THE BLACK HOLE OF CONSTANTINOPLE
Before leaving, we had protested strongly against the treatment of the
women in the house.
"But they are Turkish subjects," said the detectives.
"Anyway, they are women," we protested.
But this had little effect. Theodore and his unfortunate family were
marched off behind us to the Central Gaol. I think, however, that our
protest was not quite in vain, for it gave the women courage. When I
last saw them, before being taken to the Chief of Police, they had dried
their tears. Eventually they were released, but not, alas! until they
had endured much suffering.
The Chief of Police congratulated us on being safe once more in Turkish
hands.
"Yes, we are comfortably back in prison," I said with a faint smile,
"and therefore there is surely no harm in giving us back the personal
trifles that the detectives took from us."
"I cannot give you your papers," he said. "There is a forged passport
here, amongst other things."
"Very well, do as you like about that," I said, shrugging my shoulders,
"but surely my empty pocket-book and my watch might be returned."
To this he agreed, whereupon he handed me--
(_a_) My pocket-book, containing five pounds hidden in the lining.
(_b_) My watch, and a compass, which he mistook for another timepiece.
(_c_) My false moustache, which had been captured on my person.
I was in an agony of anxiety about this moustache. Had the police
inquired at the only two hairdressers' where such things were made, they
would have found that Miss Whitaker had ordered it for me only ten days
before. But now it was safely in my possession again. I had the only
connecting link of evidence that might incriminate Miss Whitaker in my
trouser pocket, and was tearing it to shreds as I talked to the Chief of
Police.
The interview passed on a note of felicitation, until the very end.
After praising the smart way his men had surrounded the house, and
receiving his congratulations on our escapes, just as if the whole thing
was a game, we said that there was one criticism we had to make on
police methods, and that was their treatment of women.
"They are Turkish subjects," snapped the Chief of Police, suddenly
showing his teeth.
"They are women," we retorted, "and they are innocent. If they are
maltreated----"
"I know how to manage my affairs," he said with a gasp of annoyance.
"Certainly. But if they are maltreated you will be responsible after the
war."
To this he made no reply.
We were removed without further ado, and after being photographed and
measured in the most approved fashion for criminals, we were taken up
long flights of stairs, and across a roof, to the quarters for prisoners
awaiting trial. Here we were allotted separate cells, where we were to
pass the next few days in strict isolation.
To my amazement (for I knew something of Turkish prisons from a previous
experience, not here recorded) these cells were scrupulously clean. A
bed, a table, and a chair were in each apartment, all very firm and
foursquare, as if designed to withstand any access of fury or despair on
the prisoner's part. There was electric light in the ceiling, covered
with wire netting. Walls and woodwork were of a neutral colour. The
windows, which were barred, had a convenient arrangement for regulating
the ventilation. The heavy door, which admitted no sound, was provided
with a sliding hatch, which could be opened by the warders at will for
purposes of investigation. Everything was hideously efficient.
Turkey is a country of surprises, but I was not prepared for this. I
would have preferred something more picturesque. One's mind, after the
testing climax of recapture, craves for new doses of excitement.
The brain of a criminal, after he has been apprehended, must be a
turmoil of thought. He curses his stupidity, or his luck, or his
associates. He longs to explain and defend himself. Instead of this, he
is left in silence in a drab room, with no company but his thoughts.
My own thoughts were most unpleasant. I had failed miserably and
innocent people were suffering as the result.
After five weeks of effort I was farther than ever from escape. Worse
than all, Miss Whitaker was in danger. Never again shall I pass such
dismal hours. I see myself now, seated on that solid chair with head on
arms, bent over that efficient table. A prisoner's heart must soon turn
to stone.
But although our surroundings were inhuman, one of our gaolers had a
generous heart. He opened the slot in my door merely to say he was sorry
about it all, and that the women were all right. It is little actions
such as these that so often light the darkest hours of life. The man was
a European Turk.
It was urgently necessary to communicate with my fellow-prisoners, in
order to arrange to tell the same story. My friend next door solved the
problem by bawling up through his barred window at the top of his voice
that he would leave a note for me in the wash-place.
"Right you are!" I howled in answer, and instantly the slot of my door
opened, and I had to explain that I was singing.
