FATHER AND DAUGHTER
Nicholas waited there for perhaps a minute, while the Mainats swarmed
up and formed in lines on the broad-terraced wall. He had mounted to
the zenith of his life, the glorious visionary noon of his hopes was
his, the work of years crowned, and the foul disgrace of the week of
waiting over. When forty men or so had joined him he bade them follow,
and, falling on the guards at the gate, forced his way through, and
with his own hand drew back the bolts and flung it open. The Arcadian
corps opposite had seen the flag wave on the tower and poured in,
sweeping the Mainats along with them up the main street of the lower
town.
A pack of wolves Penelope had called them--aye, and the wolves were
hungry. Six months' waiting in inaction, all trust in their captains
gone, and the treacherous marketing of the captains gone likewise! The
soldiers knew that for days past promises of protection had flowed in
on the besieged, and signed papers promising to pay king's ransoms had
come out; but there was little chance now of these ransoms going where
they were promised. The soldiers would have a hand in that promised
gold, it was their hour now; the captains might flourish their infamous
paper bargains; let them, if they could, protect their pashas, and let
them collect their rewards from those who spoiled the palaces.
There was such order in the ranks as the water of a river in flood
observes when it has broken its banks; among the besieged such
resistance as sticks and straws show when the torrent catches them.
Close on the heels of the regular troops fighting to gain an entrance
came the mob of peasants, the scavengers of the siege, who had come
for the pickings. The troops thrust them back till they had themselves
got in; some were ground against the walls, some thrown under foot in
the narrow gateways and trodden by the heels of the advancing columns.
Once inside, each man went where he willed or where the stream of
men bore him, most of them making for the large houses stood round
the square, where the richest booty was expected. Close above stood
the citadel, with empty-mouthed guns pointing this way and that, but
silent, and if those months had been roaring with an iron death none
would have regarded. Petrobey, who had joined the Mainats, wondered at
this; the Turks, he thought, might at least sell their lives as dear as
they could, but the reason was not known till three days later, when
the citadel fell. All thoughts of discipline or order were out of the
question; he was jostled along with the others; he was one among many,
and all were equal, and each was a wild animal.
The attack had been utterly unexpected by the besieged, and on the
north side of the town provisions were being conveyed over the walls
even while at the Argos gate the flag of Greece was flying. The hoarse
roar of crowds came to the servants of Mehemet Salik as they were
returning to the house with meat and bread. There was no mistaking that
sound, and they dropped whatever they had and fled home for refuge,
only to find the women of the harem and the other servants streaming
out to seek escape. The long-delayed day had come, the stronghold and
centre of the Turkish power was in the hands of those who had been
slaves so long, and each link of the chains that had held them was
broken by another and another Turk stabbed, shot, or trampled to death.
The Mainat corps gained the square first and cut into the mob escaping
from Mehemet's house, and a lane of blood and bodies marked their
march. Mehemet and a few soldiers had barricaded themselves in an upper
story and fired a few shots at the men at the rear of the column, who
pressed forward unable to get in; but in ten seconds the foremost men
had passed up the stairs, broken through the barricaded doors, and were
on them. As was their wont, they fought in silence, and for the most
part with knives only, and inside the room only the trampling of feet,
short gasps, and a sharp cry or two were heard against that long hoarse
roar outside. Yanni, who was among the first, forced his way to where
Mehemet was standing, still pale and unconcerned, defending himself
desperately, and as if introducing himself:
"He who was to serve in your harem!" he cried, and stabbed him to the
heart.
Here and there in the streets a group of Turks collected, but the wave
of men passed over them, leaving naught but wreckage behind, and others
ran up to the citadel gates, where they beat on the door demanding
admittance. But before the gates could be opened the Mainats, who had
finished their work at Mehemet's, were on them, as they stood close
pressed, men and women together, in a living wall. For an hour that
piece of shambles-work lasted; they met resistance, for the Turks were
not lacking in courage, and when it was over, and the living wall
was only a tumbled pile of death, they went back, still silent and
stern-featured, but leaving some thirty or forty of their clan behind
them, whose death they were going to avenge.
