V
A recruiting campaign presents sorry studies in psychology. Easterly was the only ground I worked, but I imagine the Easterly types are to be found everywhere. There were hale, open-air men who enlisted because it was the obvious thing to do, over-age men who struggled to circumvent the doctor, and boys who rushed forward adventurous and unheeding as they would have rushed to a race-meeting or polar expedition.
Others reflected longer and advanced more slowly—men with domestic responsibilities who yet appreciated the gravity of what was at stake; men who were urged on by speeches or taunts; and again, and with pathetic impetuosity, boys whose fathers and brothers were already falling in the tragic glory of the Mons retreat.
Slower still came the self-conscious men who could never visualize themselves as soldiers, some so slowly that they never reached the booth. There was an almost articulate struggle of mind with those who had mounted socially until they affected contempt for mere privates and yet saw no likelihood of securing a commission; yet this was to some extent balanced by the readiness of others to sink in the social scale. Many a clerk, who had starved to preserve black-coated gentility, grasped the opportunity of abandoning pretension and a semi detached villa. "I'm comfortable—for the first time in my life," one of them told my uncle. And there was an appreciable minority of sons with excessive mothers, and husbands with too persistent wives, crowding to the Colours like schoolboys on holiday.
By the time that my canvass started in earnest, the cream had been skinned from the district. Lord Kitchener's magic name and the alarm of the great retreat had attracted the willing fighters, and we were left with some whose imagination was unstirred and others who frankly opposed our efforts. My first meeting was strongly reminiscent of old political wrangles in the Cranbourne Division. I was met at the doors of the National School by Kestrell, the secretary of the Easterly Democratic Union, who had habitually sat on my platform and moved votes of thanks when I discoursed on international disarmament. Some years earlier he had abandoned an assured livelihood to organize the hotter-headed section of labour in the town. Throughout the week he preached the General Strike and on Sundays performed the office of Reader in the conventicle of a microscopic sect. Frail and passionate, with excited gestures and the eyes of a fanatic, I always regarded him as a man who would burn or be burned with almost equal serenity.
"I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Oakleigh," he remarked, with strong disapproval in his tones as he shook hands.
"I'm afraid we can't talk about the federation of Europe till we've won this war," I said.
He sniffed contemptuously and walked to the back of the hall, where he opened fire with extracts from my speeches and articles, lovingly culled and flatteringly sandwiched between those of the Right Honourable Michael Bendix, one-time self-styled leader of pro-Boer nonconformity, later the chief ornament of the "Little Navy" group, later still—in the first days of August—the Cabinet champion of non-intervention, and subsequently a fire-eating Conscriptionist and parvenu War Lord.
Bertrand and I laboured unremittingly for the first four out of our appointed seven days, but the numbers never rose beyond a daily average of fifty, and I was compelled to warn O'Rane that if he wanted better results he must come and lend a hand. Two evenings later he appeared with Loring, scornful and charged with his new resentment against the world.
"The fellows have been falling over each other in my district," he said. "I always told you I could make men follow me."
"Let's have an ocular demonstration here," I suggested.
"You get up and do your turn," he answered. "I'll stampede the meeting later if you don't catch on."
Our meeting was held in Easterly Market Square round the steps of the Cross as the men returned from work. As there were two new speakers present, I introduced them and left Bertrand to prove for the hundredth time that the war had been engineered by Germany and that the stakes were no less than the whole order of civilization which England represented. As the speech began, Kestrell moved to the foot of the steps and quoted my uncle's earlier assurances that Germany was entirely amicable: when it was over he invited the audience to say whether the German working man had willed the war and what the English labouring classes stood to get out of it.
"What I says is, it takes two to make a quarrel," he proceeded, thumping a clenched fist into the open palm of the other hand. "'Oo done it 'ere? You? Me? I don't think. Was it Parliament? Ask these gentlemen: you've got a lord 'ere and two members. Of course the workin' man was gettin' uppish with 'is strikes and what not, but that's jest 'is pore misguided way. A bit o' martial law will set that right. You bin given King and Country for three weeks—'ard, and your duty's plain: work for Capital when there's peace and fight for it when there's war. It must be you as fights, 'cause there's no one else. An' you'll fight so that when it's over you can come back—if you 'aven't been killed—and find everything jest as it was before. I know what war is, and I saw our chaps when they came back from fighting for Capital in the Transvaal. You won't get no more of this blessed country by fightin' for it, and you couldn't lose more if the Germans came and collared the lot. Now if some of these lords and members 'ere went out and did a bit of fighting themselves——"
Loring rose swiftly to his feet.
