HOW WE WERE TRIED AND CONVICTED FOR TELEPATHY

There followed a delightfully busy fortnight for Hill and myself. We made a minute study of a large book on mental diseases, purloined from the Doctor’s library, and improved our minds with other medical lore anent an illness to which the Commandant was subject. Under a specious plea we borrowed from Spink an Armenian-French dictionary—a treasured possession which he kept hidden under a movable plank in the floor of his room. Spink was an industrious and painstaking youth. With a view to a possible escape, and with the aid of George Borrow’s Lavengro, he had transliterated the Armenian alphabet. This was to prove most useful. He had also drawn up an Armenian phrase-book, which I studied with such diligence and profit that later on the Spook of the murdered owner of the treasure appeared and spoke to us in the Armenian tongue! But for the present the use of the dictionary was to enable Hill to manufacture two brief but extremely interesting Armenian documents. These we enclosed, along with some ashes from our charcoal brazier and two Turkish gold sovereigns, in two small tin cases. The cases were buried by Hill, three miles apart, while he was out ski-ing. As the Ski-Club was also due to Spink’s initiative, we owe that ornament of the Indian Public Works Department a deep debt of gratitude.

While Hill was busy with his document-making and his burying, it was my duty to inculcate a proper respect for telepathy in the chosen witnesses of the forthcoming trial. Doc. O’Farrell was already converted. He would do “as he was” for one witness at our trial; but we threw in a private exhibition to make all secure. Almost any of the juniors would do for a second. We also required at least two field officers, preferably with Red Tabs, and one of the two ought to have an official position in the camp. A couple of days of the Socratic method convinced Peel. A “practical experiment” in which Hill conveyed to me “by telepathy” that he had been shown a black-handled knife when two miles away from the camp, satisfied the Adjutant, Gilchrist, who owned and had shown the knife. We had our four “witnesses” for the trial ready, and knew they would all swear to the possibility of telepathy in all genuineness. En passant, it is worthy of remark that one witness who believes that what he says is true (though it may be as false as Ananias’s best effort) is worth ten of a conscious liar in any Court of Law.

Then, in case the Turks saw fit to test the accuracy of the Spook’s assertion concerning the telepathic receipt of the message about the movement of troops from the Caucasus, it became necessary to receive such a message at a sÉance. Mundey and Edmonds, both true believers, were victimized. We received the message in their presence, and at the bidding of the Spook gave our words of honour to keep its source a secret. This “word of honour” came in most usefully later on.

Lastly, there were two men in the camp—Barton and Nightingale—who knew the secret of our telepathic code. It was quite possible that if the Turks arrested us for telepathy these two men would expose the code in order to obtain our release. We could easily have trusted them with the whole story, but on our principle to implicate nobody and tell nobody—until it became absolutely necessary—we decided to keep quiet. A hint to say nothing, whatever happened, was sufficient for these two loyal friends.

We were now ready for anything the Commandant might care to do—the worse the better, within limits. But the Commandant was by no means ready to begin. Up to a point our plotting and lying had been completely successful. He accepted without question the truth of the information contained in the magic letter, but he was doubtful about the future and he wanted to make himself perfectly safe with his own War Office. It took three more sÉances to satisfy him, for he had piles of questions to ask the Spook. Must he report the trial to Constantinople, and if so what should he say? What would the camp think? What would Colonel Maule say in his monthly sealed letter to Headquarters? What if the War Office wanted to punish the mediums more severely? What was the sentence to be? How many days, or weeks, or months? How severe the conditions of imprisonment? Supposing the War Office asked where the letter was found, or who found it? Supposing the prisoners should write home about the matter, was he to destroy their letters? What was the best day of the week to begin on? And so forth and so on. The Spook solved each and all of these problems in a most satisfactory way. It dictated his report to Constantinople.^[16] It promised to reveal within a month of the trial the secret of how the treasure was buried. It promised to safeguard the Commandant from any possible punishment by his superiors. And It threatened in most bloodthirsty terms to be avenged if we did not adopt the plan over which It had spent so much thought and care.

At the beginning of each month our Senior Officer was permitted to send to Turkish Headquarters at Constantinople a sealed letter. This the local Yozgad authorities were not allowed to censor. The object was to give prisoners the opportunity of criticizing the conduct of the Commandant direct to the Turkish War Office. The Commandant was anxious that this letter should be sent off before we began operations. With any luck, we might have found the treasure before the month was out and the next letter sent. Hill and I would then be back in camp and Colonel Maule would have no cause to grouse about our treatment. So the Commandant argued. Hill and I were fairly confident that so long as our imprisonment did not affect the comfort of the rest of the camp in general, nothing much would be said about it, however absurd the charge against us might be. We would be allowed to “dree oor ain weird.” But we did not say so to the Commandant. We agreed with him that, in view of the “solidarity of the British Empire,” and the curious habit British Senior Officers have of interesting themselves in the welfare of their juniors, this was a bit of a problem. So we left it to the Spook to answer. The Spook decided that the best date to begin operations was that immediately following the day on which Colonel Maule posted his monthly letter.

