For a whole week all seemed going well, when, on the morning of February
5th, Kursheed sent Hassan Pacha to convey his compliments to Ali, and
announce that the sultan's firman, so long desired, had at length
arrived. Their mutual wishes had been heard, but it was desirable, for
the dignity of their sovereign, that Ali, in order to show his gratitude
and submission, should order Selim to extinguish the fatal match and to
leave the cave, and that the rest of the garrison should first display
the Imperial standard and then evacuate the enclosure. Only on this
condition could Kursheed deliver into Ali's hands the sultan's decree of
clemency.
Ali was alarmed, and his eyes were at length opened. He replied
hesitatingly, that on leaving the citadel he had charged Selim to obey
only his own verbal order, that no written command, even though signed
and sealed by himself, would produce any effect, and therefore he
desired to repair himself to the castle, in order to fulfil what was
required.
Thereupon a long argument ensued, in which Ali's sagacity, skill, and
artifice struggled vainly against a decided line of action. New
protestations were made to deceive him, oaths were even taken on the
Koran that no evil designs, no mental reservations, were entertained. At
length, yielding to the prayers of those who surrounded him, perhaps
concluding that all his skill could no longer fight against Destiny, he
finally gave way.
Drawing a secret token from his bosom, he handed it to Kursheed's envoy,
saying, "Go, show this to Selim, and you will convert a dragon into a
lamb." And in fact, at sight of the talisman, Selim prostrated himself,
extinguished the match, and fell, stabbed to the heart. At the same time
the garrison withdrew, the Imperial standard displayed its blazonry, and
the lake castle was occupied by the troops of the Seraskier, who rent
the air with their acclamations.
It was then noon. Ali, in the island, had lost all illusions. His pulse
beat violently, but his countenance did not betray his mental trouble.
It was noticed that he appeared at intervals to be lost in profound
thought, that he yawned frequently, and continually drew his fingers
through his beard. He drank coffee and iced water several times,
incessantly looked at his watch, and taking his field-glass, surveyed by
turns the camp, the castles of Janina, the Pindus range, and the
peaceful waters of the lake. Occasionally he glanced at his weapons, and
then his eyes sparkled with the fire of youth and of courage. Stationed
beside him, his guards prepared their cartridges, their eyes fixed on
the landing-place.
The kiosk which he occupied was connected with a wooden structure raised
upon pillars, like the open-air theatres constructed for a public
festival, and the women occupied the most remote apartments. Everything
seemed sad and silent. The vizier, according to custom, sat facing the
doorway, so as to be the first to perceive any who might wish to enter.
At five o'clock boats were seen approaching the island, and soon Hassan
Pacha, Omar Brionis, Kursheed's sword-bearer, Mehemet, the keeper of the
wardrobe, and several officers of the army, attended by a numerous
suite, drew near with gloomy countenances.
Seeing them approach, Ali sprang up impetuously, his hand upon the
pistols in his belt. "Stand! . . . what is it you bring me?" he cried to
Hassan in a voice of thunder. "I bring the commands of His Highness the
Sultan,--knowest thou not these august characters?" And Hassan exhibited
the brilliantly gilded frontispiece which decorated the firman. "I know
them and revere them." "Then bow before thy destiny; make thy ablutions;
address thy prayer to Allah and to His Prophet; for thy, head is
demanded. . . ." Ali did not allow him to finish. "My head," he cried
with fury, "will not be surrendered like the head of a slave."
These rapidly pronounced words were instantly followed by a pistol-shot
which wounded Hassan in the thigh. Swift as lightning, a second killed
the keeper of the wardrobe, and the guards, firing at the same time,
brought down several officers. Terrified, the Osmanlis forsook the
pavilion. Ali, perceiving blood flowing from a wound in his chest,
roared like a bull with rage. No one dared to face his wrath, but shots
were fired at the kiosk from all sides, and four of his guards fell dead
beside him. He no longer knew which way to turn, hearing the noise made
by the assailants under the platform, who were firing through the boards
on which he stood. A ball wounded him in the side, another from below
lodged in his spine; he staggered, clung to a window, then fell on the
sofa. "Hasten," he cried to one of his officers, "run, my friend, and
strangle my poor Basilissa; let her not fall a prey to these infamous
wretches."
