by Max Hennessy
He had even, in fact, enjoyed the beginning of what followed because, in addition to having a long memory, he had a gift for intrigue and had always enjoyed a little cloak and dagger work on the side. In spite of his youth, he had been at home an official of his miners’ lodge and known for his ability to outmanoeuvre owners’ agents, and, while his position as signaller and runner to Major Finch didn’t help him better conditions for his friends, it at least enabled him to better them for himself and hold a rare sort of position in the Kouragine Hussars.
As often as not he knew more than the N.C.O.s and sometimes even more than the officers. He was, for instance, the only unsurprised man in the unit when Sergeant-Major Busby set to work to remove the gun mounting and the armour from the Stutz and replace the seats.
* * *
‘Things began to change the minute Colonel Prideaux arrived,’ Hardacre explained. ‘Almost immediate, we got news that Denikin’s offensive had started and we’d beaten the Reds at some place near Tsaritzyn with a name I could never pronounce, and that we might be moving north any day. Straightaway, the Colonel started reorganising us. Pretty brisk he was, too. He enjoyed standing in front of the regiment, watching us and letting us watch him. Mind, Captain Potter was put back with the mounted troops and so was Captain MacAdoo. Nothing much was done about Major Higgins though, or, if it was, he ignored it. The only officer who was supposed to have anything to do with the cars was Lieutenant Colmore.’
‘What else happened when Colonel Prideaux arrived at Nikolovssk?’
‘Well, Major Finch got permission at once to take over our canteen for his office. A signal was sent to Headquarters at Khaskov about it.’
‘Did you despatch the signal?’
‘Yes. I was unit signaller, but it didn’t mean much because there wasn’t any signalling apparatus. I just made out the messages in code and made sure they were despatched.’
‘You had arranged priority with the railway telegraph authorities?’
‘Yes. With the British Railway Battalion officer, Captain Barry, who was trying to make the railways run. There were a lot of Reds about, see, and they were always trying to muck things up.’
‘I see. Please continue.’
‘I took the messages down and made sure they were sent. Captain Barry had a signaller – an army chap – to send ’em on the railway telegraph. It was a funny arrangement but, with things as they were, it was the best we could do. I got messages signed for and entered in the log book that was always kept, then I picked up any messages that had come up the line from Headquarters for us.’
‘And permission was obtained by this means to take over your canteen?’
‘That’s right. To take over the house actually. Arranged through the British Mission and the Russian Command: Major Finch said the hotel where the Colonel had been living was too far away. The Vronskins didn’t like it, of course.’
‘How did you know?’
‘They said so.’
‘Who did?’
‘Well…’ Hardacre paused ‘Miss Vronskina actually. We used to talk a bit, because I was always around, getting the Colonel’s tea and that. She spoke good English and used to pull my leg about being a Bolshie and I pulled ’ers about grinding the faces of the poor. Not serious, of course. She was all right. She used to talk seriously to me, in fact, asking me what I thought ought to be done about Russia.’
‘And, doubtless, Mr. Alderman,’ Godliman said, leaning forward, ‘you informed her.’
Hardacre grinned. ‘Yes, my lord. Not half.’
There was a ripple of laughter round the court in which Godliman joined.
‘Did anyone else talk to you about the canteen?’ Moyalan asked when it had died down.
Hardacre nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Captain Kuprin. Captain Count Kuprin. I got on all right with him too. He spoke a bit of English as well, and was interpreter for the Russian squadrons, and he was always coming to me to ask what things meant that he didn’t understand.’
Moyalan glanced at his brief. ‘These rooms that Colonel Prideaux and Major Finch used…?’ he began.
‘Bottom floor of the house,’ Hardacre explained. ‘The Colonel later went out of his way, mind, to open the canteen again in a hut he got hold of, but it was nothing like as good as the original one.’
‘And it was in this bottom part of the house that you worked as the Colonel’s runner?’
