The Secrets of a Kuttite Part 32

I see the maidan silvered With waters in the dawn-- Dark lines of distant parapets.

Fresh earth against the morn,

With files of khaki turbans Moving forward to relief-- I see the busy shovel, Hear the cursings underneath.

Farther still, beyond the sand-hills, The trenches of our foe, Seeming silent and deserted-- But I know that they're below

In lines on lines encircling Us, north, south, east, and west-- And if my gla.s.ses tell me true, They're reinforcing for the test.

'Tis moonlight, and they're sleeping, The detachments of my guns-- Here, just behind the limber, These best of England's sons.

For the dug-outs are now flooded, Washed by this muddy sea-- The gun-wheels half in water, The breech-blocks scarcely free.

And parapets and sandbags, Our trenches fallen, too-- There's room for ammunition, But not for me or you.

Once more, from the mouth of my dug-out, I smoke the leaves of the lime-- Sort the destinies of my sh.e.l.ls, "Percussion" and also "time."

There's a light in the telephone dug-out-- I think I'll have a peep, For I'm half expecting a message-- Maybe the Bombardier's asleep.

Asleep! in the arms of Hunger; But I'll report him not, Though I "rounded" him well for his slackness, And returned to my watery lot.

Past sheets of wintry moonlight I see the drooping palm, And the ribboned edge of the Tigris, Dreaming of Eden's calm.

Hard by, in ghastly stillness, His four feet toward the moon, I see the corpse of a stricken horse, Death-knelled by the shrapnel-tune.

A broken wagon there yonder-- A topee adrift in the flood-- Its owner was strafed in the trenches, There's the case of the sh.e.l.l in the mud.

I hear the belated mule-carts A-rumbling on to the Fort Under the cover of night-- For so their provisions were brought.

I hear the jackals' chorus, Athirst for expected prey, Where the Arab tribes lie sleeping, Patiently awaiting "the day."

Enough! these things are over, The moon is on the wane, And the palm-fronds' festooned shadows I ne'er shall see again.

For Kut at last is fallen, And more men have to die-- Our flag is down, and the Crescent Waves o'er the old Serai.

G.o.d grant to us, now captives-- Who at Death's gate boldly dare Boast we haven't succ.u.mbed to battle-- Grant us this fervent prayer--

That in our future cheerless, We yet shall know o'er Kut Our avengers see the Union Jack-- Tramp the Crescent underfoot.

To that, then, drink from this date-juice, And fill up your pipe with the lime.

We have fought till the Great Gong sounded-- Till the Referee called out--"Time!"

SPARKLING MOSELLE.

(11) THE SILK GAUNTLET OR, HOW WE ESCAPED FROM KASTAMUNI By "A Kutt.i.te."

I. THE s.h.i.+P.

The Kastamuni Kutt.i.tes Klearout Kompany was immediately launched in accordance with the advertised prospectus in _Smoke_, and the plans proceeded apace. Silently and secretly the airs.h.i.+p was constructed in the Rabbit Warrens of the Lower House under the supervision of Captains Tipton and Wells. The design, one of the simplest, consisted in the usual vast air-chambers, and underneath a reinforced carrier named the Raft guaranteed to contain two hundred men.

Beneath that ran the main shaft--a street tube bought at long intervals in parts from the bazaar, and to it were fitted some beechwood propellers, a special patent by Parsnip, and made by Bamptarius and Munrati. As no engine was available, the motor power was derived from treadles arranged in pairs on either side of the main-screw shaft, and fitted thereto by bevelled cogs turning in teethed collars along the screw. In other words, twenty old bicycle pedals and cranks had been stuck on to bevelled cogged collars along the shaft, and when pedalled vigorously by twenty stalwart officers, it was calculated by the designers that a speed of at least thirty knots would be attained. A secret trial was out of the question, but so great was the faith of every one in the abilities of our members of the R.F.C. that parole was recalled in small batches so as not to occasion suspicion. Then one day an excited whisper spread from mouth to mouth. Although officers lounged about as usual, and even played footer, or smoked and read, the hearts of all beat high with hope, and in every eye was the old look one remembers on the evening of our intended debouch from Kut. The whisper was, "To-night's the night."

