by John Masters
‘Range nine-oh … eight-oh.’
The fight was now between two apparently undamaged German armoured cruisers, with six inches of armour round the vital belt of each ship, protecting the magazines, ammunition hoists, and engines; seven inches of armour on the turrets; each ship carrying eight 8.2-inch guns; and protected by two light cruisers, each capable of an equal one to one fight with the three British survivors: and the three British – Glasgow, Penrith, and the armed liner Otranto.
The yeoman said, ‘Glasgow’s sending a message, sir.’ They all stared into the darkness, eyes fixed on the little light winking and flashing and stuttering to the south. Tom could read one word in five, so fast was the morse message being sent, and turned away, resting his eyes.
The yeoman said, ‘Scatter … proceed at best speed to rendezvous Evangelistas … good luck. That’s all, sir.’
Eight heavy shells straddled Penrith. Her own guns kept firing. Sea water drenched the bridge and everyone on it, but they were all soaked already and had been since before the battle began.
Leach said, ‘Engine room, revolutions for maximum speed. Give us all you’ve got, Chief. We should only need it for an hour or two … port twenty!’ The ship heeled over on her beam ends in the savage turn. Another salvo of shells burst where she had just been, the water ghostly white to port.
‘Course, north-west.’
‘North-west, sir!’
Leach spoke half aside, softly, to Tom. ‘We’re running. Tom, Let’s hope von Spee doesn’t head straight for the Evangelistas, too. See that everyone knows what’s happened. We’ll stay at action stations for another two hours, at least, until I’m sure we’re clear. Nurnberg’s about somewhere, don’t forget.’
Another salvo burst to port. But there was no ship in the German squadron that could catch Glasgow or Penrith, by a full knot. In the darkness behind them Tom counted seventy-five flashes, then silence. Monmouth had gone.
A long while later Leach said in a dry harsh voice, ‘We’ve been well and truly thrashed, Tom. For the first time in … what? A hundred and fifty years?’
‘It was the Admiralty’s fault, sir.’
‘Perhaps. But the British people won’t excuse us, Tom. This is the Royal Navy. We’re supposed to win, always, whatever the odds …’
He stood in the darkness of the bridge, his face barely seen by the light of the binnacle. The effulgent moon was rising above pale clouds, the ship shuddering to her speed and the pounding of the waves on her flank, spray and water flying.
‘I’d better go round now, sir,’ Tom said awkwardly.
Captain Leach nodded, without speaking. Tom turned away, Ordinary Seaman Bennett following.
Daily Telegraph, Monday, November 2, 1914
GLOVES FOR TROOPS
Grand Duke Michael’s Fund
Over £5000 has now been subscribed in response to the appeal made by the Grand Duke Michael for £25,000 to supply warm woollen gloves and mittens to the British troops in the trenches; and it is to be hoped that the remainder will be quickly subscribed, as every day the need for these comforts grows greater. The announcement that the Queen’s fund for body belts and socks for the troops is about to be closed indicates the urgency of the appeal, and the gloves and mittens will be no less eagerly welcomed by our men who are already experiencing very severe weather at night.
Gloves and mittens should be of khaki, grey, or neutral wool, the gloves at least 8½ size and the mittens long enough to go well over the coat sleeve. Black or white colours should not be sent. All letters and parcels should be addressed to Grand Duke Michael, 39 Portland Place, W, by whom the appeal is made to the British public for the British troops, and not, as has been thought, for the Russian troops.
Cate put down the paper. The people who thought the appeal had been for Russian troops had common sense on their side. Why should a Russian prince appeal for comforts for British troops, in England? Had someone decided that our own royal family were already asking, appealing too much? Come to that, why had the unfortunate troops not been supplied, long since, by the War Office and Government? It wasn’t as though gloves were an exotic or unexpected article of wear in northern Europe in winter. Perhaps no one had thought that the war would continue into the winter. Perhaps no one had thought.
