CHAPTER XII_Caught by the Turks

OUR SECOND ESCAPE

The ghosts of the prisoners of the Tower, or of the Bastille, could they

revisit earth, would undoubtedly have found themselves more at home in

the Military Prison, Constantinople, than anywhere else in the world.

The dark ages were still a matter of actuality in the dark dungeons of

Constantinople in 1918. To be tried, for instance, was there considered

something very up-to-date. Most prisoners were not tried, until their

sentence was nearly over, when they were formally liberated.

After a month of solitary confinement, and a week of confinement with

the Bulgarian, which was an even worse travail of the spirit, I received

the joyful news that the preliminaries for my court-martial were almost

complete.

I attended this first sitting with the thrill of a debutante going to a

ball. I determined to make up arrears of talk. And I did. I began at the

beginning of my life, sketched my education, and came by easy stages to

my career as an officer in the Indian Cavalry. The clerk who recorded my

evidence wrote for two hours without pause or intermission, but it is

worthy of record that at the end of that time we had only reached the

point where an officer of the Psamattia fire brigade, hearing, as I

thought, a suspicious movement on the roof of the house across the

street, kept a stern and steadfast gaze in our direction, while we

crouched trembling under cover of the parapet. At this point the

proceedings were adjourned.

But the Court had let fall a useful piece of information. Robin was back

in prison, but was being kept even more secret and secluded than I.

However, love laughs at locksmiths, and it takes more than a Turkish

sentry to defeat a persevering prisoner. We sighted each other in

passages, we met in wash-places, we flipped notes to each other in bits

of bread, or sent them by a third party concealed in cigarettes. By such

means, I learnt Robin's remarkable story. . . . After being caught at

Malgara, ten days after his first escape, he was taken back to the

Central Gaol, where he was treated as a Turkish deserter and given

nothing but black bread to eat. He thereupon went on hunger strike for

three days, and alarmed the Turks by nearly dying in their hands. Later

he was allowed to purchase a liberal diet, including even wine and

cigars, which he declared were necessary to his health, but his

constitution being enfeebled by privation, he developed alarming

swellings over his face and scalp, which were probably due to some

noxious ingredient of the hair-dye he had used. In this condition he

was sent to hospital, and from hospital he escaped again. A Greek

patient was his accomplice.

Giving this man ten pounds to buy a disguise with, he made an

appointment with him for nine o'clock outside the German Embassy (!) and

then set out on his adventures dressed in a white night-shirt. How he

eluded the sentries is a mystery to me, although I inspected the place

after the armistice. Patients were then saying (Turks, who are sometimes

sportsmen, among them): "Here is where a British officer escaped. Thus

and thus did he climb--past the sentries--along that buttress--down into

the street hard by the guard-house!". . . . He arrived punctually at

nine o'clock at the German Embassy, in his night-shirt. But the Greek

accomplice was not there. He was at that moment drinking and dicing with

Robin's money. For half an hour Robin waited for him by a tree in the

shadows of a side street leading to the sea. The few people who passed

him stared hard, and then moved nervously across to the other pavement.

They thought he was a madman.

Robin, I think, felt he was a madman too. In his present situation and

dress, detection was only a matter of time. However, chance might be

kind and send him a disguise. Cold and disconsolate, he ascended the

main road that led to the top of the Grand Rue de Pera, and taking his

way through the traffic, dipped down into the ruins beyond. The saint

who protects prisoners must have guided that tall white figure, that

paddled across the busy town. . . . And more, once he was hiding in the

ruins, the saint must have sent along the small boy who passed close to

him in that lonely spot of cypresses and desolation. All-unknowing of

the fate that awaited him behind the angle of the wall, the small boy

strode sturdily along, thinking perhaps of the nice bran-bread and

synthetic coffee that awaited him for supper. Robin pounced out of the

shadow, and seized him by the scruff of the neck. . . . The victim

instantly began to blubber.

"Give me all your clothes," said Robin.

"Who are you?" sobbed the little boy.

"Brigand," said Robin shortly.

This answer had the desired effect. The youth dried his tears, and

divested himself of his apparel, which Robin immediately put on. The

boots were much too small to wear and were returned. Still, the brigand

was so satisfied with his clothes that he gave the small boy four pounds

with a magnanimous gesture. Then he set out to seek his fortune, wearing

a tiny fezz, and a coat whose sleeves reached half-way down his forearm.

For four days he dodged about the city, never more than a few hours at

one place, until, just when his strength and his funds were exhausted,

he found a house to give him shelter. From here he made a plan to

escape, but was recaught through treachery at the docks, and taken back

to the Military Prison. Only an Ali Baba could do justice to these

experiences. Alas! the best books of adventure are just those which are

never written.

Anyway we were together again, two desperadoes in dungeon, "apart but

not afar."

The Damad's little nigger boy often contributed to our schemes for

communication. This lad, who was in training for the position of keeper

of the harem, and consequently belonged to the species that rises to

eminence in Turkey, was a remarkable child. He did exactly what he liked

and no one dared interfere with the little Lord Chamberlain _in posse_.

He had an uncanny brain and uncanny strength, and I can quite understand

the reliance which Turkish Pashas are wont to repose in these servants.

I relied on him myself at times, and was never disappointed.

The arrival of a neutral Red Cross delegate, at about this time, did

much to secure us better treatment. For over five weeks now I had not

breathed fresh air, but directly the Red Cross delegate arrived I was

allowed to go to the bath, escorted by two dog-collar gentlemen with

revolvers and two sentries with side arms. While glad to feel I was

employing so many of the Turkish Army while at my ablutions, I could not

but deplore their anxiety on my behalf.

"No officer has ever succeeded in escaping from this wonderful gaol of

yours," I said to the Prison Commandant, who (in contrast to Djevad) was

quite a good fellow in his way "and I don't suppose anyone ever will.

Why therefore go to the trouble of guarding us so closely? It would be

a very graceful act on your part if you allowed us to go occasionally

into the garden."

"Yarin, inshallah," murmured the Commandant, meaning, "To-morrow, please

God."

