The telegram from Kemal Pasha, ordering us to be sent to Constantinople, arrived on the 16th April. The prisoners from Changri, bringing with them the Interpreter who was to take the place of the Pimple, reached Yozgad on the 24th. Hill and I left for Angora on the 26th.

The Spook explained that though we would probably read AAA’s thoughts and discover the position of the third clue as soon as we got to Constantinople, it was essential for our safety that the Constantinople specialists should, for a time, think us slightly deranged and in need of a course of treatment. Therefore it behoved MoÏse to endeavour to bring this about by reporting to the Constantinople authorities the things which the Spook would tell him to report, and learning his lesson carefully.

“What will happen to the mediums,” the Pimple asked, “if the specialists do not think them slightly deranged?”

“Jail, mon petit cheri chou!” said the Spook. “Jail for malingering, and they will not return to Yozgad to continue our experiments. You must play your part.”

The Pimple’s part, the Spook explained, was to observe and note carefully everything the mediums said and did. At the request of the Spook, as soon as the Yozgad doctors had declared us mad, the Commandant publicly ordered MoÏse to make notes of our behaviour, for the benefit of the doctors at the Haidar Pasha hospital. The Spook declared that from now on the mediums would be kept “under control” so as to appear mad, for control being a species of hypnotism the oftener we were placed in that condition the easier it would be for the Spook to impose its will on us in Constantinople to deceive the specialists. Thus, while the Turks thought the Spook was practising on us, making us appear mad, we were really practising our madness on the Turks. Doc. O’Farrell visited us every day. The Turks thought he too was “under control” and that he was puzzled by our symptoms. In point of fact he was coaching us very carefully in what things were fit and proper for a “melancholic” and “a furious” to do and say, for we had decided to adhere to the two distinct types of madness diagnosed by the Yozgad doctors. What he secretly taught us each morning, the Spook made us do “under control” each evening, when it was duly noted down by the Pimple. These notes were revised and corrected by the Spook at regular intervals. In this way we piled up a goodly store of evidence as to our insanity.

Every evening, after the rest of the camp had been locked up, we held sÉances, and at every sÉance the poor Pimple was put through his lesson. Over and over again he was made to recite to the spook-board what he had to say to the Constantinople doctors. It made a strange picture: MoÏse, leaning over the piece of tin that was his Delphic oracle, told his tale as he would tell it at Haidar Pasha. His face used to be lined with anxiety lest he should go wrong and incur the wrath of the Unknown. Hill and I, pale and thin with starvation, and the strain of our long deception, sat motionless (and, as MoÏse thought, unconscious), with our fingers resting on the glass and every sense strained to detect the slightest error in the Pimple’s story or in his tone or manner of telling it. And when the mistakes came (as to begin with they did with some frequency), the glass would bang out the Spook’s wrath with every sign of anger and there would follow the trembling apologies and stammered emendations of the unhappy Interpreter. Hill and I had got beyond the stage of wanting to laugh, for we were working now at our last hope. It was absolutely essential that the Pimple’s story should be without flaw.

In order to minimize the chance of error, the Spook expounded to the Pimple every bit of medical lore which Doc. O’Farrell had imparted to us, for he was less likely to go wrong if he knew what the doctors were driving at in their questions. Indeed, there were only three points on which we kept him in ignorance. These were (i) that there was no Spook and we were not “under control” but acting; (ii) that O’Farrell was helping us, and (iii) that our object was “exchange” and not “treasure.” The Spook warned him that it would be much harder to hoodwink the Constantinople doctors than it had been to deceive the local men.

“Entre nous,” it said, “O’Farrell and the doctors here know nothing about mental diseases. To deceive Major Osman and Captain Suhbi Fahri I made the mediums behave in the way an ignorant man thinks lunatics behave. But when we are up against the Constantinople doctors, and especially the Germans, it will be a different business. You will be surprised, mon vieux. My method will be to make the mediums appear quite sane to the lay eye, but they will have little lapses and little mannerisms which the specialists will note.” The Spook “controlled” us in turn to show MoÏse what he meant by “mannerisms.” It first made Hill sit with a vacant stare of his face, twiddling his thumbs and pleating and unpleating the edge of his coat. Then it threw me into a trance where I picked imaginary threads and hairs off my own clothes or the clothes of the person I happened to be talking to, and twisted a button ceaselessly between finger and thumb.

“All that,” the Spook explained to MoÏse, “appears quite sane to you. You will not recognize in it a sign of madness, nor should you put it down in your notes, but a doctor who knows his job will remark it at once. If he asks you, ‘Have you noticed that before?’ be sure to say, ‘Oh yes, he is always doing that!’ in a tone as if you did not know what was behind the question, or that such action had any significance.”

Again, as to the Pimple’s manner of telling his story, the Spook was very emphatic. “I want you to tell your story in such a way that you will appear not to know what is important. You might begin by saying you do not know what the doctors want to know about. Let them question you, as far as possible. Don’t recite it like a set piece, but get them interested. Speak so as to entice questions. Now, one word of explanation and warning: you will find that the mediums will deny a great many things you say they have done. That will be understood by the doctors as a madman’s cunning, and at the same time it will prove that you and the Commandant are not in league with the mediums. So do not be alarmed by their denials.”

One thing worried MoÏse greatly, and at length he ventured to ask the board, “Won’t they think it funny that two officers go mad at the same time?”

“Yes,” said the Spook, “they will. If you say they ‘went mad at the same time’ it will spoil everything. I have never said they went mad at the same time.”

“That is true, Sir,” MoÏse agreed, “but what am I to think?”

“They were discovered to be mad at the same time by the Yozgad doctors, but the important point is that for the last two years they have been gradually going mad quite separately and independently. It was the fact of their being regarded as peculiar by the other officers that threw them together, combined with their common interest in spiritualism and telepathy. What you should say is that, looking back in the light of what you have since learned from the doctors, it is your belief that the mediums have always been mad ever since you knew them, and you cannot account for their peculiarities in any other way. Recently their madness became more pronounced, which caused the Commandant to call in medical advice. This is why their past history is so important. Do you see?”

“Yes, Sir,” said MoÏse meekly.

When at last by dint of ceaseless tuition MoÏse had thoroughly grasped the situation, and the nature of the story he was to tell, the Spook held an examination and asked every conceivable question we and O’Farrell thought the Constantinople doctors might set. MoÏse passed the test with great credit; and we felt we were ready for the road.

In addition to teaching the Pimple, the Spook had a good deal of “cleaning up” to do. We wanted to leave our comrades as comfortably off as possible. Many officers had been complaining of the non-arrival of remittances from England, and we suspected that a good deal of the missing money had stuck to the palms of the Commandant on the way between Post Office and camp. By sheer good luck the Commandant asked the Spook whom he should send to the Post Office for the money whilst MoÏse had gone. He complained that he could not trust any of the other officials to bring it to him. The Spook advised him to send a British officer from the camp, along with any one of the Turkish officials. Whether or not this was done after our departure we do not know.

