Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘Sir Rah-jer,’ drawled a sergeant at the front. He had a Belfast accent you could cut with a knife and the squashed features of a fist fighter.

‘Yes?’

‘Sir Rah-jer, Sir Rah-jer,’ he chanted. ‘Sir Rah-jer, Sir Rah-jer…’

Some of the others began to laugh.

‘Sir Rah-jer, Sir Rah-jer…’

Casement coloured. ‘Just Roger.’

The big fella smirked. ‘I wuz seein’ what it was like, you bein’ a knight an’ all. Sir Rah-jer the black traitor knight.’

‘How much are the Germans paying you?’ someone shouted from the back.

‘I’m here for my country,’ he replied with quiet dignity.

‘Bloody traitor dog, ye,’ said another.

‘Not to Ireland.’

But it was too late for reason. The gate was opening and through it bitterness poured in a yelping, howling chorus. Casement the enemy’s friend — Wolff could hear it plainly: the hard labour and short rations, the loneliness, the neglect, the careless cruelty of camp life. The big Ulsterman was full of menace, little eyes darting to and fro as he warmed to his comrades’ anger, an old pugilist anxious to please his crowd. It was going to end badly. Casement must have sensed it too. He’d given up trying to be heard. Wolff jogged his elbow: ‘Roger, we must go.’

‘I… yes, we must,’ he said, but he didn’t move.

It wasn’t going to be easy; his countrymen wanted to punish him. A private in the engineers pushed his shoulder, someone else spat at him.

‘Come on, Roger,’ insisted Wolff. Casement was standing in a stupor, a thread of spit clinging to his beard. ‘Come on.’ For goodness’ sake, stop playing Christ. The Ulster sergeant was sweating, biting his lip, edging closer. Then he threw his punch, with a right hand heavy enough to fell a horse but slow. Wolff managed to shove Casement aside and the big man was at full stretch. Before he could find his balance Wolff caught him with an upper cut.

‘I’ll fix ye, ye bastard,’ he raged, and he lunged at Casement again. This time Wolff took the blow just below the collarbone. Before the sergeant could throw another, he grabbed his throat, digging nails into his windpipe, jabbing at the soldier’s side with a kidney punch. Gasping with pain, he crumpled and Wolff struck him under the chin with his knee.

Someone was pulling at Wolff’s shoulder but for a few seconds he was trapped in a heaving scrum of fists and boots, his face wedged against a shoulder, rough wool against his cheek and the smell of stale sweat and cabbage. Then curses shouted in German, a rifle butt driven at a face as the camp guards forced the circle open. Wolff dropped to one knee but strong hands reached down to haul him back to his feet.

‘I’m fine, Roger, really,’ he said. ‘Just a little dazed.’

They didn’t say much in the car on the journey back to Berlin. Casement stared out of the window, his hands wrestling in his lap. As soon as they’d left the military zone, Wolff wedged his shoulders between the seat and the door and shut his eyes. His chest was sore and a prisoner must have kicked him in the melee because his right knee was aching. Mad, bonkers, round the bend, so mad he wanted to laugh. Hands off my traitor, he thought. Exchanging punches with British soldiers: perfect — or it would have been if he’d thought it through, if it had been cold policy. It had been an impulse of anger and of sympathy. He opened his eyes and looked at Roger, his shoulders bent, his face turned away with just the faint sad reflection of his frown in the window. He’d scratched the back of his left hand with his nails. Wolff shut his eyes again. Damn it, now he knew how it was with the prisoners, yes, he felt sorry for the man — just the man.

‘Will you take dinner with me later?’ Casement asked suddenly.

Wolff smiled warmly. ‘A pleasure, Roger.’ Then, catching his eye, ‘An honour.’

They dined in Casement’s rather down-at-heel rooms on a simple meal of boiled chicken, cabbage and potato: it was that sort of hotel. Conversation was a struggle. Only when the plates were cleared and they were sitting by the fire in easy chairs was Casement ready to speak of the camp.

‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and choked with emotion he rose to stand at the chimneypiece with his back to Wolff. ‘I haven’t been myself these last few weeks. I’ve been awfully low,’ he said when he’d collected himself. ‘You came to my defence. It was a truly Christian act…’

Wolff didn’t suppress a little smile.

‘It was a fine thing,’ Casement protested. ‘You’re a good man, Jan.’

‘Because I traded punches with a British soldier?’

‘Irish. At no small risk to yourself — you shake your head but you’re the sort of fellow who’s prepared to step forward to help others.’ He lifted a trembling glass to his lips to disguise his feelings. ‘I won’t forget it.’

They sat quietly for a minute. Was his emotion sickening or touching? Wolff wondered, gazing into the heart of the fire.

‘You can see how difficult it’s going to be to raise a brigade,’ Casement declared at last. ‘But there are other ways — I have plans, but I need help, someone I can trust.’

He waited a few seconds but Wolff didn’t reply.

‘There’s Adler, of course. I’ve given him the evening off. Yes, Adler, but there’s only so much I can ask him to do. And…’ he hesitated. ‘Well, you see, our German friends don’t trust him.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘I don’t really know.’

Wolff could see the lie in his face.

Fifty prisoners had volunteered for the new brigade, he said. He’d designed a smart olive-green uniform with emerald facings. The Germans promised rifles and machine guns for the rising but it wasn’t enough: they needed money and more men, and the only place they could hope to find enough of both would be in America.

‘I’ve spoken to the authorities here. There are thousands of young Irish in America who’ll fight for the cause,’ he explained. ‘They can travel here. The Germans will train them well and when the time is right, land us all in Ireland. A brigade like MacBride’s.’

He rose from his chair and stood facing Wolff, the fire flickering about him like an apostle at Pentecost.

‘It will take a little time, of course,’ he continued. ‘We must prepare — we won’t be ready until next year. I’m sorry.’ He bent to pick up the wine from the hearth, leaning forward to fill Wolff’s glass. ‘What do you think?’

‘Think of what?’ he asked.

‘Will you do it?’

‘Roger, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Will you speak to them for me, the Irish leaders? You’re going back to America, aren’t you? You told Maguerre… I need someone I can trust, a friend. Adler’s going but…’ he hesitated. ‘Someone they’ll respect, I may as well say it, someone our friends in America, the Clan, will respect more than Adler.’

His grey eyes were shining with excitement. Wolff didn’t know what to say so he frowned, turning, turning the stem of his glass on the arm of the chair. Comic but also sad, a wild flight of fancy: the Germans had given Roger his new olive-green uniform but they knew it was a piece of nonsense. They were using him.

‘Well?’ prompted Casement.

‘I’m flattered, Roger,’ he replied cautiously. ‘It’s just…’

Mercifully, he was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. It was Christensen and he was soused.

‘Roger, it’s your Adler,’ he slurred, and with the drunk’s gift for the obvious, ‘I’m back.’ He looked as if he was going to fall on Casement like a sailor’s tart.

‘Mr de Witt’s here, Adler,’ said Casement sharply.

Christensen swayed, taking half a step to steady himself. His tie and waistcoat buttons were undone and there was a large stain at the top of his trousers.