The door opened, all resistance ceased, the guards hastened to escape by
the windows. Kursheed's sword-bearer entered, followed by the
executioners. "Let the justice of Allah be accomplished!" said a cadi.
At these words the executioners seized Ali, who was still alive, by the
beard, and dragged him out into the porch, where, placing his head on
one of the steps, they separated it from the body with many blows of a
jagged cutlass. Thus ended the career of the dreaded Ali Pacha.
His head still preserved so terrible and imposing an aspect that those
present beheld it with a sort of stupor. Kursheed, to whom it was
presented on a large dish of silver plate, rose to receive it, bowed
three times before it, and respectfully kissed the beard, expressing
aloud his wish that he himself might deserve a similar end. To such an
extent did the admiration with which Ali's bravery inspired these
barbarians efface the memory of his crimes. Kursheed ordered the head to
be perfumed with the most costly essences, and despatched to
Constantinople, and he allowed the Skipetars to render the last honours
to their former master.
Never was seen greater mourning than that of the warlike Epirotes.
During the whole night, the various Albanian tribes watched by turns
around the corpse, improvising the most eloquent funeral songs in its
honour. At daybreak, the body, washed and prepared according to the
Mohammedan ritual, was deposited in a coffin draped with a splendid
Indian Cashmere shawl, on which was placed a magnificent turban, adorned
with the plumes Ali had worn in battle. The mane of his charger was cut
off, and the animal covered with purple housings, while Ali's shield,
his sword, his numerous weapons, and various insignia, were borne on the
saddles of several led horses. The cortege proceeded towards the castle,
accompanied by hearty imprecations uttered by the soldiers against the
"Son of a Slave," the epithet bestowed on their sultan by the Turks in
seasons of popular excitement.
The Selaon-Aga, an officer appointed to render the proper salutes, acted
as chief mourner, surrounded by weeping mourners, who made the ruins of
Janina echo with their lamentations. The guns were fired at long
intervals. The portcullis was raised to admit the procession, and the
whole garrison, drawn up to receive it, rendered a military salute. The
body, covered with matting, was laid in a grave beside that of Amina.
When the grave had been filled in, a priest approached to listen to the
supposed conflict between the good and bad angels, who dispute the
possession of the soul of the deceased. When he at length announced that
Ali Tepelen Zadi would repose in peace amid celestial houris, the
Skipetars, murmuring like the waves of the sea after a tempest,
dispersed to their quarters:
Kursheed, profiting by the night spent by the Epirotes in mourning,
caused Ali's head to be en closed in a silver casket, and despatched it
secretly to Constantinople. His sword-bearer Mehemet, who, having
presided at the execution, was entrusted with the further duty of
presenting it to the sultan, was escorted by three hundred Turkish
soldiers. He was warned to be expeditious, and before dawn was well out
of reach of the Arnaouts, from whom a surprise might have been feared.
The Seraskier then ordered the unfortunate Basilissa, whose life had
been spared, to be brought before him. She threw herself at his feet,
imploring him to spare, not her life, but her honour; and he consoled
her, and assured her of the sultan's protection. She burst into tears
when she beheld Ali's secretaries, treasurers, and steward loaded with
irons. Only sixty thousand purses (about twenty-five million piastres)
of Ali's treasure could be found, and already his officers had been
tortured, in order to compel them to disclose where the rest might be
concealed. Fearing a similar fate, Basilissa fell insensible into the
arms of her attendants, and she was removed to the farm of Bouila, until
the Supreme Porte should decide on her fate.
