When Willie Thornton, 2nd Lieutenant in the Wessex Fusiliers, was sent
to Ireland, his mother was nervous and anxious. She had an idea that the
shooting of men in uniform was a popular Irish sport and that her boy
would have been safer in Germany, Mesopotamia, or even Russia. Willie,
who looked forward to some hunting with a famous Irish pack, laughed at
his mother. It was his turn to be nervous and anxious when, three weeks
after joining his battalion, he received an independent command. He
was a cheerful boy and he was not in the least afraid that anyone would
shoot him or his men. But the way the Colonel talked to him made him
uncomfortable.
“There’s your village,” said the Colonel.
William peered at the map spread on the orderly-room table, and saw, in
very small print, the name Dunedin. It stood at a place where many roads
met, where there was a bridge across a large river.
“You’ll billet the men in your Court House,” said the Colonel, “and
you’ll search every motor that goes through that village to cross the
bridge.”
“For arms, sir?” said Willie.
“For arms or ammunition,” said the Colonel. “And you’ll have to keep your
eyes open, Thornton. These fellows are as cute as foxes. There isn’t a
trick they’re not up to and they’ll tell you stories plausible enough to
deceive the devil himself.”
That was what made Willie Thornton nervous. He would have faced the
prospects of a straight fight with perfect self-confidence. He was by no
means so sure of himself when it was a matter of outwitting men who
were as cute as foxes; and “these fellows” was an unpleasantly vague
description. It meant, no doubt, the Irish enemy, who, indeed, neither
the Colonel nor Willie could manage to regard as an enemy at all. But it
gave him very little idea of the form in which the enemy might present
himself.
On the evening of Good Friday Willie marched his men into Dunedin and
took possession of the Court House. That day was chosen because Easter
is the recognized season for Irish rebellions, just as Christmas is the
season for plum puddings in England, and May Day the time for Labour
riots on the Continent. It is very convenient for everybody concerned to
have these things fixed. People know what to expect and preparations can
be properly made. The weather was abominably wet. The village of Dunedin
was muddy and looked miserable. The Court House, which seldom had fires
in it, was damp and uncomfortable. Willie unloaded the two wagons which
brought his men, kit, and rations, and tried to make the best of things.
The next day was also wet, but Willie, weighted by a sense of
responsibility, got up early. By six o’clock he had the street which led
to the bridge barricaded in such a way that no motor-car could possibly
rush past. He set one of his wagons across the street with its back to
the house and its pole sticking out. In this position it left only a
narrow passage through which any vehicle could go. He set the other
wagon a little lower down with its back to the houses on the opposite
side of the street and its pole sticking out. Anyone driving towards the
bridge would have to trace a course like the letter S, and, the curves
being sharp, would be compelled to go very slowly, Willie surveyed this
arrangement with satisfaction. But to make quite sure of holding up the
traffic he stretched a rope from one wagon pole to the other so as to
block the centre part of the S. Then he posted his sentries and went
into the Court House to get some breakfast.
The people of Dunedin do not get up at six o’clock. Nowadays, owing to
the imposition of “summer time” and the loss of Ireland’s half-hour of
Irish time, six o’clock is really only half-past four, and it is worse
than folly to get out of bed at such an hour. It was eight o’clock
by Willie Thornton’s watch before the people became aware of what had
happened to their street. They were surprised and full of curiosity, but
they were not in the least annoyed. No one in Dunedin had the slightest
intention of rebelling. No one even wanted to shoot a policeman. The
consciences, even of the most ardent politicians, were clear, and
they could afford to regard the performance of the soldiers as an
entertainment provided free for their benefit by a kindly Government.
That was, in fact, the view which the people of Dunedin took of Willie
Thornton’s barricade, and of his sentries, though the sentries ought
to have inspired awe, for they carried loaded rifles and wore shrapnel
helmets.
The small boys of the village--and there are enormous numbers of small
boys in Dunedin--were particularly interested. They tried the experiment
of passing through the barricade, stooping under the rope when they came
to it, just to see what the soldiers would do. The soldiers did nothing.
