"The days of raging, of burning anger are almost spent, no reflection can illuminate on where they went" - The Unknown Soldier
PART ONE: The Burning Anger
1
St.Pols near Arras France, November 7th 1920.
There
was a darkness of sorts by the time the two men entered the chapel. The
Brigadier looked towards the older man who closed his eyes.
“This one”
The
officer nodded that he understood, as the General lifted his hand from
the Union flag. There was a gentle sadness in both their actions as they
lowered the body into the wooden box, it could so easily have been one
of them; yet neither noticed the silver chain with the blue medallion
drop from the coffin. Unseen, it found its way into a crack.
They wouldn’t leave him on his own, not tonight; this poor soul had slept too long alone.
_________________
Four
summers earlier that same chain and medallion clung to the neck of a
boy stuffed to the brim with life. His name was Sammy Galbraith and he
was living up to all of his sixteen summers.
“When I catch you and don’t think I won’t Galbraith, I will crack that stupid head of yours open, I swear to God I will”
The
Reverend Winters was fifty three, apparently God’s ambassador on earth
and a bit of a horseman. He took exception to his daughter’s affections
being dallied with by the local boys, especially that Godless brute
Sammy Galbraith.
Being
on foot allowed Sammy more manoeuvrability. He managed to slip behind
Old Shaker’s Rock and wait for the reverend to go riding past. A
piercing sliver of sunlight found Sammy’s face; he lifted his head
skywards and smiled as an eagle patrolled the warm thermals above.
By
the time his pursuer realised he had lost the boy he was already riding
towards what he considered the source of the problem, Sammy’s father.
Johnny
Galbraith, who had only been thirty two years old when he left his legs
in a field in France, had a son of sixteen whom he loved and a wife who
no longer cared if he lived nor died.
Before
the war Johnny had been in complete charge of Lord Inverstark’s
stables, now he wasn’t even in control of his own body. He sat in a
wheelchair on the porch of the tied cottage, angry at life and always
looking toward the mountains that were once his to conquer.
Their
island was named Annshal and it sat about a mile off the mainland of
western Scotland. As the sun sank below the Annshal Mountains, the
silhouette of their peaks would assume the outline of an ancient soldier
at rest with his spear by his side; he was known to the locals as The
Sleeping Warrior.
The
reverend’s horse came to a halt in front of Johnny, just as the soldier
was contemplating whether returning from France had been a good thing,
or whether he should have been left there and buried along with his
legs.
“Your
son has been pestering my daughter once again Galbraith, I will ask
you, as I have done several times before - will you not control your
lad?”
“Perhaps your daughter likes to be pestered Winters have you ever considered that?”
“I
realise that the war has served you with a great injustice Mister
Galbraith but you should tread with the utmost care in what you say and
not judge all women by the standards of your own wife. I look forward to
you having a word with your son.”
Johnny reached for the pistol he kept by his chair and pointed it above the reverend’s head.
“You wouldn’t shoot a man of God? Behave yourself man.”
Johnny fired the pistol into a tree.
“You’ll
regret this”. The reverend already having turned his horse was riding
away. “Mark my words Mister Galbraith, you will rue the day. Rue the
day.”
At the age of thirty Fiona was still pretty, and anyone with eyes could see why Lord Inverstarck found her attractive.
It
had started off innocently with Fiona covering Johnny’s work while he
was away at war but it soon became something more between Fiona and the
Laird (as the locals would refer to them in hushed tones). To be really
truthful, Fiona had attempted to make things work between her and
Johnny after he came home. She knew he had been injured but he had
failed in his letters to mention the missing legs. Even they were not
the problem; the real concern was the darkness that now ate at Johnny’s
heart. The night she’d left for good, he had threatened to kill them
both. She had only walked in the door and his ever present gun was
pointing straight at her.
“Why
are you so angry?” She’d never dared ask him that before but with a gun
pointing at her head, she didn’t feel she had that much to lose. He
said nothing and put the gun back by the side of his chair. She went
into the room, packed a small case and as she walked past him, he
grabbed her wrist. “I love you” he said.
“I know”. He freed her and she walked out.
Fiona
was exercising the horses when she felt a shadow cross her eye line.
She didn’t have to look up for she knew who it would be, who it always
was, her son Sammy. They no longer talked he would just sit on the hill
and stare at her, something he did every day. She loved him but it had
been such a long time since she had told him.
_________________
They
had kept their word; he had been watched over every step of the way.
