The Wolfe Tone Republican Club has its headquarters at Ballyguttery. Its members, as may be guessed, profess the strongest form of Nationalism. There are about sixty of them. The Loyal True-Blue Invincibles are an Orange Lodge. They also meet in Ballyguttery. There are between seventy and eighty Loyal Invincibles. There are also in the village ten adult males who are not members of either the club or the lodge. Six of these are policemen. The other four are feeble people of no account, who neglect the first duty of good citizens and take no interest in politics.
Early in September the Wolfe Tone Republicans determined to hold a demonstration. They wished to convince a watching world, especially the United States of America, that the people of Ballyguttery are unanimous and enthusiastic in the cause of Irish independence. They proposed to march through the village street in procession, with a band playing tunes in front of them, and then to listen to speeches made by eminent men in a field.
The Loyal Invincibles heard of the intended demonstration. They could hardly help hearing of it, for the Wolfe Tone Republicans talked of nothing else, and the people of Ballyguttery, whatever their politics, live on friendly terms with each other and enjoy long talks about public affairs.
The Loyal Invincibles at once assembled and passed a long resolution, expressing their determination to put a stop to any National demonstration. They were moved, they said, by the necessity for preserving law and order, safeguarding life and property, and maintaining civil and religious liberty. No intention could have been better than theirs; but the Wolfe Tone Republicans also had excellent intentions, and did not see why they should not demonstrate if they wished to. They invited all the eminent men they could think of to make speeches for them. They also spent a good deal of money on printing, and placarded the walls round the village with posters, announcing that their demonstration would be held on September fifteenth, the anniversary of the execution of their patron Wolfe Tone by the English.
In fact Wolfe Tone was not executed by the English or anyone else, and the date of his death was November the nineteenth. But that made no difference to either side, because no one in Ballyguttery ever reads history.
The Loyal True-Blue Invincibles did not tear down the posters. They were kindly men, averse to unneighbourly acts. But they put up posters of their own, summoning every man of sound principles to assemble on September fifteenth at 10.30 a.m, in order to preserve law, order, life, property, and liberty, by force if necessary.
Mr. Hinde, District Inspector of Police in Ballyguttery, was considering the situation. He was in an uncomfortable position, for he had only four constables and one sergeant under his command. It seemed to him that law and order would disappear for the time, life and property be in danger, and that he would not be able to interfere very much with anybody’s liberty. Mr. Hinde was, however, a young man of naturally optimistic temper. He had lived in Ireland all his life, and he had a profound belief in the happening of unexpected things.
On September the tenth the Wolfe Tone Republicans made a most distressing discovery.
Six months before, they had lent their band instruments to the Thomas Emmet Club, an important association of Nationalists in the neighbouring village.
The Thomas Emmets, faced with a demand for the return of the instruments, confessed that they had lent them to the Martyred Archbishops’ branch of the Gaelic League. They, in turn, had lent them to the Manchester Martyrs’ Gaelic Football Association. These athletes would, no doubt, have returned the instruments honestly; but unfortunately their association had been suppressed by the Government six weeks earlier and had only just been re-formed as the Irish Ireland National Brotherhood.
In the process of dissolution and reincarnation the band instruments had disappeared. No one knew where they were. The only suggestion the footballers had to make was that the police had taken them when suppressing the Manchester Martyrs. This seemed probable, and the members of the Wolfe Tone Republican Club asked their president, Mr. Cornelius O’Farrelly, to call on Mr. Hinde and inquire into the matter.
Mr. Hinde was surprised, very agreeably surprised, at receiving a visit one evening from the president of the Republican Club. In Ireland, leading politicians, whatever school they belong to, are seldom on friendly terms with the police. He greeted O’Farrelly warmly.
“What I was wishing to speak to you about was this—” O’Farrelly began.
“Fill your pipe before you begin talking,” said Mr. Hinde. “Here’s some tobacco.” He offered his pouch as he spoke. “I wish I could offer you a drink; but there’s no whisky to be got nowadays.”
“I know that,” said O’Farrelly in a friendly tone, “and what’s more, I know you’d offer it to me if you had it.”
He filled his pipe and lit it. Then he began again: “What I was wishing to speak to you about is the band instruments.”
“If you want a subscription—” said Hinde.
“I do not want any subscription.”
“That’s just as well, for you wouldn’t get it if you did. I’ve no money, for one thing; and besides it wouldn’t suit a man in my position to be subscribing to rebel bands.”
“I wouldn’t ask you,” said O’Farrelly. “Don’t I know as well as yourself that it would be no use? And anyway it isn’t the money we want, but our own band instruments.”
“What’s happened to them?” said Hinde.
“You had a lot. Last time I saw your band it was fitted out with drums and trumpets enough for a regiment.”
“It’s just them we’re trying to get back.”
“If anyone has stolen them,” said Hinde, “I’ll look into the matter and do my best to catch the thief for you.”
“Nobody stole them,” said O’Farrelly; “not what you’d call stealing, anyway; but it’s our belief that the police has them.”
“You’re wrong there,” said Hinde. “The police never touched your instruments, and wouldn’t.”
“They might not if they knew they were ours. But from information received we think the police took them instruments the time they were suppressing the Manchester Martyrs beyond the Lisnan, the instruments being lent to them footballers at that time.”
“I remember all about that business,” said Hinde. “I was there myself. But we never saw your instruments. All we took away with us was two old footballs and a set of rotten goal-posts. Whatever happened to your instruments, we didn’t take them. I expect,” said Hinde, “that the Manchester Martyr boys pawned them.”
