The Eunuch of Stamboul

by Dennis Wheatley

  Swithin nodded sympathetically. “Yes, it is true that many of us have always thought of Turkey as the ‘Sick man of Europe’ but remember how corrupt your Government had become before Abdul Hamid was deposed in 1909. Every office in the State, from Governorships to a job as a postman, and even promotion in the Army, was sold to the highest bidder. Such Ministers as would have liked to better things had no power; each time they attempted any reform they were overruled by the Palace gang and defeated by Harem intrigue. Your country suffered in itself and in the estimation of the world, in consequence.”

  “Tch! The old Red Fox—Abdul the Damned!” Reouf made an impatient gesture. “He and his predecessors for a dozen generations were rogues—abusers of power unfitted to govern—I admit it. But that was all swept away by the Committee of Union and Progress in the Revolution. The heart of Turkey was still sound and all things would have altered then had we been given a little time. As it was, before we had a chance to straighten out our affairs those dogs of Christians …” He paused with an embarrassed flush and added hastily. “Pardon I beg—I meant no personal reference.”

  “No, no—go on.” Swithin smiled reassuringly. “You mean the Kings of Italy, Bulgaria and Greece.”

  “I thank you—yes, and Peter Karageorgovitch, the Serbian who gained his throne by the murder of Alexander and his wife, and that other brigand Nikola of Montenegro. The whole pack descended on us like vultures on a dying camel. Think of what we went through in those few years before the Great War. Bosnia, Crete, Tripoli, taken from us. War in Africa. War in Macedonia. War in Arabia where the Beduin revolted and profaned the Holy City of Medina. The Great Fire in Stamboul which left forty thousand people homeless, our treasury empty, and the accursed Bulgars at the very gates of the capital. How was it possible to introduce reforms among our people when we were fighting for our very existence?”

  “That’s true. They must have been terrible years, and everyone knows that the Young Turk party was appallingly handicapped from the day of its birth. But there were quiet periods and during them the massacres of Bulgars and Armenians were carried out on a greater scale than ever before. That had an immense effect in leading the Great Powers to suppose that the New Government was no better than the Old—and there was no excuse for it.”

  “No excuse!” Reouf echoed with a wave of his slim hands. “But my friend you do not understand. These Bulgar swine are very devils. They had killed by torture and mutilation hundreds of our police and troops. No Turkish official was safe in their territory. Not a night passed but some unfortunate bimbashie was dragged from his home in an isolated village to be murdered in the streets while his women were raped to death and his children hacked to pieces with saws and scythes. It is on record that one of these Christian brigands who was caught confessed that he and his friends used to partake of their sacrament before going out to raid, and that in the wine their Popes mixed the blood of Turks. No police in the world could have traced the actual perpetrators of all these slayings, so what could we do but inflict mass punishment from time to time. It is true that some who were innocent may have suffered with the guilty, but even those whose hands were not stained with our blood were guilty also, for priests, women, and children all assisted in this barbarous vendetta against us.”

  “What about the Armenians?” Swithin demanded.

  “Tch! there it was the same. They have made a sport of raiding lonely Turkish posts for generations. They are not human those people but wild beasts whose one delight is cruelty. They are like jackals who creep up to a wounded ox in cowardly packs to disembowel it. No kind treatment or appeal to live in amity makes any impression on them. They only understand the whip and bastinado. You would agree with me if you knew them.”

  “I do—a little. I was stationed in quite a number of Armenian villages after the Armistice.”

  “Well then!” Reouf’s white teeth flashed in a smile of triumph. “Judge you between us. How did they treat their animals?”

  “It made me sick to see them,” Swithin confessed.

  “Exactly, whereas the poorest Turkish farmer cares for his horses as himself—and the children in those villages—what of them?”

  “Poor mites, they fared little better as far as I could see. On one occasion I had to use my riding crop on a great brute who was beating a child till it bled because the poor little devil had allowed another to steal the baksheesh it had been sent to beg in our camp.”

  “There then!” Reouf spread out his elegant hands again. “Now, tell me, have you ever seen a single Turkish child crying in the streets of Istanbul for any reason other than it had hurt itself?”

  “No, now that I come to think of it I haven’t and I must have walked through miles of streets since I arrived here six weeks ago.”

  “Then that proves my contention that we are a gentle people. We love children, horses, dogs, and protect them from all ill. In that we are like you English who will never tolerate unkindness to the weak and helpless; and surely that is a true test of whether a people is fitted to rule others who have not yet advanced to such a high level of conduct.”

  “Yes, fundamentally I suppose it provides a genuine criterion.”

  “Good, then consider our old subject races and their habits in such matters. Besides, we Turks are a Great People! Look at our history! What other nation has ever produced a line of ten successive sovereigns, father to son, each one personally outstanding as a soldier and statesman. When Western Europe was still a collection of petty states, governed by uncouth warring robber Barons, Othman was a power in Asia Minor. Orchan, his successor, made the Sea of Marmara a Turkish lake. Murad, third of the line, took Byzantium, gave new life to its ancient civilisation and carried our banners nearly to the Adriatic Sea. In the reign of each succeeding Sultan for three hundred years our Empire spread until, under Soulyman the Magnificent in the sixteenth century, it extended from Algeria to the Persian Gulf and from Poland to Kartoum.”

