Women of Courage (19 page)

An even larger number of Ulster women had signed a shorter covenant, in support of their men:

‘We … women of Ulster … desire to associate ourselves with the men of Ulster in their uncompromising opposition to the Home Rule Bill now before Parliament, whereby it is proposed to drive Ulster out of her cherished place in the Constitution of the United Kingdom, and to place her under the domination of a Parliament in Ireland.’

‘So when the Home Rule Bill is passed through Parliament later this year,’ Werner had told the two generals, ‘it is quite likely that there will be civil war.’

‘So I understand,’ von Falkenhayn had answered smoothly, staring thoughtfully at the pale blue eyes of his intelligence officer. ‘But, Major von Weichsaker, I am less clear about the timing of this civil war, and its likely outcome. You state in your report that it will come soon, I believe?’

Werner nodded. ‘Within the next few months, Herr General. The Home Rule Bill has been through the Commons and rejected by the Lords twice; it is due to be introduced in the Commons for the third time in the next few weeks. The Government of the Realm Act states that the Lords can only reject a Bill twice. So unless the government loses its nerve, the Bill will become law before the summer.’

‘And the government shows no sign of losing its nerve?’

‘Not at present, Herr General. On the contrary, they are becoming more aggressive. The day before I left, the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, spoke in Bradford. He called the Unionists “sinister revolutionaries”, and “anarchists”, as I recall. He is believed to speak on behalf of the Prime Minister.’

Falkenhayn smiled. ‘I read that speech. It seems Mr Churchill has a longing for war, and if he cannot fight Admiral Tirpitz, he will fight the Ulstermen instead. But . . . do you really believe this Ulster Volunteer Force can offer serious resistance?’

‘I believe so, Herr General, because of the moral force on their side. They are, so far as I have seen, very well disciplined, but lacking in military equipment. Many of them drill with sporting rifles and shotguns, even wooden guns. I saw one machine-gun only. So in any full-scale conflict they would undoubtedly be defeated. But equally, there is great reluctance among the British Army to fight them, and they have enormous support among the Protestant population in their province. So I believe that the regular army will fight half-heartedly and the Ulstermen will resist with passion, making the struggle a more equal one.’

‘And how long will it last?’

‘That is much harder to say. It depends on moral as well as military force, as I said. If the Ulstermen were better armed, it would last several weeks. A month even.’

Von Moltke had spoken for the first time. Ten years older than von Falkenhayn, he was a blunt, crusty soldier of the old school. Werner had the impression that he regarded undercover intelligence work as an unnecessary evil, and wondered if he had even bothered to read the entire report.

Moltke scowled. ‘Surely we can arm the rebels, Major? Isn’t that what one normally does in situations of this kind? Ask Tirpitz to organise a shipload of machine guns? A few free gifts to friendly natives — why don’t you go ahead and organise it, man?’

Werner smiled. ‘I have indeed thought of that, Herr General. It is mentioned in my report. A consignment of 25,000 rifles and two and a half million rounds of ammunition is due to leave Hamburg within the next week. The Ulstermen believe, of course, that they have organised this all on their own, but with General von Falkenhayn’s consent, my colleagues and I have, er, taken a few steps to clear the way.’

Moltke beamed; he was genuinely delighted. ‘Excellent! Excellent! And are there more on the way?’

‘Not so far, Herr General. This is the maximum the Ulstermen believe they can handle at present. And it remains to be seen how they can land them. After all, we cannot be seen to help them openly. They may behave like rebels, but they regard themselves as loyalists; they distrust Germany as much as the Liberal government does. As I say in my report, any suggestion that we were openly involved would be likely to unite both sides against us.’

Moltke nodded, convinced but disappointed. Falkenhayn picked up Werner’s report from the table, and leafed through it thoughtfully.

‘It seems to me, Major von Weichsaker, that what we are discussing is a situation of enormous potential for the Empire of His Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm. I fully appreciate the detailed study you have given to it, and both General Moltke and I accept the point you raise that it is politically impossible for us to be seen to interfere openly in this conflict. But . . . I think perhaps General von Moltke would like to explain to you why this civil war is so crucial to the fortunes of Germany.’

