There was a moment’s silence, then Philippa burst out laughing.
After a moment Lee joined in. ‘At least you won’t be killed,’ she said.
‘Don’t you believe it. I shall probably contract psittacosis.’
‘I thought only parrots got that!’
‘Well, it’s some disease like that which miners get. As for actually getting killed, the third squadron is coming too—to protect us from the strikers. I think the world is standing on its head.’
‘This I have got to see,’ Lee said. ‘Do you know how to cut coal?’
‘Presumably there will be mine officials there to demonstrate.’
‘It’s going to be a scream,’ Philippa said. ‘Tell you what, Lee, we’ll ride over with them.’
‘You will not,’ Murdoch told her. ‘This could just turn nasty…Anyway, you’d better conserve your strength; wait until you see the laundry you’re going to have to handle when I get home.’
*
As a matter of fact, there was no violence, partly because the pickets, and there were a considerable number, were overawed by the sight of the regiment parading before their mineshafts, and partly because many of the miners were relatives of the troopers. But that there was a good deal of bitterness could not be denied, and it was the first time in their history that the dragoons, marching through a town in their own west country recruiting ground, were booed, which had a profound effect upon the morale of both officers and men.
‘I would never have thought to hear that,’ Colonel Walters complained when they returned to the depot a fortnight later—the strike, at least in the west country, had collapsed following the Government’s introduction of a Minimum Wages Bill. ‘Makes me ashamed to be a soldier, indeed it does.’ He peered at his adjutant. ‘Are you ever going to be clean again?’
With fortune, and a few hot baths.’
‘You weren’t intended to go down the mines with the men,’ the colonel pointed out.
‘Well, I didn’t see that I could command them to do something I wasn’t prepared to do myself,’ Murdoch explained.
‘You’ll kill yourself one of these days,’ Walters grumbled. ‘But now we have to worry about restoring the men’s faith in themselves, and in this crazy government of ours.’
The unrest was far from over. On the very day the regiment returned to barracks, a radical named Tom Mann was arrested for attempting to suborn other troops from their duty, and the wave of strikes continued throughout the summer and into the autumn, affecting principally the docks and the transport system.
To crown the feeling that a new era of uncertainty and even chaos was about to engulf the world, a fortnight after the dragoons resumed their normal training, news was received of the loss of the Titanic. The newest and greatest passenger liner in the world, labelled unsinkable by her builders, had gone down after striking an iceberg in the North Atlantic on her maiden voyage. Liners had been lost before, but none so large and so famous, and the death list—well over a thousand—read like a who’s who of London and New York society. The world, especially the English-speaking world, was aghast at the disaster: if one thing had always seemed certain, it was that the aristocrats of England and New England died in their beds.
Nor was there any cessation in the steadily mounting international tension. Before the end of the previous year, indeed just about the time Helen Mackinder was born, the Italians, hitherto almost silent observers of the heaving European scene, launched an invasion of Tripoli, another of the Sultan’s semi-independent satrapies. There was the usual round of protests and conferences, during which the Italians, while proving themselves unable to beat the Senussi in battle, yet managed to seize a good deal of territory which was not theirs, and set up the colony of Libya. But all of this became irrelevant when the various small Balkan states, Serbia, Rumania, Bulgaria and Greece, having observed the way first Austria and then Italy could get away with taking anything of the Sultan’s they felt like, allied themselves together and declared war on the Porte, and turned the entire Balkan Peninsular into a battlefield.
The Great Powers were scandalised, but there was very little they could do about it, unless they acted in concert, and this they were not prepared to do, firstly because they were all interested to discover just how hard the Turks were prepared to fight for the remnants of their once far-flung empire, and secondly because while Austria opposed any extension of the various Balkan sovereignties, and especially Serbia, Russia whole-heartedly supported it, envisaging a series of satellite states guarding its south-western frontier.
