A Crimson Dawn (31 page)

There was a small barred window that looked out on the parade ground. If he pulled himself up on the bars he could glimpse the comings and goings of soldiers and supplies. But with hands shackled, he could only hold on for seconds and soon gave up trying. Rab knocked on the wall. There was an answering tap.

He shouted, ‘It's Rab MacRae!'

‘Ernie,' came back the muffled reply.

Someone on the other side knocked and shouted.

‘Hoy!' cried the guard, ordering them to keep quiet.

But it was enough to fill Rab with renewed courage. He had comrades around him, despite what the captain had said. No matter what they did to them, they would stand firm together.

For the rest of the day, he sat in the patch of sunlight that moved around the cell, until it faded and the cold returned. His hearing became more acute as he strained to interpret the sounds from without. There seemed to be ceaseless motion; the clatter of boots, rumble of horse-drawn vehicles, shouted orders, clang of metal. In the lull between these harsh noises was the sudden trill of a bird or a snatch of song from a passing soldier. One of the guards kept whistling a tune that had been popular before the war, ‘You Made Me Love You', and it reminded him of home.

Two days went by in this twilight world, where he saw no one to talk to but the guards who brought him food - a little thin soup with bread and strange-tasting coffee. One was surly and ignored his questions, but the whistler of tunes was more friendly. He was an apprentice baker from Middlesbrough who liked nothing better than a night at the music hall.

But Rab could only engage him in conversation for a few snatched moments. He had endless time to think and reflect. He wondered what was happening to the other men. Were some of them still being tortured? How many had given in and signed up to army rule? Had some already been shot? He pushed away such a grim thought. He would have heard the volley of a firing squad. Yet on one occasion, when the wind had been strong, he had heard the distant pounding of guns like far-off thunder.

At first Rab refused to dwell on his family and home. It was easier to think about his comrades and remind himself why he was there. But thoughts of home gradually took a hold. The whistling of the young guard set him humming tunes to himself. Suddenly an image was conjured up of Emmie at his kitchen table, head bent over her writing, stray curls of dark hair brushing her cheek. He remembered her frowning in concentration; dark eyebrows, long lashes, full lips slightly parted.

Rab gasped at the bitter-sweet memory. He felt winded. Closing his eyes tight shut, he tried to remember more.

Barny has run outside to find Mannie in the workshop. Rab is supposed to be getting on with proofreading the Messenger, but all he can do is gaze at Emmie. His heart is full. He wants to reach out and touch her untidy dark hair, feel the softness of her skin. How long has he wanted to do this? He cannot remember when he first fell in love with Emmie. Perhaps he has always been in love with her, or perhaps he has only become fully aware of it now that it is too late.

Rab opened his eyes and stared at the brown-washed wall. Why had he never told Emmie how he felt? Was it because she was Curran's wife? But he thought nothing of conventional marriage; it was bourgeois, corrupting, where a woman was little more than the chattel of a man. Why had he never tried to tempt her away from Tom? He could see how unsuited they were, how the young Curran was gradually curbing her spirit, sapping her radicalism.

Yet Emmie had finally stood up to Tom's oppressive possessiveness. She had rebelled against the values of the Currans and protested against the war. How courageous she had been to defy them and how difficult it must be for her now, still living among them. Every day she must face censure and hostility, the pressure to give up and conform. Rab knew that his ordeal would soon be over, but hers stretched on for an eternity.

The next time the whistling guard came with food, Rab asked, ‘Can you fetch me a pen and paper, marra? I want to write to me family before they come for me.'

The young baker looked nervous. ‘Don't know about that. I'd have to ask—'

‘Please?' Rab pleaded. ‘Just the once.'

The guard shook his head in regret. ‘I'd never get it past the censor.'

Rab was filled with frustration. He would never have the chance to say the things in his heart. But later, he thought better of the idea. What good would telling Emmie do now? Better that she'd never know.

***

On the third day of incarceration, Lieutenant Bowler came to prepare Rab.

‘You'll be up in front of the whole company tomorrow,' he said. ‘Your sentence will be read out - along with the other prisoners. You'll be allowed a wash and shave. Smarten yourself up.'