Moltke had lumbered importantly to his feet. It was not the first time in the interview he had done this; it was as though the constriction of a chair and a desk were too much for him, and he yearned to be back in the saddle at the head of his troops. He strode to the large map of Europe on the opposite wall, and slapped it emphatically with his riding crop. The end of the crop landed on the Belgian border.

‘You see this, von Weichsaker, don’t you? The weak point in the French defences. All along the French border with Germany the French Army are prepared — perhaps to attack us. It would take millions of men to overcome them. But if we sweep around the outside, through Belgium, there will be no resistance, none. The French have no fortifications at all on their Belgian border. We shall be in Paris within a month, and the French will be annihilated. Then we can regroup and concentrate our forces on our destiny, which is in Poland and Russia, to the east.’

Werner had smiled, perhaps a trifle too complacently. ‘Yes, Herr General, I realise that.’ It was not only he who knew about the Schlieffen plan; knowledge of it was so widespread amongst senior army officers that Werner would be surprised if the French did not know of it also. Even if they hadn’t found out, they ought to have been able to work it out for themselves. They had maps in France, after all, didn’t they? That was why the French had been so keen to get the British to sign a guarantee of Belgian neutrality. And to get the Germans to sign it, too.

Moltke waved his hand again, imperiously. ‘You realise it, Major, yes. But you do not think about it enough. You do not realise its importance. Whereas I, who will have to implement this plan, think about it day and night.’

Werner had sat back in his chair. It was the first indication he had had that he had been summoned to discuss matters far wider than Ulster. What has this got to do with my report, he had wondered.

‘Over a year ago, in December 1912, I wanted to implement this plan.’ Moltke continued. The army was ready, we could have crossed the Belgian border and smashed the French in a few weeks. I recommended action, but the Kaiser overruled me because of the navy — Tirpitz told him they would not be ready for another eighteen months, when the Kiel Canal would be opened. That will be in June of this year — 1914. That gives us just two months from now — do you understand me? Then, if there is the slightest pretext, I shall recommend that we move — through Belgium, into France. You follow me so far, Major?’

‘Perfectly, Herr General.’

‘Good! And as an astute intelligence officer you will know that the neutrality of Belgium is guaranteed not only by the French, but the British.’

And ourselves, Werner thought. Poor Belgians.

‘So, when we invade Belgium, we shall find ourselves fighting not only the French, but the British Empire too, unless . . .’ Moltke scowled ferociously at Werner, as though to ensure his full attention. Werner watched him with his pale blue eyes and thought, this is it. This is why they are so interested. A pulse of fear and excitement began to throb urgently in his throat.

Moltke thwacked his riding crop across another part of the map — the British Isles, where the coast of Scotland reached out towards Northern Ireland. ‘Unless this civil war that you talk about has begun before we move. Preferably by the middle of May. In which case the British will be too preoccupied with killing each other to be able to send any effective help to Belgium at all.’

Werner nodded, and stretched his aching right hand carefully across his thigh. ‘I see, Herr General. But . . .’

‘But nothing!’ A grim smile crossed von Moltke’s face, a smile of almost boyish enthusiasm like that of a hunter who has seen his quarry. He returned to the desk, and thumped his open palm down hard on it, flat on the top of Werner’s report. ‘The answer General von Falkenhayn and I want begins with
‘so’,
not
‘but
’! That is why we have summoned you here. It is obvious to us that we should do everything in our power to foment this civil war, in the interests of the German Empire! It is less obvious to us that the man Carson will be foolish enough to begin such a war on his own. So what I want from you, Major von Weichsaker, are constructive suggestions as to the best ways in which we can act! What plans do you have for this?’

Werner had paled. His right hand had been aching badly by then, and a pulse was beating irritatingly under his arm. He felt like a young recruit being bawled out on the parade ground by the sergeant-major. Only these were the two most important sergeant-majors in Germany.

Feebly, he said: ‘None at the moment, Herr General. As I said, we have helped them with the purchase of arms, and beyond that there are many difficulties . . ‘

Von Falkenhayn frowned and tapped a pencil irritably on his desk. ‘There are always difficulties, Major. But the world does not belong to men who can point them out. It belongs to men who can overcome them.’

