The Poison Tide

by Andrew Williams

  In the morning, she fussed about him, brushing a suit jacket, straightening his tie, barely exchanging glances. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ she whispered as he kissed her goodbye.

  And on the train, he was happy for Fitzgerald to talk all the way to Ramsgate.

  They’d questioned Dilger in a desultory fashion, opened his case, held a few bottles to a dim light, then apologised for the inconvenience. It was over, the ship was under way, the case was in his cabin again. The moment had passed, fear and a conscienceless opportunity to sink it in the briny. Doctor Anton Dilger, physician, was returning to the New World from the Old with his glass phials, no more obstacles, no possible excuses, plain sailing to New York. He was relieved and he knew he should be pleased. The others had escaped too. He’d watched the priest hoisted, skirts flying, from the steam pinnacle. De Witt had managed it like a sailor but looked worn out, crumpled, as if the British had interrogated him through the night. But if they had discovered he was an arms smuggler the ship would surely have sailed without him. Dilger didn’t see him in the dining saloon that evening or at the card tables. He drank a little, gambled a little, then retired to his cabin. The wine, the worry of the last few days, it was some time before he was able to sleep, and then it was only for a short while. At three o’clock he woke gasping for breath, his sheets wet with perspiration, and reached a trembling hand for the glass of water he’d left on his bedside table.

  Fool, he murmured. Bloody fool. Just a dream. Only a dream.

  13

  Irish America

  WOLFF CHECKED INTO the Algonquin on West 44th Street, a quiet room at the rear of the hotel with discreet access to the fire escape, comfortable enough for a few days, too expensive for Christensen. They’d crossed from the Jersey City side together but parted at the ferry terminal. Father Nicholson was staying at a Manhattan church house, Christensen in Harlem with ‘a friend’ who, to judge by his sly smile, he was expecting to pay in his usual way. Ever mindful of Casement’s holy cause, the priest had undertaken to arrange a meeting with Irish leaders at once. But for a few hours Wolff was free to stride along Broadway, relishing the June heat and his own company, craning up at the office buildings with an engineer’s eye. From blinding midday sunshine into shade, a canyon street of skyscrapers alive with the noise of the motor car, monumental, brash, full of inexhaustible optimism. Let the old world tear itself apart, the new century belonged to America. His spirits had lifted as the Rotterdam passed through the Narrows, Liberty on the port side, Manhattan dead ahead, teetering at the edge of the bay like a sailor’s sweetheart in high heels, changed beyond recognition since his last visit – or was that the impression the new Woolworth Building made on the skyline? Like sloughing necrotic skin – Christensen, his palm always open, the priest with his righteous prattle, Violet, the Bureau, all the refuse of the teeming shore he’d left, and if it was only an illusion – after all, wasn’t he here with his own poison? – well, for as long as it lasted it was welcome.

  At Wanamaker’s he bought some light shirts and was measured for a summer suit, then he visited a barber for a haircut and a shave, to emerge an hour later with a new face, a new name, no longer Mr de Witt with his short Dutch ‘v’ but an American with a long city ‘w’. By then there was a late-afternoon breeze on Broadway and a fresh urgency in the step of office workers that anticipated the end of the working day. Wolff took a cab to the corner with Chambers Street and walked at the same businesslike pace across the park to the post office. In its cool hall he wrote a short note to a Mr Spencer in London, queued at the counter, paid for the postage and watched it drop into the bag. A little further along Broadway, he visited the Western Union office and sent another by messenger to Mr Ponting at the Yacht Club.

  By the time he got back to the Algonquin it was half past five and Christensen was fidgeting impatiently in the lobby. Where had Mr de Witt been? They must hurry, it was arranged for that evening: the priest was going to meet them at 51 Chambers Street – ask for Justice Cohalan. He was on edge in the cab, keen to ingratiate himself, complimenting Wolff on his clean shave. ‘You know, there’s a lot I can do here,’ he added plaintively. ‘I know New York . . . I could help you, help in your . . . work.’ Perhaps they could meet later, a meal or a drink, he knew a bar where there were – and he leant across to whisper behind his hand – girls. His breath smelt of beer and fish. Wolff sighed. Ah, Adler, you know you don’t have anything to offer here but your silence and you’re in too deep for that to be worth more than a few dollars. It was always difficult saying ‘goodbye’ to the Adlers. ‘I don’t want to go back to Berlin,’ he explained as the cab came to a halt, ‘not yet . . . Tell them that, won’t you . . .’