Meantime the Albanian mercenaries, who had concluded a truce with the
Greeks, hearing the tumult begin, formed under arms in the immense
court-yard of the palace of Elmar Bey, their commander, prepared, if
the Greeks attempted to violate their conditions, to charge--and with
a fair chance of success--this disorganized rabble, and cut their way
through. The mob was swarming outside the iron-barred gate, and some
were even attempting to break it in, when Anagnostes, who was among
them and saw the danger, struggled up to the gate, and by his immense
personal strength pushed away the Greeks who were trying to force
it. One man, thinking that there was some vast treasure within, and
that Anagnostes had made an agreement by which it should be guarded
for him, ran at him with a drawn sword, crying "Treachery!" and the
other lifting his pistol calmly shot him dead. For a few moments his
life hung on a thread, but he succeeded in making the men nearest
him understand that inside were the Albanians, who had made a truce
and only desired to leave the town; and forming a certain number of
men across the street to stop the mob, secured a clear space for the
Albanians to march out. Thence they went straight down the road to the
Argos gate, round which lay the poorer quarter of the town, by this
time almost entirely deserted by the Greek troops, though the hordes
of peasants were swarming into the houses to secure all they could lay
hands on, and then out of the town, where they took up their quarters
in the deserted camp at Trikorpha, whence they watched the destruction
of the city, and from there on the seventh day marched north to the
Gulf of Corinth, took ship across the Gulf, and at length reached their
mountain homes in safety.
The house of Abdul Achmet, where Suleima lived, was near the western
gate of the city, opposite to which were stationed the Argive corps.
Though the Greek troops there could not see across the houses to the
gate where the flag was flying, they heard the tumult of shouts and
firing begin, they saw the sentries on the gate turn and fly, and
without waiting for news or instructions they assaulted the gate and
tried to force it. But it held firm against their attack, and they had
to blow out the staples of the bolts before they could get in. The main
street up towards the square lay straight before them, and they poured
up it to where they could see the crowds battering at the houses,
killing all the Turks, men, women, and children, whom they met flying
away. Among the foremost was Father Andréa, a priest of the Prince of
Peace no more, but a fury of hatred. In ten minutes his long, two-edged
knife was red from point to hilt, and as he dealt death to the masses
of refugees one sentence came from his mouth, "The sword of the Lord!"
But just at the corner, where the side street ran down to the little
door opening from Abdul Achmet's house below the harem window, a Turk
whom he had charged attacked him, evading his upraised knife, and
knocked him over, only to find death two yards off. Andréa hit his head
against the curbstone of the pavement, lay there for a few moments
stunned, and came to himself with the world spinning round him. He rose
and staggered out of the blinding sunshine into a cool, dark doorway,
some yards down the street, to recover himself a little and to stanch
the blood which was flowing from his head; but his knife, which had
been struck from his hand, he picked up and carried with him.
Meantime Suleima, from the latticed window, had seen the charge of the
Argives, and the terrified women, calling on Allah and the Prophet,
ran trembling and sobbing about like frightened birds caught in a net.
Abdul did not appear; he had probably run from the house, and the
servants seemed to have fled too. Some of the women were for following
their example and trying to escape to the western gate, which was only
two hundred yards off, as soon as the road was more clear; others
were for climbing up to the roof, and hiding themselves there; others
for shutting themselves into some small chamber in the house, hoping
they would not be discovered. At length, amid an infinity of wailing
clatter, they agreed on this, and Suleima, obedient to Penelope's
instructions, waited among the hindermost, and then turned to slip
down-stairs and out. Zuleika saw her and cried to her to come back,
then seemed disposed to follow herself, but Suleima heard her not, and
glided down the stairs like a ghost. On the first landing she stopped
for a moment and took the veil off her face; her black hair streamed
down over, her shoulders reaching to her waist, and she tied it up in
a great knot behind her head. Then she wrapped her bernouse round her,
and waited a moment till she was certain that none were following her.
A strange new courage made steel of her muscles; never in her life had
she known so warm a bravery, for when she was out in the boat with
Mitsos, or returning to the house after one of those excursions, she
had trembled with fright lest she should be discovered, and all this
last week she had had sudden qualms and shiverings of terror at the
thought of the innumerable dangers that lay before her. But now that
the time had come she slipped down the stairs as calmly as she went
to her bed or her bath; she thought of herself no longer, but of the
unborn babe she carried. A moment's faltering, a babbling word where
a firm one was wanted, would be death to that which was dearer to her
than herself, and she hastened to the doorway, and seeing that the side
street seemed deserted, slipped out, strong in the strength that is the
offspring of the protective instinct for that which is as intimately
dear as self, and dearer in that it is not self, which only women can
know. That day saw many bloody and cruel acts, and many cowardly and
craven things, and perhaps only one deed of instinctive, unconscious
heroism, and that was Suleima's sublime attempt to save the child of
him she loved.
