The Road to En-dor

by E. H. Jones

  As we entered the courtyard the caretaker bustled forward with his bunch of great keys. He opened room after room for our inspection. They were all stone floored, low-ceilinged and devoid of all furniture. This would not have mattered to us. The important point was that nowhere could we see a place to tie a rope above five feet from the floor. The building seemed to have been specially designed to prevent suicide by hanging.

  Hill was mooning along with us, reading his Bible as he went and pretending to take no interest in the proceedings, but I knew that the mournful look he bestowed on each room as we entered had taken in every detail. I glanced at him and he gave the tiniest shake of the head. I turned on Moïse.

  ‘Is this the accommodation you offer me, ME, a friend of the Sultan!’ I said in simulated rage, twisting my coat-button as I spoke. ‘This is an insult! Take us where we shall find worthy lodging, or you shall suffer!’

  The Pimple translated to the caretaker, and asked if he had no better rooms. That worthy closed his eyes, tossed back his head, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. We knew the gesture well, as does every prisoner of war from Turkey. It is the most objectionable, irritating and insulting negative in the world. Then he pocketed his keys and walked away.

  We went down into the courtyard. The drivers had already unharnessed. Bekir and Sabit had taken the luggage off the carts, and as the Pimple’s belongings included 500 lbs. of butter which he was taking to Constantinople in the hope of selling it at a profit, unloading was no light task. When the Pimple told them we had refused to stay there, sentries and drivers alike were furious. I added to the hubbub by dancing about the yard in a frenzy and ordering them to harness up at once. Bekir, his face red with anger, took me roughly by the shoulder and growled at me in Turkish. I pushed him off, and foaming with rage informed him that he was reduced from lieutenant-colonel (to which rank I had promoted him that very morning) to a common ‘nefer’ (private) again, and if he didn’t load up at once I’d have him shot, I’d report him to the Sultan, I’d tell Enver about him and blow him from the cannon’s mouth. The Pimple translated. It was a very pretty little scene, and quite a crowd gathered in the gateway. In the end, we had our way. The horses were harnessed, the carts were loaded, and we bumped over the cobbles to another caravanserai. It was no better than the first. My wrath reached boiling point: Hill became almost grotesquely mournful. The sentries and the drivers were on the point of mutiny. I nearly twisted off the coat-button getting Moïse to move them on. We crossed the square to the third, last and best caravanserai in Mardeen. The sentries and drivers began unloading as soon as they got into the courtyard. Their patience was at an end and it was obvious they would humour us no longer. Besides, there was nowhere else to go. The hotel-keeper (I dignify him thus, though he was a lousy rascal enough, because the place was a little more pretentious than the ordinary serai) told us he had only one room unoccupied. Everything looked very hopeless as we watched him fumble at the lock. Then he threw open the door. It was a narrow room, about fifteen feet long by ten wide, and contained two beds. In the wall opposite the door was a small barred window, too low down to be of any use. I glanced at the ceiling. It was high – a good eleven feet above ground level – and directly overhead, close to the door and about three feet apart from one another, were four solid rings, fastened by staples to the woodwork, that looked strong enough to hold an ox. Our luck had changed. Things could not have been better had we ordered them specially.

  I turned to the hotel-keeper.

  ‘We would prefer a larger room, with ten beds, if you have it.’

  He said he had no other room. I bowed profoundly and indicated our willingness to make the best of a bad job. Hill was already sitting on the floor reading the Bible.

  Bekir and Sabit brought up the luggage and proceeded to make themselves comfortable. An attempt to get them to take up their quarters on the veranda failed. My simulated rage at the first two hotels had frightened them. They thought I was in one of my dangerous moods, and stuck to their posts. But there was still plenty of time, as it was not yet sunset.

  Opposite the door of our room, on the other side of a small narrow passage, was the coffee-shop of the hotel. It was full of a motley crowd of drovers and shepherds. At my suggestion Bekir, Moïse and I entered it, leaving Hill at his religious duties in the corner and Sabit to watch him. Before Moïse could stop me I had ordered and paid for coffee all round – it cost a shilling a cup! While this was being drunk I went amongst the drovers and asked confidentially if there were any English in the town, and if any of them knew Major Baylay. There were no English in Mardeen, and Bayley was utterly unknown. In my joy at the news I ordered ten cups of coffee for each guest and threw a pile of bank-notes on the counter. Moïse grabbed it, explained to the crowd that I was mad, and amid much sympathetic murmuring and ‘Allah-Allah-ing’ from the drovers I was hustled back into my own room. In preparation for what was coming later, the hotel habitués had been given a hint of our mental state, and I had seen what we wanted in the coffee-room – a small table, by standing on which we could reach the rings. As an excuse for getting it brought in we ordered a meal.