  ‘Why don’t you tell them yourself?’

  Number 51 Chambers Street was a new limestone skyscraper in the beaux arts style, paid for by interest earned on the savings of two generations of Irish emigrants. Above the vast banking hall where tellers behind bronze grilles counted thousands in and out every day, were several floors belonging to Holy Mother Church. With her special dispensation, Justice Cohalan occupied rooms on the tenth. ‘He’s a passionate fellow for a lawyer,’ Casement had said; ‘a fine man, knows everyone, and close to Devoy.’ Veteran republican, friend of Parnell, jailbird and journalist, gun runner, foreign legionnaire, implacable enemy of the British for more than half a century: ‘Devoy is Irish America,’ Casement said; ‘he’s the one you must explain things to.’ They were Roger’s delegation, the collective voice of his reason: priest, prostitute, spy. Comic and yet strangely appropriate, each of them represented something particular of the man. The part that the spy had rehearsed promenading the Rotterdam was loyal friend and businessman.

  Father Nicholson greeted them in the lobby. ‘It’s most of the executive of Clan na Gael,’ he said, hunting round anxiously for an ashtray. ‘I’ve given Sir Roger’s letter to Mr Devoy already.’ He filled the elevator with incense and sweat. There were a dozen of them round a boardroom table, heavy, middle aged or elderly, distinctly Irish in the self-conscious way of the American exile, all of them men but for a young woman in her early twenties who was there to take the minutes and was pretty enough to draw Wolff’s eye. From the head of the table, Justice Cohalan spoke a few cool words of welcome and indicated that they should take the empty chairs at the bottom. How was Sir Roger faring? he asked, broad shoulders wriggling uncomfortably; they had read his letter with concern. Concern was written deeply in his remarkably long face. He was a tough-looking man who might have made his living with a pick and a shovel. Wolff’s gaze wandered round the table as the priest spoke of Casement’s hopes for the brigade, of its spirit, of its new green uniform, of the need for more young Irishmen to fight alongside ‘our brothers’. Nicholson spoke with passion – more perhaps than he managed on a Sunday – and they listened with the respect they would offer any priest, but with no warmth. There was a long silence when he finished, only the scratching of the secretary’s pen.

  ‘He doesn’t seem himself, you know . . .’ Cohalan observed at last. ‘Disappointed, angry even, at least that’s what I read in his letters.’

  Nicholson said he thought Casement was in good spirits. But short of money, Christensen chipped in. Sir Roger wasn’t able to stay at the best hotels and didn’t eat like a gentleman.

  ‘Like a gentleman, you say?’ John Devoy leant forward, turning his shaggy grey head to stare menacingly down the table at them.

  ‘He has expenses,’ Christensen ventured nervously. ‘The grand circles he must be in . . . some costs . . . clothes . . .’

  Devoy snorted sceptically.

  ‘. . . clothes . . .’ Christensen repeated, nonplussed.

  The priest came to his rescue. ‘He lives very modestly, Mr Devoy, but he must put our case to the German leaders, their Chancellor and high command.’

  ‘Father, we’ve sent him six and a half thousand dollars – he’s no reason to complain,’ replied Devoy, softly spoken, distinctly Irish, too old to mince
his words.

  Cohalan patted his arm. ‘He’s out there dealing with these fellas on his own, John, it’s a tricky business; they’ve larger fish to fry than us . . . You’ve been very quiet, Mr de Witt. What do you say? You’re here to speak on Roger’s behalf, aren’t you?’

  ‘Before he does, I’d like to know who he is,’ Devoy remarked, and there was a murmur of assent round the table.

  Wolff reached lazily into his jacket pocket for his cigarette case, took one out and rolled it lightly between his fingers. ‘I’m a private man, Mr Devoy. Roger Casement trusts me because he knows me.’

