A Crimson Dawn

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Charles laughed. ‘Well, at least we’re agreed on that.’

  ‘Don’t take her harsh words to heart,’ his mother counselled. ‘Your sister still admires you greatly.’

  ‘Me?’ Charles snorted.

  ‘Yes, you. Admires the way you’ve just quietly got on with what you believe in, despite all the opposition from your father. I think she envies you your freedom, your love match to Flora.’

  Charles smiled. ‘For someone who shuts herself away from the world, Mama, you are an acute observer of human nature,’ he marvelled. ‘And probably the wisest person I know.’

  ‘And you, my dear Charles,’ she laughed, ‘are by far the most charming of my family. Always were.’

  They hugged in parting. As he made his way downstairs, he heard raised voices in the echoing hallway. He looked down from the gallery to see his father ordering Sophie back into the drawing room.

  ‘I’ll deal with this myself,’ he barked. He was heading up the stairs as Charles hurried down the final flight. ‘Don’t know how you dare show your face round here! I’ll not have you upsetting your sister and mother like this. Get out of this house!’

  ‘I came for information, Papa,’ Charles said calmly. ‘I thought you could tell me—’

  ‘I know why you’ve come!’ the major thundered. ‘If you think I’ll help you find that treacherous MacRae, you’re very much mistaken. I don’t know where he is, but I do know he will get his comeuppance once and for all.’

  ‘Comeuppance for what, Papa?’ Charles said, stepping closer so they were on a level. ‘For being anti-war or because he had the audacity to befriend the likes of Sophie and myself?’

  ‘He’s a dangerous man with dangerous ideas,’ Major James snapped. ‘He wants to turn the world on its head, as if common workers would have the first idea how to run things. MacRae would see us all ruined. And now he’s a traitor. You heard him at the tribunal - he’d rather have the German proletariat overrun us. This war is as much about protecting society from anarchists like him as fighting the Boche.’

  ‘His point exactly,’ Charles answered. ‘It’s naked self-interest that is driving this war. You’re doing very well out of this, aren’t you? Pits going all hours, guaranteed prices from the Government. Not much incentive to stop it, is there?’

  ‘How dare you?’ the major gasped in fury. ‘You’re a disgrace - a traitor to your class. You’ve lived for too long among the scum of society. You’re weak like your mother. That’s why you’re so easily taken in by ruthless men like MacRae. Well, I’ve seen to it that he does no more harm around here.’

  ‘Haven’t you punished him enough?’ Charles tried one last plea. ‘It wasn’t his fault that Sophie fell in love with him.’

  ‘In love?’ his father cried in contempt. ‘It was silly infatuation - you know how headstrong your sister can be. He took advantage of her. I should have got rid of him long ago.’

  ‘As an objector, Rab will suffer enough wherever he is sent,’ Charles reasoned. ‘But to have him executed in cold blood for his beliefs - is that not against all we claim to stand for as a Christian country? What about justice, forgiveness - and mercy?’

  His father glared at him coldly. ‘He’s no Christian; he said so in public. Why should we show him Christian mercy?’

  Charles looked at his father in despair. The gulf between them was so huge; he knew his arguing was pointless.

  ‘You may get rid of Rab MacRae, Papa,’ he said quietly, ‘but you can’t kill off his ideals. What Rab believes in so passionately will live on in others. And there will be others to take up his cross.’

  His father’s look was hard to fathom: loathing tinged with fear perhaps.

  ‘If I catch you on my estate again, I’ll have you arrested for trespass,’ he spat. ‘Get out!’

  Charles walked away without another word. He mounted Flora’s bicycle and pedalled off down the bumpy drive. Glancing round for one last look at his childhood home, he thought he saw Sophie’s black-enshrouded figure watching him from the long drawing-room windows. He wondered how much she had heard of the argument. He waved in farewell. She raised a hand in reply, or maybe she was just touching her hair.

  Charles rode away, thinking sadly of his mother, a free spirit trapped in this gilded cage of a mansion, wings broken long ago by tragedy and disappointment. He might never see her again, yet he knew wherever he went he took her blessing with him.

