25

From the barred window of my cell I could see a corner of the exercise yard and, beyond it, a bleak granite tor with a scatter of rocks on the summit. At night, a single light sometimes burned from a small farm on the southern slope, a beacon pointing the way to freedom. The area of the cell was precisely six feet by nine. It contained two narrow bunks that were bolted into the wall with fittings for another two above them, a small shelf that made do as a sort of table, similarly affixed, a chair with a metal frame and wooden seat and two buckets, one of fresh water and the other for use as a latrine. Upon the bunks were canvas palliasses filled with straw and two coarse blankets which invariably smelled slightly musty even after recent laundering. Despite the available accommodation, I occupied the cell alone.

My daily routine was as predictable as the motion of the stars. I was woken at six by the jangle of keys unlocking the door and, queuing outside my cell with the other criminals, took part in the ritual of slopping out. This consisted of carrying my bucket of effluent to a manhole in the courtyard, emptying it down the abyss, swilling the bucket out at a standpipe and also tipping that down the drain. The task accomplished, I went back to my cell and waited for half an hour before being summoned to go through the same ritual with my fresh water bucket, refilling this at the same standpipe. Going to and from the yard was done at the double, and great care had to be taken not to spill anything. If a prisoner spilt water, he had to mop it up: if he spilt shit, he had to collect it up with his bare hands and take it to the sewer entrance.

At seven o’clock, half a loaf of bread and a chunk of hard cheese were delivered to the cell door by two prisoners drafted for the task. At seven-thirty, we lined up again and filed out to the yard to collect sledgehammers and pickaxes. Equipped for our day’s work, we marched out of the prison with a detachment of warders and, arriving at the village of Princetown, were taken to a yard close to a railway line where large boulders of granite had been delivered. For the remainder of the day, we broke these into chips of hardcore. Our only respite came at noon, when we were permitted half an hour to collect a mug of water from a barrel and eat two ship’s biscuits which were so hard they had to be soaked for ten minutes before becoming pliable enough to chew. At five o’clock, we were marched back to the prison, surrendered our tools, collected an apple, a plate of hot food and a mug of tea, then went to our cells. The doors were locked at half past six for the night. Only Sunday was different, when a chapel service was held at nine o’clock, after which groups of prisoners were permitted to exercise in the prison yard. At no time, except during exercise periods, were we permitted to speak to anyone but our gaolers. When not praying or stretching our legs around the yard, we were locked in our cells with our thoughts.

Every evening, despite myself, I could not stop mulling over the circumstances that had incarcerated me.

They had come for me as I was taking my breakfast of porridge with Ogilvy. A police constable, an under-sheriff and a soldier, the three of them had set off on horseback for Breakish several hours before dawn, risking the ascent to Bealach na Clachan in the dark. They were polite, almost diffident, but they had their duty to do. The wording of the arrest warrant was ambiguous, accusing me of conduct likely to engender a breach of the peace. I was given half an hour to pack my belongings; then, seated upon a horse they had brought with them, my baggage distributed among the other mounts, I was led out of the village towards the mountains.

Not until we reached the monks’ cells in the pass did I look back. Far away, I could just make out the bay upon which Breakish stood while, to the south, Eilean Tosdach was little more than a smudge upon the sea. I had only been there a matter of weeks and yet I knew I was leaving much of myself on that isolated coast. With every step the horse took, the emptiness in me grew deeper and more profound.

We rode throughout the day, stopping only twice to water the horses. It was after dusk when we reached a small railway halt close to a hamlet of less than a dozen houses. Here we discharged the horses, had a mean meal in what served as an inn for travellers and, shortly before midnight, caught a train for Inverness. Once we were seated in the carriage, the police constable took out his handcuffs and secured my right wrist to the leather strap hinge of the carriage door. As the train made its slow way across Scotland, weaving along river valleys and through glens, under towering mountains and forests of fir darker than the night, my companions took it in turns to guard me. The soldier kept his rifle well out of my reach by placing it on the luggage rack above his head.

Arriving in Inverness just after daybreak, I was escorted through the empty streets to the police station, where I was given an enamel mug of tea and some rashers of grilled bacon and toast, then placed in the local lock-up. That evening, with an escort of three soldiers, I embarked upon a journey that ended, two days later, in a courtroom in a suburb of west London.

