The camp as a whole had enjoyed the treasure-hunt. Mundey and I were congratulated on having pulled off a good practical joke against the Turk. On the other hand, there were a few who disapproved of what we had done. They held that discovery of the fraud would anger the Turk, not only against the perpetrators, but against the whole camp. Our success, however, deprived their criticism of any force, and they confined themselves to a warning that it was foolish to run such risks without an object.

Nobody guessed that behind my foolery there was an object, and a very serious one. It was the first real step in a considered plan of escape.

Escape from any prison camp in Turkey was difficult. From Yozgad it was regarded as practically impossible. Here the Turks sent Cochrane, Price, and Stoker, who had made such a gallant but unsuccessful attempt to get away from Afion Kara Hissar in 1916; and here, later on, came the Kastamouni Incorrigibles—some forty officers who had refused to give their parole. Yozgad was the punishment camp of Turkey.

Escape was not a question of defeating the sentries. The “Gamekeepers” who preserved our numbers intact were nearly all old men, and were very far from being wide awake. On fine days they snoozed at their posts; if it was cold, or wet, or dark they snuggled in their sentry-boxes. As several officers proved by experiment, it was no difficult matter to get out of the camp and back again without detection.

The real sentries were the 350 miles of mountain, rock and desert that lay between us and freedom in every direction. Such a journey under the most favourable conditions is something of an ordeal. I would not like to have to walk it by daylight, in peace-time, buying food at villages as I went. Consider that for the runaway the ground would have to be covered at night, that food for the whole distance would have to be carried, and that the country was infested with brigands who stripped travellers even within gunshot of our camp; add to this that we knew nothing of the language or customs of the people and had no maps. It is not difficult to understand why we were slow to take advantage of our sleeping sentries.^[10]

There was another factor that prevented men from making the attempt. It was generally believed that the escape of one or more officers from our camp would result in a “strafe” for those who remained behind. We feared that such small privileges as we had won would be taken away from us—the weekly walk, the right to visit one another’s houses in the daytime, and access to the tiny gardens and the lane (it was only 70 yards long) for exercise. We would revert to the original unbearable conditions, when we had been packed like sardines in our rooms, day and night, and our exercise limited to Swedish drill in the 6ft. by 3ft. space allotted for each man’s sleeping accommodation. A renewal of the old conditions of confinement might—probably would—mean the death of several of us. Such, we believed, would be the probable consequences of escape.^[11]

The belief acted in two ways in preventing escapes. Some men who would otherwise have made the attempt decided it was not fair to their comrades in distress to do so. Others considered themselves justified, in the interest of the camp as a whole, in stopping any man who wanted to try. And the majority—a large majority—of the camp held they were right. The general view was that as success for the escaper was most improbable, and trouble for the rest of us most certain, nobody ought to make the attempt. For we knew what “trouble” meant in Turkey. Most of the prisoners in Yozgad were from Kut-el-Amara. We had starved there, before our surrender: we had struggled, still starving, across the 500 miles of desert to railhead. We had seen men die from neglect and want. Many of us had been perilously near such a death ourselves. We had felt the grip of the Turk and knew what he could do. Misery, neglect, starvation and imprisonment had combined to foster in us a very close regard for our own interests. We were individualists, almost to a man. So we clung, as a drowning man clings to an oar, to the few alleviations that made existence in Yozgad possible, and we resented anything which might endanger those privileges.

It is easy enough for the armchair critic to say it is a man’s duty to his country to escape if he can. As a general maxim we might have accepted that. The tragedy in Yozgad was that his duty to his country came into conflict with his duty to his fellow-prisoners. I thought at the time, and I still think, that we allowed the penny near our eye to shut out the world. But it was only a few irresponsibles like Winfield-Smith who shared my view that the question of whether a man should try or not should be left to the individual to decide, and if he decided to go the rest of us ought to help him, and face the subsequent music as cheerfully as might be. And I must confess, in fairness to the officers who undertook the unpleasant task of stopping Hill when he was ready to escape in June 1917, that though in principle I disapproved of their action, in fact I was exceedingly glad, for my own sake, that he did not go.

I suppose every one of us spent many hours weighing his own chances of escape. For myself I knew I had not the physical stamina considered necessary for the journey. If the camp stopped a man like Hill, they would be ten times more eager to stop me. Secrecy was therefore essential. Believing, as I did, that the War might continue for several years, I had made up my mind in 1917 to make the attempt and trust to luck more than to skill or strength to carry me through. But because of the feebleness of my chance, and the extreme probability that my comrades would not have the consolation of my success in their suffering, it behoved me more than anyone else to seek for some way of escape which would not implicate my fellows, and not to resort to a direct bolt until it was clear that all other possibilities had been exhausted.

