Whatever was going on, it was top secret. He had heard nothing about it.
He must notify their people at once!
He flew down the lighthouse stairs and again made for the house.
“McCrogher . . . McCrogher!” he cried, running inside. “Get up. We’ve got to get a message off!”
Groggily the Irishman came to himself to see his new guest standing at his bedside.
“Get up—we must send a message!”
“Ay, Mr. Bee’ch’m. I’ll be with ye in a moment,” said McCrogher, climbing to his feet and glancing about for his trowsers. “What kind o’ message?”
“The whole English fleet’s on the move, man—we’ve got to get word to the Continent.”
“I’ll get the light burnin’ right away, Mr. Bee’ch’m.”
“No, you fool—not till they’ve all passed. We can’t risk the wrong people seeing the signal. Just get up there and be ready. I’ll come up directly to tell you what to report as soon as the last ship is out of sight.”
McCrogher ambled off, thinking to himself that a few minutes more in his bed might be turned to better advantage than sitting waiting at the top of the cold lighthouse tower. He for one certainly had no trouble sleeping with the sound of the waves in his ears.
99
War and a Witness
Charles Rutherford was in London on the fateful day of August 14. He and Timothy Diggorsfeld spent the morning together, a good part of it praying for the fate of their nation, and the world.
Now he was on his way to see the first lord of the admiralty.
The previous two weeks had seen the perilous dominoes fall one by one, all, many would say, unnecessary, all equally inevitable.
Ignoring Serbia’s virtual agreement to the terms of its ultimatum, on July 28, Austria declared war on Serbia. The following day she bombarded Belgrade. At the same time, Germany demanded that Russia cease its military preparations, reiterating that the Austrian-Serbian conflict was isolated, and that Austria had every right to take punitive action. But it was to no avail.
On July 30, both Austria and Russia ordered general mobilizations.
On July 31, Germany delivered an ultimatum to France to stay out of the conflict.
On August 1, Germany declared war on Russia. In honor of its treaty with Russia, France ordered mobilization of its troops.
On August 2, Germany invaded Luxembourg and sent an ultimatum to Belgium. Belgium immediately appealed to England, France, and Russia to guarantee its neutrality.
On August 3, Germany declared war on France and entered Belgium. Great Britain ordered the mobilization of its fleet.
On August 4, Great Britain sent an ultimatum to Germany demanding respect of Belgian neutrality. At the same time it ordered mobilization of its army. Germany, however, attacked Liège. An hour before midnight, Great Britain was at war with Germany.
On August 6, Austria declared war on Russia.
On August 9, Serbia declared war on Germany.
On August 13, Great Britain and France declared war on Austria.
Within two fateful weeks in August of 1914, all of Europe had been drawn into what would soon be called “The Great War.” Never had its like been seen in the history of man. Never before had so much of the earth’s soil been at war with itself. By the end of the month, as declarations of war continued to multiply and spread to the Far East, one billion of the world’s population of 1.7 billion was technically in a state of war.
An hour after leaving New Hope Chapel, Charles Rutherford was walking with Winston Churchill quietly above the banks of the Thames. London was yet peaceful, though British troops were already on the Continent, and the fighting had well begun. Churchill had managed to escape for a brief respite from meetings to visit with his friend.
“I presume you’ve seen this,” said Churchill, handing him a small leaflet. Charles read the title: WHY THE BRITISH MUST NOT GO TO WAR. His eyes shot open as below it he read the words, “by Amanda Rutherford, daughter of Sir Charles Rutherford, Devonshire.”
“Oh, Winston, I am sorry! No, I knew nothing of it.”
“They’re being circulated throughout London. We don’t know where it originated or how it got into the country in such numbers.”
Charles groaned in despair.
“How bad is it?” he said.
“It paints none too pleasant a picture of you, I’m afraid. But otherwise it’s mostly rubbish. No one will pay the slightest attention to it. But it does show that there is a public relations war being waged and that we may not have everyone in the country behind us in this conflict.”
Churchill sighed. “But it’s too late for all that anyway. Once the people read the belligerent words of the German ultimatum to Belgium, public opinion swung decidedly our way. In any event, we are at war, and nothing can stop it now.”
Churchill sighed and smiled sardonically.
“I doubt there has ever been a week like it in our nation’s history, Charles,” he said, “that week between July 31 and August 4. I lived the week entirely in the official circle, seeing scarcely anyone but my colleagues of the cabinet or of the admiralty.”
“It must have tired you out.”
“Long hours are part of a politician’s life—you know that. On Saturday evening I dined alone at the admiralty. Telegrams were coming in seemingly every minute. So far no shot had been fired between the Great Powers. I found myself wondering whether armies and fleets could remain mobilized for a time without fighting, and then demobilize.”
“You were still having doubts?” asked Charles.
“Hopes would perhaps better describe it,” replied Churchill. “I hoped it could be avoided. But almost the moment this thought came to me, another telegram came in. It read, Germany has declared war on Russia. There was no more to be said.”
“What did you do?”
