RECAPTURED
At five o'clock one morning Mlle. Josephine received a staggering note
from the Russian Colonel to say that he had had to leave at a moment's
notice for the Caucasus, under a Turkish guard, and that there was no
prospect at all of his taking his dear Josephine with him.
Thus my plan had failed. It was not the Colonel's fault, but it was
annoying all the same. I had wasted both time and money, provisions and
opportunities, and now I had to begin all over again.
I decided that I would not continue in my disguise as a girl. It was too
nerve-racking to begin with; and also, as a girl, I could not go down
myself to the docks and arrange matters at first hand. I felt I must do
something for myself. During the month that had elapsed Robin had been
recaptured, other officers had escaped, the whole course of the war was
changing, and here was I still _embusque_ in Constantinople.
Something must be done, and, as usual, my good angel did it for
me. . . . She bought me a small upturned moustache, spectacles,
hair-dye, a second-hand suit, a stained white waistcoat which I
ornamented with a large nickel gilt watch chain, a pair of old
elastic-sided boots (price L7), an ebony cane with a silver top, and a
bowler hat which I perched rakishly askew. I was a Hungarian mechanic,
out of a job. I had lost my place at the munition factory near San
Stefano. But I was not down-hearted. My nails were oily and my
antecedents doubtful, but I drank my beer and smoked my cigars and
looked on life brightly through my spectacles.
I did not avoid the Boche--in fact, I frequently drank beer with him.
The non-Latin races are not inquisitive as a rule. They cared little
whether I was Swiss or Dutch or Hungarian, and I frequently claimed all
three nationalities. They did not even think it odd when, on one
occasion, I said that I had been born in Scandinavia and later that I
was a naturalised Hungarian, and later again (when a Jewish gentleman
with military boots joined us, whom I recognised to be a Government
informer, paid to pick up information) that I was really of Russian
parentage and that I had a passport to this effect (which I showed to
the company present) signed by Djevad Bey, the military commandant of
Constantinople, permitting me to proceed to Russia and ordering that
every facility should be given to me at the custom-house.
This forged passport was a source of perplexity to me at the time, and
later it was to be the cause of great discomfort. I had bought it for
ten pounds from the gentleman whose pumicestone engraving die reposed
at the bottom of the cistern. It was an ornate affair, duly stamped, and
sealed, and signed with a Turkish flourish. But I could not bring myself
to believe that it would get me through the passport office, the
_douane_, and the medical station at the entrance to the Bosphorus. Some
hitch would certainly have occurred.
However, it impressed the company in the cafe. People generally take one
at one's own valuation, and the few secret agents to whom I spoke
obviously considered that I was not a likely person to be blackmailed.
With the Greeks I was certainly popular. The seedy-smart polyglot youth
who was so liberal with his cigars (which were rather a rarity then) and
so fond of talking politics and drinking beer was a _persona grata_ in
the circles he frequented. We talked much of revolution.
"We will crucify the Young Turks," said a Greek to me one day, "and then
eat them in little bits. We will----" His expressive hands suddenly
paused in mid-gesture, and his mouth dropped open, but only for an
instant. He had seen a detective enter. "We will continue to preserve
our dignity and remain calm whatever happens," he concluded neatly.
But calm the Greeks certainly were not.
In the cellar of a German hotel in Pera the Greek proprietor displayed
one night a collection of rusty swords and old revolvers which were the
nucleus of the New Age of brotherly love, when the streets were to run
with Turkish blood, and the Cross replace the Crescent in San Sophia. I
was privileged to be present at this conclave of desperadoes. After
swearing each other to eternal secrecy we sampled some of the contents
of our host's cellar, and talked very big about what we were going to
do. But our host, beyond dancing a hornpipe and declaring that he was
going to murder everybody in the hotel (after they had paid their
bills), propounded no very definite scheme.
Out of this atmosphere of melodrama one emerged into the sombre, silent
streets and went rather furtively home, feeling that there was something
to be said for the Turks after all. But I need hardly say that no
influential Greeks had a share in these proceedings: they were always on
the side of moderation. One had been a fool to consort with fools.
Behind the lattices of the harems it was said that Enver Pasha's day was
done. The new Sultan had thrown him out of the palace, neck and crop.