‘That’s right, sir. We shifted all the antimacassars and wax fruit and that and put up army tables. I did all the coding because Major Finch told me to. Saved him time, he said.’
‘Was it, in actual fact, Major Finch’s duty to decode the telegrams?’
‘Yes. They was supposed to be highly secret but he always used to say that everybody knew our business anyway – which was right enough – and he got me to do ’em for him. It suited me.’
‘I’m sure it did.’
‘And it suited him. He was a bit casual about his work and he was always trying to make ’eadway with the girl.’
‘Make headway?’ The judge leaned forward. ‘What precisely do you mean by that?’
‘He used to make himself a right old nuisance, sir,’ Hardacre explained. ‘Trying to get his hands on her or catch her in dark corners. It was a sort of standing joke between us. She used to say “He’s coming again, Hardacre.” He was a rare one for the girls, sir, was Major Finch. He liked his drink and I was always seeing him in the town with a girl. Blondes chiefly, sir. Flashy types. He was a bit of a show-off, and he liked to talk. They affected him like that.’
‘Do you remember the names of any of these women he knew?’ Moyalan asked.
‘Yes, I do. Nina Youvich was one. Tanya Shubalova was another.’
‘Why do you remember these names so well, Mr. Alderman?’
Hardacre grinned. ‘I was young, sir, and they weren’t fussy. When Major Finch wasn’t around there, I was.’
There was a roar of laughter. Godliman’s face creased, then straightened suddenly, and the laughter died abruptly.
‘Do you remember also a Countess Seinikina?’ Moyalan asked as the muttering subsided.
Hardacre nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I do. There wasn’t a Count Seinikin, of course, and she was a phoney if you ask me. I made no headway with her. She was too expensive for me.’
There was another rumble of laughter and the judge leaned forward.
‘Alderman Hardacre,’ he said mildly. ‘I suspect you have a reputation as a humorist, but I’d be glad if you’d try to restrain it here. While it relieves the weight of the evidence, it has a habit, unfortunately, of causing delay.’
Hardacre smiled, unabashed. ‘Very well, my lord,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll try.’
Moyalan looked up as he finished speaking. ‘Mr. Hardacre,’ he said. ‘Let us continue. You always knew when Major Finch had been visiting one of his lady friends?’
‘Always, sir. He used to come in early in the morning, a bit drunk and with face powder all over the collar of his tunic.’
‘And because of his concern with all these ladies, he left you to do the work?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So that you always knew what was going on?’
‘I was usually the first to know.’
* * *
He was the first, for instance, to learn of the impending arrival of Christopher Murray-Hughes. He had made a point of reading Brigadier Speed’s signal from Khaskov before copying the details down into his log book with the precise efficiency that was beginning to please Prideaux and Finch.
‘Accord every assistance,’ it had said, and from outside the door, Hardacre had heard Prideaux’s comments.
‘I’m not sure I want a journalist hanging round my headquarters,’ he said slowly.
Major Finch looked up from his desk, his face bland and encouraging. ‘Journalists can be very useful, sir,’ he said mildly in the special voice he kept for Prideaux. ‘Northcliffe made Haig.’
‘Dammit, Charles, Northcliffe was an owner, no
t a scribbler.’
‘This chap’s married to Lord Broader’s daughter.’
Prideaux’s eyebrows went up and he turned his head. ‘Is he, by Jove?’ he said. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘In The Times just before we left, sir. You must have missed it. Bound to have a bit of influence behind him. You’ve only to convince him that you’re good and he’ll tell the great British public at home about it. And what the great British public thinks today, the War Office’ll think tomorrow.’
Prideaux clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ He paused, thinking, then he swung round briskly on his heel. ‘Very well,’ he said cheerfully, rather like a small boy with a secret. ‘How do we go about it?’
Finch beamed. ‘I’d suggest, sir,’ he said, ‘that we start by giving him every scrap of help we can. Let him use our priorities. With the telegraph system in the chaos it is in, he’ll be grateful for a bit of organisation and when he discovers all messages have to be read by us he’ll be only too pleased to give you the odd write-up – in case you stop the facilities.’