Already, interest was beginning to creep back into one's life. I found
the note in the wash-place, read it secretly, thought over my answer,
and transcribed the message on to a cigarette paper. Having no writing
material, I used the end of a match dipped into an ink prepared from
tobacco juice and ash. By these simple means we established a regular
means of communication and before forty-eight hours of our strict
seclusion had elapsed we were all three in possession of a complete,
circumstantial, and fictitious account of our adventures prior to
capture.
When not engaged on reminiscences, I was generally pacing my cell, or
trying to invent some new form of exercise to keep myself fit. But at
times energy failed and one felt inclined to gnash one's teeth at the
futility of it all.
One day, when I was feeling inclined to gnash my teeth, the slot in my
door was furtively withdrawn, and, instead of a gaoler, a very comely
vision appeared at the observation hatch. A pair of laughing black eyes
were looking in on me. She wrinkled her nose, and laughed. I jumped up,
thinking I was dreaming, and hoping that the dream would continue. At
the same moment something dropped on to my floor. Then the trap door was
softly shut to.
I found a tiny stump of lead pencil. That was proof of the reality of my
vision.
Countless excuses to leave my cell, and voluminous correspondence with
the pencil's aid eventually enabled me to find out that she was an
Armenian girl, awaiting trial, who took a deep interest in us. At great
risk to herself, she had provided the three of us with writing
instruments. Except for a brief glimpse, and a mumbled word, I was never
able to thank her, however, owing to circumstances beyond our control.
On the fourth day we were transferred to the Military Prison in the
Square of the Seraskerat.
As usual in Turkey, our move was sudden and unexpected. That morning, on
complaining at mid-day that I had as yet received no food, I was told
that _inshallah_--if God pleased--it would arrive in due course.
Instead of a belated breakfast, however, a _posse_ of policemen arrived,
and we started on our journeys again: my friends still in their
shirt-sleeves and slippers, and myself still in my bowler hat, although
I did not now wear it so rakishly.
But we were fairly cheery. We had learnt (no matter how) that the
females of Theodore's family would soon be released, and that Theodore
himself, although still in duress, would not suffer any extreme fate.
Also, it was by now fairly obvious that Miss Whitaker would not be
apprehended, as sufficient evidence was not obtainable against her. She
had covered her tracks too well. All things considered, there was no
cause for depression.
But waiting is hungry work. That afternoon still saw us, fretful and
unfed, waiting outside the office of Djevad Bey, the Military
Commandant of Constantinople.
At last I was taken into an ornate room, where I had my first talk with
this redoubtable individual, who was popularly supposed to be the
hangman of the Young Turks. Anyone less like an executioner I have never
seen. He was plump, well-dressed, with humorous grey eyes. He wore long,
rather well-fitting boots, and smoked his cigarettes from a long amber
holder. He also had a long amber moustache, which was being trained
Kaiser-wise.
I stood before him at attention.
"About this forged passport," he began--"do gentlemen in your country
forge each other's signatures?"
"It is not usual," I admitted.
"Then you, as an English gentleman, surely did not counterfeit my
writing?"
"Oh no! I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing."
"Then how do you account for this passport being in your possession?"
I remained silent.
"Who forged it?" he insisted.
"May I look?" said I. "Is that really your signature?"
"It is indeed. With it you could easily have got out of the country."
"What an idiot I was not to use it!" I said with quite unfeigned
annoyance.
"You were!" he laughed--"they would have passed you straight through the
Customs on seeing this."
I felt very faint at this moment, and staggered against the table. But I
recovered after an instant. I quite forget his next few remarks, but I
know that I committed myself to a story that I had bought the passport
from a man in a restaurant whom I could not now recognise.
"But where have you been living all these weeks?" he asked.
"I was living in the ruins near the Fatih mosque," I said glibly--"and I
used to lunch and dine at various cafes in the city, a different one
every day. It was in one of these places that I bought the passport."
Djevad Bey considered this statement for a moment. There was a nasty
look in his eye when he spoke again.
"I shall never rest until I know who it is who can forge my signature so
well," he said--"and until I know, I am afraid you will be very
uncomfortable, for by law you are in the position of a common
malefactor."
