A GRATEFUL MAJOR
Men, still running, were disappearing into the distant hills. The
Swede and the American were entirely alone. The toy ships continued to
launch their polyphemian missiles.
"Are they firing at us?" gasped Curtis.
"Yudging from appearances, I should say they were," replied his
companion.
Four Cretans had turned back and were running toward the ruined
blockhouse. One was the color bearer of Lindbohm's company, and he was
carrying the Greek flag. Straight up to the house he ran, and, handing
the standard to one of his companions, he climbed upon the wall. As he
stood there a shell dropped so near that he was for a moment obscured
in a cloud of dust. When the air became again clear he was jamming the
flagpole into the soft mortar. Then he jumped down and ran away,
together with his comrades. Another shell exploded thirty feet from
the four Cretans, and only three ran on.
"What killed him?" asked Curtis.
"A flying piece of rock, probably," replied Lindbohm. "When it is
raining six-inch shells a man must yust take his chances."
The bombardment did not last much longer. The Greek flag was also
brought down by a shot which elicited unbounded admiration from the
Swede, a shell striking the corner of the house where it was planted.
Curtis realized now for the first time the peculiar sensations of a
soldier of fortune. He had been risking his life for that flag, yet he
saw it fired upon without the thrill of horror and rage which would
have surged through his heart had it been the American emblem.
"They are shooting at the flag!" he exclaimed, noticing that the ships
in the bay had become silent.
"Yust so," observed Lindbohm; "and that is why they commenced in the
first place. They mistook the Turkish officer's shirt for the Greek
flag. But here he comes now."
Hassan Bey was powdered as white as a great moth. He advanced with a
sprightly step, the scabbard of his sword jingling among the
cobblestones. Greeting Lindbohm respectfully with a military salute,
he turned to Curtis and bowed low, his hand upon his heart. He spoke
as one who had hastily prepared an address.
"Monsieur, in my own behalf and in that of my little band, I thank you
for saving our lives. Your heroism and magnanimity do credit to the
nation which you represent. I beg of you to accept this sword as a
pledge of my undying gratitude." And he grasped with both hands his
curved simitar in its richly mounted case and held it impulsively
toward the American, who looked amazedly at Lindbohm.
"Better take it," said the latter. "Needlessly offend a brave man if
you don't."
"But what for? Why the deuce should he give me his sword?"
"Very graceful act, seeing you yumped in front of the Cretan guns and
saved his life."
"Did I do that? I don't remember anything about it."
"Better take it," repeated Lindbohm. "He is beginning to feel
embarrassed."
Curtis accepted the simitar, but could not find appropriate words. The
occasion seemed to demand a set speech.
"_Merci! Merci!_" he stammered. "My father will be glad to get this.
He is fond of this sort of thing. He already has a pair of pistols and
an old Turkish gun."
And he fell to examining the hilt, which was embossed with silver, and
the scabbard, adorned with flowers and various animals. An awkward
silence ensued, broken at last by Hassan Bey, who addressed himself to
Lindbohm:
"And now, if Monsieur does not consider me a prisoner of war, I will
take my leave."
Again saluting Lindbohm and salaaming to Curtis, he turned and walked
away.
"What'll we do now?" asked Curtis. "Get the band together again?"
"To hell with the band!" exploded Lindbohm. "I'm sick of them. They
fight all right, but there's no way to enforce discipline. I think
I'll go to America. There should be some beautiful fighting between
the Americans and Spaniards," and he looked dreamily across the sea.
"We weren't fighting Kostakes, after all," mused Curtis.
Lindbohm came to earth with a start and glanced sharply after the
slender, erect figure of the departing Turk, whose body was now cut off
below the arms by a ledge of rock.
"Monsieur!" shouted the Swede, and started in pursuit. The Turk turned
slowly and waited.
"Monsieur will pardon me," said Lindbohm, when he had overtaken Hassan
Bey. "I wish to ask a question on behalf of my friend here, which you
will use your own discretion in answering."
Hassan bowed gravely.
"My friend is interested in a young Cretan girl, Panayota Nicolaides,
whom Kostakes Effendi has abducted. We have been following Kostakes,
but he has disappeared. Do you know anything of him or the girl?"
"I know it all. He and the Bashi Bazouks passed by here with the girl,
who is now locked up in Kostakes' harem at Canea. He has gone wild
over her. That is why he was not here to-day with his band to support
the blockhouse as he promised. He cannot be depended on. He passes
half his time laying siege to the affections of a girl who is already
in his power. Bah! Kostakes is no good. He is only half a man--he is
half Greek."
Hassan had grown suddenly voluble. Kostakes, with his incomprehensible
doings, was evidently a thorn in his flesh. Rage, indignation, pity,
swooped down upon Curtis like a flood, now hot, now cold, as he thought
of Panayota, restrained in the house of that square-jawed, cruel,
supercilious Turk, subject to his vile solicitations.
"You do not think he would dare to do her violence?" he cried, as the
thought that he knew where Panayota was and might yet save her, seemed
almost to lift him from the ground.
"And why not?" demanded Hassan. "But, bah! It is the Christian blood
in him, I tell you. He wants her to love him--bah!"
Curtis' face was flushed and he was trembling with eagerness.
Lindbohm, pale as death, was leaning against a rock, biting his lip. A
bugle sang out sweet and clear, in the distance.
"It is the Cretan trumpeter," remarked the Turk. "So, once more _au
revoir_, and a thousand, thousand thanks."
"I am done with the troop," said Lindbohm. "I cannot control them, and
I am a soldier. I will not fight where discipline is impossible. My
friend and I wish to go to Canea. We--we--desire to take ship and
leave the island."
"Then, come with me," cried Hassan gaily. "I will pass you through the
lines, and I may be able in some way to prove my gratitude to this
gentleman who has saved my life. _Voilà_, we are comrades!" and,
stepping between Curtis and Lindbohm, he grasped each by the arm.
Again the bugle sounded.
"They can fight," mused the Swede sadly, stooping and looking back over
his shoulder, "but no discipline, no discipline! _Allons_, Monsieur!"