by John Masters
Lloyd George said, ‘Would it help me with the country to see that he is pardoned? Magnanimous gesture by PM saves young life … I can see the Daily Mail headline now.’
‘Except, Prime Minister, that Northcliffe would make sure that that was not the headline. It would be more like …’ he pondered a moment, waving his cigar … ‘Prime Minister surrenders to pressure, pardons officer deserter… and there would be a leader, written by one of his lordship’s trained seals, about politics, loss of the will to win, betrayal of the fighting man. No, no, my dear Prime Minister, I am deeply sorry for the Cate family but we must do the right thing, which is to let the soldiers do what they think best. Rawlinson is not a butcher.’
‘Haig is,’ Lloyd George growled. ‘Now, how does Margaret Cate’s telegram, that I told you about, affect the situation? She’s saying, in effect, that she’ll give herself up if we pardon the son, or commute the sentence. Can we do it?’
Churchill said slowly, ‘We can do it … But we’d have to see that the death sentence on her was carried out. And there’s enough bitterness in Ireland over the imposition of conscription without adding to it by hanging a woman.’
‘It might be worth it. The young Cate business will be forgotten in a week, but if we get rid of his mother, we strike a real blow at the brains of the rebel movement in Ireland.’
‘And the guts,’ Churchill said. ‘She’s a fanatic … brave as a lion … quite impervious to suffering, whether it’s her own or others’, in the cause. Yes, getting rid of her would certainly inflict a most severe wound on the rebels, but …’
Lloyd George said, ‘Nothing’s really altered, has it? We’ve decided we must let the army deal with Laurence Cate as it thinks best. What Margaret Cate offers is immaterial. It might be different if the boy was being held by Irish terrorists … at least, the direction of our thoughts would be different, though we might well come to the same conclusion. So …’
‘I suggest, no answer. Ignore her. It will turn her into an even more bitter enemy, but that can’t be helped. Besides, from what I hear, she couldn’t be more anti-English than she already is.’
Lloyd George nodded – ‘Very well. And now that we’ve spent an hour discussing the fate of one young man, let’s get back to our job … How is the influenza epidemic affecting the munition factories?’
‘Absenteeism up 24 per cent,’ Churchill said. ‘I’ve spoken to my medical adviser about a possible inoculation against it, and he says that at the moment there isn’t one. But …’
‘I’ve got to get to the House,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘We can talk as we walk. What are you doing to make sure none of that absenteeism isn’t deliberate?’
The two men’s voices faded down the stairs. Outside, the demonstrators continued rocking to and fro, shoulder to shoulder, placards waving, chanting, ‘No more firing squads … No more firing squads …’
Louise Rowland reached High Staining at midnight, riding up in the station trap after catching the last train from Victoria and changing at Hedlington. It had been a busy and exciting day. First, there had been a meeting at the headquarters of the No Conscription Fellowship to discuss general strategy in the light of the extension of conscription to Ireland. After much discussion it was decided to found an Irish branch, based in Dublin. Then had followed the demonstration outside Number 10. She had been there for the whole four hours of it. Early on, she had seen her father-in-law arrive; and when he came out later with Lords Swanwick and Walstone, she had asked him what the Prime Minister had said. But his reply was noncommittal. Later the Prime Minister had come out himself, with the Minister of Munitions, and although the demonstration was kept up for another two hours, they did not return. Then, something to eat … back to Fellowship headquarters … more discussion, exhausting and exhaustive – where and how to raise more funds; legal loopholes to get conscientious objectors out of gaol, or hinder their being brought to trial; problems of public relations and propaganda; money again … list of prominent people who could or might be persuaded to come out against conscription or in favour of a negotiated peace … the future course of the war … dinner … and now at last, homeward in the balmy May night behind the clopping hooves. Normally she would have taken one of Mr Woodruff’s cars, but none were available, so, it was the old trap … how much longer would there be a trap, and the smells of harness and horse … or the quiet of the night, in Kent?
The trap drew up to the front door and at once the door opened. The light was burning over the doorway. Carol Adams and Joan Pitman, two of the farm girls, were standing there. She paid off the driver and walked towards them – ‘Sorry I’m so late, but …’
Carol Adams said, ‘Mrs Rowland … Mrs Rowland …’ She broke down, burying her face in her hands.
