A Prisoner of War
The men took their misfortune with the utmost composure. Some of them exchanged witticisms, regarding the business in the light of having gone ashore on leave and having missed the "liberty boat". One thing they regretted was not being able to smoke, since the glimmer of a match might draw the enemy's fire; so they "stood easy" under the shelter of an overhanging rock and chewed "Navy Plug", while the Sub and the midshipman discussed the situation.
"Bourne has evidently come to the conclusion that the boat's crew have lost the number of their mess," remarked Dick. "When one comes to consider matters, it is not surprising." And he pointed to the turmoil of broken water in Yenikeui Bay. "It is just possible that the Admiral will send a destroyer to investigate as soon as it gets daylight; but the question is, how are they going to pick us up under fire?"
"We can only hang on, sir," replied Farnworth. "Perhaps the Turks will clear out at sunrise, and we will be able to see if the boat's capable of floating. Should the sea moderate, it ought to be easy."
"I don't believe in hanging on," said Dick. "I think the wind's veering. It was almost due south, now it's sou'-east. Unless I'm much mistaken it will settle down to east'ard, and the sea on the other side of the bay will go down considerably."
"And then, sir?"
"We'll collar that craft our fellows discovered in the creek. From their accounts I should imagine it to be a felucca. They're fine, weatherly craft, and with the wind abeam she ought to skip over the bar like greased lightning. I'll get the men on the move."
Under the circumstances Sub-lieutenant Crosthwaite did not believe in giving orders without explaining to the boat's crew his intentions. Calling the men to attention, he briefly outlined his plan of operation. Were it not for the necessity for silence, the seamen would have cheered; instead, they showed by the grim expression on their faces that they would willingly follow their young officer, and trust implicitly to his good judgment.
"That's a blessing!" ejaculated Farnworth as the hostile search-light was switched off. "Those fellows evidently have come to the conclusion that they've been had."
Dick was not so sanguine. It might be possible that the projector required adjustment, and the beam had to be shut off in consequence. But after an interval of five minutes, during which time there were no signs of activity on the part of the Turks—for their rifle-fire had died away shortly after the arrival of the boat's crew at the rendezvous—he concluded that it would be fairly safe to order the party to retrace their steps.
The Sub's prognostics concerning the change of wind had become verified. It now blew directly into the faces of the party, the stinging rain adding to their discomforts. Already the small streams through which they had previously waded with the water a little above their ankles were now more than knee-deep, and momentarily increasing in volume and impetuosity.
Suddenly, while climbing over an exceptionally slippery ledge of rock, Dick's feet slipped from under him. Making a vain and frantic attempt to obtain a grip, he fell a distance of six or seven feet, his boots clattering on the stones. Before he could rise he was astounded to hear a challenge.
Twenty paces from him could be distinguished the figures of about a score of Turkish troops.
The British seamen acted promptly. They realized that now there was no going back. Over the ledge they dropped, and, as Dick regained his feet, the men waited only to fix bayonets, then with their officers charged the foe.
They were greeted by a ragged volley that did no damage, most of the bullets ringing overhead. Not caring to wait for cold steel that glittered ominously in the dim light, the Ottomans broke and fled.
As they did so they were greeted by a fusillade from others of their countrymen on the beach and from the summit of the cliff. In the succession of lurid flashes Dick's eye caught sight of a field-piece partly concealed by a breastwork of stones.
Calling for his men to empty their magazines in rapid volleys that completely deceived the enemy as to the number that opposed them, the Sub led the boat's crew to the attack.
With a rousing British cheer that outvoiced the rattle of musketry the impetuous seamen obeyed. A tough tussle, an interchange of bayonet thrusts, and the Turks momentarily melted away, leaving the field-piece in the hands of the meagre boat's crew.
"What shall we do with this 'ere gun, sir?" a stalwart bluejacket. "Slew 'er round and give 'em a dose?"
Before the Sub could reply, the search-light flooded the scene with its dazzling rays. Almost simultaneously came the tap-tap-tap of a Maxim, and a sheaf of bullets whizzing overhead and splitting the rocks behind with fragments of nickel.
"Disable the gun!" shouted Dick. "Take the trail lever, one of you."
With a quick movement the Sub opened the breech-block. A sailor seized the lever with which the Turkish Krupps are trained in a horizontal plane. Poising the steel bar above his head, the man brought it down with tremendous force upon the out-swung piece of mechanism. The interrupted thread, deeply dented by the blow, was rendered useless, while the breech-block itself, partly wrenched from its massive hinges, was for the time being incapable of service.
Already three of the small party were shot down. To retire was to court annihilation in the form of a scythe-like hail of Maxim bullets that swept the ridge behind: a barrier that had to be surmounted if escape were contemplated in that direction. To remain where they were meant being under a galling fire from the cliffs, and with very little natural protection from the surrounding ground. A third solution remained: to advance and sell their lives dearly.
Thrusting his revolver into his holster, Dick picked up the rifle and bayonet of one of the fallen men and shouted to the party to advance.
