PRISONERS
Roy was on his feet like a flash, for he too had caught the thud of
horses' hoofs and the jingle of stirrups. For a moment the two stood, side
by side, behind the trunk of the live oak, peering out over the sunbaked
plain. Across it a patrol of cavalry, smart in a gray-blue uniform, were
cantering sharply.
'They're making straight for the wood,' said Ken quickly. 'They must be
after us. Come!'
They both set off at a run, dodging and ducking under the low-growing
trees. For a moment they thought they were unobserved, but next instant a
shout rudely shattered that illusion. They scurried on as hard as they
could go, but the wood was so open and the trees so far apart that it gave
mighty little shelter. The patrol had broken into a gallop. The thud of
the horses' hoofs grew nearer every moment.
'That thicket over there,' panted Ken breathlessly. 'We'll dodge them yet
if we can reach it.'
But between them and it was a good hundred yards of almost open ground,
and the leader of the patrol saw their manoeuvre, and shouted an order.
His men split out fan-wise and before Ken and Roy were half way across the
open, came a thunder of hoofs, and half a dozen of the troopers came
galloping upon them from the left.
Ken flung up his captured rifle, and fired slap at the first. The bullet
caught the horse between the eyes and down he came with a crash, flinging
his rider far over his head.
But the next was too close to dodge. Ken caught the flash of sun on a
lancehead bearing straight down upon him. He sprang aside, the lancehead
missed him by inches, then the shoulder of the horse caught him with
stunning force and hurled him to the ground.
Before he could pick himself up, three of the troopers were off their
horses, and had flung themselves upon him. He was hauled roughly to his
feet, his rifle snatched from his hand, and his cartridge-pouch torn away.
A few yards away, Roy, his face bleeding, was the centre of another group
who were disarming him in spite of his struggles.
Ken glanced at his captors. He saw that they were Turkish constabulary,
and his heart sank. These men, trained by Germans, paid by them, and
soaked in their brutal tenets, were among the small minority of Turks who
had really come to share the German hatred of the British.
They glared fiercely at their prisoners.
'British swine!' growled one, and spat in contempt.
'They are spies,' said another. 'We find them three miles behind our
lines. Why do we waste time taking them prisoners? Let us hang them and be
done with them.'
'Why not let them run and ride them down?' suggested another. 'Sticking
with a lance is a fit fate for hogs.'
But the sergeant, a tall, swarthy faced man with a pair of fierce black
eyes, pushed his way forward.
'Fools, these are the men who escaped last night from Captain Hartmann. We
have his orders to bring them before him. It will go hard with you if you
disobey. Shackle them both, and send them to him under guard.'
He flung down two pairs of handcuffs, and one of the men who was holding
Ken picked them up, while another seized his wrists.
It was on the tip of Ken's tongue to protest fiercely against this
indignity, but he checked himself. It would be better, he remembered, that
these men should not know that he spoke their language.
Roy was fighting like a fury. Three of the troopers had their work cut out
to hold him. As it was, he managed to get one hand loose, and before the
others could seize it again one of their number lay insensible on the
ground with his nose broken and flattened against his face.
'Steady, Roy!' cried Ken. 'These swabs are no better than Germans. They'll
only frog-march us or something equally beastly if we resist.'
'But handcuffs!' roared Roy in a fury. 'D'ye think I'm going to be
handcuffed like a common criminal?'
'They think we're spies,' Ken answered. 'They're going to take us to
headquarters. It's no use resisting. We must wait our chance.'
Sullenly Roy ceased struggling, and the handcuffs were snapped on his
wrists. The sergeant who seemed in a hurry, gave brief orders, and
galloped on with most of his patrol, leaving a lower grade officer,
probably a corporal, with half a dozen men.
These mounted.
'March!' ordered the corporal, an undersized, vicious-looking fellow,
giving Ken a prick with his lance. 'And keep going, or, by Allah, it will
be more than a prick you will get next time.'
