THE MAN IN THE BARREL
Curtis parted the long hair carefully on Papa-Maleko's head with his
fingers and looked for the wound.
"I ought to have been a doctor," he said to Panayota.
She smiled, a little, fleeting smile that was sadder than tears. Her
hair, that had been wound into a great coil at the back of her head,
had slipped partly loose. Even as she looked up at Curtis, the glossy
rope writhed like a living thing, and a massive loop dropped down upon
her temple. Though her cheeks were pale, her lips were still
red--Curtis had never noticed until now how red and velvety they were.
"Is he badly hurt?" she asked.
Papa-Maleko's hair was clotted with blood, but Curtis made absolutely
sure that the skull was not fractured.
"No," he replied, "it is not broken."
"Thank God! thank God!" cried Panayota.
The priest put his hand on his daughter's shoulder and shuffled to his
feet. He staggered a little and caught his head in his hands.
"O papa! papa!" cried the girl, throwing her arms about his neck.
"Bah! I'm all right. I was a little dizzy, that's all."
"Nothing broken. Nothing broken," reiterated Curtis. "The blood is
from the--" he did not know the word for skin, so he lifted up a little
tent on the back of his left hand with the finger and thumb of his
right.
"Nothing, nothing at all," said the priest. Panayota turned her eyes
toward the smoky and cobwebbed rafters and crossed herself. The steel
cross in the door leaped to a parallel of presented muskets, and
Kostakes Effendi reappeared. Twirling his mustache, he gazed
perplexedly at the group within the café, but recovered himself in a
moment and advanced smiling.
"So his reverence is quite well again! I am glad to see it, very glad.
I feared that his skull was fractured. A musket butt is no plaything."
The Turk assisted Curtis to the door, and into a cavalry saddle on the
back of a respectable looking horse.
"It is the horse of my sous-lieutenant," explained Kostakes, "who
really prefers to walk--Lieutenant Gadben, Monsieur--but I have not the
honor of knowing your name."
"Curtis--"
"John Curtis, American journalist."
Half an inch of saber cut disfigured the lieutenant's left temple.
Curtis wondered at first glance how far it extended under the flower
pot hat. The possessor of the cut was a grizzled man of fifty, with a
short pointed beard and a mustache, into the left side of which
cigarettes had burned a semicircular hole. The Turkish troops were
drawn up in marching order, dirty, dust-stained, faded, some of them
shoeless, but there was something about them, something in the attitude
of the bodies and the obedient expectancy of the countenances, that
suggested the soldier.
Curtis was amazed at the amount of desolation which had been
accomplished in so short a time. The ruffian hand of war had wrecked
the peaceful and idyllic town as a discontented child smites a
playhouse of blocks. Everything combustible had been set on fire, and
even from the stone houses smoke was pouring. Doors had been torn from
the hinges, windows smashed in, arbors pulled down. The fire in the
square filled the nostrils with the familiar odor of burning olive oil.
The houses with their denuded window holes reminded Curtis of men whose
eyes had been ruthlessly gouged out.
Lieutenant Gadben brought the hilt of his sword to his forehead and
said something to the Captain in Turkish. The latter glanced at his
little army and Curtis followed his eye. The men involuntarily
straightened up, stiff as posts.
Turning in his saddle Curtis cast a furtive glance at Panayota. She
was sitting on a mule, looking sadly to earth. One white hand rested
caressingly on the wrist of her father, who stood by, holding to the
pommel of her high pack-saddle. She had tied a handkerchief about his
wound. He was a manly and appealing, albeit extraordinary figure, as
he stood there erect, his dark eyes flashing scorn and defiance. His
billowy, spade-shaped beard covered his entire breast. He wore no coat
and the enormous Cretan breeches and yellow boots seemed to take on
added proportions for that reason. An empty cartridge belt, passed
under his right arm and over his left shoulder, bore strange
comradeship with the cross that hung from his neck. His dark brown
hair, that any woman might have envied, fell quite to his waist and
rippled in the breeze. Even as Curtis looked, Panayota gathered it in
her hands and hastily twisted it into a knot. The Captain said a few
words to the Lieutenant, who, turning to the ranks, pointed to four of
the men nearest him and transmitted the order to them. They saluted,
and stacking their muskets, ran into the café. Instantly the huge oil
crock fell across the door, and breaking, gave up its inoffensive
golden contents.
"Monsieur, you will destroy the café!" cried Curtis in alarm.
Over went the bar with a sound of smashing glass.
"It will take but a moment," replied the Captain, apologetically. The
tables and benches were now going into the pile in the middle of the
floor.
"The rascals should have saved the oil to pour on their bonfire,"
remarked Kostakes judicially. The sound of dull blows caused the
Captain to bend and look in at the door.
"Hey! hey!" he shouted, and gave an order. "I told them not to spill
the wine, but to roll the full barrels close to the fire," he explained
to Curtis. "There is sure to be one or two of them filled with brandy,
and their loud explosion does more execution than half a dozen axes."
Michali's barrel was fourth from this end.
"Why the devil wasn't I born with some brains in my head?" groaned
Curtis, inwardly. "Why can't you think of something, blockhead?" He
was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to butt his skull
against the stone wall of the café. He knew that a happy thought would
save poor Michali, and he realized also that undue excitement on his
part would betray everything. The picture of his friend being dragged
from his hiding place by his broken leg and thrust through with
bayonets, leaped before his imagination.
"Monsieur," he said, "I beg grace for the café. Stop the soldiers one
moment and I will explain."
Kostakes called to the four vandals and they desisted.
"I beg of you," he said inquiringly to Curtis, "but pray be brief."
"I am the correspondent of the New York Age. I am neither Greek nor
Turk, I assure you. I wish to write glowing accounts of your
heroism--and your magnanimity. I have a sentiment connected with the
café. It is so beautiful. I have written a little poem about it. It
begins thus:
"The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold."
Curtis beat off the waltz time of the meter with great energy.
"It sounds very beautiful. What a pity that I do not understand
English! Monsieur's sentiment shall be respected. He shall write for
his paper that Kostakes Effendi is not only a magnanimous soldier, but
a patron of letters."
The four vandals took their places again in the ranks. Kostakes,
waving his sword theatrically, gave the order to march, and they were
off up the rocky, winding street, with the little army pattering
behind. As they passed the parsonage Curtis noticed that it was in
ruins, but the festal wreath of yesterday hung brave and bright above
the blackened door.