5. The Secret Trial
The trial of Edith Cavell took place behind an almost impenetrable veil of secrecy. A fortnight after the execution of the victim certain German newspapers printed an account that was mainly a brief for the prosecution, while the accused were put in as unfavourable a light as possible. Fortunately an eye-witness afterwards afforded M. de Leval additional details, by which we are enabled to picture the scene with tolerable certainty; and surely never since Joan of Arc faced the corrupt Bishop of Beauvais has the light of heaven looked down on a more merciless and brutal caricature of law and justice.
The secret court-martial was held in the Brussels Senate House, where thirty-five persons were charged with similar offences. The judges' names were not made public. Of the accused, the principal were Edith Cavell and Princess Marie de Croy, the Comtesse de Belleville and Mademoiselle Thulier, and M. Philippe Bancq. Prince Reginald de Croy did not stand his trial, for the simple reason that the Germans had been unable to lay hands on him. Armed guards had escorted the prisoners to the court, where soldiers with fixed bayonets stood between them.
The court-martial was not likely to be a long and tedious affair, for the prisoners had been questioned and cross-examined
ad nauseam long before this final stage, and in most cases the accused had signed depositions admitting their guilt.
The outstanding figure among the prisoners was Miss Cavell, the typical Red Cross nurse, whom sick soldiers love and reverence, whose incomparable devotion to duty places her in the forefront of the world's womanhood. She appeared in the uniform in which she had been arrested: the white cap covering the back of the head; the stiff collar around the neck; starched bow beneath the chin; and on her arm the Red Cross, the badge of her merciful mission.
Even in a British court of justice perfectly innocent people are overawed by their surroundings, causing them to be self-conscious, nervous, and distracted at a time when cool collectedness should be the first line of their defence. But Miss Cavell knew that she was arraigned before unjust judges, who lacked the virtues of charity, sincerity, humanity, and probity, without which the exercise of judgement is a mockery and a sham.
Her clear and expressive eyes looked out of a countenance that two months of close confinement had made deathly white. She was of the stuff of which martyrs are made. For what amounted to no more than a series of acts of womanly compassion she had become the sport of dire misfortune; but 'misfortune is never mournful to the soul that accepts it; for such do always see that every cloud is an angel's face.' Edith Cavell fearlessly looked about the court, viewing with evident curiosity the row of malevolent-looking officers in gorgeous uniforms, who occupied the judges' bench under the black Prussian eagle that is now the emblem of a nation's degradation. Occasionally her delicate features were illumined with a commiserating smile to encourage those who shared her own imminent peril.
The case for the prosecution was that the accused were the principals in an organization that assisted British, French, and Belgian soldiers to escape from Belgium. It was alleged that fugitives were first smuggled into Brussels, where they were hidden either in a convent or in Miss Cavell's hospital. Later, as opportunity offered, they were disguised and conducted in tram-cars out of the city, and handed over to guides who led the way by devious routes to the Dutch frontier.
When Miss Cavell was called upon to plead, she mastered her physical weakness, and serenely faced her accusers. In gentle accents she asserted that to the best of her belief she had but served her country, and, so far as that was wrong, she was ready to take the blame. Calmly she contemplated her end; cheerfully she was willing to be the scapegoat, in the hope that some at least of her friends might escape the dread punishment that she perceived would be her fate.
She was interrogated in German, which an interpreter translated into French, with which tongue she was perfectly familiar. She spoke without trembling, and exhibited a clear and acute mind. Often she added some greater precision to her previous depositions. Her answers were always direct and unhesitating. When the Military Prosecutor inquired why she had helped soldiers to go to England, the reply came promptly: 'If I had not done so they would have been shot. I thought I was only doing my duty in saving their lives.'
'That may be true so far as British soldiers were concerned,' agreed the interlocutor, 'but it did not apply to young Belgians. Why did you help them to cross the frontier, when they would have been perfectly free and safe in staying here?'
Miss Cavell treated this question with the silent contempt it deserved. She knew only too well what freedom and safety had been accorded to many Belgians of military age who had been found in their own desecrated fatherland.
She not only admitted that she had assisted refugees to escape, but she acknowledged that she had received letters of thanks from those who had reached England in safety. This was a vital admission. German evidence alone could have charged her with an 'attempt' to commit the crime, but the letters of thanks conclusively proved that she had 'committed' the offence.
Among the other prisoners, M. Philippe Bancq was equally fearless. Without a quaver he admitted that he had assisted young Belgians to escape and rejoin their army. 'As a good Belgian patriot,' said he, 'I am ready to lay down my life for my country.'
The Military Prosecutor demanded that the death penalty be passed upon Nurse Cavell and eight other prisoners. Whether the Englishwoman's compassionate conduct that was her offence and her heroic bearing under trial made an impression on her judges, one cannot tell. Their apparent disagreement may only have been a theatrical adjunct to the tragedy which Baron von Bissing had staged with consummate care. It may have been that they lacked the moral courage to pronounce sentence in her presence. In any case, judgement was postponed. In an ordinary trial this respite would have given play to hope, the miserable man's god, which keeps the soul from sinking in despair.
But hope could neither flatter nor deceive Edith Cavell as she was led back under escort to her cell to wait--to wait for the assured condemnation that her eyes of courage must have perceived at the end of the cul-de-sac of German infamy.