The Furies

by Irving McCabe

  ‘In fraternal refrain let us take.

  The oath of allegiance, much beloved Austria.’

  The anthem finished and a thunder of applause began. After more than half a minute of continuous clapping and with no end in sight, the chief stood and dipped his hand in his pocket. He pulled out some coins and dropped them on the table, then turned to Gabriel. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’d better go if we’re to catch that train.’

  ***

  After a badly delayed journey, caused by military transport trains taking priority on the railway, Gabriel and Chief Fischer arrived in Sarajevo the following morning and took a taxi straight to 6th Army HQ in the centre of the city. On arrival at the old Islamic palace being used as 6th Army headquarters, they were informed that Field Marshall Potiorek was about to begin a briefing and told to go straight up to the meeting room on the first floor. Inside the high-ceilinged chamber, which had previously housed a Sultan’s harem, they found fifty or so senior officers sitting in rows before a raised podium. Standing on the podium was Colonel Merizzi, his right arm still in a sling, his good arm slowly unveiling a large chart supported on two easels. Across the top of the chart, written in heavy black capitals, were the words “INVASION OF SERBIA, AUGUST 1914”.

  Gabriel took a seat near the back of the room and gazed over the rows of epauletted shoulders in front of him. As well as his fellow senior officers from the 6th Army, he noticed several new faces, the insignia on their uniforms showing him they were soldiers from the 2nd and 5th Austrian Armies. Everybody was staring up at the map Merizzi had unveiled, which showed the positions of Bosnia and Serbia, with the river Drina as the natural border between the two. Thick black arrows marked the direction each army was expected to take during the invasion, and there was a murmur of anticipation as the officers in the room craned their heads, trying to get a closer look at the detail. Potiorek, dressed in the pale blue uniform and gold ribbon of a Field Marshall, stood motionless to one side of the easels, an aura of calm around him, like a teacher giving a class of not-so-bright children time to read a blackboard. As the hum of voices gradually diminished and the room fell silent, Potiorek began to speak, his voice quiet, the men in the room straining to listen; Gabriel sensed that some were holding their breath in case the sound of their breathing might mask his words.

  ‘Fellow officers of the 2nd, 5th and 6th Armies: the emperor has charged me with leading you into battle against the war-mongering Serbs. My strategy will be to defeat the opposition in one week with a lightning attack of overwhelming force.’

  He paused. ‘I would emphasise that the essence of my strategy is speed. I therefore expect that all three armies will be battle-ready within three days. The attack will begin four days later, on the 7th August, which is one week from today.’

  One week? Gabriel heard the mutterings and saw the quizzical looks that told him he was not the only officer in the room to think it overly optimistic – indeed, absurd – to expect an army of reservists to be ready so soon. But Potiorek did not appear to sense this disquiet as he continued his briefing, glancing down at General Appel, the commander of the 6th Army, who was sitting in the front row.

  ‘The attack will begin with the 6th Army, who will move out of Sarajevo, ford the lower Drina river and cross the western Serbian mountains, heading towards the strategically critical town of Kragujevac, which houses Serbia’s military arsenal.’

  Potiorek glanced down at two officers sitting beside General Appel, and Gabriel saw from the insignia on their shoulders that they were the commanding generals in charge of the 2nd and 5th Armies. ‘But the shortest route into Serbia is from the north,’ Potiorek continued.’ The 5th Army will cross the upper Drina into northern Serbia, while the 2nd Army on the left flank will cross the Danube and take Belgrade. Then the 5th and 2nd will link up and thrust further south, towards Kragujevac. Thus the 6th Army coming from the west, and the 5th and 2nd coming from the north, will act as two arms of a pincer and trap the Serbian forces near Kragujevac, where they will be forced to surrender, or be destroyed. If all goes according to plan, the war should be over by the end of the following week, the 14th of August.’

  Gabriel heard more muttered whispers and saw heads turn together as the assembled officers looked at each other with disquiet. He was no expert on military strategy, but even Gabriel could see that the plan was very ambitious; an advance through difficult terrain on an unrealistically short timetable, against a tough, battle-tested opposition. He was surprised that nobody had objected to the strategy, but then saw the commanding general of the 5th raise an arm.

