The adventures of Heine 14 – Wallace · Verses Across
Literature · Short Stories
The adventures of Heine 14Brethren of the Order
18
Literature · Short Stories
The adventures of Heine 14
Brethren of the Order
WallaceEnglish
Consider, dear friends, the embarrassing circumstances under which I found myself! Deported from England by a man whom I admit, is a person of considerable sagacity, though infinitely inferior to the Intelligence officers one finds attached to the German army, both in birth and natural inquisitiveness--a man who had it in his power to drag me straight away to the execution shed as a spy!
Contrary to all his orders and instructions I had come back! I, one humble German in a World of Enemies, had denied the law and majesty of England and had come back! It is true that I did not want to come back, but that does not alter the fact. We Germans are modest people, as I have remarked before. We do not ask for praise, we do not invite approval; we are satisfied, in the words of an English proverb, with the approval of a good conscience.
I do not want to boast of my own courage. That would be an un-German thing to do. I merely say that ninety-nine out of every hundred men who found themselves in my position, alone, with a false registration card, with no passport, with my disguise as a Chilian penetrated, with the doors of twenty prisons yawning to receive me, would have sunk down into their boots and suffered grievously from cold feet. But you, who know Heine, are well aware that he is not a man to be lightly scared.
I woke up that morning in Quaytown without fear, a penniless Ishmael, hunted by the law, the hand of every man against me. Yet I was cheerful. When I say I was penniless, I speak of course in a figurative sense. I had a few pounds in my belt. I had a few thousands in a certain New York bank and in various places in England there would be men who would help me.
I paid my bill at the little hotel where I had spent the night and caught the nine o’clock train for London. I got off the train at Bath and made my way to a certain large stationer’s which accepts advertisements for the leading London dailies. On payment of a little extra money those advertisements are telegraphed to London and appear on the following morning.
The advertisement I inserted was a very simple one. It ran:
“Clerk, over military age, expert book-keeper, with intimate knowledge of the Argentine, Cuba, Batavia and Holland, requires situation. Salary £200.”
An innocent advertisement, you may say. Yet, my friend, that was the S.O.S. of a political agent in distress. On the following morning when I saw that appear, with a certain box number, in the Daily Megaphone, I should know that I had to wait for two or three days for one of our industrious agents to answer that advertisement.
The words, “Argentine, Cuba, Batavia, Holland,” in that order meant, “I am in urgent need of money.” The “£200,” which followed was the amount I required. Had I advertised that my experience was in France, Egypt, China, every German agent in England would have known that special intelligence had been received from Germany and that they must gather at an agreed rendezvous to receive their orders.
Had I merely written that my experience was in London, Bombay and Buenos Aires, half the agents in England would have made preparations to depart from this country without delay.
I arrived in London by night. That was the object of my getting off at Bath, or rather partly the object, because I had a certain person, a minor agent, to interview. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he was not to be found, and it was not until the train came in and I was preparing to step into my carriage that he made his appearance, rather out of breath, for he had run all the way from the apartment-house he kept.
“I found your note,” he said. “Are you alone in this carriage?”
I looked round. There were no other passengers.
“Then,” said he, “I will take the liberty, Herr Heine, of coming to London with you. I have much to tell you. We thought you had left England.”
Briefly I explained to him, as the train moved on, the reason I had returned. I told him how I was carrying important despatches for America, and how the ship was sunk by a submarine, and of how I had reached the submarine and had ordered the captain to take me to the nearest port.
“He landed me at night,” I said, “but I fear the unfortunate man suffered sadly as a result of his politeness.”
He nodded.
“There was one of our heroic U-boats destroyed this morning in Siddicombe Bay,” he said. “I got news through one of our men at Quaytown. That wasn’t your U-boat, Herr Heine?”
“No, no,” I said hastily, “certainly not. I have never been to Siddicombe in my life. I cannot tell you everything, my friend, there are some secrets which cannot be revealed.”
