A Prisoner of War
The men took their misfortune with the utmost composure. Some of them
exchanged witticisms, regarding the business in the light of having
gone ashore on leave and having missed the "liberty boat". One thing
they regretted was not being able to smoke, since the glimmer of a
match might draw the enemy's fire; so they "stood easy" under the
shelter of an overhanging rock and chewed "Navy Plug", while the Sub
and the midshipman discussed the situation.
"Bourne has evidently come to the conclusion that the boat's crew have
lost the number of their mess," remarked Dick. "When one comes to
consider matters, it is not surprising." And he pointed to the turmoil
of broken water in Yenikeui Bay. "It is just possible that the Admiral
will send a destroyer to investigate as soon as it gets daylight; but
the question is, how are they going to pick us up under fire?"
"We can only hang on, sir," replied Farnworth. "Perhaps the Turks will
clear out at sunrise, and we will be able to see if the boat's capable
of floating. Should the sea moderate, it ought to be easy."
"I don't believe in hanging on," said Dick. "I think the wind's
veering. It was almost due south, now it's sou'-east. Unless I'm much
mistaken it will settle down to east'ard, and the sea on the other side
of the bay will go down considerably."
"And then, sir?"
"We'll collar that craft our fellows discovered in the creek. From
their accounts I should imagine it to be a felucca. They're fine,
weatherly craft, and with the wind abeam she ought to skip over the bar
like greased lightning. I'll get the men on the move."
Under the circumstances Sub-lieutenant Crosthwaite did not believe in
giving orders without explaining to the boat's crew his intentions.
Calling the men to attention, he briefly outlined his plan of
operation. Were it not for the necessity for silence, the seamen would
have cheered; instead, they showed by the grim expression on their
faces that they would willingly follow their young officer, and trust
implicitly to his good judgment.
"That's a blessing!" ejaculated Farnworth as the hostile search-light
was switched off. "Those fellows evidently have come to the conclusion
that they've been had."
Dick was not so sanguine. It might be possible that the projector
required adjustment, and the beam had to be shut off in consequence.
But after an interval of five minutes, during which time there were no
signs of activity on the part of the Turks--for their rifle-fire had
died away shortly after the arrival of the boat's crew at the
rendezvous--he concluded that it would be fairly safe to order the
party to retrace their steps.
The Sub's prognostics concerning the change of wind had become
verified. It now blew directly into the faces of the party, the
stinging rain adding to their discomforts. Already the small streams
through which they had previously waded with the water a little above
their ankles were now more than knee-deep, and momentarily increasing
in volume and impetuosity.
Suddenly, while climbing over an exceptionally slippery ledge of rock,
Dick's feet slipped from under him. Making a vain and frantic attempt
to obtain a grip, he fell a distance of six or seven feet, his boots
clattering on the stones. Before he could rise he was astounded to
hear a challenge.
Twenty paces from him could be distinguished the figures of about a
score of Turkish troops.
The British seamen acted promptly. They realized that now there was no
going back. Over the ledge they dropped, and, as Dick regained his
feet, the men waited only to fix bayonets, then with their officers
charged the foe.
They were greeted by a ragged volley that did no damage, most of the
bullets ringing overhead. Not caring to wait for cold steel that
glittered ominously in the dim light, the Ottomans broke and fled.
As they did so they were greeted by a fusillade from others of their
countrymen on the beach and from the summit of the cliff. In the
succession of lurid flashes Dick's eye caught sight of a field-piece
partly concealed by a breastwork of stones.
Calling for his men to empty their magazines in rapid volleys that
completely deceived the enemy as to the number that opposed them, the
Sub led the boat's crew to the attack.
With a rousing British cheer that outvoiced the rattle of musketry the
impetuous seamen obeyed. A tough tussle, an interchange of bayonet
thrusts, and the Turks momentarily melted away, leaving the field-piece
in the hands of the meagre boat's crew.
