The quick boat men, p.30
The Quick Boat Men, page 30
The first of the Greek wounded began to arrive. The trains rattled in, heading for Chesme. Then came the fleeing soldiers in ox-carts, trucks and handcarts, on camels, horses and mules, all dusty, hungry and begging for food. Behind them was an enormous cloud of civilians, dragging exhausted, crying children. Institutions like the YMCA offered to take them in, but mobs of terror-stricken women had begun to besiege the entrances to the consulates.
The first of the Turkish cavalry arrived soon afterwards, swords and bayonets rusty with dried blood, their high black fezzes emblazoned with the red crescent and star.
The Turkish quarter of the city was already decked out with red cloth, from windows, gas lamps and shop fronts, but the railways had ceased to operate as the Greek and Armenian employees bolted for the safety of the ships. Suddenly dozens of small vessels and fishing boats sprouted the Stars and Stripes because the Turks loathed Britain for backing the Greeks.
Disciplined Turkish infantry followed the cavalry, and there was nothing to stop them. The Greek Army had no leadership. For a short while, it seemed as if the occupation would remain under disciplined control, but then, returning from the British consulate, Edward saw Greek and Armenian shops being looted.
‘Time to be off,’ he thought, as he heard distant shooting.
Forty-six
McClumpha’s manager had crammed his office with terrified refugees, who all started yelling as McClumpha and Edward arrived. Then there was a heavy knocking on the door. Peering out of the upstairs window, Edward saw a group of grinning Turkish soldiers outside.
‘Man the machine-guns!’ he roared.
There was no gun, but the Turks bolted.
Within hours the Armenian quarter of the city had become a charnel house, with mattresses and furniture scattered about the streets, and broken glass. Bodies lay in the gutter, and from back rooms they could hear the screams of girls being raped.
No one tried to stop the havoc. The Allies, so determined to work together to crush the Turks three years before, now refused to work in unison and had no intention of working alone. The following day, the fires started. Fanned by the wind, the flames spread rapidly, until the sky turned a fearful orange silhouetting Greek churches and eastern mosques alike. A Greek freighter not far from the sea wall was also blazing fiercely, while three crammed lifeboats struggled to get clear.
The orgy of looting and rape continued unabated. People were whipped, stabbed, shot and flung into the sea. Yet in the bay lighters were still loading tobacco and figs for New York.
Watching from the Hamtun, Edward could see people fourteen deep along the sea wall, the parcels in their arms already ablaze. It was like the last days of Pompeii.
Desperate men began to launch small boats and even build makeshift rafts to float out to the ships. Only the French were handing out boarding passes. The British and American ships, not allowed by their governments to interfere, viewed the spectacle with grim indifference. In wardrooms, gramophones were turned up for ‘Smile Awhile’ and Caruso singing ‘Pagliacci’ and naval bands gave concerts to drown the hideous din on the waterfront.
In the end, with McClumpha’s revolver in his belt, Edward ordered the two Bourdillons to be lowered and, cramming them with people, used them to tow boats and rafts out to the ships.
Hauling a string of boats alongside an Italian liner, Edward shouted to the men on deck. ‘Do you have any refugees aboard?’
The answer was blunt and unequivocal. ‘I have no orders.’
Prodded by the people behind him, Edward offered money and within five minutes, the refugees were allowed on board. As he helped them up the ladder, they kissed his hands, even his feet.
The Turks gave an ultimatum to the Greeks and Armenians to depart and, in an attempt to avert a holocaust, ships finally began to arrive from Mediterranean ports.
The Hamtun could do no more. She was crammed to the gunnels with people. By this time the town was a wreck stinking of charred flesh. Telegraph wires were looped above pavements strewn with broken glass, stones, torn paper and blowing chaff. Here and there a burned-out car smoked. As he made one last quick search from the quay, Edward ran into a group of wailing Greek girls, some barefooted, in nightdresses or underclothes. They had been rounded up by Turkish soldiers and were being driven like sheep to an empty hotel.