O’Farrelly sat silent. It was unfortunately quite possible that the members of the football club had pawned the instruments, intending, of course, to redeem them when the club funds permitted.
“I’m sorry for you,” said Hinde. “It’s awkward for you losing your drums and things just now, with this demonstration of yours advertised all over the place. You’ll hardly be able to hold the demonstration, will you?”
“The demonstration will be held,” said O’Farrelly firmly.
“Not without a band, surely. Hang it all, O’Farrelly, a demonstration is no kind of use without a band. It wouldn’t be a demonstration. You know that as well as I do.”
O’Farrelly was painfully aware that a demonstration without a band is a poor business. He rose sadly and said good night. Hinde felt sorry for him.
“If the police had any instruments,” he said, “I’d lend them to you. But we haven’t a band of our own here. There aren’t enough of us.”
This assurance, though it was of no actual use, cheered O’Farrelly. It occurred to him that though the police had no band instruments to lend it might be possible to borrow elsewhere. The Loyal True-Blue Invincibles, for instance, had a very fine band, well supplied in every way, particularly with big drums. O’Farrelly thought the situation over and then called on Jimmy McLoughlin, the blacksmith, who was the secretary of the Orange Lodge.
“Jimmy,” said O’Farrelly, “we’re in trouble about the demonstration that’s to be held next Tuesday.”
“It’d be better for you,” said Jimmy, “if that demonstration was never held. For let me tell you this: the Lodge boys has their minds made up to have no Papist rebels demonstrating here.”
“It isn’t you, nor your Orange Lodge nor all the damned Protestants in Ireland would be fit to stop us,” said O’Farrelly.
Jimmy McLoughlin spit on his hands as if in preparation for the fray. Then he wiped them on his apron, remembering that the time for fighting had not yet come.
“And what’s the matter with your demonstration?” he asked.
“It’s the want of instruments for the band that has us held up,” said O’Farrelly. “We lent them, so we did, and the fellows that had them didn’t return them.”
Jimmy McLoughlin pondered the situation. He was as well aware as Mr. Hinde, as O’Farrelly himself, that a demonstration without a band is a vain thing.
“It would be a pity now,” he said slowly, “if anything was to interfere with that demonstration, seeing as how you’re ready for it and we’re ready for you.”
“It would be a pity. Leaving aside any political or religious differences that might be dividing the people of Ballyguttery, it would be a pity for the whole of us if that demonstration was not to be held.”
“How would it be now,” said Jimmy Mc-Loughlin, “if we was to lend you our instruments for the day?”
“We’d be thankful to you if you did, very thankful,” said O’Farrelly; “and, indeed, it’s no more than I’d expect from you, Jimmy, for you always were a good neighbour. But are you sure that you’ll not be wanting them yourselves?”
“We will not want them,” said Jimmy Me-Loughlin. “It’ll not be drums we’ll be beating that day—not drums, but the heads of Papists. But mind what I’m saying to you now. If we lend you the instruments, you’ll have to promise that you’ll not carry them beyond the cross-roads this side of Dicky’s Brae. You’ll leave the whole of them there beyond the cross-roads, drums and all. It wouldn’t do if any of the instruments got broke on us or the drums lost—which is what has happened more than once when there’s been a bit of a fight. And it’ll be at Dicky’s Brae that we’ll be waiting for you.”
“I thought as much,” said O’Farrelly, “and I’d be as sorry as you’d be yourself if any harm was to come to your drums. They’ll be left at the cross-roads the way you tell me. You may take my word for that. You can pick them up there yourselves and take them back with you when you’re going home in the evening—those of you that’ll be left alive to go home. For we’ll be ready for you, Jimmy, and Dicky’s Brae will suit us just as well as any other place.”
The Wolfe Tone Republicans are honourable men. Their band marched at the head of the procession through the streets of the village. They played all the most seditious tunes there are, and went on playing for half a mile outside the village. The police, headed by Mr. Hinde, followed them. At the cross-roads there was a halt. The bandsmen laid down the instruments very carefully on a pile of stones beside the road. Then they took the fork of the road which leads southwards.
The direct route to Dicky’s Brae lies northwest along the other fork of the road. Cornelius O’Farrelly had the instinct of a military commander. His idea was to make a wide detour, march by a cross-road and take the Dicky Brae position in the rear. This would require some time; but the demonstrators had a long day before them, and if the speeches were cut a little short no one would be any the worse.
Jimmy McLoughlin and the members of the Loyal True-Blue Invincibles sat on the roadside at the foot of Dicky’s Brae and waited. They expected that the Wolfe Tone Republicans would reach the place about noon. At a quarter to twelve Mr. Hinde and five police arrived. They had with them a cart carefully covered with sacking. No one was in the least disturbed by their appearance. Five police, even with an officer at their head, cannot do much to annoy two armies of sixty and seventy men.
The police halted in the middle of the road. They made no attempt to unload their cart.
At 1.30 Jimmy McLoughlin took council with some of the leading members of the Loyal True-Blue Invincible Lodge. It seemed likely that the Wolfe Tone Republicans had gone off to demonstrate in some other direction, deliberately shirking the fight which had been promised them.
“I’d never have thought it of Cornelius O’Farrelly,” said Jimmy sadly. “I had a better opinion of him, so I had. I knew he was a Papist and a rebel and every kind of a blackguard, but I’d never have thought he was a coward.”