"What shall we do with this 'ere gun, sir?" a stalwart bluejacket.
"Slew 'er round and give 'em a dose?"
Before the Sub could reply, the search-light flooded the scene with its
dazzling rays. Almost simultaneously came the tap-tap-tap of a Maxim,
and a sheaf of bullets whizzing overhead and splitting the rocks behind
with fragments of nickel.
"Disable the gun!" shouted Dick. "Take the trail lever, one of you."
With a quick movement the Sub opened the breech-block. A sailor seized
the lever with which the Turkish Krupps are trained in a horizontal
plane. Poising the steel bar above his head, the man brought it down
with tremendous force upon the out-swung piece of mechanism. The
interrupted thread, deeply dented by the blow, was rendered useless,
while the breech-block itself, partly wrenched from its massive hinges,
was for the time being incapable of service.
Already three of the small party were shot down. To retire was to
court annihilation in the form of a scythe-like hail of Maxim bullets
that swept the ridge behind: a barrier that had to be surmounted if
escape were contemplated in that direction. To remain where they were
meant being under a galling fire from the cliffs, and with very little
natural protection from the surrounding ground. A third solution
remained: to advance and sell their lives dearly.
Thrusting his revolver into his holster, Dick picked up the rifle and
bayonet of one of the fallen men and shouted to the party to advance.
Taking full advantage of every little bit of natural cover the men
pressed forward, firing as rapidly as they could recharge and empty
their magazines.
Still uncertain of the number that opposed them, and thinking that the
attack was part of a landing in force, the Turks gave way until their
retrograde movement was checked by fresh bodies of troops hastening to
repel the threatened assault.
Into the midst of the scene of confusion--for Turk was fighting Turk in
the opposing movement of the disorganized throng--Dick and his handful
of men hurled themselves.
Partly dazzled by the search-light which was playing obliquely upon the
mêlée from the high ground, the Sub set about him like a young Berserk.
A blow from the butt-end of a Turkish rifle shattered his bayonet close
to the hilt. Gripping his rifle by the muzzle end of the barrel, Dick
swung it right and left, clearing a gap in the dense ranks of his
assailants.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of young Farnworth putting
up a stiff fight with three tall and muscular Turks, while a few feet
away from the midshipman was a German officer in the act of levelling
his revolver, and awaiting an opportunity of firing at the plucky
British lad.
Down swung Dick's rifle, purposely missing his antagonist's guard.
Shortening the weapon, the Sub dashed it into the Turk's face, then
drawing his revolver, fired three shots in rapid succession at the
fez-bedecked Teuton.
"That's settled your little game, you brute," thought Dick savagely, as
the German pitched forward on his face. Hitherto the Sub had fought
for fighting's sake. He bore no particular animosity against any of
his Moslem antagonists, but the sight of the German standing out of
immediate danger and awaiting an opportunity to coolly pick off the
midshipman, directly he was not masked by his immediate foes, had
aroused Dick's deepest ire.
When he looked again young Farnworth was no longer standing. The lad
had been overcome by the numerical superiority of his attackers.
Again and again Dick fired, till the hammer of his revolver falling
with a dull click told him that the weapon was empty. Hurling it at
the near-most of his foes, the Sub stooped to regain his rifle. As he
did so a stalwart Bashi Bazouk struck him a heavy blow on the head with
the butt-end of his gun, and without a groan Dick fell within a yard of
the body of his brother officer.
It was broad daylight when the Sub recovered his senses. He found
himself lying in a large, whitewashed room, the walls of which were of
immense thickness and pierced on one side by four narrow pointed
windows, through which the sun was pouring fiercely.
He was stretched upon a low bed. Close beside him was Midshipman
Farnworth, his head almost enveloped in bandages.
The only other occupant of the room a tall, sinewy man dressed in the
uniform of a Turkish seaman--jumper and trousers very similar to those
worn by the British tar, and a dark-red fez. He had discarded his
boots and wore a pair of scarlet soft-leather slippers.
"How can do?" he asked, seeing that Dick bestirring himself.
"Where am I?" demanded the Sub.
"Plis'ner of war. You in Fort Medjidieh. Me good man. Help Englis
officer. How can do?"
"Get me something to drink then," said Dick, for his throat was burning
like a limekiln.
"No beer, no have got," declared the Turk imperturbably.
"Confound the fellow! He evidently imagines that British subjects
drink nothing but beer," thought the Sub. "No, I don't want beer," he
aloud; "bring me something cool--cold--not hot, savvy?"
"Me--Ahmed Djezzar--go. Me your fliend," announced the man; and
placing his hand over his heart and bowing subserviently, he
noiselessly glided out of the room, locking the door as soon as he was
outside.
"Rummy proceedings, 'pon my soul," soliloquized Dick. "The fellow says
I'm a prisoner of war. I suppose he's right; but there's one thing to
be said: up to the present they have treated me pretty decently. The
Turks are streets above the Germans in the way they handle their
prisoners. I wonder what the game is?"
Taking into consideration the dirty and untidy habits of the Turks, the
room was fairly clean and presentable. If his informant was right,
Dick Crosthwaite was now in a portion of one of the fortresses actually
on The Narrows, and roughly twenty-one miles from Yenikeui. During the
interval between the times of his having been rendered unconscious in
the affray on the beach and of recovering his senses, he had been
carried over hilly roads running practically parallel to the Asiatic
shores of the Dardanelles.
Why his captors should have gone to this trouble he knew not. He could
only come to the conclusion that, fearing a landing in force to the
south of Kum Kale, they had removed their prisoners to quarters where
for the time being they were not likely to be recaptured.
Propping himself up by his elbow Dick listened intently. To his
intense disappointment he heard no sounds of guns--not even a distant
rumble. Did it mean the operations had been abandoned?
He began wondering what had happened to the rest of the boat's crew;
why his captors should have detailed a Turkish bluejacket to attend the
two wounded officers; and why Ahmed Djezzar had so vehemently expressed
himself as being a friend. These and a hundred other thoughts flashed
through his mind, until his reveries were interrupted by the
reappearance of the Turk bearing a metal tray on which was a brass cup
and a jug filled with sherbet water.
Dick drank eagerly. As he did so a faint suspicion that the liquid
might be poisoned entered his brain, only to be quickly dismissed,
since he recognized that if his captors had wished to dispose of him
they had already had ample opportunities. Nevertheless the sherbet
water was drugged, and it had the result of sending the Sub to sleep
for several hours.
He awoke, feeling considerably refreshed, to find that young Farnworth
was sitting up in bed and regarding him with eagerness.
"Thought you'd never wake up, sir," he remarked. "You've been sleeping
heavily for at least twelve hours."
"How are you feeling?" asked Dick.
"Pretty rotten," admitted the midshipman. "Head feels like a block of
wood. But it isn't that: it's the beastly knowledge that we are off
the fun for the time being."
"You put up a jolly stiff fight, anyhow."
"I did my best," replied Farnworth modestly; "but it's beastly
humiliating being collared like this, and not knowing how things are
going. There's a Turkish bluejacket hanging about----"
"I know," said Dick. "A fellow who made a point of stating that he was
our friend. Why I can't make out."
"He tells me we've had a proper set-back," continued the midshipman
wearily. "Of course I don't know whether he's telling the truth or
not, but he swears that the Turks have captured one of our submarines."
"Rot!" ejaculated Crosthwaite derisively. "Captured? Not a bit of it.
It's a lie."
"Anyway there was a lot of heavy firing about five hours ago. It only
lasted twenty minutes. The fellow swears that the submarine was
stranded, and that they've captured officers and crew. The Turks hope
to get the vessel off and take her to Constantinople."
