‘Tonight, when it’s dark,’ Monteith said, ‘Beverley and I can come back and dig our equipment out.’
He gazed around him at one of the most deserted spots on the west coast.
‘I can’t see many people coming here, not on Good Friday.’
It was a few minutes to four.
At 4 a.m., a farmer, John McCarthy, strolled on Banna Strand. Awake at 2 a.m., he did something he had never done before: to honour Good Friday, he visited a holy well.
On the way back he was looking for driftwood when he saw a dinghy a dozen yards from the shore. It was half-submerged, with three oars floating beside it. He had never seen a boat like it. Without a keel, it had a top canvas cover to keep the water out. Inside was a sheathed dagger.
Exploring further, he noticed signs of digging. Scraping the sand away, he found a big black tin tied with ropes.
Soon after 4 a.m., the Aud still lay-to. As each hour passed, Spindler had hoped against hope that the Irish would make contact. At dawn, he knew it was hopeless.
It would be suicide to sail to Fenit Pier and try to land arms in broad daylight in a country that was on a war-footing. If he pretended they were stranded owing to engine failure, a swarm of bureaucrats would come on board, checking. Though logic dictated he should head straight for home, he hated turning back now. His men felt the same way.
One said encouragingly, ‘The Irish are bound to spot us.’
That very moment, the look-out sighted a boat clearing Kerry Head.
‘Steamer on the starboard bow … Pilot steam-er.’
A relieved Spindler stood by the halyard, ready to hoist a green flag.
John McCarthy went up the strand and called on a neighbour, Pat Driscoll, who helped him drag in the dinghy.
When they opened the black tin box, they found it contained 1,000 rounds of ammunition, a case with field glasses, twenty-eight section maps of Ireland, a copy of the Imitation of Christ, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, an electric torch, a packet of German tobacco and a green flag. Higher on the beach, Driscoll caught his seven-year-old daughter playing with three loaded Mauser revolvers. He snatched them from her before she killed herself.
McCarthy drew his attention to three sets of footprints in the sand.
‘They’re fresh, Pat. I’ll stay here if you’ll go to the Barracks at Ardfert for the police.’
The three men had walked inland for about half a mile in a southeasterly direction towards Tralee. There was a drifting coastal fog, and, with no sun or moon, visibility was reduced to thirty feet.
They came to a stretch of water, twenty yards wide and waist-deep. They waded across. It must have been a sewerage outlet for it smelled vile. Casement’s overcoat was so heavy with the wet that Monteith carried it for him.
They emerged on to marshy bogland which filled their lungs with the smell of rotten vegetation. On they plodded up to their knees in mud and sludge before reaching firmer ground. Thankfully they came across a running stream where they stripped and cleaned up. By the time they were dressed their bones were aching from the cold.
As they continued, the sun pierced the haze. They came to a big farmhouse. Mary Gorman, a young woman with tousled hair who always rose at 4 a.m., was looking over the half-door and sizing up the morning when she found herself staring at three strangers.
‘Damn you, girl,’ Monteith hissed in alarm.
Casement touched his arm. ‘Captain, never damn a fellow human being.’
A farm cart was approaching with two men on, so they hid behind a wall until it passed.
Two hundred yards from the path were the foundations of a prehistoric fort. It was circular, thirty yards in diameter, and surrounded by a trench and a thick thorn hedge. They pushed through the hedge and Casement immediately collapsed.
Monteith said, ‘Sir Roger, I suggest you stay here. We’ll go to Tralee for help.’
Casement agreed. His top priority was to get word to the Volunteer Executive that an arms ship was on its way and the Germans were not providing back-up. His companions went through their overcoat pockets. Monteith found a few sandwiches which he tore into strips and started to grind under foot.
Casement said, ‘May I? I’m rather hungry.’
The sandwiches, made of black bread and German sausage, were soaked in salt water. Monteith handed them over, knowing they were inedible. He then stretched out on a wall to dry the sea-drenched pictures of his wife and children. Seeing the look in his eyes, Casement said, ‘I’ll look after them for you.’
