THE SONG FROM TRIPOLI
Early in August news came to the camp that the Turks in Monemvasia had
made a proposal for a capitulation, for it will be remembered that
a small fleet of vessels from Spetzas was blockading it by sea, in
addition to a regiment from south Greece by land, and these tidings
gave Prince Demetrius a most ill-conceived idea. The terms of the
capitulation were discussed at a meeting of the senate, and caused a
very considerable difference of opinion, Nicholas and Petrobey advising
that the Turks should be given a passage over to Smyrna, or some Asia
Minor port, on condition that they surrendered their arms, refunded
the expenses of the siege--for the soldiers had been serving without
pay--and further, gave an indemnity of ten thousand Turkish pounds,
which should be divided among the fleet, the army, and the national
treasury. Germanos and his party opposed this. Monemvasia was notably
one of the wealthiest towns in the Peloponnesus, and he proposed that
the besieged should only be given their lives on the surrender of
all their property. Prince Demetrius went to the other extreme. The
Hetairia would charge itself with the arrears of the soldiers' pay,
since it was for that very purpose its funds had been raised; to the
soldiers was due their pay and nothing more, and if easy terms were
granted to Monemvasia, the Turks in Tripoli would be more disposed
to capitulate. The discussion degenerated into wrangling, but in the
middle of it Prince Demetrius suddenly commanded silence. Since the
affair with Germanos, he had secured the formalities of obedience, and
he was listened to in silence.
"I shall go to Monemvasia in person," he said, "to receive and to
accept the capitulation of the town as commander-in-chief of the
army, and viceroy, appointed by the supreme council of the Hetairia.
The troops there, so I hear, are out of hand, and the Mainat corps
under their commander, Petrobey, will accompany me. We will continue
to discuss the terms of the capitulation, and observe a little more
decorum."
But the senate had experienced his deficiency in power of command
too long, and his words were like the words coming from the mouth of
a mask, when every one knew how insignificant a figure stood behind
it. The autocratic tone was ludicrous, and in this particular case
peculiarly out of place. Petrobey, who, when it was possible, supported
the prince, now found himself obliged to oppose him, and, with a
courtesy he found it hard to assume, spoke in answer:
"Your highness will remember," he said, "that the siege has been going
on for three months, and has been entirely the work of the people. The
Hetairia has not helped them in any way. It is surely, then, their
right to demand their own terms, and the surrender must be made to the
captains of the blockading forces, or to whomever they appoint, and to
no other."
The prince flushed angrily.
"Do I understand, then, that I am not the commander-in-chief of the
whole army?"
"Your highness is commander-in-chief over all the army which has been
organized or supplied by the Hetairists or their agents. The force
that blockades Monemvasia was raised by private enterprise before your
appointment by the Hetairia, and during your stay in the Morea you
have not either taken the command there or assisted that force. The
commander of the land force there is a member of this senate, and no
doubt he will obey its resolves."
"Sooner than that of the viceroy?"
"The viceroy also is a member of this senate," said Petrobey, with some
adroitness.
The prince was silent a moment.
"The senate will, therefore, vote as to whether Monemvasia is to be
occupied in the name of the senate or in my name," he said, shortly.
For once there was unanimity between the two parties, and it was
decided that Monemvasia was to be occupied in the name of the senate.
The discussions about the terms of the capitulation were then renewed,
but as it was felt that the commander of the blockading force had more
voice in the matter than any one else, Germanos, with the amiable
desire of perhaps thwarting Nicholas, whose proposal had been more
moderate than his own, suggested that this point should be settled
between the commander and the prince upon the arrival there of the
latter, for it was absurd that commanders of a force which was
besieging Tripoli should have a voice in the matter. Nicholas, knowing
that Petrobey would be there too, and that he had more influence
with the prince than any one, acquiesced with a smile, saying that
Germanos's sage reflection applied equally to primates who were not in
command of anything.
