Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘I don’t,’ interrupted Devoy.

‘Let’s hear him out,’ the judge said.

‘The Germans won’t help you if you don’t do anything for yourselves,’ Wolff continued. ‘That’s Roger’s opinion. He wants young Irishmen from here and someone, an Irishman, to command the brigade. Then they might believe you’ve got the guts to do more than sing about dying for old Ireland.’

‘You’re sneering at us,’ someone said. They were angry now, too angry to care who Sir Roger’s representative might be.

‘He’s wasting his time with the brigade,’ Devoy shook his head. ‘Vanity, that’s what it is…’

‘So you say,’ Wolff pressed on, ‘but what proof do the Germans have that there’s any cause in Ireland they can count on?’ There were more complaints. ‘Gentlemen, they want you to show some spirit.’

It was the judge who brought them to order. The battle was won: Mr de Witt was allowed to speak his mind because they were Irish rebels for whom it was a great virtue, and perhaps after years of sentimental talk they were inclined to believe what he said was true. But if de Witt’s role was to speak for his friend Roger, what of the spy Wolff? A patina of mistrust, a little more of Casement’s reputation lost, the suggestion of a man close to a breakdown; goodness, it was easy enough. The man’s letters, his soul-baring letters, and the facts that de Witt presented to them, were all that the spy, Wolff, needed because they spoke for themselves. It was Roger’s view that hundreds, thousands of Irish Americans might be recruited to the brigade, and Roger was sure they could cross the Atlantic in disguise, and Roger had been promised rifles and a ship to carry them all to Ireland. Mr de Witt declined to give his own view. He did speak with passion of his friend’s faithful heart, of his frustrations, the slights he bore without complaint and his much reduced circumstances. With too much passion, C might have said. He would have been wrong. Wolff could see it in their heavy Irish faces. They had no faith in the brigade — what was it Casement called his men? — no faith in his ‘Poor Brothers’ — and they were going to leave them, like it said in the song, hanging on the barbed wire. But if some passion helped Mr de Witt’s friend to have a little more money in exile, good meals, a comfortable bed, then Mr Wolff was content too.

‘We must send more, of course,’ declared Justice Cohalan. ‘You will carry it back, de Witt…’

Wolff shook his head. ‘I’m not returning to Berlin.’

‘Oh?’

‘This isn’t my cause, although I pray it succeeds in time and have faith that it will. I have a living to make here — Roger’s friend is to act as a courier,’ he said, half turning to Christensen.

‘Yes, perhaps,’ the judge replied without enthusiasm.

‘Our cause will succeed without your prayers,’ growled Devoy.

Wolff smiled sardonically. ‘I hope you’re right because I’m not a man who prays a great deal.’

They glared at each other for a few seconds but with difficulty. ‘I felt sure you weren’t that sort of man,’ Devoy chuckled mischievously. ‘Sorry, Father.’

With a smile on his face, the old man reminded Wolff of a grey Casement — the man he might become if he slipped the hangman’s noose. The priest blew out his cheeks and waved his hand, relieved to see a little sunshine.

After the smiles, they wanted Wolff to go. There were handshakes, thanks, a promise that the Clan would be in touch — the Algonquin, wasn’t it? Was there anything they could do for him? Perhaps, he said; he was a businessman.

‘Be gentle with Roger. Your country has no more devoted servant,’ he told them. It was meant as a parting shot and he was turning to the door when the young woman spoke to him.

‘Mr de Witt, will you find time to visit Sir Roger’s sister while you’re here?’

He’d presumed she was just the girl who took the minutes: early twenties, not married — he always looked for a ring — educated East Coast voice, fine features, intelligent face.

‘Yes, perhaps tomorrow,’ he said.

‘I know Mrs Newman is very anxious for news of her brother.’

They made eye contact and she offered an embarrassed smile then looked down, turning her notes deliberately.

‘All right, gentlemen.’ Justice Cohalan clapped his big hands together. ‘For now…’

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Wolff visited the offices of the Hamburg America Shipping Line on Broadway. ‘Contact Dr Albert, he will have something for a man like you,’ Nadolny had said to him. But Albert wasn’t there and his clerks pretended they didn’t know when he would be. Wolff left a note with his name and address, mentioning their ‘friend’ in Berlin.

It was another blue day and with nothing particular to do until the afternoon he walked to Battery Park and sat in the sunshine watching the traffic along the waterfront, a liner creeping upriver to Hoboken, freighters in and out of the Jersey wharfs. Busier than he remembered it, with a score or more ships waiting for a berth, smoke and steam drifting north-west on a warm breeze. Horses, cattle, grain, iron, guns, ammunition to stoke the fire in Europe. In the name of peaceful commerce, of course. Stocks at the Broad Street exchange up again. No wonder the Germans were raging. Like children in a sweetie shop, everything for sale without discrimination, but with no possibility of slipping the British naval blockade of the Atlantic. If they couldn’t dip into the jar, the best they could do was stop the enemy doing the same. Sabotage made sense. But not Dr Albert; he was the man with the purse strings, the commercial attaché in Washington before the war. No, he would pass Wolff’s note to someone else — if he decided it was worth the trouble. What were his instructions from Berlin? The sun slipped behind cloud; somewhere in the outer bay a ship was sounding its horn, three, four, five urgent blasts. Rising from the bench, Wolff ambled by the river rail in the direction of the pier and a line of taxicabs. For now it was Casement, quietly losing his mind in Berlin, sad, desperate, lonely Roger, who was still his passport.

Wolff telephoned Casement’s sister later that morning and arranged to visit her at four. Not just for King and Country, he liked to think, but out of a sense of duty to Casement too — or was he deluding himself? Mrs Agnes Newman lived in a prosperous tree-lined neighbourhood of Brooklyn among bank clerks and city accountants, a modest single-storey house, neat white picket fence and garden. Her bell tinkled impatiently. She answered the door herself and he was struck at once by the family resemblance. A little greyer, fuller in face and figure, but the same fine features and brooding deep-set eyes.

‘Roddy wrote to us about you,’ she said, stepping from the door. ‘I’m worried about him, you must tell me everything… please…’ She led him into her sitting room.

‘You met Miss McDonnell?’

‘Still to be properly introduced,’ he said. It was the young committee secretary of the night before. ‘Miss McDonnell.’ He gave a stiff bow.

She smiled in amusement: ‘Mr de Witt.’

‘Sit down, sit down, please.’ Mrs Newman patted the only armchair. It had been positioned in the middle of a tight circle of wooden ones like a throne. The room was crammed with furniture, none of it interesting, the atmosphere alive with dust, swirling impatiently in the sunlight pouring through the lace curtains.

‘Laura says you spoke well,’ said Mrs Newman, taking a seat opposite. ‘Those people don’t understand Roddy — such a pity his friend, McGarrity, from Philadelphia wasn’t there.’

She leant forward, hands clasped in a big fist, almost touching his knees, but gazing at his face too intently to notice. ‘His last letter… I’m worried, Mr de Witt.’