I went down to the club next morning at about half-past ten o'clock,
hoping to see Conroy. He, so I thought, might be able to tell me what
was likely to happen during the day. Moyne could tell me nothing. I
left him in the hotel, desperately determined to take the chair at any
meeting that might be held; but very doubtful about how he was to do
it.
The streets were much less obviously martial than they had been the
night before. There were no soldiers to be seen. There were only a
very few volunteers, and they did not seem to be doing anything
particular. The police--there were not even many of them--looked quite
peaceable, as if they had no more terrific duties to perform than the
regulation of traffic and the arrest of errant drunkards. I began to
think that I had accidentally told Moyne the truth the night before.
All our warriors seemed to be in bed, exhausted by their marching and
counter-marching. I did not even see McConkey with his machine gun.
This disappointed me. I thought McConkey was a man of more grit. One
night's work ought not to have tired him out.
Clithering was in the club. He, at all events, was still active. Very
likely he was caught the night before by some patrolling party and
forced to go to bed. Unless he happened to be carrying some sort of
certificate of his religious faith in his pocket, Crossan would almost
certainly have put him to bed. The moment he saw me he came fussing
up to me.
"I'm very glad to be able to tell you," he said, "that the troops are
to be kept in barracks to-day unless they are urgently required. I'm
sure you'll agree with me that's a good plan."
"It depends," I said, "on the point of view you take. It won't be at
all a good plan for the police if there's any fighting."
"I telegraphed to the Prime Minister last night," said Clithering; "I
sent a long, detailed message--"
"I heard about that," I said, "from one of the war correspondents, a
man called Bland. You rather blocked the wires, and he couldn't get
his messages through."
"It was of the utmost possible importance," said Clithering, "that the
Prime Minister should thoroughly understand the situation. Our
original idea was that the appearance of large bodies of troops in the
streets would overawe--"
"They weren't overawing any one," I said.
"So I saw. So I saw yesterday afternoon. I telegraphed at once. I gave
it as my opinion that the troops, so far from overawing, were
exasperating the populace. I suggested--I'm sure you'll agree with me
that the suggestion was wise--in fact I urged very strongly that the
troops should be kept out of sight to-day--under arms and ready for
emergencies--but out of sight. I am in great hopes that the people
will settle down quietly. Now, what do you think, Lord Kilmore?"
"They'll be quite quiet," I said, "if you let them hold their
meeting."
"Oh, but that's impossible," said Clithering. "I quite agree with the
Prime Minister there. Any sign of weakness on the part of the
Government at the present crisis would be fatal, absolutely fatal. The
Belfast people must understand that they cannot be allowed to defy the
law."
"Then you'd better trot out your soldiers again, all you've got."
Clithering did not seem at all pleased with this suggestion.
"We shall rely upon the police," he said, "to put a stop to the
meeting. I do not anticipate that there will be any organized--"
"On the whole," I said, "I'm very glad I'm not a policeman."
"Surely," said Clithering, "the responsible leaders of the Unionist
party will understand the criminal folly of--You don't anticipate--"
"I'm nothing of a prophet," I said; "but if you ask my opinion I'd say
that the police will be wiped out in about ten minutes. They're a very
fine body of men; but there aren't nearly enough of them. If you
really want to stop the meeting you'll have to get out the soldiers,
and even with them--"
"But we want to avoid bloodshed," said Clithering. "We cannot have the
citizens of Belfast shot down by the military. Think of the
consequences, the political consequences. A Tory Government might--but
we! Besides, the horrible moral guilt."
"It's no affair of mine," I said; "but I should have thought--I dare
say I am wrong. There may be no moral guilt about killing policemen."
"But they won't be killed," said Clithering. "Our one aim is to avoid
bloodshed."
"You're trying the police rather high," I said. "They'll do what you
tell them, of course. But I don't think it's quite fair to ask them to
face ten times their own number of men all armed with magazine rifles
when they have nothing but those ridiculous little carbines."
"Oh, but the police are not to have firearms," said Clithering.