The coffin had been placed in an oak casket and banded with iron and a
medieval crusader’s sword.
The inscription read ‘A British Warrior who fell in the Great War 1914-1918 for King and Country’.
He would rest tonight in Victoria Station and tomorrow, the 11th of November 1920, he would travel to Westminster Abbey to lie at peace for ever.
_________________
Lord
Inverstarck had expected to go directly to France. The troops had been
stationary at the Somme for a very long time but there was also word
that the Irish were planning an uprising and they wanted him at Dublin
Castle before Easter, 1916. It was Fiona’s suggestion of a Ball in
honour of his departing.
“You are the Laird and the islanders will want to have their goodbyes”.
She
was right of course and he thanked God for Fiona but Inverstarck didn’t
particularly care for the islanders or the island. He had been having a
jolly time of it in London, living at the family apartments in
Kensington, his plan had been to continue with the army for a few more
years then move into banking. It had all been decided by Father while
the boys were still at Harrow. Harry would take over the Lairdship of
Annshal on his father’s death and Robert would remain at liberty.
No one had expected Harry to die so young.
So
by default Robert was Lord Inverstarck and all that that encompassed,
most of which he had no taste or time for. Hereditary was hereditary and
not even God could set that apart; to make the best of a problem was
Robert’s philosophy. Still, there were compensations, the estate (if you
included the properties in London) was relatively well off and Fiona
was proving herself to be a beautiful distraction. If they could only
rid themselves of that annoying husband of hers and the troublesome brat
she had given birth to, things might take a turn for the better.
With any luck, Ireland would keep Robert occupied and there would be no reason to travel to France. He could be back in Annshal and in Fiona’s arms by autumn.
With any luck, Ireland would keep Robert occupied and there would be no reason to travel to France. He could be back in Annshal and in Fiona’s arms by autumn.
2
Robert
McAnders, Lord Inverstarck of Annshal, was to report to Dublin Castle by the 1st of
April, 1916 and so the Ball was arranged for the previous Saturday.
It
was a dark early afternoon and there were still several weeks to go before the
clocks were changed. This was the first time it had been tried and it kept the
British in step with the Germans who were both in a bid to save daylight.
It
was one of the few things that would be saved that year.
Everyone
on Annshal was invited to the Laird’s farewell and all were expected to attend,
that included men without legs and their sons. The Farewell Ball was Fiona’s
first real challenge in the House and there was much to prove to herself and to
the others. Proof that she was worthy of being at the Laird’s side (and not
just in his bed), that she was more than just a grooms’ wife with ambitions and
that she would make a worthy spouse to Robert – if that chance ever
arose.
These
were strange times, very strange indeed, and the old ways were crumbling in the
hands of the islanders. In the past Fiona would never have been allowed such an
important task as to arrange a party. She would have only been a badly kept
secret but things had changed and who really knew what the world would become
when the war was finally over.
The
Staff, under the charge of Fiona, had done their jobs well. Inverstarck House
had never looked more beautiful than it did that night with its face scrubbed
and brightened by the snow.The paths were marked by large torches which could
be seen from a mile away. Those who had the means arrived by coach and the rest
on foot. Men from the mainland, who were not at war, were also invited and most
of them made the effort to see the Laird off to Ireland. Robert McAnders was an
influential man and one to be respected. It did them no harm, if they ended up
in Ireland, to have the ear of the one of the governors of Dublin Castle.
Whether
overlooked or by intention, no one had sent a pony and trap to the Galbraith’s
cottage. Sammy saw this as a sign that they should stay away but Johnny was
determined that they make an appearance. This had been the way of things before
the war and in his mind, it still was - nothing had changed.
Sammy
pushed his father’s wheelchair in silence as the snow built up in front of the
wheels. This made the effort to move his father very strenuous. The chair would
grind to a halt, Sammy would shove and then everything, including them, would
shudder forwards. His father ignored his son’s discomfort. His boy had legs and
as such, he should make use of them.
There
was a time when Johnny Galbraith had been popular and it had suited him to be
that way. A sociable and thick-skinned man was the only way to deal with the
landed gentry that was how they played the game.
When
Johnny had been brought home, the House had sent some horse tack over to be
cleaned, probably at the request of Fiona, but he had taken this as a
patronising gesture. His depression started in France, as it may have done
for many men, but Johnny had found that the act of just opening his eyes after
sleep took every sinew in his body. The sharp stab of realisation which
followed dreams was one of the most painful parts of his life. Johnny wondered
how many condemned men found a temporary solace in sleep and then a pain in
awakening that burned at their very souls.