My plan was to make the Turkish authorities at Yozgad my unconscious accomplices. I intended to implicate the highest Turkish authority in the place in my escape, to obtain clear and convincing proof that he was implicated, and to leave that proof in the hands of my fellow-prisoners before I disappeared. It would then be clearly to the Commandant’s interest to conceal the fact of my escape from the authorities at Constantinople (he could do so by reporting my death); or, if concealment were impossible, he would not dare to visit his wrath upon the camp, as they could retaliate by reporting his complicity to his official superiors. By these means, I hoped, not only would my fellow-prisoners retain their privileges, but by judicious threatening they might even acquire more.

The most obvious way to accomplish my object was by bribery, and it was of bribery that I first thought. The difficulties were twofold: first, there were no means of getting money in sufficient quantity; second, supposing I got the money together, I could see no method by which the camp could satisfy the Constantinople authorities that it had gone into the pocket of the Commandant. The Turk takes bribes, readily enough, but he is exceedingly careful how he takes them, and he covers up his tracks with Oriental cunning. If I could not provide the camp with proof of the Commandant’s guilt, I might as well save my money and bolt without bribing him.

I was trying to convince myself that these difficulties ought not to be insuperable when the Interpreter first evinced an interest in spooking, and the Commandant’s belief in the supernatural was proved by his official notice of May 6th (see p. 51). From that moment I discarded all thought of bribery. I was filled with the growing hope that my door to freedom lay through the Ouija. And first and foremost in pursuance of my plan, I aimed at inveigling the Commandant into the spiritualistic circle and making him the instrument of my escape. The news that there existed a buried treasure which the Turks were seeking gave me an idea of how to do it.

To my fellow-prisoners the farcical hunt for the revolver had appeared a complete success. To me it was a bitter failure. I felt that if the Spook’s achievement in finding the weapon did not bring out the Commandant, nothing would. But day followed day, and he made no sign. A considerable experience of the Eastern mind made it easy enough for me to guess the reason for his reticence. Like the Oriental he was, he wished above all things to avoid committing himself. He clearly intended to work entirely through his two subordinates, the Interpreter and the Cook. If anything went wrong, he could not be implicated. If everything went right, and the treasure were discovered, he could use his official position to seize the lion’s share. It was clear that there would be a long struggle before I could get into direct touch with the Commandant. I decided that the Pimple must learn for himself that he could get “no forrarder” with the Spook until he put all his cards on the table. It was to be a battle of patience, and knowing something of Oriental patience, I almost despaired.

Time and again after the revolver incident the Pimple attended sÉances. To his amazement and regret he found the attitude of the Spook had undergone a complete change: for a long time nothing but abuse of the Turks emanated from the board. The Spook was very angry with them for exceeding instructions and continuing to dig after the revolver had been found. Not one word would It say about the treasure. The Pimple apologized to the board abjectly, humbly, profusely. It made no difference. The Spook turned a deaf ear to all the little man’s pleas for forgiveness. Its only concession was to produce a photograph of the owner of the treasure on a piece of gaslight paper which the Pimple obtained in the bazaar and held to his own forehead at a sÉance. With commendable perseverance the Pimple kept up his appeals for two months. Then at last he delivered himself into my hands. He lost his temper with the Spook.

“Always you are cursing and threatening,” he said to the glass, “but you never do anything. Can you manifest upon me?”

“To-night,” answered the glass, “you shall die!”

“No! Please, no! Nothing serious, please! I beg your pardon! Please take my cap off, or my gloves! I only wanted you to move something!”

“Very good,” said the Spook, “I shall move something. For this occasion I pardon. I shall not kill. But to-morrow morning you shall suffer. I shall manifest upon you.” The Spook then went into details of what would happen to the Pimple to-morrow morning.

Two hours later we gathered in my room, as usual, to discuss the sÉance, and as usual the Pimple drank cocoa—our cocoa—with infinite relish. He enjoyed it very much that night, because it was extra sweet. That was to cover any possible flavour from the six grains of calomel I had slipped into his cup!

I met him again on the afternoon of the following day. He looked pale.

“Well, MoÏse,” I said, “did the Spook fulfil his promise?”

