Authors: Tim Vicary
He had had nothing but contempt for politicians most of his life, and this last attempt to destroy the country by breaking the Union at the heart of the Empire filled him with scorn. Surely a blind fool could see that that was the one thing, the Union, that mattered above all else? That was why so many loyal men, and women too, had signed the Covenant.
It was then, as he walked slowly back along the quay, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the dark water flowing between the hulls of the moored fishing boats, that Charles remembered again what Deborah had said. Over the past few days the words had faded from his mind, but now, in the empty waiting of the night, they came back to haunt him.
I don't care a fig for your Union.
She had seemed almost shocked herself when she said it. It was such a strange thing for her to say, she was usually so mild and unassertive.
I wonder where she is now, he thought, and whether she has come to her senses. Perhaps I will write, and persuade her to come home . . .
The
Clydevalley
– with a white sheet draped along her side, proclaiming her fictitious name,
Mountjoy
– finally arrived at 6 a.m. The unloading began immediately. As the first car drew up alongside, a small man in civilian clothes, tired, but still vibrant with energy, ran down the gangplank.
‘Colonel Cavendish?’
‘Yes. Mr Crawford, sir — delighted to see you!’ Charles saluted, then shook Crawford's hand. Of all UVF men, this was the one he most admired — the little determined gun-runner who had managed, against so much cautious advice, to actually hire the ships, buy the rifles in Germany, and bring them here now, running the gauntlet of the whole British Channel Fleet to do it.
But Crawford was in no mood for small talk. ‘Same here. You got my message? Where's the coal?’
‘There.’ Charles waved to his left, where a platoon of men were already heaving coal sacks out of a lorry and standing ready to run up the after gangplank with them as it was lowered.
‘Good. I hope it's better quality than the muck we had last night — that's what slowed us. And the water?’
‘Over there.’
‘Good. Listen, Cavendish, these rifles you've got: I've had 'em all wrapped ready for use. Each rifle's got a hundred rounds of ammunition with it in its pack, and they're bundled in sets of five. So if your men meet any opposition they can take them out and use them straight away. I suppose they know how to shoot?’
Charles stiffened. He had always taken any insult to his troops as reflecting on him personally. Even from Crawford he would not take that.
‘Half of my men are ex-army anyway, sir, and every single one has had firearms practice, despite the lack of ordnance. This isn't the boy scouts, you know.’
A faint grin flickered briefly across Crawford's tired face. ‘Glad to hear it, Colonel. I haven't come all this way to throw these guns away on fools or halfwits. They're here to be used, if need be.’
The two men's eyes met, and each saw the same hard resolution in the other. It's really going to work, Charles thought. With men like this on our side, we can do it! Just get these guns out of Bangor to their units in the country, and the Liberal government will never be able to use the army against us without the most almighty bloodbath. And the Liberals haven't got the stomach for that. Only we have.
The next hour was one of the proudest of Charles's military career. The operation, so carefully planned, moved ahead like a parade at the Coronation. Each car, shuddering and gleaming in the morning sunlight, came up to the ship in turn, was loaded with its bundles of rifles, and moved off, to be replaced by the next. Gradually the line grew shorter, as the cars trundled away off the quay, along the promenade, and out of sight.
The first coal lorry was replaced by a second and a third, while the coal sacks were heaved into the ship in a never-ending stream. Gallons of water were pumped into the ship through a snaking hose. And all the time, Charles's men moved smoothly, knowing exactly what to do and knowing the urgency of doing it right, first time, straight away.
Inevitably, there were hiccups. Two car engines stalled, but Charles had anticipated that. The reserve mechanic section immediately pulled them out of line, and had them running again within ten minutes. A coal lorry drove over the water hose and burst it, but a second was found in five minutes. Worst of all, when a message came through from the UVF's efficient spy system that a Royal Navy destroyer had been seen steaming south from Lamlash in south-west Scotland, Crawford's engine room crew refused to sail, stating that he had paid them to come this far and no further. But within quarter of an hour Charles had found qualified replacements from within the UVF.
