A Crimson Dawn (29 page)

‘I've been talking to that young ‘un.' The miner nodded at one of the guards. ‘He let slip there's a ship waiting for us. But there's been an outbreak of measles among the crew. That's why we're not already on our way to France.'

‘What are they up to?' Rab asked.

The other man looked troubled. ‘I think they want to make an example of us, that's what. If we disobey orders here in England, the worst they can do is chuck us in solitary. Over there, you get shot.'

Rab stared at him. But why was he so shocked? They were living under virtual military rule, every area of their lives ordered by the State and subject to draconian powers.

Rab answered with a grim smile, ‘Well, we must have got them worried if they're ganin' to this much trouble to get rid of us, eh?'

‘We need to get the word out,' his friend urged, ‘before we sail.'

***

Charles and Flora first read the rumours in the Manchester Guardian. A group of COs were being sent hastily to the front by the War Office. The only explanation could be that they were to be court-martialled for refusing to carry out orders, and executed.

‘Rab could be one of them,' Flora cried. ‘We have no idea where they've taken him. No way of finding out!'

Charles said quietly, ‘Maybe there is.'

He left for Blackton Heights that morning on Flora's bicycle. He had to dismount for the final mile, uphill to his old home, panting with the effort. The sight of thousands of daffodils bending in the breeze all the way up the drive gave him a surge of unexpected pleasure. He had forgotten the beauty of this place.

It was the cook who answered the door, flustered at the sight of him and the rusty bicycle.

‘Half the staff has left, Master Charles. Major's out on business. Is it Ma'am you want to see? Miss Sophie's here too. Terrible about the captain.'

Charles nodded. ‘I'll see myself up, Mrs Drake.'

Knocking on his mother's door, Charles let himself in quietly. His mother was sewing by the window; Sophie was jiggling a solid baby on her knee. The women were dressed in black.

They looked at him as if he were a ghost. His mother dropped her sewing.

‘Charles, dearest…' She held out her arms.

Sophie clutched her infant, and eyed him coldly as he kissed their mother. She turned her cheek away when he tried to greet her too.

‘And this is young Arthur?' Charles smiled. ‘What a splendid boy.' He tickled the baby's chin. ‘I'm so sorry about his father, Sophie,' he added. ‘I pray for you and the boy daily.'

‘I don't want your prayers, Charles,' she said bitterly, ‘or your pity.' Their mother murmured an admonishment but Sophie ignored her. ‘Why are you here? Begging on behalf of your precious conchies?'

Charles flinched. ‘Just one, actually. Rab MacRae.'

He saw the colour rise in his sister's cheeks. ‘Finally got the call-up, has he?'

‘He may be one of several dozen being sent illegally to France,' Charles said. ‘His appeal is still pending, yet the military have arrested him. I think Papa has something to do with it.'

Sophie jiggled her baby more vigorously. ‘Good job too. Men like him should be made to do their bit for their country.'

‘Not against their conscience,' Charles said quietly.

‘Poppycock!' Sophie shouted. The baby began to cry.

Charles held out his arms. ‘May I take him?' he smiled.

Sophie hesitated, and then handed over the whimpering boy. Charles walked up and down, crooning and chatting to his nephew. Sophie watched them, realising with a pang that her brother was never likely to be a father.

‘Why do you think Papa would know where Rab MacRae is?' she asked.

Charles stopped and looked at her. ‘Because he was on Rab's tribunal - made sure he was refused even non-combatant duties. Not that Rab would have accepted those either.'

‘No,' Sophie agreed, allowing herself a rueful smile.

‘Papa threatened Rab at the tribunal that he would get him to France before any appeal. I think his life is in great danger - and Papa is responsible. If we can at least find out where they are being held, we can stop them being shipped. Once they get to France, it may be out of anyone's hands.' He looked appealingly at his sister. ‘You could ask for me. You're the only one he ever listens to.'

‘Me!' Sophie cried. ‘Why should I want to save that man?'

‘For the sake of his family,' Charles urged. ‘Remember how they once took you into their home - saved you from attack? They are good people - brave people. They've lost one son already. They don't deserve to lose another to this terrible war.'

Sophie's eyes flooded with tears. She marched over and seized baby Arthur from his arms. Without another word, she pushed past Charles and rushed from the room. He looked over at his mother in disappointment.

‘Tell me about you and Flora,' she said softly. ‘I so miss her visits.'

Charles smiled at her in gratitude and went over to sit beside her.

They talked for a long time, reminiscing as well as exchanging news. She pressed him to stay for lunch, but Charles refused.

‘I don't want to upset Sophie more than I already have,' he said sadly.

‘You haven't upset her,' his mother assured. ‘She's punishing herself.'

‘Why?' Charles was baffled.

‘Because she never really loved Arthur, just married him on a wave of patriotic fervour,' his mother replied. ‘She's balking at the thought of a year in mourning when she'd much rather be out doing something. But her lack of feeling makes her feel guilty too.'

‘At least she has baby Arthur to occupy her,' Charles said.

His mother gave a dry laugh. ‘Cook and the housemaid look after the boy more than Sophie. Your sister is not a natural mother, Charles. She was horrified when Arthur's nanny upped and left to join the VAD, but of course she couldn't say anything. She wants the war to hurry up and end so she can throw herself into politics again.'

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.'

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.'