IN WHICH WE ARE PUT ON PAROLE BY OUR COLONEL, AND GO
TO PRISON
The news of our impending imprisonment and its cause roused the camp out
of its usual lethargy, and provided us with interesting sidelights into
the character of our fellow-prisoners. That our more intimate friends
should press forward with offers of help did not surprise us. It was
what might be expected of them. Nor were we astonished when true
believers, like Mundey, stated their readiness in the interests of
science to incur any risk to get us out of our predicament or to send
news of it home. It was still more delightful to find men on whom we had
no manner of claim putting at our disposal money, food, clothing,
anything and everything they had, and begging us to indicate any way in
which they could be of assistance. Nothing could have been kinder or
more unselfish than the attitude of these men, and our pleasantest
memory of Yozgad is of the way in which they stood by us in our apparent
distress. To us the most charming instance was “Old ’Erb,” who first
obeyed the dictates of his kind heart and positively forced on us the
loan of a large sum of money (he wanted to make it a gift), and then,
like the sportsman he was, had the moral courage to take me aside,
lecture me roundly on losing my head and giving Hill away, and advised
me (if not for my own sake, then for that of my co-accused), “to curb my
tongue and my pride, and knuckle under to the Turk.” I knew that in his
heart he thought my conduct towards Hill despicable, and yet he helped
us.
But our experiences were not all as pleasant. Hardship and prison life
bring out the worst as well as the best that is in a man. Many of us had
grown selfish to a degree that can be imagined only by one who has gone
through a long period of privation and discomfort in the enforced
company of his fellow-men. To hide the fact would be to give a wholly
false impression of the moral atmosphere of our camp, which was probably
no better and no worse than others in Turkey. We had amongst us some who
concentrated first, last, and always on their own comfort. “Hell!” said
one such gentleman, on learning that we had been sentenced to an
indefinite term of solitary confinement, “we’ll get no more parcels.”
And he cursed all spiritualists from Oliver Lodge downwards. Indeed, on
the whole, we got from our fellows as many kicks as ha’pence.
On the morning after the trial I was up betimes, packing in preparation
for our imprisonment, and impatiently awaiting Hill’s report. I hoped to
hear that he had successfully withdrawn his parole not to escape. For
this had been the object of the 24 hours’ grace, which, like everything
else that had happened at the “little show,” had been granted under
instructions from the Spook. We had, of course, seen to it that the
Commandant ascribed an entirely erroneous motive to the Spook’s orders.
_He_ thought the object of the order was to impress the camp with the
belief that he was giving us every possible chance. _We_ knew better.
The threat of imprisonment away from the camp should prove an adequate
excuse for Hill to withdraw his parole.
Hill arrived about eleven o’clock.
“Have you been on the mat yet?” he asked.
I told him I had not, beyond being abused by some of my pals as a
nuisance.
“Well, _I_ have!” said Hill. “I’ve just been had up before Colonel Maule
and Colonel Herbert.”
“Did you get quit of your parole?” I asked.
Hill pulled a long face and then burst out laughing. “Far from it,” he
said; “I never had a chance of mentioning it. The Colonel’s got the wind
up. He thinks the camp is in for a strafing. He told me I was always
running the risk of getting the rest of them into trouble. This was the
third time, he said, I had played the ass, and he gave me a proper
dressing-down for getting you into a bad hole with what he called my
hanky-panky tricks. I said I couldn’t see anything hanky-panky in
thought-reading. Then he asked me to give my parole not to communicate
with anyone outside by telepathy.”
“Did you give it?” I asked.
“Lord, yes! What’s the odds!” Hill was shaking with laughter. “Only I
explained what a hard job it is to control thought-waves, so he said he
would be satisfied with a promise not to send them out _wilfully_. I
gave that!”
Instead of getting rid of his old parole Hill had gone and got himself
involved in a new one! The situation was growing absurd. As soon as we
could master our merriment—a task of no small difficulty—we went
together to the gallant Colonel and asked for an interview. He led the
way into his own bedroom.