‘So I don't look too degenerate?' Rab mocked gently.

‘Would you like anything else?' Bowler asked, his look embarrassed. ‘I can send the chaplain, if you'd like a chat.'

‘Not much time to convert an atheist like me,' Rab teased. ‘No, there's nothing I want.'

The next morning, just after sunrise, the guard came in and shaved him. Rab drank a cup of weak tea. Shortly afterwards, he heard the preparation outside. Barked commands were followed by the drumming of countless footsteps.

‘Sorry,' the whistling guard apologised, ‘I have to put these on you.'

Rab was put in leg irons and led outside. As he shuffled towards the makeshift parade ground, he was stunned at the sight of so many soldiers. There were hundreds of them, lined up on three sides of the muddy field, their ranks stretching into a blur. Moving awkwardly ahead were a dozen of his comrades. Behind him a voice cried, ‘Rab!' He turned to see Ernie hobbling after him.

Rab grinned. ‘Haway, you old gadgy, mustn't keep the colonel waiting.'

Rab slowed to let Ernie catch him up, despite the guard pushing him forward. Finally they arrived in the centre, huddled together like sheep, awed by the hush around them. It was humiliating, reminding Rab of a freak show at a travelling fair, all eyes trained on them in curiosity at their undignified shackled state. If only he had the courage to shout out to these men, what an opportunity it would be. But his throat was dry, his heart hammering. He glanced around his fellow prisoners and suddenly spotted Laurie.

The postman was ashen, his face strained but impassive. So they had not beaten him into submission. Rab was surprised. He caught the young man's look and smiled in encouragement. Laurie gave the slightest of nods back.

An officer marched forward and began to read out their names and numbers. Rab looked into the sky, watching clouds dance and swirl like a moving picture show. He breathed in the fresh air. It smelled of horse and hay, and new growth. A beautiful day.

‘… whilst undergoing field punishment.'

Rab forced himself to concentrate on the loud, ponderous voice of the officer.

‘The sentence of the court is death.' A long pause to let the gravity of their crime sink in. ‘Confirmed by General Sir Douglas Haig.' A further pause. ‘The condemned men will be taken out at dawn tomorrow and shot.'

The silence rang in Rab's head. He watched the proceedings as if they were happening to someone else. Laurie buckled at the knees and was prevented from falling by men on either side. Ernie swore under his breath. A flurry of cherry blossom appeared out of nowhere and scattered in the mud at their feet.

This was the last full day of life for these men pressed together beside him, their faces disbelieving, resigned, angry. Only when they were being ordered back to their cells did numbness lift and the pain of realisation grip Rab. This was his last day of morning sun, of blossom, of hope for the future. Tomorrow there might still be hope, but it would not be his. As he was led to the cell, he suddenly resisted. He stood rigid in the doorway, breathing in gulps of fresh air, frantically looking around, trying to memorise the sight of a tree, the clouds, a city of tents.

He was pushed into the darkened room, his feet unshackled. Then the door banged shut. He struggled to breathe, as if he already lay entombed. He tried to stem his rising panic, forced himself not to cry out. He lowered himself down, pressed against the wall and buried his head between his knees. He wept as silently as possible, ashamed of his tears.

Later, his whistling friend returned, and Rab was glad of the cell's gloom to hide his reddened eyes.

‘Padre Hammond's here to see you,' he said cheerfully. ‘I told him you wanted paper for a letter.'

The chaplain was tall and bald; he stooped to enter the room.

‘Better off speaking to the Christian lads,' Rab told him when he tried to make conversation. ‘Wasting your time on me.'

Still, the man stayed a while and Rab found himself telling him about Crawdene and the socialist Sunday school his father had started.

‘We're not so very different, you and I,' the chaplain smiled.

Rab grunted. ‘A vicar friend of mine runs a Settlement in Gateshead. He says Jesus Christ was the first socialist.'

‘Could that be Charles Oliphant?' the chaplain exclaimed.

‘Aye, it is. Do you know him?'

‘I trained at St Chad's with him - good man. We lost touch. Is he still at the Settlement?'

