Ward sees Sarita stirring at the end of the hallway, and he raises a finger to his lips to silence Cricket. His daughter looks at him and shakes her head pointedly.
“Mama, come here. I want to talk about Herbie.”
Ward looks at his daughter and again cautions her, but she meets him with clearly enacted disdain.
Sarita comes and sits beside her daughter, folding her hands in her lap. “There’s no news, not since the postcard that I showed you, the one where he writes about forgetting his birthday.”
“You don’t think he’s going to do anything stupid, do you?”
Sarita processes this and, to Ward’s surprise, relaxes her expression. “Of course he’s going to do something stupid,” says Sarita. “He’s Herbie. Let’s just hope the Germans have a sense of humor.”
Cricket is staying through Ward’s birthday, which is tomorrow, and leaving on the twelfth. And he’s not exactly sure what she’s doing with her mother, but Sarita is responding. She ate a little more at dinner where the conversation was all about Charlie’s most recent letter, so heavily censored that the effect was, “Dear Mother and Father, XXX, yesterday, XXX, tomorrow, XXX, Love, Charlie. Cricket’s tack is, rather than avoiding the topic of Charlie and Herbie, to talk about them nonstop. Ward wonders if some of this is her desire not to speak about her marriage as she’s left the husband and children—the baby is not even a year old—in London and is in no hurry to get back. It’s true that she is needed here in Paris, but Ward wonders what her husband has to say about it. Cricket seems content to lie on her old bed in her old room as if she’s still a girl of twelve. She’s very disparaging of Dimples and her happy marriage and her children, Mervyn and Allan, whom Dimples is devoted to. “God, it’s Mervyn and Allan everything. Mervyn and Allan had a poor night of sleep. Mervyn and Allan prefer Scottish rolled oats to the English. Mervyn and Allan sneeze around horses. Mervyn and Allan. Mervyn and Allan,” she’d said. “They sound like a magician duo, or some carbolic compound for cleaning ovens.”
And now Cricket is up in her room, writing a letter, although he doubts it is to Colville Barclay and this concerns him. Her legion of suitors has probably not given up, despite her marriage, and he wonders with whom she’s corresponding. But he doesn’t want to know, and he’s worried that if he asks, she might actually tell him.
He and Sarita are sitting at the fire. She has a book in her hands and the page turns, but much more slowly than in the past. He is still working on his manuscript and has the same problem with the narrative as he always did: There is an attractive gathering of little stories, but he’s not sure if they add up to anything, and in this episodic, erratic way, don’t really create the emotional payoff that he wants. He was never much of one for reading novels and suspects that this has compromised his ability to create a narrative arc out of so much disparate, anecdotal material. He is editing the piece about the chicken who nested in No-Man’s-Land, amid the barbed wire, and how protective of this bird they all were, how the soldiers themselves saw this chicken sitting on her eggs between the lines as somehow an expression of the resilience of the French. Which sort of makes sense, but why is a chicken that has chosen to nest in the most idiotic of locales a symbol of élan? Why? And yes, he can see why people would care about a chicken when their comrades are dying all around—people do this all the time—but how can he make this a thing to admire?
There’s the bell.
Ward checks his watch. It’s almost midnight. He hesitates. The servants are all asleep so he’ll have to get the door himself.
There’s the bell again.
Sarita closes her book and looks at him. Ward rises from the table. Sarita rests the book beside her on the couch and gets up. “Sarita, stay here.” She shakes her head and follows him into the hall. He makes his way to the door. He opens the door. Standing on the step is the uniformed boy. He is looking out at the street but turns to look at Ward, his face composed.
“Monsieur,” he says. He hands him a telegram. Ward thanks him, somehow, and shuts the door against him. He looks at the envelope. He would like to put it down and return to his editing, but that is not the correct thing to do. He tears the envelope open. Sarita’s hand rests lightly on his elbow. He hears footsteps down the hall and there is Cricket in her bare feet and nightgown.
“What is it?” she says.