II. THE ESCAPE.

There was no moon--only a faint starlight that seemed to intensify the darkness. At 2 a.m. strange figures, some hatless, all bootless, and some in pyjamas, flitted swiftly and noiselessly through the empty streets. The rendezvous was the large stone mosque in the gra.s.sy plot to the right flank beneath Mr. Smoke's window, which had been selected as the most suitable place for fitting the "Homeward Bound" together.

At this rendezvous the committee had been working on it since midnight, and when the others arrived the "airs.h.i.+p"

rode proudly in the air tethered to the minaret by a cable. I am now writing on board, and the blue sea is far beneath us....

In order to picture our embarkation, cast your mind back to the sketch in a previous issue of _Smoke_ of a "Homeward Bound" model riding anch.o.r.ed to the minaret, and dark figures with monkey-like spasmodic movements crawling along a rope ladder to the airs.h.i.+p. Stores and water were quickly got on board. There was a committee for everything, and nothing had been forgotten. The organization was wonderful. The bandsmen were privileged to bring their instruments. In fifteen minutes we were all aboard, and even with the extra weight she still strained upwards at the ropes.

The first fatigue took their places at the treadles, and the propellers whirred. Crack! A shot rang sharply through the night--another and another! It was the alarm being given to Kastamuni. In thirty seconds it had grown to a fusillade.

Lights flashed here and there in the town, but the "Homeward Bound" was in darkness....

"Cast off," shouted our Commander Tipton, and as the ropes were cut the "s.h.i.+p" leaped to a height of 10,000 feet. "Ye G.o.ds!" "Heavens!" "What's happened?" were heard on all sides. What a leap at the heavens it was. We fell sprawling, clutching at anything, but the caution we had previously received saved us, and for the most part we held the guard-ropes.

You see, we had expected something, but scarcely that. Yet the plans were perfect. The 10,000 feet had been calculated to a pound of gas. "It's all right," yelled out Tipton, no doubt accustomed to these stunts. The fatigue party had been jerked half off their seats and couldn't pedal as her bow tilted upwards. That was righted with the air valves, and in a few seconds she brought up at dead level.

Then the fatigues started pedalling hard, and we waited--waited.

A cheer burst out as the "Homeward Bound"

slowly started forward, her pace increasing every second.

Then, overcome with joy, the band seized their instruments and struck up an air. Away down in Kastamuni the people awakened out of their sleep by the alarm, heard a soft whirring high up in the sky, and then the strains of "Destiny Waltz"

came floating down to their astonished ears. This changed to "Rule Britannia" and "G.o.d Save the King."

Bullets pished-pished past us, but as we got further away we lit up, and all they probably saw was a light or two in the sky, moving like stars towards the hills.

III. THE FLIGHT.

We now proceeded to make ourselves comfortable on the raft. We rigged up sleeping corners, a reading corner, a band corner, and storeroom--although many stores were suspended from the airs.h.i.+p by dangling ropes. Not the least feature about the appointments was the coffee-shop and bar, presided over by Sir Bedevere le Geant, King Arthur's henchman and mastik drawer. The Oblong Table as the chief promoters, with Mr. Smoke, of the scheme, rigged up an oblong table of sorts, and kept up the old order of things, King Arthur being in great form. Sir s.h.i.+nytop regaled us all with humorous lamentations for his lost love in Kastamuni. The consumption of _mastik_ was limited to ten per man per night. Oh, the sensation of those first starry hours of freedom, the exquisite sensation of easy movement (it wasn't my fatigue) on a glorious early summer's night, the thrill of joy after months of confinements, the speeding on towards liberty! If you have been a prisoner of war you will know the meaning of this. It was exactly the reverse sensation to that we had on going upstream as captives after Kut. So we drank, drank, drank mastik after mastik and thanked the G.o.ds.