‘Yes, Herr General.’ Werner remembered admiring his father when he had said something like that, years ago. But to start a civil war, all on my own . . .’

‘I am glad to hear you agree,’ von Falkenhayn continued. ‘You can have all the resources you want, but I want a coherent plan worked out, and the details back here on my desk a week from today, do you understand? The civil war in Ulster must begin in the summer of 1914, so that the German Army is free to march through Belgium without interference from the British. From now on, as far as you are concerned, this has priority over everything else. That will be all, Major. Dismiss!’

Werner got to his feet, saluted, pushed his chair carefully to one side, and turned to the door. His hand was hurting him abominably, and he was sure his face was pale.

As he reached the door, Falkenhayn spoke again. ‘And, Major?’

Werner turned. ‘Yes, Herr General?’

To his surprise, Falkenhayn had been smiling; a bleak, ironic smile. ‘If you do provoke this war, Major, then you may consider it the crowning success of your career.’

And if I don’t?

Hemmed in by a crowd of loyal Ulstermen, Werner remembered the approval his slim plan had met with when he had presented it to von Falkenhayn a week later. Now he wondered if it could possibly succeed. Can one man, all on his own, push these people over the brink into open armed rebellion?

Perhaps I won’t be needed. The guns are on their way, the soldiers are well-drilled. They might do it all on their own.

A clergyman had mounted the platform behind Cavendish and begun speaking. Werner let the familiar phrases about religion and loyalty roll over his head, and concentrated instead on the faces of the people in the crowd. Dour, heavy-featured farmers for the most part, with big noses and solid jaws. Most of them wore flat caps or bowler hats, they had heavy, serviceable suits, broad leather belts, strong hobnailed boots. They listened to the preacher earnestly, in silence, taking in every word.

Hardly the sort of people one would want to take to a concert of chamber music, Werner thought irreverently. But in truth he liked the Ulstermen. They took life and religion seriously, they meant what they said. Not the sort of people you would want to get into an argument with, if you could avoid it. As soldiers, fighting for what they believed in, they would be unbeatable. What was it the leader of the Conservative party, Bonar Law, had said?
‘Ulster will fight, and Ulster will be right.’

The UVF soldiers, in particular, impressed him. Cavendish had deployed them well, in positions where they could guard the platform and the entrances to the square. They were relaxed, proud, and well-drilled. It was clear that no one in the crowd resented being controlled by them. They obeyed orders quietly, quickly, without fuss. Cavendish has them eating out of his hand, Werner thought. Just as he organised the prefects and monitors at school.

If these people knew what he was really like they would tear him to pieces in seconds.

Werner heard cheering approaching from a distance. Hoove rattled in South Street; the UVF soldiers sprang smartly to attention; and Sir Edward Carson himself came into the square.

Sir Edward Carson, the MP for Dublin University who wanted to save Ulster from an Irish Parliament. The brilliant lawyer who had been offered the job of Home Secretary, and turned it down. The puritan advocate who had demolished the Irish wit Oscar Wilde in court, and put him in an English gaol for homosexuality. The leader of the Ulster Unionist Council, who proclaimed that Ulstermen were so intensely loyal that they would set up a Provisional Government of their own, rather than accept the decision of Westminster.

The man who could, if he wanted, plunge the United Kingdom into civil war.

He was sitting in an open coach, waving and doffing his top hat to either side. The coach stopped, the soldiers presented arms, and Carson got out and returned their salute. Werner noticed the pride on Charles Cavendish’s face as he nudged his horse through the crowd to clear a way for the great man to the platform, and he nearly laughed aloud at the irony of it.

Carson, the scourge of Oscar Wilde, with a guard of honour commanded by Charles Cavendish!

What would he say, if I told him?

In the centre of the platform, Carson turned to face the crowd. The noise was deafening. Werner watched, open-mouthed, pretending to cheer with the rest. What was it about this man, he wondered, that appealed to these people so much? Clearly it was not physical beauty. Despite his expensive, well-tailored clothes, Carson was a big, burly, truculent bull of a man with a huge, heavy, pugnacious jaw and a solid, square, lowering face. Like a bare-knuckle prize-fighter in top-hat and mohair suit.