So for a time the centre of the war, like some slow-moving stream,
shifted to Monemvasia, and during the whole of August half the army lay
idle on the hills round Tripoli; and with the departure of the prince
the tales of scandalous slander were again taken up by the primates,
the result of which was to appear later. Germanos, though he must have
known what was going on, held aloof, and did not mix up in the affairs
of the camp; though, to his shame be it said, he appeared to make no
effort to check the outrageous intrigues.
To Nicholas, however, the month was full of work, and he at once put
in hand arrangements for the regular supplies of the camp, and was
occupied with drilling the men; under his wise yet severe rule the
unorganized troops began slowly to take shape, and his example shamed
many of the other idle and irresponsible captains into following his
lead, though, having little knowledge of military matters themselves,
it must be concluded that their men were not able to advance to a high
degree of efficiency. Meantime, among the men themselves the utter
inability of the prince either to check abuses or to enforce discipline
had become apparent, and from the time of his departure for Monemvasia
his power may be said to have ceased altogether. And when the news of
what had taken place at that town came to hand, from being nothing he
became ridiculous.
The nightly raids ceased, for all the cultivated land round Tripoli was
already devastated, and neither in the town nor in the camp was any
particular vigilance observed. The Turks knew it was hopeless to attack
Trikorpha; till the return of Petrobey the Greeks had no thought of
attempting to storm the town; and Mitsos, brooding inwardly one night
on the rough wall where he and Yanni used often to sit, had an idea
which arose from this inaction.
For several weeks after the adventure of the fire-ship his anxieties
about Suleima had been stilled, for that escape seemed to him so
heaven-sent that with childlike faith he had no manner of doubt but
that the saints watched over her, and though at times his heart went
a-mourning for her absence, yet he trusted an unreasoning conviction
that at the time appointed he would see her again. The strong
probability that she was in this beleaguered town did not at first
weigh on him at all. Some day, when provisions ran short, it would
capitulate, and there would be a repetition of the scene at Kalamata;
or they would storm it, and there would be fighting inside. But the
women would all be in the houses, and even if the houses were attacked
she would remember what he had told her, and cry out to them in Greek,
saying she was of their blood, and all would be well. But when the
excitement of the skirmish at Valtetzi, now nearly two months ago, and
the move to Trikorpha, with all the delightful night-raiding, was over,
and was succeeded by an inaction sickened by the odious intrigues of
the primates, he began to weary sore for her, and then to be filled
with panic fears as unfounded as his first security. Safety in a
siege, there was no such thing! A chance bullet, an angry Greek, and a
repetition of that infernal butchery of women and children on board the
ship bound for Egypt. What was more horribly possible? A burning house,
a falling wall, and then a mass of pulped bodies.
On this particular night his fears grew like the monstrous visions of
some hag-ridden nightmare. A hundred terrible scenes loomed enormous
before him, and in each Suleima, with white, imploring face, was struck
out of life, now by a bullet, now by a sword. Below, in the part of the
town nearest him, where five or six big houses were built on the wall,
there gleamed rows of lights from narrow-barred windows, and from each
Suleima's face looked out from a room burning within, while she shook
the iron bars with impotent hands as the flames flickered and rose
behind her.
The thing became intolerable; he rose and walked about, but found no
rest. Thirty yards away the soldiers' huts began, and he could hear
sounds of singing from the big shanty-built café a little farther on.
The sentry had just been on his rounds, and Mitsos exchanged a word or
two with him as he passed, and he would be back again in half an hour.
The wall inside was only six feet high, outside perhaps ten or twelve,
but with plenty of handhold for an agile lad, and the next moment,
without thinking where or why he went, he had clambered up and dropped
down on the other side.
Did he not know where he was going? Ah, but his heart told him.