MoÏse gave me all the gruesome details in an awed tone. “And it was no use sending for the doctor,” he added, “because I knew it was all supernatural. I am most thankful it is all over.”

I congratulated him on being alive.

“I shall press no more for the treasure,” said he; “this lesson is for me sufficient.”

“Good,” said I.

It was more than good. It was excellent. His subordinate having failed, surely the Commandant would now come forward. I waited hopefully, a week, a fortnight, a month. But Kiazim Bey never put in an appearance. I thought I was beaten and all but gave up hope. So far as was possible, I backed out of spooking. There seemed no alternative to the direct bolt. I made my plans to go on skis at the end of February, or beginning of March. I warned my room-mates, in confidence, that I might disappear, sent a cryptogram to my father, and began to train. But early in January I met with an accident while practising. A bone in my knee was injured in such a way as to put escape out of the question for me till well on in the spring. I sold my skis to Colbeck and turned back to my first love.

Perhaps the pain in my knee acted as a counter-irritant to my sluggish wits. A few days after the accident the necessary brain-wave arrived. The Pimple was in the lane at the time. I hobbled out to him through the snow. We chatted, and our chat came round to the old subject—the Spook—quite naturally.

“This rage of the Spirit’s—it cannot be explained,” the Pimple said.

“No,” I replied, “I have only seen one previous instance where the Spook behaved so badly for so long. And there the circumstances were different.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“It was soon after my adventure with the Head-hunting Waas,” I said, “about which I shall tell you some day.”

The Pimple smiled knowingly. “I know it,” he said; “months ago Captain Freeland told me in confidence.”

“Did he? Well, it got about that I had learned occultism in captivity. A lady asked me to consult the Spirit about a gold watch she had lost.”

“Did you find it?” the Pimple asked.

“Oh yes. Quite easily. Then several other people came who had lost other things. The Spook found them all. Then came a man who asked me to find a diamond necklace for a friend of his, whose name he would not give. I tried, and the Spook became abusive—for three months it abused us. Finally a fakir told me the reason. The Spook was angry because the sitter kept back the name of the lady who wanted the necklace. It wanted our full confidence and full faith.”

“But we have full faith,” said the Pimple, “yet it abuses us.”

“Of course we have,” I agreed. “The present case is quite different, for we are not keeping back anything from the Spook or hiding anybody’s interest in the search. You see, in the affair of the diamond necklace the lady who wanted it was in a very high social position, and she was afraid of being laughed at for consulting the Spook, so she remained in the background. That made the Spook angry.”

“I see,” said MoÏse. “And did you find the necklace in the end?”

“Oh yes. Once the lady learned the reason, she allowed her name to be mentioned, and we found it at once.”

“I see,” said the Pimple. “Who was the lady?”

“I don’t mind telling you in confidence,” I replied; “it was Princess Blavatsky.”

“Oh!” said the Pimple.

Then I hobbled back to my room to be abused by dear old Uncle and Pa for playing the fool with my knee, and to await results.

On January 30th the result came. Our Mess were sitting down to the regulation lunch of wheat “pillao” and duff when a sentry appeared and handed me a note demanding my presence at the office. Thinking there might be a parcel awaiting me, I nodded and indicated by signs (for in those days we knew no Turkish) that I would come as soon as lunch was over. The man got excited.

“Shindi!” (now), “Shindi!” he said. “Commandant! Commandant!”

My heart seemed to stand still. The time had come. Hickman looked at me anxiously.

“What’s up, Bones?” he asked. “Are you ill? You’ve gone white.”

“It’s my knee,” I said. “It got a twist just now.”

“Chabook! Gel! Commandant! Commandant!” repeated the sentry.

“It—aw—seems the Commandant wants you,” the voice of the Sage explained from the next table.

The Sage was wrong, as usual. It was I who wanted the Commandant. But I let it pass and went off with the anxious sentry.

In the office Kiazim Bey returned my salute with dignity and politeness. Then he shook hands with me and placed me in a seat on one side of the table. He sat opposite. The Interpreter stood at attention by his side.

