THE INNOCENT ONLOOKER
Kostakes went to the bazaar of his friend Mehemet Effendi. Mehemet was
about of an age with the Captain, and had attended school with him. He
was young and handsome, with red cheeks, thin, large nose, and thick
lips. He affected European costume, but, being a full-blooded Turk,
was a sincere worshiper of the prophet, and an enthusiastic member of
that society of youths who believed that Islam was about to be
rejuvenated and purified, after which it would rise and overwhelm the
unbeliever in a series of victories greater than when it swept Asia and
the isles of the sea with the besom of fanaticism and carried its one
star to the gates of Vienna. Mehemet's partner was a black-bearded,
pale-faced Persian, forty years of age, who wore a blue vest, blue
trousers that were full about the hips and tight at the ankles, carpet
slippers and a red fez. Hassan Ben Sabbath was a Mohammedan by
profession, but his belief was colored and weakened by the secret
influence of an ancient religion. His soul was haunted by the
unrecognizable ghosts of the dead gods of Mardonis and Masistius. He
was prudent in business and mildly deprecatory in speech. The bazaar
into which Kostakes now walked was a tiny room, fronting upon the
kaleidoscopic square. The greater portion of its stock was piled in
the capacious windows,--brass candlesticks, Cretan knives and
revolvers, Byzantine silver jewelry, antique earthenware, Turkish and
Persian embroideries. The only furniture consisted of a round-topped
wooden table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that stood in the middle of
the floor; a divan and two chairs. Side by side upon the wall, in
cheap frames, hung the sad, cruel, blasé faces of Abdul Hamid and the
latest successor of Xerxes.
Mehemet was standing under his awning watching the shifting throng, and
occasionally casting expectant glances at the bay. His eyes were
bright and his face was pale from nervousness.
"Any news, Kosta? Any news?" he demanded in a cautious tone. Kostakes
made no reply, but flinging himself into one of the chairs, began to
beat a lively tattoo with his riding whip on the top of his boot. Ben
Sabbath, who had been pretending to sleep on the divan, rose to a
sitting position and yawned.
"Don't betray your feelings so," said Mehemet; "the hour when the
faithful shall triumph is almost at hand. Be patient."
"I'm sick of the whole cursed spawning of Christians," cried Kostakes,
making the whip crack on his boot top like a pistol shot. "I want to
see the throats of the last one of them slit. I--"
"Now, Kosta, Kosta, in the name of Allah," protested Ben Sabbath,
springing to the door and looking to right and left.
Mehemet patted the excited man on the shoulder soothingly.
"He cannot help it," he explained. "It is Islam rising. Patience,
Kosta, but a little longer, and you shall have your fill of slitting.
We shall spare no one, eh? No Christian dogs to breed more litters of
Christians; no babes to grow up into Christians!"
"Merciful Allah! If you should be heard!" whispered Ben Sabbath in an
ague of fear.
"You can't make anything out of a Christian, try how you will,"
continued Kostakes. "They don't appreciate kindness. Now, take that
girl of mine, Panayota--"
"You are not trifling with her yet?"
"I have treated her with the greatest kindness, I have humbled myself
to her, but she despises me, she abhors me--me!"
And rising to his full height he smote his expanded chest.
"Never mind, never mind," said Mehemet.
"I've offered to make her the head of my harem, to--to--do everything
in fact, but still she is obstinate. O, I am through with kindness
now. This is a fine state of society when it is possible for a
Christian hussy to despise a Turkish gentleman and an officer to boot!"
Under ordinary circumstances some of Mehemet's Christian neighbors
would have heard Kostakes' raving from afar, and would have stolen
near. At the present moment, however, the entire population of the
square was surging down to the water's edge watching an English ship
that was rapidly and noiselessly sliding into the harbor. Evidently it
had been expected, and its mission on this occasion was supposedly
favorable to the Christians, for they were noisily jubilant and
addressed many facetious but insulting remarks to their Mohammedan
neighbors. The latter remained silent and gazed with scowling brows at
the approaching vessel.
"Here it comes!" cried Ben Sabbath from the door, as the masts and
funnels of the "Hazard" suddenly drifted into the background, above the
heads of the throng. Mehemet grabbed Kostakes by the arm and dragged
him to the door.
"See there!" he cried, forgetting all restraint. "There comes the
disgrace of Islam, my brother--they have come to enslave us. Those
English are Christians, and they hate us. But your time has come,
dogs, your time has come!" and he shook his fist toward the ship.
"But in the name of Allah!" expostulated Ben Sabbath. "These English
are our best customers. Only yesterday I sold a piece of Rhodes
embroidery to an English lieutenant for four times its value. And we
can't fight the English; they take the most terrible revenge. Look
at--"
"Bah! Look at nothing! Look at our most glorious Sultan, the light of
the world and the defender of the faith. Has he not been keeping all
Europe at bay for the last ten years? There is no God but God, and
Mohammed is his prophet!"
"We must not interfere with the English, I tell you," protested Ben
Sabbath, in great alarm.
"A Christian is a Christian--all dogs--froth of the spittle of dogs.
Kostakes, they have come to install the new Christian officials and to
collect the tax. The money of the faithful goes into Christian hands.
Your old enemy, Platonides, is to be made deputy collector. How do you
like that?"
"Curse his Virgin!" growled Kostakes, again resorting to Greek. "But
he won't live long to enjoy it. I'll see to that--despise me!"
"Now you're talking sensibly," interposed Ben Sabbath, admiringly.