There was to be an inquiry into the means by which he had acquired huge
farms round Constantinople--farms which were supposed to be purchased
from the proceeds of a corner in milk that had killed many children. The
Custodians of the Harem (and in Turkey these tall flat-chested
individuals have positions of great power; the Chief of the White
Custodians, for instance, is one of the high dignitaries of the Empire,
and ranks with a Lord Chamberlain) had long been intriguing against the
Committee and especially against the German element with Enver at its
head. . . . The Sultan was high in popular favour, and a dramatic
suicide in the main street of Pera, which lifted a corner of the curtain
hiding the unrest behind the scenes at the Imperial Palace, became a
nine days' wonder, and gave rise to extraordinary rumours. A Turkish
officer in full uniform had been seen running for dear life down the
Grand Rue de Pera, pursued by policemen. The officer took refuge in the
Turkish club, but he was refused asylum there. The policemen crowded
into the entrance hall to arrest him, while the fugitive dashed upstairs
to the card-room. Finding, however, that he could not avoid arrest, he
threw himself out of the window, and was instantly killed on the
pavement below. For some time, the corpse, dressed in the uniform of the
Yildiz Guards, blocked the traffic of the city.
A few days later a British air-raid gave the Constantinopolitans
something new to think about. It was a stifling night, and I was dozing
and listening to the mosquitoes that buzzed round me, when their drone
seemed to grow louder and louder. I lay quite still, thinking that
another raid would be too good to be true. But presently there was no
doubt about it. Invisible, but very audible, the British squadron was
sailing overhead. I jumped up and at that moment the Turks put up their
barrage. Bang! Boom! Whizz! Kk--kk--kk! All the little voices of
civilisation were speaking.
Greeks crowded into the streets, and clapped their hands when the crash
and rumble of a bomb was heard in the Turkish quarter of Stamboul.
"The Sultan is going to make peace," they told me. "He has refused to
gird on the Sword of Othman until the Committee of Union and Progress
give an account of their funds."
"Hurrah for the English!" shouted others, quite undismayed by the
shrapnel and falling pieces of shell.
Here are some chance remarks, actually heard during air raids.
"Ah! Here is the revolution at last!" said a Turkish officer in a
chemist's shop in the Grand Rue de Pera, thinking the firing meant the
downfall of Enver Pasha and his gang.
"Bread costs four shillings a two-pound loaf," said an Armenian in the
suburb of Chichli--"and as often as not there is a stone or half a mouse
thrown into the four shillings' worth, for luck. May this gang of
swindlers perish!"
"Allah! send the English soon," wailed a Turkish widow in a hovel in
Stamboul, where she was living with her five starving children. "We are
being killed by inches now; it would be better to be killed quickly by
bombs. The English cannot be worse than Enver."
This, indeed, was the general opinion in Constantinople. Few of the
population, outside the high officials, bore us any grudge. The thieving
of the Young Turks was on as vast a scale as their ambition. From needy
adventurers they had become the prosperous potentates of an Empire. No
country, surely, has ever been the prey of such desperate and determined
men.
The air raids were one of the first causes of their weakening hold on
the people. The moral effect of these demonstrations was incalculable,
coming as it did at a time when the Sultan was supposed to be in favour
of peace.
Peace, indeed, was the only faint hope of salvation that remained to the
very poor. Milk had almost disappeared from the open market, and for
some time past children had been exposed in the street, their mothers
being unable to support them any longer.
Each night, when I passed the Petits Champs, I saw a row of starving
children, poor little living protests of humanity against the barbarisms
of war and the cruelty of profiteers, huddled on the pavement, mute,
uncomplaining, too weak to even ask for alms.
And Bedri Bey, sometime Prefect of Police at Constantinople, when
appealed to, said: "_Bah! Les pauvres, qu'ils crevent._"
* * * * *
Although politics were interesting enough, escape was my first
preoccupation. It was necessary to approach the harbour officials with
caution, and they, on their side, although ready enough to help with
suggestions, seemed inclined to shelve all the actual work on to a
person or persons unknown, who remained in the background. It was very
difficult to get at the principals.
One of the chief agents of escape, however, I met one day in the Grand
Rue de Pera. He was a most remarkable man. Intrigue was the breath of
his nostrils, and although he had made thousands of pounds by helping
rich refugees out of the country, he was really more interested in
politics than pelf. He laid the groundwork of such knowledge as I
acquired of Constantinople.
Incidentally, in the course of our conversation, a squad of Russian
officer prisoners passed, accompanied by two sentries whom I knew quite
well. So confident did I feel of not being recognised that I said a few
words to one of the Russians, while their escort glanced at me with
faces perfectly blank. They had not the vaguest idea who I was.
To get away from Constantinople, the escape merchant told me, was a
matter of passing the custom house. Formerly this had been easy, but now
every ship was searched from stem to stern and from deck to keelson.
Also every skipper was a Mohammedan. All Christians had been recently
deprived of their positions.
Still, Mohammedans are not an unbribable people, and something might
possibly be done for me. In fact, that very day he had learnt of a
certain Lazz shipmaster, who was going over to the Caucasus in his own
boat, and who would be prepared to take a few passengers for a
consideration.
Later in the same day I heard that two other officers, who had escaped
about a week before (by bolting under a train in Haidar Pasha railway
station), were already in touch with this Lazz. I went to see them early
the following morning and we agreed to charter the boat between us, so
as to reduce expenses.