On Saturday, March 2nd, 1918, Colonel Maule sent his sealed letter up to the Commandant’s office. On March 3rd Hill and I asked for and received from the Interpreter the full “score” of the forthcoming trial—a lengthy, written document embodying all the instructions of the Spook. We were asked to make certain we had our parts pat, and to reply if we agreed to the programme. I saw the Pimple that evening in the lane, and told him we agreed, but did not return his written instructions. These we intended to keep, for they would be valuable and irrefutable evidence of the complicity of the Turks in our designs. But Johnny Turk was risking nothing. The wily Oriental is thoroughly well aware of the fact that litera scripta manet. On March 4th the Cook came to our room and began fiddling with our stove. He made unintelligible demands for a “tinnikÉ.” Then when no one was looking he slipped into my hands the following note, the original of which I still possess—

To refuse would be to arouse suspicion and possibly upset all our plans. There was nothing for it but to hand over the evidence.

On the same day—March 4th—the Pimple reported that Colonel Maule’s letter had been consigned to the mercies of the Turkish Post Office. Hill and I went over our arrangements for the last time, and made certain we had left nothing undone. According to programme we were to be arrested next day.

But March 5th came and went. All day long Hill and I waited and longed for our arrest. It did not come. In the evening the Pimple arrived and informed us that the Commandant had been too busy taking part in the celebrations of the Russian Peace. We knew it for a lie. We knew that he was “ratting” at the last moment, that once more he was funking a possible reprimand from Constantinople. But it would never do to say so. Instead, we simulated joy at our reprieve. We said that with luck this would be the last of the unhappy affair, and that we were glad to be relieved of the burden. Then we expressed our earnest hope that the Spook would visit no punishment on the Commandant or the Pimple for their failure to obey. But after the Pimple had gone we raged together, up and down the lane and round and round the Hospital garden, till the sentries drove us indoors at dark. We both spent a miserable night. For it looked as if the War might last another twenty years—and our plan had failed.

On the morning of March 6th, about 10.30 a.m., MoÏse came to us and complained that he had been “spooked,” that the Commandant had been very angry with him; and that while pretending to be too unwell to carry out the programme, he really intended to postpone it for good and all, because of his fear of Constantinople.

“I am certain,” said the unhappy Pimple, “that the Spook has put into his head ideas against me. Otherwise he could not have known. It is the beginning of our punishment for yesterday’s delay. I know it. I am sure. And his turn will come!” Then he begged for one last sÉance to consult the Spook.

“But what have you been up to, to make him angry?” I asked, as we walked together towards the Dispensary.

The Pimple refused to admit that he had been up to anything, and called the Commandant “a jealous pig.” Hill immediately winked at me. We let well alone, and stopped our pumping.

We sat down to the spook-board. There had been no time for a special consultation, but this was likely to be our last chance and we must use it.

MoÏse wrote down a question without uttering it, and slipped it under the board for the Spook to answer. This was awkward. At previous sÉances the Spook had shown its power of answering questions in this way. To-day, however, we were not prepared for the test. But I had managed to get a glimpse of one word as he wrote, and that word was suggestive. It was “pardon.”

“No use begging pardon,” said the Spook; “obey and BEWARE!”

Then came a long pause, the glass remaining quite motionless. MoÏse grew more and more impatient.

“Please answer what to do,” he said at last.

For at least ten minutes there was no movement in the glass, for I was thinking hard what to say, and could see no light. We told the Pimple that the glass felt “dead,” as if there was no one there. He got more and more highly strung and excited, and kept begging the Control to return. He threw a sheet of paper on to the board and asked the Control to write on it if he would not use the glass. As soon as the paper touched the board, the Control “manifested,” and both Hill and I had our hands simultaneously dragged away from the glass by some invisible force. For some time we tried to get our fingers on the glass again, but were prevented by the invisible agent. The Pimple’s excitement rose to fever pitch as he watched the struggle. We became more and more exhausted, and finally had to rest.

“This is terrible,” said Hill, mopping his brow. “I think we had better chuck it. The Control is poisonously angry, and Heaven knows what he may not do.”

The Pimple begged us to try once more. We did, and got our fingers on the glass without much difficulty. The Spook gave proof of his presence by moving the glass about. The necessary idea had come to us.

“What will you do?” MoÏse asked.

“I can but bring on the old pains,” said the Spook.

“What do you mean, please?”

(This is where our study of the Commandant’s disease, biliary colic, first came in useful.)

“Vomiting,” the Spook answered. “Vomiting! Shivers! Such agony that he will roll about and scream for mercy! He knows well, but I shall choose my own time. Unless orders are obeyed today I forbid my mediums to grant further sittings under penalty of madness to themselves. Good-bye.”

“How can I make the Commandant do it?” MoÏse asked.

Before a reply was possible both mediums had their fingers again thrown from the glass and appeared to experience a sensation which the sitter in his notes describes briefly as “electric shock.” The Control was obviously angry. Hill and I refused to venture any further, and we asked MoÏse to say so to the Commandant. MoÏse suggested that we should put our views in writing. We therefore wrote the Commandant a joint letter, in which we expressed our regret that he was unwell, and hoped he would be sufficiently recovered by the afternoon to begin the experiment. We ended by saying that in view of the Control’s threats we could not (for our own sakes as well as for the sake of the Commandant) go any further in the matter unless it was put in hand that day.

The Pimple hurried off with the letter and the record of the sÉance.

“There goes our last chance, old chap,” I said to Hill as soon as we were left alone. “If that doesn’t fetch him, we’ve failed.”

“Oh no,” said Hill, “we can always smash up a sentry a bit. They’ll lock us up quick enough for that. We can tell the Commandant privately we were spooked into doing it!”

“Right-o!” I agreed. “We’ll try that next. I want to biff that little beast with the top boots, anyway.”

“Mine’s the Mulazim,” said Hill. “He needs a thick ear. Do him good.”

Alone, I believe I would have thrown up the sponge, and resigned myself to growing grey in what looked like indefinite captivity. Hill’s determination renewed my waning hopes. We began plotting again.

We might have spared ourselves the trouble. The force of example proved a powerful incentive to obedience. The Commandant must have remembered how the Spook’s threat of doom had brought Hill and myself to our knees when we wished to withdraw from the treasure-hunt, and how we had preferred to risk punishment from the Turk rather than the wrath of the Unknown. The prospect of a recurrence of his malady frightened him into action. At 2 p.m. the following note was brought to me by a sentry—(I again quote the original)—

We invited to accompany us the four officers whom we had long since marked down as suitable for this purpose. They all accepted. Three of the four wrote down that same evening their recollections of what occurred. The following account is composed of an extract from each of the three independent reports. It shows how exactly “the little show” followed the instructions of the Spook. (The fourth witness, being mightier with the sword than with the pen, refrained from committing his impressions to paper.)

(I now quote from the Doctor):

(The conclusion is taken from Major Gilchrist’s narrative):

We left the office for our 24 hours’ grace, Hill and I secretly triumphant but outwardly indignant, and our four witnesses in a mood very different from that in which they had entered the sacred precincts. They were now much chastened. They had expected to see the Turk betray an intelligent interest in the mysterious phenomena of telepathy, which they themselves had found so engrossing. They had willingly imparted to him their own knowledge of the difficult problem: but they had never dreamed that their belief in telepathy would be turned to practical use against two of their fellow-officers, and they felt that, while in common with our two selves they had been very neatly trapped, their ingenuous little confession of faith had gone not a little way towards hanging us.

“I never thought the Commandant had it in him to work out such a trap,” said the Doc.

“Yes,” said Gilchrist, “it was typically Oriental—and confoundedly clever.”

Their respect for the Commandant’s ability had suddenly risen to boiling-point. They could talk of little else as we walked back to camp.

There is one point on which these three good fellows are silent in their written reports. I had committed what was in their eyes the unpardonable sin. I had given away my accomplice—Hill. When to all appearance there was no need for it, I inculpated him with myself, and indeed went rather out of my way to mention his name. To them it was inexplicable. It was conduct utterly unworthy of a British officer. They taxed me with it as soon as we reached camp, and asked why I had done such a thing. I looked as ashamed as possible. The trap, I said, had taken me unawares. I had lost my temper—and my head—and blurted out my confession, which involved Hill, before I knew where I was. Of their charity (I forget if Charity also is blind, but she ought to be), they accepted this explanation, and tried to forgive me in their hearts. The truth, of course, was that it was the Commandant who had lost his head. He had confined his attention and his questions entirely to me. Hill was not asked anything. It was essential that the Commandant should have some ostensible reason for “jugging” us both together, and on the spur of the moment I had supplied his omission in the best way I could—by dragging in Hill’s name and implicating him with myself.