THE FALL OF TRIPOLI
The order to break up camp was received with shouts of acclamation, and
all day long on the 25th the processions of mules passed, like ants
on a home run, up and down the steep, narrow path from the plain. The
Mainat corps were the first to move, and took up their place opposite
the southern wall, and worked there under the sun for a couple of hours
or more throwing up some sort of earth embankment; while in the space
behind marked out for their lines went up the rows of their barracks,
pole by pole, and gradually roofed in with osier and oleander boughs.
On the walls of the town lounged Turkish men, and now and then a woman
passed, closely veiled, but casting curious glances at the advancing
troops not four hundred yards from the gate. The men worked like horses
to get their intrenchments and defences up, and by the time each corps
had done its work, the huts behind were finished; and, streaming with
perspiration, the men were glad to throw themselves down in the shade.
As there was no regular corps of sappers and engineers, each regiment
had to do its intrenching and defence work for itself, and they worked
on late into the night before the transfer of the entire camp was
effected. Meantime Petrobey had ordered the posts on the hills to the
east to close in, and by noon on the 27th he saw his long-delayed dream
realized, for on all sides of the town ran the Greek lines. Still,
from inside the beleaguered place came no sign of resistance, attack,
or capitulation; but towards sunset a white flag was hoisted on the
tower above the south gate, and a few moments afterwards Mehemet Salik,
attended by his staff, came out, and were met by Petrobey. Yanni, as
aide-de-camp, was in attendance on his father, and he had the pleasure
of meeting his old host again.
Mehemet followed Petrobey to his quarters, Yanni looking at him as a
cat in the act to spring looks at a bird. He was a short-legged, stout
man, appearing tall when he was sitting, but when he stood, heavy
and badly proportioned. He had grown a little thinner, or so thought
Yanni, and the skin hung bagging below his eyes, though he was still
hardly more than thirty. He looked Yanni over from head to foot without
speaking, adjusted his green turban, and then, shrugging his shoulders
slightly, took a seat and turned to Petrobey.
"I have been sent to ask the terms on which you will grant a
capitulation," he said; "please consider and name them."
"I will do so," replied Petrobey, "and let you have them by midnight."
Mehemet glanced at his watch.
"Thank you; we shall expect them then."
He rose from his seat and again looked at Yanni, who was standing by
the door. The two presented a very striking contrast--the one pale,
flabby, clay-colored, slow-moving; the other, though there were not ten
years between them, fresh, brown, and alert. Mehemet continued looking
at him for a moment below his drooping eyelids without speaking, and
then the corners of his sensual mouth straightened themselves into a
smile. He held out his hand to the boy.
"So we meet again, my guest," he said; "your leave-taking was somewhat
abrupt. Will you shake hands?"
Yanni bristled like a collie dog, and looked sideways at him without
speaking, but kept his hands stiff to his side.
"You vanished unexpectedly, just when I hoped to begin to know you
better," continued Mehemet.
But Petrobey interfered sternly.
"You are not here, sir, to confer insults," he said.
Mehemet turned round slowly towards him with a face of sallow death.
"Surely my teeth are drawn, as far as the boy is concerned," he said;
"but let me know one thing," he continued, "for I have a heavy wager
about it. Did you bribe the porter, or did you get through the roof?"
"Through the roof," said Yanni, as stiff as a poker.
"I have lost. I said you bribed the porter. He shall come out of prison
to-night and have poultices, for he was much beaten. Good-evening,
gentlemen."
Yanni turned to Petrobey with blazing eyes.
"Cannot I kick him now?" he whispered.
"How can I give you permission?" said Petrobey.
Yanni looked at him a moment and then his lips parted in a smile, and
he went out of the tent.
Mehemet was a few yards down the path, going towards the gate of the
camp where his staff was waiting, and in three strides Yanni caught up
with him.
"Oh, man!" he said, and no more; but next moment Yanni's foot was deep
in the folds of his excellency's baggy trousers. His excellency was
lifted slightly forward from behind, and picked himself up with a cry
of lamentation, for the pain had been exquisite. Yanni was by him with
a brilliant smile on his face.
"You insulted me under the flag of truce," he said, kindly, "and
under the flag of truce I have answered you. There is quits." And he
turned and went back to his father.
[Illustration: "YANNI WAS BY HIM WITH A BRILLIANT SMILE ON HIS FACE"]
Petrobey appeared to be absorbed in writing, and he did not look up,
but handed Yanni a paper.
