‘It’s only a matter of time,’ Giles told Bridget. They met at the corner of a wood, near the ancient beauty spot of Glendalough. It was five-thirty in the morning, the sky soft pearl, heralding a beautiful day.
Only Giles knew that three of Vernon Kell’s men, who had travelled independently, watched from safe vantage points. He had brought a heel of bread and some cheese which the pair ate as they talked.
‘I know it.’ Bridget lived in fear, and Giles was aware of it. Her bravery sometimes staggered him.
‘Neither side appears to have arms in quantity as yet. But it will happen, and soon. Then there’ll be much killing.’
‘The Unionists have the means, or so the people who talk to me say.’
‘Tree enough. People like Carson and Craig can ship arms into a hundred different places. But your people – the old Irish Republican Brotherhood – have their ways also. You’re still seeing them? They suspect nothing?’
‘If they do, nobody shows it.’ She did not smile, the subject was too dangerous for smiles.
Giles considered the terrible plight of the double agent. ‘We must find some genuine information for you to give them. Something that will make them even more confident about you.’
They talked for another half-hour – Bridget passing on names and addresses of Fenians she knew to be active; Giles going over new possibilities of communications. He wished it was Malcolm and not the girl, but Malcolm did not even know he was in Ireland.
‘Soon,’ he told her, before leaving. ‘As soon as we can plant something genuine, I’ll let you know. Take care of yourself, and watch them, every single one of them.’
At home, as the year drew to a close, Margaret Mary Railton gave birth, on 20 November, to a fine son – Donald Giles. James was a father at the age of just twenty years, and like a child himself at the very idea of it.
Christmas passed at Redhill, with most of the family present, all but the Grenots, and Malcolm and Bridget. Almost before they were aware of it, the year crept to its end. The Railtons, wherever they were, heard the bells toll midnight on 31 December, and knew they now lived in the year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen.
Nobody realized they were moving closer to blackness and terror.
The old ways were as good as gone. A new era had dawned.
*
Padraig O’Connell sat by the roadside, in the early morning of a new day: 28 June 1914. The sun had just tilted over the horizon, spreading light down over the Wicklow Hills, touching the outcrops of stone, bringing the fir trees to life.
Somewhere, up to his right, a deer moved fleetingly, against a copse. Then he saw his contact, coming on foot across the fields.
They greeted one another as strangers who might be passing on a summer walk.
‘Well, so,’ Padraig’s head turned towards his contact, still as stone.
‘Well?’
‘How much has been passed on? What do they know in London from their officers in Dublin?’
The contact looked at him steadily in the eyes. ‘They know what all Ireland knows. That the Ulster Volunteer Force is now well armed – to the tune of some forty thousand rifles.’
‘Nothing else? No secrets?’
‘Only rumour. They’ve been told that arms have been purchased in Germany, and will be on their way to the Home Rule Volunteers within the month. The rumour is that Casement is behind it, and that they’ll be landed somewhere near Kingstown.’
Padraig smiled to himself, for this last was a piece of nonsense he had hoped would be accepted as truth. Sir Roger Casement, and his friend, Erskine Childers, had bought arms for the Home Rulers to defend themselves against the Ulstermen. But they would be landed a long way from Kingstown. ‘And that is all? Everything that’s gone?’
‘Everything.’
‘You swear to me?’
‘I swear.’
‘Well, you take care now. If anything else is passed back to London, let the boy know, and I shall be with you quickly.’
‘I’ll keep my side of the bargain, have no fear of that.’
The contact began to move away, then stopped, and faced O’Connell. ‘I do this for one reason only. I love my wife more than my country. I want her left alone, and in peace. I want her safe.’
‘And you run when I tell you to run,’ Padraig O’Connell gave him that twisted leprechaun smile. ‘You can run for me over this business of rifles for the Brotherhood.’