  ‘With respect, Field Marshall, although the northern approach is mostly flat terrain, there is the problem of the Cer heights: the enemy have fortified it with artillery. From this vantage, the Serbs can direct ordinance on our troops below. Would it not be more sensible to first bombard the heights and neutralise their cannon—’

  ‘A bombardment will take too much time,’ Potiorek said, cutting through his words. ‘A frontal assault on the Cer heights is faster, more direct. It is important you capture it quickly, because the 2nd Army is needed against the Russian threat and will be transferred to the Galician front on the 15th of August.’

  The general’s face turned the colour of curdled milk. ‘But, Field Marshall, that will leave my 5th Army alone—’

  ‘I believe,’ Potiorek said, again overriding his reply, ‘that two armies should be more than enough to defeat the Serbs.’

  This is madness, thought Gabriel. That would leave only the 5th Army in the north and the 6th Army in the east. He had read somewhere that an attacking force needed a two-to-one advantage in numbers in order to ensure victory over the defenders. Yet without the 2nd Army the Austrians would be fielding fewer soldiers than the Serbs.

  ‘Casualties will be high,’ General Appel said.

  ‘Sacrifices will have to be made,’ Potiorek replied. ‘The empire assumes it. The emperor expects it.’

  But the General did not reply as Potiorek continued. ‘I believe that the Austrian soldier, led by the Austrian officer, can overcome any challenge.’ He took a deep breath and puffed his chest out. ‘And it is the emperor’s birthday on the 18th of August, so I would like to present his highness the birthday gift of victory over Serbia by that day.’

  Silence hung heavily in the hot and humid atmosphere of the room. Someone coughed; no one spoke. Potiorek scanned the room for dissenters, but there were none. The commanding generals sitting in the front row stared unhappily at the map, while other officers – their heads inclined – continued to whisper to each other. Gabriel was thinking about the difficulties of moving wounded men in the mountainous terrain when Potiorek spoke again. It seemed to Gabriel that at last, he may have picked up the undercurrent of unrest in the room.

  ‘You must have confidence in my plan, gentlemen, because I believe it is my destiny to defeat the Serbs.’ He paused before continuing. ‘The assassin at Sarajevo said he was aiming at me. Yet from a distance of only three yards he missed, and his bullets fatally wounded the Archduke and his wife.’ He paused again. ‘There can be no other explanation, gentlemen: I was spared by God,’ he lifted his gaze from the men below him and spread his arms wide, ‘because my purpose, my calling, is to lead the Austrian army to victory over the Serbs.’

  Dear Lord, thought Gabriel, did he really just say that? In the momentary silence that followed, Gabriel heard only the blood pumping through the arteries in his own head. He glanced at the faces of others in the room, and saw from their expressions that many were thinking the same as him. Potiorek seemed like a man possessed as he stood on the podium, a look of almost religious fervour still on his face as he lowered his arms and dropped his gaze to the ranks of men sitting below him. Princip’s bullets may have physically missed Potiorek, thought Gabriel, but psychologically they had struck him hard.

  ‘One final point,’ Potiorek continued. ‘This war will take us into a country that has a fanatical hatred towards Austria, a countr
y where murder – as the catastrophe of Sarajevo has proved – is glorified as heroism. Towards such a country, all humanity and kindness of heart are out of place and might even endanger our troops. Thus, no consideration or mercy should be extended to the population. This instruction will be issued in the general orders to all our troops.’

  An order to show no mercy or consideration to the civilian population? Gabriel had never heard of such a thing. A feeling of dismay rose from the pit of his stomach as Potiorek asked if there were any questions. Just as Gabriel was about to raise his arm, he saw the chief – sitting two rows ahead – stand up.

  ‘Just for clarification, Field Marshall,’ said the chief. ‘When you say “population”; you mean the civilian population?’

  Potiorek looked annoyed for a moment, as if being asked to repeat himself was a waste of his time. Then his face relaxed. ‘It may appear harsh, but I must consider the safety of our troops. So to clarify: that order applies to both military and civilian personnel. Am I understood?’

