BRETHREN OF THE ORDER
Consider, dear friends, the embarrassing circumstances under which I
found myself! Deported from England by a man whom I admit, is a person
of considerable sagacity, though infinitely inferior to the
Intelligence officers one finds attached to the German army, both in
birth and natural inquisitiveness--a man who had it in his power to
drag me straight away to the execution shed as a spy!
Contrary to all his orders and instructions I had come back! I, one
humble German in a World of Enemies, had denied the law and majesty of
England and had come back! It is true that I did not want to come
back, but that does not alter the fact. We Germans are modest people,
as I have remarked before. We do not ask for praise, we do not invite
approval; we are satisfied, in the words of an English proverb, with
the approval of a good conscience.
I do not want to boast of my own courage. That would be an un-German
thing to do. I merely say that ninety-nine out of every hundred men
who found themselves in my position, alone, with a false registration
card, with no passport, with my disguise as a Chilian penetrated, with
the doors of twenty prisons yawning to receive me, would have sunk
down into their boots and suffered grievously from cold feet. But you,
who know Heine, are well aware that he is not a man to be lightly
scared.
I woke up that morning in Quaytown without fear, a penniless Ishmael,
hunted by the law, the hand of every man against me. Yet I was
cheerful. When I say I was penniless, I speak of course in a
figurative sense. I had a few pounds in my belt. I had a few thousands
in a certain New York bank and in various places in England there
would be men who would help me.
I paid my bill at the little hotel where I had spent the night and
caught the nine o’clock train for London. I got off the train at Bath
and made my way to a certain large stationer’s which accepts
advertisements for the leading London dailies. On payment of a little
extra money those advertisements are telegraphed to London and appear
on the following morning.
The advertisement I inserted was a very simple one. It ran:
“Clerk, over military age, expert book-keeper, with intimate knowledge
of the Argentine, Cuba, Batavia and Holland, requires situation.
Salary £200.”
An innocent advertisement, you may say. Yet, my friend, that was the
S.O.S. of a political agent in distress. On the following morning when
I saw that appear, with a certain box number, in the _Daily
Megaphone_, I should know that I had to wait for two or three days for
one of our industrious agents to answer that advertisement.
The words, “Argentine, Cuba, Batavia, Holland,” in that order meant,
“I am in urgent need of money.” The “£200,” which followed was the
amount I required. Had I advertised that my experience was in France,
Egypt, China, every German agent in England would have known that
special intelligence had been received from Germany and that they must
gather at an agreed rendezvous to receive their orders.
Had I merely written that my experience was in London, Bombay and
Buenos Aires, half the agents in England would have made preparations
to depart from this country without delay.
I arrived in London by night. That was the object of my getting off at
Bath, or rather partly the object, because I had a certain person, a
minor agent, to interview. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he was not
to be found, and it was not until the train came in and I was
preparing to step into my carriage that he made his appearance, rather
out of breath, for he had run all the way from the apartment-house he
kept.
“I found your note,” he said. “Are you alone in this carriage?”
I looked round. There were no other passengers.
“Then,” said he, “I will take the liberty, Herr Heine, of coming to
London with you. I have much to tell you. We thought you had left
England.”
Briefly I explained to him, as the train moved on, the reason I had
returned. I told him how I was carrying important despatches for
America, and how the ship was sunk by a submarine, and of how I had
reached the submarine and had ordered the captain to take me to the
nearest port.
“He landed me at night,” I said, “but I fear the unfortunate man
suffered sadly as a result of his politeness.”
He nodded.
“There was one of our heroic U-boats destroyed this morning in
Siddicombe Bay,” he said. “I got news through one of our men at
Quaytown. That wasn’t your U-boat, Herr Heine?”
“No, no,” I said hastily, “certainly not. I have never been to
Siddicombe in my life. I cannot tell you everything, my friend, there
are some secrets which cannot be revealed.”
He bowed respectfully.
He then went on to tell his news.