  The next problem was to get rid of the sentries. While Moïse was out of the room ordering our dinner, Hill (pretending to be reading his Bible aloud) suggested that after the meal I should invite the sentries and Moïse to step across the passageway and have a cup of coffee with me. They would probably accept the invitation because they regarded Hill as harmless. While they were away Hill would fix the ropes to the rings. I would excuse myself for a moment and return to the room, the door of which they could see from the coffee-room. We would jam the table against the door, stand on it, get the nooses round our necks, blow out the light and swing off. I agreed.

  Moïse came back with the table and the food. We all had dinner (Bekir and Sabit were fed at our expense as a mark of their return into favour). Under pretence of doing something to the luggage, Hill tied nooses on our two ropes. The sentries did not notice what he was doing. Then he began to read his Bible again. I invited the party to coffee. All accepted, except Hill, who paid no attention. We opened the door: the coffee-room was shut. The ‘café-jee’ had gone away! Our plan had failed. Bekir offered to get a bottle of cognac if we would provide the money. I had a momentary idea of making the men drunk enough to sleep soundly, but it would be too dangerous. Besides, the Turks would expect us to drink level, and we needed clear heads if we were to make no mistakes. So we vetoed the cognac and I voted for tea. Sabit went out and boiled some water over a fire in the yard. I tried to get Bekir to go and see why he was so long about it, but Bekir had taken his boots off and couldn’t be bothered. Sabit came back with the hot water. I had failed again.

  As we drank the tea I began to make myself as interesting as I could, and told tales current among Welsh country folk that appealed to the bucolic minds of our escort. I spoke of things seen in the East, and especially of crops and harvests in distant lands. Moïse interpreted. The sentries listened intently, for they were small farmers themselves, and asked intelligent and endless questions. Thus they forgot their fears about us, and ten o’clock arrived. But we were no nearer our objective. Sabit began to spread his bedding in his customary place – across the door.

  ‘Before Sabit lies down,’ I said, ‘I want to be taken to the House of Purification’ (the Turkish name for lavatory). I signalled secretly to Hill to come with us. Bekir and Sabit got their rifles and marched us into the outer darkness. The Pimple remained behind. After we had gone a few paces I slipped an Indian rupee and a Turkish gold lira into Hill’s palm, and began singing. This is what I sang –

  It’s up to you to show them some tricks.

  I’ll say it’s magic, you get them keen,

  Then offer to show them one still more wonderful

  If they’ll stand outside the door while you prepare.

  Hill squeezed my arm to show that he understood, and I turned to Sabit and asked for a Turkish song.
He complied readily enough. By the time we got back to the room we were all singing together, except Hill. He went back to his corner and his Bible.

  ‘That last tune of Bekir’s reminds me of one I heard from a witch doctor in Togoland,’70 I said to the Pimple. ‘He was a great magician and held converse with djinns. Ask Bekir if he has ever seen magic.’

  Bekir had often heard of magic and djinns, but had never seen any. Yes, he would like very much to see some, but where?

  I pointed to Hill, huddled up in his corner, and told them he knew all the magic of the aborigines of Australia. I’d make him show us some, if they wished it. They were delighted at the idea. But Hill refused to oblige. He said magic was ‘wicked’ and he had given it up.

  ‘Shall I force him to do it?’ I asked.

  Bekir and Sabit nodded. They were very keen already, and knew that Hill usually obeyed me – it was a feature in his insanity that he gave in to me more readily than to anyone else. But tonight he simulated great reluctance. I had to threaten to take his Bible away before he would do as he was told. Finally he stood up, the picture of mournful despondency, and slowly rolled up his sleeves. We lit a second candle and placed it on the table. We moved the table to the spot we wanted it – not directly under the rings but slightly to one side, so that we would swing clear when we stepped off. Then Hill began.