Herbert’s eyes scan over the telegram. His eyes read it again. “It’s Charlie.” Cricket’s hands fly up to her mouth and he begins to read out loud. “It is my painful duty to inform you that a report this day has been received from the War Office notifying the death of Lieutenant Charles Sanford Ward, Royal Warwickshire Regiment, which occurred while on patrol on the tenth of January, 1915 and I am to express to you the sympathy and regret of the Army Council at your loss. The cause of death was killed in action. Any application you may wish to make regarding the late soldier’s effects should be addressed to The Secretary, War Office—”
He stops reading.
“Oh my God,” says Cricket, and runs to her mother, who has collapsed to her knees in an uncompromising silence.
XI
Banna Strand
April 1916
It is a burial at sea. However, Casement has always thought burial would offer peace, and this is an odd coffin packed with activity and actors. He would turn to face the wall, but the bunk does not accommodate this. His head is shoved up against a circuit box, the heels of his shoes rest against a steel plate covering a nest of wires. His knees project into the space before him and are routinely struck by the sailors passing through the cabin, although it’s not a cabin, really, just a few yards marked off and two bunks, this one—longer than the other and at times occupied by the Quartermaster—and that across from him. Montieth is sitting there and would be looking into space, but there is no space, so he’s focused on a patch of wall just above Casement’s head. The walls are slick with condensation and drops of water spatter onto his face with fair frequency. The air is thick and unwholesome, heavy with heat.
Montieth takes a vial from his pocket and shakes it. You can hear the tablets rattle. He laughs, and then composes his face into grim resignation. He and Montieth have pills and a tube of curare, poison, with express instructions to use it in the event that they’re captured, although right now survival seems of more importance than orchestrating death.
“You’re awake?” says Montieth, nodding at Casement.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been much company.”
“Ah, there’s been plenty of that.” The sound of a man vomiting can be heard from beyond the curtain. Casement too would be vomiting, but he’s done with that, emptied himself completely an hour or two ago. The scent lingers with that of urine and a reeking medley of sweat-soaked wool.
“So I asked the captain how he could manage to be in this tin can for so long, with all the smells and closeness, and I’m expecting some sort of condescending German speech about superior races and all that. So I say, ‘Captain Weisbach, how do you do it?’ And do you know what he says to me?”
“No,” says Casement.
“Opium. They’re all on opium.” Montieth shakes his head, looks at the vial again.
“That’s not opium, Bob.”
“Ah, don’t worry about me. I’m not one for that sort of thing, and we know fuck all anyway. I’m not sure what secrets they’re worried about us giving up.” Montieth may not be inclined to take his own life, but it’s a suicide mission they’re on, poison or not. At least they’ve managed to keep the Irish Brigade out of this, because to send them to Ireland now would surely be the equivalent of lining up all those men against the wall to be shot. Instead they are accompanied by Beverly, or whoever he is, because that’s not his real name, who has been sent over from Ireland and is now speeding back to no good purpose.
Casement’s not sure when he signed his own death warrant. The music of rattling pills
accompanies this knowledge, but even if he dodges that, he’s destined for the noose. He knows it. The night before, he had brought his personal papers to Countess Blucher and had broken down into a fit of weeping. He’s just out of the hospital, so it was predictable, although perhaps somewhat of a surprise to her ladyship. The Countess can’t really be trusted but there is no one else, and the fact that she knows Ward—or has at least met him—provided connection to some kinder time. It is its own particular torture not to be able to comfort Ward for the death of his son, not to be able to grieve this child in a public way. He carries the loss of Charlie in silence. He harbors hope that there’s been some mistake made in the Telegraph, which is where he’d read the news, looking for it as he lay in his hospital bed, finding it, and then trying not to believe. He tries to articulate the stuff of Sarita’s grief, of Ward’s grief, and of his own. He keeps from thinking over what he knows must be the case—that his friendship with Ward has bled out on the fields of Flanders along with all things good and youthful and true.
