It was automatic rather than conscious, for so strong is the fear of oblivion in men of every race and temper, that when the mind has ceased to function, instinct takes control and battles wildly for the physical survival of the body it holds dear.
Steel bands seemed to be tightening round his chest, an awful drumming thudded in his ears, but his legs began a frantic kicking and he felt himself shoot out of the current. He had no idea if he had yet been swept from under the tower into the open sea; he did not even think of that or realise the hopelessness of his efforts.
The only impulse that animated his semi-conscious brain was to battle his way to the surface, regardless of the fact that he could not swim a stroke, since his arms were lashed behind him, and that even if he succeeded he must slip back into the depths after one last glimpse of that now remote world above.
With the strength of madness, he lashed out with his feet, stabbing the surrounding water with mechanical jerky strokes. His ear-drums seemed bursting, his eyes starting from their sockets, sledge-hammer blows pounded inside his head and his brain seemed to have come loose in it, sogging from side to side as he fought his way upwards. He could contain his breath no longer, it burst from his strained lips in a great bubble of air and the water gushed down his throat. He felt himself choking, his body was one aching mass of pain, then he hit the surface.
His head was above it for no more than a second, just long enough for him to gasp in a great draught of heavenly air which served temporarily to restore his full consciousness, then, as he sank again, he knew that his stupendous effort had only served to prolong his agony.
The constriction of his chest began again almost immediately, and the pressure behind his eyes and on his ear-drums. His reason told him that he should hold himself still, so that he might sink for good and escape his torment quickly, but the instinct to fight on had him in its grip again. Once more a violent jerking of his limbs brought his head above the water.
For a moment, while he trod water desperately, he glimpsed the stars, but he knew that with his arms pinioned he had no possible hope of keeping afloat. He strove madly to burst the cords but they only cut deeper into his flesh. The exhausted muscles of his legs gave up the uneven struggle, a wavelet splashed into his face, and he went under.
Suddenly he felt a fresh stab of pain, this time in his shoulder. He was wrenched sideways and drawn up, the whole weight of his body hanging on the boat-hook which had caught in his clothing.
In a hazy way he knew that hands were grabbing at him, felt himself being hauled in over the low gunwale of a boat, and collapsed upon its floor-boards. Then blank night descended upon him.
When he came round his arms were free and a man bent above him in the darkness, pouring some fiery liquid down his throat. He coughed and endeavoured to sit up, but flopped back again against the thwart.
“Allah be praised—for he has restored you to us,” said a voice. “Be patient now, and in a little time you will be yourself again.”
Then he knew the man who was bending over him to be Arif, but it was some moments before he recovered sufficient strength to whisper: “Thank God—you spotted me—but how did you get here?”
The Turk sat down beside him and said softly: “I blame myself for all that you have been through, but by Allah’s mercy at least I have been able to save your life.”
Swithin shuddered. “It was—horrible—but what do you mean—you blame yourself?”
“When I went to your flat to get your clothes to-day I found a letter lying on the mat, so I put it in my pocket intending to give it to you, then like a fool I forgot. Later, when I found it again, I opened it. Knowing that you were living there in secret I thought it might be important. It was a blank slip of paper with only three words typed upon it, they were in a foreign language and their meaning I do not yet understand. I felt that you should have it without delay, so I crossed at once to Pera and visited your flat.”
“What time was this?” asked Swithin.
“About eight o’clock.”
“By Jove, you arrived then when Kazdim and his men had me cornered there.”
“Yes. I heard voices when I was just about to ring at your door, and fortunately I paused to listen.”
“I see; you guessed what had happened, and what they meant to do to me, so you chased off to get a boat and hang round the Marble Tower with it in the hope of being able to pull me out.”
The Turk nodded. “There was nothing else I could do. I should have been shot like a dog if I had tried to rescue you by force, and the lights in the Tower told me when they were making ready to do this ghastly business.” He paused for a moment and almost choked on a sob, then added: “We know from experience that the bodies of victims who are dealt with thus are swept from under the Tower by the flowing tide, to be washed up on the beaches of the Marmara. It was a fair chance therefore, that you would come up to the surface for a moment some twenty yards below the Wall.”
