Part 3

"In many ways, Comrade Garami. From reports I have had he is as strong as an ape, as cunning as a monkey, as elusive as a cricket. He has money, for in one case he bribed the jailer with more than I have heard of for a long time. Did he not?" Bela Kun turned to Szamuelly.

Szamuelly laughed unpleasantly. "Yes, comrade. I found the jailer with the money in his pocket. I hung the man, and appropriated the crowns."

"As strong as an ape, I believe you said. Why do you say this?" Again Garami put a question.

Bela Kun frowned. "You are in a questioning mood to-day, Garami."

"For a reason, comrade, which you will learn if you will answer my question first."

"Well, if you must know, the reason we, Szamuelly and me, believe that this traitor is strong is because he once overcame two of our brave troops, put in charge of a prisoner, by cracking their heads together."

Garami grinned unpleasantly. "Supposing I can put you in touch with a good comrade who isn't afraid of this _bourgeois_, this White Knight, as he calls himself. Would he be of use to you, comrade?"

Bela Kun thought for a moment. "Would he act as jailer to Count Bakocz, think you?"

Garami laughed. "He would act as jailer to the Devil himself if it so be there was good money to be earned."

"Who is this man?"

"Istvan Wenzel."

"Istvan Wenzel!" repeated another member. "Ay, comrade, I know Istvan Wenzel. A good man, him. As strong as an ox and as ugly as sin. His face would be enough to frighten this White Knight away, if it is the man of whom I am thinking."

"You are thinking of the right man," Garami agreed. "Wenzel can pick up a man in each hand."

"Can you get in touch with him, Garami?" asked the Dictator.

"He lives but three flats below me."

"It is good. Bring him to me to-morrow. If he is all your praises sing him to be, he ought well to be a match for this dog who writes me these notes."

The next morning Wenzel accompanied Garami to Bela Kun.

The streets were full of cars in which sat members of the Workers' Council, Administrators of the Country, or even People's Commissaries. They, who preached Socialism, Communism, and Proletarianism, lived in ease and comfort, surrounded with goods, food, and furniture filched from the _bourgeoisie_.

Meanwhile the people starved, and rode in tramcars of which the glass was broken or missing. If they were ignorant, uncouth, and wore the Red cockade, they might be granted a food ticket and be allowed to pay high prices for the privilege of eating to live.

If they were intellectual, if they lived and worked by the fruit of their brains, if they were decent-living, moral, and religious, they were _bourgeoisie_ and could starve. There were no food tickets for such as they.

So, though the city was gay with the red bunting which hung from every roof and every window, stretched from house to house, and with the music played by gipsy bands, beneath it all the people, the real Hungarian people, like the proud Magyar aristocracy, wept, and the tears were of blood.

Such thoughts as these did not worry the boisterous Wenzel or the sly Garami, as they strode along the streets.

"It's good to be alive this morning, with the sun shining, and the town all gay with flags and colour; what say you, Garami?"

"I am with you, comrade."

"What puzzles me is why the counter-revolution worry their heads about changing it all. Here we are, governed by ourselves, can help ourselves to everything we want. What more does anybody want? That's what I say. What more can one want? Give me a bellyful, and money in my pockets, and a woman now and again, and you can keep the rest. That's what I say. Keep the rest."

"Ho, ho!" chortled Garami. "You say that, you, Wenzel? Who took the best bed from the house at the corner of the Andrassy Ut? Who brought away the chairs and the sofa and the table from the home of Pazmany, the Professor? Who drinks his fill of wine, and forces his way into the theatre? That's what you say?"

Wenzel spat, as a passing automobile whizzed past. "Bah! You talk like a babbling brook. Come, the mention of wine and food makes me feel empty. Comrade Bela Kun must make haste. I must eat."

In due course they were shown in to Bela Kun, who eyed the big Wenzel up and down, and then smiled cunningly.

"You know why I wished to see you?" he questioned.

"Yes, comrade. It's some one you want to guard the Count Bakocz from being rescued." He stretched out his long arms and opened wide his huge hand, then slowly clenched his fingers together, and grinned evilly. "just let me get any of these _bourgeois_ between my two hands and I'll wring their necks. Curse them!"