Charles's Lancia was the last car to be loaded. There was no time for ceremony. He shook Crawford's hand and watched, for a few minutes, as the ship steamed out again into the bay. There was no sign of the destroyer yet, but already Crawford had his crew busily altering the paintwork on the funnels, and taking in the sheet with
Mountjoy
on it, so that the
Clydevalley
had her own name back again. Under Crawford's orders, the ship sailed north, towards the rumoured destroyer — playing the part of an innocent coaster with nothing to hide. Charles got into the car beside Simon, and laughed.
‘What's the joke?’ Simon asked. He let in the clutch, and moved the car smoothly down the quay, past the dispersing UVF footsoldiers towards the small, astonished crowd of nervous Bangor residents watching from the promenade.
‘No joke. I was just thinking, what a pleasure it is, to do something perfectly right for once.’
For a while Simon did not answer. He steered the car carefully past the crowd of elderly onlookers, and began the climb up the hill towards Holywood, where they had been earlier in the night. To Charles's great relief, there had been no further messages from his scouts about the 'phantom army', and motor-cycle riders had come in to tell him that the first cars had already cleared all possible bottlenecks and were away safely into the country.
Simon said: ‘Morally right, do you mean, or good organisation?’
Charles glanced at him. There was something a little cold about the question, he thought, unnecessarily analytical at this time of the morning.
‘Both, of course. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. I just like to know what you are thinking.’ Simon flashed his dazzling smile at Charles, a little too early, a little gratuitously to create the reassurance he wanted. ‘Of course, it was a brilliant piece of organisation. Crawford was hugely impressed, I could see that.’
‘Good. So he should be.’ Despite his pleasure, the conversation made Charles feel slightly uncomfortable. It was too important to him, to look well in the eyes of UVF High Command. It was the thing he wanted more than any other — a reputation that would take him to the top because men trusted and admired him. But it was a weakness, too, not a thing he liked others to notice. Simon knew him a little too well . . .
But Simon had no intention of being unpleasant. Charles had been successful and he hoped that the good mood that had engendered would bring to an end the unpleasantness of the last few days. He did not want to think of Charles in the way he had thought of his father, before he died. Not yet, at least. Perhaps never. He said: ‘If we do have to fight with these rifles, I shall be right beside you. I would be fighting
because
of you. You know that, don't you, Charles?’
‘Of course.’ Charles glanced at the young man, surprised. The eyes, behind the driving goggles, were obscured, but the slightly nervous smile on the thin lips were perfectly pleasant, charming, sincere. ‘I never had any doubt of it.’ Even as he said it, he realised the young man had had no actual experience of soldiering, except over the past few months in the UVF. He thought, that is not the sort of thing a soldier would say. Would ever even think of saying.
‘Why would you be fighting, Charles?’ Simon asked. ‘I mean, apart from believing in the cause, being against Home Rule, and all that. What would be your personal reason for going out to fight?’
‘I don't know what you mean,’ Charles said. He was tired. He leant back in his seat and gazed out at the hedges and fields flashing by. No police, no soldiers, no roadblocks. A perfect operation. ‘I joined up because of the Union, after all. Personal ambition doesn't come into it.’ But even as he had said it he was aware the words were not strictly true. He did want to be successful — if it came to a fight he hoped he would gain fame and respect from his peers. And why was that? What did he need that for?
They passed a river, with a light mist hanging over it. A heron, startled, flew up from beneath a willow with long, dignified beats of its wings. Red cattle gazed at them through the mist, with the blue hills behind. Charles thought how often he had seen this sight, how the countryside belonged to him and people like him, and how he never wanted it to change. Suddenly it came to him.
‘I suppose it's because of my son,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Yes, that's it. I'll fight for the Union if I have to — because of Tom.’