The boys then took to jumping over the rope, which they could do when
going downhill, though they had to creep under it on the way back. This
seemed to amuse and please the soldiers, who smiled amiably at each
successful jump. Kerrigan, the butcher, encouraged by the experience of
the small boys, made a solemn progress from the top of the street to the
bridge. He is the most important and the richest man in Dunedin, and it
was generally felt that if the soldiers let him pass the street might be
regarded as free to anyone. Kerrigan is a portly man, who could not have
jumped the rope, and would have found it inconvenient to crawl under
it. The soldiers politely loosed one end of the rope and let him walk
through.
At nine o’clock a farmer’s cart, laden with manure, crossed the bridge
and began to climb the street. Willie Thornton came to the door of the
Court House with a cigarette in his mouth and watched the cart. It
was hoped by the people of Dunedin, especially by the small boys, that
something would happen. Foot passengers might be allowed to pass, but
a wheeled vehicle would surely be stopped. But the soldiers loosed the
rope and let the cart go through without a question. Ten minutes later a
governess cart, drawn by a pony, appeared at the top of the street. It,
too, was passed through the barricade without difficulty. There was a
general feeling of disappointment in the village, and most of the people
went back to their houses. It was raining heavily, and it is foolish to
get wet through when there is no prospect of any kind of excitement.
The soldiers, such was the general opinion, were merely practising some
unusual and quite incomprehensible military manouvre.
The opinion was a mistaken one. The few who braved the rain and stood
their ground watching the soldiers, had their reward later on. At ten
o’clock, Mr. Davoren, the auctioneer, drove into the village in his
motor-car. Mr. Davoren lives in Ballymurry, a town of some size, six
miles from Dunedin. His business requires him to move about the country
a good deal, and he is quite wealthy enough to keep a Ford car. His
appearance roused the soldiers to activity. Willie Thornton, without a
cigarette this time, stood beside the barricade. A sentry, taking his
place in the middle of the street, called to Mr. Davoren to halt. Mr.
Davoren, who was coming along at a good pace, was greatly surprised, but
he managed to stop his car and his engine a few feet from the muzzle of
the sentry’s rifle.
Willie Thornton, speaking politely but firmly, told Mr. Davoren to
get out of the car. He did not know the auctioneer, and had no way of
telling whether he was one of “these fellows” or not. The fact that Mr.
Davoren looked most respectable and fat was suspicious. A cute fox
might pretend to be respectable and fat when bent on playing tricks. Mr.
Davoren, still surprised but quite good-humoured, got out of his car.
Willie Thornton and his sergeant searched it thoroughly. They found
nothing in the way of a weapon more deadly than a set of tyre levers.
Mr. Davoren was told he might go on. In the end he did go on, but not
until he, the sergeant, Willie Thornton, and one of the sentries
had worked themselves hot at the starting-crank. Ford engines are
queer-tempered things, with a strong sense of self-respect. When stopped
accidentally and suddenly, they often stand on their dignity and refuse
to go on again. All this was pleasant and exciting for the people of
Dunedin, who felt that they were not wasting their day or getting wet in
vain. And still better things were in store for them. At eleven o’clock
a large and handsome car appeared at the end of the street. It moved
noiselessly and swiftly towards the barricade. The chauffeur, leaning
back behind his glass screen, drove as if the village and the street
belonged to him. Dunedin is, in fact, the property of his master, the
Earl of Ramelton; so the chauffeur had some right to be stately and
arrogant. Every man, woman, and child in Dunedin knew the car, and there
was tiptoe excitement. Would the soldiers venture to stop and search
this car? The excitement became intense when it was seen that the Earl
himself was in the car. He lay back very comfortably smoking a cigar in
the covered tonneau of the limousine. Lord Ramelton is a wealthy man and
Deputy Lieutenant for the county. He sits and sometimes speaks in the
House of Lords. He is well known as an uncompromising Unionist, whose
loyalty to the king and empire is so firm as to be almost aggressive.