Somewhere in that fiery-eyed town, into which entrance was impossible,
was she for whom he was made, she with the eyes of night and the
history of his soul written on the curves of her lips. And inasmuch
as she was there, the rekindled fever of his love drew him thither,
neither willing nor unwilling, but steel to the magnet, a moth to the
star. He had taken off his shoes in order to get a better grip in the
crevices of the wall, and went down barefooted over the basalt rocks
all ashine with dew. The moon had strayed westward beyond the zenith,
casting his shadow a little in front of him, and round his head as he
walked moved an opaline halo. Then he crossed the mountain stream and
stood in it for a moment, for the coldness of the moon and the eternal
youth of night had entered into its waters, making them vigorous and
bracing. A little wind drawing down its course was full of the scent of
water and green things, and streamed out to renovate the hot air of the
plain. Then on again through a little belt of vineyard, still close
to the camp and not destroyed, where the stream talked less noisily in
the soft earth, with a whiff of summer from the ripening bunches, and
the scuttle of some disturbed hare come down to feed on the leaves.
Then he crossed the stream again, which lay in an elbow southward, and,
pushing through a clump of oleanders which rose above his head, came
out into the plain. The earth was warm under foot after the cold rocks,
and he ran plunging across it, till, getting within a stone's-throw of
the wall, he crept more slowly, and finally lay down in the shadow of a
felled olive-tree, and looked to see if there was aught stirring.
[Illustration: "HE HAD CLAMBERED UP AND DROPPED DOWN ON THE OTHER SIDE"]
The battlemented line of the wall opposite to him stood up clear-cut
between the moon and the lights of the town, twenty feet above him,
and ran on southward into vague shadow, untenanted. Fifty yards to the
left it was interrupted, or rather crowned, by half a dozen big houses,
built flush with the wall, pierced by several rows of rather narrow
windows, the lower of which were barred, the upper, from their height,
needing no such defence. As he crept up alongside of these he heard
the subdued murmur of women's voices from within the first house--the
home, perhaps, of some Turkish captain and his harem; and the sound of
women's voices made mirth to him, and he listened for a while, smiling
to himself. From the next house came more such music, and once a woman
walked to the window and stood looking out for a minute, or perhaps
two, unveiled and playing with the tassel of the blind-cord, till from
within some one called her by a purring Turkish name, and she turned
into the house again.
He crept slowly on to the end of the line of houses, where the
battlemented wall began again, and feeling closer to Suleima in the
sound of women's voices, came back and lay down again in the shadow
of a tall toothed rock. It was something to be alone, away from the
jarring camp, and to be nearer to her. His portentous nightmare beset
him no longer, and his anxieties again were charmed to sleep. One by
one the lights went out in the windows opposite, and the houses became
blackness; the shadow of the rock moved a little forward in the setting
moon, and he shifted to be in the shade again. Another half-hour went
by, and the mountain ridge hid the moon.
Presently afterwards a man appeared on the top of the wall to the
right. Mitsos, perhaps, would not have noticed him but that he waved
some white linen thing up and down once or twice, and then waited
again, and after a time uttered some impatient exclamation. Mitsos
watched him, puzzled to know what this should mean, when suddenly
a possible solution dawned upon him, and he crept up, still in the
shadow, to below where the Turk was standing, and whistled softly.
Then a voice from above said:
"You are late. Here is the paper signed," and a white thing fluttered
down. This done, the Turk turned, and, without waiting for a reply,
went southward down the wall.
The paper, whatever it was, was in Mitsos' possession, and putting it
in his pocket, for it was too dark to read it, he crept back to his old
place to wait a few minutes more there before going back to the camp.
Lights showed only in one house now, and before long they, too, were
quenched, and the black mass of flat roofs rose against the sky silent
and asleep. Then suddenly and softly from out that blackness, like a
bird flying in the desert, came the sound of a voice singing, and at
those notes Mitsos thought his heart would have burst. For it sang:
"Dig we deep among the vines,
Give the sweet spring showers a home,
Else the fairest sun that shines"--
It stopped as suddenly, dying like a sigh, and looking up he saw framed
in one of the dark windows the upper part of a girl's figure dressed in
white. And without a pause the boy's voice answered:
"Lends no lustre to our wines,
Sends no sparkle to the foam."
The prattle of the stream above alone whispered in the stillness. Then
a voice softly asked:
"Mitsos?"
