# The Red Hand of Ulster/Chapter 19
### CHAPTER XIX

The committee met at three o’clock in the afternoon. Sir Samuel Clithering was not, of course, a member of it; but he lurked about outside and waylaid us as we went in. He was in a condition of pitiful bewilderment. Alice whose adventures in Wonderland have been very dear to me since I first read them aloud to Marion, was once placed in a difficult and awkward position by the kings, queens and knaves of the pack of cards with which she was playing coming to life. This was sufficiently embarrassing. But Clithering was much worse off than Alice. In her story all the cards came to life, and though the unexpectedness of their behaviour made things difficult for her there was a certain consistency about the whole business. A card player might in time adjust himself to a game played with cards which possessed wills of their own. But poor Clithering had to play with a pack in which one suit only, and it not even the trump suit, suddenly insisted that the game was a reality. The other three suits, the Liberals, the Conservatives, and the Irish Nationalists still behaved in the normal way, falling pleasantly on top of each other, and winning or losing tricks as the rules of the game demanded. The Ulster party alone—Clubs, we may call them—would not play fairly. They jumped out of the player’s hand and obstinately declared that the green cloth was a real battlefield. The higher court cards of the suit—Lady Moyne for instance, and Babberly—Clithering felt himself able to control. It was the knaves—I am sure he looked on McNeice as a knave—the tens, the sevens and the humble twos which behaved outrageously.
And Clithering was not the only player who was perplexed. I had been to luncheon with the Moynes. Babberly was there of course. So was Malcolmson. Clithering sat next but one to Lady Moyne. Malcolmson was between them. It was a curious alliance. The emissary of the Government, which had passed measures which all good aristocrats disliked intensely, joined hands for the moment with the lady whose skill as a political hostess had frequently been troublesome to Clithering’s friends. I do not suppose that such an alliance could possibly last long. Those whom misfortune, according to the old proverb, forces into bed together, always struggle out again at opposite sides when the clouds cease to be threatening. But while it lasted the alliance was firm enough. They were both bent on pressing the advantages of moderation on Malcolmson. They produced very little effect. Malcolmson is impervious to reason. He kept falling back, in replying to their arguments, on his original objection to Home Rule.
“I shall never consent,” he said, “to be governed by a pack of blackguards in Dublin.”
It was really a very good answer, for every time he made it he drove a wedge into the coalition against him. Lady Moyne was bound to admit that all Irishmen outside Ulster are blackguards, and that the atmosphere of Dublin is poisonous. Clithering, on the other hand, was officially committed to an unqualified admiration for everything south of the Boyne. I do not think that Malcolmson appreciated his dialectic advantage. His mind was running on big guns rather than arguments.
Lady Moyne squeezed my hand as we parted after luncheon, and I think I am not exaggerating in saying that there were tears in her eyes. She succeeded at all events in giving me the impression that her future happiness depended very largely on me. I determined, as I had determined several times before, to be true to the most charming lady of my acquaintance.
Moyne took the chair at our meeting. Next him sat Babberly. Cahoon, McNeice and Malcolmson sat together at the bottom of the table. I was given a chair on Moyne’s other side. Conroy would not sit at the table at all. He had two chairs in a corner of the room. He sat on one of them and put his legs on the other. He also smoked a cigar, which I think everybody regarded as bad form. But nobody liked to protest, because nobody, except me and McNeice, knew which side Conroy was going to take in the controversy before us. Babberly, I feel sure, would have objected to the cigar if he had thought that Conroy favoured extreme defiance of the Government. Malcolmson, like many military men, is a great stickler for etiquette. He would have snubbed the cigar if he thought Conroy was inclined to moderation. As things were, we all warmly invited Conroy to desert his private encampment and join us round the table.
“I guess I’m here as an onlooker,” said Conroy. “You gentlemen can settle things nicely without me, till it comes to writing cheques. Then I chip in.”