"Go at once to the captains whose names I have written here, Yanni," he
said, "and tell them to come immediately to consult about the terms of
capitulation. I thought," he added, "that I heard a slight disturbance
outside. Can you account for it?"
"It seemed to be the settlement of some private difference, sir," said
Yanni. "It is all over."
"Is the difference settled?"
"There is a very sore man," said Yanni.
The conference among the captains lasted only a short time, and in a
couple of hours the terms were despatched to Mehemet. The Turks were
to give up their arms and were to be allowed, or rather compelled,
to leave the Morea. They were further to pay the indemnity of forty
million piastres, that being approximately the cost of the war,
including the provisions and pay of all the men, from the time of its
outbreak. In less than an hour the answer came back. The demand was
preposterous, for it was impossible to collect the money, but in return
they made a counter-proposition. They would give up the whole of their
property within the town, renounce all rights of land, retaining only
sufficient means to enable them to reach some port on the Asia Minor
coast, but demanding leave to retain their arms in order to secure
themselves from massacre on the way to Nauplia. They also insisted on
occupying the pass over Mount Parthenius, between the Argive plain and
Tripoli, until the women and children had been embarked in safety.
This precaution, they added, was due to themselves, for they had no
guarantee that without their arms the Greeks would not violate the
terms of the capitulation as they had violated them at Navarin.
The Greek chiefs refused to consider the proposal, for if the Turks
distrusted them, they at least had no reason to trust the Turks; and
if the regiments in the town occupied Parthenius, what was to hinder
them from marching on to Nauplia and remaining there? Nauplia still
held communication with the sea, and they had not spent six months in
reducing Tripoli only at the end to let the besieged go out in peace to
another and better-equipped fortress.
Once more affairs were at a deadlock, and at this point Petrobey made
an inexcusable mistake. He ought, without doubt, to have stormed the
place and have done with it; but when, in a moment of weakness, he put
the proposal to the captains, the majority of them were for waiting.
The reason was unhappily but too plain. They knew that famine prevailed
in the town, they knew, too, that its capitulation was inevitable,
but they saw for themselves a rich harvest gained in a few days by
secretly supplying the besieged with provisions, and for the next
week Germanos's bitter words were terribly true. This was no siege of
Tripoli; it was the market of Tripoli.
On the 28th came another proposal from the town, this time not from
the Turks, but from the Albanian mercenaries who had formed the attack
on the post at Valtetzi in May. They were fifteen hundred strong, and
good soldiers, but as mercenaries they had no feelings of obligation
or honor to their employers, and did not in the least desire a fierce
engagement with the Greeks; and now that all idea of capitulation was
over, for neither side would accept the ultimatum of the other, it was
clearly to their advantage to get away, if they could, with their lives
and their pay. The town would, without doubt, fall by storm, their
employers would be massacred, and their best chance was to stand well
with the besiegers. They, therefore, offered to go back to Albania,
and never again to enlist in the Turkish service, provided they might
retire with their arms. The Greeks, on their side, had no quarrel
with them; many were related to them by ties of friendship and blood;
they had no desire to gain a bloody and hard-won victory if there was
a chance of detaching the mainstay of their foes, and they agreed to
their terms.
The weather was hot and stifling beyond description, and the Mainats
who were on the south felt all day the reflected glare and heat from
the walls as from a furnace. In that week of waiting Petrobey lost
all the confidence of the clan, for they alone were blameless of this
outrageous traffic, that had sprung up again, and they were waiting
while Petrobey let it go on. He had asked the advice of men who were
without principle or honor, who were filling their pockets at the
expense of the honor of others, and though he himself was without
stain, yet his weakness at this point was criminal. It seemed that he
refused to believe what the army knew, and persisted in judging the
whole by the behavior of the clan themselves. Nicholas appealed to him
in vain, but Petrobey always asked whether he had himself seen evidence
of the scandal, and being in the Mainat corps, he had not. In vain
Nicholas pointed out that a week ago they knew that famine was preying
on the besieged, yet a week had gone and the famine seemed to have made
no impression. How was it possible that the town could hold out unless
it was being supplied? And how could a commander know what was going
on among the hordes of peasants who flocked to the camp? Now that
the evil was so wide-spread and universal, a whole regiment perhaps
profited by the traffic; and where was the use of any man informing his
captain?--for the captains were the worst of all.