In fact, the Turks were so rapidly and comprehensively defeated that the Powers had to call a conference and impose a peace settlement to prevent a complete disintegration of the Middle East, which hardly satisfied the victors, who soon fell to fighting amongst themselves. The situation was alarming in that it required only the interference of one of the Powers, unilaterally, to start another major crisis, but by now, in the autumn of 1913, British interest, and concern, was turning in another and in their opinion even more sinister direction.
Just before Christmas, the regiment received one of its periodic visits from the CIGS, who had remained colonel-in-chief. ‘Just passing through,’ French remarked. ‘So I thought I’d drop in and have a chat, and discuss the orders you are about to receive.’
Murdoch and Walters exchanged glances; the general had wished to talk with them alone.
‘I appreciate you haven’t actually been given them yet,’ the general went on, ‘however, I can tell you, in confidence, that the Royal Westerns are being transferred from the Bath depot to the Curragh Camp.’ He looked from face to face. ‘You know where that is?’
‘It is in the open country in County Kildare, in Ireland, sir,’ Murdoch said.
‘Correct. Excellent cavalry country. Indeed, excellent country for an entire army to manoeuvre in. Flat, empty plain, close to Dublin...’ He paused. ‘Close to Dublin,’ he repeated. ‘There is going to be quite a concentration of troops there. Almost our entire armed strength. Must take these European fellows seriously, eh? If they want to rattle their sabres, we must rattle ours just as loudly.’
He paused, and the two officers waited. He was clearly talking around the subject, and his phraseology was odd too; as Chief of the Imperial General .Staff it was his decision as to where, when and how manoeuvres were held. Yet his words suggested that this concentration at the Curragh had been forced upon him.
‘I want you to understand the situation as it really is, however,’ French went on. ‘The Irish situation. It is becoming very serious. Do you know anything about it?’
Walters and Murdoch again exchanged glances. No one in England could fail to know something about the Irish situation. ‘We try not to, sir,’ the colonel said.
Tim. Yes. Well, I imagine you certainly know that the Liberal Party has had this bee in its bonnet about granting Home Rule to Ireland ever since Gladstone first raised the matter back in the seventies. God alone knows why he did; it has caused nothing but trouble ever since. However, there it is. We’ve had Home Rule proposals and crises ever since, all invariably thrown out by the Lords. And I’m sure that you do know that the last proposal, made at the beginning of this year, has also twice been rejected by the Lords. However, that is not going to be the end of the matter. I am informed that Mr Asquith is determined to reintroduce the bill early next year, and of course under the new laws curbing the power of the House of Lords, they can no longer reject a bill which has been passed for a third time by the Commons. The bill will be law next summer. Now...the people of Ulster are aware of this situation, of course, and they don’t like it. They have had mass meetings in protest, and there are people—Edward Carson is one, and he should know better—who are openly saying that the Protestant north will not accept Catholic rule from Dublin, and will resist it by force of arms.
‘I’m afraid our intelligence reports indicate that this is no idle threat. It is estimated by the Secret Service that there may b
e as many as ten thousand Ulster volunteers who are armed and train secretly, and are prepared to take the field should Home Rule become law. Ten thousand men, gentlemen. That is virtually the equivalent of a division. If it is well led it could be a most formidable force, and it would be fighting on its own doorstep, aided and abetted by its womenfolk, able to disappear at will and reform at will...very like the situation we faced in South Africa after the main Boer armies had been defeated—and at no time did Louis Botha or Smuts command ten thousand men.’
‘With respect, sir,’ Murdoch said, unable to believe what he was being told. ‘You are speaking of a possible civil war, here in the United Kingdom.’
French stared at him. ‘Why, yes, Major Mackinder. That possibility is exactly what I am speaking of.’
‘Good God,’ Walters said. ‘But...I mean...Good God!’