Prideaux looked up, still smiling. ‘Perhaps it’s worth a try, Charles,’ he said.
‘You spent four years in a prison camp, sir,’ Finch reminded him. ‘You’ve got a lot of leeway to catch up.’
‘Yes.’ Prideaux nodded. ‘Let Hardacre know that our organisation’s to be available to him when he arrives.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Anxious to know more, Hardacre made a point of going into the room when Prideaux had disappeared and, as he expected, Finch looked up, beaming in anticipation.
‘Ah, Hardacre,’ he said, with the patronisingly facetious manner he always kept for the headquarters staff. ‘Just a moment of your valuable time. We have the Press coming to stay with us for a while. A Mr. Christopher Murray-Hughes to be exact. He has the ear of the great British public, and the Colonel would like you to put yourself and our signals organisation at his disposal. He’s to use our priority for sending messages. Perhaps you’ll attend to it.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘It ought to suit your Yorkshire brand of Socialist humour, Hardacre.’
Hardacre stiffened. ‘Yes, sir, it does, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s important the public should know the truth, sir.’
‘Important for a lot of people,’ Finch pointed out with a smile. ‘If the great soft-hearted, soft-headed British public find a new hero, then we’re all a little better off, aren’t we? Me! You, even! In the army, Hardacre, glory has a habit of rubbing off on subordinates.’
* * *
Murray-Hughes arrived the following day and Hardacre made sure the reconverted Stutz, its tan leather polished, its red spokes and brasswork gleaming, was at the station to meet him. Physical training for everybody had been ordered by Prideaux and he was determined not to be included.
‘I’m going down to the station with the messages, sir,’ he took the precaution of informing Finch. ‘I’ll pick up the newspaper chap while I’m there. Any messages for Countess Seinikina?’
There usually were messages – or packages – for countess Seinikina; and Hardacre always took care to enquire about them, before leaving. They usually resulted in a free drink at the Countess’s expense, and it never did any harm to have a hold over someone like Finch.
Finch looked up and smiled. ‘Yes, my good and honest Hardacre,’ he said. ‘If you care to look in my room, you’ll find a bottle of Scotch under my pillow. You might drop it in with my compliments and tell the Countess I’ll be round this evening to help her drink it.’
The Countess was more generous than normally and Hardacre’s drink turned out to be two, and he hung around the Tsar Alexander I for a while, enjoying the fin-de-siècle plushness of its fittings, his eyes and ears alert for what was happening. Nobody, he noticed, seemed to have half the optimism for Denikin’s newest offensive that the military had, and he made a mental note that if it fell apart at the seams, Henry Erasmus Hardacre had better have good plans in hand for a posting south to Khaskov or even to Novorossiisk.
Finishing his drink, he moved on to the station but Murray-Hughes’ train was late, of course, as they always were, and Hardacre lounged among the crowds moving about the platform in their best clothes, just as if it were Margate pier, the girls in cotton dresses and the officers in high-necked epauletted smocks and narrow-visored caps cocked rakishly over one eye. For a while, he sat with Barry’s signaller drinking tea, then he went back to the platform and stared at the posters, making out from the Kyrillic characters the instructions on how to deal with the typhus which had broken out in the north, and the claptrap about the Reds’ low morale. The Whites were still hanging on to Tsaritzyn, he saw from the war maps, but he knew from what he’d heard in the hotel that it had taken some winning and they were having a stiff battle to cling on to it.
He turned to the posters giving details of Red mutilations and atrocities which were supposed to encourage White recruiting but only served, in fact, to make everyone twice as fearful, then he crossed the platform to the buffet and sat on the horsehair bench in the doorway, his hands on his knees, watching the girls in swirling skirts taking part in the promenade up and down the platform, and trying to judge which of the strollers who accompanied them were the hated bourjoui, which ex-officers trying to hide under civilian clothes, and which Communists simply biding their time until the Red Army approached.
