch of white against the looming grey of the land. The +water rippled mournfully under our bows and a long pale wake stretched +astern from our counter. “Fortune,” banked money, good heifers and even +enduringly fruitful fields seemed very little matters to me then. They +must have seemed still less, far less, to Anthony O’Flaherty after he +had seen those white sea-maidens with their green-black hair. + +“There was a woman on the island in those times,” said Peter, “a very +aged woman, and she had a kind of plaster which she made which cured the +cancer, drawing it out by the roots, and she could tell what was good +for the chin cough, and the women did like to have her with them when +their children was born, she being knowledgable in them matters. I’m +told the priests didn’t like her, for there was things she knew which it +mightn’t be right that anyone would know, things that’s better left to +the clergy. Whether she guessed what was the matter with Anthony, or +whether he up and told her straight my mother never heard. It could be +that he told her, for many a one used to go to her for a charm when +the butter wouldn’t come, or a cow, maybe, was pining; so it wouldn’t +surprise me if Anthony went to her.” + +Peter crept aft. He took a pull on the jib-sheet and belayed it again; +but I do not believe that he really cared much about the set of the +sail. That was his excuse. He wanted to be nearer to me. There is +something in stories like this, told in dim twilight, with dark waters +sighing near at hand, which makes men feel the need of close human +companionship. Peter seated himself on the floorboards at my feet, and I +felt a certain comfort in the touch of his arm on my leg. + +“Well,” he went on, “according to the old hag--and what she said was +true enough, however she learnt it--them ones doesn’t go naked all the +time, but only when they’re playing themselves on the rocks at low tide, +the way Anthony seen them. Mostly they have a kind of cloak that they +wear, and they take the same cloaks off of them when they’re up above +the water and they lay them down on the rocks. If so be that a man could +put his hand on e’er a cloak, the one that owned it would have to follow +him whether she wanted to or not. If it was to the end of the world +she’d have to follow him, or to Spain, or to America, or wherever he +might go. And what’s more, she’d have to do what he bid her, be the same +good or bad, and be with him if he wanted her, so long as he kept the +cloak from her. That’s what the old woman told Anthony, and she was a +skilful woman, well knowing the nature of beasts and men, and of them +that’s neither beasts nor men. You’ll believe me now that Anthony wasn’t +altogether the same as other men when I tell you that he laid his mind +down to get his hand down on one of the cloaks. He was a good swimmer, +so he was, which is what few men on the island can do, and he knew that +he’d be able to fetch out to the rock where them ones played +themselves.” + +I was quite prepared to believe that Anthony was inspired by a passion +far out of the common. I know nothing more terrifying than the chill +embrace of the sea at night-time. To strike out through the slimy weeds +which lie close along the surface at the ebb point of a spring tide, to +clamber on low rocks, half awash for an hour or two at midnight, these +are things which I would not willingly do. + +“The first time he went for to try it,” said Peter, “he felt a bit queer +in himself and he thought it would do him no harm if he was to bless +himself. So he did, just as he was stepping off the shore into the +water. Well, it might as well have been a shot he fired, for the minute +he did it they were off and their cloaks along with them; and Anthony +was left there. It was the sign of the cross had them frightened, for +that same is what they can’t stand, not having souls that religion would +be any use to. It was the old woman told Anthony that after, and you’d +think it would have been a warning to him not to make or meddle with the +like of them any more. But it only made him the more determined. He went +about without speaking to man or woman, and if anybody spoke to him he’d +curse terrible, till the time of the next spring tide. Then he was off +to the bay again, and sure enough them ones was there. The water was +middling rough that night, but it didn’t daunt Anthony. It pleased him, +for he thought he’d have a better chance of getting to the rocks without +them taking notice of him if there was some noise loud enough to drown +the noise he’d be making himself. So he crept out to the point of the +cliff on the south side of the bay, which is as near as he could get to +the rocks. You remember that?” + +I did. On the night when we beat out of the bay against a rising +westerly wind we went about once under the shadow of the cliff, and, +almost before we had full way on the boat, stayed her again beside the +rocks. Anthony’s swim, though terrifying, was short. + +“That time he neither blessed himself nor said a prayer, but slipped +into the water, and off with him, swimming with all his strength. They +didn’t see him, for they were too busy with their playing to take much +notice, and of course they couldn’t be expecting a man to be there. +Without Anthony had shouted they wouldn’t have heard him, for the sea +was loud on the rocks and their own singing was louder. So Anthony got +there and he crept up on the rock behind them, and the first thing his +hand touched was one of the cloaks. He didn’t know which of them it +belonged to, and he didn’t care. It wasn’t any one of the three in +particular he wanted, for they were all much about the same to look at, +only finer than any woman ever was seen. So he rolled the cloak round +his neck, the way he’d have his arms free for swimming, and back with +him into the water, heading for shore as fast as he was able.” + +“And she followed him?” I asked. + +“She did so. From that day till the day she left him she followed him, +and she did what she was bid, only for one thing. She wouldn’t go to +mass, and when the chapel bell rang she’d hide herself. The sound of it +was what she couldn’t bear. The people thought that queer, and there +was a deal of talk about it in the island, some saying she must be a +Protestant, and more thinking that she might be something worse. But +nobody had a word to say against her any other way. She was a good +enough housekeeper, washing and making and mending for Anthony, and +minding the children. Seven of them there was, and all boys.” + +The easterly breeze freshened as the night fell I could see the great +eye of the lighthouse blinking at me on the weather side of the boat. +It became necessary to go about, but I gave the order to Peter very +reluctantly. He handled the head-sheets, and then, instead of settling +down in his old place, leaned his elbows on the coaming and stared into +the sea. We were steadily approaching the lighthouse. I felt that I must +run the risk of asking him a question. + +“What happened in the end?” I asked. + +“The end, is it? Well, in the latter end she left him. But there was +things happened before that. Whether it was the way the priests talked +to him about her--there was a priest in it them times that was too fond +of interfering, and that’s what some of them are--or whether there was +goings-on within in the inside of the house that nobody knew anything +about--and there might have been, for you couldn’t tell what one of them +ones might do or mightn’t. Whatever way it was, Anthony took to drinking +more than he ought. There was poteen made on the island then, and whisky +was easy come by if a man wanted it, and Anthony took too much of it.” + +Peter paused and then passed judgment, charitably, on Anthony’s conduct. +“I wouldn’t be too hard on a man for taking a drop an odd time.” + +I was glad to hear Peter say that. I myself had found it necessary from +time to time, for the sake of an old friendship, not to be too hard on +Peter. + +“Nobody would have blamed him,” Peter went on, “if he had behaved +himself when he had a drop taken; but that’s what he didn’t seem able +to do. He bet her. Sore and heavy he bet her, and that’s what no woman, +whether she was a natural woman or one of the other kind, could be +expected to put up with. Not that she said a word. She didn’t. Nor +nobody would have known that he bet her if he hadn’t token to beating +the young lads along with her. It was them told what was going on. +But there wasn’t one on the island would interfere. The people did +be wondering that she didn’t put the fear of God into Anthony; but of +course that’s what she couldn’t do on account of his having the cloak +hid away from her. So long as he had that she was bound to put up with +whatever he did. But it wasn’t for ever. + +“The house was going to rack and ruin with the way Anthony wouldn’t mind +it on account of his being three-parts drunk most of the time. At last +the rain was coming in through the roof. When Anthony saw that he came +to himself a bit and sent for my grandfather and settled with him to put +a few patches of new thatch on the worst places. My grandfather was the +best man at thatching that there was in the island in them days, and +he took the job though he misdoubted whether he’d ever be paid for it. +Anthony never came next or nigh him when he was working, which shows +that he hadn’t got his senses rightly. If he had he’d have kept an eye +on what my grandfather was doing, knowing what he knew, though of course +my grandfather didn’t know. Well, one day my grandfather was dragging +off the old thatch near the chimney. It was middling late in the +evening, as it might be six or seven o’clock, and he was thinking of +stopping his work when all of a sudden he came on what he thought might +be an old petticoat bundled away in the thatch. It was red, he said, +but when he put his hand on it he knew it wasn’t flannel, nor it wasn’t +cloth, nor it wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt before in all his +life. There was a hole in the roof where my grandfather had the thatch +stripped, and he could see down into the kitchen. Anthony’s wife was +there with the youngest of the boys in her arms. My grandfather was as +much in dread of her as every other one, but he thought it would be no +more than civil to tell her what he’d found. + +“‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I’m after finding what +maybe belongs to you hid away in the thatch.’ + +“With that he threw down the red cloak, for it was a red cloak he had in +his hand. She didn’t speak a word, but she laid down the baby out of her +arms and she walked out of the house. That was the last my father seen +of her. And that was the last anyone on the island seen of her, unless +maybe Anthony. Nobody knows what he saw. He stopped off the drink from +that day; but it wasn’t much use his stopping it. He used to go round +at spring tides to the bay where he had seen her first. He did that five +times, or maybe six. After that he took to his bed and died. It could be +that his heart was broke.” + +We slipped past the point of the pier. Peter crept forward and crouched +on the deck in front of the mast I peered into the gloom to catch sight +of our mooring-buoy. + +“Let her away a bit yet,” said Peter. “Now luff her, luff her all you +can.” + +The boat edged up into the wind. Peter, flat on his stomach, grasped the +buoy and hauled it on board. The fore-sheets beat their tattoo on the +deck. The boom swung sharply across the boat. + +Ten minutes later we were leaning together across the boom gathering in +the mainsail. + +“What became of the boys?” I asked. + +“Is it Anthony O’Flaherty’s boys? The last of them went to America +twenty years ago. But sure that was before you came to these parts.” + + + + +XVI ~~ AN UPRIGHT JUDGE + +No one knows how the quarrel between Peter Joyce and Patrick Joseph +Flanagan began. It had been smouldering for years, a steady-going feud, +before it reached its crisis last June. + +The Joyces and Flanagans were neighbours, occupying farms of very poor +land on the side of Letterbrack, a damp and lonely hill some miles from +the nearest market town. This fact explains the persistence of the feud. +It is not easy to keep up a quarrel with a man whom you only see once +a month or so. Nor is it possible to concentrate the mind on one +particular enemy if you live in a crowded place. Joyce and Flanagan saw +each other every day. They could not help seeing each other, for their +farms were small. They scarcely ever saw anyone else, because there +were no other farms on the side of the hill. And the feud was a family +affair. Mrs. Joyce and Mrs. Flanagan disliked each other heartily and +never met without using language calculated to embitter the feeling +between them. The young Joyces and the young Flanagans fought fiercely +on their way to and from school. + +The war, which has turned Europe upside down and dragged most things +from their familiar moorings, had its effect on the lives of the two +farmers on the side of Letterbrack. They became better off than they had +ever been before. It must not be supposed that they grew rich. According +to the standard of English working men they had always been wretchedly +poor. All that the war did for them was to put a little, a very little, +more money into their pockets. They themselves did not connect their new +prosperity with the war. They did not, indeed, think about the war at +all, bring fully occupied with their work and their private quarrel. +They noticed, without inquiring into causes, that the prices of the +things they sold went up steadily. A lean bullock fetched an amazing sum +at a fair. Young pigs proved unexpectedly profitable. The eggs which the +women carried into town on market days could be exchanged for unusual +quantities of tea. And the rise in prices was almost pure gain to these +farmers. They lived for the most part on the produce of their own land +and bought very little in shops. There came a time when Peter Joyce had +a comfortable sum, about £20 in all, laid by after making provision for +his rent and taxes. He felt entitled to some little indulgence. + +An Englishman, when he finds himself in possession of spare cash spends +it on material luxuries for himself and, if he is a good man, for his +family. He buys better food, better clothes, and furniture of a kind not +absolutely necessary, like pianos. An Irishman, in a similar agreeable +position, prefers pleasures of a more spiritual kind. Peter Joyce was +perfectly content to wear a “bawneen” of homemade flannel and a pair of +ragged trousers. He did not want anything better for dinner than boiled +potatoes and fried slices of bacon. He had not the smallest desire to +possess a piano or even an armchair. But he intended, in his own way, to +get solid enjoyment out of his £20. + +It was after the children had gone to bed one evening that he discussed +the matter with his wife. + +“I’m not sure,” he said, “but it might be as well to settle things up +one way or another with that old reprobate Patrick Joseph Flanagan. It’s +what I’ll have to do sooner or later.” + +“Them Flanagans,” said Mrs. Joyce, “is the devil. There isn’t a day +passes but one or other of them has me tormented. If it isn’t her it’s +one of the children, and if, by the grace of God, it isn’t the children +it’s herself.” + +“What I’m thinking of,” said Joyce, “is taking the law of him.” + +“It’ll cost you something to do that,” said Mrs. Joyce cautiously. + +“And if it does, what matter? Haven’t I the money to pay for it?” + +“You have,” said Mrs. Joyce. “You have surely. And Flanagan deserves it, +so he does. It’s not once nor twice, but it’s every day I do be saying +there’s something should be done to them Flanagans.” + +“There’s more will be done to him than he cares for,” said Joyce grimly. +“Wait till the County Court Judge gets at him. Believe me he’ll be sorry +for himself then.” + +Peter Joyce started early next morning. He had an eight-mile walk before +him and he wished to reach the town in good time, being anxious to put +his case into the hands of Mr. Madden, the solicitor, before Mr. +Madden became absorbed in the business of the day. Mr. Madden had the +reputation of being the smartest lawyer in Connaught, and his time was +very fully occupied. + +It took Joyce nearly three hours to reach the town and he had ample time +to prepare his case against Flanagan as he went. There was no lack +of material for the lawsuit. A feud of years’ standing provides many +grievances which can fairly be brought into court. Joyce’s difficulty +was to make a choice. He pondered deeply as he walked along the bare +road across the bog. When he reached the door of Mr. Madden’s office +he had a tale of injuries suffered at the hands of the Flanagans which +would, he felt sure, move the judge to vindictive fury. + +Mr. Madden was already busy when Joyce was shown unto his room. + +“Well,” he said, “who are you and what do you want?” + +“My name’s Peter Joyce of Letterbrack, your honour,” said Joyce. “A +decent man with a long weak family, and my father was a decent man +before me, and it’s no fault of mine that I’m here to-day, and going +into court, though there isn’t another gentleman in all Ireland I’d +sooner come to than yourself, Mr. Madden, if so be I had to come to +anyone. And it’s what I’m druv to, for if I wasn’t----” + +“What is it?” said Mr. Madden. “Police? Drunk and disorderly?” + +“It is not,” said Joyce. “Sure I never was took by the police only +twice, and them times they wouldn’t have meddled with me only for the +spite the sergeant had against me. But he’s gone from the place now, +thanks be to God, and the one that came after him wouldn’t touch me.” + +Peter Joyce sank his voice to a whisper. + +“It’s how I want to take the law of Patrick Joseph Flanagan,” he said. + +“Trespass or assault?” said Mr. Madden. + +He was a man of immense experience. He succeeded in carrying on a +large practice because he wasted no time in listening to preliminary +explanations of his clients. Most legal actions in the West of Ireland +are reducible to trespass or assault. + +“It’s both the two of them,” said Joyce. + +Mr. Madden made a note on a sheet of paper before him. Joyce waited +until he had finished writing. Then he said slowly: + +“Trespass and assault and more besides.” + +Mr. Madden asked no question. He added to the note he had written +the words “And abusive language.” Abusive language generally follows +trespass and immediately precedes assault. + +“Now,” said Mr. Madden, “get on with your story and make it as short as +you can.” + +Peter Joyce did his best to make the story short. He succeeded in making +it immensely complicated. There was a boundary wall in the story and +it had been broken down. There was a heifer calf and a number of young +pigs. There was a field of oats trampled and destroyed by the heifer, +and a potato patch ruined beyond hope by the pigs. There was a sheep +torn by a dog, stones thrown at Mrs. Joyce, language that had defiled +the ears of Molly Joyce, an innocent child of twelve years old, and +there was the shooting of a gun at Peter himself. + +Joyce was prepared to swear to every item of the indictment. He did +actually swear from time to time, laying his hand solemnly on a large +ledger which stood on Mr. Madden’s desk. Mr. Madden listened until he +had heard enough. + +“You haven’t a ghost of a case against Flanagan,” he said. “The judge +won’t listen to a story like that. If you take my advice you’ll go +straight home and make it up with Flanagan. You’ll simply waste your +money if you go into court.” + +Mr. Madden, it will be seen, was a man of principle. He made his +living out of other people’s quarrels, but he gave honest advice to his +clients. He was also a man of wide knowledge of West of Ireland farmers. +He knew perfectly well that his advice would not be taken. + +“I’ve the money to pay for it,” said Joyce, “and I’ll have the law of +Patrick Joseph Flanagan if it costs me the last penny I own. If your +honour doesn’t like the case sure I can go to someone else.” + +Mr. Madden, though a man of principle, was not quixotic. + +“Very well,” he said. “I’ll manage your case for you; but I warn you +fairly the judge will give it against you.” + +“He might not,” said Joyce. “In the latter end he might not.” + +“He will,” said Mr. Madden, “unless----” + +He was watching Joyce carefully as he spoke. The man’s face had an +expression of cunning and self-satisfaction. + +“Unless,” Mr. Madden went on, “you’ve something up your sleeve that you +haven’t told me yet.” + +Joyce winked solemnly. + +“It’s what it would be hardly worth mentioning to your honour,” he said. + +“You’d better mention it all the same,” said Mr. Madden. + +“What I was thinking,” said Joyce, “is that if I was to send a pair of +ducks to the judge a couple of days before the case was to come on--fine +ducks we have, as fine as ever was seen.” + +“Listen to me,” said Mr. Madden. “You’ve got the very smallest possible +chance of winning your case. But you have a chance. It’s a hundred to +one against you. Still, odd things do happen in courts. But let me tell +you this. I know that judge. I’ve known him for years, and if you try to +bribe him with a pair of ducks he’d give it against you even if you had +the best case in the world instead of the worst. That’s the kind of man +he is.” + +Joyce sighed heavily. The ways of the law were proving unexpectedly +difficult and expensive. + +“Maybe,” he said, “I could send him two pair of ducks, or two pair and a +half, but that’s the most I can do; and there won’t be a young duck left +about the place if I send him that many.” + +“Either you act by my advice,” said Mr. Madden, “or I’ll drop your case. +This isn’t a matter for the local bench of magistrates. If it was them +you were dealing with, ducks might be some use to you. But a County +Court Judge is a different kind of man altogether. He’s a gentleman, and +he’s honest. If you attempt to get at him with ducks or any other kind +of bribe you’ll ruin any chance you have, which isn’t much.” + +“That’s a queer thing now, so it is,” said Joyce. + +“It’s true all the same,” said Mr. Madden. + +“Do you mean to tell me,” said Joyce, “that his honour, the judge, would +go against a man that had done him a good turn in the way of a pair of +ducks or the like?” + +“That’s exactly what I do mean,” said Mr. Madden. “No judge would stand +it. And the one who presides over this court would be even angrier than +most of them, so don’t you do it.” + +Joyce left Mr. Madden’s office a few minutes later, and tramped home. +In spite of the lawyer’s discouraging view of the case he seemed fairly +well satisfied. + +That evening he spoke to his wife. + +“How many of them large white dukes have you?” he asked; “how many +that’s fit to eat?” + +“There’s no more than six left out of the first clutch,” said Mrs. +Joyce. “There was eleven hatched out, but sure the rats got the rest +of them.” “I’d be glad,” said Joyce, “if you’d fatten them six, and you +needn’t spare the yellow meal. It’ll be worth your while to have them as +good as you can.” + +A month later the case of Joyce v. Flanagan came on in the County Court. +Mr. Madden had hammered the original story of the wall, the heifer, the +pigs and the potatoes, into shape. It sounded almost plausible as Mr. +Madden told it in his opening remarks. But he had very little hopes +that it would survive the handling of Mr. Ellis, a young and intelligent +lawyer, who was acting for Flanagan. Joyce cheerfully confirmed +every detail of the story on oath. He was unshaken by Mr. Ellis’ +cross-examination, chiefly because the judge constantly interfered with +Mr. Ellis and would not allow him to ask the questions he wanted to ask. +Flanagan and his witnesses did their best, but the judge continued to +make things as difficult as he could for their lawyer. The matter, when +all the evidence was heard, appeared tangled and confused, a result +far beyond Mr. Madden’s best expectations. He had feared that the +truth might emerge with disconcerting plainness. Then an amazing thing +happened. The judge took Joyce’s view of the circumstances and decided in +his favour. Mr. Ellis gasped. Flanagan swore audibly and was silenced by +a policeman. Joyce left the court with a satisfied smile. + +“Well,” said Mr. Madden, a little later, “you’ve won, but I’m damned if +I know how it happened. I never went into court with a shakier case.” + +“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Joyce, “but it might have been the ducks that +did it. I sent him six, your honour, six, and as fat as any duck ever +you seen.” + +“Good Lord!” said Mr. Madden. “After all I said to you--and--but, good +heavens, man! He can’t have got them. If he had----” + +“He got them right enough,” said Joyce, “for I left them at the door of +the hotel myself, with a bit of a note, saying as how I hoped he’d take +a favourable view of the case that would be before him to-day, and +I told him what the case was, so as there’d be no mistake--Joyce v. +Flanagan was what I wrote, in a matter of trespass and assault, and +abusive language.” + +“Well,” said Mr. Madden, “all I can say is that if I hadn’t seen with my +own eyes what happened in that court to-day I wouldn’t have believed it. +To think that the judge, of all men----” + +“It was Flanagan’s name and not my own,” said Joyce, “that I signed +at the bottom of the note. ‘With the respectful compliments of Patrick +Joseph Flanagan, the defendant,’ was what I wrote, like as if it was +from him that the ducks came.” + +“I’d never have thought of it,” said Mr. Madden. “Joyce, it’s you and +not me that ought to be a lawyer. Lawyer! That’s nothing. You ought +to be a Member of Parliament. Your talents are wasted, Joyce. Go into +Parliament You’ll be a Cabinet Minister before you die.” + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Casualty And Other Stories, by +James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. Birmingham + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR CASUALTY AND OTHER STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 24393-0.txt or 24393-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/3/9/24393/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/24393-0.zip b/24393-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a052118 --- /dev/null +++ b/24393-0.zip diff --git a/24393-h.zip b/24393-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ee93f4f --- /dev/null +++ b/24393-h.zip diff --git a/24393-h/24393-h.htm b/24393-h/24393-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2df9d4d --- /dev/null +++ b/24393-h/24393-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8448 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Our Casualty and Other Stories, by G. A. Birmingham + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Casualty And Other Stories, by +James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. Birmingham + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Our Casualty And Other Stories + 1918 + +Author: James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. Birmingham + +Release Date: January 21, 2008 [EBook #24393] +Last Updated: February 18, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR CASUALTY AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + OUR CASUALTY AND OTHER STORIES + </h1> + <h2> + <b> By G. A. Birmingham </b><br /> 1918 <br /> <br /> + </h2> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I ~~ OUR CASUALTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II ~~ GETTING EVEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III ~~ A MATTER OF DISCIPLINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV ~~ THE SECOND BASS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V ~~ HER RIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI ~~ JOURNEY’S END </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII~~ HIS GIRL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII ~~ SIR GALAHAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX ~~ A GUN-RUNNING EPISODE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X ~~ IRELAND FOR EVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> I. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> II. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XI ~~ SIR TIMOTHY’S DINNER-PARTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XII ~~ UNITED IRELAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XIII ~~ OLD BIDDY AND THE REBELS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XIV ~~ CIVILIZED WAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XV ~~ THE MERMAID </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVI ~~ AN UPRIGHT JUDGE </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I ~~ OUR CASUALTY + </h2> + <p> + There is not in the whole British Isles a more efficient military body + than the Ballyhaine Veterans’ Corps. The men look like soldiers when they + have their grey uniforms on and their brassards on their sleeves. They + talk like soldiers. They have the true military spirit. There is not a man + in the company under fifty years of age, but if the Germans attempt a + landing on the Ballyhaine beach, by submarine or otherwise, they will be + sorry for themselves afterwards—those of them who remain alive. + </p> + <p> + Ballyhaine is a residential suburb, entirely built over with villas of the + better kind. Each villa has its garden. In times of peace we discuss sweet + peas or winter spinach or chrysanthemums on our way into town in the + morning, travelling, as most of us do, by the 9.45 train, with season + tickets, first class. + </p> + <p> + When our boys went off from us, as they all did early in the war, we felt + that it was time for us to do something too. There was not the least + difficulty about enrolling the men. We all joined the corps, even poor old + Cotter, who must be close on seventy, and who retired from business three + years ago. He used to bore us all by talking about his rheumatism, but + when the Volunteer Corps was formed he dropped all that, and went about + saying that he had never suffered from pain or ache in his life, and could + do twenty miles a day without feeling it. We made Cotter a corporal. + </p> + <p> + Our Commanding Officer is Haines, who plays the best hand at bridge of any + man in the club. He held a commission in a line regiment before he went on + the Stock Exchange. That was thirty-five years ago, and it is not to be + supposed that his knowledge of soldiering is up-to-date, but he is the + only one of us who has any knowledge of soldiering at all, so we chose + him. + </p> + <p> + The women were a difficulty at first. They insisted on regarding us as a + joke, and used to repeat the absurd witticism of the street boys. I heard + Janet say “Methusaleers” one day. She denied it, but I am perfectly + certain she did not say “Fusiliers,” My wife fussed about dry socks and + wanted me to take my umbrella on a route march one wet Sunday. + </p> + <p> + Every other member of the corps had similar experiences. It was Tompkins + who hit on a way of dealing satisfactorily with the women. Tompkins is our + local doctor. He stays in Ballyhaine all day long when the rest of us go + up to town, so he naturally knows a good deal about women. He enrolled + them in a volunteer ambulance brigade, and after that they were just as + keen as any of us. We did the thing handsomely for them. We bought six + stretchers, a small motor ambulance waggon, and some miles of bandages. + Janet and Cotter’s youngest girl carried one of the stretchers. I should + not like to say that my wife actually hoped I should be wounded, but I + think she would have liked the chance of bandaging any other man in the + corps. The rest of the women felt as she did. + </p> + <p> + The drawback to Ballyhaine as a centre of military activity is the + difficulty of finding a place for practising field manoeuvres. There is + the golf links, of course, but we got tired of marching round and round + the golf links, and we did not want to dig trenches there. Haines, who + does not play golf, drew up a plan of trench digging which would have + ruined the golf links for years. But we would not have that. Nor could we + dig in each other’s gardens, or practise advancing over open country in + skirmishing order when there was no open country. The whole district is a + network of high walls with broken glass on top of them, a form of defence + rendered necessary by the attacks of small boys on our fruit trees. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately, we had the sea beach. The strand—there are three miles + of it—is one of the glories of Ballyhaine. We did most of our + manoeuvring there and dug our trenches there. Haines was opposed to this + plan at first. + </p> + <p> + “If the Germans come at all,” said Cotter, “they’ll come from the sea. + They must, this being an island.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Haines. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Cotter, “the beach is the place where we shall have to meet + them, and the strand is where our trenches ought to be.” + </p> + <p> + There was no answering that argument. Even Haines gave way. + </p> + <p> + “With barbed wire entanglements,” said Cotter, “down to the water’s edge.” + </p> + <p> + The weather round about Christmas-time was extraordinarily severe in + Ballyhaine. We came in for a series of gales, accompanied by driving rain, + and the days at that time of year are so short that most of our soldiering + had to be done in the dark. + </p> + <p> + I got one cold after another, and so did every other member of the corps. + Poor old Cotter limped pitifully on parade, but he did not say a word + about rheumatism. The spirit of the men was splendid, and not one of us + showed a sign of shirking, though Haines kept us at it with ferocity. + </p> + <p> + Haines varied the digging by making us practise a horrible manoeuvre + called “relieving trenches.” This was always done in the middle of the + night, between twelve and one o’clock. Part of the corps went out early—about + 10.30 p.m.—and manned the trenches. The rest of us marched forth at + midnight and relieved them. + </p> + <p> + The worst evening we had all winter was December 8th. It was blowing + terrifically from the south-east The sea was tumbling in on the beach in + enormous waves, fringing the whole line of the shore with a broad stretch + of white foam. The rain swept over the country pitilessly. I came out of + town by the 5.10 train, and called at the club on my way home. I found a + notice posted up: + </p> + <p> + “Ballyhaine Veterans’ Corps. + </p> + <p> + “Tonight, December the 8th, trenches will be relieved at 12 midnight. No. 1 + and No. 2 Platoons to parade at 10.30, march to north end of the strand, + and occupy trenches.” + </p> + <p> + That meant a six-mile march for those platoons—three there and three + back. + </p> + <p> + “No. 3 and No. 4 Platoons to parade at 11 p.m., march to cliffs, descend + rocks, and relieve trenches as soon as possible after midnight.” + </p> + <p> + I am in No. 3 Platoon, and I confess I shuddered. The rocks at the north + end of the beach are abominably slippery. A year ago I should have + hesitated about climbing down in broad daylight in the finest weather. My + military training had done a good deal for me physically, but I still + shrank from those rocks at midnight with a tempest howling round me. + </p> + <p> + When I reached home I put a good face on the matter. I was not going to + admit to my wife or Janet—particularly to Janet—that I was + afraid of night operations in any weather. + </p> + <p> + “Please have my uniform left out for me,” I said, “I shall put it on + before dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” said my wife, “you’re not going out to-night? I don’t think you + ought to.” + </p> + <p> + “Duty, my dear,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Just fancy,” said Janet, “if the Germans came and father wasn’t there! We + might be murdered in our beds!” + </p> + <p> + I am sometimes not quite sure whether Janet means to scoff or is in + serious earnest On this occasion I was inclined to think that she was + poking fun at the Veterans’ Corps. I frowned at her. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll get dreadfully wet,” said my wife. + </p> + <p> + “Not the least harm in that,” I said cheerily. + </p> + <p> + “It’ll give you another cold in your head,” said Janet + </p> + <p> + This time she was certainly sneering. I frowned again. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said my wife, “it won’t matter to you. You’re so strong and + healthy. Nothing does you any harm.” + </p> + <p> + I suspected her of attempting a subtle form of flattery, but what she said + was quite true. I am, for a man of fifty-three, extremely hardy. + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking,” she said, “of poor old Mr. Cotter. I don’t think he ought + to go. Mrs. Cotter was round here this afternoon. She says he’s suffering + dreadfully from rheumatism, though he won’t admit it, and if he goes out + to-night... But he’s so determined, poor old dear. And she simply can’t + stop him.” + </p> + <p> + “Cotter,” I said, “must stay at home.” + </p> + <p> + “But he won’t,” said my wife. + </p> + <p> + “Military ardour is very strong in him,” said Janet. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll ring up Dr. Tompkins,” I said, “and tell him to forbid Cotter to go + out. Tompkins is Medical Officer of the corps, and has a right to give + orders of the kind. In fact, it’s his duty to see that the company’s not + weakened by ill-health.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid,” said my wife, “that Dr. Tompkins can do nothing. Mrs. Cotter + was with him before she came here. The fact is that Mr. Cotter won’t give + in even to the doctor’s orders.” + </p> + <p> + I rang up Tompkins and put the case very strongly to him. + </p> + <p> + “It will simply kill Cotter,” I said, “and we can’t have that. He may not + be of any very great military value, but he’s a nice old boy, and we don’t + want to lose him.” + </p> + <p> + Tompkins agreed with me thoroughly. He said he’d been thinking the matter + over since Mrs. Cotter called on him in the afternoon, and had hit upon a + plan which would meet the case. + </p> + <p> + “If only the C.O. will fall in with it,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Haines is in some ways a difficult man. He likes to manage things his own + way, and resents any suggestions made to him, particularly by men in the + ranks. However, Cotter’s life was at stake, so I undertook to tackle + Haines, even at the risk of being snubbed. Tompkins explained his plan to + me. I rang up Haines, and laid it before him. I put the matter very + strongly to him. I even said that the War Office would probably deprive + him of his command if it was discovered that he had been wasting the lives + of his men unnecessarily. + </p> + <p> + “The country needs us all,” I said, “even Cotter. After all, Cotter is a + non-commissioned officer and a most valuable man. Besides, it’ll do the + Ambulance Brigade a lot of good.” + </p> + <p> + It was this last consideration which weighed most with Haines. He had felt + for some time that our ambulance ladies were coming to have too good an + opinion of themselves. I had the satisfaction of going back to the + drawing-room and telling Janet that the stretcher bearers were to parade + at eleven o’clock, and march in the rear of the column—Numbers 3 and + 4 Platoons—which went to relieve trenches. + </p> + <p> + “Rot,” said Janet “We can’t possibly go out on a night like this.” + </p> + <p> + “C.O.‘s orders,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “The stretchers will be utterly ruined,” she said, “not to mention our + hats.” + </p> + <p> + “C.O.‘s orders,” I said severely. + </p> + <p> + “If we must go,” said Janet, “we’ll take the ambulance waggon. + </p> + <p> + “No, you won’t,” I said. “You’ll take your stretchers and carry them. + Yours not to reason why, Janet. And in any case you can’t take the + ambulance waggon, because we’re marching along the beach, and you know + perfectly well that the strand is simply scored with trenches. We can’t + have the ambulance waggon smashed up. It’s the only one we have. If a few + girls break their legs it doesn’t much matter. There are too many girls + about the place.” + </p> + <p> + Platoons Numbers 1 and 2 marched off at 10.30 p.m. in a blinding downpour + of rain. We watched them go from the porch of the golf pavilion, and + promised to relieve them as quickly as we could. We paraded, according to + orders, at 11 sharp, and I was glad to see that Janet and the other girls + were wet and draggled long before we started. + </p> + <p> + Haines made us a short speech. He had to shout at the top of his voice + because the storm was making a dreadful noise. But we heard what he said. + The business of relieving trenches, he told us, would be carried out under + strictly war conditions, precisely as if enemy submarines were shelling us + from the sea. There would necessarily, supposing the submarines to be + actually there, be casualties in our force. Haines told off four men to + act as casualties. The first on the list—this was the way Tompkins’ + plan worked out—was Corporal Cotter. + </p> + <p> + “Corporal Cotter,” said Haines, “will drop out of the ranks as the column + passes the third bathing-box, numbering from the south end of the beach, + Mrs. Tompkins’ bathing-box, which is painted bright green.” + </p> + <p> + Haines was, very properly, most particular about defining the bathing-box + exactly. + </p> + <p> + “Corporal Cotter and the other casualties,” said Haines, “will take + waterproof ground-sheets with them—two waterproof ground-sheets each—and + keep as dry as possible. The stretcher bearers will follow the column at a + distance of two hundred paces to pick up the casualties, affording + first-aid on the spot, and, on reaching the field hospital, will apply + restoratives under the directions of the Company’s Medical Officer. For + the purposes of these manouvres. Corporal Cotter’s house will be regarded + as the Field Hospital.” + </p> + <p> + The other three casualties, all elderly and rather delicate men, were + ordered to drop out of the ranks at places further along the beach. If it + was Janet’s luck to reach the furthest casualty she would walk, carrying a + stretcher, about a mile and a half altogether. When she got home she would + be less inclined to sneer at people who catch cold in the service of their + country. + </p> + <p> + The night was extremely dark. I do not think I have ever experienced a + darker night. We could hear the sea roaring on our left, and could see, + when we looked back, a dim glow here and there from the windows of our + houses; but it was quite impossible to see anything on the beach. + </p> + <p> + I missed Cotter when we had been stumbling along for about a quarter of an + hour, and felt glad that he had done his share. In a minute or so, I + hoped, he would be safe on a stretcher, and half an hour later would be + drinking whisky and water, hot. That, so Tompkins told me, was the + restorative which was to be administered to all the casualties. + </p> + <p> + We got through the business of relieving the trenches in the end, though + we had a tough struggle. The great difficulty was to find them. If + Platoons Numbers 1 and 2 could have shouted to us or flashed their + electric torches we should have got them much sooner than we did. But + noise and light were strictly forbidden. They would, so Haines said, + attract the enemy’s fire, and result in our being wiped out by shrapnel. + </p> + <p> + I got separated at one time from the rest of my platoon, and walked into + the sea twice. Afterwards I fell over the Company Sergeant-Major, who was + sitting in a pool beside a rock. He said he had sprained his ankle. But + that turned out not to be true. He had only twisted it a little, and was + able to limp home. In civil life our Company Sergeant-Major is one of the + directors of the Corporate Banking Company Ltd., and drives into town in + his own motor. + </p> + <p> + Then I came on Haines, wandering by himself on a sandhill. He was swearing + viciously. It was, indeed, the sound of his oaths which led me to him. + They were not loud, but they were uttered with an intensity which gave + them the power of piercing through the tumult of the storm. He and I and + the Company Sergeant-Major stuck together, and at 1 a.m.—we took the + time from Haines’ luminous-faced wrist watch—we suddenly tumbled + into the trench. + </p> + <p> + We found the whole four platoons waiting for us; but they would not have + waited much longer. The senior Second Lieutenant—a very well-known + solicitor—had taken command of the company, assuming, as he said, + that Haines had become a casualty accidentally. His idea was to march the + men home, and then send the Ambulance Brigade to search for Haines, the + Company Sergeant-Major, and me. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the sort of thing,” he said, “an ambulance is for. The men in the + fighting line can’t be expected to do it.” + </p> + <p> + We marched home in pretty good order, considering that we were all very + wet, greatly exhausted, and many of us bruised in various parts of our + bodies. Our spirit was quite unbroken, and Haines, writing up the official + diary afterwards, said that our moral was excellent. He did us no more + than bare justice. There was not a man among us—except perhaps the + Company Sergeant-Major, whose ankle was swelling up—who would not + have welcomed a German attack. + </p> + <p> + We got back to the golf pavilion, and found the whole place in an uproar. + Women, all of them very wet, were rushing about. Tompkins was giving + confused and contradictory orders to the twelve stretcher bearers, who + looked cowed and miserable. Mrs. Cotter was sitting on the floor in a + corner of the room crying bitterly. We got the explanation out of Tompkins + at last. + </p> + <p> + Three of the casualties had, it appeared, been successfully picked up and + carried home. The stretcher bearers had somehow missed Cotter. Search + parties had been sent out. Tompkins himself had felt his way round each of + the fifteen bathing-boxes. The nursing section of the Ambulance Brigade + had waved electric torches and stable lanterns up and down the beach from + the edge of the sea to the sandhills. The stretcher bearers, scourged by + the remarks Tompkins made about their incompetence, had gone shouting + through the storm until they were hoarse and utterly exhausted. Nothing + had been seen or heard of Cotter. + </p> + <p> + Haines took charge of the situation at once. He formed up the four + platoons, and marched us all back to the beach. There we assumed open + order, and skirmished in a northerly direction. We were told to keep in + touch with each other, and to leave no square yard of the sand unexamined. + We were to go on skirmishing until we found Cotter, dead or alive. My own + idea was that if we found anything it would be his corpse. + </p> + <p> + I did my best to obey orders, but I almost immediately lost touch with + everybody else. The other men, so I learnt afterwards, had the same + experience. However, I had the good luck to find Cotter. He came towards + me, indeed he ran into me before I saw him. He was in charge of a + policeman, who held him firmly but kindly by the arm. The moment Cotter + saw me he burst out: + </p> + <p> + “Tell this infernal fool that I’m not drunk,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “If you’re acquainted with the gentleman,” said the policeman, “it would + be well for you to take him home to his bed. He’s not in a fit state to be + out by himself.” + </p> + <p> + I drove off the policeman with some difficulty, making myself personally + responsible for Cotter’s safety. Then I questioned the old gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Waiting for the ambulance. I’d be waiting still if that ass of a + policeman hadn’t insisted that I was drunk and dragged me away.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” I said, “and they’ve been looking for you for hours.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” said Cotter. “I saw their lights all over the place and + heard them shouting.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why on earth didn’t you shout back and let them know where you + were?” + </p> + <p> + “Casualties don’t shout,” said Cotter. “They can’t. They’re too weak. I + groaned occasionally; but I suppose they didn’t hear me.” + </p> + <p> + “And how long did you mean to lie out in this storm?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Till the stretcher bearers found me,” said Cotter. “Those were the C.O.‘s + orders.” + </p> + <p> + I do not know whether any medals will be given to volunteers after the + war. Cotter certainly deserves one. I have never heard a finer story of + devotion to duty than his. When I had got rid of the policeman he actually + wanted to go back and lie down again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II ~~ GETTING EVEN + </h2> + <p> + The battalion awaited its orders to embark for France. A feeling of + expectation, a certain nervousness, a half-pleasurable excitement, + prevailed in the officers’ mess and among the men. No one thought of + service in France as a picnic, or anticipated a good time in the trenches. + But there was a general sense of relief that the period of training—a + long, tiresome, very dull business—was over at last over or almost + over. For the Colonel and certain remote authorities behind the Colonel + believed in working the battalion hard up to the last moment. Therefore + day after day there were “stunts” and “shows,” field exercises of every + conceivable kind. The weather was hot, as hot as weather ought to be in + the first week of August Long marches became dusty horrors to the men. + Manouvres meant hours of desperate toil. Officers thought longingly of + bygone summers, of the cool shade of trees, of tennis played in white + flannels, of luscious plates of strawberries and cream. The Colonel, an + old soldier, went on inventing new “stunts” and more of them. He had + laboured at the training of his battalion, hammering raw boys into + disciplined men, inspiring subalterns with something of his own spirit. + </p> + <p> + On the whole he had been successful. The men sweated, but grumbled very + little. The officers kept up a gallant pretence at keenness. Slackness was + regarded as bad form, and only one member of the mess made no secret of + his opinion that the Colonel was overdoing the “spit and polish” business. + This was McMahon, the medical officer; and he did not, properly speaking, + belong to the battalion at all. Men and officers alike were drawn for the + most part from the English midlands. McMahon was an Irishman. They were + born with a sense of discipline and the Colonel worked on material + responsive to his methods. McMahon, like most Irishmen, was by temperament + a rebel. Yet there was no more popular officer than the Irish doctor. His + frank good humour, his ready wit, his unfailing kindliness, won him + affection. Even the Colonel liked him, and bore from McMahon behaviour + which would have led to the sharp snubbing of anyone else. + </p> + <p> + There came a day—the 6th of August—for which the Colonel, or + some higher authority, devised a “stunt” of the most intense and laborious + kind. A very great and remote man, the General in command of the whole + district, promised to be present and to witness the performance. Orders + were issued in minute detail, and every officer was expected to be + familiar with them. Maps were studied conscientiously. Field glasses were + polished. Rations were served out. Kits were inspected. The affair was an + attack upon a hill supposed to be strongly held by an enemy well provided + with machine-guns. + </p> + <p> + A genuine excitement possessed the battalion. This, so it was felt, was + very like the real thing. Just so, some day in France, would an advance be + made and great glory won. McMahon alone remained cheerfully indifferent to + the energetic fussiness which prevailed. + </p> + <p> + The day dawned cloudless with promise of intense heat. Very early, after a + hurried and insufficient breakfast, B Company marched out. It was the + business of B Company to take up a position south of the enemy’s hill, to + harass the foe with flanking fire and at the proper moment to rush certain + machine-gun posts. B Company had some ten miles to march before reaching + its appointed place. McMahon gave it as his opinion that B Company would + be incapable of rushing anything when it had marched ten miles in + blistering heat and had lain flat for an hour or two in a shadeless field. + A party of cooks, with a travelling kitchen, followed B Company. McMahon + said that if the cooks were sensible men they would lose their way and + come to a halt in a wood, not far from a stream. He added that he was + himself very sensible and had already fixed on the wood, about a mile from + the scene of the attack, where he intended to spend the day, with a novel. + </p> + <p> + The other three companies, the Lewis gunners, and a battery of Stokes gun + men, attached to the battalion for the attack, marched out later, under + the command of the Colonel himself. Cyclist scouts scoured the roads ahead + of the advance. McMahon, accompanied by an orderly, marched in the rear + and complained greatly of the dust. A Brigadier appeared in a motor and + cast a critical eye on the men. Two officers in staff caps, understood to + be umpires, rode by. + </p> + <p> + At noon, the heat being then very great, a motor cyclist dashed up, his + machine snorting horribly, the man himself plastered with dust, sweat and + oil. He announced that the battalion was under heavy fire from the enemy + artillery and that men were falling fast. The Brigadier had sent an urgent + message to that effect. The Colonel, who rather expected that something of + the sort would occur, gave the orders necessary in such a situation. The + men opened out into artillery formation and advanced, by a series of short + rushes, to take cover in some trenches, supposed to have been abandoned, + very conveniently, by the enemy the day before. The Brigadier, seated in + his motor-car in a wood on a neighbouring hill, watched the operation + through his field glasses, munched a sandwich, and enjoyed a glass of + sherry from his flask. McMahon, for whom short rushes in artillery + formation had no attractions at all, slipped through a hedge, skirted a + field of ripening oats, and settled himself very comfortably under a beech + tree on the edge of a small wood. His orderly followed him and laid down a + large package on the grass beside the doctor. The Colonel, an enthusiastic + realist, had insisted that McMahon should bring with him a supply of + surgical instruments, dressings and other things necessary for dealing + with wounds. McMahon opened the package. He took out a novel, a tin of + tobacco, a great many packages of cigarettes, two bottles of soda water, + two lemons and several parcels of food. + </p> + <p> + “This,” he said to the orderly, “is the advanced dressing station. When + the casualties begin to arrive, we shall be ready for them.” + </p> + <p> + The Brigadier sent another motor cyclist to say that the battalion would + be wiped out if it stayed where it was. He suggested a move to the right + and an attempt to get into touch with B Company. + </p> + <p> + The Brigadier, though he drove in a motor-car, was feeling the heat. If a + direct advance had been made on the hill from where the battalion lay he + would have been obliged to drive out of his wood in order to keep the + battle in view. A move to the right could be watched comfortably from + where he sat The Colonel explained the situation, not the Brigadier’s + feelings, to his officers, exposing himself with reckless gallantry as he + passed from company to company. He said that he himself would survey the + ground to the right and would try to discover the exact position of B + Company. + </p> + <p> + “I shall,” he said to the Adjutant, “climb a tree so as to get a good + view.” + </p> + <p> + The Adjutant remonstrated. He thought the Colonel was too old a man for + climbing trees. He recommended that a subaltern, a Second Lieutenant whom + nobody would miss much if he fell, should be sent up the tree. The + suggestion, as the Adjutant might have guessed, made the Colonel more + determined and slightly exasperated him. + </p> + <p> + He gave orders that the Stokes gunners should shell the enemy while he + climbed the tree. The Stokes gunners did not want to shell anyone. Their + weapons are awkward to handle and their ammunition very heavy. They were + already as hot as any men ought to be. But they were well trained and + highly disciplined. They attacked the enemy with small dummy shells, which + rose gently into the air, made a half-circle, and fell about fifteen yards + from the muzzles of their guns. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel, looking about him for a tree not too difficult to climb, + caught sight of the beech under which McMahon lay. It seemed exactly the + kind of tree he required. It was high. Its lower branches were close to + the ground. It looked strong and sound. The Colonel pushed his way through + the hedge, avoided the oats, and approached the tree across a pasture + field. He came on McMahon stretched flat on his back, a tumbler full of + lemon squash beside him and his novel in his hand. The Colonel was still + irritated by the Adjutant’s suggestion that he was too old to climb trees. + He was also beginning, now that he was near a tree, to wonder uneasily + whether the Adjutant had not been right He saw an opportunity of + expressing his feelings at the expense of McMahon. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + McMahon, who had not seen the Colonel approach, stood up hurriedly, + upsetting his lemon squash, and saluting. + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce are you doing here?” said the Colonel. “You’ve no business + to be idling, drinking and smoking under a tree, when the battalion is in + action.” + </p> + <p> + “This is an advanced dressing station, sir,” said McMahon. “I’m waiting + for the casualties. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not your duty,” said the Colonel. “Your duty is to be with the + men, in the firing line, ready to render first aid when required.” + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but I don’t think that you’re quite + right in saying——” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” said the Colonel, “that it isn’t the duty of a + medical officer to accompany the men into the firing line?” + </p> + <p> + McMahon saluted again. + </p> + <p> + “According to the instructions issued by the R.A.M.C., sir,” he said, “my + place is in the advanced dressing station when there’s only one medical + officer attached to the unit in action. If there is more than one the + position is, of course, quite different.” + </p> + <p> + The Colonel, though a soldier of long experience, was not at all sure what + instructions the R.A.M.C. authorities might have issued to their officers. + And doctors are a powerful faction, given to standing together and defying + anyone who attempts to interfere with them. Besides, no one, not even the + strongest and healthiest of us, knows how soon he may find himself under + the power of a doctor, seized with a pain or other form of discomfort + which only a doctor can alleviate. It is never wise to push things to a + quarrel with any member of the R.A.M.C. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel turned away and, somewhat laboriously, climbed his tree. He + was anxious, if possible, to make McMahon do a little work. It was + annoying to think that this young man, horribly addicted to slacking, + should be lying on his back in the shade. Yet he did not at once see his + way to any plan for making McMahon run about in the heat. + </p> + <p> + It was while he scanned the position of B Company through his field + glasses that an idea suddenly occurred to him. He climbed down rapidly and + found McMahon standing respectfully to attention at the foot of the tree. + </p> + <p> + “You told me, I think,” said the Colonel, “that this is the advanced + dressing station?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And that you’re prepared to deal with casualties?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall send some casualties down to you,” said the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall expect,” said the Colonel, “that each man shall be properly + treated, exactly as if he were really wounded, bandaged up, you know, + ready for the ambulance to take him to the casualty clearing station. And + a proper record must be kept for each case. You must have a list made out + for me, properly classified, with a note of the treatment adopted in each + case and the nature of the injury, just as if you were going to send it to + the medical officer at the casualty clearing station.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And it must be done properly,” said the Colonel. “No shirking. No short + cuts. I don’t see why you shouldn’t practise your job like the rest of + us.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away with a smile, a grim but well-satisfied smile. He intended + to keep McMahon busy, very busy indeed, for the rest of the day. + </p> + <p> + McMahon lay down again after the Colonel left him. But he did not attempt + to read his novel. He saw through the Colonel’s plan. He was determined to + defeat it if he could. He was enjoying a peaceful afternoon, and had no + intention of exhausting himself bandaging up men who had nothing the + matter with them or compiling long lists of imaginary injuries. After five + minutes’ thought he hit upon a scheme. Ten minutes later the first + casualty arrived. + </p> + <p> + “Sent to the rear by the Colonel, sir,” said the man. “Orders are to + report to you. Shrapnel wound in the left thigh, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Left thigh?” said McMahon. + </p> + <p> + “It was the left the Colonel said, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said McMahon. “Orderly!” + </p> + <p> + The orderly, who had found a comfortable couch among some bracken, roused + himself and stood to attention in front of McMahon. + </p> + <p> + “Take this man round to the far side of the tree,” said McMahon, “and let + him lie down there flat on his back. You can give him a cigarette. He is + to stay there until he gets orders to leave.” + </p> + <p> + The orderly saluted. The man grinned. He was quite ready to lie under the + tree without attempting to move until someone ordered him to get up. + </p> + <p> + In the course of the next ten minutes six more casualties arrived. Their + injuries were of several different kinds. One man reported that his thumb + had been taken off by a machine-gun bullet. Another said he had a scalp + wound. A third had lost a whole leg, severed at the thigh. A fourth had a + fragment of shell in his stomach. A fifth was completely blinded. A sixth + was suffering from gas poisoning. McMahon’s treatment never varied. Each + man was given a cigarette and led off by the orderly to lie down in the + shade at the far side of the tree. McMahon kept quite cool, refreshed + himself occasionally with a drink of lemon squash, and smoked his pipe. He + began to admire the activity of the Colonel’s imagination. For two hours + casualties poured in and every one had a different kind of wound. There + was scarcely any part of the human body with which McMahon was not called + upon to deal. And the Colonel never once repeated himself. Before four + o’clock about a third of the battalion and half of the officers were + lying, very well content, in the shade under McMahon’s care. Many of them + were sound asleep. + </p> + <p> + The orderly was a man with a sense of military propriety. He insisted on + the casualties lying in straight rows, as neatly aligned as if they were + on their feet at parade in the barrack square. At last the stream of + wounded grew slacker and finally ceased to flow. Between half-past four + and five o’clock not a single man came to report himself wounded. McMahon, + lighting a fresh pipe, congratulated himself. Either the Colonel’s + knowledge of anatomy was exhausted and he was unable to think of any more + wounds, or the battle was over, and there was no further excuse for + inventing casualties. McMahon got up and stretched himself. He handed his + novel, the two empty soda-water bottles, and his tobacco tin to the + orderly, and bade him pack them up. + </p> + <p> + “No cigarettes left, I suppose?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, not one. In fact, sir, the last twenty men didn’t get any. + Weren’t enough to go round them all, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said McMahon, “it’s been an expensive afternoon for me; but I don’t + grudge it. Those poor fellows wanted a smoke and a rest badly. Besides, + I’ve had a very pleasant time, pleasant and peaceful.” + </p> + <p> + He strolled round to the far side of the tree and took a look at the men + who lay stretched out. One of the officers, a boy of untiring energy, + complained that he was bored. + </p> + <p> + “I say, McMahon, can’t I get up and go back to the mess? What’s the good + of my lying here all the afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll lie there,” said McMahon severely, “until you get orders to go. + And it may be a long time before you do. In fact, you won’t be able to + stir till the padre comes, and I haven’t the least idea where he is, I + doubt if he’s out with us at all to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “What the dickens has the padre got to do with it?” said the officer. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find that out in time. For the present you’ve nothing to do but + lie still.” + </p> + <p> + “But hang it all—— I say, McMahon, can’t you finish off and + let me go?” + </p> + <p> + “I?” said McMahon. “I’ve finished with you long ago. There’s nothing more + for me to do. The next man to take you in hand is the padre.” + </p> + <p> + The orderly stood at his elbow while he spoke. He seemed a little nervous + and agitated. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “The Colonel’s just coming, sir. He and the + General. He’s drove up in the General’s car; and I’m afraid they’re both + coming here, sir.” + </p> + <p> + McMahon turned. What the orderly said was perfectly true. The Colonel, and + with him the General, and the two umpires in the fight, were skirting the + oats and making for the little grove of trees where the casualties were. + </p> + <p> + McMahon went to meet them. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, McMahon,” said the Colonel, “I’ve come to see how you’ve treated the + wounded. I’ve brought the General with me. Casualties rather heavy, eh? + Had a busy afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + The Colonel grinned. McMahon saluted respectfully. + </p> + <p> + “Got your list made out?” said the Colonel, “and your report on each case? + Just hand them over to me, will you? The General would like to see them.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but have you given orders for the + padre to report here?” + </p> + <p> + “Padre?” said the Colonel. “What do you want the padre for?” + </p> + <p> + “The padre and a burying party, sir,” said McMahon. “The fact is, sir, + that the wounded all died, every one of them, on the way down from the + firing line. Arrived here stone dead. I couldn’t do anything for them, + sir. Dead before they got to me. I’ve had them laid out, if you’d like to + see them, sir. It’s all I could do for the poor fellows. It’s the padre’s + job now. I understand that he keeps a register of burials, so there was no + need for me to make a list, and of course I didn’t attempt any treatment. + It wouldn’t have been any use, sir, when the men were dead.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III ~~ A MATTER OF DISCIPLINE + </h2> + <p> + O’Byrne, the Reverend Timothy, is our padre. We call him Tim behind his + back because we like him and Padre to his face because some respect is due + to his profession. Mackintosh is our medical officer. The Reverend Tim + used to take a special delight in teasing Mackintosh. It may have been the + natural antipathy, the cat and dog feeling, which exists between parsons + and doctors. I do not know. + </p> + <p> + But the padre never lost a chance of pulling the doctor’s leg, and + Mackintosh spent hours proving that the things which the padre says he saw + could not possibly have happened. I should not like to call any padre a + liar; but some of the Rev. Tim’s stories were rather tall, and the + doctor’s scepticism always goaded him to fresh flights of imagination. + </p> + <p> + The mess was a much livelier place after the Rev. Tim joined it. Before he + attached himself to us we used to wonder why God made men like Mackintosh, + and what use they are in the world. + </p> + <p> + Now we know. Mackintosh exists to call out all that is best in our padre. + </p> + <p> + One night—the battalion was back resting at the time—we had an + Assistant Provost Marshal as a guest. The conversation turned on the + subject of deserters, and our A.P.M. told us some curious stories about + the attempts made by these poor devils to escape the net of the military + organization. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is,” said the A.P.M., “that a deserter hasn’t a dog’s chance, + not here in France anyway. We are bound to get him every time.” + </p> + <p> + “Not every time,” said the padre. “I know one who has been at large for + months and you’ll never lay hands on him.” + </p> + <p> + The A.P.M., who did not of course know our padre, sat up and frowned. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it’s his fault that he’s a deserter,” said the padre. “He + was forced into it. And anyway, even if I give you his name and tell you + exactly where he is, you’ll not arrest him.” + </p> + <p> + “If he’s a deserter, I will,” said the A.P.M. + </p> + <p> + “No, you won’t,” said the padre. “Excuse my contradicting you, but when + you hear the story you’ll see yourself that you can’t arrest the man. + Mackintosh here is protecting him.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it me?” said Mackintosh. “I’d like you to be careful what you’re + saying. In my opinion it’s libellous to say that I’m protecting a + deserter. I’ll have you court-martialled, Mr. O’Byrne, padre or no padre. + I’ll have you court-martialled if you bring any such accusation against + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean you personally,” said O’Byrne. “I am taking you as a + representative of your profession. The man I am speaking of”—he + turned politely to the A.P.M.—“is under the direct protection of the + Army Medical. You can’t get at him.” + </p> + <p> + Mackintosh bristled, to the padre’s great delight Anything in the way of + an attack on the medical profession excites Mackintosh fearfully. + </p> + <p> + “Binny is the man’s name,” said the padre. “17932, Private Alfred Binny. + He was in the Wessex, before the hospital people made a deserter of him. I + will give you his address if you like, but you’ll not be able to arrest + him. If you try you’ll have every doctor in France down on you. They back + each other up through anything, don’t they, Mackintosh?” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like you to understand,” said Mackintosh, “that you can’t be saying + things like that with impunity.” + </p> + <p> + “Get on with the story, padre,” I said, “and don’t exasperate Mackintosh.” + </p> + <p> + “It was while I was attached to No. 97 General Hospital,” he said. “Know + No. 97, Mackintosh? No. That’s a pity. It’s a place which would just suit + you. Patients wakened every morning at five to have their faces washed. + Discipline polished till you could see your face in it, and so many rules + and regulations that you can’t cross a room without tripping over one. The + lists and card indexes that are kept going in that place, and the forms + that are filled in! You’d glory in it, Mackintosh. But it didn’t suit my + temperament.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you,” said Mackintosh grimly. + </p> + <p> + “It was while I was there,” said the padre, “that Biimy came down the line + and was admitted to the hospital with a cushy wound in the fleshy part of + his arm. He’d have been well in three weeks and back with his battalion in + a month, if it hadn’t been for the doctors. It’s entirely owing to them + that he’s a deserter now.” + </p> + <p> + “Malingered, I suppose,” said Mackintosh. “Got back to England by shamming + shell shock and was given his discharge. He wouldn’t have pulled it off if + I’d been there.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve guessed wrong,” said the padre. “It wasn’t a case of malingering. + As nearly as possible it was the exact opposite. The doctors tried to make + the poor fellow out much worse than he really was. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it,” said Mackintosh. + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact,” said the padre, “the mistake—you’ll hardly + deny that it was a mistake when you hear the story—arose through too + strict attention to discipline, that and the number of lists and returns + that were made out. It doesn’t do to rely too much on lists, and there is + such a thing as overdoing discipline. + </p> + <p> + “What happened was this. One evening, when Binny had been in the hospital + about a week, two orderlies came to his bed with a stretcher. They told + him they were going to carry him down to the mortuary and put him into his + coffin. Binny, of course, thought they were making some new kind of joke, + and laughed. But the orderlies were perfectly serious. They said his name + was on the list of those who had died during the day and they had no + choice except to obey orders and put him into a coffin. They showed Binny + the list, all nicely typed out, and there was no mistake about it Binny’s + name, number, regiment, and religion were all there. + </p> + <p> + “Binny began to get indignant. He said he wasn’t dead, that anyone could + see he wasn’t dead, and that it would be a barbarous thing to bury him. + The orderlies, who were very nice fellows, admitted that Binny seemed to + be alive, but they stuck to it that it was their business to carry out + their orders. Into the mortuary Binny would have to go. They tried to + console him by saying that the funeral would not be till the next morning. + But that did not cheer Binny much. In the end they took pity on the poor + fellow and said they would go away for an hour and come back. If Binny + could get the order changed they’d be very pleased to leave him where he + was. It wasn’t, so they explained, any pleasure to them to put Binny into + a coffin. + </p> + <p> + “Binny did not get much chance during his hour’s reprieve. The only person + who came into the ward was a V.A.D. girl, quite a nice little girl, + good-looking enough to be bullied a lot by the sister-in-charge. Binny + told her about the fix he was in, and at first she thought he was raving + and tried to soothe him down. In the end, to pacify him, I suppose, she + went and asked the orderlies about him. She had not been out in France + long, that V.A.D., and wasn’t properly accustomed to things. When she + found out that what Binny had told her was true, she got fearfully + excited. She couldn’t do anything herself, of course, but she ran off to + the matron as hard as she could. The matron was a bit startled just at + first, but she kept her head. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tell Private Binny,’ she said, ‘that if he has any complaints to make + they must be made at the proper time and through the proper channels. The + C.O. goes round the hospital every morning between 10 a.m. and 11 a.m. + Private Binny can speak to him then.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘But by that time,’ said the V. A.D. girl, ‘the man will be buried.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I can’t help that,’ said the matron. ‘The discipline of the hospital + must be maintained. It would be perfectly impossible to run a place like + this if every man was allowed to make complaints at all hours of the day + and to all sorts of people.’ + </p> + <p> + “That V.A.D. was a plucky girl, and persistent—they sent her home + afterwards in disgrace—and she talked on until the matron agreed to + take a look at Binny. I think she was staggered when she saw him sitting + up in bed and heard him cursing the orderlies, who had come back by that + time. But she couldn’t do anything. She wasn’t really a bad sort of woman, + and I don’t suggest for a moment that she wanted to have Binny buried + alive. But she had no authority. She could not alter an order. And there + the thing was in black and white. However, she persuaded the orderlies to + wait another half-hour. She went off and found one of the surgeons. He was + a decent sort of fellow, but young, and he didn’t see his way to + interfering. There had been several mistakes made in that hospital, and + the C.O. had been rather heavily strafed, which meant of course that + everyone under him was strafed worse, on the good old principle of passing + it on. That surgeon’s idea was to avoid trouble, if possible. Somebody, he + said, had made a mistake, but it was too late, then, to set things right, + and the best thing to do was to say nothing about it. He was sorry for + Binny, but he couldn’t do anything. + </p> + <p> + “When the V.A.D. girl heard that, she lost her temper. She said she’d + write home and tell her father about it, and that her father was a Member + of Parliament and would raise hell about it She didn’t, of course, say + hell!” + </p> + <p> + “She couldn’t do that,” said Mackintosh. “The censor wouldn’t pass a + letter with a story like that in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right,” said the padre, “and it wouldn’t have been any good if her + father had got the letter. He couldn’t have done anything. If he’d asked a + question in Parliament he’d simply have been told a lie of some kind. It + was a silly sort of threat to make. The V.A.D. saw that herself and began + to cry. + </p> + <p> + “That upset the surgeon so much that he went round and took a look at + Binny. The man was pale by that time and in the deuce of a funk. But he + wasn’t in the least dead. The surgeon felt that it was a hard case, and + said he’d take the risk of speaking to the C.O. about it. + </p> + <p> + “The C.O. of No. 97 General at that time was an oldish man, who suffered + from suppressed gout, which is the regular medical name for unsuppressed + temper. He said emphatically that Private Binny was reported dead, marked + dead, removed from the hospital books, and must stay dead. The whole + system of the R.A.M.C. would break down, he said, and things would drift + into chaos if dead men were allowed to come to life again whenever they + chose. + </p> + <p> + “The surgeon was a plucky young fellow in his way. Remembering how pretty + the V.A.D. looked when she cried, he pressed Binny’s case on the C.O. The + old gentleman said he might have done something two hours sooner; but the + hospital returns had gone to the D.D.M.S. and couldn’t possibly be got + back again or altered. In the end, after a lot more talk about regulations + and discipline, he said he’d telephone to the D.D.M.S. office and see if + anything could be done. It is greatly to his credit that he did telephone, + explaining the case as well as he could over a faulty wire. The staff + colonel in the office was perfectly civil, but said that the returns had + been forwarded by a motor dispatch rider to G.H.Q. and could not be + recalled by any possibility. The C.O., who seems to have begun to realize + the horrible position of Binny, asked advice as to what he ought to do. + The staff colonel said he’d never come across a case of the kind before, + but it seemed plain to him that Binny was dead, that is to say, officially + dead. The Chaplain’s Department, he thought, might be able to do something + for a man after he was dead. If not nobody could. + </p> + <p> + “That,” said O’Byrne with a smile, “is where I came in. The C.O. sent for + me at once.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Mackintosh, “that you straightened the whole thing out + without difficulty?” + </p> + <p> + Mackintosh is always irritated at a suggestion that anyone connected with + the medical profession can possibly make a mistake. When irritated he is + apt to attempt a kind of heavy sarcasm which O’Byrne sucks in with obvious + delight. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the padre, “I couldn’t straighten it out. But I did the best I + could. I went to see poor Binny. He was in the mortuary by that time. I + found him sitting up in his coffin crying like a child. I comforted him as + well as I could.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil,” said Mackintosh. “Not that I believe a word of this story. + It couldn’t have happened. But you may as well go on and tell us what you + did. Sang hymns to him, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said the padre. “I got him something to eat and a couple of + blankets. That mortuary is a cold place, and, though you mightn’t think + it, a coffin is draughty. Next morning I buried him.” + </p> + <p> + “God bless me!” said the A.P.M. explosively. “Do you mean to say you + buried a man you knew to be alive?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t help it,” said the padre. “It was in orders, matter of + discipline, you know. Can’t go back on discipline, can you, Mackintosh? I + got through it as quickly as I decently could. Then I let Binny out. The + graves in that cemetery are never filled in for an hour or two after the + coffins are let down, so I had lots of time. Jolly glad poor Binny was to + get out. He said he’d shivered all over when he heard ‘The Last Post.’ I + had a suit of clothes for him; of course, civilian clothes.” + </p> + <p> + The padre filled himself a glass of whisky and soda and lit his pipe. He + looked round with a smile of triumph. Most of us applauded him. He + deserved it. The story was one of his best imaginative efforts. I suppose + the applause encouraged him to go further. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you his address if you like,” he said to the A.P.M. “He’s + working on a French farm and quite happy. But I don’t see that you can + possibly arrest him without getting the whole medical profession on your + back. They said he was dead, you see, and, as Mackintosh will tell you, + they never own up to making mistakes.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV ~~ THE SECOND BASS + </h2> + <p> + “Be careful, Bates,” said Miss Willmot; “we don’t want your neck broken.” + </p> + <p> + “No fear, miss,” said Lance-Corporal Bates; “I’m all right.” + </p> + <p> + Lance-Corporal Bates had three gold bars on the sleeve of his tunic. He + might fairly be reckoned a man of courage. His position, when Miss Willmot + spoke to him, demanded nerve. He stood on the top rail of the back of a + chair, a feeble-looking chair. The chair was placed on a table which was + inclined to wobble, because one of its legs was half an inch shorter than + the other three. Sergeant O’Rorke, leaning on the table, rested most of + his weight on the seat of the chair, thereby balancing Bates and + preventing an upset. Miss Willmot sat on the corner of the table, so that + it wobbled very little. Bates, perilously balanced, hammered a nail, the + last necessary nail, into the wall through the topmost ray of a large + white star. Then he crept cautiously down. + </p> + <p> + Standing beside Miss Willmot he surveyed the star. + </p> + <p> + “Looks a bit like Christmas, don’t it, miss?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The glitters on it,” said Sergeant O’Rorke, “is the beautifullest that + ever was seen. The diamonds on the King’s Crown wouldn’t be finer.” + </p> + <p> + The star hung on the wall of the canteen opposite the counter. It was made + of cotton wool pasted on cardboard. The wool had been supplied by a + sympathetic nurse from a neighbouring hospital. It was looted from the + medical stores. The frosting, which excited Sergeant O’Rorke’s admiration, + was done with sugar. It was Miss Nelly Davis, youngest and merriest of + Miss Willmot’s helpers, who suggested the sugar, when the powdered glass + ordered from England failed to arrive. + </p> + <p> + “There can’t be any harm in using it,” she said. “What we’re getting now + isn’t sugar at all, it is fine gravel. A stone of it wouldn’t sweeten a + single urn of tea.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot took the sugar from her stores as she accepted the looted + cotton-wool, without troubling to search for excuse or justification. She + was a lady of strong will. When she made up her mind that the Christmas + decorations of her canteen were to be the best in France she was not + likely to stick at trifling breaches of regulations. + </p> + <p> + She looked round her with an expression of justifiable satisfaction. The + long hut which served as a canteen looked wonderfully gay. Underneath the + white star ran an inscription done in large letters made of ivy leaves. + Miss Willmot, in the course of two years’ service in the canteen of a base + camp, had gained some knowledge of the soldier’s heart Her inscription was + calculated to make an immediate appeal. “A Merry Christmas,” it ran, “And + the Next in Blighty.” The walls of the hut were hung round with festoons + of coloured paper. Other festoons, red, blue, and green stretched across + the room from wall to wall under the low ceiling. Chinese lanterns, + swinging on wires, threatened the head of anyone more than six feet in + height. Sergeant O’Rorke, an Irish Guardsman until a wound lamed him, now a + member of the camp police force, had to dodge the Chinese lanterns when he + walked about. Jam-pots and cigarette-tins, swathed in coloured paper, held + bunches of holly and sprigs of mistletoe. They stood on the tables and the + window sills. + </p> + <p> + But the counter was the crowning glory of the canteen. In the middle of it + stood an enormous Christmas cake, sugar-covered, bedecked with flags. + Round the cake, built into airy castles, were hundreds of crackers. Huge + dishes, piled high with mince pies, stood in rows along the whole length + of the counter on each side of the cake. Behind them, rising to the height + of five steps, was a long staircase made of packets of cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, it’s grand,” said Sergeant O’Rorke; “and there isn’t one only + yourself, miss, who’d do all you be doing for the men.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot’s eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often given + to expressing tender feeling. At home in the old days men spoke of her as + a good sport, who rode straight and played the game; but they seldom tried + to make love to her. Women said she was a dear, and that it was a thousand + pities she did not marry. It was no sentimental recollection of bygone + Christmases which brought the look of softness into her eyes. She was + thinking that next day the men for once would feast to the full in the + canteen—eat, drink, smoke, without paying a penny. She knew how well + they deserved all she could do for them, these men who had done so much, + borne so much, who still had so much to do and bear. Miss Willmot thanked + God as she stood there that she had money to spend for the men. + </p> + <p> + “Tea! tea! tea! Tea’s ready. Come along, Miss Willmot.” + </p> + <p> + The call came from behind the counter. Miss Nelly Davis stood there, a + tall, fair girl in a long blue overall. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve made toast and buttered it, and Mr. Digby’s waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “Good evening, miss, and a happy Christmas to you,” said Bates. + </p> + <p> + “If there’s a happy Christmas going these times at all,” said Sergeant + O’Rorke, “it’s yourself deserves it.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, thank you both,” said Miss Willmot “If it hadn’t been for your + help I’d never have got the decorations done at all.” + </p> + <p> + The men left the hut, and Miss Willmot locked the door behind them. The + canteen was closed until it opened in all its glory on Christmas + afternoon. + </p> + <p> + She passed through a door at the back of the counter, slipped off her + overall, stained and creased after a long day’s work, then she went into + the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Miss Nelly Davis was bending over a packing-case which stood in the middle + of the kitchen floor. It served as a table, and she was spreading a cloth + on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform, wearing the + badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This was Mr. Digby. Once + he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga’s, the most fashionable of + London churches. In those days Miss Willmot would have treated him with + scorn. She did not care for curates. + </p> + <p> + Now he was a fellow-worker in the Camp. His waterproof hung dripping + behind the kitchen door. Drops of rain ran down his gaiters. He was trying + to dry the knees of his breeches before the stove. Miss Willmot greeted + him warmly. + </p> + <p> + “Terrific night,” he said; “rain coming down in buckets. Water running + round the camp in rivers. I say, Miss Davis, you’ll have to get out + another cup. The Major’s coming to tea.” + </p> + <p> + “There isn’t a fourth cup,” said Miss Nelly. “You’ll have to drink out of + a mug.” + </p> + <p> + “Right-o! Mugs hold more, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “All padres are greedy,” said Miss Nelly. “What’s bringing the Major + here?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve arranged a practice of the Christmas carols,” said Digby. + </p> + <p> + “Bother your old carols,” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Must have a practice,” said Digby. “You and Miss Willmot are all right; + but the Major is frightfully shaky over the bass. It won’t do to break + down to-morrow. By the way, Miss Willmot, there’s something I want to + speak to you about before the Major comes. There’s——” + </p> + <p> + “Before the Major comes, Nelly,” said Miss Willmot, “give me some tea. He + always looks shocked when I drink four cups, so let me get through the + first two before he arrives.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” said Digby. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a drip coming through the roof just there which will get you on + the back of the neck every time you lean forward.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot shifted the biscuit-tin. It was not easy to find a spot to + put it. The roof of the kitchen leaked badly in several places. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Miss Willmot,” said Digby. “I wonder if you could do anything + about this. I’ve just been round to the guard-room. There’s a poor devil + there——” + </p> + <p> + “Language! language!” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + She was on her knees beside the stove rescuing her plate of toast from + danger. Drops of water were falling on it from the knees of Digby’s + breeches every time he moved. + </p> + <p> + “There is,” said Digby, speaking with great precision, “an unfortunate man + at this moment incarcerated in the cell behind the guard-room, under the + stern keeping of the Provost Sergeant. I hope that way of saying it + satisfies you, Miss Davis.” + </p> + <p> + “For goodness’ sake, don’t talk Camp shop,” said Miss Davis. “Let’s have + our tea in peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Drink, I suppose,” said Miss Willmot “Why will they do it, just at + Christmas, too?” + </p> + <p> + “This isn’t a drunk,” said Digby. “The wretched devil has been sent down + here under arrest from No. 73 Hospital. He’s to be court-martialled. He’s + only a boy, and a decent-looking boy, too. I hate to think of his being + shut up in that cell all by himself at Christmas with nobody to do + anything for him.” + </p> + <p> + “What can we do?” said Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do anything, of course,” said Digby, “but I thought you might.