The arrival of Fergus enabled Lee to implement her dearest ambition and move out of the depot; their little flat was too cramped for one baby, much less two, as even Judith Walters could see. Murdoch offered to buy her a house in Bath, but she wanted to move back to Broad Acres, and as that seemed to please Mother and Philippa he was happy to let her do so. Mother rearranged the house so that she and Philippa had a self-contained flat in the garden wing, leaving the whole rest of the house to the new mother. When Lee protested, Florence Mackinder refused to listen. ‘The house is yours anyway,’ she reminded her. ‘I’m only here on sufferance.’
Now Lee really was a totally happy person, her only concern that occasionally Murdoch did not get home from the depot. Reynolds was another totally happy man, as he accompanied Marks, the nanny, on walks with the two babies. ‘Two more dragoons, I’ll be bound, sir,’ he told Murdoch, as proudly as if he had been the father himself. But he was somewhat taken aback when just before Christmas 1912 Helen appeared. ‘But if we had a women’s army, sir,’ he said, ‘she’d be in it for certain.’
There was every possibility, in Murdoch’s opinion, that before very much longer there could well be a women’s army; plans were already laid for an enormous expansion of the armed services should there ever be a showdown with Germany—and this under a Liberal government dedicated to reducing armies and armaments, not increasing them. But the word ‘showdown’ was becoming increasingly common as Europe moved very distinctly into two opposing armed camps.
The blame for the apparently unceasing sequence of crises was always, at least in the British press, laid at the door of the Kaiser, who since his telegram to President Kruger had become just about the most unpopular man in the world in British eyes. To the discerning observer, it was clear that all the continental powers, including Great Britain, were restless, nervous of each other’s growing strength. The Germans and the Austrians were dismayed at the way their hundred-year-old alliance with Russia had disintegrated, to leave them with a potential enemy both east and west. The Russians were still smarting under the humiliation of their defeat by Japan, the first non-European power ever to get the better of a European army in a regular war, and desperate to regain the prestige lost at Mukden and Port Arthur—that they might have to do it with the aid of a country, Great Britain, which was still allied to Japan, did not appear to strike anyone as incongruous. The French were still bitter about their humiliation by Prussia in 1871, and dreaming only of the revanche, while the British were becoming more agitated as the German fleet grew in proportion to their own Royal Navy, and the German quest for colonies became more urgent.
Yet there had been many periods of acute tension in European affairs since the downfall of Bonaparte, only a few of which had developed into actual shooting—and then the wars had been strictly limited. However impartial one might wish to be, one had to accept that the spark which was nowadays flitting hither and thither, and could at any moment ignite the powder train, was the restless, arrogant and yet strangely uncertain personality of Kaiser Wilhelm II.
The Kaiser had begun ‘throwing his weight around’, as the British would have it, as far back as 1895, when he had sided with President Kruger over the Jameson Raid, and then in 1898 when he had travelled to Damascus to proclaim German solidarity with all the Muslim peoples of the world—a disturbing act for a nation which, like Great Britain, happened to rule several hundred millions of those Muslims. Murdoch in fact could not help but wonder if that strange journey and bombastic pronouncement had not inspired the Mullah to take up arms—in a campaign which he still sustained, and might be capable of doing so forever, it seemed.
