So, on the 13th of November, I found myself arraigned in police court
on that charge. You may be sure I did not complain. It would have been
so very easy for me to be standing before a court-martial, on a charge
that carried the penalty of death.
On the 26th of November I was sentenced to six months at hard labor
at Pentonville Prison, with a recommendation for deportation at its
expiration. I served five months at Pentonville, and then my good
conduct let me out. Home Secretary MacKenna signed the order for my
deportation. But I was not deported.
Instead, I was thrust into Brixton Prison. In Brixton, though I was
not sentenced on any charge, I was kept in solitary confinement
until January, 1916, when I was transferred to Reading Jail. At
Reading--locale of Oscar Wilde's ballade--conditions were less
disagreeable than they had been at Brixton. I was allowed to have
newspapers and magazines and to talk and exercise with my fellow
prisoners.
All this time, you may be sure, attempts were made to secure further
information from me, and especially to solve the enigma of my personal
identity. But I stuck steadfastly to my story. By that time it had
crystallized to this: I was Horst von der Goltz, born in Gautemala of
German parents, but not a German citizen. I was an officer on leave
from the Mexican army and had used the Bridgeman Taylor passport from
necessity. From necessity, too, I had concocted the fable of wishing
to sell information to the British Government, in the natural hope of
avoiding the predicament in which I found myself.
Try as they would, the authorities could find no evidence to knock
holes in that story. And it was then I conceived a deep personal
liking for British sportsmanship. They were deeply suspicious, but they
compelled themselves to play fair and give me every chance.
You recall that in December, 1915, on President Wilson's request, the
German Government recalled Capts. Boy-Ed and von Papen, its Naval
and Military Attachés. They traveled home on personal safe-conducts
from the British and French Governments. You may remember also that
Capt. von Papen took along with him a number of personal papers,
and that when the ship which bore him touched at Falmouth, England,
these documents were seized. Complaining, he was reminded that his
safe-conduct covered only his body, and that he wore his clothing
merely by the British Navy's courtesy. That seizure of his papers
happened on Jan. 2, 1916.
Being now permitted to read the daily papers, I heard of it, even in
Reading, and at first was greatly alarmed. But nothing happened. The
documents were published and made a great deal of sensation in England.
But my name did not appear. It had been deleted by the censor, so it
later appeared.
Ten days of false hope that deletion gave me, and then, on the night of
Jan. 30, 1916, the Governor of Reading told me I was to go up to London
next day. Where to? Scotland Yard.
Any moment more dramatic than that of my entrance, next morning, into
the Commissioner's room at Scotland Yard I do not wish to live through.
Some one else may have that excitement.