Some
men were born for war and took it with an ease and perhaps such men were stupid
or brave – Johnny was neither of those. He looked into the eyes of the men who
were still to go to war and he noted their pity. It was obvious they couldn’t
comprehend his pain. To them, all he had done was make a wrong turning into the
forest of darkness but if he would only swing around and chose a different
path, it would lead him to back to the light. For those who know depression it
is not about taking the wrong road, it is about the ground swallowing you up
whole.
On
the train journey home he would constantly stare down, always at the floor,
never wanting to catch sight of someone smiling or even worse laughing, for in
that lay contamination. He had to protect his anger. His anger helped him
survive.
The
drive in front of the House was not built to accommodate a wheelchair so Sammy
pushed his father around to the back. It was here that the party was centred.
The pipers stood in the snow playing a merry tune and would continue for
several hours before they were allowed time in front of a large fire and a dram
of whisky. There was a blast of heat and the smell of drink as some of
the Highland dancers reeled their way on to the snowy courtyard and back
through the large door.
Inside
the House Inverstarck held court, yet always circling within reach was Fiona
who would not be presumptive enough to stand next to him.
In
one corner of the ballroom were the Reverend Winters and his beautiful
daughter, Isla. It had been the intention of the Reverend to keep her at home
that evening but, as his wife had stated, if Isla was not exposed to the
more gentile society of Annshal then she would continue to make contact with
the lower classes. The Reverend agreed but with one proviso, Isla was to move
no more than two feet from his side.
What
the Reverend Winters failed to observe was how much Sammy and Isla were in
love. They had known each other almost all of their lives and instinctively
knew what the other was thinking. She had seen other boys and he had
kissed most of the other girls on the island, but in the end they always found
each other, like magnets in a fog.
All
Isla had to do was look towards a door and Sammy knew what she meant. She
whispered something into her father’s ear and he reluctantly waved her away.
“Are
you all right here father?” asked Sammy, never taking his eyes from Isla.
“Be
quick Sammy, whatever it is, I don’t think my presence is much appreciated and
keep away from that old goat Winters.”
Sammy
found a large heating stone by one of the fires and placed it under his
father’s chair, to hold it fast.
“I
won’t be long.”
“See
that you aren’t.” His father was decidedly agitated.
Isla
and Sammy found sanctuary in a small cupboard in the upper floor and closed the
door on all their problems.
There
was much about that evening to keep Johnny looking at the well polished floor:
people were dancing, smiling and laughing, everything that he had once enjoyed
but had buried in France. Still, he had to be here even if it was only to see
Fiona. When they say that war is expensive they rarely mean the
ammunition.
Inverstarck
was called upon to make a speech about how the estate was in safe hands, Johnny
wondered if this meant Fiona.And then it happened, Robert McAnders called Fiona
to his side. Whether it was his imminent departure or a foolish action fuelled
by drink the result was the same. He was letting the world know that this was
his woman and in front of her own husband. Even the Reverend’s jaw
dropped.
What
was going through Johnny’s mind could only be guessed at, but there he was
sitting in his chair and pointing the gun at Inverstarck.
For
a few moments no one moved then two things happened simultaneously. Fiona stood
in front of Inverstarck whispering ‘he won’t shoot me’ and the
other thing was a servant made a leap towards Johnny’s gun causing it to
fire.
The
blood gushed from Fiona’s chest as she fell.
In
the cupboard on the upper floor, Sammy and Isla were so caught up in the act of
making love that they were oblivious to the noise of the first gunshot.
They
did not make that same mistake with the second one.
It
was a crisp, cold November day and the crowd pulled in their coats
tightly around them. A general silence descended as the coffin rolled by
drawn by six horses on a gun carriage of the Royal Horse Artillery. As
the cortege turned at Hyde Park Corner shoulders moved up and down and
some sobbing escaped, a young voice cried out, ‘Goodbye Dad’.
When he arrived at Whitehall and after King George 5th unveiled
the Cenotaph, there was a two minute silence. Then he drifted homeward
to Westminster Abbey where he was carried to his final resting place
guarded by one hundred holders of the Victoria Cross. Earth from several
battlefields was placed in the grave including several barrel loads
from Ypres; it would let him feel at home and in the Abbey, he need
never be alone again.