As she opened the door, the roar of death and murder rose like the roar
of the sea, and yet the dread of loneliness to one bred in a chattering
harem was hardly less terrible. Whither should she go on her desperate
attempt? Looking up the street to the main road leading to the square,
there suddenly came into sight a woman running distractedly with shrill
cries towards the western gate, and, even as she passed, a Greek coming
up from the opposite direction ran her through the body, and wiping
his sword on her dress, passed on. Cold fear rushed like a river round
her heart, yet she would not give it admittance. She must be brave;
she would be brave. There was no safety within, that was sure; among
the rest of the Turkish women how should she be spared? To the south
a column of black smoke rose from a quarter already burning; flame
and sword were around her. Then for fear she should lose her courage
altogether if she delayed, she drew one deep breath and stepped out
into the street, terrible to her in its emptiness, more terrible still
in the thought that at any moment it might sing and roar with death.
Now it was so that the moment after Suleima stepped out of the doorway
Father Andréa, only thirty yards off, got up with a heart that was one
red flame of anger. He had wrapped a rough bandage round his bleeding
temple, and that blow had stung him to madness, while in his hand,
so thought the wild, revengeful man, he held the sword of the Lord,
dripping with the blood of the ungodly. Man, woman, and child, they
were all one accursèd brood. With this thought whirling in his brain
like some mad, dervis thing he looked down the street and saw a Turkish
woman walking towards him, and "The sword of the Lord!" he cried again.
The woman fled not, but ran towards him, crying out "Save me; I am of
your blood!" And seeing by the long, black robe and hair that streamed
over his shoulders that he was a priest, "Save me, father!" she cried
again, "I am of your blood!"
"Mother of devils! mother of devils!" muttered Andréa; but then stopped
suddenly, with arm uplifted, not ten yards off, for over his wild brain
there came the astonished thought that she had spoken Greek. At the
sight of that red knife, and at those fierce words, Suleima uttered a
little low cry of despair; but in a moment her strength came back to
her redoubled, and she flung aside her bernouse, showing the lines of
her figure.
"Would you slay me, father?" she cried again, "I who am of your blood?
and see, I am with child!"
Father Andréa paused, stricken out of thought for a moment, and wiped
his blade against his cassock. "Greek, she is Greek," he said to
himself, "yet from the house of the Turk."
Suleima stood as still as a marble statue and as white. The black
bernouse had fallen to the ground, and her silk robe flowed loosely
round her figure. He moved a step nearer.
"You are Greek," he said to her. "How came you here?"
"I know not," said Suleima. "I was taken by the Turks ten years ago, or
it may be twelve. Take me away, father, out of this horrible town."
The two were standing close together in the deserted street. From above
came the wails of women, for the Greeks had forced their way through
the door in the main street into Abdul Achmet's house, and from the
square roared the mob. Andréa looked at her in silence for a moment,
his brows knitted into a frown, his brain one mill-race of thought,
suggesting a possibility beyond the bounds of possibility. At length he
spoke to her again, wondering at himself.
"I will save you, my daughter," he said; and as the words passed his
lips his heart throbbed almost to bursting. "Quick! come with me! Ah,
wait a moment!"
And he thrust her back gently into the doorway out of which she had
come, while a mob of his countrymen poured by the opening into the main
street.
When they had passed he turned to her again.
"Come with me now," he said, making her take his arm, "and come as
quickly as you can. Pray to God without ceasing that we get out safe. I
am too bloody to pray."
Once more before they reached the main street they had to hide in the
doorway where Father Andréa had sat, and, waiting there, he suddenly
turned and took her hands, and with his soul in his eyes looked at her
in dumb, agonized appeal. Suleima met his gaze directly and returned
the pressure of his hands.
[Illustration: "WOULD YOU SLAY ME, FATHER' SHE CRIED AGAIN"]
"You will save me, father?" she said again.
"I will save you," he replied; "in the name of God, I will save you!