"Strict orders have been given--batons ought to be quite sufficient.
We must avoid all risk of bloodshed."
"Good gracious!" I said. "Do you expect a handful of police with
small, round sticks in their hands--Oh! go away, Clithering. You mean
well, I dare say, but you're absurd."
It is very seldom that I lose my temper in this sudden way. I was
sorry a moment afterwards that I had given way to my feelings. Poor
Clithering looked deeply hurt. He turned from me with an expression of
pained astonishment and sat down by himself in a corner. I pitied him
so much that I made an effort to console him.
"I dare say it will be all right," I said. "The police will probably
have sense enough to go away before they're shot. Then the meeting
will be held quite peaceably. I don't know what the political
consequences of that may be, but you'll get off the moral guilt, and
there'll be no bloodshed."
This ought to have cheered and consoled Clithering; but it did not. It
made him more nervous than ever.
"I must go at once," he said, "and see the General in command.
Everything must be--"
He left the room hurriedly without finishing his sentence. This
annoyed me. I wanted to know what everything must be.
The reading-room of the club is on the first floor, and the window
commands an excellent view of Donegal Place, one of the principal
thoroughfares of Belfast. The club stands right across the eastern end
of the street, and the traffic is diverted to right and left along
Royal Avenue and High Street. At the far, the western end, of Donegal
Place, stands the new City Hall, with the statute of Queen Victoria in
front of it. There again the traffic is split at right angles. Some of
the best shops in the town lie on either side of this street. A
continuous stream of trams passes up and down it, to and from the
junction, which is directly under the club windows, and is the centre
of the whole Belfast tramway system. It is always pleasant to stand at
the reading-room window and watch the very busy and strenuous traffic
of this street. As a view point on that particular morning the window
was as good as possible. Donegal Place is the chief and most obvious
way from the northern and eastern parts of the city to the place where
the meeting was to be held.
Between eleven o'clock and twelve the volunteers began to appear in
considerable numbers. I saw at once that I had been wrong in supposing
that they meant to spend the day in bed. One company after another
came up Royal Avenue or swung round the corner from High Street, and
marched before my eyes along Donegal Place towards the scene of the
meeting. Small bodies of police appeared here and there, heading in
the same direction. Now and then a few mounted police trotted by,
making nearly as much jangle as if they had been regular soldiers.
The hour fixed for the meeting was one o'clock, but at noon the number
of men in the street was so great that ordinary traffic was stopped. A
long line of trams, unable to force their way along, blocked the
centre of the thoroughfare. The drivers and conductors left them and
went away. Crowds of women and children collected on the roofs of
these trams and cheered the men as they marched along.
At half-past twelve Moyne drove along in a carriage. The Dean was
beside him, and Cahoon had a seat with his back to the horses. The
progress of the carriage was necessarily very slow. I could not see
Moyne's face, but he sat in a hunched-up attitude suggestive of great
misery. The Dean sat bolt upright, and kept taking off his hat to the
crowd when cheers broke out. Cahoon, whose face I could see, seemed
cheerful and confident.
At the back of the carriage, perched on a kind of bar and holding on
tightly to the springs, was Bland. Barefooted urchins often ride in
this way, and appear to enjoy themselves until the coachman lashes
backwards at them with his whip. I never saw a grown man do it before,
and I should have supposed that it would be most uncomfortable. Bland,
however, seemed quite cheerful, and I admired the instinct which led
him to attach himself to Moyne's carriage. He made sure of being
present at the outbreak of hostilities, since the meeting could
neither be held nor stopped till Moyne arrived; and he had hit upon
far the easiest way of getting through the crowd which thronged
Donegal Place.
At a quarter to one Bob Power and his company arrived. Instead of
marching to the scene of the meeting Bob halted and drew his men
across the end of the street right underneath the club windows.
Crossan, with another company of volunteers, joined him.