“It was mighty lucky for me you took that letter,” Swithin said feelingly. “If you hadn’t, Kazdim would have found it, and I should be dead by now. Can you remember the words that it contained?”
“Yes, they were spelt like this—G-E-T—O-O-T—M-O-N—”
Swithin chuckled suddenly as he saw what must have happened: Kazdim’s men had evidently searched the registers of all the house agents in the city for recent ‘lets’; particularly those made in the last two months to foreigners. The good McAndrew had been unable to prevent them scrutinising his books and, noting their interest in the occupant of No. 19 Tatavla Street, had sent a warning, transcribing his own broad Scots on to paper in order to befog anyone who examined it if it fell into wrong hands.
He felt horribly sore and battered. The places where the cords had cut into his arms burnt like bands of fire, his head ached intolerably, an angry throbbing in his thigh came from the place where he had been hurled against the rock, and he twitched every time he moved the shoulder which had received a flesh wound from the boathook, but despite his wretched physical state, he was cheerful and optimistic. After all, he was still alive and with good friends like Arif and old McAndrew to stand by him, he thought he might get even with Kazdim yet. Squelching as he moved in his sodden clothes, he sat up and looked about him.
The Tower of Marble now lay behind them—the lights of its narrow windows had disappeared. It stood out black and sinister against the starlit sky that hung above the Marmara. The four oarsmen in the boat were pulling with strong even strokes back along the Stamboul shore towards the heart of the city.
“Well, what’s the next move?” he asked softly.
“To hide you, surely,” the Turk replied in a low voice. “I would offer my own house, but I fear to do so since they may guess my bitterness over—over Reouf’s death, and have it watched to see who I receive there.”
“No, no,” Swithin protested quickly, “that’s nice of you, but I couldn’t let you take the risk—you have done more than enough for me already.”
Arif shrugged impatiently. “There is no question of enough or too much, brother. If last night’s happenings had not opened my eyes, our talk afterwards would have done so. Between us we will serve this spawn of Iblis, Kazdim, as he has served others. In the sight of Allah I have dedicated my life to it.”
Swithin was now desperately cold. He had considerable difficulty in preventing his teeth from chattering, but he felt a spiritual warmth as he heard that bitter declaration. Then he glanced forward, and laying a hand on Arif’s arm, muttered, “Hush—the boatmen—they will hear you.”
“Have no fear. They are Frenchmen from the port and know no Turkish or anything of our business. I picked them up just as they came to spend an hour or two ashore from their steamer. They are well paid for their work and that is all they care about.”
“That was clever of you,” Swithin nodded, “but have you any suggestion as to where I can hide for the night? I shall be all right again to-morrow—but just at present—I’m feelin
g pretty grim.”
“I do not wonder. You should be put to bed between warm blankets, but I fear that is impossible, for you would not be safe in any ban and it is your safety which matters above all things. However, I thought of a place on my way down from Tatavla—you know the Kutchuk Hamam quarter?”
“That is part of the great area in the centre of Stamboul, which was burnt out in the big fire of 1911, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But for the wars it would have been rebuilt, and certainly later, had not Kemal made Angora the new capital which has diverted much finance and initiative from Istanbul. As it is, many acres of it remain to this day covered only with wreckage. Beggars, thieves, and outcasts have built themselves hutments among the ruins, but even so there must be a thousand places there in which you could remain hidden for weeks.”
“Sounds pretty safe,” Swithin agreed, but his saturated garments were now drying like boards on his body, and he was feeling desperately ill, so he added slowly, “I’ve got to find a change of clothes, though, and get some warmth inside me somehow.”
Arif kicked a bundle in the bottom of the boat. “I thought of that also, knowing it would be necessary if we had the good fortune to save you.”