“Hill tells me,” I said with great solemnity, “that you blame him for
getting me into trouble over this telepathy business. I want to explain
to you that I started my experiments long before I had anything to do
with Hill. He is in no way to blame.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” he answered.
“On April 22nd,” I explained, “I wrote to a friend in England, who is
interested in spiritualism and telepathy, suggesting that on the first
evening of each month we should hold simultaneous séances in England and
in Yozgad to try and get into communication. As you may know, we here
have held these séances on the first of each month, and have endeavoured
to send and receive messages. It was not until these experiments had
been in progress for nine months that Hill and I came together as
spiritualists.”
“I see,” said the Colonel; “but since you admit you began it, why won’t
you end it? Why can’t you settle the matter in the way the Commandant
has suggested, and give the Turks your parole not to send or receive any
more thought-messages?”
I was prepared for the question, and produced three letters from my
correspondent in England, each of which quoted messages concerning
myself received through mediums in England. “Those are not amongst any
of the messages I _consciously_ sent,” I explained, “but I distinctly
remember thinking about at least one of the subjects he mentions. This
shows that your ordinary thoughts are liable to be picked up. Now,
supposing I give the Commandant my parole, and then this correspondent
of mine or some other experimenter picks up a casual thought from me and
writes me a letter about it? The Turks censor our letters and would see
it. Nothing could convince them I have not broken my word.”
At my request the Colonel glanced through the letters. “But these have
been censored,” he said in surprise, pointing to the Turkish censor’s
mark.
“Quite so,” I replied, “and I would like you to take charge of them for
me. If Constantinople court-martials me for spiritualism, I shall ask
you to produce these as proof that our experiments were carried on
without concealment.”
“Certainly,” said the Colonel, as he locked away the letters in a box.
“Now I understand why you can’t give your promise to the Turk. But I
want you to give it to me. Will you promise not to attempt communication
with anyone in the town by conscious telepathy or any other means?”
“I never have attempted to do so by other means,” I said.
The Colonel’s face grew very stern. “I beg your pardon,” he said
severely. “I am informed that the Commandant holds an intercepted
letter.”
I nodded.
“It implicates you?”
“Yes, both me and Hill.”
“It refers, does it not, to previous correspondence?”
“It does,” I replied.
“If you have had no communication with outside, will you be good enough
to explain how you began this correspondence?”
The Colonel was now in his element. He was treating me like a defaulter
in the orderly room.
“By telepathy,” said I.
“Yes, sir,” said Hill, in answer to a glance of enquiry. “Our only
communication with outside has been by telepathy.”
The good Colonel was puzzled and distressed. He sat silent for a time,
frowning a little.
“Look here,” he said at last. “You told the Commandant you have given
your parole not to reveal the name of your communicator.”
“I did.”
The Colonel leant forward, a hand on each knee, and looked hard into my
eyes. “You now say”—he spoke with emphatic slowness—“you now assert you
have had no outside communications. To whom did you give that parole?”
“To the Spook,” said I, grinning.[17]
The Colonel jumped to his feet, and strode across to the little window.
He stood there for a space, looking into the garden. Every now and then
he passed his hand over his brow. At last he turned round and faced us.
“I give it up!” he said.
Hill and I smiled—we could not help it.
“I give it up,” the Colonel repeated, with great sternness.
I spoke with all the gravity I could muster.
“Sir,” I said, “I give you my word that since I came to Yozgad I have
had no communication by speech or writing direct or indirect with anyone
in Turkey outside the camp, except the Turkish officials. Nor have I
ever attempted any communication with the inhabitants by any other means
than telepathy.”
“That is good enough for me,” said the Colonel brightly. “Now to avoid
getting the camp into trouble, will you agree while you remain in this
camp not to attempt _conscious_ telepathy or other communication with
any outsiders? I don’t mean any ordinary open conversation—you know what
I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said I, and gave the promise he wanted. Then I glanced across at
Hill. The Colonel was looking pleased and the time seemed propitious.