Side by side, Ken and Roy stumbled forward, while their captors cursed or
jeered them in language which Roy fortunately could not understand,
although to Ken every word of it was only too plain. From something the
corporal let drop, he learnt that they were being taken, not to Kojadere,
but to Eski Keni, which lies in the middle of the peninsula, about
half-way between Gaba Tepe and Maidos.
He told this to Roy, speaking in an undertone, as they tramped rapidly
onwards under the threat of the lance-points behind them.
'And the man they are taking us before seems to be Kemp,' said Ken. 'Only
they call him Hartmann. It appears he was cute enough to suspect that we
had hidden ourselves somewhere last night, and these fellows were sent out
to look for us.'
'And I wish we had both gone over the cliff before they found us,' Roy
answered, gritting his teeth. The disgrace of the handcuffs was biting
deep into his soul. Ken had never seen him in such a mood before.
Ken himself was none too happy. It took all his pluck and philosophy to
keep going at all. He was aching in every bone, his mouth and throat were
parched, and his tongue like a dry stick in his mouth. The dust rose
around them in choking clouds, flies bit and stung, yet he could not lift
a hand to brush them from his face. What was hardest of all to bear were
the jeers and insults flung at them by their captors.
But they trudged on doggedly, refusing to pay the slightest attention to
the taunts or blows showered upon them, and in spite of everything, Ken
used his eyes to take in every feature of the country through which they
travelled. Small hope as he had of ever seeing again his own lines, yet he
missed nothing of importance, storing up each hill, valley, clump of
trees, and track in his tenacious memory.
At last they came within sight of a group of squalid hovels in a valley.
'That's Keni,' Ken told Roy.
The brutal corporal caught the word.
'That's Keni,' he repeated in his own language, 'and, by the beard of the
Prophet, you shall soon see how spies are dealt with.'
The village swarmed with soldiers, many of them wounded, who stared at the
two British prisoners with lack-lustre eyes. The narrow street of the
place reeked with filth and foul odours, and swarmed with a pestilence of
flies. The two youngsters were thrust roughly into a dirty hovel, and with
a final jeer from their brutal jailer, the door was locked behind them.
For a moment Roy stood straight, towering in the centre of the low-roofed
room. There was a very ugly light in his eyes.
'Wait, my friend, wait!' he said hoarsely. 'I'll be even with you before
I've finished.'
'Steady, old chap!' said Ken quietly. 'Steady! Take it easy while you can.
Remember, we've got that little interview with Kemp before us.'
Roy flung himself down with a gasp.
'It's all right, Ken. I'll calm down after a bit. But heaven pity that
black-moustached blighter if I ever get my hands on him.'
Ken tried to answer, but suddenly dropped flat on the bare earthen floor.
His eyes closed. Instantly he was sound asleep. Roy stared at him vaguely,
yawned, and before he knew it had slipped down and followed his example.
So they lay, happily oblivious of their troubles, all through the blazing
afternoon. The sun was setting when the door was flung open and the
sharp-faced corporal strode in.
He roused them with a kick apiece.
'Get up, British dogs,' he ordered. 'Captain Hartmann awaits you.'
The sleep had refreshed them, and though stiff and sore they were both in
condition so fit and hard that they were little the worse for their trying
experiences of the night and morning.
Under charge of a guard, they were marched rapidly up the street to where
a few larger flat-topped houses stood on slightly higher ground. Through
an open door they were driven along a passage and out into a courtyard
open to the sky, with a fountain in the centre.
At a table, under the shade of a grape arbour, sat two German officers,
one of whom was a typical Prussian, fair, with hard blue eyes and close
cropped hair, while the other was their old friend, the ex-steward Kemp,
otherwise Hartmann.
An ugly light shone in his deep-set, narrow eyes as they fell on the two
prisoners.
'Soh!' he said, with a evil smile, 'my young friends, the spies!