Malcolm did not respond, making to move away again. O’Connell called, as if he had gone further back up the road, ‘It would be for your own benefit, and remove all suspicion from you, Mister Railton.’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh yes. You’re after having the confidence of many officers in Dublin, so.’
‘Some.’
‘Then, if I give you the date and place of the landings – for the guns and ammunition, I mean – you could pass it on.’
‘Defeat your own cause?’
‘Not if I give it to you a shade out of true, like a few degrees out. Enough for the soldiers to arrive, near the right place, and an hour late.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you now? Good. Then that’s what we’ll do. The date, my friend, is to be 26 July. Next month. In the small hours, and at Howth. You know Howth?’
‘Just North of Dublin, yes. In the small hours, you say?’
O’Connell wagged a finger. It was not a gesture of fun, but rather almost obscene in its warning. ‘I’ll give you a more precise time nearer the date, but it’ll be a couple of hours late, so don’t be taking liberties, Mister Railton. You’ll be the only outsider to know. Your stock with your Dublin officers will be high enough for being almost right when the police and army arrive just too late to catch the lads. You follow me?’
‘Oh, I follow you.’ Malcolm felt the bile in his own mouth.
O’Connell still smiled as he watched the tall, loping figure disappearing up the road. The English can be such fools, he thought. Both of them – the Irish Railton and her English husband – both working for him and the cause, and neither knowing what the other did. If one tried to be clever, or false, the other would almost certainly give it away, and if that happened… He cocked his head, closed one eye and levelled the forefinger of his right hand at a stone, the thumb back like the hammer of a revolver. Jerking the thumb forward, Padraig O’Connell made a noise like a small pistol shot.
*
On that same day – 28 June 1914 – the Railtons gathered at Redhill Manor.
Charles and Mildred were there, with Mary Anne – who, even after her coming-out, was still pestering to become a nurse.
Giles arrived quietly.
Andrew and Charlotte were alone, for Rupert was at sea; Caspar with his regiment; and Ramillies in London – now a junior member of the Foreign Service, he was required for duty. On instructions from his grandfather, Giles, he had not told his father exactly for whom he was working.
Andrew spoke a great deal about the possibility of going back to sea before long. There was much talk in Admiralty circles of a new DNI, the favourite being Captain Reginald Hall – known to all as ‘Blinker’, because of a slight tic which manifested itself by a constant blinking of the eyes. Hall was later to be promoted to Rear-Admiral, and eventually gained a knighthood.
Churchill was still blowing a gale through the hallowed Admiralty, and Andrew had been right in thinking the First Sea Lord – Bridgeman – would not last. His tenure had run for barely a year, and Winston was organizing, and reorganizing, with characteristic enthusiasm.
As for James and Margaret Mary; well, they knew what they were there for; and the new baby could be cosseted by all.
It so happened that on the previous evening James’ old friend, Richard Farthing, had telephoned, asking if he could drop in for the day. Nobody objected, though Sara did not seem over pleased.
That morning, John Railton awoke with a slight headache. He bathed, dressed, and went down to breakfast, quite content, for
the morning was beautiful and appeared set fair for a perfect summer day.
Someone suggested a game of croquet later.
John mentioned Dick Farthing’s visit, and Sara frowned. Andrew said he wanted to laze.
James and Margaret slipped back upstairs; undressed; locked the door; and laid themselves on the bed again. Margaret Mary took his hands in hers and began to kiss them, placing each finger, by turn, in her mouth. James found this highly rousing.
*
‘I think I shall take a walk,’ John Railton said, as they finished breakfast. It was a little after ten. ‘Anyone coming? The rose garden?’
‘I’d love it.’ Sara wanted to please him. John Railton had done so much for her; living at Redhill Manor had really changed her life and broadened her perspective.
James and Margaret Mary reappeared, and said they would come out shortly. Both Andrew and Charlotte caught the look which passed between the young lovers. Privately, each wished for their own youth once more. Not that they complained about being more mature lovers. To be alone at Redhill Manor, without the ties of their brood, was stimulating.