My case was heard by three magistrates seated behind a table on a dais, surrounded by oak panelling into which was inscribed the coat of arms of the county of Middlesex. I was led in between two police officers and positioned in the dock, facing the justices. After I had confirmed my identity, I was told to remain standing. A lawyer had been appointed by the court to represent me, but my two short meetings with him prior to my appearance were sufficient to show me that, for a reason I could not fathom, he held me in contempt and would do nothing more than the minimum required of him.

‘Alec Sebastian Marquand,’ the chairman of the trio said after he and his colleagues had perused the documents before them for a minute or two. ‘We have reason to believe that you have expressed the intention of avoiding military service at a time when this country is at war with Germany. Is this correct?’

My lawyer made to stand up, to go through the motions of defending me, but I signalled to him to remain seated.

I replied, ‘I have been led to believe that the charge laid against me is one of seeking to carry out a breach of the peace.’

The chairman, without recourse to his colleagues, answered, ‘That is the charge upon which you were arrested. This was for your own protection and to avoid undue publicity being given to your case. For this you should be grateful. Were the actual charge known, you may have’—he paused to consider his words—‘experienced some discomfort from those whom you encountered, particularly at such a time as this.’

Ignoring his remarks, I said, ‘I do not consider it just that I be arrested on what is essentially a trumped-up charge with no validity whatsoever, only to be accused of a totally different misdemeanour when appearing before the bench.’

At this point, I looked round the court. The public seating was empty except for my stepfather. It was then I understood. He had used his influence and, as he saw it, was teaching me a lesson. In the face of authority, he was convinced, I would surrender to his will, accept the commission he had arranged, become a soldier like him. Become a man. I wondered with which of the magistrates he had attended school, or military academy, or fought alongside in the African bushveldt.

‘I have expressed no such intention,’ I continued, addressing the magistrate’s question. ‘I have not been called upon for military service and so the matter has not arisen.’

‘We have documents before us that show you have been generously offered a commission in the First Battalion, The Connaught Rangers.’

‘This is an offer. It is not an order,’ I rejoined.

The magistrate on the right, a thin-faced man with a tic beneath his left eye, said, ‘Do you not consider, at a time of war, that such an offer is tantamount to an order to show your patriotism?’

‘No, I do not,’ I answered. ‘The commission was not requested by me but was arranged by my stepfather without consultation with or recourse to me.’

‘So it is not your wish to accept this commission?’

‘It is not,’ I said firmly, at the same time looking in my stepfather’s direction. He was, I noticed to my discomfort, smiling faintly.

‘If you are rejecting this opportunity for a commission, are you nevertheless prepared to accept military service?’

I should have considered my answer carefully, yet I did not. I was infuriated by that faint smile.

‘I have not considered the matter…’ I began.

‘Not considered the matter,’ echoed the thin-faced magistrate, ‘when men like you—young, fit men—are lining up at recruiting offices in every major city in the land, eager to serve in the defence of our great empire?’

I made no response.

‘You mentioned you had not been called upon for military service,’ remarked the third magistrate, an elderly man with a neatly trimmed full beard. ‘By this,’ he went on in an almost benign tone, ‘are we to assume that you intend to take no steps to come to your country’s aid until requested so to do?’

‘You may assume that,’ I confirmed.

They exchanged glances and, not to my surprise, the chairman looked briefly at my stepfather as if to either gain his acquiescence for what was to follow or to ensure that the proceedings were taking the path upon they had previously agreed.

‘Are we to assume, Mr. Marquand, that you wish to consider yourself a pacifist?’

My lawyer got to his feet, whispered in my ear, ‘Consider carefully how you reply,’ and sat down again.

I had not considered such a question before. The concept of war was almost academic, something I had studied in tall-ceilinged rooms, the sun shafting through the windows to agitate motes of dust into a giddy, microscopic dance, or had looked upon with distaste in the painting of the Boer War massacre so admired by my stepfather. Now, I was being coerced into making a moral decision, taking a stand for what I believed to be right and just, and by which I could demonstrate my loathing for that which the self-righteous Colonel regarded as so manly and magnificent. It took me little more than a minute to reach my decision and compose my response.

‘There are those,’ I began, ‘who consider war to be a glorious matter, filled with comradeship, honour, valour and loyalty. For them, to go to war is a gallant action which they justify by claiming right to be on their side. These noble sentiments are admirable and I do not seek to demean the memory of those who have upheld them in the firm belief that they were doing right. However, I consider war to be futile.’

