Chapter 33 : Bogados

The nervous tension of the past few days at the Legation had largely dissipated by Thursday, once most of the major questions had been resolved. Only the position of Austria-Hungary remained an anomaly, as the declarations of war of the previous days had been between Germany, Russia, France and Britain. The ramshackle Austro-Hungarian Empire, in whose name the other Powers were ostensibly now fighting, still remained at war only with Serbia. Although it was felt a declaration against Russia would be soon forthcoming, it was known that the Austrians desired, above all, to avoid conflict with Britain for, if this happened, the combined might of the French and British Mediterranean Fleets would seal the Austrian Navy in the Adriatic for the duration. If there was one cause of local anxiety, it concerned the attitude of Bulgaria. No-one knew which way she would jump, though everyone expected her to hold out for the highest offer. And what she coveted more than anything was that part of Macedonia occupied by Greece since the previous year.

                Rendel had been back at his desk since early that Thursday morning when Samson entered. ‘Well, George,’ the Major inquired, ‘did Venizelos get his proposal from Quadt yesterday?’

                Rendel had to go back through the continuous flow of dispatches which had crossed his desk during the previous twenty-four hours until he recalled the report of Erskine’s meeting with the Premier. ‘What? Oh, I see. If he did, he is keeping quiet about it. What we could do with is a source within the German Legation.’ Rendel cast a slightly knowing look at Samson, who remained mute and expressionless, leaving Rendel to change the subject. ‘I see now what you meant last night about the Italians. They intend to take their duties as a neutral seriously; more seriously than their duties as an ally! I’ve just seen the official news agency report hard on the heels of an Admiralty telegram. The game should be up by six o’clock tonight for Souchon.’

                ‘Is that when the time limit expires?’ Samson asked.

                ‘Yes — Souchon has either to sail by then or be interned. Twenty-four hours: one might have expected more of a former ally.’

                ‘Erstwhile allies make the greatest enemies, in my opinion.’

                Rendel was about to resume work on ciphering the latest dispatch when he picked up the most recent Admiralty telegram. ‘I say, Major — this has only now come through about the Italian ultimatum to Souchon. How were you aware of it last night?’

                ‘I have my sources, George.’

Samson thought briefly of missing the rendezvous which Achilles seemed so anxious to make. There was nothing that could be done now. In a few more days he would be on board the Italian steamer bound for Constantinople, there to face a new set of problems. Or perhaps he would apply for a posting to an active regiment, despite his age. His time in South Africa had been exhilarating; better than the best sport. Then he remembered Avret Hissar and the slaughter which had resulted, and he wondered if, this time, it might not all be different. The mechanics of war had progressed swiftly since South Africa: too swiftly, so that now the balance seemed to have shifted decisively away from the offensive. He could not see how a well entrenched battery of machine guns could be dislodged, and he prayed that it did not come to that in the fields of Northern France.

                Despite his misgivings, the Major was at the fountain in the University Gardens promptly at one o’clock. He recognized no-one in the small group seated around the playing water. Samson waited twenty minutes, then began to walk away. He had gone no more than twenty yards when a youth bumped into him, pressing something into the Major’s hand as he did so. Samson gripped the note tightly without examining it; he knew he was being watched. It was not until he was safely back within the confines of the Legation that he dared unscrew the paper. It set the time and place for a new rendezvous: eight o’clock that evening at an address on the outskirts of the city. This, the note explained, was to give Samson ample opportunity to ensure he was not being followed.

                With time on his hands, and unable to lend his concentration to anything in particular, the Major idly studied a map of the western basin of the Mediterranean. Goodhart had neatly and assiduously marked the last known positions of the various forces on the map with small coloured pins. Souchon, with Goeben and Breslau, was still at Messina but, as anticipated, would be forced out within a matter of hours. Admiral Milne’s three battle cruisers still appeared to be patrolling a line from Cape Bon on the coast of Africa to Cape Spartivento on the southern tip of Sardinia, to cover what Samson now thought was the unlikely possibility that the German ships might attempt to break west once more to interfere with the French transportation. The French Fleet itself, escorting the troopships from Oran and Algiers, was out of the picture. The Austrians were rumoured to have left Pola but remained steadfastly in the Adriatic. A split force of four British light cruisers were engaged on various duties. That left the final part of the equation to be accounted for: Rear Admiral Troubridge’s First Cruiser Squadron of four heavy cruisers patrolling the entrance to the Adriatic. And it was now up to Troubridge to try to stop the German ships, if they intended to make for Pola.

