THE REWARD
The angry words of a soldier suddenly rang through the market, and the
music at the lower end of the street ceased. The people, attracted
by the commotion, began to flock in that direction, for a fight was
one of the features of market day. At a sign from the priest, the
soldier raised his rifle and knocked down the Armenian with whom he was
quarreling. The other soldiers immediately sprang to their feet; and
the Lazis, taking from beneath their cloaks the long knotty clubs which
they had secreted, crowded about as if to join the fray.
“Why are those mountaineers here in such numbers? and why are they
armed?” whispered the terror-stricken people.
There was some comfort in the thought that the unusual number of
soldiers in the village would afford some protection, should there be
trouble, yet the alarm spread through the market. The lemonade man no
longer clanked his glasses; the butcher forgot to switch the flies from
his mutton; the unknown Jew ceased to chant the praises of his cheap
“Americani” goods. The noisy bustle of the market suddenly became an
intense silence; the blow that felled the Armenian was apparently the
beginning of the rumored massacre. The excited Lazis stood for a moment
watching the mollah; and at a motion of his hand they rushed at the
crowd.
Beneath the floor of Dicran’s shop was a small cellar-like hole, to
which a trap door gave access. It was so seldom used that few of the
villagers knew of its existence. While the terrified people were trying
to escape from the pursuing Lazis, Dicran hurriedly raised the door,
lifted Armenouhi and Vassinag down, and then following with Vartan,
fastened the door from below; he hoped they might remain concealed
until the trouble was over. The shrieks and groans of the victims
pierced their ears. Crouching in the far corner against the dirt wall,
and trembling with fright, the girls threw their arms about each other,
while the men stood ready to defy entrance, if they were discovered.
They presently heard the heavy tread of soldiers on the boards above.
“And where is Dicran, chief of them all?” the priest demanded of the
tax collector, who was close at his heels.
Hassan Bey, half dead with fright, fearing that some Laz would kill
him for the Armenian that he was, and hoping to secure his own safety,
was encouraging the massacre of his own people. He knew of the place
beneath the floor, over which the mollah was at that moment standing,
and he believed that Dicran was hiding there. He hesitated, but only
for an instant. Had not old Dicran refused him Armenouhi? Was not
vengeance sweet? and he pointed to the door beneath the priest’s feet.
“Leave him down there, and we’ll keep him for the last,” cried the
priest, finding that the door was securely fastened; and to prevent
escape, he stationed the chaoush and his four soldiers in the shop.
The mollah’s savage words alarmed the captives beneath. Vassinag
fainted in Armenouhi’s arms; Vartan was dazed and silent, but the old
man set his teeth with a firm resolve to sell his life as dearly as
possible. They heard the sound of retreating steps, and the shuffling
of the soldiers’ feet on the boards above their heads.
It would be distressing to describe half the horrors enacted in the
village on that market day. Some of the Armenians escaped to the
mountains. Others concealed themselves in their houses, and were
dragged out and beaten to death before their wives and children. Others
sought refuge in the church, hoping that the sanctity of the place
might save them. A heavy blow against the door turned their hope to
alarm. A second blow burst the door open, and in rushed the frenzied
savages. It was but a moment’s work to thrust the old women and
children into the street, and bid them be off, while the fairest of
the young women were seized to become the slaves of the soldiers, a
reward for their services. The church door was then closed and barred,
imprisoning a score of defenseless men.
“Straw! Straw!” shouted the priest.
A dozen men, among them Hassan Bey, rushed to the neighboring stables,
and in a moment returned with great bundles of it. They stuffed it into
the openings beneath the building.
“Gaz!” again shouted the mollah, and three men who had anticipated the
order came running from the grocer’s shop with large cans of Russian
petroleum.
The oil was quickly poured over the combustible materials; the mollah
took from his turban a box of matches, ignited one, and threw it into
the straw. The flames darted upward and soon enveloped the building.
The Moslem waited until he was satisfied that none within could be
alive, and then slowly walked along the street to the old well on which
the village depended for water; if the dead were to be buried, there
was a grave already dug; and bidding the Turks collect the bodies, he
watched them as they fell splashing into the water.