The camp was crowded, and would be still more crowded when the Changri men arrived. We had long since decided to get more house-room for our comrades. Across the road were two small houses which we had planned to add to the camp. The fact that one of them was inhabited by the witch who read the cards for Kiazim in hours of stress merely made us additionally keen. For we objected to rivals. The Spook, therefore, turned her out of the house just before the Changri people arrived, and Hill and I went into it. The second house was already empty. The Commandant agreed to hand over these two houses to the camp after we were gone, but Colonel Maule, being ignorant of our plans, nearly spoiled everything by arranging for the disposal of the Changri prisoners in the accommodation already at his command. Kiazim at once converted the second house into a guard-room for the sentries, and it took a good deal of diplomacy to make him promise to hand over the one we were in to our fellow-prisoners. However, we managed it.

We felt something ought to be done to Kiazim as a punishment for his cowardice over the affair of X. The Spook therefore informed him that the time had come for him to go “on diet,” and although we did not reduce his food to our own starvation rations, we gave him a pretty thin time. Whether on account of this, or for some other reason, Kiazim had a recurrence of his biliary colic. He asked the Spook for a remedy—indeed, he suspected the Spook of bringing on the attack! In reply the Spook offered to call up the shade of Lord Lister for a consultation. The Commandant was so delighted with Lister’s advice, that we felt much tempted to make the Spook demand a hundred guinea fee.

The Commandant’s wife had been boasting round Yozgad of a coming access of wealth, and this in spite of a previous warning by the Spook. Kiazim was therefore made to give her a thoroughly good scolding, and forbidden to speak to her for a fortnight.

Then there was the Cook. Orders had come from Constantinople to demobilize men of 50 years and over. The Cook fell within that class, but the Commandant was unwilling to “demob.” him without the permission of the Spook. After some delay, the Spook graciously granted permission to Kiazim to free the Cook from all military duties, but insisted that he should continue to attend to the domestic wants of the mediums. For this both the Cook and the Commandant thanked the Spook, while Hill and I listened with grave faces.

A matter which rankled a little was that the Commandant was still in possession of the two Turkish gold liras, which we had dug up with the clues. The Spook accordingly ordered a hacksaw and a small vice. These were borrowed by the Turks from a goldsmith in the town. The Spook then made Hill cut each coin into three equal parts, and gave Hill and myself the parts of the coins bearing the dates, while the Cook and Pimple each got a section, and the remaining two portions went to the Commandant, one for himself and one for his wife. “These portions,” said the Spook, “bind you all together in my brotherhood, to be faithful and true to my behests. That is one function. The other function is to deceive AAA; for these are the exact duplicates of the original tokens. You must wear these tokens as the originals were worn—round your necks. I prefer not to explain yet how they will be used to deceive AAA, because that is still a long way off, but you must always wear the tokens to be ready.”

The Turks readily obeyed, and so far as I know they are still wearing their tokens. They did not realize our object. It was to render comparatively useless the only thing of value the Spook had “discovered,” and at the same time to provide us with an additional proof of Kiazim’s confederacy with us. Should the occasion arise for us to denounce him it would cause him some trouble to explain how we all came to be wearing portions of the same coin if we were not in some sort of league together.

The Pimple was justly unpopular with the camp. Everybody knew he took toll of our parcels before they were delivered to us, and in addition to his thieving he had an objectionable habit of coming round the recipients of parcels after delivery, and begging here some tea and there some chocolate, and so on. It was unwise to refuse, because if you did he would see to it that the next package of books that arrived would be sent back to Constantinople for re-censoring, and books were very precious to us prisoners. Had he chosen he could have done much to render our imprisonment less irksome, but he knew he was top dog for the time being, and took advantage of his position.

The Spook therefore set about permanently ridding the camp of their pet aversion, and it did so by fanning the flame of ambition that was consuming the poor fool. “You are wasting time in Yozgad,” it said; “nothing comes to him who does not ask. You are clever! Strike out for your betterment. Throw modesty to the winds.” (Heaven knows he had little to spare!) “You are a good lad. Make other people realize it. Do not stagnate in Yozgad while great careers are being made elsewhere. Why don’t you try to get to the heart of things?” (MoÏse pleaded the cost of living at Constantinople, and the Spook went on): “A crust of bread where there are big men to watch you earn it is better than rich meats in a wilderness. I am taking you to Constantinople. I have arranged for a man in your place here. Mind you stay there.”

MoÏse thanked the Spook warmly for its advice and begged for instructions as to how he could stay at the capital. He was ordered on arrival at Constantinople to go to the War Office, say he knew Turkey was being hard pressed by its enemies and demand to be sent to the fighting line. This, the Spook assured him, would obtain him his commission. The unhappy Pimple was horror-struck at the idea of having to fight, but the Spook promised that he would be quite safe, and as soon as he got to Constantinople the little ass did as we desired. The Turkish War Office was so astonished at obtaining a volunteer at this stage in the war that they gave him a commission straight off, granted him a month’s leave to wind up his affairs and then clapped him into the officers’ training school, where he was fed on skilly and drilled for eight hours a day. He utilized his first afternoon off duty to come to me in the mad ward of Haidar Pasha hospital, where he literally wept out his sufferings into my unsympathetic ear and implored the Spook to get him better treatment. The Spook reminded him he had offered to share the starvation of the mediums and informed him that he was now “doing his bit,” and it is fair to the Pimple to record that when he heard the verdict he dried his tears, held his head high, and announced that he was proud to do his duty by our great cause; henceforward, he said, he would endure the torments of bad food, bad lodging and hard physical exercise without a moan. He never complained again, but he sometimes referred with regret to the luxuries of his old post at Yozgad,—and we felt the camp was avenged.

One other thing we did for the camp. On the 24th the Changri prisoners arrived. We knew from the Turks that the reason for their coming to Yozgad was their refusal to give parole not to escape. Several of them—Le Patourel, Lowndes, Anderson, Johnstone, and Cochrane (of “450 Miles to Freedom” fame) came to see us and told us that practically the whole party intended to escape. We were invited to join but our transport was already ordered by the Spook and it was too late to alter our plans had we wished it. Then we learned from the Pimple that the Changri Commandant (who accompanied the new prisoners to Yozgad) had warned Kiazim that they were a set of desperate characters who were undoubtedly planning to escape. Kiazim had therefore made up his mind to lock up the camp again under the conditions which had prevailed when we first arrived at Yozgad; but before doing so he wished to consult the Spook. Would we grant him one last sÉance before leaving Yozgad?