"Then you will take the job on?"

"Yes--at a price, comrade."

"You needn't worry about money, Wenzel. The Government pay well those who are faithful to it." He leaned forward and his eyes narrowed. "Only see you do not fail, my friend, for otherwise you will find your own neck in a noose."

Wenzel burst into a bellow of raucous laughter. "I shall not fail. Don't you worry, comrade. This White Knight has bitten off more than he can chew. I'm the man you want. That's what I say. It's me you want."

"So be it." Bela Kun waved them away. "Don't forget, Comrade Wenzel, don't let him escape. You will hang heavier than the Count Bakocz!"

* * * * * *

Sunday! The day before the trial of Count Kalman Bakocz for treason. Trial! It was mockery to call the proceedings which occurred by this name.

Counter-revolutionaries, enemies of the proletariat; all such who were caught were imprisoned, and in due course, usually within twenty-four hours, brought before Korvin-Klein. Trial--judgment should be the word! There was no opportunity for defence, no witnesses brought forward for the defendant. Only prosecution and execution.

In the prisons of Hungary were _bourgeois_ hostages, held by the Communists against the possibility of hostile demonstrations from the people who groaned beneath the heel of the Soviet. Cast into prison, herded, many of them together, into small filthy cells, they barely subsisted.

Womenfolk were allowed to bring them what food they could obtain. Baskets, bags, packages of food were handed in at the prison gates by weeping women, for husbands, brothers, and sons.

The Red guards received the parcels and, when the women had gone, ate the food themselves and drank the wine. Occasionally, nay, more often than not, these hostages, these prisoners, died. That night there would be a stealthy procession to the waterside, and presently the waters of the Danube would part with a splash, and the body of the prisoner would float down, to disappear for evermore.

Food would still arrive, relations never hearing the tragedy of their loved ones, and the jeering Reds would gobble it up. What stories the grim walls of the Budapest prisons could tell of the Revolution of 1919, what tales of death and torture!

Count Bakocz was granted a cell to himself. The remorseless Soviet had determined he should die, and there was to be no mistake. So he was taken away from fellow-prisoners and thrown into solitary confinement, to see only the faces of his two jailers, one during the day, and one during the night.

Always the ghastly, repulsive features of Wenzel haunted him, asleep and awake. At times he could not sleep. Wenzel was for ever peeping through the grill, and every time the Communist gave his guttural laugh, and greeted him with rude, boisterous remarks.

"Well, my friend, still alive I see. Ho, ho! Too bad. Fancy, you have not been hanged or shot yet! Too bad. I must see what I can do for you.

"Wouldn't you like to escape, my little chicken? That wouldn't do at all, for little Wenzel would hang in your place." Then he would spit through the grill. "Pah! The more you _bourgeois_ hang the better pleased shall I be, that's what I say."

Three days, or rather three nights, Wenzel had guarded his prisoner, and still no attempt had been made to rescue the Count. Only Wenzel laughed; the Workers' Council was becoming nervous, for regularly each morning Bela Kun received a message from the White Knight.

Whence came the slips of paper he knew not, and once it was not a message, but a tiny white piece of carved wood--a white knight. Another time there were two knights, the white one untouched, but the red carved in two.

This, with the knowledge that his Government was merely resting on the brink of a volcano, gave Bela Kun no rest. On all sides the country was likely to be attacked, by Rumanians, by Czecho-Slovakians, and by Serbs.

His life became harassed, and he in his turn tightened the thumb-screws on the unfortunate _bourgeoisie_. New laws were made each day and flashed to every part of the country, there to be put into force by the local People's Commissaries and the local councils.

"More than two people never to meet together in the street." This, amazing as it may seem, was actually put into force, and innocent citizens were unable to stop and chat to friends for fear of counter-revolution, of plot, and counter-plot. Only Red soldiers could jest together, or those who wore the Red emblem, or those who met in Parliament Square to witness the execution of enemies of the proletariat.

When Wenzel went on duty Garami was there to meet him.

