CHAPTER XXII
I looked at my watch and found that it was three o’clock. The battle had lasted more than two hours.
“I had no idea,” I said to Bland, “that fighting was such interesting work. The time has flown.”
“I’m uncommonly hungry,” said Bland. “Let’s try and find something to eat.”
When he mentioned the subject of eating I found that I too was very hungry. I felt, however, that it was scarcely right, certainly it was not suitable to sit down to luncheon in a club while a revolution was in full swing under the windows. People ought to be serious immediately after battles.
“Oughtn’t we to be doing something?” I asked.
“Doing what?”
“Well, I don’t know. Seeing after the wounded, perhaps.”
Attending to wounded men is properly speaking work for women; but both Lady Moyne and Marion were in London.
“There are sure to be a few somewhere,” I said. “They’ve been fighting all over the town, and I don’t suppose the soldiers were as careful everywhere else as they were here.”
“Are you a surgeon as well as a lord?” asked Bland.
“Oh no. I don’t know anything about surgery. My idea—”
“Then I expect the wounded, if there are any, would rather you left them alone. Besides, a town like this must have hundreds of doctors in it. They’ll all be out after the wounded by this time as keen as vultures. It isn’t every day that an ordinary practitioner gets the chance of gouging out bullets. They wouldn’t let you interfere with their sport even if you paid them. There won’t, as a matter of fact, be nearly enough wounded to go round the profession. They’d hate to have an amateur chipping in. Let’s forage about a bit and get some food.”
It was not very easy to find food in the club, and the only surviving waiter was still undressing Clithering. But Bland is a good forager. He found two dressed crabs somewhere, and then came upon a game pie. I let him have the dressed crabs all to himself. He is a much younger man than I am and is a war correspondent. He ought to be able to digest anything.
I fully intended to eat three helpings of game pie, for I was very hungry; but before I had finished the first of them I was interrupted. Crossan stalked into the room. He was the last man I wanted to see. His appearance and manner are, at the best of times, tragic. Clithering had been with me, off and on, most of the day, so I had got rather tired of tragedy.
“I think it right to inform your lordship,” said Crossan, “that Mr. Godfrey D’Aubigny has just been arrested in the streets.”
“Good!” I said. “I hope that whoever has him won’t let him go.”
“He’s to be tried by court martial,” said Crossan, “on suspicion of being a spy.”
Godfrey actually haunts me. No sooner have I achieved a moment’s peace and quietness—with the greatest difficulty in the middle of a rebellion—than Godfrey breaks in on me. How he came to be in Belfast I could only dimly guess. It seemed likely that, having heard that a battle was going on, he came to the scene of it in the hope of pillage.
“I suppose,” I said, “they won’t actually hang him?”
“It was him, as your lordship is aware,” said Crossan, “that gave the first information to the Government.”
Crossan, in spite of the fact that he was a victorious general, preserved his peculiar kind of respect for my title. He did not, indeed, take off his hat when he entered the room, but that was only because soldiers, while on duty, never take off their hats.
“Don’t be absurd, Crossan,” I said. “You know perfectly well that he hasn’t intelligence enough to give anything but wrong information to any Government. What he told the Chancellor of the Exchequer when he wrote to him was that you were smuggling.”
“If your lordship doesn’t care to interfere—,” said Crossan.
“Can I help in any way?” said Bland.
He had been eating steadily and had finished the two crabs. I had not eaten more than three or four mouthfuls of game pie. I felt I might accept his offer.
“If you’ve any experience of courts martial,” I said, “I haven’t—and if you really don’t mind trotting off—”
“Not a bit,” said Bland. “In fact a court martial would be rather a scoop for me. I’m sure the public would want to know how it’s run.”
“I shall feel greatly obliged to you,” I said. “The fact is that a nephew of mine is going to be hanged as a spy. You said you were going to hang him, didn’t you, Crossan?”
“I think it likely, my lord,” said Crossan.
“Of course,” I said, “he richly deserves it; and so far as my own personal feelings go I should be very glad if he were hanged. But, of course, he’s my nephew and people might think I’d been unkind to him if I made no effort to save him. One must consider public opinion more or less. So if you could arrange to rescue him—”
While I was speaking Clithering shambled into the room. He was wearing a suit of pyjamas not nearly big enough for him. The waiter who put him to bed was quite a small man. The pyjamas must have been his. He asked us to find his clothes for him, and said that he wanted to go to the post-office.
“I must send a telegram to the Prime Minister,” he said. “I must send it at once.”
Crossan eyed him very suspiciously.
“It strikes me,” said Bland, “that if you’re caught sending telegrams to the Prime Minister you’ll be hanged too.”
“They’re just going to hang a nephew of mine,” I explained, “for writing a letter to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. You can see for yourself that a telegram to the Prime Minister is much worse. I really think you’d better stay where you are.”