Achmet'--this to the corporal--'you have done well. I will see that your
conduct and that of your sergeant is recommended in the proper quarter.'
He turned to his companion.
'Ober-lieutenant von Steegman,' he said formally. 'The prisoners are those
of whom I spoke last night to Colonel Henkel. Disguised in the overcoats
of Turkish soldiers, they contrived to destroy one of our quick-firers,
and to-day they were discovered hiding in a wood behind our lines. They
had, it appears, been plundering our wounded, for food and a Turkish rifle
were found in their possession.'
Ken could not speak German, but he knew enough of the language to gather
the meaning of the man's infamous accusations. 'Liar!' he burst in. 'We
were never in Turkish uniform. As for the gun, we took it in fair fight,
and as--'
At a sign from Hartmann, Achmet, the corporal, struck Ken across the
mouth.
[Illustration: 'Roy brought them down on the man's head.']
It was probably the last thing he ever did in his life, for Roy, raising
his shackled hands, brought them down upon the man's head with such
fearful force that he dropped like a log, the blood gushing from his mouth
and ears.
Instantly all was confusion. Hartmann sprang to his feet, shouting out
furious orders. Two of the guard seized Roy and flung him to the ground,
two more laid hands on Ken. Another drew his bayonet, and Ken saw it flash
in the evening sunlight before his very eyes.
It was Von Steegman who sprang forward and seized the man's arm just in
time.
'No. Leave him alone,' he cried harshly. 'The colonel has left express
orders that he wishes to see these men before they are executed. Stand
aside! It is only a short delay. They will both be shot at sundown.'
Von Steegman, if a brute, had ten times the physical power and moral force
of Hartmann. The man obeyed at once, and in a few moments order was
restored. Two men carried away the insensible form of Achmet, Roy watching
with a grim smile.
Ken had hardly thought of his own danger. His lips were bleeding, and the
foul blow had for the moment rendered him perfectly reckless.
'Is this the way you treat prisoners? he thundered, his eyes blazing.
'Small wonder a people who do such things are despised by every other
nation on earth!'
'Himmel, you dare to talk like that?' snarled back Hartmann. 'You, a
private soldier, venture such insolence to an officer?'
Ken was already ashamed of his outburst.
'An officer!' he said with bitter contempt, 'or do you mean a bathroom
steward?'
Hartmann's sallow face went livid with excess of rage. He bit his lip till
the blood showed upon it in a thin red line.
'You will sing a different song when you stand before the muzzles of the
firing party,' he said in a grating voice.
Von Steegman, who seemed to be the only man among them to remain quite
unmoved, raised his hand.
'All this is highly irregular,' he said harshly. 'Captain Hartmann, it is
our duty to interrogate these prisoners.'
'What's the use of interrogating us if you have already made up your mind
to shoot us?' retorted Ken.
Von Steegman glared at him.
'Because,' he answered in his harsh German English, 'it is bossible that,
by giving us certain information, you may yed save der lives which you haf
justly forfeited.'
Ken stared back, and there was something in his face which made even the
German's bold eyes drop.
'I don't advise you to say any more,' he answered grimly. 'You'd better
proceed at once with your firing party, you miserable German murderer.'
Von Steegman's hand dropped to his sword hilt, his face went the colour of
a ripe plum, for a moment Ken thought--hoped that he was going to have a
fit.
Before he could speak there came a stir behind, the door leading from the
house to the yard opened sharply, and a stout, coarse-looking man in the
uniform of a colonel in the Prussian Army, strode heavily in.
Hartmann and Von Steegman rose like two ramrods, and saluted him. They
stood at the salute while he came across to the table.
'So these are the two prisoners,' he said in a thick guttural voice, as he
seated himself, 'the two who were captured spying behind our lines.'
He stared first at Roy, then at Ken. As his bloodshot eyes fell upon the
latter he started ever so slightly. At the same moment Ken seemed to
recognise him, for a look of disgust crossed his face.