  Back at the Settlement, Flora knew from his harrowed face that he had been unsuccessful.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ she consoled. ‘And there’s been a telegram from London. Our friends at headquarters are organising a deputation to the Prime Minister to hold him to his pledge that COs will not be shot.’

  ‘Pray God it’s not too late,’ Charles said fervently. They held each other a moment.

  ‘Rab’s family?’ Flora agonised. ‘Should they be told?’

  Charles nodded. ‘Best to prepare them.’

  ‘I’ll send word to Emmie,’ Flora said bleakly. ‘She’ll know how to tell them as kindly as possible.’

  Chapter 23

  Rab was still queasy from the rough crossing. From the hold of the ship they emerged, shackled and squinting into the daylight, and were marched in the rain over flat, muddy countryside to a holding camp. Men were being drilled on a makeshift parade ground in front of low-lying huts. The prisoners arrived, foot-sore and hungry, wrists chafing from the iron chains, but, after a meal of bread and tea, were made to march on.

  Rab watched Laurie in concern. The young postman had not spoken since they left England. He had stopped singing hymns. His eyes were glazed in constant fear. Rab and Ernie Tait, the Chopwell miner, chivvied him to eat, but he no longer seemed able to swallow.

  ‘Sip your tea, lad,’ Rab encouraged. ‘Got to keep your strength up.’

  At a windswept railway station, they were herded into a cattle truck. After the prisoners had been crouching on their haunches for an hour in the gloom, the train pulled away sharply, throwing the men against each other. They travelled chained together for what seemed like half the night, having to urinate in the corner, nauseated by the smell of vomit from the travel-sick.

  Rab was dozing on his feet, half resting on Tait, when they stopped and the side of the truck was pulled open. It was too dark to see where they were. Exhausted, they tramped behind each other, along a village street, then off down a track that ended in a farmhouse. They were ordered into a long building that stank of excrement and rotting straw, unshackled and locked in once more. They bedded down as best they could.

  Rab was awoken by the shrill call of a cockerel. He became aware of horses whinnying and the constant noise of wheels trundling close by. As dawn seeped in at the dirty skylights, he could see the men were crammed into an old barn or stable. Laurie lay sleeping on a pile of filthy straw, his breathing ragged. Others coughed or moaned in their sleep, resting up against each other.

  Ernie Tait nudged Rab and offered a puff from the stub of his cigarette. ‘Last one,’ he whispered. ‘Blunts your hunger.’

  Rab took it, his tongue stinging from the acrid tobacco. ‘Where d’you think we are?’

  Ernie shrugged. ‘Towards the Front, I’d say. Sounds busy.’

  Soon after, the door was unbarred and two orderlies came in carrying a milk churn and a sack which they dumped down. The prisoners roused themselves at the sight. The door was locked again, leaving them in the dark.

  ‘It’s water,’ one of them said in disappointment. ‘How we supposed to drink it?’

  Some pressed forward, tipping it to get at the water and quench their thirst. It splashed on to the foul straw. Others scrambled for the bread in the sack, fighting over the loaves.

  Rab pushed forward in the half-dark. ‘Haway, lads, we take it in turns. Line up for water. Every man gets a lid full. Ernie, you share out the bread. They may tret us like savages, but they’ll not turn us into ’em.’

  ‘Man’s right,’ someone said,
shamefaced at his desperation. They queued up without protest.

  Later in the day, the door opened again and a sergeant marched in barking out names from a list for field punishment. Laurie was one of them. He looked at Rab in terror. Rab stepped forward.

  ‘Where you taking them?’ he demanded.

  The sergeant shoved him back. ‘Unless you’re called, you stay here.’

  A dozen men were led away under armed guard and the door locked behind them. The remaining prisoners waited all day for the others to return, or for more to be summoned out, speculating on the fate of their comrades. Outside there were shouts, men running, horses plodding, the occasional whistle. Rab and Ernie encouraged the men to organise the crowded cell into some sort of order, piling straw to one side, away from the slop bucket which had to do for all thirty-seven. Then they sat and Rab encouraged them to talk about their experiences, the decisions that had led them to this point, to draw courage from each other.