While he spoke, a small boy came running down the hill. He brought the surprising intelligence that the Wolfe Tone Republicans were advancing in good order from a totally unexpected direction. Jimmy McLoughlin looked round and saw them. So did Mr. Hinde.
While Jimmy summoned his men from the ditches where they were smoking and the fields into which they had wandered, Mr. Hinde gave an order to his police. They took the sacking from their cart. Underneath it were all the band instruments belonging to the Orange Lodge. The police unpacked them carefully and then, loaded with drums and brass instruments, went up the road to meet the Wolfe Tone Republicans.
Jimmy McLoughlin ran to Mr. Hinde, shouting as he went:
“What are you doing with them drums?”
Mr. Hinde turned and waited for them.
“I’m going to hand them over to Cornelius O’Farrelly,” he said.
“You’re going to do nothing of the sort,” said Jimmy, “for they’re our drums, so they are.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Mr. Hinde, “all I know is that they’re the instruments which O’Farrelly’s band were playing when they marched out of the town. They left them on the side of the road, where my men found them.”
“What right had you to be touching them at all,” said Jimmy.
“Every right. O’Farrelly was complaining to me three days ago that one set of band instruments had been stolen from him. It’s my business to see that he doesn’t lose another set in the same way, even if he’s careless enough to leave them lying about on the side of the road.”
“Amn’t I telling you that they’re ours, not his?” said Jimmy.
“You’ll have to settle that with him.”
“Sure, if I settle that with him,” said Jimmy, “in the only way anything could be settled with a pack of rebels, the instruments will be broke into smithereens before we’re done.”
This seemed very likely. Jimmy McLoughlin’s bandsmen, armed with sticks and stones, were forming up on the road. The police had already handed over the largest drum to one of the leading Wolfe Tone Republicans. It was Cornelius O’Farrelly who made an attempt to save the situation.
He came forward and addressed Mr. Hinde. “It would be better,” he said, “if you’d march the police off out of this and let them take the band instruments along with them, for if they don’t the drums will surely be broke and the rest of the things twisted up so as nobody’ll ever be able to blow a tune on them again, which would be a pity and a great loss to all parties concerned.”
“I’ll take the police away if you like,” said Mr. Hinde, “but I’m hanged if I go on carting all those instruments about the country. I found them on the side of the road where you left them, and now that I’ve given them back to you I’ll take no further responsibility in the matter.”
The two sets of bandsmen were facing each other on the road. The instruments were divided between them. They were uttering the most bloodthirsty threats, and it was plain that in a minute or two there would be a scrimmage.
“Jimmy,” said O’Farrelly, “if the boys get to fighting——”
“I don’t know,” said Jimmy gloomily, “where the money’s to come from to buy new drums.”
“It might be better,” said O’Farrelly, “if we was to go home and leave the instruments back safe where they came from before worse comes of it.”
Ten minutes later the instruments were safely packed again into the cart. One of the Loyal True-Blue Invincibles led the horse. A Wolfe Tone Republican sat in the cart and held the reins. Jimmy McLoughlin and Cornelius O’Farrelly walked together. It was plain to everyone that hostilities were suspended for the day.
“I’m thinking,” said Jimmy, “that ye didn’t hold your demonstration after all. I hope this’ll be a lesson to you not to be trying anything of the sort for the future.”
“For all your fine talk,” said O’Farrelly, “you didn’t stop us. And why not? Because you weren’t fit to do it.”
“We could have done it,” said Jimmy, “and we would. But what’s the use of talking? So long as no demonstration was held we’re satisfied.”
“So long as you didn’t get interfering with us, we’re satisfied.”
Mr. Hinde, walking behind the procession with his five police, had perhaps the best reason of all for satisfaction.
Tom O’Donovan leaned as far as possible out of the window of the railway carriage, a first-class smoking carriage.
“Good-bye Jessie, old girl,” he said. “I’ll be back the day after to-morrow, or the next day at latest. Take care of yourself.”
Mrs. O’Donovan, who was not very tall, stood on tip-toe while he kissed her.
“You’ll have time enough to get dinner in Dublin,” she said, “or will you dine on the boat?”
“They give you a pretty fair dinner on the boat,” said Tom, “and it’s less fussy to go on board at once.”
She had said that to him before, and he had made the same answer; but it is necessary to keep on saying something while waiting for a train to start, and on such occasions there is very seldom anything fresh to say.
“And you’ll see Mr. Manners to-morrow morning,” she said, after a short pause.
“Appointment for 10.30,” said Tom. “I’ll breakfast at the Euston Hotel and take the tube to his office. Bye-bye, old girl.”
But the “bye-bye,” like the kiss, was premature. The train did not start.
“If I get Manners’ agency,” said Tom, “we’ll be on the pig’s back. You’ll be driving about in a big car with a fur coat on you in the inside of six months.”
“Be as fascinating as you can, Tom,” she said.
“He’d hardly have asked me to go all the way to London,” said Tom, “if he wasn’t going to give me the agency.”
They had reasoned all that out half-a-dozen times since the letter arrived which summoned Tom to an interview in Mr. Manners’ office. There was no doubt that the agency, which meant the sole right of selling the Manners’ machines in Ireland, would be exceedingly profitable. And Tom O’Donovan believed that he had secured it.
He glanced at the watch on his wrist.
“I wonder what the deuce we’re waiting for,” he said.