We did. Our last sÉance in Yozgad was held on the night of the 24th April, 1918, and almost the last question with which the Spook dealt (I quote the record) was:

“The Commandant presents his compliments to the Control and wishes to know if any of the Changri prisoners have the idea of escaping.”

“Certainly,” was the reply. “Every man would escape if he thought it possible, but Yozgad is as nearly impossible as any place can be, and they are not fools. Their opinion is that escape is too difficult to justify them in bringing the rest into trouble.”

The Spook went on to point out that the more hours out of every twenty-four the camp was on parole the less time would there be for escape; for this reason alone it was advisable to grant as many extra liberties as possible to those who were willing to give parole not to escape while actually enjoying these extra liberties. The Commandant might be perfectly confident that every such parole would be kept. But if close confinement were again imposed there would certainly be escapes.

“Let the Sup. tell them they are welcome to try to escape except when on ‘extra liberties,’ but they have been warned of what will happen to the rest. I do not say nobody will try, but it is most unlikely, especially if they are kept contented.”

Just before we left Yozgad we learned (from Le Patourel, if I remember right) that the escape was planned for early June—six weeks ahead. The Spook immediately sent word to the Commandant that it guaranteed there would be no escape or attempt to escape for at least three months from the date of our departure from Yozgad. This gave the Changri men a free hand until the 26th July, by which date we felt sure they would have made the attempt.^[46]

It is of course impossible to say what would have happened had Kiazim been left to his own resources. This much is certain: on the morning of the 24th April he intended to keep the whole camp, and especially the Changri men, in very strict confinement. On the morning of the 25th April, the day after the sÉance, when he called to bid us farewell, and brought us a basket of sweet biscuits for the journey, made by his wife’s own hands, he told us he would follow the Spook’s advice and keep the prisoners as contented as possible. I learn from the book I have just quoted that he kept his promise, and after we left Yozgad the camp was better off in the matter of facilities for exercise than it had ever been in our time. Two days a week there was hunting, once a week a picnic to the pine-woods, and, on the remaining four days, walks; also access to the bazaar was easier to obtain. We can justly claim that the “Black Sheep” of Yozgad brought no harm to the rest of the flock.

CHAPTER XXIV

Ever since Major Osman and Captain Suhbi Fahri had certified us insane we had feigned madness whenever any Turk was near, and in the presence of some of the visitors from the camp. We had found no great difficulty in maintaining our rÔles as occasion arose, and indeed it was rather amusing to be able to heave a brazier of charcoal at a sentry, or try to steal his rifle, without fear of punishment. For the strain of acting was only temporary. We contrived to give the special sentry who was detailed to prevent us doing harm to ourselves or others such a very hot time that he preferred to do his tour of duty outside our room. So for most of the hours of the twenty-four we were alone, and could be rational. But we realized that from the moment we left our sanctuary and started on our journey to Constantinople, our simulation must be kept up night and day. As soon as we reached Haidar Pasha our escort would probably be questioned about our behaviour en route, and it was well they should corroborate the Pimple’s report of our actions. We agreed there must be no half measures. Alone or together, in sickness or health, to friend and foe, at all times and under all circumstances we must appear mad. O’Farrell warned us that the strain would be terrible, but not even he, doctor as he was, guessed half what it really meant. Nothing but the hope of liberty justified the attempt, and there were times in Constantinople when we doubted if liberty itself (which in those days was our idea of Heaven) was worth it. Pretend to be what you are not and the desire to be what you are grows in intensity until it becomes an agony of the mind. Your very soul cries out to you to be natural, to be your own “self” if only for five minutes. Then comes a stage of fear when you wonder if you are not what you seem—if you can ever be yourself again—if this creature that weeps mournfully when it should be gay, or gabbles wildly about its own grandeur, is not the real Hill, the real Jones. You believe you are all right, but you want to try so as to be sure—and yet trial is impossible; it would spoil everything. For a brief period in Haidar Pasha hospital a former patient came back and wanted the bed Hill happened to be in, so Hill was put in the bed next mine. It seems a little thing, that we should lie there three feet apart instead of ten, but it meant much. That was, for us, the easiest period of our long misery. We did not attempt to talk—we were too closely watched for that—but at night, under cover of darkness, sometimes he and sometimes I would stretch out an arm, and for a brief moment grip the other’s hand. The firm strong pressure of my comrade’s fingers used to put everything right. It was the one sane action in our insane day.

A merciful Providence has decreed that the present must suffice, and the future shall be hidden from man; so though at Yozgad we guessed a little of the horror to come, it did not unduly oppress us. When at 10 a.m. on April 26th, the two best carts and the four best horses in the Changri transport were brought to our door, we made merry with MoÏse about this theft from the Afion party. Then we went out into the street. In a mad sort of way I superintended the loading of our belongings on to the carts, getting into everybody’s way and flustering still further the already flustered Turks. (Why do Orientals always seem to lose their heads when starting on a journey?) Hill stood by, perfectly heedless of the tumult that was going on round him, reading his Bible and looking miserable. Behind the barred and latticed windows of the Colonels’ House we could hear the Changri prisoners chuckling at our antics, and a voice hailed us from Posh Castle. We did not look up—our farewells had already been said. By way of giving our escort an example of how to humour us, Kiazim Bey came to the door of his office and told us in Turkish that he was our very good friend, that he was sending us to Constantinople for a holiday, and that the soldiers who accompanied us were there to guard us against the enmity of Baylay and our other English foes. (All this, of course, by order of the Spook.) I bade him a florid and affectionate farewell and mounted the cart. Hill went on reading the Bible and had to be pushed up beside me. The driver struck the horses with his whip. I cheered, and my imitative mania asserting itself, I struck the driver with my fly-flap. This caused a delay. The driver pulled up, expostulating in angry Turkish, and my fly-flap was taken away from me by Mulazim Hassan, who had turned up to see the last of us. By this time there was a biggish crowd in the street. We started again. I hugged the driver, got up another cheer, and began distributing bank-notes among the onlookers. MoÏse, who had been warned by the Spook what to do if I was controlled into wasting my money, jumped off his cart and collected them back again. He had hard work explaining to the ragged mob that I was mad and they must not keep the money, but his fear of the wrath of the Spook if he failed lent a new boldness to his speech and authority to his manner. Still, it was not difficult to see he was far from happy when forcing them to disgorge, and that his nervousness increased proportionately with the size and burliness of his victim.^[47]