‘Obviously such a situation cannot be permitted to arise,’ French told them. ‘But yet it is a tricky problem, far more tricky, I may say, than any of the so-called crises we have recently had to face in Europe. The difficulty is that the Ulstermen are convinced that if it came to a crunch, they would have the support of the majority of the people of England. And no one knows whether they would or not. Nor can we afford to find out. Carson and his followers must be headed off by a massive display of strength and determination on the part of the Government. Thus the decision has been taken to send the main part of the Army to take part in prolonged manoeuvres on the Curragh. This is sensible in purely practical terms. We do need to hold largescale manoeuvres, involving every branch of the Army, and the Curragh plain is the perfect place for it. At the same time, it is close to Dublin, not Belfast, so no Ulster hothead can suppose we are sending troops to overawe them. Yet we will have a considerable force in Ireland, within striking distance of the north, and it is hoped that this fact will not escape Sir Edward Carson and his cohorts.’
‘And if it does not, sir? And Home Rule does become law?’
‘It is sometimes better not to try to anticipate the future too closely, Murdoch,’ French told him. ‘We are soldiers. We will obey the orders given us by the government of the day. I know that not all your men will care for such a task.’
‘To fire upon their own kith and kin?’ Walters commented. ‘With respect, sir, that is an understatement.’
‘Nevertheless, it will be your duty, as officers, to see that your men obey orders. We must all hope and pray that such a day never dawns. Tempers are running hot at this moment; what is required is time for them to cool. That is all we can hope for. However, I wished you to be under no misapprehension as to what is happening, and what could happen, as I said. Everything I have told you here today is in the strictest confidence; it is not even to be discussed with your wives. I want that clearly understood. Your officers and men must be given the impression that they are going to take part in extended war games, nothing more. But you yourselves will appreciate your real reason for being in Ireland, and the possibility that you may be called upon, at a moment’s notice, to carry out a very unpleasant task. I know that you will do your duty, and that you will ensure that your men do theirs.’
‘Will our families be accompanying us, sir?’ Murdoch asked.
‘No. It is intended to create conditions of actual campaigning. And besides, if it did come to a critical situation, they would be a disastrous hindrance. There is also another problem which you must at all times bear in mind. The British Army is not very popular in southern Ireland. It is not forgotten that we have visited them too often in the past as conquerors, and have had to do some unpleasant things to them, too. In fact, that is something that you are going to have to impress upon your men, right away, that any fraternisation with the Irish could be a risky business. I am sure you would not wish your own families to be exposed to any Fenian anarchists.’ He smiled at them. ‘No need to look so grim, gentlemen. I hope what I have suggested will never happen. And surely it is better than being sent back to India.’
*
Lee was aghast. ‘You’re going off to Ireland?’ she demanded. ‘For several months? Without me?’
‘Well, it could have been India,’ Murdoch pointed out. ‘You always knew we were bound to be separated, sooner or later. And this way we’ll at least get letters more quickly.’
‘And there’s no risk of him being shot or contracting cholera in Ireland,’ Philippa pointed out.
If they only knew, he thought. But it was a wrench to be leaving Broad Acres after three such happy years—as they had been, despite the alarums and excursions in the world outside. He played a last game of hide and seek with the boys, gave Helen a last hug, had a last romp with the dogs, kissed all his womenfolk, and with Corporal Reynolds at his side walked Buccaneer, now a very experienced old friend indeed, down the road to the depot for the departure parade.
‘Seems hard, major,’ Reynolds commented, ‘that we can’t take the ladies. It’s only just across the Irish Sea.’
‘Manoeuvres are manoeuvres, George,’ Murdoch reminded him.
There was, however, a curious air of why-are-we-doing-this as the regiment marched to Bristol for embarkation in January 1914, amongst both officers and men. Going to Ireland promised to be amusing, and safe, but it still entailed separation from wives and families, and it entirely lacked the excitement, the scent of battle, the suggestion of deeds of death or glory, that departing for South Africa or India had done.
‘I don’t suppose we shall win any medals for galloping up and down the Curragh,’ Peter Ramage grumbled, staring at Lundy Island as the transport slipped down the Bristol Channel, already rolling to the winter gale.