But passengers on Irish railways now-a-days are all accustomed to trains which do not start, and have learned the lesson of patience. Tom waited, without any sign of irritation, Mrs. O’Donovan chatted pleasantly to him. The train had reached the station in good time. It was due in Dublin two hours before the mail boat left Kingstown. There was no need to feel worried.
Yet at the end of half-an-hour Tom did begin to feel worried. When three-quarters of an hour had passed he became acutely anxious.
“If we don’t get a move on soon,” he said, “I shall miss the boat, and—I say, Jessie, this is getting serious.”
Missing the boat meant missing his appointment in London next morning, and then—why, then Manners would probably give the agency to someone else. Tom opened the door of his carriage and jumped out.
“I’ll speak to the guard,” he said, “and find out what’s the matter.”
The guard, a fat, good-humoured looking man, was talking earnestly to the engine driver. Tom O’Donovan addressed him explosively.
“Why the devil don’t you go on?” he said.
“The train is not going on to-day,” said the guard. “It’ll maybe never go on at all.”
“Why not?”
It was the engine driver who replied. He was a tall, grave man, and he spoke with dignity, as if he were accustomed to making public speeches on solemn occasions.
“This train,” he said, “will not be used for the conveyance of the armed forces of the English Crown, which country is presently at war with the Irish Republic.”
“There’s soldiers got into the train at this station,” said the guard, in a friendly explanatory tone, “and the way things is it wouldn’t suit us to be going on, as long as them ones,” he pointed to the rear of the train with his thumb, “stays where they are.”
“But—oh, hang it all!—if the train doesn’t go on I shall miss the mail boat at Kingstown, and if I’m not in London to-morrow morning I shall lose the best part of £1,000 a year.”
“That would be a pity now,” said the guard. “And I’d be sorry for any gentleman to be put to such a loss. But what can we do? The way things is at the present time it wouldn’t suit either the driver or me to be taking the train on while there’d be soldiers in it. It’s queer times we’re having at present and that’s a fact.”
The extreme queerness of the times offered no kind of consolation to Tom O’Donovan. But he knew it was no good arguing with the guard.
He contented himself with the fervent expression of an opinion which he honestly held.
“It would be a jolly good thing for everybody,” he said, “if the English army and the Irish Republic and your silly war and every kind of idiot who goes in for politics were put into a pot together and boiled down for soup.”
He turned and walked away. As he went he heard the guard expressing mild agreement with his sentiment.
“It might be,” said the guard. “I wouldn’t say but that might be the best in the latter end.”
Tom O’Donovan, having failed with the guard and the engine driver, made up his mind to try what he could do with the soldiers. He was not very hopeful of persuading them to leave the train; but his position was so nearly desperate that he was unwilling to surrender any chance. He found a smart young sergeant and six men of the Royal Wessex Light Infantry seated in a third-class carriage. They wore shrapnel helmets, and their rifles were propped up between their knees.
“Sergeant,” said Tom, “I suppose you know you are holding up the whole train.”
“My orders, sir,” said the sergeant, “is to travel—-”
“Oh, I know all about your orders. But look here. It would suit you just as well to hold up the next train. There’s another in two hours, and you can get into it and sit in it all night. But if you don’t let this train go on I shall miss the boat at Kingstown, and if I’m not in London to-morrow morning I stand to lose £1,000 a year.”
“Very sorry, sir,” said the sergeant, “but my orders—I’d be willing to oblige, especially any gentleman who is seriously inconvenienced. But orders is orders, sir.”
Jessie O’Donovan, who had been following her husband up and down the platform, caught his arm.
“Whatisthe matter, Tom?” she said. “If the train doesn’t start soon you’ll miss the boat. Why don’t they go on?”
“Oh, politics, as usual, Jessie,” said Tom. “I declare to goodness it’s enough to make a man want to go to heaven before his time, just to be able to live under an absolute monarchy where there can’t be any politics. But I’m not done yet. I’ll have another try at getting along before I chuck the whole thing up. Is there a girl anywhere about, a good-looking girl?”
“There’s the young woman in the bookstalls,” said Jessie, “but she’s not exactly pretty. What do you want a girl for?”
Tom glanced at the bookstall.
“She won’t do at all,” he said. “They all know her, and, besides, she doesn’t look the part. But I know where I’ll get the girl I want. Jessie, do you run over to the booking office and buy two third-class returns to Dublin.”
He left her standing on the platform while he jumped on to the line behind the train, crossed it, and climbed the other platform. She saw him pass through the gate and run along the road to the town. Being a loyal and obedient wife she went to the booking office and bought two tickets, undisturbed by the knowledge that her husband was running fast in search of a girl, a good-looking girl.
Tom O’Donovan, having run a hundred yards at high speed, entered a small tobacconist’s shop. Behind the counter was a girl, young and very pretty. She was one of those girls whose soft appealing eyes and general look of timid helplessness excite first the pity, then the affection of most men.
“Susie,” said Tom O’Donovan, breathlessly, “ran upstairs and put on your best dress and your nicest hat and all the ribbons and beads you have. Make yourself look as pretty as you can, but don’t be more than ten minutes over the job, And send your father to me.”
Tom O’Donovan was a regular and valued customer. Susie had known him as a most agreeable gentleman since she was ten years old. She saw that he was in a hurry and occupied with some important affair. She did as he told her without stopping to ask any questions. Two minutes later her father entered the shop from the room behind it.