"Ho, Wenzel!" he said, "to-night's the last opportunity to rescue Count Bakocz. You must keep your eye open--that is, if this _bourgeois_ really intends to attempt a rescue."

Wenzel struck his chest. "Why worry, you? Do you believe that I shall let pass anyone? Bah! This is the last night our friend inside will ever live to see. I must see him fall to-morrow. Ha! Old skin and bones won't dent the ground overmuch, comrade. That's what I say."

Garami looked pleased. "Ay, comrade, it was a good thing I did for every one, was it not, to have you put as jailer here. You will not forget, eh?"

Wenzel grinned. "I shall not forget, friend. One tenth of what I make goes to you for the recommendation. Easy money, comrade. And what if I am offered a bribe?"

"Hush!" Garami looked round, startled, and reaching up he placed his hand over the other man's mouth. "Canst not keep a still tongue, chatterer?" He lowered his voice. "A tenth to me, Wenzel, a tenth to me."

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" Wenzel opened his huge throat and roared with laughter. "And will you share a tenth of the rope, Jew? Give me less money and less rope, that's what I say. Less money. My neck needs no gentle bandage, thank you, comrade."

Garami shrugged his shoulders. "I meant nothing," he muttered between his teeth. "Well, good night, Wenzel. There are soldiers within call, good Red comrades, who will not hesitate to run a _bourgeois_ through with bayonets. If there is anything wrong, shout."

"Yah! Anything wrong! What can be wrong? If anyone comes I will spit on them and they will run. Good night, comrade. Let no uneasy dreams disturb you. To-morrow Count Bakocz will--die." His eyes flashed joyfully, as if he were already watching the life blood draining away from the victim's body, and his gloating expression caused Garami to hurry the quicker away.

Ample preparations had been made to guard the prison well. Posted in different parts of the building were groups of Red soldiers. No one could enter without the knowledge of the guards, and even if intruders were successful in this there was still the huge Wenzel to overcome.

Garami breathed a little easier as he left the prison. He had been responsible for the appointment of Wenzel, and if anything should go wrong he was not too sure of his comrades' affability, that he would not hang side by side with his _protégé_.

That, therefore, was the position at ten o'clock on Sunday night, the night before the prisoner was to be tried, which was, of course, synonymous with death. If the White Knight failed the Count would die.

The hours wore on. The soldiers sang and ate, drank and joked, and Wenzel sat on his chair, outside the Count's cell, singing too, his huge voice echoing through the dim corridors so that prisoners in distant cells could not sleep.

At intervals he would open the grill to shout insults at the hapless prisoner, picturing the death that would overtake him in the morning, by all of which the Count remained unmoved.

He knew, just as every one else knew, that on the morrow he would die, and so he gave his last thoughts to the family left behind at Balassagyarmat. If a tear rolled down his cheek it was not because he was afraid of death. His poor Elizabeth, his poor Cecile! Only the seventeen-year-old Francis to guard and protect them, and such friends as could creep to them unseen.

What of his family at Balassagyarmat? Since the night Arnold Terhune had brought the news of the White Knight's oath they had heard nothing. When Sunday night arrived they did not attempt sleep. Cecile and Francis joined their mother, and in the darkness they held hands and comforted one another through the lonely hours.

With anxious hearts, with fear that the White Knight would fail counter-balancing their hope that he would succeed, could they, by some miracle, have seen the prison then, at two o'clock in the morning, they might have flinched with horror, for still nothing had happened.

The guards still talked and sang, Wenzel still sat on his stool. The only movement was that of a Red soldier who staggered about with bottles of wine, liberally dosing the guards with liquor.

From somewhere or other he produced yet more bottles. "Come along, comrades, some more," he cried, and the guards grinned and held out their mugs.

The soldier served them all. "Let us--let--let us drink a toast," he called out, "l-let us drink to the Revolution."

"Ay, ay," answered the men, and they drank deeply.

"Must take some to the others," muttered the proposer, and he staggered away.

The noisy rowdyism gradually died away as the potent wine took effect. The drink must have been stronger than usual, for the Reds found their heads nodding--nodding.... Ten minutes later every man was sound asleep, and when the soldier returned who had, in his generosity, visited the other guards all through the prison, and served out drink to toast the Revolution, he chuckled, and straightened up.