"By law I am in the position of a prisoner of war," I answered--"and as
such, I am liable to a fortnight's simple imprisonment, for attempting
to escape. The Turkish Government signed this agreement only a few
months ago with the British representatives at Berne."
"A man who forges another's name is not an officer, but a forger," he
said meaningly.
"Say what you like, and do what you like," I answered--"I am in your
power. But one thing I ask, and that is, that if you punish me, you
should liberate the innocent Theodore and his family. True, we were
found in their house, but----"
"I cannot believe what you say," said Djevad Bey thoughtfully.
There was a pause. Then:
"Come, as man to man, won't you tell me who forged that passport?"
"You have just called me a liar," said I. "That ends the matter."
And with an all-is-over-between-us air I left the room, feeling dizzy
and uncomfortable.
It was then four o'clock in the afternoon, and I had not yet eaten. I
did not feel at all amused at the prospect of the Military Prison.
I was taken downstairs into the darkness, on entering this inferno of
the damned of Enver Pasha. There were cries and shouts down there, and
men scrambling for food, and other men who looked like wild animals,
behind bars. A swarthy custodian took my name, and I then proceeded,
down a long corridor, until my escort reached an iron portal such as
Dante imagined long ago.
_Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate. . . ._ The gates had clanged
behind me, and I was in a long, low room below ground level, airless,
ill-lit, filthy with tomato skins and bits of bread. Well-fed rats were
scurrying amongst the garbage, and badly-fed prisoners were pacing the
room forlornly, or twiddling their thumbs, or scratching themselves, or
gnawing crusts of bread.
They gathered round me, clamouring for news and cigarettes. In less than
no time they had picked my pockets. They had no more morals than
monkeys. Poor devils! who could blame them, living as they did down
there, where no rumours are heard of the outside world, except the cries
of beaten men and the dull sound of wood on flesh?
"What are you in for?" they asked me.
"Forgery," said I, not to be outdone by any desperado present.
One man, however, confessed to murder, having cut a small boy's throat a
few months before. With him I could not compete. But the most of us were
fraudulent contractors, spies, petty swindlers and the like. Our morals,
as I have said, were practically _nil_. Yet I noticed that a Jew lived
quite apart, and was shunned by everybody. By trade he was a brigand,
but this was no slur on his character as a criminal: the failing that
had led to ostracism was that he pilfered the other prisoners' tomatoes.
That was really beyond a joke. . . .
* * * * *
One of my newly found friends took me to a bed, consisting of two planks
on an iron frame, which he said I could have for my very, very own. He
also gave me a piece of bread and some water. On beginning to eat I at
once realised how hungry I was, and inquired how I should obtain further
nourishment.
"Luxuries are very difficult to obtain," he said; "how much money have
you got?"
"Twenty-five piastres,[9]" I answered.
He pulled a long face.
"That won't go far. But every evening at eight a boy comes round with
the scraps left over from the Officers' Restaurant. Otherwise you will
live on bread and tomatoes."
"What about bedding?" I asked, to change the subject.
"Bedding!" he said, looking at me as if I was a perfect idiot. "Do you
mean to say you have come here without any bedding?"
I admitted I had, but felt too exhausted to explain.
* * * * *
One was utterly lost in that dungeon. Even when the war ended, would one
be found? I doubted it. Yet as I would naturally never reveal the
forger's name, it seemed unlikely that I would get out. . . . Then I
thought of my companions. I imagined them happily together, in some
place where one could see the sky. . . . As for me, I might languish
down here for ever. Obviously something should be done.
But what? I rose (rather hastily, for on looking between the planks of
my bed, I noticed that the crack was entirely filled with battalions of
board beasts in line, waiting for a night attack), and began to pace
our narrow and nasty apartment. A group of prisoners were cooking some
pitiful mess by the window. Four others played poker with a very greasy
pack. One was twiddling his thumbs very fast, and I suddenly recollected
that he had been twiddling his thumbs very fast half an hour ago, when I
had first seen him. The lonely Jew was removing lice from the seams of
his coat, and throwing his quarry airily about the room.