  ‘He says in his letter you fought the British in South Africa with MacBride.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Cohalan . . .’ Snap. His lighter burst into flame; ‘. . . but that’s no sort of bona fide, I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m here to present Roger’s view, to answer the questions I can – my past is none of your business.’ He paused again to remove a strand of tobacco from his lip; ‘if you don’t respect Roger’s choice I have no business here—’

  ‘I don’t,’ interrupted Devoy.

  ‘Let’s hear him out,’ the judge said.

  ‘The Germans won’t help you if you don’t do anything for yourselves,’ Wolff continued. ‘That’s Roger’s opinion. He wants young Irishmen from here and someone, an Irishman, to command the brigade. Then they might believe you’ve got the guts to do more than sing about dying for old Ireland.’

  ‘You’re sneering at us,’ someone said. They were angry now, too angry to care who Sir Roger’s representative might be.

  ‘He’s wasting his time with the brigade,’ Devoy shook his head. ‘Vanity, that’s what it is . . .’

  ‘So you say,’ Wolff pressed on, ‘but what proof do the Germans have that there’s any cause in Ireland they can count on?’ There were more complaints. ‘Gentlemen, they want you to show some spirit.’

  It was the judge who brought them to order. The battle was won: Mr de Witt was allowed to speak his mind because they were Irish rebels for whom it was a great virtue, and perhaps after years of sentimental talk they were inclined to believe what he said was true. But if de Witt’s role was to speak for his friend Roger, what of the spy Wolff? A patina of mistrust, a little more of Casement’s reputation lost, the suggestion of a man close to a breakdown; goodness, it was easy enough. The man’s letters, his soul-baring letters, and the facts that de Witt presented to them, were all that the spy, Wolff, needed because they spoke for themselves. It was Roger’s view that hundreds, thousands of Irish Americans might be recruited to the brigade, and Roger was sure they could cross the Atlantic in disguise, and Roger had been promised rifles and a ship to carry them all to Ireland. Mr de Witt declined to give his own view. He did speak with passion of his friend’s faithful heart, of his frustrations, the slights he bore without complaint and his much reduced circumstances. With too much passion, C might have said. He would have been wrong. Wolff could see it in their heavy Irish faces. They had no faith in the brigade – what was it Casement called his men? – no faith in his ‘Poor Brothers’ – and they were going to leave them, like it said in the song, hanging on the barbed wire. But if some passion helped Mr de Witt’s friend to have a little more money in exile, good meals, a comfortable bed, then Mr Wolff was content too.

  ‘We must send more, of course,’ declared Justice Cohalan. ‘You will carry it back, de Witt . . .’

  Wolff shook his head. ‘I’m not returning to Berlin.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘This isn’t my cause, although I pray it succeeds in time and have faith that it will. I have a living to make here – Roger’s friend is to act as a courier,’ he said, half turning to Christensen.

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ the judge replied without enthusiasm.

  ‘Our cause will succeed without your prayers,’ growled Devoy.

  Wolff smiled sardonically. ‘I hope you’re right because I’m not a man who prays a great deal.’

  They glared at each other for a few seconds but with difficulty. ‘I felt sure you weren’t that sort of man,’ Devoy chuckled mischievously. ‘Sorry, Father.’

  With a smile on his face, the old man reminded Wolff of a grey Casement – the man he might become if he slipped the hangman’s noose. The priest blew out his cheeks and waved his hand, relieved to see a little sunshine.

  After the smiles, they wanted Wolff to go. There were handshakes, thanks, a promise that the Clan would be in touch – the Algonquin, wasn’t it? Was there anything they could do for him? Perhaps, he said; he was a businessman.

  ‘Be gentle with Roger. Your country has no more devoted servant,’ he told them. It was meant as a parting shot and he was turning to the door when the young woman spoke to him.

  ‘Mr de Witt, will you find time to visit Sir Roger’s sister while you’re here?’

  He’d presumed she was just the girl who took the minutes: early twenties, not married – he always looked for a ring – educated East Coast voice, fine features, intelligent face.