Joan Pitman said, ‘Mr Rowland’s dead. He died at eight o’clock. Dr Kimball came when we called, at six, when Mr Rowland seemed to get worse … but he couldn’t do anything.’
Louise stood stiff, facing the two young women, one sobbing heavily, the other upright and stoney-faced. John – dead? She started forward, her legs unsteady. He had died while she was in London, thinking of everything in the world except him. He had been dead in spirit for six months. Now the body had joined the spirit. ‘Let me see him,’ she said.
Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Rowland, commanding officer of the 1st Battalion the Weald Light Infantry, glowered across the makeshift table at the sergeant standing stiffly at attention the other side of it. He said, ‘I’ve never had such an application before. Men are detailed for a firing squad, they don’t apply for it … And it is never provided by the condemned man’s own battalion, unless no other troops are available. I’d have to ask the Army Commander to appoint us to carry out the sentence.’
Sergeant Fagioletti said, ‘Yes, sir. I know, sir. The Regimental told me … but, we want to see it’s done right, sir. We don’t want Mr Cate to suffer. We think Mr Cate would rather see us, his men, at the last, rather than strange blokes from some other push. If you’ll appoint me, and Private Whitman … Fletcher Whitman, battalion sniper, sir … we’ll see that there’s no mistake. Mr Cate won’t know nothing.’
Quentin stared at the plump, blue-jowled figure … Italian, really … excellent man in a tough spot, Kellaway said: he’d seen that himself. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
The Regimental Sergeant-Major bellowed, ‘Salute! About turn! March out!’
Fagioletti stamped out, the RSM on his heels. The clatter of hobnails receded, the door closed. Quentin turned to his adjutant – ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s a good idea, sir,’ Archie Campbell said. ‘May I command the squad, sir – assuming we’re given the job?’
‘We will be,’ Quentin said. ‘No one else wants it. I’ll telephone Army Headquarters at once … All right. You command – six men, and Fagioletti. All to be loaded with ball … none of that nonsense about half of them being loaded with blank. Find a place against a wall. Dawn, the day after tomorrow. Your final signal to fire is not given aloud, but with the hand or sword. Blindfold, of course. No tying of hands or ankles. Practice tomorrow. You have to read the sentence and the confirmation by the Army Commander at the very beginning. He wears no rank badges or regimental buttons, as he’s been cashiered. Cut them off before.’
‘I know, sir. I’ve been looking up the Manual.’
Quentin stared silently out of the shattered window of the dusty room in the ruined village. The guns were loud, since the brigade was in reserve close to the British field artillery positions. At last, as Archie Campbell waited, watching him, he exploded with a single word – ‘Christ!’
Father Caffin laughed in the flickering candlelight, and raised his tin mug, which was half full of wine. ‘Here’s to you, Laurence. You’re a good lad, and I’ll remember what you’ve told me about the difference between Hen Harriers and Marsh Harriers … I’ll be looking for a parish in Mayo or Galway, anywhere far from Dublin and close to the At
lantic Ocean, when this is over. I never was much of a one for birds before, but now …’
‘Priests aren’t supposed to be,’ Laurence Cate said, his eyes twinkling.
Father Caffin started and then said, ‘Well, be the Holy Father! … I’ve as good an eye for a pretty colleen as the next man, I’ll have you know. Rutting on the soutane doesn’t alter what God put under it. It just means I have to control myself … more’s the pity.’
Laurence drank some wine, smiling across the table. It was about four in the morning, close to dawn, he didn’t know just how close, for he had given his wristwatch to his sergeant, Fagioletti, yesterday. He was sitting back in an easy chair, the only one in the village, though the springs were protruding into his spine. His tunic hung open, for the buttons had been cut off, as also the two stars on each shoulder. Fagioletti, doing the cutting, had started to unfasten the split pins that held on the brass shoulder titles WEALD LI, but the adjutant, watching, had said quietly, ‘Leave them on, sergeant. We’re not ashamed of him.’ His uncle, the CO, had come about midnight and spent an hour … then Captain Kellaway … Laurence wished he could say a proper goodbye to all the men of his platoon, but he would say it to some of them soon – five, Fagioletti, and Fletcher … good old Fletcher. He’d taught him almost as much as his grandfather, Probyn, had.