He bowed respectfully.
He then went on to tell his news.
“I don’t know whether you have been in touch with Headquarters lately,” he said, “but we have received information that a new society has been formed in England called ‘The Sons of Irish Freedom.’ They are planning a new rebellion, and we have been ordered to give them every assistance.”
I nodded.
“This information is not new to me,” I said.
It is not the German way to allow underlings to believe that they are better informed than their superiors.
“But pray go on,” I resumed, “tell me all you know.”
As a matter of fact, he had very little to tell except that the Sons of Irish Freedom were a numerous body, that they held meetings behind closed doors, that they had special passwords, grips and penalties, and that all agents had been instructed to get into touch with their local branch, not only to offer whatever assistance they could to the movement, but also to call upon the brethren of the order for whatever help they required. I made a note of this. It might be of great use to me.
“What is the password?” I asked.
The foolish fellow smiled feebly.
“Alas, Herr Heine, I did not bring it with me, and I cannot recall the word!”
“Stupid owl!” I thundered, “is it thus you neglect your work? Is the Fatherland and its welfare of such small importance that you commit such an act of carelessness?”
He was very apologetic and agitated, and I forgave him. You understand, of course, that he was not a man of great intelligence. He was a German who had married an Englishwoman and the English had not interned him for some mad reason--you know what the English are!
I reached Paddington just before midnight, and took a cab to an apartment in Bayswater, where a friend of mine had once stayed, but where I was unknown to the landlord. I had previously telegraphed to him from Bath to say that I was coming, and I found him sitting up for me, a tall, gaunt-looking man, with long black hair and a straggling black beard. He showed me up to my room and left me for the night.
My apartments were on the first floor, and consisted of a sitting and bedroom, and I was up betimes in the morning, busy with the writing material I had bought at Bath, reorganizing the service from which I had been so rudely torn.
I dare not, naturally, go to my old offices, and it was not safe to trust the post to communicate with my agents in London. But Heine is no ordinary man, and there are many more ways of choking a cat than by feeding it with butter-milk, as the old saying goes.
It was whilst I was at work that there occurred the incident which was to so considerably affect my plans, and I would say to those supercilious critics who are so ready to condemn from the critical arm-chair the active workings of the executive officer (so easy it is, my dear critics, to sneer and carp at hard-working and conscientious men performing the holiest services for the Fatherland!) that in pursuit of a design even as infallible a man as Heine may fall into an error or be guilty of a false side-step.
It is the intention, the dominant underlying spirit of patriotism which counts. I was turning over my papers when I came upon an advertisement booklet which had been packed in a small parcel of biscuits and chocolate, which I had purchased at a grocer’s in Bath. I suppose when I was eating my frugal meal in the train I had mechanically put the booklet into my pocket and had piled it on the table with the rest of my papers--it is my methodical custom to clear my pockets every morning and examine the contents, in which ways I have very often saved most important memoranda from destruction.
It was one of those gaudy advertisements of crude colours, such as the English printers produce, advertising somebody’s whisky. But what attracted my justifiable wrath was the design. It was a map of the world, decorated as is the arrogant British custom, with patches of red to represent her downtrodden colonies, whilst in the centre of the map was a picture of a bottle. Over the design were the words, “The whisky that has made the British Empire famous.”
Such frivolity! Such lowness! I looked with proud disdain upon this shameless picture.
“British Empire!” I cried, and to make the well-deserved castigation more apposite, I spoke in English. “The world’s curse! Be sure we shall destroy thee, limb by limb, thou devastating and conscienceless robber of the world!” and saying this I slashed the picture with my pen.
As I did so a voice said behind me:
“Well done, you never spoke a truer word.”
I turned with a start, cursing my folly that I had spoken my thoughts aloud. The tall, gaunt man was standing behind me. He had entered noiselessly and had closed the door.