  The chief looked about to say something, but then seemed to think the better of it; he nodded and sat down. Gabriel heard the shuffle of feet, some throat clearing from others in the room, but no words. He reached up and loosened his collar as he was, by now, perspiring quite heavily.

  Potiorek scanned the room. ‘Any other questions?’

  He was met by silence.

  ‘No? Excellent.’ Potiorek lifted his chin and pulled his shoulders back. ‘One last point, gentlemen: the emperor wants every man to do his duty and expects sacrifices to be made. Make sure you and your men do not forget this.’ Then he nodded towards Merizzi, who called the room to attention, and the synchronous clatter of clicking heels sounded as everyone in the room stood up. Potiorek stepped down from the podium and left the room, Merizzi close behind him.

  As the other officers followed the two men out, the chief walked across to Gabriel. ‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘The man’s mad or a fool. We’d better get back to the hospital. There are a lot of preparations to make, and not much time to make them in.’

  7. London. August 1914

  ‘We have to shoot McCarthy.’

  Anya’s unexpected words hung in the heavy evening air above the small kitchen table. It had been another blistering day, and even in the shady kitchen at the back of the terraced house where Vera lodged, it was still oppressively hot. But Elspeth felt cold with shock as she stared across the table at Anya, the other woman’s eyes shaded by the red beret slung low over her forehead. Vera, sitting beside Anya, appeared ill at ease as she shifted in her chair and avoided Elspeth’s gaze.

  ‘Did you just say we should shoot Inspector McCarthy?’ Elspeth asked incredulously.

  Anya folded her arms and leant back in the chair. ‘Yes.’

  My God, Elspeth thought; she’s serious. She glanced at Sylvia sitting beside her – saw her lips parted in surprise – then turned back to Anya. ‘But this is madness. The arson strategy is directed against the property of the government and monarchy, nothing more. That’s why I was prepared to plant the bomb on the Coronation Chair. What you’re proposing…shooting someone…goes against everything the WSPU stands for.’

  ‘McCarthy is the enemy,’ Anya said, very matter-of-fact.

  ‘You’re talking about shooting a policeman…’ said Elspeth. But she fell silent when she saw the watery sheen that appeared in Anya’s eyes.

  ‘He killed Grace,’ Anya muttered, then dipped her head so that her face was obscured below the beret. A wet smudge suddenly flowered on the dry pine surface of the table below Anya’s head as a teardrop fell from her eyes. Vera leaned towards her and stretched a comforting arm around her shoulders, but Anya ignored her, merely wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. She sniffed once and then looked up at Elspeth again.

  ‘Do not forget that women have died,’ Anya said, her voice thick with grief. ‘I saw Grace after a feed…’ she shook her head as if to erase the memory, ‘…it should be a doctor to put the feeding tube in stomach, but the prison guards do it. They treat women like animals and pushed the tube into her lung. And then they push feed down the tube…’

  She closed her eyes for a moment; then opened them again. ‘McCarthy is Special Branch, Ellie. He is head of suffragette section. His agents watch our meetings. He saw you and Sylvia outside the Abbey and recognised you at Holland Park. If it was not for Vera, you would be in prison by now.’

  ‘But you can’t just go around shooting people, Anya,’ Sylvia said, indignation in her voice.

  ‘McCarthy is responsible for all suffragette arrests,’ Anya replied. ‘If we shoot him, we send a message that women cannot be treated like slaves.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Elspeth said. ‘You don’t even have a gun.’

  Anya suddenly stood up, lifted the hem of her skirt, and slipped a hand beneath the garment. When, a moment later, her hand reappeared it was holding a metallic object. And it took Elspeth only a second to register that the object was a pistol, the word ‘Browning’ stamped in the grey gunmetal. She gasped at the same time as Sylvia stood up, her chair skittering backwards as she stepped away from the table in shock.

  Anya calmly placed the pistol on the table, the hilt towards Elspeth. ‘Don’t worry, Ellie. It is not loaded.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ Elspeth whispered, stunned at the pistol’s appearance.

  ‘If we want to be treated equal, then we must be prepared to fight,’ Anya calmly replied.

