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231 pages

English

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Set mainly in Scotland during the early part of the last century, When Dark Clouds Pass revolves around the lives of two brothers born into a close-knit mining community. The protagonist, Iain Baird, despises his younger sibling, Alastair, and is jealous of the alleged favouritism he receives. Following the death of their father in a mining accident, Iain is held responsible and is forced to leave the village. He finds employment in a Glasgow shipyard, and later in a munitions works where he becomes involved in the revolutionary socialist movement. Meanwhile their mother is determined that her younger son should have a better future, and encourages him to train as a teacher in Edinburgh. Despite going their separate ways, the two brothers are thrown together once more on the death of their mother. Events following the funeral ensure that they can never be reconciled; their enmity will continue to fester and grow, even as Europe is plunged into the abyss of war. Neither can escape the forces unleashed by the conflagration, whether on Red Clydeside or the killing fields of the Somme. Iain plays a leading role in the agitation for revolutionary change and suffers imprisonment as a conscientious objector; Alastair volunteers for the army, only to be invalided out after a botched attack on the Western Front.In the midst of conflict and upheaval their feud remains undimmed, before reaching a climax in the closing days of the Great War.When Dark Clouds Passwill appeal to those looking for a suspense-filled story set in the First World War.

Sujets

Escocia

Historical fiction

Scotland

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	24 avril 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785894510
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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When Dark Clouds Pass