"Of the three 'lords and members' present," he said, "one is considerably over military age, another has a commission, the third has applied for one."
"And 'ow soon are you going out?" inquired Kestrell.
"As soon as I can get transferred to a service battalion."
Kestrell grimaced knowingly.
"Do they send lords out?" he inquired, with a wink to his supporters.
Loring, who had been spared the wit and urbanity of a contested election, turned suddenly white, and I, remembering the day fifteen years before when the news of his father's death in the Transvaal reached Oxford, pulled him back into his seat before he could reply.
O'Rane yawned and pulled his hands slowly out of his pockets.
"Dam' dull meeting, George," he observed. "What's the fellow's name? Kestrell? Bet you I enlist him within seven minutes."
"A fiver you don't," I whispered back.
He rose to his feet and slowly swept the circle of faces with his eyes, waiting deliberately to let the graceful debonair poise of his body be seen. The crowd watched him silently, as a music-hall audience awaits the development of a new turn; but he seemed indifferent to their interest and appeared to linger for a yet profounder depth of silence. Then with a quick turn of the head he faced Kestrell.
"Will you come to France with me?" he asked. "I am going as soon as possible, because the men there who are defending us and our women are heavily outnumbered. I don't care who made the war, but I do care about my friends being killed. You'll probably be killed if you come, but you'll have done your best—just as you would if a dozen hooligans knocked down a friend of yours and jumped on him. Will you come?"
Kestrell's lips parted, but before he could speak a boy at the back of the crowd called out:
"I'll come, mister!"
O'Rane raised his hand to silence the interruption.
"I am speaking to Mr. Kestrell," he said, "he knows what war is."
"The working man never wanted this one," Kestrell cried excitedly.
"Nobody in England wanted it. But it's upon us, and the working man is being killed like everyone else. Don't you care to help?"
There was no reply, but the crowd moved restlessly. O'Rane glanced at his watch and picked up his dustcoat from the seat of the car.
"There are two lads here, sir," called a farmer from the left of the circle.
O'Rane shook his head and thrust his arms into the coat.
"Unless Mr. Kestrell comes I prefer to go alone," he said: and then to my uncle, "Shall we get back sir?"
The farmer's two recruits hurried forward, blushing deeply as the eyes of the meeting turned on to them.
"You don't know what war is," O'Rane told them. "I—have been under fire, and, like Mr. Kestrell, I do know. If every man in this square volunteered, the half of you would be killed and those that came back would be cut about, crippled, blind. You'd have done the brave thing, but a lifetime of helplessness is a long price to pay for it."
"I'll take my chance, sir!" This time the voice came from the right.
"Two—three—four." O'Rane shook his head and half turned away. "I'll go alone and trust to luck. Mr. Kestrell——"
"Oh, damn old Kestrell!"
I could not locate the speaker, but the voice was new.
"He speaks for labour here," said O'Rane, "and, though I've worked with my hands in most parts of the world, I was a capitalist till the war. He says this is a capitalist's war——"
"Ay, and so it is!" burst from Kestrell.
"Then let Capital fight for Capital, and God help the working man who's out there at this moment if the working man at home won't go out and fight for him."
He stepped into the car and caught hold of the wheel, finding time to whisper—
"I've never driven one of these dam' things, George."
There was a convulsive movement in the crowd, and a knot of men ran up to the side of the car.
"Aren't you going to take us, sir?" they demanded.
"There are plenty of recruiting offices if you want to join," he answered, rapidly counting the men with his eyes. "I want all or none and I hoped when you knew your own friends were fighting and others were going out to help...." He broke off and looked eagerly at the faces in front of him. "We should have made a fine show!" he cried, his voice ringing with excitement. "I—I've never let a man down yet, and you'd have stood by me, wouldn't you? We've never had a chance like this before—to risk everything so that if we're killed we shall have spent our lives to some purpose, and if we come back—however maimed—we shall have done the brave, proud thing. I wanted Kestrell on my right...."
He shrugged his shoulders slightly and buttoned his coat, but the excitement in his voice and black eyes was infecting the crowd.
"Never mind him, sir," urged the little group round the car.
With sudden decision O'Rane jumped out and walked to the steps of the Cross where Kestrell was standing. Not a man moved, but every eye followed his progress, and in the silence of the crowded square there was no sound but the light tread of his feet.
"Let's part friends, Mr. Kestrell," he said. "You were the only one here with pluck enough to speak against this war."
"It's an unrighteous war!" cried Kestrell, two spots of colour burning vividly on his white cheeks.
"Most wars are that, my friend, but as long as the boys I was at school with are being shot down ... Good-bye ... if you won't come?"
