Bring Out the Banners Page 9

  It was full of newspaper men, all hotly discussing Winston Churchill. Was the fellow mad? He’d often been thought unsound. What he had done now was really the limit.

  Yesterday, as First Lord of the Admiralty, he had urged the cabinet to mobilize the fleet. France might be at war with Germany at any moment. The German fleet could then sail into the Channel and bombard the French coast. This, Churchill had said, must be prevented at all costs. Asquith and the others had rejected his proposal.

  Today, incredibly, without consulting them again – without even a word to the King – Churchill had taken it upon himself to mobilize the Navy. Had he gone out of his mind?

  ‘Or have the rest of ’em?’ demanded one veteran journalist. ‘We may thank God for Winston yet!’

  Sure enough, next day, August Bank Holiday, the cabinet hurriedly approved Churchill’s action. Germany had declared war on France – but her warships had not tried to pass through the Dover straits. Instead, the Kaiser had sent Belgium an ultimatum, demanding the right to march across her neutral territory and attack the French frontier.

  It was the Belgian King’s defiance that really stirred the sympathy of the British public. They hated a bully like the Kaiser. They would go to the help of ‘gallant little Belgium’.

  One by one, day by day, the nations of Europe seemed to be toppling like ninepins, knocking over their neighbours as they went. The fatal telegrams were flickering between the capitals, proclamations being signed. Millions of Russian peasants were being called up from the harvest fields and sent marching in their drab uniforms, endless columns of them, along the dusty roads towards the frontiers. In Belgium the uhlans, the dreaded German lancers, were galloping across the Belgian fields. Even here in Britain the summer manoeuvres were broken off on Salisbury Plain so that the War Office could prepare for real hostilities. And the ships of the Royal Navy were steaming to take up their secret stations.

  It was the strangest Bank Holiday Monday. By nightfall Guy was one of a vast multitude outside Buckingham Palace, singing God Save the King and clamouring for the monarch to appear on the balcony. There was the usual know-all in the crowd around him. He was reassuring everybody. ‘Mark my words, if it does come to a war, it’ll be all over by Christmas!’

  What a difference, Guy thought, from that afternoon on this same spot when he had rushed to save the girls from the hoofs of the police horses! He wondered what they would be thinking at this moment – if they had any knowledge of what was going on in the world outside…

  Chapter Seventeen

  I feel like death, I must look like death, Fiona reflected gloomily. But evidently the doctor considered she could stand another day or two of this torture.

  This was the fourth day. Each visit from that team of disciplined monsters was like a recurrent nightmare. She was paving the price for starting as a health young woman with no heart weakness or other disability. These fiends would only stop the treatment if they got scared that she might die on their hands. Perhaps, though she struggled against the gag and that vile tube, and seemed to bring up all those nourishing fluids they poured into her, she might be keeping down more than she realized? In that case the ordeal might go on for ever. That thought was intolerable. She groaned, turned her head on the rough pillow, and closed her eyes.

  What was that hubbub in the distance? Oh, no, not yet! It couldn’t be time. But far down the corridor there were the successive crashes of opening doors flung back on their hinges. That was the devilish cunning of the procedure. When several prisoners were forcibly fed their cells stood open throughout, so that the cries could be heard by the others.

  There was no screaming today. Just shouting. For a wild moment she wondered if it meant mutiny – or a rescue attempt from outside. It could not possibly succeed. She was so weak, she could not lift a finger to help. She got up off the bed and stood up unsteadily, clutching the table for support.

  The key turned, her door swung back. It was the wardress she still thought of as the kind one.

  ‘Can you walk, dear? You’re going out.’

  ‘Out?’ Fiona swayed. The strong hand held her.

  ‘I’ll help you. I’ll fetch you your own clothes.’

  ‘But – what – ’

  ‘It’s the war. All you suffragettes are going out. Your leaders have called the campaign off. We must all stand together against the Germans.’

  Waiting in the doorway Fiona made what sense she could of the excited voices calling from cell to cell. Was that Grace Roe? She had not heard that voice since the day of the headquarters raid. It sounded different now. Only later did she learn that Grace Roe had been subjected to forcible feeding three hundred times and her throat was painfully inflamed. But hoarse and weak though it was, the firm instructions could only have come from that indomitable organizer.

  ‘Listen, everybody! No one’s to sign any undertaking. Promise nothing! Everything must be negotiated by the leadership.’

  The wardresses gave up their half-hearted efforts to collect signatures. Fiona’s hand was too shaky to hold a pen.

  Suddenly Belle was at her elbow. They hugged each other till they almost fell over in the corridor. ‘I’ve got my handbag back,’ Belle cried. ‘I can pay for a cab – if we can get one. You must come home with me.’

  ‘But what will your parents think?’

  They soon got the answer to that. There was a welcoming crowd outside the gates. There, in the midst of the banners, the purple, white and green ties and sashes, stood the man she had seen in court, with a lady who must be the Countess. And talking to her was the other man she had seen in court. Guy.

  Belle’s mother took charge. ‘You can’t possibly go to your flat alone, Miss Campbell. You need nursing. So does Belle. I’m a mother – two are much easier to nurse than one! We have the motor waiting. Mr Dangerfield, you will come back with us for luncheon? Though goodness knows what these poor girls can be allowed to eat! Our doctor will advise us. Then I shall pack them both off to bed.’

  ‘Isn’t it lovely to be free?’ said Belle wickedly. ‘Not to be ordered about all the time!’

  Postscript

  More than three years later, in one of her countless letters to Guy, Fiona was able to write:

  January 11th, 1918

  Now at last I can tell you we’ve won the vote! After FIFTY YEARS’ struggle! As I told you before Christmas, the bill had passed the Commons – and today’s Daily Mirror says it has gone through the Lords with a two-to-one majority. Now we only need the King’s assent, and that’s automatic. So we were right to suspend our campaign and put all our energies into the war effort. Even the Bishop of London said he was ‘wholly converted’ to the cause – women will be so essential to world reconstruction after the war. Belle’s father made a splendid speech as well. I’m glad that Belle (who sends her love!) persuaded me to join her in the Land Army – I was lucky to get to the same farm. She’s wonderful with the horses. I’m not, but I’m useful at tidying up after them! I’m better with that old motorbike – and I haven’t fallen off again – yet. How wonderful that you saw the Turks surrender Jerusalem to General Allenby! I’m thankful you’re out there, not in France. I pray every night that you’ll come safely home…

  And he did.

  About the Author

  Geoffrey Trease was born in 1909 in Nottingham where his passion for writing started during his childhood. His first book Bows Against the Barons was published in 1934. When he was in the army during the Second World War he provided courses for troops and also continued his writing. After the war he met many children, parents, and teachers, in schools and libraries and discussed children’s literature. He wrote over a hundred books for children and adults, with many appearing in other countries and languages. He was a Chairman of the Society of Authors and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature.

  Bring out the Banners exemplifies his conviction that girls should play a central, equal role in his stories within the factual possibilities of female oppor
tunities in a particular historical period. His young people share dangers, disappointments and triumphs as they also explore realistic relationships.

  This edition copyright © 2013 A & C Black

  This electronic edition published in May 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing

  Text © 1994 Geoffrey Trease

  First published 2013 by

  A & C Black

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square,

  London, WC1B 3DP

  www.bloomsbury.com

  The right of Geoffrey Trease to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-4081-9186-6

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