“I don’t know whether you have been in touch with Headquarters
lately,” he said, “but we have received information that a new society
has been formed in England called ‘The Sons of Irish Freedom.’ They
are planning a new rebellion, and we have been ordered to give them
every assistance.”
I nodded.
“This information is not new to me,” I said.
It is not the German way to allow underlings to believe that they are
better informed than their superiors.
“But pray go on,” I resumed, “tell me all you know.”
As a matter of fact, he had very little to tell except that the Sons
of Irish Freedom were a numerous body, that they held meetings behind
closed doors, that they had special passwords, grips and penalties,
and that all agents had been instructed to get into touch with their
local branch, not only to offer whatever assistance they could to the
movement, but also to call upon the brethren of the order for whatever
help they required. I made a note of this. It might be of great use to
me.
“What is the password?” I asked.
The foolish fellow smiled feebly.
“Alas, Herr Heine, I did not bring it with me, and I cannot recall the
word!”
“Stupid owl!” I thundered, “is it thus you neglect your work? Is the
Fatherland and its welfare of such small importance that you commit
such an act of carelessness?”
He was very apologetic and agitated, and I forgave him. You
understand, of course, that he was not a man of great intelligence. He
was a German who had married an Englishwoman and the English had not
interned him for some mad reason--you know what the English are!
I reached Paddington just before midnight, and took a cab to an
apartment in Bayswater, where a friend of mine had once stayed, but
where I was unknown to the landlord. I had previously telegraphed to
him from Bath to say that I was coming, and I found him sitting up for
me, a tall, gaunt-looking man, with long black hair and a straggling
black beard. He showed me up to my room and left me for the night.
My apartments were on the first floor, and consisted of a sitting and
bedroom, and I was up betimes in the morning, busy with the writing
material I had bought at Bath, reorganizing the service from which I
had been so rudely torn.
I dare not, naturally, go to my old offices, and it was not safe to
trust the post to communicate with my agents in London. But Heine is
no ordinary man, and there are many more ways of choking a cat than by
feeding it with butter-milk, as the old saying goes.
It was whilst I was at work that there occurred the incident which was
to so considerably affect my plans, and I would say to those
supercilious critics who are so ready to condemn from the critical
arm-chair the active workings of the executive officer (so easy it is,
my dear critics, to sneer and carp at hard-working and conscientious
men performing the holiest services for the Fatherland!) that in
pursuit of a design even as infallible a man as Heine may fall into an
error or be guilty of a false side-step.
It is the intention, the dominant underlying spirit of patriotism
which counts. I was turning over my papers when I came upon an
advertisement booklet which had been packed in a small parcel of
biscuits and chocolate, which I had purchased at a grocer’s in Bath. I
suppose when I was eating my frugal meal in the train I had
mechanically put the booklet into my pocket and had piled it on the
table with the rest of my papers--it is my methodical custom to clear
my pockets every morning and examine the contents, in which ways I
have very often saved most important memoranda from destruction.
It was one of those gaudy advertisements of crude colours, such as the
English printers produce, advertising somebody’s whisky. But what
attracted my justifiable wrath was the design. It was a map of the
world, decorated as is the arrogant British custom, with patches of
red to represent her downtrodden colonies, whilst in the centre of the
map was a picture of a bottle. Over the design were the words, “The
whisky that has made the British Empire famous.”
Such frivolity! Such lowness! I looked with proud disdain upon this
shameless picture.
“British Empire!” I cried, and to make the well-deserved castigation
more apposite, I spoke in English. “The world’s curse! Be sure we
shall destroy thee, limb by limb, thou devastating and conscienceless
robber of the world!” and saying this I slashed the picture with my
pen.
As I did so a voice said behind me:
“Well done, you never spoke a truer word.”
I turned with a start, cursing my folly that I had spoken my thoughts
aloud. The tall, gaunt man was standing behind me. He had entered
noiselessly and had closed the door.