There was no answer, and the two faced each other until Kestrell's eyes fell. O'Rane's voice sank and took on a softer tone.
"If it's ever right to shed blood, this is the time," he said. "We'll see it through together, side by side——"
"You're an officer!" Kestrell interjected, as a man worsted in an argument will seize on a slip of grammar.
"I'm nothing at present. If you'll come, we'll go into the ranks together. Get another friend on your other side—no man comes with us unless he brings a friend,—and if only one's hit, the other can bring back word of him. Why won't you shake hands, Kestrell? This is the morning of our greatest day."
That night Bertrand, Loring and I motored back to town alone. Until we said good-bye in Knightsbridge, hardly a word had passed between us, but as Loring and I shook hands I remarked:
"Well, you see how it's done? It took ten minutes instead of seven as he promised, but the meeting stampeded all right."
"I've seen it done," he answered. "Seeing how it's done is a different thing."
We were all charged with something of O'Rane's electric personality that night, but at breakfast next morning Bertrand set himself to undo the effects of the Easterly meeting in so far as they concerned O'Rane.
"It's all nonsense, George," he said. "A man of his talents and experience, a born leader of men——"
"I doubt if you shift him," I answered. "He's committed to it—like thousands of others who are burying themselves in the ranks because they can't wait for commissions."
"He must outgrow that phase," said my uncle impatiently.
When O'Rane called on me some weeks later in a private's uniform, he would hardly discuss the subject. Morris was now in a Yeomanry regiment, and the purpose of the visit was to ask me to accept power of attorney in his absence, realize the scanty remaining assets of the firm, and arrange what terms I could with the creditors—at best an extension of time, at worst a scheme of composition. I had the books examined soon afterwards by an accountant, and with every allowance for moratorium and the "act of God or of the King's enemies" a deficit of £15,000 would have to be faced within two months.
"Bertrand's very keen to get you a job where you'll be less wasted than at present," I said, when our business was done.
"He still seems to think I want to come back," he commented scornfully.
"You're one and thirty, Raney, and in full possession of your powers, as you told us at Chepstow a few weeks ago."
"A good deal's happened since then, George," he answered, offering me his hand. "Look here, I must get back to camp. I'll say good-bye now——"
"I shall see you before you go out," I said.
He shook his head.
"I shan't see anyone."
I caught hold of him by the shoulders and made him look me in the eyes.
"What the devil's the matter?" I asked. "You've lost all your pluck."
"Because I've the wit to see when the game's up?" he asked, with a curl of the lip. "I'm broke——"
"You can start again, as you've done a dozen times."
"What for? I hoped once that I might rouse the public conscience and give my whole life to reducing the total of human misery.... The one thing I've done in the last month is to gather so much extra food for powder."
"The world will still have to be rebuilt when the war's over," I reminded him.
He wriggled out of my hands and picked up his cap from the table.
"If your uncle's about," he said, "I should like to say good-bye."
I went to Bertrand's room and found him at work with some of the women who were to be responsible for turning the house into a hospital. To my surprise, Sonia Dainton was among them, and I stayed to speak to her while my uncle excused himself and went down to O'Rane in the dining-room.
"I want Mr. Oakleigh to let me help here," she explained. "I must do something, and mother's got all the nurses she wants."
"Are you trained?" I asked.
"No, but——"
"My dear Sonia, he spends his day turning away untrained amateurs."
"But I could do something," she insisted.
"I'm afraid it'll be a waste of time."
"But I must do something, George! All the men I know are getting commissions, all the girls are nursing or taking the men's places...." She paused indignantly, as though I had suggested that she was in some way exceptionally incompetent.
"Stay and see him by all means," I said. "He's only saying good-bye to Raney."
"Is David going out?"
"Some time."
"What's he in?"
"The Midland Fusiliers. If you want to see him again, Sonia——"
The door opened, and my uncle came in with his forehead wrinkled in annoyance.
"It's too late now," said Sonia, with a mixture of relief and regret in her voice. "And in any case I don't know what I should have said."
"You might have just shaken hands," I suggested, as I got up to return to my work.
She caught my arm and lowered her voice.
"George, why did he ever come out to Innspruck?"
"Because he had a good deal of affection for you," I said.
"Then why did he talk like that?" she demanded, with flushed cheeks.
"You know his disconcerting way of telling people what he thinks is good for them," I said.
"That wasn't the reason!"
But what the reason was, I have never been told. Sometimes I remind myself that, when Sonia crossed the Austrian frontier into Italy, O'Rane with the world at his feet knew himself to be insolvent. An early draft of the Midland Fusiliers carried him to France in January, before I had time to verify my hypothesis.