But Clithering was, unfortunately, in a mood of hysterical heroism. He said that he did not value his life, that lives were only given to men in order that they might lay them down, and that the noblest way of laying down a life was in the service of humanity.
I could see that Crossan was getting more and more suspicious every minute.
“It is in order to save the lives of others,” he said, “that I want to send my telegram to the Prime Minister.”
Crossan actually scowled at Clithering. I expected that he would arrest him at once. There might have been, for all I knew, a Committee of Public Safety sitting in the Town Hall. I could imagine Crossan hauling the unfortunate Clithering before it on a charge of communicating with the Prime Minister. I could imagine Clithering, heroic to the last, waving his incriminating telegram in the faces of his judges. Bland saved the situation.
“Come along, Colonel,” he said. “Show me where that court martial of yours is sitting. Lord Kilmore will restrain this lunatic till we get back.”
Crossan may have been pleased at being addressed as Colonel. Or he may have trusted that I would prevent any telegram being sent to the Prime Minister. At all events, he stopped scowling at Clithering and went off with Bland. I offered Clithering some of the game pie, but he refused to touch it. He sat down at a corner of the table and asked me to lend him a pencil and some paper. I did so, and he composed several long telegrams. The writing evidently soothed him. When he had finished he asked me quite calmly whether I thought he would really be hanged if he went to the post-office. I was not at all sure that he would not. Clithering sighed when he heard my opinion. Then he sat silent for a long time, evidently trying to make up his mind to the hanging.
“If I could get the telegram through first,” he said at last, “I shouldn’t so much mind—”
“But you wouldn’t,” I said; “and what is the good of throwing away your life without accomplishing anything?”
“It’s terrible,” said Clithering, “terrible.”
It was terrible, of course; but I was beginning to get tired of Clithering. Besides, he looked very ridiculous in pyjamas which only reached halfway down his legs and arms.
“Don’t you think,” I said, “that it would be better for you to go back to bed? You’ll be safe there, and it won’t really matter much whether your telegram goes to the Prime Minister or not. A little sleep will do you all the good in the world.”
“We have murdered sleep,” said Clithering.
I never realized the full immensity of Clithering’s fatuousness until he uttered that mangled quotation from Macbeth in the tone of an old-fashioned tragedian. I believe the man actually revelled in harrowing emotion. It would not have surprised me to hear him assure me that the “multitudinous seas” would not wash out the blood-stains from his hands. He might very well have asked for “some sweet oblivious antidote.” If he had known the passages I am sure he would have quoted them.
“Do go to bed,” I said.
Then Bland came in leading Godfrey with him.
“I rescued him,” said Bland, “without very much difficulty.”
“I call it frightful cheek,” said Godfrey, “fellows like that who ought to be touching their hats to me and saying ‘Sir’ when they speak to me— Fancy them daring—”
This view of the matter was very characteristic of Godfrey. I really believe that he would dislike being hanged much less if the executioner were one of the small class of men whom he recognizes as his social equals.
“They gave him quite a fair trial,” said Bland, “and had just condemned him when—”
“That fellow Crossan in particular,” said Godfrey.
“The Colonel ran round to tell you,” said Bland. “I rather fancy they wanted to get off carrying out the sentence if they could.”
“A lot of fellows,” said Godfrey sulkily, “who ought to be wheeling barrows! But it’s very largely your fault, Excellency. You always encouraged that class. If you’d kept them in their proper places—”
“What on earth brought you to Belfast?” I said. “Why didn’t you stay at home? Nobody wants you here. Why did you come?”
Godfrey looked uneasily at Bland. He evidently did not want to make his reason for coming to Belfast public property. Godfrey is usually quite shameless. I could only imagine that he had done something of a peculiarly repulsive kind.
“Well,” I said, “why did you come?”
He looked at Bland again, and then nodded sideways at me.
“I suppose,” I said, “that you thought there might be some assessment made by the Government of the amount of damage done in the town, and that if you started valuing things at once on your own hook, you might possibly get a job out of it.”
“But is there?” said Godfrey eagerly; “for if there is—”
“So far as I know there isn’t,” I said.
“Anyhow it wasn’t that which brought me to Belfast. The fact is, Excellency, I couldn’t very well stay at home. You remember,”—here his voice sunk to a whisper—“what I told you about the Pringles.”
“Your bank account?”
“No. Not that. The girl, I mean. Tottie Pringle.”
“Oh yes, I remember.”
“Well, old Pringle began to get offensive. He seemed to think that I ought to—you know.”
“Marry her? I expect you ought.”
“Excellency?” said Godfrey in genuine horror and amazement.
“By the way,” said Bland, “I forgot to mention that I promised the court martial to get your nephew out of Belfast before to-morrow morning. I hope you don’t mind. They wouldn’t let him go on any other condition.”
“Quite right,” I said. “Godfrey shall start to-night.”