“Give me your hand, brother,” he said, and at that moment there came
to me all that my friend from Bath had told me the night previous. I
gripped his hand, and as I did so, I felt his thumb touch one of my
knuckles in a peculiar way. It was the grip, and instantly with true
German agility of mind, I responded.
“You are one of us?” he said eagerly.
I hesitated a second. If I admitted that I was a member I should
betray myself.
“No, I am not yet,” I said boldly, “but I hope to be one of you.”
“You shall, you shall,” he said, “the lodge meets to-morrow night.”
He picked up the advertisement with a sneering smile, and tore it in
two.
“You think I am a fanatic,” he said, “but I have seen so much of the
ruin and desolation----”
“Say no more,” I said, “I understand.”
I would have spoken about Ireland then and there, but I was not quite
sure of my ground. New Irish societies rise every week, and each has a
different and generally more violent programme than the last. It would
not do for me to show any lukewarmness.
“Believe me,” I said earnestly, “nothing will give me greater pleasure
than to be enrolled in your noble society which is to free the world
from the oppressor of centuries.”
He shook my hand, and I could see the emotion which my words had
evoked glistening in his eyes.
“You realize,” he said, “that you must pledge yourself----”
“Believe me,” I responded instantly, “I will take the oath without a
tremor. Your great enemy shall be my great enemy.”
We shook hands again and parted. When he had gone, I congratulated
myself. What good fortune had brought me here? Yet stay, was it not
rather my own acumen? Had I not specially chosen this boarding-house a
year ago for one of my agents? I forget what consideration had induced
me, but there the fact remained, it had been my choice.
I spent the rest of the morning writing. My first act, of course, was
to send a letter to Major Haynes. I must be on the safe side, and if I
were ever detected, in court it would count in my favour that I had
technically surrendered myself to him the moment I had reappeared in
England. My letter, a copy of which I have, may be given since it is,
I think I may say in all modesty, a fine example of what I might term
an alibi letter.
It began thus:
“Sir Haynes (though I knew he was not noble, I thought it might
tickle the fellow’s vanity to address him in terms of lordliness).
Here am I like a naughty penny, turning up again under your nose! But
quite unwillingly! You have doubtless learnt that the gallant
ocean-liner upon which you placed me is no more! She was sunk by a
German U-boat! Though I swam about looking for survivors, desiring to
rescue as many poor Englishmen as possible from the wicked and
mistaken policy of dirty old von Turnips” (may heaven forgive me for
this jest at the expense of that great patriot), I was not successful.
I swam about in the water for ten hours and was picked up by a passing
steamer! We arrived in London this morning and I am now in a terrible
dilemma. I dare not give you my address, for I am in fear of arrest!
Guarantee to me by your power-compelling word that I shall not be
punished. If you will insert an advertisement in the _Daily
Megaphone_, like this:
‘From H. to H. All well.
‘See me at my office’
I will immediately report myself. In the meantime, dear Sir Haynes,
thanking you for your past favours, and hoping by a constant attention
to your wishes to merit the continuance of your patronage.
“I am,
“Yours faithfully,
“Heine.”
I calculated that it would take two days for this to reach him,
another day before the advertisement appeared, and I then had a fourth
day before I replied in person--and in four days much service could be
rendered to the Fatherland.
I was determined to get as much out of this secret society as I
possibly could. All that afternoon I formulated my plans. Through a
call office I got into touch with Kriessler, who was one of our
subsidiary agents in London, and had rendered me and the Fatherland
great services.
We met by appointment that night at the Marble Arch, and almost the
first question he asked me was whether I had got into touch with the
Sons of Irish Freedom? When I told him I had, he was astonished.
“You don’t lose much time, Herr Heine,” he said admiringly.
“That is very true, Kriessler,” I said gravely, “and I appreciate your
compliment.”
Kriessler was in a position to pass through any information collected
in England. I, of course, had been the supreme medium, but I dare not
exercise any of the old machinery of transmission. It was very
dangerous. It might be, and probably was, very dangerous for
Kriessler, but for the sacred cause of Germany we must take risks, so
I let Kriessler take them.