"I am here; and oh, dearest one, is it you?"
A little tinkle of laughter rippled from above, ending in a sudden,
quick-drawn breath.
"At last I see you again," she said, softly, "but I don't see you at
all. Mitsos, little Mitsos, is it well with you?"
Mitsos crept silently out of the shadow and stretched out his arms to
her. "It is well in all but the great thing--that we are not together.
But that will be soon, dearest; oh, please God! it will be soon."
Suleima leaned forward from the window.
"You must not wait here, nor must I; I am at a passage window, and
though the house is dark, one never knows. So go, beloved, beloved,
beloved, and I shall not be waiting long, shall I? And, Mitsos, there
will soon be ... soon, maybe, I shall come to you with a gift."
"A gift?" said Mitsos; he then understood, and "Ah! dearest of all," he
whispered.
"Yes, even so," said Suleima; "but, oh, Mitsos, I pray that you may
soon be able to take me away, that soon this horrible town will fall."
"Before long it must be," said he; "and when the end comes run to meet
the enemy as your deliverer, crying 'I am of your blood.' Oh, my heart,
forget not that!"
Suleima turned quickly, hearing some sound within, and whispering
"Good-night," was gone again, leaving Mitsos alone.
Heaven had opened; and walking on air, he went back to the camp, and
waiting below the wall till the sentry had gone by, he climbed in
again where he had got out. For the most part the men were gone to
bed, but he passed a few on his way back to the little hut he shared
with Yanni and two Mainats, all of whom had gone with Petrobey, and,
undressing quickly, lay down on his bed to feast alone on this great
happiness. With the irrepressible hopefulness of youth his fears had
vanished before the sight of the one--they had never been, and he set
himself to tell over, like a rosary of hallowed beads, the moments of
the night. Not till then did he recollect the mysterious paper which he
had received, and then, getting hastily up, he struck a light on his
tinder-box, and lit a small, oil-fed wick. The illumination was dim and
flickering, but the handwriting was large and clear, and by holding
it close to the light he could easily read it. It was very short, and
written in Greek:
"Abdul Achmet promises to pay to Constantinos
Poniropoulos the sum of two hundred Turkish pounds, on
condition that he and his harem are, on the termination
of the siege of Tripoli, insured security from outrage
or massacre. For the transport and expenses of
travelling to a place of safety for each person ten
pounds in addition will be paid.
"(Signed) Abdul Achmet,
"_Ex-Governor of the City of Argos._"
Mitsos read it through once without taking in the meaning, far less the
whole bearing, of it, and then putting it back in his pocket blew out
his light, and lay with wide-open eyes staring at the darkness, while
the full meaning of the words slowly dawned on him.
First came hot indignation. A Greek captain at the head of five hundred
men was privately trafficking with the besieged for his private
gains. But close on the heels of his anger came fierce, overwhelming
temptation. Abdul Achmet was the owner of Suleima, and to Mitsos this
paper meant not only safe conduct to Abdul, but to her. Had it been
in his power he would have doubled the bribe to the further side of
possibility to secure that, and thrown his own soul into the bargain.
Suleima safe, no more fear for her, nor any chance blow upsetting a
too sanguine security! And because he loved her with a true and honest
heart all thought of himself was absent; he would have paid the demand
of angels, men, and devils to secure her from hurt or death, even
though--and he ground his teeth at the thought--security meant only
to go on living in the harem of Abdul. All the nightmares of the day
before the expedition of the fire-ship he lived through again, feeling
at first that there was no question of choice before him, that somehow
or other he must let this note go to Poniropoulos. For this was the
more insidious temptation, as it could be managed so that no one, or
at the worst the man for whom it was intended, should know his share
in it. Yet here again was the choice between two impossibilities; but
slowly as before, aching and bruised in spirit, he struggled back to
choose the honorable.
