Falsely accused : a story of Russian intrigue

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Militant f ranlt 'Roll a Stor? of

Falsely Accused

A Story of

Russian Intrigue

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By WILLIAM FRANK ROLL

COPYRIGHT, OCT. 1919 BY

W. F. ROLL

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CITIZEN PRINT SHOP 209 New High St.

Los Angeles, Cal.

WILLIAM F. ROLL Student

One of the first men in Russia to rebel against Autocracy. This photo was made in 1902.

Mr. Roll fell into the hands of Autocracy and was exiled to a Siberian prison. This photo, taken in 1904, shows clearly what this prison and its cruelties did for Mr. Roll.

In 1905 Mr. Roll broke away from the prison in Siberia and after much hardship was successful In making his way to America. This photo, made in 1919, shows what American freedom has done for Mr. Roll.

Foreword

I T is hoped the following narration will prove the source of more or less entertainment to the persons bold enough to read it. The book was written hurriedly from almost illegible data, time-^orn family documents, revived traditions and the personal reminiscences of Mr. William Prank Roll, now a resident of Los Angeles, California. If anything, the volume is a story of adventure, and of Russian domestic intrigue. The concluding chapter has something of a political character and the statements contained therein are vouched for by the above-named gentleman, whose step-father, Frank Roll, may be called the hero of this book.

Mr. Roll desires to utilize the story for dramatic and screen presentation. To a certain extent, the narrative has been made to take on the form of a serial or episodical scenario and will admit of the introduction by its producer of additional characterizations and other visualizations.

The castle of the Tchorjevsky ’s is situated some distance from Kiev, the capitol city of Ukrania or Little Russia, and is a venerable pile. Ukrania, which is noAV attracting the attention of the world by reason of its possible permanent political and economic status, is generally known as ‘Hhe granery of Europe.” An interesting incident or series of incident’s in connection with the modern history of the Tchorjevskys is the flight to the United States of a very wealthy male member of the family who was a staunch supporter of the Polish rebellion against Russia in 1861. When he hurriedly left Ukrania he carried with him coin and credits to the value of $6,000,000. Although a diligent search has been made for him no trace of M. Tchorjevsky has been definitely found. It was reported that he had conferred, in an official way, with the Russian consul stationed in San Francisco, a former admiral in the Russian navy. The report has never been confirmed and strange to relate the best detective service of Europe and of the United States has been unable to locate the whereabouts of the consul after his mysterious disappearance in San Francisco in the year 1865. Mr. William Prank Roll is one of M. Tchorjevsky ’s direct and largest heirs, not only to the fortune the latter brought to this country, but to immense landed estates in Ukrania.

MEMOIRS OF FRANK ROLL

Chapter I

O FATHER, descendant of those noble crusaders who, in behalf of Christian principles, battled with Roman legions struggling for fanatical idolism and the ultimate barbarism of the world, help me in my helplessness!

I have no friends. I have been despoiled. Even, when at my mother’s breast that which belonged to me was taken away from me. When I became of matured age and asked for my own I was told I was possessed of nothing. Good friends endeavored to aid me in the work of restoration of my fortune but finances were lacking to successfully combat conspiracy.

During the first war in 1875, I was accused of being a Russian spy. A despotic German court-martial upon perjured testimony convicted me. Friends sacrificed their property to save me from a military sentence, which for me meant death, without avail. Concealed in a box, I was secretly shipped across the border, paying great sums to drunken guards to escape in safety.

O my Father! The German, in this struggle with Russia transformed himself into a creature of rapine, murder, lust and cruel cowardice. Without mercy he slew innocents in the most barbaric ways. As our ancient enemies, the Romans, threw dice for the garments of Christ so German uniformed beasts gambled for the possession of virtuous women and maids whom they made to suffer a fate worse than death. Mercenary, avaricious, without love of charity, ignominious and dastardly, they pursued their evil way without mercy and conscience.

Following my escape from Germany, and in accordance with the resolution I had firmly made, I presented myself to certain officers of the Russian Army. I explained my position and my determination and asked to serve Russia in the ranks. I declared I was willing to do all in my power for the Empire and that also I was determined to avenge, to the last drop of my blood, the great wrongs inflicted upon me and my generation by German injustice and cupidity. I produced official documents showing that I had been sentenced to death in my native country. Apparently this was conclusive and immediately I was assigned to the barracks of a division of grenadiers in the Russian army. Both officers and private soldiers gave me the military salute and I was welcomed to the ranks as a comrade and a true patriot.