  ‘Yes, perhaps tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘I know Mrs Newman is very anxious for news of her brother.’

  They made eye contact and she offered an embarrassed smile then looked down, turning her notes deliberately.

  ‘All right, gentlemen.’ Justice Cohalan clapped his big hands together. ‘For now . . .’

  14

  More Friends and Enemies

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Wolff visited the offices of the Hamburg America Shipping Line on Broadway. ‘Contact Dr Albert, he will have something for a man like you,’ Nadolny had said to him. But Albert wasn’t there and his clerks pretended they didn’t know when he would be. Wolff left a note with his name and address, mentioning their ‘friend’ in Berlin.

  It was another blue day and with nothing particular to do until the afternoon he walked to Battery Park and sat in the sunshine watching the traffic along the waterfront, a liner creeping upriver to Hoboken, freighters in and out of the Jersey wharfs. Busier than he remembered it, with a score or more ships waiting for a berth, smoke and steam drifting north-west on a warm breeze. Horses, cattle, grain, iron, guns, ammunition to stoke the fire in Europe. In the name of peaceful commerce, of course. Stocks at the Broad Street exchange up again. No wonder the Germans were raging. Like children in a sweetie shop, everything for sale without discrimination, but with no possibility of slipping the British naval blockade of the Atlantic. If they couldn’t dip into the jar, the best they could do was stop the enemy doing the same. Sabotage made sense. But not Dr Albert; he was the man with the purse strings, the commercial attaché in Washington before the war. No, he would pass Wolff’s note to someone else – if he decided it was worth the trouble. What were his instructions from Berlin? The sun slipped behind cloud; somewhere in the outer bay a ship was sounding its horn, three, four, five urgent blasts. Rising from the bench, Wolff ambled by the river rail in the direction of the pier and a line of taxicabs. For now it was Casement, quietly losing his mind in Berlin, sad, desperate, lonely Roger, who was still his passport.

  Wolff telephoned Casement’s sister later that morning and arranged to visit her at four. Not just for King and Country, he liked to think, but out of a sense of duty to Casement too – or was he deluding himself? Mrs Agnes Newman lived in a prosperous tree-lined neighbourhood of Brooklyn among bank clerks and city accountants, a modest single-storey house, neat white picket fence and garden. Her bell tinkled impatiently. She answered the door herself and he was struck at once by the family resemblance. A little greyer, fuller in face and figure, but the same fine features and brooding deep-set eyes.

  ‘Roddy wrote to us about you,’ she said, stepping from the door. ‘I’m worried about him, you must tell me everything . . . please . . .’ She led him into her sitting room.

  ‘You met Miss McDonnell?’

  ‘Still to be properly introduced,’ he said. It was the young committee secretary of the night before. ‘Miss McDonnell.’ He gave a stiff bow.

&nbs
p; She smiled in amusement: ‘Mr de Witt.’

  ‘Sit down, sit down, please.’ Mrs Newman patted the only armchair. It had been positioned in the middle of a tight circle of wooden ones like a throne. The room was crammed with furniture, none of it interesting, the atmosphere alive with dust, swirling impatiently in the sunlight pouring through the lace curtains.

  ‘Laura says you spoke well,’ said Mrs Newman, taking a seat opposite. ‘Those people don’t understand Roddy – such a pity his friend, McGarrity, from Philadelphia wasn’t there.’

  She leant forward, hands clasped in a big fist, almost touching his knees, but gazing at his face too intently to notice. ‘His last letter . . . I’m worried, Mr de Witt.’

  ‘I have another,’ he said, reaching into his jacket. She took it from him, turned it over twice, three times, as if reading it with her fingertips, then put it to one side. ‘I want to hear from you first, everything – where is he living, is he eating well? . . . he wrote to say he’d seen the Blüchers.’

  Wolff told her a little of the party, an account so anodyne it might have been another event. Then he described Casement’s life in Berlin, his hotel and routine and the sympathetic hours he’d spent walking with Roger in the Tiergarten, friend and confidant. ‘He likes to walk, Mrs Newman . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course he does,’ she said irritably. ‘What I want—’