  “That’s a mighty long time ago though,” Swithin commented softly.

  For a moment the fire died out of Reouf’s eyes behind the thick spectacles. “Yes,” he admitted sadly. “As you will know it is believed that during the reign of Soulyman the Royal Bed was desecrated and that Selim the Sot, with all those who followed after as wearers of the Sword of Othman, were not of the same blood.”

  Swithin nodded. “In any case it is a fact that the race of Sultans has degenerated ever since.”

  “But not the spirit of the people,” Reouf protested, his eyes lighting up again. “Just as you English are a nation born to rule so are we Turks. We proved it for many centuries, and should have proved it again after the Revolution, had we not been handicapped by wars which were not of our seeking and our Empire finally torn to pieces in the world struggle. But now we have recovered from our wounds and soon we will show again the stuff that we are made of.”

  As these dark prophecies rolled from the young Turk, Swithin almost held his breath lest he should interrupt the flow of bitter confidences, but he need not have been anxious, Reouf hurried on with a fresh spate of passion.

  “Above all we are a governing people. For six hundred years there have been careers for the men of all good Turkish families in administering the provinces. Now we have provinces no longer. How would you feel in England if India and all your Crown Colonies were suddenly taken from you? Each year you send out thousands of your public school men later to become Magistrates, Police Chiefs, State Engineers, Judges—and the Heads of Hospitals, Universities, Railways, Museums, Architectural Institutes, Customs, Religious Foundations, Agricultural Colleges, Postal Services, not to mention those who officer the Fighting Forces which you keep up in these countries and the thousands more who run the big business-houses under the protection of your flag. How would England feel then, I say, with no jobs left to give her young men of position and education?”

  “It would be a pretty nasty problem for us I admit,” Swithin agreed hastily.

  “Very well
then. That is the situation in Turkey to-day and why England should be the first to understand our case and sympathise with us. How my blood boiled to hear the cowardly doctrine which that Government propagandist talked last night. Just think of the thousands of Turkish families who are now compelled to live under foreign rule.”

  “But I understood him to say that they were being repatriated under this scheme of Kemal’s for the repopulation of Thrace.”

  “Tch! a few perhaps but not five per cent of their total number!”

  “What would you do then?” Swithin put the question with a lazy smile but inwardly he waited, taut with expectancy for Reouf’s answer.

  “Do!” exclaimed the young Turk without hesitation. ‘I would wrest the Government from this traitor Kemal who has been led into making criminal pacts by his admiration for Western Nations.”

  ‘So,’ thought Swithin, ‘the cat is out of the bag at last,’ but no muscle of his face relaxed as Reouf went on hotly;

  “Kemal did much for Turkey in the War and after, but he has sacrificed the soul of our nation for the material trappings of the West. We are not a European people and we never shall be. No wearing of bowler hats, jazz music and co-education will ever make us so. We are Asiatics and the ways of our fathers which endured for centuries are those best suited to our needs.”

  “Yet you admit that sweeping reforms were long overdue.”

  “Truly—and they have now been carried Out—but that could have been done without laws which force us to sin fifty times a day in the sight of Allah, or treaties which tie us down to the permanent acceptance of territorial limitations making us into a Third-Class State.”

  Swithin knew that it was vital to find out if Reouf’s views represented those of only a small group or if they were widely accepted throughout the country, so to lead the young man on he shook his head and said:

  “You are an idealist and I understand your personal feeling, but surely the great bulk of the population has accepted Kemal’s reforms quite willingly.”

  Reouf grinned suddenly. “You think that, eh? All right, meet me to-night at the lower end of the Street of Steps in Pera. Be there at eight o’clock and I will take you to a meeting. There you will see for yourself many others who think as I do, and realise that this movement; for which I speak, is a living thing springing from the heart of the whole nation.”

  “I would like to come very much,” Swithin said softly.

  “Good. I am glad, for after to-night you will understand how determined we are to go through with our programme. I will introduce you to my brother Arif who will be there but you will say nothing of our talk please. Many of my comrades think that all things should be done in complete secrecy, I also think so but that we should make exceptions to our rule with people like yourself. Later, when we have accomplished our revolution we shall have to face the hostility of all our old enemies in the Balkans, but if a dozen men like yourself know the truth and would speak it fearlessly England might use her influence in our favour and perhaps persuade the other powers to do likewise. You and I are but pawns as I have said before but we are both earnest men and if we work together we may at least do something towards fostering good feeling and understanding between our countries.”

  Swithin sat silent for a moment, to all outward appearances just enjoying an academic discussion as he leaned, smoking a cigarette, with his back propped up against the wall, but his brain was ticking over like the engine of a racing car.

  There was actually a Revolution brewing then. That was at the root of all these vague signs of unrest which he had noted. Probably no more than a few hundred students and fanatics were concerned but it behoved him to find out every possible detail that he could and, particularly, the strength behind the movement. His inward excitement was intense, now that he felt himself to be really getting to the core of the mystery, but his voice was quite steady as he remarked casually:

  “You speak of a Revolution, but how can you possibly hope to overcome Kemal? He controls all the armed forces of the country and has a swift way of dealing with such outbreaks.”