Later on, I called certain high officers together and explaining that I had important information to transmit to them, asked permission to go into a tent where the knowledge of my efforts would not be generally known. I was asked to explain my meaning.

“ Gentlemen,'’ I said, “When I was a cadet, I was entrusted with important secrets by my government. Among them was an exact knowledge of certain fortifications and mines in this neighborhood. If, in your judgment, this knowledge would be of service to Russia I will be pleased to put it on paper for you so that you may preserve and utilize it. ’ ’

Of course, there was but one answer and we were soon gathered together in a strongly guarded tent and I was provided with the necessary material. As I sketched these plans the officers, among whom were engineers, closely from time to time, scrutinized my work and praised me for my memory and cleverness. Nothing could be heard in the tent save the scratching of my pen as I reproduced a draft of the information I thought to be of great value to the armies of Russia and of greater danger to Germany.

This, my father, took place on August 14, 1875.

The next day a Russian captain came to my quarters and looking at me sternly ordered me to follow him. I did so until we reached an open space surrounded by trees. We were accompanied by guards. The royal standard was displayed all around us. The offiber approached and gazing steadily into my eyes he slapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, “We know your game and you will never return to your country." He pointed to a tree which stood apart from the woods. “Beneath that tree has been dug a place for you where you will remain, forever! Now what do you think of our plan?"

“Why are you suspicious of me?" I demanded." Voluntarily, I have given the army high officers exact plans and sketches of the formation and construction of important German fortifications, which, if correctly fixed in his mind, will enable your commanding general to make a successful assault. A victory over the Germans, now, may have far-reaching results and in return for giving Russia the means by which such a victory can be won — you and your superiors offer me — a grave.

“Was it for this I suffered in a German prison, cold and hungry for several months? Was it for this I faced the execution of a death sentence pronounced against me by a corrupt German court-martial? When I crossed the border at the risk of my life to join the Russian army I swore to be loyal to my adopted country. I begin by laying before its officers the most important of war secrets and in return, I repeat, am presented with a tomb.’’

The officer made no reply. He still looked me, calmly, yet, significantly, in the eyes.

“At any rate,” I finally added, “you will allow me to kiss the royal standard for which I have already made many sacrifices.” I turned aside and kissed the ropes supporting the national emblem.

My heart was filled, 0, father! with bitterness and grief as I stepped forward and stood by that yawning grave prepared for my abiding place — grief at the thought of my near disgraceful death and the bitterness which comes to a man when he realizes his honest motives have been misconstrued and that those whom he trusted have become his enemies.

A company of soldiers, including the firing squad, was drawn up in line on the plaza. They awaited the orders for the execution of my sentence. A batallion commander delivered a document to an adjutant who escorted by a captain of grenadiers marched to a point within a few feet of me. The captain ordered me to raise my right hand while the findings of a court of inquiry were read to me.

The document stated that “Frank Roll, believed to be a citizen of Germany had made false statements to officers of the Russian army concerning his former alleged connection with the army of Germany and that for the purpose of involving the Russian army in a dangerous trap had fabricated plans of certain German fortresses and mines which plans were believed to be misleading and false. Therefore, the said Prank Roll is sentenced to be forthwith shot.” The document was approved by General , commanding officer.

A priest and a soldier came forward. The priest who was a cleric of the orthodox Greek Church was a sinister looking man and despite his robes of office and the immense gold chain thrown around his neck, to which was attached a golden cross,

I drew away. However, he blessed me and as he handed me the crucifix to kiss, he whispered beneath his heavy moustache, showing his gleaming teeth white as the fangs of a hound, “Good-bye, you German spy. Now you will go to hell.’^ Then turning, he slowly walked to where a group of officers stood.

0 My Father! how can I describe the anguish of those moments? My trembling soul spoke in a prayer I uttered to God to whom I raised my arms in supplication. I prayed that he might intervene and stop the perpetration of this dastardly crime, and that if I must die thus, I besought him in the name of the Christ, to accept my cruel end as perfect expiation of my past sins.

A soldier draped a black cloth around my head and I awaited the word which was to send my soul into eternity. My heart beat furiously for a time, and then it seemed to me that all of the blood of my body had rushed madly to my head. A tempest was raging in my distracted mind, yet, although shaking with dread anticipation, I kept my feet and stood erect.

1 heard the command to fire.

There was a pause, a silence during which memories of scenes and acts in my life flashed like distinct photographs before my mental vision and I suddenly grew faint at heart and nauseated. Then came the rattle of musketry, as loud I thought as a peal of mountain thunder and I swayed back and forth.