Then I noticed that besides ourselves, there were other prisoners even
more unfortunate. There had been so much to see in my new surroundings
that I had not noticed the people in chains. . . . One side of our room
opened out on to some half-dozen cubicles, each of which contained a
prisoner in chains. These cells had no light or ventilation. They
measured six feet in length by four in breadth. In solitude and
obscurity, fettered by wrist and ankle to shackles that weighed a
hundredweight, human beings lived there--and are still living for aught
I know--for months and even years, until death released them. These men
were ravenous and verminous, but they had by no means lost their hope
and faith. I shall never hear the hymn--
"Thy rule, O Christ, begin,
Break with Thine iron rod
The tyrannies of sin . . ."
without remembering that an Armenian lad said those words to me, lying
in chains in one of these cells. With another prisoner, a Greek, who
had endured eleven months of this torture, I also had some speech.
"Yes, the war will be over soon," he said. "My God, how good this
cigarette of yours tastes! I haven't touched tobacco for a month. But be
careful. The sentries must not see you speaking to me."
"Yes, the chains were bad at first," he continued when the sentry's back
was turned, "but one gets used to anything in time. And I have had time
enough. It takes a lot to kill a healthy man. Before I came in here I
used to be strong and well. I used to ride two hours every day, on my
own horses. Now my horses have gone to feed the Turkish Army and I can
hardly drag my chains as far as the water-tap. But God is great. . . ."
God is great! _Allahu akbar!_
I determined to get away from that dungeon at all costs, if for no other
reason than because I had to survive to write about it.
I went to the big gate, and tried to bluff the sentry to let me go to
see the Commandant. But a clean face and a full stomach are practically
necessary to a _debonnaire_ appearance. When one is scrubby and starved
it is almost impossible to succeed in "wangling." I stared at the sentry
through my eyeglass, and I offered him my twenty-five piastres as if I
had plenty more _baksheesh_ to give to a good boy, but I utterly and
dismally failed to impress him.
"_Yok, yok, yok_," he said, looking at me as one might look at an
orang-outang that has
+-------------------------------+
| DO NOT IRRITATE THIS ANIMAL |
+-------------------------------+
written over its cage.
I gibbered in impotent rage, and then went and put my head under a tap.
A little later, while I was drying my head with my handkerchief, I saw
some barbers come to the big gate. They stood there, clapping and
clacking their strops. Instantly, my fellow-prisoners rushed to the gate
as if they had heard the beating of the wings of some angel of
deliverance. This was apparently the occasion of their weekly shave,
when egress to the corridor was permitted, the barbers naturally not
wishing to go inside our loathsome room.
Taking this tide in the affairs of men at the flood, I found it led on
to fortune. I was in the corridor with six other prisoners, and a barber
confronted me with a razor in his hand. He whetted his steel
expectantly, but I would have none of him, and seized a passing official
by the arm.
He was a dog-collar gentleman.
A dog-collar gentleman, I must explain, is Authority Incarnate. On his
swelling chest he wears a crescent tablet of brass, with the one word
_Quanun_ inscribed thereon. _Quanun_ means "law," and the wearer of this
badge is responsible for public decorum of every kind. If a Turkish
officer be seen drinking alcohol in uniform, or playing cards, or
flirting, or talking disrespectfully of the Germans, or indulging in any
other prohibited amusement, he is instantly arrested by the dog-collar
gentleman, and brought to prison. In his official capacity, the
dog-collar gentleman is one of the most important personages in Turkey:
policeman, pussfoot and prude in one.
"There is some mistake," I said excitedly. "I am a British officer, and
have been put in a room with criminals."
"You a British officer?" said the dog-collar man incredulously.
"A captain of cavalry," said I, slipping him the twenty-five piastre
note.
"_Pekke, Effendim_," he answered. "Very good, sir, I will see what can
be done."
I had burnt my boats now.
About ten minutes later, just as I was flatly refusing to either be
shaved or to return through the gate, a sergeant-major and a squad of
soldiers arrived and bore me off to the Prison Commandant.
Here I caught sight of my two companions, and was able to fling them a
few words through the "Yok, yok" of the sentries. They also had been
separated, and put amongst criminals. Their lot had been no different to
mine.
"A slight mistake has occurred," said the Prison Commandant to me, "but
now you shall have one of the best rooms in the prison. Only I am
afraid you will be alone there, until after your trial."