"Drunken swine," he muttered. It was Arnold Terhune.

The first part of his task completed, there was now the hardest part to perform.

With noiseless steps he traversed the corridors going in the direction of Count Bakocz's cell. At the actual corridor he came to a halt and listened. Round the corner he could hear the heavy breathing of Wenzel, who now seemed quieter.

With scarcely a movement Terhune leaned forward till he could see what was happening, and his heart leaped with joy as he noticed that Wenzel, though seated with his back to the cell, was just slightly turned away from him.

If he could but creep along without being seen or heard he hoped to succeed in getting near enough to use a chloroform pad which he had ready. He determined to try.

Squeezing his back against the wall, and moving with the utmost caution, he turned the corner. If Wenzel should glance only just slightly round now, he would be seen. Breathing a prayer that Wenzel would not move he advanced slowly forward.

Four feet, three feet, two feet. Another few paces and he could jump and catch the unconscious Wenzel unprepared, but at that moment Wenzel turned.

For a second or two Terhune seemed paralysed with astonishment, until Wenzel gave a roar, and would have jumped for him, but the Englishman was infinitesimally quicker, and even as Wenzel commenced to move he had quickly advanced the extra pace and with a dull thud brought a revolver butt down upon Wenzel's defenceless head, and the jailer collapsed with a groan.

Terhune worked with nightmare haste. From his pocket he produced a key, a duplicate of the original, and before Count Bakocz was even aware of what was happening, had opened the cell-door and was pulling the bewildered aristocrat away.

Terhune had not bargained on Wenzel's strength. No sooner had the echoing footsteps of the two men faded away in the distance than Wenzel raised his ponderous frame from the floor and stumblingly commenced the pursuit, blood pouring down his face and blinding his eyes.

Whatever drug it was with which Terhune had doctored the guards' wine, it could not have been a very powerful one, for even as the two men rushed past several of the guards sat up, rubbing their eyes in bewilderment, and by the time Wenzel was on the scene they were all sitting up from the positions into which they had fallen.

The sight of Wenzel, his face and clothes covered in blood, rushing into their midst, was their first intimation that anything was wrong.

"Dogs! Beasts!" furiously shouted Wenzel. "The prisoner has escaped!"

There was a dramatic silence while the stupefied guards gazed at one another, and observing this, Wenzel gabbled with rage. "Fools, dolts, idiots! follow them! follow me!" and rushing past them, kicking them as he went, he led the pursuit, and the guards, realizing at last what had happened, rushed pell-mell after him.

Wenzel was outside, staring up and down the street.

"Which way?" the guards cried, but Wenzel shook his head helplessly.

Some distance away two shadows darted across the dark street, but one of the guards saw. "That way, look!" he called; and the guards set off in a ragged group, Wenzel leading them.

Here and there against an occasional light they saw twin shadows fleeing from them, one stumbling and falling, the other pulling.

Gradually Wenzel and the guards caught up. Another moment and the two who were pursued would have been caught, but seeing this, they parted company, one to fall helplessly to the ground, where he lay without moving, and the other to speed still quicker away, till he was lost from sight.

Wenzel struck a match. The fallen one, his face smothered in the mud of the road, was the Count.

"Ho, ho, comrades!" hoarsely cried out Wenzel in triumph, "back to the jail with him. Get up!" he ordered, and kicked the man at his feet, but the Count did not move. "Fainted. Pah! the chicken. Come, friends, carry him back. I hope they will lash him for this."

The guards dragged the helpless man along the streets, till inside the prison they let him fall, and there he lay, cold and stiff.

Suddenly Wenzel gave a cry, and with his already filthy handkerchief wiped away the mud from the face of the prisoner, and having done so gazed with stupefaction at what he saw.

It was not Count Bakocz who lay there, but a two or three days' old corpse of another man, dressed in the Count's clothes.

The White Knight had won again.