Then had come the South African War, and Germany’s open backing for the Boers. This had led directly to the alliance of Great Britain and France, who only a few years earlier, in 1898, had come to the verge of war themselves over their African empires. At that time, in 1904, the idea of a British affiance with Russia had seemed too far-fetched to be possible. Not only had the two countries hated each other ever since the Crimean War of fifty years before, but that very autumn the Russian Baltic fleet, on its way to the Far East to fight the Japanese—and to annihilation in the Straits of Tsushima—fired on a British fishing fleet off the Dogger Bank in the North Sea, under the apparent misapprehension that they were Japanese torpedo boats; how Japanese torpedo boats could have found themselves on the other side of the world from Tokyo had never been satisfactorily explained. That had brought England and Russia to the verge of war, and at the time it had appeared that the Kaiser and the Tsar might renew the alliance enjoyed by their respective fathers. This had fallen through, however. Then, as Britain and Russia patched their differences, the Kaiser’s concern at the ‘encirclement’ of Germany began to grow rapidly. When France and Spain concluded an agreement delineating their respective spheres of influence in Morocco and Algiers, without consulting any other power, the Kaiser had exploded in outrage and himself visited Tangiers. The crisis had bubbled up into the most serious for thirty years—it was as if, just before the start of the Boer War, Wilhelm had visited Johannesburg—had led to the downfall of the French Foreign Minister, Delcasse, and had only been settled with difficulty after the conference at Algeciras.
Things had simmered for a year or two after that, only to be stirred up again by the occupation, sudden and unwarranted, by Austria-Hungary of the provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina, which technically belonged to Turkey, but which through Ottoman weakness had become almost independent. The Porte—the government of Turkey, so-called from the sultan’s habit of receiving envoys in the doorway of his palace—could do nothing more than protest, but the action mortally offended Serbia, which had looked on the provinces as virtually her own, and also created tensions with Russia, which regarded Serbia with special concern.
This crisis was alleviated by an agreement between Austria and Turkey—Austria paying financial compensation for the seized province—but feelings ran high again in October 1908 when the Kaiser gave an interview to a correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, in which his growing Anglophobia upset even his own ministers.
For a while it seemed that this latest indiscretion by the German monarch seemed to be having a salutary effect. Prince Billow, who had been German chancellor since 1900, resigned, and his successor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, actually instigated talks between the British and German governments in an attempt to resolve their differences. But then in June 1911 the Moroccan crisis flared again, when the French, meeting with opposition from the Moroccans to their ‘peaceful penetration’, found themselves fighting a small war and being forced to annex more territory than they had originally contemplated. The Kaiser despatched a gunboat—the Panther—to the Atlantic seaport of Agadir, ostensibly to protect German citizens in the town, but, as everyone knew, actually to remind the French that he was keeping a watchful eye on their adventures.
This really was a serious event, and with Italy—naturally also interested in what went on in North Africa—Austria and Russia all making aggressive noises, mobilisation was expected daily, all leave being cancelled, and Murdoch was forced to abandon Broad Acres and move back into the depot. The Germans demanded vast territorial concessions from the French in return for allowing them a free hand in Morocco, which the French refused, and while the crisis simmered, the new British Chancellor of the Exchequer, David Lloyd George, a Welshman who had hitherto been regarded as a pacifist, made a violent but obviously carefully considered verbal attack upon the German position in a speech at the Mansion House on 21 July. Since speeches at the Mansion House, the town hall of the City of London, were generally taken to represent the views of the Government, and since this speech was accepted as expressing total support for the French position, war then seemed imminent, and there was great excitement.
The regiment was now back to full strength, with three squadrons, commanded respectively by Captains Ramage, Prendergast and O’Dowd, capable of putting six hundred men immediately into the field. More impor
tant, and gratifying to the officers, a large proportion of the troopers were veterans, men who had re-enlisted; in the all-volunteer British Army, enlistment was for a period of seven years, with the option of returning for another seven if desired, but there were regiments which suffered wholesale fall-outs when the enlistment period was completed. The dragoons, on the contrary, still retained men who had enlisted just before the outbreak of the Boer War and were as proficient soldiers as could be found anywhere in the world.
This was appreciated by the Chief of the Imperial General Staff, a new position, as the British had long resisted creating a general staff at all—unlike their European rivals—because of the suggestion of militarism which it conveyed. But the continuing abysmal staff work, which had led to such confusion between divisions and army corps as had punctuated the South African War and caused the disaster on the White Horse Downs, had finally made the War Office realise that a co-ordinated general staff was essential if they were ever going to fight a European war.
