Valiant Gentlemen

by Sabina Murray

  “Do you think we have enough petrol?” asks Ward.

  “We should,” says Herbie. “I really don’t know.”

  They reach the limits of La Rochelle in utter darkness, guided by a battery-operated torch as neither Herbie nor Ward has been able to figure out the gas-operated lamps on the Hotchkiss. Villiers has earned her keep with her knowledge of Bordeaux. The roads leading to La Rochelle are all familiar to her and, when unsure, she has had the right accent to ask directions. So now it’s just getting to the quay. And then another step to get them across the Channel. Herbie has stopped speaking as all his energy is being used to operate the car. Ward cannot remember a time when the boy was quiet. They join the file of cars—overloaded and occupied with disheveled, silent passengers—slowly heading to the harbor.

  “How much farther?” says Sarita.

  “It is no more than a mile,” says Villiers. “If it is acceptable, I will get down now.”

  “Of course,” says Sarita, and there’s embracing and Villiers has tears, but Sarita is too tired to engage in such a display of emotion. She gives Villiers a wad of cash and takes an address. “Who knows what it will be like when we get back to Rolleboise?” she says. “Imagine what the clean-up is going to be.”

  Villiers nods, relaxed, yet grimacing, as if the promise of some sort of domestic task has restored her faith in the future. The goodbyes are light, because the drama is not over. “I’m going to walk to the pier and see if I can work something out,” says Ward. “It shouldn’t be that hard to track down the consul.”

  “How will we find you?” asks Sarita.

  “I’ll find you. It doesn’t look like you’ll be going anywhere.” Ward gets out of the car, which appears to be parked—just parked—in the road with the other cars. He strolls down the street as if he is taking in the pleasant evening air. On any other night the waterfront would be a different sort of lively with women trailing parasols and taking tisanes with their companions at the quayside cafés. Maybe sailors would be collected in groups at street corners, flogging their lonely selves. And there are women, and there are sailors, but a silence pervades everything. Silence asserts itself between terse statements that might otherwise be conversation. The future may always be uncertain, but paradoxically, the future holds an irrefutable certainty: We know that we don’t know what will happen. This grim absurdity diminishes all chatter. There is no joy and even a dog trotting down the footpath stops to sniff in a perfunctory way, raising its leg to the bricks without merriness, its tail at half-mast.

  Ward stops a policeman and inquires politely for the location of the British Consul. It’s down on the port, as is everything. Any other day, the office would have shut down at five, but here it is near midnight and the lights are blazing. Ward walks into the office, listens to a French woman weeping and weeping, and the consul’s patient response that if the woman was indeed married to an Englishman, she would need to be accompanied by that En­glishman in order to be considered for evacuation to England.

  “You, sir,” says the consul, sighting Ward. He’s desperate to get out of the conversation with the woman and Ward’s English self certainly seems like a good escape. The man’s French sounds native. But for the old Etonian tie, Ward would have thought him a local. “You must wait here,” he says to the woman and walks her to the door, placing her on the footpath like a cat. “Looking for a berth?” says the consul.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Just you?”

  “My wife and two sons.”

  “You know, there’s nothing for the next two weeks. I can try to get you into a hotel.”

  “Ah,” says Ward. “That will not work. I have a son due to start at Eton.”

  The consul smiles, conquered. “And the other son?”

  “Just graduated. Needs to be at Cambridge.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but you should find a place for tonight. Where are you coming from?”

  “Outside of Vernon.”

  “And you live there?”

  “I have a lovely house on the Seine. I’m an artist.”

  “I know who you are,” says the consul. “Your daughter married Phipps.”

  “That’s right. Herbert Ward.” Ward extends his hand to grip the consul’s.

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “That would be delightful.”

  The consul’s name is Sterling and he has not slept in two days. La Rochelle has been transformed since the middle of August, but this latest wave of refugees has pushed its resources to the limit. “It’s hard to see where this is all heading,” says Sterling. “La Rochelle was supposed to be a nice relaxed appointment—a form of retirement really, a reward.” Sterling chuckles.