  Hours later, the orderlies came with more bread and water. Some time after that, the door opened again and their missing comrades were pushed through it. Even in the gloom, Rab could see that Laurie was in a terrible state. The young man staggered in and fell on to the squatting prisoners. He cried out in pain when Rab tried to lift him.

  ‘Gave him a real going-over,’ one of the others panted.

  They moved aside, trying to give the returning COs room to catch their breath. They gradually told of their ordeal.

  ‘Had us running round this field - hands on head - knee-deep in mud - weren’t allowed to stop. Kicked and punched if you did. Laurie and the young lads were picked on the most. Fired shots over our heads to keep us moving.’

  Rab propped Laurie up as best he could and dripped water on to his cracked lips. He hardly responded. Rab was filled with fury. He got up and went to the door, hammering on it hard.

  ‘Guard!’ he shouted. ‘Open up. Lad needs a doctor.’ When no one came, he thumped on it all the more, cursing them in frustration.

  All through the night, Rab kept an eye on Laurie, trying to make him comfortable in the dismal cell. When morning came, he dipped his ration of bread in water and fed it to the youth. Laurie choked on the soft food and tried to turn away.

  ‘You’ve got to eat,’ Rab urged.

  Laurie looked at him with hollow eyes as if he were a stranger.

  Soon afterwards, the sergeant returned and called out a string of names. Rab and Ernie were among them. He ordered them out of the cell. They refused.

  ‘Right, get ’em,’ the sergeant shouted, and two soldiers hauled Rab to his feet. They dragged him out of the cell. He was almost blinded by the strong sunlight. Across the flattened ground in front, a sea of tents stretched away into the distance. He gulped in the fresh air and noticed the blossom on a tree close to the farmhouse. But the building was derelict, its windows gaping and roof gone. Then he was being shoved forward, his limbs stiff and aching from the hours of confinement.

  They were marched at gunpoint to a rough parade ground that had once been a field. Large pools of stagnant water lay in the ruts. The sergeant ordered them to run around.

  ‘Six times round, hands on heads!’ he bellowed.

  Some of the men began to jog, splashing through the puddles. Rab and Ernie stood their ground with a dozen others. The officer barked at them to move, then sent his men to force them. They were hit with rifle butts, punched and abused. Still they refused to obey orders.

  ‘Why you doing the bosses’ dirty work?’ Rab challenged the guards. ‘We’re your comrades, not the armchair patriots who sent you to war - the ones making millions out of this misery.’

  ‘Shut up!’ barked the sergeant, winding him with a punch.

  The guards pushed them to the ground, kicked and stood on them, while the angry sergeant ordered them to crawl through the mud. Three men started to move, the others lay where they were.

  The eleven resisters, Rab and Ernie among them, were dragged up and pushed at the end of rifles to follow the NCO. They were taken to a crumbling courtyard. A row of crudely fashioned crosses were spaced out in front of them. One by one the prisoners were tied up against a pole, their arms raised to shoulder height and strapped to the crossbars, their ankles bound at the bottom.

  ‘You think you’re Jesus bloody Christ,’ the sergeant mocked, ‘so let’s see how much you like it now.’

  He left them in the warming sun, crucified. It was not long before they were crying out for relief, arms numb. Rab felt sick with the pain in his shoulders, then faint from lack of breath. A private came round and splashed water to their lips. One man screamed out he would do anything they asked, just let him free. The sergeant told his men to cut him down and he was frog-marched away.

  Rab heard Ernie trying to speak. ‘Fourth Commandment - Honour - good - men,’ he gasped, ‘bow down - to none.’ Rab felt a surge of courage at the familiar words. ‘Fifth - do not hate,’ Ernie groaned, ‘but stand - up - for rights - and resist – oppression …’

  Rab raised his head and strained to see his friend. He had fallen silent, exhausted by the effort.

  ‘Sixth Commandment,’ Rab panted. ‘Do not be cowardly - love justice.’

