Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  Oh my God!

  He had forgotten his briefcase. It was there on the floor in Mrs Stone’s front room with all the accounts and photographs he had saved from the house in Kensington. And it was engraved with his name and address.

  He dithered halfway along the alleyway. I shall have to go back and get it. No I can’t — the police may be in there now and the suffragettes, too, for all I know. I hope they get arrested and their skulls split open by truncheons — but what am I going to do?

  It’s no good, I’ll have to run.

  He lumbered out into the street and almost bumped into two policemen. He turned to get away from them but one of them seized his shoulder.

  ‘Just a minute, matey!’

  ‘What are you doing? I . . .’

  He turned, trying to be indignant, but, as he did so, the policeman shoved his right arm up his back, painfully, and the other bent to peer into his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, this is one of ‘em all right, Bill. Dashing out the back way to save ‘is skin. You can see the guilt in his face!’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Come on, sunshine. Save it for the Inspector at the station. You can make all your excuses there.’

  Martin would have protested vehemently, but the pain of the arm twisted up his back was too intense. And then, as he thought of the briefcase he had left in the house another pain came sharp and fierce into his chest. He was gripped by a fierce cramp so that he couldn’t breathe, and the harder he tried, the worse it became, so that he could feel his face turning blue and his tongue hanging out and then he flopped in the man’s arms and fell face down in a puddle in the gutter, hunched over into a ball and twitching in agony as though with some huge effort his body might get his heart going again.

  The two policemen bent over him, shocked, uncertain what to do.

  ‘Blimey, George,’ one of them muttered, awestruck. ‘I think we frightened the bugger to death!’

  Deborah had booked tickets on the night train to Holyhead which left at ten o’clock. She knew it would be a strain for Sarah but she thought it offered the greatest chance of concealment. Once they were on board and in their sleeping compartment they could go to bed, and no one would disturb them until morning. If they had travelled by day they would have had to sit in a compartment with others, or go into the restaurant car, and in either place there might have been someone who would recognise Sarah, or simply comment on her unusually strained, starved appearance.

  The difficulty was getting her to the station in the first place.

  It was only a few hundred yards from the hotel, so they could easily have walked. But Sarah was in such a state of emotional and physical collapse after Jonathan had left that Deborah decided to ask Mrs Stewart to order a cab. At half past nine they sat in the front of the hotel downstairs, waiting for it.

  Sarah wore a long black fur-lined coat which covered her body completely from head to foot, so no one would see how thin she was. It kept her warm, too — even indoors with coal fires Deborah had seen her shiver, and it was a cold night outside, windy with the threat of rain. She wore a small, veiled black hat, fastened under her chin with a ribbon as though she were a widow in mourning.

  Deborah looked the cheerful one, with a pale blue coat and a feather in her hat with her hair up, but she was not. The scene with Jonathan had depressed her more than she had expected, and the cold dark night outside the window frightened her with its loneliness. She kept thinking of Rankin, walking away from her with his hands in his pockets under the streetlight on the embankment. Perhaps, if I go out now, he will be waiting at the station to see me off, she thought, and knew it was nonsense.

  I am leaving London, I shall not see him ever again.

  Only in my baby’s eyes . . .

  But at least now she had something to do, someone to care for. Sarah sat silent, reaching her hands out to the fire. She seemed to luxuriate in the warmth of the flames, as though she had never seen such a thing before. If she collapses on this journey it will be my fault, Deborah thought. We could have stayed another day . . .

  ‘There it is!’

  She saw the cab draw up outside and went out to the hall to show the cabbie which bags to take. Then she took Sarah’s arm as they went outside, but Sarah climbed in without trouble.

  ‘I’m not an invalid, you know,’ she said. ‘I could have walked.’

  ‘I’m sure you could. But it’s not necessary. Anyway, look!’

  Outside the station were two large policemen, patrolling quietly up and down. Are they looking for us, or are they always there, Deborah wondered. She had never sheltered an escaped prisoner before, she had never thought to look. But coincidence or not, she was glad to drive past them in safety. It’s going to be like this all the way to Ireland, she realised.