He stood up, stretching. Garrod came silently into the dining-room and took away his breakfast plate. Stella was gobbling her kippers – she had a train to catch. She looked more beautiful than ever in her VAD uniform. The severity of it only enhanced the lush perfection of her complexion and the full curves of her breasts. He said, ‘You’ll give yourself indigestion, Stella,’ and went out, newspaper in hand.
In his study he stood a while thinking. Frank Cawthon had got his loan from Barclay’s, but he hadn’t used any of it yet. He was a careful man, who thought things out before he acted; but it would be a good idea to go and talk with him and find out when he did intend to buy the new stock. The winter months would do nothing to improve a poor herd. While he was out he’d ride on over to High Staining and talk with John. The rural labour problem was growing worse every week. In the cities men seemed willing to stay in the factories, if they were needed – a great many, even if they were not – but in the country the farm labourers had just upped and gone off to the war, although they were fully as essential to the war effort as the mechanics were. He’d get some information – facts and figures from all the farmers in the area, then he and John might go to Ellis, the MP, and see what could be done about formulating a national policy. The first step, probably, would be to organize and train women into a volunteer farm army of some kind. John was ahead of most of the country in employing Carol Adams, but soon the effort would have to be national, not piecemeal, local, and haphazard. And it would have to be led by women, as soon as possible.
14 Hedlington: Tuesday, November 3 — Market Day
John Rowland pulled the old Rowland Ruby to a stop at the entrance to the Fairgrounds, and got out. A fine, cold drizzle was falling and John wore his belted mackintosh coat and a tweed cap, heavy boots, and leather leggings. The day’s paper, bought in High Street where he had deposited Louise to do her shopping, was folded and tucked into the voluminous inside pocket of the raincoat. He had only seen the front page headlines. They were enough to settle his mouth into a grim downturn. More heavy fighting in Flanders, more long lists of the dead. Quentin’s name had not appeared – yet – but it would be foolish to pretend that it never would. And he could not help worrying about Tom, too. They had not been very close – no one was very close to Tom, he thought, but in spite of the six years between them, they had been friends as well as brothers. He had watched Tom grow up, until the navy took him, at the age of twelve; after that he had gradually drawn further away from all the family, without any hostility. Now, he had to all intents vanished into the globe-circling oceans, without trace.
He walked carefully through the mud down what had been the Fair’s main road, towards the cattle and sheep and pig stalls and poultry pens at the market, beyond the Fair’s north end. He only came into Hedlington once or twice a month, and the military take-over of the Fairgrounds, which had started last time he was here, was now almost complete. Three-quarters of the acreage had become a tented camp. Rows of tents of all sizes covered most of the space between the Scarrow and the road. Squads of men marched to and fro to the screamed commands of sergeants and corporals: but they didn’t look like soldiers, for uniforms had not yet been made for them, nor did they carry rifles – there were none: they carried broomsticks. He looked at the men as he passed, wondering whether he would see Frank Stratton. He had never known Frank well, but about the time he himself was studying for the church, Frank had been visiting Laburnum Lodge quite frequently, courting a young housemaid – or pretending to. He couldn’t have been much more than sixteen then.
He didn’t see Frank, but thinking of him made him wonder, should I be wielding a pretend rifle, rather than doing what I am doing – trying to run
a dairy herd, rather inefficiently? Would I be any better as a soldier – an officer, presumably? He’d like to go as a padre, but it was a little late to think of taking up the career he had abandoned eighteen years ago to become a farmer – a gentleman farmer. Louise would tell him he had taken leave of his senses. She’d be right; but on this day he did not feel contented with his life.
He reached the cattle pens, and walked through the maze to the far end. A large black and white bull lay peacefully in one. In another were four cows of the same breed. Frank Cawthon, of Abbas Farm, chewing a straw, was leaning over the heavy railing, looking at the bull, who was chewing the cud. Their jaws moved in rhythm.
‘Morning, Frank,’ John said.
Cawthon glanced up. ‘Morning, Mr John. That were bad news in the paper this morning.’
‘Very.’
‘Young Mr Charles still in India?’