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what I can do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, try,” said Digby. “If you’d seen the poor fellow—— But + you’ll do something for him, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Digby had a fine faith in Miss Willmot’s power to do “something” under any + circumstances. Experience strengthened his faith instead of shattering it. + Had not Miss Willmot on one occasion faced and routed a medical board + which tried to seize the men’s recreation-room for its own purposes? And + in the whole hierarchy of the Army there is no power more unassailable + than that of a medical board. Had she not obtained leave for a man that he + might go to see his dying mother, at a time when all leave was officially + closed, pushing the application through office after office, till it + reached, “noted and forwarded for your information, please,” the remote + General in Command of Lines of Communication? Had she not bent to her will + two generals, several colonels, and once even a sergeant-major? A padre, + fourth class, though he had once been curate of St. Ethelburga’s, was a + feeble person. But Miss Willmot! Miss Willmot got things done, levelled + entanglements of barbed red tape, captured the trenches of official + persons by virtue of a quiet persistence, and—there is no denying it—because + the things she wanted done were generally good things. + </p> + <p> + The Major opened the door of the kitchen. He stood for a moment on the + threshold, the water dripping from his cap and running down his coat, + great drops of it hanging from his white moustache. He was nearer sixty + than fifty years of age. The beginning of the war found him settled very + comfortably in a pleasant Worcestershire village. He had a house + sufficiently large, a garden in which he grew wonderful vegetables, and a + small circle of friends who liked a game of bridge in the evenings. From + these surroundings he had been dug out and sent to command a base camp in + France. He was a professional soldier, trained in the school of the old + Army, but he had enough wisdom to realize that our new citizen soldiers + require special treatment and enough human sympathy to be keenly + interested in the welfare of the men. He grudged neither time nor trouble + in any matter which concerned the good of the Camp. He had very early come + to regard Miss Willmot as a valuable fellow-worker. + </p> + <p> + “Padre,” he said, “I put it to you as a Christian man, is this an evening + on which anyone ought to be asked to practise Christmas carols?” + </p> + <p> + “Hear, hear,” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve only had one practice, sir,” said Digby, “and I’ve put up notices + all over the Camp that the carols will be sung to-morrow evening. It’s + awfully good of you to come.” + </p> + <p> + “And of me,” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “You’re here, in any case,” said Digby. “The men are tremendously pleased, + sir,” he added, “that you’re going to sing. They appreciate it.” + </p> + <p> + “They won’t appreciate it nearly so much when they hear me,” said the + Major. “I haven’t sung a part for, I suppose, twenty years.” + </p> + <p> + Christmas carols have been sung, and we may suppose practised beforehand, + in odd places, amid curious surroundings. But it is doubtful whether even + the records of missionaries in heathen lands tell of a choir practice so + unconventional as that held on Christmas Eve in the kitchen of Miss + Willmot’s canteen. + </p> + <p> + The rain beat a tattoo on the corrugated iron roof. It dripped into a + dozen pools on the soaking floor, it fell in drops which hissed on to the + top of the stove. There was no musical instrument of any kind. The + tea-tray was cleared away and laid in a corner. The Major, white-haired, + lean-faced, smiling, sat on the packing-case in the middle of the room. + Miss Willmot sat on her biscuit-tin near the stove. Miss Nelly perched, + with dangling feet, on a corner of the sink in which cups and dishes were + washed. Digby, choir-master and conductor, stood in front of the stove. + </p> + <p> + “Now then,” he said, “we’ll begin with ‘Nowell.’ Major, here’s your note—La-a-a”—he + boomed out a low note. “Got it?” + </p> + <p> + “La-a-a,” growled the Major. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Willmot, alto,” said Digby, “la-a-a. That’s right. Miss Davis, a + third higher, la-a-a. My tenor is F. Here’s the chord. La, la, la, la. + Now, one, two, three. ‘The first Nowell the angels did say——‘” + </p> + <p> + The rain hammered on the roof. The Major plodded conscientiously at his + bass. Miss Nelly sang a shrill treble. Digby gave the high tenor notes in + shameless shouts. “Good King Wenceslas” followed, and “God rest you merry, + gentlemen.” Then the Major declared that he could sing no more. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d get another bass, padre,” he said. “I’m not trying to back + out, but I’m no good by myself. If I’d somebody to help me, a second bass——” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nobody,” said Digby. “I’ve scoured the whole camp looking for a + man.” + </p> + <p> + “If only Tommy were here,” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Tommy has a splendid voice. And I don’t see why he mightn’t be here + instead of stuck in that silly old hospital. He’s quite well. He told me so + yesterday. A bullet through the calf of the leg is nothing. Major, + couldn’t you get them to send Tommy over to the Camp just for to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + The Major shook his head. He had every sympathy with Miss Nelly. He knew + all about Tommy. So did Miss Willmot. So did Digby. Miss Nelly made no + secret of the fact that she was engaged to be married to Tommy Collins. + She was proud of the fact that he was serving as a private in the Wessex + Borderers, wishing to work his way up through the ranks to the commission + that he might have had for the asking. No Wessex man ever entered the + canteen without being asked if he knew Private 7432 Collins, of the 8th + Battalion. Every one—even the sergeant-major—had to listen to + scraps read out from Tommy’s letters, written in trenches or in billets. + When Tommy was reported wounded, Miss Willmot had a bad day of it with an + almost hysterical Nelly Davis. When the wound turned out to be nothing + worse than a hole in the calf of the leg, made by a machine-gun bullet, + Miss Nelly cried from sheer relief. When, by the greatest good luck in the + world, Private 7432 Collins was sent down to 73 General Hospital, no more + than a mile distant from the Camp, Miss Nelly went wild with joy. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t be done,” said the Major. “If it were any other hospital—but + the people in No. 73 don’t like me.” + </p> + <p> + The Major was a stickler for extreme accuracy in the filling in of all + official papers. The staff of No. 73 Hospital cured its patients of their + wounds, but sometimes turned them loose afterwards, insufficiently, + occasionally even wrongly, described and classified. The Major invariably + called attention to these mistakes. + </p> + <p> + The Major, though particular on some points, was a kindly man. He did not + want to speak evil of the hospital authorities. He was also a little tired + of hearing about Tommy Collins. He changed the subject abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “By the way, Miss Willmot,” he said, “it’s all right about the men’s + Christmas dinner. I spent an hour this morning strafing everybody in the + cook-house. I told them they must try to make the Yorkshire pudding. + Heaven knows what it will be like?” + </p> + <p> + “If they’ll only follow the receipt I gave them——” said Miss + Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “<i>If</i>,” said Digby. “But those cooks are rotters.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow,” said the Major, “there’ll be a decent dinner. Roast beef, plum + pudding, oranges, and then all the things you have for them in the + canteen. They’ll not do badly, not at all badly.” + </p> + <p> + He rubbed his hands together and smiled with benevolent satisfaction. He + had arranged to eat his own Christmas dinner at the unholy hour of three + in the afternoon. He meant to see that all went well at the men’s dinner, + and that their tea was sufficient. He meant to look in for an hour at the + canteen festivities. He had promised to sing Christmas carols. From three + to four was the only time left at which he could dine. But that thought + did not spoil his satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + Digby saw, or thought he saw, his opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “There’s one poor fellow in the guard-room, sir,” he said. “Will he get + any Christmas dinner?” + </p> + <p> + He winked at Miss Willmot as he spoke. This was the time for her to back + up his charitable appeal. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said the Major, “I’m afraid I can’t do much for him. It’s a serious + charge, a case of a Field General Court Martial. I’m afraid there’s no + doubt about the facts. I’m sorry for him. He’s quite young; but it’s a + disgraceful thing for any man to do.” + </p> + <p> + The Major’s face hardened. For many offences and most offenders he had + some sympathy; but a man who sinned against the code of military honour + had little pity to expect from the Major. + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Is it very bad?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “One of those cases of self-wounding,” said the Major. “Shot himself in + the leg with his own rifle.” + </p> + <p> + There are cases of this kind, a few of them. Some wretch, driven half + frantic by terror, worn out with hardships, hopeless of any end of his + sufferings, seeks this way out. He gains a week of rest and security in a + hospital ward. Then he faces the stern judgment of a court martial, and + pays the penalty. + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow!” said Miss Willmot. “Poor boy! What he must have gone + through before he did that!” + </p> + <p> + “He went through no more than any other man went through,” said the Major; + “but they stuck it and he shirked. There are men enough who deserve our + pity, Miss Willmot. We can’t afford to waste sympathy on cowards.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot was of another mind. For her there was a law higher even than + the Major’s lofty code of chivalry and honour. She had pity to spare for + cowards. + </p> + <p> + The Major himself was not wholly consistent. As he rose to leave the + kitchen he spoke of the prisoner again. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t look like a man who’d do it. He looks like a gentleman. That + makes it worse, of course, much worse. All the same, he doesn’t look it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Digby, when the Major left. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do anything,” said Miss Willmot “In a case of this kind there’s + nothing to be done.” + </p> + <p> + But Miss Willmot made up a little parcel before she left the canteen. + There were cigarettes in it, and chocolate, and a couple of mince pies, + and a large slice of cake, and some biscuits. Afterwards she acted + lawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulations with + contempt. + </p> + <p> + Sergeant O’Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience when Miss + Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted. + </p> + <p> + “Terrible weather, miss. I’ll never say again that it rains in the County + Galway. Sure, it doesn’t know how. A man would have to come to France to + find out what rain is.” + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant,” said Miss Willmot, “I want to speak to your prisoner.” + </p> + <p> + Sergeant O’Rorke scratched his ear doubtfully. Miss Willmot had no right + to see the prisoner. He had no right to open the door of the cell for her. + They had hammered some respect for discipline into Sergeant O’Rorke when + he served in the Irish Guards. But they had not hammered the Irish nature + altogether out of him. He was willing to go to great lengths, to take + risks in order to oblige a friend whom he liked and respected. He had an + Irishman’s feeling that laws and regulations are not meant to apply to + ladies like Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “Did you think to ask leave of the Major, miss?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Willmot, “I didn’t ask anybody’s leave.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a pity now,” said O’Rorke; “but sure the Major would never have + said no if you’d have asked him.” + </p> + <p> + He fitted the key into the lock and flung open the door of the cell. + </p> + <p> + “Prisoner, ‘tention,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot entered the small square room, lit by a single electric + light. It was entirely bare of all furniture, save a single rug, which lay + rolled up in a corner. The walls and floor were lined with sheets of zinc. + A young man stood stiffly to attention in the middle of the room. Miss + Willmot stared at him. + </p> + <p> + Then she turned to Sergeant O’Rorke. “Shut the door please, sergeant, and + wait outside.” + </p> + <p> + The young man neither stirred nor spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Tommy!” said Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “7432! Private Collins, miss, 8th Wessex Borderers.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a tone of hard, cold fury. + </p> + <p> + “Tommy,” said Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “Awaiting trial by Field General Court Martial on a charge of deliberately + wounding himself in the leg.” + </p> + <p> + “Tommy,” said Miss Willmot again, “you didn’t do that.” + </p> + <p> + The boy broke down suddenly. The hardness and the anger vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Willmot,” he said, “for God’s sake don’t tell Nelly that I’m here.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t do it,” said Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I didn’t do it,” he said. “There’s been some infernal blunder. + I didn’t know what the damned idiots meant when they put me under arrest I + didn’t know what the charge was till they marched me in to the C.O. here. + He told me. Oh, the Army’s a nice thing, I can tell you. I was expecting + to get my stripe over that raid when I got hit with a bullet in my leg, + and here I am charged with a coward’s trick. I suppose they’ll prove it. I + suppose they’ve got what they call evidence. I only hope they’ll shoot me + quick and have done with it I don’t want to live.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot went over to the boy and took his hand. She led him to the + corner of the bare room. They sat down together on the folded blanket She + talked to him quietly, sanely, kindly. For half an hour she sat there with + him. Before she left, hope had come back to him. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you worry about my being here,” he said “If things are cleared up + in the end I shan’t mind a bit about spending a night or two in this cell. + With all the things you’ve brought me”—the cake, chocolate, and + cigarettes were spread out on the floor—“I’ll have a merry + Christmas, better than the trenches, anyhow. But, I say, don’t tell Nelly. + She might fret.” + </p> + <p> + The Christmas festivities in the Camp were enormously successful. The men + had cold ham for breakfast, a special treat paid for by the Major. They + assembled for church parade, and Digby gave them the shortest sermon ever + preached by a padre. The Major, who liked to play the piano at church + service, was so startled by the abrupt conclusion of the discourse, that + he started “O Come, All ye Faithful,” in a key so low that no one could + sing the second line. The Major pulled himself together. + </p> + <p> + “As you were,” he said, and started again. + </p> + <p> + The men, thoroughly roused by the novelty of the proceedings, yelled the + hymn. The dinner was all that could be hoped. Sweating cooks staggered + into the dining-hall with huge dishes of meat and steaming cauldrons of + potatoes. Sergeants, on that day acting as servants to the men, bore off + from the carving-tables plates piled high. The Yorkshire pudding looked + like gingerbread, but the men ate it. The plum pudding was heavy, solid, + black. + </p> + <p> + The Major, smiling blandly, went from table to table. Miss Nelly, flushed + with excitement and pleasure, laughed aloud. Only Miss Willmot looked on + with grave eyes, somewhat sad. She was thinking of Tommy Collins in his + cell, with the weight of an intolerable accusation hanging over him. + </p> + <p> + Later on, not even Miss Willmot had time to be thoughtful. There was a + pause in the festivities for an hour or two after dinner. The men smoked, + slept, or kicked at a football with spasmodic fits of energy. Then the + canteen was opened. Miss Willmot’s great cake was cut. The men passed in a + long file in front of the counter. Miss Willmot handed each man a slice of + cake. Other ladies gave crackers and mince pies. Digby, garrulous and + friendly, distributed cigarettes. The Major stood at the far end of the + room under the glistening white star. He was waiting for the moment to + arrive at which he should make his speech, a speech sure to be received + with genuine applause, for it was to be in praise of Miss Willmot. The + Major did that kind of thing well. He had the proper touch, could catch + the note appropriate for votes of thanks. He knew his talent, and that + Christmas Day he meant to do his best. + </p> + <p> + An orderly entered the canteen, looked round it, caught sight of the + Major. He pushed his way through a crowd of laughing men who munched cake, + smoked furiously, and decked each others’ heads with paper caps from + crackers. He reached the Major at last, and handed him a note. The Major + read it and swore. Then he began to push his way towards the counter. The + orderly followed him. + </p> + <p> + “Gangway,” he called, “gangway, men. Make way for the Major.” + </p> + <p> + Way was made at last. The Major seized Digby by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a damned nuisance,” he said. “I beg pardon, padre, an infernal + nuisance. I’ve got to go to the orderly room. Those fellows in No. 3 + Hospital are ringing me up. Why couldn’t they keep quiet on Christmas Day? + I must go though, and I may be kept. You’ll have to make the speech and + thank Miss Willmot.” + </p> + <p> + Digby escaped making the speech in the end. Just as the distribution of + cakes and mince pies had finished, when Digby was searching frantically + for an opening sentence, the Major returned. He made two speeches. One was + in a low voice across the counter to Miss Willmot. The other was to the + men. It was all about Miss Willmot. It was beautifully phrased. But she + did not hear a word of it. She was scarcely aware of the men’s cheers, + though the paper festoons swayed to and fro, and the Chinese lanterns + shook with the violence of the shouting. For the Major had said this to + her: + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right about that boy in the guard-room, the prisoner you know, + who was to have been court-martialled. Some blatant idiot of an orderly + sergeant mixed up two sets of papers, and put the wrong man under arrest. + They’re sending over the right man now. I told Sergeant O’Rorke to bring + that poor boy straight here from the guard-room. Keep a bit of cake for + him.” + </p> + <p> + It was while the men were cheering the Major’s other speech that Tommy + Collins, guided by Sergeant O’Rorke, entered the canteen. + </p> + <p> + Miss Nelly saw him at once. She stretched herself across the counter to + grasp his hands, upsetting the few remaining mince pies, and scattering + crackers right and left. If the counter had not been so broad and high she + would in all probability have kissed him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Tommy!” she said. “And I’d given up all hope of seeing you. This is + just a perfect Christmas box. How did you get here?” + </p> + <p> + Tommy Collins looked appealingly to Miss Willmot. His eyes begged her as + plainly as if words had crossed his lips not to tell the story of his + arrest. + </p> + <p> + “Now you are here,” said Miss Nelly, “you must help us with the carols. + The Major’s a perfect darling, but he can’t sing bass for nuts. You’ll do + it, won’t you? I’m singing, and so is Miss Willmot.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V ~~ HER RIGHT + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Jocelyn was generally considered a clever woman. Her husband + respected her intellect. He was, and still is, Professor of Psychology in + one of our younger Universities, so he could give an expert’s opinion on + any question of mental capacity. Her sons said she was clever. There were + two young Jocelyns, Ned, a barrister, and Tom, a junior master in a public + school. Ned used to give me his opinion of his mother very often. + </p> + <p> + “The mater is extraordinarily clear-headed,” he would say. “If you want to + see your way through a muddle, just you talk it over with her. It’s an + awful pity she——” + </p> + <p> + Then Ned would shrug his shoulders. He was a loyal son, and he never said + in plain words what the pity was. Tom spoke in the same way. + </p> + <p> + “Dad’s all right,” he used to say, “European reputation and all that; but + the mater has the brains of our family. If only she wouldn’t——” + </p> + <p> + I agreed with both of them. Mrs. Jocelyn was one of the cleverest women I + ever met, but—well, on one subject she was an intolerable bore. That + subject was Woman’s Suffrage. She could not keep off it for very long, and + once she started there was no stopping her. All her friends suffered. It + cannot be said that she argued. She demanded, aggressively insisted on sex + equality, on justice and right for women, right in every sphere of life, + political right, social right, economic right, all kinds of other right. + </p> + <p> + This, of course, was in the old days before the war. Since August, 1914, + most things have changed. Professor Jocelyn, indeed, still lectures on + psychology, half-heartedly now, to a rapidly dwindling class of young + women. But Ned Jocelyn’s name is painted in black letters on a brown + wooden cross at the head of a grave—one of a long row of graves—in + a French cemetery. Tom is trying to learn to walk without crutches in the + grounds of an English hospital. Mrs. Jocelyn is out in France, working in + a canteen, working very hard. It is only occasionally now that she demands + a “right;” but when she does, she demands it, so I understand, with all + her old ferocious determination to get it. This is the story of how she + once demanded and took a “right.” + </p> + <p> + It was nearly midday, and the camp lay under a blazing sun. It was early + in July, when all England and all France were throbbing with hope, pride + and terror as the news of the “Big Push” came in day by day. There was + little calm, and few hearts at ease in those days, but Number 50 + Convalescent Camp looked peaceful enough. It is miles from the firing + line. No shells ever burst over it or near it. Only occasionally can the + distant rumble of the guns be heard. A spell of dry weather had cracked + the clay of the paths which divided it into rectangles. The grass was + burnt and brown. The flower beds, in spite of diligent watering, looked + parched. The great white tents, marquees guyed up with many ropes, shone + with a blinding glare. In the strips of shade made by the fly sheets of + the tents, men lay in little groups. Their tunics were unbuttoned or cast + aside. They smoked and chatted, speaking slowly and briefly. Oftener they + slept. + </p> + <p> + Only in one corner of the camp was there any sign of activity. Near the + main entrance is the orderly room. Inside, a sweating adjutant toiled at a + mass of papers on the desk before him. From time to time a sergeant + entered the room, saluted, spoke sharply, received his orders, saluted and + went out again. From the clerk’s room next door came the sound of voices, + the ceaseless clicking of a typewriter, and the frequent clamorous summons + of a telephone bell. Outside, orderlies hurried, stepping quickly in one + direction or another, to the Quarter-master’s stores, to the kitchen, to + the wash-houses, to twenty other points in the great camp to which orders + must go, and from which messages must return. The bugler stood in the + verandah outside the orderly room, ready to blow his calls or strike the + hours with a hammer on a suspended length of railway line. At the entrance + gate, standing sharply to attention as a guardsman should, even under a + blazing sun, was Private Malley, of the Irish Guards, wounded long ago, + now wearing the brassard of the Military Police. He saw to it that no + person unauthorized entered the camp. Above him, limp from its staff, hung + the Red Cross flag, unrecognizable that day, since there was no faintest + breeze to stir its folds. + </p> + <p> + Close by the flag staff is the little dressing station. Here the men in + the camp, men discharged from hospital, are seen by the doctors and the + period of their rest and convalescence is decided. They are marked “Fit,” + and go to the fighting again, or sent back and enjoy good quarters and + pleasant food for a while longer. Or—best hope—marked + “Blighty” and go home. This is the routine. But sometimes there is a + difference. There had been a difference every day since the “Big Push” + started. Outside the dressing station was a group of forty or fifty men. + They lay on the ground, most of them sound asleep. They lay in the + strangest attitudes, curled up, some of them; others with arms and legs + flung wide, the attitudes of men utterly exhausted, whose overpowering + need is rest. Some sat huddled up, too tired to sleep, blinking their eyes + in the strong sunshine. Most of these men wore bandages. Bandages were on + their heads, their hands, their arms and legs, where sleeves and trousers + had been cut away. Some of them had lost their caps. One here and there + had lost a boot. Many of them wore tattered tunics and trousers with long + rents in them. All of them were covered with mud, mud that had dried into + hard yellow cakes. These were men sent straight down from the field + dressing stations, men who had been slightly wounded, so slightly that + there was no need for them to go to hospital. Among them there was one man + who neither lay huddled nor sprawled. He sat upright, his knees drawn up + to his chest, held tight in his clasped hands. He stared straight in front + of him with wide, unblinking eyes. Of all the men in the group, he was the + muddiest His clothes were caked with mud. His face was covered with mud. + His hair was matted with mud. Also his clothes were the raggedest of all. + The left leg of his trousers was rent from knee to waistband. The skin of + his thigh shone white, strangely white compared to his face and hands, + through the jagged tear. The sleeves of his tunic were torn. There was a + hole in the back of it, and one of his shoulder straps was torn off. He + was no more than a boy, youthful-looking compared even to the men, almost + all of them young, who lay around him. He had a narrow face with that look + of alert impudence which is common on the faces of gutter snipes in large + cities. + </p> + <p> + As he sat staring he spoke now and then, spoke to himself, for there was + no one to listen to him. + </p> + <p> + “We beat them,” he said once. “We gave them the damnedest beating. We + strafed them proper, and they ran. The Prussian Guards they was.” + </p> + <p> + His accent betrayed him. He must have come from Lancashire, from some + grimy Lancashire town, from Warrington or Bolton, from Liverpool itself + perhaps, or Manchester. Before the war there were crowds of such boys + there. They made up the football crowds on Saturday afternoons. They made + the countryside hideous on bank holiday afternoons. They were the despair + of church and chapel, of the social reformer, and often of the police. + This boy was under-sized, of poor chest development, thin-limbed, weedy; + but there was a curious light in those staring eyes of his. + </p> + <p> + He turned to the man on his right, a great, heavy-jawed Irishman with a + bandaged knee, who was sound asleep. + </p> + <p> + “Wake up, Pat,” he says, “wake up till I tell you how we strafed Fritz. + Out in the open it was, the Prussian Guards.” + </p> + <p> + But the Irishman slept on. Neither shaking nor shouting roused a sign of + intelligence in him. The boy turned to the man on his left, a Canadian, an + older man with a gentle, worn face. Perhaps because he was older or more + utterly wearied out, or in pain this man waked and raised himself on one + elbow. + </p> + <p> + “We went for them proper,” said the boy. “Prussians they was and Guards. + They thought they’d walk over us; but by God we talked to them, talked to + them with the bayonet, we did.” + </p> + <p> + A slow smile played across the Canadian’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Tommy,” he said, “what’s your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Wakeman, Private Wakeman, No. 79362. Gosh, Canada, but we handled them + and they ran.” + </p> + <p> + “They certainly did run some,” said the Canadian slowly. + </p> + <p> + Then Wakeman poured out his story, a wonderful story, told in jerky + sentences, garnished with blasphemies and obscene words. He had been a + member of the Lewis Gun team. Very early in the advance the bursting of a + high explosive shell had buried him, buried the whole gun team with its + officer, buried the gun. Wakeman and three other men and the officer had + crawled out from the mud and débris. Somehow they had unearthed the gun. + Driven on by a kind of frenzy, they had advanced again, halting, firing a + drum of cartridges, advancing again. Once more a shell caught them and + buried them. Once more Wakeman crawled out, clawed his way out with hooked + fingers, bit the loose clay with his mouth, bored through it with his + head, dug at it with his toes. This time he and the officer were alone. + They struggled to recover their gun, working fiercely, till a bullet hit + the officer. After that Wakeman went on by himself, managed somehow to get + among the men of the company to which his gun team belonged, and possessed + himself of a rifle. At that point his story became incoherent. But about + one thing he was clear. He and the others of his company had met in + straight hand to hand fighting the proudest troops of Germany. By + stabbing, lunging, battering with clubbed rifles, they had put the + Prussian Guard to flight. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” drawled the Canadian, “they did run. They certainly did run some. + And what’s the matter with you, sonny? Hit?” + </p> + <p> + “Buried,” said Wakeman, “buried twice, and shrapnel in my leg, little + bits.” + </p> + <p> + The bits were little, but there were a good many of them. Half an hour + later Wakeman passed into the dressing station in his turn. The doctor + looked him over, scribbled a word or two on the label which hung from the + lad’s breast pocket, and patted him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be all right, my boy,” he said. “No shell shock. No D.A.H. Get + along with you. Feeling a bit hungry, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” said Wakeman. “Yes, sir, feel as if I could do with a + bit of something to eat. The way of it was this, sir. We strafed them + proper, we did. The Prussian Guards they was, and——” + </p> + <p> + But the doctor had no time to listen to the story. “Get along now. Get + along. The sooner the dressing is done, the sooner you’ll get your + dinner.” + </p> + <p> + The story, which the doctor would not hear, bubbled out into the ears of + the nursing sister who picked the scraps of shrapnel out of Wakeman’s leg. + They were tiny fragments, most of them, but there were a great many, and + it took the nurse twenty minutes to get through her job. The story was + told twice over in jerks and snatches, just as it had been told to the + Canadian, only the obscene words were unuttered and the oaths, when they + slipped out now and then, were followed by apologies. Every soldier, even + a Lancashire gutter snipe, has in him this curious instinct. His talk is + commonly full of blasphemies and obscenities, devoid of all sense or + meaning, efforts at futile emphasis, apparently necessary and inevitable. + But if there is a woman within earshot, no such words pass his lips. A + girl might sit all day among these men, and, if they knew she was there, + her ears would never be sullied with the sound of a foul word. + </p> + <p> + Released at last from the dressing station, Wakeman and five or six others + were taken to the bathhouse. The corporal who led the way, the bath + orderly who provided soap and towels, and the wounded Irishman who was + given the bath next to Wakeman’s, all heard scraps of the story, learnt + the essential fact that Wakeman and his pals had strafed the Prussian + Guard. It was the Irishman who reduced the excited boy to silence for a + few minutes. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to be talking that way for?” he said. “Didn’t we all + give them hell? Didn’t I bring back three prisoners myself. Three? It’s + five I would have had, only for a stray shell that bursted alongside of + the communication trench and lifted two of them off me. Bad luck to that + same shell, for a bit of it took me under the knee. But what matter? Only, + mind this, what you did to the Prussian Guard wasn’t in it with what that + shell did to them two Boches. You’d have been sorry for the blighters, so + you would, if so be you could have found a bit of either of them big + enough to be sorry for.” + </p> + <p> + Wakeman had no reply to make to that. It is not possible with a bayonet, + or even with a Lewis gun, to cause the total disappearance of an enemy’s + body. + </p> + <p> + After his bath, with a clean shirt on him and a clean pair of socks, + Wakeman dined. There is no lack of good food in Number 50 Convalescent + Camp, and men recovering from wounds often have healthy appetites. But + Wakeman ate, gorged himself, to the astonishment even of the kitchen + orderlies. Plateful after plateful of stewed meat and potatoes, steaming + and savoury, disappeared. Yet there was no sign about the boy of the + lassitude of repletion. His eyes remained bright and glanced rapidly here + and there. His body was still alert, the movements of his hands quick and + decisive. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, rest. Wakeman found himself with other new-comers in a tent + in the corner of the camp. The Irishman was there, still lamenting in + picturesque phrases the loss of his two prisoners. + </p> + <p> + “And the biggest of them—a fine figure of a man he was—had the + beautifullest helmet on him that ever was seen; worth twenty francs it + was, any day, and me without a penny in my pocket. But where was it after + the shell bursted? Tell me that if you can.” + </p> + <p> + The Canadian was there, patiently ready to listen to any story, having + apparently no story of his own to tell. Wakeman began again. + </p> + <p> + “It was the Prussian Guard,” he said, “and we gave them proper hell, we + did, out in the open. No blasted machine guns. Just them and us with the + bayonet. And——” + </p> + <p> + He talked in vain. In the tent were beds, real beds with mattresses of + woven wire, and palliasses stuffed with straw. Stretched flat on his back + the Irishman snored. His head pillowed on his folded arm the Canadian + slept peacefully, a quiet smile, like a child’s, on his face. Wakeman + looked at them and snorted with contempt. For him no sleep was possible. He + pulled a bench to the door of the tent, and sat in the sunshine. He found + the lid of a cigarette tin and set to work to scrape the mud off his + clothes and boots. But the work wearied him. With a piece of string he + laced up the long rent in his trousers, cutting holes in the material with + the blade of a knife. Then, still obstinately disinclined for sleep, he + went out to explore the camp. + </p> + <p> + At one end of the camp is a hut, a long, low building. It is one of those + canteens and recreation huts, which, working through various + organizations, the public at home provides for the men in France. They are + familiar enough to everyone in France, and the men know that there is a + welcome for them however often they pass the doors. In this hut Mrs. + Jocelyn works all day long and every day. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes she cooks, making vast puddings, stewing cauldrons full of + prunes or figs. Sometimes she stands behind the counter serving bowls of + tea, coffee, cocoa, lemonade, to thirsty men. Sometimes, half asphyxiated + with tobacco smoke, she sits at the piano and hammers out rag-time tunes, + while the men crowd round her, their faces close to her as they peer at + the music, their voices threatening her with deafness when they bellow in + her ears. Sometimes she sits for an hour beside some dull-eyed victim of + shell shock, patiently trying to coax or trick him back to some interest + in life again, giving him, literally, her own vitality, until, “virtue + gone out” of her, she must seek fresh strength for herself in the less + exhausting toil of a scullery maid. Thus she pays to man the debt she owes + to God for the cross over the grave of one son dead, and the unconquerable + spirit of the other crippled. + </p> + <p> + It was a slack hour when Private Wakeman, in his grotesquely tattered + clothes, limped through the door. Only a few men were in the hut, writing + or playing draughts. A boy at the piano was laboriously beating out a + discordant version of “Tennessee.” Mrs. Jocelyn sat on a packing-case, a + block of paper on her knee, writing a letter to a man who had left the + camp to go up the line again. Another woman, a fellow worker, was + arranging plates of cakes and biscuits on the counter, piling bowls ready + to hand for the crowd of men who would come later, clamouring for tea. + </p> + <p> + Private Wakeman stood in the middle of the hut and looked around him. He + sought companionship, longed to find some one to whom he could tell his + story and make his boast about the Prussian Guard. His eyes wandered from + one to another of the men who were writing or playing games. He found + little encouragement. It seemed impossible to join himself to any one of + them. He looked at the lady busy with the bowls and plates. His eyes + rested at last on a great dish of stewed figs which stood on the counter. + He had eaten an incredible quantity of food in the dining-hall two hours + before, soup, beef, potatoes, cabbage, pudding, cheese. But he had not + eaten stewed figs. His whole boy’s nature rose in him in one fierce + longing for stewed figs. He remembered. Before he went into the attack he + had possessed half a franc and two sous. He thrust his hand into his one + trouser pocket. It was empty. He tore at the string with which he had + laced up the slit in his trousers. On that side there was not a pocket + left. It and all it ever contained, were gone. He fumbled in the pockets + of his tunic, found three mangled cigarettes, the stump of a pencil, a + letter from his mother, and, at last, two English penny stamps, survivals + of days which seemed years ago, when he had been in camp in England. + </p> + <p> + His eyes were fixed on the stewed figs. The longing in him grew fiercer, + intolerable. He approached the counter slowly. He laid on it the two + stamps, dirty almost beyond recognition. He smoothed them out carefully. + </p> + <p> + “Lady,” he said, “I haven’t got no money but——” + </p> + <p> + The worker laid down her bowls, looked at the two stamps, and then at the + boy. She was a woman of experience and discernment She saw the muddy, + tattered clothes. She read the look of desire in the eyes. She understood. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Stewed fruit, lady, and—and custard.” + </p> + <p> + She turned from the boy to Mrs. Jocelyn. + </p> + <p> + “It’s clean against all rules,” she said. “I know I oughtn’t to, but I + must—-I simply must give this boy something.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Jocelyn looked up from her writing. She saw all that the other had + seen. She had talked with many men. One glance was enough for her. She + knew what the boy had been through. With swift intuition she guessed at + what he felt and how he yearned. She saw the name of his regiment on his + one remaining shoulder strap. It was her dead boy’s regiment, and every + man in it was dear to her. Already the other lady was at work, putting a + spoonful of stewed figs on a soup plate. Mrs. Jocelyn seized her by the arm + and dragged her roughly back from the counter. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t dare to do it,” she said, “it’s my right. No one else has so good a + right to do it as I have.” + </p> + <p> + So Private Wakeman sat down to a plate piled with stewed figs, swamped + with a yellowish liquid called custard in canteens in France. Beside him + were jam tarts and great slabs of cake. From a mouth never empty, though + he swallowed fast, came in short gushes the story of the strafing of the + Prussian Guard, told at last to ears which drank in greedily every word of + it. + </p> + <p> + So Mrs. Jocelyn claimed and took at last her dearest right. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI ~~ JOURNEY’S END + </h2> + <p> + I had a long journey before me, and I looked forward to it with dread. It + is my habit when forced to travel in France, the part of France chiefly + affected by the war, to resign myself to a period of misery. I relapse + into a condition of sulky torpor. Railway Transport Offices may amuse + themselves by putting me into wrong trains. Officers in command of trains + may detach the carriage in which I am and leave it for hours in a siding. + My luggage may be—and generally is—hopelessly lost. I may + arrive at my destination faint for want of food. But I bear all these + things without protest or complaint. This is not because I am particularly + virtuous or self-trained to turn the other cheek to the smiter. I am + morally feeble, deficient in power of self-defence, a lover of peace with + discomfort, rather than honourable strife. + </p> + <p> + I felt no small joy when I discovered that Thompson was to be my + travelling companion on this particular journey. I had travelled with + Thompson before. I knew that he always secured food, that he never lost + his luggage, that he had an instinct for recognizing the right train when + he saw it, and that he had a healthy disregard for the dignity of the + official persons who clog the feet of wayfarers in France. + </p> + <p> + We met at the station. Thompson’s breezy good humour gave me fresh + confidence at once. He looked energetic, hopeful and charged with + vitality. + </p> + <p> + “Come along.” he said, “we’ll report to the R.T.O. at once and get it + over.” + </p> + <p> + In France under existing conditions the traveller reports to the Railway + Transport Officer when he starts his journey, when he finishes it and at + all intervening opportunities. An R.T.O. must lead a harassed and + distressful life. He sees to it that the traveller has a fair share of + life’s trouble. + </p> + <p> + This particular R.T.O. began by trying to get us into a wrong train. I + suppose that was the line of least resistance for him. It was easier to + put us into the first train that came along. We should have been off his + hands, and another R.T.O stationed somewhere else, would have had the job + of getting us switched back on to our proper track again. The first man—and + this was all he cared for—would have been rid of us. Thompson was + equal to the situation. He talked vigorously to that R.T.O.. Thompson + holds no very exalted rank in the army. I often wonder he is not tried by + Court Martial for the things he says. But the R.T.O., so far from + resenting Thompson’s remarks, offered us a sort of apology. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been on duty ten hours,” he said, “and there’s a whole battery of + artillery lost somewhere along the line. It never was my fault; but every + general in the whole army has been ringing me up about it. The telephone + bell hasn’t stopped all day. Damn! There it is again.” + </p> + <p> + It was; loud, angry and horribly persistent. Even Thompson felt sorry for + the R.T.O. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” he said, “you’ll get your Military Cross all right in the + end. All you fellows do. Now buck up a bit and find our train for us. It’s + X. we want to get to.” + </p> + <p> + I mention this incident to show the kind of man Thompson is and his way of + dealing with difficulties. Under his care I felt that I should travel + safely and get to X. in the end. Comfort was not to be expected, but + Thompson did all that could be done to mitigate our misery. + </p> + <p> + We made our start from a platform blocked with piles of officers’ luggage + and crowded with confused and anxious men. Subalterns in charge of drafts + asked other subalterns what they ought to do and received counter + inquiries by way of reply. Sergeants stormed blasphemously at men who had + disappeared in search of tea. Staff officers, red tabbed and glorious, + tried to preserve an appearance of dignity while their own servants + staggering under the weight of kit bags, bumped into them. Hilarious men, + going home on leave, shouted sudden snatches of song. A decrepit + Frenchman, patient in the performance of duty, blew feeble blasts on a + small horn. Thompson, alert and competent, found a compartment. He put me + in and then he bundled in my valise. After that he found his own luggage, + an enormous kit bag, two sacks, a camp bedstead, a hammock chair and a + number of small parcels. + </p> + <p> + “Get them in somehow,” he said. “We’ll settle down afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson did the settling afterwards. He so arranged our belongings that + we each had a seat The door by which anyone else might have to get in at + another station was hopelessly blocked. The small parcels were put on the + rack above our heads. Thompson gave me a list of their contents as he put + them in their places. They contained bread, butter, meat, biscuits, + cheese, a bottle of wine and a flask of brandy. + </p> + <p> + “We’re here till two o’clock to-morrow morning—till two o’clock at + best. We must have something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + A selfish traveller—I am profoundly selfish—would have been + content to keep that compartment secure from intrusion. We had completely + barricaded the door and no one could have got in if we had chosen to + defend our position. But Thompson was not selfish. The train stopped at a + station every quarter of an hour or so, and Thompson climbing up the + barricade, opened the window and took a look out every time we stopped. At + one station—it was then about 7 p.m. and quite dark—he + discovered a forlorn boy—a second-lieutenant—who was trying to + find room for himself and his belongings. Thompson hailed him. The next + five minutes were passed in fierce toil by all of us. But before the train + started Thompson got the boy and his belongings into our compartment. In + my opinion no second-lieutenants ought to be allowed to possess a + suit-case as well as a valise. This boy also had three top-coats and a + Jaeger rug. We spent nearly half an hour settling down again after that. + Then we dined, sharing the food—Thompson’s food—with the + second-lieutenant. He was a nice boy and very grateful. I thought him a + little garrulous, but Thompson encouraged him to talk. He told us all + about his job. It was his duty to go up in captive balloons and send down + messages to the artillery. It was, by his account, a sea-sicky business, + worse by several degrees than crossing the Channel in the leave boat. + Thompson, who has a thirst for every kind of information, questioned and + cross-questioned the boy. After dinner—dinner was Thompson’s name + for our meal—I prepared to go to sleep. Thompson arranged valises on + the floor in such a way that I could stretch my legs. The boy went on + talking. He told Thompson that he had dropped out of the ballooning + business and that he was going to X. to submit to a special course of + training. I forget what it was, bombing probably, or the use of trench + mortars, possibly map reading or—a subject part of the school + curriculum of our grandmothers—the use of globes. The army has a + passion for imparting knowledge of any kind to temporary lieutenants. I + went to sleep while Thompson was explaining just where the boy’s + particular course of instruction was given, a camp some three or four + miles out of X. Thompson has an amazing knowledge of what naturalists + would call the habitat of the various parts of the army. + </p> + <p> + At 3 a.m. I was awakened from my sleep. We had reached, an hour late, the + junction at which we had to change. Thompson and the boy were both alert + and cheerful. They had, I fancy, been talking all the time. Our junction + proved to be a desolate, windswept platform, without a sign of shelter of + any kind except a bleak-looking cabin, the habitation of the local R.T.O. + Thompson roused him ruthlessly and learned that, with luck, we might + expect our next train to start at six. I shivered. Three hours, the very + coldest in the twenty-four, on that platform, did not strike me as a + pleasant prospect. Thompson used a favourite phrase of his. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” he said, “it’s war; what the French call <i>La Guerre</i>.” + He professed to have discovered, not from the R.T.O. but from a sleepy + French railway official, that the train, our train in which we were to + travel, was somewhere in the neighbourhood, waiting for its engine. It did + not come to us from anywhere else; but made its start, so to speak took + its rise, at that junction. Thompson and our new friend, the boy, proposed + to get into the train when they found it. + </p> + <p> + Thompson can speak French of a sort, but he does not understand the + language as spoken by the French people. I did not believe that he had + really found out about that train. I declined to join in the search. He + and the boy went off together. They came back in about half an hour. They + said they had found a train standing by itself in a field and that it must + be ours because there was no other. The reasoning did not seen conclusive + to me, but I agreed to go and sleep in whatever train they had found. I + suggested that we should leave our luggage on the platform and pick it up + when the train got there at 6 a.m. + </p> + <p> + “That,” said Thompson, “is just the way luggage gets lost. Suppose—I + don’t say it’s likely or even possible—but suppose the train we get + into goes somewhere else. Nice fools we’d look, turning up in Paris or + Marseilles without a brush or comb among us. No. Where I go I take my + luggage with me.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson was evidently not so sure about that train as he pretended to be. + But I had reached a pitch of hopeless misery which left me indifferent + about the future. It did not seem to me to matter much just then whether I + ever got to X. or not. We had to make three trips, stumbling over railway + lines and sleepers, in the dark, falling into wet ditches and slipping on + muddy banks; but in the end we got all our luggage, including the boy’s + top-coats, into a train which lay lifeless and deserted in a siding. + </p> + <p> + This time Thompson and the boy slept. I sat up stiff with cold. At + half-past five a French railway porter opened our door and invited us to + descend, alleging that he wanted to clean the carriage. I was quite + pleased to wake Thompson who was snoring. + </p> + <p> + “Get up,” I said, “there’s a man here who wants to clean the carriage and + we’ve got to get out.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m damned if I get out,” said Thompson. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman repeated his request most politely. If the gentlemen would + be good enough to descend he would at once clean the carriage. + </p> + <p> + Thompson fumbled in his pocket and got out an electric torch. At first I + thought he meant to make sure that the carriage required cleaning. + Thinking things over I came to the conclusion that he felt he could talk + French better if he could see a little. He turned his ray of light on the + Frenchman and said slowly and distinctly: + </p> + <p> + “Nous sommes officiers anglais, et les officiers anglais ne descendent pas—jamais.” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman blinked uncertainly. Thompson added: + </p> + <p> + “Jamais de ma vie.” + </p> + <p> + That settled the French porter. He was face to face with one of the + national idiosyncrasies of the English, a new one to him and + incomprehensible, but he submitted at once to the inevitable. He gave up + all idea of cleaning the carriage and Thompson went to sleep again. The + boy slept soundly through the whole business. + </p> + <p> + At half-past seven—the train had been jogging along since six—Thompson + woke and said he thought he’d better shave. The proposal struck me as + absurd. + </p> + <p> + “We can’t possibly shave,” I said, “without water.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson was quite equal to that difficulty. The next time the train + stopped—it stopped every ten minutes or so—he hopped out with + a folding drinking cup in his hand. He returned with the cup full of hot + water. He had got it from the engine driver. He and I shaved. The boy + still slept, but, as Thompson pointed out, that did not matter. He was too + young to require much shaving. + </p> + <p> + “Nice boy that,” said Thompson. “Son of an archdeacon; was at Cambridge + when the war broke out. Carries a photo of his mother about with him. Only + nice boys carry photos of their mothers. He has it in a little + khaki-coloured case along with one of the girl he’s going to marry—quite + a pretty girl with tously hair and large eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s engaged to be married, is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he is. That sort of boy is sure to be. Just look at him.” + </p> + <p> + As he lay there asleep his face looked extraordinarily young and innocent. + I admitted that he was just the sort of boy who would get engaged to the + first girl who took him seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Girl’s out here nursing,” said Thompson. “V.A.D. Evidently has a strong + sense of duty or she wouldn’t be doing it. V.A.D.-ing isn’t precisely a + cushy job. He’s tremendously in love.” + </p> + <p> + “Seems to have confided most of his affairs in you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Told me,” said Thompson, “that the girl has just been home on leave. He + hoped to get back, too, to meet her, thinks he would have got a week if he + hadn’t been ordered off on this course, bombing or whatever it is.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson washed while he talked. It could scarcely be called a real wash, + but he soaped his face, most of his neck and his ears with his shaving + brush and then dipped his handkerchief in the drinking cup and wiped the + soap off. He was certainly cleaner afterwards; but I felt that what was + left of the water would not clean me. + </p> + <p> + Later on Thompson secured some rolls of bread, two jam pastries and six + apples. The bread and pastry I think he bought. The apples I am nearly sure + he looted. I saw a large basket of apples in one of the waggons of a train + which was standing in the station at which Thompson got out to buy our + breakfast. They were exactly like the apples he brought back. + </p> + <p> + We woke up the boy then. It did not matter whether he shaved or not; but + at his age it is a serious thing to miss a chance of food. + </p> + <p> + About midday we arrived at a large town. Thompson learned from the R.T.O. + who inhabited the railway station there that we could not get a train to + take us any further till ten o’clock that night. He said again that was + war, what the French call <i>guerre</i>, but he seemed quite pleased at + the prospect of the wait. He spoke of looking for a proper meal and a + Turkish bath. The bath we did not succeed in getting; but we had an + excellent luncheon: omelette, fried fish, some kind of stewed meat and a + bottle of red wine. The boy stuck to us and told us a lot more about his + girl. His great hope, he said, was that he would meet her somewhere in + France. I could see that what he really looked forward to was a wound of a + moderately painful kind which would necessitate a long residence, as a + patient, in her hospital. He was, as Thompson said, a nice boy; but he + talked too much about the girl. He was also a well-educated boy and + anxious to make the best of any opportunities which came his way. He told + us that there was an interesting cathedral in the town and proposed that + we should all go and see it after lunch. Thompson is not an irreligious + man. Nor am I. We both go to church regularly, though not to excess, but + we do not either of us care for spending week day afternoons in a + cathedral. Thompson still hankered after a Turkish bath. I had a plan for + getting a bedroom somewhere and going to sleep. We sent the boy off to the + cathedral by himself. + </p> + <p> + The Turkish bath, as I said, was unobtainable. We walked through most of + the streets of that town looking for it. Then Thompson proposed that we + should have afternoon tea. That we got in a small room above a pastry + cook’s shop. The girl who served us brought us tea and a large assortment + of sticky pastry. Thompson hates sticky pastry. There is only one kind of + cake made in France which he will eat. I knew what it was, for I had often + had tea with Thompson before. I should have recognized one if I had seen + it; but I could not remember the French name for it. Thompson insisted on + describing its appearance to the girl. He gave his description in English + and the girl looked puzzled. I tried to translate what he said into French + and she looked still more puzzled. + </p> + <p> + Then from the far corner of the room came a pleasant voice. + </p> + <p> + “I think <i>brioche</i> is the word you want.” It was. I recollected it + directly I heard it. I turned to thank our interpreter. She was a young + woman in the uniform of a V.A.D. She was sitting at a table by herself, + was, in fact, the only other occupant of the room. I thanked her. Thompson + joined in and thanked her effusively. There was not much light in the room + and her corner was decidedly gloomy. Still, it was possible to see that + she was a decidedly pretty girl. We both said that if there was anything + we could do for her we should be very pleased to do it After the way she + helped us out with the <i>brioche</i> we could scarcely say less. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” she said, “you may be able to tell me when I will be able to + get a train to——?” + </p> + <p> + She mentioned one of those towns of which the English have taken temporary + possession, turning the hotels into hospitals, to the great profit of the + original proprietors. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Thompson. “There’s a train at 9 p.m. But you’ll be + travelling all night in that. If I were you I’d stay here till to-morrow + morning and then——” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t,” said the girl. “Properly speaking I’m due back to-day; but I + missed the early train this morning and only got here an hour ago. The + boat was horribly late.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Thompson, “you’re coming back after leave, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + The girl sighed faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” she said, “but I’ve had a fortnight’s leave; I can’t complain.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll just write down that train for you,” said Thompson. + </p> + <p> + He scribbled 9 p.m. on a piece of paper and carried it over to the girl. + It seemed to me an unnecessary thing to do. Nine is a simple number, easy + to remember. Some thought of the same kind occurred to the girl. She + looked at Thompson, first with some surprise, and then, I thought, rather + coldly. She was evidently not inclined to accept any further friendly + offers from Thompson. He did not seem in the least abashed even when she + turned her shoulder to us and looked the other way. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen the cathedral here?” said Thompson. + </p> + <p> + The girl made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “I really think,” said Thompson, “that you ought to pay a visit to the + cathedral. You’ll like it, you really will. And you’ve got hours before + you. I don’t see how you can fill in the time if you don’t go to the + cathedral.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said the girl without turning round. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going there,” said Thompson, “or I’d offer to show you the way. + But you can’t miss it. You can see the spire from the window. It’s the + finest specimen of early Gothic in the north of France. The glass is + superb. There’s an altar piece by Raphael or Botticelli, I forget which. + The screen is late Italian Renaissance, and there’s a tomb in the west + transept which is supposed to be that of the Venerable Bede.” + </p> + <p> + The girl got up and walked out of the room. I was not surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Thompson,” I said, “what do you mean by behaving like a cad? Any one + could see that she is a nice girl; a lady, not that sort at all.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson grinned. + </p> + <p> + “And as for that rigmarole of yours about the cathedral—what the + devil do you know about Italian Renaissance, or Botticelli or early + Gothic? I never heard such rot in my life. As a matter of fact I’ve always + heard that the glass in this cathedral is poor.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same,” said Thompson, “if she goes there she’ll be pleased. + She’ll find something she’ll like a great deal better than stained glass.” + </p> + <p> + “As for the Venerable Bede,” I said, “he was buried in Oxford if he was + buried anywhere, and I don’t know that he was. He might have been + cremated, or minced up by high explosives so that they couldn’t bury him.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I recognized her,” said Thompson, “I went over to her table and + had a good look to make sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t pretend you know her,” I said “She certainly didn’t know you.” + </p> + <p> + “I looked at her photograph five times at least last night while you were + asleep.” + </p> + <p> + I thought this over for a minute. Then I said: + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to tell me that she’s the girl that boy is engaged to be + married to?” + </p> + <p> + “The exact same girl,” said Thompson. “I couldn’t be mistaken.” + </p> + <p> + I meditated on the situation. + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” I said, “that he won’t have left the cathedral before she gets + there.” + </p> + <p> + “No fear,” said Thompson, “he’s a most conscientious boy. Having started + out to do that cathedral he’ll look at every stone of it before he leaves. + He’ll be there for hours yet. What I’m afraid of is that she won’t go + there.” + </p> + <p> + “She started in the right direction,” I said “I saw her out of the + window.” + </p> + <p> + “I did my best anyhow,” said Thompson. “I told her I wasn’t going there. + She didn’t like me. I could see that. If I’d let her think I was going to + the cathedral she’d have marched straight off to the station and sat in + the Ladies’ Waiting-room till her train started.” + </p> + <p> + The girl, it appeared, did visit the cathedral and the boy was there. He + was waiting for us on the platform at the railway station at half-past + nine. He talked half the night to Thompson about his wonderful stroke of + luck. Just as I dropped off to sleep I heard Thompson quoting Shakespeare. + It was, to the best of my belief, the only time in his life that Thompson + ever did quote Shakespeare. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, + Every wise man’s son doth know,” + </pre> + <p> + he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII~~ HIS GIRL + </h2> + <p> + There were thirty or forty officers in the lounge of the hotel, all + condemned, as I was, to spend the greater part of the day there. Some men + have better luck. It was the fourth time I had been held up in this + wretched place on my way back to France after leave. Dragged out of our + beds at an unreasonable hour, crammed into a train at Victoria, rushed + down to an embarkation port as if the fate of the empire depended on our + getting there without a minute’s delay, we find, when we get out of the + train, that the steamer will not start for three hours, four hours, on + this occasion six hours. We are compelled to sit about in an hotel, + desolate and disgusted, when we might have been comfortable in London. + </p> + <p> + I looked round to see if there were anyone I wanted to talk to. There were—I + had seen them at Victoria—three or four men whom I knew slightly, + but I had no particular wish to spend hours with any one of them. I had + just decided to go out for a walk by myself when I felt a slap on my + shoulder. I turned and saw Daintree. I was uncommonly glad to see him. + Daintree and I were friends before the war and I have always found him an + amusing companion. He greeted me heartily. + </p> + <p> + “Great luck,” he said, “running into you like this. I don’t see a single + other man I know in the whole crowd. And any way I particularly wanted to + talk to you. I’ve got a story to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + We secured a corner and two comfortable chairs. I lit a pipe and waited. + Daintree is a wonderful man for picking up stories. The most unusual + things happen to him and he gets mixed up in far more adventures than + anyone else I know. And he likes telling stories. Usually, the men who + have stories to tell will not talk, and the men who like talking have + nothing interesting to tell. Daintree is exceptional. + </p> + <p> + “What is it this time?” I asked. “What journalists call a ‘sob story,’ or + is it meant to be humorous?” + </p> + <p> + “I should call it a kind of joke,” said Daintree; “but my wife says it’s + the most pathetic thing she’s ever heard. It makes her cry even to think + of it You can take it either way. I’ll be interested to see how you do + take it. I was thinking of writing it to you, ‘for your information and + necessary action, please.’ My wife wanted me to, but it’s too long for a + letter. Besides, I don’t see what you or anyone else could possibly do in + the matter. You may give advice—that’s what my wife expects of you—but + there’s really no advice to give. However, you can tell me how it strikes + you. That’s what I want to know, whether you agree with my wife or with + me. You know Simcox, don’t you, or do you? I forget.” + </p> + <p> + “Simcox?” I said. “Is that a tall, cadaverous man in the Wessex? Rather + mournful looking?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the man. Came home from a remote corner of the Argentine, or + somewhere like that, early in the war, and got a commission. He’s a + captain now.” + </p> + <p> + “I met him,” I said, “down Albert way, shortly before the push last year. + I can’t say I knew him. He seemed to me rather a difficult kind of man to + know.” + </p> + <p> + “So my wife says,” said Daintree. “He’s older than most of us, for one + thing, and has spent twenty years all by himself herding sheep or branding + bullocks, or whatever it is they do out in those places. Naturally he’d + rather lost touch with life at home and found it difficult to fit himself + in; especially with a lot of boys straight from the ‘Varsities or school. + They were mostly boys in his battalion. Anyhow, he seems to have been a + bit morose, but he did his job all right in the regiment and was + recommended for the M.C.. He got knocked out in the Somme push and jolly + nearly lost a leg. They saved it in the end and sent him down to my place + to convalesce.” + </p> + <p> + Daintree owns a very nice place in the Midlands. In the old days it was + one of the pleasantest houses I know to stay in. Daintree himself was a + capital host and his wife is a charming woman. The house is a convalescent + home for officers now, and Mrs. Daintree, with the help of three nurses, + runs it. Daintree pretends to regard this as a grievance, and says it was + all his wife’s doing, though he was just as keen on the place as she was. + </p> + <p> + “Damned nuisance,” he said, “finding the place full of boys rioting when I + get home on leave. And it’s full up now—twelve of them, no less. + There’s hardly a spot in the house I can call my own, and they’ve spoiled + the little lake I made at the bottom of the lawn. That young ass Pat + Singleton started what he called boat-races on it——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Pat Singleton’s there?” I said. “I knew he’d been wounded, but I + didn’t hear he’d been sent to your place.” + </p> + <p> + “Pat Singleton’s always everywhere,” said Daintree. “I’ve never come + across a place where he wasn’t, and he’s a devil for mischief. Remind me + afterwards to tell you about the trick he played on the principal nurse, a + Scotchwoman with a perfectly terrific sense of her own dignity,” Daintree + chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “If you’d rather tell me that story,” I said, “instead of the one about + Simcox, I’d just as soon have it. In fact, I’d prefer it. Sob stories are + always trying.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m not sure that the Simcox one is a sob story, though there’s a + certain amount of slosh in it. Anyhow, I’ve got to tell it to you, for my + wife says you’re the only man she knows who can advise what ought to be + done.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” I said, “but Pat Singleton’s escapades always amuse me. I’d + like to hear about his making an apple-pie bed for that nurse.” + </p> + <p> + Daintree chuckled again, and I gathered from the expression of his face + that the nurse had endured something worse than an apple-pie bed. + </p> + <p> + “Or about the boat-races,” I said. “I didn’t know you had anything which + floated on that lake of yours.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t,” said Daintree, “except the kind of wooden box in which the + gardener goes out to clear away the duck-weed. However, Pat Singleton + comes into the Simcox story in the end. It’s really about him that my wife + wants your advice.” + </p> + <p> + “No one,” I said, “can give advice about Pat Singleton.” + </p> + <p> + “Knowing the sort of man Simcox is,” said Daintree, “you’ll understand + that he was rather out of it at first in a house full of boys just out of + hospital and jolly glad to have a chance of running about a bit. Pat + Singleton wasn’t there when Simcox arrived. But the others were nearly as + bad; silly jokes from morning to night and an infernal row always going + on. My wife likes that sort of thing, fortunately.” + </p> + <p> + “Simcox, I suppose, just sat by himself in a corner of the veranda and + glowered?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. And at first my wife could do nothing with him. In the end, of + course——” + </p> + <p> + “In the end,” I said, “she persuaded him to tell her his inmost secrets + and to confide to her the tragedy of his soul. That’s just what she would + do.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Daintree is a very kind and sympathetic lady. When she talks to me I + feel ready to tell her anything. A man like Simcox, shy, reserved, and + wholly unaccustomed to charming ladies, would succumb to her easily and + pour out a love story or anything else he happened to have on his chest at + the time. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Daintree, “his leg was pretty stiff and he couldn’t get + about much, even if he’d wanted to. There was nothing for him to do except + sit in a deck-chair. My wife felt it her duty to talk to him a good deal.” + </p> + <p> + Daintree seemed to be making excuses for Mrs. Daintree and Simcox. They + were unnecessary. Mrs. Daintree would have got his story out of him if she + thought he was really in need of sympathy, whether he sat in a chair all + day or was able to row races in the lake in the gardener’s punt. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow,” said Daintree, “what he told her—he told it to me + afterwards, so there’s no secret about it—was this: He got hit in + the leg during an advance through one of those woods north of the Somme, + Mametz, I think. It was a beastly place. Our fellows had been in there two + days before and had to clear out again. Then Simcox’s lot went in—you + know the sort of thing it was?” + </p> + <p> + I nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Shell holes, and splintered tree trunks,” I said. “Machine-guns + enfilading you, and H.E. bursting promiscuous. I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sirmcox’ fellows went in all right, and stayed there for a while. + Simcox says he remembers noticing that the ground was strewed with débris + left by the Germans when they cleared out, and by our fellows afterwards. + Equipment, rifles and all the rest of it lying about, as well as other + things—pretty ghastly things.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t go into details,” I said. “I can guess.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m only telling you this,” said Daintree, “because all the stuff lying + about seems to have interested Simcox. It’s odd the feelings men have at + these times. Simcox says the thing he chiefly wanted to do was to tidy up. + He had a kind of strong desire to pick things up and put them away + somewhere. Of course he couldn’t; but he did pick up one thing, a + cigarette case. He showed it to me. It was one of those long-shaped, flat + white metal cases which fellows carry because they hold about thirty + cigarettes. Simcox says he doesn’t know why he picked it up. He didn’t + want it in the least. He just saw it lying there on the ground and stuffed + it into his pocket. Almost immediately after that he was hit. Bit of + shrapnel under the knee.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember hearing about that business,” I said. “We were driven out + again, weren’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. And Simcox was left behind. He couldn’t walk, of course. But he + crawled into a shell hole, and there he lay. Well, for the next two days + that wood wasn’t healthy for either side. The Germans couldn’t get back, + because we were sprinkling the whole place with shrapnel. We couldn’t + advance for similar reasons. Simcox just lay in his shell hole. He tied up + his leg somehow. He had some brandy in a flask as well as his iron + rations. But he hadn’t much tobacco. There were only two cigarettes in his + own case. However, he had the other case, the one he picked up. There were + nearly twenty in it Also there was—I say, at this point the story + gets sloppy.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” I said. “Go on. What else was in the cigarette case? A + farewell letter to a loving wife? Love to little Willie and a text of + Scripture?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so bad as that. A photo of a girl. He showed it to me when he told me + the story.” + </p> + <p> + “Good looking girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Very. Large eyes—sort of tender, you know, and appealing; and a + gentle, innocent face, and a mouth——” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” I said, “that these raptures are necessary if I’m to + understand the story. Otherwise, you may skip them.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t possibly skip them,” said Daintree. “The whole point of the story + depends on your realizing the sort of girl she was. Pathetic—that’s + the word I want. Looked at you out of the photo as if she was a poor, + lonely, but uncommonly fetching little thing, who wanted a strong, true + man to shelter her from the evil world. She was got up in some sort of + fancy dress which kind of heightened the effect. I don’t altogether + profess to understand what happened, though my wife says she does. But + Simcox in a sort of way fell in love with her. That’s not the way he put + it. He didn’t feel that she was just an ordinary girl—the sort one + falls in love with. She was—well, he didn’t think of her as flesh + and blood—more a kind of vision—spiritual, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Angel?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “That sort of thing. You know. That was the idea that gripped Simcox while + he lay there in the shell hole. Stars came out at night and Simcox felt + that she was looking down at him. In the day he used to lie and gaze at + her. When he thought it was all up with him and that he couldn’t live, he + seemed to hear her voice—I say, you ought to hear my wife telling + this part of the story. Simcox wouldn’t tell it to me, naturally; but he + seems to have enlarged on it a good deal to her. He says that only for + that photo he’d have given in and just died. I daresay he wouldn’t really, + but he thinks he would. Anyhow, he didn’t. He stuck it out and his leg + didn’t hurt nearly as much as he expected. He attributes that to the + influence of this—this——” + </p> + <p> + “Angel visitant?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “You can call her an angel if you like,” said Daintree. + </p> + <p> + “This,” I said, “seems to me a pure sob story. If there’s any other part + less harrowing, I wish you’d hurry up and get to it.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Daintree. “I’ll cut out the rest of his experiences in + that shell hole, though, mind you, they’re rather interesting and + frightfully poetic the way my wife tells them. After two days our fellows + got back into the wood and kept it. The stretcher-bearers found Simcox in + his hole and they lugged him down to a Casualty Clearing Station. From + that he went to a hospital—the usual round. He had a pretty bad + time, first over there, and then, when they could move him, in London. By + degrees he got more sane about the photo. He stopped thinking she was any + kind of spirit and took to regarding her just as a girl, though a very + exceptional kind of girl, of course. He was hopelessly in love with her. + Do you think a man really could fall in love with a photo?” + </p> + <p> + “Simcox did,” I said, “so we needn’t discuss that point.” + </p> + <p> + “The chances were, of course,” said Daintree, “that she was some other + fellow’s girl, possibly some other fellow’s wife. But Simcox didn’t care. + He was too far gone to care for anything except to get that girl. Those + morose, shy men are frightfully hard hit in that sort of way, I’m told. + That’s what my wife says, anyhow. They get it much worse than we do when + they do get it. Simcox would have dragged that girl out of the arms of an + archbishop if that was where he found her. Of course he couldn’t go + hunting her over England while he was in hospital with a bad leg; but he + made up his mind to find out who she was and where she lived as soon as he + was well enough to go about. He’d very little to go on—practically + nothing. The photo had been cut down so as to fit into the cigarette case, + so that there wasn’t even a photographer’s name on it.” + </p> + <p> + “He might have advertised,” I said. “There are papers which go in for that + sort of thing, publish rows of reproductions of photographs ‘Found on the + battle-field,’ with requests for identification.” + </p> + <p> + “My wife thought of that,” said Daintree, “but Simcox didn’t seem to take + to the idea. He said the photo was too sacred a thing to be reproduced in + a paper. My own idea is that he was afraid of any kind of publicity. You + see, the other fellow might turn up—the fellow who really had a + right to the girl.” + </p> + <p> + “How the deuce did he propose to find her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. He told my wife some rotten yarn about instinct guiding him + to her; said he felt sure that the strength of his great love would + somehow lead him to her side. He didn’t say that to me, couldn’t, you + know. But it’s wonderful what a fellow will say to a woman, if she’s + sympathetic, and my wife is. Still, even so, he must be more or less mad + to think a thing like that. Mad about the girl. He’s sane enough in every + other way.” + </p> + <p> + “He can’t be so mad as that,” I said. “Just fancy going out into a field—I + suppose that’s the way you’d do it—and hanging about until your + great love set you strolling off either to the right or to the left. No + man, however mad, could expect to come on a girl that way—no one + particular girl, I mean. Of course you’d meet several girls whichever way + you went. Couldn’t help it. The world’s full of girls.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what he meant,” said Daintree, “but my wife sympathized with + him and seemed to think he’d pull it off in the end. At first he was a bit + shy of letting her see the photo; but when he saw she was as sympathetic + as all that he showed it to her. Well, the moment she saw it, she felt + that she knew the face.” + </p> + <p> + “That was a stroke of luck for Simcox.” + </p> + <p> + “No it wasn’t,” said Daintree, “for my wife couldn’t put a name to the + girl. She was sure she had seen her somewhere, knew her quite well, in + fact, but simply couldn’t fix her. Funny thing, but it was exactly the + same when they showed me the photo. At the first glance I said right away + that I knew her. Then I found I couldn’t say exactly who she was. The more + I looked the more certain I was that I’d seen her somewhere, her or + someone very like her. And it wasn’t a commonplace face by any means. Poor + Simcox kept begging us to think. My wife went over our visitors’ book—we’ve + kept one of those silly things for years—but there wasn’t a name in + it which we couldn’t account for. I got out all the old albums of + snapshots and amateur photos in the house. You know the way those things + accumulate; groups of all sorts. But we couldn’t find the girl. And yet + both my wife and I were sure we’d met her. Then one morning Simcox burst + into my wife’s little sitting-room—a place none of the convalescents + have any right to go. He was in a fierce state of excitement. Said that an + officer who’d arrived the night before was exactly like the photo and that + the girl must be his sister or cousin, or something. The only officer who + came that night was—you’d never guess!—Pat Singleton.” + </p> + <p> + “Pat,” I said, “though a young devil, is cheerful, and I never saw him + anything but self-confident. I can’t imagine a girl such as you described + bearing the faintest resemblance to that boy. You said that she was a kind + of die-away, pathetic, appealing angel. Now Pat——” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Daintree. “All the same, the likeness was there. The moment + I looked at the photo with Pat in my mind I knew why I thought I + recognized it My wife said the same thing.” + </p> + <p> + “But Pat Singleton hasn’t any sisters,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t even a first cousin anything like the age of the + girl in the photo. I knew all the Singletons well, have for years. But + Simcox insisted his girl must be some relation of Pat’s, and in the end I + promised to ask the boy. In the first place, if she was a relation, it + seemed an impudent sort of thing to do, and if she wasn’t, Pat would be + sure to make up some infernal story about me and a girl and tell it all + over the place. However, my wife egged me on and poor Simcox was so + frightfully keen that I promised. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I sent for Pat Singleton next morning. He was a little subdued at + first, as much subdued as I’ve ever seen him. He thought I was going to + rag him about the spoof he’d played off on the nurse. He did that before + he was twelve hours in the house. Remind me to tell you about it + afterwards. I don’t wonder he looked piano. She’d been going for him + herself and that woman is a real terror. However, he cheered up the moment + I showed him the photo of the girl. He asked me first of all where the + devil I’d got it. Said he’d lost it somewhere before he was wounded.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it was his, then?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Daintree, grinning, “it was his. He was particularly anxious + to know how I came by it. I didn’t tell him, of course. Couldn’t give + Simcox away, you know. Then Pat began to cheek me. Asked if I’d fallen in + love with the girl and what my wife would say when he told her. Said he + carried the photo about with him and showed it to fellows just to watch + them falling in love with her. It seems that nine men out of ten admired + her greatly. He asked me if I didn’t think she was the prettiest girl I’d + ever seen, and that I wasn’t the first man by any means who wanted her + name and address. He grinned in a most offensive way and said that he + never gave away that girl’s name to anyone; that I ought to know better + than to go running after a nice, innocent little thing like that who + wouldn’t know how to take care of herself. I wasn’t going to stand much of + that sort of talk from Pat Singleton. I told him straight that if he + didn’t tell me that girl’s name and where she lived I’d make things hot + for him. I threatened to report the little game he’d had with the nurse + and that if I did he’d be court-martialled. I don’t know whether a man + could be court-martialled for cheeking a nurse, but the threat had a good + effect on Pat. He really was a bit afraid of that woman. I don’t wonder, + though it’s the first time I’ve ever known him afraid of anyone.” + </p> + <p> + Daintree paused and chuckled horribly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “who was the girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you tumbled to it yet?” said Daintree. + </p> + <p> + “No. Do I know her?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say you exactly know her,” said Daintree. “You know <i>him</i>. + It was a photo of Pat himself dressed up as the Sleeping Beauty, or + Fatima, or some such person in a pantomime they did down at the base last + Christmas when he was there. The young devil carried the thing about with + him so as to play off his silly spoof on every fellow he met. I must say he + made a damned pretty girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” I said. “And how did Simcox take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Simcox hasn’t been told—yet,” said Daintree. “That’s just what my + wife wants your advice about. You see it’s an awkward situation.” + </p> + <p> + “Very,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “If we tell him,” said Daintree, “he’ll probably try to kill Pat + Singleton, and that would lead to a lot of trouble. On the other hand, if + we don’t tell him he’ll spend the rest of his life roaming about the world + looking for a girl who doesn’t exist, and never did. It seems a pity to + let that happen.” + </p> + <p> + “My idea,” I said, “would be to get another girl, not necessarily like the + photo, but the same type, appealing and pathetic and all that. He’d + probably take to her after a time.” + </p> + <p> + “I suggested that,” said Daintree, “but my wife simply won’t hear of it. + She says the story as it stands is a great romance and that it would be + utterly spoiled if Simcox switched off after another girl. I can’t see + that, can you?” + </p> + <p> + “In a case like this,” I said, “when the original girl wasn’t a girl at + all——” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Daintree, “but when I say that my wife brings up the Angel + in the Shell Hole part of the story and says that a great romance is its + own reward.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what to advise,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t think you would,” said Daintree, “though my wife insisted that + you’d be able to suggest something. But you can tell me what you think of + the story. That’s what I really want to get out of you. Is it a Sob Story + or just a rather unusual spoof?” + </p> + <p> + “That,” I said, “depends entirely whether you look at it from Simcox’ + point of view or Pat Singleton’s.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII ~~ SIR GALAHAD + </h2> + <p> + The order, long expected and eagerly desired, came at last. The battalion + moved out from dusty and crowded barracks to a camp in the wilderness. + Lieutenant Dalton, a cheerful boy who had been taught Holy Scripture in + his childhood, wrote to his mother that the new camp was “Somewhere in the + wilderness beyond Jordan between the river of Egypt and the great sea.” + This description of the situation was so entirely inaccurate that the + Censor allowed it to pass without complaint. Old Mrs. Dalton told her + friends that her son was living under the shadow of Mount Sinai. He was, + in fact, nowhere near either Jordan or Sinai. He was some miles east of + the Suez Canal. For a week or so officers and men rejoiced in their new + quarters. There was plenty of elbow room; no more of the overcrowding they + had suffered since they landed. They had, indeed, miles of totally + unoccupied desert at their disposal. Each tent might have stood in its own + private grounds, three acres or so in extent, if that had not been felt by + the colonel to be an inconvenient arrangement. There was also—and + this particularly pleased the battalion—the prospect of a fight with + the Turks. Everyone believed when the move was made that a battle was + imminent, and the battalion, which had no experience of fighting, was most + anxious to show what it could do. + </p> + <p> + After awhile the enthusiasm for the new camp began to fade. The Turks did + not put in an appearance, and life was as peaceful as it had been in the + English camp where the battalion was trained. The situation of the camp, + though roomy, was not exciting. Both officers and men began to find + existence exceedingly dull. Lieutenant Dalton, who at this time wrote long + letters to his mother, told her that he understood at last why the + Children of Israel were so desperately anxious to get back to Egypt and + were inclined to rag Moses about the want of melons and cucumbers. At the + end of the month the whole battalion was bored to exasperation. + </p> + <p> + The desert which stretched in front of the camp was intolerably flat. The + sun rose with pitiless regularity, shone with a steady glare for a great + many hours, and then set. That was all that ever happened. The coming of a + cloud into the sky would have been greeted with cheers. No cloud appeared. + A sandstorm, however disagreeable, would have been welcomed as a change. + The sand stayed quietly where it was. The men tried football, and gave it + up because of the blistering heat. They played “House” until even the + excitement of that mild gamble exhausted itself. No other form of + amusement suggested itself. There was not even any work to do. Had the + battalion belonged to the Brigade of Guards it would no doubt have gone on + doing barrack-square drill every day and all day long until the men + learned to move like parts of a machine. But this was a Territorial + battalion, and the colonel held reasonable views about modern warfare. The + value of drill, a mechanical business, was in his opinion easily + exaggerated. Had the battalion belonged to an Irish regiment there would + probably have been several interesting fights and some means of obtaining + whisky would have been devised. In such ways the men would have escaped + the curse of monotony, and the officers would have been kept busy in the + orderly room. But this battalion came from the English Midlands. The men + did not want to fight each other, and had no overpowering desire to get + drunk. When the morning parades were over they lay in their tents and + grumbled peacefully. Under such circumstances tempers often wear thin, and + a habit of bickering takes possession of a mess. It is greatly to the + credit of everyone concerned that there was no sign of bad temper among + the officers of the battalion. The colonel lived a good deal by himself in + his tent, but was always quietly good-humoured. Lieutenant Dalton, an + incurably merry boy, kept the other subalterns cheerful. Only Captain + Maitland was inclined to complain a little, and he had a special + grievance, an excuse which justified a certain amount of grumbling. He + slept badly at night, and liked to read a book of some sort after he went + to bed. The mess had originally possessed an excellent supply of books, + some hundred volumes of the most varied kind supplied by the Camps + Libraries’ Association at home. Unfortunately, almost all the books were + left behind when the move was made. Only three volumes were to be found in + the new camp—one novel, a treatise on the culture of apple trees, + and Mallory’s “Morte D’Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Maitland blamed the chaplain for the loss. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to have looked after those books, padre,” he said. “It’s a + padre’s business to look after books.” + </p> + <p> + The Rev. John Haddingly, C.F., was a gentle little man, liked by the + officers because he was entirely unassuming, and popular with the men + because he was always ready to help them. He accepted the whole blame for + the loss of the books without an attempt to defend himself. + </p> + <p> + “I’m awfully sorry, Maitland,” he said. “I ought to have seen to those + books. I did look after the Prayer Books. They’re here all right; at least + most of them are.” + </p> + <p> + “Prayer Books!” said Maitland. “If they were even whole Prayer Books! But + those little yellow tracts of yours! They haven’t even got the Thirty-Nine + Articles in them. If they were pukka Prayer Books I’d borrow one and try + to read it. I expect there are lots of interesting things in the small + print parts of the Prayer Book, the parts you padres never read out. But + what’s the good of the books you have? Nothing in them but what we all + know off by heart.” + </p> + <p> + Haddingly sighed. He was painfully conscious of the shortcomings of the + Field Service Books supplied for the use of the troops. Dalton came to his + defence. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t strafe the padre,” he said. “He brought along a church, an entire + church. Is there another padre in the whole Army who could have got a + church to a place like this?” + </p> + <p> + Dalton’s almost incredible statement was literally true. Haddingly had + succeeded, contrary to all regulations, in bringing with him from England + a corrugated iron church. It was quite a small one, it folded up and could + be packed flat. When unpacked and erected it was undeniably a church. It + had a large cross at one end of it outside. Inside it was furnished with + an altar, complete with cross and candlesticks, a collapsible harmonium + and a number of benches. Chaplains have certainly no right to load up + troopships with churches, but Haddingly had somehow got his to Egypt. By + what blandishments the transport officer had been induced to drag the + thing out into the desert beyond the canal no one knew. Haddingly was one + of those uncomplainingly meek men who never stand up for themselves. It is + a curious fact, but it is a fact, that a really helpless person gets + things done for him which the most aggressive and masterful men cannot + accomplish. The success in life of women of the “clinging” kind is an + illustration of this law. + </p> + <p> + Haddingly smiled with joy at the mention of his church. It stood, securely + bolted together, a little outside the camp. No one, the cross being + disproportionately large, could possibly mistake it for anything but a + church. In front of it was a notice board, a nice black notice board with + a suggestion of Gothic architecture about it. On the board, in bright + white letters, was a list of services and the name of the church—St + John in the Wilderness. + </p> + <p> + Originally, before the move into the desert, it had been simply St John + the Evangelist, but Haddingly felt that the new circumstances demanded a + change of dedication. Everyone, from the colonel down to the humblest + private, was secretly proud of the church. The possession of such a thing + gave a certain distinction to the battalion. Haddingly was a good deal + chaffed about it; but the building was in a fair way to become a + regimental mascot. “I’m not strafing the padre,” said Captain Maitland, + “but I wish we had a few of the books we left behind.” + </p> + <p> + “To listen to you talking,” said Dalton, “anyone would think you were some + kind of literary swell—Hall Caine and Wordsworth rolled into one, + whereas we all know that the only thing you take an interest in is + horses.” Captain Maitland was very far from being a literary swell or + claiming any such title. The books he really liked, the only books he read + when he had a free choice, were sporting stories with a strong racing and + betting interest. But in camp in the wilderness no sporting stories were + obtainable. The one novel which remained to the mess dealt with the sex + problem, a subject originally profoundly uninteresting to Maitland, who + had a healthy mind. He read it, however, as a remedy for insomnia. It + proved effective. A couple of chapters sent him to sleep every night, so + the book lasted a good while. + </p> + <p> + Every morning at breakfast Maitland used to propound the problems raised + by the chapters which he had read the night before. The mess got into the + way of holding informal debates on the divorce laws. When he finished the + book, Maitland declared that he intended to devote himself to Eugenics and + the more enlightened kind of social reform as soon as the war was over. + </p> + <p> + “I never thought of it before,” he said, “but I can see now that the + future of the Empire really depends on the proper legislation for child + welfare, on ante-natal clinic, and the abolition of the old empiric + methods of marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait till after I’m married before you begin,” said Dalton. + </p> + <p> + Haddingly was a little pained. He said things about the sanctity of + marriage and the family as a divine institution. No one else took Maitland + seriously. It was felt that when the war came to an end—if it ever + did—he would go back to horse-racing and leave the scientific + aspects of marriage in decent obscurity. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished the novel he took the book on apple trees to bed with + him. He became, after a short time, interested in that subject. He + announced that when the war was over he intended to buy a small place in + Devonshire and go in for orchards. + </p> + <p> + “Apple growing,” he said, “is just exactly the peaceable, shady kind of + life a man wants after being stuck down in a desert like this.” + </p> + <p> + “With your taste for the turf,” said Dalton, “you’ll get into a shady kind + of life all right, whether you plant apple trees or not.” + </p> + <p> + Dalton was an irreverent boy. Haddingly was greatly pleased at the thought + of Maitland sitting innocently under an apple tree. + </p> + <p> + The turn of Mallory came next. Maitland left it for the last because the + print was very small and the only light in his tent was a feeble candle. + When he got fairly started in the book he became profoundly interested, + and the other members of the mess were treated at breakfast time to a good + deal of information about medieval warfare. + </p> + <p> + “As far as I can make out,” Maitland said, “every officer in those days + was knighted as soon as he got his commission.” + </p> + <p> + “Jolly good idea,” said Dalton. “I should buck about like anything if they + made me a K.C.B.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t have been an officer or a knight,” said Maitland. “You’d + have been the court fool. You’ve no idea whatever of chivalry.” + </p> + <p> + Like most simple men who read very little, Maitland took the books he did + read seriously and was greatly influenced by them. The apple tree treatise + made him want to be a gardener. A slow and careful study of Mallory filled + him with a profound admiration for medieval romance. + </p> + <p> + “The reason modern war is such a sordid business,” he said, “is that we’ve + lost the idea of chivalry.” + </p> + <p> + “Chivalry is all very well,” said Dalton, “if there’s anyone to chival + about. I haven’t read much about those old knights of yours, Maitland; but + so far as I can make out from what you tell us they were always coming + across damsels, fair, distressed, and otherwise fetching. Now, I haven’t + seen a damsel since I left England. How the deuce can I be chivalrous? I + defy anyone, even that Lancelot blighter of yours, to go into raptures + about the old hag you turned out of the camp yesterday for selling rotten + dates to the men.” + </p> + <p> + Dalton was not the only member of the mess who made jokes about the + knights of King Arthur’s fellowship. But Maitland went on reading out + selected passages from Mallory, and there is no doubt that everyone, even + Dalton, became interested. Haddingly, the padre, made no attempt to + conceal the fact that he was profoundly influenced. + </p> + <p> + He had always been proud of his church, but had hitherto been content to + use it in the normal way for parade services on Sunday morning. The + services were undeniably popular. The men enjoyed singing hymns, and they + listened patiently to the sermons because they liked Haddingly. The + officers, who also liked Haddingly, attended the Sunday morning services + with great regularity. Dalton, though he preferred playing rag-time on the + piano, accompanied the hymns on the harmonium. + </p> + <p> + Haddingly was greatly moved by Maitland’s account of the medieval spirit. + He took to spending half an hour in the church every morning before + breakfast Nobody knew what he did there. The officers, through feelings of + delicacy, never asked him questions about these new devotions. The men, + who were getting to know and like Haddingly better and better as time went + on, regarded his daily visits to the church as proof that their padre was + one who knew his job and did it thoroughly. + </p> + <p> + One morning—the mess had then been discussing medieval chivalry for + about a fortnight—Maitland read out a passage from Mallory about a + visit paid by Sir Galahad to a lonely chapel among the mountains, “where + he found nobody at all for all was desolate.” Haddingly had just spent his + lonely half hour in the church of St John in the Wilderness. He sighed. He + found nobody there in the mornings, and could not help wishing that the + battalion contained a Galahad. Dalton felt that something must be done to + preserve the credit of the mess and the dignity of English manhood. He + felt sure that sentiment about desolate chapels was an unwholesome thing. + He scoffed: + </p> + <p> + “All very well for Gallipot,” he said, “but——” + </p> + <p> + “Galahad,” said Maitland. + </p> + <p> + “Galahad, or Gallipot, or Golly-wog,” said Dalton. “If a man has a silly + name like that, it doesn’t matter how you spell it. The point is that it + would be simply ridiculous to attempt that sort of thing now. Suppose, for + instance—— I put it to you, padre. Suppose you saw Maitland + mounted on one of the transport gee-gees trotting up to that tin + cathedral of yours—on a week-day, mind! I’m not talking about + Sundays. Suppose he got down and went inside all by himself, what would + you think, padre? There’s only one thing you could think, that Maitland + had been drinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Galahad,” said Maitland, “went in to say his prayers. He was on his + way to a battle. They didn’t have to wait months and months for a battle + in those days. They had a scrap of some sort about once a week.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed. The Turks had failed to do what was expected of them, and life + in the camp was intolerably dull. + </p> + <p> + He looked at Haddingly. It was plainly a padre’s duty to support a + spiritual and romantic view of life against the profane jibes of Dalton. + Haddingly spoke judicially. + </p> + <p> + “The general tone of society in those days,” he said, “seems to have been + very different from what it is now. Men had much less difficulty in giving + expression to their emotions. No doubt we still feel much as they did, but——” + </p> + <p> + Haddingly became aware that no one was listening to him. The attention of + everyone at the table was attracted by something else. The men sat + stiffly, listening intently. Haddingly heard a faint, distant humming + sound. It grew louder. + </p> + <p> + “Jiminy!” said Dalton, “an aeroplane!” + </p> + <p> + The breakfast table was laid in the open air outside the mess tent The men + rose from their seats and stared in the direction of the coming sound. It + was the first time that an aeroplane had approached the camp in the + desert. Its coming was an intensely exciting event, an unmistakable + evidence of activity somewhere; surely a sign that activity everywhere + might be expected. + </p> + <p> + The sound increased in volume. The machine appeared, a distant speck in + the clear sky. It grew rapidly larger, flying fast. It was seen to be a + biplane. It passed directly over the camp, flying so low that the head of + the pilot was plainly visible. In a few minutes it passed from sight. The + hum of its engines grew fainter. But till the sound became inaudible no + one spoke. + </p> + <p> + Then a babble of inquiry and speculation broke out. Where was the thing + going? What was it doing? What did its sudden swift voyage mean? For the + rest of the day the camp was less sleepy than usual. Men everywhere + discussed the aeroplane. Dalton was not the only one who envied the + members of the Flying Corps. It seemed a very desirable thing to be able + to rush through the air over unknown deserts; to have the chance of seeing + strange and thrilling things, Arab encampments, green oases, mirages, + caravans and camels; to drop bombs perhaps on Syrian fortresses; to + estimate the numbers of Turkish columns on the march, to reckon their + strength in artillery; to take desperate risks; to swerve and dart amid + clouds of bursting shrapnel. How much more gloriously exciting such a life + than that of men baking slowly in the monotony of a desert camp. + </p> + <p> + Maitland, stimulated by his reading to an unnatural effort of imagination, + recognized in the men of the Flying Corps the true successors of Mallory’s + adventurous knight-errants. For them war still contained romance. Chivalry + was still possible. Haddingly caught the thought and expanded it. Knights + of old had this wonderful spirit, because to them the forests through + which they roamed were unknown wastes, where all strange things might be + expected. Then when all the land became familiar, mapped, intersected with + roads, covered thick with towns, sailors inherited the spirit of romance. + Afterwards all the seas were charted, policed, and ships went to and fro + on ocean highways. The romance of adventure was lost to seamen, lost to + the world, until the airmen came and found it again by venturing on new + ways. + </p> + <p> + In the evening the aeroplane returned. Once more its engines were heard. + Once more it appeared, a speck, a shape, a recognizable thing. But this + time it did not pass away. On reaching camp it circled twice, and then, + with a long swift glide, took the ground outside the camp a few yards + beyond Haddingly’s church of St. John in the Wilderness. The pilot stepped + out of the machine. + </p> + <p> + “Good man,” said Dalton. “Friendly of him dropping in on us like this. + Must want a drink after that fly. Eight hours at least. I’ll go and bring + him along to the mess. Hope he’ll tell us what he’s been doing. Wonder if + the Turks potted at him.” + </p> + <p> + The pilot left his machine. He walked stiffly, like a man with cramped + limbs, towards the camp. + </p> + <p> + “Something wrong with the engine, perhaps,” said Dalton. “Or he’s short of + petrol. I’ll fetch him along. A whisky and soda in a big tumbler is the + thing for him. I dare say he’ll stay for dinner.” + </p> + <p> + He started and walked quickly towards the machine. The airman, approaching + the camp, reached the church. Instead of passing it he stopped, opened the + door, and went in. Dalton paused and looked back. + </p> + <p> + “Must have mistaken your tin cathedral for the mess, padre,” he said. + “I’ll run on and fetch him out.” + </p> + <p> + “If he’s made a mistake,” said Haddingly, “he’ll find it out for himself + and come out without your fetching him.” + </p> + <p> + Dalton stood still. His eyes were on the door of the church. Maitland and + Haddingly were gazing at it too. The other officers, gathered in a group + outside the mess tent, stood in silence, staring at the church. It seemed + as if hours passed. In fact, nearly half an hour went by before the door + of the church opened and the airman came out. He turned his back on the + camp and went towards his machine. Neither Dalton nor anyone else made an + attempt to overtake him. The noise of the engine was heard again. The + machine raced a few yards along the ground and then rose in steep flight. + It passed across the camp and sped westwards, its shape sharply outlined + for a minute against the light of the setting sun. Then it disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Maitland took Haddingly by the arm and led him to his tent. The two men sat + down together on the camp bedstead. Maitland opened Mallory’s “Morte + d’Arthur,” and read aloud: + </p> + <p> + “Then Sir Galahad came unto a mountain, where he found an old chapel, and + found there nobody, for all was desolate, and there he kneeled before the + altar and besought of God wholesome counsel.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it was just that,” said Haddingly. + </p> + <p> + Dalton put his head into the tent. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “I just wanted to ask the padre + something. Was that Sir Golliwog come to life again or just some ordinary + blighter like me suffering from nerve strain?” + </p> + <p> + Haddingly had no answer to give for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “He can’t have really wanted to sit in that church for half an hour,” said + Dalton. “What the dickens would he do it<i> for?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “He might have wanted to pray,” said Haddingly. + </p> + <p> + Not even his profession justified the saying of such a thing as that + outside church. But every excuse must be made for him. He had been soaked + in Mallory for a fortnight. Deserts, even when there are camps in them, are + queer places, liable to upset men’s minds, and the conduct of the airman + was certainly peculiar. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if you put it that way,” said Dalton, “I’ve nothing more to + say. All the same, he might have come into the mess for a drink. I’m not + complaining of his doing anything he liked in the way of going to church; + but I don’t see that a whisky and soda would have hurt him afterwards. He + must have wanted it.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX ~~ A GUN-RUNNING EPISODE + </h2> + <p> + Sam McAlister walked into my office yesterday and laid down a handful of + silver on my desk. + </p> + <p> + “There you are,” he said, “and I am very much obliged to you for the + loan.” + </p> + <p> + For the moment I could not recollect having lent Sam any money; though I + should be glad to do so at any time if I thought he wanted it. Sam is a + boy I like. He is an undergraduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and has the + makings of a man in him, though he is not good at passing examinations and + has never figured in an honours list. Some day, when he takes his degree, + he is to come into my office and be made into a lawyer. His father, the + Dean, is an old friend of mine. + </p> + <p> + I looked at the money lying before me, and then doubtfully at Sam. + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve forgotten all about it,” he said, “it’s rather a pity I paid. + But I always was honest. That’s one of my misfortunes. If I wasn’t—— + That’s the fine you paid for me.” + </p> + <p> + Then I remembered. Sam got into trouble with the police a few weeks ago. + He and a dozen or so of his fellow-students broke loose and ran riot + through the streets of Dublin. All high-spirited boys do this sort of + thing occasionally, whether they are junior army officers, lawyers’ + clerks, or university undergraduates. Trinity College boys, being Irish + and having a large city at their gates, riot more picturesquely than + anyone else. Sam had captured the flag which the Lord Mayor flies outside + his house, had pushed a horse upstairs into the office of a respectable + stockbroker, and had driven a motor-car, borrowed from an unwilling owner, + down a narrow and congested street at twenty-five or thirty miles an hour. + He was captured in the end by eight policemen, and was very nearly sent to + gaol with hard labour. I got him off by paying a fine of one pound, + together with £2 4s. 6d. for the damage done by the horse to the + stockbroker’s staircase and office furniture. The motorcar, fortunately, + had neither injured itself nor anyone else. + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” I said, pocketing the money, “that this will be a lesson to you, + Sam.” + </p> + <p> + “It won’t,” he said. “At least, not in the way you mean. It’ll encourage + me to go into another rag the very first time I get the chance. As a + matter of fact, being arrested was the luckiest thing ever happened to me, + though I didn’t think so at the time.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “if you like paying up these large sums it’s your own + affair. I should have thought you could have got better value for your + money by spending it on something you wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “Money isn’t everything in the world,” said Sam. “There is such a thing as + having a good time, a rattling good time, even if you don’t make money out + of it and run a chance of being arrested. I daresay you’d like to hear + what I’ve been at.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve committed any kind of crime,” I said, “I’d rather you didn’t + tell me. It might be awkward for me afterwards when you are tried.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it’s exactly a crime,” said Sam, “anyhow, it isn’t anything + wrong, though, of course, it may be slightly illegal. I’d rather like to + have your opinion about that.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a long story? I’m rather busy to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very long,” said Sam, “but I daresay it would sound better after + dinner. What would you say now to asking me to dine to-night at your club? + We could go up to that library place afterwards. There’s never anybody + there, and I could tell you the whole thing.” + </p> + <p> + Sam knows the ways of my club nearly as well as I do myself. There is + never anyone in the library in the evening. I gave the required + invitation. + </p> + <p> + We dined comfortably, and I got a good cigar for Sam afterwards. When the + waiter had left the room he plunged into his story. + </p> + <p> + “You remember the day I was hauled up before that old ass of a magistrate. + He jawed a lot and then fined me £3 4s. 6d., which you paid. Jolly decent + of you. I hadn’t a shilling in the world, being absolutely stony broke at + the time; so if you hadn’t paid—and lots of fellows wouldn’t—I + should have had to go to gaol.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about that,” I said. “You’ve paid me back.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, I’m grateful, especially as I should have missed the spree of my + life if I’d been locked up. As it was, thanks to you, I walked out of the + court without a stain on my character.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, hardly that. You were found guilty of riotous behaviour, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, I walked out,” said Sam, “and that’s the main point.” + </p> + <p> + It was, of course, the point which mattered most; and, after all, the + stain on Sam’s character was not indelible. Lots of young fellows behave + riotously and turn out excellent men afterwards. I was an undergraduate + myself once, and there is a story about Sam’s father, now a dean, which is + still told occasionally. When he was an undergraduate a cow was found tied + up in the big examination hall. + </p> + <p> + Sam’s father, who was very far from being a dean then, had borrowed the + cow from a milkman. + </p> + <p> + “There were a lot of men waiting outside,” said Sam. “They wanted to stand + me a lunch in honour of my escape.” + </p> + <p> + “Your fellow-rioters, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, most of them had been in the rag, and, of course, they were sorry + for me, being the only one actually caught. However, the lunch never came + off. There was a queer old fellow standing on the steps of the court who + got me by the arm as I came out. Said he wanted to speak to me on + important business, and would I lunch with him. I didn’t know what he + could possibly have to say to me, for I had never seen him before; but he + looked—it’s rather hard to describe how he looked. He wasn’t exactly + what you’d call a gentleman, in the way of clothes, I mean; but he struck + me as being a sportsman.” + </p> + <p> + “Horsey?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the least. More like one’s idea of some kind of modern pirate, though + not exactly. He talked like an American. I went with him, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” I said, “anyone with an adventurous spirit would prefer + lunching with an unknown American buccaneer to sharing a commonplace feast + with a mob of boys. Did you happen to hear his name?” + </p> + <p> + “He said it was Hazlewood, but——” + </p> + <p> + “But it may not have been?” + </p> + <p> + “One of the other fellows called him Cassidy later on.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” I said, “there were other fellows?” + </p> + <p> + “There were afterwards,” said Sam, “not at first. He and I lunched alone. + He did me well. A bottle of champagne for the two of us and offered me a + second bottle. I refused that.” + </p> + <p> + “He came to business after the champagne, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “He more or less talked business the whole time, though at first I didn’t + know quite what he was at. He gassed a lot about my having knocked down + those two policemen. You remember that I knocked down two, don’t you? I + would have got a third only that they collared me from behind. Well, + Hazlewood, or Cassidy, or whatever his name was, had seen the scrap, and + seemed to think no end of a lot of me for the fight I put up.” + </p> + <p> + “The magistrate took a serious view of it, too,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “There wasn’t much in it,” said Sam modestly. “As I told Hazlewood, any + fool can knock down a policeman. They’re so darned fat. He asked me if I + liked fighting policemen. I said I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + Sam caught some note of sarcasm in my voice. He felt it necessary to + modify his statement. + </p> + <p> + “Well, not policemen in particular. I haven’t a special down on policemen. + I like a scrap with anyone. Then he said—Hazlewood, that is—that + he admired the way I drove that car down Grafton Street. He said he liked + a man who wasn’t afraid to take risks; which was rot. There wasn’t any + real risk.” + </p> + <p> + “The police swore that you went at thirty miles an hour,” I said. “And + that street is simply crowded in the middle of the day.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe I was doing anything like thirty miles an hour,” said + Sam. “I should say twenty-seven at the outside. And there was no risk + because everybody cleared out of my way. I had the street practically to + myself. It was rather fun seeing all the other cars and carts and things + piled up upon the footpaths at either side and the people bolting into the + shops like rabbits. But there wasn’t any risk. However, old Hazlewood + evidently thought there was, and seemed frightfully pleased about it. He + said he had a car of his own, a sixty h.p. Daimler, and that he’d like to + see me drive it. I said I’d take him for a spin any time he liked. I gave + him a hint that we might start immediately after lunch and run up to + Belfast in time for dinner. With a car like that I could have done it + easy. However, he wasn’t on.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he really had the car?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he had her all right. I drove her afterwards. Great Scott, such a + drive! The next thing he said was that he believed I was a pretty good man + in a boat. I said I knew something about boats, though not much.” + </p> + <p> + Modesty is one of Sam’s virtues. He is, I believe, an excellent hand in a + small yacht, and does a good deal of racing. + </p> + <p> + “I asked him what put it into his head that I could sail a boat, and he + said O’Meara told him. O’Meara is a man I sail with occasionally, and I + thought it nice of him to mention my name to this old boy. I can hoist a + spinnaker all right and shift a jib, but I’m no good at navigation. Always + did hate sums and always will. I told him that, and he said he could do + the navigation himself. All he wanted was a good amateur crew for a + thirty-ton yawl with a motor auxiliary. He had four men, and he asked me + to make a fifth. I said I’d go like a shot. Strictly speaking, I ought to + have been attending lectures; but what good are lectures?” “Very little,” + I said. “In fact, hardly any.” “I wasn’t going to lose a cruise for the + sake of any amount of lectures,” said Sam, “particularly with the chance + of a tour on that sixty h.p. car thrown in.” + </p> + <p> + Sam paused at this point. It seemed to me that he wanted encouragement. + </p> + <p> + “You’d have been a fool if you had,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Up to that time,” said Sam thoughtfully, “I hadn’t tumbled to what he was + at. I give you my word of honour I hadn’t the dimmest idea that he was + after anything in particular. I thought he was simply a good old sport + with lots of money, which he knew how to spend in sensible ways.” + </p> + <p> + “The criminal part of the business was mentioned later on, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that there’s anything criminal about it,” said Sam. “I’m + jolly well sure it wasn’t wrong, under the circumstances. But it may have + been criminal. That’s just what I want you to tell me. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you my opinion,” I said, “when I hear what it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Gun-running,” said Sam. + </p> + <p> + Gun-running has for some time been a popular sport in Ireland, and I find + it very difficult to say whether it is against the law or not. The + Government goes in for trying to stop it, which looks as if a gun-runner + might be prosecuted when caught. On the other hand, the Government never + prosecutes gun-runners, even those who openly boast of their exploits, and + that looks as if it were quite a legal amusement. I promised Sam that I + would consider the point, and I asked him to tell me exactly what he did. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “when I heard it was gunrunning I simply jumped at the + chance. Any fellow would. I said I’d start right away, if he liked. As a + matter of fact, we didn’t start for nearly a fortnight. The boat turned out + to be the <i>Pegeen</i>. You know the <i>Pegeen</i>, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + I did not. I am not a sailor, and except that I cannot help seeing + paragraphs about <i>Shamrock IV</i>. in the daily papers I do not think I + know the name of a single yacht. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Sam, “she’s O’Meara’s boat I’ve sailed in her sometimes in + cruiser races. She’s slow and never does any good, but she’s a fine sea + boat. My idea was that Hazlewood had hired her, and I didn’t find out till + after we had started that O’Meara was on board. That surprised me a bit, + for O’Meara goes in for being rather an extreme kind of Nationalist—not + the sort of fellow you’d expect to be running guns for Carson and the + Ulster Volunteers. However, I was jolly glad to see him. He crawled out of + the cabin when we were a couple of miles out of the harbour, and by that + time I’d have been glad to see anyone who knew one end of the boat from + the other. Old Hazlewood was all right; but the other three men were + simply rotters, the sort of fellows who’d be just as likely as not to take + a pull on a topsail halyard when told to slack away the lee runner. I was + just making up my mind to work the boat single-handed when O’Meara turned + up. There was a middling fresh breeze from the west, and we were going + south on a reach. I didn’t get much chance of a talk with O’Meara because + he was in one watch and I in the other—had to be, of course, on + account of being the only two who knew anything about working the boat. I + did notice, though, that when he spoke to Hazlewood he called him Cassidy. + However, that was no business of mine. We sailed pretty nearly due south + that day and the next, and the next after that. Then we hove to.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Ask me another,” said Sam. “I told you I couldn’t navigate. I hadn’t an + idea within a hundred miles where we were. What’s more, I didn’t care. I + was having a splendid time, and had succeeded in knocking some sort of + sense into the other fellow in my watch. Hazlewood steered, and barring + that he was sea-sick for eight hours, my man turned out to be a decent + sort, and fairly intelligent. He said his name was Temple, but Hazlewood + called him O’Reilly as often as not.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to have gone in for a nice variety of names,” I said. “What did + you call yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I stuck to my own name, of course. I wasn’t doing anything to be ashamed + of. If we’d been caught and the thing had turned out to be a crime—I + don’t know whether it was or not, but if it was, I suppose———” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I should have paid your fine,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” said Sam. “Thanks, awfully. I rather expected you would whenever + I thought about that part of it, but I very seldom did.” + </p> + <p> + “What happened when you lay to?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at first. We bumped about a bit for five or six hours, and Temple + got frightfully sick again. I never saw a man sicker. Hazlewood kept on + muddling about with charts, and doing sums on sheets of paper, and + consulting with O’Meara. I suppose they wanted to make sure that they’d + got to the right place. At last, just about sunset, a small steamer turned + up. She hung about all night, and next day we started early, about four + o’clock, and got the guns out of her, or some of them. We couldn’t take + the whole cargo, of course, in a 30-ton yacht I don’t know how many more + guns she had. Perhaps she hadn’t any more. Only our little lot Anyhow, I + was jolly glad when the job was over. There was a bit of a roll—nothing + much, you know, but quite enough to make it pretty awkward. Temple got + over his sea-sickness, which was a comfort. I suppose the excitement cured + him. The way we worked was this—but I daresay you wouldn’t + understand, even if I told you.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it very technical? I mean, must you use many sea words?” + </p> + <p> + “Must,” said Sam. “We were at sea, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “perhaps you’d better leave that part out. Tell me what + you did with the guns when you’d got them.” + </p> + <p> + “Right. It was there the fun really came in. Not that I’m complaining about + the other part. It was sport all right, but the funny part, the part + you’ll like, came later. What <i>about</i> another cigar?” + </p> + <p> + I rang the bell, and got two more cigars for Sam. + </p> + <p> + “We had rather a tiresome passage home,” he said. “It kept on falling + calm, and O’Meara’s motor isn’t very powerful. It took us a clear week to + work our way up to the County Down coast. It was there we landed, in a poky + little harbour. We went in at night, and had to wait for a full tide to + get in at all. We got the sails of the boat outside, and just strolled in, + so to speak, with the wretched little engine doing about half it could. + Hazlewood told me that he expected four motor-cars to meet us, and that I + was to take one of them, and drive like hell into County Armagh. There I + was to call at a house belonging to O’Meara, and hand over my share of the + guns. He said he hoped I knew my way about those parts, because it would + be awkward for me trying to work with road maps when I ought to drive + fast. I said I knew that country like the palm of my hand. The governor’s + parish is up there, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Sam certainly ought to know County Down. He was brought up there, and must + have walked, cycled, and driven over most of the roads. + </p> + <p> + “The only thing I didn’t know,” said Sam, “was O’Meara’s house. I’d never + heard of his having a house in that part of the country. However, he said + he’d only taken it lately, and that when I got over the border into Armagh + there’d be a man waiting to show me where to go. He told me the road I was + to take and I knew every turn of the way, so I felt pretty sure of getting + there. It was about two in the morning when we got alongside the pier. The + four motors were there all right, but there wasn’t a soul about except the + men in charge of them. We got out the guns. They were done up in small + bundles and the cartridges in handy little cases; but it took us till + half-past four o’clock to get them ashore. By that time there were a few + people knocking about; but they didn’t seem to want to interfere with us. + In fact, some of them came and helped us to pack the stuff into the cars. + They were perfectly friendly.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” I said “The people up there are + nearly all Protestants. Most of them were probably Volunteers themselves. + I daresay it wasn’t the first cargo they’d helped to land.” + </p> + <p> + “It was the first cargo they ever helped to land for the National + Volunteers,” said Sam with a grin. + </p> + <p> + “The National Volunteers!” + </p> + <p> + I admit that Sam startled me. I do not suppose that he has any political + convictions. At the age of twenty a man has a few prejudices but no + convictions. If he is a young fellow who goes in for being intellectual + they are prejudices against the party his father belonged to. If—and + this is Sam’s case—he is a healthy-minded young man, who enjoys + sport, he takes over his father’s opinions as they stand, and regards + everybody who does not accept them as an irredeemable blackguard. The Dean + is a very strong loyalist. He is the chaplain of an Orange Lodge, and has + told me more than once that he hopes to march to battle at the head of his + regiment of Volunteers. + </p> + <p> + “Smuggling arms for the Nationalists!” I said. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I did,” said Sam, grinning broadly. “But I thought all the + time that I was working for the other side. I didn’t know the Nationalists + went in for guns; thought they only talked. In fact, to tell you the + truth, I forgot all about them. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it At least + I mightn’t. But I had a great time.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” I said, “I don’t mind. So far as I am concerned personally + I’d rather neither side had any guns. But if your father finds out, Sam, + there’ll be a frightful row. He’ll disown you.” + </p> + <p> + “The governor knows all about it,” said Sam, “and he doesn’t mind one bit. + Just wait till you hear the end of the story. You’ll be as surprised as I + was.” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly shall,” I said, “if the story ends in your father’s approving + of your smuggling guns for rebels. He’d call them rebels, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Sam, “as far as rebellion goes I don’t see that there’s much to + choose between them. However, that doesn’t matter. What happened was this. + I got off with my load about five o’clock, and I had a gorgeous spin. + There wasn’t a cart or a thing on the roads, and I just let the car rip. I + touched sixty miles an hour, and hardly ever dropped below forty. Best run + I ever had. Almost the only thing I passed was a motor lorry, going the + same way I was. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but it turned + out to be important afterwards. It was about seven o’clock when I got out + of County Down into Armagh. I began looking out for the fellow who was to + meet me. It wasn’t long before I spotted him, standing at a corner, trying + to look as if he were a military sentry. You know the sort of thing I + mean. Bandolier, belt, and frightfully stiff about the back. He held up + his hand and I stopped. ‘A loyal man,’ he said. Well, I was, so far as I + knew at that time, so I said ‘You bet.’ ‘That’s not right,’ said he. ‘Give + the countersign.’ I hadn’t heard anything about a countersign, so I told + him not to be a damned fool, and that I’d break his head if he said I + wasn’t a loyal man. That seemed to puzzle him a bit. He got out a notebook + and read a page or two, looking at me and the car every now and then as if + he wasn’t quite satisfied. I felt pretty sure, of course, that he was the + man I wanted. He couldn’t very well be anyone else. So by way of cutting + the business short I told him I was loaded up with guns and cartridges, + and that I wished he’d hop in and show me where to go. ‘That’s all very + fine,’ he said, ‘but you oughtn’t to be in a car like that.’ I told him + there was no use arguing about the car. I wasn’t going back to change it + to please him. He asked me who I was, and I told him, mentioning that I + was the governor’s son. I thought that might help him to make up his mind, + and it did. The governor is middling well known up in those parts, and the + mention of his name was enough. The fellow climbed in beside me. We hadn’t + very far to go, as it turned out, and in the inside of twenty minutes I + was driving up the avenue of a big house. The size of it rather surprised + me, for I didn’t think O’Meara was well enough off to keep up a place of + the kind. However, I was evidently expected, for I was shown into the + dining-room by a footman. There were three men at breakfast, my old dad, + Dopping—you know Dopping, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Dopping is a retired cavalry colonel. I do business for him and know him + pretty well He is just the sort of man who would be in the thick of any + gun-running that was going on. + </p> + <p> + “There was another man,” said Sam, “whom I didn’t know and wasn’t + introduced to. The fact is there wasn’t much time for politeness. My dad + looked as if he’d been shot when he saw me, and old Dopping bristled all + over like an Irish terrier at the beginning of a fight, and asked me who + the devil I was and what I was doing there. Of course, he jolly well knew + who I was, and I thought he must know what brought me there, so I just + winked by way of letting him understand that I was in the game. He got so + red in the face that I thought he’d burst. Then the other man chipped in + and asked me what I’d got in the car. The three of them whispered together + for a bit, and I suggested that if they didn’t believe me they’d better go + and see. The car was outside the door, and their own man was sitting on + the guns. Dopping went, and I suppose he told the other two that the guns + were there all right. Dad asked me where I got them, and I told them, + mentioning Hazlewood’s name and the name of the yacht. I was a bit puzzled, + but I still thought everything was all right, and that there’d be no harm + in mentioning names. I very soon saw that there was some sort of mistake + somewhere. The governor and old Dopping and the other man, who seemed to + be the coolest of the three, went over to the window and looked at the + car. Then they started whispering again, and I couldn’t hear a word they + said. Didn’t want to. I was as hungry as a wolf, and there was a jolly + good breakfast on the table. I sat down and gorged. I had just started my + third egg when the door opened, and a rather nice-looking young fellow + walked in. The footman came behind him, looking as white as a sheet, and + began some sort of apology for letting the stranger in. Old Dopping, who + was still in a pretty bad temper, told the footman to go and be damned. + Then the new man introduced himself. He said he was Colonel O’Connell, of + the first Armagh Regiment of National Volunteers. I expected to see old + Dopping kill him at sight. Dopping is a tremendous loyalist, and the other + fellow—well—phew!” + </p> + <p> + Sam whistled. Words failed him, I suppose, when it came to expressing the + disloyalty of a colonel of National Volunteers. + </p> + <p> + “Instead of that,” said Sam, “Dopping stood up straight, and saluted + O’Connell. O’Connell stiffened his back, and saluted Dopping. The third + man, the one I didn’t know, stood up, too, and saluted. O’Connell saluted + him. Then the governor bowed quite civilly, and O’Connell saluted him. I + can tell you it was a pretty scene. ‘I beg to inform you, gentlemen,’ said + O’Connell, ‘that a consignment of rifles and ammunition, apparently + intended for your force, has arrived at our headquarters in a motor + lorry.’ Nothing could have been civiller than the way he spoke. But + Dopping was not to be beat. He’s a bristly old bear at times, but he always + was a gentleman. ‘Owing to a mistake,’ he said, ‘some arms, evidently + belonging to you, are now in a car at our door.’ The governor and the + other man sat down and laughed till they were purple, but neither + O’Connell nor old Dopping so much as smiled. It was then—and I give + you my word not till then—that I tumbled to the idea that I’d been + running guns for the other side. I expected that there’d be a furious row + the minute the governor stopped laughing. But there wasn’t. In fact, no one + took any notice of me. There was a long consultation, and in the end they + settled that it might be risky to start moving the guns about again, and + that each party had better stick to what it had got. Our fellows—I + call them our fellows, though, of course, I was really acting for the + others—our fellows got rather the better of the exchange in the way + of ammunition. But O’Connell scooped in a lot of extra rifles. When they + had that settled they all saluted again, and the governor said something + about hoping to meet O’Connell at Philippi. I don’t know what he meant by + that, but O’Connell seemed tremendously pleased. Where do you suppose + Philippi is?” + </p> + <p> + “Philippi,” I said, “is where somebody—Julius Caesar, I think, but + it doesn’t matter—— What your father meant was that he hoped + to have a chance of fighting it out with O’Connell some day. Not a duel, + you know, but a proper battle. The Ulster Volunteers against the other + lot.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall have to wipe out the police first,” said Sam, “to prevent their + interfering. I hope I shall be there then. I want to get my own back out + of those fellows who collared me from behind the day of the last rag. But, + I say, what about the soldiers—the regular soldiers, I mean? Which + side will they be on?” + </p> + <p> + “That,” I said, “is the one uncertain factor in the problem. Nobody + knows.” + </p> + <p> + “The best plan,” said Sam, “would be to take them away altogether, and + leave us to settle the matter ourselves. We’d do it all right, judging by + the way old Dopping and O’Connell behaved to each other.” + </p> + <p> + Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. I should never have suspected + Sam of profound political wisdom. But it is quite possible that his + suggestion would meet the case better than any other. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X ~~ IRELAND FOR EVER + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick picked his way delicately among the pools and tough + cobble stones. He was a very well-dressed young man, and he seemed out of + place amid the miry traffic of the Belfast quays. A casual observer would + have put him down as a fashionable nincompoop, one of those young men + whose very appearance is supposed to move the British worker to outbursts + of socialistic fury. The casual observer would, in this case, have been + mistaken. Lord Dunseverick, in spite of his well-fitting clothes, his + delicately coloured tie, and his general air of sleek well-being, was at + that moment—it was the month of May, 1914—something of a hero + with the Belfast working man. And the Belfast working man, as everybody + knows, is more bitterly contemptuous of the idle rich, especially of the + idle rich with titles, than any other working man. + </p> + <p> + The Belfast working man had just then worked himself up to a degree of + martial ardour, unprecedented even in Ulster, in his opposition to Home + Rule. Lord Dunseverick was one of the generals of the Ulster Volunteer + Force. He had made several speeches which moved Belfast to wild delight + and sober-minded men elsewhere to dubious shaking of the head. Enthusiasm + in a cause is a fine thing, especially in the young, but when Lord + Dunseverick’s enthusiasm led him to say that he would welcome the German + Emperor at the head of his legions as the deliverer of Ulster from the + tyranny of a Parliament in Dublin, why then—then the rank and file + of the volunteer army cheered, and other people wondered whether it were + quite wise to say such things. Yet Lord Dunseverick, when not actually + engaged in making a speech, was a pleasant and agreeable young man with a + keen sense of humour. He even—and this is a rare quality in men—saw + the humorous side of his own speeches. The trouble was that he never saw + it till after he had made them. + </p> + <p> + A heavy motor-lorry came thundering along the quay. Lord Dunseverick + dodged it, and escaped with his life. He was splashed from head to foot + with mud. He looked at his neat boots and well-fashioned grey trousers. + The black slime lay thick on them. He wiped a spot of mud off his cheek + and rubbed some wet coal dust into his collar. Then he lit a cigarette, + and smiled. + </p> + <p> + He stepped into the porch of a reeking public-house and found himself + beside a grizzled man, who looked like a sailor. Lord Dunseverick turned + to him. + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me,” he said, “where Mr. McMunn’s office is?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it coal you’re wanting?” asked the sailor. + </p> + <p> + It is thus that questions are often met in Belfast with counter-questions. + Belfast is a city of business men, and it is not the habit of business men + to give away anything, even information, without getting something in + return. The counter-question may draw some valuable matter by way of + answer from the original questioner. In this case the counter-question was + a reasonable one. McMunn, of McMunn Brothers, Limited, was a coal + merchant. Lord Dunseverick, though a peer, belonged to the north of + Ireland. He understood Belfast. + </p> + <p> + “What I want,” he said, “is to see Mr. Andrew McMunn.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve business with Andrew McMunn myself,” said the sailor, “and I’m going + that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. Then we’ll go together.” + </p> + <p> + “My name,” said the sailor, “is Ginty. If you’re intimate with Andrew + McMunn you’ll likely have heard of me.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t. But that’s no reason why you shouldn’t show me the way.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no that far,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + They walked together, sometimes side by side, sometimes driven apart by a + string of carts. + </p> + <p> + “If it had been Jimmy McMunn you wanted to see,” said Ginty, “you might + have had further to go. Some says Jimmy’s in the one place, and more is of + opinion that he’s in the other. But I’ve no doubt in my own mind about + where Andrew will go when his time comes.” + </p> + <p> + “You know him pretty well, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I do. It would be queer if I didn’t, seeing that I’ve sailed his + ships this ten year. Andrew McMunn will go to heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Lord Dunseverick, “he’s a good man, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll no go so far as to say precisely that,” said Ginty, “but he’s a man + who never touches a drop of whisky nor smokes a pipe of tobacco. It’ll be + very hard on him if he doesna go to heaven after all he’s missed in this + world. But you’ll find out what kind of man he is if you go in through the + door forninst you. It’s his office, thon one with the brass plate on the + door. My business will keep till you’re done with him.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick pushed open one of a pair of swinging doors, and found + himself in a narrow passage. On his right was a ground glass window + bearing the word “Inquiries.” He tapped at it. + </p> + <p> + For a minute or two there was no response. Lord Dunseverick brushed some + of the mud, now partially dry, off his trousers, and lit a fresh + cigarette. The ground glass window was opened, and a redhaired clerk + looked out. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see Mr. McMunn,” said Lord Dunseverick, “Mr. Andrew McMunn.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk put his head and shoulders out through the window, and surveyed + Lord Dunseverick suspiciously. Very well dressed young men, with pale + lavender ties and pearl tie-pins—Lord Dunseverick had both—are + not often seen in Belfast quay-side offices. + </p> + <p> + “If you want to see Mr. McMunn,” said the clerk, “—and I’m no saying + you will, mind that—you’d better take yon cigarette out of your + mouth. There’s no smoking allowed here.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick took his cigarette out of his mouth, but he did not throw + it away. He held it between his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Just tell Mr. McMunn,” he said, “that Lord Dunseverick is here.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk’s manner altered suddenly. He drew himself up, squared his + shoulders, and saluted. + </p> + <p> + The discovery that a stranger is a man of high rank often produces this + kind of effect on men of strong democratic principles, principles of the + kind held by clerks in all business communities, quite as firmly in + Belfast as elsewhere. But it would have been a mistake to suppose that Mr. + McMunn’s junior clerk was a mere worshipper of title. His salute was not + the tribute of a snob to the representative of an aristocratic class. It + was the respect due by a soldier, drilled and disciplined, to his superior + officer. It was also the expression of a young man’s sincere hero-worship. + The redhaired clerk was a Volunteer, duly enrolled, one of the signatories + of the famous Ulster Covenant. Lord Dunseverick had made speeches which + moved his soul to actual rapture. + </p> + <p> + “Come inside, my lord,” he said. “I’ll inform Mr. McMunn at once.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick passed through a door which was held open for him. He + entered a large office, very grimy, which is the proper condition of a + place where documents concerning coal are dealt with. Six other clerks + were at work there. When Lord Dunseverick entered, all six of them stood + up and saluted. They, too, so it appeared, were members of the Volunteer + Force. The red-haired junior clerk crossed the room towards a door marked + “Private.” Then he paused, and turned to Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “Might I be so bold as to ask a question?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “A dozen if you like,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “What about the rifles? It’s only them we’re wanting now. We’re drilled + and we’re ready, but where’s the rifles?” + </p> + <p> + “You shall have them,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + The clerks in Mr. McMunn’s office were accustomed to behave with decorum. + No more than a low murmur of approval greeted Lord Dunseverick’s words; + but the men looked as if they wished to cheer vehemently. The red-haired + boy tapped at the door which was marked “Private.” A minute later he + invited Lord Dunseverick to pass through it. + </p> + <p> + Andrew McMunn is a hard-faced, grizzled little man, with keen blue eyes. + He can, when he chooses, talk excellent English. He prefers, when dealing + with strangers, to speak with a strong Belfast accent, and to use, if + possible, north of Ireland words and phrases. This is his way of asserting + independence of character. He admires independence. + </p> + <p> + His office is a singularly unattractive room. He writes at a large table, + and has a fireproof safe at his elbow. There are three wooden chairs + ranged against the wall opposite the writing-table. Four photographs of + steamers, cheaply framed, hang above the chairs. They are <i>The Andrew + McMunn, The Eliza McMunn</i>, and, a tribute to the deceased Jimmy, <i>The + McMunn Brothers</i>. These form the fleet owned by the firm, and carry + coal from one port to another, chiefly to Belfast. On the chimney-piece + under a glass shade, is a model of <i>The McMunn Brothers</i>, the latest + built and largest of the ships. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning to you, my lord!” said McMunn, without rising from his seat. + </p> + <p> + He nodded towards one of the chairs which stood against the wall. This was + his way of inviting his visitor to sit down. His eyes were fixed, with + strong disapproval, on the cigarette, which still smoked feebly in Lord + Dunseverick’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Your clerk gave me a hint,” said Dunseverick, “that you object to + tobacco.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s my opinion,” said McMunn, “that the man who pays taxes that he + needn’t pay—I’m alluding to the duty on tobacco, you’ll understand—for + the sake of poisoning himself with a nasty stink, is little better than a + fool. That’s my opinion, and I’m of the same way of thinking about + alcoholic drink.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick deposited the offending cigarette on the hearth and + crushed it with his foot. + </p> + <p> + “Teetotaller?” he said. “I dare say you’re right, though I take a + whisky-and-soda myself when I get the chance.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll no get it here,” said McMunn; “and what’s more, you’ll no’ get it + on any ship owned by me.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. It’s as well to understand before-hand.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a believer in speaking plain,” said McMunn. “There’s ay less chance + of trouble afterwards if a man speaks plain at the start. But I’m thinking + that it wasn’t to hear my opinion on the Christian religion that your + lordship came here the day.” + </p> + <p> + McMunn, besides being a teetotaller, and opposed to the smoking of + tobacco, was the president of a Young Men’s Anti-Gambling League. He was, + therefore, in a position to throw valuable light on the Christian + religion. + </p> + <p> + “I came to settle the details about this expedition to Hamburg,” said Lord + Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said McMunn, “there’s no that much left to settle. <i>The Brothers</i> + is ready.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>The Brothers?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “<i>The McMunn Brothers</i>. Thon’s the model of her on the chimneypiece.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick looked at the model attentively. It represented a very + unattractive ship. Her bow was absurdly high, cocked up like the snout of + a Yorkshire pig. Her long waist lay low, promising little freeboard in a + sea. Her engines and single funnel were aft. On a short, high quarterdeck + was her bridge and a squat deck-house. She was designed, like her owner, + for purely business purposes. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have the captain’s cabin,” said McMunn. “Him and me will sleep in + the saloon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’re coming too?” + </p> + <p> + “I am. Have you any objection?” + </p> + <p> + “None whatever. I’m delighted. We’ll have a jolly time.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll have you remember,” said McMunn, “that it’s not pleasuring we’re out + for.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s serious business. Smuggling rifles in the teeth of a Royal + Proclamation is——” + </p> + <p> + “When I understand,” said McMunn, “and you understand, where’s the use of + saying what we’re going for? I’m taking risks enough anyway, without + unnecessary talking. You never know who’s listening to you.” + </p> + <p> + “About paying for the—er—the—er—our cargo? Is that + all arranged?” + </p> + <p> + “They’ll be paid in bills on a Hamburg bank,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t they expect cash? I should have thought that in transactions of + this kind——” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a business man, my lord; but I’d have you know that a bill + with the name of McMunn to it is the same as cash in any port in Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s your part of the affair. I am leaving that to you.” + </p> + <p> + “You may leave it. What I say I’ll do. But there’s one thing that I’m no + quite easy in my mind about.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re thinking about the landing of the guns——” + </p> + <p> + “I’m no asking what arrangements you’ve made about that. The fewer there + is that knows what’s being done in a business of this kind, the better for + all concerned. What’s bothering me is this. There’s a man called + Edelstein.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s he? I never heard of him before.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s the Baron von Edelstein, if that’s any help to you.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t. He’s not the man we’re buying the stuff from.” + </p> + <p> + “He is not. Nor he wasn’t mentioned from first to last till the letter I + got the day.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to the safe beside him and drew out a bundle of papers held + together by an elastic band. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the whole of the correspondence,” he said, “and there’s the last + of it.” + </p> + <p> + He handed a letter to Lord Dunseverick, who read it through carefully. + </p> + <p> + “This baron,” he said, “whoever he is, intends to pay his respects to us + before we leave Hamburg. Very civil of him.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a civility we could do without. When I’m doing business I’d rather + do it with business men, and a baron, you’ll understand, is no just——” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a baron myself,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, you are.” + </p> + <p> + McMunn said no more. He left it to be understood that his opinion of + barons in general was not improved by his acquaintance with Lord + Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think we need bother about Von Eddstein, anyway,” said Lord + Dunseverick. “What harm can he do us?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m no precisely bothering about him,” said McMunn; “but I’d be easier in + my mind if I knew what he wanted with us.” + </p> + <p> + “We sail to-night, anyway,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, we do. I tell’t Ginty. He’s the captain of <i>The McMunn Brothers</i>, + and a good man.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve met him. In fact——” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve met Ginty you’ve met a man who knows his business, though I + wish he’d give over drinking whisky. However, he’s a strong Protestant and + a sound man, and you can’t expect perfection.” + </p> + <p> + “Capital!” said Lord Dunseverick. “It’s a great comfort to be sure of + one’s men.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I was as sure of every one as I am of Ginty,” said McMunn. “I’m no + saying that your lordship’s not sound. The speech you made last night at + Ballymena was good enough, and I’m with you in every word of it; but——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, speeches!” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + He was uneasily conscious that he had allowed himself to be carried away + by the excitement of the occasion when speaking at Ballymena. It was right + and proper to threaten armed resistance to Home Rule. It was another thing + to offer a warm welcome to the German Emperor if he chose to land in + Ulster. The cold emphasis with which McMunn expressed agreement with every + word of the speech made Lord Dunseverick vaguely uneasy. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said McMunn; “your speeches are well enough, and I don’t say, mind + you, that you’re not a sound man; but I’d be better pleased if you were + more serious. You’re too fond of joking, in my opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” said Lord Dunseverick. “I haven’t ventured on the ghost of + a joke since I came into your office!” He looked round him as he spoke, + and fixed his eyes at last on the fireproof safe. “Nobody could.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no what you’ve said, it’s your lordship’s appearance. But it’s too + late to alter that, I’m thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said Lord Dunseverick. “I’ll join you this evening in a suit + of yellow oilskins, the stickiest kind, and a blue fisherman’s jersey, and + a pair of sea-boots. I’ll have——” + </p> + <p> + “You will,” said McMunn, “and you’ll look like a play actor. It’s just + what I’m complaining of.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + <i>The McMunn Brothers</i> lay, with steam up, at a single anchor a mile + below the Hamburg quays. The yellow, turbid waters of the Elbe swept past + her sides. Below her stretched the long waterway which leads to the North + Sea. The lights of the buoys which marked the channel twinkled dimly in + the gloom of the summer evening. Shafts of brighter light swept across and + across the water from occulting beacons set at long intervals among buoys. + Above the steamer lay a large Norwegian barque waiting for her pilot to + take her down on the ebb tide. Below <i>The McMunn Brothers</i> was an + ocean-going tramp steamer. One of her crew sat on the forecastle playing + the “Swanee River” on a melodeon. + </p> + <p> + McMunn, Ginty, and Lord Dunseverick were together in the cabin of <i>The + McMunn Brothers</i>. McMunn, dressed precisely as he always dressed in his + office, sat bolt upright on the cabin sofa. In front of him on the table + were some papers, which he turned over and looked at from time to time. + </p> + <p> + Beside him was Ginty, in his shirt sleeves, with his peaked cap pushed far + back on his head. He sat with his elbows on the table. His chin, thrust + forward, rested on his knuckles. He stared fixedly at the panelling on the + opposite wall of the cabin. Lord Dunseverick, who had a side of the table + to himself, leaned far back. His legs were stretched out straight in front + of him. His hands were in his pockets. He gazed wearily at the small lamp + which swung from the cabin roof. + </p> + <p> + For a long time no one spoke. It was Lord Dunseverick who broke the + silence in the end. He took his cigarette-case from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “You may say what you like about tobacco, McMunn,” he said, “but it’s a + comfort to a man when he has no company but a bear with a sore head.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said McMunn, “you’ll smoke and you’ll smoke, but you’ll no make me + any easier in my mind by smoking.” + </p> + <p> + Ginty drew a plug of black tobacco from his pocket, and began cutting + shreds from it with a clasp knife. He was apparently of opinion that + smoking would relieve the strain on <i>his</i> mind. + </p> + <p> + “I’m no satisfied,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what you have to grumble about,” said Lord Dunseverick. + “We’ve got what we came for, and we’ve got our clearance papers. What more + do you want? You expected trouble about those papers, and there wasn’t + any. You ought to be pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “There you have it,” said McMunn. “According to all the laws of nature + there ought to have been trouble. With a cargo like ours there ought to + have been a lot of trouble. Instead of that the papers are handed over to + us without a question.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s peculiar,” said Ginty. “It’s very peculiar, and that’s a fact.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there’s the matter of those extra cases,” said McMunn. “How many + cases is there in the hold, Ginty?” + </p> + <p> + “A hundred, seventy-two.” + </p> + <p> + “And the contract was for one-fifty. What’s in the odd twenty-two? Tell me + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Pianos,” said Lord Dunseverick. “Look at your clearance papers. ‘Nature + of Cargo—Pianos.’” + </p> + <p> + “You’d have your joke,” said McMunn, “if the flames of hell were scorching + the soles of your boots.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s peculiar,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + “It’s more than peculiar,” said McMunn. “I’ve been in business for thirty + years, and it’s the first time I ever had goods given me that I didn’t ask + for.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Lord Dunseverick, “if we’ve got an extra five hundred rifles + we can’t complain. There’s plenty of men in Ulster ready to use them.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe you’ll tell me,” said McMunn, “why they wouldn’t let me pay for the + goods in the office this afternoon. Did anyone ever hear the like of that—a + man refusing money that was due to him, and it offered?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s out of the course of nature,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + “They told you,” said Lord Dunseverick, “that you could pay Von Edelstein, + and he’d give you a receipt.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, Von Edelstein. And where’s Von Edelstein?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s coming on board this evening,” said Lord Dunseverick. “But you + needn’t wait for him unless you like. We’ve got steam up. Why not slip + away?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s no my way of doing business,” said McMunn, “to slip away, as + you call it, without paying for what I’ve got. I’m a man of principle.” + </p> + <p> + “Talking of your principles,” said Lord Dunseverick, “what did you bring + on board in that basket this afternoon? It looked to me like beer.” + </p> + <p> + “It was beer.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to hear it,” said Lord Dunseverick. “Let’s have a couple of + bottles.” + </p> + <p> + Ginty took his pipe from his mouth and grinned pleasantly. He wanted beer. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be thinking maybe,” said McMunn, “that I’m going back on my + temperance principles?” + </p> + <p> + “We don’t think anything of the sort,” said Lord Dunseverick. “We think + that foreign travel has widened your principles out a bit. That’s what we + think, isn’t it, Ginty?” + </p> + <p> + “My principles are what they always were,” said McMunn, “but I’ve some + small share of commonsense. I know there’s a foreigner coming on board the + night, a baron and a dissipated man——” + </p> + <p> + “Come, now,’” said Lord Dunseverick, “you can’t be sure that Von Edelstein + is dissipated. You’ve never met him.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a foreigner and a baron,” said McMunn, “and that’s enough for me, + forbye that he’s coming here under very suspicious circumstances. If I can + get the better of him by means of strong drink and the snare of alcoholic + liquors——” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” said Lord Dunseverick. “You don’t expect to make a German + drunk with half a dozen bottles of lager beer, particularly as Ginty and I + mean to drink two each.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a dozen in the basket. And, under the circumstances, I consider + myself justified I’m no man for tricks, but if there’s any tricks to be + played, I’d rather play them myself than have them played on me. Mind that + now. It’s the way I’ve always acted, and it’s no a bad way.” + </p> + <p> + “Gosh,” said Ginty, “there’s somebody coming aboard of us now. The + look-out man’s hailing him.” + </p> + <p> + He left the cabin as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later Ginty entered the cabin again. He was followed by a + tall man, so tall that he could not stand quite upright in the little + cabin. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the baron,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Guten Abend</i>,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + He possessed some twenty more German words, and knew that “beer” was + represented by the same sound as in English. The equipment seemed to him + sufficient for the interview. + </p> + <p> + “I have the good fortune to speak English easily,” said Von Edelstein. “Am + I addressing myself to Mr. McMunn?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said McMunn, “you are. And this is Lord Dunseverick, a baron like + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Von Edelstein bowed, and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer,” he said, “my military title, Captain von Edelstein. I believe + that Lord Dunseverick also has a military title. Should I say colonel?” + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact,” said Lord Dunseverick, “I’m not in the Army.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said Von Edelstein. “You are in the Volunteers, the Ulster + Volunteers. But, perhaps I should say general?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t call myself that,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact, my rank is not officially recognized, in England, I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but here—we recognize it. I assure you, general, we regard the + Ulster Volunteers as a properly constituted military force.” + </p> + <p> + McMunn had been groping in a locker behind him. He interrupted Von + Edelstein by setting a basket on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Beer,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Von Edelstein bowed, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Ginty,” said McMunn, “get some tumblers. And now Baron——” + </p> + <p> + “Captain,” said Von Edelstein. + </p> + <p> + “Well get to business. What’s in them twenty-two cases that was dumped + into our hold today?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Von Edelstein, smiling. “A little surprise. I hope, I feel + confident, a pleasant surprise, for my comrades of the Ulster Volunteer + Force.” + </p> + <p> + Ginty entered the cabin carrying three tumblers and a corkscrew. The beer + was opened and poured out. Von Edelstein raised his glass. + </p> + <p> + “To the Ulster Volunteer Force,” he said, “and to the day when the + pleasant little surprise we have prepared for you may prove a very + unpleasant surprise for—the enemy.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed and drank. + </p> + <p> + “What’s in them cases?” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” said Von Edelstein, “something that will be of great value to + you—machine guns.” + </p> + <p> + “We didn’t order them,” said McMunn, “and I’m not going to pay for them.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not authorized,” said Von Edelstein, “to reveal secrets of State; + but I think I may trust your discretion so far as to say that one very + highly placed desires that the Ulster Volunteer Force should be thoroughly + equipped for war. It is his wish:——” + </p> + <p> + “Baron,” said McMunn, “here’s a bill drawn on my firm for the price of the + rifles. I’ll trouble you for a receipt, and in the matter of the contents + of them cases—I don’t say they’re not machine guns, but I’ve no way + of knowing at present. If it turns out that they’re any use to us we may + strike a bargain, but I’ll no pay for a pig in a poke.” + </p> + <p> + He laid his bill and a form of receipt on the table. Von Edelstein pushed + them aside. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” he said, “between comrades in arms there is no question of + payment. It is the wish of one who is very highly placed that your army——” + </p> + <p> + “But look here,” said Lord Dunseverick, “we are not comrades in arms, as + you call it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Von Edelstein. “Not to-day, not to-morrow perhaps. But who + knows how soon? When the word is given, and some batteries of our + artillery land in Belfast to support your excellent infantry——” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + “And a regiment of Prussian Guards——” + </p> + <p> + “There’ll be no Prussians in Belfast,” said Ginty, “for we’ll not have + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” said Lord Dunseverick, “that you’ve got some wrong idea + into your head.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Von Edelstein, “you cannot fight alone. You would be—what + do you call it?—you would be wiped out. Even the English Army could + do that. You have no artillery. You have no cavalry. What are you but——” + </p> + <p> + “Who said we were going to fight the English Army?” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “If you think we’re a pack of dirty rebels,” said Ginty, “you’re making a + big mistake. We’re loyal men.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you are not going to fight the English,” said Von Edelstein, “God + in heaven, who are you going to fight?” + </p> + <p> + “Young man,” said McMunn, “you’re drinking beer in my ship, a thing which + is clean contrary to my principles, though I’m putting up with it; but + you’re going beyond the beyonds when you sit here and take the name of the + Almighty in vain. I’ll trouble you not to swear.” + </p> + <p> + Von Edelstein stared at him in blank amazement. Then very slowly a look of + intelligence came over his face. He turned to Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand,” he said. “You do not quite trust me. You fear that + I may be a spy in the pay of infamous Englishmen. But you are mistaken—entirely + mistaken. I offer you proof of my good faith. General, be so kind as to + read my commission.” + </p> + <p> + He drew a folded document from his pocket, and spread it out before Lord + Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “It is signed,” he said, “as you see, by the Emperor himself. It places my + services, the services of Captain von Edelstein, of the Prussian Guard, at + the disposal of the Ulster Volunteer Force, as military organiser.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick glanced at the document before him. He read parts of it + with close attention. He laid his finger on the signature as if to + convince himself by actual touch that it really was what it seemed to be. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Von Edelstein, “I am to be trusted. When you and I are + fighting side by side against the cursed English, your enemies and ours——” + </p> + <p> + Von Edelstein was still smiling. What happened then happened in an instant. + Lord Dunseverick struck the German full on the mouth with his fist. Von + Edelstein’s head went back. His hands clutched convulsively at the + tablecloth. Before he had recovered, Lord Dunseverick hit him again, beat + him down on the cabin sofa, and struck blow after blow at his face. + </p> + <p> + “You infernal scoundrel,” he said, “do you take me for a traitor?” + </p> + <p> + “Quit it,” said McMunn. “Quit it when I tell you. You cannot kill the man + with your naked fists, and you’ll break the furniture.” + </p> + <p> + Ginty drew a long coil of rope from a locker. He tied up Von Edelstein and + laid him, a helpless figure, on the table. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my opinion,” said McMunn, “that we’d better be getting out to sea.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking the same,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + He went on deck. Soon <i>The McMunn Brothers</i> was under way. + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick looked at the prostrate Von Edelstein. + </p> + <p> + “What are we going to do with him?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Drown him,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + A trickle of blood was running down Von Edelstein’s chin. He spat out some + fragments of broken teeth. + </p> + <p> + “It appears,” he said, “that I have made a mistake about your intentions.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve offered an outrageous insult to loyal men,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “A mistake,” said Von Edelstein, “but surely excusable. I have in my + pocket at the present moment—would you be so kind as to feel in my + breast pocket? You’ll find some papers there, and a newspaper cutting + among them.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick slipped his hand into the prisoner’s pocket. He drew out + a number of letters and a newspaper cutting. It was a report, taken from + the <i>Belfast News Letter</i>, of the speech which he had made at + Ballymena a fortnight before. He had proclaimed the Kaiser the deliverer + of Ulster. His own words stared him in the face. McMunn took the cutting + and glanced at it. He thumped his fist on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I stand by every word of it,” he said. “We will not have Home Rule.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a curious people,” said Von Edelstein. “I thought—and even + now you say——” + </p> + <p> + “That speech,” said McMunn, “was made for an entirely different purpose. + If you thought that we wanted a German Army in Ulster, or that we meant to + fire on the British flag——” + </p> + <p> + “It is exactly what I did think,” said Von Edelstein. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a born fool, then,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Lord Dunseverick, “we ought not to drown him. Suppose we + take him home, and hand him over to the Ulster Provisional Government?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would,” said Von Edelstein, “I am a student of human nature. I + should greatly like to meet your Ulster Government.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll maybe not like it so much when they hang you,” said McMunn, “and + it’s what they’ll do.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI ~~ SIR TIMOTHY’S DINNER-PARTY + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Courtney, the R.M., was a man of ideas, and prided himself on his + sympathy with progress, the advance of thought, and similar delights. If + he had been thirty years younger, and had lived in Dublin, he would have + been classed among the “Intellectuals.” He would then have written a + gloomy play or two, several poems and an essay, published at a shilling, + in a green paper cover, on the “Civilization of the Future.” Being, + unfortunately, fifty-five years of age, he could not write poetry or + gloomy plays. Nobody can after the age of forty. Being a Resident + Magistrate, he was debarred from discussing the Civilization of the Future + in print. No Government allows its paid servant to write books on + controversial subjects. But Mr. Courtney remained intellectually alert, + and was a determined champion of the cause of progress, even amid the + uncongenial society of a West of Ireland town. + </p> + <p> + The introduction of Summer Time gave Mr. Courtney a great opportunity. + Almost everyone else in the neighbourhood objected to the change of the + clock. Cows, it was said, disliked being milked before their accustomed + hour. Dew collects in deep pools, and renders farm work impossible in the + early morning. It is unreasonable to expect labourers, who have to rise + early in any case, to get out of their beds before the day is properly + warm. Mr. Courtney combated all these objections with arguments which + struck him as sound, but irritated everybody else. When it appeared that + Ireland, worse treated as usual than England, was to be fined an + additional twenty-five minutes, and was to lose the proud privilege of + Irish time, Mr. Courtney was more pleased than ever. He made merry over + what he called the arguments of reactionary patriotism. + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy was the principal landlord, and, socially, the most important + person in the neighbourhood. Sir Timothy did not like Mr. Courtney. He was + of opinion that the R.M. was inclined to take a high hand at Petty + Sessions and to bully the other magistrates—Sir Timothy was himself + a magistrate—who sat with him on the Bench. He also thought that Mr. + Courtney was “too d——d superior” in private life. Sir Timothy + had the lowest possible opinion of the progress made by civilization in + his own time. The Civilization of the Future, about which Mr. Courtney + talked a great deal, seemed to Sir Timothy a nasty kind of nightmare. + </p> + <p> + It was natural, almost inevitable, that Sir Timothy should take a + conservative view on the subject of the new time. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see the use of playing silly tricks with the clock,” he said. + “You might just as well say that I’d live ten years longer if everybody + agreed to say that I’m forty-eight instead of fifty-eight. I’d still be + fifty-eight in reality. It’s just the same with the time. We may all make + up our minds to pretend it’s eight o’clock when it’s really seven, but it + will still be seven.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney smiled in a gentle, but very annoying manner. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Sir Timothy,” he said, “don’t you see that what is really wanted + is a complete change in the habits of the population? We’ve been gradually + slipping into wasteful ways of living. Our expenditure on artificial light———” + </p> + <p> + “I know all about that,” said Sir Timothy. “If you’ve said it to me once, + you’ve said it a dozen times, and last year I did alter my clocks. But this + year—hang it all! They’re sticking another twenty-five minutes on + it. If they go on at this rate, moving us back an extra half hour every + May, we’ll be living in the middle of the night before we die.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry to hear you taking up that question of the so-called Irish + time,” said Mr. Courtney. “Reactionary patriotism——” + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy spluttered. Being an Irish gentleman, he hated to be accused + of patriotism, which he held—following Dr. Johnson—to be the + last refuge of a scoundrel. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing patriotic about it,” he said. “What I object to hasn’t + anything to do with any particular country. It’s simply a direct insult to + the sun.” + </p> + <p> + “The sun,” said Mr. Courtney, smiling more offensively than ever, “can + take care of itself.” + </p> + <p> + “It can,” said Sir Timothy, “and does. It takes jolly good care not to + rise in Dublin at the same time that it does in Greenwich, and what you’re + trying to do is to bluff it into saying it does. When you come to think of + it, the sun doesn’t rise here the same time it does in Dublin. We’re a + hundred and twenty miles west of Dublin, so the real time here——” + </p> + <p> + “We can’t have a different time in every parish,” said Mr. Courtney. “In + the interests of international civilization——” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care a row of pins about international civilization. We’re + something like twenty minutes wrong already here. When you’ve made your + silly change to summer time, and wiped out that twenty-five minutes Irish + time, we shall be an hour and three quarters wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “At all events,” said Mr. Courtney, “you’ll have to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t.” + </p> + <p> + “And when you’ve got accustomed to it, you’ll see the advantages of the + change.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy was profoundly irritated. + </p> + <p> + “You may do as you like,” he said, “I mean to stick to the proper time. + The proper time, mind you, strictly according to the sun, as it rises in + this neighbourhood. I haven’t worked it out exactly yet, but I should say, + roughly, that there’ll be two hours’ difference between your watch and + mine.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that you’re actually going to add on two hours? + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to take off two hours,” said Sir Timothy. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney thought for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be adding on those two hours,” he said, “not taking them off——” + </p> + <p> + “You’re an extraordinarily muddle-headed man, Courtney. Can’t you see that + if I call it six when you say it’s eight I’m taking off——” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not. The way to look at it is this: A day is twenty-four hours + long. You say it’s twenty-six hours. Therefore, you add on.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t do anything of the sort,” said Sir Timothy. “Look here, the sun + rises, say, at 6 a.m. You and a lot of other silly people choose to say + that it rises at 8. What I’m doing—I and the sun, Courtney—mind + that. The sun’s with me—— What we’re doing is taking off two + hours.” + </p> + <p> + The argument went on for some time. Its result was that Sir Timothy and + Mr. Courtney did not speak to each other again for a fortnight. Arguments, + religious, political and economic, often end in this way. + </p> + <p> + During that fortnight summer time established itself, more or less, in the + neighbourhood. Mr. Courtney, the local bank, the railway company, and the + police observed the new time in its full intensity. The parish priest and + most of the farmers took a moderate line. They sacrificed the twenty-five + minutes of the original Irish time, but resisted the imposition of a whole + extra hour. With them it was eight o’clock when the nine o’clock train + started for Dublin. A few extremists stood out for their full rights as + Irishmen, and insisted that the bank, which said it opened at 10 a.m., was + really beginning business at 8.35 a.m. Sir Timothy, dragging his household + with him, set up what he called actual time, and breakfasted a full two + hours after the progressive party. + </p> + <p> + The practical inconvenience of these differences of opinion became obvious + when Sir Timothy arrived at the Petty Sessions Court to take his seat on + the Bench just as Mr. Courtney, having completed the business of the day, + was going home for a rather late luncheon. + </p> + <p> + “No cases to-day?” said Sir Timothy, coldly polite. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, there were, several. I’ve finished them off.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Sir Timothy, “it’s only just the hour for beginning.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, it’s 2 p.m.” + </p> + <p> + “12 noon,” said Sir Timothy. + </p> + <p> + “2 p.m.,” repeated Mr. Courtney. + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy took out his watch. The hands were together at the hour of 12. + He showed it to Mr. Courtney, who grinned. Sir Timothy scowled at him and + turned fiercely to a police sergeant who stood by. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant,” he said, “what time is it?” + </p> + <p> + It is not the function of the Irish police to decide great questions of + State. Their business is to enforce what the higher powers, for the time + being, wish the law to be. In case of any uncertainty about which power is + the higher, the police occupy the uncomfortable position of neutrals. The + sergeant was not quite sure whether Sir Timothy or Mr. Courtney were the + more influential man. He answered cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “There’s some,” he said, “who do be saying that it’s one o’clock at the + present time. There’s others—and I’m not saying they’re wrong—who + are of opinion that it’s half-past twelve, or about that. There’s them—and + some of the most respectable people is with them there—that says + it’s 2 p.m. If I was to be put on my oath this minute, I’d find it mortal + hard to say what time it was.” + </p> + <p> + “By Act of Parliament,” said Mr. Courtney, “its 2 p.m.” + </p> + <p> + “In the matter of an Act of Parliament,” said the sergeant, “I wouldn’t + like to be contradicting your honour.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy turned on his heel and walked away. The victory was with Mr. + Courtney, but not because he had an Act of Parliament behind him. Nobody + in Ireland pays much attention to Acts of Parliament. He made his point + successfully, because the police did not like to contradict him. From that + day on Sir Timothy made no attempt to take his seat on the Magistrates’ + Bench in the Court House. + </p> + <p> + Late in the summer Sir Archibald Chesney visited the neighbourhood. Sir + Archibald is, of course, a great man. He is one of the people who are + supposed to govern Ireland. He does not actually do so. Nobody could. But + he dispenses patronage, which, after all, is one of the most important + functions of any Government. It was, for instance, in Sir Archibald’s + power to give Mr. Courtney a pleasant and well-paid post in Dublin, to + remove him from the uncongenial atmosphere of Connaught, and set him in an + office in the Lower Castle Yard. There, and in a house in Ailesbury Road—houses + in Ailesbury Road are most desirable—Mr. Courtney could mingle in + really intellectual society. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney knew this, and invited Sir Archibald to be his guest during + his stay in the neighbourhood. Sir Archibald gracefully accepted the + invitation. + </p> + <p> + Then a surprising thing happened. Mr. Courtney received a very friendly + letter from Sir Timothy. + </p> + <p> + “I hear,” so the letter ran, “that Sir Archibald Chesney is to be with you + for a few days next week. We shall be very pleased if you will bring him + out to dine with us some evening. Shall we say Tuesday at 7.30? I shall + not ask anyone else. Three of us will be enough for a couple of bottles of + my old port.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy’s port was very old and remarkably good. Mr. Courtney had + tasted it once or twice before the days when summer time was thought of. + No doubt, Sir Archibald would appreciate the port. + </p> + <p> + He might afterwards take an optimistic view of life, and feel well + disposed towards Mr. Courtney. The invitation was accepted. + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald and Mr. Courtney dressed for dinner, as gentlemen belonging + to the high official classes in Ireland should and do. They put on shirts + with stiff fronts and cuffs. With painful efforts they drove studs through + tightly sealed buttonholes. They fastened white ties round their collars. + They encased their stomachs in stiff white waistcoats. They struggled into + silk-lined, silk-faced, long-tailed coats. They wrapped their necks in + white silk scarves. They even put high silk hats on their heads. Their + overcoats were becomingly open, for the day was warm. They took their + seats in the motor. Every policeman in the village saluted them as they + passed. They sped up the long, tree-lined avenue which led to Sir + Timothy’s house. They reached the lofty doorway, over which crouched lions + upheld a shield, bearing a coat of arms. + </p> + <p> + On the lawn opposite the door Sir Timothy, his two daughters and a young + man whom Mr. Courtney recognized as the police inspector, were playing + tennis. It was a bright and agreeable scene. The sun shone pleasantly. Sir + Timothy and the police inspector were in white flannels. The girls wore + pretty cotton frocks. + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald looked at Mr. Courtney. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve come the wrong day,” he said, “or the wrong hour, or something.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> Tuesday,” said Mr. Courtney, “and he certainly said 7.30.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s infernally awkward,” said Sir Archibald, glancing at his clothes. + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy crossed the lawn, swinging his tennis racket and smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Delighted to see you,” he said. “I’d have asked you to come up for a game + of tennis if I’d thought you’d have cared for it. Had an idea you’d be + busy all day, and would rather dress at your own place. Hullo, you are + dressed! A bit early, isn’t it? But I’m delighted to see you.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald stepped slowly from the car. Men who undertake the task of + governing Ireland must expect to find themselves looking like fools + occasionally. But it is doubtful whether any turn of the political or + administrative machine can make a man look as foolish as he feels when, + elaborately dressed in evening clothes, he is suddenly set down on a sunny + lawn in the middle of a group of people suitably attired for tennis. Sir + Archibald, puzzled and annoyed, turned to Mr. Courtney with a frown. + </p> + <p> + “He said half-past seven,” said Mr. Courtney. + </p> + <p> + “I’m delighted to see you now or at any time, but, as a matter of fact, + it’s only half-past five,” said Sir Timothy. + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “It’s—surely my watch can’t have gained two hours?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s half-past seven,” said Mr. Courtney, firmly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no it isn’t,” said Sir Timothy. “I don’t dine by Act of Parliament.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald frowned angrily. + </p> + <p> + “We’d better go home again,” he said. “We mustn’t interrupt the tennis.” + </p> + <p> + He climbed stiffly into the motor. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he said to Mr. Courtney a few minutes later, “that this is + some kind of Irish joke.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney explained, elaborately and fully, Sir Timothy’s peculiar + views about time. + </p> + <p> + “If I’d known,” said Sir Archibald, “that you were taking me to dine with + a lunatic, I should not have agreed to go.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney recognized that his chances of promotion to a pleasant post + in Dublin had vanished. The Irish Government had no use for men who place + their superiors in embarrassing positions. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII ~~ UNITED IRELAND + </h2> + <p> + “I’ll say this for old MacManaway, an honester man never lived nor what he + was; and I’m sorry he’s gone, so I am.” + </p> + <p> + The speaker was Dan Gallaher. The occasion was the morning of the auction + of old MacManaway’s property. The place was the yard behind the farmhouse + in which MacManaway had lived, a solitary man, without wife or child, for + fifty years. Dan Gallaher held the hames of a set of harness in his hand + as he spoke and critically examined the leather of the traces. It was good + leather, sound and well preserved. Old MacManaway while alive liked sound + things and took good care of his property. + </p> + <p> + “An honester man never lived,” Dan repeated “And I’m not saying that + because the old man and me agreed together, for we didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “How could you agree?” said James McNiece. “It wasn’t to be expected that + you would agree. There wasn’t a stronger Protestant nor a greater + Orangeman in the whole country nor old MacManaway.” + </p> + <p> + James McNiece turned from the examination of a cart as he spoke and gave + his attention to the hames. His description of the dead man’s religious + and political convictions was just. No one in all the Ulster border land + ever held the principle of the Orange Society more firmly or opposed any + form of Home Rule more bitterly than old MacManaway. + </p> + <p> + And Dan Gallaher was a Roman Catholic and a Nationalist of the extremest + kind. + </p> + <p> + “They tell me,” said Dan Gallaher, in a pleasant conversational tone, + “that it’s to be yourself, James McNiece, that’s to be the head of the + Orangemen in the parish now that MacManaway is gone.” + </p> + <p> + James looked at him sideways out of the corners of his eyes. Dan spoke in + a friendly tone, but it is never wise to give any information to “Papishes + and rebels.” + </p> + <p> + “The Colonel,” he said, “is the Grand Master of the Orangemen in these + parts.” + </p> + <p> + Colonel Eden, a J.P., and the principal landlord in the parish, drove into + the yard in his motor. A police sergeant slipped his pipe into his pocket, + stepped forward and took the number of the Colonel’s car. It has never + been decided in Ireland whether motor cars may or may not be used, under + the provisions of D.O.R.A., for attending auctions. + </p> + <p> + We know that the safety of the empire is compromised by driving to a race + meeting. We know that the King and his Army are in no way injured by our + driving to market. Attendance at an auction stands midway between pleasure + and business; and the use of motors in such matters is debatable. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the D.I’s orders, sir,” said the sergeant apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said the Colonel, “but if the D.I. expects me to fine myself + at the next Petty Sessions hell be disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + James McNiece and Dan Gallaher touched their hats to the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “Morning, James,” said the Colonel. “Morning, Dan. Fine day for the sale, + and a good gathering of people. I don’t know that I ever saw a bigger + crowd at an auction.” + </p> + <p> + He looked round as he spoke. The whole parish and many people from outside + the parish had assembled. The yard was full of men, handling and + appraising the outdoor effects. Women passed in and out of the house, + poked mattresses with their fingers, felt the fabrics of sheets and + curtains, examined china and kitchen utensils warily. + </p> + <p> + “There’s the doctor over there,” said the Colonel, “looking at the stable + buckets, and who’s that young fellow in the yellow leggings, James?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not rightly sure,” said James McNiece, “but I’m thinking he’ll be the + new D.I. from Curraghfin.” + </p> + <p> + “It is him,” said Dan Gallaher. “I was asking the sergeant this minute and + he told me. What’s more he said he was a terrible sharp young fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “That won’t suit you, Dan,” said the Colonel. “You and your friends will + have to be a bit careful before you get up another rebellion.” + </p> + <p> + “It may not suit me,” said Dan, “but there’s others it won’t suit either. + Didn’t I see the sergeant taking the number of your motor, Colonel, and + would he be doing the like of that if the new D.I. hadn’t told him?” + </p> + <p> + The Colonel laughed. As commander of a battalion of the Ulster Volunteer + Force, he was fully prepared to meet Dan Gallaher on the field of battle—Dan + leading the National Volunteers. He looked forward with something like + pleasure to the final settlement of the Home Rule question by the ordeal + of battle. In the meanwhile he and Dan Gallaher by no means hated each + other, and were occasionally in full sympathy when the police or some + ridiculous Government department made trouble by fussy activity. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robinson, the auctioneer, drove up in his dogcart. He touched his hat + to Colonel Eden, gave an order to his clerk and crossed the yard briskly. + He twisted the cigarette he smoked into the corner of his mouth with deft + movements of his lips, waved his hand to various acquaintances and looked + round him with quick, cheerful glances. No man in the country was quicker + to appreciate the financial worth of a crowd. He knew before a single bid + was made whether people were in a mood to spend lavishly. He found himself + very well satisfied with the prospect of this particular auction. The + stuff he had to sell, indoors and out, was good. The farmers were enjoying + a prosperous season. They had money in their pockets which they would + certainly want to spend. Mr. Robinson had visions of a percentage, his + share of the proceeds, running into three figures. + </p> + <p> + He began work in a corner of the yard with a cross-cut saw. The bidding + rose merrily to a point slightly higher than the cost of a similar saw new + in a shop. At 23/6 Mr. Robinson knocked it down to a purchaser who seemed + well satisfied. A number of small articles, scythes, barrows, spades, were + sold rapidly, Mr. Robinson moving round the yard from outhouse to + outhouse, surrounded by an eager crowd which pressed on him. His progress + was not unlike that of a queen bee at swarming time. He made—as she + makes—short flights, and always at the end of them found himself in + the centre of a cluster of followers. + </p> + <p> + At about half-past twelve Mr. Robinson reached his most important lot. He + lit a fresh cigarette—his eighth—before putting up for sale a + rick of hay. + </p> + <p> + “About four tons,” said Mr. Robinson, “new meadow hay, well saved, saved + with not a drop of rain. Gentlemen, I needn’t tell you that this is a + rare, under existing conditions, a unique opportunity. Hay—you know + this better than I do—is at present unobtainable in the ordinary + market. Now, don’t disappoint me, gentlemen. Let me have a reasonable + offer. Thirty pounds. Did I hear some one say fifteen pounds? Less than + four pounds a ton! Now, gentlemen, really——” + </p> + <p> + But the crowd in front of Mr. Robinson knew just as well as he did that + four pounds a ton is not a reasonable offer. The bids succeeded each other + rapidly. The original fifteen pounds changed to twenty pounds, then to + twenty-five, rose a little more slowly to thirty pounds. At thirty-two + pounds the bidding hesitated. Mr. Robinson, dropping his cigarette from + his mouth, urged his clients on with gusts of eloquence. There was a short + spurt. The bids rose by five shillings at a time and finally stopped dead + at thirty-four pounds. The hay was sold at a little over eight pounds a + ton. Public interest, roused to boiling point by the sale of a whole rick + of hay, cooled down a little when Mr. Robinson went on to the next lot on + his list. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am now offering the hay stored in the loft above + the stable. A small lot, gentlemen, but prime hay. I offer no guarantee as + to the quantity in the loft; but I should guess it at anything between ten + and fifteen hundred-weight.” + </p> + <p> + Several of the more important farmers drew out of the crowd which + surrounded Mr. Robinson. It was not worth while bidding for so small a + quantity of hay. Other members of the crowd, feeling that a breathing + space had been granted them, took packets of sandwiches from their pockets + and sat down in one of the outhouses to refresh themselves. Mr. Robinson + viewed the diminishing group of bidders with some disappointment. He was + gratified to see that the new police officer from Curraghfin, a gentleman + who had not so far made a single bid, crossed the yard and took a place on + the steps leading to the loft. Colonel Eden, too, appeared interested in + the new lot of hay. If the inspector of police and Colonel Eden began to + bid against each other the hay might realize a good price. + </p> + <p> + “Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Robinson, “shall we make a start with three pounds?” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at Colonel Eden, then at the police officer. Neither gentleman + made any sign of wishing to bid. It was James McNiece who made the first + offer. + </p> + <p> + “Two pounds,” he said. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Two pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “two pounds. Going at two pounds. You’re + not going to let this hay,—more than half a ton of it—go at + two pounds.” + </p> + <p> + He looked appealingly at Colonel Eden and at the police officer. They were + entirely unresponsive. + </p> + <p> + “And at two pounds, going——” said Mr. Robinson. + </p> + <p> + “Two-ten,” said Dan Gallaher, in a quiet voice. + </p> + <p> + “Two-fifteen,” said James McNiece. + </p> + <p> + Dan Gallaher, still apparently bored by the proceedings, raised the price + another five shillings. James McNiece went half a crown further. Dan + Gallaher, becoming slightly interested, made a jump to three pounds ten. + McNiece, with an air of finality, bid four pounds. The contest began to + attract attention. When the price rose to five pounds interest became + lively, and those who had drawn out of the group round Mr. Robinson began + to dribble back. It seemed likely that the contest was one of those, not + uncommon at Irish auctions, into which personal feelings enter largely and + the actual value of the article sold is little considered. There was a + certain piquancy about a struggle of this kind between a prominent + Orangeman like James McNiece, and Dan Gallaher, whom everyone knew to be + the leader of the Sinn Fein party. + </p> + <p> + Interest developed into actual excitement when the price rose to ten + pounds. A half ton of hay never is and never has been worth ten pounds. + But ten pounds was by no means the final bid. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. McNiece,” said Mr. Robinson, “the bid is against you.” + </p> + <p> + “Guineas,” said McNiece. + </p> + <p> + “Eleven,” said Dan Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + “Guineas,” said McNiece. + </p> + <p> + The duet went on, McNiece capping Gallaher’s pounds with a monotonous + repetition of the word guineas until the price rose to twenty pounds. At + that point McNiece faltered for a moment. The auctioneer, watching keenly, + saw him turn half round and look at Colonel Eden. The Colonel nodded + slightly, so slightly that no one except Mr. Robinson and McNiece himself + saw the gesture. + </p> + <p> + “At twenty pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “going, and at twenty pounds——” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty,” said McNiece. + </p> + <p> + The crowd of watchers gasped audibly. This was something outside of all + experience. A man might willingly pay a few shillings, even a pound, too + much for the sake of getting the better of an opponent; but to give thirty + pounds for half a ton of hay—not even the natural enmity of an + Orangeman for a Sinn Feiner would account for such recklessness. + </p> + <p> + “Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + It was his turn to say guineas now, and he repeated the word without + faltering until the price rose to fifty pounds. Mr. Robinson took off his + hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never in all his experience of + auctions had he heard bidding like this. He lit a fresh cigarette, holding + the match in fingers which trembled visibly. + </p> + <p> + “You will understand, gentlemen, that I am only selling the hay, not the + barn or the stable.” + </p> + <p> + “Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + It was the last bid. As he made it Colonel Eden turned and walked out of + the group round the auctioneer. James McNiece took his pipe from his + pocket and filled it slowly. + </p> + <p> + “The hay is yours, Mr. Gallaher,” said the auctioneer. + </p> + <p> + Dan Gallaher, having secured the hay, left the yard. He found his horse, + which he had tethered to a tree, and mounted. He rode slowly down the + rough lane which led from the farm. At the gate leading to the high road + the police sergeant stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “If you wouldn’t mind waiting a minute, Mr. Gallaher,” said the sergeant, + “the D.I. would like to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” said Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant winked ponderously. + </p> + <p> + “It might be,” he said, “about the hay you’re just after buying.” + </p> + <p> + “If he wants it,” said Gallaher, “he can have it, and I’ll deliver it to + him at his own home at half the price I paid for it.” + </p> + <p> + The District Inspector, smiling and tapping his gaiters with a riding + switch, explained in a few words that he did not want the hay and did not + intend to pay for it. + </p> + <p> + “I’m taking over the contents of that loft,” he said, “in the name of the + Government under the provisions of D.O.R.A.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Gallaher, “that you’ve any right to be taking over + what I’ve bought in that kind of way, and what’s more you’ll not be able + to do it without you show me a proper order in writing, signed by a + magistrate.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were you,” said the D.I., “I wouldn’t insist on any kind of legal + trial about that hay. At present there’s no evidence against you, Mr. + Gallaher, except that you paid a perfectly absurd price for some hay that + you didn’t want, and I’m not inclined to press the matter now. I’ve got + what I wanted; but if you insist on dragging the matter into Court——” + </p> + <p> + “I do not,” said Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + At ten o’clock that evening Dan Gallaher and James McNiece sat together in + the private room behind the bar of Sam Twining’s public-house. The house + was neutral ground used by Orangemen and Nationalists alike, a convenient + arrangement, indeed a necessary arrangement, for there was no other + public-house nearer than Curraghfin. + </p> + <p> + “Dan,” said James McNiece, “I’m an Orangeman and a Protestant and a + loyalist, and what I’ve always said about Home Rule and always will say is + this:—We’ll not have it and to Hell with the rebels. But I’m telling + you now I’d rather you had them, papist and rebel and all as you are, than + see them swept off that way by the police. And what’s more, I’m not the + only one says that. The Colonel was talking to me after he heard what + happened, and what he said was this—‘The Government of this + country,’ said he, meaning the police, ‘is a disgrace to civilization.’” + </p> + <p> + “Give me your hand, James McNiece,” said Gallaher. “Let me shake your hand + to show there’s no ill feeling about the way I bid against you at the sale + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + McNiece laid down the glass of whisky which he was raising to his lips and + stretched out his hand. Gallaher grasped it and held it. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me this now, James McNiece,” he said, “for it’s what I was never + sure of—How many was there behind that hay?” + </p> + <p> + McNiece looked round him carefully and made sure that no third person + could hear him. Neglecting no precaution he sank his voice to a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty rifles,” he said, “of the latest pattern, the same as the soldiers + use, and four hundred rounds of ball cartridge.” + </p> + <p> + “Gosh,” said Gallaher, “but we’d have done great work with them. Either + your lads or mine, James McNiece, would have done great work with them. + But, sure, what’s the use of talking? The police has them now.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn the police,” said James McNiece. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII ~~ OLD BIDDY AND THE REBELS + </h2> + <p> + The other servants—there were four of them—spoke of her as + “the ould cat” or in moments of extreme exasperation “that divil Biddy + O’Halloran.” When they spoke to her they called her “Mrs. O’Halloran,” or + even “Mrs. O’Halloran, ma’am.” Even Lady Devereux, though nominal mistress + of the house, did not dare to call her “Biddy,” She would as soon have + addressed an archbishop as “Dickie,” if, indeed, there is an arch-bishop + whose Christian name is Richard. There is probably not a woman anywhere, + however brave, who would venture to speak to Mrs. O’Halloran face to face + and call her “Biddy.” But a man, especially if he be young and + good-looking, is in a different case. Harry Devereux called her “Biddy.” + He had earned the right to be familiar with his aunt’s cook. + </p> + <p> + As a schoolboy Harry spent most of his holidays at his aunt’s house in + Dublin, and in those days Mrs. O’Halloran used to box his ears and + occasionally spank him. When he grew to be a man and was called in due + course to the Irish Bar, he was often at his aunt’s house and still + visited Mrs. O’Halloran in her kitchen. She gave up smacking him but she + still called him “Master Harry,” After the outbreak of war Harry Devereux + became a Second Lieutenant in the Wessex Regiment. He displayed himself in + his uniform to his aunt, who admired his appearance in her placid way. He + also showed himself to Mrs. O’Halloran, who snubbed him sharply. + </p> + <p> + “So it’s fighting you’re for now, Master Harry,” she said. “Well, it’s + what’ll suit you. It’s my opinion that you’re never out of mischief only + when you’re in something worse. It is that way with you as long as I know + you and that’s since you were born or pretty near. It’s the Germans, is + it? Well, I’m sorry for them Germans if there’s many like you going to be + soldiers.” + </p> + <p> + Harry took this as a compliment. It was his hope that the Germans would be + sorry for themselves when he got out to France with his platoon of Wessex + men. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, Molly, the parlourmaid, her day’s work ended, became + sentimental. She said it was a terrible thing to think of all the fine men + that would be killed, and maybe young Mr. Devereux among them. Mrs. + O’Halloran checked her flow of feeling. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Master Harry be killed? Talk sense, can’t you? Sure you couldn’t + kill the like of that one. Haven’t I seen him, not once but a dozen times, + climbing out on the roof of the house and playing himself to and fro among + the chimneys. If that wasn’t the death of him, and him not more than + twelve years old at the time, is it likely the Germans would be able to + kill him? The like of him is the same as fleas that you’d be squeezing + with your finger and thumb or maybe drowning in a basin of water. You know + well they’d be hopping over you after the same as before.” + </p> + <p> + Molly sniffed. It was not wise to argue with “Ould Biddy,” who had a + talent for forcible speech. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran had the best right in the world to the free use of her + tongue. She was a really good cook. She had satisfied Sir Joseph Devereux + while he lived. She satisfied Lady Devereux afterwards. And Lady Devereux + appreciated good cooking. Her husband dead, her three daughters safely + married, she had leisure to enjoy eating and had money enough to pay for + the best which the Dublin markets provided. Next to good food Lady + Devereux valued peace and the absence of worry. Mrs. O’Halloran enjoyed + strife and liked a strenuous life. She took all the annoyances of the + household on herself, and when they proved too few for her, created + unnecessary worry for herself by harassing the maids. Lady Devereux slept + untroubled at night, rose late in the morning, found all things very much + to her liking, and grew comfortably fat. + </p> + <p> + For eight months of the year, from October till the end of May, Lady + Devereux lived in one of the fine Georgian houses which are the glory of + the residential squares of Dublin. It was a corner house, rather larger + than the others in the square, with more light and more air, because its + position gave it a view up and down two streets as well as across the lawn + which formed the centre of the square. + </p> + <p> + Before the war Harry Devereux used to say that his aunt’s house was the + best in Dublin for a dance. It pained him to see its possibilities wasted. + After receiving his commission he looked at the world with the eye of a + soldier and gave it as his opinion that the house occupied the finest + strategic position in Dublin. There was not much chance of persuading + plump old Lady Devereux to give a ball. There seemed even less chance of + her home ever being used as a fortress. But fate plays strange tricks with + us and our property, especially in Ireland. It happened that Lady + Devereux’ house was occupied more or less by the soldiers of one army, and + shot at with some vigour by the soldiers of another on Easter Monday, + 1916. Oddly enough it was neither the rebels nor the soldiers who earned + credit by their military operations, but old Biddy O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran always enjoyed Bank holidays greatly. She did not go out, + visit picture houses or parade the streets in her best clothes. She found + a deeper and more satisfying pleasure in telling the younger maids what + she thought of them when they asked and obtained leave to go out for the + afternoon, and in making scathing remarks about their frocks and hats as + they passed through the kitchen to reach the area door. On that particular + Easter Monday she was enjoying herself thoroughly. A kitchenmaid—she + was new to the household or she would not have done it—had asked + Lady Devereux’ permission to go out for the afternoon and evening. She got + what she asked for. Everybody who asked Lady Devereux for anything got it + as a matter of course. The kitchenmaid ought to have made her application + through Mrs. O’Halloran. It is the rule in all services that remote + authorities must be approached only through the applicant’s immediate + superiors. Mrs. O’Halloran took her own way of impressing this on the + kitchenmaid. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose now,” she said, “that you’ll be trapsing the streets of Dublin + in the new pink blouse that you spent your last month’s wages on?” + </p> + <p> + That was exactly what the kitchenmaid meant to do. Mrs. O’Halloran looked + the girl over critically. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” she said, “that I ever seen a girl that would look worse + in a pink blouse than yourself. The face that’s on you is the colour of a + dish of mashed turnips, and the pink blouse will make it worse, if worse + can be.” + </p> + <p> + The kitchenmaid was a girl of some spirit. She felt inclined to cry, but + she pulled herself together and snorted instead. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “that you’ll be looking out for a young + man to keep you company?” + </p> + <p> + The kitchenmaid did, in fact, hope to walk about with a young man; but she + denied this. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be looking for no such thing,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It’s well for you then,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “for I’m thinking you’d + look a long while before you found one. It’s very little sense men has, + the best of them, but I never met one yet that hadn’t more sense than to + go after a girl like you. If you were any good for any mortal thing a man + might be content to marry you in spite of your face; but the way you are, + not fit to darn your own stockings, let alone sew for a man, or cook the + way he could eat what you put before him, it would be a queer one that + would walk the same side of the street with you, pink blouse or no pink + blouse.” + </p> + <p> + The kitchenmaid, though a girl of spirit, was still young. She was washing + potatoes in the scullery while Mrs. O’Halloran spoke to her. Two large + tears dropped from her eyes into the sink. Mrs. O’Halloran smiled. + </p> + <p> + Then Molly, the parlourmaid, flung open the kitchen door and rushed to + Mrs. O’Halloran. Her face was flushed with excitement and terror. Her eyes + were staring. She was panting. Her nice frilly cap was over one ear. She + held her apron crumpled into a ball and clutched tightly in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “It’s murdered we’ll be, killed and murdered and worse! There’s them in + the house with guns and all sorts that’ll ruin and destroy everything + that’s in it. The mistress is dead this minute and it’s me they’re after + now. What’ll we do at all, at all?” + </p> + <p> + The kitchenmaid, stirred from her private grief by the news, left her + potatoes and came to the kitchen. She and Molly clung to each other. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the Sinn Feiners,” she said, “and they’re out for blood.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the police?” said Molly. “What good is the police that they + wouldn’t be here and us being murdered?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s blood they want,” said the kitchenmaid, “and It’s blood they’ll + have.” + </p> + <p> + “Molly,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “is there men in the house or is there not? + Stop your bawling now, and tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “There is, there is,” said Molly, “with guns and cannons and knives. Glory + be to God, but I never thought to die this way. What’ll we do at all, at + all? Would it be any good hiding?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran, with cool deliberation, shifted the position of two pots + on the kitchen range. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. + </p> + <p> + “It’s your place to attend the door and not mine, Molly,” she said, “but + if you’re afeard....” + </p> + <p> + She looked scornfully at the two girls and left the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + In the hall a young man stood just inside the door on the mat. He wore a + greenish-grey uniform and carried a rifle. Across his chest was a + bandolier. He looked uncomfortable, like a man who finds himself + unexpectedly in a public place when wearing a fancy dress. The door was + wide open. On the steps outside were two other young men. They also wore + uniforms and carried rifles. + </p> + <p> + “Now what may you be wanting?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + The man on the mat—he was really little more than a boy—fumbled + in one pocket after another. + </p> + <p> + His uniform, like that of the British soldier, had a good many pockets. + Finally he drew out a sheet of paper. + </p> + <p> + “This is my authority,” he said, “from the Provisional Government of the + Irish Republic.” + </p> + <p> + He handed the paper to Mrs. O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + “If it’s a collection you’re making for the Irish Language Fund,” said + Mrs. O’Halloran, “her ladyship gave half a crown last week to one of yees, + and she’ll give no more, so you can take yourselves off out of this as + quick as you like.” + </p> + <p> + “We are not collectors,” said the young man, with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Whether you are not, it’s what you look,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “dressed + up in them clothes, with your toy guns and all. You ought to be ashamed of + yourselves.” + </p> + <p> + The suggestion that his rifle was not a real weapon roused the spirit of + the young man. + </p> + <p> + “In the name of the Irish Republic,” he said, “I take possession of this + house for military purposes.” + </p> + <p> + “Musha, but that’s fine talk,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “Will nothing do you, + only military purposes?” + </p> + <p> + “We shall do no harm to the inmates or the contents of the house,” said + the young man. + </p> + <p> + “You will not, for you won’t be let.” + </p> + <p> + “But I demand free entrance to the upper storeys for myself and my men.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to the two boys on the steps outside the door. + </p> + <p> + “Enter,” he said, “and follow me.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you wipe your boots on the mat,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and not be + carrying all the mud of the streets into the house with you. Do you think + the girls that does be here has nothing to do only to be sweeping carpets + and polishing floors after the likes of you?” + </p> + <p> + The army of the Irish Republic has had many crimes laid to its charge; but + it has not been said that its soldiers were guilty of any needless + discourtesy to the inhabitants of the houses of which they took + possession. The three young men wiped their boots on Lady Devereux’ + doormat with elaborate cafe. Mrs. O’Halloran watched them critically. + </p> + <p> + “Is it the police you’re out after with them guns?” she said. “It’s a + pity, so it is, to see fine young fellows like you mixing yourselves up + with that foolishness. Sure they’ll get you at the latter end, and you’ll + be had up in Court.” + </p> + <p> + The leader of the little party of Sinn Feiners was not inclined to discuss + the future prospects of the insurrection with Mrs. O’Halloran. He moved + across the hall towards the staircase, followed by his two young men. They + walked delicately, stepping carefully from one to another of the rugs + which lay on the floor and avoiding the polished boards. They were + courteous and considerate rebels. + </p> + <p> + “Will nothing but the front stairs suit you?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “Cock + you up, indeed, the likes of you, that never was in a lady’s house before. + The back stairs is good enough for me, so I’m thinking it’s good enough + for you. Come along with you now.” + </p> + <p> + She led them past the foot of the great staircase and through a swing door + covered with green baize. That door, such was the fancy of the designer of + Lady Devereux’ house, concealed another, a very solid door, made after the + Georgian fashion, of thick mahogany. The baize-covered door had a spring + on it so that it swung shut of itself. Mrs. O’Halloran held it open with + one hand. With the other she turned the handle of the solid door beyond. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come along now,” she said to the three young men, “and take care + you don’t be scratching the polish off the door with them guns you’re so + proud of?” + </p> + <p> + They were foolish rebels, those three. They were young and, though Irish, + this was the first time they had taken part in an insurrection. They had + marched forth to garrison Lady Devereux’ house expecting much, + hand-to-hand fighting perhaps in the hall, the tears and hysterics of + terrified women, revolver shots from outraged loyalists. Anything of that + sort, anything heroic they were prepared for. Old Biddy O’Halloran, with + her humorous eyes and her ready tongue, took them aback. They walked + through the mahogany door meekly enough. + </p> + <p> + They found themselves in a small cloak room. There was a wash-hand basin + and a couple of towels in one corner. A pile of carriage rugs lay on a + shelf. Some waterproof coats hung from pegs. There were three umbrellas in + a stand. There was one small window which looked out on a back yard and + was heavily barred. There was not the smallest sign of a staircase leading + to the upper storey of the house or to anywhere else. + </p> + <p> + A nervous and excitable woman who had trapped three young men would have + made haste to lock them in. Mrs. O’Halloran was in no hurry at all. The + key of the mahogany door was on the inside of the lock. She took it out + deliberately. + </p> + <p> + “There you stay,” she said, “the three of yous, till you’ve sense enough + to go back to your homes, and it’s your mothers will be thankful to me + this day for keeping you out of mischief. Listen to me now before I lock + the door.” + </p> + <p> + She fitted the key into the outside of the lock and half closed the door + while she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “If I hear a word out of your heads or if there’s any shooting of them + guns, or if you start cracking and banging on that door, or kicking up any + sort of a noise that might disturb her ladyship, I’ll give you neither + bite nor sup, not if I have to keep you here for a week, so be good now + and mind what I’m telling you.” + </p> + <p> + She shut the door and turned the key in the lock. + </p> + <p> + At the head of the kitchen stairs stood Molly and the kitchenmaid. + </p> + <p> + “Will I run for the police?” said the kitchenmaid. “Sure I wouldn’t be + afeard to do it if Molly would come with me.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll run down to the scullery,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and you’ll go on + washing them potatoes, and Molly along with you. That’s all the running + either the one or the other of you will do this day.” + </p> + <p> + “Her ladyship’s bell is ringing,” said Molly. “Will I not go to her? It + could be she’s not dead yet and might be wanting help.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s little help you’d give her if she was wanting it, you with your cap + on your ear, instead of the top of your head, and your apron like a wrung + dishclout I wonder you’re not ashamed to be seen. Get along with you down + to the kitchen and stay there. Anything that’s wanted for her ladyship + I’ll do myself.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Devereux was in her morning room, a pleasant sunny apartment which + looked out on the square. The day was warm, but Lady Devereux was an old + woman. She sat in front of a bright fire. She sat in a very deep soft + chair with her feet on a footstool. She had a pile of papers and magazines + on a little table beside her. She neither stirred nor looked up when Mrs. + O’Halloran entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “Molly,” she said, “I heard some men talking in the hall. I wish they + wouldn’t make so much noise.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran cleared her throat and coughed. Lady Devereux looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said, “it’s not Molly. It’s you, Mrs. O’Halloran. Then I suppose + it must be plumbers.” + </p> + <p> + The inference was a natural one. Mrs. O’Halloran always dealt with + plumbers when they came. She was the only person in the house who could + deal with plumbers. + </p> + <p> + “Or perhaps some men about the gas,” said Lady Devereux. “I hope they + won’t want to come in here.” + </p> + <p> + The pleasant quiet life in Lady Devereux’ house was occasionally broken by + visits from plumbers and gas men. No one, however wealthy or easygoing, + can altogether escape the evils which have grown up with our civilization. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not plumbers, my lady,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “nor it isn’t gas men. + It’s Sinn Feiners.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, I suppose they want a subscription. My purse is on my writing + table, Mrs. O’Halloran. Will five shillings be enough? I think I ought to + give them something. I’m always so sorry for people who have to go round + from house to house collecting.” + </p> + <p> + “I have the three of them in the cloakroom downstairs and the key turned + on them,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + It is quite possible that Lady Devereux might have expressed some surprise + at this drastic way of treating men, presumably well-meaning men, who came + to ask for money. Before she spoke again she was startled by the sound of + several rifle shots fired in the street outside her house. She was not + much startled, not at all alarmed. A rifle fired in the open air at some + distance does not make a very terrifying sound. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me,” she said, “I wonder what that is. It sounds very like somebody + shooting.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran went over to the window and opened it. There was a narrow + iron balcony outside. She stepped on to it. + </p> + <p> + “It’s soldiers, my lady,” she said. “They’re in the square.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it must be on account of the war,” said Lady Devereux. + </p> + <p> + She had learned—before Easter, 1916, everybody had learned—to + put down all irregularities to the war. Letters got lost in the post. The + price of sugar rose. Men married unexpectedly, “on account of the war.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t think they ought to be allowed to shoot in the square,” she + added. “It might be dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + It was dangerous. A bullet—it must have passed very close to Mrs. + O’Halloran—buried itself in the wall of the morning room. A moment + later another pierced a mirror which hung over Lady Devereux’ writing + table. Mrs. O’Halloran came into the room again and shut the window. + </p> + <p> + “You’d think now,” she said “that them fellows were shooting at the + house.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d go down and tell them to stop,” said Lady Devereux. “Of + course I know we ought to do all we can to help the soldiers, such gallant + fellows, suffering so much in this terrible war. Still I do think they + ought to be more careful where they shoot.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran went quietly down the two flights of stairs which led from + the morning-room to the ground floor of the house. She had no idea of + allowing herself to be hustled into any undignified haste either by rebels + or troops engaged in suppressing the rebellion. When she reached the + bottom of the stairs she stopped. Her attention was held by two different + noises. The Sinn Feiners were battering the door of their prison with the + butts of their rifles. Molly, the kitchenmaid and Lady Devereux’ two other + servants were shrieking on the kitchen stairs. Mrs. O’Halloran dealt with + the rebels first. She opened the baize-covered door and put her mouth to + the keyhole of the other. + </p> + <p> + “Will yous keep quiet or will yous not?” she said. “There’s soldiers + outside the house this minute waiting for the chance to shoot you, and + they’ll do it, too, if you don’t sit down and behave yourselves. Maybe + it’s that you want. If it is you’re going the right way about getting it. + But if you’ve any notion of going home to your mothers with your skins + whole you’ll stay peaceable where you are. Can you not hear the guns?” + </p> + <p> + The three rebels stopped battering the door and listened. The rifle fire + began to slacken. No more than an occasional shot was to be heard. The + fighting had died down. It was too late for the prisoners to take any + active part in it. They began to consider the future. They made up their + minds to take the advice given them and stay quiet. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran went to the head of the kitchen stairs. The four maids + were huddled together. Mrs. O’Halloran descended on them. She took Molly, + who was nearest to her, by the shoulders and shook her violently. The + housemaid and Lady Devereux’ maid fled at once to the coal cellar. The + kitchenmaid sat down and sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “If there’s another sound out of any of yous,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, + “it’ll be the worse for you after. Isn’t it enough for one day to have + three young fellows in the house trying to get shot, and soldiers outside + trying to shoot them, and every sort of divilment in the way of a row + going on, without having a pack of girls bellowing and bawling on the + kitchen stairs? It’s mighty fond you are, the whole of you, of dressing + yourselves up, in pink blouses and the like” (she looked angrily at the + kitchenmaid) “and running round the streets to see if you can find a man + to take up with you. And now when there’s men enough outside and in, + nothing will do but to be screeching. But sure girls is like that, and + where’s the use of talking?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran might have said more. She felt inclined to say a good deal + more but she was interrupted by a loud knocking at the hall door. + </p> + <p> + “I dursent go to it.” said Molly. “I dursent. You wouldn’t know who might + be there nor what they might do to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody’s asking you to go,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + She went to the door herself and opened it. A sergeant and eight men were + on the steps. + </p> + <p> + “And what may you be wanting?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “What right have you + to come battering and banging at the door of her ladyship’s house the same + as if it was a public-house and you trying to get in after closing time? + Be off out of this, now, the whole of you. I never seen such foolishness.” + </p> + <p> + “My orders are to search the house,” said the sergeant; “rebels have been + firing on us from the roof.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no rebels been firing out of this house,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, + “and what’s more——” + </p> + <p> + “My orders,” said the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no orders given in this house,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “only mine + and maybe her ladyship’s at odd times.” + </p> + <p> + She need scarcely have mentioned Lady Devereux. An order from her was a + very exceptional thing. + </p> + <p> + “Our officer——” said the sergeant “Private Beggs, go and + report to the officer that we are refused admission to this house.” + </p> + <p> + Private Beggs turned to obey the order. The officer in charge of the party + came out of the door of a house half-way along the side of the square. + Mrs. O’Halloran recognised him. It was Second Lieutenant Harry Devereux. + </p> + <p> + “Master Harry,” she called, “Master Harry, come here at once. Is it you + that’s been raising ructions about the square? Shooting and destroying and + frightening decent people into fits? Faith, I might have known it was you. + If there’s divilment going you’d be in it.” + </p> + <p> + Harry Devereux, intensely conscious of his responsibility as commander of + men in a real fight, reached the bottom of the steps which led to his + aunt’s door. + </p> + <p> + “Enter the house, sergeant,” he said, “and search it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran stood right in the middle of the doorway. The sergeant + looked at her doubtfully and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Come up out of that, Master Harry,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and don’t be + trying to hide behind the sergeant. It’s no wonder you’re ashamed of + yourself, but I see you plain enough. Come here now till I talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + The sergeant grinned. Private Beggs, who was behind his officer, laughed + openly. + </p> + <p> + “Was there nowhere else in the world for you to have a battle—if a + battle was what you wanted,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “only in front of your + aunt’s house? Many and many’s the time I’ve smacked you for less than what + you’ve done to-day. Isn’t there bullets in her ladyship’s morning-room? + Isn’t there a grand looking-glass in a gold frame gone to smithers with + your shooting? Isn’t Molly and the other girls screeching this minute down + in the coal cellar, for fear you’ll kill them, and now nothing will do you + seemingly only to be tramping all over the house. Search it, moya, search + it! But you’ll not be let, Master Harry; neither you nor the sergeant nor + any of the rest of you.” + </p> + <p> + Second Lieutenant Harry Devereux pulled himself together and made an + effort to save what was left of his dignity. He had led his men across the + square under a shower of rebel bullets from the roofs of the houses. He + had taken cool advantage of all possible cover. He had directed his men’s + fire till he drove the rebels from their shelters. No one could say of him + that he was other than a gallant officer. But his heart failed him when he + was face to face with his aunt’s cook. + </p> + <p> + “I think we needn’t search this house, sergeant,” he said. “I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’d like to come back in an hour or two, Master Harry,” said Mrs. + O’Halloran, “I’ll have a bit of dinner ready for you, and I wouldn’t say + but there might be something for the sergeant and his men. It’s what her + ladyship is always saying that we ought to do the best we can for the lads + that’s fighting for us against the Germans—so long as they behave + themselves. But mind this now, sergeant, if you do look in in the course + of the evening there must be no carrying on with the girls. The Lord knows + they’re giddy enough without you upsetting them worse.” + </p> + <p> + That night, after dark, three young Sinn Feiners climbed the wall at the + end of Lady Devereux’ back yard and dropped into a narrow lane beyond it. + A fortnight later Mrs. O’Halloran received a large parcel containing three + suits of clothes, the property of Second Lieutenant Devereux, left by him + in his aunt’s house when he first put on his uniform. They were carefully + brushed and folded, in no way the worse for having been worn by strangers + for one night. + </p> + <p> + In the bottom of Mrs. O’Halloran’s trunk there are three rebel uniforms. + And on the top of the cupboard in her room are three rifles, made in + Germany. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV ~~ CIVILIZED WAR + </h2> + <h3> + “This,” said Captain Power, “is an utterly rotten war.” + </h3> + <p> + The rain was dripping through the roof of the shed which had been allotted + to Power as a billet. The mud outside was more than ankle deep. The damp + inside was chilly and penetrating. Ned Waterhouse, a Second Lieutenant, + the only other occupant of the shed, looked up from an old newspaper which + he was trying to read. + </p> + <p> + “All wars are rotten,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said Power; “a properly conducted war, run in a decent way + by civilized men is quite agreeable, rather fun, in fact. Now the last in + which I was mixed up was rather fun.” + </p> + <p> + Waterhouse eyed Power suspiciously. He suspected that he was being made + the victim of some kind of joke. Waterhouse was an Englishman and it was + not of his own desire that he was an officer in the Hibernian light + Infantry. He felt himself out of place among Irishmen whom he never quite + understood. He was particularly distrustful of Captain Power. Power was an + expert in the art of “pulling the legs” of innocent people. Waterhouse had + several times found himself looking like a fool without knowing exactly + why. + </p> + <p> + “What I call a civilized war,” said Power, “is waged in fine weather for + one thing, and men have a chance of keeping clean. The combatants show + some regard for the other side’s feelings and don’t try to make things as + nasty for each other as they can. The business is done in a picturesque + way, with flags and drums and speeches. There are negotiations and flags + of truce and mutual respect for gallant foemen—instead of this + d____d coldblooded, scientific slaughter.” + </p> + <p> + “No war was ever like that,” said Waterhouse. “Novelists and other silly + fools write about war as if it were a kind of sport. But it never was + really.” + </p> + <p> + “The last war I was in, was,” said Power. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you ever were in a war before,” said Waterhouse. “You’re + not old enough to have gone to South Africa.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same I was in a war,” said Power, “though I didn’t actually + fight. I was wounded at the time and couldn’t. But I was there. Our Irish + war at Easter, 1916.” + </p> + <p> + “That footy little rebellion,” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + “You may call it what you like,” said Power, “but it was a much better war + than this one from every point of view, except mere size. It was properly + conducted on both sides.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you want to tell a yarn about it,” said Waterhouse, “and if you + do I can’t stop you; but you needn’t suppose I’ll believe a word you say.” + </p> + <p> + “The truth of this narrative,” said Power, “will compel belief even in the + most sceptical mind. I happened to be at home at the time on sick leave, + wounded in the arm. Those were the days when one got months of sick leave, + before some rotten ass invented convalescent homes for officers and kept + them there. I had three months’ leave that time and I spent it with my + people in Ballymahon.” + </p> + <p> + “The whole of it?” said Waterhouse. “Good Lord!” + </p> + <p> + “You’d have spent it in the Strand Palace Hotel, I suppose, running in and + out of music halls, but I prefer the simple joys of country life, though I + couldn’t shoot or ride properly on account of my arm. Still I could watch + the sunset and listen to the birds singing, which I like. Besides, I was + absolutely stoney at the time, and couldn’t have stayed in London for a + week. As it happened, it was a jolly good thing I was there. If I’d been + in London I’d have missed that war. Perhaps I’d better begin by telling + you the sort of place Ballymahon is.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t,” said Waterhouse. “I spent three months in camp in County + Tipperary. I know those dirty little Irish towns. Twenty public-houses. + Two churches, a workhouse and a police barrack.” + </p> + <p> + “In Ballymahon there is also a court house and our ancestral home. My old + dad is the principal doctor in the neighbourhood. He lives on one side of + the court house. The parish priest lives on the other. You must grasp + these facts in order to understand the subsequent military operations. The + only other thing you really must know is that Ballymahon lies in a hole + with hills all round it, like the rim of a saucer. Well, on Monday + afternoon, Easter Monday, the enemy, that is to say, the Sinn Feiners, + marched in and took possession of the town. It was a most imposing sight, + Waterhouse. There were at least eight hundred of them. Lots of them had + uniforms. Most of them had flags. There were two bands and quite a lot of + rifles. The cavalry——” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t expect me to believe in the cavalry,” said Waterhouse. ‘’But I + say, supposing they really came, didn’t the loyal inhabitants put up any + kind of resistance?” + </p> + <p> + “My old dad,” said Power, “was the only loyal inhabitant, except four + policemen. You couldn’t expect four policemen to give battle to a whole + army. They shut themselves up in their barrack and stayed there. My dad, + being a doctor, was of course a non-combatant. I couldn’t do anything with + my arm in a sling, so there was no fight at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the next thing they did was loot the public-houses,” said + Waterhouse, “and get gloriously drunk?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. I told you that our war was properly conducted. There was + no looting in Ballymahon and I never saw a drunken man the whole time. If + those Sinn Feiners had a fault it was over-respectability. I shouldn’t + care to be in that army myself.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe that,” said Waterhouse. “It’s the first thing in this story + that I really have believed.” + </p> + <p> + “They used to march about all day in the most orderly manner, and at night + there were sentries at every street corner who challenged you in Irish. + Not knowing the language, I thought it better to stay indoors. But my dad + used to wander about. He’s a sporting old bird and likes to know what’s + going on. Well, that state of things lasted three days and we all began to + settle down comfortably for the summer. Except that there were no + newspapers or letters there wasn’t much to complain about. In fact, you’d + hardly have known there was a war on. It wasn’t the least like this + beastly country where everyone destroys everything he sees, and wretched + devils have to live in rabbit-holes. In Ballymahon we lived in houses with + beds and chairs and looked after ourselves properly. Then one morning—it + must have been Friday—news came in that a lot of soldiers were + marching on the town. Some country girls saw them and came running in to + tell us. I must say for the Sinn Fein commander that he kept his head. His + name was O’Farrelly and he called himself a Colonel. He sent out scouts to + see where the soldiers were and how many there were. Quite the proper + thing to do. I didn’t hear exactly what the scouts reported; but that + evening O’Farrelly came round to our house to talk things over with my + dad.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said your father was a loyal man.” + </p> + <p> + “So he is. There isn’t a loyaller man in Ireland. You’d know that if you’d + ever seen him singing ‘God Save the King.’ He swells out an inch all over + when he’s doing it.” + </p> + <p> + “If he’s as loyal as all that,” said Waterhouse, “he wouldn’t consult with + rebels.” + </p> + <p> + “My dad, though loyal, has some sense, and so, as it happened, had + O’Farrelly. Neither one nor the other of them wanted to see a battle + fought in the streets of Ballymahon. You’ve seen battles, Waterhouse, and + you know what they’re like. Messy things. You can understand my father’s + feelings. O’Farrelly was awfully nice about it. He said that the people of + Ballymahon, including my father and even the police, were a decent lot, + and he’d hate to see licentious English soldiers rioting through the + streets of the town. His idea was that my dad should use his influence + with the C.O. of the troops and get him to march his men off somewhere + else, so as to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. O’Farrelly promised he + wouldn’t go after them or molest them in any way if they left the + neighbourhood. My dad said he couldn’t do that and even if he could, he + wouldn’t. He suggested that O’Farrelly should take his army away. + O’Farrelly said he was out to fight and not to run away. I chipped in at + that point and said he could fight just as well in a lonelier place, where + there weren’t any houses and no damage would be done. I said I felt pretty + sure the soldiers would go after him to any bog he chose to select. + O’Farrelly seemed to think there was something in the suggestion and said + he’d hold a council of war and consult his officers.” + </p> + <p> + “What an amazing liar you are, Power,” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + Captain Power took no notice of the insult. He went on with his story. + </p> + <p> + “The Council of War assembled next morning,” he said, “and sat for about + four hours. It might have all day if an English officer hadn’t ridden in + on a motor-bike about noon. He was stopped by a sentry, of course, and + said he wanted to see the C.O. of the rebel army. So the sentry + blindfolded him——” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth for?” + </p> + <p> + “In civilized war,” said Power severely, “envoys with flags of truce are + invariably blindfolded. I told you at the start that our war was properly + conducted; but you wouldn’t believe me. Now you can see for yourself that + it was. The sentry led that officer into the council, which was sitting in + the court house. I told you, didn’t I, that the court house was the rebel + H.Q.?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t mention it, but it doesn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + “It does matter. And you’ll see later on it’s most important. Well, + O’Farrelly was frightfully polite to the officer, and asked him what he + wanted. The officer said that he had come to demand the unconditional + surrender of the whole of the rebel army. O’Farrelly, still quite + politely, said he’d rather die than surrender, and everybody present + cheered. The officer said that the town was entirely surrounded and that + there was a gun on top of one of the hills which would shell the place + into little bits in an hour if it started firing. O’Farrelly said he + didn’t believe all that and accused the officer of putting up a bluff. The + officer stuck to it that what he said was true. That brought the + negotiations to a dead-lock.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the devil didn’t they shell the place and have done with it, instead + of talking?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what would happen out here,” said Power. “But as I keep telling + you our war was run on humane lines. After the officer and O’Farrelly had + argued for half an hour my dad dropped in on them. He’s a popular man in + the place and I think everyone was glad to see him. He sized up the + position at once and suggested the only possible way out. O’Farrelly, with + a proper safe conduct, of course, was to be allowed to go and see whether + the town was really surrounded, and especially whether there was a gun on + top of the hill, as the officer said. That, I think you’ll agree with me, + Waterhouse, was a sensible suggestion and fair to both sides. But they + both boggled at it. The officer said he’d no power to enter into + negotiation of any kind with rebels, and that all he could do was take yes + or no to his proposal of unconditional surrender. O’Farrelly seemed to + think that he’d be shot, no matter what safe conducts he had. It took the + poor old dad nearly an hour to talk sense into the two of them; but in the + end he managed it O’Farrelly agreed to go if the safe conduct was signed + by my dad as well as the officer, and the officer agreed to take him on + condition that my dad went too to explain the situation to his colonel. I + went with them just to see what would happen.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they made O’Farrelly prisoner?” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + “You are judging everybody by the standards of this infernal war,” said + Power. “That English colonel was a soldier and a gentleman. He stood us + drinks and let O’Farrelly look at the gun. It was there all right and + Ballymahon was entirely surrounded. We got back about five o’clock, with + an ultimatum written out on a sheet of paper. Unless O’Farrelly and his + whole army had marched out and laid down their arms by 8 p.m. the town + would be shelled without further warning. You’d have thought that would + have knocked the heart out of O’Farrelly, considering that he hadn’t a + dog’s chance of breaking through. But it didn’t. He became cheerfuller than + I’d seen him before, and said that the opportunity he’d always longed for + had come at last. His men, when he told them about the ultimatum, took the + same view. They said they’d never surrender, not even if the town was + shelled into dust and them buried in the ruins. That naturally didn’t suit + my dad—or for that matter, me. The soldiers were sure to begin by + shelling the rebel H.Q. and that meant that they’d hit our house. I told + you, didn’t I, that it was next door to the court house? My poor dad did + his best. He talked to O’Farrelly and the rest of them till the sweat ran + off him. But it wasn’t the least bit of good. They simply wouldn’t listen + to reason. It was seven o’clock before dad gave the job up and left the + court house. He was going home to make his will, but on the way he met + Father Conway, the priest. He was a youngish man and a tremendous patriot, + supposed to be hand-in-glove with the rebels. Dad explained to him that he + had less than an hour to live and advised him to go home and bury any + valuables he possessed before the shelling began. It took Father Conway + about ten minutes to grasp the situation. I chipped in and explained the + bracket system on which artillery works. I told him that they wouldn’t + begin by aiming at the court house, but would drop their first shell on + his house and their next on ours, so as to get the range right. As soon as + he believed that—and I had to swear it was true before he did—he + took the matter up warmly and said he’d talk to O’Farrelly himself. I + didn’t think he’d do much good, but I went into the court house with him, + just to see what he’d say. I must say for him he wasted no time. It was a + quarter past seven when he began, so there wasn’t much time to waste.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Boys,’ he said, ‘will you tell me straight and plain what is it you + want?’ O’Farrelly began a long speech about an Irish republic and things + of that kind. I sat with my watch in my hand opposite Father Conway and + every now and then I pointed to the hands, so as to remind him that time + was going on. At twenty-five past seven he stopped O’Farrelly and said + they couldn’t have an Irish republic just then—though they might + later—on account of that gun. Then he asked them again to say + exactly what they wanted, republics being considered a wash-out. You’d have + been surprised if you heard the answer he got. Every man in the place stood + up and shouted that he asked nothing better than to die for Ireland. They + meant it, too. I thought it was all up and Father Conway was done. But he + wasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Who’s preventing you?’ he said. ‘Just form fours in the square outside + and you’ll all be dead in less than half an hour. But if you stay here a + lot of other people who don’t want to die for Ireland or anything else + will be killed too; along with having their homes knocked down on them.’ + </p> + <p> + “Well, they saw the sense of that. O’Farrelly formed his men up outside + and made a speech to them. He said if any man funked it he could stay + where he was and only those who really wanted to die need go on. It was a + quarter to eight when he finished talking and I was in terror of my life + that there’d be some delay getting rid of the men who fell out. But there + wasn’t a single defaulter. Every blessed one of those men—and most + of them were only boys—did a right turn and marched out of the town + in column of fours. I can tell you, Waterhouse, I didn’t like watching + them go. Father Conway and my dad were standing on the steps of the court + house, blubbering like children.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they weren’t all killed?” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + “None of them were killed,” said Power. “There wasn’t a shot fired. You + see, when the English officer saw them march out of the town he naturally + thought they’d come to surrender, and didn’t fire on them.” + </p> + <p> + “He couldn’t possibly have thought that,” said Waterhouse, “unless they + laid down their arms.” + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact,” said Power, “hardly any of them had any arms, + except hockey sticks, and the Colonel thought they’d piled them up + somewhere. He seems to have been a decent sort of fellow. He made + O’Farrelly and a few more prisoners, and told the rest of them to be off + home.” + </p> + <p> + “Ireland,” said Waterhouse, “must be a d____d queer country.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the only country in Europe,” said Power, “which knows how to conduct + war in a civilized way. Now if a situation of that sort turned up out here + there’d be bloodshed.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose O’Farrelly was hanged afterwards?” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + “No, he wasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Shot, then? Though I should think hanging is the proper death for a + rebel.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor shot,” said Power. “He is alive still and quite well. He’s going + about the country making speeches. He was down in Ballymahon about a + fortnight ago and called on my dad to thank him for all he’d done during + the last rebellion. He inquired after me in the kindest way. The old dad + was greatly touched, especially when a crowd of about a thousand men, all + O’Farrelly’s original army with a few new recruits, gathered round the + house and cheered, first for an Irish republic and then for dad. He made + them a little speech and told them I’d got my company and was recommended + for the M.C. When they heard that they cheered me like anything and then + shouted ‘Up the Rebels!’ for about ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “I needn’t tell you,” said Waterhouse, “that I don’t believe a word of + that story. If I did I’d say——” + </p> + <p> + He paused for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I’d say that Ireland——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Power, “that Ireland——” + </p> + <p> + “I’d say that Ireland is a country of lunatics,” said Waterhouse, “and + there ought to be an Irish Republic I can’t think of anything to say worse + than that.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV ~~ THE MERMAID + </h2> + <p> + We were on our way home from Inishmore, where we had spent two days; Peter + O’Flaherty among his relatives—for everyone on the island was kin to + him—I among friends who give me a warm welcome when I go to them. + The island lies some seventeen miles from the coast. We started on our + homeward sail with a fresh westerly wind. Shortly after midday it backed + round to the north and grew lighter. At five o’clock we were stealing + along very gently through calm water with our mainsail boom out against + the shroud. The jib and foresail were drooping in limp folds. An hour + later the mainsheet was hanging in the water and the boat drifted with the + tide. Peter, crouching in the fore part of the cockpit, hissed through his + clenched teeth, which is the way in which he whistles for a wind. He + glanced all round the horizon, searching for signs of a breeze. His eyes + rested finally on the sun, which lay low among some light, fleecy clouds. + He gave it as his opinion that when it reached the point of setting it + “might draw a light air after it from the eastward.” For that it appeared + we were to wait. I shrank from toil with the heavy sweeps. So, I am sure + did Peter, who is a good man in a boat but averse from unnecessary labour. + And there was really no need to row. The tide was carrying us homeward, + and our position was pleasant enough. Save for the occasional drag of a + block against the horse we had achieved unbroken silence and almost + perfect peace. + </p> + <p> + We drifted slowly past Carrigeen Glos, a low, sullen line of rocks. A + group of cormorants, either gorged with mackerel fry or hopeless of an + evening meal, perched together at one end of the reef, and stared at the + setting sun. A few terns swept round and round overhead, soaring or + sliding downwards with easy motion. A large seal lay basking on a bare + rock just above the water’s edge. I pointed it out to Peter, and he said + it was a pity I had not got my rifle with me. I did not agree with him. If + I had brought the rifle Peter would have insisted on my shooting at the + seal. I should certainly not have hit it on purpose, for I am averse from + injuring gentle creatures; but I might perhaps have killed or wounded it + by accident, for my shooting is very uncertain. In any case I should have + broken nature’s peace, and made a horrible commotion. Perhaps the seal + heard Peter’s remark or divined his feeling of hostility. It flopped + across the rock and slid gracefully into the sea. We saw it afterwards + swimming near the boat, looking at us with its curiously human, tender + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “A man might mistake it for a mermaid,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “He’d have to be a fool altogether that would do the like,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + He was scornful; but the seal’s eyes were human. They made me think of + mermaids. + </p> + <p> + “Them ones,” said Peter, “is entirely different from seals. You might see + a seal any day in fine weather. They’re plenty. But the other ones—But + sure you wouldn’t care to be hearing about them.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard plenty about them,” I said, “but it was all poetry and + nonsense. You know well enough, Peter, that there’s no such thing as a + mermaid.” + </p> + <p> + Peter filled his pipe slowly and lit it. I could see by the way he puffed + at it that he was full of pity and contempt for my scepticism. + </p> + <p> + “Come now,” I said: “did you ever see a mermaid?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not,” said Peter, “but my mother was acquainted with one. That was + in Inishmore, where I was born and reared.” + </p> + <p> + I waited. The chance of getting Peter to tell an interesting story is to + wait patiently. Any attempt to goad him on by asking questions is like + striking before a fish is hooked. The chance of getting either story or + fish is spoiled. + </p> + <p> + “There was a young fellow in the island them times,” said Peter, “called + Anthony O’Flaherty. A kind of uncle of my father’s he was, and a very fine + man. There wasn’t his equal at running or lepping, and they say he was + terrible daring on the sea. That was before my mother was born, but she + heard tell of what he did. When she knew him he was like an old man, and + the heart was gone out of him.” + </p> + <p> + At this point Peter stopped. His pipe had gone out. He relit it with + immense deliberation. I made a mistake. By way of keeping the conversation + going I asked a question. + </p> + <p> + “Did he see a mermaid?” + </p> + <p> + “He did,” said Peter, “and what’s more he married one.” + </p> + <p> + There Peter stopped again abruptly, but with an air of finality. He had, + so I gathered, told me all he was going to tell me about the mermaid. I + had blundered badly in asking my question. I suppose that some note of + unsympathetic scepticism in my tone suggested to Peter that I was inclined + to laugh at him. I did my best to retrieve my position. I sat quite silent + and stared at the peak of the mainsail. The block on the horse rattled + occasionally. The sun’s rim touched the horizon. At last Peter was + reassured and began again. + </p> + <p> + “It was my mother told me about it, and she knew, for many’s the time she + did be playing with the young lads, her being no more than a little + girleen at the time. Seven of them there was, and the second eldest was + the one age with my mother. That was after herself left him.” + </p> + <p> + “Herself” was vague enough; but I did not venture to ask another question. + I took my eyes off the peak of the mainsail and fixed them inquiringly on + Peter. It was as near as I dared go to asking a question. + </p> + <p> + “Herself,” said Peter, “was one of them ones.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded sideways over the gunwale of the boat. The sea, though still + calm, was beginning to be moved by that queer restlessness which comes on + it at sunset. The tide eddied in mysteriously oily swirls. The rocks to + the eastward of us had grown dim. A gull flew by overhead uttering wailing + cries. The graceful terns had disappeared. A cormorant, flying so low that + its wing-tips broke the water, sped across our bows to some far + resting-place. I fell into a mood of real sympathy with stories about + mermaids. I think Peter felt the change which had come over me. + </p> + <p> + “Anthony O’Flaherty,” said Peter, “was a young man when he saw them first. + It was in the little bay back west of the island, and my mother never + rightly knew what he was doing there in the middle of the night; but there + he was. It was the bottom of a low spring tide, and there’s rocks off the + end of the bay that’s uncovered at the ebb of the springs. You’ve maybe + seen them.” + </p> + <p> + I have seen them, and Peter knew it well. I have seen more of them than I + want to. There was an occasion when Peter and I lay at anchor in that bay, + and a sudden shift of wind set us to beating out at three o’clock in the + morning. The rocks were not uncovered then, but the waves were breaking + fiercely over them. We had little room for tacking, and I am not likely to + forget the time we went about a few yards to windward of them. The stretch + of wild surf under our lee looked ghastly white in the dim twilight of the + dawn. Peter knew what I was thinking. + </p> + <p> + “It was calm enough that night Anthony O’Flaherty was there,” he said, + “and there was a moon shining, pretty near a full moon, so Anthony could + see plain. Well, there was three of them in it, and they playing + themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Mermaids?” + </p> + <p> + This time my voice expressed full sympathy. The sea all round us was + rising in queer round little waves, though there was no wind. The boom + snatched at the blocks as the boat rocked. The sail was ghostly white. The + vision of a mermaid would not have surprised me greatly. + </p> + <p> + “The beautifulest ever was seen,” said Peter, “and neither shift nor shirt + on them, only just themselves, and the long hair of them. Straight it was + and black, only for a taste of green in it. You wouldn’t be making a + mistake between the like of them and seals, not if you’d seen them right + the way Anthony O’Flaherty did.” + </p> + <p> + Peter made this reflection a little bitterly. I was afraid the + recollection of my unfortunate remark about seals might have stopped him + telling the story, but it did not. + </p> + <p> + “Once Anthony had seen them,” he said, “he couldn’t rest content without + he’d be going to see them again. Many a night he went and saw neither + sight nor light of them, for it was only at spring tides that they’d be + there, on account of the rocks not being uncovered any other time. But at + the bottom of the low springs they were there right enough, and sometimes + they’d be swimming in the sea and sometimes they’d be sitting on the + rocks. It was wonderful the songs they’d sing—like the sound of the + sea set to music was what my mother told me, and she was told by them that + knew. The people did be wondering what had come over Anthony, for he was + different like from what he had been, and nobody knew what took him out of + his house in the middle of the night at the spring tides. There was a girl + that they had laid down for him to marry, and Anthony had no objection to + her before he seen them ones; but after he had seen them he wouldn’t look + at the girl. She had a middling good fortune too but sure he didn’t care + about that.” + </p> + <p> + I could understand Anthony’s feelings. The air of wind which Peter had + promised, drawn from its cave by the lure of the departing sun, was + filling our head-sails. I hauled in the main-sheet gently hand over hand + and belayed it. The boat slipped quietly along close-hauled. The long line + of islands which guards the entrance of our bay lay dim before use. Over + the shoulder of one of them I could see the lighthouse, still a + distinguishable patch of white against the looming grey of the land. The + water rippled mournfully under our bows and a long pale wake stretched + astern from our counter. “Fortune,” banked money, good heifers and even + enduringly fruitful fields seemed very little matters to me then. They + must have seemed still less, far less, to Anthony O’Flaherty after he had + seen those white sea-maidens with their green-black hair. + </p> + <p> + “There was a woman on the island in those times,” said Peter, “a very aged + woman, and she had a kind of plaster which she made which cured the + cancer, drawing it out by the roots, and she could tell what was good for + the chin cough, and the women did like to have her with them when their + children was born, she being knowledgable in them matters. I’m told the + priests didn’t like her, for there was things she knew which it mightn’t + be right that anyone would know, things that’s better left to the clergy. + Whether she guessed what was the matter with Anthony, or whether he up and + told her straight my mother never heard. It could be that he told her, for + many a one used to go to her for a charm when the butter wouldn’t come, or + a cow, maybe, was pining; so it wouldn’t surprise me if Anthony went to + her.” + </p> + <p> + Peter crept aft. He took a pull on the jib-sheet and belayed it again; but + I do not believe that he really cared much about the set of the sail. That + was his excuse. He wanted to be nearer to me. There is something in + stories like this, told in dim twilight, with dark waters sighing near at + hand, which makes men feel the need of close human companionship. Peter + seated himself on the floorboards at my feet, and I felt a certain comfort + in the touch of his arm on my leg. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he went on, “according to the old hag—and what she said was + true enough, however she learnt it—them ones doesn’t go naked all + the time, but only when they’re playing themselves on the rocks at low + tide, the way Anthony seen them. Mostly they have a kind of cloak that + they wear, and they take the same cloaks off of them when they’re up above + the water and they lay them down on the rocks. If so be that a man could + put his hand on e’er a cloak, the one that owned it would have to follow + him whether she wanted to or not. If it was to the end of the world she’d + have to follow him, or to Spain, or to America, or wherever he might go. + And what’s more, she’d have to do what he bid her, be the same good or + bad, and be with him if he wanted her, so long as he kept the cloak from + her. That’s what the old woman told Anthony, and she was a skilful woman, + well knowing the nature of beasts and men, and of them that’s neither + beasts nor men. You’ll believe me now that Anthony wasn’t altogether the + same as other men when I tell you that he laid his mind down to get his + hand down on one of the cloaks. He was a good swimmer, so he was, which is + what few men on the island can do, and he knew that he’d be able to fetch + out to the rock where them ones played themselves.” + </p> + <p> + I was quite prepared to believe that Anthony was inspired by a passion far + out of the common. I know nothing more terrifying than the chill embrace + of the sea at night-time. To strike out through the slimy weeds which lie + close along the surface at the ebb point of a spring tide, to clamber on + low rocks, half awash for an hour or two at midnight, these are things + which I would not willingly do. + </p> + <p> + “The first time he went for to try it,” said Peter, “he felt a bit queer + in himself and he thought it would do him no harm if he was to bless + himself. So he did, just as he was stepping off the shore into the water. + Well, it might as well have been a shot he fired, for the minute he did it + they were off and their cloaks along with them; and Anthony was left + there. It was the sign of the cross had them frightened, for that same is + what they can’t stand, not having souls that religion would be any use to. + It was the old woman told Anthony that after, and you’d think it would + have been a warning to him not to make or meddle with the like of them any + more. But it only made him the more determined. He went about without + speaking to man or woman, and if anybody spoke to him he’d curse terrible, + till the time of the next spring tide. Then he was off to the bay again, + and sure enough them ones was there. The water was middling rough that + night, but it didn’t daunt Anthony. It pleased him, for he thought he’d + have a better chance of getting to the rocks without them taking notice of + him if there was some noise loud enough to drown the noise he’d be making + himself. So he crept out to the point of the cliff on the south side of + the bay, which is as near as he could get to the rocks. You remember + that?” + </p> + <p> + I did. On the night when we beat out of the bay against a rising westerly + wind we went about once under the shadow of the cliff, and, almost before + we had full way on the boat, stayed her again beside the rocks. Anthony’s + swim, though terrifying, was short. + </p> + <p> + “That time he neither blessed himself nor said a prayer, but slipped into + the water, and off with him, swimming with all his strength. They didn’t + see him, for they were too busy with their playing to take much notice, + and of course they couldn’t be expecting a man to be there. Without + Anthony had shouted they wouldn’t have heard him, for the sea was loud on + the rocks and their own singing was louder. So Anthony got there and he + crept up on the rock behind them, and the first thing his hand touched was + one of the cloaks. He didn’t know which of them it belonged to, and he + didn’t care. It wasn’t any one of the three in particular he wanted, for + they were all much about the same to look at, only finer than any woman + ever was seen. So he rolled the cloak round his neck, the way he’d have + his arms free for swimming, and back with him into the water, heading for + shore as fast as he was able.” + </p> + <p> + “And she followed him?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “She did so. From that day till the day she left him she followed him, and + she did what she was bid, only for one thing. She wouldn’t go to mass, and + when the chapel bell rang she’d hide herself. The sound of it was what she + couldn’t bear. The people thought that queer, and there was a deal of talk + about it in the island, some saying she must be a Protestant, and more + thinking that she might be something worse. But nobody had a word to say + against her any other way. She was a good enough housekeeper, washing and + making and mending for Anthony, and minding the children. Seven of them + there was, and all boys.” + </p> + <p> + The easterly breeze freshened as the night fell I could see the great eye + of the lighthouse blinking at me on the weather side of the boat. It + became necessary to go about, but I gave the order to Peter very + reluctantly. He handled the head-sheets, and then, instead of settling + down in his old place, leaned his elbows on the coaming and stared into + the sea. We were steadily approaching the lighthouse. I felt that I must + run the risk of asking him a question. + </p> + <p> + “What happened in the end?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “The end, is it? Well, in the latter end she left him. But there was + things happened before that. Whether it was the way the priests talked to + him about her—there was a priest in it them times that was too fond + of interfering, and that’s what some of them are—or whether there + was goings-on within in the inside of the house that nobody knew anything + about—and there might have been, for you couldn’t tell what one of + them ones might do or mightn’t. Whatever way it was, Anthony took to + drinking more than he ought. There was poteen made on the island then, and + whisky was easy come by if a man wanted it, and Anthony took too much of + it.” + </p> + <p> + Peter paused and then passed judgment, charitably, on Anthony’s conduct. “I + wouldn’t be too hard on a man for taking a drop an odd time.” + </p> + <p> + I was glad to hear Peter say that. I myself had found it necessary from + time to time, for the sake of an old friendship, not to be too hard on + Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody would have blamed him,” Peter went on, “if he had behaved himself + when he had a drop taken; but that’s what he didn’t seem able to do. He + bet her. Sore and heavy he bet her, and that’s what no woman, whether she + was a natural woman or one of the other kind, could be expected to put up + with. Not that she said a word. She didn’t. Nor nobody would have known + that he bet her if he hadn’t token to beating the young lads along with + her. It was them told what was going on. But there wasn’t one on the + island would interfere. The people did be wondering that she didn’t put + the fear of God into Anthony; but of course that’s what she couldn’t do on + account of his having the cloak hid away from her. So long as he had that + she was bound to put up with whatever he did. But it wasn’t for ever. + </p> + <p> + “The house was going to rack and ruin with the way Anthony wouldn’t mind + it on account of his being three-parts drunk most of the time. At last the + rain was coming in through the roof. When Anthony saw that he came to + himself a bit and sent for my grandfather and settled with him to put a + few patches of new thatch on the worst places. My grandfather was the best + man at thatching that there was in the island in them days, and he took + the job though he misdoubted whether he’d ever be paid for it. Anthony + never came next or nigh him when he was working, which shows that he + hadn’t got his senses rightly. If he had he’d have kept an eye on what my + grandfather was doing, knowing what he knew, though of course my + grandfather didn’t know. Well, one day my grandfather was dragging off the + old thatch near the chimney. It was middling late in the evening, as it + might be six or seven o’clock, and he was thinking of stopping his work + when all of a sudden he came on what he thought might be an old petticoat + bundled away in the thatch. It was red, he said, but when he put his hand + on it he knew it wasn’t flannel, nor it wasn’t cloth, nor it wasn’t like + anything he’d ever felt before in all his life. There was a hole in the + roof where my grandfather had the thatch stripped, and he could see down + into the kitchen. Anthony’s wife was there with the youngest of the boys + in her arms. My grandfather was as much in dread of her as every other + one, but he thought it would be no more than civil to tell her what he’d + found. + </p> + <p> + “‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I’m after finding what maybe + belongs to you hid away in the thatch.’ + </p> + <p> + “With that he threw down the red cloak, for it was a red cloak he had in + his hand. She didn’t speak a word, but she laid down the baby out of her + arms and she walked out of the house. That was the last my father seen of + her. And that was the last anyone on the island seen of her, unless maybe + Anthony. Nobody knows what he saw. He stopped off the drink from that day; + but it wasn’t much use his stopping it. He used to go round at spring + tides to the bay where he had seen her first. He did that five times, or + maybe six. After that he took to his bed and died. It could be that his + heart was broke.” + </p> + <p> + We slipped past the point of the pier. Peter crept forward and crouched on + the deck in front of the mast I peered into the gloom to catch sight of + our mooring-buoy. + </p> + <p> + “Let her away a bit yet,” said Peter. “Now luff her, luff her all you + can.” + </p> + <p> + The boat edged up into the wind. Peter, flat on his stomach, grasped the + buoy and hauled it on board. The fore-sheets beat their tattoo on the + deck. The boom swung sharply across the boat. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later we were leaning together across the boom gathering in + the mainsail. + </p> + <p> + “What became of the boys?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Anthony O’Flaherty’s boys? The last of them went to America twenty + years ago. But sure that was before you came to these parts.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI ~~ AN UPRIGHT JUDGE + </h2> + <p> + No one knows how the quarrel between Peter Joyce and Patrick Joseph + Flanagan began. It had been smouldering for years, a steady-going feud, + before it reached its crisis last June. + </p> + <p> + The Joyces and Flanagans were neighbours, occupying farms of very poor + land on the side of Letterbrack, a damp and lonely hill some miles from + the nearest market town. This fact explains the persistence of the feud. + It is not easy to keep up a quarrel with a man whom you only see once a + month or so. Nor is it possible to concentrate the mind on one particular + enemy if you live in a crowded place. Joyce and Flanagan saw each other + every day. They could not help seeing each other, for their farms were + small. They scarcely ever saw anyone else, because there were no other + farms on the side of the hill. And the feud was a family affair. Mrs. + Joyce and Mrs. Flanagan disliked each other heartily and never met without + using language calculated to embitter the feeling between them. The young + Joyces and the young Flanagans fought fiercely on their way to and from + school. + </p> + <p> + The war, which has turned Europe upside down and dragged most things from + their familiar moorings, had its effect on the lives of the two farmers on + the side of Letterbrack. They became better off than they had ever been + before. It must not be supposed that they grew rich. According to the + standard of English working men they had always been wretchedly poor. All + that the war did for them was to put a little, a very little, more money + into their pockets. They themselves did not connect their new prosperity + with the war. They did not, indeed, think about the war at all, bring + fully occupied with their work and their private quarrel. They noticed, + without inquiring into causes, that the prices of the things they sold + went up steadily. A lean bullock fetched an amazing sum at a fair. Young + pigs proved unexpectedly profitable. The eggs which the women carried into + town on market days could be exchanged for unusual quantities of tea. And + the rise in prices was almost pure gain to these farmers. They lived for + the most part on the produce of their own land and bought very little in + shops. There came a time when Peter Joyce had a comfortable sum, about £20 + in all, laid by after making provision for his rent and taxes. He felt + entitled to some little indulgence. + </p> + <p> + An Englishman, when he finds himself in possession of spare cash spends it + on material luxuries for himself and, if he is a good man, for his family. + He buys better food, better clothes, and furniture of a kind not + absolutely necessary, like pianos. An Irishman, in a similar agreeable + position, prefers pleasures of a more spiritual kind. Peter Joyce was + perfectly content to wear a “bawneen” of homemade flannel and a pair of + ragged trousers. He did not want anything better for dinner than boiled + potatoes and fried slices of bacon. He had not the smallest desire to + possess a piano or even an armchair. But he intended, in his own way, to + get solid enjoyment out of his £20. + </p> + <p> + It was after the children had gone to bed one evening that he discussed + the matter with his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure,” he said, “but it might be as well to settle things up one + way or another with that old reprobate Patrick Joseph Flanagan. It’s what + I’ll have to do sooner or later.” + </p> + <p> + “Them Flanagans,” said Mrs. Joyce, “is the devil. There isn’t a day passes + but one or other of them has me tormented. If it isn’t her it’s one of the + children, and if, by the grace of God, it isn’t the children it’s + herself.” + </p> + <p> + “What I’m thinking of,” said Joyce, “is taking the law of him.” + </p> + <p> + “It’ll cost you something to do that,” said Mrs. Joyce cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “And if it does, what matter? Haven’t I the money to pay for it?” + </p> + <p> + “You have,” said Mrs. Joyce. “You have surely. And Flanagan deserves it, + so he does. It’s not once nor twice, but it’s every day I do be saying + there’s something should be done to them Flanagans.