  ‘This is madness,’ Sylvia said, leaning against the wall of the kitchen, arms folded defensively across her chest.

  A frown appeared on Anya’s brow. ‘I am surprised, Sylvie. I thought you would understand this.’

  ‘Well, you don’t know me very well then, do you,’ Sylvia replied stridently. ‘I could never envisage such a thing.’

  ‘And neither could I,’ Elspeth said, hearing the shock in her voice. ‘Again: where did you get it from?’

  Anya glanced at Vera before looking back at Elspeth. ‘From someone I met at the gun range in Tottenham Court Road, where Vera and I have been practising.’

  Vera? Elspeth, shocked, looked across the table and saw Vera fidget in her seat.

  ‘Is this true, Vee?’

  Vera slowly nodded. And now Elspeth felt truly torn: because as Anya had said, it was Vera who had saved them. She had recognised Inspector McCarthy and deliberately fallen into him, after which she had been arrested and taken to Paddington Green station. During questioning, McCarthy had demanded Elspeth’s and Sylvia’s real names and addresses in exchange for Vera’s release. Otherwise, he said, Vera would be charged with assault. But Vera hadn’t cracked, claiming she had unintentionally tripped into McCarthy and refusing to say anything more. Money from Sylvia’s parents, and a sympathetic lawyer, had secured Vera’s release on bail, but she was due to reappear in court in three weeks’ time.

  ‘Really, Vee? You’re part of this mad idea? Elspeth persisted.

  Vera nodded again, and then – an uncomfortable expression on her square face – she finally spoke. ‘Look. We have a problem, Ellie. Having seen you taking part in the rally outside the skating rink, McCarthy knows you’re a suffragette. He’ll have worked out that you and Sylvie planted the bomb at the Abbey. It’s only a matter of time before he finds out your names. And when he does, you’ll be arrested. You’ll go to prison. Your careers will be over. But Anya’s convinced me that if we shoot him—’

  ‘You’re talking about murder,’ Elspeth interrupted.

  Vera looked troubled, ran a hand quickly down her face, took a deep breath. ‘Look, Ellie, you ought to know that a few years back, some of the sisters were planning to shoot Asquith, the prime minister.’

  Elspeth’s heart began to pound.

  ‘With the constant suffragette picket outside parliament at the time it would have been easy,’ Vera continued. ‘But somebody warned the police and the plan was called off.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Don’t forget that some of our sis
ters have died for the cause: Emily Davidson under the king’s horse, Emmeline Pankhurst’s sister Mary from police brutality, Grace and others from prison feed going into their lungs—’

  ‘They put pneumonia on Grace’s death certificate, but it was murder,’ Anya interjected.

  ‘And you think that shooting the prime minister or a Special Branch inspector is the answer?’ Elspeth said, trying to suppress the panic in her voice.

  ‘This is war,’ Anya said. ‘In war, blood is spilt. We fight an enemy that uses the police against us. We cannot get close to Asquith anymore. But we can get close to McCarthy and his like.’

  ‘I never for one minute imagined this,’ Elspeth said, shaking her head in incredulity.

  ‘I knew you’d find this difficult,’ Vera continued. ‘You and Sylvie did us proud with the Abbey bomb, and neither of you should feel bad if you decide not to involve yourselves with this—’

  ‘This?’ Elspeth said as she stood up. ‘What you call “this”, Vera, is killing somebody. And I’ll have no part in it.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Sylvia.

  For a few seconds nobody moved, and then Anya took a step forwards, picking up the pistol from the table and raising the hem of her skirt to slip it back inside her undergarments. ‘Alright,’ she said, brushing the front of her skirt flat. ‘I’m going: there is no point in any more talk.’ She strode past Elspeth, thrusting open the kitchen door and disappearing into the hallway beyond.

  Vera stood up, her chair scraping the floor. ‘Wait, Anya—’ she called out, but the front door slamming told them all that Anya had already left the house. Vera’s shoulders sagged as she turned to Elspeth. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Vera whispered. ‘I didn’t…I…’ She shook her head and hurried to the kitchen door, stopping briefly in the doorway to look back at Elspeth. ‘She’s upset…I’d better go after her.’