The Road to En-dor

by E. H. Jones

  But our experiences were not all as pleasant. Hardship and prison life bring out the worst as well as the best that is in a man. Many of us had grown selfish to a degree that can be imagined only by one who has gone through a long period of privation and discomfort in the enforced company of his fellow men. To hide the fact would be to give a wholly false impression of the moral atmosphere of our camp, which was probably no better and no worse than others in Turkey. We had amongst us some who concentrated first, last, and always on their own comfort. ‘Hell!’ said one such gentleman, on learning that we had been sentenced to an indefinite term of solitary confinement, ‘we’ll get no more parcels’. And he cursed all spiritualists from Oliver Lodge downwards. Indeed, on the whole, we got from our fellows as many kicks as ha’pence.

  On the morning after the trial I was up betimes, packing in preparation for our imprisonment, and impatiently awaiting Hill’s report. I hoped to hear that he had successfully withdrawn his parole not to escape. For this had been the object of the twenty-four hours’ grace, which, like everything else that had happened at the ‘little show’, had been granted under instructions from the Spook. We had, of course, seen to it that the Commandant ascribed an entirely erroneous motive to the Spook’s orders. He thought the object of the order was to impress the camp with the belief that he was giving us every possible chance. We knew better. The threat of imprisonment away from the camp should prove an adequate excuse for Hill to withdraw his parole.

  Hill arrived about eleven o’clock.

  ‘Have you been on the mat yet?’ he asked.

  I told him I had not, beyond being abused by some of my pals as a nuisance.

  ‘Well, I have!’ said Hill. ‘I’ve just been had up before Colonel Maule and Colonel Herbert.’

  ‘Did you get quit of your parole?’ I asked.

  Hill pulled a long face and then burst out laughing. ‘Far from it,’ he said; ‘I never had a chance of mentioning it. The Colonel’s got the wind up. He thinks the camp is in for a strafing. He told me I was always running the risk of getting the rest of them into trouble. This was the third time, he said, I had played the ass, and he gave me a proper dressing-down for getting you into a bad hole with what he called my hanky-panky tricks. I said I couldn’t see anything hanky-panky in thought-reading. Then he asked me to give my parole not to communicate with anyone outside by telepathy.’

  ‘Did you give it?’ I asked.

  ‘Lord, yes! What’s the odds!’ Hill was shaking with laughter. ‘Only I explained what a hard job it is to control thought-waves, so he said he would be satisfied with a promise not to send them out wilfully. I gave that!’

  Instead of getting rid of his old parole Hill had gone and got himself involved in a new one! The situation was growing absurd. As soon as we could master our merriment – a task of no small difficulty – we went together to the gallant Colonel and asked for an interview. He led the way into his own bedroom.

  ‘Hill tells me,’ I said with great solemnity, ‘that you blame him for getting me into trouble over this telepathy business. I want to explain to you that I started my experiments long before I had anything to do with Hill. He is in no way to blame.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear it,’ he answered.

  ‘On 22nd April,’ I explained, ‘I wrote to a friend in England, who is interested in spiritualism and telepathy, suggesting that on the first evening of each month we should hold simultaneous séances in England and in Yozgad to try and get into communication. As you may know, we here have held these séances on the first of each month, and have endeavoured to send and receive messages. It was not until these experiments had been in progress for nine months that Hill and I came together as spiritualists.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Colonel; ‘but since you admit you began it, why won’t you end it? Why can’t you settle the matter in the way the Commandant has suggested, and give the Turks your parole not to send or receive any more thought messages?’

  I was prepared for the question, and produced three letters from my correspondent in England, each of which quoted messages concerning myself received through mediums in England. ‘Those are not amongst any of the messages I consciously sent,’ I explained, ‘but I distinctly remember thinking about at least one of the subjects he mentions. This shows that your ordinary thoughts are liable to be picked up. Now, supposing I give the Commandant my parole, and then this correspondent of mine or some other experimenter picks up a casual thought from me and writes me a letter about it? The Turks censor our letters and would see it. Nothing could convince them I have not broken my word.’

  At my request the Colonel glanced through the letters. ‘But these have been censored,’ he said in surprise, pointing to the Turkish censor’s mark.

  ‘Quite so,’ I replied, ‘and I would like you to take charge of them for me. If Constantinople court-martials me for spiritualism, I shall ask you to produce these as proof that our experiments were carried on without concealment.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the Colonel, as he locked away the letters in a box. ‘Now I understand why you can’t give your promise to the Turk. But I want you to give it to me. Will you promise not to attempt communication with anyone in the town by conscious telepathy or any other means?’

  ‘I never have attempted to do so by other means,’ I said.

  The Colonel’s face grew very stern. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said severely. ‘I am informed that the Commandant holds an intercepted letter.’

  I nodded.

  ‘It implicates you?’

  ‘Yes, both me and Hill.’

  ‘It refers, does it not, to previous correspondence?’

  ‘It does,’ I replied.

  ‘If you have had no communication with outside, will you be good enough to explain how you began this correspondence?’