                Yet Souchon could either run past the First Cruiser Squadron with ease, with his superior speed, or else fight an action in which Troubridge would be comprehensively out-ranged and out-gunned. If the Austrian Fleet really were heading south to provide cover, it made sense for Souchon to complete the relatively short journey from Messina to the Adriatic, and find safety (and more coal) there. And yet a nagging doubt, having established itself in Samson’s mind, could not be dispelled. The Adriatic was an even greater trap then the Mediterranean itself. Once the French Fleet was freed from its escort duties (as it soon would be) and could join Troubridge’s patrol line the enemy fleet in the Adriatic would be completely contained; there could be no possible escape. Samson had seen Souchon when the latter had visited Constantinople in May and was convinced by what he saw then that Souchon would not accept such a fate. But where else could he go without coal? And where else could he obtain coal, other than the Adriatic, apart from a collier. It all came down to coal.

                At last it was time to leave for the new rendezvous. Samson had asked once more to borrow Rendel’s open tourer, as he considered this the surest way of escaping the attentions of anyone seeking to follow him. He set off at half past seven on a circuitous route which took him west to Kolonos before turning north towards Kassida. With all the precautions he felt obliged to take he was a few minutes late when he pulled up in front of the non-descript house. There was no sign of life. The Major placed his hand in his coat pocket, around the comforting grip of the revolver. For a moment Samson expected another stranger to present him with a note indicating yet another meeting place; he had better things to do than chase around Athens. He headed back towards the motor. When the sound came, as he knew it would, he was tempted to ignore it. Indeed, he was on the point of clambering back into the car when he belatedly decided that he owed Achilles this much.

                His informant half emerged from the shadows. The Major was immediately struck by the change in his physical appearance. The colour had drained from his face; the eyes were sunken and more furtive than ever; and there was a pervading smell about him which Samson recognized: it was the smell of fear. Samson had seen such a haunted look before, on the face of a young man found guilty of hoarding food during the siege of Adrianople, and condemned to be shot at once. He had been sure that the man would struggle violently against his fate, yet he bore the look Samson now saw on Achilles’ face, and had walked meekly to his death.

                ‘I cannot go back now, Major.’ Achilles’ voice was strained; it was almost an effort to speak.

                ‘Why? What on earth has happened?’

                ‘Last night, last night … ’ He struggled for breath.

                ‘Get a grip on yourself, man. How can I help you if you won’t tell me.’

                Achilles breathed deeply to help him form the words. ‘I told you of how the German ships might need coal and how Quadt was to make sure some was available?’

                ‘Yes, yes; I am aware of that already.’

                ‘Well, there was another message yesterday, direct from the German Admiral in Messina, that he must have coal. But he is a day too late!’ Achilles laughed nervously. ‘No coal can now be supplied because of Venizelos’ order. So no-one there knows what to do. Bassewitz says that Quadt should see Venizelos and demand coal. Plok, the coal merchant, is German, he says, not Greek. How can Venizelos tell him not to sell his coal? “And if he doesn’t agree, what threat am I to make?” asks Quadt and Bassewitz scratches his head. Then the Marine Attaché comes up with a plan. It is well known that the British have a stockpile of coal on Syra which is not guarded. Souchon should steam there and forcefully take whatever he needs. Now it is the turn of Bassewitz to find fault. There is an office of the Eastern Telegraph Company on Syra, he says, run by an Englishman. Unless he is silenced immediately he may get off a message and alert the British Admiralty. In the end they cannot decide what to do, so Quadt’s idea is to leave it up to Souchon to make the decision for them! Quadt sends a signal that no coal can be supplied and then waits. It is not until after midnight last night that a reply comes. Souchon says he must have coal or it is the end of his Squadron and this will be Quadt’s responsibility. There is no coal to be obtained along the way so Quadt must get Venizelos to relent. But Quadt has set his reputation on keeping Greece out of the war and does not want to force the Premier — he talked of “unforeseen consequences”. They talk and talk until eventually the Marine Attaché forces the issue. He says that if Quadt doesn’t see Venizelos, he will, and he will tell him that Goeben will shell the city unless this demand is met, and so force Greece into the war, after which she can be destroyed by the forces at Germany’s disposal. Quadt now has no choice. They call for a motor and set off about two o’clock. I was still there. None of the staff were allowed to leave. When they got back an hour later Quadt was grinning from ear to ear. That means only one thing — he has got permission to release the coal.’ Achilles, even now, was saddened to repeat this. ‘Why would Venizelos do this?’

                Samson had been listening intently. Ignoring the last, plaintive, question he demanded instead: ‘Why couldn’t you have told me this sooner. Why all this extra cloak and dagger business?’

                ‘Because of these!’ Achilles held out three sheets of paper: copies of the signals received and sent by the German Legation the previous evening.