Bob and Crossan consulted together, and Bob gave an order which I
could not hear. Two of his men laid down their rifles and ran along
the street, one taking each side of the line of trams. They shouted to
the people on the roofs of the trams as they passed them. The orders,
if they were orders, were obeyed. There was a hurried stampede of
women and children. They climbed down from the trams and ran along the
street towards my end of it. Bob's men opened their ranks and let them
go through.
One after another the shops in the streets were closed. Roller blinds
and shutters covered the windows. A telegraph boy on a red bicycle
rode through Bob's lines into the empty street. He stopped and
dismounted, evidently puzzled by the deserted appearance of the
street. Two of the volunteers seized him and took the envelope from
his wallet. They sent him back to the post-office. The poor boy was so
frightened that he left his bicycle behind him.
Bob gave an order and one of his men took the bicycle and rode off in
the direction of the meeting. A few minutes later one of the club
waiters brought the telegram to me. It was from Lady Moyne.
"Saw the Prime Minister this morning. He is taking all possible
measures to avoid bloodshed. Has telegraphed instructions to the
military authorities. Tell Moyne. Am sending duplicate message to him.
Want to make sure of reaching him."
I glanced at my watch. It was five minutes past one; evidently too
late to tell Moyne anything. Whatever was happening at the scene of
the meeting had begun to happen at one o'clock. I waited.
Ten minutes later a motor car, driven at a furious pace, dashed round
the corner at the far end of the street, and sped towards us. A single
passenger sat beside the driver. I recognized him at once. It was
Clithering. Halfway down the street he suddenly caught sight of Bob's
volunteers. He clutched the driver by the arm. The car stopped
abruptly, backed, turned round and sped back again. I lost sight of it
as it swept round the corner.
Then followed another period of waiting in tense silence. The men
beneath me--there must have been about five hundred of them--did not
speak. They scarcely moved. Bob and Crossan stood in front of them,
rigid, silent.
Bob's scout, the man who had mounted the telegraph boy's red bicycle,
appeared in front of the Town Hall and came tearing along the street.
He sprang to the ground in front of Bob and Crossan and spoke to them
eagerly. They turned almost at once and gave an order. Their men lay
down. I heard the rattle of their rifles on the pavement. I could see
their hands fiddling with the sights, slipping along the barrels and
stocks, opening and snapping shut the magazines. The men were nervous,
but, except for the movements of their hands, they showed no signs of
great excitement. One man, near the end of the line, deliberately
unbuttoned his collar and threw it away. Another took off his coat,
folded it up carefully, and laid it on the ground behind him. It
struck me that it was his vest coat, a Sunday garment which he was
unwilling to soil. Bob walked slowly along the line, speaking in low
tones to the men. Crossan stood rigidly still a few paces in front of
the line, watching the far end of the street.
Another cyclist appeared and rode towards us. One of the men fired his
rifle. Crossan turned round, walked back to the man, and struck him on
the head. Then he wrenched the rifle from his hands, threw it into the
street, and kicked the man savagely. The man made no resistance. He
got up and slowly left the ranks, walking away shamefacedly with
hanging head. I do not think that Crossan had spoken to him, nor did
he speak to any one else. His action explained itself. He turned his
back on the men and once again stared down the empty street.
Discipline was evidently to be strictly preserved in the ranks of the
volunteers. There was to be no shooting until the order was given.
When Crossan's proceedings ceased to be interesting I looked round to
see what had become of the cyclist. I caught sight of him in the
custody of two volunteers. He was shoved through the door of the club.
I could only see the top of his head, and so failed to recognize him
until he entered the room and came over to me.
"Bland," I said. "How did you get here?"
"I spotted this window," said Bland, "as I rode along, and I asked
them to put me in here. Is it a club?"
"Yes," I said. "What happened at the meeting?"
"Get me a whisky and soda," said Bland, "if you're a member."
I rang the bell.
"What happened?" I said. "Did they hold the meeting?"
"They were holding it," said Bland, "when I left. But it wasn't much
of a meeting."
I ordered a whisky and soda from a terrified waiter.