“I don’t see why I should,” said Godfrey. “I don’t think it’s at all nice of you, Excellency, to—”
“And while we’re at it,” I said, “we may as well ship off Clithering. Godfrey let me introduce you to—”
I looked round and discovered that Clithering was not in the room.
“I hope to goodness,” I said, “that he’s not gone out to get himself hanged. He rather wanted to a few minutes ago.”
“It’s all right,” said Bland. “I saw him going upstairs. I expect he’s looking for his clothes.”
“Godfrey,” I said. “I’m going to offer you a great chance. Sir Samuel Clithering is in every way a very big man. In the first place he’s very rich. In the next place he’s on intimate terms with the Prime Minister. In fact he’s been sending him telegrams every hour or so for the last two days. You go upstairs and help him to find his clothes. Then take him over to London. The Fleetwood steamer is still running. If you can get him out of Belfast and lay him down safe and sound on his own doorstep the Government will be so grateful that they’ll very likely make you a stipendiary magistrate.”
“But supposing he doesn’t want to go?”
“You’ll have to make him,” I said.
“How?” said Godfrey. “How can I?”
“Don’t be a fool, Godfrey,” I said. “Nag at him. You’ve got more than two hours before you, and nagging is a thing you’re really good at.”
Bland took Godfrey by the arm and led him up to Clithering’s bedroom. He locked them in together, and did not open the door again until half an hour before the steamer started. Then he took up Clithering’s clothes to him. Godfrey had evidently spent the time as I advised. Clithering deserved it, of course; but he certainly looked as if he had been through a bad time when Bland let him out.
There was a meeting of the Ulster Defence Committee at seven o’clock. It was summoned, so the notice which I received informed me, in order to make arrangements for preserving the peace of the town. This, I thought, was very proper work for the committee. The Cabinet was probably making other arrangements with the same object. Between them the committee and the Government had destroyed what little peace Belfast ever had. The least they could do was to restore it.
Moyne took the chair as usual. He opened our proceedings by saying firmly and decisively, that he intended to surrender himself at once to the authorities.
“We’re the only authorities there are at present,” said McNeice, “so if you want to surrender—”
“We must resolve ourselves into a Provisional Government,” said the Dean, who always likes to do things constitutionally.
“The police,” said Moyne feebly.
“There aren’t any,” said McNeice.
“Wiped out,” said Malcolmson.
“The General in command of the troops—” said Moyne.
“The troops are shut up in their barracks,” said McNeice.
“Licked,” said Malcolmson.
“Say,” said Conroy, “are you dead sure you whipped them?”
“They bolted,” said Malcolmson.
“I don’t reckon to be a military expert,” said Conroy, “but it kind of occurs to me that those troops weren’t doing all they knew. I don’t say but you’re quite right to boost your men all you can; but we’ll make a big mistake if we start figuring on having defeated the British army.”
“I happen to know,” I said, “that Mr. Conroy is quite right. Clithering—”
“That spaniel!” said McNeice.
“He told me,” I said, “that the troops had orders to fire over our men’s heads. The idea, I think, was not so much to injure as to overawe us.”
“It was a damned foolish idea,” said McNeice sulkily.
“You cannot,” said the Dean, “overawe the men of Ulster.”
This is one of the Dean’s most cherished opinions. I have heard him express it a great many times. I do not know whether the Dean had actually been fighting during the afternoon. I am sure he wanted to; but he may have considered it his duty to do no more than look on. Our Dean is particularly strong on Old Testament history. I am sure he recollected that Moses sat on the top of an adjacent hill while Joshua was fighting the Amalekites.
“If you want to surrender yourself,” said Conroy to Moyne, “I reckon you’ll have the chance of handing yourself over to a British Admiral before long.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that the Fleet—?” said Moyne.
“We’re ready for them,” said Malcolmson. “If the Government thinks it can force Home Rule on Ulster with the guns of the Channel Fleet, it’s making a big mistake. It’ll find that out before long.”
“If you like, Lord Moyne,” said Conroy, “we’ll put you under arrest and then nobody will be able to hold you responsible afterwards for anything that happens. You’ll be quite safe.”
Whatever Moyne’s motives may have been in wishing to surrender himself, I am perfectly sure that a desire for his own safety was not one of them. I imagine that he hoped, in a confused and troubled way, to get himself somehow on the side of law and order again. Moyne was never meant to be a rebel.
Conroy’s words were insulting, intentionally so, I think. He wished to get rid of Moyne before the committee discussed the defence of Belfast against the Fleet. He may have wished to get rid of me too. He succeeded. Moyne is not nearly so thorough-going a patrician as his wife; but he has sufficient class pride to dislike being insulted by a millionaire. He got up and left the room. He looked so lonely in his dignified retirement that I felt I ought to give him such support as I could. I rose too, took his arm, and went out with him.