But having rowed some distance up the Bosphorus and already passed Dolma Bagche Palace, I found no ship labelled _Batoum_. Most of the craft seemed to use only numbers as distinguishing marks. What was worse, most of them flew the German flag; although two of the masts sported a yellow-and-blue standard which I failed to recognize. Certainly none flew the Russian eagle. Our only chance of finding the _Batoum_ was to ask directions. We visited several lighters near the quay; but the _kaiktche's_ questions to Turks and Greeks were unproductive. As a last chance I told him to row close to a large steamer, on the deck of which I could see some German sailors. "Please tell me where I can find the Russian boat _Batoum_," I shouted in German, standing up while the _kaiktche_ kept the little craft steady with his oars. "Don't know the _Batoum_," said a sailor. "Here there are no Russian ships now. They've become German or Austrian." "And those two over there?" I asked, pointing toward the vessels with the green-and-black ensign. "Ukrainian." "Thanks very much," I called as we sheered off. My mistake, I realized, had been in forgetting for the moment the existence of that newly-made-in-Germany republic the Ukraine. Any vessel from Odessa not flying the German or the Austrian flag would now be Ukrainian; and the yellow-and-blue standard must be that of the Ukrainian Republic. One of the pair flying this flag proclaimed itself to be the _Nikolaieff_. It followed that the other, which was marked only by a number, must be the _Batoum_. Having made the _kaiktche_ take me to the bottom of its gangway, I climbed to the deck. At the top of the gangway was a tall man made noticeable by a bristling moustache and a well-pressed uniform of white drill. Obviously he was a ship's officer, and as such he must be one of the syndicate whom Captain White and I were bribing. If so, he would know of Wilkowsky. "_Russky vapor Batoum?_" I asked in pidgin-Russian. "_Da._" "_Monsieur Titoff?_"--pointing at him by way of enquiry into his identity. "_Niet; Monsieur Belaef._" "_Droug Vladimir Ivanovitch Wilkowsky?_" He gave me a long look, smiled, and said under his breath: "Yes, meester." These were the only English words known by Ivan Stepanovitch Belaef, first mate of the Ukrainian tramp steamer _Batoum_, from Odessa. And for the moment, at any rate, I was safe among friends. * * * * * At about armistice time I was hailed unexpectedly in Port Saïd by C., one of the British officers whom I had left behind on the ferry stage of the Golden Horn. He himself had seen me leave the café, climb the steps leading to the bridge, and fade into the crowd. A few moments after my disappearance, related C., the Turkish officer called the roll of the prisoners, before taking them to the ferryboat. That roll-call almost led to the premature discovery of my escape; for when the Turk said "À-lan Thòm-as Bott," _four_ people answered.