But thus a new difficulty stood in his way. It was his clear duty to
let Nicholas know of this clandestine traffic, and in so doing Mitsos
would have to tell him of his own absence by night from the camp
without leave. Nicholas would ask the reason, and probably be very
angry with him, though as he had not been detected, but confessed it
himself, the offence would find mitigation. But how came he to be
waiting under the walls of Tripoli?
Mitsos thought this over for some little time before he arrived at the
best and most obvious solution, namely, to tell Nicholas everything.
The taking of Tripoli could not be far off, and he knew that when that
came near he would, for her greater safety, let others know the prize
the town held for him, and a week or two sooner or later did not make
much difference. So, not wishing to delay and risk a hot resolution,
he put on his clothes again to go to Nicholas's quarters. He had just
got outside his hut when he heard the voice of the sentry challenging
some one without the camp, and "but for the grace of God," thought he,
"there goes Mitsos."
"Who goes?" called the sentry again. "Speak, or I fire."
Mitsos did not hear the reply, but the sentry stood still, while a man
clambered over the wall and spoke a few words to him. Standing in the
shadow of his doorway not thirty yards off, Mitsos could see who both
of them were, and recognized Poniropoulos and the burly Christos.
"Fifty pounds to say nothing of this," he heard Poniropoulos say.
There was a short silence, and Mitsos longed to hear the offer refused.
But the greed of the country Greek was too strong.
"Fifty pounds?" answered Christos; "when do you pay me?"
"On the day Tripoli falls."
Again there was a pause, and Mitsos suddenly made up his mind to
interfere, and he strode out of the shadow to where the two were
standing. They stood asunder a few paces as he came up and took
Christos by the arm.
"For the love of God say 'No,' Christos," he said. "Ask him first what
his business was outside."
Poniropoulos came a step nearer.
"You young cub," he said, below his breath, "what business is it of
yours?"
Christos looked from one to the other.
"He has promised me fifty pounds," he said.
"O fool!" said Mitsos, "there will be a fight between you and me that
will cost you the best part of a hundred in blood and bruises, if you
don't listen to me. Besides, I don't want to get you into trouble."
Poniropoulos looked thunder at the boy, but inwardly he was disquieted.
"Go to your kennel, you cub," he said, "or I report you to-morrow
morning for insubordination."
Mitsos gave a short laugh.
"Very good," he said, "that shall be to-morrow, and it is yet to-night.
Look you, Christos, there will be trouble if you do not listen to me.
That is all."
He turned back to his hut in order to give Poniropoulos time to be off
and leave the coast clear, for he wished to get to Nicholas without
making a disturbance in the camp, and, shutting the door, waited
for five minutes till he heard Poniropoulos walk off one way and
Christos continue his rounds. Then going out again he went straight to
Nicholas's quarters and knocked at the door.
Nicholas was asleep, but awakened at once at the sound, and called out
to know who was there.
"It is I, Mitsos," said the boy, "and I want to see you at once, Uncle
Nicholas."
"Wait a minute, then," and from within came the sounds of the striking
of a flint.
"I can't light this," said Nicholas; "come in, though."
Mitsos entered, feeling glad there was no light, for it made his story
easier to tell.
"There is a powder-box where you can sit, little Mitsos," said
Nicholas, "or sit on the end of the bed. Now, what brings you here?"
Mitsos felt in his pocket and found the paper.
"This, which I am holding out to you," he said. "On it is written that
Poniropoulos, for the sum of two hundred pounds, will insure safety to
Abdul Achmet and his house when Tripoli falls."
There was a moment's silence.
"The black devil!" said Nicholas. Then suddenly, "How came you by this,
Mitsos?"
"That is what I am going to tell you."
Mitsos found it rather hard to begin, and after a moment Nicholas spoke
again--kindly, but gravely.
"I am listening, Mitsos," he said. "Hush! there is some one coming.
Keep quite quiet."
Immediately after a knock came to the door, and Nicholas let it be
repeated before he answered.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Christos Choremis," said the voice, "the sentry for the last two
hours."
"Well?"
"Half an hour ago, sir, the Captain Poniropoulos climbed in over the
camp wall. I thought best to tell you at once."