And to-morrow, strange to say, actually arrived in about a week's time.

Perhaps a bomb raid hastened matters, by stimulating the Commandant's

desire to do graceful acts before the war was over.

One of the bombs of this raid dropped in the school playground just

outside the Seraskerat Square, and shattered all the windows in my

passage. Fortunately all the children were away, it being Friday. No one

was killed by that bomb, but a large handsome Turkish officer prisoner

standing beside me in the passage, when some panes of glass beside us

burst, threw himself on the floor and refused to rise again, declaring

he was killed. A full ten minutes he lay, with his moustaches in the

dust, surrounded by sentries. In the confusion that ensued Robin

cleverly slipped over to me and we had a very useful chat.

The first and most vital thing to do, we decided, was to get into

Constantinople, in order to learn how the situation really stood, and

make our plans for escaping, so that in the event of our success we

should be in possession of knowledge useful to the Allies.

Having settled this, we returned to our respective cells, where I

witnessed a scene that, by contrast with the behaviour of the nervous

Turkish officer, reminded me of the "patient deep disdain" that the

East will always feel for the marvels of our age of steel. Our machines

are things of a day, but the ancient needs remain. The bomb that had

dropped in the playground had wrecked a large tree that stood in its

centre, and hardly had its smoke cleared away before an elderly peasant

appeared with a donkey and started collecting twigs and splinters for

firewood. Slowly and stolidly, under that barrage-riven sky, the old man

continued gathering the aftermath of the raid, before the raid was

finished. Empires might crumble to the dust: he would cook his dinner

with the pieces.

This bombing business "cleared the air" for us greatly, and another

little incident clinched matters.

An officious sentry, who had received the usual orders about treating

Robin with especial severity, so far exceeded his instructions as to

slap Robin in the face when he was merely standing at the door of his

room. Robin instantly knocked him down with a hook on the point of the

jaw that would have sent a prizefighter to sleep, let alone a _posta_.

There was a click of rifles and a glitter of bayonets. Sergeants were

whistled for. Swords and spurs rang down the corridor. The Commandant

arrived.

What seemed an awkward situation for Robin at first now turned greatly

to his advantage. He demanded an apology from the Minister of War, and

although he did not receive this, our treatment immediately improved.

The Turkish sentry was so clearly in the wrong that the Commandant felt

he should do something to placate us.

One day, Robin and I were told that we would be allowed into

Constantinople to shop, provided we gave our parole not to escape while

in the town.

This we immediately decided to do, and wrote a promise stating that

while we could give no permanent engagement about our behaviour while

guarded in prison, if we were allowed out into the town we bound

ourselves to return faithfully to our quarters at a fixed time. Next

day, accordingly, we dressed in the quaint apologies for clothes in our

possession, and sallied out, blinking in the sunlight of the square.

Imagine our surprise when we found an escort of ten armed men, who were

to accompany us to see that we kept our word. Highly incensed, we

returned directly to the Commandant's office, followed by our retinue.

At first the Commandant did not understand the nature of the insult he

had offered to us, but eventually he agreed that a squad of soldiers was

unnecessary to enforce an Englishman's promise, and he promised to send

us out again on the following day, more suitably attended.

This time there were only two dog-collar gentlemen to accompany us, and

although we were later joined by a third, who, I think, smelt beer and

beef in the offing, we considered that this number of attendants was not

unsuitable to our importance. (For a long time after escape, indeed, I

was always expecting to find a sentry at my elbow. They were very

convenient for carrying parcels, and during this excursion the minions

of the law actually carried back to prison our escaping gear, wrapped in

harmless-looking packages.) Rope, fezzes, and maps were the articles

chiefly required, and these we purchased without much difficulty in

restaurants where we were known. Robin and I were adepts at this sort of

thing by now. One of us had only to go over to our escort's table, and

standing over them, inquire whether they preferred black beer or yellow:

meanwhile the other would be "wangling" the waiter. Besides material

accessories we also required certain moral support. Was it worth while

to escape? Would the Bulgarians attack Constantinople? What was the

_morale_ of the Tchatchaldja garrison? . . . . All this and much more we

learnt from Miss Whitaker, whom we met (just by chance, do you think?)

at tea at the Petits Champs.

We returned from our excursion highly satisfied with our prospects. That

evening we thanked the Commandant warmly for our delightful day, and

asked one favour more, namely that we should be allowed out regularly

into the garden, in order to get the exercise necessary to our health.

An hour's walk every day would greatly relieve the tension of captivity.

Surely, we said, the Commandant did not intend to keep us caged like

wild beasts, with a minimum of air and exercise?

Permission was granted, with the proviso that we should not talk to

other prisoners. Of all black sheep we were the blackest ones.

So we walked in the garden, and discussed plans of escape. We now had

fezzes, rope, and plenty of money. On the other hand, there were so many

sentries everywhere, and so many doors and barriers to get through, that

the thing seemed impossible at first.

Bribery was not to be thought of. Any attempt in this direction would

have sent us through the portals of the damned again, to await the end

of the war in chains.

Only in the garden was there the slightest chance of success. Our

chance, however, lay, as before, in the element of the unexpected.

On the far side of the garden from the prison were some iron railings,

which overlooked a drop of from one hundred to two hundred feet, to a

street below. These railings were spaced at just about the width of a

man's head. We tested them at various points while apparently engaged in

looking at the view, and made a note of the gaps most suitable to

squeeze through. No one appeared to think it likely we would try to

escape over a precipice. The six sentries in the garden therefore, whose

sole duty it was to watch us, generally devoted their attention to

seeing we did not talk to the Greek clerks who came into the restaurant

to get their dinner of an evening. Beyond occasionally saying the magic

word "_Yok_," they allowed us to do much what we liked at the other side

of the garden, where our interests, they thought, could only be of an

innocent nature.

At first our idea was to get through the railings and slide down a rope

into the street, but there were practical difficulties about this.

Thirty fathoms of rope are impossible to conceal on one's person.

Besides, we thought of a better plan.