‘His regiment’s on its way to France, Frank. We had a letter yesterday.’ John wanted to change the subject. Neither he nor Louise found it easy to discuss the fact that Charles was approaching the war. He would be closer to home, of course, than he’d been in India, and able to spend his leaves at High Staining: but he’d also be closer to death. The fighting in France was becoming more violent by the week. A strange new underground war, apparently, the enemies barely seeing each other, living in mud and water and cold, while shells hurtled overhead in both directions, to pulverize the earth and tear their bodies. From what he could learn from the descriptions and photographs, and the sketches of war artists, it was not at all like any previous war; nor like anything that the generals had expected.
He said, ‘What do you think of this breed?’ – nodding his head at the black and white cows.
‘Friesians,’ Cawthon said shortly. ‘Dutch. I was looking at the Farm Journal. These here cows give a quarter again as much milk as a Shorthorn for the same feed. And they’ll last five, six lactations. The Shorthorns only go three, before you have to cull.’
‘I heard the milk has a lower butterfat content.’
‘ ’Tis true. Less than three per cent – a Shorthorn gives a little over three. But the extra quantity makes up for it. They’re hardy … don’t get too many diseases. And the meat’s good when you want to slaughter.’
‘Are you thinking of changing your herd?’
Cawthon said, ‘I am that. It’ll take some money though. And good prices for the Shorthorns, when I sell them.’
‘You were going to get some fresh stock, you said that day when I came to Abbas with Mr Cate.’
‘Aye, but I haven’t started, and better than getting new Shorthorn stock might be to change to Friesians. They’re nearly all imported now, but there’s a British Friesian Society, I know, and they could help me a lot, starting with ’em. I’m going to talk to Farnham – he’s the fellow that brought these here.’
He walked off, a bent, squat figure, rain dripping off the back of his shapeless felt hat, heavy rubber boots on his bow legs, his tan coat nearly down to the ground.
John stared at the bull. He thought – should I change to Friesians, too? More milk, but less butterfat. What did the country need most? More milk, surely, in times like these. It was rather like the conflict between the Governor’s ideas on making motor cars, and Richard’s – quality against quantity; high volume and cheap production against low volume and expensive production. But with Jerseys and Guernseys available, a farmer could always mix some of their high butterfat milk with the Friesians’, to get the right percentage … indeed, he’d have to, for three per cent was the legal minimum of butterfat in milk to be sold to the public.
‘’Morning, Mr Rowland.’
It was Howard Ashcraft, another dairy farmer from west of Walstone, down river from the village. John hoped he too would not talk about the war, and was almost relieved when Ashcraft said, ‘Sorry to see in the London paper about Mrs Cate being arrested.’
John said, ‘She will probably be released again tomorrow. It read as though they had very little evidence against her.’
Ashcraft was a blunt outspoken man; not many others would have brought up this subject.
The farmer said, ‘Well, she feels strong about Ireland. We all know that. Not that I agree with her, mind, any more than you do, belike … How’s the young lady doing, as a labourer?’
‘Miss Adams? She’s a good hard worker. Fred seems to be pleased with her. He told me she’s doing well.’
‘Can’t be strong as a man, though, eh? How does she like the muck, her being the parson’s daughter and all?’
‘She does whatever she’s told, and hasn’t complained so far. She even helps in the house, though she doesn’t have to.’
The farmer said, ‘Well, I never thought I’d be looking for a woman as a cowman, but what else can I do, with all the men running off to join the army? If it gets worse, danged if I don’t go myself!’
John laughed. ‘You’d have to lose some weight before the army would have you, Howard.’ He did not add – and lose a score or more of years, too; for Ashcraft was short, very paunchy, and at least sixty.
They started talking about the price of linseed cake then; and the price of beef. It ought to be going up, for the army was making great demands for bully beef – ‘but all that comes from Argentina, or somewhere else in South America,’ Matthew Fleck, another local farmer, cut in. Then they talked of the price of milk … and the cost of wages … and the difficulties of getting labour … and the prevalence of charlock in the wheat fields this year … and the price of artificial fertilizer … and whether the war would affect the supply of nitrate from Chile. ‘It will, it will,’ Fleck growled, ‘ ’cos the price of sulphate of ammonia’s going up at the gasworks, and that shows they think we’re not going to be able to get the Chilean nitrate instead.’