He has held his grief in silence, buried it under papers and planning, shot-up ideals, and doctor’s reports. He has struggled into meetings and as he shouted, his voice cracked, he knew that he was speaking as a man on the edge of destruction, clinging to a dream to stop from slipping over. Negotiations on what was finally going to be shipped to Ireland, and how, had been fraught. And what was the point of fighting when it was clear the Germans wouldn’t budge? What was the point in arguing over mode of transportation, number of weapons, quality, ammunition? The vast majority of the 100,000 men that Devoy wished to arm would go without rifles. That was clear. Everything else is mired in a fog of poor planning. In Ireland, people are waiting for the arms, prepared to rise up on Easter Monday. There is to be a rendezvous with a ship in Tralee Bay, but they only have 20,000 rifles and these are of a vintage that does not inspire confidence. Devoy had said something about rifles like this being good enough for Napoleon, but that was when the enemy wasn’t wielding something far better. Such statements are easily made from one’s armchair in New York.
The ship, the Aud, has a four-day window to meet with the escort off of Banna Strand. The U-boat will be reaching the coast of Ireland in the next couple of hours and then, Casement hopes, he can contact the leaders of the uprising—although who these men are, other than Plunkett, is not known to him—and convince them that they are better off waiting for naval support from Germany. Although, as he articulates the thought, he knows it represents a false hope. There is to be no German naval support. This is it for now and waiting—which is what he’d wanted before he fully understood—will just take the current situation and transport it neatly into the summer.
The Volunteers too are angling for a conflict. Whatever distractions the Germans are giving the English works well for their cause. But even should the arms land, and the men occupy Saint Stephen’s Green and what else—Four Courts? Dublin Castle?—how long can they possibly hold before England crushes them? The civilian casualties will be high because occupying places like Saint Stephen’s Green means ridding it of dog walkers and students and shopgirls with sandwiches and nodding drunks, not English soldiers.
He did have a glimmer of what was at stake when Plunkett was still around. Plunkett had his little document for the Irish Brigade and that was effective. And Pearse’s address at the burial of O’Donovan Rossa—Casement had the souvenir booklet mailed by Nina—was a brilliant piece of writing. There, by the old Fenian’s graveside, the identity of Ireland had suddenly made sense. You could see it emerge from the primordial gel and stand, fully formed, in your mind. One would have to be insensible not to join this God-ordained war against oppression. Apparently, what Ireland needed was some pretty words on a bit of paper and a body for gravity, and suddenly she was an intelligible nation. Suddenly, your blood was heated and you’d pick up a gun and head for the streets, feeling that anything less was cowardice and worse, a negation of self.
Casement has a curdling feeling in his gut that right now that one of these language teachers or poets or editors or painters or whomever else seems to be fueling the passion of this doomed uprising is coming up with some bit of paper, and, given time, will find the bodies to sign it in blood.
“You’ve gone all quiet again,” says Montieth.
“Did you think you’d lost me?”
“I did just check you out of the hospital.”
Casement nods. “I’m thinking of the Pearse speech.” The last line has anchored itself in his memory. “‘Enough to know that the valiant soldier of Ireland is dead; that the unconquered spirit is free.’”
“Ah yes, the noble dead.” Montieth groans. “We all know that the Irish are willing to die for Ireland, but what’s needed is some men who can manage to stay alive long enough to shoot a few of the English.”
They are silent for some time. Montieth takes the pills out a few times and puts them back. He has a wife and daughters in America. He must be thinking about them because there’s something regretful in his features, almost sentimental. “Are you a lucky man, Roddie?” asks Montieth.
It is a good question. Looking back on the matter of his life, it would seem that he has dodged a few disasters, although found himself mired in others. He has had friends and experience and fame, but also loneliness and despair. Here, on this U-boat, barreling towards the coast of Ireland, wasted and weak after those long, frustrating months in Germany, it’s hard to feel lucky. Adler is lost to him, lost to everyone, vanished and leaving no trail. Who knows what will happen? There it is again, happen, as if the very presence of that word implies the existence of a creator, a happener, someone who may or may not be feeling kindly towards Casement. And if there is a God and he is the familiar one, he is not known for treating his loved ones gently. “Lucky?” says Casement. “Ask me that tomorrow.”