Dick looked serious. He had seen enough of war to know that often the
improbable does happen, yet he could not understand how a British
submarine could have been taken. Why should it have got into shoal
water at all? he wondered.
Just then Ahmed entered, accompanied by a "hakim" or native doctor.
The latter, although unable to speak English, could converse fluently
in French, a language with which both the Sub and the midshipman were
well acquainted.
Deftly the doctor unbound Dick's head and examined the contused
scalp-wound. Then he did a like office to Farnworth, chatting affably
the while on all kinds of subjects, the war excepted. Try as he would,
without going straight to the point, Dick could not bring the doctor to
say a word relating to the hostilities.
"You are both progressing nicely," he declared. "By the day after
to-morrow you will be fit to go out and take the air."
No sooner had the medical man left than Ahmed took up his parable:
"Me want to help Englis officers," he said. "Me good Ottoman and no
like the Germans. We fight. Why? Because they make us. All fault of
Young Turks. German officers, they bad mans. Some time I shoot one in
de back."
He paused to watch the result of his pro-British declaration. Finding
that his listeners showed no signs of enthusiasm over his plans for
ridding the world of at least one German officer, Ahmed continued:
"Me know plenty Englis officers, when dey was in the Ottoman Navy. All
gone now--hard cheese. Why you laugh?"
"I was only smiling at your wonderful knowledge of the English
language," replied Farnworth.
"Yaas--wonerful, dat is so. Now I tell you dis; de German General, von
Sanders, ordered you plis'ners to be sent to Skutari. Telim Pasha, he
say 'no'. Telim Pasha friend of Englis and of Ahmed Djezzar. When
Englis army come: how many soldiers?"
Ahmed raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The Sub shook his head.
"I don't know," he replied shortly.
"P'laps twenty tousand?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
For a brief instant Ahmed showed signs of disappointment.
"Dey come soon?" he asked.
"I cannot tell," replied Dick, beginning to feel nettled by the
fellow's inquisitiveness. "Now, clear out; we want to have a rest."
The man obeyed. As before he locked the door after him. Directly the
door clicked Dick sprang swiftly and noiselessly out of bed, crossed
the room, and placed his ear to the keyhole. Hearing nothing, he
peered through the narrow slit; then with a grim smile on his face he
returned to his bed, at the same time holding up a warning finger to
check the mystified midshipman's enquiry.
"Hello! There's a sea-plane!" exclaimed Dick about a quarter of an
hour later. He hastened to one of the windows, while Farnworth,
walking unsteadily from the effects of his injuries, took up his stand
at an adjoining one.
The whirr of the aerial propellers grew louder and louder. The Turkish
soldiers, lolling about in the courtyard within the fort, overcame
their lethargy sufficiently to raise their heads and follow the course
of the aeroplane.
Presently it passed almost overhead, proceeding in a south-westerly
direction. It was flying low--at about two hundred feet. On the under
side of the main plane were two red crescents--the distinguishing marks
of the Turkish air-craft.
Hearing the whirr of the blades, other soldiers hurried from the
buildings. Amongst them were two German officers.
The latter waited until the sea-plane was out of sight; then, allowing
their swords to clank noisily over the stones, they walked towards the
opposite side of the quadrangle, the Turkish soldiers standing stiffly
at attention as they did so.
At that moment someone hailed them.
Turning on their heels the officers retraced their steps. Curiosity
prompted Dick to crane his head to follow their movements. Not
altogether to his surprise he discovered that the owner of the
peremptory voice was the self-styled Ahmed Djezzar. In spite of being
in the uniform of a Turkish bluejacket the two Germans saluted.
"No luck," he reported, speaking in German--a language that, after many
mentally and bodily painful hours at school and a subsequent "roasting"
at Osborne and Dartmouth, Dick could follow, with comparative ease.
"No luck. The English swine do not seem communicative. I'll try them
again; then, if that fails, we'll take other measures."