The Fight for Constantinople Part 11

"Disable the gun!" shouted d.i.c.k. "Take the trail lever, one of you."

With a quick movement the Sub opened the breech-block. A sailor seized the lever with which the Turkish Krupps are trained in a horizontal plane. Poising the steel bar above his head, the man brought it down with tremendous force upon the out-swung piece of mechanism. The interrupted thread, deeply dented by the blow, was rendered useless, while the breech-block itself, partly wrenched from its ma.s.sive hinges, was for the time being incapable of service.

Already three of the small party were shot down. To retire was to court annihilation in the form of a scythe-like hail of Maxim bullets that swept the ridge behind: a barrier that had to be surmounted if escape were contemplated in that direction. To remain where they were meant being under a galling fire from the cliffs, and with very little natural protection from the surrounding ground. A third solution remained: to advance and sell their lives dearly.

Thrusting his revolver into his holster, d.i.c.k picked up the rifle and bayonet of one of the fallen men and shouted to the party to advance.

Taking full advantage of every little bit of natural cover the men pressed forward, firing as rapidly as they could recharge and empty their magazines.

Still uncertain of the number that opposed them, and thinking that the attack was part of a landing in force, the Turks gave way until their retrograde movement was checked by fresh bodies of troops hastening to repel the threatened a.s.sault.

Into the midst of the scene of confusion--for Turk was fighting Turk in the opposing movement of the disorganized throng--d.i.c.k and his handful of men hurled themselves.

Partly dazzled by the search-light which was playing obliquely upon the melee from the high ground, the Sub set about him like a young Berserk.

A blow from the b.u.t.t-end of a Turkish rifle shattered his bayonet close to the hilt. Gripping his rifle by the muzzle end of the barrel, d.i.c.k swung it right and left, clearing a gap in the dense ranks of his a.s.sailants.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of young Farnworth putting up a stiff fight with three tall and muscular Turks, while a few feet away from the mids.h.i.+pman was a German officer in the act of levelling his revolver, and awaiting an opportunity of firing at the plucky British lad.

Down swung d.i.c.k's rifle, purposely missing his antagonist's guard.

Shortening the weapon, the Sub dashed it into the Turk's face, then drawing his revolver, fired three shots in rapid succession at the fez-bedecked Teuton.

"That's settled your little game, you brute," thought d.i.c.k savagely, as the German pitched forward on his face. Hitherto the Sub had fought for fighting's sake. He bore no particular animosity against any of his Moslem antagonists, but the sight of the German standing out of immediate danger and awaiting an opportunity to coolly pick off the mids.h.i.+pman, directly he was not masked by his immediate foes, had aroused d.i.c.k's deepest ire.

When he looked again young Farnworth was no longer standing. The lad had been overcome by the numerical superiority of his attackers.

Again and again d.i.c.k fired, till the hammer of his revolver falling with a dull click told him that the weapon was empty. Hurling it at the near-most of his foes, the Sub stooped to regain his rifle. As he did so a stalwart Bas.h.i.+ Bazouk struck him a heavy blow on the head with the b.u.t.t-end of his gun, and without a groan d.i.c.k fell within a yard of the body of his brother officer.

It was broad daylight when the Sub recovered his senses. He found himself lying in a large, whitewashed room, the walls of which were of immense thickness and pierced on one side by four narrow pointed windows, through which the sun was pouring fiercely.

He was stretched upon a low bed. Close beside him was Mids.h.i.+pman Farnworth, his head almost enveloped in bandages.

The only other occupant of the room a tall, sinewy man dressed in the uniform of a Turkish seaman--jumper and trousers very similar to those worn by the British tar, and a dark-red fez. He had discarded his boots and wore a pair of scarlet soft-leather slippers.

"How can do?" he asked, seeing that d.i.c.k bestirring himself.

"Where am I?" demanded the Sub.

"Plis'ner of war. You in Fort Medjidieh. Me good man. Help Englis officer. How can do?"

"Get me something to drink then," said d.i.c.k, for his throat was burning like a limekiln.

"No beer, no have got," declared the Turk imperturbably.

"Confound the fellow! He evidently imagines that British subjects drink nothing but beer," thought the Sub. "No, I don't want beer," he aloud; "bring me something cool--cold--not hot, savvy?"

"Me--Ahmed Djezzar--go. Me your fliend," announced the man; and placing his hand over his heart and bowing subserviently, he noiselessly glided out of the room, locking the door as soon as he was outside.