“Sir,” said Hill, “I want to take back the parole I gave to your
predecessor—not to escape.”
The Colonel frowned again. “Why?” said he.
“Because Jones and I are going to be separately confined from the rest
of the camp. I want to be free to escape if I want to.”
“Hum!” said the Colonel.
“I am the only man in camp who is on parole to you,” pleaded Hill.
“Hum!” said the Colonel again.
“We may be sent to the common jail,” said Hill.
The Colonel rubbed his chin. “You are aware that if anyone escapes the
rest of the camp will be punished? You have seen the Commandant’s order
on the subject, have you not?”[18]
“Yes,” said Hill; “but from this afternoon we are to be in separate
confinement. We won’t form part of the camp.”
“Well,” said the Colonel, “if you are put in the common jail, you may
escape if you can. But if you are confined in one of these houses round
here, I shall consider you are still in the camp.”
“But supposing we are moved from Yozgad?” Hill protested.
“I can’t have you risking the comfort of a hundred other officers,” he
replied. “You should think of the others. But in view of a possible
move, I shall modify your parole to apply only to Yozgad and a five-mile
radius round it, excluding the jail, if you like.”
Hill glanced across at me. On the principle that half a loaf is better
than no bread, I nodded.
“Thank you, sir,” said Hill.
We turned to go.
“What about you, Jones?” said the Colonel suddenly. “Have you any
intention of running away?”
I looked as surprised as I could. “Good Lord, sir!” I said. “Do you
think I’m such a fool as to think of it with a groggy knee like mine?”
The Colonel laughed. “There’s no saying with you fellows,” said he; “but
that’s all right now.”
Hill and I walked up the garden together.
“That five-mile circle is pretty beastly,” he grumbled.
“There’s always the jail,” I said. “The Spook can push you in there if
necessary later on.”
“That’s so!” Hill brightened up. “He nearly pinched you for parole too!
I thought you were in for it!”
“So did I,” I laughed, “but I wriggled out of it.”
I was quite wrong. Half an hour later the Colonel came to my room. He
handed me a document.
“This is a summary of the results of our interview,” he said. “Read it
and tell me if it is correct.”
I read it, and found he had put me on parole with Hill for the double
event—not to telepathize with the good folk of Yozgad, and not to escape
from the five-mile circle.
I might as well be in the same boat as Hill after all. “It’s all right,”
I said.
“Of course,” he said, “if you insist on it at any time, I am bound to
give you back your parole.”
This was very fair of the Colonel. But his refusal of the morning was
still too fresh, and I remembered how another senior officer had treated
Hill’s first attempt to recover his parole which he had made some months
before. (He had threatened to inform the Turks!) The Commandant’s
allegiance to the Spook was as yet too shaky to let us take any risks,
however slight. We could take back our parole, if necessary, in our own
good time.
“Thank you, sir,” I said; “I shall remember that. But we have no
intention of getting the camp into trouble.”
“Hum!” said the Colonel, and left me. And that was the last I saw of him
in captivity.
I had one more visitor of importance that morning. Doc. brought me his
report of the trial, which has been quoted above. I thanked him for
letting me read it.
“Is that correct?” he asked.
“It is what happened,” said I.
“Do you know,” he said, “I couldn’t sleep last night. Lay awake for
hours and hours after writing that. I was thinkin’....”
“That’s bad,” I sympathized. “Did it hurt much?”
He took me by the shoulders, turned my face to the light and stood
looking at me quizzingly for some time. His eyes were dancing with
mischief.
“Tell me,” he said at last. “Honest now! Are you by any chance an
Irishman in disguise?”
“No,” I laughed, “I am not.”
“Any Irish blood in ye?”
“Not a drop, Doc. dear.”
He ruffled his hair, plunged his hands deep in his pockets, and began
walking up and down with a short quick step.
“Then I can’t understand it,” he cried. “If you were an Irishman I’d
know where I was, but you say you’re not.”