As expected, the appointment as chief went to Sir John French, making him the senior serving officer in the Army—although not necessarily the commander-in-chief if the Army ever had to take the field.
But he was responsible for the organisation of the various commands, and when he came down to visit his favourite dragoons, he told Walters and Murdoch that in the event of hostilities he intended to form a cavalry division, as he had done in South Africa, which would be commanded by General Edmond Allenby, who had served with distinction as a cavalry commander against the Boers. The Westerns would be brigaded, as before, with a regiment of lancers and one of hussars, and he expected their commander to be Brigadier General Hubert Gough, who had also earned much credit during the Boer War.
Meanwhile leave remained cancelled, ammunition was issued, and every preparation was made for the march down to Plymouth and embarkation for France, where the British Army would take its place alongside their French comrades to invade Germany and teach the Kaiser his manners.
‘This is the big one,’ Walters told Murdoch. ‘The one we have all expected to happen for so long.’
‘And all agreed could never happen,’ Murdoch reminded him.
‘Yes. What do you feel about it?’
Murdoch wasn’t at all sure. On the one hand, tremendous excitement. This would be warfare on a scale not seen since the Battle of Waterloo. The regiment wore Waterloo as one of its battle honours, but there had not been a Mackinder in its ranks then. None of his famous ancestors had ever taken the field against a European adversary—the regiment had been stationed in India throughout the Crimean War. This would be a war which would really bring out military ability—or lack of it.
On the other hand, there was the very real realisation that it was going to be a killing war, too, on a scale never before envisaged. He had read everything he could discover on the Russo-Japanese conflict of a few years earlier, and could add that horrifying example of man’s ability to destroy himself to his own experiences in South Africa, where a handful of Boers armed merely with good repeating rifles and some light artillery had been able to do so much damage.
He knew that every regiment in the German army, like their British and French counterparts, was now equipped not only with such rifles, but with several machine guns as well, and that the continental powers, again like the British, had developed field guns and howitzers which made those used in the Boer War seem like peashooters. He remembered the awe with which he had inspected one of the ‘huge’ four-point-seven-inch naval guns which had been brought ashore and mounted on carriages to combat the Boer Long Toms—then the biggest guns ever used in battle—and now the Royal Navy was arming its battleships with twelve-inch cannon, and were even, under the inspiring direction of Philippa’s favourite Mr Churchill, now First Lord of the Admiralty, talking about fifteen-inch; his imagination simply could not cope.
Lee was almost hysterical at the thought of it all. ‘That’s absolute madness,’ she cried. ‘Civilised people, going to war over some crummy African seaport? It makes no sense at all. And for you to go wandering away to get your head blown off...’
‘One thing,’ Philippa pointed out, ‘he won’t be away very long. From what I’ve been reading, there can only be one battle, because there’ll be so many men killed right away with these new weapons, there won’t be any armies left, and they’ll have to call the whole thing off.’
Which sent Lee to her room in tears.
*
Happily, none of the countries involved took the ultimate step of provoking an incident which might have led to war, and gradually the tension subsided; the British press took the proud view that Lloyd George’s threat of entry on the French side had made the Kaiser stop and think. Whatever the true reasons, the orders for mobilisation were reduced to stand by, and then cancelled altogether. The live ammunition was returned to the armoury, normal leave was restored and a feeling of anti-climax spread over the depot.
‘Damned shame, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir,’ remarked the new Regimental Sergeant-Major, Bert Yeald. ‘If these lads don’t see some action soon, they’ll be good for nothing but garrison duties.’
Not many echoed his sentiments. Lee wept for a whole afternoon, but now they were tears of joy. ‘If you knew how I have prayed,’ she said. ‘It’s the first time I have really believed there might be Someone up there. Oh, thank God! Now we can just get on with living our own lives.’