  The young Turk sunk his voice a little. “Listen, this is very secret but it is necessary that I tell you in order that you may appreciate the importance of our talk. This movement is a highly organised one. We speak of it ourselves as the Kaka, which is an abbreviation of The Brothers in Allah of the Sword and Crescent. In every regiment in the Army and squadron of the Air Force there are members of it. Many officials, big business men, journalists and teachers belong. In fact, wherever there are intelligent patriotic and determined men the Kaka has its representatives sworn to carry out its ideals.”

  “And Kemal, how will you deal with him?” asked Swithin softly.

  Reouf laughed mirthlessly again. “When the time is ripe—and it is not far distant—we shall dispose of Kemal as he has disposed of so many others.”

  “You speak of the Gazi,” cut in a thin piping voice above them suddenly.

  Reouf sprang to his feet as though he had been stung and Swithin whipped round his head with equal quickness. There, above them, his enormous bulk almost filling the great breach in the wall stood one of the strangest looking individuals they had ever seen. He was a tall man with immensely powerful shoulders but the effect of his height was minimised by his gigantic girth. He had the stomach of an elephant and would easily have turned the scale at twenty stone. His face was even more unusual than his body for apparently no neck supported it and it rose straight out of his shoulders like a vast inverted U. The eyes were tiny beads in that great expanse of flesh and almost buried in folds of fat, the cheeks puffed out, yet withered like the skin of a last year’s apple, and the mouth was an absurd pink rosebud set above a seemingly endless cascade of chins.

  “Well?” he questioned. “Am I not right?”

  Reouf had gone deathly white under his tan. His slender hands trembled as he strove to draw a cigarette out of his case. Swithin too was wondering anxiously how much of their conversation the stranger had overheard.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Is it forbidden?”

  The big man stood there framed in the ragged oval of brownish creamy brick, his vast protruding paunch on a level with their heads. Suddenly his absurdly small mouth twitched into a smile: “Not for foreigners and I guess you English—am I right? You come here to see the wall, eh? I speak English. I will show you all there is to see.”

  “Yes I am English,” Swithin admitted, “and although we went over the Towers before lunch we were just thinking of having another look round. Are you a professional guide?”

  “Hardly that sir,” the high piping voice came again, “but I could find my way blindfold through most of these passages and I know much of the history of this old wall.”

  “How interesting,” remarked Swithin guardedly. Something about the big stranger filled him with intense distrust but the obvious policy was to be civil in case the man had overheard much of their talk.

  The stranger nodded so that his multitudinous chins creased more sharply. “Interesting, yes,” he repeated and it seemed like a ventriloquist’s trick that the tiny fluting voice could really come from this mountain of a man. “And I delight to be guide for an English visitor. Come I will show you everything.”

  “Thanks, that’s nice of you,” said Swithin with a cordiality he was very far from feeling. Then, followed by the young Turk, who had now more or less pulled himself together, he scrambled up into the hole in the great wall.

  “This wall,” began the other, “is made in the reign of Emperor Theodosius the Second by Anathemius, Prætorian Prefect of the East in A.D. 413.” He suddenly paused and switched round on Reouf. “You do not mind that I do not repeat in Turkish. You understand English, yes—and very well—I hear you speak.”

  Swithin felt a little shiver go down his spine and again he wondered anxiously how much of Reouf’s disclosures this sinister person had overheard, but the young Turk replied now with commendable Calmness. “Oh yes, people are
kind enough to say that I speak English very well. I took an honours pass for it at Robert College.”

  The big man grinned and his little eyes almost disappeared between their encircling rolls of fat. “So you are from Robert College eh? The education there does honour to our city. Oh! so many clever young men come from Robert College and if they are not too clever they get big position later. If they become too clever though sometimes they make the big mistake.” His great body suddenly shook with silent horrid laughter.

  “What was it you were going to say about the Emperor Theodosius?” Swithin intervened quickly. He was reasonably certain of being able to keep his own end up in this unpleasant situation but scared that Reouf might perpetrate some stupidity owing to fright, which had turned his face to a sickly, palish green again.

  “This way—you follow please.” Their guide turned and led them back through the dark passage in the wall out into a sunny courtyard. Then, with frequent chuckles at his own jokes he gave them an outline of the history of the fortifications.

  Reouf stood by, suspicious and uneasy, but Swithin’s eyes never left the big man’s face. He laughed at the right moments and asked numerous questions until, after a little, both became easier in their minds and satisfied that their new companion was only a talkative busybody.

  “Now,” he exclaimed at the end of his dissertation. “Follow me please, and all points of interest I will show.” Then, with surprising agility for one of his enormous bulk, he led the way up a flight of steps to a tower top from which Swithin had already admired the view earlier in the day. Next they descended again, passed through some dark arches, and with the aid of the big man’s torch, groped their way down a narrow passage to the rows of cells where prisoners had been held captive, far from light or sound, in the very heart of the great wall.