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s more will be done to him than he cares for,” said Joyce grimly. + “Wait till the County Court Judge gets at him. Believe me he’ll be sorry + for himself then.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Joyce started early next morning. He had an eight-mile walk before + him and he wished to reach the town in good time, being anxious to put his + case into the hands of Mr. Madden, the solicitor, before Mr. Madden became + absorbed in the business of the day. Mr. Madden had the reputation of + being the smartest lawyer in Connaught, and his time was very fully + occupied. + </p> + <p> + It took Joyce nearly three hours to reach the town and he had ample time + to prepare his case against Flanagan as he went. There was no lack of + material for the lawsuit. A feud of years’ standing provides many + grievances which can fairly be brought into court. Joyce’s difficulty was + to make a choice. He pondered deeply as he walked along the bare road + across the bog. When he reached the door of Mr. Madden’s office he had a + tale of injuries suffered at the hands of the Flanagans which would, he + felt sure, move the judge to vindictive fury. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden was already busy when Joyce was shown unto his room. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “who are you and what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “My name’s Peter Joyce of Letterbrack, your honour,” said Joyce. “A decent + man with a long weak family, and my father was a decent man before me, and + it’s no fault of mine that I’m here to-day, and going into court, though + there isn’t another gentleman in all Ireland I’d sooner come to than + yourself, Mr. Madden, if so be I had to come to anyone. And it’s what I’m + druv to, for if I wasn’t——” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” said Mr. Madden. “Police? Drunk and disorderly?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not,” said Joyce. “Sure I never was took by the police only twice, + and them times they wouldn’t have meddled with me only for the spite the + sergeant had against me. But he’s gone from the place now, thanks be to + God, and the one that came after him wouldn’t touch me.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Joyce sank his voice to a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “It’s how I want to take the law of Patrick Joseph Flanagan,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Trespass or assault?” said Mr. Madden. + </p> + <p> + He was a man of immense experience. He succeeded in carrying on a large + practice because he wasted no time in listening to preliminary + explanations of his clients. Most legal actions in the West of Ireland are + reducible to trespass or assault. + </p> + <p> + “It’s both the two of them,” said Joyce. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden made a note on a sheet of paper before him. Joyce waited until + he had finished writing. Then he said slowly: + </p> + <p> + “Trespass and assault and more besides.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden asked no question. He added to the note he had written the + words “And abusive language.” Abusive language generally follows trespass + and immediately precedes assault. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Mr. Madden, “get on with your story and make it as short as + you can.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Joyce did his best to make the story short. He succeeded in making it + immensely complicated. There was a boundary wall in the story and it had + been broken down. There was a heifer calf and a number of young pigs. + There was a field of oats trampled and destroyed by the heifer, and a + potato patch ruined beyond hope by the pigs. There was a sheep torn by a + dog, stones thrown at Mrs. Joyce, language that had defiled the ears of + Molly Joyce, an innocent child of twelve years old, and there was the + shooting of a gun at Peter himself. + </p> + <p> + Joyce was prepared to swear to every item of the indictment. He did + actually swear from time to time, laying his hand solemnly on a large + ledger which stood on Mr. Madden’s desk. Mr. Madden listened until he had + heard enough. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t a ghost of a case against Flanagan,” he said. “The judge + won’t listen to a story like that. If you take my advice you’ll go + straight home and make it up with Flanagan. You’ll simply waste your money + if you go into court.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden, it will be seen, was a man of principle. He made his living + out of other people’s quarrels, but he gave honest advice to his clients. + He was also a man of wide knowledge of West of Ireland farmers. He knew + perfectly well that his advice would not be taken. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve the money to pay for it,” said Joyce, “and I’ll have the law of + Patrick Joseph Flanagan if it costs me the last penny I own. If your + honour doesn’t like the case sure I can go to someone else.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden, though a man of principle, was not quixotic. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said. “I’ll manage your case for you; but I warn you + fairly the judge will give it against you.” + </p> + <p> + “He might not,” said Joyce. “In the latter end he might not.” + </p> + <p> + “He will,” said Mr. Madden, “unless——” + </p> + <p> + He was watching Joyce carefully as he spoke. The man’s face had an + expression of cunning and self-satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Unless,” Mr. Madden went on, “you’ve something up your sleeve that you + haven’t told me yet.” + </p> + <p> + Joyce winked solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s what it would be hardly worth mentioning to your honour,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You’d better mention it all the same,” said Mr. Madden. + </p> + <p> + “What I was thinking,” said Joyce, “is that if I was to send a pair of + ducks to the judge a couple of days before the case was to come on—fine + ducks we have, as fine as ever was seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me,” said Mr. Madden. “You’ve got the very smallest possible + chance of winning your case. But you have a chance. It’s a hundred to one + against you. Still, odd things do happen in courts. But let me tell you + this. I know that judge. I’ve known him for years, and if you try to bribe + him with a pair of ducks he’d give it against you even if you had the best + case in the world instead of the worst. That’s the kind of man he is.” + </p> + <p> + Joyce sighed heavily. The ways of the law were proving unexpectedly + difficult and expensive. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe,” he said, “I could send him two pair of ducks, or two pair and a + half, but that’s the most I can do; and there won’t be a young duck left + about the place if I send him that many.” + </p> + <p> + “Either you act by my advice,” said Mr. Madden, “or I’ll drop your case. + This isn’t a matter for the local bench of magistrates. If it was them you + were dealing with, ducks might be some use to you. But a County Court + Judge is a different kind of man altogether. He’s a gentleman, and he’s + honest. If you attempt to get at him with ducks or any other kind of bribe + you’ll ruin any chance you have, which isn’t much.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a queer thing now, so it is,” said Joyce. + </p> + <p> + “It’s true all the same,” said Mr. Madden. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” said Joyce, “that his honour, the judge, would + go against a man that had done him a good turn in the way of a pair of + ducks or the like?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s exactly what I do mean,” said Mr. Madden. “No judge would stand it. + And the one who presides over this court would be even angrier than most + of them, so don’t you do it.” + </p> + <p> + Joyce left Mr. Madden’s office a few minutes later, and tramped home. In + spite of the lawyer’s discouraging view of the case he seemed fairly well + satisfied. + </p> + <p> + That evening he spoke to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “How many of them large white dukes have you?” he asked; “how many that’s + fit to eat?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no more than six left out of the first clutch,” said Mrs. Joyce. + “There was eleven hatched out, but sure the rats got the rest of them.” + “I’d be glad,” said Joyce, “if you’d fatten them six, and you needn’t + spare the yellow meal. It’ll be worth your while to have them as good as + you can.” + </p> + <p> + A month later the case of Joyce v. Flanagan came on in the County Court. + Mr. Madden had hammered the original story of the wall, the heifer, the + pigs and the potatoes, into shape. It sounded almost plausible as Mr. + Madden told it in his opening remarks. But he had very little hopes that + it would survive the handling of Mr. Ellis, a young and intelligent + lawyer, who was acting for Flanagan. Joyce cheerfully confirmed every + detail of the story on oath. He was unshaken by Mr. Ellis’ + cross-examination, chiefly because the judge constantly interfered with + Mr. Ellis and would not allow him to ask the questions he wanted to ask. + Flanagan and his witnesses did their best, but the judge continued to make + things as difficult as he could for their lawyer. The matter, when all the + evidence was heard, appeared tangled and confused, a result far beyond Mr. + Madden’s best expectations. He had feared that the truth might emerge with + disconcerting plainness. Then an amazing thing happened. The judge took + Joyce’s view of the circumstances and decided in his favour. Mr. Ellis + gasped. Flanagan swore audibly and was silenced by a policeman. Joyce left + the court with a satisfied smile. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mr. Madden, a little later, “you’ve won, but I’m damned if I + know how it happened. I never went into court with a shakier case.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t wonder,” said Joyce, “but it might have been the ducks that + did it. I sent him six, your honour, six, and as fat as any duck ever you + seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” said Mr. Madden. “After all I said to you—and—but, + good heavens, man! He can’t have got them. If he had——” + </p> + <p> + “He got them right enough,” said Joyce, “for I left them at the door of + the hotel myself, with a bit of a note, saying as how I hoped he’d take a + favourable view of the case that would be before him to-day, and I told + him what the case was, so as there’d be no mistake—Joyce v. Flanagan + was what I wrote, in a matter of trespass and assault, and abusive + language.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mr. Madden, “all I can say is that if I hadn’t seen with my + own eyes what happened in that court to-day I wouldn’t have believed it. To + think that the judge, of all men——” + </p> + <p> + “It was Flanagan’s name and not my own,” said Joyce, “that I signed at the + bottom of the note. ‘With the respectful compliments of Patrick Joseph + Flanagan, the defendant,’ was what I wrote, like as if it was from him + that the ducks came.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d never have thought of it,” said Mr. Madden. “Joyce, it’s you and not + me that ought to be a lawyer. Lawyer! That’s nothing. You ought to be a + Member of Parliament. Your talents are wasted, Joyce. Go into Parliament + You’ll be a Cabinet Minister before you die.” + </p> + <p> + THE END <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Casualty And Other Stories, by +James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. 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Birmingham + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Casualty And Other Stories, by +James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. Birmingham + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Our Casualty And Other Stories + 1918 + +Author: James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. Birmingham + +Release Date: January 21, 2008 [EBook #24393] +Last Updated: February 18, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR CASUALTY AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + OUR CASUALTY AND OTHER STORIES + </h1> + <h2> + <b> By G. A. Birmingham </b><br /> 1918 <br /> <br /> + </h2> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I ~~ OUR CASUALTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II ~~ GETTING EVEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III ~~ A MATTER OF DISCIPLINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV ~~ THE SECOND BASS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V ~~ HER RIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI ~~ JOURNEY’S END </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII~~ HIS GIRL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII ~~ SIR GALAHAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX ~~ A GUN-RUNNING EPISODE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X ~~ IRELAND FOR EVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> I. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> II. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XI ~~ SIR TIMOTHY’S DINNER-PARTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XII ~~ UNITED IRELAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XIII ~~ OLD BIDDY AND THE REBELS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XIV ~~ CIVILIZED WAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XV ~~ THE MERMAID </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVI ~~ AN UPRIGHT JUDGE </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I ~~ OUR CASUALTY + </h2> + <p> + There is not in the whole British Isles a more efficient military body + than the Ballyhaine Veterans’ Corps. The men look like soldiers when they + have their grey uniforms on and their brassards on their sleeves. They + talk like soldiers. They have the true military spirit. There is not a man + in the company under fifty years of age, but if the Germans attempt a + landing on the Ballyhaine beach, by submarine or otherwise, they will be + sorry for themselves afterwards—those of them who remain alive. + </p> + <p> + Ballyhaine is a residential suburb, entirely built over with villas of the + better kind. Each villa has its garden. In times of peace we discuss sweet + peas or winter spinach or chrysanthemums on our way into town in the + morning, travelling, as most of us do, by the 9.45 train, with season + tickets, first class. + </p> + <p> + When our boys went off from us, as they all did early in the war, we felt + that it was time for us to do something too. There was not the least + difficulty about enrolling the men. We all joined the corps, even poor old + Cotter, who must be close on seventy, and who retired from business three + years ago. He used to bore us all by talking about his rheumatism, but + when the Volunteer Corps was formed he dropped all that, and went about + saying that he had never suffered from pain or ache in his life, and could + do twenty miles a day without feeling it. We made Cotter a corporal. + </p> + <p> + Our Commanding Officer is Haines, who plays the best hand at bridge of any + man in the club. He held a commission in a line regiment before he went on + the Stock Exchange. That was thirty-five years ago, and it is not to be + supposed that his knowledge of soldiering is up-to-date, but he is the + only one of us who has any knowledge of soldiering at all, so we chose + him. + </p> + <p> + The women were a difficulty at first. They insisted on regarding us as a + joke, and used to repeat the absurd witticism of the street boys. I heard + Janet say “Methusaleers” one day. She denied it, but I am perfectly + certain she did not say “Fusiliers,” My wife fussed about dry socks and + wanted me to take my umbrella on a route march one wet Sunday. + </p> + <p> + Every other member of the corps had similar experiences. It was Tompkins + who hit on a way of dealing satisfactorily with the women. Tompkins is our + local doctor. He stays in Ballyhaine all day long when the rest of us go + up to town, so he naturally knows a good deal about women. He enrolled + them in a volunteer ambulance brigade, and after that they were just as + keen as any of us. We did the thing handsomely for them. We bought six + stretchers, a small motor ambulance waggon, and some miles of bandages. + Janet and Cotter’s youngest girl carried one of the stretchers. I should + not like to say that my wife actually hoped I should be wounded, but I + think she would have liked the chance of bandaging any other man in the + corps. The rest of the women felt as she did. + </p> + <p> + The drawback to Ballyhaine as a centre of military activity is the + difficulty of finding a place for practising field manoeuvres. There is + the golf links, of course, but we got tired of marching round and round + the golf links, and we did not want to dig trenches there. Haines, who + does not play golf, drew up a plan of trench digging which would have + ruined the golf links for years. But we would not have that. Nor could we + dig in each other’s gardens, or practise advancing over open country in + skirmishing order when there was no open country. The whole district is a + network of high walls with broken glass on top of them, a form of defence + rendered necessary by the attacks of small boys on our fruit trees. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately, we had the sea beach. The strand—there are three miles + of it—is one of the glories of Ballyhaine. We did most of our + manoeuvring there and dug our trenches there. Haines was opposed to this + plan at first. + </p> + <p> + “If the Germans come at all,” said Cotter, “they’ll come from the sea. + They must, this being an island.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Haines. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Cotter, “the beach is the place where we shall have to meet + them, and the strand is where our trenches ought to be.” + </p> + <p> + There was no answering that argument. Even Haines gave way. + </p> + <p> + “With barbed wire entanglements,” said Cotter, “down to the water’s edge.” + </p> + <p> + The weather round about Christmas-time was extraordinarily severe in + Ballyhaine. We came in for a series of gales, accompanied by driving rain, + and the days at that time of year are so short that most of our soldiering + had to be done in the dark. + </p> + <p> + I got one cold after another, and so did every other member of the corps. + Poor old Cotter limped pitifully on parade, but he did not say a word + about rheumatism. The spirit of the men was splendid, and not one of us + showed a sign of shirking, though Haines kept us at it with ferocity. + </p> + <p> + Haines varied the digging by making us practise a horrible manoeuvre + called “relieving trenches.” This was always done in the middle of the + night, between twelve and one o’clock. Part of the corps went out early—about + 10.30 p.m.—and manned the trenches. The rest of us marched forth at + midnight and relieved them. + </p> + <p> + The worst evening we had all winter was December 8th. It was blowing + terrifically from the south-east The sea was tumbling in on the beach in + enormous waves, fringing the whole line of the shore with a broad stretch + of white foam. The rain swept over the country pitilessly. I came out of + town by the 5.10 train, and called at the club on my way home. I found a + notice posted up: + </p> + <p> + “Ballyhaine Veterans’ Corps. + </p> + <p> + “Tonight, December the 8th, trenches will be relieved at 12 midnight. No. 1 + and No. 2 Platoons to parade at 10.30, march to north end of the strand, + and occupy trenches.” + </p> + <p> + That meant a six-mile march for those platoons—three there and three + back. + </p> + <p> + “No. 3 and No. 4 Platoons to parade at 11 p.m., march to cliffs, descend + rocks, and relieve trenches as soon as possible after midnight.” + </p> + <p> + I am in No. 3 Platoon, and I confess I shuddered. The rocks at the north + end of the beach are abominably slippery. A year ago I should have + hesitated about climbing down in broad daylight in the finest weather. My + military training had done a good deal for me physically, but I still + shrank from those rocks at midnight with a tempest howling round me. + </p> + <p> + When I reached home I put a good face on the matter. I was not going to + admit to my wife or Janet—particularly to Janet—that I was + afraid of night operations in any weather. + </p> + <p> + “Please have my uniform left out for me,” I said, “I shall put it on + before dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” said my wife, “you’re not going out to-night? I don’t think you + ought to.” + </p> + <p> + “Duty, my dear,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Just fancy,” said Janet, “if the Germans came and father wasn’t there! We + might be murdered in our beds!” + </p> + <p> + I am sometimes not quite sure whether Janet means to scoff or is in + serious earnest On this occasion I was inclined to think that she was + poking fun at the Veterans’ Corps. I frowned at her. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll get dreadfully wet,” said my wife. + </p> + <p> + “Not the least harm in that,” I said cheerily. + </p> + <p> + “It’ll give you another cold in your head,” said Janet + </p> + <p> + This time she was certainly sneering. I frowned again. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said my wife, “it won’t matter to you. You’re so strong and + healthy. Nothing does you any harm.” + </p> + <p> + I suspected her of attempting a subtle form of flattery, but what she said + was quite true. I am, for a man of fifty-three, extremely hardy. + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking,” she said, “of poor old Mr. Cotter. I don’t think he ought + to go. Mrs. Cotter was round here this afternoon. She says he’s suffering + dreadfully from rheumatism, though he won’t admit it, and if he goes out + to-night... But he’s so determined, poor old dear. And she simply can’t + stop him.” + </p> + <p> + “Cotter,” I said, “must stay at home.” + </p> + <p> + “But he won’t,” said my wife. + </p> + <p> + “Military ardour is very strong in him,” said Janet. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll ring up Dr. Tompkins,” I said, “and tell him to forbid Cotter to go + out. Tompkins is Medical Officer of the corps, and has a right to give + orders of the kind. In fact, it’s his duty to see that the company’s not + weakened by ill-health.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid,” said my wife, “that Dr. Tompkins can do nothing. Mrs. Cotter + was with him before she came here. The fact is that Mr. Cotter won’t give + in even to the doctor’s orders.” + </p> + <p> + I rang up Tompkins and put the case very strongly to him. + </p> + <p> + “It will simply kill Cotter,” I said, “and we can’t have that. He may not + be of any very great military value, but he’s a nice old boy, and we don’t + want to lose him.” + </p> + <p> + Tompkins agreed with me thoroughly. He said he’d been thinking the matter + over since Mrs. Cotter called on him in the afternoon, and had hit upon a + plan which would meet the case. + </p> + <p> + “If only the C.O. will fall in with it,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Haines is in some ways a difficult man. He likes to manage things his own + way, and resents any suggestions made to him, particularly by men in the + ranks. However, Cotter’s life was at stake, so I undertook to tackle + Haines, even at the risk of being snubbed. Tompkins explained his plan to + me. I rang up Haines, and laid it before him. I put the matter very + strongly to him. I even said that the War Office would probably deprive + him of his command if it was discovered that he had been wasting the lives + of his men unnecessarily. + </p> + <p> + “The country needs us all,” I said, “even Cotter. After all, Cotter is a + non-commissioned officer and a most valuable man. Besides, it’ll do the + Ambulance Brigade a lot of good.” + </p> + <p> + It was this last consideration which weighed most with Haines. He had felt + for some time that our ambulance ladies were coming to have too good an + opinion of themselves. I had the satisfaction of going back to the + drawing-room and telling Janet that the stretcher bearers were to parade + at eleven o’clock, and march in the rear of the column—Numbers 3 and + 4 Platoons—which went to relieve trenches. + </p> + <p> + “Rot,” said Janet “We can’t possibly go out on a night like this.” + </p> + <p> + “C.O.‘s orders,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “The stretchers will be utterly ruined,” she said, “not to mention our + hats.” + </p> + <p> + “C.O.‘s orders,” I said severely. + </p> + <p> + “If we must go,” said Janet, “we’ll take the ambulance waggon. + </p> + <p> + “No, you won’t,” I said. “You’ll take your stretchers and carry them. + Yours not to reason why, Janet. And in any case you can’t take the + ambulance waggon, because we’re marching along the beach, and you know + perfectly well that the strand is simply scored with trenches. We can’t + have the ambulance waggon smashed up. It’s the only one we have. If a few + girls break their legs it doesn’t much matter. There are too many girls + about the place.” + </p> + <p> + Platoons Numbers 1 and 2 marched off at 10.30 p.m. in a blinding downpour + of rain. We watched them go from the porch of the golf pavilion, and + promised to relieve them as quickly as we could. We paraded, according to + orders, at 11 sharp, and I was glad to see that Janet and the other girls + were wet and draggled long before we started. + </p> + <p> + Haines made us a short speech. He had to shout at the top of his voice + because the storm was making a dreadful noise. But we heard what he said. + The business of relieving trenches, he told us, would be carried out under + strictly war conditions, precisely as if enemy submarines were shelling us + from the sea. There would necessarily, supposing the submarines to be + actually there, be casualties in our force. Haines told off four men to + act as casualties. The first on the list—this was the way Tompkins’ + plan worked out—was Corporal Cotter. + </p> + <p> + “Corporal Cotter,” said Haines, “will drop out of the ranks as the column + passes the third bathing-box, numbering from the south end of the beach, + Mrs. Tompkins’ bathing-box, which is painted bright green.” + </p> + <p> + Haines was, very properly, most particular about defining the bathing-box + exactly. + </p> + <p> + “Corporal Cotter and the other casualties,” said Haines, “will take + waterproof ground-sheets with them—two waterproof ground-sheets each—and + keep as dry as possible. The stretcher bearers will follow the column at a + distance of two hundred paces to pick up the casualties, affording + first-aid on the spot, and, on reaching the field hospital, will apply + restoratives under the directions of the Company’s Medical Officer. For + the purposes of these manouvres. Corporal Cotter’s house will be regarded + as the Field Hospital.” + </p> + <p> + The other three casualties, all elderly and rather delicate men, were + ordered to drop out of the ranks at places further along the beach. If it + was Janet’s luck to reach the furthest casualty she would walk, carrying a + stretcher, about a mile and a half altogether. When she got home she would + be less inclined to sneer at people who catch cold in the service of their + country. + </p> + <p> + The night was extremely dark. I do not think I have ever experienced a + darker night. We could hear the sea roaring on our left, and could see, + when we looked back, a dim glow here and there from the windows of our + houses; but it was quite impossible to see anything on the beach. + </p> + <p> + I missed Cotter when we had been stumbling along for about a quarter of an + hour, and felt glad that he had done his share. In a minute or so, I + hoped, he would be safe on a stretcher, and half an hour later would be + drinking whisky and water, hot. That, so Tompkins told me, was the + restorative which was to be administered to all the casualties. + </p> + <p> + We got through the business of relieving the trenches in the end, though + we had a tough struggle. The great difficulty was to find them. If + Platoons Numbers 1 and 2 could have shouted to us or flashed their + electric torches we should have got them much sooner than we did. But + noise and light were strictly forbidden. They would, so Haines said, + attract the enemy’s fire, and result in our being wiped out by shrapnel. + </p> + <p> + I got separated at one time from the rest of my platoon, and walked into + the sea twice. Afterwards I fell over the Company Sergeant-Major, who was + sitting in a pool beside a rock. He said he had sprained his ankle. But + that turned out not to be true. He had only twisted it a little, and was + able to limp home. In civil life our Company Sergeant-Major is one of the + directors of the Corporate Banking Company Ltd., and drives into town in + his own motor. + </p> + <p> + Then I came on Haines, wandering by himself on a sandhill. He was swearing + viciously. It was, indeed, the sound of his oaths which led me to him. + They were not loud, but they were uttered with an intensity which gave + them the power of piercing through the tumult of the storm. He and I and + the Company Sergeant-Major stuck together, and at 1 a.m.—we took the + time from Haines’ luminous-faced wrist watch—we suddenly tumbled + into the trench. + </p> + <p> + We found the whole four platoons waiting for us; but they would not have + waited much longer. The senior Second Lieutenant—a very well-known + solicitor—had taken command of the company, assuming, as he said, + that Haines had become a casualty accidentally. His idea was to march the + men home, and then send the Ambulance Brigade to search for Haines, the + Company Sergeant-Major, and me. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the sort of thing,” he said, “an ambulance is for. The men in the + fighting line can’t be expected to do it.” + </p> + <p> + We marched home in pretty good order, considering that we were all very + wet, greatly exhausted, and many of us bruised in various parts of our + bodies. Our spirit was quite unbroken, and Haines, writing up the official + diary afterwards, said that our moral was excellent. He did us no more + than bare justice. There was not a man among us—except perhaps the + Company Sergeant-Major, whose ankle was swelling up—who would not + have welcomed a German attack. + </p> + <p> + We got back to the golf pavilion, and found the whole place in an uproar. + Women, all of them very wet, were rushing about. Tompkins was giving + confused and contradictory orders to the twelve stretcher bearers, who + looked cowed and miserable. Mrs. Cotter was sitting on the floor in a + corner of the room crying bitterly. We got the explanation out of Tompkins + at last. + </p> + <p> + Three of the casualties had, it appeared, been successfully picked up and + carried home. The stretcher bearers had somehow missed Cotter. Search + parties had been sent out. Tompkins himself had felt his way round each of + the fifteen bathing-boxes. The nursing section of the Ambulance Brigade + had waved electric torches and stable lanterns up and down the beach from + the edge of the sea to the sandhills. The stretcher bearers, scourged by + the remarks Tompkins made about their incompetence, had gone shouting + through the storm until they were hoarse and utterly exhausted. Nothing + had been seen or heard of Cotter. + </p> + <p> + Haines took charge of the situation at once. He formed up the four + platoons, and marched us all back to the beach. There we assumed open + order, and skirmished in a northerly direction. We were told to keep in + touch with each other, and to leave no square yard of the sand unexamined. + We were to go on skirmishing until we found Cotter, dead or alive. My own + idea was that if we found anything it would be his corpse. + </p> + <p> + I did my best to obey orders, but I almost immediately lost touch with + everybody else. The other men, so I learnt afterwards, had the same + experience. However, I had the good luck to find Cotter. He came towards + me, indeed he ran into me before I saw him. He was in charge of a + policeman, who held him firmly but kindly by the arm. The moment Cotter + saw me he burst out: + </p> + <p> + “Tell this infernal fool that I’m not drunk,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “If you’re acquainted with the gentleman,” said the policeman, “it would + be well for you to take him home to his bed. He’s not in a fit state to be + out by himself.” + </p> + <p> + I drove off the policeman with some difficulty, making myself personally + responsible for Cotter’s safety. Then I questioned the old gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Waiting for the ambulance. I’d be waiting still if that ass of a + policeman hadn’t insisted that I was drunk and dragged me away.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” I said, “and they’ve been looking for you for hours.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” said Cotter. “I saw their lights all over the place and + heard them shouting.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why on earth didn’t you shout back and let them know where you + were?” + </p> + <p> + “Casualties don’t shout,” said Cotter. “They can’t. They’re too weak. I + groaned occasionally; but I suppose they didn’t hear me.” + </p> + <p> + “And how long did you mean to lie out in this storm?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Till the stretcher bearers found me,” said Cotter. “Those were the C.O.‘s + orders.” + </p> + <p> + I do not know whether any medals will be given to volunteers after the + war. Cotter certainly deserves one. I have never heard a finer story of + devotion to duty than his. When I had got rid of the policeman he actually + wanted to go back and lie down again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II ~~ GETTING EVEN + </h2> + <p> + The battalion awaited its orders to embark for France. A feeling of + expectation, a certain nervousness, a half-pleasurable excitement, + prevailed in the officers’ mess and among the men. No one thought of + service in France as a picnic, or anticipated a good time in the trenches. + But there was a general sense of relief that the period of training—a + long, tiresome, very dull business—was over at last over or almost + over. For the Colonel and certain remote authorities behind the Colonel + believed in working the battalion hard up to the last moment. Therefore + day after day there were “stunts” and “shows,” field exercises of every + conceivable kind. The weather was hot, as hot as weather ought to be in + the first week of August Long marches became dusty horrors to the men. + Manouvres meant hours of desperate toil. Officers thought longingly of + bygone summers, of the cool shade of trees, of tennis played in white + flannels, of luscious plates of strawberries and cream. The Colonel, an + old soldier, went on inventing new “stunts” and more of them. He had + laboured at the training of his battalion, hammering raw boys into + disciplined men, inspiring subalterns with something of his own spirit. + </p> + <p> + On the whole he had been successful. The men sweated, but grumbled very + little. The officers kept up a gallant pretence at keenness. Slackness was + regarded as bad form, and only one member of the mess made no secret of + his opinion that the Colonel was overdoing the “spit and polish” business. + This was McMahon, the medical officer; and he did not, properly speaking, + belong to the battalion at all. Men and officers alike were drawn for the + most part from the English midlands. McMahon was an Irishman. They were + born with a sense of discipline and the Colonel worked on material + responsive to his methods. McMahon, like most Irishmen, was by temperament + a rebel. Yet there was no more popular officer than the Irish doctor. His + frank good humour, his ready wit, his unfailing kindliness, won him + affection. Even the Colonel liked him, and bore from McMahon behaviour + which would have led to the sharp snubbing of anyone else. + </p> + <p> + There came a day—the 6th of August—for which the Colonel, or + some higher authority, devised a “stunt” of the most intense and laborious + kind. A very great and remote man, the General in command of the whole + district, promised to be present and to witness the performance. Orders + were issued in minute detail, and every officer was expected to be + familiar with them. Maps were studied conscientiously. Field glasses were + polished. Rations were served out. Kits were inspected. The affair was an + attack upon a hill supposed to be strongly held by an enemy well provided + with machine-guns. + </p> + <p> + A genuine excitement possessed the battalion. This, so it was felt, was + very like the real thing. Just so, some day in France, would an advance be + made and great glory won. McMahon alone remained cheerfully indifferent to + the energetic fussiness which prevailed. + </p> + <p> + The day dawned cloudless with promise of intense heat. Very early, after a + hurried and insufficient breakfast, B Company marched out. It was the + business of B Company to take up a position south of the enemy’s hill, to + harass the foe with flanking fire and at the proper moment to rush certain + machine-gun posts. B Company had some ten miles to march before reaching + its appointed place. McMahon gave it as his opinion that B Company would + be incapable of rushing anything when it had marched ten miles in + blistering heat and had lain flat for an hour or two in a shadeless field. + A party of cooks, with a travelling kitchen, followed B Company. McMahon + said that if the cooks were sensible men they would lose their way and + come to a halt in a wood, not far from a stream. He added that he was + himself very sensible and had already fixed on the wood, about a mile from + the scene of the attack, where he intended to spend the day, with a novel. + </p> + <p> + The other three companies, the Lewis gunners, and a battery of Stokes gun + men, attached to the battalion for the attack, marched out later, under + the command of the Colonel himself. Cyclist scouts scoured the roads ahead + of the advance. McMahon, accompanied by an orderly, marched in the rear + and complained greatly of the dust. A Brigadier appeared in a motor and + cast a critical eye on the men. Two officers in staff caps, understood to + be umpires, rode by. + </p> + <p> + At noon, the heat being then very great, a motor cyclist dashed up, his + machine snorting horribly, the man himself plastered with dust, sweat and + oil. He announced that the battalion was under heavy fire from the enemy + artillery and that men were falling fast. The Brigadier had sent an urgent + message to that effect. The Colonel, who rather expected that something of + the sort would occur, gave the orders necessary in such a situation. The + men opened out into artillery formation and advanced, by a series of short + rushes, to take cover in some trenches, supposed to have been abandoned, + very conveniently, by the enemy the day before. The Brigadier, seated in + his motor-car in a wood on a neighbouring hill, watched the operation + through his field glasses, munched a sandwich, and enjoyed a glass of + sherry from his flask. McMahon, for whom short rushes in artillery + formation had no attractions at all, slipped through a hedge, skirted a + field of ripening oats, and settled himself very comfortably under a beech + tree on the edge of a small wood. His orderly followed him and laid down a + large package on the grass beside the doctor. The Colonel, an enthusiastic + realist, had insisted that McMahon should bring with him a supply of + surgical instruments, dressings and other things necessary for dealing + with wounds. McMahon opened the package. He took out a novel, a tin of + tobacco, a great many packages of cigarettes, two bottles of soda water, + two lemons and several parcels of food. + </p> + <p> + “This,” he said to the orderly, “is the advanced dressing station. When + the casualties begin to arrive, we shall be ready for them.” + </p> + <p> + The Brigadier sent another motor cyclist to say that the battalion would + be wiped out if it stayed where it was. He suggested a move to the right + and an attempt to get into touch with B Company. + </p> + <p> + The Brigadier, though he drove in a motor-car, was feeling the heat. If a + direct advance had been made on the hill from where the battalion lay he + would have been obliged to drive out of his wood in order to keep the + battle in view. A move to the right could be watched comfortably from + where he sat The Colonel explained the situation, not the Brigadier’s + feelings, to his officers, exposing himself with reckless gallantry as he + passed from company to company. He said that he himself would survey the + ground to the right and would try to discover the exact position of B + Company. + </p> + <p> + “I shall,” he said to the Adjutant, “climb a tree so as to get a good + view.” + </p> + <p> + The Adjutant remonstrated. He thought the Colonel was too old a man for + climbing trees. He recommended that a subaltern, a Second Lieutenant whom + nobody would miss much if he fell, should be sent up the tree. The + suggestion, as the Adjutant might have guessed, made the Colonel more + determined and slightly exasperated him. + </p> + <p> + He gave orders that the Stokes gunners should shell the enemy while he + climbed the tree. The Stokes gunners did not want to shell anyone. Their + weapons are awkward to handle and their ammunition very heavy. They were + already as hot as any men ought to be. But they were well trained and + highly disciplined. They attacked the enemy with small dummy shells, which + rose gently into the air, made a half-circle, and fell about fifteen yards + from the muzzles of their guns. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel, looking about him for a tree not too difficult to climb, + caught sight of the beech under which McMahon lay. It seemed exactly the + kind of tree he required. It was high. Its lower branches were close to + the ground. It looked strong and sound. The Colonel pushed his way through + the hedge, avoided the oats, and approached the tree across a pasture + field. He came on McMahon stretched flat on his back, a tumbler full of + lemon squash beside him and his novel in his hand. The Colonel was still + irritated by the Adjutant’s suggestion that he was too old to climb trees. + He was also beginning, now that he was near a tree, to wonder uneasily + whether the Adjutant had not been right He saw an opportunity of + expressing his feelings at the expense of McMahon. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + McMahon, who had not seen the Colonel approach, stood up hurriedly, + upsetting his lemon squash, and saluting. + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce are you doing here?” said the Colonel. “You’ve no business + to be idling, drinking and smoking under a tree, when the battalion is in + action.” + </p> + <p> + “This is an advanced dressing station, sir,” said McMahon. “I’m waiting + for the casualties. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not your duty,” said the Colonel. “Your duty is to be with the + men, in the firing line, ready to render first aid when required.” + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but I don’t think that you’re quite + right in saying——” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” said the Colonel, “that it isn’t the duty of a + medical officer to accompany the men into the firing line?” + </p> + <p> + McMahon saluted again. + </p> + <p> + “According to the instructions issued by the R.A.M.C., sir,” he said, “my + place is in the advanced dressing station when there’s only one medical + officer attached to the unit in action. If there is more than one the + position is, of course, quite different.” + </p> + <p> + The Colonel, though a soldier of long experience, was not at all sure what + instructions the R.A.M.C. authorities might have issued to their officers. + And doctors are a powerful faction, given to standing together and defying + anyone who attempts to interfere with them. Besides, no one, not even the + strongest and healthiest of us, knows how soon he may find himself under + the power of a doctor, seized with a pain or other form of discomfort + which only a doctor can alleviate. It is never wise to push things to a + quarrel with any member of the R.A.M.C. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel turned away and, somewhat laboriously, climbed his tree. He + was anxious, if possible, to make McMahon do a little work. It was + annoying to think that this young man, horribly addicted to slacking, + should be lying on his back in the shade. Yet he did not at once see his + way to any plan for making McMahon run about in the heat. + </p> + <p> + It was while he scanned the position of B Company through his field + glasses that an idea suddenly occurred to him. He climbed down rapidly and + found McMahon standing respectfully to attention at the foot of the tree. + </p> + <p> + “You told me, I think,” said the Colonel, “that this is the advanced + dressing station?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And that you’re prepared to deal with casualties?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall send some casualties down to you,” said the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall expect,” said the Colonel, “that each man shall be properly + treated, exactly as if he were really wounded, bandaged up, you know, + ready for the ambulance to take him to the casualty clearing station. And + a proper record must be kept for each case. You must have a list made out + for me, properly classified, with a note of the treatment adopted in each + case and the nature of the injury, just as if you were going to send it to + the medical officer at the casualty clearing station.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And it must be done properly,” said the Colonel. “No shirking. No short + cuts. I don’t see why you shouldn’t practise your job like the rest of + us.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away with a smile, a grim but well-satisfied smile. He intended + to keep McMahon busy, very busy indeed, for the rest of the day. + </p> + <p> + McMahon lay down again after the Colonel left him. But he did not attempt + to read his novel. He saw through the Colonel’s plan. He was determined to + defeat it if he could. He was enjoying a peaceful afternoon, and had no + intention of exhausting himself bandaging up men who had nothing the + matter with them or compiling long lists of imaginary injuries. After five + minutes’ thought he hit upon a scheme. Ten minutes later the first + casualty arrived. + </p> + <p> + “Sent to the rear by the Colonel, sir,” said the man. “Orders are to + report to you. Shrapnel wound in the left thigh, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Left thigh?” said McMahon. + </p> + <p> + “It was the left the Colonel said, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said McMahon. “Orderly!” + </p> + <p> + The orderly, who had found a comfortable couch among some bracken, roused + himself and stood to attention in front of McMahon. + </p> + <p> + “Take this man round to the far side of the tree,” said McMahon, “and let + him lie down there flat on his back. You can give him a cigarette. He is + to stay there until he gets orders to leave.” + </p> + <p> + The orderly saluted. The man grinned. He was quite ready to lie under the + tree without attempting to move until someone ordered him to get up. + </p> + <p> + In the course of the next ten minutes six more casualties arrived. Their + injuries were of several different kinds. One man reported that his thumb + had been taken off by a machine-gun bullet. Another said he had a scalp + wound. A third had lost a whole leg, severed at the thigh. A fourth had a + fragment of shell in his stomach. A fifth was completely blinded. A sixth + was suffering from gas poisoning. McMahon’s treatment never varied. Each + man was given a cigarette and led off by the orderly to lie down in the + shade at the far side of the tree. McMahon kept quite cool, refreshed + himself occasionally with a drink of lemon squash, and smoked his pipe. He + began to admire the activity of the Colonel’s imagination. For two hours + casualties poured in and every one had a different kind of wound. There + was scarcely any part of the human body with which McMahon was not called + upon to deal. And the Colonel never once repeated himself. Before four + o’clock about a third of the battalion and half of the officers were + lying, very well content, in the shade under McMahon’s care. Many of them + were sound asleep. + </p> + <p> + The orderly was a man with a sense of military propriety. He insisted on + the casualties lying in straight rows, as neatly aligned as if they were + on their feet at parade in the barrack square. At last the stream of + wounded grew slacker and finally ceased to flow. Between half-past four + and five o’clock not a single man came to report himself wounded. McMahon, + lighting a fresh pipe, congratulated himself. Either the Colonel’s + knowledge of anatomy was exhausted and he was unable to think of any more + wounds, or the battle was over, and there was no further excuse for + inventing casualties. McMahon got up and stretched himself. He handed his + novel, the two empty soda-water bottles, and his tobacco tin to the + orderly, and bade him pack them up. + </p> + <p> + “No cigarettes left, I suppose?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, not one. In fact, sir, the last twenty men didn’t get any. + Weren’t enough to go round them all, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said McMahon, “it’s been an expensive afternoon for me; but I don’t + grudge it. Those poor fellows wanted a smoke and a rest badly. Besides, + I’ve had a very pleasant time, pleasant and peaceful.” + </p> + <p> + He strolled round to the far side of the tree and took a look at the men + who lay stretched out. One of the officers, a boy of untiring energy, + complained that he was bored. + </p> + <p> + “I say, McMahon, can’t I get up and go back to the mess? What’s the good + of my lying here all the afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll lie there,” said McMahon severely, “until you get orders to go. + And it may be a long time before you do. In fact, you won’t be able to + stir till the padre comes, and I haven’t the least idea where he is, I + doubt if he’s out with us at all to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “What the dickens has the padre got to do with it?” said the officer. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find that out in time. For the present you’ve nothing to do but + lie still.” + </p> + <p> + “But hang it all—— I say, McMahon, can’t you finish off and + let me go?” + </p> + <p> + “I?” said McMahon. “I’ve finished with you long ago. There’s nothing more + for me to do. The next man to take you in hand is the padre.” + </p> + <p> + The orderly stood at his elbow while he spoke. He seemed a little nervous + and agitated. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “The Colonel’s just coming, sir. He and the + General. He’s drove up in the General’s car; and I’m afraid they’re both + coming here, sir.” + </p> + <p> + McMahon turned. What the orderly said was perfectly true. The Colonel, and + with him the General, and the two umpires in the fight, were skirting the + oats and making for the little grove of trees where the casualties were. + </p> + <p> + McMahon went to meet them. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, McMahon,” said the Colonel, “I’ve come to see how you’ve treated the + wounded. I’ve brought the General with me. Casualties rather heavy, eh? + Had a busy afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + The Colonel grinned. McMahon saluted respectfully. + </p> + <p> + “Got your list made out?” said the Colonel, “and your report on each case? + Just hand them over to me, will you? The General would like to see them.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but have you given orders for the + padre to report here?” + </p> + <p> + “Padre?” said the Colonel. “What do you want the padre for?” + </p> + <p> + “The padre and a burying party, sir,” said McMahon. “The fact is, sir, + that the wounded all died, every one of them, on the way down from the + firing line. Arrived here stone dead. I couldn’t do anything for them, + sir. Dead before they got to me. I’ve had them laid out, if you’d like to + see them, sir. It’s all I could do for the poor fellows. It’s the padre’s + job now. I understand that he keeps a register of burials, so there was no + need for me to make a list, and of course I didn’t attempt any treatment. + It wouldn’t have been any use, sir, when the men were dead.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III ~~ A MATTER OF DISCIPLINE + </h2> + <p> + O’Byrne, the Reverend Timothy, is our padre. We call him Tim behind his + back because we like him and Padre to his face because some respect is due + to his profession. Mackintosh is our medical officer. The Reverend Tim + used to take a special delight in teasing Mackintosh. It may have been the + natural antipathy, the cat and dog feeling, which exists between parsons + and doctors. I do not know. + </p> + <p> + But the padre never lost a chance of pulling the doctor’s leg, and + Mackintosh spent hours proving that the things which the padre says he saw + could not possibly have happened. I should not like to call any padre a + liar; but some of the Rev. Tim’s stories were rather tall, and the + doctor’s scepticism always goaded him to fresh flights of imagination. + </p> + <p> + The mess was a much livelier place after the Rev. Tim joined it. Before he + attached himself to us we used to wonder why God made men like Mackintosh, + and what use they are in the world. + </p> + <p> + Now we know. Mackintosh exists to call out all that is best in our padre. + </p> + <p> + One night—the battalion was back resting at the time—we had an + Assistant Provost Marshal as a guest. The conversation turned on the + subject of deserters, and our A.P.M. told us some curious stories about + the attempts made by these poor devils to escape the net of the military + organization. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is,” said the A.P.M., “that a deserter hasn’t a dog’s chance, + not here in France anyway. We are bound to get him every time.” + </p> + <p> + “Not every time,” said the padre. “I know one who has been at large for + months and you’ll never lay hands on him.” + </p> + <p> + The A.P.M., who did not of course know our padre, sat up and frowned. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it’s his fault that he’s a deserter,” said the padre. “He + was forced into it. And anyway, even if I give you his name and tell you + exactly where he is, you’ll not arrest him.” + </p> + <p> + “If he’s a deserter, I will,” said the A.P.M. + </p> + <p> + “No, you won’t,” said the padre. “Excuse my contradicting you, but when + you hear the story you’ll see yourself that you can’t arrest the man. + Mackintosh here is protecting him.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it me?” said Mackintosh. “I’d like you to be careful what you’re + saying. In my opinion it’s libellous to say that I’m protecting a + deserter. I’ll have you court-martialled, Mr. O’Byrne, padre or no padre. + I’ll have you court-martialled if you bring any such accusation against + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean you personally,” said O’Byrne. “I am taking you as a + representative of your profession. The man I am speaking of”—he + turned politely to the A.P.M.—“is under the direct protection of the + Army Medical. You can’t get at him.” + </p> + <p> + Mackintosh bristled, to the padre’s great delight Anything in the way of + an attack on the medical profession excites Mackintosh fearfully. + </p> + <p> + “Binny is the man’s name,” said the padre. “17932, Private Alfred Binny. + He was in the Wessex, before the hospital people made a deserter of him. I + will give you his address if you like, but you’ll not be able to arrest + him. If you try you’ll have every doctor in France down on you. They back + each other up through anything, don’t they, Mackintosh?” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like you to understand,” said Mackintosh, “that you can’t be saying + things like that with impunity.” + </p> + <p> + “Get on with the story, padre,” I said, “and don’t exasperate Mackintosh.” + </p> + <p> + “It was while I was attached to No. 97 General Hospital,” he said. “Know + No. 97, Mackintosh? No. That’s a pity. It’s a place which would just suit + you. Patients wakened every morning at five to have their faces washed. + Discipline polished till you could see your face in it, and so many rules + and regulations that you can’t cross a room without tripping over one. The + lists and card indexes that are kept going in that place, and the forms + that are filled in! You’d glory in it, Mackintosh. But it didn’t suit my + temperament.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you,” said Mackintosh grimly. + </p> + <p> + “It was while I was there,” said the padre, “that Biimy came down the line + and was admitted to the hospital with a cushy wound in the fleshy part of + his arm. He’d have been well in three weeks and back with his battalion in + a month, if it hadn’t been for the doctors. It’s entirely owing to them + that he’s a deserter now.” + </p> + <p> + “Malingered, I suppose,” said Mackintosh. “Got back to England by shamming + shell shock and was given his discharge. He wouldn’t have pulled it off if + I’d been there.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve guessed wrong,” said the padre. “It wasn’t a case of malingering. + As nearly as possible it was the exact opposite. The doctors tried to make + the poor fellow out much worse than he really was. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it,” said Mackintosh. + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact,” said the padre, “the mistake—you’ll hardly + deny that it was a mistake when you hear the story—arose through too + strict attention to discipline, that and the number of lists and returns + that were made out. It doesn’t do to rely too much on lists, and there is + such a thing as overdoing discipline. + </p> + <p> + “What happened was this. One evening, when Binny had been in the hospital + about a week, two orderlies came to his bed with a stretcher. They told + him they were going to carry him down to the mortuary and put him into his + coffin. Binny, of course, thought they were making some new kind of joke, + and laughed. But the orderlies were perfectly serious. They said his name + was on the list of those who had died during the day and they had no + choice except to obey orders and put him into a coffin. They showed Binny + the list, all nicely typed out, and there was no mistake about it Binny’s + name, number, regiment, and religion were all there. + </p> + <p> + “Binny began to get indignant. He said he wasn’t dead, that anyone could + see he wasn’t dead, and that it would be a barbarous thing to bury him. + The orderlies, who were very nice fellows, admitted that Binny seemed to + be alive, but they stuck to it that it was their business to carry out + their orders. Into the mortuary Binny would have to go. They tried to + console him by saying that the funeral would not be till the next morning. + But that did not cheer Binny much. In the end they took pity on the poor + fellow and said they would go away for an hour and come back. If Binny + could get the order changed they’d be very pleased to leave him where he + was. It wasn’t, so they explained, any pleasure to them to put Binny into + a coffin. + </p> + <p> + “Binny did not get much chance during his hour’s reprieve. The only person + who came into the ward was a V.A.D. girl, quite a nice little girl, + good-looking enough to be bullied a lot by the sister-in-charge. Binny + told her about the fix he was in, and at first she thought he was raving + and tried to soothe him down. In the end, to pacify him, I suppose, she + went and asked the orderlies about him. She had not been out in France + long, that V.A.D., and wasn’t properly accustomed to things. When she + found out that what Binny had told her was true, she got fearfully + excited. She couldn’t do anything herself, of course, but she ran off to + the matron as hard as she could. The matron was a bit startled just at + first, but she kept her head. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tell Private Binny,’ she said, ‘that if he has any complaints to make + they must be made at the proper time and through the proper channels. The + C.O. goes round the hospital every morning between 10 a.m. and 11 a.m. + Private Binny can speak to him then.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘But by that time,’ said the V. A.D. girl, ‘the man will be buried.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I can’t help that,’ said the matron. ‘The discipline of the hospital + must be maintained. It would be perfectly impossible to run a place like + this if every man was allowed to make complaints at all hours of the day + and to all sorts of people.’ + </p> + <p> + “That V.A.D. was a plucky girl, and persistent—they sent her home + afterwards in disgrace—and she talked on until the matron agreed to + take a look at Binny. I think she was staggered when she saw him sitting + up in bed and heard him cursing the orderlies, who had come back by that + time. But she couldn’t do anything. She wasn’t really a bad sort of woman, + and I don’t suggest for a moment that she wanted to have Binny buried + alive. But she had no authority. She could not alter an order. And there + the thing was in black and white. However, she persuaded the orderlies to + wait another half-hour. She went off and found one of the surgeons. He was + a decent sort of fellow, but young, and he didn’t see his way to + interfering. There had been several mistakes made in that hospital, and + the C.O. had been rather heavily strafed, which meant of course that + everyone under him was strafed worse, on the good old principle of passing + it on. That surgeon’s idea was to avoid trouble, if possible. Somebody, he + said, had made a mistake, but it was too late, then, to set things right, + and the best thing to do was to say nothing about it. He was sorry for + Binny, but he couldn’t do anything. + </p> + <p> + “When the V.A.D. girl heard that, she lost her temper. She said she’d + write home and tell her father about it, and that her father was a Member + of Parliament and would raise hell about it She didn’t, of course, say + hell!” + </p> + <p> + “She couldn’t do that,” said Mackintosh. “The censor wouldn’t pass a + letter with a story like that in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right,” said the padre, “and it wouldn’t have been any good if her + father had got the letter. He couldn’t have done anything. If he’d asked a + question in Parliament he’d simply have been told a lie of some kind. It + was a silly sort of threat to make. The V.A.D. saw that herself and began + to cry. + </p> + <p> + “That upset the surgeon so much that he went round and took a look at + Binny. The man was pale by that time and in the deuce of a funk. But he + wasn’t in the least dead. The surgeon felt that it was a hard case, and + said he’d take the risk of speaking to the C.O. about it. + </p> + <p> + “The C.O. of No. 97 General at that time was an oldish man, who suffered + from suppressed gout, which is the regular medical name for unsuppressed + temper. He said emphatically that Private Binny was reported dead, marked + dead, removed from the hospital books, and must stay dead. The whole + system of the R.A.M.C. would break down, he said, and things would drift + into chaos if dead men were allowed to come to life again whenever they + chose. + </p> + <p> + “The surgeon was a plucky young fellow in his way. Remembering how pretty + the V.A.D. looked when she cried, he pressed Binny’s case on the C.O. The + old gentleman said he might have done something two hours sooner; but the + hospital returns had gone to the D.D.M.S. and couldn’t possibly be got + back again or altered. In the end, after a lot more talk about regulations + and discipline, he said he’d telephone to the D.D.M.S. office and see if + anything could be done. It is greatly to his credit that he did telephone, + explaining the case as well as he could over a faulty wire. The staff + colonel in the office was perfectly civil, but said that the returns had + been forwarded by a motor dispatch rider to G.H.Q. and could not be + recalled by any possibility. The C.O., who seems to have begun to realize + the horrible position of Binny, asked advice as to what he ought to do. + The staff colonel said he’d never come across a case of the kind before, + but it seemed plain to him that Binny was dead, that is to say, officially + dead. The Chaplain’s Department, he thought, might be able to do something + for a man after he was dead. If not nobody could. + </p> + <p> + “That,” said O’Byrne with a smile, “is where I came in. The C.O. sent for + me at once.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Mackintosh, “that you straightened the whole thing out + without difficulty?” + </p> + <p> + Mackintosh is always irritated at a suggestion that anyone connected with + the medical profession can possibly make a mistake. When irritated he is + apt to attempt a kind of heavy sarcasm which O’Byrne sucks in with obvious + delight. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the padre, “I couldn’t straighten it out. But I did the best I + could. I went to see poor Binny. He was in the mortuary by that time. I + found him sitting up in his coffin crying like a child. I comforted him as + well as I could.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil,” said Mackintosh. “Not that I believe a word of this story. + It couldn’t have happened. But you may as well go on and tell us what you + did. Sang hymns to him, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said the padre. “I got him something to eat and a couple of + blankets. That mortuary is a cold place, and, though you mightn’t think + it, a coffin is draughty. Next morning I buried him.” + </p> + <p> + “God bless me!” said the A.P.M. explosively. “Do you mean to say you + buried a man you knew to be alive?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t help it,” said the padre. “It was in orders, matter of + discipline, you know. Can’t go back on discipline, can you, Mackintosh? I + got through it as quickly as I decently could. Then I let Binny out. The + graves in that cemetery are never filled in for an hour or two after the + coffins are let down, so I had lots of time. Jolly glad poor Binny was to + get out. He said he’d shivered all over when he heard ‘The Last Post.’ I + had a suit of clothes for him; of course, civilian clothes.” + </p> + <p> + The padre filled himself a glass of whisky and soda and lit his pipe. He + looked round with a smile of triumph. Most of us applauded him. He + deserved it. The story was one of his best imaginative efforts. I suppose + the applause encouraged him to go further. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you his address if you like,” he said to the A.P.M. “He’s + working on a French farm and quite happy. But I don’t see that you can + possibly arrest him without getting the whole medical profession on your + back. They said he was dead, you see, and, as Mackintosh will tell you, + they never own up to making mistakes.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV ~~ THE SECOND BASS + </h2> + <p> + “Be careful, Bates,” said Miss Willmot; “we don’t want your neck broken.” + </p> + <p> + “No fear, miss,” said Lance-Corporal Bates; “I’m all right.” + </p> + <p> + Lance-Corporal Bates had three gold bars on the sleeve of his tunic. He + might fairly be reckoned a man of courage. His position, when Miss Willmot + spoke to him, demanded nerve. He stood on the top rail of the back of a + chair, a feeble-looking chair. The chair was placed on a table which was + inclined to wobble, because one of its legs was half an inch shorter than + the other three. Sergeant O’Rorke, leaning on the table, rested most of + his weight on the seat of the chair, thereby balancing Bates and + preventing an upset. Miss Willmot sat on the corner of the table, so that + it wobbled very little. Bates, perilously balanced, hammered a nail, the + last necessary nail, into the wall through the topmost ray of a large + white star. Then he crept cautiously down. + </p> + <p> + Standing beside Miss Willmot he surveyed the star. + </p> + <p> + “Looks a bit like Christmas, don’t it, miss?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The glitters on it,” said Sergeant O’Rorke, “is the beautifullest that + ever was seen. The diamonds on the King’s Crown wouldn’t be finer.” + </p> + <p> + The star hung on the wall of the canteen opposite the counter. It was made + of cotton wool pasted on cardboard. The wool had been supplied by a + sympathetic nurse from a neighbouring hospital. It was looted from the + medical stores. The frosting, which excited Sergeant O’Rorke’s admiration, + was done with sugar. It was Miss Nelly Davis, youngest and merriest of + Miss Willmot’s helpers, who suggested the sugar, when the powdered glass + ordered from England failed to arrive. + </p> + <p> + “There can’t be any harm in using it,” she said. “What we’re getting now + isn’t sugar at all, it is fine gravel. A stone of it wouldn’t sweeten a + single urn of tea.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot took the sugar from her stores as she accepted the looted + cotton-wool, without troubling to search for excuse or justification. She + was a lady of strong will. When she made up her mind that the Christmas + decorations of her canteen were to be the best in France she was not + likely to stick at trifling breaches of regulations. + </p> + <p> + She looked round her with an expression of justifiable satisfaction. The + long hut which served as a canteen looked wonderfully gay. Underneath the + white star ran an inscription done in large letters made of ivy leaves. + Miss Willmot, in the course of two years’ service in the canteen of a base + camp, had gained some knowledge of the soldier’s heart Her inscription was + calculated to make an immediate appeal. “A Merry Christmas,” it ran, “And + the Next in Blighty.” The walls of the hut were hung round with festoons + of coloured paper. Other festoons, red, blue, and green stretched across + the room from wall to wall under the low ceiling. Chinese lanterns, + swinging on wires, threatened the head of anyone more than six feet in + height. Sergeant O’Rorke, an Irish Guardsman until a wound lamed him, now a + member of the camp police force, had to dodge the Chinese lanterns when he + walked about. Jam-pots and cigarette-tins, swathed in coloured paper, held + bunches of holly and sprigs of mistletoe. They stood on the tables and the + window sills. + </p> + <p> + But the counter was the crowning glory of the canteen. In the middle of it + stood an enormous Christmas cake, sugar-covered, bedecked with flags. + Round the cake, built into airy castles, were hundreds of crackers. Huge + dishes, piled high with mince pies, stood in rows along the whole length + of the counter on each side of the cake. Behind them, rising to the height + of five steps, was a long staircase made of packets of cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, it’s grand,” said Sergeant O’Rorke; “and there isn’t one only + yourself, miss, who’d do all you be doing for the men.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot’s eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often given + to expressing tender feeling. At home in the old days men spoke of her as + a good sport, who rode straight and played the game; but they seldom tried + to make love to her. Women said she was a dear, and that it was a thousand + pities she did not marry. It was no sentimental recollection of bygone + Christmases which brought the look of softness into her eyes. She was + thinking that next day the men for once would feast to the full in the + canteen—eat, drink, smoke, without paying a penny. She knew how well + they deserved all she could do for them, these men who had done so much, + borne so much, who still had so much to do and bear. Miss Willmot thanked + God as she stood there that she had money to spend for the men. + </p> + <p> + “Tea! tea! tea! Tea’s ready. Come along, Miss Willmot.” + </p> + <p> + The call came from behind the counter. Miss Nelly Davis stood there, a + tall, fair girl in a long blue overall. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve made toast and buttered it, and Mr. Digby’s waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “Good evening, miss, and a happy Christmas to you,” said Bates. + </p> + <p> + “If there’s a happy Christmas going these times at all,” said Sergeant + O’Rorke, “it’s yourself deserves it.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, thank you both,” said Miss Willmot “If it hadn’t been for your + help I’d never have got the decorations done at all.” + </p> + <p> + The men left the hut, and Miss Willmot locked the door behind them. The + canteen was closed until it opened in all its glory on Christmas + afternoon. + </p> + <p> + She passed through a door at the back of the counter, slipped off her + overall, stained and creased after a long day’s work, then she went into + the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Miss Nelly Davis was bending over a packing-case which stood in the middle + of the kitchen floor. It served as a table, and she was spreading a cloth + on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform, wearing the + badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This was Mr. Digby. Once + he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga’s, the most fashionable of + London churches. In those days Miss Willmot would have treated him with + scorn. She did not care for curates. + </p> + <p> + Now he was a fellow-worker in the Camp. His waterproof hung dripping + behind the kitchen door. Drops of rain ran down his gaiters. He was trying + to dry the knees of his breeches before the stove. Miss Willmot greeted + him warmly. + </p> + <p> + “Terrific night,” he said; “rain coming down in buckets. Water running + round the camp in rivers. I say, Miss Davis, you’ll have to get out + another cup. The Major’s coming to tea.” + </p> + <p> + “There isn’t a fourth cup,” said Miss Nelly. “You’ll have to drink out of + a mug.” + </p> + <p> + “Right-o! Mugs hold more, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “All padres are greedy,” said Miss Nelly. “What’s bringing the Major + here?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve arranged a practice of the Christmas carols,” said Digby. + </p> + <p> + “Bother your old carols,” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Must have a practice,” said Digby. “You and Miss Willmot are all right; + but the Major is frightfully shaky over the bass. It won’t do to break + down to-morrow. By the way, Miss Willmot, there’s something I want to + speak to you about before the Major comes. There’s——” + </p> + <p> + “Before the Major comes, Nelly,” said Miss Willmot, “give me some tea. He + always looks shocked when I drink four cups, so let me get through the + first two before he arrives.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” said Digby. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a drip coming through the roof just there which will get you on + the back of the neck every time you lean forward.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot shifted the biscuit-tin. It was not easy to find a spot to + put it. The roof of the kitchen leaked badly in several places. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Miss Willmot,” said Digby. “I wonder if you could do anything + about this. I’ve just been round to the guard-room. There’s a poor devil + there——” + </p> + <p> + “Language! language!” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + She was on her knees beside the stove rescuing her plate of toast from + danger. Drops of water were falling on it from the knees of Digby’s + breeches every time he moved. + </p> + <p> + “There is,” said Digby, speaking with great precision, “an unfortunate man + at this moment incarcerated in the cell behind the guard-room, under the + stern keeping of the Provost Sergeant. I hope that way of saying it + satisfies you, Miss Davis.” + </p> + <p> + “For goodness’ sake, don’t talk Camp shop,” said Miss Davis. “Let’s have + our tea in peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Drink, I suppose,” said Miss Willmot “Why will they do it, just at + Christmas, too?” + </p> + <p> + “This isn’t a drunk,” said Digby. “The wretched devil has been sent down + here under arrest from No. 73 Hospital. He’s to be court-martialled. He’s + only a boy, and a decent-looking boy, too. I hate to think of his being + shut up in that cell all by himself at Christmas with nobody to do + anything for him.” + </p> + <p> + “What can we do?” said Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do anything, of course,” said Digby, “but I thought you might.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what I can do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, try,” said Digby. “If you’d seen the poor fellow—— But + you’ll do something for him, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Digby had a fine faith in Miss Willmot’s power to do “something” under any + circumstances. Experience strengthened his faith instead of shattering it. + Had not Miss Willmot on one occasion faced and routed a medical board + which tried to seize the men’s recreation-room for its own purposes? And + in the whole hierarchy of the Army there is no power more unassailable + than that of a medical board. Had she not obtained leave for a man that he + might go to see his dying mother, at a time when all leave was officially + closed, pushing the application through office after office, till it + reached, “noted and forwarded for your information, please,” the remote + General in Command of Lines of Communication? Had she not bent to her will + two generals, several colonels, and once even a sergeant-major? A padre, + fourth class, though he had once been curate of St. Ethelburga’s, was a + feeble person. But Miss Willmot! Miss Willmot got things done, levelled + entanglements of barbed red tape, captured the trenches of official + persons by virtue of a quiet persistence, and—there is no denying it—because + the things she wanted done were generally good things. + </p> + <p> + The Major opened the door of the kitchen. He stood for a moment on the + threshold, the water dripping from his cap and running down his coat, + great drops of it hanging from his white moustache. He was nearer sixty + than fifty years of age. The beginning of the war found him settled very + comfortably in a pleasant Worcestershire village. He had a house + sufficiently large, a garden in which he grew wonderful vegetables, and a + small circle of friends who liked a game of bridge in the evenings. From + these surroundings he had been dug out and sent to command a base camp in + France. He was a professional soldier, trained in the school of the old + Army, but he had enough wisdom to realize that our new citizen soldiers + require special treatment and enough human sympathy to be keenly + interested in the welfare of the men. He grudged neither time nor trouble + in any matter which concerned the good of the Camp. He had very early come + to regard Miss Willmot as a valuable fellow-worker. + </p> + <p> + “Padre,” he said, “I put it to you as a Christian man, is this an evening + on which anyone ought to be asked to practise Christmas carols?” + </p> + <p> + “Hear, hear,” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve only had one practice, sir,” said Digby, “and I’ve put up notices + all over the Camp that the carols will be sung to-morrow evening. It’s + awfully good of you to come.” + </p> + <p> + “And of me,” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “You’re here, in any case,” said Digby. “The men are tremendously pleased, + sir,” he added, “that you’re going to sing. They appreciate it.” + </p> + <p> + “They won’t appreciate it nearly so much when they hear me,” said the + Major. “I haven’t sung a part for, I suppose, twenty years.” + </p> + <p> + Christmas carols have been sung, and we may suppose practised beforehand, + in odd places, amid curious surroundings. But it is doubtful whether even + the records of missionaries in heathen lands tell of a choir practice so + unconventional as that held on Christmas Eve in the kitchen of Miss + Willmot’s canteen. + </p> + <p> + The rain beat a tattoo on the corrugated iron roof. It dripped into a + dozen pools on the soaking floor, it fell in drops which hissed on to the + top of the stove. There was no musical instrument of any kind. The + tea-tray was cleared away and laid in a corner. The Major, white-haired, + lean-faced, smiling, sat on the packing-case in the middle of the room. + Miss Willmot sat on her biscuit-tin near the stove. Miss Nelly perched, + with dangling feet, on a corner of the sink in which cups and dishes were + washed. Digby, choir-master and conductor, stood in front of the stove. + </p> + <p> + “Now then,” he said, “we’ll begin with ‘Nowell.’ Major, here’s your note—La-a-a”—he + boomed out a low note. “Got it?” + </p> + <p> + “La-a-a,” growled the Major. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Willmot, alto,” said Digby, “la-a-a. That’s right. Miss Davis, a + third higher, la-a-a. My tenor is F. Here’s the chord. La, la, la, la. + Now, one, two, three. ‘The first Nowell the angels did say——‘” + </p> + <p> + The rain hammered on the roof. The Major plodded conscientiously at his + bass. Miss Nelly sang a shrill treble. Digby gave the high tenor notes in + shameless shouts. “Good King Wenceslas” followed, and “God rest you merry, + gentlemen.” Then the Major declared that he could sing no more. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d get another bass, padre,” he said. “I’m not trying to back + out, but I’m no good by myself. If I’d somebody to help me, a second bass——” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nobody,” said Digby. “I’ve scoured the whole camp looking for a + man.” + </p> + <p> + “If only Tommy were here,” said Miss Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Tommy has a splendid voice. And I don’t see why he mightn’t be here + instead of stuck in that silly old hospital. He’s quite well. He told me so + yesterday. A bullet through the calf of the leg is nothing. Major, + couldn’t you get them to send Tommy over to the Camp just for to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + The Major shook his head. He had every sympathy with Miss Nelly. He knew + all about Tommy. So did Miss Willmot. So did Digby. Miss Nelly made no + secret of the fact that she was engaged to be married to Tommy Collins. + She was proud of the fact that he was serving as a private in the Wessex + Borderers, wishing to work his way up through the ranks to the commission + that he might have had for the asking. No Wessex man ever entered the + canteen without being asked if he knew Private 7432 Collins, of the 8th + Battalion. Every one—even the sergeant-major—had to listen to + scraps read out from Tommy’s letters, written in trenches or in billets. + When Tommy was reported wounded, Miss Willmot had a bad day of it with an + almost hysterical Nelly Davis. When the wound turned out to be nothing + worse than a hole in the calf of the leg, made by a machine-gun bullet, + Miss Nelly cried from sheer relief. When, by the greatest good luck in the + world, Private 7432 Collins was sent down to 73 General Hospital, no more + than a mile distant from the Camp, Miss Nelly went wild with joy. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t be done,” said the Major. “If it were any other hospital—but + the people in No. 73 don’t like me.” + </p> + <p> + The Major was a stickler for extreme accuracy in the filling in of all + official papers. The staff of No. 73 Hospital cured its patients of their + wounds, but sometimes turned them loose afterwards, insufficiently, + occasionally even wrongly, described and classified. The Major invariably + called attention to these mistakes. + </p> + <p> + The Major, though particular on some points, was a kindly man. He did not + want to speak evil of the hospital authorities. He was also a little tired + of hearing about Tommy Collins. He changed the subject abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “By the way, Miss Willmot,” he said, “it’s all right about the men’s + Christmas dinner. I spent an hour this morning strafing everybody in the + cook-house. I told them they must try to make the Yorkshire pudding. + Heaven knows what it will be like?” + </p> + <p> + “If they’ll only follow the receipt I gave them——” said Miss + Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “<i>If</i>,” said Digby. “But those cooks are rotters.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow,” said the Major, “there’ll be a decent dinner. Roast beef, plum + pudding, oranges, and then all the things you have for them in the + canteen. They’ll not do badly, not at all badly.” + </p> + <p> + He rubbed his hands together and smiled with benevolent satisfaction. He + had arranged to eat his own Christmas dinner at the unholy hour of three + in the afternoon. He meant to see that all went well at the men’s dinner, + and that their tea was sufficient. He meant to look in for an hour at the + canteen festivities. He had promised to sing Christmas carols. From three + to four was the only time left at which he could dine. But that thought + did not spoil his satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + Digby saw, or thought he saw, his opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “There’s one poor fellow in the guard-room, sir,” he said. “Will he get + any Christmas dinner?” + </p> + <p> + He winked at Miss Willmot as he spoke. This was the time for her to back + up his charitable appeal. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said the Major, “I’m afraid I can’t do much for him. It’s a serious + charge, a case of a Field General Court Martial. I’m afraid there’s no + doubt about the facts. I’m sorry for him. He’s quite young; but it’s a + disgraceful thing for any man to do.” + </p> + <p> + The Major’s face hardened. For many offences and most offenders he had + some sympathy; but a man who sinned against the code of military honour + had little pity to expect from the Major. + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Is it very bad?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “One of those cases of self-wounding,” said the Major. “Shot himself in + the leg with his own rifle.” + </p> + <p> + There are cases of this kind, a few of them. Some wretch, driven half + frantic by terror, worn out with hardships, hopeless of any end of his + sufferings, seeks this way out. He gains a week of rest and security in a + hospital ward. Then he faces the stern judgment of a court martial, and + pays the penalty. + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow!” said Miss Willmot. “Poor boy! What he must have gone + through before he did that!” + </p> + <p> + “He went through no more than any other man went through,” said the Major; + “but they stuck it and he shirked. There are men enough who deserve our + pity, Miss Willmot. We can’t afford to waste sympathy on cowards.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot was of another mind. For her there was a law higher even than + the Major’s lofty code of chivalry and honour. She had pity to spare for + cowards. + </p> + <p> + The Major himself was not wholly consistent. As he rose to leave the + kitchen he spoke of the prisoner again. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t look like a man who’d do it. He looks like a gentleman. That + makes it worse, of course, much worse. All the same, he doesn’t look it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Digby, when the Major left. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do anything,” said Miss Willmot “In a case of this kind there’s + nothing to be done.” + </p> + <p> + But Miss Willmot made up a little parcel before she left the canteen. + There were cigarettes in it, and chocolate, and a couple of mince pies, + and a large slice of cake, and some biscuits. Afterwards she acted + lawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulations with + contempt. + </p> + <p> + Sergeant O’Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience when Miss + Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted. + </p> + <p> + “Terrible weather, miss. I’ll never say again that it rains in the County + Galway. Sure, it doesn’t know how. A man would have to come to France to + find out what rain is.” + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant,” said Miss Willmot, “I want to speak to your prisoner.” + </p> + <p> + Sergeant O’Rorke scratched his ear doubtfully. Miss Willmot had no right + to see the prisoner. He had no right to open the door of the cell for her. + They had hammered some respect for discipline into Sergeant O’Rorke when + he served in the Irish Guards. But they had not hammered the Irish nature + altogether out of him. He was willing to go to great lengths, to take + risks in order to oblige a friend whom he liked and respected. He had an + Irishman’s feeling that laws and regulations are not meant to apply to + ladies like Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “Did you think to ask leave of the Major, miss?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Willmot, “I didn’t ask anybody’s leave.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a pity now,” said O’Rorke; “but sure the Major would never have + said no if you’d have asked him.” + </p> + <p> + He fitted the key into the lock and flung open the door of the cell. + </p> + <p> + “Prisoner, ‘tention,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot entered the small square room, lit by a single electric + light. It was entirely bare of all furniture, save a single rug, which lay + rolled up in a corner. The walls and floor were lined with sheets of zinc. + A young man stood stiffly to attention in the middle of the room. Miss + Willmot stared at him. + </p> + <p> + Then she turned to Sergeant O’Rorke. “Shut the door please, sergeant, and + wait outside.” + </p> + <p> + The young man neither stirred nor spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Tommy!” said Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “7432! Private Collins, miss, 8th Wessex Borderers.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a tone of hard, cold fury. + </p> + <p> + “Tommy,” said Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “Awaiting trial by Field General Court Martial on a charge of deliberately + wounding himself in the leg.” + </p> + <p> + “Tommy,” said Miss Willmot again, “you didn’t do that.” + </p> + <p> + The boy broke down suddenly. The hardness and the anger vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Willmot,” he said, “for God’s sake don’t tell Nelly that I’m here.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t do it,” said Miss Willmot. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I didn’t do it,” he said. “There’s been some infernal blunder. + I didn’t know what the damned idiots meant when they put me under arrest I + didn’t know what the charge was till they marched me in to the C.O. here. + He told me. Oh, the Army’s a nice thing, I can tell you. I was expecting + to get my stripe over that raid when I got hit with a bullet in my leg, + and here I am charged with a coward’s trick. I suppose they’ll prove it. I + suppose they’ve got what they call evidence. I only hope they’ll shoot me + quick and have done with it I don’t want to live.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Willmot went over to the boy and took his hand. She led him to the + corner of the bare room. They sat down together on the folded blanket She + talked to him quietly, sanely, kindly. For half an hour she sat there with + him. Before she left, hope had come back to him. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you worry about my being here,” he said “If things are cleared up + in the end I shan’t mind a bit about spending a night or two in this cell. + With all the things you’ve brought me”—the cake, chocolate, and + cigarettes were spread out on the floor—“I’ll have a merry + Christmas, better than the trenches, anyhow. But, I say, don’t tell Nelly. + She might fret.” + </p> + <p> + The Christmas festivities in the Camp were enormously successful. The men + had cold ham for breakfast, a special treat paid for by the Major. They + assembled for church parade, and Digby gave them the shortest sermon ever + preached by a padre. The Major, who liked to play the piano at church + service, was so startled by the abrupt conclusion of the discourse, that + he started “O Come, All ye Faithful,” in a key so low that no one could + sing the second line. The Major pulled himself together. + </p> + <p> + “As you were,” he said, and started again. + </p> + <p> + The men, thoroughly roused by the novelty of the proceedings, yelled the + hymn. The dinner was all that could be hoped. Sweating cooks staggered + into the dining-hall with huge dishes of meat and steaming cauldrons of + potatoes. Sergeants, on that day acting as servants to the men, bore off + from the carving-tables plates piled high. The Yorkshire pudding looked + like gingerbread, but the men ate it. The plum pudding was heavy, solid, + black. + </p> + <p> + The Major, smiling blandly, went from table to table. Miss Nelly, flushed + with excitement and pleasure, laughed aloud. Only Miss Willmot looked on + with grave eyes, somewhat sad. She was thinking of Tommy Collins in his + cell, with the weight of an intolerable accusation hanging over him. + </p> + <p> + Later on, not even Miss Willmot had time to be thoughtful. There was a + pause in the festivities for an hour or two after dinner. The men smoked, + slept, or kicked at a football with spasmodic fits of energy. Then the + canteen was opened. Miss Willmot’s great cake was cut. The men passed in a + long file in front of the counter. Miss Willmot handed each man a slice of + cake. Other ladies gave crackers and mince pies. Digby, garrulous and + friendly, distributed cigarettes. The Major stood at the far end of the + room under the glistening white star. He was waiting for the moment to + arrive at which he should make his speech, a speech sure to be received + with genuine applause, for it was to be in praise of Miss Willmot. The + Major did that kind of thing well. He had the proper touch, could catch + the note appropriate for votes of thanks. He knew his talent, and that + Christmas Day he meant to do his best. + </p> + <p> + An orderly entered the canteen, looked round it, caught sight of the + Major. He pushed his way through a crowd of laughing men who munched cake, + smoked furiously, and decked each others’ heads with paper caps from + crackers. He reached the Major at last, and handed him a note. The Major + read it and swore. Then he began to push his way towards the counter. The + orderly followed him. + </p> + <p> + “Gangway,” he called, “gangway, men. Make way for the Major.” + </p> + <p> + Way was made at last. The Major seized Digby by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a damned nuisance,” he said. “I beg pardon, padre, an infernal + nuisance. I’ve got to go to the orderly room. Those fellows in No. 3 + Hospital are ringing me up. Why couldn’t they keep quiet on Christmas Day? + I must go though, and I may be kept. You’ll have to make the speech and + thank Miss Willmot.” + </p> + <p> + Digby escaped making the speech in the end. Just as the distribution of + cakes and mince pies had finished, when Digby was searching frantically + for an opening sentence, the Major returned. He made two speeches. One was + in a low voice across the counter to Miss Willmot. The other was to the + men. It was all about Miss Willmot. It was beautifully phrased. But she + did not hear a word of it. She was scarcely aware of the men’s cheers, + though the paper festoons swayed to and fro, and the Chinese lanterns + shook with the violence of the shouting. For the Major had said this to + her: + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right about that boy in the guard-room, the prisoner you know, + who was to have been court-martialled. Some blatant idiot of an orderly + sergeant mixed up two sets of papers, and put the wrong man under arrest. + They’re sending over the right man now. I told Sergeant O’Rorke to bring + that poor boy straight here from the guard-room. Keep a bit of cake for + him.” + </p> + <p> + It was while the men were cheering the Major’s other speech that Tommy + Collins, guided by Sergeant O’Rorke, entered the canteen. + </p> + <p> + Miss Nelly saw him at once. She stretched herself across the counter to + grasp his hands, upsetting the few remaining mince pies, and scattering + crackers right and left. If the counter had not been so broad and high she + would in all probability have kissed him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Tommy!” she said. “And I’d given up all hope of seeing you. This is + just a perfect Christmas box. How did you get here?” + </p> + <p> + Tommy Collins looked appealingly to Miss Willmot. His eyes begged her as + plainly as if words had crossed his lips not to tell the story of his + arrest. + </p> + <p> + “Now you are here,” said Miss Nelly, “you must help us with the carols. + The Major’s a perfect darling, but he can’t sing bass for nuts. You’ll do + it, won’t you? I’m singing, and so is Miss Willmot.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V ~~ HER RIGHT + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Jocelyn was generally considered a clever woman. Her husband + respected her intellect. He was, and still is, Professor of Psychology in + one of our younger Universities, so he could give an expert’s opinion on + any question of mental capacity. Her sons said she was clever. There were + two young Jocelyns, Ned, a barrister, and Tom, a junior master in a public + school. Ned used to give me his opinion of his mother very often. + </p> + <p> + “The mater is extraordinarily clear-headed,” he would say. “If you want to + see your way through a muddle, just you talk it over with her. It’s an + awful pity she——” + </p> + <p> + Then Ned would shrug his shoulders. He was a loyal son, and he never said + in plain words what the pity was. Tom spoke in the same way. + </p> + <p> + “Dad’s all right,” he used to say, “European reputation and all that; but + the mater has the brains of our family. If only she wouldn’t——” + </p> + <p> + I agreed with both of them. Mrs. Jocelyn was one of the cleverest women I + ever met, but—well, on one subject she was an intolerable bore. That + subject was Woman’s Suffrage. She could not keep off it for very long, and + once she started there was no stopping her. All her friends suffered. It + cannot be said that she argued. She demanded, aggressively insisted on sex + equality, on justice and right for women, right in every sphere of life, + political right, social right, economic right, all kinds of other right. + </p> + <p> + This, of course, was in the old days before the war. Since August, 1914, + most things have changed. Professor Jocelyn, indeed, still lectures on + psychology, half-heartedly now, to a rapidly dwindling class of young + women. But Ned Jocelyn’s name is painted in black letters on a brown + wooden cross at the head of a grave—one of a long row of graves—in + a French cemetery. Tom is trying to learn to walk without crutches in the + grounds of an English hospital. Mrs. Jocelyn is out in France, working in + a canteen, working very hard. It is only occasionally now that she demands + a “right;” but when she does, she demands it, so I understand, with all + her old ferocious determination to get it. This is the story of how she + once demanded and took a “right.” + </p> + <p> + It was nearly midday, and the camp lay under a blazing sun. It was early + in July, when all England and all France were throbbing with hope, pride + and terror as the news of the “Big Push” came in day by day. There was + little calm, and few hearts at ease in those days, but Number 50 + Convalescent Camp looked peaceful enough. It is miles from the firing + line. No shells ever burst over it or near it. Only occasionally can the + distant rumble of the guns be heard. A spell of dry weather had cracked + the clay of the paths which divided it into rectangles. The grass was + burnt and brown. The flower beds, in spite of diligent watering, looked + parched. The great white tents, marquees guyed up with many ropes, shone + with a blinding glare. In the strips of shade made by the fly sheets of + the tents, men lay in little groups. Their tunics were unbuttoned or cast + aside. They smoked and chatted, speaking slowly and briefly. Oftener they + slept. + </p> + <p> + Only in one corner of the camp was there any sign of activity. Near the + main entrance is the orderly room. Inside, a sweating adjutant toiled at a + mass of papers on the desk before him. From time to time a sergeant + entered the room, saluted, spoke sharply, received his orders, saluted and + went out again. From the clerk’s room next door came the sound of voices, + the ceaseless clicking of a typewriter, and the frequent clamorous summons + of a telephone bell. Outside, orderlies hurried, stepping quickly in one + direction or another, to the Quarter-master’s stores, to the kitchen, to + the wash-houses, to twenty other points in the great camp to which orders + must go, and from which messages must return. The bugler stood in the + verandah outside the orderly room, ready to blow his calls or strike the + hours with a hammer on a suspended length of railway line. At the entrance + gate, standing sharply to attention as a guardsman should, even under a + blazing sun, was Private Malley, of the Irish Guards, wounded long ago, + now wearing the brassard of the Military Police. He saw to it that no + person unauthorized entered the camp. Above him, limp from its staff, hung + the Red Cross flag, unrecognizable that day, since there was no faintest + breeze to stir its folds. + </p> + <p> + Close by the flag staff is the little dressing station. Here the men in + the camp, men discharged from hospital, are seen by the doctors and the + period of their rest and convalescence is decided. They are marked “Fit,” + and go to the fighting again, or sent back and enjoy good quarters and + pleasant food for a while longer. Or—best hope—marked + “Blighty” and go home. This is the routine. But sometimes there is a + difference. There had been a difference every day since the “Big Push” + started. Outside the dressing station was a group of forty or fifty men. + They lay on the ground, most of them sound asleep. They lay in the + strangest attitudes, curled up, some of them; others with arms and legs + flung wide, the attitudes of men utterly exhausted, whose overpowering + need is rest. Some sat huddled up, too tired to sleep, blinking their eyes + in the strong sunshine. Most of these men wore bandages. Bandages were on + their heads, their hands, their arms and legs, where sleeves and trousers + had been cut away. Some of them had lost their caps. One here and there + had lost a boot. Many of them wore tattered tunics and trousers with long + rents in them. All of them were covered with mud, mud that had dried into + hard yellow cakes. These were men sent straight down from the field + dressing stations, men who had been slightly wounded, so slightly that + there was no need for them to go to hospital. Among them there was one man + who neither lay huddled nor sprawled. He sat upright, his knees drawn up + to his chest, held tight in his clasped hands. He stared straight in front + of him with wide, unblinking eyes. Of all the men in the group, he was the + muddiest His clothes were caked with mud. His face was covered with mud. + His hair was matted with mud. Also his clothes were the raggedest of all. + The left leg of his trousers was rent from knee to waistband. The skin of + his thigh shone white, strangely white compared to his face and hands, + through the jagged tear. The sleeves of his tunic were torn. There was a + hole in the back of it, and one of his shoulder straps was torn off. He + was no more than a boy, youthful-looking compared even to the men, almost + all of them young, who lay around him. He had a narrow face with that look + of alert impudence which is common on the faces of gutter snipes in large + cities. + </p> + <p> + As he sat staring he spoke now and then, spoke to himself, for there was + no one to listen to him. + </p> + <p> + “We beat them,” he said once. “We gave them the damnedest beating. We + strafed them proper, and they ran. The Prussian Guards they was.” + </p> + <p> + His accent betrayed him. He must have come from Lancashire, from some + grimy Lancashire town, from Warrington or Bolton, from Liverpool itself + perhaps, or Manchester. Before the war there were crowds of such boys + there. They made up the football crowds on Saturday afternoons. They made + the countryside hideous on bank holiday afternoons. They were the despair + of church and chapel, of the social reformer, and often of the police. + This boy was under-sized, of poor chest development, thin-limbed, weedy; + but there was a curious light in those staring eyes of his. + </p> + <p> + He turned to the man on his right, a great, heavy-jawed Irishman with a + bandaged knee, who was sound asleep. + </p> + <p> + “Wake up, Pat,” he says, “wake up till I tell you how we strafed Fritz. + Out in the open it was, the Prussian Guards.” + </p> + <p> + But the Irishman slept on. Neither shaking nor shouting roused a sign of + intelligence in him. The boy turned to the man on his left, a Canadian, an + older man with a gentle, worn face. Perhaps because he was older or more + utterly wearied out, or in pain this man waked and raised himself on one + elbow. + </p> + <p> + “We went for them proper,” said the boy. “Prussians they was and Guards. + They thought they’d walk over us; but by God we talked to them, talked to + them with the bayonet, we did.” + </p> + <p> + A slow smile played across the Canadian’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Tommy,” he said, “what’s your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Wakeman, Private Wakeman, No. 79362. Gosh, Canada, but we handled them + and they ran.” + </p> + <p> + “They certainly did run some,” said the Canadian slowly. + </p> + <p> + Then Wakeman poured out his story, a wonderful story, told in jerky + sentences, garnished with blasphemies and obscene words. He had been a + member of the Lewis Gun team. Very early in the advance the bursting of a + high explosive shell had buried him, buried the whole gun team with its + officer, buried the gun. Wakeman and three other men and the officer had + crawled out from the mud and débris. Somehow they had unearthed the gun. + Driven on by a kind of frenzy, they had advanced again, halting, firing a + drum of cartridges, advancing again. Once more a shell caught them and + buried them. Once more Wakeman crawled out, clawed his way out with hooked + fingers, bit the loose clay with his mouth, bored through it with his + head, dug at it with his toes. This time he and the officer were alone. + They struggled to recover their gun, working fiercely, till a bullet hit + the officer. After that Wakeman went on by himself, managed somehow to get + among the men of the company to which his gun team belonged, and possessed + himself of a rifle. At that point his story became incoherent. But about + one thing he was clear. He and the others of his company had met in + straight hand to hand fighting the proudest troops of Germany. By + stabbing, lunging, battering with clubbed rifles, they had put the + Prussian Guard to flight. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” drawled the Canadian, “they did run. They certainly did run some. + And what’s the matter with you, sonny? Hit?” + </p> + <p> + “Buried,” said Wakeman, “buried twice, and shrapnel in my leg, little + bits.” + </p> + <p> + The bits were little, but there were a good many of them. Half an hour + later Wakeman passed into the dressing station in his turn. The doctor + looked him over, scribbled a word or two on the label which hung from the + lad’s breast pocket, and patted him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be all right, my boy,” he said. “No shell shock. No D.A.H. Get + along with you. Feeling a bit hungry, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” said Wakeman. “Yes, sir, feel as if I could do with a + bit of something to eat. The way of it was this, sir. We strafed them + proper, we did. The Prussian Guards they was, and——” + </p> + <p> + But the doctor had no time to listen to the story. “Get along now. Get + along. The sooner the dressing is done, the sooner you’ll get your + dinner.” + </p> + <p> + The story, which the doctor would not hear, bubbled out into the ears of + the nursing sister who picked the scraps of shrapnel out of Wakeman’s leg. + They were tiny fragments, most of them, but there were a great many, and + it took the nurse twenty minutes to get through her job. The story was + told twice over in jerks and snatches, just as it had been told to the + Canadian, only the obscene words were unuttered and the oaths, when they + slipped out now and then, were followed by apologies. Every soldier, even + a Lancashire gutter snipe, has in him this curious instinct. His talk is + commonly full of blasphemies and obscenities, devoid of all sense or + meaning, efforts at futile emphasis, apparently necessary and inevitable. + But if there is a woman within earshot, no such words pass his lips. A + girl might sit all day among these men, and, if they knew she was there, + her ears would never be sullied with the sound of a foul word. + </p> + <p> + Released at last from the dressing station, Wakeman and five or six others + were taken to the bathhouse. The corporal who led the way, the bath + orderly who provided soap and towels, and the wounded Irishman who was + given the bath next to Wakeman’s, all heard scraps of the story, learnt + the essential fact that Wakeman and his pals had strafed the Prussian + Guard. It was the Irishman who reduced the excited boy to silence for a + few minutes. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to be talking that way for?” he said. “Didn’t we all + give them hell? Didn’t I bring back three prisoners myself. Three? It’s + five I would have had, only for a stray shell that bursted alongside of + the communication trench and lifted two of them off me. Bad luck to that + same shell, for a bit of it took me under the knee. But what matter? Only, + mind this, what you did to the Prussian Guard wasn’t in it with what that + shell did to them two Boches. You’d have been sorry for the blighters, so + you would, if so be you could have found a bit of either of them big + enough to be sorry for.” + </p> + <p> + Wakeman had no reply to make to that. It is not possible with a bayonet, + or even with a Lewis gun, to cause the total disappearance of an enemy’s + body. + </p> + <p> + After his bath, with a clean shirt on him and a clean pair of socks, + Wakeman dined. There is no lack of good food in Number 50 Convalescent + Camp, and men recovering from wounds often have healthy appetites. But + Wakeman ate, gorged himself, to the astonishment even of the kitchen + orderlies. Plateful after plateful of stewed meat and potatoes, steaming + and savoury, disappeared. Yet there was no sign about the boy of the + lassitude of repletion. His eyes remained bright and glanced rapidly here + and there. His body was still alert, the movements of his hands quick and + decisive. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, rest. Wakeman found himself with other new-comers in a tent + in the corner of the camp. The Irishman was there, still lamenting in + picturesque phrases the loss of his two prisoners. + </p> + <p> + “And the biggest of them—a fine figure of a man he was—had the + beautifullest helmet on him that ever was seen; worth twenty francs it + was, any day, and me without a penny in my pocket. But where was it after + the shell bursted? Tell me that if you can.” + </p> + <p> + The Canadian was there, patiently ready to listen to any story, having + apparently no story of his own to tell. Wakeman began again. + </p> + <p> + “It was the Prussian Guard,” he said, “and we gave them proper hell, we + did, out in the open. No blasted machine guns. Just them and us with the + bayonet. And——” + </p> + <p> + He talked in vain. In the tent were beds, real beds with mattresses of + woven wire, and palliasses stuffed with straw. Stretched flat on his back + the Irishman snored. His head pillowed on his folded arm the Canadian + slept peacefully, a quiet smile, like a child’s, on his face. Wakeman + looked at them and snorted with contempt. For him no sleep was possible. He + pulled a bench to the door of the tent, and sat in the sunshine. He found + the lid of a cigarette tin and set to work to scrape the mud off his + clothes and boots. But the work wearied him. With a piece of string he + laced up the long rent in his trousers, cutting holes in the material with + the blade of a knife. Then, still obstinately disinclined for sleep, he + went out to explore the camp. + </p> + <p> + At one end of the camp is a hut, a long, low building. It is one of those + canteens and recreation huts, which, working through various + organizations, the public at home provides for the men in France. They are + familiar enough to everyone in France, and the men know that there is a + welcome for them however often they pass the doors. In this hut Mrs. + Jocelyn works all day long and every day. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes she cooks, making vast puddings, stewing cauldrons full of + prunes or figs. Sometimes she stands behind the counter serving bowls of + tea, coffee, cocoa, lemonade, to thirsty men. Sometimes, half asphyxiated + with tobacco smoke, she sits at the piano and hammers out rag-time tunes, + while the men crowd round her, their faces close to her as they peer at + the music, their voices threatening her with deafness when they bellow in + her ears. Sometimes she sits for an hour beside some dull-eyed victim of + shell shock, patiently trying to coax or trick him back to some interest + in life again, giving him, literally, her own vitality, until, “virtue + gone out” of her, she must seek fresh strength for herself in the less + exhausting toil of a scullery maid. Thus she pays to man the debt she owes + to God for the cross over the grave of one son dead, and the unconquerable + spirit of the other crippled. + </p> + <p> + It was a slack hour when Private Wakeman, in his grotesquely tattered + clothes, limped through the door. Only a few men were in the hut, writing + or playing draughts. A boy at the piano was laboriously beating out a + discordant version of “Tennessee.” Mrs. Jocelyn sat on a packing-case, a + block of paper on her knee, writing a letter to a man who had left the + camp to go up the line again. Another woman, a fellow worker, was + arranging plates of cakes and biscuits on the counter, piling bowls ready + to hand for the crowd of men who would come later, clamouring for tea. + </p> + <p> + Private Wakeman stood in the middle of the hut and looked around him. He + sought companionship, longed to find some one to whom he could tell his + story and make his boast about the Prussian Guard. His eyes wandered from + one to another of the men who were writing or playing games. He found + little encouragement. It seemed impossible to join himself to any one of + them. He looked at the lady busy with the bowls and plates. His eyes + rested at last on a great dish of stewed figs which stood on the counter. + He had eaten an incredible quantity of food in the dining-hall two hours + before, soup, beef, potatoes, cabbage, pudding, cheese. But he had not + eaten stewed figs. His whole boy’s nature rose in him in one fierce + longing for stewed figs. He remembered. Before he went into the attack he + had possessed half a franc and two sous. He thrust his hand into his one + trouser pocket. It was empty. He tore at the string with which he had + laced up the slit in his trousers. On that side there was not a pocket + left. It and all it ever contained, were gone. He fumbled in the pockets + of his tunic, found three mangled cigarettes, the stump of a pencil, a + letter from his mother, and, at last, two English penny stamps, survivals + of days which seemed years ago, when he had been in camp in England. + </p> + <p> + His eyes were fixed on the stewed figs. The longing in him grew fiercer, + intolerable. He approached the counter slowly. He laid on it the two + stamps, dirty almost beyond recognition. He smoothed them out carefully. + </p> + <p> + “Lady,” he said, “I haven’t got no money but——” + </p> + <p> + The worker laid down her bowls, looked at the two stamps, and then at the + boy. She was a woman of experience and discernment She saw the muddy, + tattered clothes. She read the look of desire in the eyes. She understood. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Stewed fruit, lady, and—and custard.” + </p> + <p> + She turned from the boy to Mrs. Jocelyn. + </p> + <p> + “It’s clean against all rules,” she said. “I know I oughtn’t to, but I + must—-I simply must give this boy something.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Jocelyn looked up from her writing. She saw all that the other had + seen. She had talked with many men. One glance was enough for her. She + knew what the boy had been through. With swift intuition she guessed at + what he felt and how he yearned. She saw the name of his regiment on his + one remaining shoulder strap. It was her dead boy’s regiment, and every + man in it was dear to her. Already the other lady was at work, putting a + spoonful of stewed figs on a soup plate. Mrs. Jocelyn seized her by the arm + and dragged her roughly back from the counter. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t dare to do it,” she said, “it’s my right. No one else has so good a + right to do it as I have.” + </p> + <p> + So Private Wakeman sat down to a plate piled with stewed figs, swamped + with a yellowish liquid called custard in canteens in France. Beside him + were jam tarts and great slabs of cake. From a mouth never empty, though + he swallowed fast, came in short gushes the story of the strafing of the + Prussian Guard, told at last to ears which drank in greedily every word of + it. + </p> + <p> + So Mrs. Jocelyn claimed and took at last her dearest right. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI ~~ JOURNEY’S END + </h2> + <p> + I had a long journey before me, and I looked forward to it with dread. It + is my habit when forced to travel in France, the part of France chiefly + affected by the war, to resign myself to a period of misery. I relapse + into a condition of sulky torpor. Railway Transport Offices may amuse + themselves by putting me into wrong trains. Officers in command of trains + may detach the carriage in which I am and leave it for hours in a siding. + My luggage may be—and generally is—hopelessly lost. I may + arrive at my destination faint for want of food. But I bear all these + things without protest or complaint. This is not because I am particularly + virtuous or self-trained to turn the other cheek to the smiter. I am + morally feeble, deficient in power of self-defence, a lover of peace with + discomfort, rather than honourable strife. + </p> + <p> + I felt no small joy when I discovered that Thompson was to be my + travelling companion on this particular journey. I had travelled with + Thompson before. I knew that he always secured food, that he never lost + his luggage, that he had an instinct for recognizing the right train when + he saw it, and that he had a healthy disregard for the dignity of the + official persons who clog the feet of wayfarers in France. + </p> + <p> + We met at the station. Thompson’s breezy good humour gave me fresh + confidence at once. He looked energetic, hopeful and charged with + vitality. + </p> + <p> + “Come along.” he said, “we’ll report to the R.T.O. at once and get it + over.” + </p> + <p> + In France under existing conditions the traveller reports to the Railway + Transport Officer when he starts his journey, when he finishes it and at + all intervening opportunities. An R.T.O. must lead a harassed and + distressful life. He sees to it that the traveller has a fair share of + life’s trouble. + </p> + <p> + This particular R.T.O. began by trying to get us into a wrong train. I + suppose that was the line of least resistance for him. It was easier to + put us into the first train that came along. We should have been off his + hands, and another R.T.O stationed somewhere else, would have had the job + of getting us switched back on to our proper track again. The first man—and + this was all he cared for—would have been rid of us. Thompson was + equal to the situation. He talked vigorously to that R.T.O.. Thompson + holds no very exalted rank in the army. I often wonder he is not tried by + Court Martial for the things he says. But the R.T.O., so far from + resenting Thompson’s remarks, offered us a sort of apology. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been on duty ten hours,” he said, “and there’s a whole battery of + artillery lost somewhere along the line. It never was my fault; but every + general in the whole army has been ringing me up about it. The telephone + bell hasn’t stopped all day. Damn! There it is again.” + </p> + <p> + It was; loud, angry and horribly persistent. Even Thompson felt sorry for + the R.T.O. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” he said, “you’ll get your Military Cross all right in the + end. All you fellows do. Now buck up a bit and find our train for us. It’s + X. we want to get to.” + </p> + <p> + I mention this incident to show the kind of man Thompson is and his way of + dealing with difficulties. Under his care I felt that I should travel + safely and get to X. in the end. Comfort was not to be expected, but + Thompson did all that could be done to mitigate our misery. + </p> + <p> + We made our start from a platform blocked with piles of officers’ luggage + and crowded with confused and anxious men. Subalterns in charge of drafts + asked other subalterns what they ought to do and received counter + inquiries by way of reply. Sergeants stormed blasphemously at men who had + disappeared in search of tea. Staff officers, red tabbed and glorious, + tried to preserve an appearance of dignity while their own servants + staggering under the weight of kit bags, bumped into them. Hilarious men, + going home on leave, shouted sudden snatches of song. A decrepit + Frenchman, patient in the performance of duty, blew feeble blasts on a + small horn. Thompson, alert and competent, found a compartment. He put me + in and then he bundled in my valise. After that he found his own luggage, + an enormous kit bag, two sacks, a camp bedstead, a hammock chair and a + number of small parcels. + </p> + <p> + “Get them in somehow,” he said. “We’ll settle down afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson did the settling afterwards. He so arranged our belongings that + we each had a seat The door by which anyone else might have to get in at + another station was hopelessly blocked. The small parcels were put on the + rack above our heads. Thompson gave me a list of their contents as he put + them in their places. They contained bread, butter, meat, biscuits, + cheese, a bottle of wine and a flask of brandy. + </p> + <p> + “We’re here till two o’clock to-morrow morning—till two o’clock at + best. We must have something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + A selfish traveller—I am profoundly selfish—would have been + content to keep that compartment secure from intrusion. We had completely + barricaded the door and no one could have got in if we had chosen to + defend our position. But Thompson was not selfish. The train stopped at a + station every quarter of an hour or so, and Thompson climbing up the + barricade, opened the window and took a look out every time we stopped. At + one station—it was then about 7 p.m. and quite dark—he + discovered a forlorn boy—a second-lieutenant—who was trying to + find room for himself and his belongings. Thompson hailed him. The next + five minutes were passed in fierce toil by all of us. But before the train + started Thompson got the boy and his belongings into our compartment. In + my opinion no second-lieutenants ought to be allowed to possess a + suit-case as well as a valise. This boy also had three top-coats and a + Jaeger rug. We spent nearly half an hour settling down again after that. + Then we dined, sharing the food—Thompson’s food—with the + second-lieutenant. He was a nice boy and very grateful. I thought him a + little garrulous, but Thompson encouraged him to talk. He told us all + about his job. It was his duty to go up in captive balloons and send down + messages to the artillery. It was, by his account, a sea-sicky business, + worse by several degrees than crossing the Channel in the leave boat. + Thompson, who has a thirst for every kind of information, questioned and + cross-questioned the boy. After dinner—dinner was Thompson’s name + for our meal—I prepared to go to sleep. Thompson arranged valises on + the floor in such a way that I could stretch my legs. The boy went on + talking. He told Thompson that he had dropped out of the ballooning + business and that he was going to X. to submit to a special course of + training. I forget what it was, bombing probably, or the use of trench + mortars, possibly map reading or—a subject part of the school + curriculum of our grandmothers—the use of globes. The army has a + passion for imparting knowledge of any kind to temporary lieutenants. I + went to sleep while Thompson was explaining just where the boy’s + particular course of instruction was given, a camp some three or four + miles out of X. Thompson has an amazing knowledge of what naturalists + would call the habitat of the various parts of the army. + </p> + <p> + At 3 a.m. I was awakened from my sleep. We had reached, an hour late, the + junction at which we had to change. Thompson and the boy were both alert + and cheerful. They had, I fancy, been talking all the time. Our junction + proved to be a desolate, windswept platform, without a sign of shelter of + any kind except a bleak-looking cabin, the habitation of the local R.T.O. + Thompson roused him ruthlessly and learned that, with luck, we might + expect our next train to start at six. I shivered. Three hours, the very + coldest in the twenty-four, on that platform, did not strike me as a + pleasant prospect. Thompson used a favourite phrase of his. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” he said, “it’s war; what the French call <i>La Guerre</i>.” + He professed to have discovered, not from the R.T.O. but from a sleepy + French railway official, that the train, our train in which we were to + travel, was somewhere in the neighbourhood, waiting for its engine. It did + not come to us from anywhere else; but made its start, so to speak took + its rise, at that junction. Thompson and our new friend, the boy, proposed + to get into the train when they found it. + </p> + <p> + Thompson can speak French of a sort, but he does not understand the + language as spoken by the French people. I did not believe that he had + really found out about that train. I declined to join in the search. He + and the boy went off together. They came back in about half an hour. They + said they had found a train standing by itself in a field and that it must + be ours because there was no other. The reasoning did not seen conclusive + to me, but I agreed to go and sleep in whatever train they had found. I + suggested that we should leave our luggage on the platform and pick it up + when the train got there at 6 a.m. + </p> + <p> + “That,” said Thompson, “is just the way luggage gets lost. Suppose—I + don’t say it’s likely or even possible—but suppose the train we get + into goes somewhere else. Nice fools we’d look, turning up in Paris or + Marseilles without a brush or comb among us. No. Where I go I take my + luggage with me.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson was evidently not so sure about that train as he pretended to be. + But I had reached a pitch of hopeless misery which left me indifferent + about the future. It did not seem to me to matter much just then whether I + ever got to X. or not. We had to make three trips, stumbling over railway + lines and sleepers, in the dark, falling into wet ditches and slipping on + muddy banks; but in the end we got all our luggage, including the boy’s + top-coats, into a train which lay lifeless and deserted in a siding. + </p> + <p> + This time Thompson and the boy slept. I sat up stiff with cold. At + half-past five a French railway porter opened our door and invited us to + descend, alleging that he wanted to clean the carriage. I was quite + pleased to wake Thompson who was snoring. + </p> + <p> + “Get up,” I said, “there’s a man here who wants to clean the carriage and + we’ve got to get out.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m damned if I get out,” said Thompson. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman repeated his request most politely. If the gentlemen would + be good enough to descend he would at once clean the carriage. + </p> + <p> + Thompson fumbled in his pocket and got out an electric torch. At first I + thought he meant to make sure that the carriage required cleaning. + Thinking things over I came to the conclusion that he felt he could talk + French better if he could see a little. He turned his ray of light on the + Frenchman and said slowly and distinctly: + </p> + <p> + “Nous sommes officiers anglais, et les officiers anglais ne descendent pas—jamais.” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman blinked uncertainly. Thompson added: + </p> + <p> + “Jamais de ma vie.” + </p> + <p> + That settled the French porter. He was face to face with one of the + national idiosyncrasies of the English, a new one to him and + incomprehensible, but he submitted at once to the inevitable. He gave up + all idea of cleaning the carriage and Thompson went to sleep again. The + boy slept soundly through the whole business. + </p> + <p> + At half-past seven—the train had been jogging along since six—Thompson + woke and said he thought he’d better shave. The proposal struck me as + absurd. + </p> + <p> + “We can’t possibly shave,” I said, “without water.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson was quite equal to that difficulty. The next time the train + stopped—it stopped every ten minutes or so—he hopped out with + a folding drinking cup in his hand. He returned with the cup full of hot + water. He had got it from the engine driver. He and I shaved. The boy + still slept, but, as Thompson pointed out, that did not matter. He was too + young to require much shaving. + </p> + <p> + “Nice boy that,” said Thompson. “Son of an archdeacon; was at Cambridge + when the war broke out. Carries a photo of his mother about with him. Only + nice boys carry photos of their mothers. He has it in a little + khaki-coloured case along with one of the girl he’s going to marry—quite + a pretty girl with tously hair and large eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s engaged to be married, is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he is. That sort of boy is sure to be. Just look at him.” + </p> + <p> + As he lay there asleep his face looked extraordinarily young and innocent. + I admitted that he was just the sort of boy who would get engaged to the + first girl who took him seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Girl’s out here nursing,” said Thompson. “V.A.D. Evidently has a strong + sense of duty or she wouldn’t be doing it. V.A.D.-ing isn’t precisely a + cushy job. He’s tremendously in love.” + </p> + <p> + “Seems to have confided most of his affairs in you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Told me,” said Thompson, “that the girl has just been home on leave. He + hoped to get back, too, to meet her, thinks he would have got a week if he + hadn’t been ordered off on this course, bombing or whatever it is.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson washed while he talked. It could scarcely be called a real wash, + but he soaped his face, most of his neck and his ears with his shaving + brush and then dipped his handkerchief in the drinking cup and wiped the + soap off. He was certainly cleaner afterwards; but I felt that what was + left of the water would not clean me. + </p> + <p> + Later on Thompson secured some rolls of bread, two jam pastries and six + apples. The bread and pastry I think he bought. The apples I am nearly sure + he looted. I saw a large basket of apples in one of the waggons of a train + which was standing in the station at which Thompson got out to buy our + breakfast. They were exactly like the apples he brought back. + </p> + <p> + We woke up the boy then. It did not matter whether he shaved or not; but + at his age it is a serious thing to miss a chance of food. + </p> + <p> + About midday we arrived at a large town. Thompson learned from the R.T.O. + who inhabited the railway station there that we could not get a train to + take us any further till ten o’clock that night. He said again that was + war, what the French call <i>guerre</i>, but he seemed quite pleased at + the prospect of the wait. He spoke of looking for a proper meal and a + Turkish bath. The bath we did not succeed in getting; but we had an + excellent luncheon: omelette, fried fish, some kind of stewed meat and a + bottle of red wine. The boy stuck to us and told us a lot more about his + girl. His great hope, he said, was that he would meet her somewhere in + France. I could see that what he really looked forward to was a wound of a + moderately painful kind which would necessitate a long residence, as a + patient, in her hospital. He was, as Thompson said, a nice boy; but he + talked too much about the girl. He was also a well-educated boy and + anxious to make the best of any opportunities which came his way. He told + us that there was an interesting cathedral in the town and proposed that + we should all go and see it after lunch. Thompson is not an irreligious + man. Nor am I. We both go to church regularly, though not to excess, but + we do not either of us care for spending week day afternoons in a + cathedral. Thompson still hankered after a Turkish bath. I had a plan for + getting a bedroom somewhere and going to sleep. We sent the boy off to the + cathedral by himself. + </p> + <p> + The Turkish bath, as I said, was unobtainable. We walked through most of + the streets of that town looking for it. Then Thompson proposed that we + should have afternoon tea. That we got in a small room above a pastry + cook’s shop. The girl who served us brought us tea and a large assortment + of sticky pastry. Thompson hates sticky pastry. There is only one kind of + cake made in France which he will eat. I knew what it was, for I had often + had tea with Thompson before. I should have recognized one if I had seen + it; but I could not remember the French name for it. Thompson insisted on + describing its appearance to the girl. He gave his description in English + and the girl looked puzzled. I tried to translate what he said into French + and she looked still more puzzled. + </p> + <p> + Then from the far corner of the room came a pleasant voice. + </p> + <p> + “I think <i>brioche</i> is the word you want.” It was. I recollected it + directly I heard it. I turned to thank our interpreter. She was a young + woman in the uniform of a V.A.D. She was sitting at a table by herself, + was, in fact, the only other occupant of the room. I thanked her. Thompson + joined in and thanked her effusively. There was not much light in the room + and her corner was decidedly gloomy. Still, it was possible to see that + she was a decidedly pretty girl. We both said that if there was anything + we could do for her we should be very pleased to do it After the way she + helped us out with the <i>brioche</i> we could scarcely say less. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” she said, “you may be able to tell me when I will be able to + get a train to——?” + </p> + <p> + She mentioned one of those towns of which the English have taken temporary + possession, turning the hotels into hospitals, to the great profit of the + original proprietors. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Thompson. “There’s a train at 9 p.m. But you’ll be + travelling all night in that. If I were you I’d stay here till to-morrow + morning and then——” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t,” said the girl. “Properly speaking I’m due back to-day; but I + missed the early train this morning and only got here an hour ago. The + boat was horribly late.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Thompson, “you’re coming back after leave, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + The girl sighed faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” she said, “but I’ve had a fortnight’s leave; I can’t complain.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll just write down that train for you,” said Thompson. + </p> + <p> + He scribbled 9 p.m. on a piece of paper and carried it over to the girl. + It seemed to me an unnecessary thing to do. Nine is a simple number, easy + to remember. Some thought of the same kind occurred to the girl. She + looked at Thompson, first with some surprise, and then, I thought, rather + coldly. She was evidently not inclined to accept any further friendly + offers from Thompson. He did not seem in the least abashed even when she + turned her shoulder to us and looked the other way. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen the cathedral here?” said Thompson. + </p> + <p> + The girl made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “I really think,” said Thompson, “that you ought to pay a visit to the + cathedral. You’ll like it, you really will. And you’ve got hours before + you. I don’t see how you can fill in the time if you don’t go to the + cathedral.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said the girl without turning round. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going there,” said Thompson, “or I’d offer to show you the way. + But you can’t miss it. You can see the spire from the window. It’s the + finest specimen of early Gothic in the north of France. The glass is + superb. There’s an altar piece by Raphael or Botticelli, I forget which. + The screen is late Italian Renaissance, and there’s a tomb in the west + transept which is supposed to be that of the Venerable Bede.” + </p> + <p> + The girl got up and walked out of the room. I was not surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Thompson,” I said, “what do you mean by behaving like a cad? Any one + could see that she is a nice girl; a lady, not that sort at all.” + </p> + <p> + Thompson grinned. + </p> + <p> + “And as for that rigmarole of yours about the cathedral—what the + devil do you know about Italian Renaissance, or Botticelli or early + Gothic? I never heard such rot in my life. As a matter of fact I’ve always + heard that the glass in this cathedral is poor.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same,” said Thompson, “if she goes there she’ll be pleased. + She’ll find something she’ll like a great deal better than stained glass.” + </p> + <p> + “As for the Venerable Bede,” I said, “he was buried in Oxford if he was + buried anywhere, and I don’t know that he was. He might have been + cremated, or minced up by high explosives so that they couldn’t bury him.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I recognized her,” said Thompson, “I went over to her table and + had a good look to make sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t pretend you know her,” I said “She certainly didn’t know you.” + </p> + <p> + “I looked at her photograph five times at least last night while you were + asleep.” + </p> + <p> + I thought this over for a minute. Then I said: + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to tell me that she’s the girl that boy is engaged to be + married to?” + </p> + <p> + “The exact same girl,” said Thompson. “I couldn’t be mistaken.” + </p> + <p> + I meditated on the situation. + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” I said, “that he won’t have left the cathedral before she gets + there.” + </p> + <p> + “No fear,” said Thompson, “he’s a most conscientious boy. Having started + out to do that cathedral he’ll look at every stone of it before he leaves. + He’ll be there for hours yet. What I’m afraid of is that she won’t go + there.” + </p> + <p> + “She started in the right direction,” I said “I saw her out of the + window.” + </p> + <p> + “I did my best anyhow,” said Thompson. “I told her I wasn’t going there. + She didn’t like me. I could see that. If I’d let her think I was going to + the cathedral she’d have marched straight off to the station and sat in + the Ladies’ Waiting-room till her train started.” + </p> + <p> + The girl, it appeared, did visit the cathedral and the boy was there. He + was waiting for us on the platform at the railway station at half-past + nine. He talked half the night to Thompson about his wonderful stroke of + luck. Just as I dropped off to sleep I heard Thompson quoting Shakespeare. + It was, to the best of my belief, the only time in his life that Thompson + ever did quote Shakespeare. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, + Every wise man’s son doth know,” + </pre> + <p> + he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII~~ HIS GIRL + </h2> + <p> + There were thirty or forty officers in the lounge of the hotel, all + condemned, as I was, to spend the greater part of the day there. Some men + have better luck. It was the fourth time I had been held up in this + wretched place on my way back to France after leave. Dragged out of our + beds at an unreasonable hour, crammed into a train at Victoria, rushed + down to an embarkation port as if the fate of the empire depended on our + getting there without a minute’s delay, we find, when we get out of the + train, that the steamer will not start for three hours, four hours, on + this occasion six hours. We are compelled to sit about in an hotel, + desolate and disgusted, when we might have been comfortable in London. + </p> + <p> + I looked round to see if there were anyone I wanted to talk to. There were—I + had seen them at Victoria—three or four men whom I knew slightly, + but I had no particular wish to spend hours with any one of them. I had + just decided to go out for a walk by myself when I felt a slap on my + shoulder. I turned and saw Daintree. I was uncommonly glad to see him. + Daintree and I were friends before the war and I have always found him an + amusing companion. He greeted me heartily. + </p> + <p> + “Great luck,” he said, “running into you like this. I don’t see a single + other man I know in the whole crowd. And any way I particularly wanted to + talk to you. I’ve got a story to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + We secured a corner and two comfortable chairs. I lit a pipe and waited. + Daintree is a wonderful man for picking up stories. The most unusual + things happen to him and he gets mixed up in far more adventures than + anyone else I know. And he likes telling stories. Usually, the men who + have stories to tell will not talk, and the men who like talking have + nothing interesting to tell. Daintree is exceptional. + </p> + <p> + “What is it this time?” I asked. “What journalists call a ‘sob story,’ or + is it meant to be humorous?” + </p> + <p> + “I should call it a kind of joke,” said Daintree; “but my wife says it’s + the most pathetic thing she’s ever heard. It makes her cry even to think + of it You can take it either way. I’ll be interested to see how you do + take it. I was thinking of writing it to you, ‘for your information and + necessary action, please.’ My wife wanted me to, but it’s too long for a + letter. Besides, I don’t see what you or anyone else could possibly do in + the matter. You may give advice—that’s what my wife expects of you—but + there’s really no advice to give. However, you can tell me how it strikes + you. That’s what I want to know, whether you agree with my wife or with + me. You know Simcox, don’t you, or do you? I forget.” + </p> + <p> + “Simcox?” I said. “Is that a tall, cadaverous man in the Wessex? Rather + mournful looking?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the man. Came home from a remote corner of the Argentine, or + somewhere like that, early in the war, and got a commission. He’s a + captain now.” + </p> + <p> + “I met him,” I said, “down Albert way, shortly before the push last year. + I can’t say I knew him. He seemed to me rather a difficult kind of man to + know.” + </p> + <p> + “So my wife says,” said Daintree. “He’s older than most of us, for one + thing, and has spent twenty years all by himself herding sheep or branding + bullocks, or whatever it is they do out in those places. Naturally he’d + rather lost touch with life at home and found it difficult to fit himself + in; especially with a lot of boys straight from the ‘Varsities or school. + They were mostly boys in his battalion. Anyhow, he seems to have been a + bit morose, but he did his job all right in the regiment and was + recommended for the M.C.. He got knocked out in the Somme push and jolly + nearly lost a leg. They saved it in the end and sent him down to my place + to convalesce.” + </p> + <p> + Daintree owns a very nice place in the Midlands. In the old days it was + one of the pleasantest houses I know to stay in. Daintree himself was a + capital host and his wife is a charming woman. The house is a convalescent + home for officers now, and Mrs. Daintree, with the help of three nurses, + runs it. Daintree pretends to regard this as a grievance, and says it was + all his wife’s doing, though he was just as keen on the place as she was. + </p> + <p> + “Damned nuisance,” he said, “finding the place full of boys rioting when I + get home on leave. And it’s full up now—twelve of them, no less. + There’s hardly a spot in the house I can call my own, and they’ve spoiled + the little lake I made at the bottom of the lawn. That young ass Pat + Singleton started what he called boat-races on it——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Pat Singleton’s there?” I said. “I knew he’d been wounded, but I + didn’t hear he’d been sent to your place.” + </p> + <p> + “Pat Singleton’s always everywhere,” said Daintree. “I’ve never come + across a place where he wasn’t, and he’s a devil for mischief. Remind me + afterwards to tell you about the trick he played on the principal nurse, a + Scotchwoman with a perfectly terrific sense of her own dignity,” Daintree + chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “If you’d rather tell me that story,” I said, “instead of the one about + Simcox, I’d just as soon have it. In fact, I’d prefer it. Sob stories are + always trying.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m not sure that the Simcox one is a sob story, though there’s a + certain amount of slosh in it. Anyhow, I’ve got to tell it to you, for my + wife says you’re the only man she knows who can advise what ought to be + done.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” I said, “but Pat Singleton’s escapades always amuse me. I’d + like to hear about his making an apple-pie bed for that nurse.” + </p> + <p> + Daintree chuckled again, and I gathered from the expression of his face + that the nurse had endured something worse than an apple-pie bed. + </p> + <p> + “Or about the boat-races,” I said. “I didn’t know you had anything which + floated on that lake of yours.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t,” said Daintree, “except the kind of wooden box in which the + gardener goes out to clear away the duck-weed. However, Pat Singleton + comes into the Simcox story in the end. It’s really about him that my wife + wants your advice.” + </p> + <p> + “No one,” I said, “can give advice about Pat Singleton.” + </p> + <p> + “Knowing the sort of man Simcox is,” said Daintree, “you’ll understand + that he was rather out of it at first in a house full of boys just out of + hospital and jolly glad to have a chance of running about a bit. Pat + Singleton wasn’t there when Simcox arrived. But the others were nearly as + bad; silly jokes from morning to night and an infernal row always going + on. My wife likes that sort of thing, fortunately.” + </p> + <p> + “Simcox, I suppose, just sat by himself in a corner of the veranda and + glowered?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. And at first my wife could do nothing with him. In the end, of + course——” + </p> + <p> + “In the end,” I said, “she persuaded him to tell her his inmost secrets + and to confide to her the tragedy of his soul. That’s just what she would + do.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Daintree is a very kind and sympathetic lady. When she talks to me I + feel ready to tell her anything. A man like Simcox, shy, reserved, and + wholly unaccustomed to charming ladies, would succumb to her easily and + pour out a love story or anything else he happened to have on his chest at + the time. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Daintree, “his leg was pretty stiff and he couldn’t get + about much, even if he’d wanted to. There was nothing for him to do except + sit in a deck-chair. My wife felt it her duty to talk to him a good deal.” + </p> + <p> + Daintree seemed to be making excuses for Mrs. Daintree and Simcox. They + were unnecessary. Mrs. Daintree would have got his story out of him if she + thought he was really in need of sympathy, whether he sat in a chair all + day or was able to row races in the lake in the gardener’s punt. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow,” said Daintree, “what he told her—he told it to me + afterwards, so there’s no secret about it—was this: He got hit in + the leg during an advance through one of those woods north of the Somme, + Mametz, I think. It was a beastly place. Our fellows had been in there two + days before and had to clear out again. Then Simcox’s lot went in—you + know the sort of thing it was?” + </p> + <p> + I nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Shell holes, and splintered tree trunks,” I said. “Machine-guns + enfilading you, and H.E. bursting promiscuous. I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sirmcox’ fellows went in all right, and stayed there for a while. + Simcox says he remembers noticing that the ground was strewed with débris + left by the Germans when they cleared out, and by our fellows afterwards. + Equipment, rifles and all the rest of it lying about, as well as other + things—pretty ghastly things.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t go into details,” I said. “I can guess.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m only telling you this,” said Daintree, “because all the stuff lying + about seems to have interested Simcox. It’s odd the feelings men have at + these times. Simcox says the thing he chiefly wanted to do was to tidy up. + He had a kind of strong desire to pick things up and put them away + somewhere. Of course he couldn’t; but he did pick up one thing, a + cigarette case. He showed it to me. It was one of those long-shaped, flat + white metal cases which fellows carry because they hold about thirty + cigarettes. Simcox says he doesn’t know why he picked it up. He didn’t + want it in the least. He just saw it lying there on the ground and stuffed + it into his pocket. Almost immediately after that he was hit. Bit of + shrapnel under the knee.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember hearing about that business,” I said. “We were driven out + again, weren’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. And Simcox was left behind. He couldn’t walk, of course. But he + crawled into a shell hole, and there he lay. Well, for the next two days + that wood wasn’t healthy for either side. The Germans couldn’t get back, + because we were sprinkling the whole place with shrapnel. We couldn’t + advance for similar reasons. Simcox just lay in his shell hole. He tied up + his leg somehow. He had some brandy in a flask as well as his iron + rations. But he hadn’t much tobacco. There were only two cigarettes in his + own case. However, he had the other case, the one he picked up. There were + nearly twenty in it Also there was—I say, at this point the story + gets sloppy.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” I said. “Go on. What else was in the cigarette case? A + farewell letter to a loving wife? Love to little Willie and a text of + Scripture?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so bad as that. A photo of a girl. He showed it to me when he told me + the story.” + </p> + <p> + “Good looking girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Very. Large eyes—sort of tender, you know, and appealing; and a + gentle, innocent face, and a mouth——” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” I said, “that these raptures are necessary if I’m to + understand the story. Otherwise, you may skip them.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t possibly skip them,” said Daintree. “The whole point of the story + depends on your realizing the sort of girl she was. Pathetic—that’s + the word I want. Looked at you out of the photo as if she was a poor, + lonely, but uncommonly fetching little thing, who wanted a strong, true + man to shelter her from the evil world. She was got up in some sort of + fancy dress which kind of heightened the effect. I don’t altogether + profess to understand what happened, though my wife says she does. But + Simcox in a sort of way fell in love with her. That’s not the way he put + it. He didn’t feel that she was just an ordinary girl—the sort one + falls in love with. She was—well, he didn’t think of her as flesh + and blood—more a kind of vision—spiritual, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Angel?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “That sort of thing. You know. That was the idea that gripped Simcox while + he lay there in the shell hole. Stars came out at night and Simcox felt + that she was looking down at him. In the day he used to lie and gaze at + her. When he thought it was all up with him and that he couldn’t live, he + seemed to hear her voice—I say, you ought to hear my wife telling + this part of the story. Simcox wouldn’t tell it to me, naturally; but he + seems to have enlarged on it a good deal to her. He says that only for + that photo he’d have given in and just died. I daresay he wouldn’t really, + but he thinks he would. Anyhow, he didn’t. He stuck it out and his leg + didn’t hurt nearly as much as he expected. He attributes that to the + influence of this—this——” + </p> + <p> + “Angel visitant?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “You can call her an angel if you like,” said Daintree. + </p> + <p> + “This,” I said, “seems to me a pure sob story. If there’s any other part + less harrowing, I wish you’d hurry up and get to it.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Daintree. “I’ll cut out the rest of his experiences in + that shell hole, though, mind you, they’re rather interesting and + frightfully poetic the way my wife tells them. After two days our fellows + got back into the wood and kept it. The stretcher-bearers found Simcox in + his hole and they lugged him down to a Casualty Clearing Station. From + that he went to a hospital—the usual round. He had a pretty bad + time, first over there, and then, when they could move him, in London. By + degrees he got more sane about the photo. He stopped thinking she was any + kind of spirit and took to regarding her just as a girl, though a very + exceptional kind of girl, of course. He was hopelessly in love with her. + Do you think a man really could fall in love with a photo?” + </p> + <p> + “Simcox did,” I said, “so we needn’t discuss that point.” + </p> + <p> + “The chances were, of course,” said Daintree, “that she was some other + fellow’s girl, possibly some other fellow’s wife. But Simcox didn’t care. + He was too far gone to care for anything except to get that girl. Those + morose, shy men are frightfully hard hit in that sort of way, I’m told. + That’s what my wife says, anyhow. They get it much worse than we do when + they do get it. Simcox would have dragged that girl out of the arms of an + archbishop if that was where he found her. Of course he couldn’t go + hunting her over England while he was in hospital with a bad leg; but he + made up his mind to find out who she was and where she lived as soon as he + was well enough to go about. He’d very little to go on—practically + nothing. The photo had been cut down so as to fit into the cigarette case, + so that there wasn’t even a photographer’s name on it.” + </p> + <p> + “He might have advertised,” I said. “There are papers which go in for that + sort of thing, publish rows of reproductions of photographs ‘Found on the + battle-field,’ with requests for identification.” + </p> + <p> + “My wife thought of that,” said Daintree, “but Simcox didn’t seem to take + to the idea. He said the photo was too sacred a thing to be reproduced in + a paper. My own idea is that he was afraid of any kind of publicity. You + see, the other fellow might turn up—the fellow who really had a + right to the girl.” + </p> + <p> + “How the deuce did he propose to find her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. He told my wife some rotten yarn about instinct guiding him + to her; said he felt sure that the strength of his great love would + somehow lead him to her side. He didn’t say that to me, couldn’t, you + know. But it’s wonderful what a fellow will say to a woman, if she’s + sympathetic, and my wife is. Still, even so, he must be more or less mad + to think a thing like that. Mad about the girl. He’s sane enough in every + other way.” + </p> + <p> + “He can’t be so mad as that,” I said. “Just fancy going out into a field—I + suppose that’s the way you’d do it—and hanging about until your + great love set you strolling off either to the right or to the left. No + man, however mad, could expect to come on a girl that way—no one + particular girl, I mean. Of course you’d meet several girls whichever way + you went. Couldn’t help it. The world’s full of girls.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what he meant,” said Daintree, “but my wife sympathized with + him and seemed to think he’d pull it off in the end. At first he was a bit + shy of letting her see the photo; but when he saw she was as sympathetic + as all that he showed it to her. Well, the moment she saw it, she felt + that she knew the face.” + </p> + <p> + “That was a stroke of luck for Simcox.” + </p> + <p> + “No it wasn’t,” said Daintree, “for my wife couldn’t put a name to the + girl. She was sure she had seen her somewhere, knew her quite well, in + fact, but simply couldn’t fix her. Funny thing, but it was exactly the + same when they showed me the photo. At the first glance I said right away + that I knew her. Then I found I couldn’t say exactly who she was. The more + I looked the more certain I was that I’d seen her somewhere, her or + someone very like her. And it wasn’t a commonplace face by any means. Poor + Simcox kept begging us to think. My wife went over our visitors’ book—we’ve + kept one of those silly things for years—but there wasn’t a name in + it which we couldn’t account for. I got out all the old albums of + snapshots and amateur photos in the house. You know the way those things + accumulate; groups of all sorts. But we couldn’t find the girl. And yet + both my wife and I were sure we’d met her. Then one morning Simcox burst + into my wife’s little sitting-room—a place none of the convalescents + have any right to go. He was in a fierce state of excitement. Said that an + officer who’d arrived the night before was exactly like the photo and that + the girl must be his sister or cousin, or something. The only officer who + came that night was—you’d never guess!—Pat Singleton.” + </p> + <p> + “Pat,” I said, “though a young devil, is cheerful, and I never saw him + anything but self-confident. I can’t imagine a girl such as you described + bearing the faintest resemblance to that boy. You said that she was a kind + of die-away, pathetic, appealing angel. Now Pat——” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Daintree. “All the same, the likeness was there. The moment + I looked at the photo with Pat in my mind I knew why I thought I + recognized it My wife said the same thing.” + </p> + <p> + “But Pat Singleton hasn’t any sisters,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t even a first cousin anything like the age of the + girl in the photo. I knew all the Singletons well, have for years. But + Simcox insisted his girl must be some relation of Pat’s, and in the end I + promised to ask the boy. In the first place, if she was a relation, it + seemed an impudent sort of thing to do, and if she wasn’t, Pat would be + sure to make up some infernal story about me and a girl and tell it all + over the place. However, my wife egged me on and poor Simcox was so + frightfully keen that I promised. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I sent for Pat Singleton next morning. He was a little subdued at + first, as much subdued as I’ve ever seen him. He thought I was going to + rag him about the spoof he’d played off on the nurse. He did that before + he was twelve hours in the house. Remind me to tell you about it + afterwards. I don’t wonder he looked piano. She’d been going for him + herself and that woman is a real terror. However, he cheered up the moment + I showed him the photo of the girl. He asked me first of all where the + devil I’d got it. Said he’d lost it somewhere before he was wounded.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it was his, then?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Daintree, grinning, “it was his. He was particularly anxious + to know how I came by it. I didn’t tell him, of course. Couldn’t give + Simcox away, you know. Then Pat began to cheek me. Asked if I’d fallen in + love with the girl and what my wife would say when he told her. Said he + carried the photo about with him and showed it to fellows just to watch + them falling in love with her. It seems that nine men out of ten admired + her greatly. He asked me if I didn’t think she was the prettiest girl I’d + ever seen, and that I wasn’t the first man by any means who wanted her + name and address. He grinned in a most offensive way and said that he + never gave away that girl’s name to anyone; that I ought to know better + than to go running after a nice, innocent little thing like that who + wouldn’t know how to take care of herself. I wasn’t going to stand much of + that sort of talk from Pat Singleton. I told him straight that if he + didn’t tell me that girl’s name and where she lived I’d make things hot + for him. I threatened to report the little game he’d had with the nurse + and that if I did he’d be court-martialled. I don’t know whether a man + could be court-martialled for cheeking a nurse, but the threat had a good + effect on Pat. He really was a bit afraid of that woman. I don’t wonder, + though it’s the first time I’ve ever known him afraid of anyone.” + </p> + <p> + Daintree paused and chuckled horribly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “who was the girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you tumbled to it yet?” said Daintree. + </p> + <p> + “No. Do I know her?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say you exactly know her,” said Daintree. “You know <i>him</i>. + It was a photo of Pat himself dressed up as the Sleeping Beauty, or + Fatima, or some such person in a pantomime they did down at the base last + Christmas when he was there. The young devil carried the thing about with + him so as to play off his silly spoof on every fellow he met. I must say he + made a damned pretty girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” I said. “And how did Simcox take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Simcox hasn’t been told—yet,” said Daintree. “That’s just what my + wife wants your advice about. You see it’s an awkward situation.” + </p> + <p> + “Very,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “If we tell him,” said Daintree, “he’ll probably try to kill Pat + Singleton, and that would lead to a lot of trouble. On the other hand, if + we don’t tell him he’ll spend the rest of his life roaming about the world + looking for a girl who doesn’t exist, and never did. It seems a pity to + let that happen.” + </p> + <p> + “My idea,” I said, “would be to get another girl, not necessarily like the + photo, but the same type, appealing and pathetic and all that. He’d + probably take to her after a time.” + </p> + <p> + “I suggested that,” said Daintree, “but my wife simply won’t hear of it. + She says the story as it stands is a great romance and that it would be + utterly spoiled if Simcox switched off after another girl. I can’t see + that, can you?” + </p> + <p> + “In a case like this,” I said, “when the original girl wasn’t a girl at + all——” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Daintree, “but when I say that my wife brings up the Angel + in the Shell Hole part of the story and says that a great romance is its + own reward.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what to advise,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t think you would,” said Daintree, “though my wife insisted that + you’d be able to suggest something. But you can tell me what you think of + the story. That’s what I really want to get out of you. Is it a Sob Story + or just a rather unusual spoof?” + </p> + <p> + “That,” I said, “depends entirely whether you look at it from Simcox’ + point of view or Pat Singleton’s.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII ~~ SIR GALAHAD + </h2> + <p> + The order, long expected and eagerly desired, came at last. The battalion + moved out from dusty and crowded barracks to a camp in the wilderness. + Lieutenant Dalton, a cheerful boy who had been taught Holy Scripture in + his childhood, wrote to his mother that the new camp was “Somewhere in the + wilderness beyond Jordan between the river of Egypt and the great sea.” + This description of the situation was so entirely inaccurate that the + Censor allowed it to pass without complaint. Old Mrs. Dalton told her + friends that her son was living under the shadow of Mount Sinai. He was, + in fact, nowhere near either Jordan or Sinai. He was some miles east of + the Suez Canal. For a week or so officers and men rejoiced in their new + quarters. There was plenty of elbow room; no more of the overcrowding they + had suffered since they landed. They had, indeed, miles of totally + unoccupied desert at their disposal. Each tent might have stood in its own + private grounds, three acres or so in extent, if that had not been felt by + the colonel to be an inconvenient arrangement. There was also—and + this particularly pleased the battalion—the prospect of a fight with + the Turks. Everyone believed when the move was made that a battle was + imminent, and the battalion, which had no experience of fighting, was most + anxious to show what it could do. + </p> + <p> + After awhile the enthusiasm for the new camp began to fade. The Turks did + not put in an appearance, and life was as peaceful as it had been in the + English camp where the battalion was trained. The situation of the camp, + though roomy, was not exciting. Both officers and men began to find + existence exceedingly dull. Lieutenant Dalton, who at this time wrote long + letters to his mother, told her that he understood at last why the + Children of Israel were so desperately anxious to get back to Egypt and + were inclined to rag Moses about the want of melons and cucumbers. At the + end of the month the whole battalion was bored to exasperation. + </p> + <p> + The desert which stretched in front of the camp was intolerably flat. The + sun rose with pitiless regularity, shone with a steady glare for a great + many hours, and then set. That was all that ever happened. The coming of a + cloud into the sky would have been greeted with cheers. No cloud appeared. + A sandstorm, however disagreeable, would have been welcomed as a change. + The sand stayed quietly where it was. The men tried football, and gave it + up because of the blistering heat. They played “House” until even the + excitement of that mild gamble exhausted itself. No other form of + amusement suggested itself. There was not even any work to do. Had the + battalion belonged to the Brigade of Guards it would no doubt have gone on + doing barrack-square drill every day and all day long until the men + learned to move like parts of a machine. But this was a Territorial + battalion, and the colonel held reasonable views about modern warfare. The + value of drill, a mechanical business, was in his opinion easily + exaggerated. Had the battalion belonged to an Irish regiment there would + probably have been several interesting fights and some means of obtaining + whisky would have been devised. In such ways the men would have escaped + the curse of monotony, and the officers would have been kept busy in the + orderly room. But this battalion came from the English Midlands. The men + did not want to fight each other, and had no overpowering desire to get + drunk. When the morning parades were over they lay in their tents and + grumbled peacefully. Under such circumstances tempers often wear thin, and + a habit of bickering takes possession of a mess. It is greatly to the + credit of everyone concerned that there was no sign of bad temper among + the officers of the battalion. The colonel lived a good deal by himself in + his tent, but was always quietly good-humoured. Lieutenant Dalton, an + incurably merry boy, kept the other subalterns cheerful. Only Captain + Maitland was inclined to complain a little, and he had a special + grievance, an excuse which justified a certain amount of grumbling. He + slept badly at night, and liked to read a book of some sort after he went + to bed. The mess had originally possessed an excellent supply of books, + some hundred volumes of the most varied kind supplied by the Camps + Libraries’ Association at home. Unfortunately, almost all the books were + left behind when the move was made. Only three volumes were to be found in + the new camp—one novel, a treatise on the culture of apple trees, + and Mallory’s “Morte D’Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Maitland blamed the chaplain for the loss. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to have looked after those books, padre,” he said. “It’s a + padre’s business to look after books.” + </p> + <p> + The Rev. John Haddingly, C.F., was a gentle little man, liked by the + officers because he was entirely unassuming, and popular with the men + because he was always ready to help them. He accepted the whole blame for + the loss of the books without an attempt to defend himself. + </p> + <p> + “I’m awfully sorry, Maitland,” he said. “I ought to have seen to those + books. I did look after the Prayer Books. They’re here all right; at least + most of them are.” + </p> + <p> + “Prayer Books!” said Maitland. “If they were even whole Prayer Books! But + those little yellow tracts of yours! They haven’t even got the Thirty-Nine + Articles in them. If they were pukka Prayer Books I’d borrow one and try + to read it. I expect there are lots of interesting things in the small + print parts of the Prayer Book, the parts you padres never read out. But + what’s the good of the books you have? Nothing in them but what we all + know off by heart.” + </p> + <p> + Haddingly sighed. He was painfully conscious of the shortcomings of the + Field Service Books supplied for the use of the troops. Dalton came to his + defence. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t strafe the padre,” he said. “He brought along a church, an entire + church. Is there another padre in the whole Army who could have got a + church to a place like this?” + </p> + <p> + Dalton’s almost incredible statement was literally true. Haddingly had + succeeded, contrary to all regulations, in bringing with him from England + a corrugated iron church. It was quite a small one, it folded up and could + be packed flat. When unpacked and erected it was undeniably a church. It + had a large cross at one end of it outside. Inside it was furnished with + an altar, complete with cross and candlesticks, a collapsible harmonium + and a number of benches. Chaplains have certainly no right to load up + troopships with churches, but Haddingly had somehow got his to Egypt. By + what blandishments the transport officer had been induced to drag the + thing out into the desert beyond the canal no one knew. Haddingly was one + of those uncomplainingly meek men who never stand up for themselves. It is + a curious fact, but it is a fact, that a really helpless person gets + things done for him which the most aggressive and masterful men cannot + accomplish. The success in life of women of the “clinging” kind is an + illustration of this law. + </p> + <p> + Haddingly smiled with joy at the mention of his church. It stood, securely + bolted together, a little outside the camp. No one, the cross being + disproportionately large, could possibly mistake it for anything but a + church. In front of it was a notice board, a nice black notice board with + a suggestion of Gothic architecture about it. On the board, in bright + white letters, was a list of services and the name of the church—St + John in the Wilderness. + </p> + <p> + Originally, before the move into the desert, it had been simply St John + the Evangelist, but Haddingly felt that the new circumstances demanded a + change of dedication. Everyone, from the colonel down to the humblest + private, was secretly proud of the church. The possession of such a thing + gave a certain distinction to the battalion. Haddingly was a good deal + chaffed about it; but the building was in a fair way to become a + regimental mascot. “I’m not strafing the padre,” said Captain Maitland, + “but I wish we had a few of the books we left behind.” + </p> + <p> + “To listen to you talking,” said Dalton, “anyone would think you were some + kind of literary swell—Hall Caine and Wordsworth rolled into one, + whereas we all know that the only thing you take an interest in is + horses.” Captain Maitland was very far from being a literary swell or + claiming any such title. The books he really liked, the only books he read + when he had a free choice, were sporting stories with a strong racing and + betting interest. But in camp in the wilderness no sporting stories were + obtainable. The one novel which remained to the mess dealt with the sex + problem, a subject originally profoundly uninteresting to Maitland, who + had a healthy mind. He read it, however, as a remedy for insomnia. It + proved effective. A couple of chapters sent him to sleep every night, so + the book lasted a good while. + </p> + <p> + Every morning at breakfast Maitland used to propound the problems raised + by the chapters which he had read the night before. The mess got into the + way of holding informal debates on the divorce laws. When he finished the + book, Maitland declared that he intended to devote himself to Eugenics and + the more enlightened kind of social reform as soon as the war was over. + </p> + <p> + “I never thought of it before,” he said, “but I can see now that the + future of the Empire really depends on the proper legislation for child + welfare, on ante-natal clinic, and the abolition of the old empiric + methods of marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait till after I’m married before you begin,” said Dalton. + </p> + <p> + Haddingly was a little pained. He said things about the sanctity of + marriage and the family as a divine institution. No one else took Maitland + seriously. It was felt that when the war came to an end—if it ever + did—he would go back to horse-racing and leave the scientific + aspects of marriage in decent obscurity. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished the novel he took the book on apple trees to bed with + him. He became, after a short time, interested in that subject. He + announced that when the war was over he intended to buy a small place in + Devonshire and go in for orchards. + </p> + <p> + “Apple growing,” he said, “is just exactly the peaceable, shady kind of + life a man wants after being stuck down in a desert like this.” + </p> + <p> + “With your taste for the turf,” said Dalton, “you’ll get into a shady kind + of life all right, whether you plant apple trees or not.” + </p> + <p> + Dalton was an irreverent boy. Haddingly was greatly pleased at the thought + of Maitland sitting innocently under an apple tree. + </p> + <p> + The turn of Mallory came next. Maitland left it for the last because the + print was very small and the only light in his tent was a feeble candle. + When he got fairly started in the book he became profoundly interested, + and the other members of the mess were treated at breakfast time to a good + deal of information about medieval warfare. + </p> + <p> + “As far as I can make out,” Maitland said, “every officer in those days + was knighted as soon as he got his commission.” + </p> + <p> + “Jolly good idea,” said Dalton. “I should buck about like anything if they + made me a K.C.B.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t have been an officer or a knight,” said Maitland. “You’d + have been the court fool. You’ve no idea whatever of chivalry.” + </p> + <p> + Like most simple men who read very little, Maitland took the books he did + read seriously and was greatly influenced by them. The apple tree treatise + made him want to be a gardener. A slow and careful study of Mallory filled + him with a profound admiration for medieval romance. + </p> + <p> + “The reason modern war is such a sordid business,” he said, “is that we’ve + lost the idea of chivalry.” + </p> + <p> + “Chivalry is all very well,” said Dalton, “if there’s anyone to chival + about. I haven’t read much about those old knights of yours, Maitland; but + so far as I can make out from what you tell us they were always coming + across damsels, fair, distressed, and otherwise fetching. Now, I haven’t + seen a damsel since I left England. How the deuce can I be chivalrous? I + defy anyone, even that Lancelot blighter of yours, to go into raptures + about the old hag you turned out of the camp yesterday for selling rotten + dates to the men.” + </p> + <p> + Dalton was not the only member of the mess who made jokes about the + knights of King Arthur’s fellowship. But Maitland went on reading out + selected passages from Mallory, and there is no doubt that everyone, even + Dalton, became interested. Haddingly, the padre, made no attempt to + conceal the fact that he was profoundly influenced. + </p> + <p> + He had always been proud of his church, but had hitherto been content to + use it in the normal way for parade services on Sunday morning. The + services were undeniably popular. The men enjoyed singing hymns, and they + listened patiently to the sermons because they liked Haddingly. The + officers, who also liked Haddingly, attended the Sunday morning services + with great regularity. Dalton, though he preferred playing rag-time on the + piano, accompanied the hymns on the harmonium. + </p> + <p> + Haddingly was greatly moved by Maitland’s account of the medieval spirit. + He took to spending half an hour in the church every morning before + breakfast Nobody knew what he did there. The officers, through feelings of + delicacy, never asked him questions about these new devotions. The men, + who were getting to know and like Haddingly better and better as time went + on, regarded his daily visits to the church as proof that their padre was + one who knew his job and did it thoroughly. + </p> + <p> + One morning—the mess had then been discussing medieval chivalry for + about a fortnight—Maitland read out a passage from Mallory about a + visit paid by Sir Galahad to a lonely chapel among the mountains, “where + he found nobody at all for all was desolate.” Haddingly had just spent his + lonely half hour in the church of St John in the Wilderness. He sighed. He + found nobody there in the mornings, and could not help wishing that the + battalion contained a Galahad. Dalton felt that something must be done to + preserve the credit of the mess and the dignity of English manhood. He + felt sure that sentiment about desolate chapels was an unwholesome thing. + He scoffed: + </p> + <p> + “All very well for Gallipot,” he said, “but——” + </p> + <p> + “Galahad,” said Maitland. + </p> + <p> + “Galahad, or Gallipot, or Golly-wog,” said Dalton. “If a man has a silly + name like that, it doesn’t matter how you spell it. The point is that it + would be simply ridiculous to attempt that sort of thing now. Suppose, for + instance—— I put it to you, padre. Suppose you saw Maitland + mounted on one of the transport gee-gees trotting up to that tin + cathedral of yours—on a week-day, mind! I’m not talking about + Sundays. Suppose he got down and went inside all by himself, what would + you think, padre? There’s only one thing you could think, that Maitland + had been drinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Galahad,” said Maitland, “went in to say his prayers. He was on his + way to a battle. They didn’t have to wait months and months for a battle + in those days. They had a scrap of some sort about once a week.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed. The Turks had failed to do what was expected of them, and life + in the camp was intolerably dull. + </p> + <p> + He looked at Haddingly. It was plainly a padre’s duty to support a + spiritual and romantic view of life against the profane jibes of Dalton. + Haddingly spoke judicially. + </p> + <p> + “The general tone of society in those days,” he said, “seems to have been + very different from what it is now. Men had much less difficulty in giving + expression to their emotions. No doubt we still feel much as they did, but——” + </p> + <p> + Haddingly became aware that no one was listening to him. The attention of + everyone at the table was attracted by something else. The men sat + stiffly, listening intently. Haddingly heard a faint, distant humming + sound. It grew louder. + </p> + <p> + “Jiminy!” said Dalton, “an aeroplane!” + </p> + <p> + The breakfast table was laid in the open air outside the mess tent The men + rose from their seats and stared in the direction of the coming sound. It + was the first time that an aeroplane had approached the camp in the + desert. Its coming was an intensely exciting event, an unmistakable + evidence of activity somewhere; surely a sign that activity everywhere + might be expected. + </p> + <p> + The sound increased in volume. The machine appeared, a distant speck in + the clear sky. It grew rapidly larger, flying fast. It was seen to be a + biplane. It passed directly over the camp, flying so low that the head of + the pilot was plainly visible. In a few minutes it passed from sight. The + hum of its engines grew fainter. But till the sound became inaudible no + one spoke. + </p> + <p> + Then a babble of inquiry and speculation broke out. Where was the thing + going? What was it doing? What did its sudden swift voyage mean? For the + rest of the day the camp was less sleepy than usual. Men everywhere + discussed the aeroplane. Dalton was not the only one who envied the + members of the Flying Corps. It seemed a very desirable thing to be able + to rush through the air over unknown deserts; to have the chance of seeing + strange and thrilling things, Arab encampments, green oases, mirages, + caravans and camels; to drop bombs perhaps on Syrian fortresses; to + estimate the numbers of Turkish columns on the march, to reckon their + strength in artillery; to take desperate risks; to swerve and dart amid + clouds of bursting shrapnel. How much more gloriously exciting such a life + than that of men baking slowly in the monotony of a desert camp. + </p> + <p> + Maitland, stimulated by his reading to an unnatural effort of imagination, + recognized in the men of the Flying Corps the true successors of Mallory’s + adventurous knight-errants. For them war still contained romance. Chivalry + was still possible. Haddingly caught the thought and expanded it. Knights + of old had this wonderful spirit, because to them the forests through + which they roamed were unknown wastes, where all strange things might be + expected. Then when all the land became familiar, mapped, intersected with + roads, covered thick with towns, sailors inherited the spirit of romance. + Afterwards all the seas were charted, policed, and ships went to and fro + on ocean highways. The romance of adventure was lost to seamen, lost to + the world, until the airmen came and found it again by venturing on new + ways. + </p> + <p> + In the evening the aeroplane returned. Once more its engines were heard. + Once more it appeared, a speck, a shape, a recognizable thing. But this + time it did not pass away. On reaching camp it circled twice, and then, + with a long swift glide, took the ground outside the camp a few yards + beyond Haddingly’s church of St. John in the Wilderness. The pilot stepped + out of the machine. + </p> + <p> + “Good man,” said Dalton. “Friendly of him dropping in on us like this. + Must want a drink after that fly. Eight hours at least. I’ll go and bring + him along to the mess. Hope he’ll tell us what he’s been doing. Wonder if + the Turks potted at him.” + </p> + <p> + The pilot left his machine. He walked stiffly, like a man with cramped + limbs, towards the camp. + </p> + <p> + “Something wrong with the engine, perhaps,” said Dalton. “Or he’s short of + petrol. I’ll fetch him along. A whisky and soda in a big tumbler is the + thing for him. I dare say he’ll stay for dinner.” + </p> + <p> + He started and walked quickly towards the machine. The airman, approaching + the camp, reached the church. Instead of passing it he stopped, opened the + door, and went in. Dalton paused and looked back. + </p> + <p> + “Must have mistaken your tin cathedral for the mess, padre,” he said. + “I’ll run on and fetch him out.” + </p> + <p> + “If he’s made a mistake,” said Haddingly, “he’ll find it out for himself + and come out without your fetching him.” + </p> + <p> + Dalton stood still. His eyes were on the door of the church. Maitland and + Haddingly were gazing at it too. The other officers, gathered in a group + outside the mess tent, stood in silence, staring at the church. It seemed + as if hours passed. In fact, nearly half an hour went by before the door + of the church opened and the airman came out. He turned his back on the + camp and went towards his machine. Neither Dalton nor anyone else made an + attempt to overtake him. The noise of the engine was heard again. The + machine raced a few yards along the ground and then rose in steep flight. + It passed across the camp and sped westwards, its shape sharply outlined + for a minute against the light of the setting sun. Then it disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Maitland took Haddingly by the arm and led him to his tent. The two men sat + down together on the camp bedstead. Maitland opened Mallory’s “Morte + d’Arthur,” and read aloud: + </p> + <p> + “Then Sir Galahad came unto a mountain, where he found an old chapel, and + found there nobody, for all was desolate, and there he kneeled before the + altar and besought of God wholesome counsel.