  The sky clouded over. Then a chill wind got up, it darkened suddenly and a heavy shower deluged them in seconds. The guards took cover. When it was over, they came back and cut down the remaining men. Two of them collapsed on the ground and had to be carried away. Rab only just managed to steady himself against the pole, his head swimming. More guards were called on to haul the men away.

  Instead of being taken back to the communal cell, they were thrown into a tiny hut, shackled at the ankles and locked in the dark. Rab lay back on the hard earth, his limbs throbbing, ankles and wrists bleeding. They were too exhausted to talk. At some point they were brought water and bread. It was an effort to sit up and eat. The bread stuck in his parched throat like stone. As they lay trying to sleep on the hard ground without straw or mattress, Rab nearly wept at the injustice. Why were the soldiers being so vindictive? Why not just shoot them?

  He fell asleep, hearing the whispered prayers of the man beside him. Some time in the night, he was woken by a distant boom. He jerked awake, thinking it was an explosion of gas down the pit and for a moment in the pitch-black had no idea where he was. After that, he could not sleep, plagued with thoughts of home and those he had left behind.

  Ernie whispered his name. ‘Rab, you awake?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Courage, comrade,’ the older man croaked.

  ‘Why don’t they just be done with it?’ Rab whispered bleakly. ‘Why torture us first?’

  ‘They want to break us, lad. They’d rather we gave in than have to shoot us. Don’t you see how that would look? Show us up for a bunch of cowards - shirkers - with no real conscience.’

  Rab was sceptical. ‘But surely they want to make an example of us - scare others off from doing the same?’

  ‘Maybe that’s what some in the War Office want,’ Ernie grunted, ‘but I think the military here think differently. What would you do if you had resisters on your hands - shoot them and make martyrs? That could lead to mutiny. Better to break their spirit and whip them into line.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rab murmured, ‘I see your point. But with a war on, I’m surprised they’re going to so much bother.’

  ‘But that’s the reason,’ Ernie said eagerly. ‘They’ve run out of men willing to die unthinkingly for their shabby war. Now they have to convince the conscripts. We’re standing in the way of that.’

  Rab felt a flare of hope. ‘By heck, we’ve got them rattled. Few more like us and this war’ll grind to a halt.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, lad,’ Emie said, gripping his arm in encouragement.

  Chapter 24

  In the morning, an officer appeared. He announced himself as their commanding officer and told them they were to be court-martialled for disobedience while undergoing field punishment. They were led to an outside trough, stripped
, told to wash and issued with fresh army clothing. Then they were shackled and taken to one of the farm buildings. Inside a small room, bare but for a table and three chairs, a young officer greeted them nervously.

  ‘I’ve been appointed to represent you at your Field General Court Martial,’ he told them, going to the table and sitting down. ‘The prisoner’s friend. If you want one, that is. I need to take some statements from you - help with your defence.’

  He opened an exercise book, pulled out a pencil and looked up expectantly.

  ‘Our defence is we are conscientious objectors and should not be here,’ Rab spoke up. ‘My appeal is still pending. We’ve been kidnapped by the military.’

  The young lieutenant looked at him in dismay.

  ‘That won’t help you here, I’m afraid. I need to say things about your good character - maybe some of you are pillars of your community?’ He gave them a hopeful look.

  Ernie snorted with laughter. ‘Aye, Secretary of the Chopwell ILP.’

  ‘ILP?’ the officer queried.

  ‘Independent Labour Party, lad.’

  His face fell. ‘You have to call me sir.’

  ‘We stopped doing that when we left school,’ Rab grunted.

  The lieutenant ploughed on. ‘You could say something like: you didn’t realise it was so serious.’

  No one said anything.

  ‘Or you didn’t know what you were doing,’ the officer suggested. ‘Promise you won’t do it again.’

  ‘And will the army promise not to beat us and crucify us again?’ Rab asked quietly. ‘We’ve been tret worse than any prisoners of war.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the soldier said, flushing. ‘I’m trying to help you.’

  ‘The best way you could help would be to join us,’ Rab challenged. ‘Lay down your arms.’

  The lieutenant was appalled. ‘You must be mad.’

  Ernie said tiredly, ‘Listen, lad, you’re wasting your breath. We’ll defend ourselves.’