THE ARREST
As it was desirable for the success of our plan that I should not be
seen when I fetched my horse, the priest pointed out a way across the
fields; and then gave me one of the greatest surprises of that time.
“Considering what you are doing I must trust you with a dangerous
secret. You will give me your honour never to reveal it?”
I gave him the pledge readily.
“The owner of the shed where you left the horses is named Jacob Posen;
and he may have found them, and raise difficulties. In that case you
will say to him; ‘I am a peasant farmer, friend.’ He will probably
reply; ‘You seem in a hurry?’ and you will answer: ‘Immediate.’ His
next question if he asks it, will be: ‘Your name?’ In reply you will
raise your left hand with the forefinger extended, the tip to be level
with your eyes, and the back of the hand toward him, and say: ‘In the
eye of God.’ He will then offer to shake hands with you; but you will
refuse and look steadily at him. He will then be ready to help you.” He
illustrated the peculiar gesture.
The inner significance of this was not difficult to see. “Peasant
farmer, friend,” clearly stood for “P. F. F.”--the Polish Freedom
Fraternity. The word “Immediate” was for one with a similar
initial--probably Independence; while the gesture was for recognition
purposes with a subtle reference to the righteousness of the cause and
the far-reaching extent of the movement.
I was profoundly impressed by the incident. Here I was in a little
village of nowhere, far removed from the busy cities where revolution
has its birth and conspiracy is cradled; and yet the ramifications were
so widespread, the arrangements so perfected, and the secret means so
ready to hand, that Father Ambrose--as mild a mannered man as ever
wore a priest’s stole--was able in a few minutes to find one agent to
carry the dangerous papers to Cracow, and then another to help me in my
scheme.
Until then I had never regarded the Fraternity as a serious national
force; my opinion being influenced by the fact that my friend, Count
Ladislas, was one of the leaders.
I knew him for a man whose habit of mind led him to shirk
responsibility, to act on impulse, to be swayed by the last word,
and to veer this way and that when a decision had to be made. It was
impossible to think of him as leading a movement which called for
practical, earnest and sustained effort, for the resolute overcoming
of innumerable difficulties, the persistent, steady, battling against
odds, and the uninterrupted, unceasing educative work needed here.
He was a man of dreams, ideas, theories, and principles; and here were
the results of steady action, hard work, stern realities and tireless
practice.
I seemed to realize for the first time how real was the danger from
which Volna had to be saved and how grave the risk to which her friends
in Warsaw had so thoughtlessly exposed her.
Even if our little scheme now were successful and I managed to lead
the police off her track, there was serious reason to fear that fresh
danger might await her in Warsaw; and at that moment a thought occurred
to me and, despite the seriousness of things, I laughed aloud.
In our last interview she had shewn a dozen moods in as many sentences,
to my infinite bewilderment; but I thought now of something which had
escaped me at the moment. Her cheerfulness had returned when she knew I
was likely to be taken to Warsaw.
Will any one blame me if in my egoism I interpreted this as a sign that
she hoped we should meet again there? We had parted for always and said
a last good-bye; but she had taken the parting lightly, because the
“always” would last only until we were both in Warsaw. That was why I
laughed.
The laughter had a short life, however. It died suddenly as I
remembered how Father Ambrose had spoken of Volna’s betrothal. There
was something more than I knew of in that; Volna herself had spoken of
an entanglement; and I was worrying over the puzzle when I reached the
top of a sloping meadow and saw below me the shed I was seeking.
There was no one about as I hurried down the hill. I was glad, as I had
no mind for indulgence in cabalistic signs, and all the rest of it.
But I had been seen; and as I was unfastening the door a man came round
the end of the shed.
“Well?” A very blunt but significant monosyllable.
“Are you Jacob Posen?” He nodded. He was a big, heavy, black-bearded,
powerful man.
“I have come for my horse.”
“What do you mean? This is my barn. I have no horse of yours.”
“I am a peasant farmer, friend.”
He laughed, giving no sign that he understood; but he was only acting,
for he said with a sneer: “You seem in a hurry?”
“Immediate.”
His laugh changed to a scowl and he growled in a tone of almost savage
anger, “Your name?” I was almost surprised an oath did not follow.
I made the sign and answered, “In the eye of God.”
His face changed suddenly and affecting an air of good fellowship he
thrust out his hand. I refused it and just looked him in the face.
His taciturn expression returned and he opened the door of the barn.
“I saw you put them both in and wondered,” he said. “Shall I fetch the
saddle or will you?”
“Better you; I don’t wish to be seen.”
“Both?”
“No, mine only. Hide the other and the horse.”
He went off at once leaving me marvelling more than ever. He was soon
back and himself slipped on the saddle and bridle. Nothing more was
said until I was ready to mount.