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it was just that,” said Haddingly. + </p> + <p> + Dalton put his head into the tent. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “I just wanted to ask the padre + something. Was that Sir Golliwog come to life again or just some ordinary + blighter like me suffering from nerve strain?” + </p> + <p> + Haddingly had no answer to give for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “He can’t have really wanted to sit in that church for half an hour,” said + Dalton. “What the dickens would he do it<i> for?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “He might have wanted to pray,” said Haddingly. + </p> + <p> + Not even his profession justified the saying of such a thing as that + outside church. But every excuse must be made for him. He had been soaked + in Mallory for a fortnight. Deserts, even when there are camps in them, are + queer places, liable to upset men’s minds, and the conduct of the airman + was certainly peculiar. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if you put it that way,” said Dalton, “I’ve nothing more to + say. All the same, he might have come into the mess for a drink. I’m not + complaining of his doing anything he liked in the way of going to church; + but I don’t see that a whisky and soda would have hurt him afterwards. He + must have wanted it.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX ~~ A GUN-RUNNING EPISODE + </h2> + <p> + Sam McAlister walked into my office yesterday and laid down a handful of + silver on my desk. + </p> + <p> + “There you are,” he said, “and I am very much obliged to you for the + loan.” + </p> + <p> + For the moment I could not recollect having lent Sam any money; though I + should be glad to do so at any time if I thought he wanted it. Sam is a + boy I like. He is an undergraduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and has the + makings of a man in him, though he is not good at passing examinations and + has never figured in an honours list. Some day, when he takes his degree, + he is to come into my office and be made into a lawyer. His father, the + Dean, is an old friend of mine. + </p> + <p> + I looked at the money lying before me, and then doubtfully at Sam. + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve forgotten all about it,” he said, “it’s rather a pity I paid. + But I always was honest. That’s one of my misfortunes. If I wasn’t—— + That’s the fine you paid for me.” + </p> + <p> + Then I remembered. Sam got into trouble with the police a few weeks ago. + He and a dozen or so of his fellow-students broke loose and ran riot + through the streets of Dublin. All high-spirited boys do this sort of + thing occasionally, whether they are junior army officers, lawyers’ + clerks, or university undergraduates. Trinity College boys, being Irish + and having a large city at their gates, riot more picturesquely than + anyone else. Sam had captured the flag which the Lord Mayor flies outside + his house, had pushed a horse upstairs into the office of a respectable + stockbroker, and had driven a motor-car, borrowed from an unwilling owner, + down a narrow and congested street at twenty-five or thirty miles an hour. + He was captured in the end by eight policemen, and was very nearly sent to + gaol with hard labour. I got him off by paying a fine of one pound, + together with £2 4s. 6d. for the damage done by the horse to the + stockbroker’s staircase and office furniture. The motorcar, fortunately, + had neither injured itself nor anyone else. + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” I said, pocketing the money, “that this will be a lesson to you, + Sam.” + </p> + <p> + “It won’t,” he said. “At least, not in the way you mean. It’ll encourage + me to go into another rag the very first time I get the chance. As a + matter of fact, being arrested was the luckiest thing ever happened to me, + though I didn’t think so at the time.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “if you like paying up these large sums it’s your own + affair. I should have thought you could have got better value for your + money by spending it on something you wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “Money isn’t everything in the world,” said Sam. “There is such a thing as + having a good time, a rattling good time, even if you don’t make money out + of it and run a chance of being arrested. I daresay you’d like to hear + what I’ve been at.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve committed any kind of crime,” I said, “I’d rather you didn’t + tell me. It might be awkward for me afterwards when you are tried.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it’s exactly a crime,” said Sam, “anyhow, it isn’t anything + wrong, though, of course, it may be slightly illegal. I’d rather like to + have your opinion about that.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a long story? I’m rather busy to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very long,” said Sam, “but I daresay it would sound better after + dinner. What would you say now to asking me to dine to-night at your club? + We could go up to that library place afterwards. There’s never anybody + there, and I could tell you the whole thing.” + </p> + <p> + Sam knows the ways of my club nearly as well as I do myself. There is + never anyone in the library in the evening. I gave the required + invitation. + </p> + <p> + We dined comfortably, and I got a good cigar for Sam afterwards. When the + waiter had left the room he plunged into his story. + </p> + <p> + “You remember the day I was hauled up before that old ass of a magistrate. + He jawed a lot and then fined me £3 4s. 6d., which you paid. Jolly decent + of you. I hadn’t a shilling in the world, being absolutely stony broke at + the time; so if you hadn’t paid—and lots of fellows wouldn’t—I + should have had to go to gaol.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about that,” I said. “You’ve paid me back.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, I’m grateful, especially as I should have missed the spree of my + life if I’d been locked up. As it was, thanks to you, I walked out of the + court without a stain on my character.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, hardly that. You were found guilty of riotous behaviour, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, I walked out,” said Sam, “and that’s the main point.” + </p> + <p> + It was, of course, the point which mattered most; and, after all, the + stain on Sam’s character was not indelible. Lots of young fellows behave + riotously and turn out excellent men afterwards. I was an undergraduate + myself once, and there is a story about Sam’s father, now a dean, which is + still told occasionally. When he was an undergraduate a cow was found tied + up in the big examination hall. + </p> + <p> + Sam’s father, who was very far from being a dean then, had borrowed the + cow from a milkman. + </p> + <p> + “There were a lot of men waiting outside,” said Sam. “They wanted to stand + me a lunch in honour of my escape.” + </p> + <p> + “Your fellow-rioters, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, most of them had been in the rag, and, of course, they were sorry + for me, being the only one actually caught. However, the lunch never came + off. There was a queer old fellow standing on the steps of the court who + got me by the arm as I came out. Said he wanted to speak to me on + important business, and would I lunch with him. I didn’t know what he + could possibly have to say to me, for I had never seen him before; but he + looked—it’s rather hard to describe how he looked. He wasn’t exactly + what you’d call a gentleman, in the way of clothes, I mean; but he struck + me as being a sportsman.” + </p> + <p> + “Horsey?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the least. More like one’s idea of some kind of modern pirate, though + not exactly. He talked like an American. I went with him, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” I said, “anyone with an adventurous spirit would prefer + lunching with an unknown American buccaneer to sharing a commonplace feast + with a mob of boys. Did you happen to hear his name?” + </p> + <p> + “He said it was Hazlewood, but——” + </p> + <p> + “But it may not have been?” + </p> + <p> + “One of the other fellows called him Cassidy later on.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” I said, “there were other fellows?” + </p> + <p> + “There were afterwards,” said Sam, “not at first. He and I lunched alone. + He did me well. A bottle of champagne for the two of us and offered me a + second bottle. I refused that.” + </p> + <p> + “He came to business after the champagne, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “He more or less talked business the whole time, though at first I didn’t + know quite what he was at. He gassed a lot about my having knocked down + those two policemen. You remember that I knocked down two, don’t you? I + would have got a third only that they collared me from behind. Well, + Hazlewood, or Cassidy, or whatever his name was, had seen the scrap, and + seemed to think no end of a lot of me for the fight I put up.” + </p> + <p> + “The magistrate took a serious view of it, too,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “There wasn’t much in it,” said Sam modestly. “As I told Hazlewood, any + fool can knock down a policeman. They’re so darned fat. He asked me if I + liked fighting policemen. I said I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + Sam caught some note of sarcasm in my voice. He felt it necessary to + modify his statement. + </p> + <p> + “Well, not policemen in particular. I haven’t a special down on policemen. + I like a scrap with anyone. Then he said—Hazlewood, that is—that + he admired the way I drove that car down Grafton Street. He said he liked + a man who wasn’t afraid to take risks; which was rot. There wasn’t any + real risk.” + </p> + <p> + “The police swore that you went at thirty miles an hour,” I said. “And + that street is simply crowded in the middle of the day.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe I was doing anything like thirty miles an hour,” said + Sam. “I should say twenty-seven at the outside. And there was no risk + because everybody cleared out of my way. I had the street practically to + myself. It was rather fun seeing all the other cars and carts and things + piled up upon the footpaths at either side and the people bolting into the + shops like rabbits. But there wasn’t any risk. However, old Hazlewood + evidently thought there was, and seemed frightfully pleased about it. He + said he had a car of his own, a sixty h.p. Daimler, and that he’d like to + see me drive it. I said I’d take him for a spin any time he liked. I gave + him a hint that we might start immediately after lunch and run up to + Belfast in time for dinner. With a car like that I could have done it + easy. However, he wasn’t on.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he really had the car?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he had her all right. I drove her afterwards. Great Scott, such a + drive! The next thing he said was that he believed I was a pretty good man + in a boat. I said I knew something about boats, though not much.” + </p> + <p> + Modesty is one of Sam’s virtues. He is, I believe, an excellent hand in a + small yacht, and does a good deal of racing. + </p> + <p> + “I asked him what put it into his head that I could sail a boat, and he + said O’Meara told him. O’Meara is a man I sail with occasionally, and I + thought it nice of him to mention my name to this old boy. I can hoist a + spinnaker all right and shift a jib, but I’m no good at navigation. Always + did hate sums and always will. I told him that, and he said he could do + the navigation himself. All he wanted was a good amateur crew for a + thirty-ton yawl with a motor auxiliary. He had four men, and he asked me + to make a fifth. I said I’d go like a shot. Strictly speaking, I ought to + have been attending lectures; but what good are lectures?” “Very little,” + I said. “In fact, hardly any.” “I wasn’t going to lose a cruise for the + sake of any amount of lectures,” said Sam, “particularly with the chance + of a tour on that sixty h.p. car thrown in.” + </p> + <p> + Sam paused at this point. It seemed to me that he wanted encouragement. + </p> + <p> + “You’d have been a fool if you had,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Up to that time,” said Sam thoughtfully, “I hadn’t tumbled to what he was + at. I give you my word of honour I hadn’t the dimmest idea that he was + after anything in particular. I thought he was simply a good old sport + with lots of money, which he knew how to spend in sensible ways.” + </p> + <p> + “The criminal part of the business was mentioned later on, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that there’s anything criminal about it,” said Sam. “I’m + jolly well sure it wasn’t wrong, under the circumstances. But it may have + been criminal. That’s just what I want you to tell me. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you my opinion,” I said, “when I hear what it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Gun-running,” said Sam. + </p> + <p> + Gun-running has for some time been a popular sport in Ireland, and I find + it very difficult to say whether it is against the law or not. The + Government goes in for trying to stop it, which looks as if a gun-runner + might be prosecuted when caught. On the other hand, the Government never + prosecutes gun-runners, even those who openly boast of their exploits, and + that looks as if it were quite a legal amusement. I promised Sam that I + would consider the point, and I asked him to tell me exactly what he did. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “when I heard it was gunrunning I simply jumped at the + chance. Any fellow would. I said I’d start right away, if he liked. As a + matter of fact, we didn’t start for nearly a fortnight. The boat turned out + to be the <i>Pegeen</i>. You know the <i>Pegeen</i>, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + I did not. I am not a sailor, and except that I cannot help seeing + paragraphs about <i>Shamrock IV</i>. in the daily papers I do not think I + know the name of a single yacht. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Sam, “she’s O’Meara’s boat I’ve sailed in her sometimes in + cruiser races. She’s slow and never does any good, but she’s a fine sea + boat. My idea was that Hazlewood had hired her, and I didn’t find out till + after we had started that O’Meara was on board. That surprised me a bit, + for O’Meara goes in for being rather an extreme kind of Nationalist—not + the sort of fellow you’d expect to be running guns for Carson and the + Ulster Volunteers. However, I was jolly glad to see him. He crawled out of + the cabin when we were a couple of miles out of the harbour, and by that + time I’d have been glad to see anyone who knew one end of the boat from + the other. Old Hazlewood was all right; but the other three men were + simply rotters, the sort of fellows who’d be just as likely as not to take + a pull on a topsail halyard when told to slack away the lee runner. I was + just making up my mind to work the boat single-handed when O’Meara turned + up. There was a middling fresh breeze from the west, and we were going + south on a reach. I didn’t get much chance of a talk with O’Meara because + he was in one watch and I in the other—had to be, of course, on + account of being the only two who knew anything about working the boat. I + did notice, though, that when he spoke to Hazlewood he called him Cassidy. + However, that was no business of mine. We sailed pretty nearly due south + that day and the next, and the next after that. Then we hove to.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Ask me another,” said Sam. “I told you I couldn’t navigate. I hadn’t an + idea within a hundred miles where we were. What’s more, I didn’t care. I + was having a splendid time, and had succeeded in knocking some sort of + sense into the other fellow in my watch. Hazlewood steered, and barring + that he was sea-sick for eight hours, my man turned out to be a decent + sort, and fairly intelligent. He said his name was Temple, but Hazlewood + called him O’Reilly as often as not.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to have gone in for a nice variety of names,” I said. “What did + you call yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I stuck to my own name, of course. I wasn’t doing anything to be ashamed + of. If we’d been caught and the thing had turned out to be a crime—I + don’t know whether it was or not, but if it was, I suppose———” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I should have paid your fine,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” said Sam. “Thanks, awfully. I rather expected you would whenever + I thought about that part of it, but I very seldom did.” + </p> + <p> + “What happened when you lay to?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at first. We bumped about a bit for five or six hours, and Temple + got frightfully sick again. I never saw a man sicker. Hazlewood kept on + muddling about with charts, and doing sums on sheets of paper, and + consulting with O’Meara. I suppose they wanted to make sure that they’d + got to the right place. At last, just about sunset, a small steamer turned + up. She hung about all night, and next day we started early, about four + o’clock, and got the guns out of her, or some of them. We couldn’t take + the whole cargo, of course, in a 30-ton yacht I don’t know how many more + guns she had. Perhaps she hadn’t any more. Only our little lot Anyhow, I + was jolly glad when the job was over. There was a bit of a roll—nothing + much, you know, but quite enough to make it pretty awkward. Temple got + over his sea-sickness, which was a comfort. I suppose the excitement cured + him. The way we worked was this—but I daresay you wouldn’t + understand, even if I told you.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it very technical? I mean, must you use many sea words?” + </p> + <p> + “Must,” said Sam. “We were at sea, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “perhaps you’d better leave that part out. Tell me what + you did with the guns when you’d got them.” + </p> + <p> + “Right. It was there the fun really came in. Not that I’m complaining about + the other part. It was sport all right, but the funny part, the part + you’ll like, came later. What <i>about</i> another cigar?” + </p> + <p> + I rang the bell, and got two more cigars for Sam. + </p> + <p> + “We had rather a tiresome passage home,” he said. “It kept on falling + calm, and O’Meara’s motor isn’t very powerful. It took us a clear week to + work our way up to the County Down coast. It was there we landed, in a poky + little harbour. We went in at night, and had to wait for a full tide to + get in at all. We got the sails of the boat outside, and just strolled in, + so to speak, with the wretched little engine doing about half it could. + Hazlewood told me that he expected four motor-cars to meet us, and that I + was to take one of them, and drive like hell into County Armagh. There I + was to call at a house belonging to O’Meara, and hand over my share of the + guns. He said he hoped I knew my way about those parts, because it would + be awkward for me trying to work with road maps when I ought to drive + fast. I said I knew that country like the palm of my hand. The governor’s + parish is up there, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Sam certainly ought to know County Down. He was brought up there, and must + have walked, cycled, and driven over most of the roads. + </p> + <p> + “The only thing I didn’t know,” said Sam, “was O’Meara’s house. I’d never + heard of his having a house in that part of the country. However, he said + he’d only taken it lately, and that when I got over the border into Armagh + there’d be a man waiting to show me where to go. He told me the road I was + to take and I knew every turn of the way, so I felt pretty sure of getting + there. It was about two in the morning when we got alongside the pier. The + four motors were there all right, but there wasn’t a soul about except the + men in charge of them. We got out the guns. They were done up in small + bundles and the cartridges in handy little cases; but it took us till + half-past four o’clock to get them ashore. By that time there were a few + people knocking about; but they didn’t seem to want to interfere with us. + In fact, some of them came and helped us to pack the stuff into the cars. + They were perfectly friendly.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” I said “The people up there are + nearly all Protestants. Most of them were probably Volunteers themselves. + I daresay it wasn’t the first cargo they’d helped to land.” + </p> + <p> + “It was the first cargo they ever helped to land for the National + Volunteers,” said Sam with a grin. + </p> + <p> + “The National Volunteers!” + </p> + <p> + I admit that Sam startled me. I do not suppose that he has any political + convictions. At the age of twenty a man has a few prejudices but no + convictions. If he is a young fellow who goes in for being intellectual + they are prejudices against the party his father belonged to. If—and + this is Sam’s case—he is a healthy-minded young man, who enjoys + sport, he takes over his father’s opinions as they stand, and regards + everybody who does not accept them as an irredeemable blackguard. The Dean + is a very strong loyalist. He is the chaplain of an Orange Lodge, and has + told me more than once that he hopes to march to battle at the head of his + regiment of Volunteers. + </p> + <p> + “Smuggling arms for the Nationalists!” I said. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I did,” said Sam, grinning broadly. “But I thought all the + time that I was working for the other side. I didn’t know the Nationalists + went in for guns; thought they only talked. In fact, to tell you the + truth, I forgot all about them. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it At least + I mightn’t. But I had a great time.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” I said, “I don’t mind. So far as I am concerned personally + I’d rather neither side had any guns. But if your father finds out, Sam, + there’ll be a frightful row. He’ll disown you.” + </p> + <p> + “The governor knows all about it,” said Sam, “and he doesn’t mind one bit. + Just wait till you hear the end of the story. You’ll be as surprised as I + was.” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly shall,” I said, “if the story ends in your father’s approving + of your smuggling guns for rebels. He’d call them rebels, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Sam, “as far as rebellion goes I don’t see that there’s much to + choose between them. However, that doesn’t matter. What happened was this. + I got off with my load about five o’clock, and I had a gorgeous spin. + There wasn’t a cart or a thing on the roads, and I just let the car rip. I + touched sixty miles an hour, and hardly ever dropped below forty. Best run + I ever had. Almost the only thing I passed was a motor lorry, going the + same way I was. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but it turned + out to be important afterwards. It was about seven o’clock when I got out + of County Down into Armagh. I began looking out for the fellow who was to + meet me. It wasn’t long before I spotted him, standing at a corner, trying + to look as if he were a military sentry. You know the sort of thing I + mean. Bandolier, belt, and frightfully stiff about the back. He held up + his hand and I stopped. ‘A loyal man,’ he said. Well, I was, so far as I + knew at that time, so I said ‘You bet.’ ‘That’s not right,’ said he. ‘Give + the countersign.’ I hadn’t heard anything about a countersign, so I told + him not to be a damned fool, and that I’d break his head if he said I + wasn’t a loyal man. That seemed to puzzle him a bit. He got out a notebook + and read a page or two, looking at me and the car every now and then as if + he wasn’t quite satisfied. I felt pretty sure, of course, that he was the + man I wanted. He couldn’t very well be anyone else. So by way of cutting + the business short I told him I was loaded up with guns and cartridges, + and that I wished he’d hop in and show me where to go. ‘That’s all very + fine,’ he said, ‘but you oughtn’t to be in a car like that.’ I told him + there was no use arguing about the car. I wasn’t going back to change it + to please him. He asked me who I was, and I told him, mentioning that I + was the governor’s son. I thought that might help him to make up his mind, + and it did. The governor is middling well known up in those parts, and the + mention of his name was enough. The fellow climbed in beside me. We hadn’t + very far to go, as it turned out, and in the inside of twenty minutes I + was driving up the avenue of a big house. The size of it rather surprised + me, for I didn’t think O’Meara was well enough off to keep up a place of + the kind. However, I was evidently expected, for I was shown into the + dining-room by a footman. There were three men at breakfast, my old dad, + Dopping—you know Dopping, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Dopping is a retired cavalry colonel. I do business for him and know him + pretty well He is just the sort of man who would be in the thick of any + gun-running that was going on. + </p> + <p> + “There was another man,” said Sam, “whom I didn’t know and wasn’t + introduced to. The fact is there wasn’t much time for politeness. My dad + looked as if he’d been shot when he saw me, and old Dopping bristled all + over like an Irish terrier at the beginning of a fight, and asked me who + the devil I was and what I was doing there. Of course, he jolly well knew + who I was, and I thought he must know what brought me there, so I just + winked by way of letting him understand that I was in the game. He got so + red in the face that I thought he’d burst. Then the other man chipped in + and asked me what I’d got in the car. The three of them whispered together + for a bit, and I suggested that if they didn’t believe me they’d better go + and see. The car was outside the door, and their own man was sitting on + the guns. Dopping went, and I suppose he told the other two that the guns + were there all right. Dad asked me where I got them, and I told them, + mentioning Hazlewood’s name and the name of the yacht. I was a bit puzzled, + but I still thought everything was all right, and that there’d be no harm + in mentioning names. I very soon saw that there was some sort of mistake + somewhere. The governor and old Dopping and the other man, who seemed to + be the coolest of the three, went over to the window and looked at the + car. Then they started whispering again, and I couldn’t hear a word they + said. Didn’t want to. I was as hungry as a wolf, and there was a jolly + good breakfast on the table. I sat down and gorged. I had just started my + third egg when the door opened, and a rather nice-looking young fellow + walked in. The footman came behind him, looking as white as a sheet, and + began some sort of apology for letting the stranger in. Old Dopping, who + was still in a pretty bad temper, told the footman to go and be damned. + Then the new man introduced himself. He said he was Colonel O’Connell, of + the first Armagh Regiment of National Volunteers. I expected to see old + Dopping kill him at sight. Dopping is a tremendous loyalist, and the other + fellow—well—phew!” + </p> + <p> + Sam whistled. Words failed him, I suppose, when it came to expressing the + disloyalty of a colonel of National Volunteers. + </p> + <p> + “Instead of that,” said Sam, “Dopping stood up straight, and saluted + O’Connell. O’Connell stiffened his back, and saluted Dopping. The third + man, the one I didn’t know, stood up, too, and saluted. O’Connell saluted + him. Then the governor bowed quite civilly, and O’Connell saluted him. I + can tell you it was a pretty scene. ‘I beg to inform you, gentlemen,’ said + O’Connell, ‘that a consignment of rifles and ammunition, apparently + intended for your force, has arrived at our headquarters in a motor + lorry.’ Nothing could have been civiller than the way he spoke. But + Dopping was not to be beat. He’s a bristly old bear at times, but he always + was a gentleman. ‘Owing to a mistake,’ he said, ‘some arms, evidently + belonging to you, are now in a car at our door.’ The governor and the + other man sat down and laughed till they were purple, but neither + O’Connell nor old Dopping so much as smiled. It was then—and I give + you my word not till then—that I tumbled to the idea that I’d been + running guns for the other side. I expected that there’d be a furious row + the minute the governor stopped laughing. But there wasn’t. In fact, no one + took any notice of me. There was a long consultation, and in the end they + settled that it might be risky to start moving the guns about again, and + that each party had better stick to what it had got. Our fellows—I + call them our fellows, though, of course, I was really acting for the + others—our fellows got rather the better of the exchange in the way + of ammunition. But O’Connell scooped in a lot of extra rifles. When they + had that settled they all saluted again, and the governor said something + about hoping to meet O’Connell at Philippi. I don’t know what he meant by + that, but O’Connell seemed tremendously pleased. Where do you suppose + Philippi is?” + </p> + <p> + “Philippi,” I said, “is where somebody—Julius Caesar, I think, but + it doesn’t matter—— What your father meant was that he hoped + to have a chance of fighting it out with O’Connell some day. Not a duel, + you know, but a proper battle. The Ulster Volunteers against the other + lot.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall have to wipe out the police first,” said Sam, “to prevent their + interfering. I hope I shall be there then. I want to get my own back out + of those fellows who collared me from behind the day of the last rag. But, + I say, what about the soldiers—the regular soldiers, I mean? Which + side will they be on?” + </p> + <p> + “That,” I said, “is the one uncertain factor in the problem. Nobody + knows.” + </p> + <p> + “The best plan,” said Sam, “would be to take them away altogether, and + leave us to settle the matter ourselves. We’d do it all right, judging by + the way old Dopping and O’Connell behaved to each other.” + </p> + <p> + Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. I should never have suspected + Sam of profound political wisdom. But it is quite possible that his + suggestion would meet the case better than any other. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X ~~ IRELAND FOR EVER + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick picked his way delicately among the pools and tough + cobble stones. He was a very well-dressed young man, and he seemed out of + place amid the miry traffic of the Belfast quays. A casual observer would + have put him down as a fashionable nincompoop, one of those young men + whose very appearance is supposed to move the British worker to outbursts + of socialistic fury. The casual observer would, in this case, have been + mistaken. Lord Dunseverick, in spite of his well-fitting clothes, his + delicately coloured tie, and his general air of sleek well-being, was at + that moment—it was the month of May, 1914—something of a hero + with the Belfast working man. And the Belfast working man, as everybody + knows, is more bitterly contemptuous of the idle rich, especially of the + idle rich with titles, than any other working man. + </p> + <p> + The Belfast working man had just then worked himself up to a degree of + martial ardour, unprecedented even in Ulster, in his opposition to Home + Rule. Lord Dunseverick was one of the generals of the Ulster Volunteer + Force. He had made several speeches which moved Belfast to wild delight + and sober-minded men elsewhere to dubious shaking of the head. Enthusiasm + in a cause is a fine thing, especially in the young, but when Lord + Dunseverick’s enthusiasm led him to say that he would welcome the German + Emperor at the head of his legions as the deliverer of Ulster from the + tyranny of a Parliament in Dublin, why then—then the rank and file + of the volunteer army cheered, and other people wondered whether it were + quite wise to say such things. Yet Lord Dunseverick, when not actually + engaged in making a speech, was a pleasant and agreeable young man with a + keen sense of humour. He even—and this is a rare quality in men—saw + the humorous side of his own speeches. The trouble was that he never saw + it till after he had made them. + </p> + <p> + A heavy motor-lorry came thundering along the quay. Lord Dunseverick + dodged it, and escaped with his life. He was splashed from head to foot + with mud. He looked at his neat boots and well-fashioned grey trousers. + The black slime lay thick on them. He wiped a spot of mud off his cheek + and rubbed some wet coal dust into his collar. Then he lit a cigarette, + and smiled. + </p> + <p> + He stepped into the porch of a reeking public-house and found himself + beside a grizzled man, who looked like a sailor. Lord Dunseverick turned + to him. + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me,” he said, “where Mr. McMunn’s office is?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it coal you’re wanting?” asked the sailor. + </p> + <p> + It is thus that questions are often met in Belfast with counter-questions. + Belfast is a city of business men, and it is not the habit of business men + to give away anything, even information, without getting something in + return. The counter-question may draw some valuable matter by way of + answer from the original questioner. In this case the counter-question was + a reasonable one. McMunn, of McMunn Brothers, Limited, was a coal + merchant. Lord Dunseverick, though a peer, belonged to the north of + Ireland. He understood Belfast. + </p> + <p> + “What I want,” he said, “is to see Mr. Andrew McMunn.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve business with Andrew McMunn myself,” said the sailor, “and I’m going + that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. Then we’ll go together.” + </p> + <p> + “My name,” said the sailor, “is Ginty. If you’re intimate with Andrew + McMunn you’ll likely have heard of me.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t. But that’s no reason why you shouldn’t show me the way.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no that far,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + They walked together, sometimes side by side, sometimes driven apart by a + string of carts. + </p> + <p> + “If it had been Jimmy McMunn you wanted to see,” said Ginty, “you might + have had further to go. Some says Jimmy’s in the one place, and more is of + opinion that he’s in the other. But I’ve no doubt in my own mind about + where Andrew will go when his time comes.” + </p> + <p> + “You know him pretty well, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I do. It would be queer if I didn’t, seeing that I’ve sailed his + ships this ten year. Andrew McMunn will go to heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Lord Dunseverick, “he’s a good man, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll no go so far as to say precisely that,” said Ginty, “but he’s a man + who never touches a drop of whisky nor smokes a pipe of tobacco. It’ll be + very hard on him if he doesna go to heaven after all he’s missed in this + world. But you’ll find out what kind of man he is if you go in through the + door forninst you. It’s his office, thon one with the brass plate on the + door. My business will keep till you’re done with him.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick pushed open one of a pair of swinging doors, and found + himself in a narrow passage. On his right was a ground glass window + bearing the word “Inquiries.” He tapped at it. + </p> + <p> + For a minute or two there was no response. Lord Dunseverick brushed some + of the mud, now partially dry, off his trousers, and lit a fresh + cigarette. The ground glass window was opened, and a redhaired clerk + looked out. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see Mr. McMunn,” said Lord Dunseverick, “Mr. Andrew McMunn.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk put his head and shoulders out through the window, and surveyed + Lord Dunseverick suspiciously. Very well dressed young men, with pale + lavender ties and pearl tie-pins—Lord Dunseverick had both—are + not often seen in Belfast quay-side offices. + </p> + <p> + “If you want to see Mr. McMunn,” said the clerk, “—and I’m no saying + you will, mind that—you’d better take yon cigarette out of your + mouth. There’s no smoking allowed here.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick took his cigarette out of his mouth, but he did not throw + it away. He held it between his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Just tell Mr. McMunn,” he said, “that Lord Dunseverick is here.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk’s manner altered suddenly. He drew himself up, squared his + shoulders, and saluted. + </p> + <p> + The discovery that a stranger is a man of high rank often produces this + kind of effect on men of strong democratic principles, principles of the + kind held by clerks in all business communities, quite as firmly in + Belfast as elsewhere. But it would have been a mistake to suppose that Mr. + McMunn’s junior clerk was a mere worshipper of title. His salute was not + the tribute of a snob to the representative of an aristocratic class. It + was the respect due by a soldier, drilled and disciplined, to his superior + officer. It was also the expression of a young man’s sincere hero-worship. + The redhaired clerk was a Volunteer, duly enrolled, one of the signatories + of the famous Ulster Covenant. Lord Dunseverick had made speeches which + moved his soul to actual rapture. + </p> + <p> + “Come inside, my lord,” he said. “I’ll inform Mr. McMunn at once.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick passed through a door which was held open for him. He + entered a large office, very grimy, which is the proper condition of a + place where documents concerning coal are dealt with. Six other clerks + were at work there. When Lord Dunseverick entered, all six of them stood + up and saluted. They, too, so it appeared, were members of the Volunteer + Force. The red-haired junior clerk crossed the room towards a door marked + “Private.” Then he paused, and turned to Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “Might I be so bold as to ask a question?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “A dozen if you like,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “What about the rifles? It’s only them we’re wanting now. We’re drilled + and we’re ready, but where’s the rifles?” + </p> + <p> + “You shall have them,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + The clerks in Mr. McMunn’s office were accustomed to behave with decorum. + No more than a low murmur of approval greeted Lord Dunseverick’s words; + but the men looked as if they wished to cheer vehemently. The red-haired + boy tapped at the door which was marked “Private.” A minute later he + invited Lord Dunseverick to pass through it. + </p> + <p> + Andrew McMunn is a hard-faced, grizzled little man, with keen blue eyes. + He can, when he chooses, talk excellent English. He prefers, when dealing + with strangers, to speak with a strong Belfast accent, and to use, if + possible, north of Ireland words and phrases. This is his way of asserting + independence of character. He admires independence. + </p> + <p> + His office is a singularly unattractive room. He writes at a large table, + and has a fireproof safe at his elbow. There are three wooden chairs + ranged against the wall opposite the writing-table. Four photographs of + steamers, cheaply framed, hang above the chairs. They are <i>The Andrew + McMunn, The Eliza McMunn</i>, and, a tribute to the deceased Jimmy, <i>The + McMunn Brothers</i>. These form the fleet owned by the firm, and carry + coal from one port to another, chiefly to Belfast. On the chimney-piece + under a glass shade, is a model of <i>The McMunn Brothers</i>, the latest + built and largest of the ships. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning to you, my lord!” said McMunn, without rising from his seat. + </p> + <p> + He nodded towards one of the chairs which stood against the wall. This was + his way of inviting his visitor to sit down. His eyes were fixed, with + strong disapproval, on the cigarette, which still smoked feebly in Lord + Dunseverick’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Your clerk gave me a hint,” said Dunseverick, “that you object to + tobacco.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s my opinion,” said McMunn, “that the man who pays taxes that he + needn’t pay—I’m alluding to the duty on tobacco, you’ll understand—for + the sake of poisoning himself with a nasty stink, is little better than a + fool. That’s my opinion, and I’m of the same way of thinking about + alcoholic drink.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick deposited the offending cigarette on the hearth and + crushed it with his foot. + </p> + <p> + “Teetotaller?” he said. “I dare say you’re right, though I take a + whisky-and-soda myself when I get the chance.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll no get it here,” said McMunn; “and what’s more, you’ll no’ get it + on any ship owned by me.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. It’s as well to understand before-hand.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a believer in speaking plain,” said McMunn. “There’s ay less chance + of trouble afterwards if a man speaks plain at the start. But I’m thinking + that it wasn’t to hear my opinion on the Christian religion that your + lordship came here the day.” + </p> + <p> + McMunn, besides being a teetotaller, and opposed to the smoking of + tobacco, was the president of a Young Men’s Anti-Gambling League. He was, + therefore, in a position to throw valuable light on the Christian + religion. + </p> + <p> + “I came to settle the details about this expedition to Hamburg,” said Lord + Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said McMunn, “there’s no that much left to settle. <i>The Brothers</i> + is ready.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>The Brothers?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “<i>The McMunn Brothers</i>. Thon’s the model of her on the chimneypiece.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick looked at the model attentively. It represented a very + unattractive ship. Her bow was absurdly high, cocked up like the snout of + a Yorkshire pig. Her long waist lay low, promising little freeboard in a + sea. Her engines and single funnel were aft. On a short, high quarterdeck + was her bridge and a squat deck-house. She was designed, like her owner, + for purely business purposes. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have the captain’s cabin,” said McMunn. “Him and me will sleep in + the saloon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’re coming too?” + </p> + <p> + “I am. Have you any objection?” + </p> + <p> + “None whatever. I’m delighted. We’ll have a jolly time.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll have you remember,” said McMunn, “that it’s not pleasuring we’re out + for.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s serious business. Smuggling rifles in the teeth of a Royal + Proclamation is——” + </p> + <p> + “When I understand,” said McMunn, “and you understand, where’s the use of + saying what we’re going for? I’m taking risks enough anyway, without + unnecessary talking. You never know who’s listening to you.” + </p> + <p> + “About paying for the—er—the—er—our cargo? Is that + all arranged?” + </p> + <p> + “They’ll be paid in bills on a Hamburg bank,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t they expect cash? I should have thought that in transactions of + this kind——” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a business man, my lord; but I’d have you know that a bill + with the name of McMunn to it is the same as cash in any port in Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s your part of the affair. I am leaving that to you.” + </p> + <p> + “You may leave it. What I say I’ll do. But there’s one thing that I’m no + quite easy in my mind about.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re thinking about the landing of the guns——” + </p> + <p> + “I’m no asking what arrangements you’ve made about that. The fewer there + is that knows what’s being done in a business of this kind, the better for + all concerned. What’s bothering me is this. There’s a man called + Edelstein.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s he? I never heard of him before.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s the Baron von Edelstein, if that’s any help to you.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t. He’s not the man we’re buying the stuff from.” + </p> + <p> + “He is not. Nor he wasn’t mentioned from first to last till the letter I + got the day.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to the safe beside him and drew out a bundle of papers held + together by an elastic band. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the whole of the correspondence,” he said, “and there’s the last + of it.” + </p> + <p> + He handed a letter to Lord Dunseverick, who read it through carefully. + </p> + <p> + “This baron,” he said, “whoever he is, intends to pay his respects to us + before we leave Hamburg. Very civil of him.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a civility we could do without. When I’m doing business I’d rather + do it with business men, and a baron, you’ll understand, is no just——” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a baron myself,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, you are.” + </p> + <p> + McMunn said no more. He left it to be understood that his opinion of + barons in general was not improved by his acquaintance with Lord + Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think we need bother about Von Eddstein, anyway,” said Lord + Dunseverick. “What harm can he do us?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m no precisely bothering about him,” said McMunn; “but I’d be easier in + my mind if I knew what he wanted with us.” + </p> + <p> + “We sail to-night, anyway,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, we do. I tell’t Ginty. He’s the captain of <i>The McMunn Brothers</i>, + and a good man.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve met him. In fact——” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve met Ginty you’ve met a man who knows his business, though I + wish he’d give over drinking whisky. However, he’s a strong Protestant and + a sound man, and you can’t expect perfection.” + </p> + <p> + “Capital!” said Lord Dunseverick. “It’s a great comfort to be sure of + one’s men.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I was as sure of every one as I am of Ginty,” said McMunn. “I’m no + saying that your lordship’s not sound. The speech you made last night at + Ballymena was good enough, and I’m with you in every word of it; but——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, speeches!” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + He was uneasily conscious that he had allowed himself to be carried away + by the excitement of the occasion when speaking at Ballymena. It was right + and proper to threaten armed resistance to Home Rule. It was another thing + to offer a warm welcome to the German Emperor if he chose to land in + Ulster. The cold emphasis with which McMunn expressed agreement with every + word of the speech made Lord Dunseverick vaguely uneasy. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said McMunn; “your speeches are well enough, and I don’t say, mind + you, that you’re not a sound man; but I’d be better pleased if you were + more serious. You’re too fond of joking, in my opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” said Lord Dunseverick. “I haven’t ventured on the ghost of + a joke since I came into your office!” He looked round him as he spoke, + and fixed his eyes at last on the fireproof safe. “Nobody could.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no what you’ve said, it’s your lordship’s appearance. But it’s too + late to alter that, I’m thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said Lord Dunseverick. “I’ll join you this evening in a suit + of yellow oilskins, the stickiest kind, and a blue fisherman’s jersey, and + a pair of sea-boots. I’ll have——” + </p> + <p> + “You will,” said McMunn, “and you’ll look like a play actor. It’s just + what I’m complaining of.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + <i>The McMunn Brothers</i> lay, with steam up, at a single anchor a mile + below the Hamburg quays. The yellow, turbid waters of the Elbe swept past + her sides. Below her stretched the long waterway which leads to the North + Sea. The lights of the buoys which marked the channel twinkled dimly in + the gloom of the summer evening. Shafts of brighter light swept across and + across the water from occulting beacons set at long intervals among buoys. + Above the steamer lay a large Norwegian barque waiting for her pilot to + take her down on the ebb tide. Below <i>The McMunn Brothers</i> was an + ocean-going tramp steamer. One of her crew sat on the forecastle playing + the “Swanee River” on a melodeon. + </p> + <p> + McMunn, Ginty, and Lord Dunseverick were together in the cabin of <i>The + McMunn Brothers</i>. McMunn, dressed precisely as he always dressed in his + office, sat bolt upright on the cabin sofa. In front of him on the table + were some papers, which he turned over and looked at from time to time. + </p> + <p> + Beside him was Ginty, in his shirt sleeves, with his peaked cap pushed far + back on his head. He sat with his elbows on the table. His chin, thrust + forward, rested on his knuckles. He stared fixedly at the panelling on the + opposite wall of the cabin. Lord Dunseverick, who had a side of the table + to himself, leaned far back. His legs were stretched out straight in front + of him. His hands were in his pockets. He gazed wearily at the small lamp + which swung from the cabin roof. + </p> + <p> + For a long time no one spoke. It was Lord Dunseverick who broke the + silence in the end. He took his cigarette-case from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “You may say what you like about tobacco, McMunn,” he said, “but it’s a + comfort to a man when he has no company but a bear with a sore head.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said McMunn, “you’ll smoke and you’ll smoke, but you’ll no make me + any easier in my mind by smoking.” + </p> + <p> + Ginty drew a plug of black tobacco from his pocket, and began cutting + shreds from it with a clasp knife. He was apparently of opinion that + smoking would relieve the strain on <i>his</i> mind. + </p> + <p> + “I’m no satisfied,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what you have to grumble about,” said Lord Dunseverick. + “We’ve got what we came for, and we’ve got our clearance papers. What more + do you want? You expected trouble about those papers, and there wasn’t + any. You ought to be pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “There you have it,” said McMunn. “According to all the laws of nature + there ought to have been trouble. With a cargo like ours there ought to + have been a lot of trouble. Instead of that the papers are handed over to + us without a question.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s peculiar,” said Ginty. “It’s very peculiar, and that’s a fact.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there’s the matter of those extra cases,” said McMunn. “How many + cases is there in the hold, Ginty?” + </p> + <p> + “A hundred, seventy-two.” + </p> + <p> + “And the contract was for one-fifty. What’s in the odd twenty-two? Tell me + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Pianos,” said Lord Dunseverick. “Look at your clearance papers. ‘Nature + of Cargo—Pianos.’” + </p> + <p> + “You’d have your joke,” said McMunn, “if the flames of hell were scorching + the soles of your boots.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s peculiar,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + “It’s more than peculiar,” said McMunn. “I’ve been in business for thirty + years, and it’s the first time I ever had goods given me that I didn’t ask + for.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Lord Dunseverick, “if we’ve got an extra five hundred rifles + we can’t complain. There’s plenty of men in Ulster ready to use them.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe you’ll tell me,” said McMunn, “why they wouldn’t let me pay for the + goods in the office this afternoon. Did anyone ever hear the like of that—a + man refusing money that was due to him, and it offered?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s out of the course of nature,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + “They told you,” said Lord Dunseverick, “that you could pay Von Edelstein, + and he’d give you a receipt.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, Von Edelstein. And where’s Von Edelstein?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s coming on board this evening,” said Lord Dunseverick. “But you + needn’t wait for him unless you like. We’ve got steam up. Why not slip + away?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s no my way of doing business,” said McMunn, “to slip away, as + you call it, without paying for what I’ve got. I’m a man of principle.” + </p> + <p> + “Talking of your principles,” said Lord Dunseverick, “what did you bring + on board in that basket this afternoon? It looked to me like beer.” + </p> + <p> + “It was beer.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to hear it,” said Lord Dunseverick. “Let’s have a couple of + bottles.” + </p> + <p> + Ginty took his pipe from his mouth and grinned pleasantly. He wanted beer. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be thinking maybe,” said McMunn, “that I’m going back on my + temperance principles?” + </p> + <p> + “We don’t think anything of the sort,” said Lord Dunseverick. “We think + that foreign travel has widened your principles out a bit. That’s what we + think, isn’t it, Ginty?” + </p> + <p> + “My principles are what they always were,” said McMunn, “but I’ve some + small share of commonsense. I know there’s a foreigner coming on board the + night, a baron and a dissipated man——” + </p> + <p> + “Come, now,’” said Lord Dunseverick, “you can’t be sure that Von Edelstein + is dissipated. You’ve never met him.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a foreigner and a baron,” said McMunn, “and that’s enough for me, + forbye that he’s coming here under very suspicious circumstances. If I can + get the better of him by means of strong drink and the snare of alcoholic + liquors——” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” said Lord Dunseverick. “You don’t expect to make a German + drunk with half a dozen bottles of lager beer, particularly as Ginty and I + mean to drink two each.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a dozen in the basket. And, under the circumstances, I consider + myself justified I’m no man for tricks, but if there’s any tricks to be + played, I’d rather play them myself than have them played on me. Mind that + now. It’s the way I’ve always acted, and it’s no a bad way.” + </p> + <p> + “Gosh,” said Ginty, “there’s somebody coming aboard of us now. The + look-out man’s hailing him.” + </p> + <p> + He left the cabin as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later Ginty entered the cabin again. He was followed by a + tall man, so tall that he could not stand quite upright in the little + cabin. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the baron,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Guten Abend</i>,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + He possessed some twenty more German words, and knew that “beer” was + represented by the same sound as in English. The equipment seemed to him + sufficient for the interview. + </p> + <p> + “I have the good fortune to speak English easily,” said Von Edelstein. “Am + I addressing myself to Mr. McMunn?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said McMunn, “you are. And this is Lord Dunseverick, a baron like + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Von Edelstein bowed, and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer,” he said, “my military title, Captain von Edelstein. I believe + that Lord Dunseverick also has a military title. Should I say colonel?” + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact,” said Lord Dunseverick, “I’m not in the Army.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said Von Edelstein. “You are in the Volunteers, the Ulster + Volunteers. But, perhaps I should say general?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t call myself that,” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact, my rank is not officially recognized, in England, I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but here—we recognize it. I assure you, general, we regard the + Ulster Volunteers as a properly constituted military force.” + </p> + <p> + McMunn had been groping in a locker behind him. He interrupted Von + Edelstein by setting a basket on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Beer,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Von Edelstein bowed, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Ginty,” said McMunn, “get some tumblers. And now Baron——” + </p> + <p> + “Captain,” said Von Edelstein. + </p> + <p> + “Well get to business. What’s in them twenty-two cases that was dumped + into our hold today?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Von Edelstein, smiling. “A little surprise. I hope, I feel + confident, a pleasant surprise, for my comrades of the Ulster Volunteer + Force.” + </p> + <p> + Ginty entered the cabin carrying three tumblers and a corkscrew. The beer + was opened and poured out. Von Edelstein raised his glass. + </p> + <p> + “To the Ulster Volunteer Force,” he said, “and to the day when the + pleasant little surprise we have prepared for you may prove a very + unpleasant surprise for—the enemy.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed and drank. + </p> + <p> + “What’s in them cases?” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” said Von Edelstein, “something that will be of great value to + you—machine guns.” + </p> + <p> + “We didn’t order them,” said McMunn, “and I’m not going to pay for them.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not authorized,” said Von Edelstein, “to reveal secrets of State; + but I think I may trust your discretion so far as to say that one very + highly placed desires that the Ulster Volunteer Force should be thoroughly + equipped for war. It is his wish:——” + </p> + <p> + “Baron,” said McMunn, “here’s a bill drawn on my firm for the price of the + rifles. I’ll trouble you for a receipt, and in the matter of the contents + of them cases—I don’t say they’re not machine guns, but I’ve no way + of knowing at present. If it turns out that they’re any use to us we may + strike a bargain, but I’ll no pay for a pig in a poke.” + </p> + <p> + He laid his bill and a form of receipt on the table. Von Edelstein pushed + them aside. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” he said, “between comrades in arms there is no question of + payment. It is the wish of one who is very highly placed that your army——” + </p> + <p> + “But look here,” said Lord Dunseverick, “we are not comrades in arms, as + you call it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Von Edelstein. “Not to-day, not to-morrow perhaps. But who + knows how soon? When the word is given, and some batteries of our + artillery land in Belfast to support your excellent infantry——” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + “And a regiment of Prussian Guards——” + </p> + <p> + “There’ll be no Prussians in Belfast,” said Ginty, “for we’ll not have + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” said Lord Dunseverick, “that you’ve got some wrong idea + into your head.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Von Edelstein, “you cannot fight alone. You would be—what + do you call it?—you would be wiped out. Even the English Army could + do that. You have no artillery. You have no cavalry. What are you but——” + </p> + <p> + “Who said we were going to fight the English Army?” said Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “If you think we’re a pack of dirty rebels,” said Ginty, “you’re making a + big mistake. We’re loyal men.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you are not going to fight the English,” said Von Edelstein, “God + in heaven, who are you going to fight?” + </p> + <p> + “Young man,” said McMunn, “you’re drinking beer in my ship, a thing which + is clean contrary to my principles, though I’m putting up with it; but + you’re going beyond the beyonds when you sit here and take the name of the + Almighty in vain. I’ll trouble you not to swear.” + </p> + <p> + Von Edelstein stared at him in blank amazement. Then very slowly a look of + intelligence came over his face. He turned to Lord Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand,” he said. “You do not quite trust me. You fear that + I may be a spy in the pay of infamous Englishmen. But you are mistaken—entirely + mistaken. I offer you proof of my good faith. General, be so kind as to + read my commission.” + </p> + <p> + He drew a folded document from his pocket, and spread it out before Lord + Dunseverick. + </p> + <p> + “It is signed,” he said, “as you see, by the Emperor himself. It places my + services, the services of Captain von Edelstein, of the Prussian Guard, at + the disposal of the Ulster Volunteer Force, as military organiser.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick glanced at the document before him. He read parts of it + with close attention. He laid his finger on the signature as if to + convince himself by actual touch that it really was what it seemed to be. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Von Edelstein, “I am to be trusted. When you and I are + fighting side by side against the cursed English, your enemies and ours——” + </p> + <p> + Von Edelstein was still smiling. What happened then happened in an instant. + Lord Dunseverick struck the German full on the mouth with his fist. Von + Edelstein’s head went back. His hands clutched convulsively at the + tablecloth. Before he had recovered, Lord Dunseverick hit him again, beat + him down on the cabin sofa, and struck blow after blow at his face. + </p> + <p> + “You infernal scoundrel,” he said, “do you take me for a traitor?” + </p> + <p> + “Quit it,” said McMunn. “Quit it when I tell you. You cannot kill the man + with your naked fists, and you’ll break the furniture.” + </p> + <p> + Ginty drew a long coil of rope from a locker. He tied up Von Edelstein and + laid him, a helpless figure, on the table. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my opinion,” said McMunn, “that we’d better be getting out to sea.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking the same,” said Ginty. + </p> + <p> + He went on deck. Soon <i>The McMunn Brothers</i> was under way. + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick looked at the prostrate Von Edelstein. + </p> + <p> + “What are we going to do with him?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Drown him,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + A trickle of blood was running down Von Edelstein’s chin. He spat out some + fragments of broken teeth. + </p> + <p> + “It appears,” he said, “that I have made a mistake about your intentions.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve offered an outrageous insult to loyal men,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “A mistake,” said Von Edelstein, “but surely excusable. I have in my + pocket at the present moment—would you be so kind as to feel in my + breast pocket? You’ll find some papers there, and a newspaper cutting + among them.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Dunseverick slipped his hand into the prisoner’s pocket. He drew out + a number of letters and a newspaper cutting. It was a report, taken from + the <i>Belfast News Letter</i>, of the speech which he had made at + Ballymena a fortnight before. He had proclaimed the Kaiser the deliverer + of Ulster. His own words stared him in the face. McMunn took the cutting + and glanced at it. He thumped his fist on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I stand by every word of it,” he said. “We will not have Home Rule.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a curious people,” said Von Edelstein. “I thought—and even + now you say——” + </p> + <p> + “That speech,” said McMunn, “was made for an entirely different purpose. + If you thought that we wanted a German Army in Ulster, or that we meant to + fire on the British flag——” + </p> + <p> + “It is exactly what I did think,” said Von Edelstein. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a born fool, then,” said McMunn. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Lord Dunseverick, “we ought not to drown him. Suppose we + take him home, and hand him over to the Ulster Provisional Government?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would,” said Von Edelstein, “I am a student of human nature. I + should greatly like to meet your Ulster Government.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll maybe not like it so much when they hang you,” said McMunn, “and + it’s what they’ll do.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI ~~ SIR TIMOTHY’S DINNER-PARTY + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Courtney, the R.M., was a man of ideas, and prided himself on his + sympathy with progress, the advance of thought, and similar delights. If + he had been thirty years younger, and had lived in Dublin, he would have + been classed among the “Intellectuals.” He would then have written a + gloomy play or two, several poems and an essay, published at a shilling, + in a green paper cover, on the “Civilization of the Future.” Being, + unfortunately, fifty-five years of age, he could not write poetry or + gloomy plays. Nobody can after the age of forty. Being a Resident + Magistrate, he was debarred from discussing the Civilization of the Future + in print. No Government allows its paid servant to write books on + controversial subjects. But Mr. Courtney remained intellectually alert, + and was a determined champion of the cause of progress, even amid the + uncongenial society of a West of Ireland town. + </p> + <p> + The introduction of Summer Time gave Mr. Courtney a great opportunity. + Almost everyone else in the neighbourhood objected to the change of the + clock. Cows, it was said, disliked being milked before their accustomed + hour. Dew collects in deep pools, and renders farm work impossible in the + early morning. It is unreasonable to expect labourers, who have to rise + early in any case, to get out of their beds before the day is properly + warm. Mr. Courtney combated all these objections with arguments which + struck him as sound, but irritated everybody else. When it appeared that + Ireland, worse treated as usual than England, was to be fined an + additional twenty-five minutes, and was to lose the proud privilege of + Irish time, Mr. Courtney was more pleased than ever. He made merry over + what he called the arguments of reactionary patriotism. + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy was the principal landlord, and, socially, the most important + person in the neighbourhood. Sir Timothy did not like Mr. Courtney. He was + of opinion that the R.M. was inclined to take a high hand at Petty + Sessions and to bully the other magistrates—Sir Timothy was himself + a magistrate—who sat with him on the Bench. He also thought that Mr. + Courtney was “too d——d superior” in private life. Sir Timothy + had the lowest possible opinion of the progress made by civilization in + his own time. The Civilization of the Future, about which Mr. Courtney + talked a great deal, seemed to Sir Timothy a nasty kind of nightmare. + </p> + <p> + It was natural, almost inevitable, that Sir Timothy should take a + conservative view on the subject of the new time. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see the use of playing silly tricks with the clock,” he said. + “You might just as well say that I’d live ten years longer if everybody + agreed to say that I’m forty-eight instead of fifty-eight. I’d still be + fifty-eight in reality. It’s just the same with the time. We may all make + up our minds to pretend it’s eight o’clock when it’s really seven, but it + will still be seven.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney smiled in a gentle, but very annoying manner. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Sir Timothy,” he said, “don’t you see that what is really wanted + is a complete change in the habits of the population? We’ve been gradually + slipping into wasteful ways of living. Our expenditure on artificial light———” + </p> + <p> + “I know all about that,” said Sir Timothy. “If you’ve said it to me once, + you’ve said it a dozen times, and last year I did alter my clocks. But this + year—hang it all! They’re sticking another twenty-five minutes on + it. If they go on at this rate, moving us back an extra half hour every + May, we’ll be living in the middle of the night before we die.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry to hear you taking up that question of the so-called Irish + time,” said Mr. Courtney. “Reactionary patriotism——” + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy spluttered. Being an Irish gentleman, he hated to be accused + of patriotism, which he held—following Dr. Johnson—to be the + last refuge of a scoundrel. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing patriotic about it,” he said. “What I object to hasn’t + anything to do with any particular country. It’s simply a direct insult to + the sun.” + </p> + <p> + “The sun,” said Mr. Courtney, smiling more offensively than ever, “can + take care of itself.” + </p> + <p> + “It can,” said Sir Timothy, “and does. It takes jolly good care not to + rise in Dublin at the same time that it does in Greenwich, and what you’re + trying to do is to bluff it into saying it does. When you come to think of + it, the sun doesn’t rise here the same time it does in Dublin. We’re a + hundred and twenty miles west of Dublin, so the real time here——” + </p> + <p> + “We can’t have a different time in every parish,” said Mr. Courtney. “In + the interests of international civilization——” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care a row of pins about international civilization. We’re + something like twenty minutes wrong already here. When you’ve made your + silly change to summer time, and wiped out that twenty-five minutes Irish + time, we shall be an hour and three quarters wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “At all events,” said Mr. Courtney, “you’ll have to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t.” + </p> + <p> + “And when you’ve got accustomed to it, you’ll see the advantages of the + change.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy was profoundly irritated. + </p> + <p> + “You may do as you like,” he said, “I mean to stick to the proper time. + The proper time, mind you, strictly according to the sun, as it rises in + this neighbourhood. I haven’t worked it out exactly yet, but I should say, + roughly, that there’ll be two hours’ difference between your watch and + mine.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that you’re actually going to add on two hours? + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to take off two hours,” said Sir Timothy. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney thought for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be adding on those two hours,” he said, “not taking them off——” + </p> + <p> + “You’re an extraordinarily muddle-headed man, Courtney. Can’t you see that + if I call it six when you say it’s eight I’m taking off——” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not. The way to look at it is this: A day is twenty-four hours + long. You say it’s twenty-six hours. Therefore, you add on.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t do anything of the sort,” said Sir Timothy. “Look here, the sun + rises, say, at 6 a.m. You and a lot of other silly people choose to say + that it rises at 8. What I’m doing—I and the sun, Courtney—mind + that. The sun’s with me—— What we’re doing is taking off two + hours.” + </p> + <p> + The argument went on for some time. Its result was that Sir Timothy and + Mr. Courtney did not speak to each other again for a fortnight. Arguments, + religious, political and economic, often end in this way. + </p> + <p> + During that fortnight summer time established itself, more or less, in the + neighbourhood. Mr. Courtney, the local bank, the railway company, and the + police observed the new time in its full intensity. The parish priest and + most of the farmers took a moderate line. They sacrificed the twenty-five + minutes of the original Irish time, but resisted the imposition of a whole + extra hour. With them it was eight o’clock when the nine o’clock train + started for Dublin. A few extremists stood out for their full rights as + Irishmen, and insisted that the bank, which said it opened at 10 a.m., was + really beginning business at 8.35 a.m. Sir Timothy, dragging his household + with him, set up what he called actual time, and breakfasted a full two + hours after the progressive party. + </p> + <p> + The practical inconvenience of these differences of opinion became obvious + when Sir Timothy arrived at the Petty Sessions Court to take his seat on + the Bench just as Mr. Courtney, having completed the business of the day, + was going home for a rather late luncheon. + </p> + <p> + “No cases to-day?” said Sir Timothy, coldly polite. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, there were, several. I’ve finished them off.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Sir Timothy, “it’s only just the hour for beginning.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, it’s 2 p.m.” + </p> + <p> + “12 noon,” said Sir Timothy. + </p> + <p> + “2 p.m.,” repeated Mr. Courtney. + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy took out his watch. The hands were together at the hour of 12. + He showed it to Mr. Courtney, who grinned. Sir Timothy scowled at him and + turned fiercely to a police sergeant who stood by. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant,” he said, “what time is it?” + </p> + <p> + It is not the function of the Irish police to decide great questions of + State. Their business is to enforce what the higher powers, for the time + being, wish the law to be. In case of any uncertainty about which power is + the higher, the police occupy the uncomfortable position of neutrals. The + sergeant was not quite sure whether Sir Timothy or Mr. Courtney were the + more influential man. He answered cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “There’s some,” he said, “who do be saying that it’s one o’clock at the + present time. There’s others—and I’m not saying they’re wrong—who + are of opinion that it’s half-past twelve, or about that. There’s them—and + some of the most respectable people is with them there—that says + it’s 2 p.m. If I was to be put on my oath this minute, I’d find it mortal + hard to say what time it was.” + </p> + <p> + “By Act of Parliament,” said Mr. Courtney, “its 2 p.m.&dquo; + </p> + <p> + “In the matter of an Act of Parliament,” said the sergeant, “I wouldn’t + like to be contradicting your honour.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy turned on his heel and walked away. The victory was with Mr. + Courtney, but not because he had an Act of Parliament behind him. Nobody + in Ireland pays much attention to Acts of Parliament. He made his point + successfully, because the police did not like to contradict him. From that + day on Sir Timothy made no attempt to take his seat on the Magistrates’ + Bench in the Court House. + </p> + <p> + Late in the summer Sir Archibald Chesney visited the neighbourhood. Sir + Archibald is, of course, a great man. He is one of the people who are + supposed to govern Ireland. He does not actually do so. Nobody could. But + he dispenses patronage, which, after all, is one of the most important + functions of any Government. It was, for instance, in Sir Archibald’s + power to give Mr. Courtney a pleasant and well-paid post in Dublin, to + remove him from the uncongenial atmosphere of Connaught, and set him in an + office in the Lower Castle Yard. There, and in a house in Ailesbury Road—houses + in Ailesbury Road are most desirable—Mr. Courtney could mingle in + really intellectual society. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney knew this, and invited Sir Archibald to be his guest during + his stay in the neighbourhood. Sir Archibald gracefully accepted the + invitation. + </p> + <p> + Then a surprising thing happened. Mr. Courtney received a very friendly + letter from Sir Timothy. + </p> + <p> + “I hear,” so the letter ran, “that Sir Archibald Chesney is to be with you + for a few days next week. We shall be very pleased if you will bring him + out to dine with us some evening. Shall we say Tuesday at 7.30? I shall + not ask anyone else. Three of us will be enough for a couple of bottles of + my old port.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy’s port was very old and remarkably good. Mr. Courtney had + tasted it once or twice before the days when summer time was thought of. + No doubt, Sir Archibald would appreciate the port. + </p> + <p> + He might afterwards take an optimistic view of life, and feel well + disposed towards Mr. Courtney. The invitation was accepted. + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald and Mr. Courtney dressed for dinner, as gentlemen belonging + to the high official classes in Ireland should and do. They put on shirts + with stiff fronts and cuffs. With painful efforts they drove studs through + tightly sealed buttonholes. They fastened white ties round their collars. + They encased their stomachs in stiff white waistcoats. They struggled into + silk-lined, silk-faced, long-tailed coats. They wrapped their necks in + white silk scarves. They even put high silk hats on their heads. Their + overcoats were becomingly open, for the day was warm. They took their + seats in the motor. Every policeman in the village saluted them as they + passed. They sped up the long, tree-lined avenue which led to Sir + Timothy’s house. They reached the lofty doorway, over which crouched lions + upheld a shield, bearing a coat of arms. + </p> + <p> + On the lawn opposite the door Sir Timothy, his two daughters and a young + man whom Mr. Courtney recognized as the police inspector, were playing + tennis. It was a bright and agreeable scene. The sun shone pleasantly. Sir + Timothy and the police inspector were in white flannels. The girls wore + pretty cotton frocks. + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald looked at Mr. Courtney. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve come the wrong day,” he said, “or the wrong hour, or something.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> Tuesday,” said Mr. Courtney, “and he certainly said 7.30.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s infernally awkward,” said Sir Archibald, glancing at his clothes. + </p> + <p> + Sir Timothy crossed the lawn, swinging his tennis racket and smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Delighted to see you,” he said. “I’d have asked you to come up for a game + of tennis if I’d thought you’d have cared for it. Had an idea you’d be + busy all day, and would rather dress at your own place. Hullo, you are + dressed! A bit early, isn’t it? But I’m delighted to see you.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald stepped slowly from the car. Men who undertake the task of + governing Ireland must expect to find themselves looking like fools + occasionally. But it is doubtful whether any turn of the political or + administrative machine can make a man look as foolish as he feels when, + elaborately dressed in evening clothes, he is suddenly set down on a sunny + lawn in the middle of a group of people suitably attired for tennis. Sir + Archibald, puzzled and annoyed, turned to Mr. Courtney with a frown. + </p> + <p> + “He said half-past seven,” said Mr. Courtney. + </p> + <p> + “I’m delighted to see you now or at any time, but, as a matter of fact, + it’s only half-past five,” said Sir Timothy. + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “It’s—surely my watch can’t have gained two hours?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s half-past seven,” said Mr. Courtney, firmly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no it isn’t,” said Sir Timothy. “I don’t dine by Act of Parliament.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Archibald frowned angrily. + </p> + <p> + “We’d better go home again,” he said. “We mustn’t interrupt the tennis.” + </p> + <p> + He climbed stiffly into the motor. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he said to Mr. Courtney a few minutes later, “that this is + some kind of Irish joke.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney explained, elaborately and fully, Sir Timothy’s peculiar + views about time. + </p> + <p> + “If I’d known,” said Sir Archibald, “that you were taking me to dine with + a lunatic, I should not have agreed to go.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Courtney recognized that his chances of promotion to a pleasant post + in Dublin had vanished. The Irish Government had no use for men who place + their superiors in embarrassing positions. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII ~~ UNITED IRELAND + </h2> + <p> + “I’ll say this for old MacManaway, an honester man never lived nor what he + was; and I’m sorry he’s gone, so I am.” + </p> + <p> + The speaker was Dan Gallaher. The occasion was the morning of the auction + of old MacManaway’s property. The place was the yard behind the farmhouse + in which MacManaway had lived, a solitary man, without wife or child, for + fifty years. Dan Gallaher held the hames of a set of harness in his hand + as he spoke and critically examined the leather of the traces. It was good + leather, sound and well preserved. Old MacManaway while alive liked sound + things and took good care of his property. + </p> + <p> + “An honester man never lived,” Dan repeated “And I’m not saying that + because the old man and me agreed together, for we didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “How could you agree?” said James McNiece. “It wasn’t to be expected that + you would agree. There wasn’t a stronger Protestant nor a greater + Orangeman in the whole country nor old MacManaway.” + </p> + <p> + James McNiece turned from the examination of a cart as he spoke and gave + his attention to the hames. His description of the dead man’s religious + and political convictions was just. No one in all the Ulster border land + ever held the principle of the Orange Society more firmly or opposed any + form of Home Rule more bitterly than old MacManaway. + </p> + <p> + And Dan Gallaher was a Roman Catholic and a Nationalist of the extremest + kind. + </p> + <p> + “They tell me,” said Dan Gallaher, in a pleasant conversational tone, + “that it’s to be yourself, James McNiece, that’s to be the head of the + Orangemen in the parish now that MacManaway is gone.” + </p> + <p> + James looked at him sideways out of the corners of his eyes. Dan spoke in + a friendly tone, but it is never wise to give any information to “Papishes + and rebels.” + </p> + <p> + “The Colonel,” he said, “is the Grand Master of the Orangemen in these + parts.” + </p> + <p> + Colonel Eden, a J.P., and the principal landlord in the parish, drove into + the yard in his motor. A police sergeant slipped his pipe into his pocket, + stepped forward and took the number of the Colonel’s car. It has never + been decided in Ireland whether motor cars may or may not be used, under + the provisions of D.O.R.A., for attending auctions. + </p> + <p> + We know that the safety of the empire is compromised by driving to a race + meeting. We know that the King and his Army are in no way injured by our + driving to market. Attendance at an auction stands midway between pleasure + and business; and the use of motors in such matters is debatable. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the D.I’s orders, sir,” said the sergeant apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said the Colonel, “but if the D.I. expects me to fine myself + at the next Petty Sessions hell be disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + James McNiece and Dan Gallaher touched their hats to the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + “Morning, James,” said the Colonel. “Morning, Dan. Fine day for the sale, + and a good gathering of people. I don’t know that I ever saw a bigger + crowd at an auction.” + </p> + <p> + He looked round as he spoke. The whole parish and many people from outside + the parish had assembled. The yard was full of men, handling and + appraising the outdoor effects. Women passed in and out of the house, + poked mattresses with their fingers, felt the fabrics of sheets and + curtains, examined china and kitchen utensils warily. + </p> + <p> + “There’s the doctor over there,” said the Colonel, “looking at the stable + buckets, and who’s that young fellow in the yellow leggings, James?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not rightly sure,” said James McNiece, “but I’m thinking he’ll be the + new D.I. from Curraghfin.” + </p> + <p> + “It is him,” said Dan Gallaher. “I was asking the sergeant this minute and + he told me. What’s more he said he was a terrible sharp young fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “That won’t suit you, Dan,” said the Colonel. “You and your friends will + have to be a bit careful before you get up another rebellion.” + </p> + <p> + “It may not suit me,” said Dan, “but there’s others it won’t suit either. + Didn’t I see the sergeant taking the number of your motor, Colonel, and + would he be doing the like of that if the new D.I. hadn’t told him?” + </p> + <p> + The Colonel laughed. As commander of a battalion of the Ulster Volunteer + Force, he was fully prepared to meet Dan Gallaher on the field of battle—Dan + leading the National Volunteers. He looked forward with something like + pleasure to the final settlement of the Home Rule question by the ordeal + of battle. In the meanwhile he and Dan Gallaher by no means hated each + other, and were occasionally in full sympathy when the police or some + ridiculous Government department made trouble by fussy activity. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robinson, the auctioneer, drove up in his dogcart. He touched his hat + to Colonel Eden, gave an order to his clerk and crossed the yard briskly. + He twisted the cigarette he smoked into the corner of his mouth with deft + movements of his lips, waved his hand to various acquaintances and looked + round him with quick, cheerful glances. No man in the country was quicker + to appreciate the financial worth of a crowd. He knew before a single bid + was made whether people were in a mood to spend lavishly. He found himself + very well satisfied with the prospect of this particular auction. The + stuff he had to sell, indoors and out, was good. The farmers were enjoying + a prosperous season. They had money in their pockets which they would + certainly want to spend. Mr. Robinson had visions of a percentage, his + share of the proceeds, running into three figures. + </p> + <p> + He began work in a corner of the yard with a cross-cut saw. The bidding + rose merrily to a point slightly higher than the cost of a similar saw new + in a shop. At 23/6 Mr. Robinson knocked it down to a purchaser who seemed + well satisfied. A number of small articles, scythes, barrows, spades, were + sold rapidly, Mr. Robinson moving round the yard from outhouse to + outhouse, surrounded by an eager crowd which pressed on him. His progress + was not unlike that of a queen bee at swarming time. He made—as she + makes—short flights, and always at the end of them found himself in + the centre of a cluster of followers. + </p> + <p> + At about half-past twelve Mr. Robinson reached his most important lot. He + lit a fresh cigarette—his eighth—before putting up for sale a + rick of hay. + </p> + <p> + “About four tons,” said Mr. Robinson, “new meadow hay, well saved, saved + with not a drop of rain. Gentlemen, I needn’t tell you that this is a + rare, under existing conditions, a unique opportunity. Hay—you know + this better than I do—is at present unobtainable in the ordinary + market. Now, don’t disappoint me, gentlemen. Let me have a reasonable + offer. Thirty pounds. Did I hear some one say fifteen pounds? Less than + four pounds a ton! Now, gentlemen, really——” + </p> + <p> + But the crowd in front of Mr. Robinson knew just as well as he did that + four pounds a ton is not a reasonable offer. The bids succeeded each other + rapidly. The original fifteen pounds changed to twenty pounds, then to + twenty-five, rose a little more slowly to thirty pounds. At thirty-two + pounds the bidding hesitated. Mr. Robinson, dropping his cigarette from + his mouth, urged his clients on with gusts of eloquence. There was a short + spurt. The bids rose by five shillings at a time and finally stopped dead + at thirty-four pounds. The hay was sold at a little over eight pounds a + ton. Public interest, roused to boiling point by the sale of a whole rick + of hay, cooled down a little when Mr. Robinson went on to the next lot on + his list. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am now offering the hay stored in the loft above + the stable. A small lot, gentlemen, but prime hay. I offer no guarantee as + to the quantity in the loft; but I should guess it at anything between ten + and fifteen hundred-weight.” + </p> + <p> + Several of the more important farmers drew out of the crowd which + surrounded Mr. Robinson. It was not worth while bidding for so small a + quantity of hay. Other members of the crowd, feeling that a breathing + space had been granted them, took packets of sandwiches from their pockets + and sat down in one of the outhouses to refresh themselves. Mr. Robinson + viewed the diminishing group of bidders with some disappointment. He was + gratified to see that the new police officer from Curraghfin, a gentleman + who had not so far made a single bid, crossed the yard and took a place on + the steps leading to the loft. Colonel Eden, too, appeared interested in + the new lot of hay. If the inspector of police and Colonel Eden began to + bid against each other the hay might realize a good price. + </p> + <p> + “Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Robinson, “shall we make a start with three pounds?” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at Colonel Eden, then at the police officer. Neither gentleman + made any sign of wishing to bid. It was James McNiece who made the first + offer. + </p> + <p> + “Two pounds,” he said. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Two pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “two pounds. Going at two pounds. You’re + not going to let this hay,—more than half a ton of it—go at + two pounds.” + </p> + <p> + He looked appealingly at Colonel Eden and at the police officer. They were + entirely unresponsive. + </p> + <p> + “And at two pounds, going——” said Mr. Robinson. + </p> + <p> + “Two-ten,” said Dan Gallaher, in a quiet voice. + </p> + <p> + “Two-fifteen,” said James McNiece. + </p> + <p> + Dan Gallaher, still apparently bored by the proceedings, raised the price + another five shillings. James McNiece went half a crown further. Dan + Gallaher, becoming slightly interested, made a jump to three pounds ten. + McNiece, with an air of finality, bid four pounds. The contest began to + attract attention. When the price rose to five pounds interest became + lively, and those who had drawn out of the group round Mr. Robinson began + to dribble back. It seemed likely that the contest was one of those, not + uncommon at Irish auctions, into which personal feelings enter largely and + the actual value of the article sold is little considered. There was a + certain piquancy about a struggle of this kind between a prominent + Orangeman like James McNiece, and Dan Gallaher, whom everyone knew to be + the leader of the Sinn Fein party. + </p> + <p> + Interest developed into actual excitement when the price rose to ten + pounds. A half ton of hay never is and never has been worth ten pounds. + But ten pounds was by no means the final bid. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. McNiece,” said Mr. Robinson, “the bid is against you.” + </p> + <p> + “Guineas,” said McNiece. + </p> + <p> + “Eleven,” said Dan Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + “Guineas,” said McNiece. + </p> + <p> + The duet went on, McNiece capping Gallaher’s pounds with a monotonous + repetition of the word guineas until the price rose to twenty pounds. At + that point McNiece faltered for a moment. The auctioneer, watching keenly, + saw him turn half round and look at Colonel Eden. The Colonel nodded + slightly, so slightly that no one except Mr. Robinson and McNiece himself + saw the gesture. + </p> + <p> + “At twenty pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “going, and at twenty pounds——” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty,” said McNiece. + </p> + <p> + The crowd of watchers gasped audibly. This was something outside of all + experience. A man might willingly pay a few shillings, even a pound, too + much for the sake of getting the better of an opponent; but to give thirty + pounds for half a ton of hay—not even the natural enmity of an + Orangeman for a Sinn Feiner would account for such recklessness. + </p> + <p> + “Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + It was his turn to say guineas now, and he repeated the word without + faltering until the price rose to fifty pounds. Mr. Robinson took off his + hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never in all his experience of + auctions had he heard bidding like this. He lit a fresh cigarette, holding + the match in fingers which trembled visibly. + </p> + <p> + “You will understand, gentlemen, that I am only selling the hay, not the + barn or the stable.” + </p> + <p> + “Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + It was the last bid. As he made it Colonel Eden turned and walked out of + the group round the auctioneer. James McNiece took his pipe from his + pocket and filled it slowly. + </p> + <p> + “The hay is yours, Mr. Gallaher,” said the auctioneer. + </p> + <p> + Dan Gallaher, having secured the hay, left the yard. He found his horse, + which he had tethered to a tree, and mounted. He rode slowly down the + rough lane which led from the farm. At the gate leading to the high road + the police sergeant stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “If you wouldn’t mind waiting a minute, Mr. Gallaher,” said the sergeant, + “the D.I. would like to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” said Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant winked ponderously. + </p> + <p> + “It might be,” he said, “about the hay you’re just after buying.” + </p> + <p> + “If he wants it,” said Gallaher, “he can have it, and I’ll deliver it to + him at his own home at half the price I paid for it.” + </p> + <p> + The District Inspector, smiling and tapping his gaiters with a riding + switch, explained in a few words that he did not want the hay and did not + intend to pay for it. + </p> + <p> + “I’m taking over the contents of that loft,” he said, “in the name of the + Government under the provisions of D.O.R.A.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Gallaher, “that you’ve any right to be taking over + what I’ve bought in that kind of way, and what’s more you’ll not be able + to do it without you show me a proper order in writing, signed by a + magistrate.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were you,” said the D.I., “I wouldn’t insist on any kind of legal + trial about that hay. At present there’s no evidence against you, Mr. + Gallaher, except that you paid a perfectly absurd price for some hay that + you didn’t want, and I’m not inclined to press the matter now. I’ve got + what I wanted; but if you insist on dragging the matter into Court——” + </p> + <p> + “I do not,” said Gallaher. + </p> + <p> + At ten o’clock that evening Dan Gallaher and James McNiece sat together in + the private room behind the bar of Sam Twining’s public-house. The house + was neutral ground used by Orangemen and Nationalists alike, a convenient + arrangement, indeed a necessary arrangement, for there was no other + public-house nearer than Curraghfin. + </p> + <p> + “Dan,” said James McNiece, “I’m an Orangeman and a Protestant and a + loyalist, and what I’ve always said about Home Rule and always will say is + this:—We’ll not have it and to Hell with the rebels. But I’m telling + you now I’d rather you had them, papist and rebel and all as you are, than + see them swept off that way by the police. And what’s more, I’m not the + only one says that. The Colonel was talking to me after he heard what + happened, and what he said was this—‘The Government of this + country,’ said he, meaning the police, ‘is a disgrace to civilization.’” + </p> + <p> + “Give me your hand, James McNiece,” said Gallaher. “Let me shake your hand + to show there’s no ill feeling about the way I bid against you at the sale + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + McNiece laid down the glass of whisky which he was raising to his lips and + stretched out his hand. Gallaher grasped it and held it. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me this now, James McNiece,” he said, “for it’s what I was never + sure of—How many was there behind that hay?” + </p> + <p> + McNiece looked round him carefully and made sure that no third person + could hear him. Neglecting no precaution he sank his voice to a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty rifles,” he said, “of the latest pattern, the same as the soldiers + use, and four hundred rounds of ball cartridge.” + </p> + <p> + “Gosh,” said Gallaher, “but we’d have done great work with them. Either + your lads or mine, James McNiece, would have done great work with them. + But, sure, what’s the use of talking? The police has them now.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn the police,” said James McNiece. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII ~~ OLD BIDDY AND THE REBELS + </h2> + <p> + The other servants—there were four of them—spoke of her as + “the ould cat” or in moments of extreme exasperation “that divil Biddy + O’Halloran.” When they spoke to her they called her “Mrs. O’Halloran,” or + even “Mrs. O’Halloran, ma’am.” Even Lady Devereux, though nominal mistress + of the house, did not dare to call her “Biddy,” She would as soon have + addressed an archbishop as “Dickie,” if, indeed, there is an arch-bishop + whose Christian name is Richard. There is probably not a woman anywhere, + however brave, who would venture to speak to Mrs. O’Halloran face to face + and call her “Biddy.” But a man, especially if he be young and + good-looking, is in a different case. Harry Devereux called her “Biddy.” + He had earned the right to be familiar with his aunt’s cook. + </p> + <p> + As a schoolboy Harry spent most of his holidays at his aunt’s house in + Dublin, and in those days Mrs. O’Halloran used to box his ears and + occasionally spank him. When he grew to be a man and was called in due + course to the Irish Bar, he was often at his aunt’s house and still + visited Mrs. O’Halloran in her kitchen. She gave up smacking him but she + still called him “Master Harry,” After the outbreak of war Harry Devereux + became a Second Lieutenant in the Wessex Regiment. He displayed himself in + his uniform to his aunt, who admired his appearance in her placid way. He + also showed himself to Mrs. O’Halloran, who snubbed him sharply. + </p> + <p> + “So it’s fighting you’re for now, Master Harry,” she said. “Well, it’s + what’ll suit you. It’s my opinion that you’re never out of mischief only + when you’re in something worse. It is that way with you as long as I know + you and that’s since you were born or pretty near. It’s the Germans, is + it? Well, I’m sorry for them Germans if there’s many like you going to be + soldiers.” + </p> + <p> + Harry took this as a compliment. It was his hope that the Germans would be + sorry for themselves when he got out to France with his platoon of Wessex + men. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, Molly, the parlourmaid, her day’s work ended, became + sentimental. She said it was a terrible thing to think of all the fine men + that would be killed, and maybe young Mr. Devereux among them. Mrs. + O’Halloran checked her flow of feeling. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Master Harry be killed? Talk sense, can’t you? Sure you couldn’t + kill the like of that one. Haven’t I seen him, not once but a dozen times, + climbing out on the roof of the house and playing himself to and fro among + the chimneys. If that wasn’t the death of him, and him not more than + twelve years old at the time, is it likely the Germans would be able to + kill him? The like of him is the same as fleas that you’d be squeezing + with your finger and thumb or maybe drowning in a basin of water. You know + well they’d be hopping over you after the same as before.” + </p> + <p> + Molly sniffed. It was not wise to argue with “Ould Biddy,” who had a + talent for forcible speech. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran had the best right in the world to the free use of her + tongue. She was a really good cook. She had satisfied Sir Joseph Devereux + while he lived. She satisfied Lady Devereux afterwards. And Lady Devereux + appreciated good cooking. Her husband dead, her three daughters safely + married, she had leisure to enjoy eating and had money enough to pay for + the best which the Dublin markets provided. Next to good food Lady + Devereux valued peace and the absence of worry. Mrs. O’Halloran enjoyed + strife and liked a strenuous life. She took all the annoyances of the + household on herself, and when they proved too few for her, created + unnecessary worry for herself by harassing the maids. Lady Devereux slept + untroubled at night, rose late in the morning, found all things very much + to her liking, and grew comfortably fat. + </p> + <p> + For eight months of the year, from October till the end of May, Lady + Devereux lived in one of the fine Georgian houses which are the glory of + the residential squares of Dublin. It was a corner house, rather larger + than the others in the square, with more light and more air, because its + position gave it a view up and down two streets as well as across the lawn + which formed the centre of the square. + </p> + <p> + Before the war Harry Devereux used to say that his aunt’s house was the + best in Dublin for a dance. It pained him to see its possibilities wasted. + After receiving his commission he looked at the world with the eye of a + soldier and gave it as his opinion that the house occupied the finest + strategic position in Dublin. There was not much chance of persuading + plump old Lady Devereux to give a ball. There seemed even less chance of + her home ever being used as a fortress. But fate plays strange tricks with + us and our property, especially in Ireland. It happened that Lady + Devereux’ house was occupied more or less by the soldiers of one army, and + shot at with some vigour by the soldiers of another on Easter Monday, + 1916. Oddly enough it was neither the rebels nor the soldiers who earned + credit by their military operations, but old Biddy O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran always enjoyed Bank holidays greatly. She did not go out, + visit picture houses or parade the streets in her best clothes. She found + a deeper and more satisfying pleasure in telling the younger maids what + she thought of them when they asked and obtained leave to go out for the + afternoon, and in making scathing remarks about their frocks and hats as + they passed through the kitchen to reach the area door. On that particular + Easter Monday she was enjoying herself thoroughly. A kitchenmaid—she + was new to the household or she would not have done it—had asked + Lady Devereux’ permission to go out for the afternoon and evening. She got + what she asked for. Everybody who asked Lady Devereux for anything got it + as a matter of course. The kitchenmaid ought to have made her application + through Mrs. O’Halloran. It is the rule in all services that remote + authorities must be approached only through the applicant’s immediate + superiors. Mrs. O’Halloran took her own way of impressing this on the + kitchenmaid. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose now,” she said, “that you’ll be trapsing the streets of Dublin + in the new pink blouse that you spent your last month’s wages on?” + </p> + <p> + That was exactly what the kitchenmaid meant to do. Mrs. O’Halloran looked + the girl over critically. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” she said, “that I ever seen a girl that would look worse + in a pink blouse than yourself. The face that’s on you is the colour of a + dish of mashed turnips, and the pink blouse will make it worse, if worse + can be.” + </p> + <p> + The kitchenmaid was a girl of some spirit. She felt inclined to cry, but + she pulled herself together and snorted instead. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “that you’ll be looking out for a young + man to keep you company?” + </p> + <p> + The kitchenmaid did, in fact, hope to walk about with a young man; but she + denied this. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be looking for no such thing,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It’s well for you then,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “for I’m thinking you’d + look a long while before you found one. It’s very little sense men has, + the best of them, but I never met one yet that hadn’t more sense than to + go after a girl like you. If you were any good for any mortal thing a man + might be content to marry you in spite of your face; but the way you are, + not fit to darn your own stockings, let alone sew for a man, or cook the + way he could eat what you put before him, it would be a queer one that + would walk the same side of the street with you, pink blouse or no pink + blouse.” + </p> + <p> + The kitchenmaid, though a girl of spirit, was still young. She was washing + potatoes in the scullery while Mrs. O’Halloran spoke to her. Two large + tears dropped from her eyes into the sink. Mrs. O’Halloran smiled. + </p> + <p> + Then Molly, the parlourmaid, flung open the kitchen door and rushed to + Mrs. O’Halloran. Her face was flushed with excitement and terror. Her eyes + were staring. She was panting. Her nice frilly cap was over one ear. She + held her apron crumpled into a ball and clutched tightly in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “It’s murdered we’ll be, killed and murdered and worse! There’s them in + the house with guns and all sorts that’ll ruin and destroy everything + that’s in it. The mistress is dead this minute and it’s me they’re after + now. What’ll we do at all, at all?” + </p> + <p> + The kitchenmaid, stirred from her private grief by the news, left her + potatoes and came to the kitchen. She and Molly clung to each other. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the Sinn Feiners,” she said, “and they’re out for blood.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the police?” said Molly. “What good is the police that they + wouldn’t be here and us being murdered?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s blood they want,” said the kitchenmaid, “and It’s blood they’ll + have.” + </p> + <p> + “Molly,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “is there men in the house or is there not? + Stop your bawling now, and tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “There is, there is,” said Molly, “with guns and cannons and knives. Glory + be to God, but I never thought to die this way. What’ll we do at all, at + all? Would it be any good hiding?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran, with cool deliberation, shifted the position of two pots + on the kitchen range. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. + </p> + <p> + “It’s your place to attend the door and not mine, Molly,” she said, “but + if you’re afeard....” + </p> + <p> + She looked scornfully at the two girls and left the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + In the hall a young man stood just inside the door on the mat. He wore a + greenish-grey uniform and carried a rifle. Across his chest was a + bandolier. He looked uncomfortable, like a man who finds himself + unexpectedly in a public place when wearing a fancy dress. The door was + wide open. On the steps outside were two other young men. They also wore + uniforms and carried rifles. + </p> + <p> + “Now what may you be wanting?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + The man on the mat—he was really little more than a boy—fumbled + in one pocket after another. + </p> + <p> + His uniform, like that of the British soldier, had a good many pockets. + Finally he drew out a sheet of paper. + </p> + <p> + “This is my authority,” he said, “from the Provisional Government of the + Irish Republic.” + </p> + <p> + He handed the paper to Mrs. O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + “If it’s a collection you’re making for the Irish Language Fund,” said + Mrs. O’Halloran, “her ladyship gave half a crown last week to one of yees, + and she’ll give no more, so you can take yourselves off out of this as + quick as you like.” + </p> + <p> + “We are not collectors,” said the young man, with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Whether you are not, it’s what you look,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “dressed + up in them clothes, with your toy guns and all. You ought to be ashamed of + yourselves.” + </p> + <p> + The suggestion that his rifle was not a real weapon roused the spirit of + the young man. + </p> + <p> + “In the name of the Irish Republic,” he said, “I take possession of this + house for military purposes.” + </p> + <p> + “Musha, but that’s fine talk,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “Will nothing do you, + only military purposes?” + </p> + <p> + “We shall do no harm to the inmates or the contents of the house,” said + the young man. + </p> + <p> + “You will not, for you won’t be let.” + </p> + <p> + “But I demand free entrance to the upper storeys for myself and my men.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to the two boys on the steps outside the door. + </p> + <p> + “Enter,” he said, “and follow me.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you wipe your boots on the mat,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and not be + carrying all the mud of the streets into the house with you. Do you think + the girls that does be here has nothing to do only to be sweeping carpets + and polishing floors after the likes of you?” + </p> + <p> + The army of the Irish Republic has had many crimes laid to its charge; but + it has not been said that its soldiers were guilty of any needless + discourtesy to the inhabitants of the houses of which they took + possession. The three young men wiped their boots on Lady Devereux’ + doormat with elaborate cafe. Mrs. O’Halloran watched them critically. + </p> + <p> + “Is it the police you’re out after with them guns?” she said. “It’s a + pity, so it is, to see fine young fellows like you mixing yourselves up + with that foolishness. Sure they’ll get you at the latter end, and you’ll + be had up in Court.” + </p> + <p> + The leader of the little party of Sinn Feiners was not inclined to discuss + the future prospects of the insurrection with Mrs. O’Halloran. He moved + across the hall towards the staircase, followed by his two young men. They + walked delicately, stepping carefully from one to another of the rugs + which lay on the floor and avoiding the polished boards. They were + courteous and considerate rebels. + </p> + <p> + “Will nothing but the front stairs suit you?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “Cock + you up, indeed, the likes of you, that never was in a lady’s house before. + The back stairs is good enough for me, so I’m thinking it’s good enough + for you. Come along with you now.” + </p> + <p> + She led them past the foot of the great staircase and through a swing door + covered with green baize. That door, such was the fancy of the designer of + Lady Devereux’ house, concealed another, a very solid door, made after the + Georgian fashion, of thick mahogany. The baize-covered door had a spring + on it so that it swung shut of itself. Mrs. O’Halloran held it open with + one hand. With the other she turned the handle of the solid door beyond. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come along now,” she said to the three young men, “and take care + you don’t be scratching the polish off the door with them guns you’re so + proud of?” + </p> + <p> + They were foolish rebels, those three. They were young and, though Irish, + this was the first time they had taken part in an insurrection. They had + marched forth to garrison Lady Devereux’ house expecting much, + hand-to-hand fighting perhaps in the hall, the tears and hysterics of + terrified women, revolver shots from outraged loyalists. Anything of that + sort, anything heroic they were prepared for. Old Biddy O’Halloran, with + her humorous eyes and her ready tongue, took them aback. They walked + through the mahogany door meekly enough. + </p> + <p> + They found themselves in a small cloak room. There was a wash-hand basin + and a couple of towels in one corner. A pile of carriage rugs lay on a + shelf. Some waterproof coats hung from pegs. There were three umbrellas in + a stand. There was one small window which looked out on a back yard and + was heavily barred. There was not the smallest sign of a staircase leading + to the upper storey of the house or to anywhere else. + </p> + <p> + A nervous and excitable woman who had trapped three young men would have + made haste to lock them in. Mrs. O’Halloran was in no hurry at all. The + key of the mahogany door was on the inside of the lock. She took it out + deliberately. + </p> + <p> + “There you stay,” she said, “the three of yous, till you’ve sense enough + to go back to your homes, and it’s your mothers will be thankful to me + this day for keeping you out of mischief. Listen to me now before I lock + the door.” + </p> + <p> + She fitted the key into the outside of the lock and half closed the door + while she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “If I hear a word out of your heads or if there’s any shooting of them + guns, or if you start cracking and banging on that door, or kicking up any + sort of a noise that might disturb her ladyship, I’ll give you neither + bite nor sup, not if I have to keep you here for a week, so be good now + and mind what I’m telling you.” + </p> + <p> + She shut the door and turned the key in the lock. + </p> + <p> + At the head of the kitchen stairs stood Molly and the kitchenmaid. + </p> + <p> + “Will I run for the police?” said the kitchenmaid. “Sure I wouldn’t be + afeard to do it if Molly would come with me.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll run down to the scullery,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and you’ll go on + washing them potatoes, and Molly along with you. That’s all the running + either the one or the other of you will do this day.” + </p> + <p> + “Her ladyship’s bell is ringing,” said Molly. “Will I not go to her? It + could be she’s not dead yet and might be wanting help.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s little help you’d give her if she was wanting it, you with your cap + on your ear, instead of the top of your head, and your apron like a wrung + dishclout I wonder you’re not ashamed to be seen. Get along with you down + to the kitchen and stay there. Anything that’s wanted for her ladyship + I’ll do myself.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Devereux was in her morning room, a pleasant sunny apartment which + looked out on the square. The day was warm, but Lady Devereux was an old + woman. She sat in front of a bright fire. She sat in a very deep soft + chair with her feet on a footstool. She had a pile of papers and magazines + on a little table beside her. She neither stirred nor looked up when Mrs. + O’Halloran entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “Molly,” she said, “I heard some men talking in the hall. I wish they + wouldn’t make so much noise.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran cleared her throat and coughed. Lady Devereux looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said, “it’s not Molly. It’s you, Mrs. O’Halloran. Then I suppose + it must be plumbers.” + </p> + <p> + The inference was a natural one. Mrs. O’Halloran always dealt with + plumbers when they came. She was the only person in the house who could + deal with plumbers. + </p> + <p> + “Or perhaps some men about the gas,” said Lady Devereux. “I hope they + won’t want to come in here.” + </p> + <p> + The pleasant quiet life in Lady Devereux’ house was occasionally broken by + visits from plumbers and gas men. No one, however wealthy or easygoing, + can altogether escape the evils which have grown up with our civilization. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not plumbers, my lady,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “nor it isn’t gas men. + It’s Sinn Feiners.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, I suppose they want a subscription. My purse is on my writing + table, Mrs. O’Halloran. Will five shillings be enough? I think I ought to + give them something. I’m always so sorry for people who have to go round + from house to house collecting.” + </p> + <p> + “I have the three of them in the cloakroom downstairs and the key turned + on them,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + It is quite possible that Lady Devereux might have expressed some surprise + at this drastic way of treating men, presumably well-meaning men, who came + to ask for money. Before she spoke again she was startled by the sound of + several rifle shots fired in the street outside her house. She was not + much startled, not at all alarmed. A rifle fired in the open air at some + distance does not make a very terrifying sound. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me,” she said, “I wonder what that is. It sounds very like somebody + shooting.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran went over to the window and opened it. There was a narrow + iron balcony outside. She stepped on to it. + </p> + <p> + “It’s soldiers, my lady,” she said. “They’re in the square.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it must be on account of the war,” said Lady Devereux. + </p> + <p> + She had learned—before Easter, 1916, everybody had learned—to + put down all irregularities to the war. Letters got lost in the post. The + price of sugar rose. Men married unexpectedly, “on account of the war.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t think they ought to be allowed to shoot in the square,” she + added. “It might be dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + It was dangerous. A bullet—it must have passed very close to Mrs. + O’Halloran—buried itself in the wall of the morning room. A moment + later another pierced a mirror which hung over Lady Devereux’ writing + table. Mrs. O’Halloran came into the room again and shut the window. + </p> + <p> + “You’d think now,” she said “that them fellows were shooting at the + house.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d go down and tell them to stop,” said Lady Devereux. “Of + course I know we ought to do all we can to help the soldiers, such gallant + fellows, suffering so much in this terrible war. Still I do think they + ought to be more careful where they shoot.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran went quietly down the two flights of stairs which led from + the morning-room to the ground floor of the house. She had no idea of + allowing herself to be hustled into any undignified haste either by rebels + or troops engaged in suppressing the rebellion. When she reached the + bottom of the stairs she stopped. Her attention was held by two different + noises. The Sinn Feiners were battering the door of their prison with the + butts of their rifles. Molly, the kitchenmaid and Lady Devereux’ two other + servants were shrieking on the kitchen stairs. Mrs. O’Halloran dealt with + the rebels first. She opened the baize-covered door and put her mouth to + the keyhole of the other. + </p> + <p> + “Will yous keep quiet or will yous not?” she said. “There’s soldiers + outside the house this minute waiting for the chance to shoot you, and + they’ll do it, too, if you don’t sit down and behave yourselves. Maybe + it’s that you want. If it is you’re going the right way about getting it. + But if you’ve any notion of going home to your mothers with your skins + whole you’ll stay peaceable where you are. Can you not hear the guns?” + </p> + <p> + The three rebels stopped battering the door and listened. The rifle fire + began to slacken. No more than an occasional shot was to be heard. The + fighting had died down. It was too late for the prisoners to take any + active part in it. They began to consider the future. They made up their + minds to take the advice given them and stay quiet. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran went to the head of the kitchen stairs. The four maids + were huddled together. Mrs. O’Halloran descended on them. She took Molly, + who was nearest to her, by the shoulders and shook her violently. The + housemaid and Lady Devereux’ maid fled at once to the coal cellar. The + kitchenmaid sat down and sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “If there’s another sound out of any of yous,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, + “it’ll be the worse for you after. Isn’t it enough for one day to have + three young fellows in the house trying to get shot, and soldiers outside + trying to shoot them, and every sort of divilment in the way of a row + going on, without having a pack of girls bellowing and bawling on the + kitchen stairs? It’s mighty fond you are, the whole of you, of dressing + yourselves up, in pink blouses and the like” (she looked angrily at the + kitchenmaid) “and running round the streets to see if you can find a man + to take up with you. And now when there’s men enough outside and in, + nothing will do but to be screeching. But sure girls is like that, and + where’s the use of talking?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran might have said more. She felt inclined to say a good deal + more but she was interrupted by a loud knocking at the hall door. + </p> + <p> + “I dursent go to it.” said Molly. “I dursent. You wouldn’t know who might + be there nor what they might do to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody’s asking you to go,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. + </p> + <p> + She went to the door herself and opened it. A sergeant and eight men were + on the steps. + </p> + <p> + “And what may you be wanting?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “What right have you + to come battering and banging at the door of her ladyship’s house the same + as if it was a public-house and you trying to get in after closing time? + Be off out of this, now, the whole of you. I never seen such foolishness.” + </p> + <p> + “My orders are to search the house,” said the sergeant; “rebels have been + firing on us from the roof.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no rebels been firing out of this house,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, + “and what’s more——” + </p> + <p> + “My orders,” said the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no orders given in this house,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “only mine + and maybe her ladyship’s at odd times.” + </p> + <p> + She need scarcely have mentioned Lady Devereux. An order from her was a + very exceptional thing. + </p> + <p> + “Our officer——” said the sergeant “Private Beggs, go and + report to the officer that we are refused admission to this house.” + </p> + <p> + Private Beggs turned to obey the order. The officer in charge of the party + came out of the door of a house half-way along the side of the square. + Mrs. O’Halloran recognised him. It was Second Lieutenant Harry Devereux. + </p> + <p> + “Master Harry,” she called, “Master Harry, come here at once. Is it you + that’s been raising ructions about the square? Shooting and destroying and + frightening decent people into fits? Faith, I might have known it was you. + If there’s divilment going you’d be in it.” + </p> + <p> + Harry Devereux, intensely conscious of his responsibility as commander of + men in a real fight, reached the bottom of the steps which led to his + aunt’s door. + </p> + <p> + “Enter the house, sergeant,” he said, “and search it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. O’Halloran stood right in the middle of the doorway. The sergeant + looked at her doubtfully and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Come up out of that, Master Harry,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and don’t be + trying to hide behind the sergeant. It’s no wonder you’re ashamed of + yourself, but I see you plain enough. Come here now till I talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + The sergeant grinned. Private Beggs, who was behind his officer, laughed + openly. + </p> + <p> + “Was there nowhere else in the world for you to have a battle—if a + battle was what you wanted,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “only in front of your + aunt’s house? Many and many’s the time I’ve smacked you for less than what + you’ve done to-day. Isn’t there bullets in her ladyship’s morning-room? + Isn’t there a grand looking-glass in a gold frame gone to smithers with + your shooting? Isn’t Molly and the other girls screeching this minute down + in the coal cellar, for fear you’ll kill them, and now nothing will do you + seemingly only to be tramping all over the house. Search it, moya, search + it! But you’ll not be let, Master Harry; neither you nor the sergeant nor + any of the rest of you.” + </p> + <p> + Second Lieutenant Harry Devereux pulled himself together and made an + effort to save what was left of his dignity. He had led his men across the + square under a shower of rebel bullets from the roofs of the houses. He + had taken cool advantage of all possible cover. He had directed his men’s + fire till he drove the rebels from their shelters. No one could say of him + that he was other than a gallant officer. But his heart failed him when he + was face to face with his aunt’s cook. + </p> + <p> + “I think we needn’t search this house, sergeant,” he said. “I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’d like to come back in an hour or two, Master Harry,” said Mrs. + O’Halloran, “I’ll have a bit of dinner ready for you, and I wouldn’t say + but there might be something for the sergeant and his men. It’s what her + ladyship is always saying that we ought to do the best we can for the lads + that’s fighting for us against the Germans—so long as they behave + themselves. But mind this now, sergeant, if you do look in in the course + of the evening there must be no carrying on with the girls. The Lord knows + they’re giddy enough without you upsetting them worse.” + </p> + <p> + That night, after dark, three young Sinn Feiners climbed the wall at the + end of Lady Devereux’ back yard and dropped into a narrow lane beyond it. + A fortnight later Mrs. O’Halloran received a large parcel containing three + suits of clothes, the property of Second Lieutenant Devereux, left by him + in his aunt’s house when he first put on his uniform. They were carefully + brushed and folded, in no way the worse for having been worn by strangers + for one night. + </p> + <p> + In the bottom of Mrs. O’Halloran’s trunk there are three rebel uniforms. + And on the top of the cupboard in her room are three rifles, made in + Germany. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV ~~ CIVILIZED WAR + </h2> + <h3> + “This,” said Captain Power, “is an utterly rotten war.” + </h3> + <p> + The rain was dripping through the roof of the shed which had been allotted + to Power as a billet. The mud outside was more than ankle deep. The damp + inside was chilly and penetrating. Ned Waterhouse, a Second Lieutenant, + the only other occupant of the shed, looked up from an old newspaper which + he was trying to read. + </p> + <p> + “All wars are rotten,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said Power; “a properly conducted war, run in a decent way + by civilized men is quite agreeable, rather fun, in fact. Now the last in + which I was mixed up was rather fun.” + </p> + <p> + Waterhouse eyed Power suspiciously. He suspected that he was being made + the victim of some kind of joke. Waterhouse was an Englishman and it was + not of his own desire that he was an officer in the Hibernian light + Infantry. He felt himself out of place among Irishmen whom he never quite + understood. He was particularly distrustful of Captain Power. Power was an + expert in the art of “pulling the legs” of innocent people. Waterhouse had + several times found himself looking like a fool without knowing exactly + why. + </p> + <p> + “What I call a civilized war,” said Power, “is waged in fine weather for + one thing, and men have a chance of keeping clean. The combatants show + some regard for the other side’s feelings and don’t try to make things as + nasty for each other as they can. The business is done in a picturesque + way, with flags and drums and speeches. There are negotiations and flags + of truce and mutual respect for gallant foemen—instead of this + d____d coldblooded, scientific slaughter.” + </p> + <p> + “No war was ever like that,” said Waterhouse. “Novelists and other silly + fools write about war as if it were a kind of sport. But it never was + really.” + </p> + <p> + “The last war I was in, was,” said Power. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you ever were in a war before,” said Waterhouse. “You’re + not old enough to have gone to South Africa.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same I was in a war,” said Power, “though I didn’t actually + fight. I was wounded at the time and couldn’t. But I was there. Our Irish + war at Easter, 1916.” + </p> + <p> + “That footy little rebellion,” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + “You may call it what you like,” said Power, “but it was a much better war + than this one from every point of view, except mere size. It was properly + conducted on both sides.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you want to tell a yarn about it,” said Waterhouse, “and if you + do I can’t stop you; but you needn’t suppose I’ll believe a word you say.” + </p> + <p> + “The truth of this narrative,” said Power, “will compel belief even in the + most sceptical mind. I happened to be at home at the time on sick leave, + wounded in the arm. Those were the days when one got months of sick leave, + before some rotten ass invented convalescent homes for officers and kept + them there. I had three months’ leave that time and I spent it with my + people in Ballymahon.” + </p> + <p> + “The whole of it?” said Waterhouse. “Good Lord!” + </p> + <p> + “You’d have spent it in the Strand Palace Hotel, I suppose, running in and + out of music halls, but I prefer the simple joys of country life, though I + couldn’t shoot or ride properly on account of my arm. Still I could watch + the sunset and listen to the birds singing, which I like. Besides, I was + absolutely stoney at the time, and couldn’t have stayed in London for a + week. As it happened, it was a jolly good thing I was there. If I’d been + in London I’d have missed that war. Perhaps I’d better begin by telling + you the sort of place Ballymahon is.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t,” said Waterhouse. “I spent three months in camp in County + Tipperary. I know those dirty little Irish towns. Twenty public-houses. + Two churches, a workhouse and a police barrack.” + </p> + <p> + “In Ballymahon there is also a court house and our ancestral home. My old + dad is the principal doctor in the neighbourhood. He lives on one side of + the court house. The parish priest lives on the other. You must grasp + these facts in order to understand the subsequent military operations. The + only other thing you really must know is that Ballymahon lies in a hole + with hills all round it, like the rim of a saucer. Well, on Monday + afternoon, Easter Monday, the enemy, that is to say, the Sinn Feiners, + marched in and took possession of the town. It was a most imposing sight, + Waterhouse. There were at least eight hundred of them. Lots of them had + uniforms. Most of them had flags. There were two bands and quite a lot of + rifles. The cavalry——” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t expect me to believe in the cavalry,” said Waterhouse. ‘’But I + say, supposing they really came, didn’t the loyal inhabitants put up any + kind of resistance?” + </p> + <p> + “My old dad,” said Power, “was the only loyal inhabitant, except four + policemen. You couldn’t expect four policemen to give battle to a whole + army. They shut themselves up in their barrack and stayed there. My dad, + being a doctor, was of course a non-combatant. I couldn’t do anything with + my arm in a sling, so there was no fight at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the next thing they did was loot the public-houses,” said + Waterhouse, “and get gloriously drunk?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. I told you that our war was properly conducted. There was + no looting in Ballymahon and I never saw a drunken man the whole time. If + those Sinn Feiners had a fault it was over-respectability. I shouldn’t + care to be in that army myself.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe that,” said Waterhouse. “It’s the first thing in this story + that I really have believed.” + </p> + <p> + “They used to march about all day in the most orderly manner, and at night + there were sentries at every street corner who challenged you in Irish. + Not knowing the language, I thought it better to stay indoors. But my dad + used to wander about. He’s a sporting old bird and likes to know what’s + going on. Well, that state of things lasted three days and we all began to + settle down comfortably for the summer. Except that there were no + newspapers or letters there wasn’t much to complain about. In fact, you’d + hardly have known there was a war on. It wasn’t the least like this + beastly country where everyone destroys everything he sees, and wretched + devils have to live in rabbit-holes. In Ballymahon we lived in houses with + beds and chairs and looked after ourselves properly. Then one morning—it + must have been Friday—news came in that a lot of soldiers were + marching on the town. Some country girls saw them and came running in to + tell us. I must say for the Sinn Fein commander that he kept his head. His + name was O’Farrelly and he called himself a Colonel. He sent out scouts to + see where the soldiers were and how many there were. Quite the proper + thing to do. I didn’t hear exactly what the scouts reported; but that + evening O’Farrelly came round to our house to talk things over with my + dad.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said your father was a loyal man.” + </p> + <p> + “So he is. There isn’t a loyaller man in Ireland. You’d know that if you’d + ever seen him singing ‘God Save the King.’ He swells out an inch all over + when he’s doing it.” + </p> + <p> + “If he’s as loyal as all that,” said Waterhouse, “he wouldn’t consult with + rebels.” + </p> + <p> + “My dad, though loyal, has some sense, and so, as it happened, had + O’Farrelly. Neither one nor the other of them wanted to see a battle + fought in the streets of Ballymahon. You’ve seen battles, Waterhouse, and + you know what they’re like. Messy things. You can understand my father’s + feelings. O’Farrelly was awfully nice about it. He said that the people of + Ballymahon, including my father and even the police, were a decent lot, + and he’d hate to see licentious English soldiers rioting through the + streets of the town. His idea was that my dad should use his influence + with the C.O. of the troops and get him to march his men off somewhere + else, so as to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. O’Farrelly promised he + wouldn’t go after them or molest them in any way if they left the + neighbourhood. My dad said he couldn’t do that and even if he could, he + wouldn’t. He suggested that O’Farrelly should take his army away. + O’Farrelly said he was out to fight and not to run away. I chipped in at + that point and said he could fight just as well in a lonelier place, where + there weren’t any houses and no damage would be done. I said I felt pretty + sure the soldiers would go after him to any bog he chose to select. + O’Farrelly seemed to think there was something in the suggestion and said + he’d hold a council of war and consult his officers.” + </p> + <p> + “What an amazing liar you are, Power,” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + Captain Power took no notice of the insult. He went on with his story. + </p> + <p> + “The Council of War assembled next morning,” he said, “and sat for about + four hours. It might have all day if an English officer hadn’t ridden in + on a motor-bike about noon. He was stopped by a sentry, of course, and + said he wanted to see the C.O. of the rebel army. So the sentry + blindfolded him——” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth for?” + </p> + <p> + “In civilized war,” said Power severely, “envoys with flags of truce are + invariably blindfolded. I told you at the start that our war was properly + conducted; but you wouldn’t believe me. Now you can see for yourself that + it was. The sentry led that officer into the council, which was sitting in + the court house. I told you, didn’t I, that the court house was the rebel + H.Q.?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t mention it, but it doesn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + “It does matter. And you’ll see later on it’s most important. Well, + O’Farrelly was frightfully polite to the officer, and asked him what he + wanted. The officer said that he had come to demand the unconditional + surrender of the whole of the rebel army. O’Farrelly, still quite + politely, said he’d rather die than surrender, and everybody present + cheered. The officer said that the town was entirely surrounded and that + there was a gun on top of one of the hills which would shell the place + into little bits in an hour if it started firing. O’Farrelly said he + didn’t believe all that and accused the officer of putting up a bluff. The + officer stuck to it that what he said was true. That brought the + negotiations to a dead-lock.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the devil didn’t they shell the place and have done with it, instead + of talking?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what would happen out here,” said Power. “But as I keep telling + you our war was run on humane lines. After the officer and O’Farrelly had + argued for half an hour my dad dropped in on them. He’s a popular man in + the place and I think everyone was glad to see him. He sized up the + position at once and suggested the only possible way out. O’Farrelly, with + a proper safe conduct, of course, was to be allowed to go and see whether + the town was really surrounded, and especially whether there was a gun on + top of the hill, as the officer said. That, I think you’ll agree with me, + Waterhouse, was a sensible suggestion and fair to both sides. But they + both boggled at it. The officer said he’d no power to enter into + negotiation of any kind with rebels, and that all he could do was take yes + or no to his proposal of unconditional surrender. O’Farrelly seemed to + think that he’d be shot, no matter what safe conducts he had. It took the + poor old dad nearly an hour to talk sense into the two of them; but in the + end he managed it O’Farrelly agreed to go if the safe conduct was signed + by my dad as well as the officer, and the officer agreed to take him on + condition that my dad went too to explain the situation to his colonel. I + went with them just to see what would happen.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they made O’Farrelly prisoner?” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + “You are judging everybody by the standards of this infernal war,” said + Power. “That English colonel was a soldier and a gentleman. He stood us + drinks and let O’Farrelly look at the gun. It was there all right and + Ballymahon was entirely surrounded. We got back about five o’clock, with + an ultimatum written out on a sheet of paper. Unless O’Farrelly and his + whole army had marched out and laid down their arms by 8 p.m. the town + would be shelled without further warning. You’d have thought that would + have knocked the heart out of O’Farrelly, considering that he hadn’t a + dog’s chance of breaking through. But it didn’t. He became cheerfuller than + I’d seen him before, and said that the opportunity he’d always longed for + had come at last. His men, when he told them about the ultimatum, took the + same view. They said they’d never surrender, not even if the town was + shelled into dust and them buried in the ruins. That naturally didn’t suit + my dad—or for that matter, me. The soldiers were sure to begin by + shelling the rebel H.Q. and that meant that they’d hit our house. I told + you, didn’t I, that it was next door to the court house? My poor dad did + his best. He talked to O’Farrelly and the rest of them till the sweat ran + off him. But it wasn’t the least bit of good. They simply wouldn’t listen + to reason. It was seven o’clock before dad gave the job up and left the + court house. He was going home to make his will, but on the way he met + Father Conway, the priest. He was a youngish man and a tremendous patriot, + supposed to be hand-in-glove with the rebels. Dad explained to him that he + had less than an hour to live and advised him to go home and bury any + valuables he possessed before the shelling began. It took Father Conway + about ten minutes to grasp the situation. I chipped in and explained the + bracket system on which artillery works. I told him that they wouldn’t + begin by aiming at the court house, but would drop their first shell on + his house and their next on ours, so as to get the range right. As soon as + he believed that—and I had to swear it was true before he did—he + took the matter up warmly and said he’d talk to O’Farrelly himself. I + didn’t think he’d do much good, but I went into the court house with him, + just to see what he’d say. I must say for him he wasted no time. It was a + quarter past seven when he began, so there wasn’t much time to waste.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Boys,’ he said, ‘will you tell me straight and plain what is it you + want?’ O’Farrelly began a long speech about an Irish republic and things + of that kind. I sat with my watch in my hand opposite Father Conway and + every now and then I pointed to the hands, so as to remind him that time + was going on. At twenty-five past seven he stopped O’Farrelly and said + they couldn’t have an Irish republic just then—though they might + later—on account of that gun. Then he asked them again to say + exactly what they wanted, republics being considered a wash-out. You’d have + been surprised if you heard the answer he got. Every man in the place stood + up and shouted that he asked nothing better than to die for Ireland. They + meant it, too. I thought it was all up and Father Conway was done. But he + wasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Who’s preventing you?’ he said. ‘Just form fours in the square outside + and you’ll all be dead in less than half an hour. But if you stay here a + lot of other people who don’t want to die for Ireland or anything else + will be killed too; along with having their homes knocked down on them.’ + </p> + <p> + “Well, they saw the sense of that. O’Farrelly formed his men up outside + and made a speech to them. He said if any man funked it he could stay + where he was and only those who really wanted to die need go on. It was a + quarter to eight when he finished talking and I was in terror of my life + that there’d be some delay getting rid of the men who fell out. But there + wasn’t a single defaulter. Every blessed one of those men—and most + of them were only boys—did a right turn and marched out of the town + in column of fours. I can tell you, Waterhouse, I didn’t like watching + them go. Father Conway and my dad were standing on the steps of the court + house, blubbering like children.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they weren’t all killed?” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + “None of them were killed,” said Power. “There wasn’t a shot fired. You + see, when the English officer saw them march out of the town he naturally + thought they’d come to surrender, and didn’t fire on them.” + </p> + <p> + “He couldn’t possibly have thought that,” said Waterhouse, “unless they + laid down their arms.” + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact,” said Power, “hardly any of them had any arms, + except hockey sticks, and the Colonel thought they’d piled them up + somewhere. He seems to have been a decent sort of fellow. He made + O’Farrelly and a few more prisoners, and told the rest of them to be off + home.” + </p> + <p> + “Ireland,” said Waterhouse, “must be a d____d queer country.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the only country in Europe,” said Power, “which knows how to conduct + war in a civilized way. Now if a situation of that sort turned up out here + there’d be bloodshed.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose O’Farrelly was hanged afterwards?” said Waterhouse. + </p> + <p> + “No, he wasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Shot, then? Though I should think hanging is the proper death for a + rebel.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor shot,” said Power. “He is alive still and quite well. He’s going + about the country making speeches. He was down in Ballymahon about a + fortnight ago and called on my dad to thank him for all he’d done during + the last rebellion. He inquired after me in the kindest way. The old dad + was greatly touched, especially when a crowd of about a thousand men, all + O’Farrelly’s original army with a few new recruits, gathered round the + house and cheered, first for an Irish republic and then for dad. He made + them a little speech and told them I’d got my company and was recommended + for the M.C. When they heard that they cheered me like anything and then + shouted ‘Up the Rebels!’ for about ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “I needn’t tell you,” said Waterhouse, “that I don’t believe a word of + that story. If I did I’d say——” + </p> + <p> + He paused for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I’d say that Ireland——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Power, “that Ireland——” + </p> + <p> + “I’d say that Ireland is a country of lunatics,” said Waterhouse, “and + there ought to be an Irish Republic I can’t think of anything to say worse + than that.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV ~~ THE MERMAID + </h2> + <p> + We were on our way home from Inishmore, where we had spent two days; Peter + O’Flaherty among his relatives—for everyone on the island was kin to + him—I among friends who give me a warm welcome when I go to them. + The island lies some seventeen miles from the coast. We started on our + homeward sail with a fresh westerly wind. Shortly after midday it backed + round to the north and grew lighter. At five o’clock we were stealing + along very gently through calm water with our mainsail boom out against + the shroud. The jib and foresail were drooping in limp folds. An hour + later the mainsheet was hanging in the water and the boat drifted with the + tide. Peter, crouching in the fore part of the cockpit, hissed through his + clenched teeth, which is the way in which he whistles for a wind. He + glanced all round the horizon, searching for signs of a breeze. His eyes + rested finally on the sun, which lay low among some light, fleecy clouds. + He gave it as his opinion that when it reached the point of setting it + “might draw a light air after it from the eastward.” For that it appeared + we were to wait. I shrank from toil with the heavy sweeps. So, I am sure + did Peter, who is a good man in a boat but averse from unnecessary labour. + And there was really no need to row. The tide was carrying us homeward, + and our position was pleasant enough. Save for the occasional drag of a + block against the horse we had achieved unbroken silence and almost + perfect peace. + </p> + <p> + We drifted slowly past Carrigeen Glos, a low, sullen line of rocks. A + group of cormorants, either gorged with mackerel fry or hopeless of an + evening meal, perched together at one end of the reef, and stared at the + setting sun. A few terns swept round and round overhead, soaring or + sliding downwards with easy motion. A large seal lay basking on a bare + rock just above the water’s edge. I pointed it out to Peter, and he said + it was a pity I had not got my rifle with me. I did not agree with him. If + I had brought the rifle Peter would have insisted on my shooting at the + seal. I should certainly not have hit it on purpose, for I am averse from + injuring gentle creatures; but I might perhaps have killed or wounded it + by accident, for my shooting is very uncertain. In any case I should have + broken nature’s peace, and made a horrible commotion. Perhaps the seal + heard Peter’s remark or divined his feeling of hostility. It flopped + across the rock and slid gracefully into the sea. We saw it afterwards + swimming near the boat, looking at us with its curiously human, tender + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “A man might mistake it for a mermaid,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “He’d have to be a fool altogether that would do the like,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + He was scornful; but the seal’s eyes were human. They made me think of + mermaids. + </p> + <p> + “Them ones,” said Peter, “is entirely different from seals. You might see + a seal any day in fine weather. They’re plenty. But the other ones—But + sure you wouldn’t care to be hearing about them.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard plenty about them,” I said, “but it was all poetry and + nonsense. You know well enough, Peter, that there’s no such thing as a + mermaid.” + </p> + <p> + Peter filled his pipe slowly and lit it. I could see by the way he puffed + at it that he was full of pity and contempt for my scepticism. + </p> + <p> + “Come now,” I said: “did you ever see a mermaid?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not,” said Peter, “but my mother was acquainted with one. That was + in Inishmore, where I was born and reared.” + </p> + <p> + I waited. The chance of getting Peter to tell an interesting story is to + wait patiently. Any attempt to goad him on by asking questions is like + striking before a fish is hooked. The chance of getting either story or + fish is spoiled. + </p> + <p> + “There was a young fellow in the island them times,” said Peter, “called + Anthony O’Flaherty. A kind of uncle of my father’s he was, and a very fine + man. There wasn’t his equal at running or lepping, and they say he was + terrible daring on the sea. That was before my mother was born, but she + heard tell of what he did. When she knew him he was like an old man, and + the heart was gone out of him.” + </p> + <p> + At this point Peter stopped. His pipe had gone out. He relit it with + immense deliberation. I made a mistake. By way of keeping the conversation + going I asked a question. + </p> + <p> + “Did he see a mermaid?” + </p> + <p> + “He did,” said Peter, “and what’s more he married one.” + </p> + <p> + There Peter stopped again abruptly, but with an air of finality. He had, + so I gathered, told me all he was going to tell me about the mermaid. I + had blundered badly in asking my question. I suppose that some note of + unsympathetic scepticism in my tone suggested to Peter that I was inclined + to laugh at him. I did my best to retrieve my position. I sat quite silent + and stared at the peak of the mainsail. The block on the horse rattled + occasionally. The sun’s rim touched the horizon. At last Peter was + reassured and began again. + </p> + <p> + “It was my mother told me about it, and she knew, for many’s the time she + did be playing with the young lads, her being no more than a little + girleen at the time. Seven of them there was, and the second eldest was + the one age with my mother. That was after herself left him.” + </p> + <p> + “Herself” was vague enough; but I did not venture to ask another question. + I took my eyes off the peak of the mainsail and fixed them inquiringly on + Peter. It was as near as I dared go to asking a question. + </p> + <p> + “Herself,” said Peter, “was one of them ones.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded sideways over the gunwale of the boat. The sea, though still + calm, was beginning to be moved by that queer restlessness which comes on + it at sunset. The tide eddied in mysteriously oily swirls. The rocks to + the eastward of us had grown dim. A gull flew by overhead uttering wailing + cries. The graceful terns had disappeared. A cormorant, flying so low that + its wing-tips broke the water, sped across our bows to some far + resting-place. I fell into a mood of real sympathy with stories about + mermaids. I think Peter felt the change which had come over me. + </p> + <p> + “Anthony O’Flaherty,” said Peter, “was a young man when he saw them first. + It was in the little bay back west of the island, and my mother never + rightly knew what he was doing there in the middle of the night; but there + he was. It was the bottom of a low spring tide, and there’s rocks off the + end of the bay that’s uncovered at the ebb of the springs. You’ve maybe + seen them.” + </p> + <p> + I have seen them, and Peter knew it well. I have seen more of them than I + want to. There was an occasion when Peter and I lay at anchor in that bay, + and a sudden shift of wind set us to beating out at three o’clock in the + morning. The rocks were not uncovered then, but the waves were breaking + fiercely over them. We had little room for tacking, and I am not likely to + forget the time we went about a few yards to windward of them. The stretch + of wild surf under our lee looked ghastly white in the dim twilight of the + dawn. Peter knew what I was thinking. + </p> + <p> + “It was calm enough that night Anthony O’Flaherty was there,” he said, + “and there was a moon shining, pretty near a full moon, so Anthony could + see plain. Well, there was three of them in it, and they playing + themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Mermaids?” + </p> + <p> + This time my voice expressed full sympathy. The sea all round us was + rising in queer round little waves, though there was no wind. The boom + snatched at the blocks as the boat rocked. The sail was ghostly white. The + vision of a mermaid would not have surprised me greatly. + </p> + <p> + “The beautifulest ever was seen,” said Peter, “and neither shift nor shirt + on them, only just themselves, and the long hair of them. Straight it was + and black, only for a taste of green in it. You wouldn’t be making a + mistake between the like of them and seals, not if you’d seen them right + the way Anthony O’Flaherty did.” + </p> + <p> + Peter made this reflection a little bitterly. I was afraid the + recollection of my unfortunate remark about seals might have stopped him + telling the story, but it did not. + </p> + <p> + “Once Anthony had seen them,” he said, “he couldn’t rest content without + he’d be going to see them again. Many a night he went and saw neither + sight nor light of them, for it was only at spring tides that they’d be + there, on account of the rocks not being uncovered any other time. But at + the bottom of the low springs they were there right enough, and sometimes + they’d be swimming in the sea and sometimes they’d be sitting on the + rocks. It was wonderful the songs they’d sing—like the sound of the + sea set to music was what my mother told me, and she was told by them that + knew. The people did be wondering what had come over Anthony, for he was + different like from what he had been, and nobody knew what took him out of + his house in the middle of the night at the spring tides. There was a girl + that they had laid down for him to marry, and Anthony had no objection to + her before he seen them ones; but after he had seen them he wouldn’t look + at the girl. She had a middling good fortune too but sure he didn’t care + about that.” + </p> + <p> + I could understand Anthony’s feelings. The air of wind which Peter had + promised, drawn from its cave by the lure of the departing sun, was + filling our head-sails. I hauled in the main-sheet gently hand over hand + and belayed it. The boat slipped quietly along close-hauled. The long line + of islands which guards the entrance of our bay lay dim before use. Over + the shoulder of one of them I could see the lighthouse, still a + distinguishable patch of white against the looming grey of the land. The + water rippled mournfully under our bows and a long pale wake stretched + astern from our counter. “Fortune,” banked money, good heifers and even + enduringly fruitful fields seemed very little matters to me then. They + must have seemed still less, far less, to Anthony O’Flaherty after he had + seen those white sea-maidens with their green-black hair. + </p> + <p> + “There was a woman on the island in those times,” said Peter, “a very aged + woman, and she had a kind of plaster which she made which cured the + cancer, drawing it out by the roots, and she could tell what was good for + the chin cough, and the women did like to have her with them when their + children was born, she being knowledgable in them matters. I’m told the + priests didn’t like her, for there was things she knew which it mightn’t + be right that anyone would know, things that’s better left to the clergy. + Whether she guessed what was the matter with Anthony, or whether he up and + told her straight my mother never heard. It could be that he told her, for + many a one used to go to her for a charm when the butter wouldn’t come, or + a cow, maybe, was pining; so it wouldn’t surprise me if Anthony went to + her.” + </p> + <p> + Peter crept aft. He took a pull on the jib-sheet and belayed it again; but + I do not believe that he really cared much about the set of the sail. That + was his excuse. He wanted to be nearer to me. There is something in + stories like this, told in dim twilight, with dark waters sighing near at + hand, which makes men feel the need of close human companionship. Peter + seated himself on the floorboards at my feet, and I felt a certain comfort + in the touch of his arm on my leg. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he went on, “according to the old hag—and what she said was + true enough, however she learnt it—them ones doesn’t go naked all + the time, but only when they’re playing themselves on the rocks at low + tide, the way Anthony seen them. Mostly they have a kind of cloak that + they wear, and they take the same cloaks off of them when they’re up above + the water and they lay them down on the rocks. If so be that a man could + put his hand on e’er a cloak, the one that owned it would have to follow + him whether she wanted to or not. If it was to the end of the world she’d + have to follow him, or to Spain, or to America, or wherever he might go. + And what’s more, she’d have to do what he bid her, be the same good or + bad, and be with him if he wanted her, so long as he kept the cloak from + her. That’s what the old woman told Anthony, and she was a skilful woman, + well knowing the nature of beasts and men, and of them that’s neither + beasts nor men. You’ll believe me now that Anthony wasn’t altogether the + same as other men when I tell you that he laid his mind down to get his + hand down on one of the cloaks. He was a good swimmer, so he was, which is + what few men on the island can do, and he knew that he’d be able to fetch + out to the rock where them ones played themselves.” + </p> + <p> + I was quite prepared to believe that Anthony was inspired by a passion far + out of the common. I know nothing more terrifying than the chill embrace + of the sea at night-time. To strike out through the slimy weeds which lie + close along the surface at the ebb point of a spring tide, to clamber on + low rocks, half awash for an hour or two at midnight, these are things + which I would not willingly do. + </p> + <p> + “The first time he went for to try it,” said Peter, “he felt a bit queer + in himself and he thought it would do him no harm if he was to bless + himself. So he did, just as he was stepping off the shore into the water. + Well, it might as well have been a shot he fired, for the minute he did it + they were off and their cloaks along with them; and Anthony was left + there. It was the sign of the cross had them frightened, for that same is + what they can’t stand, not having souls that religion would be any use to. + It was the old woman told Anthony that after, and you’d think it would + have been a warning to him not to make or meddle with the like of them any + more. But it only made him the more determined. He went about without + speaking to man or woman, and if anybody spoke to him he’d curse terrible, + till the time of the next spring tide. Then he was off to the bay again, + and sure enough them ones was there. The water was middling rough that + night, but it didn’t daunt Anthony. It pleased him, for he thought he’d + have a better chance of getting to the rocks without them taking notice of + him if there was some noise loud enough to drown the noise he’d be making + himself. So he crept out to the point of the cliff on the south side of + the bay, which is as near as he could get to the rocks. You remember + that?” + </p> + <p> + I did. On the night when we beat out of the bay against a rising westerly + wind we went about once under the shadow of the cliff, and, almost before + we had full way on the boat, stayed her again beside the rocks. Anthony’s + swim, though terrifying, was short. + </p> + <p> + “That time he neither blessed himself nor said a prayer, but slipped into + the water, and off with him, swimming with all his strength. They didn’t + see him, for they were too busy with their playing to take much notice, + and of course they couldn’t be expecting a man to be there. Without + Anthony had shouted they wouldn’t have heard him, for the sea was loud on + the rocks and their own singing was louder. So Anthony got there and he + crept up on the rock behind them, and the first thing his hand touched was + one of the cloaks. He didn’t know which of them it belonged to, and he + didn’t care. It wasn’t any one of the three in particular he wanted, for + they were all much about the same to look at, only finer than any woman + ever was seen. So he rolled the cloak round his neck, the way he’d have + his arms free for swimming, and back with him into the water, heading for + shore as fast as he was able.” + </p> + <p> + “And she followed him?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “She did so. From that day till the day she left him she followed him, and + she did what she was bid, only for one thing. She wouldn’t go to mass, and + when the chapel bell rang she’d hide herself. The sound of it was what she + couldn’t bear. The people thought that queer, and there was a deal of talk + about it in the island, some saying she must be a Protestant, and more + thinking that she might be something worse. But nobody had a word to say + against her any other way. She was a good enough housekeeper, washing and + making and mending for Anthony, and minding the children. Seven of them + there was, and all boys.” + </p> + <p> + The easterly breeze freshened as the night fell I could see the great eye + of the lighthouse blinking at me on the weather side of the boat. It + became necessary to go about, but I gave the order to Peter very + reluctantly. He handled the head-sheets, and then, instead of settling + down in his old place, leaned his elbows on the coaming and stared into + the sea. We were steadily approaching the lighthouse. I felt that I must + run the risk of asking him a question. + </p> + <p> + “What happened in the end?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “The end, is it? Well, in the latter end she left him. But there was + things happened before that. Whether it was the way the priests talked to + him about her—there was a priest in it them times that was too fond + of interfering, and that’s what some of them are—or whether there + was goings-on within in the inside of the house that nobody knew anything + about—and there might have been, for you couldn’t tell what one of + them ones might do or mightn’t. Whatever way it was, Anthony took to + drinking more than he ought. There was poteen made on the island then, and + whisky was easy come by if a man wanted it, and Anthony took too much of + it.” + </p> + <p> + Peter paused and then passed judgment, charitably, on Anthony’s conduct. “I + wouldn’t be too hard on a man for taking a drop an odd time.” + </p> + <p> + I was glad to hear Peter say that. I myself had found it necessary from + time to time, for the sake of an old friendship, not to be too hard on + Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody would have blamed him,” Peter went on, “if he had behaved himself + when he had a drop taken; but that’s what he didn’t seem able to do. He + bet her. Sore and heavy he bet her, and that’s what no woman, whether she + was a natural woman or one of the other kind, could be expected to put up + with. Not that she said a word. She didn’t. Nor nobody would have known + that he bet her if he hadn’t token to beating the young lads along with + her. It was them told what was going on. But there wasn’t one on the + island would interfere. The people did be wondering that she didn’t put + the fear of God into Anthony; but of course that’s what she couldn’t do on + account of his having the cloak hid away from her. So long as he had that + she was bound to put up with whatever he did. But it wasn’t for ever. + </p> + <p> + “The house was going to rack and ruin with the way Anthony wouldn’t mind + it on account of his being three-parts drunk most of the time. At last the + rain was coming in through the roof. When Anthony saw that he came to + himself a bit and sent for my grandfather and settled with him to put a + few patches of new thatch on the worst places. My grandfather was the best + man at thatching that there was in the island in them days, and he took + the job though he misdoubted whether he’d ever be paid for it. Anthony + never came next or nigh him when he was working, which shows that he + hadn’t got his senses rightly. If he had he’d have kept an eye on what my + grandfather was doing, knowing what he knew, though of course my + grandfather didn’t know. Well, one day my grandfather was dragging off the + old thatch near the chimney. It was middling late in the evening, as it + might be six or seven o’clock, and he was thinking of stopping his work + when all of a sudden he came on what he thought might be an old petticoat + bundled away in the thatch. It was red, he said, but when he put his hand + on it he knew it wasn’t flannel, nor it wasn’t cloth, nor it wasn’t like + anything he’d ever felt before in all his life. There was a hole in the + roof where my grandfather had the thatch stripped, and he could see down + into the kitchen. Anthony’s wife was there with the youngest of the boys + in her arms. My grandfather was as much in dread of her as every other + one, but he thought it would be no more than civil to tell her what he’d + found. + </p> + <p> + “‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I’m after finding what maybe + belongs to you hid away in the thatch.’ + </p> + <p> + “With that he threw down the red cloak, for it was a red cloak he had in + his hand. She didn’t speak a word, but she laid down the baby out of her + arms and she walked out of the house. That was the last my father seen of + her. And that was the last anyone on the island seen of her, unless maybe + Anthony. Nobody knows what he saw. He stopped off the drink from that day; + but it wasn’t much use his stopping it. He used to go round at spring + tides to the bay where he had seen her first. He did that five times, or + maybe six. After that he took to his bed and died. It could be that his + heart was broke.” + </p> + <p> + We slipped past the point of the pier. Peter crept forward and crouched on + the deck in front of the mast I peered into the gloom to catch sight of + our mooring-buoy. + </p> + <p> + “Let her away a bit yet,” said Peter. “Now luff her, luff her all you + can.” + </p> + <p> + The boat edged up into the wind. Peter, flat on his stomach, grasped the + buoy and hauled it on board. The fore-sheets beat their tattoo on the + deck. The boom swung sharply across the boat. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later we were leaning together across the boom gathering in + the mainsail. + </p> + <p> + “What became of the boys?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Anthony O’Flaherty’s boys? The last of them went to America twenty + years ago. But sure that was before you came to these parts.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI ~~ AN UPRIGHT JUDGE + </h2> + <p> + No one knows how the quarrel between Peter Joyce and Patrick Joseph + Flanagan began. It had been smouldering for years, a steady-going feud, + before it reached its crisis last June. + </p> + <p> + The Joyces and Flanagans were neighbours, occupying farms of very poor + land on the side of Letterbrack, a damp and lonely hill some miles from + the nearest market town. This fact explains the persistence of the feud. + It is not easy to keep up a quarrel with a man whom you only see once a + month or so. Nor is it possible to concentrate the mind on one particular + enemy if you live in a crowded place. Joyce and Flanagan saw each other + every day. They could not help seeing each other, for their farms were + small. They scarcely ever saw anyone else, because there were no other + farms on the side of the hill. And the feud was a family affair. Mrs. + Joyce and Mrs. Flanagan disliked each other heartily and never met without + using language calculated to embitter the feeling between them. The young + Joyces and the young Flanagans fought fiercely on their way to and from + school. + </p> + <p> + The war, which has turned Europe upside down and dragged most things from + their familiar moorings, had its effect on the lives of the two farmers on + the side of Letterbrack. They became better off than they had ever been + before. It must not be supposed that they grew rich. According to the + standard of English working men they had always been wretchedly poor. All + that the war did for them was to put a little, a very little, more money + into their pockets. They themselves did not connect their new prosperity + with the war. They did not, indeed, think about the war at all, bring + fully occupied with their work and their private quarrel. They noticed, + without inquiring into causes, that the prices of the things they sold + went up steadily. A lean bullock fetched an amazing sum at a fair. Young + pigs proved unexpectedly profitable. The eggs which the women carried into + town on market days could be exchanged for unusual quantities of tea. And + the rise in prices was almost pure gain to these farmers. They lived for + the most part on the produce of their own land and bought very little in + shops. There came a time when Peter Joyce had a comfortable sum, about £20 + in all, laid by after making provision for his rent and taxes. He felt + entitled to some little indulgence. + </p> + <p> + An Englishman, when he finds himself in possession of spare cash spends it + on material luxuries for himself and, if he is a good man, for his family. + He buys better food, better clothes, and furniture of a kind not + absolutely necessary, like pianos. An Irishman, in a similar agreeable + position, prefers pleasures of a more spiritual kind. Peter Joyce was + perfectly content to wear a “bawneen” of homemade flannel and a pair of + ragged trousers. He did not want anything better for dinner than boiled + potatoes and fried slices of bacon. He had not the smallest desire to + possess a piano or even an armchair. But he intended, in his own way, to + get solid enjoyment out of his £20. + </p> + <p> + It was after the children had gone to bed one evening that he discussed + the matter with his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure,” he said, “but it might be as well to settle things up one + way or another with that old reprobate Patrick Joseph Flanagan. It’s what + I’ll have to do sooner or later.” + </p> + <p> + “Them Flanagans,” said Mrs. Joyce, “is the devil. There isn’t a day passes + but one or other of them has me tormented. If it isn’t her it’s one of the + children, and if, by the grace of God, it isn’t the children it’s + herself.” + </p> + <p> + “What I’m thinking of,” said Joyce, “is taking the law of him.” + </p> + <p> + “It’ll cost you something to do that,” said Mrs. Joyce cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “And if it does, what matter? Haven’t I the money to pay for it?” + </p> + <p> + “You have,” said Mrs. Joyce. “You have surely. And Flanagan deserves it, + so he does. It’s not once nor twice, but it’s every day I do be saying + there’s something should be done to them Flanagans.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s more will be done to him than he cares for,” said Joyce grimly. + “Wait till the County Court Judge gets at him. Believe me he’ll be sorry + for himself then.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Joyce started early next morning. He had an eight-mile walk before + him and he wished to reach the town in good time, being anxious to put his + case into the hands of Mr. Madden, the solicitor, before Mr. Madden became + absorbed in the business of the day. Mr. Madden had the reputation of + being the smartest lawyer in Connaught, and his time was very fully + occupied. + </p> + <p> + It took Joyce nearly three hours to reach the town and he had ample time + to prepare his case against Flanagan as he went. There was no lack of + material for the lawsuit. A feud of years’ standing provides many + grievances which can fairly be brought into court. Joyce’s difficulty was + to make a choice. He pondered deeply as he walked along the bare road + across the bog. When he reached the door of Mr. Madden’s office he had a + tale of injuries suffered at the hands of the Flanagans which would, he + felt sure, move the judge to vindictive fury. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden was already busy when Joyce was shown unto his room. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “who are you and what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “My name’s Peter Joyce of Letterbrack, your honour,” said Joyce. “A decent + man with a long weak family, and my father was a decent man before me, and + it’s no fault of mine that I’m here to-day, and going into court, though + there isn’t another gentleman in all Ireland I’d sooner come to than + yourself, Mr. Madden, if so be I had to come to anyone. And it’s what I’m + druv to, for if I wasn’t——” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” said Mr. Madden. “Police? Drunk and disorderly?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not,” said Joyce. “Sure I never was took by the police only twice, + and them times they wouldn’t have meddled with me only for the spite the + sergeant had against me. But he’s gone from the place now, thanks be to + God, and the one that came after him wouldn’t touch me.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Joyce sank his voice to a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “It’s how I want to take the law of Patrick Joseph Flanagan,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Trespass or assault?” said Mr. Madden. + </p> + <p> + He was a man of immense experience. He succeeded in carrying on a large + practice because he wasted no time in listening to preliminary + explanations of his clients. Most legal actions in the West of Ireland are + reducible to trespass or assault. + </p> + <p> + “It’s both the two of them,” said Joyce. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden made a note on a sheet of paper before him. Joyce waited until + he had finished writing. Then he said slowly: + </p> + <p> + “Trespass and assault and more besides.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden asked no question. He added to the note he had written the + words “And abusive language.” Abusive language generally follows trespass + and immediately precedes assault. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Mr. Madden, “get on with your story and make it as short as + you can.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Joyce did his best to make the story short. He succeeded in making it + immensely complicated. There was a boundary wall in the story and it had + been broken down. There was a heifer calf and a number of young pigs. + There was a field of oats trampled and destroyed by the heifer, and a + potato patch ruined beyond hope by the pigs. There was a sheep torn by a + dog, stones thrown at Mrs. Joyce, language that had defiled the ears of + Molly Joyce, an innocent child of twelve years old, and there was the + shooting of a gun at Peter himself. + </p> + <p> + Joyce was prepared to swear to every item of the indictment. He did + actually swear from time to time, laying his hand solemnly on a large + ledger which stood on Mr. Madden’s desk. Mr. Madden listened until he had + heard enough. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t a ghost of a case against Flanagan,” he said. “The judge + won’t listen to a story like that. If you take my advice you’ll go + straight home and make it up with Flanagan. You’ll simply waste your money + if you go into court.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden, it will be seen, was a man of principle. He made his living + out of other people’s quarrels, but he gave honest advice to his clients. + He was also a man of wide knowledge of West of Ireland farmers. He knew + perfectly well that his advice would not be taken. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve the money to pay for it,” said Joyce, “and I’ll have the law of + Patrick Joseph Flanagan if it costs me the last penny I own. If your + honour doesn’t like the case sure I can go to someone else.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Madden, though a man of principle, was not quixotic. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said. “I’ll manage your case for you; but I warn you + fairly the judge will give it against you.” + </p> + <p> + “He might not,” said Joyce. “In the latter end he might not.” + </p> + <p> + “He will,” said Mr. Madden, “unless——” + </p> + <p> + He was watching Joyce carefully as he spoke. The man’s face had an + expression of cunning and self-satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Unless,” Mr. Madden went on, “you’ve something up your sleeve that you + haven’t told me yet.” + </p> + <p> + Joyce winked solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s what it would be hardly worth mentioning to your honour,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You’d better mention it all the same,” said Mr. Madden. + </p> + <p> + “What I was thinking,” said Joyce, “is that if I was to send a pair of + ducks to the judge a couple of days before the case was to come on—fine + ducks we have, as fine as ever was seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me,” said Mr. Madden. “You’ve got the very smallest possible + chance of winning your case. But you have a chance. It’s a hundred to one + against you. Still, odd things do happen in courts. But let me tell you + this. I know that judge. I’ve known him for years, and if you try to bribe + him with a pair of ducks he’d give it against you even if you had the best + case in the world instead of the worst. That’s the kind of man he is.” + </p> + <p> + Joyce sighed heavily. The ways of the law were proving unexpectedly + difficult and expensive. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe,” he said, “I could send him two pair of ducks, or two pair and a + half, but that’s the most I can do; and there won’t be a young duck left + about the place if I send him that many.” + </p> + <p> + “Either you act by my advice,” said Mr. Madden, “or I’ll drop your case. + This isn’t a matter for the local bench of magistrates. If it was them you + were dealing with, ducks might be some use to you. But a County Court + Judge is a different kind of man altogether. He’s a gentleman, and he’s + honest. If you attempt to get at him with ducks or any other kind of bribe + you’ll ruin any chance you have, which isn’t much.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a queer thing now, so it is,” said Joyce. + </p> + <p> + “It’s true all the same,” said Mr. Madden. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” said Joyce, “that his honour, the judge, would + go against a man that had done him a good turn in the way of a pair of + ducks or the like?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s exactly what I do mean,” said Mr. Madden. “No judge would stand it. + And the one who presides over this court would be even angrier than most + of them, so don’t you do it.” + </p> + <p> + Joyce left Mr. Madden’s office a few minutes later, and tramped home. In + spite of the lawyer’s discouraging view of the case he seemed fairly well + satisfied. + </p> + <p> + That evening he spoke to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “How many of them large white dukes have you?” he asked; “how many that’s + fit to eat?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no more than six left out of the first clutch,” said Mrs. Joyce. + “There was eleven hatched out, but sure the rats got the rest of them.” + “I’d be glad,” said Joyce, “if you’d fatten them six, and you needn’t + spare the yellow meal. It’ll be worth your while to have them as good as + you can.” + </p> + <p> + A month later the case of Joyce v. Flanagan came on in the County Court. + Mr. Madden had hammered the original story of the wall, the heifer, the + pigs and the potatoes, into shape. It sounded almost plausible as Mr. + Madden told it in his opening remarks. But he had very little hopes that + it would survive the handling of Mr. Ellis, a young and intelligent + lawyer, who was acting for Flanagan. Joyce cheerfully confirmed every + detail of the story on oath. He was unshaken by Mr. Ellis’ + cross-examination, chiefly because the judge constantly interfered with + Mr. Ellis and would not allow him to ask the questions he wanted to ask. + Flanagan and his witnesses did their best, but the judge continued to make + things as difficult as he could for their lawyer. The matter, when all the + evidence was heard, appeared tangled and confused, a result far beyond Mr. + Madden’s best expectations. He had feared that the truth might emerge with + disconcerting plainness. Then an amazing thing happened. The judge took + Joyce’s view of the circumstances and decided in his favour. Mr. Ellis + gasped. Flanagan swore audibly and was silenced by a policeman. Joyce left + the court with a satisfied smile. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mr. Madden, a little later, “you’ve won, but I’m damned if I + know how it happened. I never went into court with a shakier case.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t wonder,” said Joyce, “but it might have been the ducks that + did it. I sent him six, your honour, six, and as fat as any duck ever you + seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” said Mr. Madden. “After all I said to you—and—but, + good heavens, man! He can’t have got them. If he had——” + </p> + <p> + “He got them right enough,” said Joyce, “for I left them at the door of + the hotel myself, with a bit of a note, saying as how I hoped he’d take a + favourable view of the case that would be before him to-day, and I told + him what the case was, so as there’d be no mistake—Joyce v. Flanagan + was what I wrote, in a matter of trespass and assault, and abusive + language.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mr. Madden, “all I can say is that if I hadn’t seen with my + own eyes what happened in that court to-day I wouldn’t have believed it. To + think that the judge, of all men——” + </p> + <p> + “It was Flanagan’s name and not my own,” said Joyce, “that I signed at the + bottom of the note. ‘With the respectful compliments of Patrick Joseph + Flanagan, the defendant,’ was what I wrote, like as if it was from him + that the ducks came.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d never have thought of it,” said Mr. Madden. “Joyce, it’s you and not + me that ought to be a lawyer. Lawyer! That’s nothing. You ought to be a + Member of Parliament. Your talents are wasted, Joyce. Go into Parliament + You’ll be a Cabinet Minister before you die.” + </p> + <p> + THE END <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Casualty And Other Stories, by +James Owen Hannay, AKA George A. 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