Moyne murmured a compliment about Conroy’s extreme generosity in the past, and Babberly said that further calls on our purses were, for the present, unnecessary. Then we all forgot about Conroy. The Dean sat half way down the table on my side. There was also present a Member of Parliament, a man who had sat by Babberly’s side in the House of Commons all through the dreary months of June, July and August, supporting consistently every move he made towards wrecking the Home Rule Bill. There ought to have been several others of the moderate party at the meeting. Their letters of apology were read to us. They all had urgent business either in England or Scotland, which prevented their being in Belfast. I do not think their absence made much difference in the result of our deliberations. We had got beyond the stage at which votes matter much.
Moyne was pitifully nervous. He stated our position very fairly. It was, he said, a hateful thing to have to give in to the Government. He did not like doing it. On the other hand he did not like to take the responsibility of urging the people of Belfast to commit a breach of the peace. Lives, he said, would certainly be lost if we attempted to hold our meeting in the face of the force of armed men which the Government had collected in our streets. He would feel himself guilty of something little short of murder if he did not advise the acceptance of the compromise offered by Clithering. It was, after all, a fair, more than a fair compromise. Nothing would be lost by postponing the meeting for a week.
It was rather a feeble speech. Nobody offered any interruption, but nobody expressed any approval of what he said. When he sat down Babberly rose at once.
Now Babberly is no fool. He knows that florid orations are out of place at committee meetings. He did not treat us to any oratory. He gave us tersely and forcibly several excellent reasons for postponing our demonstration.
“The Government,” he said, “is weakening. Its offer of a compromise shows that it is beginning at last to feel the full force of the Ulster objection to Home Rule.”
Here McNeice interrupted him.
“If that’s so,” he said, “we must make our objection more unmistakably obvious than before.”
“Quite so,” said Babberly; “but how? Is it—”
“By fighting them,” said McNeice.
“If by fighting them,” said Babberly, “you mean asking the unarmed citizens of Belfast to stand up against rifles—”
“Unarmed?” The word came from Conroy in his corner. Every one was startled. We had not expected Conroy to take any part in the discussion.
“Undrilled, undisciplined,” said Babberly. “What can be the result of such a conflict as you suggest? Our people, the men who have trusted us, will be mowed down. We shall place ourselves hopelessly in the wrong. We shall alienate the sympathies of our friends in England.”
A large crowd had gathered in the street outside the windows of the room in which we were sitting. I suppose that the men found waiting a tiresome business. By way of passing the time they began to sing “O God, our help in ages past.”
“It is of the utmost importance to us,” said Babberly, “to retain the sympathies of the English constituencies. Any illegal violence on our part—”
“You should have thought of that before you told the English people that we meant to fight,” said McNeice.
“If you follow my advice to-day,” said Babberly, “there will be no necessity for fighting.”
The hymn outside gathered volume. It seemed to me that thousands of voices were joining in the singing of it. It became exceedingly difficult to hear what Babberly was saying. I leaned forward and caught his next few sentences.
“By keeping within the limits of constitutional action at this crisis we shall demonstrate that we are, what we have always boasted ourselves, the party of law and order. We shall win a bloodless victory. We shall convince the Government that we possess self-control as well as determination.”
Then the noise of the singing outside became so great that it was impossible to hear Babberly at all. McNeice tilted his chair back and began to hum the tune. Malcolmson beat time to the singing with his forefingers. Their action seemed to me to be intentionally insulting to Babberly. The crowd outside reached the end of a verse and there was a pause.
“Damn that hymn!” said Babberly.
This roused the Dean. It would have roused any dean with a particle of spirit in him. After all, a high ecclesiastic cannot sit still and listen to profane condemnation of one of the Psalms of David, even if it has undergone versification at the hands of Dr. Watts. The conduct of McNeice and Malcolmson was offensive and provocative. The noise made by the crowd was maddening. There is every excuse for Babberly’s sudden loss of temper. But the Dean’s anger was more than excusable. It was justified. He sprang to his feet, and I knew at once that he was very angry indeed. I could see a broad white rim all round the irises of his eyes, and a pulse in his temples was throbbing visibly. I recognized the symptoms. I had seen them once before at a vestry meeting when some ill-conditioned parishioner said that the Dean’s curate was converting to his own uses the profits of the parish magazine. The periodical, as appeared later on, was actually run at a loss, and the curate had been seven-and-ninepence out of pocket the previous year.