When Edward protested, a Turkish soldier presented the point of his bayonet to Edward’s throat. He had no choice but to stand and watch the wretched girls being herded inside. At the last moment, one of them wrenched herself free. She was wearing only a slip and, as a soldier grabbed at her, the slip tore away in his hand and she managed to break free, quite naked, as the hotel door slammed shut and the screaming began inside.
Offering the distraught girl his jacket, Edward was shepherding her towards the quay, when a family struggling with a group of cavalrymen swept across their path. The Turks, wielding clubs, had hammered the solitary man in the group to his knees.
‘Wait here,’ said Edward. Possessed by an overwhelming rage he flung two of the Turks aside. A club hit him hard on the side of the head. As he staggered from the blow, he was hit across the forehead. Unable to see properly, Edward dragged McClumpha’s revolver out of his belt and fired it blindly. He heard a man yell then, abruptly, the fighting was over, and he was being lifted gently to his feet.
‘Hurry,’ he croaked. ‘Get to the boats.’
Through a blur of blood he saw he was being supported by the girl who wore his jacket.
As he fell into the boat, he was made aware that he had rescued a Greek family of a father, mother and two daughters. The father was injured, too, and the two of them sat together in the Hamtun’s saloon while McClumpha and the woman tried to staunch the bleeding.
The Hamtun was almost sinking under her load. The Greeks on deck stared bleakly towards the dying city, in the full knowledge of the fate that lay in store for the men and women who remained.
Many of the refugees were being dumped by unscrupulous captains on barren islands, and left to fend for themselves. But McClumpha was determined to see his cargo safely to where a government could take proper responsibility.
As the ship drew alongside in Salonika, the Greek Edward had rescued went ashore, his head still heavily bandaged. Within half an hour a large black limousine drove him back to the quayside, and the man, dressed now in a dark suit, climbed back on board.
‘I have not rewarded you,’ he said to Edward.
‘I don’t need rewarding.’
The Greek’s eyebrows rose. ‘You saved my life and the lives of my wife and daughters. I must do something in return. But if you refuse to accept a reward, perhaps there is an alternative. I am Aristotle Maniopolis. I handle the shipping here in Salonika. I lost one of my ships and several launches to the Turkish arsonists. I need to replace them. Suppose I buy your boats from you. That way, you will simply be doing business.’
He named a price that made Edward’s hair stand on end, and he could almost hear Sam’s indignant bleat, ‘That makes the third time you’ve sold those bloody boats!’
As the boats were taken ashore, Maniopolis offered Edward hospitality in his home for as long as he wished to stay. Edward had not been unaware that his older daughter was very attractive and that she had been eyeing him sideways ever since they had left Smyrna. On reflection, Edward thought, he had better decline.
Having arranged for his money to be transferred to the account he still held in the bank in Lucerne, Edward took his farewell of McClumpha over a five-course meal in the best hotel they could find.
As his old friend headed back to the ship, Edward contemplated the shipping office across the square. He had already bought a ticket to Naples, which he took out of his pocket and tore into four pieces. Turning on his heel he went in search of a livery stable.
Before dark, on a skinny old horse – all he could buy – he was heading eastwards against a tide of exhausted, sick people that stretched for miles.
As the dawn came, Edward came across the shattered Greek Army, blank-faced, unshaven and hungry, with groups of civilians among them. The railway couldn’t cope with the numbers, and the people, mostly peasants, were driving what cattle, donkeys, mules they had left. It was pouring with rain. Under a tree he saw a man spread a blanket over a woman in labour, while a small girl watched with wide, horrified eyes.
The rain continued to fall as Edward rode eastward through Thrace. He had travelled the same road in 1913 in his escape from Bulgaria, and again as they had advanced from Salonika in 1918. He was passing small hospitals set up by the Red Cross and other groups, as well as a few American organisations who seemed to be the only people in the world who cared about the appalling mess the statesmen at Versailles had allowed to develop. On the fourth day, he saw a long low building with a red-tiled roof and a group of vehicles outside that looked like ambulances.