‘Except long-service ones,’ quipped Harry O’Dowd. He was the only member of the regiment who was completely happy with their new assignment; his parents lived just outside Belfast, and he could not conceive that he was going to be stationed only a hundred-odd miles south of there and not be able to get up to see them every so often. Murdoch wondered what he would feel were he ever to discover the real reason they were going to the Curragh—and what his reactions would be if it did come to a civil war with the people of Ulster.
They disembarked at Dublin and marched through streets filled with silent watchers, as French had suggested might be the case. ‘You’d think we were in a foreign land,’ Billy Hobbs complained. ‘I don’t believe they like us at all.’
‘We had a better welcome when we landed in Berbera,’ Ramage commented.
‘It’s all this Home Rule nonsense,’ Prendergast explained. He always kept up with the political news. ‘They think we’re here to overawe them when the Lords tell them they can’t have it.’
‘Bloody papists,’ O’Dowd growled.
‘What do you think of it all, Murdoch?’ Walters asked, when they had reached their encampment and pitched their tents. There were certainly a large number of men—mostly cavalry—already in the area, and hardly a moment passed without a bugle call or the drumming of hooves. A summons from their brigadier, Hubert Gough, to an officers’ conference the following morning had been waiting for them.
‘Well, sir,’ Murdoch said, ‘It is damned noisy. And it is fourteen years since I lived under canvas for any length of time, so I don’t think it is going to do my rheumatism any good, and we definitely could be in a hostile country...but it is a beautiful land, isn’t it?’
‘I was talking about the political set-up. This Home Rule business.’
They had studiously avoided discussing it before. Now Murdoch considered. ‘Ireland is Irish,’ he said. ‘If they’re hell-bent on looking after their own affairs, they should be allowed to do so. After all, we let the Australians and the New Zealanders manage their own show. My God, even the South Africans, against whom we were fighting a dozen years ago, have home rule. Why not the Irish? With adequate safeguards, of course. I entirely agree that we could never allow Ireland to become allied to a hostile power, or anything like that. But that doesn’t appear likely to happen.’
‘What about the
religious question? As I understand it, there is absolutely no common ground between a Catholic Irishman and a Protestant one. They have hated each other since Cromwell’s day.’
‘Well, then, perhaps they should try growing up,’ Murdoch suggested. ‘For God’s sake, Martin, Catholics and Protestants live cheek by jowl in the United States, in England, in Germany, without having to shoot at each other all the time.’
‘What you are saying is that if there was an uprising in the north rejecting Home Rule, you would be willing to lead the regiment in there to fire upon people who are British citizens.’
‘Sir John French told us not to anticipate, sir,’ Murdoch reminded him, ‘but to do our duty when required.’ And to pray, he thought.
For the time being, at any rate, there was a lull in the tension, as Mr Asquith and his ministers considered the situation and redrafted their latest bill time and again, suggesting that there might yet be room for a compromise. Meanwhile the army encamped on the Curragh got on with their manoeuvres, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves—especially the Westerns, who found in Hubert Gough a potentially brilliant cavalry commander, with an eye for country and opportunity, under whom it was a pleasure to serve.
The only drawback to their situation was the hostility of the Irish themselves, which meant that their social activities were confined very much to themselves. Murdoch was therefore the more surprised when, in early May, he received an invitation to dine in Dublin...and quite taken aback when he read the name on the card: Baron Paul von Reger.
13 – The Curragh, 1914
Murdoch gazed at the printed piece of cardboard in utter consternation. It was a large visiting card, on which the name of Baron Paul von Reger was printed, together with his address, which appeared to be some schloss in East Prussia. And across it was scrawled, ‘We should be delighted to meet you again, after all of these years, Paul.’ It was addressed to Major Murdoch Mackinder, VC, DSO, Royal Western Dragoon Guards, Curragh Camp, County Kildare, Ireland. Underneath he had written, ‘We are staying at the Royal Dublin, and will expect you for dinner, Thursday 14th.’
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