John pulled out his watch. Nearly twelve. He said his goodbyes and walked back between the pens. He had sold nothing – he had brought nothing to sell: and he had bought nothing – but he had been given an idea. He’d talk it over with Fred this afternoon; and then get Christopher’s advice. For if Frank Cawthon was seriously thinking of changing to Friesian cattle, he would be well advised to think about it himself: Frank was a good farmer.
Men were still drilling with broomsticks in the rain, but there seemed to be fewer of them. Others were lining up, tins in hand, outside a big tent that must be the cookhouse. Bugles blew, cracked and inexpertly. A sergeant strutted by with a red sash diagonally across his chest, medal ribbons bright about his left breast pocket, a pace stick stuck importantly under his arm. As he passed John he whipped his head to the right and his right hand to the peak of his cap in salute. John thought, why on earth …? Then he realized that someone else was passing the other side of him – an officer of the Weald Light Infantry, who returned the salute with a touch of his swagger cane to his cap. John thought, that was the first time he had ever seen an officer of the regiment in uniform, in Hedlington. And now he saw two, three, four, many – watching the drilling, hands clasped behind their backs; walking into a tent where a flag flew outside; talking in a small group beyond the cook tent. The war had come to Hedlington. It was still raining.
Louise was waiting for him in the downstairs sitting-room of the South Eastern Hotel, the sprawling, comfortable Victorian red brick building opposite the railway station, built by the railway company in 1851. Inside it was all dark, with mahogany panelling and deep leather chairs. The dining-room beyond was large and airy, with big windows looking down the slope towards the Scarrow and the Weald. They went in at once to lunch, for Louise had announced that she was famished, and he could have his glass of sherry at the table.
They sat down, the old waiter creaked over on flat feet and handed them a menu. It was always table d’hote at the South Eastern, with a choice of vegetables; but the food was of excellent quality and very adequately cooked. John studied the card while Louise told him what she had bought – curtain material for Carol Adams’ room; a pair of stout shoes
for the winter; some flannel underclothes, ditto; writing paper, envelopes, knitting wool … They ordered – Brussels sprouts and roast potatoes to go with the roast saddle of lamb, mint sauce, and red currant jelly; then apple tart and cream.
‘And,’ she went on, after ordering, ‘I bought some fireworks.’
‘Fireworks?’
‘It’s Guy Fawkes’ Day, the day after tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But … will they let us have fireworks this year?’
‘No one’s said not,’ his wife said, ‘and why shouldn’t we?’
He thought, it might frighten people. The Germans kept threatening to drop bombs from Zeppelins and aeroplanes. It just seemed strange to be letting off explosives for fun, when so much was being used to kill, not so far away across the Channel.
She said, ‘I met Mr Handforth in the street.’ Handforth was the Cates’ solicitor. ‘He assured me that Margaret would be released tomorrow. But who’d ever have imagined the police would be searching Walstone Manor for treasonable documents – explosives, even, I heard.’
John said, ‘They didn’t find anything.’
‘That doesn’t mean that Margaret didn’t have anything, does it? Perhaps she had warning they were coming, and hid whatever she had.’
‘We mustn’t hold her guilty before she is proved so.’
She sniffed. ‘Margaret doesn’t pretend to be innocent. She says it’s for Ireland, and that makes anything all right.’ She leaned forward, ‘Don’t look now, but the Merritts have just come in.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Merritt and his son. The Americans Richard and the Governor met at Henley. Richard was driving them down to Hill House a day or two ago, and dropped by High Staining, on their way to call on the Cates. You were out somewhere. They’ve seen me. They’re coming this way.’
John pushed his chair back as the two Americans walked between the white-clothed tables towards them. Louise said, ‘Mr Merritt, this is my husband.’