“Farrelly,” said Tom O’Donovan, “I want the loan of your daughter for about four hours. She’ll be back by the last train down from Dublin.”
“If it was any other gentleman only yourself, Mr. O’Donovan, who asked me the like of that I’d kick him out of the shop.”
“Oh! it’s all right,” said Tom, “my wife will be with her the whole time and bring her back safe.”
“I’m not asking what you want her for, Mr. O’Donovan,” said Farrelly, “but if it was any other gentleman only yourself I would ask.”
“I want to take her up to Dublin along with my wife,” said Tom, “and send her down by the next train. I’d explain the whole thing to you if I had time, but I haven’t. All I can tell you is that I’ll most likely lose £1,000 a year if I don’t get Susie.”
“Say no more, Mr. O’Donovan,” said Farrelly. “If that’s the way of it you and Mrs. O’Donovan can have the loan of Susie for as long as pleases you.”
Susie changed her dress amazingly quickly. She was back in the shop in six minutes, wearing a beautiful blue hat, a frock that was almost new, and three strings of beads round her neck.
“Come on,” said O’Donovan, “we haven’t a minute to lose.”
They walked together very quickly to the station.
“Susie,” said Tom, “I’m going to put you into a carriage by yourself, and when you get there you’re to sit in a corner and cry. If you can’t cry——”
“I can if I like,” said Susie.
“Very well, then do. Get your eyes red and your face swollen and have tears running down your cheeks if you can manage it, and when I come for you again you’re to sob. Don’t speak a word no matter what anyone says to you, but sob like—like a motor bicycle.”
“I will,” said Susie.
“And if you do it well, I’ll buy you the smartest blouse in London to-morrow and bring it home to you.”
When they reached the station they jumped down from the platform and crossed the line to the train. Tom opened the door of an empty third-class carriage and pushed Susie into it. Then he went round to the back of the train and climbed on to the platform.
He made straight for the carriage in which the soldiers sat.
“Sergeant,” he said, “will you come along with me for a minute?”
The sergeant, who was beginning to find his long vigil rather dull, warned his men to stay where they were. Then he got out and followed Tom O’Donovan. Tom led him to the carriage in which Susie sat. The girl had done very well since he left her. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her cheeks were slobbered. She held a handkerchief in her hand rolled into a tight damp ball.
“You see that girl,” said Tom.
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Seems to be in trouble, sir.”
“She’s in perfectly frightful trouble,” said Tom. “She’s on her way to Dublin—or she would be if this train would start—so as to catch the night mail to Cork. She was to have been married in Cork to-morrow morning and to have gone off to America by a steamer which leaves Queenstown at 10.30 a.m. Now of course, the whole thing is off. She won’t get to Dublin or Cork, and so can’t be married.”
Susie, when she heard this pitiful story, sobbed convulsively.
“It’s very sad,” said Tom.
The sergeant, a nice, tender-hearted young man, looked at Susie’s pretty face and was greatly affected.
“Perhaps her young man will wait for her, sir,” he said.
“He can’t do that,” said Tom. “The fact is that he’s a demobilised soldier, served all through the war and won the V.C. And the Sinn Feiners have warned him that he’ll be shot if he isn’t out of the country before midday to-morrow.”
Susie continued to sob with great vigour and intensity. The sergeant was deeply moved.
“It’s cruel hard, sir,” he said. “But my orders——”
“I’m not asking you to disobey orders,” said Tom, “but in a case like this, for the sake of that poor young girl and the gallant soldier who wants to marry her—a comrade of your own, sergeant. You may have known him out in France—I think you ought to stretch a point. Listen to me now!”
He drew the sergeant away from the door of the carriage and whispered to him.
“I’ll do it, sir,” said the sergeant. “My orders say nothing about that point.”
“You do what I suggest,” said Tom, “and I’ll fix things up with the guard.”
He found the guard and the engine driver awaiting events in the station-master’s office. They were quite willing to follow him to the carriage in which Susie sat. They listened with deep emotion to the story which Tom told them. It was exactly the same story which he told the sergeant, except this time the bridegroom was a battalion commander of the Irish Volunteers whose life was threatened by a malignant Black-and-Tan. Susie sobbed as bitterly as before.
“It’s a hard case, so it is,” said the guard, “and if there was any way of getting the young lady to Dublin——”
“There’s only one way,” said Tom, “and that’s to take on this train.”
“It’s what we can’t do,” said the engine driver, “not if all the girls in Ireland was wanting to get married. So long as the armed forces of England——”
“But they’re not armed,” said Tom.
“Michael.” said the engine driver to the guard, “did you not tell me that them soldiers has guns with them and tin hats on their heads?”
“I did tell you that,” said the guard, “and I told you the truth.”
“My impression is,” said Tom, “that those soldiers aren’t armed at all. They seem to be a harmless set of men off to Dublin on leave, very likely going to be married themselves. They’re certainly not on duty.”
The engine driver scratched his head.
Susie, inspired by a wink from Tom, broke into a despairing wail.
“If that’s the way of it,” said the engine driver, “it would be different, of course.”
“Come and see,” said Tom.
The sergeant and his men were sitting in their compartment smoking cigarettes. Their heads were bare. Most of them had their tunics unbuttoned. One of them was singing a song, in which the whole party joined:
“Mary, Jane and PollyFind it very jollyWhen we take them out with us toTea—tea—tea!”
There was not a single rifle to be seen anywhere.
“There now,” said Tom. “You see for yourselves. You can’t call those men munitions of war.”