Thus, in the two best carts obtainable, with MoÏse and two selected gamekeepers in charge of us, and the blessings of the Commandant on our heads, we started forth to face the world as lunatics, and to read the thoughts of the holder of the third clue in Constantinople. It was good fun, getting out into the open after nearly two years of dismal prison life, and I was not a little sorry for Hill. As a religious melancholic he must do nothing but weep or pray or read his Bible, while his heart, if it was anything like mine, was thumping with joy at being quit of Yozgad and moving westwards towards Europe, England, and Liberty! The time was to come when, with hope near dead within me and the stress of an enforced cheerful idiocy weighing me down, I would long to change places with Hill so that I might pray a little, aye—and weep too! But for this one day I was in luck. The Turks put down my happiness to the fact that I was leaving behind the English who were so intent on murdering me, and going to Stamboul to see the Sultan, and Enver Pasha, and become a great man in the Turkish Government. So it was quite in keeping with my type of insanity to be light-hearted, and to let off my high spirits in any old act of lunacy that came up my back; to set the carts racing against one another, to howl Turkish songs in imitation of the drivers, to shout mad greetings and make faces and throw money (to the annoyance of the Pimple) at the amazed passers-by. And from my own private point of view there was some excuse for high spirits—were we not the first two to get out of Yozgad on our own initiative, and were we not being taken on a personally conducted tour at the expense of the Turkish Government, which, if all went well, would end in old England? So I laughed, and shouted, and sang, and was exceeding cheerful, to the great joy of the escort and the drivers, who much preferred this phase of my lunacy to my “dangerous” moods. All the time Hill sat mournfully huddled up, as became a melancholic, but once, when he glanced at me, I noticed his eyes were sparkling. He told me afterwards it must have been a sparkle of anticipation—he was planning his first dinner at Home!

The first three days of our journey were very happy. In my rÔle of “cheerful idiot” I rapidly got on good terms with Bekir and Sabit, the two sentries, and with the drivers of our carts. Beyond insisting on praying before he would do anything they wanted him to do, Hill gave them no trouble at all. So our escort thought they had got a “cushy” job, and a paying one, as an occasional five-piastre note, which escaped the notice of MoÏse, came their way. They told MoÏse it was a shame to send such a couple of innocents to the “Tobtashay,” and they’d like to look after us till the end of the war. They were soon to change their tune.

Doc. O’Farrell’s hint that a “suicide” would complete the downfall of the Constantinople doctors had not been lost upon us. We had decided to hang ourselves on the way to Angora, and to arrange to be rescued by the Pimple in the nick of time. We told the Doc. of our intention. “If ye do it,” he said with enthusiasm, “there’s not a doctor in Christendom, let alone Turkey, will believe you’re sane!” Then caution supervened, and he tried to dissuade us. He told us uncomfortable details about the anatomy of the neck and the spinal column. He said that theoretically the idea was sound, but practically it was impossible, because it was too dangerous. A fraction of a minute might make all the difference and convert our sham suicide into the genuine article. “One of ye do it,” he suggested, “then the other can be at hand to cut him down if the Turks don’t come.” We objected that, besides being suspicious, this would give one of us an unfair advantage over the other in the eyes of the specialists, and we were determined to do the thing thoroughly and share all risks equally. The Doc. made one last despairing effort.

“Suppose you pull it off and deceive the Turks into thinking it was a genuine attempt,” he said, “what do you think will happen?”

“We’ll be sent home—to England.”

“Aye—you’ll be sent home all right. An’ what do you think your address will be?” He leant forward and tapped my shoulder impressively with a crooked forefinger. “Until I get back to let you out it’s Colney Hatch you’ll be in, and divil a glimpse will ye get of Piccadilly or the French Front or whatever it is ye’re hankering after. Remember, I can’t write and explain—the Turks would hang me if I tried.”

“Once we are in England we can explain matters ourselves,” I laughed.

“An’ who will believe you, with your spooks and your buried treasure and all the rest of it? I tell you, you can explain till you’re blue in the face, but it is mad they’ll label you, and mad you will remain till I get back!”

We said we’d risk that, and Doc. gave up argument and threw himself enthusiastically into the task of helping us to deceive his professional brethren, showing us how to fix the knot with the least danger to ourselves, and telling us how to behave when we came to (if we ever came to), and what to say when we were questioned about the hanging. Matthews got us some suitable rope. We used it, for the time being, to tie up our roll of bedding, and very innocent it looked as we rode along towards Angora. Thus openly did the Pied Piper carry his flute.

Our rope would open for us a path through the mountains of captivity, and we too had our Mayor and Corporation—Kiazim and our escort—to leave gaping behind.

On the second day out from Yozgad the Spook began to prepare MoÏse for the “suicide.” It was, of course, out of the question to use the spook-board, or to hold regular sÉances, because privacy was impossible, and we did not wish the sentries to see MoÏse in his rÔle of “sitter,” lest they report the fact to the Constantinople authorities. The Spook had therefore announced at one of our last sÉances in Yozgad that we were now so well in tune, and so amenable to “control” that the use of the board could be dispensed with (though we were to take it with us), and after leaving Yozgad messages would be delivered through either Hill or myself, as MoÏse desired. MoÏse suggested that the messages should be delivered through me, and asked for some sign by which he might know “whether it is Jones himself who is talking or whether it is the Control speaking through his voice.” The Spook said that the sign of my being under control would be that I would start twisting my coat-button. Whatever was said while I twisted the button emanated from the Spook, and not from myself, and neither Hill nor I would be conscious of it or remember anything about it. The Pimple was overjoyed at this advance to more speedy means of communication; for the glass and board method had been painfully slow, a sÉance taking anything up to six hours. The great merit of the Ouija or of table-rapping, from the mediums’ point of view, lies in this very fact of slowness, for spelling out an answer letter by letter gives us psychics plenty of time to think. When an inconvenient question is asked, an unintelligible reply can easily be given, and while the sitter is trying to puzzle out what it means the mediums can consider what the final reply is to be. But when the Spook uses the medium’s voice question and answer follow one another with the rapidity of ordinary conversation, and there is less opportunity for deliberation. Because of this danger we had never trusted ourselves to use the “direct speech” method in Yozgad.^[48] But on the road to Constantinople we used it freely, for we knew exactly what we wanted, and were quite sure of our man.

Early in the morning on the second day, the drivers asked us to lighten the load by walking. The Pimple, Hill, myself and the two sentries took a short cut up the hillside, while the carts followed the winding road. The Pimple began giving us a lesson in French, for the Spook had told him to teach us some French words and a few simple phrases in order to enable us to ask for things in hospital. Ever since Constantinople had been fixed upon as our destination MoÏse had spent an hour a day in giving us a French or Turkish lesson. He was an excellent teacher, but he found us rather slow pupils.

“Your Turkish,” he said to me as we walked together up the hill, “is much better than your French. Now—say the present tense—je suis.”

“Je suis, tu as, il a——”

“No, no, no,” said the Pimple, “you mix with avoir! Perhaps I have tried to make you go too fast. Do you remember the numerals?”