Swithin controlled his chattering teeth and grinned faintly, “By Jove, you must have hustled after you left Tatavla.”
“Allah gave me time. I knew that if they took you to the Tower it would not be until after dark, and the shops by the port were still open.”
The boat grated against some stone steps lapped by the tide, and the French sailors made it fast.
“Here we are now,” Arif added, “can you manage the bundle while I pay off these men?”
Picking it up, Swithin staggered ashore. He was feeling ghastly and collapsed again on the top step. A moment later the Turk joined him, relieved him of his burden, and pulled him to his feet.
“Where are we?” he murmured with a groan.
“The Psamatia wharf. Courage now, ten minutes’ walk through Soulou Monastir and we shall be there.”
“All right,” Swithin muttered, “I’ll make it somehow,” and with Arif’s hand supporting him under the arm, he began the dreadful march to his new quarters.
It may, as the Turk had said, only have been ten minutes, but to Swithin it seemed a dozen years as he staggered up the gently sloping hill, through the twisting streets of Soulou, to the quarter which had been ravaged and left desolate by the great fire nearly a quarter of a century before. Then, when they reached the heart of it, he had to endure a seemingly interminable wait while his guide nosed about among the ruins.
With his back hunched against a wall he crouched in a corner, shivering as though a fit of ague were upon him, unheeding of the dark shapes that flitted past, or the sound of quarrelling voices which once disturbed the silence.
At last Arif rejoined him and led the way down what had once been a narrow court, but was strewn with fallen beams and debris now overgrown by rank verdure. A small brick building stood at the far end. It lacked a roof and upper story, but still had its four walls standing.
“You should be secure here,” Arif announced, “for this place has no sign of occupation, and Kazdim’s men might hunt for a month through this wilderness of rubble without coming upon you. Strip now, while I undo the bundle.”
Swithin did as he was bid, but not without difficulty for his thigh and shoulder both hurt him badly. Yet once he had cast his sodden garments on a weed-covered mound, he felt a little better. Their clinging dampness had restricted his circulation and in this sheltered spot the night air still held something of the lingering heat from the past day.
“Dry yourself with this,” said Arif, handing him a coarse blanket from the bundle and, despite his hurts, he rubbed himself vigorously until some real warmth was restored to his cramped limbs.
The garments which the Turk had procured for him were rough sailor’s wear from a slop shop down by the docks, but they were clean and thick so that once he had donned them, he felt more himself again—except for his splitting head.
Arif had purchased three blankets and having spread these on the coarse grass between two hummocks in one corner of the ruin, he said, “Lie down now, and I will roll you up.”
Nothing loath, Swithin stretched himself out. It was a hard couch, but infinitely welcome, and it was a glorious sensation to be able, at last, to relax. His companion tucked him up like an infant, and then produced a tin of biscuits and a flask of Raki. “Eat and drink,” he ordered, “while I talk to you, then you shall sleep.”
Swithin set to work on the biscuits and found that he was ravenously hungry. He had not eaten since midday at Arif’s house, and as he sipped the Raki it coursed through his veins bringing heat and comfort to his exhausted body though it made his swollen lips smart. Meanwhile, the Turk crouched beside him on the ground, and told his news.
“I have seen Jeanette,” he announced, “for half an hour nearly, before I visited your flat. She works for her Pasha still—may the fire eat out his bowels—but she says that the papers which she types mostly concern a charity. Lists of donations received—with numbers against them—and the names of hospitals to which they are distributed in bulk. That does not need great intelligence to interpret, the donations are subscriptions towards the Kaka contributed by each cell and the hospitals the places where the armaments which the money purchases are stored.
“Of that I am certain because, when I pressed her to search her memory, she said that last month 360 Turkish pounds were given to the Hospital at Haidar Pacha. She remembers noticing the amount particularly, having thoughts of myself in her mind since she knows that my work lies there. Now last month, I received 360 cases of munitions for storage from the Kaka and they lie in my Depot at this moment labelled as parts of motor ploughs.