Caffin said softly, ‘They’ll be coming soon, Laurence. Is there anything you want to say to me … I’m not asking for a confession, you understand.’
‘No, padre. You know, I deserve to be shot …’ The priest made a gesture of denial but Laurence insisted quietly, ‘I do. I’m not afraid. What was it Nurse Cavell said before they shot her? “I must have no bitterness in my heart towards anyone.” And she was talking about the Germans. I certainly don’t have any towards my own people, my regiment, my platoon, the men I let down … I hope it’s a nice dawn.’
‘It is,’ a third voice said. Archie Campbell, pale-faced, was standing in the door, his Sam Browne belt and revolver holster shining blood red, the steel helmet gleaming dull green, the respirator square and boxy high on his chest. ‘It’s time,’ he said.
Laurence stood up. Campbell turned, went out, and crossed the street. Laurence followed. Father Caffin’s hand on his shoulder. The priest was speaking in a low voice, ‘We’ll meet again, Laurence, my boy … you and me and Sergeant Fagioletti … and Boy and … and your Uncle Quentin and …’
‘Tell my father I wasn’t afraid,’ Laurence interrupted.
‘I will.’
Campbell turned round the end of a free-standing wall, the house that it had once supported long gone. A faint greenish light spread in the east. Ten yards away seven men stood in line, eyeballs gleaming white, brass of equipment dully sparkling. Behind them Captain Sholto, the regimental medical officer, waited, shivering uncontrollably. Campbell began to read by the light of a torch held in one hand a short document held in the other – ‘Lieutenant Laurence Cate, 1st Battalion the Weald Light Infantry … At a General Court-Martial convened at Conte-Mesure on May 4th, 1918, under the authority of General Sir Henry Rawlinson, General Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Fourth Army, British Expeditionary Force …’ He read on rapidly, while Father Caffin kept his grip on Laurence’s shoulder. The light spread and grew and took colour. They could clearly see the faces of the waiting soldiers now, Fagioletti on the right.
‘The sentence of the court will now be carried out.’
Campbell put away the paper and produced a big khaki handkerchief. Captain Sholto hurried forward with a circle of white cardboard in his hand and quickly pinned it on Laurence’s chest directly over the heart. Campbell was trying to knot the blindfold behind his head but Laurence said, ‘Don’t bother, Archie … I’d rather see. I can hear birds singing … That’s a blackbird!’ Campbell stepped back and snapped, ‘Firing squad, aim!’ The soldiers sprang to attention and directly up into the aim, in the Light Infantry drill … ‘a blackbird,’ Laurence repeated, ‘the most beautiful song in the world … better than a nightingale.’ He looked directly at the men of the squad – ‘Thank you,’ he said. Campbell jerked down his raised hand. Seven shots cracked and Laurence Cate was thrown back against the wall behind him. There, his legs collapsed and he fell sideways to the ground, smiling at the blackbird, which still sang in the remains of a hedge close by.
The light spread through the window and gave colour to the walls of the little room, the faded photograph on the mantelpiece, the red and white flower pattern on the jug in the wash handstand. The woman in the bed was grey-haired, pale, exhausted, her eyes closed, one hand hidden under the bedclothes, the other arm extended above them, the hand held by the tall man sitting in the hard chair beside the bed.
She opened her eyes and Christopher Cate said anxiously, ‘How do you feel? You were tossing and turning all night, until an hour ago. Then you began to sweat …’
Garrod the housemaid said weakly, ‘I’m better, sir … not well … better than I was … I’ll get better now … Is it night or morning?’
‘About half-past four … a beautiful dawn, fresh, lovely. A blackbird’s singing in the hedge outside the kitchen. Can you hear it?’
‘I can hear it, sir … Will you get to bed now, sir, please. You shouldn’t have stayed.’ The hand pressed lightly in his – ‘It’s not right is it, for us to be alone in my room all night. What will they say in the village?’
