On the following day, Kircheiss and I were taken aboard an old cruiser in the harbour and ushered into the saloon, where there were about a dozen men who wore black coats and four-cornered caps with tassels. Our four boys were standing in a corner. I was boiling mad.
"What's this?" I said. "Is justice becoming ridiculous? Why are we put in jail like this and some of my boys in chains? Is that for prisoners of war? And what man of you is able to judge of our warfare? You are civilians. Are we to be judged by civilians? I will answer only to naval men."
Just then Sir Hall Thompson, British naval commander in New Zealand waters, came down the stairway. I turned to him.
"I am glad to see you, sir. Why are we treated like this? And are prisoners of war to be tried by civilians?"
"Count," he replied, "public opinion forces it. The public has demanded that within three days of your arrival in this country you must reveal where you sank the Wairuna and why you sank her without saving a single life, and also where your ship Seeadler is."
"But I know nothing about the Wairuna," I replied. "I did not sink her. In every single capture that we made, I took the crews aboard my ship, kept them there until we were overcrowded, and then sent them home."
"You say you didn't sink the Wairuna?"
"No! Nor ever even heard of her!"
"Will you give me your word of honour on this?"
"I give it to you now."