“I immediately walked across the Horse Guards Parade to Ten Downing Street, by the garden gate. I found the prime minister upstairs in his drawing room.”
“Was anyone else there?”
Churchill nodded. “Sir Edward Grey, Lord Haldane, and Lord Crewe, and a few other ministers. I said that I intended instantly to mobilize the British fleet, notwithstanding the cabinet decision, and that I would take full personal responsibility to the cabinet the next morning.”
“How did they take the news?”
“There was a little discussion. But they all knew it was the right course of action. I left the meeting a short time later with Mr. Grey and went back to the admiralty and gave the order to mobilize.”
“And then the cabinet sat most of Sunday, as I understand it,” said Charles.
“All day,” replied Churchill. “Once we were informed of Germany’s ultimatum to Belgium and invasion of Luxembourg, then we knew that we were as good as at war. By Monday it was clear the majority of Mr. Asquith’s colleagues finally regarded war as inevitable.”
“Surely not everyone could have been in agreement, even then.”
“You’re right, Charles. I knew well enough that some of the cabinet would resign if we declared war. On Monday afternoon the foreign secretary addressed the House of Commons. That night he sent the ultimatum to Germany demanding that the invasion of Belgium cease within twenty-four hours.”
The two men walked on thoughtfully.
“It was like waiting for an election result,” Churchill went on at length, “as those twenty-four hours passed, though few of us doubted what would be the response.”
“When was the deadline, exactly, when the ultimatum expired?” asked Charles.
“Eleven o’clock the following night—midnight by German time.”
“Where were you?”
“At the admiralty. I threw the windows wide open. The night air was warm. Under the roof where Nelson had received his orders were gathered a small group of admirals and captains and a cluster of clerks, pencils in hand. Some sat; some milled about. We were all just waiting. Along the Mall from the direc
tion of the palace the sound of an immense concourse singing ‘God save the King’ floated in.”
Churchill paused reflectively, then smiled.
“All at once,” he continued, “on this deep wave there broke the chimes of Big Ben. It was a remarkable moment, Charles—the people singing, then those ominous tones from the clock tower. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. And, as the first stroke of the hour boomed out, a rustle of movement swept across the room. That was it. The moment had come and gone. I gave the order for the war telegram, which meant ‘Commence hostilities against Germany,’ to be flashed to the ships and establishments under the white ensign all over the world.”
The silence which followed this time as they continued to walk side by side was long and somber. Again Churchill spoke.
“Then I walked across the Horse Guards Parade to the cabinet room,” he said, “and reported to the prime minister and the ministers who were assembled there that the deed was done.1* We’re at war, Charles . . . God help us all.”
Another long silence followed as they now began slowly making their way back toward the admiralty.
“I hope you’ve been thinking about my earlier request,” said Churchill at length.
“I’ve been doing the best, the only complete, kind of thinking about it,” replied Charles, “—that is, praying about it.”
“I admire your faith, Sir Charles,” said Churchill, “especially at a time like this.”
“It is not only my faith, Winston.”
“How do you mean?”
“It is a faith available to any man or woman—even a man such as yourself. You did say, God help us all. What is that if it is not a prayer?”
“A figure of speech, I suppose—a cry of human helplessness.”
“It is that, no doubt, but invoking of the Lord’s name ought always to be more than a mere figure of speech.”
A low chuckle sounded from somewhere deep in the big man’s throat. “Are you trying to convert me, Sir Charles?”
“It never hurts to try,” smiled Charles. “You have asked me to consider something which could change the course of my life. Now I am asking you to do the same. A little quid pro quo doesn’t seem out of order.”
“You are a shrewd one,” replied Churchill. “But it has always seemed to me that the life of faith is more suited to some individuals than others. You are such a one. I am not.”
“In other words, for priests and clerics, with a few misfits like me thrown in, is that it?”
“I said no such thing. No one who knows you would dare call you a misfit. You are one of the sanest men I know.”
“Yet still you say living in friendship with our Creator is more suited to me than to you?”
Churchill nodded.
“A common misperception, Winston. But the only thing that makes some men and women more or less suited for faith, as you say, is that they make themselves suited for it by their acceptance of it. You cannot have forgotten that I myself was a modern and liberal in every way prior to my conversion. I changed my outlook.”
“Perhaps,” conceded Churchill. “But I would add that you were disposed in such a direction all along.”
“I don’t believe that for an instant.”
“To what do you attribute the change in your perception, then?”
“I was confronted with the reality of God’s claim upon me as one of his creatures. At that point the decision was entirely mine.”
“What decision?”
“Whether to acknowledge that claim, and order my life accordingly, or whether to ignore it and continue to order my life by my own will.”
“But what if an individual such as myself has not been confronted, as you say, with the reality of God’s existence? I certainly have had no such experience.”
“His claim upon you is no less because he perhaps has chosen to speak to you in whispers rather than shouts.”
“But that’s just it—I have heard no such whispers.”
“Perhaps that is because you have not attuned your ear in the directions he is speaking. He speaks to everyone, Winston.”
“I have the feeling you would stake your life on that.”
“I would. He speaks, of that you may be sure. Some hear, some do not. One must learn to listen.”
Again Churchill chuckled.
“You present a very persuasive case, Sir Charles,” he said. “But I am afraid I have no time to think about all that at present. We are back at my office, and unfortunately I have a war to fight.”
“When will you think about it, Winston?”
“Talk to me about it again in six months, after we have beaten back the Germans and Austrians. Then my brain will not be so cluttered with other matters.”
1. *This conversation adapted from Churchill’s own recollection of events, some of the thoughts and quotes in Churchill’s own words, as told in The World Crisis, vol. 1, pp. 228–246.
100
Haze
The months between June and August passed almost like a blur for Amanda. She and Mrs. Halifax and Mr. Barclay had traveled throughout Austria, though it was mostly uninteresting. They always had people to see, to whom they spoke in hushed tones.
Once she had written the leaflet, Mr. Barclay seemed to take less interest in her, though encouraged her with more of the same. She never heard what became of what she had written, and didn’t ask. A discomfort over what she had said about her father began to set in. The best medicine for her uneasiness at present was not to think about it.
All the people she met now, and those who came and went through the house at Nr. 42 Ebendorfer Strasse, were connected in some way with the Fountain of Light and engaged in its activities, most of which Amanda knew very little about.
Mrs. Halifax spoke to Amanda as if she were an intrinsic aspect of the organization and their future plans, even as if Amanda would one day be one of its leaders. Amanda took everything in with a certain hazy interest, though she did not thoroughly understand much of what was said. Nor did she have the faintest grasp during those summer months where events were leading. She saw no English newspaper all summer, and had no idea that war loomed on the world’s horizon and very, very close to where she happened to be.
Her brain lay in a fog. Slowly memories of her past grew fuzzy and indistinct. Sometimes she could hardly remember her previous life at Heathersleigh at all. Especially when Mr. Barclay looked into her eyes, she occasionally found herself unable clearly even to visualize her mother’s face. The past faded into a blur. A trance of mental numbness came over her. She could do nothing but what he told her to do.
Yet it was a mental apathy Amanda had herself allowed, by her acceptance of influences contrary to the truth. Likewise, the fog that comes upon many is self-induced, and can lift at any moment a man or woman chooses to bring out the sun and blow it away. Mental vigor is a chosen possession available to any, no matter what his or her innate level of what is commonly called intelligence. Raw intellect itself is a vastly overrated commodity in its power over human character development. Such mental vitality is responsible for more growth a million times over than is intelligence, for it is the root of decision and will.
Amanda was presently asleep because she had let herself heed influences intended to stop her from thinking for herself.
But her waking was not far off. Deception is sure to overplay its hand in the end.
101
Courage to Look It in the Face
When Charles returned from London, his heart heavy knowing that now all Europe was at war, and well knowing what that fact could mean to George, his firstborn, his first business even before returning to the Hall was to stop at the McFee cottage.
Bobby had remained in bed since the accident. Though the bones in his leg gradually healed themselves, his body’s zip did not return. His strength seemed rather slowly to be ebbing away. The doctor pronounced him as fit as one of his age could be, perplexed that he was not back up on his feet.
It w
as clear Maggie was afraid the lonely trial of the aging wife was about to visit her.
The moment Charles walked in he knew from Maggie’s face that Bobby had taken a turn for the worse.
“Oh, Master Charles,” she said, tears falling down her wrinkled cheek, “I don’t know what to do for my poor Bobby!”
Already Charles was striding toward the sickroom.
Bobby lay there, a frail form under the single sheet, for the afternoon was warm, looking as though he were wasting away, and would soon become part of the bed itself. A thin white arm lay outside it yet was nearly indistinguishable for whiteness from the sheet itself. His face was more drawn and thin, it seemed, than even since Charles had last seen him three days before.
The thin slits of his eyes opened a crack.
“Ay, ’tis Master Charles, my old friend,” croaked a thin wisp of a voice.
“Yes, it’s me, Bobby,” replied Charles cheerfully, sitting down beside him and taking the limp hand at the end of the white arm. “How are you?”
“Weary, Master Charles . . . weary indeed. I don’t doubt the time’s about cum fer this old pilgrim t’ lay aside his travelin’ shoes.”
“Nonsense, Bobby. You’ll be up and out of here in no time.”
“Master Charles . . . I would have ay thought that ye’d be above all that. We know some’s got t’ pretend t’ themselves that there’s no such thing as death, with their talk o’ gettin’ better. An’ we can ay forgive them fer it, fer they don’t have the strength t’ look the thing in the face, or else their hearts’d fail them fer pure sorrow. But such men like me an’ yerself, Master Charles, the Master’s given us the courage t’ look fear in the face an’ say, ‘Do yer worst, ye shallna conquer me.’ Am I not right, Master Charles?”
What a joyous sorrow is the contented approach toward death of a childlike man with the clear conscience which comes of a life well lived in service to his Master and his fellows.
Tears rose in Charles’ eyes from the dear man’s honest speech. It was all he could do to get the words out past the lump in his throat.
Wayward Winds Page 39