The guard, who had seen the soldiers march into the station, was puzzled; but the engine driver seemed convinced that there had been some mistake.
“I’ll do it,” he said, “for the sake of the young girl and the brave lad that wants to marry her, I’ll take the train to Dublin.”
“Well, hurry up,” said Tom. “Drive that old engine of yours for all she’s worth.”
The driver hastened to his post. The guard blew his whistle shrilly. Tom seized his wife by the arm.
“Hop into the carriage with Susie Farrelly,” he said. “Dry her eyes, and tell her I’ll spend £5 on a silk blouse for her, pink or blue or any colour she likes. I’ll explain the whole thing to you when we get to Dublin. I can’t travel with you. The guard is only half convinced and might turn suspicious if he saw us together.”
Tom O’Donovan caught, just caught the mail boat at Kingstown. He secured the agency for the sale of the Manners’ machines in Ireland. He is in a fair way to becoming a very prosperous man; but it is unlikely that he will ever be a member either of Parliament or Dail Eireann. He says that politics interfere with business.
When Willie Thornton, 2nd Lieutenant in the Wessex Fusiliers, was sent to Ireland, his mother was nervous and anxious. She had an idea that the shooting of men in uniform was a popular Irish sport and that her boy would have been safer in Germany, Mesopotamia, or even Russia. Willie, who looked forward to some hunting with a famous Irish pack, laughed at his mother. It was his turn to be nervous and anxious when, three weeks after joining his battalion, he received an independent command. He was a cheerful boy and he was not in the least afraid that anyone would shoot him or his men. But the way the Colonel talked to him made him uncomfortable.
“There’s your village,” said the Colonel.
William peered at the map spread on the orderly-room table, and saw, in very small print, the name Dunedin. It stood at a place where many roads met, where there was a bridge across a large river.
“You’ll billet the men in your Court House,” said the Colonel, “and you’ll search every motor that goes through that village to cross the bridge.”
“For arms, sir?” said Willie.
“For arms or ammunition,” said the Colonel. “And you’ll have to keep your eyes open, Thornton. These fellows are as cute as foxes. There isn’t a trick they’re not up to and they’ll tell you stories plausible enough to deceive the devil himself.”
That was what made Willie Thornton nervous. He would have faced the prospects of a straight fight with perfect self-confidence. He was by no means so sure of himself when it was a matter of outwitting men who were as cute as foxes; and “these fellows” was an unpleasantly vague description. It meant, no doubt, the Irish enemy, who, indeed, neither the Colonel nor Willie could manage to regard as an enemy at all. But it gave him very little idea of the form in which the enemy might present himself.
On the evening of Good Friday Willie marched his men into Dunedin and took possession of the Court House. That day was chosen because Easter is the recognized season for Irish rebellions, just as Christmas is the season for plum puddings in England, and May Day the time for Labour riots on the Continent. It is very convenient for everybody concerned to have these things fixed. People know what to expect and preparations can be properly made. The weather was abominably wet. The village of Dunedin was muddy and looked miserable. The Court House, which seldom had fires in it, was damp and uncomfortable. Willie unloaded the two wagons which brought his men, kit, and rations, and tried to make the best of things.
The next day was also wet, but Willie, weighted by a sense of responsibility, got up early. By six o’clock he had the street which led to the bridge barricaded in such a way that no motor-car could possibly rush past. He set one of his wagons across the street with its back to the house and its pole sticking out. In this position it left only a narrow passage through which any vehicle could go. He set the other wagon a little lower down with its back to the houses on the opposite side of the street and its pole sticking out. Anyone driving towards the bridge would have to trace a course like the letter S, and, the curves being sharp, would be compelled to go very slowly, Willie surveyed this arrangement with satisfaction. But to make quite sure of holding up the traffic he stretched a rope from one wagon pole to the other so as to block the centre part of the S. Then he posted his sentries and went into the Court House to get some breakfast.
The people of Dunedin do not get up at six o’clock. Nowadays, owing to the imposition of “summer time” and the loss of Ireland’s half-hour of Irish time, six o’clock is really only half-past four, and it is worse than folly to get out of bed at such an hour. It was eight o’clock by Willie Thornton’s watch before the people became aware of what had happened to their street. They were surprised and full of curiosity, but they were not in the least annoyed. No one in Dunedin had the slightest intention of rebelling. No one even wanted to shoot a policeman. The consciences, even of the most ardent politicians, were clear, and they could afford to regard the performance of the soldiers as an entertainment provided free for their benefit by a kindly Government. That was, in fact, the view which the people of Dunedin took of Willie Thornton’s barricade, and of his sentries, though the sentries ought to have inspired awe, for they carried loaded rifles and wore shrapnel helmets.
The small boys of the village—and there are enormous numbers of small boys in Dunedin—were particularly interested. They tried the experiment of passing through the barricade, stooping under the rope when they came to it, just to see what the soldiers would do. The soldiers did nothing. The boys then took to jumping over the rope, which they could do when going downhill, though they had to creep under it on the way back. This seemed to amuse and please the soldiers, who smiled amiably at each successful jump. Kerrigan, the butcher, encouraged by the experience of the small boys, made a solemn progress from the top of the street to the bridge. He is the most important and the richest man in Dunedin, and it was generally felt that if the soldiers let him pass the street might be regarded as free to anyone. Kerrigan is a portly man, who could not have jumped the rope, and would have found it inconvenient to crawl under it. The soldiers politely loosed one end of the rope and let him walk through.