                ‘Where on earth … ’

                Achilles sank back into the shadows. ‘When Quadt returned from seeing Venizelos last night there was so much confusion I was able to grab these from the Marine Attaché’s office and leave. I thought they would be important so I sent Anna around to leave a message for you to meet me. I knew they would suspect me when I did not show up this morning but I hoped they think I have a rest because of the late night. I knew it was foolish. And now Hoffmann is after me.’

                ‘Are you sure?’ demanded Samson.

                ‘I saw him today in the University Gardens. I was hiding in one of the buildings to make sure all was all right before meeting you. He was partly hidden in some bushes but it was Hoffmann all right. I saw you waiting by the fountain but knew there was nothing I could do except to arrange another meeting. It was an obvious move and I am sure Hoffmann knew what had happened. That is why I had to make sure you were not followed tonight.’

                ‘What are you going to do now?’

                ‘There is nothing for me here now. I leave. Take my brother’s family with me.’

                ‘To Chicago?’

                ‘Maybe. I think Hoffmann will not stop until I am dead. If Venizelos is now in league with the Germans no place in Greece is safe for me.’

                ‘You’ll need some money. You have earned it. I’ll meet you here tomorrow night with five thousand — that should give you a start.’

                Achilles nodded but did not speak. Samson shook hands with him, returned to the motor, drove for a mile in the direction of Patissia, and then turned down a side road where he stopped to examine his haul.

Souchon to Quadt, SMS Goeben, Messina, (1600) 5 August 1914.

4 pm. Time limit has been set. Italian authorities will not deviate. I have lodged official protest. They will grant one concession. Time limit will expire twenty-four hours from when coaling is due to commence, which will be from 6 pm tonight. This does not give enough time to fill bunkers. Essential that more coal is obtained. Please arrange for coal to be available in Bogados as per plan. Souchon.

(Received 5 pm.)

Quadt to Souchon, German Legation, Athens, no. 152, 5 August 1914.

8 pm. Regret Government prohibition on sale of coal makes it impossible to proceed with Bogados plan. Request instructions. Quadt.

(Sent 8.30 pm.)

Souchon to Quadt, SMS Goeben, Messina, (2330) 5 August 1914.

11.15 pm. Urgent. Make representation direct to Venizelos. Must have coal en route. Use threats if necessary. Destruction of Mittelmeerdivision assured otherwise. Alert Lorelei. Have second collier waiting in readiness off Chanak. Souchon.

(Received 1.15 am. 6 August)

                There was now no doubt left in Samson’s mind that, somehow, the previous night Quadt had persuaded Venizelos to release some coal for the German ships and this coal must have been loaded on Bogados during that day. In which case he was probably too late already; if only Achilles had been able to keep the one o’clock rendezvous. There was still a chance, however, if the Greek stevedores lived up to their reputation for idleness. Samson quickly folded the thin sheets of paper and placed the resulting wad in the heel of his right boot. There was no time, he decided, to leave a note at the Legation informing Rendel of his motor’s whereabouts. Instead, Samson turned the car around and raced for the Piraeus. He had not gone far, back only to the outskirts of Athens, when the first drops of rain began to fall. They splattered on the bonnet, mixing with the accumulated dust, then combining to form dirty streaks. The half windscreen provided no protection for the Major, who had to wipe his glasses periodically to clear them of water. He dare not slow down, but continued in worsening visibility.

                It was dark as he neared the port, and the rain had intensified. He parked the car some distance away from the quay and proceeded for the last few hundred yards on foot. There, as he had hoped, was Bogados, with lights strung around her and a small army of stevedores still busily engaged in loading her with sacks of coal. Plok’s stockpile was half the height since Samson had last seen it: the loading had taken longer than he had thought it would. At this rate, assuming they were going to transfer the remainder of the pile, it would take the rest of the night. As the time limit set by the Italians in Messina had now expired, Souchon must already be on his way. And the sight before him now convinced Samson that Constantinople was the ultimate destination; however, bearing in mind the previous scene he had had with Rendel, he needed final proof before alerting Beaumont that Souchon’s destination was now a fact, not a supposition. Perhaps there was some indication of the destination on board the collier?

                With all the activity going on around the ship, Samson decided it might be possible to slip aboard and conduct a search before she sailed. He still had only a smattering of conversational Greek and trusted to bluff his way out, should he be accosted by one of the German crew. He returned quickly to the car, where he removed his jacket and forced it under the seat. It was then a simple matter for Samson, having discarded his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves, to smear himself with some dirty water collected from a puddle and slip in amongst the workers. The rain was now so intense that the men were walking with heads bowed; no-one was concerned about the workman who followed a line of others up the gangway but then moved off to hide behind an officer’s cabin near the stairs to the bridge. Somewhere just above him, Samson thought, would be the details of the planned rendezvous between Bogados and Goeben. That was all that now stood between him and the fulfilment of a personal mission. Such a brilliant coup would more than make up for the bitter failure of the past year. He wiped his glasses clean and waited his chance. It would not come. Directly above him he heard voices. He placed the guttural accent of one of them to the German Frisian Islands and took this to be the Master. The other voice he had heard before: it was Hoffmann.