Meantime, inside, Suleima watched at her latticed window and looked
for Mitsos. A week ago she had watched the men streaming down from
Trikorpha to the plain, and had hardly been able to conceal her joy,
while round her the other women wailed and lamented, saying that they
would all fall into the hands of the barbarous folk. On the other side,
away from the wall, the windows of the harem looked out onto a narrow,
top-heavy street, the eaves of the houses nearly meeting across it,
and on the top again was a large, flat roof, where they often went to
sit in the evening and chatter across the street to the women on the
house opposite. By day a ribbon of scorching sunlight moved slowly
from one side to the other, and often Suleima would sit at the window
which overhung the foot-path, watching and watching, but seeing,
perhaps, hardly a couple of passengers in as many hours, for this was
only a side street where few came. By leaning out she could just catch
a glimpse of a main thoroughfare which led into the square, but only
Turks passed up and down. The others looked at her with wonder and
pity, thinking her hardly in her right mind to be smiling and happy
at such a time, for close before her lay the trial and triumph of her
sex, and the Greeks were at the door. The harem generally, and also the
chief wife, whose slave she was, knew her condition, but from a feeling
partly of pity and affection--for she was a favorite with all--partly
from indifference, had not accused her to Abdul. Abdul himself, in the
excitement and preoccupation of the siege, had not been in the harem
more than twice in as many months, and thus her state had escaped
detection.
So she went about with her day-dream and snatches of song, painting in
her mind a hundred pictures as to how Mitsos would come. Should she
see him stalking up the narrow street, then looking up and smiling at
her, bringing the news that the town had capitulated and he had come
to claim her? There would be a step on the stair and he would come in,
bending to get through the door; and then, oh, the blessedness of talk
and tears that would be hers! Or would there come a shout and the sound
of riot and confusion, and streaming up the street a fighting crowd?
He would be there in the middle of it all, slashing and hewing his way
to her. He would look up--that he would always do--and see her at the
window, and then get to work again, dealing death to all within reach.
Perhaps he would be hurt, not much hurt, but enough to make her lean
over him with anxious face and nimble, bandaging hands, and the joy of
ministering to him leaping in her heart. It was towards this vision
that she most inclined, to Mitsos, fighting and splendid as fresh from
the dust and the ecstasy of struggle, coming to her--the mistress and
lady of his arm--lover to lover. Or would he come by night silently
beneath the stars, as he had come before, or with a whispered song
which her heart had taught her ears to know, and take her away while
the house slept, out of this horrible town, and to some place like in
spirit to the lonely sea-scented beach near Nauplia, into remoteness
from all things else? In these half-formulated dreams there was never
any hitch or disturbance--doors yielded, men slept, or men fell, and
through all like a ray of light came Mitsos, unhindered, irresistible.
But after three or four days her mood changed, and from her eyes
looked out the soul of some timid, frightened animal. Why did he not
come--by night or in peace or in the shout of war? What meant this
sudden increase in their food, for now for more than a week they had
lived but on sparing rations? Yet the fresh meat and new bread revolted
her; she was hungry, yet she could not eat. The women were kind to her,
and Zuleika used to make her soup and force her with firm kindness to
drink it; they were always plaguing her, so she thought, not to prowl
about so much, to rest more and to eat more, and when she understood
why, she obeyed them. For a few nights before she had slept but
lightly, and her sleep was peopled with vivid things--now she would be
moving in a crowd of flying fiery globes, she one of them; now the dark
was full of gray shapes that glided by her windily with a roar of the
remote sea, but at the end they would disperse and leave her alone, and
out of the darkness came Mitsos, and with that she would dream no more.
But waking and the hours of the day changed place with the night, and
it seemed that she moved in a nightmare until she slept again.
But when she understood the reason for which they pressed her to rest
and eat, she quickly regained the serenity of her health, and during
the last two days of waiting, though her fears and anxieties crouched
in the shade ready to spring on her again, they lay still, and the
claws and teeth spared her.
But one morning--it was the 3d of October--there was suddenly a tumult
in the streets, and cries that the Greeks had come in, and Suleima
went up to the house-top to see if she could find out where they were
entering, prepared to run out into the street to meet them, crying to
them as her deliverers, as Mitsos had told her. In the brightness
of that sudden hope that the end had come, she felt no longer weary
or ill, and she looked out over the town with expectant eyes. But by
degrees the tumult died down again, and, bitterly disappointed, she
crept back to the room of the harem where the women were sitting to ask
what this meant. None knew, but in a little time they heard a renewed
noise from the street, and running to look out, they saw a small body
of Turkish soldiers advancing, and in the middle a very stout lady
riding a horse. Behind her came two servants driving horses with big
panniers slung on each side, and the stout lady talked in an animated
manner to the soldiers, pointing now to one house and then to another.