At nine o’clock a farmer’s cart, laden with manure, crossed the bridge and began to climb the street. Willie Thornton came to the door of the Court House with a cigarette in his mouth and watched the cart. It was hoped by the people of Dunedin, especially by the small boys, that something would happen. Foot passengers might be allowed to pass, but a wheeled vehicle would surely be stopped. But the soldiers loosed the rope and let the cart go through without a question. Ten minutes later a governess cart, drawn by a pony, appeared at the top of the street. It, too, was passed through the barricade without difficulty. There was a general feeling of disappointment in the village, and most of the people went back to their houses. It was raining heavily, and it is foolish to get wet through when there is no prospect of any kind of excitement. The soldiers, such was the general opinion, were merely practising some unusual and quite incomprehensible military manouvre.
The opinion was a mistaken one. The few who braved the rain and stood their ground watching the soldiers, had their reward later on. At ten o’clock, Mr. Davoren, the auctioneer, drove into the village in his motor-car. Mr. Davoren lives in Ballymurry, a town of some size, six miles from Dunedin. His business requires him to move about the country a good deal, and he is quite wealthy enough to keep a Ford car. His appearance roused the soldiers to activity. Willie Thornton, without a cigarette this time, stood beside the barricade. A sentry, taking his place in the middle of the street, called to Mr. Davoren to halt. Mr. Davoren, who was coming along at a good pace, was greatly surprised, but he managed to stop his car and his engine a few feet from the muzzle of the sentry’s rifle.
Willie Thornton, speaking politely but firmly, told Mr. Davoren to get out of the car. He did not know the auctioneer, and had no way of telling whether he was one of “these fellows” or not. The fact that Mr. Davoren looked most respectable and fat was suspicious. A cute fox might pretend to be respectable and fat when bent on playing tricks. Mr. Davoren, still surprised but quite good-humoured, got out of his car. Willie Thornton and his sergeant searched it thoroughly. They found nothing in the way of a weapon more deadly than a set of tyre levers. Mr. Davoren was told he might go on. In the end he did go on, but not until he, the sergeant, Willie Thornton, and one of the sentries had worked themselves hot at the starting-crank. Ford engines are queer-tempered things, with a strong sense of self-respect. When stopped accidentally and suddenly, they often stand on their dignity and refuse to go on again. All this was pleasant and exciting for the people of Dunedin, who felt that they were not wasting their day or getting wet in vain. And still better things were in store for them. At eleven o’clock a large and handsome car appeared at the end of the street. It moved noiselessly and swiftly towards the barricade. The chauffeur, leaning back behind his glass screen, drove as if the village and the street belonged to him. Dunedin is, in fact, the property of his master, the Earl of Ramelton; so the chauffeur had some right to be stately and arrogant. Every man, woman, and child in Dunedin knew the car, and there was tiptoe excitement. Would the soldiers venture to stop and search this car? The excitement became intense when it was seen that the Earl himself was in the car. He lay back very comfortably smoking a cigar in the covered tonneau of the limousine. Lord Ramelton is a wealthy man and Deputy Lieutenant for the county. He sits and sometimes speaks in the House of Lords. He is well known as an uncompromising Unionist, whose loyalty to the king and empire is so firm as to be almost aggressive.
There was a gasp of amazement when the sentry, standing with his rifle in his hands, called “Halt!” He gave the order to the earl’s chauffeur quite as abruptly and disrespectfully as he had given it to Mr. Davoren. The chauffeur stopped the car and leaned back in his seat with an air of detachment and slight boredom. It was his business to stop or start the car and to drive where he was told. Why it was stopped or started or where it went were matters of entire indifference to him. Lord Ramelton let down the window beside him and put out his head.
“What the devil is the matter?” he said.
He spoke to the chauffeur, but it was Willie Thornton who answered him.
“I’m afraid I must trouble you to get out of the car, sir; you and the chauffeur.”
He had spoken quite as civilly to Mr. Davoren half an hour before. He added “sir” this time because Lord Ramelton is an oldish man, and Willie Thornton had been well brought up and taught by his mother that some respect is due to age. He did not know that he was speaking to an earl and a very great man. Lord Ramelton was not in the least soothed by the civility.
“Drive on, Simpkins,” he said to the chauffeur.
Simpkins would have driven on if the sentry had not been standing, with a rifle in his hands, exactly in front of the car. He did the next best thing to driving on. He blew three sharp blasts of warning on his horn. The sentry took no notice of the horn. The men of the Wessex Fusiliers are determined and well-disciplined fellows. Willie Thornton’s orders mattered to that sentry. Lord Ramelton’s did not. Nor did the chauffeur’s horn.
Willie Thornton stepped up to the window of the car. He noticed as he did so that an earl’s coronet surmounting the letter R was painted on the door. He spoke apologetically, but he was still quite firm. A coronet painted on the door of a car is no proof that the man inside is an earl. The Colonel had warned Willie that “these fellows” were as cute as foxes.
“I’m afraid I must trouble you to get out, sir,” said Willie. “My orders are to search every car that goes through the village.”
Lord Ramelton had once been a soldier himself. He knew that the word “orders” has a sacred force.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “It’s damned silly; but if you’ve got to do it, get it over as quick as you can.”