                Before fear could take hold, he suddenly realized that, in his boot, were the copies of the German signals Achilles had given him. If he were to be found with those on his person his fate, already bleak, would be sealed. Major Samson looked around him. Loading had finished in the aft hold. He lifted a hatch cover and slipped down a few rungs of the rail just as Hoffmann and the Master descended from the bridge. He could hear snatches of the conversation only: ‘Saturday … Polymitis … Cape Town … Breslau … ’ It made no sense to him. Then he heard Hoffmann clearly: ‘Have you got that? They will find you,’ followed by a grunt, after which the Master invited Samson’s adversary to his cabin for a tot. The Major reached involuntarily, as he had done earlier, for his revolver before cursing the fact that it now lay useless in his coat under the seat of Rendel’s car.

                Samson now felt as Achilles had done a few hours earlier; as the food hoarder in Adrianople had done the previous year. He could think of no way to escape; even the expedient of destroying the incriminating evidence in his boot did not occur to him. He clung to the rail until his arms ached while all he could think of was Edith; of that summer of 1912. Before the main dig of the season at Ephesus, they had started a small scale operation at Priene, just to the south. This was another coastal city whose ancient reason for being had been washed away, by the silt of the River Maeander. Once more sea had become land as the moving coastline had left the immobile city in its wake. The excavation at Priene had not been long in progress before they had discovered the remains of the Temple of Demeter and Kore, gods of earth and the underworld. While Arthur Roberts had raced back to his tent to write up his notes on this important find, Samson and Edith had descended into the newly-cut trench, conscious also of descending back in time as they did so. It was cool in the trench, a welcome relief from the searing heat above. Edith, walking behind Samson, stumbled on a protuberance and cried out; he had immediately turned to catch her but she had steadied herself. Nevertheless he extended a hand which she took gratefully. It was the first time he had touched her, held her soft skin. As the trench narrowed he squeezed her hand gently and she reciprocated. They had reached the start of the most recent digging, where the narrow irregular columns of the temple suddenly stopped, to be replaced by a masonry-lined enclosure. Edith knew at once what it was: the sacrificial pit for offerings. She shuddered at the thought and Samson, unaware of the reason, had taken her bodily into his arms. The kiss, when it came, could, in other circumstances, have been interpreted as no more than a friendly gesture; but they both knew. They kissed again. From the summit of the small cliff rising above the buried city, which had once housed the permanent garrison, they heard the call to prayer for the Turkish workmen. Edith had looked lovingly at him, then placed her lips on his cheek and murmured, through tears of happiness, ‘Pray for me.’

                Unable to cling any longer to the rail, Samson descended into the hold, until he was able to feel the sacks of coal. He lay on them awkwardly, massaging his forearms and bemoaning the fate which had placed Hoffmann in that location at that time. The loading of the coal went on through the night until, just before dawn, it ceased abruptly, to be replaced by equally frenetic activity as the ship made ready to sail. Samson had finally considered his predicament and had decided that his best course lay in opening the hatch cover as soon as the ship was under way and then jumping overboard into the harbour. Surely Hoffmann would not still be on board, he reasoned? He must have left hours ago to report back to Quadt that his part of the mission had been completed successfully. Yet such was the hold that he had over Samson, that the Major could not be sure that Hoffmann had not seen him and was merely waiting for him to emerge. Samson now imagined that Hoffmann had actually spent the night on the deck by the hatch cover, waiting for the moment when he should put his head above the hatch, and then it would be over. Hoffmann would obtain sadistic pleasure from the wait and Samson knew that he could not face him. Hoffmann had gained a measure of control over Samson’s actions that the Major knew it was no use trying to counter it. It was, he decided, fate which had placed him aboard the collier and now he had come to realize too late that one could not argue with one’s fate.

                The ship trembled slightly; Samson could feel the vibration through the hand rail as he climbed back up towards the hatch cover. Yet still he felt unable to move it. He was now sure beyond doubt that Hoffmann would be standing there. Instead he climbed down the rail until he was again able to place a foot upon some sacks of coal, then, in an underworld of his own making, he buried himself within the grimy cargo, pulled a split sack over his head, and sobbed. The collier, moving slowly under her new burden, cleared port under the watchful gaze of Mr MacDonnell, the British consul, and disappeared from sight.