Rescuing the Czar/Part One/Chapter II

= Chapter II: What May Be Read Between the Lines =

There may be those in official circles who will suggest that a case of mistaken identity is exhibited in the following quotation from the letter. "It is in a sort of arboreal enclosure, with all sorts of flowers and vigorous vegetation that characterizes this region," the letter reads. "Behind the ivy-covered wall that extends around the gardens and shuts out all intruders, I got a glimpse of that man through the heavy iron gate. He was smooth-shaven, slightly drooped, sprinkled with gray and with a scar upon his forehead near the roots of his hair--a little to one side. He was twirling a pruning knife in his left hand and speaking in English to a boy who scampered up to him ahead of four beautiful girls and a very dignified woman moving leisurely over the lawn in the direction of the gate.

"When the women reached the man's side they paused for a moment and asked a few questions in Russian. He seemed to be listening very attentively and answering only in monosyllables.

"Then I noticed the elder of the women unfold a well-known London newspaper and move closer to his side. They began glancing over its pages together and seemed to be deeply moved by an article they, apparently, were reading as they walked slowly toward the gate. Finally, when they were about ten feet from where I stood concealed behind one of the massive palms, the man raised his head from the page and, looking earnestly into the woman's eyes, exclaimed in a skeptical tone: 'Il n'aurait jamais cru le fait si ces messieurs n'avaient pu lui jurer L'avoir vu!... Tout ce que j'ai prédit!... Les faux nobles,--les plagiaires!' which means in English, "He couldn't have believed the thing unless these gentlemen had sworn they witnessed it!... All that I predicted!... The sham nobles!... the stealing authors!" The comment set me thinking.

"Who is he? I asked myself. Inside of five minutes I had heard him speak in English, in Russian and in French! I am certain that he is not a Frenchman,--although his accent would have proclaimed him a native of the Avenue des Champs Elysées. He had a Danish countenance, the eyes of English Royalty and the forehead of an early Christian martyr.

"No one I have talked to on the island seems certain of his identity. Some take the view that he is a retired millionaire, judging from the refined simplicity of his family and the strict guard the Government has furnished to protect his undisturbed retirement. Others hint that he may be, possibly, some very high dignitary, judging from the almost Royal homage that some people in the city pay to his person and family.

"The only reliable information I got about him was that he arrived upon the island aboard a man-o'-war accompanied by one of the richest tea merchants in the Empire. He declines all membership in any of the clubs, apparently satisfied to spend the time among his orchids and the lovely white-robed debutantes I saw blooming in that fascinating garden.

"Naturally I was very curious about the identity of this secluded family. But the only information given out about them by the chivalrous tea merchant or the Government officials is simply, 'Oh, the family have friends in India and are living in retirement.'"

One would be very bold to say, after reading the foregoing, that the personages described were the same people who had been driven out of the Winter Palace upon the ebb-tide of their Imperial splendor a few months before. Yet a long and somewhat intimate interest in the underground diplomacy of the world will lead one thus engaged to piece together stray bits of gossip that come from different sources to check up the information that some others may possess. In this way will the letter of an American who was held incommunicado at Geneva by the Swiss Government in the latter part of 1919, be found exceedingly persuasive in the process of reconstructing the tragic comedy which struts around the vacant Russian throne. The American was en route to Turkestan under proper credentials from the United States; yet there were certain powerful combinations sufficiently interested in his mission to cause his imprisonment for a time sufficiently lengthy to enable their emissaries to precede him beyond the Caspian, where other secret combinations were incubating that American foreign traders would have given much to understand.

It was during this period of restraint that the American, whose name we will call Fox, wrote to a friend in the United States: "You have often heard me speak of my brother who was in Turkestan when the Russian Revolution burst upon the world. He is now resting in Tasmania after going through one of the most remarkable experiences ever given to an ordinary tea merchant intrusted with some secrets of the greatest land monopoly in the world. You may call it a fairy tale; and if you did not know me as a business man of ordinary sense, I should hesitate to intimate that Nicholas R and all the family are quite well, I thank you, not a million miles distant from my brother."

Fox had learned from his experience at Geneva that governments are sometimes cajoled by diplomatic pressure to do undreamed-of things. The dispatch of an expeditionary force to Siberia by the United States without a declaration of war against the Revolutionists struck him as an instance of this kind, and he knew his correspondent to be sufficiently versed in the underground politics of Europe to look for a connection between some member of that expedition and the subject mentioned in the two foregoing letters. This connection was innocently revealed by a newspaper report from a Western city concerning a wounded soldier who had recently returned to an American Army hospital. The particular name being given, it was easy enough for Fox's correspondent to meet the soldier on some errand of mercy and to obtain the revelations that are hereinafter made.