Taking full advantage of every little bit of natural cover the men pressed forward, firing as rapidly as they could recharge and empty their magazines.
Still uncertain of the number that opposed them, and thinking that the attack was part of a landing in force, the Turks gave way until their retrograde movement was checked by fresh bodies of troops hastening to repel the threatened assault.
Into the midst of the scene of confusion—for Turk was fighting Turk in the opposing movement of the disorganized throng—Dick and his handful of men hurled themselves.
Partly dazzled by the search-light which was playing obliquely upon the mêlée from the high ground, the Sub set about him like a young Berserk. A blow from the butt-end of a Turkish rifle shattered his bayonet close to the hilt. Gripping his rifle by the muzzle end of the barrel, Dick swung it right and left, clearing a gap in the dense ranks of his assailants.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of young Farnworth putting up a stiff fight with three tall and muscular Turks, while a few feet away from the midshipman was a German officer in the act of levelling his revolver, and awaiting an opportunity of firing at the plucky British lad.
Down swung Dick's rifle, purposely missing his antagonist's guard. Shortening the weapon, the Sub dashed it into the Turk's face, then drawing his revolver, fired three shots in rapid succession at the fez-bedecked Teuton.
"That's settled your little game, you brute," thought Dick savagely, as the German pitched forward on his face. Hitherto the Sub had fought for fighting's sake. He bore no particular animosity against any of his Moslem antagonists, but the sight of the German standing out of immediate danger and awaiting an opportunity to coolly pick off the midshipman, directly he was not masked by his immediate foes, had aroused Dick's deepest ire.
When he looked again young Farnworth was no longer standing. The lad had been overcome by the numerical superiority of his attackers.
Again and again Dick fired, till the hammer of his revolver falling with a dull click told him that the weapon was empty. Hurling it at the near-most of his foes, the Sub stooped to regain his rifle. As he did so a stalwart Bashi Bazouk struck him a heavy blow on the head with the butt-end of his gun, and without a groan Dick fell within a yard of the body of his brother officer.
It was broad daylight when the Sub recovered his senses. He found himself lying in a large, whitewashed room, the walls of which were of immense thickness and pierced on one side by four narrow pointed windows, through which the sun was pouring fiercely.
He was stretched upon a low bed. Close beside him was Midshipman Farnworth, his head almost enveloped in bandages.
The only other occupant of the room a tall, sinewy man dressed in the uniform of a Turkish seaman—jumper and trousers very similar to those worn by the British tar, and a dark-red fez. He had discarded his boots and wore a pair of scarlet soft-leather slippers.
"How can do?" he asked, seeing that Dick bestirring himself.
"Where am I?" demanded the Sub.
"Plis'ner of war. You in Fort Medjidieh. Me good man. Help Englis officer. How can do?"
"Get me something to drink then," said Dick, for his throat was burning like a limekiln.
"No beer, no have got," declared the Turk imperturbably.
"Confound the fellow! He evidently imagines that British subjects drink nothing but beer," thought the Sub. "No, I don't want beer," he aloud; "bring me something cool—cold—not hot, savvy?"
"Me—Ahmed Djezzar—go. Me your fliend," announced the man; and placing his hand over his heart and bowing subserviently, he noiselessly glided out of the room, locking the door as soon as he was outside.
"Rummy proceedings, 'pon my soul," soliloquized Dick. "The fellow says I'm a prisoner of war. I suppose he's right; but there's one thing to be said: up to the present they have treated me pretty decently. The Turks are streets above the Germans in the way they handle their prisoners. I wonder what the game is?"
Taking into consideration the dirty and untidy habits of the Turks, the room was fairly clean and presentable. If his informant was right, Dick Crosthwaite was now in a portion of one of the fortresses actually on The Narrows, and roughly twenty-one miles from Yenikeui. During the interval between the times of his having been rendered unconscious in the affray on the beach and of recovering his senses, he had been carried over hilly roads running practically parallel to the Asiatic shores of the Dardanelles.
Why his captors should have gone to this trouble he knew not. He could only come to the conclusion that, fearing a landing in force to the south of Kum Kale, they had removed their prisoners to quarters where for the time being they were not likely to be recaptured.
Propping himself up by his elbow Dick listened intently. To his intense disappointment he heard no sounds of guns—not even a distant rumble. Did it mean the operations had been abandoned?
He began wondering what had happened to the rest of the boat's crew; why his captors should have detailed a Turkish bluejacket to attend the two wounded officers; and why Ahmed Djezzar had so vehemently expressed himself as being a friend. These and a hundred other thoughts flashed through his mind, until his reveries were interrupted by the reappearance of the Turk bearing a metal tray on which was a brass cup and a jug filled with sherbet water.
Dick drank eagerly. As he did so a faint suspicion that the liquid might be poisoned entered his brain, only to be quickly dismissed, since he recognized that if his captors had wished to dispose of him they had already had ample opportunities. Nevertheless the sherbet water was drugged, and it had the result of sending the Sub to sleep for several hours.