“Is it my nose that’s botherin’ you, Doc. dear?” I chaffed.
“It is _not_ your nose,” he said emphatically, “an’ well you know it!
It’s this preposterous trial. If you were an Irishman, I’d know you’d
planned the whole thing for a bit of devilment.”
“Mercy me!” I exclaimed. “What makes you say that?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said, pushing me into a chair. “Sit down there where
I can watch your face, an’ I’ll tell you. How long have I known you,
Bones?”
“Nearly two years,” I said.
“An’ how well do I know you?”
“Don’t know,” I replied. “You tell me.”
“I will. I know you as well as this! I’ll eat my boots if you are a
souper.”
“Souper?”
“If you were an Irishman, you’d know what that means. It’s a fellow who
changes his religion to keep his lands.”
“But I haven’t changed my religion, Doc.”
“No,” said he, “but you’ve done as bad. Yesterday at the trial you gave
away your pal.”
“Don’t rake all that up again,” I expostulated. “I lost my head. I got
excited, and I explained it all to you yesterday.”
“Ay,” the Doc. teased, “and it was that same explanation that kept me
awake last night. You’re a queer sort of man to lose your head at a
trial, you that’s been a magistrate in Burma since Heaven knows when.”
“It was so sudden, Doc.”
“Maybe. But if you cut your finger now, and suddenly asked me to bandage
it, d’you think I’d lose my head? Why, it’s my work! Sudden or slow,
it’s all the same to me. And sudden or slow, your work’s all the same to
you. You didn’t lose your head!”
“Then I must be a souper,” I sighed.
“You’re _not_,” he said. “I know you better.”
I sat silent.
“Besides,” he went on, “Hill and you were hobnobbing together this
morning. _I_ saw you—laughing fit to burst, an’ as thick as thieves.”
“Perhaps he has forgiven me,” I suggested.
“No use, Bones! No use at all. As certain as I’m sitting here you two
are up to something together. Now what is it?”
I did not answer.
“Bones,” he pleaded, “if this is a joke an’ you leave me out in the
cold, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll—I’ll die of grief an’ come back to
manifest on ye when I’m dead. What were ye laughing about like that, you
and Hill? When I see two fellows in your position as happy as larks, I
want to share! Why—you’re laughing now! It’s a ramp, I’m sure it’s a
ramp! For pity’s sake let me in! I’ll keep it as dark as Erebus! Let me
help you. Is there anything I can do?”
“I daresay there is, Doc., but you might burn your fingers.”
“Blow my fingers!” he said. “You _must_ tell me now! If you don’t
I’ll—I’ll go straight to Maule and tell him my suspicions.”
“You souper!” said I. “Just to keep you from harming us with your
confounded theories, I’ll have to tell you as much as is good for you.
You remember the revolver stunt?”
He nodded.
“This is an extension of it. We are looking for a buried treasure for
the Turks. We wanted to get moved away from the rest of the camp so as
to have peace to carry out our plans and do the thing in style. The
trial was just a ramp to get us moved. It was all rehearsed beforehand.”
“Gosh!” Doc. cried, “so the Pimple is in the know with you?”
“_And_ the Commandant,” I said.
“What?” Doc. shouted.
“_And_ the Commandant,” I repeated. “He was playing a part, too.”
Doc. jumped to his feet, stared at me a moment, and then a broad grin
spread over his face, and he broke into the first steps of an Irish jig,
cavorting his delight in a sort of speechless ecstasy.
He stopped, suddenly grave. “Was I the only one who made a fool of
myself?” he asked anxiously. “What about the other witnesses, Winnie and
Gilchrist and Peel? Were they in the know?”
“Not a bit,” I said. “You four were the audience, all in the outer
darkness together, and you did very well indeed, thank you!”
“But we gave you away!”
“You were intended to do that,” I said.
The Doc. began to laugh again. “Oh, Bones,” he gasped, “what benighted
fools we’ve been! Now, if you love me, tell me all about it.”