Having got through the railings, we would climb along outside them, past

the garden, and along the wall of a printing-house, where their support

still continued, until we reached the main square of the Seraskerat.

Here we would squeeze back through the railings (for the drop was still

too difficult to negotiate) and proceed as follows: We would stroll to

the centre of the square, light cigars, and then suddenly altering our

demeanour, hurry back to the staff garage where the military motor-cars

were kept. The sentry on guard would certainly think we were chauffeurs.

With a guttural curse or two, we would start up a car, and drive

directly to the Bulgarian frontier, or Dedeagatch, as the situation

dictated. If anyone attempted to stop us on the way, we had only to say,

"_Kreuzhimmel donnerwetter_," and open out the throttle. The plan was

charming in its simplicity and _kolossal_ in conception. We already

imagined ourselves arriving with full details of the Constantinople

defences, in a big Mercedes car. The plan was complete. We had only to

do it!

Opportunity came one twilight evening, when we two were alone in the

garden, with the six sentries, all rather sleepy, and the Damad, who had

just returned from a hectic week-end up the Bosphorus. He was full of

stories and news which we did not want to hear. For a time he bored us

to tears talking of the war, but at last conversation flagged, and we

bade him a cordial good-night, making an appointment to see him again

next day, which we trusted we would not be in a position to keep.

Then we edged to the far side of the garden, where the railings were.

The six sleepy sentries were watching the stream of people going into

the restaurant near the entrance gate. They paid no attention to us, and

looked--rather sadly, I thought--at the Greeks who were coming in to

have a square meal, a thing that they themselves could only dream of.

Feeling that the moment was too good to be lost, and yet somehow too

good to be true, we stood by the railings, with our heads half through.

"Come on," said Robin cheerily.

I put my head through, and my flinching flesh followed a moment later. I

hung over the drop and looked and listened tensely for any stir in the

garden, expecting every moment to hear the clamour of sentries and the

drone of bullets. But all was quiet. One sentry lit another's cigarette.

A third was playing with a kitten. The others had their backs turned.

We clambered along, and reached the printing-house. We were out of

sight of the sentries now, and the way seemed clear, across a patch of

ivy, to a gap which would give us entrance to the main square. Once we

had gained its comparative freedom, success, I felt, was certain.

But my hope was short-lived. The railings on the wall of the

printing-house led past an open window, which we had not been able to

see from the garden. At this window three Turks were sitting. They were

officials of the printing-house no doubt, and were now engaged in

discussing short drinks and the prospect of the Bosphorus. Had we

interposed our bodies between them and the view, we would have been in a

very unpleasant position. With one finger they could have pushed us down

to the street a hundred feet below, or else detained us where we were,

to wait like wingless flies until soldiers came to drag us back.

It was a horrid anti-climax, but we decided to go back. There was no

alternative.

That return journey was quite hideous, for at any moment before we

reached our gap a sentry might have seen us. And even if they had missed

us at fifty yards (and we were a sitting shot against the sunset) we

would have looked absolutely foolish and been abjectly helpless.

All went well, however. We squeezed back through the railings, and found

ourselves in the prison garden again. Our attempt had failed. I felt as

if someone had suddenly flattened me out with a rolling pin. But Robin

was quite undismayed.

"Our luck is in," he said--"else we would have been spotted against

those railings just now. Look, it is a full moon, like the last time we

escaped. I bet we succeed to-night."

"I won't take your money," I said, hugely heartened, however.

Four of our sentries were smoking sadly, and looking into the

restaurant, as boys look into a cake-shop. The fifth was standing by the

gold-fish pond. The sixth leaned against the railings, about eighty

yards away from us, looking out towards Galata Bridge.

After hurriedly dusting ourselves, we walked straight past him. He

turned and glanced at his watch, and then at us.

"Just five minutes more," we urged--"we haven't had nearly enough

exercise yet."

And we continued walking round the garden, breathlessly discussing

plans.

The sentry nodded and sighed, then turned again to contemplate the

Golden Horn.

Our one remaining chance was to walk straight out of the gate near the

restaurant, into the main square. In moments of intense stress one can

sometimes grasp the psychology of a situation in a flash. We saw into

the minds of the sentries, I believe. They were bored and unsuspecting.

A sort of prevision came to us that we would be mistaken for Greek

employees of the Ministry, and could stroll unquestioned through the

gate, if we acted instantly.

It was getting dark now. We slipped into a patch of shadow, threw away

our hats, and taking out the fezzes which we always carried concealed

under our waistcoats, we put them on our heads. Then we strolled on.

To understand our feelings, it must be remembered that no officer has

ever before succeeded in escaping from this ancient prison. The Turks

prided themselves on the fact. Recently, a political suspect had made a

desperate dash for liberty by the same entrance as we now approached,

but he had been caught before he reached the outer square. Good men had

tried--but fools rush in where angels fear to tread. And we _knew_, by

sheer faith, that we would not be stopped.

We walked very slowly now, stopping sometimes to gesticulate, after the

manner of the Mediterranean peoples. What we said I have no idea, but I

think I spoke _staccato_ Italian, while Robin answered in Arabic

imprecations. Near the gate I remember saying to him passionately in

English: "For God's sake turn your trousers down," for to one's

sensitive mind such an oddity of dress was certain to spell detection.

This was idiotic, but my nerves were on edge.

Mingling with the Greeks who were coming out of the restaurant, we came

at a very, very leisurely pace to the sentry-guarded gate. Everyone has

a pass of course, both to enter and to leave this gate, but season

ticket holders, so to speak, are rarely asked to produce their

credentials.

[Illustration: THE SQUARE OF THE SERASKERAT, CONSTANTINOPLE]

We came level with the sentries at the gate. One of them took a step

forward, as if to ask Robin a question. Then he looked at us again, and

changed his mind. I have a sort of idea that my white waistcoat and

ornamental watch chain saved the situation. No one with such belongings

could fail to be a personage of clerkly habit.

In that instant, however, faith had almost faltered, and the temptation

to quicken one's pace had been almost irresistible. To bolt into the

comparative freedom of the main square was now quite feasible, but we

had to remember that once there, our difficulties were only half over.