He awoke, feeling considerably refreshed, to find that young Farnworth was sitting up in bed and regarding him with eagerness.
"Thought you'd never wake up, sir," he remarked. "You've been sleeping heavily for at least twelve hours."
"How are you feeling?" asked Dick.
"Pretty rotten," admitted the midshipman. "Head feels like a block of wood. But it isn't that: it's the beastly knowledge that we are off the fun for the time being."
"You put up a jolly stiff fight, anyhow."
"I did my best," replied Farnworth modestly; "but it's beastly humiliating being collared like this, and not knowing how things are going. There's a Turkish bluejacket hanging about——"
"I know," said Dick. "A fellow who made a point of stating that he was our friend. Why I can't make out."
"He tells me we've had a proper set-back," continued the midshipman wearily. "Of course I don't know whether he's telling the truth or not, but he swears that the Turks have captured one of our submarines."
"Rot!" ejaculated Crosthwaite derisively. "Captured? Not a bit of it. It's a lie."
"Anyway there was a lot of heavy firing about five hours ago. It only lasted twenty minutes. The fellow swears that the submarine was stranded, and that they've captured officers and crew. The Turks hope to get the vessel off and take her to Constantinople."
Dick looked serious. He had seen enough of war to know that often the improbable does happen, yet he could not understand how a British submarine could have been taken. Why should it have got into shoal water at all? he wondered.
Just then Ahmed entered, accompanied by a "hakim" or native doctor. The latter, although unable to speak English, could converse fluently in French, a language with which both the Sub and the midshipman were well acquainted.
Deftly the doctor unbound Dick's head and examined the contused scalp-wound. Then he did a like office to Farnworth, chatting affably the while on all kinds of subjects, the war excepted. Try as he would, without going straight to the point, Dick could not bring the doctor to say a word relating to the hostilities.
"You are both progressing nicely," he declared. "By the day after to-morrow you will be fit to go out and take the air."
No sooner had the medical man left than Ahmed took up his parable:
"Me want to help Englis officers," he said. "Me good Ottoman and no like the Germans. We fight. Why? Because they make us. All fault of Young Turks. German officers, they bad mans. Some time I shoot one in de back."
He paused to watch the result of his pro-British declaration. Finding that his listeners showed no signs of enthusiasm over his plans for ridding the world of at least one German officer, Ahmed continued:
"Me know plenty Englis officers, when dey was in the Ottoman Navy. All gone now—hard cheese. Why you laugh?"
"I was only smiling at your wonderful knowledge of the English language," replied Farnworth.
"Yaas—wonerful, dat is so. Now I tell you dis; de German General, von Sanders, ordered you plis'ners to be sent to Skutari. Telim Pasha, he say 'no'. Telim Pasha friend of Englis and of Ahmed Djezzar. When Englis army come: how many soldiers?"
Ahmed raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The Sub shook his head.
"I don't know," he replied shortly.
"P'laps twenty tousand?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
For a brief instant Ahmed showed signs of disappointment.
"Dey come soon?" he asked.
"I cannot tell," replied Dick, beginning to feel nettled by the fellow's inquisitiveness. "Now, clear out; we want to have a rest."
The man obeyed. As before he locked the door after him. Directly the door clicked Dick sprang swiftly and noiselessly out of bed, crossed the room, and placed his ear to the keyhole. Hearing nothing, he peered through the narrow slit; then with a grim smile on his face he returned to his bed, at the same time holding up a warning finger to check the mystified midshipman's enquiry.
"Hello! There's a sea-plane!" exclaimed Dick about a quarter of an hour later. He hastened to one of the windows, while Farnworth, walking unsteadily from the effects of his injuries, took up his stand at an adjoining one.
The whirr of the aerial propellers grew louder and louder. The Turkish soldiers, lolling about in the courtyard within the fort, overcame their lethargy sufficiently to raise their heads and follow the course of the aeroplane.
Presently it passed almost overhead, proceeding in a south-westerly direction. It was flying low—at about two hundred feet. On the under side of the main plane were two red crescents—the distinguishing marks of the Turkish air-craft.
Hearing the whirr of the blades, other soldiers hurried from the buildings. Amongst them were two German officers.
The latter waited until the sea-plane was out of sight; then, allowing their swords to clank noisily over the stones, they walked towards the opposite side of the quadrangle, the Turkish soldiers standing stiffly at attention as they did so.
At that moment someone hailed them.
Turning on their heels the officers retraced their steps. Curiosity prompted Dick to crane his head to follow their movements. Not altogether to his surprise he discovered that the owner of the peremptory voice was the self-styled Ahmed Djezzar. In spite of being in the uniform of a Turkish bluejacket the two Germans saluted.
"No luck," he reported, speaking in German—a language that, after many mentally and bodily painful hours at school and a subsequent "roasting" at Osborne and Dartmouth, Dick could follow, with comparative ease. "No luck. The English swine do not seem communicative. I'll try them again; then, if that fails, we'll take other measures."