“Give me your hand, brother,” he said, and at that moment there came to me all that my friend from Bath had told me the night previous. I gripped his hand, and as I did so, I felt his thumb touch one of my knuckles in a peculiar way. It was the grip, and instantly with true German agility of mind, I responded.
“You are one of us?” he said eagerly.
I hesitated a second. If I admitted that I was a member I should betray myself.
“No, I am not yet,” I said boldly, “but I hope to be one of you.”
“You shall, you shall,” he said, “the lodge meets to-morrow night.”
He picked up the advertisement with a sneering smile, and tore it in two.
“You think I am a fanatic,” he said, “but I have seen so much of the ruin and desolation----”
“Say no more,” I said, “I understand.”
I would have spoken about Ireland then and there, but I was not quite sure of my ground. New Irish societies rise every week, and each has a different and generally more violent programme than the last. It would not do for me to show any lukewarmness.
“Believe me,” I said earnestly, “nothing will give me greater pleasure than to be enrolled in your noble society which is to free the world from the oppressor of centuries.”
He shook my hand, and I could see the emotion which my words had evoked glistening in his eyes.
“You realize,” he said, “that you must pledge yourself----”
“Believe me,” I responded instantly, “I will take the oath without a tremor. Your great enemy shall be my great enemy.”
We shook hands again and parted. When he had gone, I congratulated myself. What good fortune had brought me here? Yet stay, was it not rather my own acumen? Had I not specially chosen this boarding-house a year ago for one of my agents? I forget what consideration had induced me, but there the fact remained, it had been my choice.
I spent the rest of the morning writing. My first act, of course, was to send a letter to Major Haynes. I must be on the safe side, and if I were ever detected, in court it would count in my favour that I had technically surrendered myself to him the moment I had reappeared in England. My letter, a copy of which I have, may be given since it is, I think I may say in all modesty, a fine example of what I might term an alibi letter.
It began thus:
“Sir Haynes (though I knew he was not noble, I thought it might tickle the fellow’s vanity to address him in terms of lordliness). Here am I like a naughty penny, turning up again under your nose! But quite unwillingly! You have doubtless learnt that the gallant ocean-liner upon which you placed me is no more! She was sunk by a German U-boat! Though I swam about looking for survivors, desiring to rescue as many poor Englishmen as possible from the wicked and mistaken policy of dirty old von Turnips” (may heaven forgive me for this jest at the expense of that great patriot), I was not successful. I swam about in the water for ten hours and was picked up by a passing steamer! We arrived in London this morning and I am now in a terrible dilemma. I dare not give you my address, for I am in fear of arrest! Guarantee to me by your power-compelling word that I shall not be punished. If you will insert an advertisement in the Daily Megaphone, like this:
‘From H. to H. All well.
‘See me at my office’
I will immediately report myself. In the meantime, dear Sir Haynes, thanking you for your past favours, and hoping by a constant attention to your wishes to merit the continuance of your patronage.
“I am,
“Yours faithfully,
“Heine.”
I calculated that it would take two days for this to reach him, another day before the advertisement appeared, and I then had a fourth day before I replied in person--and in four days much service could be rendered to the Fatherland.
I was determined to get as much out of this secret society as I possibly could. All that afternoon I formulated my plans. Through a call office I got into touch with Kriessler, who was one of our subsidiary agents in London, and had rendered me and the Fatherland great services.
We met by appointment that night at the Marble Arch, and almost the first question he asked me was whether I had got into touch with the Sons of Irish Freedom? When I told him I had, he was astonished.
“You don’t lose much time, Herr Heine,” he said admiringly.
“That is very true, Kriessler,” I said gravely, “and I appreciate your compliment.”
Kriessler was in a position to pass through any information collected in England. I, of course, had been the supreme medium, but I dare not exercise any of the old machinery of transmission. It was very dangerous. It might be, and probably was, very dangerous for Kriessler, but for the sacred cause of Germany we must take risks, so I let Kriessler take them.