  Mrs Stewart had collected their tickets earlier that afternoon, so they only had to find a porter to carry their bags, and get on the train. When they were safely settled in their sleeping compartment, Sarah sat down quietly in the single armchair while Deborah unpacked their bags and brought out the nightdress and dressing gown she had brought for Sarah from Belgrave Square. Sarah watched her, smiling sadly.

  ‘You’re an angel, you know,’ she said. ‘To take all this trouble for me. I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘You never deserved to fall off your pony or slip on the ice when we were young, either,’ Deborah answered. ‘But I was there to help you home and bandage you all the same. I think I enjoyed it, at the time. Probably I just wanted to be loved.’

  Sarah seized her sister’s arm, and stared intently into her face. ‘Don’t mock yourself, Debbie,’ she said intensely. ‘You were here when I really needed you. That’s not something to despise. I’m truly grateful. I hope I’ll be able to repay it some day.’

  Deborah looked away.

  ‘None of us knows what’s going to happen in life, do we? Come on, let me help you out of that dress.’

  Sarah stood up and turned her back so that Deborah could help with the fastenings. There was a whistle from outside and a chunter of steam from the engine. With a lurch, the train began to move out of the station.

  ‘No, we don’t,’ Sarah said. ‘And this year, too many dreadful things have happened that I never wanted. It’s like a dream to me, to be going back to the peaceful countryside at Glenfee.’

  Deborah helped her sister into bed, and then stood for a moment leaning on the wooden bar across the window, watching the lights flashing past behind clouds of steam. After a while, the glow of the city faded and the stars came out.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s always very peaceful, at Glenfee.’

  PART FIVE

  Glenfee

  24

  ‘THAT’S IT, sir. Tuck the stock tight into your shoulder. Elbows firm, like a tripod. Heels flat on the ground. Rock . . . steady.’

  Simon Fletcher was aware of the mountains of Mourne in front of him, a faint blur in the distance. Nearer, fields, a line of elms in a hedgerow above a sunken lane, newly bursting into leaf. In the hedgerow, primroses, new ferns uncurling, some bluebells, a foxglove. And a small paper target.

  Tiny, at this distance. Concentric circles, a black spot in the middle. Bring the foresight onto the black spot, hold it there, just in the middle of the vee of the backsight . . . damn!

  The weight of the rifle, the tension, made his arms tremble slightly. The foresight wavered from the target. Simon took a long, shallow breath, and let it out slowly. Get it right, he thought. They’re all watching. The sergeant, the other men waiting their turn. Charles, somewhere behind with his swagger stick.

  Bring it back, that’s it, just under the spot. Steady.

  Now!

  The kick in his shoulder, the enormous ringing bang in his ear, surprised him. The barrel pointed up, high, over the elm towards the mountains. Damn.

  The instructor, Sergeant Cullen, knelt beside him.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Not bad, but you jerked the trigger. Squeeze it gently like I told
you. And lean into the butt against the kick, to hold it firm.’

  Simon’s shoulder felt like a horse had kicked it. Grimly, he worked the bolt to bring another round into the breech, and pressed the butt against the bruise. Beside him, all along the line, other rifles went off, each flat crack seeming half as loud as his own. The scent of cordite, the sense of vast, lethal power, exhilarated him. I could learn to like this, he thought.

  He brought the foresight down again onto the target, squeezed the trigger.

  Five paces behind, Charles Cavendish stood, tapping his stick softly against the polished brown leather of his riding boots. He wore his khaki officer’s uniform, revolver holster at his belt, a gleaming Sam Browne belt across his chest. Under the peak of his cap the grey eyes crinkled as they often did out of doors with the look of a soldier or a countryman; and there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

  The exercise was going well. When these men has finished, every man under his command would have fired ten rounds. The guns, brand new Mannlichers still in their travelling grease, were in perfect condition. The results of the shooting ranged from average to highly creditable. Some of the men – perhaps a third – were ex-Army, with a sprinkling of marksmen; but the rest, like Simon, has seldom or never fired such a high-powered weapon before. It was for them the exercise had been arranged. Most, under the skilled instruction of Sergeant Cullen, had landed at least half of their rounds somewhere on the target; and all, he felt sure, were immensely cheered and heartened by the exercise.

