Author's Note: "The men they fought and the men did fall
Cut down by bayonet and musket ball
and many of these brave young men
Would never fight for, would never fight for their king again
"Come laddies, come
Hear the cannon roar,
Take the King's Shilling,
And you'll die in war." –from the song The King's Shilling, by Ian Sinclair
Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.
"I shouldn't have promised my Dad not to enlist," William Mason admitted in frustration.
"Why did you?" Mr. Branson asked from behind his newspaper a few places down the table. The chauffeur's thoughts were full of another William's promise.
The footman blew out a breath of frustration. "I don't know. Because he's my Dad, and he asked me to. Because I'm the only one of his children left."
'What must that be like?' Mr. Branson wondered, stricken. He thought of all his brothers and sisters. What if they were all dead? Jesus. He wanted to ask how many siblings the blonde young man had started out with, but found he couldn't. "He doesn't want you to be killed," he said instead.
"He wants to make a coward of me," William said.
"'Every decent man of our age must be a coward and a slave,'" the chauffeur quoted in amusement.
But William was not a utopian socialist, and had never read Notes from the Underground.
"You can laugh, Mr. Branson, but you and I should both be fighting for King and Country at this very minute."
The chauffeur's expression hardened. "Don't included me with your king and country. The last king of Ireland was Brian O'Neill."
Glorious sunshine bathed the beach at Bray.
Tom lay on the warm sand perpendicular to his half-brother, his head resting on Will's stomach. It was a day for rejoicing: Will's birthday, but Tommy's own stomach was in a knot. "How soon you will go?" he couldn't resist asking.
"Will you miss me?" William asked, amusement rippling in the lazy, lilting voice.
"Liam!" Pegeen stood towering over her younger full and half-brothers like a giantess. She and her husband and little ones had come from Dublin for Liam's eighteenth birthday celebration. "Is it true, what Da Robbie's saying, that you've promised him you'll wait until you're twenty-one to go in the Army?"
"Mmm-hmm," the older boy murmured.
"Well," his sister said, "maybe you've some sense after all." She took herself off, while her younger half-brother craned his head around to stare at the older boy.
"You're staying?" he repeated in delighted disbelief.
"I'm staying," came the warm reassurance.
Tom grinned, smiling back up at the blue sky he could now enjoy. "What did Da say to convince you?" Tommy had been trying to persuade the older boy to change his mind for months.
William laughed. "He said you weren't ready for me to leave you."
"What?!" Tommy was craning his head around again. "Is that all?"
"It wasn't all he said," Will admitted. "But it was the thing he said that convinced me."
"Mr. Bates," Anna greeted her sweetheart with relief. "Can you do me a favor?"
"Of course."
The head housemaid smiled. "Go and check on Mr. Branson."
"Won't he be in later?"
"Probably not. No one is dining here tonight."
"Why does he need to be checked on?" he asked.
"A letter came for him in the first post, from his mother in Dublin, and he looked… strange… after he read it."
"All right, I'll see to him," the valet promised. "I need to order the motor for his lordship anyway."
Silence reigned in the garage. Mr. Branson looked at the newspaper. On 1 January 1916, the 1st Battalion of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers had at last been ordered to leave the Dardanelles Penninsula. It should have been good news.
The young man's eye moved to the letter from his mother. But Tom's half-brother, William Ryan, had not left with them. Will was gone.
Despite the chill, the big doors of the garage were open.
"Mr. Branson?" the valet called.
"I'm here, Mr. Bates," the young man said, rising from the running board of the Renault where he'd been seated.
"Are you all right? Anna was worried." The valet handed over Lord Grantham's note ordering the motor.
The chauffeur smiled ruefully. "How does she always know?" He opened the note and moved toward the office alcove to write the order on the schedule.
Mr. Bates followed him. "Woman's intuition. She saw you'd gotten a letter from home. And you've an easy face to read."
Mr. Branson glanced up to give his friend a half-smile. "Well, I'm not English after all. No, I'm not all right. After all these bloody months, they're finally leaving the Dardanelles, and my brother's gone missing. He wrote me it was like Hell there. I suppose he must be dead, God knows most of them are. But they don't know."
"I'm very sorry for your trouble." The valet's face was expressionless except for the thoughtful crease in the broad forehead. "Can you bear it better with grief, or with hope?" he wondered, the openness of his question a sign of their friendship.
"I don't know… In a way I'd like to mourn, but what if he isn't dead?" He swallowed. "Can I ask you something, Mr. Bates?"
"Yes, you may," the older man assented.
"You were a soldier. Why do men enlist?"
"For 'King and Country.'"
Anger as well as grief tinged the lilting voice. "What does that even mean?"
"I don't know," Mr. Bates told him. "Maybe it's just words. There must be as many different reasons to enlist as there are men in the military: to prove one's bravery, to defend one's home… for conquest, for glory, for a career, for bloodlust… to keep from being called coward." He smiled. "Or perhaps because one is under a geis to fight whenever battle is offered."
Mr. Branson snorted. "Like Cuchulain, or Finn MacCool? It may be… Thank you, Mr. Bates."
"For what?"
"For…" The young man shook his head. "I don't know."
Mud, blood, bullets, and death. The air was alive with the bursting of bombs and the booming of guns, but many of the men were already dead. But not Lang. Lang was NOT DEAD.
Not yet.
Joseph Moseley hurried past the poster, seeking to evade the pointing finger of the Secretary of State. Lord Kitchener importuned him to join the army every time he walked past. 'No, you don't want me!' he thought. The newly enacted Military Service Act crossed his agitated mind. Conscription!
Mr. Molseley was suddenly breathless… but it was from hurrying, not from fear.