Every gate was guarded: the same high railings as we had already

negotiated formed its perimeter, and there was a battalion of soldiers

in the square itself. Therefore until we were out of the Seraskerat, we

had to proceed with caution.

Lethargically and nonchalantly we drew away from the restaurant.

Although time was now a factor of importance (for at any moment the

sentries in the garden might miss us), we dared not hurry our steps.

"There are no cars about. Are we going into the garage?" I murmured

doubtfully to Robin.

At that moment an individual came up behind us, who settled the question

out of hand. He was a Turkish officer. After passing us, he turned round

to stare. We returned his scrutiny with careful composure, but it was

quite obvious that he did not like the look of us. Yet our appearance

was none of his business: he hesitated a moment and then decided to do

exactly what one might do oneself if one saw a suspicious-looking

individual in a public place: he went and told a policeman. We saw him

hurrying to the main gate, where he called out the sergeant of the

guard. We, meanwhile, were slinking diagonally across the square, as if

bound for the side gate. To go to the garage now, as if approaching it

from the Ministry of War, was impossible, as we were being watched. We

whispered together, making new plans.

It was almost past twilight, but the electric light over the main gate

showed us the Turkish officer in confabulation with the sergeant of the

guard. No doubt he was saying that our passports should be scrutinised

before we were allowed to pass. The sergeant saluted as the officer

left, and then stood in the circle of light, a burly and menacing

figure, peering into the gathering darkness.

We had now reached the middle of the Seraskerat and saw that the side

gate was shut, and sentry-guarded. There was also a sentry in the

adjacent shed. The main gate was impossible of access. So also was the

garage. Our only chance lay in going forward.

We went on, past the shed, until we reached some small trees by the side

of the outer railings. We tried to put our heads through, but owing to a

slight difference of spacing, we found this could not be done. We would

have to climb over them.

A couple of people were crossing the square. The sergeant stood blinking

at the entrance. Else all was quiet.

The railings were only some twelve foot high, so they did not form a

serious obstacle, but on their other side there was a drop of ten feet,

into a crowded street. That someone would raise an alarm seemed very

probable.

From the top of the railings I looked back to the prison where I had

passed the last two months, and then forward to the street.

Two little girls stood hand in hand, gaping up at me. A street hawker

glanced in my direction. Except for these, no passer-by appeared to

notice us.

I dropped in a heap on the pavement. Next moment Robin landed beside me.

We were free once more, this time not to be recaught.

* * * * *

The two little girls clapped their hands with glee when they saw us

drop. As to the street hawker, I daresay he thought we were robbers, and

as such, people not to be interfered with. The other passers-by merely

edged away from us. No one, in Constantinople, will involve himself in

any civil commotion if he can avoid it. Whether the disturbance be a

fire or theft, the procedure is the same. If your neighbour is being

robbed, you look the other way. If your house is being burnt, you bribe

the fire brigade not to come near it, for it they do, they will

assuredly loot everything that the flames do not consume. Hence the

sight of two wild men dropping into a crowded street stirred no civic

conscience. No one asked who we were.

We crossed the tramway lines unmolested, and dived into a narrow street

leading down the hill. Then we ran and ran and ran.

That our escape would be instantly reported we did not doubt. That

Galata Bridge would be watched and all our old haunts also seemed

certain. The care with which we had been guarded showed that the Turks

set a value on keeping us out of harm's way. At large in the city we

would be factors of unrest.

Avoiding main streets, we toiled on and on, through dark by-ways where

the moonlight did not come, until we reached the old bridge across the

Golden Horn. Here we decided to separate for the time, so that if one of

us was caught by the toll-keepers, the other could still make good his

escape.

But the toll-keepers took their tribute of a stamp without demur. They

knew nothing of British prisoners.

Crossing, we turned right-handed, passing behind the American

Ambassador's yacht _Scorpion_, at her berth near the Turkish Admiralty,

and then went up into the European quarter. In Pera we knew a score of

houses, between us, that would be glad to give us lodging, and it only

remained to choose the most convenient.

* * * * *

It is late at night, some days before the Armistice. I am in the gardens

of the British Embassy, with a certain Colonel, an escaped prisoner of

war like myself, who is in close touch with the political situation. We

had come here, in disguise, to be out of the turmoil of the town.

Outside, in the unquiet streets, men talk of revolution. Gangs of

soldiers are under arms for twenty-four hours at a stretch. Machine guns

are posted everywhere. The docks are an armed camp. Detectives and

informers, the prison and the press-gang are at their old work. All is

still dark in Constantinople; but we, fugitives at present, and meeting

by stealth, speak of the day so soon to come when the barren flagstaff

on the roof of the Embassy will carry the Union Jack.

Below us, as we walk on the terrace, lies the Golden Horn, silver in the

starlight, and across its waters the city of Stamboul stands dim,

forlorn, and lovely. The slip of moon that rides over San Sofia seems

symbol of the waning of misery and intolerance. Soon that sickle will

disappear, and when the moon of the Moslems rises again and looks

through the garden where we talk, she will see all round it a happier

city. . . . Let us hope so, anyway.

* * * * *

Of the maze of plot and counterplot in the city, of the death-throes of

the old regime, and of our own small part in the history of that time,

this record of moods and misadventures is not the place to write. My

life as a prisoner was finished: my brief career as a minor diplomat,

keeping his finger on the feverish pulse of Turkish politics, had only

just begun, and the story of those crowded weeks would fill a volume.

Up to the last moment, the Government, in the person of Taalat Pasha,

hoped to hold the real, if not the ostensible, reins of power. Until the

flight of the Union and Progress triumvirate, the average Turk affected

a certain lightheartedness about his country's losses. True, huge

territories were lost to the Ottoman revenue, but on the other hand they

had gained the Caucasus. So long as there was taxable territory, what

did it matter whence the tribute came?

One night, when my newspaper work permitted, I visited a friend of

Taalat Pasha, without disclosing my identity.

"Nobody but Taalat can possibly manage Turkey," he told me--"and the

English, if they come, will be well advised to deal with him."