The Dean said something to Babberly, but the crowd had begun the fourth verse of the hymn, and we could not hear what he said. I got up and shut both windows. The atmosphere of our committee-room was hot, and likely to become hotter; but it is better to do business in a Turkish bath than not to do it at all. There was plainly no use our talking to each other unless we were able to hear. My action gave Babberly time to regain his temper.
“I apologize,” he said. “I apologize to all of you, and especially to you, Mr. Dean, for an intemperate and uncalled-for exclamation.”
The Dean sat down. The pulse in his forehead was still throbbing, but the irises of his eyes ceased to look like bulls’ eyes in the middle of targets.
“I have been a consistent supporter of the Union,” said Babberly, “for twenty years. In season and out of season I have upheld the cause we have at heart on English platforms and in the House of Commons. I know better than you do, gentlemen, what the temper of the English people is. I know that we shall sacrifice their friendship and alienate their sympathy if we resort to the argument of lawlessness and violence.”
“It’s the only argument they ever listen to,” said McNeice. “Look at the Nationalists. What arguments did they use?”
“Gentlemen,” said Babberly, “are you going to ask Ulstermen to fire on the King’s troops?”
“I reckon,” said Conroy, “that we mean to use our guns now we’ve got them.”
Babberly made a curious gesture with his hands. He flung them out from him with the palms upwards and then sat down. McNeice rose next.
“For the last two years,” he said, “we’ve been boasting that we meant to resist Home Rule with force if necessary. That’s so, isn’t it?”
Malcolmson growled an assent.
“English politicians and Irish rebels said we were bluffing. Our own people—the men outside there in the street—thought we were in earnest. The English went on with their Bill. Our people drilled and got rifles. Which of the two was right about us? Were we bluffing or were we in earnest? We’ve got to answer that question to-morrow, and we’ll never get another chance. If we don’t fight now, we’ll never fight, for there won’t be a man left in Ulster that will believe in us again. I don’t know that there’s any more to be said. I propose that Lord Moyne puts the question to the meeting and takes a vote.”
Then Cahoon rose to his feet.
“Before you do that, my lord,” he said, “I’d like to say a word. I’m a business man. I’ve as much at stake as any one in this room. My fortune, gentlemen, is in bricks and mortar, in machinery and plant not ten miles from this city. I’ve thought this matter out, and I came to a conclusion years ago. Home Rule won’t do for Belfast, and Belfast isn’t going to have it. If I saw any way of stopping it but the one I’d take it. There are thousands, yes, gentlemen, thousands of men, women, and children depending on my business for their living. Home Rule means ruining it and starving them. I don’t like fighting, but, by God, I’ll fight before I submit to Home Rule.”
Lord Moyne looked slowly round the room. His face was quite pale. It seemed to me that his eyes had grown larger. They had a look of terror in them. His hands trembled among the papers in front of him. He saw at once what the result of a vote would be. He looked at me. I shook my head. It was quite plain that nothing I could say would influence the meeting in the least.
“Gentlemen,” said Moyne, “are we to attempt to hold our meeting to-morrow? Those who are in favour of doing so say ‘Aye.’”
Cahoon, McNeice, Malcolmson, the Dean and Conroy voted “aye.”
“The ‘ayes’ have it,” said Moyne.
“Before we part,” said Babberly, “I wish to say that I leave Belfast to-night—”
Malcolmson muttered something. Babberly held up his hand.
“No,” he said. “You are wrong. I’m not afraid. I’m not taking care of my own skin. But I have lived a loyal man and I mean to die a loyal man. I decline to take part in the rebellion.”
I have heard Babberly speak on various occasions and admired his eloquence. This time I recognized his sincerity. He was speaking the truth.
“I shall go back to England,” he said, “and, of this you may rest assured, that I shall do what can be done in Parliament and elsewhere to save you and the men whom I must call your victims from the consequences of to-day’s madness and to-morrow’s crime.”