  The Colonel was now in his element. He was treating me like a defaulter in the orderly room.

  ‘By telepathy,’ said I.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hill, in answer to a glance of enquiry. ‘Our only communication with outside has been by telepathy.’

  The good Colonel was puzzled and distressed. He sat silent for a time, frowning a little.

  ‘Look here,’ he said at last. ‘You told the Commandant you have given your parole not to reveal the name of your communicator.’

  ‘I did.’

  The Colonel leant forward, a hand on each knee, and looked hard into my eyes. ‘You now say’ – he spoke with emphatic slowness – ‘you now assert you have had no outside communications. To whom did you give that parole?’

  ‘To the Spook,’ said I, grinning.27

  The Colonel jumped to his feet, and strode across to the little window. He stood there for a space, looking into the garden. Every now and then he passed his hand over his brow. At last he turned round and faced us.

  ‘I give it up!’ he said.

  Hill and I smiled – we could not help it.

  ‘I give it up,’ the Colonel repeated, with great sternness. I spoke with all the gravity I could muster.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I give you my word that since I came to Yozgad I have had no communication by speech or writing direct or indirect with anyone in Turkey outside the camp, except the Turkish officials. Nor have I ever attempted any communication with the inhabitants by any other means than telepathy.’

  ‘That is good enough for me,’ said the Colonel brightly. ‘Now to avoid getting the camp into trouble, will you agree while you remain in this camp not to attempt conscious telepathy or other communication with any outsiders? I don’t mean any ordinary open conversation – you know what I mean, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said I, and gave the promise he wanted. Then I glanced across at Hill. The Colonel was looking pleased and the time seemed propitious.

  ‘Sir,’ said Hill, ‘I want to take back the parole I gave to your predecessor – not to escape.’

  The Colonel frowned again. ‘Why?’ said he.

  ‘Because Jones and I ar
e going to be separately confined from the rest of the camp. I want to be free to escape if I want to.’

  ‘Hum!’ said the Colonel.

  ‘I am the only man in camp who is on parole to you,’ pleaded Hill.

  ‘Hum!’ said the Colonel again.

  ‘We may be sent to the common jail,’ said Hill.

  The Colonel rubbed his chin. ‘You are aware that if anyone escapes the rest of the camp will be punished? You have seen the Commandant’s order on the subject, have you not?’28

  ‘Yes,’ said Hill; ‘but from this afternoon we are to be in separate confinement. We won’t form part of the camp.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Colonel, ‘if you are put in the common jail, you may escape if you can. But if you are confined in one of these houses round here, I shall consider you are still in the camp.’

  ‘But supposing we are moved from Yozgad?’ Hill protested.

  ‘I can’t have you risking the comfort of a hundred other officers,’ he replied. ‘You should think of the others. But in view of a possible move, I shall modify your parole to apply only to Yozgad and a five-mile radius round it, excluding the jail, if you like.’

  Hill glanced across at me. On the principle that half a loaf is better than no bread, I nodded.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hill.

  We turned to go.

  ‘What about you, Jones?’ said the Colonel suddenly. ‘Have you any intention of running away?’

  I looked as surprised as I could. ‘Good Lord, sir!’ I said. ‘Do you think I’m such a fool as to think of it with a groggy knee like mine?’

  The Colonel laughed. ‘There’s no saying with you fellows,’ said he; ‘but that’s all right now.’

  Hill and I walked up the garden together.

  ‘That five-mile circle is pretty beastly,’ he grumbled.

  ‘There’s always the jail,’ I said. ‘The Spook can push you in there if necessary later on.’

  ‘That’s so!’ Hill brightened up. ‘He nearly pinched you for parole too! I thought you were in for it!’

  ‘So did I,’ I laughed, ‘but I wriggled out of it.’

  I was quite wrong. Half an hour later the Colonel came to my room. He handed me a document.

  ‘This is a summary of the results of our interview,’ he said. ‘Read it and tell me if it is correct.’

  I read it, and found he had put me on parole with Hill for the double event – not to telepathize with the good folk of Yozgad, and not to escape from the five-mile circle.

  I might as well be in the same boat as Hill after all. ‘It’s all right,’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘if you insist on it at any time, I am bound to give you back your parole.’

  This was very fair of the Colonel. But his refusal of the morning was still too fresh, and I remembered how another senior officer had treated Hill’s first attempt to recover his parole which he had made some months before. (He had threatened to inform the Turks!) The Commandant’s allegiance to the Spook was as yet too shaky to let us take any risks, however slight. We could take back our parole, if necessary, in our own good time.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said; ‘I shall remember that. But we have no intention of getting the camp into trouble.’

  ‘Hum!’ said the Colonel, and left me. And that was the last I saw of him in captivity.

  I had one more visitor of importance that morning. Doc. brought me his report of the trial, which has been quoted above. I thanked him for letting me read it.

  ‘Is that correct?’ he asked.