It was, for all the crises in the outside world, and in England as well, a peculiarly happy time for the Mackinders. Freed of the restrictions of having to live in the depot, and finding herself mistress of the grandest house in which she had ever lived, Lee truly blossomed into a capable, confident wife, mother and—when she was not pregnant—hostess. The staff liked her no-nonsense attitude and adored the children, while Philippa obviously enjoyed having her around all the time, and even Mother was now totally reconciled to her daughter-in-law.
Florence Mackinder was also doing her best to become reconciled to her daughter-in-law’s family. As Lee’s constant confinements made it impossible for her to return to Baltimore to visit with her family, the Caspars made a habit of coming to England whenever possible, always staying at Broad Acres. Often they were accompanied by Harry, but his growing reputation as a correspondent was sending him all over the world, and increasing his pessimism as to the future.
‘Everywhere I go,’ he told Murdoch, ‘people are talking about the next war. And when people are talking about something all the time, they get to the stage where they actually will it to happen, without knowing why.’
‘Well, for God’s sake don’t say anything like that to Lee,’ Murdoch begged -him.
‘Man talk,’ Harry agreed, and leaned back in his deck chair to soak up the sunshine, watch the ladies playing at croquet and defend himself as best he could from his nephew Ian, who at three years old was already proving himself a master of camouflage and the flanking movement on anyone he suspected might not be looking. ‘It sure would be one hell of a shame if anything was to mess up this existence you have here. You have got to be the most fortunate people on earth.’
Murdoch was prepared to agree with him. Nor could he see how whatever happened on the continent could possibly affect the family at Broad Acres, except in so far as he might be sent off to fight—European events had never truly affected English domestic life in the past. That, he thought soberly—although he would never say as much to Harry—was only likely to be disrupted by events within the British Isles. And disturbingly, England was changing. Indeed, it seemed to Murdoch that the entire pattern of life as he had known it since boyhood was changing, for the worse, and again it was mainly the doing of the fiery little Welsh reformer, Lloyd George, who was taking the Liberal Party, and therefore the country, by storm.
Himself the child of a humble home, who had had to fight his way up to power and prosperity, his aim from the beginning had been the redistribution of English wealth. Appointed Chancellor of th
e Exchequer by Asquith in 1907, in the following spring he introduced a whole array of new taxes designed to soak the rich. England had used Income Tax on and off, as necessary, for years; now it became a serious item of expense to anyone with an income of any substance, and in addition, the new chancellor proposed to levy a tax on unearned income as well.
Florence Mackinder’s small fortune, carefully husbanded and invested by successive Mackinders, and handed down from generation to generation so that it now produced a very considerable return indeed, was going to be heavily taxed. She immediately let two of the maids and one of the gardeners go.
Even more serious, however, was Lloyd George’s determination to introduce an inheritance tax, which received the evocative name of Death Duties. ‘Thank God your father willed Broad Acres directly to you,’ Mother said. ‘My God, if he’d left it to me, you could well have to sell up when I die to meet the tax. As for when you die...’
Murdoch grinned at her. ‘That’s not likely to happen for a long time, Mother. And by then, surely, we’ll have had a change of government.’
The new measures did not immediately become law, as they were thrown out by the House of Lords. But this in turn provoked a parliamentary crisis, with the Liberals calling for the reduction of the power of the Lords. In the middle of it all, the old King complicated the issue by dying, to be succeeded by his eldest surviving son, George V, which led to another constitutional crisis and two general elections within a few months.
The year of the Agadir crisis was also the year of the most serious and angry industrial disputes the country had ever known. When the entire coal industry, some one and a half million men, went on strike early in 1912, the Government had to call out the troops.
‘You won’t believe this,’ Murdoch declared to the women on receiving his orders. ‘Tomorrow I take two squadrons of the regiment, dressed in fatigue overalls, and lead them to the Forest of Dean, to go down the mine there. And cut coal.’
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