Then looking up at the window of Abdul Achmet's house, out of which
Suleima was leaning, she shouted some shrill question in Turkish,
which Suleima did not catch, and the procession turned up into the
main street, seeming to halt opposite the door leading into the front
court-yard.
In a little while Abdul Achmet, with a eunuch, came in, at whose
entrance Suleima drew back behind the other women and wrapped her
bernouse round her. He wore a face of woe, and behind they could hear
the voice of the stout lady, who found the stairs a little trying. She
entered the room with a shining, smiling face, and sat down puffing on
a sofa.
"And when I've got my breath again," she said, volubly, as if still in
the middle of a sentence, "I'll tell you who I am, and what I am going
to do, and what you are going to do. A hot morning it is, and there's
no denying it, and though I've seen many pretty faces in my day, sir, I
can't remember that I ever set eyes on anything so nice as your little
lot. And what may your name be, my dear?" she said, turning to Suleima,
who shrank from her without knowing why; "but whatever your name is,
it was a fine day for your kind master when he first set eyes on you."
She looked at Suleima more closely, and waiting till Achmet and the
eunuch had left the room: "Poor lamb! and so young, too," she said,
kindly enough; "and now I've got my breath a bit, I'll tell you my
business. I'm a Greek by birth, though you can hear I talk Turkish like
the Sultan himself, and as for my name, why, it's Penelope."
Suleima suddenly burst into a helpless fit of laughter at this funny
old woman, though she was not funny at all, she thought, but simply
a fat, disgusting old hag. Penelope stopped short at this unseemly
interruption, and for a moment seemed disposed to resent it; but some
womanly feeling came to her aid, and she pulled a great bottle of some
strong-smelling stuff out of her pocket and applied it to Suleima's
nose as she sat rocking herself backward and forward with peals of
laughter.
"She'll faint if she laughs like that," she explained, "and this will
pull her together a bit. Get some brandy, one of you, quickly. There,
there, my dear," she went on to Suleima, "be quiet now, be quiet, it's
all right, and take a spoonful of this, it'll do you good."
Suleima gradually recovered herself through a spasm of coughing and
choking, and the brandy brought her round.
"I am sorry for laughing," she said, no longer shrinking from the
woman; and speaking low to her, in Greek, "but I am not very well. And,
oh, tell me, you look kind; have you seen Mitsos? Where is he? Why does
he not come?"
Penelope started in surprise.
"My poor little one," she answered, in Greek, "what does this mean? But
wait a minute."
Then, speaking in Turkish again:
"I thought I'd seen her before," she explained aloud, "and she says
she comes from Spetzas, which is my home. And what I've come for is
this, and I'm here to help all you women. You will give up to me all
your money and jewels, my pretties, for the Greek commander, who is a
relation of mine"--this was not the case--"wishes neither to hurt nor
harm you; but if you are found, any of you, with jewels or money about
you, why, it may be the siege of Navarin over again. So now I shall
wait here, and each of you will fetch all you have; and to make things
sure and certain, I'll just search you as well. This girl," and she
pointed to Suleima, "shall come to me first; so get you all gone, and
I'll call you in one at a time."
They all dispersed to their rooms to get their trinkets and money,
and in a few moments Suleima came back, and the other closed the door
quickly behind her.
"You are a Greek, child," she said. "Yes, put your bits of finery in my
basket; we have not much time."
She heard Suleima's story with many raisings of the hand and
exclamations of wonder, and when she had finished she kissed her, like
a true woman, with pity and affection.
"Poor child, poor child!" she soothed her, "I will do the best I can.
God knows what will happen when the end comes, for the camp is like a
pack of wolves. This Mitsos of yours has some glimmerings of sense,
but look at the risk you run if you do as he tells you. Fancy running
to meet a lot of wolves, you in your Turkish dress, crying you are a
wolf too. Ah, dear me, dear me, and the child and all! But this is my
idea: separate yourself at all costs from the other women. If they
stay in the house, run; if they run, stay here. Do not be seen with
them; unveil your face, as the Greek women do, and if possible avoid a
mob of Greeks. If you have to go into the street keep in a side street,
where perhaps stragglers only will come. And the Lord be with you, poor
child!"