Was this death? I felt no pain as I sank to my knees. These soft objects which were falling on and about me were the leaves of the tree under whose branches I stood. “Merciful God!’^ I exclaimed. “I am unhurt!’^

The revulsion of feeling following my realization of what had actually occurred was overwhelming. I had been made to endure this heart-breaking experience as a stern means of testing my veracity, for the soldiers had fired their bullets into the tree top.

What barbarism — the very perfection of studied, systematic cruelty ! Sharp pains attacked my heart and my poor brain reeled as all grew dark before me and I pitched forward into the pit, I had believed was made for me.

I was taken from that horrible hole by a squad of soldiers who assisted me to walk until I came in the presence of General . My fears had now passed and my self-possession returned. I held up my head proudly as would, under the circumstances, any loyal and honest man. I was not ashamed of the physical weakness and mental agony I had shown during that mock execution. It was not so much the fear of death as the knowledge of my innocence which had broken into bits all of my reserve and fortitude. So I calmly faced General .

The Russian advanced and, very much to my surprise, shook my hand. He invited me to be seated at a table and resumed his own chair. I observed on this table a small box. It contained a military decoration. The plans I had drawn were on the table and by the side of them the uniform of a captain of Russian grenadiers.

General , scrutinizing my face as if he were

reading my soul, slowly with emphasized deliberation said: “Monsieur Roll, I have concluded to trust you and am going t'o use these plans. Of course, I expect to lose some men in making the assault. My losses cannot, in any way, be attributed to you, provided — ’’ and here his tones were terribly menacing — “your plans are correct and have been drawn for the purpose of winning this assault. If my army is successful this decoration shall be yours and you shall be commissioned a captain in my batallion of grenadiers and entitled to wear this uniform. But if I discover you have deceived me with false drawings and thus endangered the safety of the Empire and my army you will be immediately shot.^’

I arose and bowed to the old commander.

Turning to an officer, General said :

“Captain you will see that Monsieur Roll is equipped with every means to safely conduct a detail to a ford with which he is familiar in order that our forces subsequently may, safely cross the river. You will then return him at once under guard, to the barracks where he will remain confined until further orders.'^’

The officer took me in charge and I was soon provided with food and stimulant. He ordered up a troop of cavalry and I was given a mount. I leaped into the saddle and rode by) the side of the captain of the detail. We trotted swiftly in the direction of the ford, and my heart thrilled with joy at the prospect of accomplishing my first effective triumph — of striking a decisive and fatal blow against lust for war and aggrandizement.

Moving swiftly we traversed a wide expanse of level land reaching to the low foothills at the base of a high mountain range. Almost secreted by nature from casual observation was a narrow and tortuous path through which I led my companions all of whom were visibly excited although none of the party save the captain and myself were aware of the real object of our expedition. On the thither side of this string of foothills there ran a torrential mountain river filled with hidden boulders and jagged rocks showing their teeth in places above the whirling current of the stream. It was a mad river and on the opposite side its stony banks arose to a high altitude. It boomed like a waterfall. Every few rods we observed deadly whirlpools and the surface indications of depths reaching probably to the bowels of the earth. To bridge this fierce stream apparently seemed an impossibility for the resources of military construction.

We drew rein and surveyed, for a moment the rushing, leaping, twisting water.

“It’s crazy,” grimly remarked the captain nodding his head at the foaming water.

To the north, a quarter of a mile, the banks of the river narrowed to a deep gorge. Along one side of it there ran a natural narrow path over which artillery could safely pass. Prom where we stood this path appeared to be a dull white streak no wider than a man’s stride. I knew that it lead to a shallow sink or depression in a little valley between the hills and the mountains. Here the turbulent stream softly spread over a wide tract of land proceeding with a slight current in the direction of a second gorge and gaining in depth and velocity as the banks drew closer together.

Sure of my ground, we galloped to the first gorge and over the road I have described to the valley beyond. We turned to the right and rode across the ford to a pass in the mountains on the east side of the river, which for the time being was only a shallow pond.

“Splendid,” whispered the officer. “You are a brave man, and I believe in you,” and he put his broad palm on his heart.

I started in my excitement to enter the pass. “Stop, Monsieur Roll!” he commanded. “I have orders to return from this point.”

