THE SILENT APPEAL
Takvor was less than five rods away. He rushed behind the Kurd who was
poking his mother’s face with his foot, wrenched the club from his
hand, and before the savage had time to turn, struck him lifeless to
the earth. With incredible quickness he aimed a blow at the other Kurd,
but the great fellow, seeing his companion fall, was already on his
guard. Their contest was unequal. Takvor’s club was struck from his
hands. He sprang back and dashed down the street. The Kurd followed. A
long-bearded, pious-looking Jew who had been watching them chuckled as
the two figures were disappearing down the street, and then entering a
vacant house, hurriedly filled the spacious pockets of his long black
coat with whatever money and jewelry and silver he could find, locked
the door and sealed it, and went away to seek other plunder.
The Kurd and Takvor raced toward the Golden Horn, one for vengeance,
the other for life. In and out they went, through the crowds of Jews
engaged in moving furniture from the houses of the Armenians. Only a
few yards separated them. The Kurd seized a stone from the pavement and
hurled it at Takvor’s head, but missed him. Takvor rushed on. Unable
to turn the sharp corner at the lower end of the street, he dashed
through the narrow passage to the landing. The Kurd had been steadily
gaining on him, and now seemed to have him in his grasp; for the water
of the Golden Horn cut off escape in that direction. A kaiyik which had
brought the savages from Stamboul was just ahead.
If Takvor could but reach its oars, there might yet be a chance to
escape. He sprang for them. The boat, struck by his full weight, broke
loose from its mooring and darted forward. The Kurd gave a leap. The
kaiyik was so far from the shore that he missed it; but as he plunged
beneath the water, he caught the dragging rope. Takvor seized an oar
and brought its blade down on the cropped head of the Kurd the moment
he appeared on the surface. A Turkish soldier in his sentry box stood
silently watching the fight; he raised his rifle and aimed at Takvor;
then slyly glancing about to satisfy himself that there was nobody to
inform on him for neglect of duty, he lowered his gun and resumed his
beat.
Takvor fastened the oars to the locks and pulled out to the middle of
the stream. There were yet two hours before sunrise; until then he
was safe in the kaiyik; but what then? His distracted mind refused to
act, save to rehearse the scenes he had just gone through. When he
became calmer, he realized where he was, and felt the hopelessness of
his position; he was now an orphan, and homeless, pursued by the very
government which should have protected him. When daylight came, his
sorrows might soon be ended forever; but if not, what could he do? or
where could he go? Possibly for a time he might hide in the mountains,
or in some village in the interior. The quiet Ak Hissar and the face
of his little Armenouhi arose before him. He instinctively put his hand
to his pocket, and found the purse which Taviloudes had left there. Its
discovery decided him; he would remain in the kaiyik until daylight,
and then row to Haidar Pasha for the early train. He had no passport,
but in some way he might manage to elude the officials; if not, he
might bribe them. He allowed his boat to drift, seeing ever before him
the picture of his parents lying in the street. Could he leave them
unburied, to be thrown into a pit, or into the sea? The rattling sound
of a cart, borne across the water by the quiet morning air, suggested
that already they might have been taken away. Once again an almost
irresistible desire to look upon the face of his mother seized him.
Then the vision of Armenouhi pleaded with him to go to her. The appeal
was so real that he caught up the oars and headed the boat downstream.
Now that he was beyond the reach of voices from Hasskeui, he took one
last look at the village. In the east, above the hill, the first rays
of light were appearing; and there on the horizon, silhouetted against
the morning sky, were hundreds of moving figures. It was the Armenians
who had fled from their houses, surrounded by their pursuers and
falling beneath their blows. To shut out the horrible sight, he fixed
his eyes on the bottom of the kaiyik and pulled vigorously at the oars.
Half an hour later he passed beneath the Galata bridge and around
Seraglio Point, into the Marmora. At sunrise he left the kaiyik at
Haidar Pasha, and started toward the station. Groups of Kurds were
sitting idly here and there, and soldiers impatiently walked about the
street. His first thought was to return to the kaiyik, and row far out
into the Marmora, when a horse and rider dashed round the corner of the
street and stopped.
“I will shoot the first person who touches an Armenian,” shouted the
horseman, who was Fuad Pasha, the military governor of Haidar Pasha.
By his prompt, bold action, he saved the lives of thousands of people
who lived on the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus. Poor Fuad! he paid
dearly for thwarting the will of his imperial master. His military rank
was taken from him; his property was confiscated; he was arrested as
a traitor, exiled, and put to torture. A few years later he died in a
military prison in Damascus. The name of Fuad, Turk and Moslem, should
be enrolled among the martyrs.
Takvor’s courage revived and he again started for the station.