After they had hidden their overcoats in the bushes, Monteith, thinking he was in most danger, gave Casement the code from the German General Staff.
Finally, they shook hands, not knowing if they would ever meet again. Casement waved sadly as the younger men set off on the ten-mile trek to Tralee.
Too late, Spindler realized that the trawler heading their way with its guns trained on them was hoisting the British ensign. So his luck had finally run out. He could have kicked himself for being caught off his guard. The British would be boarding in a few minutes.
He ordered, ‘Batten all hatches.’
To his mate he said, ‘I’m going below, Düsselmann. Don’t forget our plan.’
He was no sooner in his cabin than the officer-of-the-watch warned him through the voice-pipe, ‘We only had time to close Hatch No 2, Herr Kapitän. On the port side the cases are still exposed.’
‘Herrgott!’ Spindler exclaimed. The cases were inscribed ‘1,000 English cartridges’, ‘2,000 Russian cartridges’.
Setter II was only twenty yards off. Through the porthole Spindler saw the skipper, short, stocky, scruffy, with a red muffler and a matching red face. With armed men on either side, he was calling through a megaphone. Düsselmann replied in English that the skipper was asleep and even as Norwegian skippers go he was a ripe bastard.
It was 5 o’clock when Setter II made fast to Aud’s stern. The skipper climbed up the boarding ladder, puffing and blowing, with a few of his men. After much hedging Düsselmann agreed to wake Spindler who swore sensationally in Low German for all the boat to hear.
‘Tell the filthy fecking gutless son of a bitch,’ he yelled at Düsselmann, ‘that I’m getting dressed.’
This he did, but very slowly.
Pearse had spent the early hours of Good Friday wondering whether to make one last effort to get MacNeill on their side. Cancelling Sunday’s manoeuvres could do untold damage to the cause. Hobson was perhaps already sending the order around the country.
When it seemed a reasonable hour, he telephoned first Sean McDermott, then MacDonagh.
Düsselmann entertained the mottle-faced skipper and half a dozen of the boarding party with a bottle of whiskey in the fo’c’s’le.
Spindler, now dressed, opened the locker under his bunk and put several bottles of the hard stuff on view before flinging open his cabin door.
‘About time,’ the British skipper said, brandishing a rusty old pistol. His red nose was sniffing as if it had caught a whiff of paradise. Tottering into the cabin, he collapsed on the sofa. To his horror, Spindler saw that his German tunic was on the back of a chair. He quickly threw a towel over it.
‘Lots of things to ask you,’ the skipper drawled.
‘We’re from Norway. Headed for Genoa and Naples by the normal route. We’re anchored here because our engine’s broken down and we’re putting into Tralee for repairs.’
To his relief, the skipper was not the least bit interested.
‘Just want to examine your holds, old boy.’
The skipper was so relaxed, he left his gun on the cabin table while he climbed shakily up on deck. Grasping his Browning pistol already cocked in his pocket, Spindler ordered two of his crew to fling open Hatch No 2. There were no arms to be seen, only pit-props.
‘Bit of a mess,’ Spindler said. ‘Happened during that damned storm.’
‘It hit us, too,’ the skipper said, sympathetically.
Spindler began shepherding hi
m back to his cabin. ‘Another drink?’ It was a magic formula.
‘Didn’t I see …?’
In seconds, pop went the cork of a whisky bottle. The skipper noticed the label. ‘White bloody Horse!’ he slapped Spindler on the back. ‘Splendid chap.’
‘Water, Captain?’
‘Good God, no. We never see that sort, not White Horse. Don’t want to spoil it with bloody H2O.’ He raised his glass. ‘Prosit, cherchez la femme, and all that.’
‘Cheers. Care to see the ship’s papers?’
‘Suppose I should, really.’
With a huge swig to strengthen him for the ordeal, he grabbed the phoney papers, blackened and pawed all over. He merely glanced; they meant absolutely nothing to him. He took another big draught and hiccuped.
‘Perfectly in order.’ He took out a book. ‘If you’d care to sign this.’
