The Furies
Page 1
THE FURIES
Irving McCabe
Copyright © 2014 Irving McCabe
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Contents
Cover
POLICE RAID THE TWENTIETH CENTURY FURIES
FURIES TRY TO MOLEST THE KING
PART ONE: 1914–1915
1. London, Thursday 11 th June 1914
2. Sarajevo, Sunday 28 th June 1914. Morning
3. London, Sunday 28 June 1914. Afternoon
4. Sarajevo, Sunday 28 th June 1914. Evening
5. London. Thursday 16 th July 1914. Evening
6. Vienna. Wednesday 29 th July 1914. Afternoon
7. London. August 1914
8. London, August 1914
9. Western Serbia, August–September 1914
10. Paris, September–November 1914
11. Central Serbia, December 1914 – January 1915
12. London to Kragujevac, December 1914–February 1915
13. Austrian POW camp, near Kragujevac, February 1915
14. Kragujevac, February – March 1915
15. The School Hospital, Kragujevac, March–April 1915
16. Kragujevac, August 1915
PART TWO: 1915–1916
1. Kragujevac, October 1915
2. Road to Krusevac, October–November 1915
3. Klagenfurt, November 1915
4. Plains of Kosovo, November 1915
5. Krusevac, January 1916
6. Kosovo to Albania, December 1915–January 1916
7. Bludenz, Austria, near the Swiss border, January 1916
PART THREE: 1919
A letter from Sylvia
A letter from Gabriel
Edinburgh, Wednesday 20th August 1919
HISTORICAL NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
POLICE RAID THE TWENTIETH CENTURY FURIES
The Police momentarily took the offensive in the war against the “Twentieth Century Furies”, as the militant suffragettes are now called, raiding the London offices of the Women’s Social and Political Union yesterday morning.
Boston Evening Transcript, Saturday May 23rd 1914
FURIES TRY TO MOLEST THE KING
Two Furies made an attempt to molest the King and Queen as their majesties were driving to an inspection yesterday morning. One threw a parcel of leaflets which fell into the Royal carriage. The women were surrounded by an angry crowd, before being arrested by the police. They will be brought up today, charged with insulting behaviour.
The Daily Mail, Monday June 29th 1914
PART ONE: 1914–1915
1. London, Thursday 11th June 1914
Although she had originally agreed to take part in the mission, Dr Elspeth Stewart wasn’t sure she had the courage to go through with it.
However, on the surgical ward that morning, Sylvia had told her it was planned for later that afternoon. Despite her misgivings, Elspeth kept her word and returned early to the terraced house in Paddington where she lodged. Sylvia had also promised to be there by three o’clock, but it was almost four before she arrived, an embroidered canvas handbag slung over one arm and a pink feather boa around her neck. Elspeth led her upstairs and into the bedroom, then locked the door behind her, watching as Sylvia gently set the bag down on top of the small bedside table. Elspeth could see the slight tremor in Sylvia’s hands as she carefully removed a linen-wrapped bundle from the bag, loosening the fabric bindings to reveal a corrugated metal pipe, both ends crimped flat, a stub of wick jutting through the side. Then, like a priest raising the Holy Sacrament, Sylvia held the device aloft.
Elspeth’s previous idea of a bomb had come from newspaper cartoons: a caricature black cannonball with a long, fizzing fuse. But there was something almost animate about the ribbed grey shell, which seemed to her like the fossil of a prehistoric worm, or the chrysalis of some giant exotic moth. Slowly she took hold of it: the cool and surprisingly heavy weight in her hands, the smell of iron in her nostrils, the tang of gunpowder at the back of her throat. ‘It’s not how I expected it to look,’ she said.
‘Well what did you think it would look like?’ Sylvia unwound the boa from her neck and laid it on the bed.
Elspeth shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said in her soft Scottish brogue.
‘Well, it’s a pipe-bomb. Vera and I made it in the workshop at her parents’ farm. We found this length of old pipe and packed it with powder from her father’s shotgun cartridges. Then we crimped both ends shut, et voila.’
‘And how does Vera know how to make a pipe-bomb?’ Elspeth asked as she studied the device, turning it over in her hands.
‘Anya told her. She said they’re easier to make and more reliable than the battery-triggered devices.’ Sylvia paused. ‘Anya says they’re deadly.’
Deadly? Elspeth looked up quickly, but below her blonde fringe, Sylvia’s green eyes were calm and steady.
‘Look, no one’s going to get hurt, Ellie. What Anya means is that a bomb this size will destroy the chair, that’s all.’
But Elspeth still felt a line of worry crease her forehead. Sylvia sighed and then placed a reassuring hand on Elspeth’s shoulder.
‘Ellie darling, nobody will be injured. But the Coronation Chair symbolises a King who has ignored our cause. It’s exactly a year since Emily died under his horse, so it’s right and proper the chair should be attacked, trust me.’