"It is not the English only," I suggested modestly, "but the whole

world-set-free, that is coming to Constantinople."

"Then the world must deal with Taalat. His party has all the money, and

all the brains and energy as well."

"Everything except imagination," I replied.

But I did not myself imagine that only thirty-six hours later Taalat,

the fat telegraphist whom Fate caught in her toils, and Enver, with his

peacock-grace and peacock-wits, and Djemal, with cruelty stamped on him

like the brand of Cain, would pass disguised, and in darkness, and in

fear of death, through the city they had ruled as kings.

Neither did I imagine that in another fortnight the streets of Pera

would be decked with banners, and the capital of the Turks a playground

for the peoples against whom they had lately been at war. Nor did I know

that I should soon be listening to the strains of "Rule Britannia," at

the Pera Palace Hotel, while an enthusiastic crowd showered confetti on

the bald head of the Colonel who had just arrived as the first British

representative. Nor did I know that I should telephone to the papers to

stop their press, while I motored down with the first interview from our

delegate. Nor, again, could I realise that the pomp of the Prussians

would be so suddenly replaced by pipes and walking-sticks and dogs. Nor

did I even dream that the fifty-sixty horse-power Mercedes car in which

General Liman von Sanders was still racing through the streets would

soon be my property, bought and paid for in gold, complete with all

accessories, including even the chauffeur's diary, and that I should

garage it in a garden where a performing bear stood guard against any

attempt at theft by the disorderly and demoralised Germans. These things

are another story.

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND

Telegrams: "Scholarly, London." 41 and 43 Maddox Street,

Telephone: 1883 Mayfair. Bond Street, London, W. 1.

_October, 1919._

Mr. Edward Arnold's

AUTUMN ANNOUNCEMENTS, 1919.

JOHN REDMOND'S LAST YEARS.

By STEPHEN GWYNN.

_With Portrait. 1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =16s. net.=

The "History of John Redmond's Last Years," by Stephen Gwynn, is in the

first place an historical document of unusual importance. It is an

account of Irish political events at their most exciting period, written

by an active member of Mr. Redmond's party who was in the confidence of

his chief. The preliminary story of the struggle with the House of Lords

and the prolonged fight over Home Rule is described by a keen student of

parliamentary action. For the period which began with the war Mr. Gwynn

has had access to all Redmond's papers. He writes of Redmond's effort to

lead Ireland into the war from the standpoint of a soldier as well as a

member of parliament. The last chapter gives to the world, for the first

time, a full account of the Irish Convention which sat for eight months

behind closed doors, and in which Redmond's career reached its dramatic

catastrophe.

The interlocking of varying chains of circumstance, the parliamentary

struggle, the rise of the rival volunteer forces, the raising of Irish

divisions, the rebellion and its sequel, and, finally, the effect of

bringing Irishmen together into conference--all this is vividly

pictured, with increasing detail as the book proceeds. In the opening,

two short chapters recall the earlier history of the Irish party and

Redmond's part in it.

But the main interest centres in the character of Redmond himself. Mr.

Gwynn does not work to display his leader as a hero without faults and

incapable of mistakes. He shows the man as he knew him and worked under

him, traces his career through its triumphs to reverses, and through

gallant recovery to final defeat. A great man is made familiar to the

reader, in his wisdom, his magnanimity, and his love of country. The

tragic waste of great opportunities is portrayed in a story which has

the quality of drama in it. Beside the picture of John Redmond himself

there is sketched the gallant and sympathetic figure of his brother,

who, after thirty-five years of parliamentary service, died with the

foremost wave of his battalion at the battle of Messines.

A MEDLEY OF MEMORIES.

By the Rt. Rev. Sir DAVID HUNTER BLAIR, Bart.

_With Illustrations. 1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =16s. net.=

Sir David Hunter Blair, late Abbot of Fort Augustus, in the first part

of these fifty years' recollections, deals with his childhood and youth

in Scotland, and gives a picture full of varied interest of Scottish

country house life a generation or more ago. Very vivid, too, is the

account of early days at what was then the most famous private school in

England; and the chapter on Eton under Balston and Hornby gives

thumbnail sketches of a great many Etonians, school-contemporaries of

the writer's, and bearing names afterwards very well known for one

reason or another. Eton was followed by Magdalen; and undergraduate life

in the Oxford of 1872 is depicted with a light hand and many amusing

touches. There was foreign travel after the Oxford days; and two of the

most pleasantly descriptive chapters of the book deal with Rome in the

reign of Pius IX. and Leo XIII., both of which Pontiffs the author

served as Private Chamberlain. There is much also that is fresh and

interesting in the section treating of the lives and personalities of

some of the great English Catholic families of by-gone days.

Sir David entered the Benedictine Order at the age of twenty-five; and

the latter half of the book is concerned with his life as co-founder,

and member of the community of, the great Highland Abbey of Fort

Augustus, of which he rose later to be the second abbot. The intimate

account given in these pages of the life of a modern monk will be new to

most readers, who will find it very interesting reading. The writer's

monastic experiences embrace not only his own beautiful home in the

Central Highlands, but Benedictine life and work in England, in Belgium,

Germany and Portugal, and in South America. One of the most novel and

attractive chapters in the book is that dealing with the work of the

Order in the vast territory of Brazil.

The volume is illustrated with an excellent portrait, and with some

clever black-and-white drawings, the work of Mr. Richard Anson, one of

the author's religious brethren, and a member of the Benedictine

community at Caldey Abbey, in South Wales.

WITH THE PERSIAN EXPEDITION.

By Major M. H. DONOHOE,

Army Intelligence Corps.

Special Correspondent of the "Daily Chronicle."

_With numerous Illustrations and Map. Demy 8vo._ =16s. net.=

Among the many "side-shows" of the Great War, few are so difficult for

the average reader to understand as the operations in Northern Persia,

an offshoot of the Bagdhad venture, which had for their object the

policing of the warlike tribes in an area almost unknown to Europeans,

and included the various attempts to reach and hold Baku, and so get

command of the Caspian and Caucasia.