"Did he explain where he had been?"
"No, sir."
"Open the door, Christos," said Nicholas. "There is one question more.
Did he offer you money not to say anything about it?"
Christos shifted from one foot to the other.
"No, sir," he said, at length.
"You did quite right to tell me," said Nicholas. "You can go."
"Now, Mitsos," said Nicholas, when the footsteps died away, "you can
begin and tell me how you got this."
Then Mitsos, with many pauses, told him all that had taken place
between him and Suleima from the time he had first heard the voice out
of the darkness down to this night, when again it had come to him,
lying outside the walls of Tripoli, and Nicholas heard him in absolute
silence.
"And, oh, uncle, if it be possible," cried Mitsos, "let her be safe
when the end of the time comes. For there is no one like her, and it
has been hard for me."
Nicholas heard it in wonder and amazement, but he had one more question
to ask.
"But when you blew up the Turkish ship, Mitsos," he said, "did it not
occur to you that she might be on board?"
"I thought she certainly was there," said Mitsos, "and it was not till
it was all over I heard she was not."
Nicholas reached out in the darkness and took Mitsos' smooth hand in
his. "God forgive us all!" he said; "and can you forgive us, little
Mitsos?"
The pain and relief of telling all the story to a man whom he trusted
and loved had been too much for the boy, and he choked in trying to
find his voice.
"There, there!" said Nicholas, soothingly; "but what is the matter with
the young wolf? He has had good news to-night, has he not? and has he
not seen the one he loves? There is no cause for this, little Mitsos.
But this will I do: by the oath of the clan I swear to you that
nothing shall stay me--not fever, nor wounds, nor booty, nor glory,
only honor alone--from doing what in me lies to save her from all
peril. Will that do, little one?"
Mitsos pressed his hand, but could not speak.
"But this you must promise," went on Nicholas, "that never again will
you go out of the camp by night without leave. It leads with other men
to ugly things, and to-morrow there will be one man the less in the
army. The treacherous villain! But to-morrow he leaves the camp with
disgrace and hissing, for he has made true the false slander of the
primates, and brought shame on us all. And now go to bed, Mitsos. The
service you have done in discovering this atones for your fault. Poor
little cub, but it has been a hard time for you."
Next day Poniropoulos was publicly expelled from the camp, and
afterwards Mitsos sought out Christos and in private told him that he
was a better fellow than he had supposed, and that the lie he had told
Nicholas to screen the captain found favor in his eyes. Christos was
reasonably surprised that Mitsos knew of the falsehood, and relieved to
find he was not disposed to quarrel with it, and the two went off and
put away a quart or two of resined wine, for which Mitsos paid.
The news that Monemvasia had surrendered, and the details of its
surrender, were bitter and sweet and tragic and absurd. Prince
Demetrius, it appeared, defying the senate, in a fit of impotent rage
against their perfectly proper opposition to his wishes, had insisted
on signing the treaty of capitulation with his own name as viceroy of
the country, effendi or lord of the country, and what not, and the
Turks, opening the gates in order to go down to the ships and take
their promised departure, found themselves met by a crowd of angry
Mainats, who considered that the treaty as signed by the prince and
not by the senate was null and void. A riot took place, and several
Turks were killed on the point of embarking; but the better part of
the Greek officers, seeing that the capitulation had been signed, and
that whoever was to blame the Turks were not, soon stopped it, and
let the embarkation proceed, but not before five men had been killed
and several houses sacked. Monemvasia had surrendered--so much was
good; but all the rest was bad. The fleet and the army distrusted each
other, and the soldiers distrusted their commanders, who, thanks to the
primates, were represented to them as having made private treaties with
the wealthier Turks, and there was a fine quarrel as to who should set
up the Greek standard on the fallen town. In one thing only was there
unanimity, and that was in the feeling towards the prince. He had shown
himself weak and indecisive before, and that had been forgiven him; he
had shown himself dilatory and incapable, and the commander under him
bore the blame; but now he showed himself, though with characteristic
futility, evading and tampering with the recorded vote of the senate,
in which he had acquiesced at the last meeting in Tripoli. The futility
of his act was comic; his motive was warped and crooked. In a word,
in that moment all the rags of authority which he had brought from
the Hetairia were torn from him, and for all practical purposes his
connection with the revolution may be said to have been over.