Casement is not really asleep but not exactly conscious when he is roughly roused. It is close to two o’clock in the morning.
“What are we doing?” asks Casement.
“Weisbach wants us out of here. He’s getting worried about running into a patrol.”
Casement swings his legs around and sits up.
Beverly sticks his head around the curtain. “Got everything?”
What is there to get? Casement pats himself down in a perfunctory manner. He has a German code, although he’s sure it isn’t an important one. He has his poison, the pills, the tube of curare. He has a gun that he doesn’t know how to operate.
“Let’s go,” says Montieth.
The U-boat has surfaced to a surging sea. A rowboat bucks in the waves. One of the nameless sailors holds the rope. The water roars and breaks around the submarine, sucking at the sides. Casement holds fast to the railing, feeling hollowed and weak. He will not be able to row, that he is sure of, and is even wondering if he will make it to shore in consciousness. The moon, skirted in cloud, watches on coldly. Montieth is the first to reach the boat, stumbling in like a drunk. He recovers quickly, gestures for people to hurry.
“You next,” says Beverly to Casement. He’s to be handed in like a child. Holding the railing, Casement takes cautious steps. The observation deck is slippery and narrow. The Germans watch, eager to finally be rid of him, as eager as he is to be back on Irish soil. He swings his leg over the edge, sees Montieth’s burly hand extended, and he grabs for it, managing two quick steps before a sudden surge up-tilts the boat and knocks him from his feet. He folds himself into the bow of the boat.
“There’s a blanket for you,” says Montieth. Beverly is next, hopping in from the side. They start rowing for Tralee Bay, guided by the reach and dip of the Little Fenit light. The U-boat stays afloat just long enough to get its men back into its belly, and then it sinks beneath, as if Casement’s imagination is what had called it to the surface.
Casement takes the blanket and pulls it around his shoulders. The boat rocks up and falls away. He’ll have to
hold fast not to fall out. Montieth is a skillful rower and throws himself into the troughs, angling across the waves. A wave breaks over the bow, soaking Casement, bringing him into a more articulate consciousness. There’s a lot of water accumulating in the boat, and a shouting match—or desperate conversation—has sprung up between Beverly and Montieth. The great shattering of waves upon the Strand means they are drawing close. Montieth is dealing with the shore break, trying to keep the boat at the correct angle, but his hand is wrapped—when did he injure it?—and he’s weak with the left oar. They swing around, no longer across the waves, and there’s one last roll that takes the boat and holds it and flips it over. Into the drink he goes. There is Casement, sinking beneath the water. He reaches the ocean floor, its shifting surface of powdered stone, and hears the clash and clash of rocks raked along the margin as the waves beat and mold the shore of Ireland. And here he’ll die, a fitting end, a drowning on the eve of the futile uprising, and his lungs are filling with water, and it is a rough falling off, not as gentle as sleep, but a persuasive, brutal love. And then there’s a tug at his neck and he’s pulled from the water, dragged with his face just in the air and the sea still smacking his cheeks.
“I’ve got him,” says a voice, Montieth’s.
“Is he alive?”
“Don’t know. Jesus Fucking Christ.”
He is rolled on his back on the rocky beach and Montieth begins to chaff his arms and legs. “Roddie, are you there?”
Casement begins to cough in streams of water. His nose is running. He is more liquid than solid.
“Well done, well done.”
“We have to get going,” says Beverly. “I’m sure they’ve seen us.”
“Three men,” says Montieth. “Smallest invasion on record.”
“We have to move,” says Beverly.
“What do you suggest we do with Sir Roger?”
“We’ll hide him somewhere and get a car.”
Valiant Gentlemen Page 48