The story of these operations--carried out by little, half-forgotten

bodies of troops, mainly local levies who broke at the critical moment

and left their British officers and N.C.O.'s to carry on alone--is one

of the most amazing of the whole War, and comprises many episodes that

recall the most stirring events of the Empire's pioneering days.

By happy chance, Major M. H. Donohoe, the famous War Correspondent,

whose work for the _Daily Chronicle_ in all the wars of the past twenty

years is well known, was in this part of the world as a Major on the

Intelligence Staff, work for which his knowledge of men and languages

off the beaten tract peculiarly fitted him. He has written the story of

these operations as he saw them, chiefly as a member of the Staff of the

Military Mission under General Byron, known officially as the "Baghdad

Party," and unofficially as the "Hush-Hush Brigade," which set forth

early in 1918 to join the Column under General Dunsterville. Though

there is little of fighting in the story, the book gives an admirable

picture of the Empire's work done faithfully under difficulties, and

glimpses of places and peoples that are almost unknown even to the most

venturesome traveller. Indeed, it is largely as a book about an unknown

land that this volume will attract, together with its little

pen-portraits of men and little pen-pictures of adventures, that Kipling

would love.

A PHYSICIAN IN FRANCE.

By Major-General Sir WILMOT HERRINGHAM, K.C.M.G., C.B.,

Physician to St. Bartholomew's Hospital; Consulting Physician to the

Forces Overseas.

_1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =15s. net.=

How the war, as seen at close quarters, struck a man eminent in another

profession than that of arms is the distinguishing feature of this

volume of personal impressions. It is not, however, merely the outcome

of a few weeks' sojourn or "trip to the trenches," with one eye on an

expectant public, for the author has four times seen autumn fade into

winter on the flat countryside of Flanders, and, when the war ended, was

still at his post rendering invaluable services amidst unforgettable

scenes. The author's comments on the day-to-day happenings are

distinguished by a tone that is at once manly, reflective, and

good-humoured. Medical questions are naturally prominent, but are dealt

with largely in a manner that should interest the layman at the present

time. Sir Wilmot was with Lord Roberts when he died. A very pleasing

feature of the book is the constant revelation of the author's love of

nature and sport, and his happy way of introducing such topics, together

with descriptions of the country around him, makes a welcome contrast to

the stern events which form the staple material of the book. There are

some very amusing stories.

LONDON MEN IN PALESTINE.

By ROWLANDS COLDICOTT.

_With maps. 1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =12s. 6d. net.=

This book embraces so much more than the ordinary war story that we have

a peculiar difficulty in describing it in a few chosen words.

The curtain lifts the day after the battle of Sheria, one of the minor

fights in General Allenby's first campaign--those movements of troops

which came only to a pause with the capture of Jerusalem. Gaza has just

been taken. You are introduced to one of the companies of a London

battalion serving in the East, of which company the author is commander.

The reading of a few lines, the passing of a few moments, causes you

(such is the power of right words) to be _attached_ to that company and

to move in imagination with it across the dazzling plain. When you have

tramped a few miles you begin to realise, perhaps for the first time,

the heat and torment of a day's march in Philistia. It is not long

before you feel that you, too, are adventuring with the toiling

soldiers; with them you wonder where the halting place will be, what

sort of bivouac you are likely to hit upon. By this time you will have

met the officers--Temple, Trobus, Jackson--and are coming to have a

nodding acquaintance with the men. Desire to compass the unknown, and

sympathetic interest in the experiences of a company of your own

country-men, Londoners footing it in a foreign land, now takes you

irresistibly into the very heart of the tale, and you become one with

the narrator. With him you wander among the ruins of Gaza, pass into

southern Palestine, and come to the foot-hills of Judea. With him you

slowly become conscious that the long series of marches is planned to

culminate in an assault upon Jerusalem. Now you are part of a dusty

column winding up into Judea by the Jerusalem road, looking hour by hour

upon those natural phenomena that suggested the parables. "London Men in

Palestine" brings all this home to you as if you were a passer-by. Next,

the massing of troops about the Holy City is described, and you are

given a distant view of the city itself. A chapter follows that

describes the coming of the rains. Then you spend a night in an old

rock-engendered fortress-village while troops pass through to the

attack, the storm still at its height. A chapter follows that tells of a

crowded day--too complex and full of incident here to be described. The

book closes with an exciting description of a fight on the Mount of

Olives.

MONS, ANZAC, AND KUT.

By an M.P.

_1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =14s. net.=

The writer of these remarkable memoirs, whose anonymity will not veil

his identity from his friends, is a man well known, not only in England,

but also abroad, and the pages are full of the writer's charm, and

gaiety of spirit, and "courage of a day that knows not death." Day by

day, in the thick of the most stirring events in history, he jotted down

his impressions at first hand, and although parts of the diary cannot

yet be published, enough is given to the world to form a graphic and

very human history.

Our author was present at the most critical part of the Retreat from

Mons. He took part in the dramatic defence of Landrecies, and the stand

at Compiegne. Wounded, and a prisoner, he describes his experiences in a

German hospital and his subsequent recapture by the British during the

Marne advance.

The scene then shifts to Gallipoli, where he was present at the immortal

first landing, surely one of the noblest pages of our history. He took

part in the fierce fighting at Suvla Bay, and, owing to his knowledge of

Turkish, he had amazing experiences during the Armistice arranged for

the burial of the dead.

Later, the author was in Mesopotamia, where he accompanied the relieving

force in their heroic attempt to save Kut. On several occasions he was

sent out between the lines to conduct negociations between the Turks and

ourselves.

"Mons, Anzac, and Kut" . . . A day and a day will pass, before the man

and the moment meet to give us another book like this. We congratulate

ourselves that the author survived to write it.

THE STRUGGLE IN THE AIR.

1914-1918.

By Major CHARLES C. TURNER (late R.A.F.).

Assoc. Fellow R. Aer. Soc., Cantor Lectures on Aeronautics, 1909. Author

of "Aircraft of To-day," "The Romance of Aeronautics," and (with Gustav

Hamel) of "Flying: Some Practical Experiences," Editor of "Aeronautics,"

etc., etc., etc.