The place was full of groaning people, some in beds, most lying on the floor. A nurse barred his way at the door. She looked shattered but unbelievably clean.
‘Are you a patient?’ she asked in English.
‘No.’
‘Relation?’
‘No.’
‘Then you can’t come in here.’
‘I think I can,’ Edward said, pushing gently past her.
A small figure half-way down the ward held an enamel kidney dish containing instruments. She was issuing instructions in a mixture of Greek, Bulgarian and Russian. She was a lot better at it than when he had first met her.
‘Ginny,’ he said.
Handing the kidney dish to one of the other nurses, she stood for a moment, just looking at him. Then she blew a wisp of hair off her nose.
‘Spy,’ she cried. ‘Spy.’
He caught her in his arms. She seemed featherlight. Her fingers touched his face and her eyes were wet.
‘I read that you had been killed in Russia.’
‘I’m not that easy to kill. And I certainly wouldn’t have gone without saying goodbye to you.’
Part Six
1922 – 1923
Forty-seven
Ginny was desperately pale, thin and overworked, but this lent her delicate features a beauty that was even more intense than before.
‘It’s wonderful to see you again, Spy. I thought I’d lost you for ever. But now that you are here, please tell me if you’re going to stay.’
‘I came to find you, Ginny. I’m not planning on going anywhere.’
He told her briefly about how Augusta had decided she couldn’t hang around any longer, and how he could hardly blame her.
‘It’s God’s judgement on me,’ Ginny said. ‘For being bad. I harboured such wicked thoughts about you. God punished me for them. Now He’s rubbing it in. You shouldn’t have had them, He’s saying. And now He’s sent you back so I’ll feel even more guilty. He’s a lot cleverer than people think.’
‘We can get married as soon as we get back to England,’ Edward said.
‘Why can’t we just live together? It’s quite fashionable since the war, I believe.’ Her response was matter-of-fact, but her eyes glowed.
As governments began to help, the hospital gradually emptied of patients, and bigger organisations took over. But it took all of five months before Edward and Ginny took a ship home.
Maurice met them at Southampton, and was obviously quite bowled over by Ginny.
‘You must move into Creek House,’ he said. ‘When Father died and I married Georgina we split it in two. Now Mother’s decided to go and live with her sister in Winchester and Georgina abandoned ship some time ago.’ He paused. ‘As it happens, though, I do plan to get married again myself. Do you remember Alice Appleby, Ted? She lost her husband on the Somme. She’s got a nipper, so I’ll have a ready-made family.’
‘Father left everything to me,’ Maurice continued. ‘But he left precise instructions to look after you. I wish things were better. I’ve thought about selling out. It would make me quite comfortably off. I’d split the proceeds, of course. But I do have to take my ex-wife into account. She is a definite drain on resources. Do you know, I hear she’s back with Owen-Smith.’
Edward could hardly believe his ears.
‘Oh, yes. He’s a candidate in a parliamentary by-election. For Hamworthy and Ulston. He’s standing as a Conservative, and it’s solid Tory round here. He can’t fail.’
Edward stubbed out his cigar. He was remembering Smyrna and the words of Walther Busch-Schatter, who had helped him escape from Dresden. ‘If you get a chance to shoot a politician, do so. You’ll be doing the world a service.’ Well, he couldn’t shoot Owen-Smith, but he could destroy him just as effectively.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he will get in.’
Maurice looked startled. ‘You going to put up against him? If you are, you’re too late. Closing date for nominations is long past. Polling day’s next Thursday. I didn’t think you were interested in politics.’
‘I’m not,’ Edward said. ‘But I’m going to make damned sure that bastard doesn’t get in.’
The Labour Party’s local committee almost fell on Edward’s neck, but he swore them to secrecy. ‘We have to move with extreme care on this. This fellow is as devious as a rattlesnake.’
He went to see Sam, who had just left the navy. Edward showed him the documents van der Essen had given him, told him what he had learned in Sierra Leone and Germany and explained what he intended to do.