Cate laughed, patted her hand, and stood up – ‘I’ll leave you … Dr Kimball says he’ll come when he can. He’s being run off his feet with this epidemic. Rest now.’
Daily Telegraph, Monday, July 22, 1918
EX-TSAR KILLED BY BOLSHEVIKS
PROPERTY CONFISCATED
Amsterdam, Sunday.
A Moscow telegram says that the Bjedneta reports the death of the Tsar, as follows: ‘By order of the Revolutionary Council of the People the bloody Tsar has happily deceased at Ekaterinburg. Vive the Red Terror.’
A decree of July 17 declares the entire property of the ex-Tsar, the ex-Tsaritsa Alexandra, and the Dowager ex-Tsaritsa, and all members of the former Imperial House, to be the property of the Russian Republic, including the family deposits in Russian and foreign banks – Reuter.
‘Happily deceased,’ Cate thought: what a nice phrase for murder … judicial murder; another version of what had happened to Laurence. He shivered and looked across the table at his brother-in-law, Tom Rowland, dressed in a lightweight blue-grey suit, very fashionably cut, with a loose-flowing collar and an intricately patterned tie. He was also wearing suede shoes and patterned socks of matching shades of blue and grey. Tom looked up from his bacon, sausage, and fried tomatoes, and said, ‘Looking at my suit, Christopher?’
‘Well … it is a little different from the uniform pea jacket, or the blue suit and bowler hat that all NOs seem to wear to town if they’re in mufti.’
‘Don’t forget the tightly rolled umbrella,’ Tom said, laughing. ‘Yes, it’s different. But then so am I, Arthur – Arthur Gavilan – the man I work for – took one look at my blue suit and bowler hat and said, “My dear Tom, this is a high-fashion salon for expensive ladies, not the In & Out!” So he designed half a dozen suits for me.’
‘It’s very nice,’ Cate said. ‘It’s just different … as you look different … and, if I may say so, better.’
‘I’m a happy man,’ Tom said. ‘That’s why. I loved the navy … still do, always will … but, it’s over. I’m a couturier.’
He returned to his food. Cate’s eye caught the coloured portrait of Laurence newly hung on the wall behind the sideboard. It had been done recently, from a photograph of him in his 2nd Lieutenant’s uniform; but Cate had asked the portraitist to make him a full lieutenant, as he had been at the end. The hurt of his son’s death would never leave him, nor the sense of guilt; but he could live; he must live. He felt for his handkerchief; for though he must live, he could not yet think of Laurence without tears coming.
Garrod came in with the post, and Cate put away his h
andkerchief – ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, taking the top letter off the silver tray. It bore an American stamp … postmarked Bakersfield, Cal. He opened it and read:
Virgil cabled me your sad news. Don’t blame yourself. Blame the war, for which we must all bear responsibility, all the peoples engaged in it, men and women alike.
Walter is in a camp near here and I see him at weekends. It seems probable that he will be sent to France soon. He is in the infantry, as a buck private, having refused officers’ training. When he leaves, I shall go back east and keep house for Stephen in Nyack for a while. After that … quien sabe? All my love, always … Isabel.
He put the letter down. Tom said, ‘It’s been good of you to have me, Christopher.’
‘It takes my mind off other things,’ Cate said.
‘I know. If there’s anything I can do to help, about Stella, any time, let me know. I’m taking the two o’clock train to Town, if that’s all right.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Arthur’s giving an evening cocktail party for a few of his friends, and some of his most important clients. I mustn’t miss that.’
‘Of course not.’
Chapter 10
The Western Front: Thursday, August 1, 1918
‘Where’s your rose?’ Quentin Rowland barked, glaring at the young private soldier standing to attention in the reserve trenches which the battalion occupied in front of Contalmaison. ‘C-c-couldn’t find one, sir,’ the soldier stammered. Quentin turned on the man’s company commander, jammed into the narrow trench a pace behind him, ‘Weren’t enough sent up to you last night?’
‘Yes, sir … I think this man must have lost his since dawn stand to. Everyone in my company was wearing one then.’