I arranged for him to send to my house on the following morning for a brief report which I told him must be sent to Headquarters with the least delay.
“You see, my dear Kriessler,” I said, at parting, “I know all there is to be known about this secret society. But I am anxious to check my knowledge. You will please tell me all you have heard, and if I do not interrupt you to point out your mistakes, you will understand that it is not desirable that the subordinate officials should know as much as their superiors.”
“I quite understand that, Herr Heine,” said Kriessler, “but I do not pretend to know a great deal about the Sons of Irish Freedom. One knows that they have meetings and passwords. I also know that the police are actively searching for their lodges, but so far without success. I am told they are very desperate and dangerous men, and I believe that there is only one lot in London. They hate England----”
“That I know,” I smiled.
I went home and wrote a very full report on the constitution and working of the Sons of Irish Freedom. Blame me not, dear friend, for my innocent deceit, for I had never heard of the Sons of Irish Freedom till I arrived at Bath, nor think harshly of me that I wrote with elaborate detail to Potsdam upon their ritual and objectives.
That same night I sent off my letter to Major Haynes, and finished my report on the secret society, which was given to the messenger whom Kriessler sent soon after breakfast. I took my meals alone in my sitting-room and my strange, gaunt friend, whose name was Clarkson, only saw me once and did no more than to smile mysteriously and say:
“At eight o’clock to-night.”
I nodded gravely. I did not expect to hear any more about the matter, being well aware that my host would not care to discuss so weighty a secret, and I was surprised in the afternoon to receive a visit from Mr. Clarkson, who was accompanied by a short, stout man, who was also very pale and wore powerful spectacles.
“This, sir,” said he, “is my friend, Mr. Moore, who will act as your sponsor to-night.” He turned to Mr. Moore. “This gentleman,” said he, “will become one of us.”
Mr. Moore bowed.
“You realize, of course,” he said, a little pompously, I thought, “that you must absolutely surrender your allegiance to the World’s Terror, and that from this night forward you may count upon the moral support of a band of brothers, and that you will give yourself heart and soul to our sublime task.”
“Have no fear,” I said, seizing his hand too, and wringing it, “until the tyrant is crushed I will be a loyal comrade.”
“Good,” said Mr. Moore, and after a few commonplaces about the weather, they departed.
At seven o’clock that night I dressed myself with care, soberly and unostentatiously. What cared I for the oaths or for these fanatical conspirators, with their absurd secrecy, their passwords, their grips and the like!
Mr. Clarkson knocked at my door at a quarter to eight and we sallied forth together. I suggested taking a taxi-cab, but he would not hear of it, and we went by bus to Camden Town.
It was just as we were turning into Baynam Street that we noticed a little crowd gathered about something which lay on the sidewalk. We would have passed on, but Mr. Clarkson, overhearing something that was said by a member of the group, pushed his way through the little knot of people and I followed.
A man lay prone on the sidewalk.
“What is it?” I asked curiously.
Mr. Clarkson made no reply till we were clear of the crowd.
“One of our people,” he said bitterly, “fallen to the enemy.”
“Fallen?” I said.
Mr. Clarkson nodded.
“It happens now and again,” he said, “we are fighting a cunning and ruthless foe, my friend.”
“But are you leaving him there?”
“For the moment,” said Mr. Clarkson. “I will ask one of the brethren to make inquiries as to how it happened, and if it is possible to give any assistance to our unfortunate comrade, it will be given.”
This was news indeed. So this mighty British government was not above striking an assassin blow to rid itself of its enemies.
From Baynam Street leads a smaller thoroughfare, near the Camden Road end of which is a small hall. The night was dark, the painted street-lamps cast tiny pools of dim light upon the pavement as we stole furtively through the door of the hall, and passed through a small anteroom to a smaller room beyond.