We turned about and started for the cantonment. On my way back I told the captain that from the pass on the far side of the river there arose a road to the top of the mountain ridge which, with but little labor, could be made possible for the artillery. From the ridge would be plainly discerned the German fortifications. The slopes of the mountains leading to the German outposts were mined, but the charts would disclose the location of these defenses. Several plateaus on the mountain ridge formed advantageous locations for shell fire directed down the slopes and over the small hills and valleys which would lay before the batteries and the German fortresses. The guns could be protected and partly hidden on these land surfaces surrounded as they were by natural barriers of earth and granite.

“General will of course, dismantle and then

destroy the enemies fortifications with his artillery,” I said to the captain in conclusion. For answer he reached over and quickly pinched my thigh and muttered, “It is done, sir. It is done.” On reaching camp I was at once shown to my prison quarters and left for the time to the company of my own thoughts.

On the third day after my visit to the ford in the morning I saw the rear of the Russian column disappear over the plain. The view from my door, although limited to a small surface area, admitted a wide curve of the horizon and the sky. As the day wore on I heard the booming of cannon and knew that General had commenced the attack.

Dropping to my knees I implored Almighty God, who directs the destiny of all armies, to vouchsafe victory to the Russians and to this end I prayed that my plans would be read aright and that my motives would be understood and rightly appreciated. And I asked 0, my father, that you be permitted to intercede in heaven for your son imprisoned here on earth and in a strange country.

The cannonading was terrific and reverberating through the gorges, the passes and the mountains. Its echoes spread themselves over the plain and could be heard in the most violent outbursts in my barrack-quarters. Heavy clouds of smoke rolled in dark billows over the crest of the mountains, obscuring their high altitudes and topmost slopes. Occasionally a tremendously loud detonation indicated the explosion of a mine, and between the more expressive signs of the impending struggle, I thought I heard the sharp reports of

small arms. In imagination I saw General men charging

on the German outpost only to be hurled into eternity by the terrific eruption of a concealed mine. Behind them and on the high plateau protected by improvised barricades the Russian batteries were playing on the fortresses below, whose heavy guns were in return combing the high reaches of the mountains. Again, in fancy, I saw the towers and walls of the German fortresses, pierced by great shot and shell, break and fall ;and, witnessed with delight the capture of the outposts and the waving of victorious Russian flags.

Suddenly, I know not why, this exhaltation of spirits was transformed into a feeling of the deepest despondency, and my soul was overcome by its forebodings.

From whence come, my Father, these presentiments of truth? What is the invisible power which transmits to the anxious mind the knowledge of an event yet unborn?

Early in the day I was convinced the Russian assault had failed of its purpose and in my mind I visioned the inglorious return of army.

I lay upon my rude bed in the barracks wrapped in the shadow of this prophetic assurance until I was aroused by a woman’s gentle voice. “Come,” she said, “and take your luncheon.”

The face of my visitor was sad, sympathetic and wonderfully entrancing. Her voice was as musical as the liquid tones of a flute. Through the tiny window of my prison-room which framed her head wrapped in a dark shawl, she passed a packet to me. Her eyes smiled a welcome and sweetly wished a good-bye. Then she disappeared.

Who was this kind, yet mysterious visitor? The memory of her face refreshed me and its kindly expression remains with me until this moment.

I opened the packet. It contained an exceptionally good luncheon of both substantial and delicate food, and also a bottle of milk. I ate without suspicion hearty and with gratiflcation. I found the bottle of milk closed with a twisted piece of paper. I withdrew this improvised stopper and was about to cast it to the floor when I observed it was covered in part with writing. I opened and smoothed out the little roll, and to my amazement I read this note :

“Dear Sir: I have been told by my father that if your plans aid our army you will receive an honorable decoration. For the present, you are to remain a prisoner. Do not despair, but endure your confinement with philosophic courage. If it becomes necessary I will try to bring you food and see you again. Au revoir, my dear friend. Lucia Monguke.”

“If your plans aid our army,” I repeated to myself. In my heart I felt my plans had miscarried and not even the kindly hopes and generous attentions of my beautiful and considerate visitor could arouse any hope I may have had, or dispel the overpowering depression which mastered me.

I looked through the barred door. The skies over and beyond the mountains presented to my uncertain eyes a strange spectacle. Clouds in fantastic forms and of many different hues scudded before a wind changing its direction at every moment. I saw vivid lightning and dazzling electric displays almost immediately followed by crashing peals of thunder. My blood was hot with some sudden and strange fever. Rain began to fall in great drops and my thirst for water in the twinkling of an eye became furious and impelling. I shouted for a guard and rushing to the door beat the bars with my fists, crying aloud my wish for drink.