Rab nodded. ‘He's trying to keep it open - and help COs like me.'

‘A pacifist then?' the chaplain asked in surprise. ‘His father was an army man, I seem to remember.'

‘They don't see eye to eye. Old man Oliphant would sell his granny into the army to keep this war going and his profits climbing.'

‘This war is not about making money.' The chaplain sounded shocked. ‘It's about doing the right thing - fighting for righteousness over evil.'

‘War is the greatest evil,' Rab countered. ‘How can you be a man of God and not preach peace?'

‘I do preach peace,' Hammond said defensively.

‘Give us peace, Lord, but not quite yet?' Rab mocked.

The chaplain laughed
. ‘Touche!'

They talked about Charles, Rab's work, and the chaplain's days at Durham University. Soon they were discussing the poems of Matthew Arnold, the novels of Dickens and the politics of Keir Hardie.

The padre left him with a portable writing table, paper and pen, promising to deliver any letters he cared to write. Rab sat under the narrow window for a long time, contemplating the blank page on his knee. The afternoon light moved across the cell floor.

He wrote a letter to Charles and Flora, telling of his encounter with Padre Hammond. He told of his stout-hearted comrades, not wavering in the face of ‘great trials', though he knew if he mentioned details they would be scored out. Then he wrote to his parents, a short affectionate letter, telling them to carry on the fight for socialism - and to give Peter his fountain pen.

Afterwards, he got up and paced the cell, restless and troubled. The light was fading from the window; his eyes were sore from straining in the dimness. Outside, someone went by singing ‘The Homes They Leave Behind'. Rab stopped and strained to listen as the soldier's words faded and were gone.

He returned to the small writing desk, placed it on his knee and began to write his final letter.

Emmie lived in a state of limbo in the rented flat in Berlin Terrace. In a fit of patriotism, Oliphant had renamed it Empire Terrace, but Emmie stubbornly refused to call her home by its new name. It was mid-April and the allotments were sprouting green; blossom from the trees around the chapel was scattered all over the village.

She had come to an uneasy truce with her in-laws, taking Barny to see them once a week and sharing the two letters she had received so far from Tom. They were short and factual, asking for news of Barny, telling her to take care of herself and the nipper. The first one came from a depot in Yorkshire, the second from France.

Emmie was shocked at how quickly he had been sent to the Front. It all seemed so unreal, a bad dream from which she would soon wake. She shared her anxiety with the Currans, but what she could not share were her fears for Rab.

She had gone back to the Settlement a week after his arrest, but there was no news of his whereabouts.

‘We're doing all we can, tell his parents,' Flora said, her face strained. ‘MPs have been lobbied - Philip Snowden's going to raise the matter in the House. It's quite illegal what the military are doing.'

Flora promised to send word as soon as they knew where Rab was being held. A week ago, Flora had written a scrawled note of triumph. Asquith had issued a statement in the Commons, condemning the military authorities for defying pledges to Parliament and ordering that conscientious objectors were not to be sent to France. The commander-in-chief was not to issue any death sentences without the consent of the Prime Minister.

Emmie hurried round to the MacRaes with the news. Helen gasped with relief, but Jonas was troubled.

‘But we don't know where the lad is - so how do we know he hasn't already been sent - already executed?'

Emmie shuddered at the thought. She found it impossible to settle to anything, forcing herself for Barny's sake to do mundane chores and blot out fearful thoughts. Yet each day she awoke with a feeling of dread. She could just about pay the rent on the flat with Tom's army pay, but the prices of foodstuffs and clothing were soaring and she worried that she would have to give up the flat.

Daily she joined the queues outside the co-operative store or the butcher's, ignoring the sidelong looks and the whispered comments. Emmie knew what they said behind her back.

‘Fancy her ganin' to help the conchies in Gateshead, with her man in the army.'

‘I heard she had a fallin'-out with the Currans - that Louise won't give her the time o' day.'

‘Strange lot, the MacRaes. Not surprising she's a bit wrong in the head, growing up with that lot.'

‘Rab MacRae's been arrested, you kna.'