“You bought him in Bratinsk and this in Pulta. What shall I do with it?”
“It mustn’t be found twenty miles west of here; and this revolver must
be hidden,” I added, as I gave him the weapon I had taken at Schirmskad.
“I understand. God keep us all.”
“God keep us all,” I repeated, assuming that to be another secret sign.
As I rode off, I saw him return to the coppice where the other saddle
was and carry it back to the barn.
I rode leisurely in the direction of the village, on the look-out for
some sign of the police and running over in my mind the story I should
tell.
Such of the villagers as were about gaped at me and two or three
children followed. As I was playing a part and did not know whose eyes
might be upon me, I thought it best to play thoroughly.
“Which is the priest’s house?” I asked one of the women; and she
pointed it out. I beckoned to the children and throwing them some
kopecks bade them tell the Father I wished to speak to him.
He came out and I raised my hat and said in a voice loud enough for
others to hear: “I am the Englishman who passed through the village
yesterday and spoke with you, Father. I have had all my money taken
from me and have thought it best to come to you.”
“Come into the house,” he said gravely. As I dismounted and fastened my
horse to the railing, he drew a woman aside and whispered to her; then
led the way to the door. “I have sent for the police agents,” he told
me. “They have been some half hour in the village.”
“I am quite ready;” and as we sat waiting I told him hurriedly what had
passed with Jacob Posen, and that I thought Volna’s horse should be
hidden.
“Do you really need any money?” he asked.
“No, I think not. I shall get back my letter of credit.”
Soon we heard footsteps outside.
“They are here. I almost regret this,” he said hurriedly.
“I think it splendid. Now for the play.” Then I raised my voice, and
spoke excitedly. “The men took my letter of credit, and if you do not
help me what am I to do? Some one shall pay for this.” I got up and
held the door partly open. “If you can’t do it, you can’t of course;
but I daren’t stay here.”
“You cannot go,” said the Father. “I have sent for the police.”
“Not go, I’ll see about that,” I cried angrily, and rushed out to be
instantly seized by my friend of the Devil’s Staircase and a companion.
“No, no. We’ll see about your going,” sneered the fellow. “You’re
right, Father Ambrose, this is the man we seek. Thank you for keeping
him here and sending for us.”
“Ah, so it’s you again, eh?” I said.
“Yes; and you won’t get away this time.”
I turned on the priest viciously. “And this is your idea of
Christianity, eh? To get me inside your house in order to betray me to
the hounds. I wish you joy of your creed.”
“Don’t insult the Father. He has only done his duty.” The irony of the
praise for the falsehood we had acted together, struck the good man and
I saw him wince.
“I have done what I have done,” he murmured.
“See if he’s armed,” ordered the agent. “He stole my revolver.”
“Your comrades took it from me in their turn. You’ll find it at
Schirmskad. I’m not armed. I don’t need any weapons any longer.”
He looked up with a scowl, and a start. “Schirmskad?”
I laughed significantly. “On my way to the frontier. You’re too late,
my friend; and within the next few hours I am going to show you what a
fool you’ve made of yourself.”
“Where’s the woman?”
“Wire to Schirmskad and ask who escaped when the cottage of woodcutter
Krempel was burned down last night. You know how near that is to the
frontier.” I did not, but I bluffed him.
“Did he ride up alone?” he asked Father Ambrose.
“Yes, at the moment I sent for you.”
“You’ll answer for this,” he cried angrily.
“That’s exactly what I’ve ridden back for. Your fellows at that cottage
took my money and papers; so, as soon as I had done what I set out to
do, I rode back. On my way I came to this priest here; as he knows I am
an Englishman; and instead of helping me, he arranged for my arrest.
You Russian Poles are a nice friendly Christian people, the whole lot
of you.”
“Where were you going?”
“Why to Bratinsk, of course--where the rest of my things are and I am
well enough known to borrow money until I can get some from England.”
“A likely story,” he sneered.
“You needn’t believe it. Your sneers don’t affect me a kopeck. This
particular episode being closed I am going back to my hunting at
Bratinsk.”
“You’ll find the episode, as you call it, isn’t closed. You’ll have to
answer for it and must come with me.”
“I haven’t the least objection now.”
He thanked Father Ambrose again and we left the house. They walked one
on each side of me, and one of the villagers led my horse. In this way
I was marched to the police quarters of the village--just a cottage,
pretty much like that of an ordinary county policeman at home.
There he wanted to catechize me afresh about Volna; but I stopped him.
“I shall say nothing about that and nothing more about myself. I am
ready to go wherever you please to take me, and having no longer any
reason to resist, will do what you wish. You know who I am, because you
saw my papers at Bratinsk before any of this fuss occurred. Take me to
your superiors and I’ll convince them in half an hour that the sooner I
am at liberty again, the better for all concerned.”
