quickly. This type is more like the officers who are thin and slow, and look as if things do not smell very nice.”
“This type is not an English officer. He likes the Germans.”
“You exaggerate. An old man like that! I would have sat with him myself.”
“Ah! So you say. I will not believe it.”
“No? When you are a soldier you do not call the Bosche ‘the filthy Bosche.’ That is for the women, the civilians.”
“You are mad. They are filthy. They are beasts like those in Spain who violated nuns and murdered priests.”
“But, my little one, you forget that there were manyof Hitler’s Bosches who fought
against
the Reds in Spain. You forget. You are not logical.”
“They are not the same as those who attack France. They were Catholic Germans.”
“You are ridiculous! Was I not hit in the guts by a bullet fired by a Bavarian Catholic in ‘seventeen? You make me tired. You are ridiculous. Be silent.”
“No, it is you who …”
They went on. Graham heard little more. Before he could make up his mind to cough loudly, he was asleep.
He awoke only once in the night. The vibration had ceased. He looked at his watch, saw that the time was half-past two, and guessed that they had stopped at Chanaq to drop the pilot. A few minutes later, as the engines started again, he went to sleep again.
It was not until the steward brought his coffee seven hours later that he learned that the pilot cutter from Chanaq had brought a telegram for him.
It was addressed: “ GRAHAM, VAPUR SESTRI LEVANTE, CANAKKALE .” He read:
“H. REQUESTS ME INFORM YOU B. LEFT FOR SOFIA HOUR AGO. ALL WELL. BEST WISHES. KOPEIKIN.”
It had been handed in at Beyoglu at seven o’clock the previous evening.
CHAPTER FIVE
I T WAS an Æ
gean
day: intensely coloured in the sun and with small pink clouds drifting in a bleached indigo sky. A stiff breeze was blowing and the amethyst of the sea was broken with white. The
Sestri Levante
was burying her stem in it and lifting clouds of spray which the breeze whipped across the well-deck like hail. The steward had told him that they were within sight of the island of Makronisi and as he went out on deck he saw it: a thin golden line shimmering in the sun and stretched out ahead of them like a sand bar at the entrance to a lagoon.
There were two other persons on that side of the deck. There was Haller and with him, on his arm, a small desiccated woman with thin grey hair, who was evidently his wife. They were steadying themselves at the rail and he was holding his head up to the wind as if to draw strength from it. He had his hat off and the white hair quivered with the air streaming through it.
Evidently they had not seen him. He made his way up to the boat deck. The breeze there was stronger. Mr. Kuvetli and the French couple stood by the rail clutching at their hats and watching the gulls following the ship. Mr. Kuvetli saw him immediately and waved. He went over to them.
“Good morning.
Madame. Monsieur.”
They greeted him guardedly but Mr. Kuvetli was enthusiastic.
“It
is
good morning, eh? You sleep well? I look forward to our excursion this afternoon. Permit me to present Monsieur and Madame Mathis. Monsieur Graham.”
There was handshaking. Mathis was a sharp-featured man of fifty or so with lean jaws and a permanent frown. But his smile, when it came, was good and his eyes were alive. The frown was the badge of his ascendancy over his wife. She had bony hips and wore an expression which said that she was determined to keep her temper however sorely it were tried. She was like her voice.
“Monsieur Mathis,” said Mr. Kuvetli, whose French was a good deal more certain than his English, “is from Eskeshehir, where he has been working with the French railway company.”
“It is a bad climate for the lungs,” said Mathis. “Do you know Eskeshehir, Monsieur Graham?”
“I was there for a few minutes only.”
“That would have been quite enough for me,” said Madame
“This type is not an English officer. He likes the Germans.”
“You exaggerate. An old man like that! I would have sat with him myself.”
“Ah! So you say. I will not believe it.”
“No? When you are a soldier you do not call the Bosche ‘the filthy Bosche.’ That is for the women, the civilians.”
“You are mad. They are filthy. They are beasts like those in Spain who violated nuns and murdered priests.”
“But, my little one, you forget that there were manyof Hitler’s Bosches who fought
against
the Reds in Spain. You forget. You are not logical.”
“They are not the same as those who attack France. They were Catholic Germans.”
“You are ridiculous! Was I not hit in the guts by a bullet fired by a Bavarian Catholic in ‘seventeen? You make me tired. You are ridiculous. Be silent.”
“No, it is you who …”
They went on. Graham heard little more. Before he could make up his mind to cough loudly, he was asleep.
He awoke only once in the night. The vibration had ceased. He looked at his watch, saw that the time was half-past two, and guessed that they had stopped at Chanaq to drop the pilot. A few minutes later, as the engines started again, he went to sleep again.
It was not until the steward brought his coffee seven hours later that he learned that the pilot cutter from Chanaq had brought a telegram for him.
It was addressed: “ GRAHAM, VAPUR SESTRI LEVANTE, CANAKKALE .” He read:
“H. REQUESTS ME INFORM YOU B. LEFT FOR SOFIA HOUR AGO. ALL WELL. BEST WISHES. KOPEIKIN.”
It had been handed in at Beyoglu at seven o’clock the previous evening.
CHAPTER FIVE
I T WAS an Æ
gean
day: intensely coloured in the sun and with small pink clouds drifting in a bleached indigo sky. A stiff breeze was blowing and the amethyst of the sea was broken with white. The
Sestri Levante
was burying her stem in it and lifting clouds of spray which the breeze whipped across the well-deck like hail. The steward had told him that they were within sight of the island of Makronisi and as he went out on deck he saw it: a thin golden line shimmering in the sun and stretched out ahead of them like a sand bar at the entrance to a lagoon.
There were two other persons on that side of the deck. There was Haller and with him, on his arm, a small desiccated woman with thin grey hair, who was evidently his wife. They were steadying themselves at the rail and he was holding his head up to the wind as if to draw strength from it. He had his hat off and the white hair quivered with the air streaming through it.
Evidently they had not seen him. He made his way up to the boat deck. The breeze there was stronger. Mr. Kuvetli and the French couple stood by the rail clutching at their hats and watching the gulls following the ship. Mr. Kuvetli saw him immediately and waved. He went over to them.
“Good morning.
Madame. Monsieur.”
They greeted him guardedly but Mr. Kuvetli was enthusiastic.
“It
is
good morning, eh? You sleep well? I look forward to our excursion this afternoon. Permit me to present Monsieur and Madame Mathis. Monsieur Graham.”
There was handshaking. Mathis was a sharp-featured man of fifty or so with lean jaws and a permanent frown. But his smile, when it came, was good and his eyes were alive. The frown was the badge of his ascendancy over his wife. She had bony hips and wore an expression which said that she was determined to keep her temper however sorely it were tried. She was like her voice.
“Monsieur Mathis,” said Mr. Kuvetli, whose French was a good deal more certain than his English, “is from Eskeshehir, where he has been working with the French railway company.”
“It is a bad climate for the lungs,” said Mathis. “Do you know Eskeshehir, Monsieur Graham?”
“I was there for a few minutes only.”
“That would have been quite enough for me,” said Madame
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