_With Illustrations. 1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =15s. net.=

Major Turner served in the flying arm throughout the great conflict,

chiefly as an instructor of officers of the Royal Naval Air Service, and

then of the Royal Air Force in the principles of flight, aerial

navigation, and other subjects. He did much experimental work, made one

visit to the Front, and was mentioned in dispatches. The Armistice found

him in the position of Chief Instructor at No. 2 School of Aeronautics,

Oxford.

The classification of this book explains its scope and arrangement. The

chapters are as follows:

Capabilities of Aircraft; Theory in 1914; The flight to France and

Baptism of Fire; Early Surprises; Fighting in the Air, 1914-1915; 1916;

1917; 1918; Zeppelins and the Defence; Night Flying; The Zeppelin

Beaten; Aeroplane Raids on England; Bombing the Germans; Artillery

Observation; Reconnaissance and Photography; Observation Balloons;

Aircraft and Infantry; Sea Aircraft; Heroic Experimenters; Casualties in

the Third Arm; The Robinson Quality.

CAUGHT BY THE TURKS.

By FRANCIS YEATS-BROWN.

_1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=

This book contains a full measure of adventure and excitement. The

author, who is a Captain in the Indian Cavalry, was serving in the Air

Force in Mesopotamia in 1915, and was captured through an accident to

the aeroplane while engaged in a hazardous and successful attempt to cut

the Turkish telegraph lines north and west of Baghdad, just before the

Battle of Ctesiphon. Then came the horrors of the journey to

Constantinople, during which the "terrible Turk" showed himself in his

worst colours; but it was in Constantinople that the most thrilling

episodes of his captivity had their origin. The story of the Author's

first attempt to escape (which did not succeed) and of his subsequent

lucky dash for freedom, is one of intense interest, and is told in a

most vivid and dramatic way.

JOHN HUGH ALLEN

OF THE GALLANT COMPANY

A Memoir by his Sister INA MONTGOMERY.

_With Portrait. 1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=

This book is the life-story of a young New Zealander who was killed in

action at the Dardanelles in June, 1915. It is told mainly in his own

letters and diaries--which have been supplemented, so far as was

needful, with the utmost tact and discretion by his sister--and falls

naturally into three principal stages. Allen spent four very strenuous

years, 1907-1911, at Cambridge, where he occupied a prominent position

among his contemporaries as an active member, and eventually President

of the Union. Though undergraduate politics are not usually taken very

seriously by the outside world, yet this side of Allen's Cambridge

career has an interest far transcending the merely personal one.

Possessed, as he was, of remarkable gifts, which he had cultivated by

assiduous practice as a speaker and writer, and passionately interested

in all that concerns the British Empire, and the present and future

relations between the United Kingdom and the Overseas Dominions, his

record may well stand as representative of the attitude of the _elite_

of the New Zealand youth towards these vital matters in the period just

preceding the war.

After Cambridge, he returned for a time to New Zealand, where he

resolved to make his permanent home, but came back to England in

December, 1913, to complete his legal studies and get called to the bar,

and was still in England when the war broke out. Consequently the second

stage is the story of seven months' experience as a lieutenant in the

13th Battalion of the Worcesters, and his letters of this period give an

attractive, and intensely graphic account of the making of the new army.

Finally, he was despatched, with a few other selected officers, to the

Dardanelles, arrived on May 25th at Cape Helles, and was attached to the

Essex regiment. The last stage, brief, glorious, and terrible, lasted

only twelve days but, brief as it was, he had time to draw an

enthralling picture of the unexampled horrors of this particular phase

of trench-warfare. The book is steeped, from beginning to end, in a

sober but fervent enthusiasm; and the cult of the Empire, in its noblest

form, has seldom been as finely exemplified as by the life and death of

John Allen.

NOEL ROSS AND HIS WORK.

Edited by HIS PARENTS.

_1 vol. Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=

A series of charming sketches by a young New Zealander, who died in

December, 1917, on the threshold of a brilliant literary career. Noel

Ross was one of those daring Anzacs who made the landing on Gallipoli.

Wounded in the early days of the terrible fighting there, he was

discharged from the Army, came to London, rejoined there, and obtained a

commission in the Royal Field Artillery. Afterwards he became a valued

member of the Editorial Staff of _The Times_, on which his genius was at

once recognized and highly appreciated. Much of his work appeared in

_The Times_, and he was also a contributor to _Punch_. In collaboration

with his father, Captain Malcolm Ross, the New Zealand War

Correspondent, he was the author of "Light and Shade in War," of which

the _Daily Mail_ said: "It is full of Anzac virility, full of Anzac

buoyancy, and surcharged with that devil-may-care humour that has so

astounded us jaded peoples of an older world."

His writings attracted the attention of such capable writers as Rudyard

Kipling, and Sir Ian Hamilton, who said he reminded him in many ways of

that gallant and brilliant young Englishman, Rupert Brooke.

WITH THE BRITISH INTERNED IN SWITZERLAND.

By Lieut.-Colonel H. P. PICOT, C.B.E.,

Late Military Attache, 1914-16, and British Officer in Charge of the

Interned, 1916-18.

_1 vol. Demy 8vo. Cloth._ =10s. 6d. net.=

In this volume Colonel Picot tells us, in simple and lucid fashion, how

some thousands of our much tried and suffering countrymen were

transferred--to the eternal credit of Switzerland--from the harsh

conditions of captivity to a neutral soil, there to live in comparative

freedom amid friendly surroundings. He describes in some detail the

initiative taken by the Swiss Government on behalf of the Prisoners of

War in general, and the negociations which preceded the acceptance by

the Belligerent States of the principle of Internment, and then recounts

the measures taken by that Government for the hospitalization of some

30,000 Prisoners of War, and the organization of a Medical Service for

the treatment of the sick and wounded.

Turning, then, more particularly to the group of British prisoners, he

deals with their discipline, their camp life, the steps taken for

spiritual welfare, and the organization of sports and recreations, and

an interesting chapter records the efforts made to afford them technical

training in view of their return to civil life.