There was a gasp of amazement when the sentry, standing with his rifle
in his hands, called “Halt!” He gave the order to the earl’s chauffeur
quite as abruptly and disrespectfully as he had given it to Mr. Davoren.
The chauffeur stopped the car and leaned back in his seat with an air of
detachment and slight boredom. It was his business to stop or start the
car and to drive where he was told. Why it was stopped or started or
where it went were matters of entire indifference to him. Lord Ramelton
let down the window beside him and put out his head.
“What the devil is the matter?” he said.
He spoke to the chauffeur, but it was Willie Thornton who answered him.
“I’m afraid I must trouble you to get out of the car, sir; you and the
chauffeur.”
He had spoken quite as civilly to Mr. Davoren half an hour before. He
added “sir” this time because Lord Ramelton is an oldish man, and Willie
Thornton had been well brought up and taught by his mother that some
respect is due to age. He did not know that he was speaking to an earl
and a very great man. Lord Ramelton was not in the least soothed by the
civility.
“Drive on, Simpkins,” he said to the chauffeur.
Simpkins would have driven on if the sentry had not been standing, with
a rifle in his hands, exactly in front of the car. He did the next best
thing to driving on. He blew three sharp blasts of warning on his horn.
The sentry took no notice of the horn. The men of the Wessex Fusiliers
are determined and well-disciplined fellows. Willie Thornton’s
orders mattered to that sentry. Lord Ramelton’s did not. Nor did the
chauffeur’s horn.
Willie Thornton stepped up to the window of the car. He noticed as he
did so that an earl’s coronet surmounting the letter R was painted
on the door. He spoke apologetically, but he was still quite firm. A
coronet painted on the door of a car is no proof that the man inside is
an earl. The Colonel had warned Willie that “these fellows” were as cute
as foxes.
“I’m afraid I must trouble you to get out, sir,” said Willie. “My orders
are to search every car that goes through the village.”
Lord Ramelton had once been a soldier himself. He knew that the word
“orders” has a sacred force.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “It’s damned silly; but if you’ve got to do
it, get it over as quick as you can.”
He turned up the collar of his coat and stepped out into the rain. The
chauffeur left his seat and stood in the mud with the air of a patient
but rather sulky martyr. What is the use of belonging to the aristocracy
of labour, of being a member of the Motor Drivers’ Union, of being able
to hold up civilisation to ransom, if you are yourself liable to be held
up and made to stand in the rain by a common soldier, a man no better
than an unskilled labourer. Nothing but the look of the rifle in the
unskilled labourer’s hand would have induced Simpkins to leave his
sheltered place in the car.
Willie Thornton had every intention of conducting his search rapidly,
perhaps not very thoroughly. Lord Ramelton’s appearance, his voice, and
the coronet on the panel, all taken together, were convincing evidence
that he was not one of “these fellows,” and might safely be allowed to
pass.
Unfortunately there was something in the car which Willie did not in
the least expect to find there. In the front of the tonneau was a large
packing-case. It was quite a common-looking packing-case made of rough
wood. The lid was neatly but firmly nailed down. It bore on its side in
large black letters the word “cube sugar”.
Willie’s suspicions were aroused. The owners of handsome and
beautifully-upholstered cars do not usually drive about with
packing-cases full of sugar at their feet. And this was a very large
case. It contained a hundredweight or a hundredweight and a half of
sugar--if it contained sugar at all. The words of the Colonel recurred
to Willie: “There’s not a trick they’re not up to. They’d deceive the
devil himself.” Well, no earl or pretended earl should deceive Willie
Thornton. He gave an order to the sergeant.
“Take that case and open it,” he said.
“Damn it,” said the Earl, “you mustn’t do that.”
“My orders,” said Willie, “are to examine every car thoroughly.”
“But if you set that case down in the mud and open it in this downpour
of rain the--the contents will be spoiled.”
“I can’t help that, sir,” said Willie. “My orders are quite definite.”
