by Anne Doughty
‘Any news from Petersberg?’ Rose asked shyly.
‘None at all,’ Sarah replied, laughing. ‘Petersberg no longer exists.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rose demanded, her alarm somewhat offset by Sarah’s amusement.
‘The powers that be have decided St Petersberg is too Germanic a name for a Russian city,’ she began solemnly. ‘I must now address my missives to Petrograd. But, having said that, Simon is well. I just don’t know how he manages to write such lively letters when most of what he does he can’t mention, but we do have long discussions about books. I’ve read everything by the Russian authors in Banbridge Library and Hannah, bless her, has promised to find me some more recent ones when she’s got time to go to a bookshop in London.’
Sarah put down her empty mug and stood up, brushing crumbs from her skirt.
‘I must love you and leave you, Ma, as the saying is,’ she said, grinning. ‘But I do have one piece of good news. Your grandson, Hugh, has just been awarded his first big prize. The Pearson Memorial Cup for a sustained project,’ she said proudly, as she saw her mother’s face light up. ‘I had a letter from him yesterday.’
‘Was that what he was working on last term? The development of aeroplanes?’
Sarah nodded.
‘The projects were judged over the summer, but it seems the headmaster had to find an engineer to read it for him. He was pretty sure it was good, but he couldn’t claim knowledge of the subject himself. Apparently, the engineer was very impressed. Dear Hugh is so delighted.’
‘And so am I, love,’ said Rose, her face lighting up. ‘I think this calls for a little extra pocket money. Is that all right with you?’
‘Perfectly all right, Ma,’ she said beaming. ‘I don’t have to worry about what he does with it. He never spends any on sweets. Books, books and more books. Though he did mention a slide rule,’ she added quickly. ‘Either ways, I’ve no worries about his teeth.’
‘I’ll write him a wee note after lunch,’ Rose said, standing up, and walking to the door with her.
‘Isn’t it a lovely morning,’ Sarah said, as they parted at the garden gate. ‘Sometimes you can almost forget what’s happening in France.’
Rose nodded. Sometimes indeed when the mountains looked their loveliest, when there were flowers to pick and birds to feed, and ordinary everyday things to talk about, one could banish the images of the burnt-out shells of French towns and the lines of trenches marching across the pleasant well-cultivated landscape of Flanders. Sometimes, but not often, and certainly not for very long.
Swillybrinnan
20th September 1914
My dearest Rose,
Thank you for your ever welcome letter. The news of young Hugh’s success is something to set against all the bad news that overwhelms us daily. I shall certainly arrange to be with you for his 12th birthday at Halloween. How fortunate that half term falls so happily this year.
The only comparable news I can share with you is my own very minor achievement, the publication of a piece of work Brendan and I did when I first came home in a farming journal. ‘Alternative Cultivation Techniques for Saturated Soils,’ will hardly be widely read or implemented, but one has to do what one can.
Mary sends you her love, but I have to say she is in very poor spirits. She did not appreciate that her two older sons were still on the reserve list after serving with the Royal Irish Fusiliers. As you know, they were called up immediately and are now in France. She has had one very cheerful letter from Patrick, but it was written from Shorncliffe in the south of England and it was devoted to a full account of their send off from Armagh. It seems Armagh did them proud, the streets lined with cheering people. He says the 300 reservists were escorted to the station by the band of the 3rd Battalion, the mounted troop of the Ulster Volunteers and the local UVF company singing patriotic songs.
For some reason, the Nationalist Volunteers with St Malachy’s band were not permitted to join the procession, but they were there at the station and played and cheered the soldiers on their way. As the train steamed out for Greenore, the stationmaster and his men let off fog signals.
I’m afraid I cannot find it in my heart to cheer with the crowds, for I fear many of these men will not return. The only cause for pleasure is that the common enemy, has achieved the impossible, Irishmen of all persuasions marching side by side and cheering each other on. Would that it were not marching to a battlefield.