The soldier was a young commissioned officer who was having an artificial jaw supplied to replace the one shot off in a Bolshevik encounter. He had greatly recovered when the call was made and an opening naturally presented for the soldier to recount the part he played in the adventure of his country in the Revolutionary drama of that hour.

"I'm as certain as I'm living," the wounded soldier said, "that a Bolshevik is as 'nutty' as a rabbit. The fellow I had by the neck before my lights went out was putting up a holler, in German, and claiming to be a personal friend of some personal friend of the missing Czar. Before he finally passed in his chips he gave me a bundle of paper diaries he had stolen down in China, and he asked me to return them to their rightful owner so that he might die without a sin upon his conscience. Honestly, that chap was dead in earnest in this matter of his conscience. I took the stuff, of course; but I never thought about them until the other day. Since then they seem to haunt me. I wonder if you'd mind looking them over if the nurse'd get them out?"

"With pleasure," was the reply.

The nurse brought in an old leather bag, from which the Captain extracted two begrimed and blood-smeared rolls written in a very small but strong and vigorous hand.

While looking over the documents in a casual way a loose leaf fell to the floor. Upon picking it up, there was found to be written on one side in bold underscored letters: "Make no belief in the evidence that was manufactured to   satisfy some bloodthirsty men in Russia. What I have seen with    my own eyes I know is true. For the sake of Russia I stoled    these papers from the man come from the West who was with them    all the way from 'Yekaterinburg to Chunking. What he write is    true.

"DONETSKY" "That's his name," the Captain said, "and if you don't find that he was as crazy as a bedbug I'll say I'm General Graves."

"This diary seems to be written in very good English."

"Yes," said the Captain, "all those fellows keep one. They're like the Germans--give 'em a pencil and a piece of paper and they'll scribble all day."

"Did he say who wrote this?"

"No; he cashed in, as I told you; but you'll see the name of Fox here and there through the diary that's written in the small hand."

"Fox--who was 'Fox'?"

"Search me! Some Johnny, I suppose."

"May I take these with me?"

"Sure thing! I'll make you a present of 'em. All I ask is, if you find out whether that fellow 'Fox' grabs the peacherino from the Métropole or the one called 'Maria' you'll send me an invitation."

The bargain was struck. Then the question was asked: "Any idea who wrote this diary--the one written in a quick running hand?'

"Sounds like some fellow with a grouch against Kerensky and Lvov. I know enough Russian to make out that much--"

"Evidently one of the Revolutionary officials?"

"Seems so," the Captain said. "You'll notice what he has to say about the mixup with the Russian Royal family at Tobolsk and Tumen. There's a lot of our fellows who don't take any stock in that assassination business at 'Katerinburg."

"I began to read: 'I had walked from Euston Station to Madame Tussaud's, when the messenger jumped from his motorcycle and rushed up to me--' Your diarist starts out in London, I see."

"Yes, he is some globe trotter--"

"'"Go to Birdcage and walk slowly back to Queen Victoria Memorial. As you pass Buckingham, observe the heavily veiled lady wearing white lace wristlets who will follow on behind. Let her overtake you. If she utters the correct phrase, go with her at once to Admiralty Arch and follow the Life Guard to the War Office. Meet number ... there; receive a small orange-colored packet, wear the shirt he gives you, and cross the Channel at once"'--I see! From Buckingham Palace to the War Office; sounds interesting."

"It is; that fellow is all there!" complimented the Captain.

"'The meeting at the Huis ten-Bosch points to Wilhelmstrasse. Nothing can be done here. They suspect Downing Street.'--Ah, at The Hague, and at the ten-Bosch too, where the Czar and Andrew Carnegie held their first Peace Conference in 1899; this looks significant!"

"Keep going," said the Captain; "that fellow's got 'The Man in the Iron Mask' brushed off the map."

"Here is something singular about Berlin. Your man walks through the lines like a wraith--"

"Not always. As you get into his stuff you'll hear things sizzle."

And thus the Imperial dead return to life through the pages of these stolen diaries.

While the temptation is great to revise the manuscript, so as to make it read more smoothly, it has been decided not to alter a line or letter. Truth will be better served by publishing what is prudent, under the complicated political circumstances of our times, word for word as it was written by its daring author.