I got as far as “douze” and stuck.

“You, Hill?”

Hill struggled on to twenty in an atrocious accent.

“You should have learned all this at school,” said the Pimple reprovingly; “you British are always deficient in foreign languages, but even so most of you know the French rudiments.”

“I was trained for India,” I said apologetically. “Eastern languages, you know. Perhaps that is why I find Turkish easier.”

“You are lazy and forgetful, both in French and Turkish.” He began to lecture us for forgetting our lesson of the day before. “Try je suis again and see if you can——” Suddenly his voice broke.

“Sir,” he said, excitedly, fixing his eyes on my fingers. I was twisting my coat-button.

The Spook began to speak through me, and MoÏse was at once all ears. The change in his attitude was extraordinary. A moment before he had been a hectoring schoolmaster abusing his pupils, a Turkish conqueror in charge of his two prisoners, secure in his superior knowledge and in his official position. Now he was the disciple, humble, deprecating, almost cringing.

The Spook reminded him that both Hill and I were now in a trance and knew nothing of what was being said. MoÏse was to keep it secret, lest we got frightened. For in order to justify, in the eyes of the authorities, the diagnosis and fears of the Yozgad doctors, we were to be controlled into hanging ourselves.

“Oh mon Dieu!” said the Pimple. He was genuinely shocked.

“Tais-toi!“ said the Spook angrily. ”Il ne faut jamais dire ce mot lÀ’.” It began abusing him in French for his carelessness. The Pimple made a most abject apology in the same language, which the Spook was graciously pleased to accept. It then went on in English to describe the Pimple’s part in the coming suicide, and to impress upon him the importance of carrying out his orders exactly, for on that alone the lives of the mediums would depend.

The hanging, the Spook explained, would take place at night, at Mardeen, which was a little country town some sixty miles from Yozgad. The signal that the hanging had begun would be the extinguishing of the candle in the mediums’ room. As soon as he saw the room was in darkness, MoÏse was to call out and ask why the light was put out. He would get no answer and would enter the room to see what was the matter. He would find Hill and Jones hanging by the neck, close together, and must at once do his best to lift them up so as to take some of their weight off the rope, and shout at the top of his voice for assistance, holding them thus till help arrived and they could be cut down. Any carelessness on his part would mean the death of the mediums and loss of the treasure, but beyond being careful to carry out his instructions he need have no other worries, for the mediums would feel no pain and would be quite unconscious of what they were doing.

The Spook made MoÏse repeat his instructions, over and over again, until there was no doubt that he knew exactly what to do. Then I gave a sigh, let go of the button, and turned my eyes, which had been fixed steadily on the horizon, and said:

“All right, I think I can remember it now! Je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes, vous Êtes, ils ont.”

MoÏse stared at me open-mouthed. He was a little shaken.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s right, except the third plural. But do you know you’ve been in a trance?”

“Has he?” said Hill. “I never noticed.”

“And in your trance,” MoÏse went on, “you spoke French—well, fluently, with argot in it!”

“You don’t say so! What did I say?”

“You abused me for saying ‘mon Dieu!’”

“Nothing else?”

“No,” MoÏse lied. “Nothing else. But surely that is wonderful enough? Oliver Lodge says it is practically unknown for mediums to speak in a tongue they don’t know. You’ve beaten Lodge.”

“But you’ve been teaching us French,” I expostulated.

“Pah!” said the Pimple, “you used words you never heard in your life!”

Perhaps! But then, the Pimple did not know as much about me as he thought. My training for India had not been entirely confined to Eastern languages. I have pleasant recollections of summers spent in a French school and a French ’Varsity.

CHAPTER XXV

HOW WE HANGED OURSELVES

On the 29th April, 1918 (an ominous day because it was the second anniversary of the fall of Kut-el-Amara and of the beginning of my captivity), we drove into the little town of Mardeen. Here, on our journey to Yozgad twenty-two months ago, we had rested for a day. We were then travel-worn, footsore and starved. The memories of the awful desert march, the studiously callous neglect with which the Turks had treated us on the way, the misery of being herded and driven and clubbed across the wastes like so many stolen cattle, and sheer weariness of body had nigh broken our spirit. Long afterwards a British officer, captured on the Suez front, who saw the Kut prisoners pass through Angora, told me, “When we saw your mob being driven along I turned to my neighbour and said, ‘By God! Those fellows have been through it! They’re broken men, every one of them!’ You all looked fit for nothing but hospital.” Our batch were officers, and as such the Turks had granted us a little money and a little transport to help us on the way. What the men of the garrison suffered no one can tell. The desert road from Kut to railhead at Raas-el-ain is 600 miles. At each furlong-post set a stone to the memory of a murdered prisoner, and there will still be corpses to spare! That lonely desert track belongs to the Dead Men of Kut.

My second entry into Mardeen was happier than the first. We were travelling in comfort. The twisting of a coat-button made us in fact what that courteous liar Enver Pasha had glibly promised we should be—“the honoured guests of Turkey.” The Spook could get us all the comforts we wanted, and though we still denied ourselves proper food the starvation was nothing, for it was a self-imposed means to an end. In place of a hopeless captivity there lay ahead of us the hope of early freedom. So we bumped joyfully over the cobbled streets and drew up in the market square. We noticed with interest the effects of the pressure of the British Navy. Two years ago the shops had still been full of European goods. Now most of them were shut, and those which remained open were empty of everything but local produce. A restaurant where I had got a good meal for five piastres was now charging forty piastres for a single dish of poor food. Everywhere prices were fabulously high. Last winter, we learned, the town had been swept by typhus. Most of the townsfolk were in rags; at all of which we could have rejoiced had it not been for the starving children. Hill nudged me and silently indicated a little group of them, pallid with hunger, grubbing amongst some refuse in the hope of finding food the dogs had overlooked. The Spook got to work with five-piastre notes, and my Turkish being already good enough to enable me to tell each recipient to run like smoke, the Pimple had a desperate ten minutes. He returned from his last chase puffing and blowing, and bundled me back into the cart. He was very frightened, for he had retrieved very few of the notes.

We went on to one of the three caravan-serais of which the town boasted. These Turkish serais are built on a regular model. A big gateway leads into an open courtyard surrounded on all four sides by buildings. These are usually two-storeyed. The lower storey consists of stables for the horses, the upper of rooms for the men. Round the upper storey runs a fairly broad veranda, which overlooks the courtyard and gives access to the rooms. The veranda is reached by a staircase leading up from the courtyard. Somewhere in the building there is usually a coffee-stall, kept by the caretaker, where light refreshment can be obtained.

