RESCUED.
The execution of the generals was a blow of such severity that Callias
was absolutely prostrated by it. As a patriotic Athenian he felt
overwhelmed both with shame and with despair. That his country should be
capable of such ingratitude and folly, should allow private revenge or
party spite to deprive her of the generals who could lead her troops to
victory made it impossible to hope. The end must be near, for the gods
must have smitten her with the madness which they send upon those whom
they are determined to destroy. And then he had loved Diomedon almost as
a son loves a father. Left an orphan at an early age he had found in
this kinsman an affectionate and loyal guardian; and he had made his
first acquaintance with war under his auspices. He had in him a friend
whom he felt it would be quite impossible to replace.
For some days Callias remained in strict seclusion at home, refusing all
visitors, and, in fact, seeing no one, except the aged house-steward,
who had been now the faithful servant and friend of three generations of
his family. Even when Hippocles himself, on the fifth day after the
disastrous meeting of the assembly, sent in an urgent request that he
might be allowed to see him, the steward was directed to meet him with
the same refusal. The old man contrary to his custom of prompt and
unhesitating obedience, lingered in the room after he had received this
answer, and was obviously anxious to speak. “Well! Lycides,” said the
young man, his attention attracted even in the midst of his
preoccupation by this unusual circumstance, “What is it? What do you
want?”
“It would be well, sir,” replied the man, “if you would see the worthy
Hippocles. He declares that the affair of which he is come is one of the
very highest importance.”
Callias simply shook his head.
The steward began again, “Oh! sir--”
Callias interrupted him. “You are an old man, and a friend whom my
father and my grandfather trusted, and I would not say a harsh word to
you. But if you will not leave the room, I must.”
The old man’s eyes filled with tears. He had never heard his young
master speak in such a tone before. Still he would not go, without
making another effort.
He rapidly advanced to where his master was sitting, his face buried in
his hands, and throwing himself on the ground, caught the young man by
the knees.
“Listen, sir,” he cried, “I implore you, by the gods, and by the memory
of your father and your grandfather, who both died in my arms.”
“Speak on,” cried Callias. “It seems I am not my own master any longer.”
“Oh! sir,” the old man continued, “your liberty, your life is in
danger.”
These words, uttered as they were in a tone of conviction that could
not be mistaken, startled the young man out of the indifference which
his profound depression had hardened.
“What do you mean?” he cried.
“I have known it since yesterday at noon,” the steward replied, “and
have been anxiously thinking over with myself how I could best make it
known to you. And now Hippocles has come to say the same thing. For the
sake of all the gods, trust and listen to what he has to tell you.”
“Bring him in, if you will have it so,” said Callias.
Hippocles came into the room with outstretched hands and caught the
young man in a close embrace. The warmth and tenderness of this greeting
had the happiest result. Callias was moved from the stupor of grief
which had overwhelmed him. Bowing his head on his friend’s shoulder, he
burst into a passion of tears,--for tears were a relief which the most
heroic souls of the ancient world did not refuse to themselves. His
friend allowed his feelings to express themselves without restraint, and
then as the violence of the young man’s emotion began to subside, he put
in a few words, instinct with heartfelt sympathy, about the friend whom
they had lost. Thus, with his usual tact, he waited for Callias himself
to open the subject in which he now felt sure his interest had been
aroused. It was soon after that the young man asked: “What is this that
old Lycides has been saying about my liberty and life being in danger?
He has known it, he says, since yesterday, and you know it too. What can
he mean?”
“He is quite right,” replied Hippocles. “He knows something and I know
something. Now listen. Your parting with Diomedon was observed. The men
who murdered him--and by all the gods! there never was a fouler murder
done in Athens--cannot but look for vengeance to come upon them. To
avoid it or to postpone it they will stick at nothing. No near friend or
relative of their victims is safe. I know--for I have friends in places
you would not think--mark you, I _know_ that your name is among those
who will be accused in the next assembly.”
“Accused,” cried Callias, “accused of what? Of being bound by kindred
and affection to one of the noblest of men. By heavens! let them accuse
me. I should glory to stand and defend myself on such a charge. If I
could only tell that villain Theramenes what I think of him I should be
afraid of nothing.”
“That is exactly what I thought you would say,” replied Hippocles, “nor
can I blame you. But have patience. Theramenes will get his deserts if
there are gods in heaven and furies in hell. But have patience. Leave
his punishment to them. But meanwhile don’t give him the chance of
burdening his soul with another crime.”
“What would you have me do then?” asked Callias.
“Fly from Athens,” replied his older friend.
“What! fly, and leave these traitors and murderers to enjoy their
triumph! Not so; not if I were to die to-morrow.”
“My dear young friend, you will help your country, which, in spite of
all her faults, you wish, I presume, to serve, and avenge your friends
all the more surely if you will yield to the necessities of the time.”
“Don’t press me any further: it would be a dishonor to me to leave
Athens now.”
The argument was continued for some time longer; but Hippocles could not
flatter himself with the idea that he had made any impression. At last
he seemed to abandon the attempt.
“Well,” he said, “a willful man must have his way. I can only hope that
you will never live to repent it. But you will not refuse to come and
see us--my daughter adds her invitation to mine--you will not be so
ungallant as to refuse.”