Outwardly he was simply a smart British soldier, pink-faced and ham-handed, hooked into his stand-up collar, his stiff awkward hat square over his eyes. Inwardly, he was full of assessments of his fellow-men. He knew he had a gift for summing people up and when he was out of uniform he intended to use it to advantage. He had already summed up Higgins as a good officer and had accepted the system he stood for, simply because he had no alternative. With Prideaux, however, and especially with Finch, it was different. Prideaux, in spite of his friendliness, he had put down as an ambitious vain man who wasn’t to be trusted because it stuck out a mile to Hardacre that he was a glory-hunter, chasing the distinction his father had won in South Africa and which he’d scented in 1914 and missed for the rest of the war. For all his smiles, it was clear he was sternly seeking the promotion that had passed him by in France, and was eager enough to fall in with the suggestions for its advancement that were put out by Finch, whom Hardacre had long since labelled an overbearing over-privileged professional deputy.
The train came in just as the coppery mid-day jangle of church bells started from among the onion domes of the town. It was drawn by a tall-stacked engine fired by sawn-up sleepers and consisted of an enormous tail of ancient coaches. As it stopped, there was the usual scramble for seats, but nothing of the near-riot that always took place when the train was going in the other direction away from the front, with men, women and children swinging suitcases, carpet bags and bundles in their efforts to force a way aboard, then Hardacre saw Murray-Hughes standing alone among his luggage down the platform.
He was a tall young man with dark wavy hair and a tendency to plumpness. His clothes were immaculate and the out-of-season fur cap he wore seemed to have been cut especially for his handsome head.
Hardacre clattered his feet a great deal and saluted smartly, and Murray-Hughes acknowledged it absently.
This one, Hardacre thought at once, goes with Finch. Murray-Hughes had slipped immediately into his slot in Hardacre’s shrewd brain as he gestured towards the luggage.
‘There’s a motor car, I suppose?’ he asked, obviously expecting one.
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Hardacre said briskly.
‘Can you get that lot to it? Find a porter or something?’
‘Yessir, of course, sir.’
Murray-Hughes handed him a tip and wandered off towards the street, without looking round, while Hardacre scowled at his retreating back. He knew the type. Never a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you’. Do this. Do that. Accepting without thinking that his orders would be carried out, because he’d been
brought up to believe that people would always do things for money. Hardacre sometimes hated his own class for allowing them to think that way.
‘Up the Revolution,’ he thought sourly.
5
Hardacre – 2
Moyalan paused, as though to let Hardacre draw breath. He wasn’t pushing him because he was producing some telling evidence and Moyalan seemed to want it to sink slowly into the minds of the court. Prideaux had left during the morning, his head down, an engrossed expression on his face, and, according to the rumour that was moving through the corridors, the tense situation on the Continent had created urgent business at the War Office that had called him away.
The jury had lost their languid manner now and were sitting forward in their seats and staring at the witness, and several times the ex-ranker with the scar made notes on a pad of paper in front of him. Moyalan allowed him time to finish what he was doing, then he coughed loudly, drawing to himself once more the attention of the court. Kirkham looked up, his face disgusted, and Moyalan led Hardacre into the evidence about the Kouragine Regiment after the arrival of Christopher Murray-Hughes.
‘Did the appearance of a war correspondent make any difference to life in the Slavska Barracks?’ he asked, continuing his questioning slowly.
Hardacre nodded agreement. ‘Yes, it did,’ he said briskly. ‘He belonged to a famous newspaper and he liked to throw his weight about a bit. He even dabbled in the local politics, too, like I did, but unlike me, he ought to have known better. He got his news in some funny places, though. I could have told him straight off they were all the wrong ones.’
‘Because you knew the right ones?’ Godliman interposed.
Hardacre turned in the witness box. ‘I did that, sir. And, what’s more, he seemed to think it was his duty to pass on what he got to the Colonel. And the Colonel never bothered to check on it, but passed it on straight away to General Inde in Khaskov.’