“I am in charge of this,” he cried, bristling with authority. “You have
aided the escape of a revolutionary and must answer for it.”
“I am an Englishman. Take me to your superiors,” I said; and to that
phrase I stuck, repeating it doggedly to his every question, until I
had tired out his patience and worn his temper to shreds.
I was then left in a room with a man to guard me while a carriage was
got ready; when I was handcuffed and bundled into it pretty roughly. I
knew the road of course and soon saw they were taking me to Solden.
I was carried to the police quarters there and shut up in a cell;
still with a man to guard me. Meanwhile they communicated with the
police at Schirmskad; and after some time I was taken from the cell and
confronted with the chief of the men who had nearly captured me at the
woodcutter’s cottage.
“I am glad to see you,” I told him. “You have my passport, papers, and
letter of credit. I demand their return.”
“Where is your companion and who is she?”
“Who is the chief here?” I asked.
“Answer me, you dog,” he cried with an oath, raising his hand.
“I am an Englishman with very powerful friends; no mere peasant to be
kicked and hounded by you. Lay a finger on me, if you dare.” The two
conferred together; my papers were taken out and examined; and a third
man called to the conference.
“Where is your companion and who is she?” demanded the man again.
“Take me to your superiors,” I said; and from that reply I would not be
moved. At last I was sent back to the cell with the guard to watch me
as before.
I was getting on better than I had even hoped. My insistent repetition
of the fact that I was an Englishman had had its effect.
The Warsaw agent who had seen me first at Bratinsk had no doubt
satisfied himself on the point; and from what I had seen in the recent
conference, he had made this clear to the others.
My chief anxiety was about food. It was now late in the afternoon and
having had nothing since the breakfast at the priest’s house I was
egregiously hungry. I recalled my experience at Pulta station and began
to speculate what effect a gold coin would have upon my guard. He was a
heavy stupid-looking fellow; but the biggest fool in Russia knows the
difference between a gold piece and a kopeck.
The coins in my pocket had not been taken from me and although I was
still handcuffed I was able to wriggle my hand into my pocket and get
some out. The man watched me sullenly.
“I am hungry,” I said.
“Prisoners mustn’t talk.”
“I have had no food for hours. Wouldn’t this buy some?” and I held up a
couple of roubles.
“Silence,” he growled, with a surly frown.
I substituted a gold piece for the two silver ones. “Food is perhaps
dear in Solden.”
He fidgetted uneasily, his eyes on the gold. I put the three coins
together. “The silver for the food, and gold for the waiter,” I said.
He sighed regretfully. “Impossible,” he murmured.
“Mayn’t you buy food for yourself? Have you had supper?”
His eyes gleamed. A slow smile of cunning spread over his face. He
stretched out his hand. I put the two silver coins into it. “One pays
the waiter at the end of dinner.”
He was disappointed, and stood glancing from the coins in the palm of
his hand to me and back from me to the coins. Then he decided to earn
the gold.
He knocked on the door of the cell and a comrade came. They whispered
together; the coins jingled; and the comrade departed.
In half an hour he returned with some food: a cold chicken, some bread
and tea. The cost was probably under a rouble and the comrade had thus
paid himself in advance.
There was no knife; so I had to eat the fowl as best I could; pulling
the joints asunder and gnawing the flesh. But I was too hungry to
bother about that. When I had finished I gave the man the gold piece.
“I must give him something,” he grumbled.
“Give him what you like out of that,” I answered, getting a very black
look from him.
After the food, sleep became insistent. I had not slept since Pulta,
and had done a good deal in the meantime. I was as tired as a hound
after a long day, and had scarcely settled myself on the bench against
the corner of the wall before I was off.
Not for long, however. I dreamed that some huge monster animal was
suffocating me and woke to find it was my guard’s heavy coat sleeve
pressing against my face as he leaned across to get at the pocket where
my money was.
“Helping yourself, are you?”
He got up hurriedly and a couple of coins fell from his hand to the
floor.
“I only wanted to see you were comfortable,” he mumbled.
“You thought the money might make too big a lump for comfort, eh? Very
nice of you. Your officer counted it, so you can tell him how much
you’ve taken. It’ll be all right.”
He swore--perhaps at the feebleness of the sarcasm; but he thrust the
money back and sat down in his chair again glowering at me.
I settled myself in my corner once more and slept this time until
somebody shook me violently.
It was my friend of the Devil’s Staircase; and he bade me get up at
once and go with him.
I yawned. “Where to?”
“To my superiors,” he answered with a grin; thinking it a joke no doubt
to throw my own words back at me.