‘Sure,’ and Spindler signed ‘Niels Larsen, Captain of the Norwegian steamer Aud, with pit-props from Christiania, for Cardiff and Genoa.’
The skipper merely noted the name and closed the book. ‘Thanks, Larsen, you’re a good sport.’
He poured himself another whisky without a by-your-leave. Liquor had forged a bond between them. Spindler casually tapped the Norwegian newspapers spread on his table.
‘Three weeks old. I don’t suppose you have any English papers you don’t want?’
A grateful skipper sent his mate to get a pile out of his cabin. Meanwhile: ‘These damned Germans are everywhere, Niels – may I call you Niels?’
Spindler nodded.
‘Skunks and fucking bounders the lot of them.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Spindler.
An English petty officer was soon back with a bundle.
‘Rumours of refreshment?’ he said, with a grin.
While he, too, was imbibing, Spindler ran his eye over the most recent papers.
‘Niels,’ the skipper said, the smoke from his pipe fouling the entire cabin, ‘you don’t need to keep an eye on U-boats in this area.’ He shook his head. ‘No, no, no. I’ll watch out for you while you’re undergoing repairs.’
‘Oh,’ said Spindler, perturbed, ‘I shouldn’t think there’s any trouble from them swine.’
‘Least I can do for your—’ – tears streamed down his cheeks – ‘your fantastic, hic, kindness.’
Spindler excused himself for a moment and left them in charge of Düsselmann. In the fo’c’s’le he found the English sailors were blind drunk. Someone whispered that they had sent four bottles over to Setter II for good measure.
He returned to his cabin to find them trying to sing, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. The tune was taken up by the group in the fo’c’s’le. The skipper was by this time into the brandy, hiccuping his exceeding ‘gradidude’. He confessed his intention of going for safe anchorage behind Kerry Head.
‘Get some shut-eye there. Did you know, Niels, British war ships are not allowed to have whisky on board?’
‘Ridiculous,’ said Spindler, trying to put a sob in his voice. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘Two weeks. Orders to intercept a German steamer. Expected any time.’ As a shaken Spindler plied him with bottle after bottle: ‘Thought at first you might be him, Niels.’
Spindler laughed hollowly.
‘Yeah, sorry about that. You Norwegians are good chaps, no harm in telling you.’ He touched the side of his blue-veined nose. ‘Strict secret, mind.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, our naval staff, clever bloody lot, have found out that these damned German swine want … wait for it … they want to join the Irish in a revo—’ – he twisted his head drunkenly in order to finish the word – ‘lution.’
‘I wondered why the harbour was so well defended.’
‘Bristling with bleeding guns,’ said the skipper. ‘Clever bastards, those Germans, but no match for us.’
Spindler and his mate giggled their appreciation. They stuffed cigars and another half-dozen bottles of whisky in the Britons’ pockets. There was a poignant farewell and, in ten minutes, the English were climbing back, with difficulty, on Setter II.
Spindler looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. He had lost two precious hours entertaining those nitwits. There was not the slightest hope of contacting the Irish on shore. The skipper, even in his cups, was bound to relay their engine trouble to the signal stations.
Spindler also knew that if he were to raise anchor at once, their story would ring false. There was nothing for it but to wait for the dark and then move thirty miles out into the Atlantic before the moon was up. In a day and a half they could be in Spain.
In the meantime, he gave orders to cover the arms and batten down those bloody hatches.
Pat Driscoll had alerted the Barracks.
Two armed RIC men, Sergeant Thomas Hearn and Constable Bernard Reilly, suspected that the discovery of guns meant this was important. Grabbing their carbines, they began a thorough search of the shore and the dunes.
*
Monteith and Beverley hugged the shore line. They were dying for a smoke but though their tobacco was dry in the pouch the matches were sodden.
On a bridge over the branch railway to Fenit Point they said, ‘Good morning’ to a farmer who did not bother to reply. The sun was shining, their clothes were beginning to dry. Their spirits rose. Then it started to rain. They were tired and their legs numb. Monteith was limping badly and he held his hand Napoleonically in his jacket to ease the pain.