Sara took John’s arm, and they left, following the route out through the drawing room.
The roses looked beautiful: great crimson miracles, like blood among thorns of greenery. It was the best part of summer, John said. June was the best month. He even quoted a single line from Browning: ‘All June I bound the rose in sheaves.’
Then he picked a perfect bloom and handed it to Sara. She said it was lovely, and John told her that it paled against her own beauty.
‘You’ve been the light of my life, Sara.’
‘Oh, John you’ve pricked your thumb.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he sucked the blood away and laughed. Then they heard the sound of a motor.
‘Dick’s new toy coming up the drive.’
Dick Farthing had just bought a Ford ‘Tourer’, of which he was immensely proud.
‘Let James and Margaret take care of him,’ Sara whispered. ‘It’s nice to have the rose garden to ourselves. Lord, the air is so sweet.’ She took a deep breath, smelling the grass and roses, the corn from the upper meadow, and the freshness of the morning. ‘There’s no smell like an English summer,’ she said. Then, ‘Oh, damn, I wanted to be alone with you.’
John Railton looked up and saw James and Margaret Mary, hand in hand. Then he spotted Dick Farthing, the lopsided smile on his face.
‘Hallo there,’ Dick called.
‘He’s come in his motor,’ Margaret Mary laughed, as they approached.
John Railton raised an arm in greeting. Then the pain struck across his chest. Far away he heard Sara cry out, and arms went round him to stop the fall. He could not get his breath, and everything tilted, blurring round him, as they gently lowered him to the ground.
‘I’m sorry,’ he tried to say. ‘All right in a minute.’
James knelt beside his father, and Dick moved in close to Sara, who was on both knees cradling John’s head in her hands.
‘Nothing…’ The pain clawed at his chest. He wanted to say it was nothing; that in a moment it would pass; but the breath would not come.
Through the pain, he also smelled the sweetness of the air: the soft, gentle scent of the dark night closing in.
He did not hear James’ almost strangled cry, ‘Pa! Pa! Dick, get someone. Get the doctor, for God’s sake!’ And James saw Sara’s face, eyes widening as she looked down at his father, not believing what she knew.
The body was completely relaxed, the jaw slack in death, and all the blood gone from the face.
Sara began to cry, softly, half-whispering John’s name, as Andrew and Charlotte came running into the rose garden.
‘Leave him here, in the sun, for a while: until the doctor comes, anyway.’ Sara spoke slowly, desperately trying to control herself. Then, ‘Oh my God, no! No! Not John! No! No!’
But John Railton, Member of Parliament for Central Berkshire, heard nothing; lying dead in his rose garden; struck suddenly by the heart attack he had known must come.
*
The General’s death, a little over four years previously, had signalled change for the Railtons. John’s sudden passing brought crisis; but like minor irony built into a Greek tragedy; for there were two more deaths on that summer day which brought supreme crisis to the world at large.
They took place some one thousand miles south-east of Haversage, in the Balkans. The Archduke Franz Ferdinand, with his wife, the Grand Duchess Sophie, did not even want to be there, in the town of Sarajevo, Bosnia. He hated the area, but the Emperor had commanded that he should attend the manoeuvres in the provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
First there was the small, official reception; then a short drive, in Count von Harrach’s car, to the Town Hall. On the way someone threw a bomb at the car, but it exploded under the vehicle following them. So, when they reached the Town Hall, the Archduke insisted on being taken to see the injured in hospital.
The procession drove on; but near the Appel Quay the leading cars turned in the wrong direction. Count von Harrach shouted to his driver to stop, and the Archduke looked about him, wearily. He saw the name on the building. It was a shop. Schillers Store. Then he saw the deep-set blue eyes, and the long hair of the young man walking boldly to the car. After that, he heard the shots.