“To-night she will go through his files with this new outlook in her mind, for—may Allah pour perfume on her eyelids—she feels about the manner of my brother’s death even as I do myself. To-morrow we meet again. Then I shall learn from her everything which she has discovered and—if Allah wills—we may then have much that is useful to go upon.”
“That’s good work,” murmured Swithin, “but I wish we could get some proof in black and white; that is what we need to break up the Kaka. I suppose it’s not possible for her to secure a list of members since this chap is such a big noise in it?”
Arif shook his head. “She would attempt anything—willingly, for in addition to her love for me and distress at Reouf’s death, she sees in this an opportunity to be revenged on this dog of a Pasha who has debauched her—but how could she procure a list. No man has that, not even those who belong to Cell No. 1. That is the way in which the Kaka protects itself. None of us know the names of more than eight other members. The four in our parent cell and another four in that which we have formed our-selves.”
“Of course, I had forgotten that for the moment,” Swithin said drowsily, “anyhow it is great to have Mam’selle Jeanette working for us. We must wait now until we learn if she was able to get hold of anything to-night.”
“That is so, and you are weary my poor friend.” The Turk stood up. “Do not move far from here when you wake in the morning otherwise you might miss your way among this tangle of ruins, and then I should not be able to find you when I come again. I will bring food—and news if there is any—about midday. Sleep now, and the Peace of Allah be upon you and about you.”
“Thanks—thanks a thousand times for all you’ve done for me,” Swithin replied, but the Turk had already disappeared into the shadows and next moment he was asleep.
When he awoke the sun was already topping the broken wall of his roofless hiding-place. He rolled out of his blankets, stood up stiffly and looked about him. The place in which he had spent the night had apparently once been a small forecourt. A broken fountain, so overgrown with weeds that it was hardly recognisable, rose from a basin in its centre. Arched openings in the far wall led to inner apartments but each displayed th
e same silent desolation.
He walked a few paces and found that the bruise on his thigh still pained him, also that his shoulder was swollen and tender, His skin felt hot and dry yet he shivered spasmodically, and eyed the biscuits and Raki which Arif had left, with distaste. All he craved for was a hot bath and a cup of tea, but, with an effort he pulled himself together and limped out of his retreat to have a good look round.
From the roadway he could see quite a big portion of this dead city as it sloped towards the Golden Horn, and thought it one of the strangest sights that he had ever seen. For a mile or more it stretched away before him in range after range of broken walls and great hummocks. Few traces of the fire were visible now, weather and vegetable life had dissolved the charcoal and camouflaged the blackened beams. The whole area was a uniform greenish yellow, so that the ruins melted into one another and, for a moment, his military mind played with the idea of how fine a place it would be to conceal khaki-clad troops.
Here and there a few people were moving among the green-topped walls and in the far distance he could see a stream of traffic crossing the side road on which he stood by some main thoroughfare cutting through the desolated area. None of the people in his neighbourhood displayed any interest in him, doubtless considering him, from his ill-fitting sailor clothes, to be a down-and-out, like themselves. Numerous birds which were not visible cheered him with their morning song.
He returned to his corner and, since he had nothing to read or do, slept again, partly as a method of killing time and partly because he could stop his shivering under the rough blankets.
When he awoke again the sun was high in the heavens, the old brick near him scorching to the touch, and the stonework sizzling. He moved over into a patch of shade and surveyed the scene afresh: the birds that he had heard singing in the morning were silent now, enjoying their noonday rest, but the ground was alive with insects. Grasshoppers twittered incessantly and little fliegers of a hundred different varieties buzzed and hummed. For a few minutes he watched a party of ants, carrying their enormous burdens, as they proceeded in single file along their well-worn pathway to a cranny in the wall; then the greeny-golden lizards with their flickering tongues, darting from side to side or sunning themselves on the warm brickwork caught his attention.
The Eunuch of Stamboul Page 21