Satisfied, he closed his eyes for a moment, and thought of the little boy cantering his pony through the fields at Glenfee beside him. The mud-spattered delight on the small boy's face as he had jumped a three-foot hedge had filled Charles's heart with joy. Yes, I would die for Tom, he thought, if I had to. He'll be starting going into the classroom at St Andrew's for today's first lesson, in an hour or so. I hope the term goes well for him. Perhaps if I have time in the next few days, I'll write to him and tell him what we did today. A boy should be proud of his father.
Absorbed in the thought, he did not notice the slight tightening of Simon's lips, or the tense silence with which the young man drove for the rest of the journey. So it never occurred to Charles for a moment, that the question had been important to Simon.
Or that he had asked it, in the hope of a very different answer . . .
Holloway
D
EBORAH'S RETURN to Belgrave Square from the embankment by the Tower of London was a nightmare in itself. It was cold — increasingly cold, she realised, as she walked along shivering in the darkness by the river. She had been very foolish to come out in the morning with only a short blue jacket; but it had been sunny then. She tried to order a cab near London Bridge, but none would stop for her. Either they were all full, or she did not look respectable enough — her skirt was stained with mud and tar, and her face streaked with tears because she could not stop crying. Two men offered to help her but she saw instantly that the sort of help they were thinking of would be no good at all. She marched off briskly, frightened, towards Cannon Street, looking for a policeman, but there were none to be found. Then it began to rain. The men who had been following her disappeared, but she became soaking wet. At last, in a street not far from St Paul's, she managed to persuade the driver of a dilapidated hansom cab to take her home, and spent the best part of another hour sitting cold, wet, and shivering as the horse plodded slowly in front of her through the night.
When at last she reached Belgrave Square she went straight upstairs to have a hot bath, ordered a tray of soup and toast in her bedroom, and crept miserably into bed, resting her feet gratefully on the stone hot water bottle. The butler, Reeves, looked concerned, but said nothing, and luckily Jonathan was dining out, so she did not have to explain why she was so late.
But she could not sleep. The noise of the traffic kept her awake. She had her bedroom window open and all night long there was the clatter of horses’ hooves, the rumble of motor cars, taxis and omnibuses. Even in the middle of the night it seemed to continue – the good-natured shouts and laughter of people returning from theatres and dinner-parties gave way to the growl and clatter o lorries and carts bringing in produce from the county for the early morning markets; and then, as the birds began to sing in the trees in the square, there were milkmen, postmen, and the first omnibuses and trams grinding their way to work.
She wondered how Londoners bore it. She remembered mother once telling how people spread straw in the road outside their house when she was ill, to deaden the sound of hooves and wheels, and she wished someone would do that now. But that was foolish. She was not ill. Just tense, muddled, frightened. Pregnant . . .
I am carrying a child that no one wants, she thought. I am twenty-eight years old, a married woman with a son, a fine house in Ireland, a brother-in-law who is an MP, and I am as terrified as any sixteen-year-old chit of a servant girl would be!
More, perhaps, because I have more to lose.
No, that’s not right. A servant girl would have everything to lose, just as I have. It’s just that my
everything
is bigger.
Towards morning she dozed, and dreamed of Charles. In her dream she told him about the baby and he slapped her across the face. Then he took a knife in his hand and walked up to a photograph on the wall. The photograph was like the big wedding photograph of the two of them in the church porch, except that in the one in her dream she was in her bridal dress but hugely, grossly pregnant, and she thought
Dear God, no! He’s going to slash the picture of me and tear the baby out of my stomach!
But he didn’t.
He slashed the picture of himself in the photograph instead.
Deborah screamed and woke up and thought, why did he do that?
It’s just like what Sarah did. Turned the knife on herself, slashed a picture of a woman. But why?
Towards morning she found herself thinking more and more of the knife that Sarah had used. She wondered how big it was, what it would feel like in her hands. She imagined Sarah going down the steps in this house, creeping into the kitchen before cook was awake — how early would that be? — taking the knife, hiding it. If it was a big knife, how would she carry it in her clothes? What would it feel like, to walk along the street with a carving knife hidden under your coat, ready to take it out and slash a picture with it?