I arranged for him to send to my house on the following morning for a
brief report which I told him must be sent to Headquarters with the
least delay.
“You see, my dear Kriessler,” I said, at parting, “I know all there is
to be known about this secret society. But I am anxious to check my
knowledge. You will please tell me all you have heard, and if I do not
interrupt you to point out your mistakes, you will understand that it
is not desirable that the subordinate officials should know as much as
their superiors.”
“I quite understand that, Herr Heine,” said Kriessler, “but I do not
pretend to know a great deal about the Sons of Irish Freedom. One
knows that they have meetings and passwords. I also know that the
police are actively searching for their lodges, but so far without
success. I am told they are very desperate and dangerous men, and I
believe that there is only one lot in London. They hate England----”
“That I know,” I smiled.
I went home and wrote a very full report on the constitution and
working of the Sons of Irish Freedom. Blame me not, dear friend, for
my innocent deceit, for I had never heard of the Sons of Irish Freedom
till I arrived at Bath, nor think harshly of me that I wrote with
elaborate detail to Potsdam upon their ritual and objectives.
That same night I sent off my letter to Major Haynes, and finished my
report on the secret society, which was given to the messenger whom
Kriessler sent soon after breakfast. I took my meals alone in my
sitting-room and my strange, gaunt friend, whose name was Clarkson,
only saw me once and did no more than to smile mysteriously and say:
“At eight o’clock to-night.”
I nodded gravely. I did not expect to hear any more about the matter,
being well aware that my host would not care to discuss so weighty a
secret, and I was surprised in the afternoon to receive a visit from
Mr. Clarkson, who was accompanied by a short, stout man, who was also
very pale and wore powerful spectacles.
“This, sir,” said he, “is my friend, Mr. Moore, who will act as your
sponsor to-night.” He turned to Mr. Moore. “This gentleman,” said he,
“will become one of us.”
Mr. Moore bowed.
“You realize, of course,” he said, a little pompously, I thought,
“that you must absolutely surrender your allegiance to the World’s
Terror, and that from this night forward you may count upon the moral
support of a band of brothers, and that you will give yourself heart
and soul to our sublime task.”
“Have no fear,” I said, seizing his hand too, and wringing it, “until
the tyrant is crushed I will be a loyal comrade.”
“Good,” said Mr. Moore, and after a few commonplaces about the
weather, they departed.
At seven o’clock that night I dressed myself with care, soberly and
unostentatiously. What cared I for the oaths or for these fanatical
conspirators, with their absurd secrecy, their passwords, their grips
and the like!
Mr. Clarkson knocked at my door at a quarter to eight and we sallied
forth together. I suggested taking a taxi-cab, but he would not hear
of it, and we went by bus to Camden Town.
It was just as we were turning into Baynam Street that we noticed a
little crowd gathered about something which lay on the sidewalk. We
would have passed on, but Mr. Clarkson, overhearing something that was
said by a member of the group, pushed his way through the little knot
of people and I followed.
A man lay prone on the sidewalk.
“What is it?” I asked curiously.
Mr. Clarkson made no reply till we were clear of the crowd.
“One of our people,” he said bitterly, “fallen to the enemy.”
“Fallen?” I said.
Mr. Clarkson nodded.
“It happens now and again,” he said, “we are fighting a cunning and
ruthless foe, my friend.”
“But are you leaving him there?”
“For the moment,” said Mr. Clarkson. “I will ask one of the brethren
to make inquiries as to how it happened, and if it is possible to give
any assistance to our unfortunate comrade, it will be given.”
This was news indeed. So this mighty British government was not above
striking an assassin blow to rid itself of its enemies.
From Baynam Street leads a smaller thoroughfare, near the Camden Road
end of which is a small hall. The night was dark, the painted
street-lamps cast tiny pools of dim light upon the pavement as we
stole furtively through the door of the hall, and passed through a
small anteroom to a smaller room beyond.
In this room there was another door, and toward this Mr. Clarkson
walked.