Of my own eldest son, Patrick, the news is even more distressing. He has left for Germany, ostensibly to visit Eva’s family. I cannot possibly believe it is as simple as this, though he has talked about going for a long time. Possibly he is being used as a messenger by one of the Irish nationalist groups active in New York, but he is certainly not admitting that to me or any of his family. I feel particularly sorry for his wife who cannot possibly be happy about the plan. For myself, I try to remember my own days in the Land League and how passionately I felt the wrongs of the world. It seems passion of all kinds diminishes with age.
You asked most kindly about my shoulder. It is certainly better when I use the rub Richard recommended, but I still forget that pushing a pen vigorously is as hard on the muscles as digging turf or drainage channels. So, my dear, I must stop. It will not be long before I see you, but please don’t let that prevent you writing to me whenever you have an opportunity.
My fondest love to you and my good friend John,
Your loving brother,
Sam
As the warm, pleasant autumn moved on, so the focus of daily life changed and adapted to the new world of war. In August, the newspapers had reported Lord Grey’s comment that it would be ‘business as usual,’ but it was soon very clear this was not to be so. The 100,000 men of the British Expeditionary Force sent to France and the might of the Royal Navy would not be able to fight the war for the country while life continued unmodified at home.
As each month passed and Rose read the daily and weekly newspapers, she began to feel she was having to learn a new language. Like all those years ago, when they first came to Ballydown and she’d had to ask what a stenter was, why beetling hammers jammed, what pouce was and why it was dangerous, she now had to master the language of war. Brigades and battalions, companies and platoons, fusiliers and lancers were all new to her, and the formal titles of regiments, their Battallion numbers and their nicknames, she found completely confusing.
It was during the retreat from Mons, always referred to as the ‘retirement,’ that she began to grasp the importance of every hump and hollow in the landscape, why a hill could be an important objective, and why trenches were such protection. She struggled to understand, as if by doing so she was supporting the men who crawled across stubble fields under shell fire and rifle fire, snatched rest wherever night found them, and lived on apples and damson from unharvested orchards when rations could no longer reach them.
There were no more marching columns in Ballydown now. The men who trained with wooden rifles in Edward Carson’s Ulster Volunteer Force he’d encouraged to join the British Army. John Redmond had encouraged the Irish Volunteers to do the same, each man assuming that the grateful British government would give them what they wanted when the war was over.
Thousands of men were now training. Some from nearby Clandeboye, came home to Banbridge on leave at weekends, full of enthusiasm for their new life. They couldn’t wait to get to France. Their greatest fear, it seemed, was that the war would be over before they were called upon, but the war showed not the slightest signs of being over by Christmas, as had been so widely predicted, and the newspaper reports of local men lost grew ever larger.
‘Is there anyone we know?’ Rose would asked anxiously each week as John scanned the pages of the Banbridge Chronicle while she prepared to serve supper.
There were always names they knew. Sometimes a family name, known because the family had sent generations of spinners and weavers to the mills. At other times the loss came closer, brothers, fathers and
husbands of women who now worked at the mills. The retirement from Mons had claimed the sons of a number of local farmers. In November, two young men from Seapatrick were killed, one from the Irish Guards, one from the Royal Irish Rifles.
‘An’ they said it would be over by Christmas,’ John said bitterly, after he’d read out their names, one foggy evening, as Rose sat knitting socks for the local soldier’s support group.
‘The papers did, John, but you remember what Sarah told us,’ Rose replied quietly.
‘Aye, I’d forgot. Her man Simon said it might start small, but it would grow to be a big thing. I think what he was sayin’ was that we diden’ know the half of it, though those wou’den be his words, wou’d they?’ he asked with a hint of a smile.
Rose smiled too. If there was one thing that did give her pleasure it was the way John always referred to Simon as ‘her man, Simon’. Even before Sarah’s visit to Cleeve, John had referred to him as her man.