Come again on; the mob has gone by."
They hurried on towards the western gate, he half carrying her, in
time to get out before another band of men streamed down from the
mountains round. Father Andréa took her to his hut and bade her wait
there for him while he went and got a pony, for she was in no state to
walk. All thought was drowned in one possibility, and without speaking
to her again he placed her very gently on the beast, and, taking the
rope-rein in his hand, led it along onto the road to Argos and Nauplia.
The camp was absolutely empty, and there were none to stop or question
this strange pair, and they plodded across the plain and stopped not,
neither spoke, till Tripoli had sunk behind the first range of the low
hills which lay spread round Mount Parthenius. There he led the pony
off the path and left her in a shady hollow, while he went on to the
village of Doliana, half a mile away, to get food and drink for her.
Her time, he knew, must be very near at hand, and his one thought was
to get her safe to Nauplia.
Only once on that ride had Suleima spoken, and that when they struck
the road.
"We are going to Nauplia?" she asked, with a sudden upspringing of hope
in her heart.
"To Nauplia, my daughter," said Andréa. "Speak no more till we talk
together."
"But father, father," she cried, "tell me one thing. Where is Mitsos?
Oh, take me to Mitsos."
"Mitsos, Mitsos?" said Andréa.
"Yes, the tall Mitsos, who lives in that house near the bay."
Father Andréa stopped.
"What do you know of Mitsos?" he said, almost fiercely, and as the
girl's tears answered him, he bowed his head in amazed wonder.
As soon as he had left her there and was out of sight he knelt down on
the hill-side.
"O God, O merciful and loving One," he cried, in an agony of
supplication; "if this be possible, if this be possible, for to Thee
all things are possible! Did she not speak to me and call me 'father'?
Oh, in Thy infinite compassion let her word be true! Did I not call her
daughter while my heart burned within me? O merciful and loving One!"
He found Suleima where he had left her, and the food and wine made her
strength revive. When she had finished he came and sat by her.
His voice trembled so that at first he could not form the words, but at
last, getting it more in control:
"My daughter," he said, "we will rest here a little until the noon heat
is past. And--and, for the love of God, answer me a few questions. When
was it you were taken to the house of the Turk?"
His anxiety made his voice harsh and fierce, and the girl shrank from
him. He saw it, and it cut him to the heart.
"Ah, my poor lamb!" he said, "have pity on me and answer me."
"It was ten years ago," said Suleima, "or perhaps twelve. I do not very
well know."
"Can you remember anything about it?"
Suleima shook her head wearily.
"I do not know; I was so young. And I am so tired, father. Let me sleep
a little, and when I wake up I will think and tell you all I know. You
have been very kind to me."
And she dozed off and slept without moving for near an hour, with
Andréa sitting by her. Then she stirred in her sleep, and without
opening her eyes shifted her head so that it rested on his knee, and so
slept again.
At last she woke, and seeing him above her, sat up.
"Has Mitsos come?" she asked. "Will he come soon? I have slept so
well," and she smiled at him like a child for no reason except that she
smiled.
"You were asking me--" she said, at length.
"Yes, yes," said Andréa.
"It is so little I remember," she said; "I was so young. But it was
near Athens somewhere, and on a journey with my father, that I was
carried off to the house of Abdul Achmet."
"Abdul Achmet?" whispered Andréa.
"Yes, Abdul Achmet. He lived in Athens then; he moved to Nauplia
afterwards. It was in the summer, too, I remember that, and that I was
with my father."
She had sunk down again with her head on his knee, but here she raised
herself on her elbow and looked at him.
"He was a priest--yes, he must have been a priest, for he had long
black robes and long hair; only his hair was black, not gray, like
yours. Ah--"
Then to Andréa the blessed relief of tears came--the great sobs that
come from a man's heart--a pain and an exquisite happiness; and lifting
her closer to him, he kissed her.
"Theodora," he cried, "little lost one. Ah, ah, merciful and
compassionate God. Do you not remember, my little one? Do you not know?
Your father--am I not he whom you called 'father' as soon as you saw
me? God put that word in your mouth, my darling. God sent me to fetch
you; and I who would have murdered you--O blessed Mother of compassion
and sorrows--I--Theodora, Theodora--the gift of God."
Thus spoke they together, with many questions and answerings, till
Andréa was certain and content.