Part 34 (1/2)

The first drops of rain are falling, and as they swish on to him his wee heart, I've no doubt, throbs restlessly for freedom once again. Freedom. Poor little lad, I sympathize with him. Different from the c.o.c.ks or the wagtail he, if he could speak, would agree with me on this point at least. But one thing he doesn't know, and that is the future, nor how close the hand of Fate is to him even now. For it is as good as decided to poison him for being in disposition incompatible with all of us--to wit, that he is a bear and roars. As a matter of fact, five grains of strychnine were given to him last night and he survived.

And what could augur better for the normality of the Knights of the Oblong Table than to say that some cheered and all felt glad when, to-day, we saw Alphonse still going strong, apparently overdosed. The iron of Kastamuni, that rumour says has entered into more than one soul (and rusted, too, withal in others), cannot have bitten so very deep into King Arthur's Knights. And Alphonse the bear, innocent of our design or of the att.i.tude of Destiny, stands on his hind legs like a wee man and chuckles. Is all this drama a tragedy, or comedy, or what?

Please note there has been a duel over an _affaire de coeur_, a love episode, a captive, with a great Fate of uncertain mood flinging a dark shadow at the end....

Past the column of grey smoke thickly climbing through the raining mist, a black speck moves down a white path. It is a labourer returning from his fields beyond the town. To the west is the smothered glow of the setting sun. In the central background of the stage above the high lights, observe a wee, grey coil of smoke twisting upwards from the s.h.i.+ning speck in the gully. I know the hut well, although never has it appeared larger than the tiniest b.u.t.ton. There is a romance of an old man and woman, a son at the war, and a pretty girl within, if you look closely!! Behind the house a long track winds uphill to the pa.s.s. But the last light has left the hills and I see only the dark patches of forest. Look carefully, and, if I mistake not, you will see an advancing pair of darkly burning orbs. They are the eyes of another Alphonse, luckier, let us believe, on the warpath, traversing his domains, the dusky fastnesses of the wild glens....

The sun has set and the rain falls more thickly on the hills. Through the gossamer of moving mist fond fancies steal to me. And so the last scene before this slowly falling curtain sings of the Past.

What play does not? It is the song of the rain. Would you like to hear it?...

THE SONG OF THE RAIN

Oh, I'm longing for the homeland way past the setting sun-- I'm yearning for old faces and for more sober fun; But sometimes, as at even, my heart with pleasure fills, While it drifts back to England--when the rain is on the hills.

Oh, I'm tired of the Orient, I want the old, old lanes.

I want the Dear Old Country--her pleasures and her pains.

I want the white-frilled hedgerows--the heather and the rills That lift me back to England now the rain is on the hills.

Night's mantle softly falling o'er Kastamuni town, The last dim colours flying, dark grey and dusky brown.

I hear the goatherd piping to the flock his good-night trills, And my heart hies back to England--for the rain is on the hills.

Below me in its basin the old town dreams away-- I see the first light flicker that ends another day.

The distant bugles dying--the muezzin floats and stills My heart to pray for England--when the rain is on the hills.

Oh, I'm longing for the homeland, my homefolk and my pals, I know that some have fallen 'mid the bullets' madrigals; But a memory's in her woodlands--a love no distance kills-- And to-night my heart's in England--for the rain is on the hills.

PACIFIC ROLLER.

CHAPTER XII

SPRING--PLOTS TO ESCAPE--BETRAYAL--ESCAPE OF OTHERS--I AM SENT TO STAMBOUL FOR HOSPITAL

In this diary, notwithstanding it has been written in the greatest secrecy and kept hidden, I have nevertheless refrained from including any mention of a subject that in my latter days in Kastamuni engaged almost all my attention, _i.e._ escape. Besides being an unnecessary risk, it would have been unfair to those concerned. I am adding a note from Brusa.

After our first winter in Kastamuni, the warmth of April stirred our blood to respond to the call of spring. I decided to try every human device to get away.

The Turks asked us to give our parole not to escape. A keen controversy sprang up in our midst. From the point of view of some officers it meant a few more privileges and less punishment, and escape was almost impossible anyway they said.

Some senior officers were for giving orders forbidding the whole camp individually to escape. Others, including myself, considered this a private matter for the person concerned. I refused my parole, and was down in a black list of the Turks.

It meant extra convoy and less privileges, but we asked for, and were given, no facilities for escaping than what we could make.

In the town some months before I had got to know a Russian ”runner,” Kantimaroff by name, who was interned in Kastamuni, but secretly in touch with the Russians. For a heavy bribe he got me news of the Black Sea coast only some forty kilometres to the north. So careful was I with Kantimaroff that outside the Turkish baths I spoke to him only once, and then in a shop.

It would take many chapters to set down all the many changes of programme of increased and diminis.h.i.+ng hope according as the octroi posts between us and the ranges were changed, or as the Black Sea patrol scoured this coast for fis.h.i.+ng-boats. Sometimes vigilance was so increased as to terrify any one against helping us at all. This took months.

At last, by great good fortune, I discovered a Greek outlaw, on whose head the Turks had put a price. He was in hiding, and wanted to get away to Russia. He was in need of money, and, provided he did not run too much risk, would meet us at the Black Sea's edge, and take us with him.

Kantimaroff, who was practically free in Kastamuni, sent him again and again to the coast, or said he did. The scheme looked rosy enough. The main road to Ineboli was heavily guarded, as was that to Samsun.