STILL WITH THE ARMY
Kostakes himself had been the indirect cause of Ben Sabbath's death.
This is what had happened: He and the impetuous Mehemet were standing
close to one end of the line of Highlanders, making insulting remarks
in Greek for the benefit of Platonides and their Christian neighbors.
Stung beyond endurance, the excitable Greek pulled the English
officer's sleeve and pointed to his tormentors with raised arm.
Kostakes stepped boldly forward and shook his fist in the direction of
his enemy, whereupon one of the statues in kilts came to life and
dropped the butt of his musket on the Turk's toe. The latter sprang
back with a cry of pain and the exclamation in Turkish:
"Death to the Christians!"
A Bashi Bazouk, enraged at the insult suffered by his commanding
officer, and taking the exclamation for a command, drew his knife and
plunged it to the handle into the Highlander's back. As the
unfortunate man fell his gun was discharged, causing the death of
Hassan Ben Sabbath and awakening the demon of massacre that now for
many years had lurked in the towns and villages of Crete, feverishly
and fitfully sleeping. And what an inconceivably horrible demon it is!
Here is the sweetly wimpling sea, with the Grecian sky above; here are
vineyards and pastures on the hillsides and the ancient pipe of the
shepherd boy; here are white villages that should hear no sound save
such as harmonize with the vesper chime of some monastery bell,
drifting across the waters, or the choiring of the Cretan nightingales.
And yet, nowhere on earth has hate, irresponsible and pitiless, found
so congenial a home as among these idyllic scenes. Mehemet whipped an
English navy revolver from beneath his coat and shouting "_Allah il
Allah!_" fired point blank at the Lieutenant in charge of the guard,
who sank to the earth, gasping:
"Steady, boys, steady."
Kostakes' Bashi Bazouks came plunging through the press from all
directions, gathering about their master. Knives twirled in the sun
and flashed above the heads of the people--horrible knives with concave
edges, made for the cutting of throats. And now, from windows and from
the roofs of houses, commenced a sporadic sputtering of guns against
that gallant body of men standing in front of the custom house, statues
yet, save when now and then one sank to earth--brought to life by
death. Their officer lay dead at their feet, and his last words had
been, "Steady, boys, steady!"
The beardless boy who stood there now in command, a trifle pale, but
firm as a stripling oak, was for one moment at his wit's end. He could
not give the order to fire into the crowd, killing Turk and Christian
alike. That certainly would not be obeying the last command of the man
whom he had loved, who had been his model soldier and gentleman. At
any rate, he could die bravely; he was not in doubt about that part of
it for a single moment. But his hesitation did not last long. A gun
boomed out in the bay louder than all the pandemonium on shore, and a
shell dropped on the roof of a house from which several Turks had been
firing at the British. He would get his men to the wharf, as close
under shelter of the guns as possible.
They arrived at the wharf just as the steam launch from the "Hazard"
drew up to take them off, and two sailors held her fast with grappling
poles. Other boats were creeping across the narrow strip of sea, their
oars moving rapidly, like the legs of frightened centipedes. The
little sub-lieutenant drew up his company facing the rioters. He then
detached a squad to put the wounded into the launch. The fall of the
first two or three shells had caused a momentary panic in the town,
during which the British succeeded in getting into the boats, save one
wounded man, who had been overlooked somehow in the excitement.
"Shove off!" cried the little sub-lieutenant, standing in the stern of
one of the boats, whither he had leapt last of all that gallant company.
"Shove off!" repeated the middy in charge; and the boat drifted a foot
or so from the wharf, as the grappling poles were lifted. But at that
moment the little "sub." saw the wounded Highlander, lying helpless
upon the cobblestones. Even as he looked, the man rose to his knees,
swayed a moment and fell over upon his side, a bundle of bright tartan
on the gray cobblestones. It was Tamas the piper. Without a moment's
hesitation, the sub-lieutenant sprang to the wharf and ran to the
rescue. The place was clear, as the rioters had drawn back from the
threatening guns of the British, and were pouring a galling fire into
the boats from windows and corners of houses. As the young hero
advanced, all these rifles were turned upon him, and he was aware of a
continual "zip! zip!" of bullets about his ears. His own men now,
assisted by the marines, were answering the fire, shooting at the Turks
as they stepped slyly out from the shelter of buildings, or arose at
the edge of roofs to take aim. Tamas was clutching one of the pipes of
his musical instrument with an unloosable grip. His rescuer vainly
attempted to open the bony hand. Seeing that the effort was useless,
he knelt by Tamas, and seizing his two wrists, drew the fainting man's
arms about his neck; rising to his feet, he staggered toward the wharf,
with the Scotchman upon his shoulders. The bagpipe dangled like the
limp body of some animal. Strong arms lifted Tamas into the boat, and
again the little sub-lieutenant leaped in and cried "Shove off!" The
sheath of his sword was badly bent by the impact of a bullet and a spot
of blood appeared near his groin, and rapidly grew larger.
"My God, sir, you're wounded!" almost sobbed a burly Scot. But the
sub-lieutenant was young and familiarity is the death of authority.
"Be silent, Ferguson!" he said, sternly, without deigning to look at
the flesh wound in his side, which was beginning to smart like a great
burn.
"Did you bring off my bagpipe?" asked Tamas Macmillan, wounded to the
death. "'Tis the sweetest instrument in a' Scotland."
A laugh of derision greeted the question, and even the little
sub-lieutenant smiled as he fainted away in the arms of Ferguson, who
muttered fiercely, "If they don't give him the Victoria cross for this
I'll desert."
Mr. Ferguson is still with the army.