Without doubt the capitulation was hopelessly mismanaged, and the Turks
got off without paying a penny towards the expenses of the siege. If
the same terms were given to every fortified place in the Morea, the
national treasury and the funds of the Hetairia would be certainly
drained dry before half the country was evacuated; and though morally
nothing can excuse the scenes of horror which were about to take place,
yet palliation may be found in those two things--that without plunder
gained from the Turk the war was impossible, and that the nation was
a nation of slaves, long ground down by cruelty of all kinds, now in
the first hour of its freedom. The despised but long dominant race was
underfoot, and they stamped it down.
The Mainat corps was still at Monemvasia, where Petrobey was raising
fresh recruits for the siege of Tripoli, and the prince occupying his
leisure time, of which he had twenty-four hours every day, in trying
to festoon the walls of the town with red tape, when news came of the
fall of Navarin, a port on the west coast. Ypsilanti had sent there
a civilian from his suite to represent the shadow of nothingness and
the senate, one of the worst type of men, who, under the guise of
patriotism, had got together a large band of freebooters, to plunder
and seize all that he could lay hands on. Before the capitulation,
which granted the besieged their lives and safe transport to Egypt
or Tunis, had been concluded, many of the Turks had, under stress of
hunger, escaped from the town, and thrown themselves on the mercy
of the Greeks, with whom they had lived on friendly terms. But the
town itself refused to capitulate till starvation compelled. Already
for four days nothing could be bought, for a couple of sparrows or
a half-starved cat represented a few hours' life, whereas a bushel
of gold represented--a bushel of gold. One man the day before the
surrender was found with a secret supply of food, on which he had
subsisted for some days, the remains of which were seized from him by
two starving savages and devoured before his eyes, after which they
pelted him with all the money they had about them, telling him he was
well paid. Perhaps some strange premonition of their fate induced the
gaunt garrison to hold out; perhaps tales had reached them of what had
been the fate of those who had thrown themselves on the mercy of the
besieging army; and it was not till August 19th, just a fortnight after
Monemvasia was taken, that the capitulation was signed.
For that day an eternal blot of infamy is black against the Greeks.
Hardly had the garrison evacuated, giving up their arms, when the
representative of the Peloponnesian senate thrust into the fire the
treaty of capitulation, so that all evidence against him might be
destroyed, and himself gave the signal for the massacre to begin. A
pretext was easily found, and a blow given to a Greek by a Turk for
insisting on searching the person of one of his wives for treasure
concealed about her was enough, and in an hour no Mussulman was left
alive. Women were stripped of their clothing, and rushing into the sea
to hide their shame were shot from the shore; babies were snatched out
of their mothers' arms and flung in their faces; others, remembering
the fate of the patriarch, hanged men and women from the lintels of
their own doors; others, it is said, were tortured before some one of
their persecutors, more humane than his fellows, despatched them. Here,
in mockery of the Turkish atrocities, a man was offered the choice
between Christianity and death, and when he chose the former, was
"baptized with steel" or crucified; a dozen or more were burned alive
in a house where they had run for refuge. In an hour the infamous work
was finished, and then arose quarrelling over the booty. Knives and
rifles were brought in to settle the disputes, while in the mean time
two Spetziot ships quietly went off with the greater part of the spoils.
Thus ended a day, the disgrace of which will only be forgotten when
the glory of men like Nicholas has faded too. Dark and horrible in part
as were the deeds which were to follow, no cruelty so cold-blooded and
preconcerted stains the other pages of the war. Cruelties there were,
and many black and shameful deeds, but deeds wrought in hot blood and
in the drunkenness of revenge; and happily the massacre of Navarin is
unapproached and unparalleled.