  It was a very wonderful little performance. He showed his empty hand to the sentries, then closed it slowly under their noses (his audience was never more than three feet away). When he opened it a rupee lay shining in his palm. The sentries gasped – here was a man turning thin air into silver. Could he make gold too? Hill took the rupee in his right hand and threw it into his left three times. The third time it turned into a Turkish gold lira. The sentries, dumb with surprise, took it from his palm, examined it closely by the candlelight, bit it, rang it on the table. ‘It is good,’ said Bekir, handing it back. ‘Make more, many more.’ Hill smiled a little sourly and threw the lira back into his left hand, and it turned back into a rupee. Sabit gave a short, very nervous bark of a laugh. Bekir was disappointed – he wanted more gold. With a look of utter boredom on his face Hill began extracting gold coins from the air, from under the table, from the back of his knee, slipping his harvest into his pocket as he garnered it. The sentries gaped in open-mouthed astonishment. Hill picked up his Bible and made to sit in his corner again.

  ‘More!’ said Bekir. ‘Show us more magic.’

  Hill turned back. ‘Would you like to see the table float about the room?’ he asked.

  They would like it very much.

  ‘Then step outside the door while I speak to the djinns.’

  We all rose to go out, I with the rest.

  ‘You’ll be out there about fifteen minutes,’ Hill went on ‘better take a candle with you. And if you value your lives don’t come in till I call you. But I want one of you to stay and help me.’

  I suggested Moïse should stay, and in the same breath twisted my button and told him to leave me behind. It ended by the sentries going out with Moïse quite happily. We closed the door. It fitted badly, and Moïse had but to watch the space between the lintel and door to see when our light went out. Darkness was to be his signal for breaking in.

  The moment the door closed, Hill handed me my rope, and we mounted the small table together. My hands shook so from excitement that the ring rattled against the staple with a noise like castanets, and I could scarcely control my fingers to knot the rope. It was not unlike the ‘stag-fever’ which afflicts young hunters of big game.

  ‘Steady,’ said Hill in a low voice, ‘they’ll hear you.’

  He was already standing with the rope round his neck. His ring and staple had not made a sound. His voice pulled me together, and next moment my task too was done.

  ‘Ready?’ I whispered.

  ‘I’m O.K.,’ he replied.

  We shook hands.

  ‘Take the strain,’ I said.

  Holding the rope above my head in my right hand, I bent my knees till it was taut about my neck. I could not see Hill, but knew he was doing the same. We did not want an inch of ‘drop’ if we could avoid it.

  The candle was ready in my left hand. I blew it out, and we swung off into space.

  To anyone desirous of quitting this mortal coil we can offer one piece of sound advice – don’t try strangulation. Than hanging by the neck nothing more agonising can be imagined. In the hope of finding a comfortable way of placing the noose we had both experimented before leaving Yozgad, but no matter how we placed it we could never bear the pain for more than a fraction of a second. When we stepped off our table in the dark at Mardeen we simply had to bear it, and though we had arranged to grip the rope with one hand so as to take as much weight as possible off the neck until we heard Moïse at the door, the pain was excruciating. Moïse did not at once notice that our light had gone out. I revolved slowly on the end of my rope. My right arm began to give out and the rope bit deeper into my throat. My ears were singing. I wondered if I was going deaf, if I could hear him try the door in time to get my hand away, if he was ever going to open the door at all. It was impossible to say how long we hung thus, revolving in the dark. I suppose it was about ninety seconds, but it seemed like ten years.

  Figure 30: The candle was ready in my left hand. I blew it out and we swung off into space.

  ‘Hill, Jones, are you ready?’ At last the Pimple had seen the signal.

  We instantly let go of our ropes and hung solidly by the neck – it was awful.

  ‘Hill, Jones!’ The Pimple was shouting now. We could not have answered had we tried.