_CHAPTER IV_

Because of the rigid censorship not one of the Budapest newspapers hinted at the escape of Count Bakocz; yet the news was passed on from mouth to mouth, was repeated and commented upon, until it finally percolated into the uttermost environs of the city. Disclaimed by the risen scum, in their requisitioned mansions, acclaimed in the sanctuaries of the refugees; by the first it was furtively believed but outwardly denied, and by the second inwardly discredited but optimistically confirmed.

At the Supreme Soviet Council, in permanent session at the Hapsburg Palace, questions and answers were flung to and fro across the table. Comrade blamed comrade, and easily aroused suspicions disfigured the already brutal faces.

Their prey, like a plucked goose, hot and sizzling from the spit, had been snatched from their watering mouths, and the anger of the rulers of the nation was unbounded. Their pride was insulted, their prestige threatened.

They turned their knit and scowling brows toward Szamuelly, who smiled banefully.

"Peace, comrades! What matters the loss of one chicken from such a well-filled run? Who misses a single grain of wheat from a bushel?"

"Ho," said Pogany, "but do hens only inhabit the roost? There are also cocks which crow."

"Yes, and from one grain of wheat may spring many other grains, remember, Comrade Szamuelly," cried another.

"Quite so, quite so, friends. I agree with you, and that is why I say--give me my way. Three days' loot and pillage and I swear there would be no cocks left to crow. Death to the _bourgeoisie_! Hang the magnates! Let them join the traitor Tisza. What say you, comrades?"

From several directions came affirmative cries. "Well said, Szamuelly! three days' sack." "Well said! 'Tis what I say too."

Pleased with the reception of his words Szamuelly continued, his voice rising higher as the prospect of the sanguinary feast for which he had long been working seemed appreciably nearer.

"Remember, friends, the world looks upon us as disciples of Russia to-day, to-morrow we may be leading other countries along the road to freedom. A glorious millennium is before us, yet there is still work to be done and done well. We have enemies working against us. Any moment may see a counter-revolution commencing. We must strike now, kill these pestilent rebels, and plant fear into the hearts of the waverers. As, in the past, we have been ruled by the whip, so now must we govern with a rod of iron. Kill, kill! Let the red blood spurting from the corpses of the _bourgeoisie_ carry its own message." He laughed. "There will be many who will be pleased to join our ranks afterwards."

He sat down, the big hall resounding with feverish applause, and only the chosen of Lenin, Bela Kun, President of the Council, remained silent. His hate for his superiors, his lust for power, were not one whit less than that of his bloodthirsty lieutenant, yet he feared to say the word which would permit the execution of a measure which might prove to be the blackest blot in the history of Hungary.

What streak of caution, what strange emotion restrained him, none can say. Perhaps he feared ghosts of the past, perhaps shadows of the Hapsburgs, aghast at the sacrilege of this invasion of their sacred domain, strung together his lips with spiritual threads. Whatever it may have been bleeding Budapest was spared; the ravenous wolves contented themselves with spasmodic raids and petty pilfery.

"Not yet, Comrade Szamuelly. The time is not yet. You must wait. Perhaps one day in the future----"

Szamuelly laughed scornfully. "Wait! Have we not waited all our lives for the emancipation of the workmen? Have we not planned and plotted to gather the reins of government into our own hands, to rid the country of the accursed gentry, the proud aristocracy? Are we all afraid?" He spread his arms dramatically.

From one came a growl. It was the sullen Pogany, the Minister for War. "Hold hard, Szamuelly! be careful whom you accuse of cowardice. Yet I agree with Bela Kun. 'Tis better to wait. We must be recognized as a government by the Entente that the world may know Communism is come to stay. Besides, it is possible that we may go too far----"

Szamuelly jumped up from his chair with a gesture of disgust. "Bah! A paltry excuse! It is not going far enough which we should fear. We must crush the dogs under our heels, grind them into the dust, till their backbones are broken and their brains jellied. It is a dead man who does not strike one in the back."

It was Kunfi, the ex-journalist, who next interrupted. "Very good, Szamuelly, but in the meantime--what of the White Knight? Can you crush his bones so that he rescues no more of the _bourgeoisie_? Can you hang him in Parliament Square?"

There was a brief silence, and Szamuelly became, once again, the centre of interest.

"If the rope does not break, comrades," he boasted.