“Look here,” said Lord Ramelton, “if I give you my word that there
are no arms or ammunition in that case, if I write a statement to that
effect and sign it, will it satisfy you?”
“No, sir,” said Willie. “Nothing will satisfy me except seeing for
myself.”
Such is the devotion to duty of the young British officer. Against his
spirit the rage of the empire’s enemies breaks in vain. Nor are the
statements of “these fellows,” however plausible, of much avail.
Lord Ramelton swallowed, with some difficulty, the language which
gathered on his tongue’s tip.
“Where’s your superior officer?” he said.
Willie Thornton believed that all his superior officers were at least
ten miles away. He had not noticed--nor had anyone else--that a grey
military motor had driven into the village. In the grey motor was a
General, with two Staff Officers, all decorated with red cap-bands and
red tabs on their coats.
The military authorities were very much in earnest over the business of
searching motor-cars and guarding roads. Only at times of serious danger
do Generals, accompanied by Staff Officers, go out in the wet to visit
outpost detachments commanded by subalterns.
The General left his car and stepped across the road. He recognised Lord
Ramelton at once and greeted him with cheery playfulness.
“Hallo!” he said, “Held up! I never expected you to be caught smuggling
arms about the country.”
“I wish you’d tell this boy to let me drive on,” said Lord Ramelton.
“I’m getting wet through.”
The General turned to Willie Thornton.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
Willie was pleasantly conscious that he had done nothing except obey his
orders. He saluted smartly.
“There’s a packing-case in the car, sir,” he said, “and it ought to be
examined.”
The General looked into Lord Ramelton’s car and saw the packing-case. He
could scarcely deny that it might very easily contain cartridges, that
it was indeed exactly the sort of case which should be opened. He turned
to Lord Ramelton.
“It’s marked sugar,” he said. “What’s in it really?”
Lord Ramelton took the General by the arm and led him a little way up
the street. When they were out of earshot of the crowd round the car he
spoke in a low voice.
“It _is_ sugar,” he said. “I give you my word that there’s nothing it
that case except sugar.”
“Good Lord!” said the General. “Of course, when you say so it’s all
right, Ramelton. But would you mind telling me why you want to go
driving about the country with two or three hundredweight of sugar in
your ear?”
“It’s not my sugar at all,” said Lord Ramelton. “It’s my wife’s. You
know the way we’re rationed for sugar now--half a pound a head and
the servants eat all of it. Well, her ladyship is bent on making some
marmalade and rhubarb jam. I don’t know how she did it, but she got some
sugar from a man at Ballymurry. Wangled it. Isn’t that the word?”
“Seems exactly the word,” said the General.
“And I’m bringing it home to her. That’s all.”
“I see,” said the General. “But why not have let the officer see what
was in the case? Sugar is no business of his, and you’d have saved a lot
of time and trouble.”
“Because a village like this is simply full of spies.”
“Spies!” said the General. “If I thought there were spies here I’d----”
“Oh, not the kind of spies you mean. The Dunedin people are far too
sensible for that sort of thing. But if one of the shopkeepers here
found out that a fellow in Ballymurry had been doing an illicit sugar
deal he’d send a letter off to the Food Controller straightaway. A
man up in Dublin was fined £100 the other day for much less than we’re
doing. I don’t want my name in every newspaper in the kingdom for
obtaining sugar by false pretences.”
“All right,” said the General. “Its nothing to me where you get your
sugar.”
Willie Thornton, much to his relief, was ordered to allow the Earl’s car
to proceed, un-searched. The chauffeur, who was accustomed to be dry and
warm, caught a nasty chill, and was in a bad temper for a week. He wrote
to the Secretary of his Union complaining of the brutal way in which
the military tyrannised over the representatives of skilled labour. The
people of Dunedin felt that they had enjoyed a novel and agreeable
show. Lady Ramelton made a large quantity of rhubarb jam, thirty pots of
marmalade, and had some sugar over for the green gooseberries when they
grew large enough to preserve.