A venomous-looking guard walked up to the bars. His face and head were covered with masses of black hair which made the glitter of his wolf-like eyes appear dangerous and deadly. In reply to my request he thrust his bayonetted gun through the bars of the door, and viciously tried to prod me. I was enraged at his conduct and yet was helpless.

The rain was now falling in torrents. I again walked to the door and thrusting one hand into the storm caught and held the precious drops in the hollow of my hand. My parched throat eagerly swallowed them and again I put out my hand for more. The villainous guard who had endeavored to wound me with a bayonet, unknown to me, stood concealed near the door. When, for the second time, I reached for water he struck me on the wrist with his rifle and broke my arm. He then seized my hand and roughly drew me to the bars endeavoring to do me further injury. Although the pain was intense I struggled with this cowardly soldier whose heartless treatment so disgraced the uniform he wore, broke away and retired from the door. As I afterwards learned, the shameless creature reported to his superiors that he broke my arm while I was attempting to escape from the barracks, a falsehood which seriously endangered my life.

This experience and further neglect confirmed my belief that my information, for some reason unknown to me, had proved of no service to Russia but was responsible for leading the army into a movement which resulted in its defeat. The malignant looks of the guards who rushed to my prison when

I was struggling with the soldier who had broken my arm were to me conclusive proof that any sentiment of kindness they may have felt for a man who had befrinded their country was transformed into a cruel hate for the man they now believed to be a spy. Delirious with pain and fever, I left my bed and endeavored to cross the floor. I felt myself falling into a chasm so vast I madly believed it had no finite dimensions. When I awoke to consciousness I found myself in the camp hospital.

My new abode instead of being a safe refuge-^a sacred place in which I might be able to regain my good health and strength became the scene of torture and an almost unbelievable persecution. My broken arm was rudely dressed. Every eye from the beginning was bent upon me in hate. The charge that I was a spy impregnated the atrnosphere of the ward. My trial and final death were discussed in my presence as if the execution of a death sentence had actually taken place and I were no longer among the living. Some of the old soldiers, however, discussed my actions in whispers.

Soldiers wounded and ill were brought into the hospital. They were the casualties of the recent battle. A group of doctors and officers visited these sufferers giving them scientific and polite attention. Medals were bestowed upon some stretched out on beds of pain, the officers in each instance saluting gravely the wounded heroes. These officers passed me by as if I were a dog. At dinner, instead of serving me a meal, I was thrown pieces of old, dry bread.

In the ward an old and badly wounded soldier was endeavoring to console his comrades. ‘‘Brothers,” he remarked, “you suffer because it is your destiny. Every man has his part to play and he must go through with it. Only God knows our real motives and our real hearts.”

I made my way to his cot and gave him a glass of water.

“Dear brother,” I said with a contrite heart, “you are very wise. God will judge. He knows our thoughts when no one else knows. Some day, you and the rest will know through God’s wisdom, why I came to Russia from my own country. Then you will no longer believe me to be a spy.”

I knelt before a marble statue standing in the center of the ward floor. “Dear Jesus,” I prayed, “I beseech you to save the lives of the wounded in this hospital and especially those who were injured in the late battle. Lessen their pain and restore them to good health. My Lord in Heaven, thou knowest this battle was lost through no fault of mine, but by officers who did not follow correctly the information I imparted. This I swear here at thy feet, 0 blessed Lord and Redeemer!”

I returned to my cot strengthened in my soul.

Presently General , a number of other officers

and several surgeons entered the ward. At a sign one of the waiting doctors removed the identification and descriptive card from my cot and read it aloud in General hearing:

“Frank Roll, German subject. Broken arm. Injury received while attempting to escape from prison.”

“That broken arm,” said General with a grin,

“will not hurt him much longer. This man is a German spy and is responsible for the loss of a number of my brave soldiers. You need not give the man any medical attention, doctor. He will probably be shot to-morrow at one o ’clock in the afternoon.” The party then proceeded on its tour of inspection.

As I lay in my cot I heard the ticking of the clock and wondered how many times it would tick after I had passed out. Already my body seemed dead. “After all, a firing squad does not matter,” I thought. “The clock will tick on.”

On the cot next to mine was an old soldier. He wore a long, heavy beard and his face was quite dark. His eyes were piercing and bright.

“Young man,” he said to me, “can you write Russian?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“I have not seen my family for twenty years,” he continued. “If you will write to them for me I will give you my supper.”

“I will write for you,” I answered.