In this room there was another door, and toward this Mr. Clarkson walked.
“You will wait here,” he said in a whisper.
He knocked in a peculiar manner on the door, and a sliding panel opened. He whispered something, the door was unlocked, and after he had slipped into the room, closed again.
I waited about three minutes before the door opened, and Mr. Clarkson came out accompanied by Mr. Moore, both of whom wore on their breasts sashes of red.
Mr. Moore, scarcely raising his voice above a whisper, asked me a number of questions. They were couched in a curious semi-legal, semi-philosophical vein, and I confess I did not understand very much, nor did I trouble to pay a great deal of attention to what was being said. I knew by their intonation when I had to say “Yes,” and when I had to say “No.” When I had finished Mr. Clarkson looked anxiously at his friend.
“I think that is satisfactory, Brother Moore?”
“Eminently satisfactory, Brother Clarkson,” said the other.
He rapped soberly at the door and again the panel slid back and a voice challenged him.
“Who knocks?”
“Two brethren with a candidate for initiation,” said Mr. Moore.
The panel closed and presently it opened again.
“Who vouches for this candidate?” said the voice.
“I,” said Mr. Clarkson.
“I,” said Mr. Moore.
The door was opened and we passed through, not without a fluttering of heart on my part.
Between my two sponsors I advanced into the hall. At one end of the room on a raised dais sat three men bearing the strange regalia of their order. To left and right at single tables were two other officers, also wearing decorations. I passed from one to the other. Each addressed me in solemn language on the duty of man to man, and presently I came to the raised dais and had to endure yet a further long rigmarole, at the end of which the president confided the password, which was “Fight the Fight,” the grip, and the signal knock.
I was led to a seat in the body of the hall, congratulated heartily by Mr. Moore and Mr. Clarkson, and settled myself down to listen to the deliberations of this strange body. They were men of all ages, of all conditions of life, stern, determined-looking men I thought, capable of committing any desperate deed, the kind of men who might be most useful. There were young and old amongst them, but all bore the same sour disappointed expression, which I had noticed both in Mr. Moore and Mr. Clarkson.
A brother rose and had begun to address the chair when the door was flung open excitedly and a tall, pale-faced man rushed in. As he did so, I heard the shrill sound of police whistles.
“A raid, a raid!” he cried.
Instantly the hall was in commotion. I felt myself grow pale and grasped Mr. Moore, who was next to me, by the arm.
“Is there any way out of this?” I asked.
“You had better stay here,” he said.
“Stay here and be caught!”
That was not Heine’s way. I dashed through the door into the street. There was no sign of policemen, but I heard shrill whistles blowing. I ran up into Baynam Street straight into the arms of a policeman!
“Hello,” he said, “you had better take cover. There’s an air raid on.”
“An air raid!” I gasped. “An air raid!”
“Well, perhaps it isn’t one. A mate of mine just told me it’s a false alarm, and very likely he’s right. There’s rather too much wind for a raid to-night.”
I could have leant against him. I was so confounded and confused I could collect my thoughts only in fragments, and the first memory of that evening which strangely enough came to me was the memory of that stricken form on the pavement.
“Tell me, sir,” I said, “did you see a man lying on the ground round the corner?”
It was, I admit, a foolish question to ask, but the memory of that rigid victim had obsessed me.
“Oh, him,” said the constable, “yes! He was drunk.”
“Drunk?” I said in amazement.
“Yes,” said the policeman, “a man named Geary. He used to be a member of that lodge down the road there.” He pointed to the building from whence I had come.
“What lodge is that?” I asked.
“The Sons of Temperance,” he said, “I thought I saw you come out of there. Ain’t you a member? Rum blokes, they are,” he went on with a little chuckle, “always talking about drink as the Enemy and the Terror and the Oppressor of the World. I wish somebody would oppress me with a pint.”
I pressed a shilling into his hard, corrupt fist, and walked back to Bayswater.