"What about the police?" I asked.
"They ran over the police," said Bland. "I don't think they killed
many. There wasn't any shooting. The whole thing was done with a rush.
Damned well done. You couldn't call it a charge. The police were drawn
up in the middle of an open space where four or five roads met. The
men kind of flowed over them. When the place was clear again, there
weren't any police. That's all. Ah! here's the whisky!"
He was evidently thirsty for he drank the whole tumbler-full at a
draught.
"What about Moyne?" I said. "What did he do?"
"Oh! He stood up on the back seat of a carriage and began to make a
speech. But that didn't matter."
"What did he say?"
"I don't know. I didn't stay to listen. I expect he urged them not to
kill any one. But it does not matter what he said. The men with
rifles, the volunteers, began to march off at once, in good order,
some in one direction, some in another. In five minutes there wasn't
anybody left to listen to Lord Moyne except a few corner boys. I can
tell you this, Lord Kilmore, there's a man with a head on his
shoulders behind this insurrection. He has those men of his holding
all the most important parts of the town. I got hold of a bicycle--"
"How?" I said. "You're very wonderful, Bland. How did you get a
bicycle in the middle of a battlefield?"
"Stole it," said Bland. "It belonged to a policeman, but he is
probably dead, so he won't mind. I rode after two or three different
parties of volunteers just to see where they were going. When I got
back to the place of the meeting there was a body of cavalry trotting
up. I had a sort of feeling that the battle would come this way. It
ought to. This is the most important place in the town. All lines of
communication meet here. Your side has brains enough to see that. The
question is, will the soldiers attack them here? I chanced it. If
there's any good fighting to-day it ought to be here."
I am not sure whether the General in command of the troops had the
brains to recognize that the post which Bob Power held was the key to
the whole situation. He did a good deal of desultory street fighting
in other places, and though he made a strong show of attacking Bob
Power in the end I think he was drawn into it by accident.
Bland lit a cigarette, and he and I stood at the window watching.
A crowd of men appeared at the far end of the street, running in wild
disorder. They ran quite silently with bent heads and outstretched
hands. Behind them, immediately behind them, came a squadron of
dragoons galloping. As the fugitives turned into the street the
soldiers overtook them and struck right and left with their swords.
They were using the flats, not the edges of the blades. The fugitives
staggered under the blows. Some of them stumbled and fell; but I do
not think that any one was seriously hurt.
"Lord Moyne's audience," said Bland. "The corner boys. There's not an
armed man among them."
I noticed that when he pointed it out to me. The flying men, wild
with terror, rushed into the empty trams. For the moment they were
safe enough. The dragoons could not get at them without dismounting.
They pulled up their horses.
Bob Power gave an order. Rifles cracked all along his line. The men
must have emptied their magazines before they stopped firing. The
officer of the dragoons gave an order. His squadron wheeled and
galloped back the way they came. Five horses lay plunging on the
ground. Four men dragged themselves clear of their saddles and ran
after their comrades. The other lay where he fell.
Six men detached themselves from Bob's lines and ran forward. In a few
minutes they were dragging the terrified fugitives from the trams and
driving them along the street. They came towards us, wailing aloud in
high shrill voices, like women. Behind them came Bob's volunteers,
carrying the wounded dragoon, and supporting a couple of the fugitives
who had been knocked down by the soldiers. The howling men were pushed
through the ranks to the rear. The volunteers closed up again in
silence. Not even when the dragoons turned and galloped away did they
break their silence. I have heard of soldiers going into battle with
shouts and greeting moments of success with cheers. These men fired on
their enemies without a shout and saw them fly without a cheer. Five
minutes later a company of infantry marched into the street, extended
into open order, and fired. Bob's men fired. More infantry came. They
deployed along the front of the City Hall. The rifle fire from both
ends of the street was rapid and continuous. It was the first time in
my life that I had ever been in danger of being killed by a bullet. I
confess that for a few minutes I was so nervous that I was unable to
give any attention to the fighting going on in front of me. So many
rifles were going off at the far end of the street that it seemed
certain that not only Bland and I but every one of Bob's men must
necessarily die at once. To my very great surprise I was not hit. My
nervousness began to disappear. I peered out of the window and noticed
that none of Bob's men were either killed or wounded.