As we entered the courtyard the caretaker bustled forward with his bunch of great keys. He opened room after room for our inspection. They were all stone floored, low-ceilinged and devoid of all furniture. This would not have mattered to us. The important point was that nowhere could we see a place to tie a rope above five feet from the floor. The building seemed to have been specially designed to prevent suicide by hanging.

Hill was mooning along with us, reading his Bible as he went and pretending to take no interest in the proceedings, but I knew that the mournful look he bestowed on each room as we entered had taken in every detail. I glanced at him and he gave the tiniest shake of the head. I turned on MoÏse.

“Is this the accommodation you offer me, ME, a friend of the Sultan!” I said in simulated rage, twisting my coat-button as I spoke. “This is an insult! Take us where we shall find worthy lodging, or you shall suffer!”

The Pimple translated to the caretaker, and asked if he had no better rooms. That worthy closed his eyes, tossed back his head, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. We knew the gesture well, as does every prisoner of war from Turkey. It is the most objectionable, irritating and insulting negative in the world. Then he pocketed his keys and walked away.

We went down into the courtyard. The drivers had already unharnessed. Bekir and Sabit had taken the luggage off the carts, and as the Pimple’s belongings included 500 lbs. of butter which he was taking to Constantinople in the hope of selling it at a profit, unloading was no light task. When the Pimple told them we had refused to stay there, sentries and drivers alike were furious. I added to the hub-bub by dancing about the yard in a frenzy and ordering them to harness up at once. Bekir, his face red with anger, took me roughly by the shoulder and growled at me in Turkish. I pushed him off, and foaming with rage informed him that he was reduced from Lieutenant-Colonel (to which rank I had promoted him that very morning) to a common ‘nefer’ (private) again, and if he didn’t load up at once I’d have him shot, I’d report him to the Sultan, I’d tell Enver about him and blow him from the cannon’s mouth. The Pimple translated. It was a very pretty little scene, and quite a crowd gathered in the gateway. In the end we had our way. The horses were harnessed, the carts were loaded, and we bumped over the cobbles to another caravanserai. It was no better than the first. My wrath reached boiling point: Hill became almost grotesquely mournful. The sentries and the drivers were on the point of mutiny. I nearly twisted off the coat-button getting MoÏse to move them on. We crossed the square to the third, last and best caravanserai in Mardeen. The sentries and drivers began unloading as soon as they got into the courtyard. Their patience was at an end and it was obvious they would humour us no longer. Besides, there was nowhere else to go. The hotel-keeper (I dignify him thus, though he was a lousy rascal enough, because the place was a little more pretentious than the ordinary serai) told us he had only one room unoccupied. Everything looked very hopeless as we watched him fumble at the lock. Then he threw open the door. It was a narrow room, about fifteen feet long by ten wide, and contained two beds. In the wall opposite the door was a small barred window, too low down to be of any use. I glanced at the ceiling. It was high—a good 11 feet above ground level—and directly overhead, close to the door and about three feet apart from one another, were four solid rings, fastened by staples to the woodwork, that looked strong enough to hold an ox. Our luck had changed. Things could not have been better had we ordered them specially.

I turned to the hotel-keeper.

“We would prefer a larger room, with ten beds, if you have it.”

He said he had no other room. I bowed profoundly and indicated our willingness to make the best of a bad job. Hill was already sitting on the floor reading the Bible.

Bekir and Sabit brought up the luggage and proceeded to make themselves comfortable. An attempt to get them to take up their quarters on the veranda failed. My simulated rage at the first two hotels had frightened them. They thought I was in one of my dangerous moods, and stuck to their posts. But there was still plenty of time, as it was not yet sunset.

Opposite the door of our room, on the other side of a small narrow passage, was the coffee-shop of the hotel. It was full of a motley crowd of drovers and shepherds. At my suggestion Bekir, MoÏse and I entered it, leaving Hill at his religious duties in the corner and Sabit to watch him. Before MoÏse could stop me I had ordered and paid for coffee all round—it cost a shilling a cup! While this was being drunk I went amongst the drovers and asked confidentially if there were any English in the town, and if any of them knew Major Baylay. There were no English in Mardeen, and Baylay was utterly unknown. In my joy at the news I ordered ten cups of coffee for each guest and threw a pile of bank-notes on the counter. MoÏse grabbed it, explained to the crowd that I was mad, and amid much sympathetic murmuring and “Allah-Allah-ing” from the drovers I was hustled back into my own room. In preparation for what was coming later, the hotel habituÉs had been given a hint of our mental state, and I had seen what we wanted in the coffee-room—a small table, by standing on which we could reach the rings. As an excuse for getting it brought in we ordered a meal.

The next problem was to get rid of the sentries. While MoÏse was out of the room ordering our dinner, Hill (pretending to be reading his Bible aloud) suggested that after the meal I should invite the sentries and MoÏse to step across the passageway and have a cup of coffee with me. They would probably accept the invitation because they regarded Hill as harmless. While they were away Hill would fix the ropes to the rings. I would excuse myself for a moment and return to the room, the door of which they could see from the coffee-room. We would jam the table against the door, stand on it, get the nooses round our necks, blow out the light and swing off. I agreed.

MoÏse came back with the table and the food. We all had dinner (Bekir and Sabit were fed at our expense as a mark of their return into favour). Under pretence of doing something to the luggage, Hill tied nooses on our two ropes. The sentries did not notice what he was doing. Then he began to read his Bible again. I invited the party to coffee. All accepted, except Hill, who paid no attention. We opened the door: the coffee-room was shut. The “cafÉ-jee” had gone away! Our plan had failed. Bekir offered to get a bottle of cognac if we would provide the money. I had a momentary idea of making the men drunk enough to sleep soundly, but it would be too dangerous. Besides, the Turks would expect us to drink level, and we needed clear heads if we were to make no mistakes. So we vetoed the cognac and I voted for tea. Sabit went out and boiled some water over a fire in the yard. I tried to get Bekir to go and see why he was so long about it, but Bekir had taken his boots off and couldn’t be bothered. Sabit came back with the hot water. I had failed again.

As we drank the tea I began to make myself as interesting as I could, and told tales current among Welsh country folk that appealed to the bucolic minds of our escort. I spoke of things seen in the East, and especially of crops and harvests in distant lands. MoÏse interpreted. The sentries listened intently, for they were small farmers themselves, and asked intelligent and endless questions. Thus they forgot their fears about us, and ten o’clock arrived. But we were no nearer our objective. Sabit began to spread his bedding in his customary place—across the door.

“Before Sabit lies down,” I said, “I want to be taken to the House of Purification” (the Turkish name for lavatory). I signalled secretly to Hill to come with us. Bekir and Sabit got their rifles and marched us into the outer darkness. The Pimple remained behind. After we had gone a few paces I slipped an Indian rupee and a Turkish gold lira into Hill’s palm, and began singing. This is what I sang—

Hill squeezed my arm to show that he understood, and I turned to Sabit and asked for a Turkish song. He complied readily enough. By the time we got back to the room we were all singing together, except Hill. He went back to his corner and his Bible.