"There's a way and a time to do all things, of course. But to oppose
the English by force--it's the veriest madness."
The metallic burr of the chain, paying out rapidly as the "Hazard's"
anchor plunged, came to their ears with startling distinctness.
Mehemet groaned.
"Our slavery dates from this moment, unless we nip this tyranny in the
bud, unless we strike a terrible blow. They will be coming into our
houses next and taking our Christian wives away from us."
"Not into mine while I have two hundred Bashi Bazouks at my back!"
cried Kostakes. "Curse the Christians!"
"Have they not given them the privilege of trading in the town? Have
they not denied to Mohammedans the right to go out and visit their
farms and gardens? You will see what their next move will be."
The sharp, clear tones of an English officer could be heard, and the
rattle of oars as they were unshipped and boated by the crew of a
man-of-war's boat. The crowd at the wharf surged back with groans and
cheers. But the wharf was not destined to be the chief center of
attraction. The scrannel drone of a bagpipe sounded faintly in the
distance, and grew rapidly more distinct, a waving thread of sound that
led the measured tread of many feet, marching to quickstep, out of the
silence and nearer, nearer. The three Mohammedans fixed their eyes
upon the opening of a street that gave, not far away, into the square.
The bagpipe turned the corner, and its defiant wail came straight to
their ears. The throng at the wharf turned and looked, then turned
back again, like the distracted spectator at a modern circus, where the
prodigality of attractions prevents the enjoyment of any. But they
were not long in doubt as to the principal attraction, for the street
ejected from its mouth at that moment the most devil-may-care,
picturesque, obstreperous, robust, business-like compound of wailing
wind and true courage on earth--a Scotch bagpiper. Tamas Macmillan
flung across the square, looking neither to right nor left. His hair
was red, and his face flamed in the tropic sun. Every time that he
puffed his cheeks full his head shook with the effort, and the
streamers of his Scotch cap leaped on the breeze. He was a tall,
gaunt, awkward Scot, whose projecting kneecaps played in front of the
sinewy knees like round shields. On he fared, with chest thrust out
and face thrust up, squeezing the bag beneath his brawny arm and
letting out its protesting squeals in the notes of "Bonnie Prince
Charlie." Behind him at a distance came a small body of Seaforth
Highlanders and a few bluejackets, bound straight for the custom house.
The throng scrambled out of the way to right and left, as though from a
bayonet charge. In fact, the natives did not wait for the troops, but
melted away before the flaming countenance of Tamas Macmillan.
One of Kostakes' Bashi Bazouks, a great, splendid fellow, with a blue
and yellow turban about his head and a gaudy sash about his waist,
appeared beneath Mehemet's awning and salaamed.
"Your men are going up to the custom house," he said.
Kostakes was fretting to and fro in the shop like a big lion in a small
cage, gnawing his upper lip, twitching at his mustache. Every moment
his passion grew, and the snorts of indignation became more and more
frequent.
"Doesn't want me, eh? What does she want? Wouldn't have me on any
terms? Ha, ha! We'll see about that!"
"Effendi," said the man, in a louder voice.
The Captain whirled about with a jerk and glared at the speaker.
"Well, what do you want?"
The man retreated a step. Kostakes' face was purple and his eyes
looked uncanny in the half light, like a cat's.
"Your men, I said, are going to the custom house."
"Bah! Tell them to go to the devil!"
The Bashi Bazouk salaamed and started away, but Mehemet caught him by
the arm.
"The Effendi is in a terrible rage about Platonides. Tell the men to
go up in twos and threes, and--and--to keep out of mischief."
"We are not armed, Effendi," replied the man, smiling grimly, and
laying his hand upon the butt of one of the large, old-fashioned
pistols in his belt. Besides these weapons, he carried a long Cretan
knife in a leathern sheath, tipped with silver.
"We are not armed," he repeated, "except for dress."
"There will surely be trouble," whined Ben Sabbath, "and these
foreigners are our best customers."
"What are the Christians doing now?" sneered Kostakes, standing in the
door. He had passed into one of those periods of calm which manifest
themselves after violent ebullitions of rage, like the fearful silences
between thunderclaps.
Mehemet pointed. The British troops and the marines were drawn up in
front of the custom house. Red jackets and gleaming helmet tips on one
side; bare knees in a row, kilts and little caps with frisking tails on
the other. Numerous Bashi Bazouks were seen standing among the throng,
several of them upon its outer edge. Kostakes caught sight of the
hated Platonides in company with a British officer. The guard saluted,
and the Cretan raised his hat, as though the military courtesy were
intended for him.
"If there is a row," chuckled Kostakes, "my men will attend to you.
They'll install you!"
And he started briskly across the square, accompanied by Mehemet.
Ben Sabbath retired into the shop, trembling with fear.
"Our best customers," he muttered, "and they never forgive nor forget!"
But he could not restrain his curiosity, and so, after another moment,
he peeped from the door again. Everything was proceeding quietly and
in order.
"Bah! There will be no trouble, with all those English there."
He tiptoed across the open space in front of the door, ready to scurry
back at the least symptom of alarm. He reached the edge of the throng,
and forgetting his fear, in the midst of so many friends and neighbors,
pushed boldly through, arriving at the farther edge just in time to
receive a bullet in his breast. Clutching at the air, he staggered a
few steps into the open and fell dead, with one loud cry to Allah for
help. Like many another peaceful and inoffensive man he had fallen the
first victim in a scene of violence.