She remembered how he’d done the same thing with Alex some years back. He’d spent a few hours in his company, asked a few questions and by the end of the evening he simply referred to him as ‘our cousin, Alex’. That was John’s way of summing up a situation he’d figured out to his own satisfaction. She didn’t know how he did it so quickly, but he was seldom wrong. He’d known from Sarah’s response that Simon Hadleigh was right for her, and that was that as far as he was concerned.
‘What about Alex?’ Rose asked, her mind following its own logic.
‘How d’ye mean?’
‘Do ye think he’ll go?’
‘No, I don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve put it plain to him. I’ll not be able to keep things goin’ if he does,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What’s the use of one more soldier at the front if we can’t keep up the War Office orders for the gear to keep them fighting?’
‘But is it not hard on him, John?’
‘Aye, there’s been the odd jibe more than likely from boys too young to go,’ he said coolly. ‘An’ maybe he’s had a white feather. I wou’den know, but Alex is very like our Sam in some ways. If they make up their minds what’s right, they’ll not shift. An’ Alex knows I just can’t do without him.’
In the months that followed there was no good news for anyone. The winter, wet and cold in Ballydown, was even more severe in Flanders where men spent days on end in flooded trenches under continuous artillery fire. In March 1915, Patrick Doherty and his brother Sean were killed in the battle for St Julien. Their wives, Eileen and Bridget, received identical letters on the same day telling them their husbands were missing, presumed dead. Sam wrote to Rose asking her to come and visit Mary who was so distraught the doctor had to be called.
Rose went to Donegal and did her best, but Mary was not to be comforted. She was so locked in her own grief she seemed quite indifferent to their plight. Nor was Sam any more successful in his efforts to rouse her. He at least had the comfort of knowing he could ensure that none of his eleven great-nephews and nieces would starve on the pittance of a war widow’s pension.
Rose came back home and struggled for weeks with a chest infection picked up from one of the children. Sarah had to postpone the visit to Dublin she and the children had been looking forward to in the Easter holiday, so she could look after her. Rose had just managed to get to her feet again when John started coughing. It was the beginning of May before they were both well again.
Rathdrum House
20th June 1915
My dearest Simon,
Of course I’m disappointed. Yes, I admit I did shed tears in the privacy of my bedroom. The thought of seeing you has kept my spirits up through all these long months, but having confessed to my weakness and my sadness, I’m now trying to look at the other side. You are far away, but you are not in the trenches. However threatening and difficult the work you are doing, you are not actually being physically bombarded all the time. Unlike my poor cousins’ wives, I will not receive a letter telling me you are missing.
My love, we must be thankful for that, at least. Our hope still lives. The plans and promises we made in the gardens at Cleeve last year are still there to support us. While we are both alive and well, the only thing that separates us is time, and time will eventually shrink the distance between us and allow us to make the life together we so desire.
Don’t let go of that hope, my dearest, however sad you may be that you will not be allowed to travel to England this summer.
We cannot know how soon things might change. When my mother became ill, I had to comfort the children who’d so looked forward to visiting their Auntie Lily in Dublin. Perhaps we will be able to go in the summer. But, if not, then there is next year. Our invitation stands. They know that what was promised will come about, even if they have to be patient. Like the children, we must find comfort and put our trust in patience. Our promise to each other stands.
I assume you will be given leave, even if you can’t come home. You must begin to plan where you can go and what you can do. Will you be allowed to leave Petrograd to visit the surrounding countryside, or will you have to stay in the city in case you are needed urgently?
The children are most sympathetic about your leave and they recommend Lake Ladoga. I had to smile when I found them studying the atlas and discussing your problem. I did not point out that Lake Ladoga may not be as beautiful as it sounds, for I remember you telling me once how badly bitten you were by mosquitoes on the Volga. A very romantic location, so Helen says.