  ‘It is what happened,’ said I.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. Lay awake for hours and hours after writing that. I was thinkin’…’

  ‘That’s bad,’ I sympathized. ‘Did it hurt much?’

  He took me by the shoulders, turned my face to the light and stood looking at me quizzingly for some time. His eyes were dancing with mischief.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said at last. ‘Honest now! Are you by any chance an Irishman in disguise?’

  ‘No,’ I laughed, ‘I am not.’

  ‘Any Irish blood in ye?’

  ‘Not a drop, Doc. dear.’

  He ruffled his hair, plunged his hands deep in his pockets, and began walking up and down with a short quick step.

  ‘Then I can’t understand it,’ he cried. ‘If you were an Irishman I’d know where I was, but you say you’re not.’

  ‘Is it my nose that’s botherin’ you, Doc. dear?’ I chaffed.

  ‘It is not your nose,’ he said emphatically, ‘an’ well you know it! It’s this preposterous trial. If you were an Irishman, I’d know you’d planned the whole thing for a bit of devilment.’

  ‘Mercy me!’ I exclaimed. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said, pushing me into a chair. ‘Sit down there where I can watch your face, an’ I’ll tell you. How long have I known you, Bones?’

  ‘Nearly two years,’ I said.

  ‘An’ how well do I know you?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I replied. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I will. I know you as well as this! I’ll eat my boots if you are a souper.’

  ‘Souper?’

  ‘If you were an Irishman, you’d know what that means. It’s a fellow who changes his religion to keep his lands.’

  ‘But I haven’t changed my religion, Doc.’

  ‘No,’ said he, ‘but you’ve done as bad. Yesterday at the trial you gave away your pal.’

  ‘Don’t rake all that up again,’ I expostulated. ‘I lost my head. I got excited, and I explained it all to you yesterday.’

  ‘Ay,’ the Doc. teased, ‘and it was that same explanation that kept me awake last night. You’re a queer sort of man to lose your head at a trial, you that’s been a magistrate in Burma since Heaven knows when.’

  ‘It was so sudden, Doc.’

  ‘Maybe. But if you cut your finger now, and suddenly asked me to bandage it, d’you think I’d lose my head? Why, it’s my work! Sudden or slow, it’s all the same to me. And sudden or slow, your work’s all the same to you. You didn’t lose your head!’

  ‘Then I must be a souper,’ I sighed.

  ‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘I know you better.’

  I sat silent.

  ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘Hill and you were hobnobbing together this morning. I saw you – laughing fit to burst, an’ as thick as thieves.’

  ‘Perhaps he has forgiven me,’ I suggested.

  ‘No use, Bones! No use at all. As certain as I’m sitting here you two are up to something together. Now what is it?’

  I did not answer.

  ‘Bones,’ he pleaded, ‘if this is a joke an’ you leave me out in the cold, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll die of grief an’ come back to manifest on ye when I’m dead. What were ye laughing about like that, you and Hill? When I see two fellows in your position as happy as larks, I want to share! Why – you’re laughing now! It’s a ramp, I’m sure it’s a ramp! For pity’s sake let me in! I’ll keep it as dark as Erebus! Let me help you. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘I daresay there is, Doc., but you might burn your fingers.’

  ‘Blow my fingers!’ he said. ‘You must tell me now! If you don’t I’ll – I’ll go straight to Maule and tell him my suspicions.’

  ‘You souper!’ said I. ‘Just to keep you from harming us with your confounded theories, I’ll have to tell you as much as is good for you. You remember the revolver stunt?’

  He nodded.

  ‘This is an extension of it. We are looking for a buried treasure for the Turks. We wanted to get moved away from the rest of the camp so as to have peace to carry out our plans and do the thing in style. The trial was just a ramp to get us moved. It was all rehearsed beforehand.’

  ‘Gosh!’ Doc. cried, ‘so the Pimple is in the know with you?’

  ‘And the Commandant,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Doc. shouted.

  ‘And
the Commandant,’ I repeated. ‘He was playing a part, too.’

  Doc. jumped to his feet, stared at me a moment, and then a broad grin spread over his face, and he broke into the first steps of an Irish jig, cavorting his delight in a sort of speechless ecstasy.

  He stopped, suddenly grave. ‘Was I the only one who made a fool of myself?’ he asked anxiously. ‘What about the other witnesses, Winnie and Gilchrist and Peel? Were they in the know?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ I said. ‘You four were the audience, all in the outer darkness together, and you did very well indeed, thank you!’

  ‘But we gave you away!’

  ‘You were intended to do that,’ I said.

  The Doc. began to laugh again. ‘Oh, Bones,’ he gasped, ‘what benighted fools we’ve been! Now, if you love me, tell me all about it.’

  ‘No time for that, Doc.,’ I said, ‘but read this and you’ll know as much as the Turks.’ I handed him the record of our séances with the Pimple, and went on with my packing.

  When he had finished reading, he came over and sat down beside me.

  ‘Bones,’ he said, ‘I’m hanged if I see what you are driving at yet. But it’s the ramp of the century. Is there any mortal thing I can do to help you?’