  The door crashed open. The Pimple saw us, yelled at the top of his voice, and kept on yelling. Somebody rushed past (I was next the door) bumping against me so that my body swung violently, and the rope tightened unbearably round my throat. Then a pair of strong arms clasped my legs and – oh, blessed relief! – lifted me a little. (I found out afterwards it was Sabit, the sentry. The Pimple was doing the same for Hill.) There was soon pandemonium in the room; in answer to the Pimple’s cries people came rushing in from all over the hotel. The place was in darkness and everybody except Hill and myself were shouting as loud as they could, while the Pimple’s shrieks sounded clear above the din. Then somebody took me by the waist and threw all his weight on me. Through my closed eyelids I saw a whole firmament of shooting stars. I don’t quite know what happened after that until I found myself on the floor. The same thing was done to Hill. I believe it was one of the drovers who did it, but what his intention was I never knew. Perhaps he was testing us, to see if we would put up our hands, or perhaps he was a good Mohammedan anxious to finish off two infidel ‘giaours’. Whatever his object may have been, he did not succeed.

  I don’t think either Hill or I ever quite lost consciousness, but for a time everything was very confused. We have quite clear recollections of unnamable tortures being inflicted upon us, which we endured without sign as best might be. Turkish methods of resuscitation are original and barbarous. At last somebody poured a bucketful of extraordinarily cold water over me and I half opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was Hill. He lay on a bed still feigning unconsciousness, with dropped jaw and protruding tongue. The local expert in anatomy was practising on him the same abominable treatment as I had just undergone. Another gentleman was pouring water impartially over Hill and the bed. The hotel-keeper, in a vain effort to save his mattresses, was tugging at Hill’s head so as to bring it over the edge of the bed and let the water fall on the floor. Hill opened his eyes and began to cry, as Doc. O’Farrell had warned him to do. They continued to pour water over us both, until the floor was an inch deep in it.

  Doc.’s orders to me on ‘coming to’ had been to be as abusive and noisy as possible, and to curse everybody for cutting me down. It was the only unfortunate bit of advice he ever gave us. As soon as I felt up to it, I tried to struggle to my feet, shook my fist at the Pimple and added to the general din by roaring out, ‘Terju
man chôk fena! Terjuman chôk fena!’ (Interpreter very bad.)

  Bekir, who had a firm grip on my collar, thrust me back to a sitting position on the floor and relieved his feelings at finding me so much alive by striking me a heavy blow with his fist under the ear. I paid no heed to him, though my head was singing, and continued to roar, ‘Terjuman chôk fena!’ at the top of my voice, but Bekir’s action was the signal for a general assault by everyone within reach. Sabit, from behind, drove his rifle-butt into my back, a shepherd in front smote me on the head with a coil of rope, and a gentleman in wooden clogs on my left kicked me hard in the stomach. The rope and the rifle had been just endurable, but ‘clogs’ was the last straw. An overwhelming nausea came over me, everything swam in a giddy mist, and my voice sank like Bottom the weaver’s from a good leonine roar of wrath to the cooing of a sucking-dove. I have never felt so ill in my life, and it was hard to keep at it, even in a whisper. They were going to do something more to me, when Moïse intervened. I was profoundly thankful, but went on raving at my rescuer between gasps. Bekir and Sabit contented themselves with holding me down on the floor.

  Meantime my melancholic companion in crime was weeping and wailing on the bed. He was a most distressful figure, with his pale contorted face and streaming eyes and the great red weal round his neck where the rope had been. His shirt was torn half off, and everything about him from his hair to his socks was as wet as water could make it. Nobody paid the least attention to him and he wailed on in solitude.

  The whole population of Mardeen seemed to be in the room or in the passage outside trying to get in. Gentlemen with swords; gentlemen with daggers; gentlemen with rifles, and blunderbusses, and knobkerries; shepherds and drovers with long sticks; a shoemaker with a hammer; and a resplendent gendarme with a long shining chain. On the table the hotel-keeper was standing; he held a torch in one hand and with the other exhibited a clasp-knife he had broken in cutting us down. Everyone was talking at once. The din was indescribable and the smell was beyond words. The Pimple, with fresh marks of tears on his cheeks (he had shrieked himself into hysterical weeping), waved his arms and explained over and over again about Hill’s gold trick and how we had fooled them into leaving the room. The mention of the gold fired the mob to search us. They did it very thoroughly, but found nothing but notes. Hill kept the gold out of sight by the aid of his sleight of hand, but let them find the rupee. This caused a fresh discussion – the rupee was evidence of the truth of what Moïse and the sentries had said, and it must be that the gold was magic gold, and had disappeared into the thin air whence it came. They looked at Hill’s weeping figure with something of awe in their glances.