“That last tune of Bekir’s reminds me of one I heard from a witch doctor in Togoland,”^[49] I said to the Pimple. “He was a great magician and held converse with djinns. Ask Bekir if he has ever seen magic.”

Bekir had often heard of magic and djinns, but had never seen any. Yes, he would like very much to see some, but where?

I pointed to Hill, huddled up in his corner, and told them he knew all the magic of the aborigines of Australia. I’d make him show us some, if they wished it. They were delighted at the idea. But Hill refused to oblige. He said magic was “wicked” and he had given it up.

“Shall I force him to do it?” I asked.

Bekir and Sabit nodded. They were very keen already, and knew that Hill usually obeyed me—it was a feature in his insanity that he gave in to me more readily than to anyone else. But tonight he simulated great reluctance. I had to threaten to take his Bible away before he would do as he was told. Finally he stood up, the picture of mournful despondency, and slowly rolled up his sleeves. We lit a second candle and placed it on the table. We moved the table to the spot we wanted it—not directly under the rings but slightly to one side, so that we would swing clear when we stepped off. Then Hill began.

It was a very wonderful little performance. He showed his empty hand to the sentries, then closed it slowly under their noses (his audience was never more than three feet away). When he opened it a rupee lay shining in his palm. The sentries gasped—here was a man turning thin air into silver. Could he make gold too? Hill took the rupee in his right hand and threw it into his left three times. The third time it turned into a Turkish gold lira. The sentries, dumb with surprise, took it from his palm, examined it closely by the candlelight, bit it, rang it on the table. “It is good,” said Bekir, handing it back. “Make more, many more.” Hill smiled a little sourly and threw the lira back into his left hand, and it turned back into a rupee. Sabit gave a short, very nervous bark of a laugh. Bekir was disappointed—he wanted more gold. With a look of utter boredom on his face Hill began extracting gold coins from the air, from under the table, from the back of his knee, slipping his harvest into his pocket as he garnered it. The sentries gaped in open-mouthed astonishment. Hill picked up his Bible and made to sit in his corner again.

“More!” said Bekir. “Show us more magic.”

Hill turned back. “Would you like to see the table float about the room?” he asked.

They would like it very much.

“Then step outside the door while I speak to the djinns.”

We all rose to go out, I with the rest.

“You’ll be out there about 15 minutes,” Hill went on; “better take a candle with you. And if you value your lives don’t come in till I call you. But I want one of you to stay and help me.”

I suggested MoÏse should stay, and in the same breath twisted my button and told him to leave me behind. It ended by the sentries going out with MoÏse quite happily. We closed the door. It fitted badly, and MoÏse had but to watch the space between the lintel and door to see when our light went out. Darkness was to be his signal for breaking in.

The moment the door closed, Hill handed me my rope, and we mounted the small table together. My hands shook so from excitement that the ring rattled against the staple with a noise like castanets, and I could scarcely control my fingers to knot the rope. It was not unlike the “stag-fever” which afflicts young hunters of big game.

“Steady,” said Hill in a low voice, “they’ll hear you.”

He was already standing with the rope round his neck. His ring and staple had not made a sound. His voice pulled me together, and next moment my task too was done.

“Ready?” I whispered.

“I’m O.K.,” he replied.

We shook hands.

“Take the strain,” I said.

Holding the rope above my head in my right hand, I bent my knees till it was taut about my neck. I could not see Hill, but knew he was doing the same. We did not want an inch of “drop” if we could avoid it.

The candle was ready in my left hand. I blew it out, and we swung off into space.

To anyone desirous of quitting this mortal coil we can offer one piece of sound advice—don’t try strangulation. Than hanging by the neck nothing more agonising can be imagined. In the hope of finding a comfortable way of placing the noose we had both experimented before leaving Yozgad, but no matter how we placed it we could never bear the pain for more than a fraction of a second. When we stepped off our table in the dark at Mardeen we simply had to bear it, and though we had arranged to grip the rope with one hand so as to take as much weight as possible off the neck until we heard MoÏse at the door, the pain was excruciating. MoÏse did not at once notice that our light had gone out. I revolved slowly on the end of my rope. My right arm began to give out and the rope bit deeper into my throat. My ears were singing. I wondered if I was going deaf, if I could hear him try the door in time to get my hand away, if he was ever going to open the door at all. It was impossible to say how long we hung thus, revolving in the dark. I suppose it was about 90 seconds, but it seemed like ten years.

“Hill, Jones, are you ready?” At last the Pimple had seen the signal.

We instantly let go of our ropes and hung solidly by the neck—it was awful.

“Hill, Jones!” The Pimple was shouting now. We could not have answered had we tried.

The door crashed open. The Pimple saw us, yelled at the top of his voice, and kept on yelling. Somebody rushed past (I was next the door) bumping against me so that my body swung violently, and the rope tightened unbearably round my throat. Then a pair of strong arms clasped my legs and—oh, blessed relief!—lifted me a little. (I found out afterwards it was Sabit, the sentry. The Pimple was doing the same for Hill.) There was soon pandemonium in the room; in answer to the Pimple’s cries people came rushing in from all over the hotel. The place was in darkness and everybody except Hill and myself were shouting as loud as they could, while the Pimple’s shrieks sounded clear above the din. Then somebody took me by the waist and threw all his weight on me. Through my closed eyelids I saw a whole firmament of shooting stars. I don’t quite know what happened after that until I found myself on the floor. The same thing was done to Hill. I believe it was one of the drovers who did it, but what his intention was I never knew. Perhaps he was testing us, to see if we would put up our hands, or perhaps he was a good Mohammedan anxious to finish off two infidel “giaours.” Whatever his object may have been, he did not succeed.

I don’t think either Hill or I ever quite lost consciousness, but for a time everything was very confused. We have quite clear recollections of unnamable tortures being inflicted upon us, which we endured without sign as best might be. Turkish methods of resuscitation are original and barbarous. At last somebody poured a bucketful of extraordinarily cold water over me and I half opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was Hill. He lay on a bed still feigning unconsciousness, with dropped jaw and protruding tongue. The local expert in anatomy was practising on him the same abominable treatment as I had just undergone. Another gentleman was pouring water impartially over Hill and the bed. The hotel-keeper, in a vain effort to save his mattresses, was tugging at Hill’s head so as to bring it over the edge of the bed and let the water fall on the floor. Hill opened his eyes and began to cry, as Doc. O’Farrell had warned him to do. They continued to pour water over us both, until the floor was an inch deep in it.