But I must hasten to repair an omission and say something about the "Homeward Bound." Tipton was commander and aeronaut wallah, a.s.sisted by Lieut. Nicholson, R.N., navigating officer. Captain Wells "repairs," and Sir Lancelot le Fumeur as international lawyer in case of complications, Lieut. Wulley, M.A. (Maiden Aunt), as Intelligence Officer, had a little crow's-nest on top to which he pluckily scrambled by a ladder. In an ingenious manner he had drawn maps all around him on the silk cover of the s.h.i.+p. Major Syer had Supply, and Captain Reyne did Sergeant-Major of Fatigues, as he got more work out of the boys who went on in two-hour spells. The "Admiral," our pilot, had much time to spare, and started a book with Fludd and Hunger on the various risks uncovered, also betting on where we should land and when. The tiny bridge was forward in the bows, with a gla.s.s window that looked out ahead. Some of the orderlies were on the after-part of the raft and others on a trailer just below. Away astern, and towed by a long tow-rope, was the dinghy, a contrivance of King Arthur's by which punishments were inflicted, the boat being hauled alongside, and after the delinquent being placed therein, let out astern. The first offender was Sir Pompous for _lese majeste_, and as he drifted past he yelled--_quelle politesse!_ Sir Sulphurous followed for "language,"

and Brabby for promoting a fight between two small gamec.o.c.ks he had smuggled on board, thus drawing a crowd and tilting the "airs.h.i.+p" at a dangerous angle. Hummerbug came next for regretting the kaimakam was not with him.

Most mysterious of all was a buoyant canoe called the cradle, also in tow, that floated high over the "Homeward Bound."

Great secrecy was maintained about this, but rumour had it that Sir Lancelot le Fumeur and Sir Carol le Filbert had worked this project for exploiting a new model in the London music halls--in other words, that Sonia the Fair Girl was in the cradle. In support of this theory it may be mentioned that during the first night of the voyage each of these knights was missing for a time, and could nowhere be found. We averaged about twenty knots and soon pa.s.sed over the dark pa.s.sage 7000 feet below us that stood for the ranges we had so long beheld as the horizon of our imprisonment. Less than three hours after leaving, as the dawn was breaking, we saw far beneath us a silver feathery line.

"Gentlemen," said our genial commander, "Turkey is behind you--behold the sea." A small wiry figure came scrambling down the observation ladder in breathless excitement.

"It is the Black Sea," he said, and every one laughed, and Le Fumeur, who sat writing in the corner, swore he would shove that into _Smoke_ if he was hung for it. By the way, he promised us a last edition of _Smoke en voyage_. It appeared yesterday, but all in good time. We kept on this course for an hour, and the mist prevented us seeing any s.h.i.+pping. In the distance we had seen a few white dots--possibly Sinope.

"Head wind springing up. Storm ahead, sir," reported the pilot to the commander. "Clap on pace," yelled old Tipton. "Stick her at it, half-hour fatigues, band strike up, emergency guard-ropes out, lash everything quick."

The wildest scrimmage took place. Sleepers were trodden on, mastik bottles upset, and people sent sprawling as the "first twenty," all fit as fleas, sprang to take a relief. How those fellows pedalled. The propellers screamed a higher note, and for a moment we swept along; but a second later, as the tide of wind caught us, our pace slackened more and more until we remained almost stationary. The wind whistled through us, and the canvas screens on the raft reported like cannon shots. Every one had hold of something, except the band, who were in a sheltered corner. We played ragtime and poppies to some purpose, but when we struck up the "Marche aux Flambeaux" a miraculous thing happened. Scarcely had we done ten bars when we bounded ahead as if we had cut a tow-rope holding us back. We did ten knots in the teeth of the gale. The fatigue pedalled six revolutions of a leg to every note of the Marche, and The Crochet set the pace. The whole s.h.i.+p cheered, and a solitary shout came from far behind.

This was from dear old Pompous in the dinghy, whom every one had forgotten. We beheld the latter being twirled round and round like a spinner, but now that we moved its occupant shouted with glee to find himself on an even keel. This kept on for two hours, and as man after man gave out or got cramp another replaced him at the pedals. "Storm approaching, portbow," yelled the pilot. "Emergency holds every man.

Prepare to mount," our commander yelled in a cavalry voice.

The band instruments were secured. We held tight. A lull had succeeded the heavy wind, and somehow the sea was much nearer.

"More speed, more speed, keep her head to it," was the order.

Suddenly, without a second's warning, an avalanche of wind swept down on us, and the shock of impact seemed to hurl us a mile back. "Stick it, boys," yelled Captain Reyne.