The Red Hand of Ulster Part 27

"If you'll pardon my curiosity," he said, "I should like to ask--"

I saw that I should be obliged to tell him who I was in the end. I told him at once, adding that I was a person of no importance whatever, and that I had no views of any kind on what he would no doubt want to call "the situation."

"May I ask you one question?" he said. "Is Lord Moyne going to take the chair to-morrow?"

"Yes," I said, "he is. But if you're going to print what I say in any paper I won't speak another word."

"As a matter of fact," he said, "the wires are blocked. There's a man in the post office writing as hard as he can and handing one sheet after another across the counter as quick as he can write them. n.o.body else can send anything."

"c.l.i.thering, I expect."

"Very likely. Seems to fancy himself a bit, whoever he is. n.o.body else can get a message through."

He seemed an agreeable young man. Moyne had probably gone to bed and I did not want to spend a lonely evening.

"Have a gla.s.s of claret," I said.

He sat down and poured himself off half a tumbler-full. Then it struck him that he owed me some return for my hospitality.

"My name," he said, "is Bland. I was with Roberts' column in the Orange Free State."

"Ah!" I said. "A war correspondent."

"I did the Greek War, too," he said. "A poor affair, very. Looks to me as if you were going to do better here. But it's a curious situation."

"Very," I said, "and most unpleasant."

"From my point of view," said Bland, "it's most interesting. The usual thing is for one army to clear out of a town before the other comes in or else to surrender after a regular siege. But here--"

"I'm afraid," I said, "that our proceedings are frightfully irregular."

"None the worse for that," said Bland kindly. "But they _are_ a bit peculiar. I've read up quite a lot of military history and I don't recollect a single case in which two hostile armies patrolled the streets of the same city without firing a shot at one another. By the way, have you been out?"

"Not since this afternoon," I said.

"It would be quite worth your while to take a stroll round," said Bland. "There's not the slightest risk and you may never have a chance of seeing anything like it again."

I quite agreed with Bland. The odds are, I suppose, thousands to one against my ever again seeing two hostile armies walking up and down opposite sides of the street. I got my hat and we went out together.

We were almost immediately stopped by a body of lancers. Their leader asked us who we were and where we were going.

"Press correspondents," said Bland, "on our way to the telegraph office."

This impressed the officer. He allowed us to go on without ordering his men to impale us. I was glad of this. I am not particularly afraid of being killed, but I would rather meet my end by a sword cut or a bullet than by a lance. I should feel like a wild pig if a lancer speared me. No one could die with dignity and self-respect if he felt like a wild pig while he was pa.s.sing away.

"In ordinary wars," said Bland, "the best thing to say is that you are a doctor attached to the Ambulance Corps. But that's no use here.

These fellows don't want doctors!"

Then we met a party of volunteers. They stopped us too, and challenged us very sternly. Bland gave his answer. This time it did not prove wholly satisfactory.

"Protestant or Papist?" said the officer in command.

"Neither," said Bland, "I'm a high caste Brahmin."

Fortunately I recognized the officer's voice. It was Crossan who commanded this particular regiment. It never was safe, even in the quietest times, to be flippant with Crossan. On a night like that and under the existing circ.u.mstances, Bland might very well have been knocked on the head for his joke if I had not come to his rescue.

"Crossan," I said, "don't make a fuss. Mr. Bland and I are simply taking a walk round the streets."

"If he's a Papist," said Crossan, "he'll have to go home to his bed.

Them's my orders. We don't want rioting in the streets to-night."

I turned to Bland.

"What is your religion?" I asked.

"Haven't any," he said. "I haven't believed any doctrine taught by any Church since I was six years old. Will that satisfy you?"

"I was afeard," said Crossan, "that you might be a Papist. You can go on."

This shows, I think, that the charges of bigotry and intolerance brought against our Northern Protestants are quite unfounded. Crossan had no wish to persecute even a professed atheist.

We did not go very far though we were out for nearly two hours. The streets were filled with armed men and everybody we met challenged us. The police were the hardest to get rid of. They were no doubt soured by the treatment they received in Belfast. Accustomed to be regarded with awe by rural malefactors and denounced in flaming periods, of a kind highly gratifying to their self-importance, by political leaders, they could not understand a people who did not mention them in speeches but threatened their lives with paving stones. This had been their previous experience of Belfast and they were naturally suspicious of any stray wayfarers whom they met. They were not impressed when Bland said he was a newspaper reporter. They did not seem to care whether he believed or disbelieved the Apostles'

Creed. One party of them actually arrested us and only a ready lie of Bland's saved us from spending an uncomfortable night. He said, to my absolute amazement, that we were officials of an exalted kind, sent down by the Local Government Board to hold a sworn inquiry into the condition of Belfast. This struck me at the time as an outrageously silly story, but it was really a rather good one to tell. The Irish police are accustomed to sworn inquiries as one of the last resorts of hara.s.sed Governments. It seemed to the sergeant quite natural that somebody should be in Belfast to hold one.

We came across McConkey with his machine gun at a street corner. He had got a new crew to pull it along. I suppose the first men were utterly exhausted. But McConkey himself was quite fresh. Enthusiasm for the weapon on which he had spent the savings of a lifetime kept him from fatigue.

The experience was immensely interesting; but I began to get tired after a time. The necessity for explaining what we were--or rather what we were not--at the end of every fifty yards, began to make me nervous. Bland's spirits kept up, but Bland is a war correspondent and accustomed to being harried by military authorities. I am not. It was a comfort to me when we ran into Bob Power's regiment outside the Ulster Hall.

"Bob," I said, "I want to get back to my hotel. I wish you'd see me safe, chaperone me, convoy me, or whatever you call the thing I want you to do."

Bland tugged at my sleeve.

"Get him to take me to the post-office," he said. "I'll have another go at getting a telegram through."

"Bob," I said, "this is my friend Mr. Bland. He's a war correspondent and he wants to get to the post-office."

My return to the hotel was simple enough. The police kept out of the way of Bob's men. The other soldiers let him and his regiment pa.s.s without challenge. Bland, faithful to his professional duties, poured out questions as we went along.

"How's it managed?" he said. "Why aren't you at each other's throats?"

"So far as we're concerned," said Bob, "there's nothing to fight about. We don't object to the soldiers or the police. We're loyal men."

"Oh, are you?" said Bland.

"Quite."

"Unless our meeting's interrupted to-morrow," I said.