Doc.’s orders to me on “coming to” had been to be as abusive and noisy as possible, and to curse everybody for cutting me down. It was the only unfortunate bit of advice he ever gave us. As soon as I felt up to it, I tried to struggle to my feet, shook my fist at the Pimple and added to the general din by roaring out, “Terjuman chÔk fena! Terjuman chÔk fena!” (Interpreter very bad.)

Bekir, who had a firm grip on my collar, thrust me back to a sitting position on the floor and relieved his feelings at finding me so much alive by striking me a heavy blow with his fist under the ear. I paid no heed to him, though my head was singing, and continued to roar, “Terjuman chÔk fena!” at the top of my voice, but Bekir’s action was the signal for a general assault by everyone within reach. Sabit, from behind, drove his rifle-butt into my back, a shepherd in front smote me on the head with a coil of rope, and a gentleman in wooden clogs on my left kicked me hard in the stomach. The rope and the rifle had been just endurable, but “clogs” was the last straw. An overwhelming nausea came over me, everything swam in a giddy mist, and my voice sank like Bottom the weaver’s from a good leonine roar of wrath to the cooing of a sucking-dove. I have never felt so ill in my life, and it was hard to keep at it, even in a whisper. They were going to do something more to me, when MoÏse intervened. I was profoundly thankful, but went on raving at my rescuer between gasps. Bekir and Sabit contented themselves with holding me down on the floor.

Meantime my melancholic companion in crime was weeping and wailing on the bed. He was a most distressful figure, with his pale contorted face and streaming eyes and the great red weal round his neck where the rope had been. His shirt was torn half off, and everything about him from his hair to his socks was as wet as water could make it. Nobody paid the least attention to him and he wailed on in solitude.

The whole population of Mardeen seemed to be in the room or in the passage outside trying to get in. Gentlemen with swords; gentlemen with daggers; gentlemen with rifles, and blunderbusses, and knobkerries; shepherds and drovers with long sticks; a shoemaker with a hammer; and a resplendent gendarme with a long shining chain. On the table the hotel-keeper was standing; he held a torch in one hand and with the other exhibited a clasp-knife he had broken in cutting us down. Everyone was talking at once. The din was indescribable and the smell was beyond words. The Pimple, with fresh marks of tears on his cheeks (he had shrieked himself into hysterical weeping), waved his arms and explained over and over again about Hill’s gold trick and how we had fooled them into leaving the room. The mention of the gold fired the mob to search us. They did it very thoroughly, but found nothing but notes. Hill kept the gold out of sight by the aid of his sleight of hand, but let them find the rupee. This caused a fresh discussion—the rupee was evidence of the truth of what MoÏse and the sentries had said, and it must be that the gold was magic gold, and had disappeared into the thin air whence it came. They looked at Hill’s weeping figure with something of awe in their glances.

After about half an hour, when Hill and I had begun to quieten down, MoÏse questioned us for the benefit of the crowd as the Spook had previously ordered him to do. I admitted having attempted suicide, and said I did it because twenty English prisoners were chasing us (the Afion party which was two days’ behind), and Major Baylay was going to kill me. I managed to work myself up into a great state of terror. It was easy enough to do. I had only to let my body “go,” as it were, and as a result of our drenching, the extreme cold of the night and the rough treatment we had just come through, it did all that was necessary for a perfect simulation of fear. My teeth chattered and I shook all over as if with ague. The sentries were quite alarmed at the sight, and assured me for the hundredth time that no Englishman could come near me.

Then Hill, questioned in the same way, sobbed out that he knew suicide was a very wicked thing, but I had told him to do it. MoÏse told him angrily that he was a fool to take any notice of me. Hill turned his face to the wall and went on weeping. His acting was wonderful. Next day MoÏse told us the “control” had been marvellous.

I soon found that “letting myself go” had been a mistake; having once begun shivering I could not stop. It was a curious sensation: my body had taken command of the situation and was running away with me. I had an uneasy feeling that a lunatic ought not to feel cold or exhaustion, and I struggled hard to pull myself together, talking the while of my terror of Englishmen in general and Baylay in particular, in the hope that the Turks would ascribe the trembling to fear. They did. They showed me their rifles and knives and knobkerries and promised to kill off my English foes as they had done in the Dardanelles. Gradually my shivering wore itself out, but I felt colder than ever. I began joking with the crowd, telling what I would do to Baylay when I caught him. I was joking in a mist, and their voices were beginning to sound very far away. I knew I was on the point of fainting, and I made a mistake which might well have been fatal to our plans. I twisted my coat-button and said in English to MoÏse, “Send us to bed.” It was a foolish, insensate thing to say. Had the crowd in the room contained anyone who knew English that single sentence was enough to show that MoÏse was our confederate. The moment the words were out of my mouth I realised what I had done, and could have bitten my tongue out. By sheer good fortune, nobody understood, but I have never forgiven myself. The contrast between my weakness of spirit in Mardeen, and Hill’s superlative endurance later on in Constantinople when he kept a close tongue through a month of incredible illness and suffering in Gumush Suyu hospital, has cured me of any pride in my will-power. But the lesson was not entirely lost, and never again was my hatred of physical suffering allowed to gain the upper hand.

Luckily the crowd thought the order to change into dry things and go to bed emanated from MoÏse. Hill helped to save the situation by sobbing out that he didn’t want dry clothes and preferred to remain as he was and contemplate his sins. He had to be forced into his pyjamas. Meantime MoÏse had thrown me a towel and I was drying myself, joking with the mob as I did so. We noticed that at this they began muttering among themselves. MoÏse told us later that the hotel-keeper said no lunatic would dry himself under the circumstances. MoÏse replied I did it under his orders, which was true enough and satisfied everybody except the hotel-keeper, who was angry at the disturbance we had caused in his hotel and the damage done by the water to his bedding.

At the time we did not know what the muttering was about, but we saw something was wrong and raised a successful diversion by quarrelling amongst ourselves. Hill wanted to hold a prayer-meeting to ask forgiveness for our suicide, while I wanted him to obey the Turks who were protecting us from the English, and go to bed. In the end MoÏse was asked by the hotel-keeper to make me shut up, as I was keeping everybody in the hotel awake. I obeyed MoÏse, and so far as Hill was concerned he held his prayer-meeting and then turned in. I refused to go to bed myself, and plagued MoÏse to give me back the money he had taken from me at the search, in order that I might buy a rifle from one of our audience to protect myself against Major Baylay and the English. After about an hour of fruitless begging and raving on my part the last of the onlookers went away. Our cart drivers and two villagers were brought in to support Bekir and Sabit in case we turned violent again and I was made to lie down.

My throat was too sore to let me sleep, so I saw that all six of our guards remained awake all night, with their weapons ready in their hands.