  “I have a good friend in the consular service,” says Ward. “Maybe you know him?”

  “Quite possible. There aren’t that many of us, but we tend to be very, very far apart.”

  “Roger Casement,” says Ward, smiling.

  “Ah, Sir Roger,” says Sterling. His eyes trace over Ward’s features. “A good friend?”

  “Like a brother. We were in the Congo together.”

  Sterling’s face is hard to read, as if he’s stopped himself from saying something. He raises his eyes to Ward’s, smiling in a reserved yet warm manner. “Have you heard from him lately?”

  And then there’s Roddie at the door, passing the French lady, who is protesting something. “Father,” he says, “Mother wants you to come quickly.”

  Ward gestures to his son, “And this is Roger Casement Ward, due to start at Eton next week. This is Consul Sterling. What’s the hurry?”

  “Mother got us onto some ship. They’re already loading the car.”

  “How did she do that?” asks Sterling.

  “I don’t know,” says Roddie. “It was all in Spanish.”

  “The Orduña,” says Sterling. “Your wife must be a clever woman.”

  “And forceful, particularly when speaking Spanish.” Ward shakes Sterling’s hand. “You were going to say something.”

  “No. I was going to apologize for not being more help, but it appears you don’t need me, not with a fine son like this, and a wife who can work miracles.”

  “My other son drove us all the way from Rolleboise, and he’s only sixteen,” says Ward.

  “A brilliant, wonderful family. Good luck to you all.”

  “And best of luck to you,” says Ward, still convinced that Sterling was going to tell him something but, for whatever reason, had changed his mind.

  V

  Christiania

  October 1914

  The picture is of a ship sailing through a fjord and hangs on a nail above the desk. Casement adjusts the frame so that it is level. He thinks of Ward, although it takes a moment to connect this picture of a ship and his old friend. The memory sorts itself. Ward had written a piece about an explorer for Harmsworth, which had brought him to Christiania some time in the 1890s. He wonders if Ward too stayed at the Grand Hotel, or even in this room with the view of the park and the street and the people walking dogs, catching trams, busy on their business. From this vantage-point, he feels disconnected from the pool of humanity. But to look at the ­Norwegians—who move quickly, circuiting the footpaths and broad streets—they seem propelled on their various trajectories with the express intention of not contacting another person. This is what Adler has told him about ­Norwegians—self-sufficient, truthful, reserved, harsh people. Adler is not this way, but on reaching Christiania has enacted the relief that one always has when returning to one’s tribe, that sense of belonging, but also the anxiety of being held to the standards that one has left behind. Left for a reason. Here, he supplies Adler’s dialogue, Yes, Sir Roger, go ahead and articulate it as it’s probably true, but is it worth knowing?

  Through the window, Casement sees a familiar figure appear on the pavement, or m
aybe it’s not familiar. That could be Adler, but as this is Christiania, there are many large-framed blond men, and from this angle, even height is impossible to determine.

  Too much time in close quarters aboard the Oskar II has made Adler antsy. At the Grand they have separate rooms, and Casement’s, as is should be, is more grand. And Adler, as he’s home and probably has people to visit, is already out, although Casement does not know where.

  He should get some breakfast, at least coffee, although he’s not hungry. Leaving the hotel room makes him nervous. There are people looking for him. He is traveling under the name of James E. Landy and has taken to wearing an American pin in his lapel, as if “Landy the American” would do this. Four days short of Christiania, the Oskar II had been intercepted by the British Atlantic blockade. Casement had taken the papers he was bringing to Germany and given them to Adler to conceal, and Adler still has those papers as Casement is worried that he’ll be picked up on the street, or that his room might be searched.

  He decides to get some coffee in the lobby, which will tide him over until lunch. By the front desk, he manages to find a copy of the Daily Telegraph. He has a boy bring coffee to his chair, which he has chosen for being out of sight of the front door, a place where he can calmly catch up on world events. The Germans are spilling into France and the French villagers are getting out of the way. The Wards must have evacuated Rolleboise in the hubbub of early September but, with the reversals at the Marne, could have returned home. The trenches have been dug and the quick win for the Germans is a dream deferred. Charlie is now old enough to enlist and, being combative by nature, must be in training somewhere in England. One must hope the war ends before Charlie finds himself on some front, carrying a rifle. How is Ward handling all of this? He wishes he could get in touch with him, but it’s not possible. He might have to wait a year. It all depends on how long the war lasts.

  “You’re awake.” It’s Adler, throwing a shadow over the top of the paper.

  “Of course I’m up. It’s noon.”

  “Then it’s time for lunch,” says Adler. He allows a moment to pass, volunteering nothing. “Come on, Sir Roger. You might have no appetite, but I am hungry.”

  Casement watches Adler over a plate of fiskebolle and barley bread. Adler’s already done with his fish stew and is yelling at the waiter to bring ­something—gin? It sounds like gin but could be a segment of some other word. He doesn’t know how words and syllables sort themselves in Norwegian. He often thinks he understands what is being said, as the language seems to mimic English sounds, but when he tries to add the bits into some sort of comprehensible whole, there is nothing.

  But gin is always gin, at least with Adler. “It’s too early to start drinking,” says Casement.

  “What makes you think I’m just starting?” Adler balls up his napkin and throws it at Casement. “And you should have a drink. You should see your face. Your expression is like a raisin.”

  “You think a drink would help that?”

  “It would not hurt.”

  Adler has made no mention of where he spent the morning, and perhaps it was with family, but there’s something in his demeanor that makes Casement think he’s hiding something.

  “You are resisting my charm, Sir Roger.”

  “And you mine,” says Casement. “Where were you?”

  “You sound like my wife.”

  “Do I? I wouldn’t know, never having met her.”

  Adler laughs out loud, looks at the other tables, but no one has even looked up. Everyone at this restaurant seems to be involved in a grim Scandinavian meditation.

  The gin arrives, two glasses of the stuff, and Adler sets one glass down in front of Casement. Adler, with an upturned palm, makes a series of quick gestures to encourage Casement to his drink. He takes a sip. “You know, Adler, asking where your friend has spent the morning falls well within the bounds of casual conversation. I’d assumed you were with a friend or family member. But knowing you as I do, it would seem that something is afoot.”

  Casement watches as Adler clicks through some escalating thought process. He opens a collar button with one strong thumb-flicking gesture. “I have made contact with English intelligence.” Adler lifts his own glass and subjects it to a brutal draining. “They wanted information. They are following you.”

  Casement feels the panic rise. At the next table, a man with long mustaches, and a cane that should belong to a more feeble owner, hooks his gaze briefly before turning away. “Who is following me?”

  “You were recognized on the boat and they intercepted a telegram to my father. This morning, when I went down for breakfast, there was a man—English—waiting for me in the hotel lobby.”

  “And you went with this man?”

  “Of course. I wanted to know what he knew.” Adler leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other dramatically. “Aren’t you interested?”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing they didn’t know already”—Adler delivers a quick nod— “but I learned something.”

  “And?”

  “I learned that I have very good taste in friends, because you, Sir Roger, are quite valuable.” If the English wanted to grab him, why haven’t they done it? But they can’t, can they? Norway is neutral and the English have no power here. Adler sends an aggressive finger pointing in his direction. “There’s a price on your head. Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  “How much am I worth?”

  “Hah!” says Adler. “Five thousand pounds. Yes. Five thousand. So you’d better be nice to me. And I’m your ticket out of here, because as long as I’m with you, they know everything about you that I know. Or they think they do.”

  Everything? “What are you playing at, Adler?”

  “Whatever is fun.” Adler delivers his smirk. “The Kaiser will tell you everything, and you will tell me everything, and I will tell Findlay everything. As long as I am with you, you’re quite safe.”