The chairman of the magistrates leaned forward as if the better to hear me. The thin-faced one leaned backwards, as if already bored with what he was predetermining would be a tirade, whilst the bearded one looked hard at me.

‘This futility,’ I continued, ‘lies in the fact that whilst national borders may shift and kingdoms expand or contract, there is little else of benefit to be gained. Merchants may trade more widely in one land and less in another. A political or religious ideal may come to the fore at the expense of another declining, but, for the general citizen, war is nothing more than a change of master earned at the expense of human life and misery. War is the playground of kings and presidents, not of people.’

By now, I was warming to my theme, but, my head filled with the enormity of my subject, I was having to struggle with myself to remain succinct.

‘Whenever war is declared, the antagonists proclaim divine right on their side. No soldier has gone to war without the sure faith that his god is behind him, justifying his cause. The priests have condoned the killing in direct contravention of the holy commandment that all human life is sacred. Can the killing of a Muslim at the fall of Jerusalem in 1099 be claimed as a holy act? Or the death of a Christian crusader at Acre in 1291? The First Crusade had nothing to do with religious ideology. That was a hypocritical excuse, expressed by Pope Urban the Second. The real reason for the crusade was the fact that the population of Europe was expanding rapidly, causing the increasing demand for trade and the control of trade routes to the East. Religious zeal was merely used as a tool to mobilise fighters in the name of mercantile progress.’

‘We are not here,’ the thin-faced magistrate interrupted me, ‘to be given a history lecture. Kindly answer the question.’

The moment had arrived. It was, I suppose, the one for which I had been waiting all of my life, although I had not known it until then. Now was the time to declare myself, to state unequivocally where I stood on matters of common morality. Across my mind flashed a series of brief images, of the men cut down by their own guns at the battle of Colenso, of the bronze arrowhead, of Eilean Tosdach and the girl, of her innocence that knew nothing of such things, and I thought how good it would be if the world were like her, unknowing and unwise in the artifice of destruction.

‘We are waiting for your answer, sir,’ the chairman said brusquely, cutting into my thoughts.

I looked at my stepfather. He, too, was waiting to hear what I would say, for my capitulation.

‘I believe,’ I said quietly, ‘in the value and sanctity of human life, irrespective of nationality, creed or colour. Therefore, I will not place myself in such a position as to take life.’

My statement was greeted by a brief but profound silence, broken only when the chairman of the magistrates looked at me and said, ‘Mr. Marquand, I will afford you the privilege of withdrawing your statement.’

‘I have no intention of doing so,’ I replied. ‘I wish to state formally my status as a pacifist who will not take up arms against another man.’

The response seemed to flummox the magistrates. They conferred in whispers before the bearded one asked me, ‘Do you mean to say that were a German soldier to enter your home, rape and mutilate your mother or sister, you would raise no hand against him?’

‘I would try to restrain him,’ I said, ‘yet I would not kill him. I should allow the law to judge him, not me.’

‘In other words, you would abnegate responsibility for his punishment to others,’ said the chairman.

‘I would not take the law into my own hands,’ I said, ‘That is not the behaviour of a civilised man.’

‘And the act of rape is civilised?’ the chairman asked, adding, ‘Would you say you are a religious man, Mr. Marquand?’

I thought for a moment and answered, ‘No, I would not say I am a religious man, but I would say I am a moral one.’

‘And what,’ asked the thin-faced man, going back to the theoretical German military rapist, ‘if there were no law? If this were war and the power of the law was in abeyance.’

‘I would seek to restrain him,’ I repeated.

‘What if your restraint was ineffectual?’

‘I would continue until such a time as he killed me,’ I replied.

‘So you would let your mother or sister be raped and killed, and yourself, when a swift act on your part could prevent it.’

‘If by this,’ I said, ‘you mean my killing of the rapist, then yes.’

From behind me I heard footsteps on the floorboards and the door to the court being wrenched open, then slammed shut, the latch rattling.

‘In this case,’ said the chairman of the magistrates, ‘you leave me with no alternative but to remand you in custody until such a time as either you come to your senses or you appear before a higher court. You will, therefore, be taken from this court and held in a secure place pending further action.’