Of course I did not believe him, but I was glad that I was to be alone.
I was taken to a room on the upper floor, furnished with a bed and
blanket, and with a window opening on to a corridor, where people were
always passing. The Commandant had spoken the truth. It was quite a good
room, as prison apartments go, and the traffic of the corridor amused
me.
At nine o'clock that night I was able to get a dish of haricot beans, my
first meal of the day.
Then I settled down to a month of solitary confinement.
I think I may claim to write of this torture, which exists not only in
Turkey but through the prisons of the civilised world, with some expert
knowledge. I use the word "torture" because it is nothing less. Solitary
confinement is a punishment as barbarous and as senseless as the
thumbscrew or the rack: more so indeed, for it is better to kill the
body than to maim the mind. The spirit of man is more than his poor
flesh; the war has reminded us of that. And if it has also reminded us
that our prison systems are archaic, so much the better for the world.
At times, in gaol, a tide of pity rose in me for all life created that
is caged by man.
Take a felon at one end of the scale, and a canary at the other. The
felon is imprisoned for twenty years. For twenty years, less some small
remission for good conduct, an abnormal brain lives in abnormal
surroundings, where hope dies, and ideals fail. He has sinned against
society, and therefore society murders his mind. Corporal and capital
punishment, I have come to believe, are saner than the cruelties,
immeasurable by "the world's coarse thumb and finger," suffered by the
mind of man in solitary confinement or the common gaol. The
sentimentalist who shudders at the cat and gallows forgets the worse,
slow, hidden horrors that pass unseen in the felon's brain. Perhaps the
sentimentalist does not realise them. Perhaps also the old lady who
keeps a canary does not realise the feelings of her pet. She may think
she is protecting it from the birds and beasts outside. But I feel now
that I know what the canary feels. . . . However, it is difficult to
argue about questions involving imagination.
I lived on hope, chiefly, during the days that followed. With nothing to
read, no cutting instrument of any sort, no washing arrangements, and no
one to speak to, the time passed hideously. I used to gaze at my watch
sometimes, appalled at the slow passage of time. The second-hand had a
horrible fascination for me. It simply crawled round its dial and each
instant, between the jerks of the little hand, the precious moments of
my youth were passing, beyond recall. Madness lay that way. If I had
been a real criminal, I wondered, would I have repented? Unquestionably
the answer was, "No!" Solitary confinement would have made me a
permanent enemy of society.
There were no smiles and soap in that Military Prison, no scissors, no
sanitation. There was nothing human or clean about it. Nothing but
destruction will rid it of its vermin, or scour it of its taint of
disease and death.
Perhaps the lack of scissors was the amenity of life whose absence I
most deplored. Try to do without a cutting instrument for a month, and
you will realise why it was that some sort of cutting edge was the first
need of primitive man and remains a prime necessity to-day.
However, as a matter of fact, I did not remain a whole month without a
cutting edge. Before a fortnight had elapsed I had bettered my position
in many ways. I had secured a knife (which I stole from the restaurant),
a wash-basin (sent from the Embassy), and pencil and paper from a
friendly clerk. With these writing instruments I used to correspond
voluminously with the other British prisoners, by various privy methods.
I had a regular routine for my days now. Early mornings were devoted to
walking briskly up and down my room in various gaits--the sailor's roll,
for instance, and the Napoleonic stride, and the deportment of various
of my acquaintances. During this time I avoided thinking, but generally
imagined some incident in which I took a distinguished part. In the
forenoon I played games, such as throwing my soap to the ceiling and
catching it again, or juggling with cigarettes, both lighted and
unlighted. The afternoon generally passed in sleep, but the evening and
nights were bad. It was then that the second hand of my watch began to
exert its fascination. The electric light bulb, however, could
occasionally be tampered with, and on these occasions there was always
the hope that the sentries would get a shock in putting it right. Also I
found amusement in my watch chain, which I made into an absorbing
puzzle.
But, curiously enough, I found it impossible to write anything, except
lengthy letters.
A real prisoner in a well-constituted prison does not enjoy his days any
more than I did. On the other hand, he knows how long his sentence is
going to last, whereas in my case I was confined during Djevad Bey's
pleasure, or the duration of the war, and each day brought me nearer
nothing--except insanity.