This was my first introduction to the Commandant. During my nineteen months of prison life in Yozgad I had seen him only rarely, and never spoken to him. Small fry like Second Lieutenants had small chance of getting to know the man who refused interviews with our most senior Colonels and consistently kept aloof from us all. As he spoke to the Interpreter I studied him with interest. He was a man of about fifty years of age, a little above middle height, well dressed in a uniform surtout of pearly grey. Except for a slight forward stoop of the head when he walked, he carried himself well. His movements were slow and deliberately dignified; his voice low, soft, and not unpleasing. The kalpak which he wore indoors and out alike covered a well-shaped head. His hair, at the temples, was silver-white, and an iron-grey moustache hid a weak but cruel mouth. His features were well-formed, but curiously expressionless. I believe that no prisoner in Yozgad, except Hill and myself, ever saw him laugh. His complexion was of an extraordinary pallor, due partly to much illness, and partly to his hothouse existence indoors; for like most well-to-do Turks, he rarely took any exercise. And he had the most astonishing pair of eyes it has ever been my fortune to look into; deep-set, wonderfully large and lustrous, and of a strange deep brown colour that merged imperceptibly into the black of the pupil. They were the eyes of a mystic or of a beautiful woman, as his hands with their delicate taper fingers were those of an artist. He played nervously with a pencil while he spoke to me through the Interpreter, but never took his eyes from my face throughout the interview. He began with Western abruptness, and plunged in medias res.

“Before we go into any details,” he said, “I want your word of honour not to communicate to anyone what I am now going to tell you.”

“I will give it with pleasure, Commandant, on two conditions.”

“What are they?”

“First, that your proposals are in no way detrimental to my friends or to my country.”

“They are not,” said the Commandant. “I promise you that. What is your second condition?”

“That I don’t already know what you are going to tell me.”

“It is impossible for you to know that,” he replied. “How can you know what is in my mind?”

I looked at him steadily, for perhaps half a minute, smiling a little.

“It is impossible for you to know,” he repeated.

“You forget, Commandant, or perhaps you do not know. I am a thought-reader.”

“Well?”

The time had come to risk everything on a single throw.

“Let me tell you, then,” I said. “You are going to ask me to find for you a treasure, buried by a murdered Armenian of Yozgad. You want me to do so by the aid of Spirits. And you are prepared to offer me a reward.”

The Commandant leant back in his chair, in mute astonishment, staring at me.

“Am I correct?” I asked.

He bowed, but did not speak. We sat for a little time in silence, he toying again with his pencil, I endeavouring to look unconcerned, and smiling. It was easy to smile, for the heart within me was leaping with joy.

“I am afraid,” he said at last, “that if our War Office learned that I had entered into a compact with one of my prisoners, it would go ill with me.”

“There will be no compact, Commandant,” I said; “I have no need of money. You mustn’t judge by this” (I touched my ragged coat and laughed). “What I seek from the Spirits is not money. It is knowledge and power. But I feel I owe you something. You have had me in your power, as your prisoner, and have shown me no discourtesy. I am grateful to you for what you have done for us, for the privileges you have granted, and the kindnesses you have shown. And in return any small skill I possess as a medium is wholly at your service. I shall do my best to find this treasure for you, if you wish it.”

“You are very kind,” said Kiazim Bey, and bowed. He was obviously waiting for my parole.

“As to secrecy,” I went on, “it is as essential for myself as for you. If I find this money for you, the British War Office may quite well shoot me on my release for giving funds to the enemy. And there is much more danger of me being discovered than of you. It is very hard to keep what happens at sÉances secret from the camp. For my own sake, of course, I must do my best to keep it dark. I cannot promise more than that.”

“The camp does not matter much,” said the Commandant, “it is Constantinople that is important.”

“I cannot see, Commandant, that you are doing them any harm by seeking to find this money by any means in your power. But that is neither here nor there. Before this game is played out I shall require helpers—and at least one other medium, and perhaps recorders, must get to know. I promise that if you play the game with us, Constantinople will remain in the dark so far as I am concerned. But I cannot promise that the camp may not find out.”

“The great danger will be if we find the treasure. Then you must be silent as the grave,” he said.

“That I can promise—it is to my interest as well as yours,” I replied.

“Silent as the grave, then,” he said, holding out his hand.

“As the grave,” I answered, and grasped it.

I arranged with the Pimple for an early sÉance and rose to go. The Commandant accompanied me to the door. I could see, more by his expressive fingers than by his impassive face, that he was greatly agitated. He put a detaining hand on my arm.

“That was a most serious oath,” he said, looking at me strangely. I tried to fathom the meaning behind the dark eyes, and think I succeeded. It was the vultus instantis tyranni.

“Serious as Death, Commandant,” I said.

He half nodded, and returned my salute with slow gravity.