“No time for that, Doc.,” I said, “but read this and you’ll know as much
as the Turks.” I handed him the record of our séances with the Pimple,
and went on with my packing.
When he had finished reading, he came over and sat down beside me.
“Bones,” he said, “I’m hanged if I see what you are driving at yet. But
it’s the ramp of the century. Is there any mortal thing I can do to help
you?”
“There is, Doc.! You’ve been in the Commandant’s private house. Describe
it to me, carefully.”
He did so. “Anything else?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Look here, Bones.” The little man had grown suddenly solemn. “I know
the Commandant; I’ve treated him as a doctor, and I know him. He’s
dangerous—a bad man. And as for the Cook, he’s a limb of Satan! He’ll
poison or shoot you as soon as look at you. I don’t want to spoil a
joke, but you’re running a risk—a hell of a risk. You’ve compromised
them with their own War Office, and if they find out you are bluffing
them about this treasure, don’t blame me if it’s good-bye.”
“That reminds me,” I said; “there _is_ one other thing I want you to do
for us. If we send out of prison to ask for medicine, don’t give it;
_insist_ on coming to see us.” He nodded. “And don’t you worry, Doc.!
We’re coming through all right, and it’ll be a top-hole ramp, anyway.”
“How far is it going to lead you?” he asked.
“Sufficient unto the day!” I said. “We don’t know.”
Doc. burst out laughing and smacked me hard between the shoulders.
“Bones, ye vagabond,” he cried, “I believe you _are_ an Irishman after
all!”
* * * * *
At 3 p.m. our twenty-four hours of grace expired. Once more we went to
the Commandant’s office—Hill and I and the four witnesses. The last act
of the little comedy was played. The Commandant began with a graphic
picture of the horrors of a Turkish prison and the monotony of a
bread-and-water diet. It was excellently done, and calculated to give
the most phlegmatic of Britishers cold shudders down the spine. Then he
told us how much he loved us prisoners, and would we spare him the pain
of putting us in jail by giving up the name he wanted? Hill and I were
models of firmness in our refusal. Kiazim Bey, with a gesture of
hopelessness, indicated he could do no more for us. Then came the
sentence. The common jail for the present would remain in abeyance, but
until we saw fit to confess we would be confined in a back room of the
“Colonels’ House”—a large empty building opposite the office. We would
be allowed no communication whatever with other prisoners, and no
orderly, but we might have our clothes and bedding. We would not be
permitted to write or receive any letters. To begin with, our food could
be sent in by the nearest prisoners’ house. If we remained obdurate, we
would later sample a bread-and-water diet. No walks and no privileges of
any kind, and the threat of a further court-martial and a severer
sentence by Constantinople over our heads!
Then something happened which neither Hill nor I had foreseen, and which
completely took our breath away. Major Gilchrist in his position as
adjutant of the camp made an exceedingly polite and grateful speech. No
doubt he thought he was being very diplomatic, for on behalf of the camp
he thanked the Commandant for the courtesy and fairness with which he
had conducted the trial and for the leniency of the sentence![19]
After this “vote of thanks,” our four witnesses left the office. They
were good fellows, those four. They busied themselves getting up our kit
to our new quarters, and seeing the room swept out and all made
comfortable for us. While they were doing so, Hill and I and the
Commandant and the Pimple were having a noble time together, recalling
the various incidents in the trial and congratulating each other on our
successful performances. The Commandant thought it all the best joke of
his life, and he made us repeat several times Gilchrist’s pæan of
praise, rocking in his chair with laughter.
At last there was a trampling in the hall below. The Chaoush had amassed
a guard sufficiently strong to escort us two desperadoes across the
street, and was waiting, so the Commandant shook hands with us in turn.
“Remember, my friends,” he said, “you have but to ask for anything you
want, and you will get it.”
Then we were marched across to our new prison, the first men in history,
so far as we knew, to be sentenced for thought-reading.