One evening, however, an Imperial Son-in-law entered my room, and lit my
life with a certain interest. His father, who was a Court official, had
betrothed him to a princess, and he had consequently assumed the title
of Damad, or Son-in-law. This youth had had a remarkable career. While
still a guileless lad, scarcely broke from the harem, he had used his
revolver so injudiciously that he had seriously damaged one of the
Imperial apartments, besides killing the elderly Colonel at whom he was
aiming. Enver Pasha had of course himself a weakness for this sort of
thing, but still, to save appearances, the Damad had to be punished. He
was therefore condemned to three months' confinement in the Military
Prison. Although nominally in residence there, he used, however, to
leave prison every Friday to attend the Sultan's Selamlik, and only
return on Monday night. Moreover, he not only thoroughly amused himself
during his protracted week-ends, he also squeezed every bit of pleasure
possible out of his prison days. Life was a lemon, which he sucked with
grace. He was free to wander where he wished in the prison, and to eat
and drink what he liked. The best of everything was good enough for the
Damad. Grapes came for him from the Sultan's garden, and a faithful
negro slave was always at his heels.
The Damad had rather charming manners. He knocked politely before
entering my cell.
"Excuse my interrupting," he said, "but----"
"You are not interrupting me at all," I answered, getting up from my
bed. "I do wish you would stop and talk. Have a cigarette? I haven't
talked to anyone for a fortnight."
"I am so sorry, but I daren't talk to you. That is a pleasure to come. I
wanted to borrow something, that's all. And, I say, will you allow me to
offer you one of my cigarettes--they're the Sultan's brand, you know.
Better take the box. Well, I saw you with an eyeglass through the window
in the passage. Will you lend it me to appear at the next Selamlik?"
I was delighted, and said so. To my sorrow, the Damad instantly took his
departure.
"Smuggle me in something to read," I said, as he left with profuse
apologies for his hurry.
He nodded, and his long left eyelash flickered.
Next day his little nigger boy, when the sentry's back was turned,
popped about twenty leaflets into my window. I seized them avidly, and
found that they were the astounding adventures of Nat Pinkerton in
French. Never have my eyes rested so gleefully on a printed page. I
consumed them cautiously, else I should have gorged myself with
excitement at a single sitting. Like an epicure, I made them last, by
always breaking off at the critical juncture of the great detective's
affairs. From that moment my life flowed in more agreeable channels.
"Devouring time, blunt though the lion's paws." . . . I suddenly
understood Shakespeare's meaning afresh. Time had dulled the clawing of
regret.
I had failed to escape, it is true, but there was always hope. Things
were getting better. The women had been released. Themistocle only
awaited a formal trial. My own condition had improved. I had been moved
from my solitary confinement, just when I had secured a Bible, and a
large tin of Keating's, wherewith to combat the devils of captivity. But
any change is better than none at all, I thought. The mortal hunger for
companionship is strong, and my new room, besides containing an officer,
also enjoyed an excellent and varied view.
After a few days' experience of my new room-mate, however, who was a
Bulgarian Bolshevik, I began to pine for solitude again. A more
unmitigated Tishbite I have never seen, but fortunately he was smaller
than I. When I found him washing his feet in my basin one night, I smote
him, hip and thigh.
That Bulgarian has coloured my whole view of the Balkans. The less said
about him, the better.
* * * * *
One day about thirty British officers arrived from the camp at Yuzgad,
whence they had escaped and been recaptured on the occasion when
Commander Cochrane and his gallant band of seven marched four hundred
and fifty miles to freedom. All the party who arrived in the Military
Prison were in uniform, and in excellent spirits. They were like a
breath of fresh air in that sordid place. On being put into three rooms,
these thirty brave men and true at once demanded beds to sleep on. In
due time the beds arrived, in the usual condition of beds in that place.
They might have been so many Stilton cheeses. Our thirty prisoners,
despite the protest of the guards, carried out their couches into the
passage, and lit two Primus stoves. Over these stoves they proceeded to
pass the component parts of each bed, so that its occupants were utterly
exterminated.
Imagine the scene. A dismal corridor, a flaming stove, Turkish sentries
protesting with Hercules in khaki, cleansing the Augean stable. . . .
