Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘And libelling him in the newspapers is your idea of decency and duty?’

‘Don’t be a bloody fool. He was a traitor…’

‘Not to Ireland.’

‘There are Irishmen dying every day out there for their country and the Empire.’ Hall gestured angrily to the window. ‘Those few misguided souls calling for a reprieve — radicals, Americans — need to understand this man’s nature. He knew what he was doing when he introduced the Germans to his friends in America — he probably knew about Dilger and his diseases — he’s a traitor, he’s a sodomite — he’s a moral degenerate…’

‘Tawdry — it wasn’t enough…’

‘No. Shut up before I — you fool. Shut up and listen,’ Hall commanded icily. ‘This isn’t about Casement — it’s you — your guilt. If it wasn’t, I’d have you thrown in a brig — just pull yourself together. You did your duty — you did what was right. Now get the hell out of my office before I change my mind. Oh, and Wolff, for God’s sake see a doctor. You’re cracking up.’

And Wolff did leave — meek like a lamb. He left because there was nothing he could say with integrity. Blinker was right, and bleating, wringing his hands, just made him a hypocrite. In the Admiral’s outer office, heads were bent over desks, sideways glances, silence. Wolff passed them in a daze, slowly, one foot in front of the other like a bandsman slow-marching to the Mall. He was fumbling with a bent cigarette and his lighter at the Admiralty entrance when C limped over to speak to him.

‘Would you like me to do that?’ he asked.

‘I can manage.’

‘Go home. You’re not ready.’

‘Ready?’ Wolff gave a shaky little laugh. ‘Ready?’

‘I think you should see a doctor. There’s someone…’

‘Is he good with a bad attack of conscience? No, thank you. I don’t need a doctor.’

‘You do need more time. My God, you almost died. Go home, Wolff — that’s an order.’

‘Yes, I will.’

C’s Rolls-Royce was parked at the kerb a few yards away. He took a step towards it, then checked. ‘I don’t know if I should say this, but I expect you’ll work it out for yourself in time. This is the best thing that can happen to Roger Casement. I don’t mean the attacks on his reputation — the diary.’ He sounded disapproving. ‘No, his execution — his death. If you’d been a little less confused about your own part in it all, you’d have… well… He wasn’t much of a rebel, was he? He’ll be a bloody good martyr. Dying is the best thing he can do for his country—’ he corrected himself at once — ‘his cause.’ He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Actually, I think we’re making a mistake — can I still say “we”?’ He sighed heavily. ‘It won’t be the first we’ve made in this war, will it?’

Wolff nodded slowly.

‘I hear he’s being received into the Roman Church — that will help, of course.’ He swung the end of his stick at a cigarette packet, neatly driving it into the gutter. ‘This place used to be spotless — they’ve let the Army into St James’s Park, you know. Anyway, I have—’

‘One more thing,’ said Wolff abruptly. ‘Turkey — did you…’ he was struggling for the words, with his feelings. ‘I wanted to ask, were you going to…’

C’s small grey eyes were fixed intently on Wolff’s face, the monocle dangling on its string for once. ‘If you’re trying to ask whether anyone betrayed or abandoned you — no, Wolff.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘We think the worst of everyone, don’t we? No. No one betrayed you. Now go home.’

‘Nine months — you could have…’

‘Go home,’ he repeated firmly.

Wolff heaved a lungful of smoke. ‘All right. Yes. I will. Soon.’

At nine o’clock the hangman released the trapdoor in the execution shed and the prison bell tolled once for the benefit of the crowd. There was some cheering, mocking, then silence. Roger Casement was pronounced dead at nine minutes after nine o’clock on the morning of 3 August 1916. He would have been hurt by the cheering, Wolff thought as he stood waiting for the notice to be posted at the gate. He wouldn’t have understood why anyone would wish to cheer the death of another.

Women and a few men with the sickly yellow faces of munitions workers, chatting, joking, flirting; city clerks in bowlers and ready-to-wear suits; mothers and young children, some with breakfasts or mugs of tea from local shops that had opened early to offer ‘a service’. The sort of gathering a prince several degrees from the throne might expect at the opening of a library. Just to say they were there, Wolff thought. And me?

At the back wall of the prison, thirty Irish men and women were bent discreetly in prayer. At the front, a prison warder was pasting whatever proclamation there was still to be made on the gate and the crowd was pressing round him for a part in this final scene. Judgement of death was this day executed on Roger David Casement in His Majesty’s Prison of Pentonville in our presence.

There was no one for Wolff to say sorry to, no one to comfort; he didn’t believe, so he couldn’t say a prayer. But he was there to keep watch, as he knew she would be doing through the early hours in America. For Laura then, for Roger and his sister, for Reggie Curtis and the little man in the derby hat whose name he’d never known, and for others — the men who even at that hour were advancing across no-man’s-land on the Somme.

At the station he bought an evening newspaper and read the report of Casement’s last hours. He’d mounted the gallows’ steps firmly and commended his spirit to God. Then they had buried him in an unmarked grave, like many who were dying at the Front.

‘So this time you have come back.’ She smiled and stepped aside to let him through the door. ‘We started on the barley yesterday.’

‘I’ll take the wagon over at six tomorrow.’

‘They won’t be there before half past seven.’

‘Half past seven then.’

And in September he would burn the stubble, for miles the fields aflame, flickering in the night sky as far as the eye could see, plumes of choking brown smoke — like the torment reserved for the unjust on the last day, his mother said — until it settled at dawn on the fen, so dense it was easy to stumble and fall, but only for the hours it took the sun to rise and a fresh breeze from the sea to blow.

The Director, MI 1[c]

Whitehall Court

Westminster

24 October 1918

My Dear Admiral Hall,

I have this minute spoken to Commander Wolff about his mission to Madrid and taken possession of his report of the same. Regrettably, Wolff was unable to gather any intelligence of value. I know the scientists at the Porton Down Experimental Station were anxious to speak to Dilger in person, but in the few minutes Wolff was able to have with him he was adamant he would not co-operate, even if he were well enough to do so. Perhaps the consolation to be found from this sorry state of affairs is that the Germans are aware the game is finally up, they are beaten, and are determined to prevent us laying hands on those who know the full extent of their biological weapons research and campaign.

There is nothing I can add to Commander Wolff’s rather colourful report, other than to say I thanked him for his assistance and assured him that, God willing, the end of the war was only weeks away and I did not anticipate there would be a need to call upon his services in future. When I enquired whether he would be returning to his crops and animals he did not reply, but asked if Wiseman was still in charge of our operations in America. I said he was still Head of Section but that I was sure he would be of the opinion it was too soon for Wolff to go back there. He acknowledged this advice with his usual insolence: he understood the risks perfectly well, he said, but de Witt was dead and he would be travelling as himself.