The couriers sent in all directions to announce the death of Ali, having
preceded the sword-bearer Mehemet's triumphal procession, the latter, on
arriving at Greveno, found the whole population of that town and the
neighbouring hamlets assembled to meet him, eager to behold the head of
the terrible Ali Pacha. Unable to comprehend how he could possibly have
succumbed, they could hardly believe their eyes when the head was
withdrawn from its casket and displayed before them. It remained exposed
to view in the house of the Mussulman Veli Aga whilst the escort partook
of refreshment and changed horses, and as the public curiosity continued
to increase throughout the journey, a fixed charge was at length made
for its gratification, and the head of the renowned vizier was degraded
into becoming an article of traffic exhibited at every post-house, until
it arrived at Constantinople.
The sight of this dreaded relic, exposed on the 23rd of February at the
gate of the seraglio, and the birth of an heir-presumptive to the sword
of Othman--which news was announced simultaneously with that of the
death of Ali, by the firing of the guns of the seraglio--roused the
enthusiasm of the military inhabitants of Constantinople to a state of
frenzy, and triumphant shouts greeted the appearance of a document
affixed to the head which narrated Ali's crimes and the circumstances of
his death, ending with these words: "This is the Head of the above-named
Ali Pacha, a Traitor to the Faith of Islam."
Having sent magnificent presents to Kursheed, and a hyperbolical
despatch to his army, Mahmoud II turned his attention to Asia Minor;
where Ali's sons would probably have been forgotten in their banishment,
had it not been supposed that their riches were great. A sultan does not
condescend to mince matters with his slaves, when he can despoil them
with impunity; His Supreme Highness simply sent them his commands to
die. Veli Pacha, a greater coward than a woman-slave born in the harem,
heard his sentence kneeling. The wretch who had, in his palace at Arta,
danced to the strains of a lively orchestra, while innocent victims were
being tortured around him, received the due reward of his crimes. He
vainly embraced the knees of his executioners, imploring at least the
favour of dying in privacy; and he must have endured the full bitterness
of death in seeing his sons strangled before his eyes, Mehemet the
elder, remarkable, for his beauty, and the gentle Selim, whose merits
might have procured the pardon of his family had not Fate ordained
otherwise. After next beholding the execution of his brother, Salik
Pacha, Ali's best loved son, whom a Georgian slave had borne to him in
his old age, Veli, weeping, yielded his guilty head to the executioners.
His women were then seized, and the unhappy Zobeide, whose scandalous
story had even reached Constantinople, sewn up in a leather sack, was
flung into the Pursak--a river whose waters mingle with those of the
Sagaris. Katherin, Veli's other wife, and his daughters by various
mothers, were dragged to the bazaar and sold ignominiously to Turcoman
shepherds, after which the executioners at once proceeded to make an
inventory of the spoils of their victims.
But the inheritance of Mouktar Pacha was not quite such an easy prey.
The kapidgi-bachi who dared to present him with the bowstring was
instantly laid dead at his feet by a pistol-shot. "Wretch!" cried
Mouktar, roaring like a bull escaped from the butcher, "dost thou think
an Arnaout dies like an eunuch? I also am a Tepelenian! To arms,
comrades! they would slay us!" As he spoke, he rushed, sword in hand,
upon the Turks, and driving them back, succeeded in barricading himself
in his apartments.
Presently a troop of janissaries from Koutaieh, ordered to be in
readiness, advanced, hauling up cannon, and a stubborn combat began.
Mouktar's frail defences were soon in splinters. The venerable
Metche-Bono, father of Elmas Bey, faithful to the end, was killed by a
bullet; and Mouktar, having slain a host of enemies with his own hand
and seen all his friends perish, himself riddled with wounds, set fire
to the powder magazine, and died, leaving as inheritance for the sultan
only a heap of smoking ruins. An enviable fate, if compared with that of
his father and brothers, who died by the hand of the executioner.
The heads of Ali's children, sent to Constantinople and exposed at the
gate of the seraglio, astonished the gaping multitude. The sultan
himself, struck with the beauty of Mehemet and Selim, whose long
eyelashes and closed eyelids gave them the appearance of beautiful
youths sunk in peaceful slumber, experienced a feeling of emotion. "I
had imagined them," he said stupidly, "to be quite as old as their
father;" and he expressed sorrow for the fate to which he had condemned
them.
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