But protests were useless. The smell of burnt bugs mingled with the
other contaminations of the prison. Our officers had done in little what
civilisation will one day do at large throughout that land.
* * * * *
A British officer, going to the feeding place, looked into a window
which gave on to my room. But I was kept strictly apart from my fellows,
and the sentry consequently tried to drag the officer away.
"Leave me alone, you son of Belial!" said he. "Isn't a window meant to
look through?"
Windows in that prison were certainly not meant to look through.
From my new eyrie I had a composite view of startling contrasts. Down
below, some soldiers were living in a verandah, behind wooden bars.
Anything more animal than their life it would be impossible to conceive.
Every afternoon at three o'clock a parade of handcuffed men were
marshalled two by two, and then pushed into these dens. Beyond them lay
the city of Stamboul with its clustered cupolas and nine-trellised
alley-ways. And beyond the city were the blue waters of the Marmora.
Then there was the window in the passage through which the British
officer had observed me. This gave me a view of the rank and fashion of
the prison, so that I knew who was being tried, who received visitors,
and so on.
And directly opposite me, in another face of the building, was yet
another window, with curtains drawn. That was the window of the Hall of
Justice. Directly under my perch, but rather too far to jump, were some
telegraph lines which might possibly have provided a means of escape.
Sentries used to watch me carefully, whenever I looked at these
telegraph lines. I was considered a dangerous, indeed a desperate
character, and my every movement was regarded with apprehension. Not
only was no one (except now the Bulgarian) allowed to speak to me, but I
was not even permitted to look at anything, or anyone, for long, without
being bidden to desist. Whatever I did, in fact, I was told not to do.
Eventually I made a scene.
The immediate cause of the row was that I had a glimpse of a sitting in
the Hall of Justice. I had often wondered what passed there, for at
times faint screams used to hint of the infamies that passed behind
those curtains.
One day I saw.
The Hall of Justice is a fine room, with a lordly sweep of view over the
city and the sea. Why anyone chose such a situation as a torture chamber
I do not know. But there it was. There was something dramatic about the
beautiful prospect and the bestial people who sat with their backs
turned to it, interrogating the Armenians.
"Every prospect pleases and only man is vile."
Very vile were the two Turkish officers, judges I suppose, who sat
smoking cigarettes, while an old Armenian woman and her son stood before
them to be tried. What passed I could not hear, but evidently her
answers were not satisfactory, for presently the policeman who stood
behind her kicked her violently, so that her head jerked back and her
arms flung forward, and she was sent tottering towards the judges'
table. Then the policeman took a stick as thick as a man's wrist, and
began to beat her over the head and shoulders. Her son meanwhile had
fallen on his knees and was crawling about the room, dragging his
chains, and supplicating first the judges and then the policeman. He was
imploring them, no doubt, to have pity on his mother's age and weakness.
She fell down in a faint. The policeman kicked her in the face, and then
prodded her with a stick until she rose.
I wish the people who are ready to "let the Turk manage his own country"
could have seen that savage pantomime.
I tried to get out to stop it, but was driven back with bayonets.
* * * * *
Djevad Bey, the Military Commandant of Constantinople, with a
resplendent retinue, arrived one day to inspect us. With his long
cigarette-holder, and long shiny boots, he swaggered round, followed by
_ormulu_ staff officers and diligent clerks and pompous gentlemen in
dog-collars. Everywhere around him was dirt, disease, destitution, and
despair. But Djevad Bey in his shiny boots "cared for none of these
things." He was himself, with his medals and moustaches, and that was
enough.
"What more do you want, _effendi_?" he asked me after I had made a few
casual complaints (for it was useless to take him seriously). "You have
one of the most beautiful views in Europe from the garden."
"But I am not allowed into the garden."
"Have a little patience, _mon cher_," said he. "It is rather crowded
with older prisoners now. But in a little time perhaps, when I have
discovered the name of that forger . . ."
And with a condescending smile he passed on between ranks of sentries
standing stiffly at attention, to inspect another portion of his
miserable menagerie.
* * * * *
Ah, Djevad, _mon cher_, those days seem distant now! You and your
popinjays have passed. . . .
[Footnote 9: Five shillings.]