For
seven days his grave lay covered by a silk funeral pall. One week
later, a temporary stone sealed his grave and on it was written:
"A British Warrior Who Fell in the Great War 1914-1918 for King and Country. Greater Love Hath No Man Than This."
_________________
Only
a handful turned up at the funeral, Isla was there of course and her
father, who led the service, but most of the islanders stayed away. Not
because they disliked Johnny but they felt it would displease Lord
Inverstarck who had since left the island for Dublin. He had sent word
to the hospital in Glasgow that Fiona should receive the best of care
and that he would pay all her bills, and that was the end of that as far
as Inverstarck was concerned.
Sammy
was sad that he never got to say goodbye to his father. By the time
both he and Isla had heard the gunshot and appeared in the ballroom, his
mother’s wounds were being tended to and his father body was lying
slumped over the chair bloodied and alone. No one was taking care of
him. The ballroom had been cleared of everyone apart from Inverstarck
and a few servants. It was obvious now that his father must have assumed
he’d accidentally killed Fiona and then turned the gun on himself.
Sammy
had an emptiness that gnawed at his stomach and finished in his heart.
He felt alone and dizzy and he was just about to topple into the grave
when Isla gripped his hand hard and pulled him back from the edge of
several dark things. One of those dark things was the thought he was
having about killing Inverstarck.
Isla
guided Sammy away from the Churchyard, holding his hand for the very
first time in public. She looked at her father daring him to object but
instead Winters cleared snow from Johnny Galbraith’s grave and let a
tear fall from his eye. The minister was as only as strong as the
enemies he had.
Sammy
and Isla went back to his house and lay by the fire holding each other
until the sun came up yet, peaceful as this was, nothing could erase the
cancerous thought that was eating at his brain. He must kill the Laird,
this, the man who had stolen his mother and caused his father’s death
and who had fled to Ireland without visiting her in hospital in Glasgow.
The Laird would be better off dead.
“Are you feeling happier my wee lamb?” asked Isla while stroking her boy's hair.
“I am now.”
Isla smiled, completely misunderstanding the comment.
_________________
On
the first day alone 40,000 people had come to visit him when the Abbey
doors finally closed at 11pm. By the following year there had been
millions. On November the 11th, 1921 a slab of black Belgium
marble was used to finally seal the tomb. Engraved on the marble, in
brass made from melted ammunition, was a further inscription which ended
with the lines:
“THEY BURIED HIM AMONG THE KINGS BECAUSE HE
HAD DONE GOOD TOWARD GOD AND TOWARD
HIS HOUSE”
HAD DONE GOOD TOWARD GOD AND TOWARD
HIS HOUSE”
Sleep well my friend, sleep well.
_________________
Isla
had so much to tell Sammy yet his mind seemed to be elsewhere. He was
agitated and continued to talk about leaving. She felt if the war
continued as it had done he would be leaving soon enough.
A
week after his father’s funeral, he did leave. There was a ferry that
went from Glasgow to Dublin and called in at several islands on the way.
It only stopped at Annshal once every three weeks and today was that
day. Sammy packed his bag and wrote a letter to Isla. She would find it
propped up beside the fireplace when she called looking for him. He took
a Bible and a silver chain to which was attached a blue medallion.
Sammy’s father had been given it by his mother to pass on to his
sweetheart. His father, Johnny, had given it to Fiona who had left it at
the cottage on the night she packed her bags.
He
also wrote a letter to his mother, one he been composing most of the
night. This too was to be left on the fireplace but when the time came,
he ripped the letter in half and threw it onto the fire.
He
lifted a shirt that belonged to his father, took in the smell of the
man who was no more, then walked out of the cottage.He may have been too
long looking around for as he arrived at the pier the ferry was already
leaving.
If
he didn’t go now, he knew that holding on to that much hate for several
more weeks would destroy him. He swung his bag over his shoulder and
ran as fast as he could. Sammy flew down the pier and when that ran
out, he jumped the ten or so feet to the edge of the paddle steamer. He
just made it, and as the ferry was leaving the harbour, Sammy found
himself holding on to the side of the boat for dear life.
“Give me your hand boy and I’ll help you up”.
Sammy couldn’t make the face out at first as the low winter sun was blinding his eyes.
“Come on now.”
Sammy reached out and caught the man’s hand. It was strong and it pulled him up the side of the ferry without a struggle.
“The name’s Shamus.” He said.
bobby stevenson 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment