A HERO AND A SIX-INCH SHELL
"We must yust take our chances," said Lindbohm. "How far is it from
here to the blockhouse?"
Curtis was lying on his stomach behind a rock, with his rifle beside
him.
"About sixty or seventy rods," he replied.
"Rods? What is a rod?" asked Lindbohm.
The Yankee laughed.
"The fort is--let me see, between three hundred and four hundred yards
from here."
There was a puff of smoke from a window of the square, gray building,
followed a moment later by a distant report, and the humming of a
guitar string in the air above their heads. Curtis lay down again.
"Damn bad shot," observed his companion. "Makes me sick after being in
South Africa. If that had been a Boer now, he would have hit you. But
these Turks cannot shoot. So we will make a rush. We will have our
best shots crawl in close and fire on the doors and windows. Then I
take a detachment and run in. When the Turks appear we drop down, and
our men fire another volley. Then we yump up and make another dash.
So we take it."
The blockhouse was a little above them, on a rocky eminence that
commanded the gleaming sheet of Suda Bay, in shape like a written
capital V. Four warships, two Englishmen, a Frenchman and a German,
lay resting at anchor, thin columns of smoke bending from their funnels
and drifting away amicably together. Something over a mile and a half
away, those great floating engines of death and terror looked as
innocent as a toy fleet on a duck pond. Entrenched in the rocks all
about Lindbohm was an armed band, one hundred and fifty in number,
consisting of Cretan insurgents, youthful Italian enthusiasts and Greek
Turcophobes. Behind them rose the tremendous piles of Ida and the
White mountains, and below them lay the bright, smiling valleys of the
coast and the lower slopes, where an occasional white village gleamed
among its olive orchards.
"How many are there of 'em?" asked Curtis. Lindbohm smiled, and
raising his big pink hand to his blonde mustache, gave it a playful
pull.
"That's yust what we're going to find out," he replied. Calling an
insurgent to him who spoke French, he explained the plan for the
assault. He himself selected the men who were to accompany him,
twenty-five in number, and such as possessed bayonets proceeded to fix
them to their rifles. The places from which the shooting was to be
done were selected, and the men began to get to them as rapidly as
possible. Lindbohm and Curtis, at the head of their little band,
worked down toward the open spot across which the rush must be made.
These movements caused more or less exposure and drew repeated
fusillades from the blockhouse. Most of the bullets passed over the
heads of the attackers, but occasionally one slapped against the soft
face of a rock, or scurried through the gravel. One glanced near
Curtis' head and hummed like a musical top. He turned and looked
curiously in the direction of the sound.
"It takes yust one good, big battle to break a man of that," observed
the Lieutenant.
"Of what?"
"Looking after the bullets. They sing all sorts of tunes, and
sometimes they only whisper, but they always say the same thing--death,
death."
The attacking party spread out into a line with distances of ten feet
or more between the men. Lindbohm held out his hand to Curtis.
"_Au revoir_, my friend," he said, fixing his innocent blue eyes upon
the American. "You better stay here. This is a little dangerous, and
you got a mother, you know."
The men were lying upon their stomachs; Lindbohm's left elbow rested
upon the ground, his chin supported by the left hand. As he spoke, he
pushed out his right arm toward Curtis and the two men clasped hands.
The American was thrilled by a great revelation of affection for the
Swede--his eyes were so childlike, his voice so tender, and his smile
so sad and sweet; he had lost the handkerchief that had been tied about
his head, and his pompadour had fallen down in spots, like a wheat
field upon which fragments of wind have dropped here and there. He was
very much in earnest now, as nervously he swept one end of his great
blonde mustache between his teeth with the tip of his tongue, and
inquired:
"Eh? Is it not so? We must remember the little mother."
"Do you think I'd go back on a friend in a time like this?" asked
Curtis indignantly. "But, see here, Lindbohm, since you're uneasy
about me, you'll find my address in my pocket. If anything happens to
me, write to my folks. And--and, about Panayota--"
Lindbohm dropped the hand that he was holding, and the color faded out
from beneath the dust and grime upon his face.
"About Panayota?"
"Tell her I meant what I said to her that day, every word of it.
I--I--, she'll understand."
Lindbohm made no reply, but still resting upon his left elbow, he slid
his face down into his great soft hand, and remained silent for so long
a time that an Italian called impatiently from a little distance:
"_Parati, signor!_"
Then he looked up suddenly and again seized Curtis by the hand.
"You are not going," he said sternly. "I am in command here, and I
order you to stay back."
Before the American had a chance to reply half a dozen guns roared from
a covert near by, a dozen more followed as rapidly as the sound of a
boy trailing a stick along a picket fence, and then for a full moment
the firing continued as capriciously as the explosions of a bunch of
fire crackers. It ceased, and Lindbohm, bending low, was running
toward the blockhouse. He had not got more than ten yards away before
the others were darting after him.
"O, damn his orders!" muttered Curtis and scrambling to his feet, he
ran so rapidly forward that he passed two or three of the Italians, and
had nearly reached Lindbohm's side when he heard a sound as though the
man behind him had stepped on a bundle of dry twigs. Turning, he saw
the poor fellow lying upon his side, bent like a bow. He was clutching
the calf of his left leg with both hands and grinning. His shin had
been shattered by a ball. Somebody fell upon Curtis and bore him to
earth, and immediately there was a crash and rattle of rifles behind
and all around him. The man at his side took deliberate aim at
somebody and fired. Curtis followed his example and shot at one of the
windows of the blockhouse. There was a lull and they dashed forward
again. Curtis kept his eye on Lindbohm this time, and pitched forward
upon his face when he saw the Swede do likewise. They ran but a short
distance each time, but the third spurt brought them half way to their
destination. Lindbohm now kept straight on, stopping every moment to
aim and fire. The others followed his example and they were able thus
to keep advancing, and none the less to maintain a fusillade against
the doors and windows of the Turkish stronghold. They were still ten
or twelve rods away, when a white flag appeared on the roof. Lindbohm
turned and motioned to his companions, who gathered about him. They
walked fearlessly through the open door, into the front room of a
square stone building. A thin-faced, gray-haired officer in a faded
fez, came forward to meet them. Twenty Turks in ragged uniforms were
huddled together in a corner. The place was dim and sulphurous with
smoke.
"To whom have I the honor of surrendering?" asked the Turkish officer
in French, unbuckling his sword.
"To me, Monsieur," replied Lindbohm, bringing his heels together with a
"click," and saluting with great dignity.
"I surrender to save bloodshed," said the Turk. "I see that you are
not a Cretan and I therefore, with perfect confidence, turn these men
over to you as prisoners of war."
"They shall give up their arms and suffer no harm. Monsieur will do me
the honor of retaining his sword."
The remaining Cretans were now come up and many of them had crowded
into the room. Lindbohm ordered them out and put two stout fellows at
the door.
"Now, Monsieur, if you will kindly tell your men to give up their guns."
The officer said a few words to his little band, and one by one, as a
sergeant called their names, they stepped forward and handed their
weapons to Curtis, who passed them to a man outside the door. The last
gun had scarcely been given up when a sudden commotion broke out among
the Cretans and half a dozen burly insurgents, forcing their way past
the guard, burst into the room. The commotion now swelled to a hoarse
uproar, and Curtis caught the words, "Kill! kill!" and "No! no!"
Lindbohm did not realize the gravity of the situation. He was raging
because his orders had been disobeyed, and thought that the whole band,
actuated by curiosity, were about to swarm in. He therefore leaped to
the door with leveled bayonet, and threatened the crowd so fiercely
that they all shrank back. Meanwhile a thing happened that fairly
froze Curtis with horror. The half dozen insurgents raised their guns
to their shoulders and deliberately pointed them at the body of unarmed
Turks, who, seized with panic, assumed all the attitudes of fear. Some
crouched against the wall, as though they would shrink through it; some
fell upon the earthen floor; others squatted and doubled their arms in
front of their faces. Several tried to seize their companions and hold
them before their own bodies.
A dreadful laugh, mingled with foul and insulting words, broke from the
insurgents' throats. The Turkish officer stepped quietly in front of
his men, and, crossing his arms over his chest, regarded the Cretans
with a look of high scorn. His thin face and gray beard added
sublimity to the dauntless soul that spoke in his attitude. He had the
beak and eyes of an eagle.
Curtis was completely carried away with revulsion and horror. The
words, "In the name of God! In the name of God!" beat in his brain
with the regular strokes of a triphammer, and he fancied that he heard
someone shouting them. An insurgent threatened him with a bayonet and
another, with an outburst of expostulation, seized the threatener's
gun. Then a third Cretan leaped upon him, and attempted to push him to
one side of the room. Curtis, now completely crazed with rage, dropped
the gun which he was unable to use at such close quarters, and snarling
an oath, exclaimed, "I'll choke the life out of you!" as he danced with
hooked hands at his adversary's throat. Strong as a gorilla, he had
nothing to fear. He dodged between the sinewy arms of his opponent,
and, arching his back against the python embrace which now tightened
upon him, felt for the Cretan's throat, when--there was a great
crunching and trembling sound, and in the air, that had suddenly turned
milky and pungent, Cretans and Turks were leaping like imps. Curtis
stood for a moment in stupid wonder, his mouth open, his hands still
convulsively twitching. He was gazing at a great heap of debris and a
triangle of wall with one ragged side. Men were scrambling over the
rubbish, working their arms as though they were trying to fly.
Something like an electric shock--it was fear--smote the American, and
his stomach swooped as when one goes down in a swing. He leaped among
the fleeing crowd and gained the open. Without looking to see where he
was going, he struck out instinctively for the hills. Once or twice he
fell down, but was on his feet again in an instant. As he ran, his
fear grew. Some one shouted to him in a familiar voice, but he did not
stop. Lindbohm seized him firmly by the arm and held him. Curtis
struggled for a moment, and then he felt weak. He could run no
farther. He tried to speak several times, but was entirely out of
breath. At last he managed to gasp:
"What? What? What?"
The Swede was standing on a little eminence, with one hand in his
pocket; hair, face and clothing were dusted miller-white with powdered
lime. He was gazing toward the sea, and there was the ghost of a smile
in his childlike blue eyes.
"Six-inch shell," he replied. Curtis looked. There was a spurt of
flame from one of the toy ships in the duck pond, followed by a muffled
detonation, and a sound such as the wind sometimes makes at sea. An
explosion threw up a great cloud of dust about thirty yards beyond the
blockhouse--or what remained of it.
"French!" said Lindbohm.
Another flash, again the sound of the wind, again the explosion--this
time about twenty yards short.
"German, I think. They lowered too much, because the others fired
high."
The third shell from yet another ship clipped away the white flag that
was still standing on the corner of the building.
"English! That's great work!" Lindbohm's interest was entirely
professional and impersonal.