  We must be the most powerful military force in Ireland now, he thought. If the government in London tries to impose Home Rule on us by force, they won’t be able to.

  Of course the Nationalist volunteers, the Catholics who wanted Home Rule, had plenty of spirit; but they had little discipline and no arms worth speaking of. And the British Army, though well-equipped and highly disciplined, must have lost a great deal of morale after the Curragh Mutiny, when their officers had expressly refused to obey orders to march against the Ulster Unionists. That had led to the resignation of the Secretary of State for War, and an utter shambles in the British high command. And that was six weeks ago, when we were virtually unarmed, Charles thought. Whereas now, after the gun-running, we have the most modern rifles you can get. And the British Army in Ireland have only a fraction of the men we have.

  And not a tenth of our spirit, Charles thought with a smile. I would hate to have a commission in the regular Army now. Half of their men would probably support us, if they dared.

  ‘Sir! Sir — Colonel Cavendish, sir!’

  He turned to see a young boy, a sentry, running towards him across the field.

  ‘Yes. What is it?’

  The boy reached him and saluted, panting for breath. Charles recognised him as one of a section which had been posted as scouts, to keep a lookout during the shooting. This boy had been with a corporal, at the edge of the field to the west.

  ‘Sir, British Army patrol, sir. Heading this way. They’re marching along the road, sir, from the west!’

  ‘Good Lord! How many, boy? Where?’

  ‘About twenty or twenty-five. Maybe a platoon, Corporal Duncan says. You can see them better from that hill over there. They’re about a mile away, marching quite quick!’

  ‘Come on then, let me see.’ Charles strode across the field, not running, keeping calm. He had three times that many men in this field alone. But an imp of excitement and delight filled him. What if the British Army had really come out in search of trouble? To punish the UVF, perhaps, for getting the guns?

  The boy was right. From the hillock at the edge of the field, Charles’s binoculars showed a platoon of men, infantry, in full gear with haversack and ammunition pouches, marching with their rifles at the trail. In loose order, moving quite fast. An officer a few paces in front. As Charles watched, the man turned and waved an arm as if to urge his men on.

  A pulse started to throb urgently in Charles’s throat. They’ll have heard the shooting — they can’t fail to know we’re here, he thought. It could be. It really just could be that the war for the freedom of Ulster will begin here, in this field, today! And I will give the first command.

  Wouldn’t that be a story to make young Tom proud!

  Swiftly, he scanned the road in the other direction, and the fields north and south. No one else in sight, so far. Just the one British Army platoon. He turned to the two men beside him, gave out a string of orders.

  ‘Right, you boy! I want you to take two men from that group over there who’ve finished shooting. Each of you go to one of the other three lookout posts and ask them to send one man to me with a full report on everything they’ve seen so far. Everything, you understand. You and the other two replace the men you send and make sure you keep your eyes peeled — I don’t want to be surprised from any other direction. Got it?’

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘Good! Now, Corporal, run to Sergeant Cullen and tell him that, as soon as those men have finished shooting, I want everyone except the scouts formed up in three ranks by platoons. And I want Robinson, Conroy, and McNeill sent to me up here, with rifles, right away. Off you go!’

  ‘Sir!’

  As the man ran, Charles took another look at the approaching platoon through his binoculars. He noticed his hand was shaking ever so slightly. I could start the war now if I wanted, he thought, very secretly to himself. Maybe these men will start it anyway, but, whatever they do, I could destroy that platoon completely and claim they fired first, if I wanted.