He left the room. The five men who had voted “Aye” were gathered in a knot talking eagerly. I took Moyne’s arm and we went out together.
“Her ladyship must be got away,” he said. “And your daughter, Kilmore. She’s here, isn’t she? This town will be no place for women to-morrow. Luckily I have the car. You’ll take them, won’t you? Castle Affey will be the best place for the present.”
“What are you going to do yourself?” I asked.
We passed through the door and down the flight of steps to the street. The crowd outside caught sight of us at once. Some one shouted aloud.
“More traitors!”
The news of the result of the meeting and the part we took in it had somehow reached the people already. An angry roar went up from the crowd. Those who were nearest to us cursed us. A police-officer with eight men forced a way through the crowd. At a word from their officer the men drew their batons and stood in front of us.
“I think, my lord,” said the officer to Moyne, “that you’d better go back. We had the greatest difficulty in getting Mr. Babberly through, and the crowd is angrier now.”
“I’m going on,” said Moyne.
“I cannot be responsible,” said the officer. “I haven’t enough men to control this crowd. If you go on—”
Moyne pushed his way through the cordon of police. I followed him. At first the people drew back a little and let us pass into the middle of the crowd. Then one man after another began to hustle us. Moyne linked his arm in mine and helped me along. A man struck him in the face with the flat of his hand. It was a sharp slap rather than an actual blow. Moyne flushed deeply, but he neither spoke nor struck back. Then suddenly the people seemed to forget all about us. A wild cheer burst from them. Hats were flung into the air. Sticks were waved. Some one began firing shots from a revolver in rapid succession. It was a fusillade of joy, a kind of salute to McNeice who appeared at the window of the committee-room. Moyne and I pushed our way on. When we were clear of the crowd Moyne spoke to me again.
“You’d better take them at once,” he said. “It’s impossible to know what’ll happen here to-night.”
“But you?” I said.
“Oh, I shall stay.”
“Don’t be a fool, Moyne,” I said. “You’re the one of all others who ought not to stay. Don’t you see that whatever way things go you’re in for it? The mob thinks you’re a traitor. I wouldn’t trust those fellows we’ve just left not to kill you. And when the soldiers have shot them down and the subsequent investigation begins, the Government is bound to fix on you as a ringleader. There’ll be panic to-morrow and savage vindictiveness the next day. McNeice and Malcolmson will frighten the Government and the Government will have you hanged or beheaded afterwards for causing the trouble. The English people will clamour for a victim, and you’re exactly the sort of victim they’ll like. Your one chance is to get out of this. Go to Castle Affey to-night, and telegraph to The Times to-morrow to say that you dissociate yourself—”
Moyne stopped me.
“Look here, Kilmore,” he said. “I’ve heard all you have to say, and I agree with it, more or less. I don’t suppose I’ll be either murdered by the mob or shot by the military, but—”
“You will,” I said, “if you stay here.”
“Even if I am,” he said, “I’ll have to stay.”
“In the name of goodness, why?”
“You know the way we’ve been talking for the last two years—our side, I mean.”
I knew the way Babberly had been talking. I knew the way Lady Moyne had goaded him and others to talk, but poor Moyne hardly ever talked at all. All he ever wanted was to be left alone.
“Well, I can’t exactly go back on them now when they’re doing what we said they ought to do. I’ve got to see the thing through. After all it’s my fault that those poor fellows are in this horrible mess.”
He glanced back as he spoke. He was thinking of the angry crowd we had left behind us.
“So you’ll take care of the ladies,” he said. “Run them down to Castle Affey and make yourself as comfortable as you can. They won’t be expecting you, but they’ll manage some sort of dinner.”
“I’m not going,” I said. “I’m staying on in Belfast.”
“But why should you? You’ve no responsibility. You’ve never taken any part in our— It’s very good of you to think of staying. It really is. And I appreciate the spirit in which— But—”
“For goodness’ sake, Moyne,” I said, “don’t give me credit for any kind of heroism. That noblesse oblige attitude of yours doesn’t suit me a bit. It isn’t in my line.”