Elspeth looked at the bomb again. Of course she trusted Sylvia, but platitudes were not what she needed. What she needed was to understand the device: how it worked, what it was capable of. After a further period of silent scrutiny she lowered it to the bedside table, then sat on the bed and looked up at Sylvia with a questioning frown.
‘The last bomb the WSPU planted, at St Paul’s Cathedral, didn’t explode. So how do you know this one will work?’
Sylvia sat next to Elspeth, rested her hands neatly in her lap, smiled patiently. ‘The St Pauls bomb was more complicated, with a battery and electrical detonator that failed; our device is simpler. And just to be sure, Vera and I made two bombs and tested the other on Sunday while her parents were at church. The wick lasted thirty seconds and the explosion blew several roof tiles off her parents’ piggery. Have faith, Ellie, it will work.’
‘Thirty seconds…?’ Elspeth narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s not a lot of time.’
Sylvia folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, we don’t need much time.’ She sighed again. ‘Look, if we leave too long a fuse, there’s a danger that someone might come into the chapel and get injured. All we need do is be sure there’s no one there
, light the fuse, and casually walk out to join the other visitors. Thirty seconds later it explodes. In the meantime, we’ve slipped away in the confusion.’ She placed a hand on Elspeth’s wrist. ‘Honestly, darling, everything will be fine.’
Elspeth felt the cool touch of Sylvia’s fingers on the skin of her forearm. ‘And it’s this evening?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Vera suggested after evensong, just before the Abbey closes. I was meant to do a late shift at the hospital but I swapped with Sister Hughes. You’re not on call, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
Elspeth looked down at the device, as if staring at it might help her decide. Then she glanced up at Sylvia; at ward sister Sylvia Calthorpe, who had befriended Elspeth when she had first arrived at St Mary’s Hospital and had also recruited Elspeth to the WSPU arson squad. At first the idea of placing a bomb had seemed insane and went against Elspeth’s every instinct. But then she’d thought about it at length: two decades of lawful civil protest by the suffragists had failed, and nothing that the suffragettes had tried so far had made any difference.
Sometimes, instincts had to be ignored.
‘Alright,’ Elspeth finally said. ‘I’ll do it.’
Sylvia’s face lit up as she leant forward to give Elspeth a hug. ‘It wasn’t an easy decision for me either,’ she said, as she pulled away. ‘But I know we’re doing the right thing.’
‘And you’re sure about Vera and Anya, that they’re happy it should just be the two of us?’
‘Apparently Anya was desperate to place the bomb herself. But Vera told me she overruled her. She says we’ll attract less attention. You know how unconventional Anya is…the foreign accent and the dress sense.’
Yes, thought Elspeth, Anya could appear a little eccentric.
‘And Vera’s so tall,’ Sylvia continued. ‘She’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I’m sure she realises we’re less likely to be viewed with suspicion. Anyway, it’s decided: it’s just us.’
Elspeth – her decision made – felt her shoulders relax and finally smiled.
‘After all,’ Sylvia said, an impish look on her face. ‘Who would suspect two such delicate members of the feebler sex,’ she mock-fluttered her eyelids and placed both hands over her breastbone, ‘of such a fiendish plot?’
Fighting the urge to smile, Elspeth tried to look stern. ‘Stop your messing, Sylvie. This is serious and Mrs Evans might hear us.’ She picked up her pocket watch, which lay on the bedside table. ‘Anyway, if we’re going to do this today, we need to leave right away, don’t we?’
Sylvia glanced at the watch in Elspeth’s hand. ‘Yes, we should go,’ she said, her expression suddenly solemn as she began to re-wrap the bomb.
Elspeth rose and crossed the room to her wardrobe. She took out a short beige jacket and slid her arms inside the sleeves, before straightening the collar and reaching behind her head to adjust the ivory clasp which kept her shoulder length dark brown hair in check. There was a full-length mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door, and for a moment she studied her appearance: her eyes – normally the pale blue of crystal water over a sandy beach – appeared darker today, a sign, she suspected, of her uncertainty. She picked up her purse from the bed and slipped it inside her pocket and then turned to see Sylvia carefully fit the re-wrapped bundle back inside the handbag, snap the clasp shut, and hook the bag over her arm. She looked up at Elspeth. ‘Ready?’
Elspeth took a deep breath. ‘Ready.’
***
They left Elspeth’s lodgings – saying goodbye to Mrs Evans, her landlady, on the way out – and walked the short distance to Paddington railway station. There was already a queue of travellers waiting at the taxi stand, so Elspeth hailed an empty four-wheel growler as it swung into the station forecourt.
‘Westminster Abbey please, driver,’ Elspeth said, climbing up to sit opposite Sylvia. The driver gave a nod and flick of the reins, and a moment later the carriage clattered over the cobbles into the late afternoon traffic.