There was very little pain, and he was more concerned about Soferl, and the noise around him. His lips felt wet, and he saw Soferl’s face above his, and heard her voice, just for a second, saying, ‘For God’s sake! What has happened to you?’ Then, with horror, he saw her eyes glaze over as she slipped down, her face dropping between his knees.
Oh my God, he thought, knowing the worst, and summoning strength to speak, ‘Soferl, Soferl, don’t die. Live for my children.’
A long way off, von Harrach’s voice came, ‘Is your Highness in great pain?’
‘It is nothing,’ he said, feeling little, yet knowing he could not move.
Then he repeated, ‘It is nothing,’ and said again, ‘It is nothing.’ And again and again, each time softer until the blood welled into his throat and the floating darkness crept quietly in.
The car drove very quickly to the Governor’s residence, the Konak, and they were made as comfortable as possible.
The Grand Duchess Sophie died first.
A little later, she was followed by her husband, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir apparent to the Hapsburg Empire, the prospective follower in the footsteps of the great Emperor Franz Joseph.
Murdered. Sarajevo, in Bosnia. 28 June 1914.
It was the one act, among so many others, to be singled out as the great moment when history changed direction in the twentieth century. The Dark Ages were about to return. Hope was gone for millions, taken away by a bullet that severed the jugular vein and lodged in the spine.
Part Two
To Ply A Trade
(July 1914 – December 1915)
Chapter One
Two weeks after the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and the coincidental death of John Railton, Giles sat in The General’s study at Redhill Manor.
John’s funeral had taken place one week to the day after his death. Now, Giles returned to Haversage for serious discussions with Sara – for the Will had left the family in a state of crisis. Precedent had been broken.
Characteristically, John had left everything to My dearest wife, Sara. The will was perfectly clear and incontestable. John had looked upon her as a Railton, so it did not make any difference if she remarried. Her name could be changed at any time, which meant that the ancient lands, tenancies, houses and estates of the family had passed out of their control.
The General would have seen the irony. Giles recalled a day of wind and rain, when he was about fourteen years of age and his brother home at Haversage on leave. They had walked together up onto the Downs, The General – a captain then – talking of the Roman legions which had passed this way. He spoke of the hard training g
iven to Roman soldiers; then, in a sudden change of mood, had stood, rain blowing into his face, an arm describing a great half circle, as he mocked traditional parental standards. ‘One day, my boy,’ he shouted against the wind, ‘all this will be yours.’ And on the way back he had said that of course it would never belong to Giles, because he would provide strong sons to carry on the line.
Every ploy had failed. Even the idea, against Giles’ secret nature, of bringing Malcolm back to help run the estate, fell on Sara’s deaf ears.
‘The last thing I wish is to keep the Railton heritage from the hands of true members of the family.’ Sara looked pale from shock and grief. The meeting with Giles was not easy. ‘You’ve only just told me that you believe we’re on the brink of war. The men will be needed elsewhere, for a time anyway. It is better that I should stay here and run things. For the moment at least.’
She had even been angered by his suggestion of trouble if she chose to marry again. ‘John’s hardly cold in his grave. I find all this offensive, Uncle Giles…’
‘Please, Sara, call me Giles, I…’
‘No. How could I think of marriage to anyone?’
He tried to interrupt again, but she would not be stopped. ‘If, at some very distant date, I do decide to remarry, then I shall consult the family and the solicitors. As it is, I must continue here. Please, just leave me alone; let me get on with the things that matter to all of us.’
There was no point in arguing further, so Giles, disgruntled, capitulated.
Over dinner on the second night, he studied Sara with more than usual interest. It was as though the fact of being part of this family had given the young woman a new kind of resolution. Not every girl in her situation would opt for running a huge estate, which was like a vast family business.
They spoke of the family now; Giles asking after James, whom he had seen only briefly at the funeral.
‘Sad, of course, but he’s divinely happy with Margaret Mary,’ Sara smiled. ‘Not that I really understand what he’s up to. He does appear to spend a great deal of time in London, and even abroad.’