“You will wait here,” he said in a whisper.
He knocked in a peculiar manner on the door, and a sliding panel
opened. He whispered something, the door was unlocked, and after he
had slipped into the room, closed again.
I waited about three minutes before the door opened, and Mr. Clarkson
came out accompanied by Mr. Moore, both of whom wore on their breasts
sashes of red.
Mr. Moore, scarcely raising his voice above a whisper, asked me a
number of questions. They were couched in a curious semi-legal,
semi-philosophical vein, and I confess I did not understand very much,
nor did I trouble to pay a great deal of attention to what was being
said. I knew by their intonation when I had to say “Yes,” and when I
had to say “No.” When I had finished Mr. Clarkson looked anxiously at
his friend.
“I think that is satisfactory, Brother Moore?”
“Eminently satisfactory, Brother Clarkson,” said the other.
He rapped soberly at the door and again the panel slid back and a
voice challenged him.
“Who knocks?”
“Two brethren with a candidate for initiation,” said Mr. Moore.
The panel closed and presently it opened again.
“Who vouches for this candidate?” said the voice.
“I,” said Mr. Clarkson.
“I,” said Mr. Moore.
The door was opened and we passed through, not without a fluttering of
heart on my part.
Between my two sponsors I advanced into the hall. At one end of the
room on a raised dais sat three men bearing the strange regalia of
their order. To left and right at single tables were two other
officers, also wearing decorations. I passed from one to the other.
Each addressed me in solemn language on the duty of man to man, and
presently I came to the raised dais and had to endure yet a further
long rigmarole, at the end of which the president confided the
password, which was “Fight the Fight,” the grip, and the signal knock.
I was led to a seat in the body of the hall, congratulated heartily by
Mr. Moore and Mr. Clarkson, and settled myself down to listen to the
deliberations of this strange body. They were men of all ages, of all
conditions of life, stern, determined-looking men I thought, capable
of committing any desperate deed, the kind of men who might be most
useful. There were young and old amongst them, but all bore the same
sour disappointed expression, which I had noticed both in Mr. Moore
and Mr. Clarkson.
A brother rose and had begun to address the chair when the door was
flung open excitedly and a tall, pale-faced man rushed in. As he did
so, I heard the shrill sound of police whistles.
“A raid, a raid!” he cried.
Instantly the hall was in commotion. I felt myself grow pale and
grasped Mr. Moore, who was next to me, by the arm.
“Is there any way out of this?” I asked.
“You had better stay here,” he said.
“Stay here and be caught!”
That was not Heine’s way. I dashed through the door into the street.
There was no sign of policemen, but I heard shrill whistles blowing. I
ran up into Baynam Street straight into the arms of a policeman!
“Hello,” he said, “you had better take cover. There’s an air raid on.”
“An air raid!” I gasped. “An air raid!”
“Well, perhaps it isn’t one. A mate of mine just told me it’s a false
alarm, and very likely he’s right. There’s rather too much wind for a
raid to-night.”
I could have leant against him. I was so confounded and confused I
could collect my thoughts only in fragments, and the first memory of
that evening which strangely enough came to me was the memory of that
stricken form on the pavement.
“Tell me, sir,” I said, “did you see a man lying on the ground round
the corner?”
It was, I admit, a foolish question to ask, but the memory of that
rigid victim had obsessed me.
“Oh, him,” said the constable, “yes! He was drunk.”
“Drunk?” I said in amazement.
“Yes,” said the policeman, “a man named Geary. He used to be a member
of that lodge down the road there.” He pointed to the building from
whence I had come.
“What lodge is that?” I asked.
“The Sons of Temperance,” he said, “I thought I saw you come out of
there. Ain’t you a member? Rum blokes, they are,” he went on with a
little chuckle, “always talking about drink as the Enemy and the
Terror and the Oppressor of the World. I wish somebody would oppress
me with a pint.”
I pressed a shilling into his hard, corrupt fist, and walked back to
Bayswater.