As I limped down the road in charge of my sentry I felt like singing with happiness. The long weary period of waiting and groping in the dark was past, and the first big step in my plan had been achieved. The Commandant was hooked at last. There would be real excitement in spooking now, with Liberty to greet success at one end, and Heaven knows what to greet failure at the other. And best of all I would no longer be alone. I had long since determined that as soon as the preliminary difficulties had been overcome and a definite scheme became possible, I would seek a companion. I had had enough of plotting and planning in solitude during the last six months. I longed for companionship.

There were probably many men in the camp who would have joined me had they been asked, but there was only one who had given clear proof of his deadly keenness to get away. This was Lieutenant C. W. Hill, an Australian Flying Officer. I knew how he had trained for three months in secret during the spring of 1917; how, while others slept, he had crept down to the cellar and spent hours a night doing the goose-step with a forty-pound pack of tiles on his back, and how time and again he had tested the vigilance of the sentries. As has been already mentioned, his plan was discovered by his fellow officers on the eve of his departure, and he was stopped by them and placed on parole. The disappointment to him had been almost unbearable. I guessed he was in the mood for anything, and knew he would never “talk,” even if he refused my offer.

He possessed other qualities which would make him an invaluable collaborator for me. He had extraordinary skill with his hands. He was, perhaps, the most thorough, and certainly the neatest carpenter in the camp. (The camera which he secretly manufactured out of a Cadbury’s cocoa-box was a masterpiece of ingenuity and patience.) He could find his way by day or night with equal ease, and he could drive anything, from a wheelbarrow to an aeroplane or a railway engine. Lastly, he was a wonderful conjuror, the best amateur any of us had ever seen.

I knew I was choosing well, but I little knew how well. Seeking a practical man, with patience and determination and a close tongue, I was to find in Hill all these beyond measure, and with them a great heart, courage that no hardship could break, and loyalty like the sea.

I went straight to him on my return from the Commandant, and led him aside to a quiet spot where we could talk. I asked him what risks he was willing to take to get away from Yozgad. He objected, at once, that he was on parole, and that the feeling of the camp had to be considered.

“I know,” I said, “but supposing I can get you off that parole, and fix the camp safely, how far would you go?”

Hill did not answer for a considerable time.

“You’re not joking?” he said, at last.

“No,” I replied.

“Then I’ll tell you.” Hill spoke slowly and with emphasis. “To get away from this damned country I’ll go the pool!—all out. I won’t be retaken alive.”

The man was terribly in earnest. I told him, briefly, how I had been struggling for months to get a hold over the Turks, and how the opportunity had come that very afternoon. I outlined my plans as far as they had been framed. Hill listened eagerly, and in silence.

“It amounts to this,” I concluded; “before we openly commit ourselves in any way towards escape, we must obtain proof of the Commandant’s complicity and place that proof in the hands of somebody in the camp. That will make the camp safe. I guarantee you nothing but a share in what will look like a practical joke against the Turk. It may go no further than that. And I warn you that if the Turk finds us out, it may be unpleasant. It must be one thing at a time. Once we have got the proof it will be time enough to decide on our final line of action. We will then have a choice of three things—escape, exchange, or compassionate release. Finally, if you join up with me in this, you will be handicapping yourself should we decide upon a straight run away. Apart from my game leg, you could find plenty of fellows in camp who could make rings round me across country.”

We discussed the matter in and out, and finally agreed—

(1) So far as we ourselves were concerned, to risk everything and go any length to get away.

(2) But on no account to implicate anyone else in the camp. We must so arrange the escape that the Turks would have no excuse whatsoever for strafing the others.

(3) To take nobody into our confidence until it was absolutely necessary. There were plenty of men we could trust not to give us away intentionally. But any one of them might make a slip which would defeat our plans.

(4) When possible, to discuss every move beforehand, and to follow the line agreed on.

(5) If circumstances prevented such discussion, Hill was to follow my lead blindly, without question or alteration.

(6) If or when it came to a bolt across country, Hill was to take charge.

We shook hands on this bargain, and separated: it did not do to whisper too long in corners at Yozgad. I returned to my Mess.

“What did they want with you in the office?” Pa asked.

“Just some money that’s expected,” I said. “Where’s my lunch?”

“Oh, we gave it to Jeanie, hours ago. Thought you weren’t coming.”

Jeanie was the house dog. It was a mess joke to threaten to give her my food if I was late for meals. I hunted round till I found where Pa had hidden my cold porridge.

“You’re up to some devilment,” said Pa, watching me wolf the nasty stuff.

“Why?”

“Because you’re grinning. You’re enjoying something, and I know it’s not that grub.”

I must be more careful!