He turned up the collar of his coat and stepped out into the rain. The chauffeur left his seat and stood in the mud with the air of a patient but rather sulky martyr. What is the use of belonging to the aristocracy of labour, of being a member of the Motor Drivers’ Union, of being able to hold up civilisation to ransom, if you are yourself liable to be held up and made to stand in the rain by a common soldier, a man no better than an unskilled labourer. Nothing but the look of the rifle in the unskilled labourer’s hand would have induced Simpkins to leave his sheltered place in the car.
Willie Thornton had every intention of conducting his search rapidly, perhaps not very thoroughly. Lord Ramelton’s appearance, his voice, and the coronet on the panel, all taken together, were convincing evidence that he was not one of “these fellows,” and might safely be allowed to pass.
Unfortunately there was something in the car which Willie did not in the least expect to find there. In the front of the tonneau was a large packing-case. It was quite a common-looking packing-case made of rough wood. The lid was neatly but firmly nailed down. It bore on its side in large black letters the word “cube sugar”.
Willie’s suspicions were aroused. The owners of handsome and beautifully-upholstered cars do not usually drive about with packing-cases full of sugar at their feet. And this was a very large case. It contained a hundredweight or a hundredweight and a half of sugar—if it contained sugar at all. The words of the Colonel recurred to Willie: “There’s not a trick they’re not up to. They’d deceive the devil himself.” Well, no earl or pretended earl should deceive Willie Thornton. He gave an order to the sergeant.
“Take that case and open it,” he said.
“Damn it,” said the Earl, “you mustn’t do that.”
“My orders,” said Willie, “are to examine every car thoroughly.”
“But if you set that case down in the mud and open it in this downpour of rain the—the contents will be spoiled.”
“I can’t help that, sir,” said Willie. “My orders are quite definite.”
“Look here,” said Lord Ramelton, “if I give you my word that there are no arms or ammunition in that case, if I write a statement to that effect and sign it, will it satisfy you?”
“No, sir,” said Willie. “Nothing will satisfy me except seeing for myself.”
Such is the devotion to duty of the young British officer. Against his spirit the rage of the empire’s enemies breaks in vain. Nor are the statements of “these fellows,” however plausible, of much avail.
Lord Ramelton swallowed, with some difficulty, the language which gathered on his tongue’s tip.
“Where’s your superior officer?” he said.
Willie Thornton believed that all his superior officers were at least ten miles away. He had not noticed—nor had anyone else—that a grey military motor had driven into the village. In the grey motor was a General, with two Staff Officers, all decorated with red cap-bands and red tabs on their coats.
The military authorities were very much in earnest over the business of searching motor-cars and guarding roads. Only at times of serious danger do Generals, accompanied by Staff Officers, go out in the wet to visit outpost detachments commanded by subalterns.
The General left his car and stepped across the road. He recognised Lord Ramelton at once and greeted him with cheery playfulness.
“Hallo!” he said, “Held up! I never expected you to be caught smuggling arms about the country.”
“I wish you’d tell this boy to let me drive on,” said Lord Ramelton. “I’m getting wet through.”
The General turned to Willie Thornton.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
Willie was pleasantly conscious that he had done nothing except obey his orders. He saluted smartly.
“There’s a packing-case in the car, sir,” he said, “and it ought to be examined.”
The General looked into Lord Ramelton’s car and saw the packing-case. He could scarcely deny that it might very easily contain cartridges, that it was indeed exactly the sort of case which should be opened. He turned to Lord Ramelton.
“It’s marked sugar,” he said. “What’s in it really?”
Lord Ramelton took the General by the arm and led him a little way up the street. When they were out of earshot of the crowd round the car he spoke in a low voice.
“Itissugar,” he said. “I give you my word that there’s nothing it that case except sugar.”
“Good Lord!” said the General. “Of course, when you say so it’s all right, Ramelton. But would you mind telling me why you want to go driving about the country with two or three hundredweight of sugar in your ear?”
“It’s not my sugar at all,” said Lord Ramelton. “It’s my wife’s. You know the way we’re rationed for sugar now—half a pound a head and the servants eat all of it. Well, her ladyship is bent on making some marmalade and rhubarb jam. I don’t know how she did it, but she got some sugar from a man at Ballymurry. Wangled it. Isn’t that the word?”
“Seems exactly the word,” said the General.
“And I’m bringing it home to her. That’s all.”
“I see,” said the General. “But why not have let the officer see what was in the case? Sugar is no business of his, and you’d have saved a lot of time and trouble.”
“Because a village like this is simply full of spies.”
“Spies!” said the General. “If I thought there were spies here I’d——”
“Oh, not the kind of spies you mean. The Dunedin people are far too sensible for that sort of thing. But if one of the shopkeepers here found out that a fellow in Ballymurry had been doing an illicit sugar deal he’d send a letter off to the Food Controller straightaway. A man up in Dublin was fined £100 the other day for much less than we’re doing. I don’t want my name in every newspaper in the kingdom for obtaining sugar by false pretences.”
“All right,” said the General. “Its nothing to me where you get your sugar.”
Willie Thornton, much to his relief, was ordered to allow the Earl’s car to proceed, un-searched. The chauffeur, who was accustomed to be dry and warm, caught a nasty chill, and was in a bad temper for a week. He wrote to the Secretary of his Union complaining of the brutal way in which the military tyrannised over the representatives of skilled labour. The people of Dunedin felt that they had enjoyed a novel and agreeable show. Lady Ramelton made a large quantity of rhubarb jam, thirty pots of marmalade, and had some sugar over for the green gooseberries when they grew large enough to preserve.