  “Who is this Findlay?”

  “British minister.”

  Casement looks over to where the man with the cane had just been sitting, and he is gone. Would it be better if he were still there? Would that not be more unsettling? “We must leave Christiania immediately.”

  “Not possible for several reasons. First, there is no boat, and that is a problem. Second, I have a meeting with the British legation tomorrow.”

  Casement rises from the table, knocking the edge. Adler reaches for Casement’s gin and grabs it before it spills.

  “Sit, sit. Do not call attention. We must look to be very friendly with each other.” Adler is still holding the glass of gin and takes a casual sip, having claimed it. Casement settles back into his seat. “I need you to be clearheaded. What do I tell these people?”

  “What do you tell them? You tell them nothing.”

  Adler scratches his chin. He needs to shave and his nails make a rasping noise along his jawline. He is waiting for Casement to see the value of these English vipers, to process the usefulness of the connection.

  “You will tell them,” says Casement, “nothing of the Irish Brigade. You will tell them that my mission in Berlin is purely diplomatic, that should Germany prevail, that I seek an agreement that the welfare of the Irish people, who have no quarrel with Germany, be protected.”

  “Surely we can do better than that,” says Adler. “A U-boat, perhaps, that could be targeted. Or some ‘pipes’ that are being transported somewhere. Then we can hit the English navy.”

  “Adler, this is not a game.” But from Adler’s expression, it is very clear that to him, this is a game, and regardless of Germany’s participation, and England’s, and even Ireland’s, he has no intention of losing.

  Casement spends the afternoon writing letters in his room. There is the ship sailing through the fjord, again at an angle, again adjusted. He wri
tes to Devoy about the treachery of this Findlay. It is an outrage that one cannot travel in a neutral country without being threatened by so-called diplomats, who are such thugs as to put a price on a man’s life. He realizes that some of this outrage is concern over Nina, who is still in Ballycastle and should have been sent to the safety of America. There are papers in Biggers’s house that need to be moved or destroyed, but since the telegrams are all intercepted by the English, he will have to accomplish this through some contacts in New York. He is having difficulty focusing on what needs to be said, and begins penning an article on the improbity of Findlay, of these English diplomats who use their posts as ways of expanding the reach of English oppression. But he certainly cannot publish this now, because it would give too much away. And where would he publish it anyway?

  Adler had not understood his anger at the British legation.

  “What makes you think the Germans are any better?” he had said, but that must have been the nastiness of the first flush of gin. Adler had said that Casement sounded like an Englishman. He’d laughed at the idea that any great principles were being assaulted, or defended. Had Casement not read the accounts coming out of Belgium? In the village of Aerschot, the villagers who had not escaped were locked in the church with no food. The women were separated from the men and housed for the pleasure of the German soldiers. And the men? Something like three survived out of eighty. The bodies of Belgian civilians are found stacked in the villages unlucky enough to be situated in the path of the German advance, and the victims are often children.

  Adler does not read—unless he has to—so this story was fed to him by that Findlay of the English legation.

  Of course it is a lie, an elaborate tale crafted of the believable to sway Adler to the English cause. Findlay is mistaken if he thinks that Adler can be so easily manipulated, because he’s not weak, although he has no allegiance to ideas. Adler thinks moral rectitude is a character flaw that exposes you to all kinds of exploitation. He’s right, but the fact that he feels one can choose against doing the right thing can be alarming. Or amusing, depending on Casement’s mood. Adler is someone who has already seen so much abuse in his life that he does not recognize, nor always understand, kindness. Adler left home at twelve because he thought that his father, a violent drunk, might kill him. Wandering the docks, he was taken onboard a ship, and there mistreated in every way possible. That scared boy is still the core of Adler, still the heart of that drinking, grasping, brutal man. No, Adler is not weak, but he has been defined by the basest survival. If the English think that spinning tales of German evil will turn Adler one way or another, they are mistaken. His only loyalty is to himself and, now, Casement.