“But hang it all, Kilmore, you can’t be staying here for the fun of it.”
“I’ve often told you,” I said, “that I’m writing a history of the Irish Rebellions. I naturally want to see one, and there isn’t likely to be another in my time. That’s my only reason for staying in Belfast.”
We found Lady Moyne waiting for us when we reached the hotel. She was wearing a long cloak, and had a motor-veil tied over her head. She was evidently prepared to start at once.
“I’ve ordered the car,” she said. “It ought to be round now. Marion’s coming with me, Lord Kilmore. I think she’d be better out of Belfast for the next few days.”
The news of the decision of our committee seemed to have spread with quite unexampled rapidity. We came straight from the meeting, and we found that Lady Moyne had already recognized the necessity for flight.
“I’m glad you’re going,” said Moyne, “and I’m glad you’re taking Marion with you. But how did you know? Who told you what—?”
“That young man who’s Mr. Conroy’s secretary,” said Lady Moyne. “I forget his name.”
“Bob Power,” I said.
“He came in to see Marion, and he told us.”
Bob must have known beforehand what the committee’s decision was to be. I realized that Conroy must have had the whole plan cut and dried; that the meeting at which Moyne presided was simply a farce. However, there was nothing to be gained by discussing that.
“I think,” I said, “that Moyne ought to go with you. I don’t think Belfast is particularly safe for him just now; and—”
“Moyne must stay, of course,” said Lady Moyne.
“There’ll be trouble afterwards,” I said. “He ought not to be mixed up in it. If he clears out at once—”
Lady Moyne looked at me with an expression of wonder on her face. Her eyes opened very wide.
“Surely,” she said, “you don’t expect him to run away.”
“Of course not,” said Moyne; “of course not. And there’s really no risk. I’ll—”
“That’s not the kind of people we are,” said Lady Moyne.
“I’ll join you at Castle Affey in a couple of days,” said Moyne.
“Castle Affey,” said Lady Moyne. “I’m not going to Castle Affey. I’m going to London.”
“What for?” I said. “And how are you going to get there? There are no steamers on Sunday night.”
“I’m taking possession of Mr. Conroy’s yacht,” said Lady Moyne. “She’s lying off Bangor, and that young man, Mr. Power, said we could have her. We’ll get across to Stranraer this evening, and I’ll have a special train and be in London to-morrow morning.”
“London!” said Moyne. “But why London? Surely Castle Affey—”
“I must see the Prime Minister early to-morrow. He must be persuaded—he must be forced if necessary—to telegraph orders to Belfast. Don’t you realize? I don’t blame you, I don’t blame either of you for the failure of your meeting this afternoon. I’m sure you did your best. But—but what will happen here to-morrow? We can’t leave the people to be shot down like dogs. After all, they’re our people.”
“But what can you do?” said Moyne. “The Prime Minister won’t see you.”
“If necessary I shall force him,” said Lady Moyne. “He shall see me.”
Lady Moyne is, as I have always said, a remarkable woman. Many members of her sex have been trying for years to force their way into the presence of the Prime Minister. They have hitherto failed.
“I am afraid,” I said, “that Marion won’t be much use to you if you’re going to come into collision with the police in any way.”
Lady Moyne smiled.
“I hope I shan’t be reduced to those methods,” she said; “but if I am I shall leave Marion at home.”
I had not the slightest doubt that Lady Moyne would succeed in seeing the Prime Minister. He has probably sense enough to know that though he may resist other women successfully, he cannot possibly make head against her.
“If there is no rioting here to-night,” said Lady Moyne, “I shall be in time. That young man, Mr. Power, seemed to think that everything would be quiet until to-morrow. I hope he’s right.”
“He’s sure to be,” I said. “Conroy is running the revolution and settles exactly what is to happen.”
“He was very confident,” said Lady Moyne. “Ah! here’s Marion. Now we can start. Good-bye, Lord Kilmore. Do your best here. I’ll make the best arrangement I can with the Prime Minister.”