  But that’s not what my standing orders are. Charles knew them off by heart. Do not fire unless fired upon and avoid all provocation. To avoid any possibility that the Army or police should attempt to seize your weapons, UVF officers should ensure that their contingents are of sufficient size to render any such attempt hopeless.

  Well, I’ve done the second, anyway, Charles thought. Now it’s up to the British Army officer down there. He glanced behind him as he heard the first of Sergeant Cullen’s barked orders and saw nearly fifty men hurrying into three ordered ranks. The three marksmen he had sent for came across the grass towards him.

  ‘Right, gentlemen. I don’t want you to draw attention to yourselves — and on no account are you to, fire unless I give the order. But the rest of us are going to parade openly in front of that advancing platoon of the British Army. Do you see them, there? If by any chance I should give the order, and only then, you understand, I want you to be in a position where their officer and sergeant should be the first to fall. But you do not shoot unless I give the express order or fall myself. Is that clear? Now, let me show you where to hide.’

  One of them spoke English, of a sort. Enough to negotiate with Mrs O’Donnell, at least. When Werner brought them to her, fresh from the ferry, they stood in the doorway of the little hillside terraced house and smiled. Blocking out the sunlight with their bulk, their heavy kitbags slung over their shoulders. All the little woman could see was three hulking shadows, the flash of teeth, and a glint of sunlight in their fair hair.

  To Werner’s relief she was undaunted. ‘So, away in with you then. It’s the three of them like you promised, Mr White, is it? Wipe your boots on the mat now and put your things in the two rooms upstairs — it’s the ones on the right, you’ll see them plain enough when you’re there. And then if it’s a meal you’re wanting, it’s on the table at half past six prompt, mind you, I don’t keep it waiting and it’ll go cold and be fed to the dog if you’re not there, good hot food too, you’ll see no better this side of the water.’

  She kept on talking as she led the way into the narrow hall at the foot of the stairs, and had to back out of the way into the kitchen as the three big men followed her. Their shoulders scraped the walls and one kitbag brushed the single framed painting, of a little girl with beautiful curly yellow hair dancing on a beach in sunlight. At the foot of the stairs the first one, Franz, the only one who knew any English fit to repeat, stopped, clicked his heels, and bowed to Mrs O’Do
nnell as though she were a countess.

  ‘It is a fine house, Mrs. I think we shall be comfort here. I hope your food is plenty hot and good too, so your dog get hungry, eh?’

  Then he smiled and held out his hand, and the little Catholic landlady shook it, scowling a little to maintain her dignity, but pleased nonetheless.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, now. I know, what you boys like. I’ve two sons of my own in the merchant service and another in the King’s, and it’s their rooms you’re having while they’re away. My boys write to me from Rio and Boston and Hong Kong, they do, they see all sorts of wonderful things, but never any cooking to match their old mum’s, that’s what they say in every letter I get, I’ll show you sometime if you like, if you can read good English.’

  ‘You show. I like that,’ Franz said, and moved quietly away from her up the stairs, leaving the other two, monoglot Germans, to shake the old lady’s hand and mutter ‘Herrlich, gnadige Frau,’ and smile in their turn.

  The house was a three storey one on a corner of the terrace, and the two rooms upstairs were surprisingly large. Two iron beds in the front room, one ancient armchair, and a window giving a view down a line of steep cobbled streets to Belfast docks. Werner wondered if he had been wise, choosing a landlady as talkative as Mrs O’Donnell. But she lived in a Catholic area where there would be no support for the UVF. And there should be nothing to arouse suspicion about foreign sailors seeking lodgings so near the docks.

  The three were called Franz, Karl-Otto and Adolf. They were all in their mid-twenties, six feet tall, and very broad across the chest. Franz had a charming smile and pimples on his chin; Karl-Otto had a nose that someone had pressed in, so that it zig-zagged puffily down his face. Adolf, the only dark one, had a thin face with receding hair and bony hands as strong as nutcrackers, with an anchor tattooed on the back of one and ship in full sail on the other.