For the first few minutes of the journey Elspeth fiddled nervously with the brass catch of her purse. Then she caught sight of a discarded copy of the Daily Mail under Sylvia’s seat and leant forward to pick it up. The main headline was on home rule for Ireland, but on the third page she found an article on Mrs Pankhurst’s WSPU – the Women’s Social and Political Union – and the increasing violence of the “Suffragette Furies”, as they called them. The article stated that because of attacks on paintings, from now on women would only be allowed to enter London’s art galleries if they had a personal letter of recommendation from a man. Elspeth lowered the paper to her lap and gently bit her lower lip: what if the authorities had decided to do this for the Abbey? Then, aware she was worrying needlessly, she scolded herself, folded the paper and pushed it aside, and leant back against the seat.
Sitting across from her, Sylvia looked elegant in a lavender skirt and jacket, the feather boa around her neck, the handbag resting innocently on her lap. To the casual observer she would appear poised and composed. But Elspeth could see the slight frown of concentration on her brow that told her maybe – just maybe – Sylvia was not as carefree about their mission as she would like to appear.
The gentle swaying of the carriage was soothing, and as they rode past St James’s Park Elspeth tipped her head back against the leather seat, shut her eyes, and allowed her mind to drift. Was this mission really worth the risk? Perhaps it was just as well that Elspeth’s parents were no longer alive; they would have been horrified that their daughter – the first woman from the Isle of Skye to qualify as a doctor at Edinburgh Medical School – was now part of an arson squad and about to plant a bomb on the Coronation Chair in Westminster Abbey. And what about Elspeth’s mentor in Edinburgh, Dr Elsie Inglis, who had helped her obtain the position of assistant surgeon at St Mary’s? She would be appalled if she knew what Elspeth was about to do…
‘That’ll be half a crown please,’ said the cabbie as the carriage jolted to a halt. Elspeth opened her eyes and felt the prickles rise on the nape of her neck as she saw the twin-steepled front of Westminster Abbey before her. But Sylvia was smiling confidently. ‘We’re here, darling,’ she said to Elspeth. ‘Will you settle the fare?’
After paying the driver, Elspeth stepped down onto the pavement of Broad Sanctuary and looked up at the stone façade of the Abbey. It was an impressive view – the high towers, the carved stone, the stained-glass windows – but behind the Abbey roof was the intimidating sight of the Houses of Parliament; Big Ben to her left and Victoria Tower to her right. Dropping her gaze, she saw the west door of the Abbey before her. This, she knew, was the main entrance to the Abbey, the door through which every British monarch over the past five hundred years had passed on his or her way to the Coronation Chair.
And she and Sylvia were about to walk through that door, and plant a bomb on that very chair.
An ember of anxiety began to glow hot in Elspeth’s chest. She took a deep breath to try and calm her racing mind, and then became aware of Sylvia’s presence by her side. Looking down to see her friend’s self-assured smile, Elspeth managed a half-smile back and then slipped a hand inside Sylvia’s elbow. Together they walked towards the door.
As they approached the entrance, Elspeth saw with relief that no one was being stopped or searched. But once through the door and inside the nave she received a shock: good Lord – the place was heaving with people! According to Sylvia, Vera had suggested they plant the bomb half an hour before the Abbey closed, on the assumption the building would be almost empty. Yet Elspeth saw that the nave was still full of visitors, some sitting in the pews in silent contemplation or prayer, while others strolled between the giant stone support columns, gazing up at the marble statues and busts of the famous dead. The murmured hush of their voices echoed faintly from the stone walls around her, and the aroma of incense and burning candles was strong as Elspeth looked up at the vaulted ceiling high above her head; she felt dwarfed by th
e imperiousness of it all. Could she and Sylvia really go through with this…this sacrilege, this desecration? She took another deep breath as she fought the urge to turn around and walk straight out of the building, to just admit she hadn’t got the courage to go through with it. But she held her nerve as she concentrated on the reassuring feel of Sylvia’s arm, trying to control the growing sense of panic and pretending she was, quite simply, just another visitor.
Her hand still hooked inside Sylvia’s elbow, Elspeth walked up the centre of the nave, the stone floor beneath her feet lit by splashes of coloured light from the stained-glass windows high above. Directly ahead of her were the stalls of the quire. To her left she saw the marble figure of Sir Isaac Newton, and just beyond his statue, a ticket desk and entrance gate.
‘There, just past Newton’s monument,’ Sylvia whispered, ‘is where we pay to gain admission to the inner areas of the Abbey.’
Elspeth followed Sylvia past Newton’s statue and up to the desk, where she purchased two visitor tickets from a pale-faced, ginger-haired verger dressed in a dark blue cassock.