"Rummy proceedings, 'pon my soul," soliloquized d.i.c.k. "The fellow says I'm a prisoner of war. I suppose he's right; but there's one thing to be said: up to the present they have treated me pretty decently. The Turks are streets above the Germans in the way they handle their prisoners. I wonder what the game is?"

Taking into consideration the dirty and untidy habits of the Turks, the room was fairly clean and presentable. If his informant was right, d.i.c.k Crosthwaite was now in a portion of one of the fortresses actually on The Narrows, and roughly twenty-one miles from Yenikeui. During the interval between the times of his having been rendered unconscious in the affray on the beach and of recovering his senses, he had been carried over hilly roads running practically parallel to the Asiatic sh.o.r.es of the Dardanelles.

Why his captors should have gone to this trouble he knew not. He could only come to the conclusion that, fearing a landing in force to the south of k.u.m Kale, they had removed their prisoners to quarters where for the time being they were not likely to be recaptured.

Propping himself up by his elbow d.i.c.k listened intently. To his intense disappointment he heard no sounds of guns--not even a distant rumble. Did it mean the operations had been abandoned?

He began wondering what had happened to the rest of the boat's crew; why his captors should have detailed a Turkish bluejacket to attend the two wounded officers; and why Ahmed Djezzar had so vehemently expressed himself as being a friend. These and a hundred other thoughts flashed through his mind, until his reveries were interrupted by the reappearance of the Turk bearing a metal tray on which was a bra.s.s cup and a jug filled with sherbet water.

d.i.c.k drank eagerly. As he did so a faint suspicion that the liquid might be poisoned entered his brain, only to be quickly dismissed, since he recognized that if his captors had wished to dispose of him they had already had ample opportunities. Nevertheless the sherbet water was drugged, and it had the result of sending the Sub to sleep for several hours.

He awoke, feeling considerably refreshed, to find that young Farnworth was sitting up in bed and regarding him with eagerness.

"Thought you'd never wake up, sir," he remarked. "You've been sleeping heavily for at least twelve hours."

"How are you feeling?" asked d.i.c.k.

"Pretty rotten," admitted the mids.h.i.+pman. "Head feels like a block of wood. But it isn't that: it's the beastly knowledge that we are off the fun for the time being."

"You put up a jolly stiff fight, anyhow."

"I did my best," replied Farnworth modestly; "but it's beastly humiliating being collared like this, and not knowing how things are going. There's a Turkish bluejacket hanging about----"

"I know," said d.i.c.k. "A fellow who made a point of stating that he was our friend. Why I can't make out."

"He tells me we've had a proper set-back," continued the mids.h.i.+pman wearily. "Of course I don't know whether he's telling the truth or not, but he swears that the Turks have captured one of our submarines."

"Rot!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Crosthwaite derisively. "Captured? Not a bit of it.

It's a lie."

"Anyway there was a lot of heavy firing about five hours ago. It only lasted twenty minutes. The fellow swears that the submarine was stranded, and that they've captured officers and crew. The Turks hope to get the vessel off and take her to Constantinople."

d.i.c.k looked serious. He had seen enough of war to know that often the improbable does happen, yet he could not understand how a British submarine could have been taken. Why should it have got into shoal water at all? he wondered.

Just then Ahmed entered, accompanied by a "hakim" or native doctor.

The latter, although unable to speak English, could converse fluently in French, a language with which both the Sub and the mids.h.i.+pman were well acquainted.

Deftly the doctor unbound d.i.c.k's head and examined the contused scalp-wound. Then he did a like office to Farnworth, chatting affably the while on all kinds of subjects, the war excepted. Try as he would, without going straight to the point, d.i.c.k could not bring the doctor to say a word relating to the hostilities.

"You are both progressing nicely," he declared. "By the day after to-morrow you will be fit to go out and take the air."

No sooner had the medical man left than Ahmed took up his parable:

"Me want to help Englis officers," he said. "Me good Ottoman and no like the Germans. We fight. Why? Because they make us. All fault of Young Turks. German officers, they bad mans. Some time I shoot one in de back."

He paused to watch the result of his pro-British declaration. Finding that his listeners showed no signs of enthusiasm over his plans for ridding the world of at least one German officer, Ahmed continued:

"Me know plenty Englis officers, when dey was in the Ottoman Navy. All gone now--hard cheese. Why you laugh?"

"I was only smiling at your wonderful knowledge of the English language," replied Farnworth.