"I suppose," I said to Bland, "that this is a regular battle. You've
had some experience so you ought to know."
"Oh yes," said Bland, "it's a battle right enough--of sorts."
A bullet snicked through the window glass above my head and buried
itself in the wall at the far end of the room. I looked at the
volunteers again. They did not seem to be suffering. I took a glance
at the soldiers at the far end of the street. The firing did not seem
even to annoy them.
"There seems to me," I said, "to be very little damage done. Don't
they usually kill each other in battles?"
"The shooting's damned bad," said Bland, "damned bad on both sides. I
never saw worse. I wonder if they mean to shoot straight."
Bob's men, I think, were doing their best; but they were certainly
making very bad practice. It did not seem to me that during the first
twenty minutes they hit a single living thing except the four dragoon
horses. The walls of the houses on both sides of the street were
filled with bullet marks. A curious kind of shallow furrow appeared
about halfway down the street. At first it seemed a mere line drawn on
the ground. Then it deepened into a little trench with a ridge of dust
beyond it.
"There must be a ton or two of good bullets buried there," said Bland.
"They haven't sighted for the distance."
"I don't blame the volunteers," I said, "but the soldiers really ought
to shoot better. A lot of money is spent on that army every year, and
if they can't hit a single enemy at that distance--"
"I rather think," said Bland, "that the soldiers are firing up into
the air on purpose. That bullet which came through our window is the
only one which hit anything. It's shocking waste of ammunition."
The door of the reading-room opened behind me. I turned and saw Sir
Samuel Clithering. He staggered into the room and looked deadly white.
For a moment I thought he must be blind. He plunged straight into a
table which stood in the middle of the room in front of him.
"My God! My God!" he cried.
Then he was violently sick. He must have got into the club somehow
from the back. I went over to him, intending to get him out of the
room before he was sick again. He clutched my arm and held me tight.
"Stop it," he said. "Stop it. Promise them anything, anything at all;
only get them to stop."
I did not quite know what Clithering wanted me to do. It seemed absurd
to go down to Bob Power and offer, on behalf of the Government, to
introduce amendments into the Home Rule Bill. Yet something of the
sort must have been in Clithering's mind when he urged me to promise
anything. He probably had some vague idea of consulting the wishes of
the electorate. That is the sort of thing Clithering would think of
doing in an emergency.
"It's horrible, too horrible," he said. "Oh God! Bloodshed!
Bloodshed!"
"Cheer up," I said, "I don't think a single man on either side has
been hit yet."
"I say," said Bland from the window, "did the soldiers get orders to
fire over the people's heads?"
"Yes," said Clithering. "Strict orders. The Cabinet was unanimous. The
Prime Minister telegraphed this morning."
"Rather rough on the peaceable inhabitants of the town," said Bland,
"the men who have kept out of the battle. I suppose you forgot that
bullets come down again somewhere."
"I was in one of the back streets," wailed Clithering, "far away--"
"Exactly," said Bland, "it's just in back streets that those things
happen."
"It was a woman," said Clithering, "a girl with a baby in her arms. I
did not know what had happened. I ran over to her. She and the
baby--both of them. I shall never forget it. Oh!"
Then he was sick again. Clithering is a highly civilized man. I
suppose one must be highly civilized if one is to keep pace with the
changing fashions in stockings. It was out of what is called "Fancy
Hosiery" that Clithering made most of his money. I felt very sorry for
him, but his performances were making me feel sick too. I joined Bland
again at the window.
"They've got a machine gun," said Bland. "Things will get brisker
now."