They asked a carter if he had a match to spare. He handed over a few as though they were gems, without a word. By the time they reached Tralee, they were still soaked but smoking contentedly. The town was very quiet at seven in the morning. Not knowing the local Volunteers, they looked for a newsagent that sold the right sort of papers, without success.
They passed a huge police barracks and saw people moving churchwards for the Good Friday celebration. At the far end of the town, they brushed each other free of sand and mud before going back by a different route. This time, they came across Spicers, in Dominick Street, that sold the Irish Volunteer.
They went in and Monteith said, ‘You sell the right sort of papers.’
The proprietor said, cautiously, ‘I sell all sorts.’
‘Look here,’ Monteith blurted out, ‘I’m in a hole and I have, to trust you as an Irishman to help me out. I must see the commander of the local Volunteer corps at once.’
‘Don’t tell them anything, Dad.’
A pretty young woman had overheard in the kitchen.
‘It’s all right, Hanna.’
‘I don’t blame you, miss.’ Monteith realized she thought him a spy. ‘I just want to deliver a message.’
He touched his clothes.
‘It’s so urgent we had to swim here. If you don’t trust us, send someone to say that a man named Murray has come with a message that can’t wait.’
Hanna called her young brother downstairs and whispered, ‘You heard, Georgie. Go and tell Mr Stack.’
At around 8 a.m., Pearse, MacDonagh and McDermott arrived at MacNeill’s house.
After a long discussion with Hobson, MacNeill had wrestled all night with how to sort out the mess the Volunteers were in. He could not come to terms with the fact that he had been betrayed by men he thought of as his friends. He was still in bed when his wife announced that he had visitors. He refused to see Pearse but asked McDermott to come up.
‘I’d better tell you at once,’ he told McDermott, ‘that I have issued orders through Hobson and O’Connell for all Sunday’s manoeuvres to be cancelled.’
Furious inside, Sean kept cool. ‘I appreciate your feelings, sir, but there is something you should know.’
MacNeill lifted his head in anticipation.
‘Within a couple of days, the German Imperial Navy is landing vast quantities of arms and ammunition on the Kerry coast.’
MacNeill stirred on his pillow. Nothing on so big a scale had happened in over a hundred years. B
ut was it true?
McDermott seized the advantage. ‘Whether the Germans land these arms successfully or not, there is going to be a rising. Just as certainly, the British are going to disarm the Volunteers. You are on record as saying that if they do, you will resist with all your might.’
‘Pearse,’ he said warily, ‘did not mention German arms last night.’
‘Sir Roger Casement has been negotiating on our behalf with Berlin for over a year. Nothing can prevent what we hope will be the final rebellion against British rule.’
‘You dare to threaten me?’
‘I’m not threatening anyone,’ McDermott said. ‘The fact is, the flower of Irish manhood is determined to grasp their freedom on Sunday. If you interfere, they could be left with only ashes.’
MacNeill could already taste them in his mouth. After reflecting a long time, he said, still dazed, ‘It seems a fight is inevitable and we are all in it. It’s not my idea.’ He scraped his dry hands together. ‘I leave it to you who planned it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ McDermott said, doing his best to hide the contempt he felt.
MacNeill gestured irritably to the door. ‘If you would kindly wait downstairs, I will dress and join you and the other two … gentlemen for breakfast.’
McDermott went to the dining-room exultant. He intimated that MacNeill had resigned.
‘Washed his hands of the whole thing and none too soon.’
‘Splendid,’ said MacDonagh. ‘With Pearse here as Chief of Staff, things will run smoothly from now on.’
MacNeill came down with a note already written. ‘Government action for the suppression of the Volunteers is now inevitable and may begin at any moment; preparations are going on for that purpose. We are compelled to be on our guard until our safety is assured. All government statements through the press or otherwise are in the circumstances worthless.’
Pearse read it. MacNeill was still not committed to anything positive but he would stay out of the way for a while.
McDermott said, ‘We’ll need a note for Hobson telling him to do nothing.’
MacNeill hastily scribbled one. ‘Here, take it.’
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