He signalled to the constables to step me down, but I held my ground

‘I wish to know,’ I said, ‘under what authority you are remanding me. I am not aware that I have broken any law.’

The magistrate, who had turned his attention to the file on the desk before him, looked up.

‘You are being remanded, sir,’ he said curtly, ‘under the Defence of the Realm Act, 1914, ratified by His Majesty’s government but a week or so ago and empowering me to act in accordance with its provisions, which afford me the discretion to imprison any individual who declares against the war effort on ethical grounds.’

I was escorted from the courtroom and down a narrow stairwell the walls of which were decorated with dark green tiles. The portal to Hades, I thought, must look like this, the sides slick so as to offer no handhold to the fearful sinner or penitent screaming for mercy. At the bottom, I was led along a subterranean corridor and pushed into a windowless cell containing only a table and chair.

‘Right, mush!’ exclaimed one of the policemen, entering the cell whilst his colleague remained outside. ‘Take off yer belt an’ shoes.’

I obeyed. He passed the belt out of the door, removed my shoelaces, then handed my shoes back to me.

‘Don’t wan’ yer t’ get cold feet, do we?’ he said.

This comment was met with a loud snigger from the corridor.

‘An’ we don’t want yer to ’ang yerself, neither,’ he went on. ‘Not that there’s much chance of that, wot with yer aversion to killing.’

‘More’s the pity,’ came the retort from outside.

The door closed heavily, the key turning smoothly in the oiled lock. I listened as the footsteps died away.

I am not sure how long I was left alone, my watch and other valuables having been taken from me before my court appearance, but after some time the footsteps returned.

‘Visitor,’ said a voice as the door was unlocked.

I looked up to see my stepfather standing in the doorway.

‘Have you anything to say to me, sir?’

I knew he expected a recantation, that he thought a few hours’ incarceration might have destroyed my resolve, brought me to my senses and made me acquiesce to his will.

‘I have nothing to say,’ I replied.

‘So you are content to be a bloody coward, are you?’

He wanted an argument, but I had, perhaps for the first time in my life, the better of him. I made no further response, which riled him further.

‘A bloody coward!’ he reiterated. ‘Wherever you go from here on, you’ll be known as a milksop, a spineless man with no guts, with no loyalty to his fellows, no love of his nation and no pride in himself.’

Still, I said nothing, allowing his anger to mount.

‘You’re a funker, sir.’ His cheeks were reddening; his right hand had formed a fist, the fingers of his left flexing themselves. ‘I have only one consolation,’ he muttered through clenched teeth, ‘that whenever you are in the company of men, you will be hounded, sir. They’ll know you for the milquetoast that you are, and if they’ve any spunk in them, they’ll beat the shit out of you.’

My continued silence was more than he could bear. He desperately wanted to draw me out, yet the more his determination grew, so did mine.

‘You are a disgrace, sir,’ he growled. ‘To your family, to your country. I am only glad that your mother is not alive to see this pretty pass.’

It was a clumsy ploy. He should have known I would not fall for it. He might have once been in command of men, yet, I realised then, he could not judge them. To him, they were either imbued with courage or cowardice, obedience or insubordination, loyalty or treachery. There was no middle ground; his world was simplified to that of friends and enemies, all those who were not for him being by definition against him.

‘God damn you!’ he muttered. ‘I hope you rot in hell.’

I could not resist it. I had to play with him, had to have the last word.

‘But not in a ditch on the veldt, shot in the back by accident,’ I said quietly.

My remark must have struck a raw nerve. His face darkened, his right eyebrow twitching, and it occurred to me that, were I to research into the regimental archives of the Connaughts or the Inniskillings, I might find his role in the skirmish to be somewhat less than exemplary.

‘Fuck you!’ he muttered, and, with that, he was gone.

I never saw him again.

Early the next morning, my feet manacled and my wrists fastened by handcuffs, I was taken under military escort to Paddington station and put on a train for Exeter. Two soldiers travelled with me, the blinds to our compartment kept closed the whole journey. Arriving in Exeter, I was transferred to a local train, part of which consisted of a carriage containing a number of barred cages. I was placed in one of these, two of the other cages being already occupied by an elderly man in a shabby suit and a youth wearing a cloth cap and moleskin trousers.

As night fell, we arrived at our destination, His Majesty’s Prison: Dartmoor.