‘It had to be tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘It’s the last chance before the by-election, so we’ve got to hurry.’
‘Why don’t you just go to the police?’ Sam asked.
‘I will. Afterwards.’
Sam studied Edward’s grim face. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said.
‘Nobody’s asking you to,’ Edward snapped.
Sam was silent for a moment then he shrugged. ‘It’ll be as well to have a bit of support,’ he said. ‘As soon as you start flourishing those papers they’ll try to shut you up. Still, I know a few people who’ll help. Ex navy-types who’ve got a few grudges themselves.’
‘Are you sure they’ll come?’
‘You bet your life they will.’
The Town Hall, decked out with blue muslin, was packed, and Owen-Smith was on the platform when Edward arrived. He looked fatter than when he had last seen him. His hair was smoothed down so that he looked like a sleek snake. Georgina was also on the platform, sitting at the back. Her parents were on the platform, too, to give their former curate support.
Looking as innocent as an angel, Ginny sat near Edward, Maurice and Alice, surrounded by a phalanx of ex-navy men.
The chairman was Colonel Scholes-Dever from the Manor House at Porthelt. He introduced Owen-Smith. The ex-curate was an able speaker, with a dramatic delivery and a ringing actor’s voice. The audience listened attentively. There were only a few interruptions and no catcalls.
‘Any questions?’ Scholes-Dever was on his feet again. ‘I’m sure our candidate will be delighted to answer them.’
‘What did he do in the war?’ Sam shouted.
Hamworthy and Ulston was near enough to Portsmouth to be almost a naval constituency, and the war was still close enough to be a subject of considerable interest.
‘The candidate was in West Africa,’ Scholes-Dever said. ‘He was doing a splendid job for the government in an area not known for its salubrity.’
‘What about in 1914?’ The questions were deliberate.
‘In 1914,’ Scholes-Dever said, ‘he had hardly had time to become involved.’
Edward was pleased to see Owen-Smith frown. And in her back-row seat on the platform, Georgina started to fidget.
‘The candidate was involved in 1914,’ Edward stood up to speak, so there could be no mistake about what he said. ‘And there are several men here who can tell you what he was doing.’
‘And what was that?’
‘He was in Antwerp when the Germans arrived.’
There were a few loyal shouts from Owen-Smith’s supporters for Edward to be silent, but he persisted. He explained what he had been doing in Antwerp and pointed out that in the audience there were several members of the naval brigade whom he had met there.’
Owen-Smith rose quickly. ‘This man is a fraud,’ he said.
Edward took no notice. ‘I’d like to ask what the candidate was doing in German-held Togoland in 1915.’
‘The candidate was never in German-held Togoland,’ Scholes-Dever snapped.
‘Ask him. Ask him also how he came to be in the German-held Cameroons and what was he doing in Sierra Leone after that?’
‘What exactly are you getting at, sir?’
‘I have here a set of papers. The name on them is Clifton Alexander von Rauche Owen-Smith.’
‘Get rid of that man!’ Owen-Smith shouted.
For a minute or two the meeting was in an uproar. Edward remained standing, holding up the papers. There were furious yells from Owen-Smith’s supporters but they grew noticeably fewer, and when Scholes-Dever hurriedly tried to close the meeting there were cries of, ‘Let him speak!’
Two or three stewards moved down the aisle to remove Edward. They were met by a solid group of ex-naval men.
‘This is monstrous!’ Scholes-Dever shouted.
‘Let him speak! Go on, mate, give it to ’em!’
This time the shouting died quickly. Everybody was hanging on to Edward’s words. The whole story came out – Antwerp and Togoland and the Cameroons and Sierra Leone. Edward described where he had obtained the documents that proved his case. Owen-Smith sat motionless in his chair, white as death. A woman wearing a blue rosette rose. ‘It’s a filthy lie!’ she screamed.
‘No, Madam,’ Edward said. ‘And after the war your candidate was still in Germany, betraying people to the Freikorps. Many were murdered. Ask him. I was there. Mine was one of the names on the death list.’