The book also comprises a resume of the formation and development of the

Bread Bureau at Berne, which ultimately, in providing bread for 100,000

British prisoners of war in Germany, doubtless saved countless lives;

and a description of the activities of the British Legation Red Cross

Organization, both of which institutions were founded by Lady Grant

Duff, wife of H.M.'s Minister at Berne.

Colonel Picot throws many interesting sidelights on life in Switzerland

in war-time--diplomatic, social, and artistic--and his modest and

self-effacing narrative dwells generously on the devotion of all those

who, whether by appointment or chance, were associated with him in his

beneficent labours.

It is hoped that this account of a special phase in the history of our

countrymen will prove of interest to that large public who have shown in

countless ways their sympathy with all that concerns the welfare of

Prisoners of War.

A CHILDHOOD IN BRITTANY EIGHTY YEARS AGO.

By ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK,

Author of "Tante," "The Encounter," etc.

_Demy 8vo. Cloth._ =10s. 6d. net.=

With exquisite literary art which the reading public has recognised in

"Tante" and others of her novels, the author of this book tells of a

great lady's childhood in picturesque Brittany in the middle of the last

century. It covers that period of life around which the tenderest and

most vivid memories cluster; a childhood set in a district of France

rich in romance, and rich in old loyalties to manners and customs of a

gracious era that is irrevocably in the past.

Charming vignettes of character, marvellous descriptions of houses,

costumes and scenery, short stories in silhouette of pathetic or

humorous characters--these are also in the book.

And through it all the author is seen re-creating a background, which

has profoundly influenced one of the finest literary artists of the last

century.

GARDENS: THEIR FORM AND DESIGN.

By the Viscountess WOLSELEY.

_With numerous Illustrations by_ Miss M. G. CAMPION.

_1 vol. Medium 8vo._ =21s. net.=

The present volume, which is beautifully got up and illustrated, deals

with form and line in the garden, a subject comparatively new in

England.

Lady Wolseley's book suggests simple, inexpensive means--the outcome of

practical knowledge and experience--for achieving charming results in

gardens of all sizes. Her College of Gardening at Glynde has shown Lady

Wolseley how best to make clear to those who have never before thought

about garden design, some of the complex subjects embraced by it, such

as Water Gardens, Rock Gardens, Treillage, Paved Gardens, Surprise

Gardens, etc. The book contains many decorative and imaginative drawings

by Miss Mary G. Campion, as well as a large number of practical diagrams

and plans, which further illustrate the author's ideas and add to the

value of the book.

MEMORIES OF THE MONTHS.

SIXTH SERIES.

By the Rt. Hon. Sir HERBERT MAXWELL, Bt.,

F.R.S., D.C.L., LL.D.

_With photogravure frontispiece. Large Crown 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=

It is some years since the fifth series of "Memories of the Months" was

issued, but the demand for Sir Herbert Maxwell's charming volumes

continues unabated. Every year rings new changes on the old order of

Nature, and the observant eye can always find fresh features on the face

of the Seasons. Sir Herbert Maxwell goes out to meet Nature on the moor

and loch, in garden and forest, and writes of what he sees and feels. It

is a volume of excellent gossip, the note-book of a well-informed and

high-spirited student of Nature, where the sportsman's ardour is

tempered always with the sympathy of the lover of wild things, and the

naturalist's interest is leavened with the humour of a cultivated man of

the world. This is what gives the work its abiding charm, and makes

these memories fill the place of old friends on the library bookshelf.

SINGLE-HANDED CRUISING.

By FRANCIS B. COOKE,

Author of "The Corinthian Yachtsman's Handbook," "Cruising Hints," Etc.

_Illustrated._ =10s. 6d. net.=

The contents of this volume being based upon the author's many years'

practical experience of single-handed sailing, are sure to be acceptable

to those who, either from choice or necessity, make a practice of

cruising alone. Of the four thousand or more yachts whose names appear

in Lloyd's Register, quite a considerable proportion are small craft

used for the most part for week-end cruising, and single-handed sailing

is a proposition that the owner of a week-ender cannot afford altogether

to ignore. To be dependent upon the assistance of friends, who may leave

one in the lurch at the eleventh hour, is a miserable business that can

only be avoided by having a yacht which one is capable of handling

alone. The ideal arrangement is to have a vessel of sufficient size to

accommodate one or two guests and yet not too large to be sailed

single-handed at a pinch. In this book Mr. Cooke gives some valuable

hints on the equipment and handling of such a craft, which, it may be

remarked, can, in the absence of paid hands, be maintained at

comparatively small cost.

MODERN ROADS.

By H. PERCY BOULNOIS, M. Inst. C.E., F.R. San. Inst., etc.

_Demy 8vo._ =16s. net.=

The author is well known as one of the leading authorities on

road-making, and he deals at length with Traffic, Water-bound Macadam

Roads, Surface Tarring, Bituminous Roads, Waves and Corrugations,

Slippery Roads, Paved Streets (Stone and Wood, etc.), Concrete Road

Construction, etc.

A THIN GHOST AND OTHERS.

By Dr. M. R. JAMES,

Provost of Eton College.

_Crown 8vo. Cloth._ =4s. 6d. net.=

The Provost of Eton needs no introduction as a past master of the art of

making our flesh creep, and those who have enjoyed his earlier books may

rest assured that his hand has lost none of its blood-curdling cunning.

Neither is it necessary to remind them that Dr. James's inexhaustible

stories of archaeological erudition furnish him with a unique power of

giving his gruesome tales a picturesque setting, and heightening by

their literary and antiquarian charm the exquisite pleasure derived from

thrills of imaginary terror. This latter quality has never been more

happily displayed than in the stories contained in the present volume,

which we submit with great confidence to the judgment of all who

appreciate--and who does not?--a good old-fashioned hair-raising ghost

story.

New Editions.

GHOST STORIES OF AN ANTIQUARY.

By Dr. M. R. JAMES,

Provost of Eton College.

_New Edition. Crown 8vo._ =5s. net.=