I looked out anxiously and saw with a sense of relief that it was
Bob's side which had got the new gun. McConkey and his assistants had
turned up from somewhere and were dragging their weapon into position
under the window of a large jeweller's shop on the left flank of Bob's
firing line. This was bad enough. In street fighting at close quarters
a gun of this kind is very murderous and ought to do a terrible amount
of destruction. But things would have been much worse if the soldiers
had had it. They, I suppose, would have known how to use it. I doubted
McConkey's skill in spite of his practice on the slob lands below the
Shore Road.
"The soldiers will have to shoot in earnest now," said Bland. "If that
fellow can handle his gun he'll simply mow them down."
It looked at first, I am bound to say, as if McConkey had really
mastered his new trade. He got his weapon into position and adjusted a
belt of cartridges, working as coolly as if he were arranging the
machinery of the Green Loaney Scutching Mill. He seemed to find a
horrible satisfaction in what he was doing. Twice I saw him pat the
muzzle of the thing as if to give it encouragement. I dare say he
talked to it.
"He's damned cool," said Bland. "I've seen fellows who'd been fighting
for months not half so--"
Then McConkey started his infernal machine. The effect was most
surprising. Two tramcars, which were standing close to the far end of
the street, simply disappeared. There was a kind of eruption of
splintered wood, shattered glass and small fragments of metal. When
that subsided there was no sign of there ever having been tramcars in
that particular spot. McConkey evidently noticed that he had not aimed
his pet quite straight. He stopped it at once.
An officer--I think it was Bob's friend Henderson--sprang to his feet
at the far end of the street and ran along the line of soldiers
shouting an order.
"They'll begin in earnest now," said Bland. "Why doesn't he rattle
them again with the gun?"
McConkey had the best will in the world, but something had gone wrong
with his gun; it was a complicated machine, and he had evidently
jammed some part of it. I saw him working frenziedly with a large iron
spanner in his hand; but nothing he could do produced the least
effect. It would not go off.
In the meantime Henderson's soldiers stood up and stopped firing. The
volunteers stopped firing too. The soldiers formed in a line. There
was silence in the street for a moment, dead silence. I could hear
McConkey's spanner ringing against the iron of his gun. Then Bob Power
shouted.
"They're going to charge us. Up, boys, and come on! We'll meet them
halfway."
"They're all gone mad together," said Bland. "You can't charge down
magazine rifles. It's impossible."
"It seems to me," I said, "that if this battle is ever to be finished
at all they'll have to get at each other with their fists. So far
weapons have been a total failure."
Clithering crawled across the room while we were speaking and clutched
me by the legs. I do not think it was fear of the bullets which made
him crawl. He had been so very sick that he was too weak to walk.
"What's happening?" he said. "For God's sake tell me. Are there many
killed?"
"No one yet on this side," I said. "There may be a few soldiers hit,
but I don't suppose you mind about them. There's just going to be a
charge. Get up and you'll be able to see it."
Clithering caught the edge of the window-sash and dragged himself to
his feet. He was just in time to see Bob's men rush along the street.
They did not charge in any sort of order. They simply spread out and
ran as fast as they could, as fast as I ever saw men run. Some of them
took their rifles with them. Others, evidently agreeing with me that
they would do more destruction with their fists, left their rifles
behind. They covered fifty or sixty yards, and were still going fast
when they discovered that the soldiers were not waiting for them.
Henderson walked alongside the leading men of the column with his
ridiculously long sword in his hand. Two mounted officers brought up
the rear. Two men, with their rifles sloped over their shoulders,
marched briskly across the end of the street. In the middle of the
column were eight stretchers carried along. Bob's men, in spite of
their bad shooting, had wounded that number of their enemies. I found
out afterwards that they had killed three others outright. The
discipline of the British army must be remarkably good. In spite of
this heavy loss the soldiers obeyed orders, and steadily refrained
from trying to kill Bob's men. Their final disappearance was a
crowning proof of their obedience. I watched this body of infantry
march out of sight into the next street. They were not running away.
They were not even retreating. They gave me the impression of having
stopped the battle in a way that was quite customary because it was
time for them to do something else--get some dinner perhaps.
