Part 32 (1/2)

”He's to be tried by court martial,” said Crossan, ”on suspicion of being a spy.”

G.o.dfrey actually haunts me. No sooner have I achieved a moment's peace and quietness--with the greatest difficulty in the middle of a rebellion--than G.o.dfrey breaks in on me. How he came to be in Belfast I could only dimly guess. It seemed likely that, having heard that a battle was going on, he came to the scene of it in the hope of pillage.

”I suppose,” I said, ”they won't actually hang him?”

”It was him, as your lords.h.i.+p is aware,” said Crossan, ”that gave the first information to the Government.”

Crossan, in spite of the fact that he was a victorious general, preserved his peculiar kind of respect for my t.i.tle. He did not, indeed, take off his hat when he entered the room, but that was only because soldiers, while on duty, never take off their hats.

”Don't be absurd, Crossan,” I said. ”You know perfectly well that he hasn't intelligence enough to give anything but wrong information to any Government. What he told the Chancellor of the Exchequer when he wrote to him was that you were smuggling.”

”If your lords.h.i.+p doesn't care to interfere--,” said Crossan.

”Can I help in any way?” said Bland.

He had been eating steadily and had finished the two crabs. I had not eaten more than three or four mouthfuls of game pie. I felt I might accept his offer.

”If you've any experience of courts martial,” I said, ”I haven't--and if you really don't mind trotting off--”

”Not a bit,” said Bland. ”In fact a court martial would be rather a scoop for me. I'm sure the public would want to know how it's run.”

”I shall feel greatly obliged to you,” I said. ”The fact is that a nephew of mine is going to be hanged as a spy. You said you were going to hang him, didn't you, Crossan?”

”I think it likely, my lord,” said Crossan.

”Of course,” I said, ”he richly deserves it; and so far as my own personal feelings go I should be very glad if he were hanged. But, of course, he's my nephew and people might think I'd been unkind to him if I made no effort to save him. One must consider public opinion more or less. So if you could arrange to rescue him--”

While I was speaking c.l.i.thering shambled into the room. He was wearing a suit of pyjamas not nearly big enough for him. The waiter who put him to bed was quite a small man. The pyjamas must have been his. He asked us to find his clothes for him, and said that he wanted to go to the post-office.

”I must send a telegram to the Prime Minister,” he said. ”I must send it at once.”

Crossan eyed him very suspiciously.

”It strikes me,” said Bland, ”that if you're caught sending telegrams to the Prime Minister you'll be hanged too.”

”They're just going to hang a nephew of mine,” I explained, ”for writing a letter to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. You can see for yourself that a telegram to the Prime Minister is much worse. I really think you'd better stay where you are.”

But c.l.i.thering was, unfortunately, in a mood of hysterical heroism. He said that he did not value his life, that lives were only given to men in order that they might lay them down, and that the n.o.blest way of laying down a life was in the service of humanity.

I could see that Crossan was getting more and more suspicious every minute.

”It is in order to save the lives of others,” he said, ”that I want to send my telegram to the Prime Minister.”

Crossan actually scowled at c.l.i.thering. I expected that he would arrest him at once. There might have been, for all I knew, a Committee of Public Safety sitting in the Town Hall. I could imagine Crossan hauling the unfortunate c.l.i.thering before it on a charge of communicating with the Prime Minister. I could imagine c.l.i.thering, heroic to the last, waving his incriminating telegram in the faces of his judges. Bland saved the situation.

”Come along, Colonel,” he said. ”Show me where that court martial of yours is sitting. Lord Kilmore will restrain this lunatic till we get back.”

Crossan may have been pleased at being addressed as Colonel. Or he may have trusted that I would prevent any telegram being sent to the Prime Minister. At all events, he stopped scowling at c.l.i.thering and went off with Bland. I offered c.l.i.thering some of the game pie, but he refused to touch it. He sat down at a corner of the table and asked me to lend him a pencil and some paper. I did so, and he composed several long telegrams. The writing evidently soothed him. When he had finished he asked me quite calmly whether I thought he would really be hanged if he went to the post-office. I was not at all sure that he would not. c.l.i.thering sighed when he heard my opinion. Then he sat silent for a long time, evidently trying to make up his mind to the hanging.

”If I could get the telegram through first,” he said at last, ”I shouldn't so much mind--”