My two friends were living in the house of one Theodore, a Greek waiter
at a restaurant in Sirkedji, who believed that they, as well as myself,
were Germans.
The Lazz, who came to visit us, was absolutely astounded when we
proclaimed ourselves as British officers: he had been under the
impression that we were some sort of Turkish subject. However, all
passengers were grist to his mill, and British officers who talked
glibly of gold payments were not people to be neglected. After haggling
about terms, we made an appointment for the next day, and parted with
some cordiality.
On the morrow, punctual to our appointments, the Lazz and I again
arrived at Theodore's house to confer further with my two friends.
As it was a very hot afternoon, I took off my coat and my false
moustache, before plunging into the details of our departure. It was
evident that the Lazz was in a hurry to be off. His cargo was complete,
he said. He had only to take in petrol for his motor before leaving on
the following day. There remained the question of money, and after much
argument we settled to pay him five hundred pounds on arrival at the
port of Poti in the Caucasus, and one hundred pounds advance for fuel
immediately. He was to provide the disguises necessary for us to pass
the customs at the Bosphorus. We were each of us to don a black dress
and a black veil and to sit in a row in his cabin, refusing to move or
speak if interrogated. Muslim ladies, he assured us, had frequently
refused to undergo any scrutiny whatever at the customs, and provided
they were vouched for by some responsible person on board, the gallant
excisemen were ready to let them pass. As his very own wives, said the
Lazz, no harm could possibly come to us, provided of course we remained
sitting, and silent, throughout the inspection.
This seemed a very satisfactory scheme, for obviously whatever risks we
ran, our friend the Lazz would run them too.
By evening our pact was complete. We handed over a hundred pounds, and
the Lazz promised faithfully that he would have the boat ready and our
disguises prepared by nightfall on the following day, when we would sail
for Russia.
Hardly had the money changed hands before I noticed a suspicious-looking
individual in the street below. Presently he was joined by another
detective, whom I recognised.
Things looked ugly.
We took the Lazz cautiously to the window.
"Do you know anything about those men?" we asked.
He turned deathly pale, but swore he had never seen them before. I do
not think he had. His fear was genuine.
"Let me get out! Let me get out!" he said, making a bolt for the door.
And he went. There was no use in trying to stop him.
One of my friends and I now went downstairs, while the third member of
our party stayed behind to hide a few odds and ends of gear, in case the
house was searched.
We waited downstairs, making light of our fears, and fighting a
premonition of disaster.
Presently there was a loud tapping on the door. Even if it were the
police, I thought, our disguises would carry us through. Then I noticed
that my friend was in shirt-sleeves. I put on my spectacles and tried to
stick on my moustache again, but the gum from it had gone.
The rapping at the door became louder and louder, and presently it was
opened by a flustered female.
In trooped six detectives, including the man I had recognised, who was
apparently their leader.
"There are some British officers hiding here," he said fiercely to the
woman; "show me where they are."
While this scene was passing in the entrance-hall, we were behind the
door of the pantry.
A detective came in and caught my friend. Meanwhile two others were
pommelling the unfortunate woman to make her say where we were. She kept
pleading that she knew nothing about any British officers.
Another instant, and I should have been found. So I came out from behind
the pantry door, and crossed the entrance hall.
In the doorway stood a burly policeman, who said "_Yok, yok_," when I
attempted to pass him.
Had I had the requisite nerve I believe I could have bluffed this man.
Some phrase with _schweinhund_ in it would probably have got me past.
But I hesitated, and was lost.
My hand flew to my breast pocket, where the forged passport lay, and my
false moustache.
"Seize that man and search him," said the head detective, looking over
the banisters. Then he went upstairs, dragging the woman with him.
My arms were instantly caught from behind, while a seedy-looking youth,
who was probably a pick-pocket in his spare time, ran his fingers over
my clothes. My wad of money, watch, compass, passport, moustache,
everything was put into a small canvas bag, and I was then taken to the
opposite corner of the room to that in which my friend sat, and told
not to move under pain of death. A levelled revolver emphasised the
injunction.
[Illustration: The Author as a Hungarian Mechanic]
Presently there were cries of women heard from the attic, then there was
a loud crash, and I knew that the third member of our party had fallen
through the trapdoor leading to the roof.
That was the last of my freedom for the time. Thus suddenly my five
weeks' scheming was ended.
Each of us was taken charge of by two policemen, who linked their arms
in ours. Presently the order to march was given, and a dismal
procession, consisting of two weeping women, a seedy-smart individual in
a bowler hat, two youths in slippers and shirt-sleeves, and a Greek
waiter, could be seen wending their way to the Central Gaol of
Stamboul.