This performance produced, as might be expected, a most disconcerting
effect upon Bob's warriors. They stopped running and stared at their
departing foes. Then they turned round and gaped at each other. Then
they applied to Bob Power for information. They wanted to know,
apparently, whether they had gained a great and glorious victory, or
were to regard the departure of the enemy as some subtle kind of
strategy. Bob seemed as much puzzled as every one else. Even Bland, in
spite of his experience of battles in two great wars, was taken aback.
"Well, I'm damned," he said.
"Thank God, thank God!" said Clithering.
Then he crumpled up and fainted. He meant, I think, to express the
relief he felt at the cessation of hostilities. He had not heard, or
if he heard, had not heeded, Bland's remark. Clithering is not the
type of man to thank God for any one's damnation, and he had no
special dislike of Bland.
"I'm damned," said Bland again.
"I suppose," I said, "that it's rather unusual in battles to do that
sort of thing--march off, I mean--without giving some sort of notice
to the other side. It strikes me as rather bad form. There ought to be
a rule against it."
Bob's men returned, sheepishly and dejectedly, to their original
posts. Crossan was arguing with McConkey about the condition of the
machine gun. The young man who had taken off his coat before the
battle picked it up from the ground, brushed it carefully, and put it
on. Bob Power walked along the street with a note-book in his hands.
He appeared to be writing down the names of the shop-keepers whose
windows were broken. He is a young man of active and energetic
disposition. I suppose he felt that he must do something.
Bland stared through the window for some time. He hoped, I dare say,
that the soldiers would come back, with reinforcements, perhaps with
artillery. At last he gave up this idea.
"Let's have a drink," he said. "We want one."
He turned abruptly and stumbled over Clithering, who had fallen just
beside him. I got hold of a waiter, the only one left in the club, and
made him bring us a whisky and soda. Bland squirted the syphon into
Clithering's face, and I poured small quantities of whisky into his
mouth. Clithering is a rigid teetotaller, and has for years been
supporting every Bill for the suppression of public houses which has
been brought before Parliament. The whisky which he swallowed revived
him in the most amazing way.
"Have they gone?" he asked.
"If you mean the soldiers," said Bland, "they have. I can't imagine
why, but they have."
"I telegraphed to the Prime Minister," said Clithering. "It was hours
and hours ago. Or was it yesterday? It was just before I saw the woman
shot. I told him that--that the soldiers--they were only meant to
overawe the people--not to kill them--I said the soldiers must be
withdrawn to barracks--I said they must not be allowed--"
I do not know whether it was exhaustion after nervous strain or the
whisky which affected Clithering. Whisky--and he had swallowed nearly
a glassful--does produce striking effects upon teetotallers; so it may
have been the whisky. Clithering turned slowly over on his side and
went sound asleep. Bland and I carried him upstairs to a bedroom on
the top storey of the club. There were, Bland said, three bullets
buried in the mattress, so it was fortunate that we had not carried
Clithering up earlier in the day.
"Let's get the waiter," said Bland, "if he hasn't gone away, and tell
him to undress this fool!"
"It's hardly necessary to undress him, is it?"
"Better to," said Bland, "and take away his clothes. Then he'll have
to stay there, and won't be able to send any more telegrams."
"It's rather a good thing he sent that last one," I said. "If he
hadn't, somebody would certainly have been killed in the charge."
"I suppose that telegram accounts for it," said Bland. "I mean for the
behaviour of the soldiers. Orders sent straight from Downing Street. I
say, what a frightful temper the Commanding Officer must be in this
minute! I wonder if I could get an interview with him."
He looked questioningly at me. I fancy he hoped that I would give him
a letter of introduction to the General in command of the district.
"His language," said Bland, "would be a tremendous scoop for me. Could
you--?"
"No," I said, "I couldn't. I don't know him, and even if I did--"
"Oh, well," said Bland, "it can't be helped. And, any way, I dare say
I shouldn't have been able to get my telegram through. The wires are
sure to be blocked."