Suleima clung to this woman--usually coarse and greedy, but one who
had the springs of true womanliness in her--as to a rock of refuge,
and without searching her, but kissing her again affectionately, she
waited till the girl's tears had subsided before opening the door and
calling in the next woman. In turn they all passed before her and gave
up their valuables. There was but little money, for the women spent
it for the most part on finery, and poured into Penelope's basket
turquoise collars, fine filagree work from the bazaars, bracelets set
with pearls or moonstones, and ear-rings of all sorts. The search was
hastily done, for she had many houses to visit, and with a curious
mixture of humanity and greed she wished to make as rich a harvest as
possible--since she received a share of what she got--and at the same
time do all she could for these poor caged women. And so for two days,
as there were many houses to go to and much to be got, sometimes with
difficulty--for some of the women would have preferred to run the risk
of having valuables concealed about them--she went on her rounds of
greedy mercy, and it was not till the morning of the 5th of October
that she went out again to the camp.
During those two days matters outside had gone from bad to worse.
Anagnostes had been detected trafficking with the besieged, and when
Nicholas laid the proof of his guilt before Petrobey, he buried his
face in his hands and said he could do nothing. That hour of weakness,
when he had consulted men who he knew would only give him selfish
and dishonorable counsel, had broken his authority like a reed.
Anagnostes's corps shared his guilt, probably down to the youngest man
in his service, and if he punished one he would have to punish hundreds.
"And, oh, Nicholas," said Petrobey, in piteous appeal, "if ever you
have loved me, or can still remember that we are of one blood, help me
now, by what way you will. I was ever honorable, but I have been as
weak as water; your strength and your honor are both unshaken."
This was on the morning of the 5th; and before Nicholas could reply, a
shrill, rather breathless, voice bawled to Petrobey from outside, and
Penelope demanded admittance. It was not her way to ask twice, and she
followed her demand up by putting her red face through the tent-flap,
and, entering herself, bade her servants, laden with jewels, also to
enter.
Petrobey turned one last look at Nicholas.
"You will help me?" he said.
"I was always ready," said Nicholas, smiling, and he went lightly out
of the tent.
Some fine wrangling was going on in the Mainats' quarters when he
appeared, and two men appealed to him.
"Is it true that the woman has taken all the spoils to Petrobey's
tent?" asked one.
Nicholas dived at the meaning of the question.
"His honor is untouched," he said; "they are there only for safe
keeping; I swear it, and will go bail for my life on it."
Then to himself: "The time has come," he thought, "when even he is not
spared."
"Look you, lads," he said, aloud, "to-day Tripoli falls. When it
has come to this, that you can suspect him, it is time. We make the
attempt--we Mainats, who were ever the first at great deeds. Come,
summon the men. Yes, I have the authority--more than that, I have
promised to help, and there is only one way."
In five minutes the word had gone about, and the corps, some five
hundred strong, flocked eagerly to hear Nicholas. He went with the
captains into the officers' tent, and, forgetful of his rank among men
who had always treated him as the king of men, bade them sit down.
"In ten minutes," he said, "the corps must stand under arms, and a
moment's delay after that may spoil everything. I lead the way, and we
go at a double's double straight to the Argos tower. At that corner a
man can climb the wall, for there are rough, projecting stones. How do
I know that? Because I climbed it last night when I was on sentry duty.
So much for the vigilance of those moles and bats who are stationed
there. With me I shall have a rope, which I shall fasten to the
battlements, and then, in God's name, follow like the bridegroom to the
bride-chamber. The man behind me carries the Greek flag, which he hands
me as soon as I am up. Ah, my friends, grant me that one sweet moment.
Yet--no, we will vote for the man who shall do that."
A deep murmur--"You, you, Nicholas, Nicholas"--ran round, and so
another moment of happiness, so great that it was content, was given
him.
"And now up with you," said Nicholas. "Ah, let us shake hands first. O
merciful God, but Thou art very good to me!"
The attempt was so daring, so utterly unexpected, that the Arcadian
corps stationed opposite the Argos tower merely stood in amazement,
as with a clatter and a rush the Mainats streamed by them and up the
wall in front. Agile as a cat, for all his sixty years, Nicholas laid
hand and foot on the rough masonry, and the next moment he had dashed
down the single sentry on the tower, who was smoking and talking to a
woman on the wall. Then fastening the rope to one of the battlements he
turned again to perform the crowning act of his adventurous life, and,
before two men had swarmed up, the Greek flag waved from the tower.