“No, I should not think of refusing,” said Callias. “You have called me
back to life. I thought that my heart would have burnt with grief and
rage. You can’t imagine what your sympathy is to me.”
“Well,” said Hippocles, “show your gratitude by dining with us
to-night.”
Callias promised that he would, and accordingly at the time appointed
presented himself at the merchant’s house.
After dinner the discussion was resumed. Hippocles and Hermione urged
all the arguments that they knew to persuade the young man to think of
his own safety, but they urged in vain.
“No!” said the young man, as he rose to take his leave, “no, I thank you
for your care for me, but your advice I may not follow. I refuse to
believe that the Athenian people can keep the the base and ungrateful
temper which they showed the other day. It was the madness of an hour,
and they must have repented of it long ago. If they have not, then an
honest man who happens to be born into this citizenship had best die.
Athens is no place for him. Anyhow, I shall try, at the very next
assembly, unless I can get some other and abler man than I am to do it
for me, to indict Callixenus for unconstitutional practices. Did I pass
by this occasion of vengeance, the blood of Diomedon and his brave
colleagues might well cry out of the ground against me.”
Several days passed without any disturbing incident. Callias had
warnings indeed. Mysterious letters were brought to him, bidding him
beware of dangers that were imminent; more than one stranger who found
him in the streets let fall, it seemed by the merest accident, words
that could not but be meant to give a warning; friends spoke openly to
the same effect; but the young man remained unmoved. At the table of
Hippocles, where he was a frequent guest, the subject was dropped. It
seemed to be conceded by common consent that Callias was to have his own
way.
He was returning to his home in the upper city from the Piraeus on a
dark and stormy night, picking his way under the shelter of one of the
Long Walls[41] when he felt himself suddenly seized from behind. So
suddenly and so skilfully made was the attack that in an instant the
young man, though sufficiently active and vigorous, was reduced to
absolute helplessness. His arms were fastened to his side; his legs
pinioned; his eyes blindfolded, and a gag thrust into his mouth. All
this was done without any unnecessary violence, but with a firmness that
made resistance impossible. The young man then felt himself lifted on to
some conveyance which had been waiting, it seemed, in the neighborhood,
and driven rapidly in a northerly direction. So much the prisoner could
guess from feeling the wind which he knew had been coming from the east,
blowing upon his right cheek. After being driven rapidly for a few
minutes the gag was removed with an apology for the necessity that had
compelled its use. The journey was continued with unabated and even
increased rapidity, the lash, as Callias’ ear told him, being freely
used to urge the animals to their full speed. Before long the sound of
the waves breaking upon the shore could be distinctly heard above the
clatter of the horses’ hoofs and the grinding of the chariot wheels upon
the road. Then came a stoppage. The prisoner was lifted from his seat
and put on board what he guessed to be a small boat. He felt that this
was pushed out from the land, that it began by making fair progress, and
that not long after starting, when it had passed, as he conjectured
beyond the shelter of some bay or promontory, it began to meet bad
weather. The waves were breaking, it was easy to tell, over the boat, in
which the water was rising in spite of the efforts of the men who were
busy bailing to keep it under. It was time for our hero to speak; so
busy were the sailors in struggling with their difficulties, that they
might easily have forgotten their prisoner, and let him go to the bottom
like a stone.
“Friends,” he cried, “you had best let me help you and myself.”
“By Poseidon! I had forgotten him,” he heard one of the men cry. “If he
drowns there will be no profit to us in floating.” A consultation
carried on in low, rapid whispers followed. It ended in the prisoner’s
bonds being severed, and the bandage being removed from his eyes.
When the situation became visible to the young Athenian it was certainly
far from encouraging. The boat was low in the water, and was getting
lower. It was evident that it could not live more than a few minutes
more. The night was dark, and the sea so high that even the most expert
swimmer could not expect to survive very long. The only hope seemed to
lie in the chance of being blown ashore. But obviously the first thing
to be done was to prepare for a swim. Callias, accordingly, threw off
his upper garment and untied his sandals. This done he waited for the
end.
It was not long in coming. The boat was too low in the water to rise to
the waves, and one of unusual size now broke over and swamped it,
immersing the crew, who numbered nine persons including Callias. Happily
they were good swimmers, and if speedy help were to come, might hope to
escape. And, luckily, help was nearer than any of them had hoped. A
light became visible in the darkness; and the swimmers shouted in
concert to let the new comers know of their whereabouts. An answering
shout came from the galley, for as may be supposed, it was a galley that
carried the light. “Be of good cheer,” shouted a voice which Callias
thought that he recognized. The swimmers shouted in answer, and felt new
hope and new life infused into them. But the rescue was no easy task.
Each man in turn had to fasten under his armpits a rope with a noose at
the end which was thrown to him, and was then drawn up the side of the
galley. This took time. Some of the men found it hard to do their part
of the work, and so delayed the rescue of the others. By the time that
Callias was reached, and he was the last of the nine, he was almost
beyond the reach of help. By one supreme effort, however, he managed to
slip the rope about him. As he was dragged on to the deck the last
conscious impression that he had--and so strange was it that he thought
it must be a dream--was the face of Hermione bent over him with an
expression of intense anxiety.
FOOTNOTES:
[41] The “Long Walls” ran from Athens down to its chief harbor the
Piraeus.