J . A. Frances
Copyright © 2016 John A. Frances

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 978 1785894 510

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Bea and the Family
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
Part I: 1904-5
ONE
Spit against the Wind
Broomburn, Lanarkshire, November 1904
The Inspector of Police sat motionless astride his bay gelding on the rim of a grassy hummock overlooking the village. Only the occasional twitch of his lip betrayed any emotion at the prospect of the day’s work. He was a tall, spare figure in his early fifties, his face tanned and grooved by long years of service in the mounted branch of the Glasgow Constabulary. It was not for him to judge the rights or wrongs of any dispute; his reputation spoke for itself. Whenever civil disorder threatened, Inspector Chisholm could be relied upon to carry out his duty with ruthless efficiency.
At last his patience was rewarded. Almost imperceptibly, the inky black sky began to lighten, giving birth to a grey November dawn. Straining his eyes in the uncertain light, he could make out the gaunt black skeleton of the winding wheel silhouetted against the skyline. As the daylight grew stronger, other features appeared: engine house, colliery offices, the looming mass of the coal bings. To his right lay the gridiron streets and monotonous rows of miners’ cottages; beyond them a ribbon of road twisted its way into the distance. The leaden clouds reflected a scene of brooding silence, broken only by the faint but steady gurgle from the river, the Avon Water, as it cleft and wound its way towards its tryst with the Clyde.
Chisholm reached down to pull the field glasses from his saddlebag, and slowly swept the ground in a wide arc. He had no interest in how industrialisation had spread its tentacles to gouge and despoil a once beautiful countryside; the lie of the land was merely another factor to be taken into account in laying his plans. His assistance had been requested to uphold the law in a neighbouring district, and that was all there was to it. Replacing his binoculars, he wheeled his horse and began to trot back the mile or so across country to rejoin his command.
The crossroads where the rutted track leading to the mining community of Broomburn met the Glasgow highway was normally fairly quiet. But not that morning. A swelling din assailed his ears long before the inspector came within sight of the assembly point to confront a picture of utter confusion. The road was jammed by a seething mass of bodies – men pushing and jostling, shouting and cursing, some even coming to blows. The grass verges were littered with scattered piles of equipment, wherever they had been thrown down from passing supply carts. Here and there black helmets could be seen bobbing up and down amid this tide of humanity, as burly constables in oilskin capes, their cheeks puffed and scarlet from their exertions, strove to impose some semblance of order.
“What a herd of bloody sheep,” muttered Chisholm to himself as he slowed his horse to a walk. “Christ save us from Polacks and bog Irish.” But he felt no real malice. He was far more contemptuous of the Lanarkshire constabulary who had been foisted upon him and made up the bulk of his force. Thank God he had at least insisted on bringing his own team of mounted police. They may have numbered only a score, but they were a tightly knit, highly disciplined group, handpicked for their self-reliance and horsemanship. Well did they deserve the nickname of Chisholm’s Horse . And there they were, partly hidden among a clump of trees some distance from the melee, no doubt deriving great amusement from the performance of their country cousins.
A slight movement in the lee of a ruined farm steading caught Chisholm’s eye. This must be the third component of his motley band, fifteen or twenty estate workers sworn in as special constables for the occasion. These were the unknown quantity. Could they be trusted? Chisholm had his doubts. He did not want them; he had been even more vehement in his opposition to the use of civilians, but once again had been overruled. At least they had had the sense to keep away from the mayhem on the road.
The last of the open wagons were just rolling up to disgorge their loads. This human cargo had spent the night in squalid billets, before being roused, cold and hungry, to face a jolting, lurching journey to an unknown destination. Unloading the carts was proving a tricky business. It took all a driver’s skill to hold his horses steady; their hooves clattered and slipped as they strove to keep a firm purchase on the wet cobbles. The carters, too, were nervous, keen to be rid of their charges and away from the scene as quickly as possible. Each was only too well aware of the reprisals that would follow if his participation in the affair ever became known in the district.
“Sir, Mr Chisholm, sir!” The high-pitched, agitated voice was barely audible above the tumult. The inspector looked over to see a fresh-faced youth struggling to extricate himself from the crowd. Once free, he came up at the run, panting deeply, his well-tailored uniform now sadly awry. Chisholm permitted himself a fleeting smile of sour satisfaction. It was his second-in-command, Sub-Inspector Dunlop.
This young man represented all that Chisholm detested in his chosen career. It was gall and wormwood to know that despite all the accolades, he stood no chance of further advancement, while this dandified sprig was destined for a smooth passage to the top. That might be the way of the world, but at least he could vent his feelings by taking the wind out of Dunlop’s sails. He had quite deliberately left him to organise the arrival of men and equipment while he had gone off to reconnoitre, knowing full well his subordinate would never cope with the inevitable chaos. Judging by the bedraggled, almost tearful officer before him, he had succeeded admirably.
“It’s just impossible. No one could be expected to manage this madhouse,” sobbed Dunlop. “These cretins don’t take any notice, no matter what you do. Most of them don’t seem to understand English at all. The Poles are bad enough, but the Irish are beyond belief.” His speech quickened, the words tumbling out as he regained his breath. “I should never have been faced with this. You didn’t give me enough men. They had no training in riot control. Why did your horsemen and those estate workers just stand round and gape? Aren’t they supposed to lend a hand?”
Chisholm listened to these excuses with growing impatience. It was all very well for Dunlop to fail to set up the march properly, he had expected no better; but for his junior to whine and try to pass the blame merely served to confirm his impression of the sub-inspector’s lack of fibre. He cut short the tirade, and rounded on the hapless youth.
“Dunlop. Mister Dunlop. Do ye consider it appropriate for a police officer, an officer of rank, to chase around like a one-legged cripple in a bawdy house? Is that how they taught you to conduct yourself at yon fine college in England?” Chisholm spoke quietly, even softly, but the icy contempt in his voice cut through the younger man like a knife. “Look at you. Like a refugee from Culloden, or a tinker down on his luck. Cap not straight, two tunic buttons missing, boots filthy.” He warmed to his task. “Ye dare to come up here and bellyache. What will your men think when they see their leader running to hide behind his mama’s skirts? Ye’ve made yourself a laughing stock. You knew what had to be done. Ye were just too damned incompetent to direct the men properly.”
Dunlop reeled before the onslaught. Chisholm’s steely gaze betrayed not the slightest vestige of pity. But as his wrath subsided, he realised that perhaps he had gone too far. He still had need of this wretched youth, indeed his willing cooperation, if the enterprise was to be crowned with success. If the boy were to be of use, he would have to be stiffened. Destroying his confidence was not the way to achieve that.
“See here, lad,” he continued gruffly. “Yon was a right farce ye made there, and no mistake. It’s always the same, wet behind the ears. You thought you knew it all. Well, it’s a hard knock to take, but perhaps we can still make something of you if you’re prepared to try. Here’s my advice. Get your men away from that mess down there. Order them to line up on both sides of the road, a couple of yards between each man. Tell them to pick up a handful of tools each, ready to give out when the time comes. Understood?”
Dunlop nodded, too choked with shame