Summer has come, my love, and the tediousness of work is offset by driving to the mills under blue skies, the birds singing all around me. I neglected my geraniums completely while I was packing my share of the food parcels for the 8th Battalion, but they have distinguished themselves. Without my care, they have done much better than usual and are a mass of bloom, just when I was beginning to think I had inherited a little of my mother’s skill as a gardener.
She is quite well again, I am glad to say, and always asks for you most kindly. As do the children, when they are here. Hugh asks me to thank you especially for varying the stamps you use each time you write. He says he now has a full set, but the others are very useful for ‘swaps’. Like everything else he does, Hugh collects stamps with a meticulousness I find quite intimidating. His efficiency quite puts Helen and I to shame.
It is time I was taking my morning’s work to Millbrook so I must stop. I can post this letter on the way, hoping it will get to you soon. I am so grateful that I’m permitted to use your Foreign Office address, so much shipping is being delayed, damaged, or lost, that I fear our surviving letters would be very infrequent. Perhaps when the war is over, I shall thank Lord Grey in person.
Meantime, my dearest, be of good cheer.
My loving thoughts are always with you,
Sarah
‘What’ll you do, Sam, if it does come in?’
Sitting on an empty five gallon can of lubricant, Alex Hamilton looked across at his friend, one late October afternoon, the light in the workshop already dim, though it was not long after four o’clock.
Sam drank deeply from his mug of tea, arranged his small daughter Rose, more comfortably on his knee and considered for a moment.
‘Well, being a Quaker there was never any question of going to fight,’ he said slowly. ‘I was clear in my mind about that from last August, but I did think maybe I ought to apply for the Ambulance Corps,’ he said slowly. ‘Then the boss asked me to consider what would happen if I went. I suppose he said much the same to me as Da said to you. Sure you can’t keep an army in the field if there isn’t the supplies.’
Alex nodded encouragingly.
‘Mind you,’ Sam went on, a slight smile creasing his oil-streaked forehead, ‘you could argue we could do without jam in time of war, but I’ve heard it said that poor people who live on bread and tea would be in a bad way if it weren’t for the wee bit of sugar and jam they have to give them energy. An’ we have our quota for the troops as well.’
‘So you
wouldn’t go?’
Sam looked down at the dark head tucked into his free arm. The child sat quite still, content and slightly sleepy. But Sam wouldn’t answer Alex’s question in front of her. He knew there was little Rose missed.
‘Good girl,’ he said, sliding her gently to her feet. ‘Take Da’s mug over to the house. Ma’ll be wondering where you’ve gone.’
She took the mug, gave him a great beaming smile and shot her hand out towards Alex.
‘Yours too,’ she said sharply.
Alex laughed, finished his tea in a long swallow and handed it to her.
‘Thank you,’ said Sam, as she took it silently.
‘Thank you,’ she repeated obediently, as she turned away and ran off through the open door.
‘I wouldn’t want to go,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve thought long and hard an’ I’ve decided my job is to stay here, but surely with conscription I’d have no choice but to go,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I know in England they let Quakers go into the Ambulance Corps, but they still make them go. If it came in here, surely they’d do the same, wouldn’t they?’
‘I honestly don’t know, Sam. One paper says one thing and the next one something different. But one thing’s for sure, I’m likely to get called up before you do, unless I take a trip down the aisle.’
Sam looked puzzled, until Alex gave him a big smile.
‘Did ye not read that in England there’s an awful lot of proposing going on?’ asked Alex, laughing. ‘Single men are to be called up before married men.’
Sam managed a smile.
‘Have you someone in mind, Alex?’ he said slyly.
‘If I had, I wouldn’t insult her like that,’ Alex came back at him.
‘There’s not much we can do till we see if it goes through,’ said Sam slowly. ‘There seems to be a lot of opposition to it in this country. Maybe, if the worst comes to the worst, we could go together. Would you be willing to consider Ambulance work?’
