A BAPTISM OF FIRE.
The day after the visit to the fleet found Eirene a prey to nervous
headache, and absolutely unable to leave her bed, the slightest sound,
even the voice of her little son, intensifying the pain almost to the
point of distraction. Zoe was frightened, fearing fever, and wished to
entreat Admiral Essiter to abate his righteous wrath and allow the
_Magniloquent’s_ surgeon to come and see her; but Eirene, groaning on
her uneasy couch--a mattress from the yacht laid upon a stone
divan--forbade her to gratify the oppressor by so abject an appeal.
“It’s only because of yesterday,” she moaned. “The strain was awful.”
“Why? You don’t mean that Lieutenant Cotway tried to escape--when he
was a hostage?”
“Of course not. He was telling Con stories and cutting out a boat for
him all day--gave me no trouble whatever. But I had to think--if there
was treachery--if you were not allowed to come back----”
“Well?” demanded Zoe, with keen curiosity.
“I should have given him over to the Emathians and told them to treat
him as they thought right. And--a good many of them have been
brigands, you know.”
“Eirene, you must be mad! You make my blood run cold.”
“I made up my mind to do it. The Powers must learn that we are in
earnest. But it was not necessary.”
“I should think not!” Zoe spoke with good-humoured tolerance. “Don’t
try to be mediæval another time, Eirene; you haven’t the physique for
it. Your amiable predecessor, the Empress Isidora, would have handed
over an innocent man to torture without a qualm, no doubt, but we poor
moderns don’t possess her nerves. Now I am going to take Con for a
walk and leave you perfectly quiet. But do, for goodness’ sake, put
these ideas out of your head.”
Eirene struggled up from her pillow. “I won’t have you take
Constantine to the camp without me!” she cried. “He will be playing
with the children and getting fever. Oh!” and she lay down again with
a moan of pain.
“I am not going near the camp,” said Zoe patiently, covering her up.
“We are going to look for orchises on the cliffs. One of the
fishermen’s children at Ephestilo gave me a great bunch the other day,
which she said grew just beyond there, and Con is longing to find
them.”
“You’ll let him fall over,” protested Eirene faintly, “or the Roumis
will land----”
“Ephestilo is the last place they will choose if they do, for Colonel
Wylie and the Emathians are practising coast defence there this very
morning. And the place for the orchises is in the next bay, where no
one could land if they tried. And I shan’t let him fall over the
cliff, Eirene. You know he’s always good with me,--not that he gets
much chance of showing it,--and of course we won’t even go near any
dangerous places.”
Eirene, vanquished, turned her face to the wall with another groan,
and Zoe pulled the makeshift curtain they had arranged over the
doorless doorway so as to deaden the light, and went out to find her
little nephew, who was waiting for her in the gallery. He was a quiet,
serious child, reproducing, to her secret joy, in bodily and mental
characteristics the sobered Maurice of these later years, with hardly
a trace of Eirene. A cause of contention from his very birth, he had
developed a longing for peace and quietness strange in a child, and
was always on the alert to escape from his mother’s exacting devotion
to follow his father about, content to remain unnoticed if he might
hold his hand. Eirene resented bitterly what she chose to consider
this perverseness, and Maurice was constrained to discourage as much
as possible his little son’s desire for his society. “Not to-day, old
man,” he had said this same morning. “Poor mamma is ill, and will want
Con.”
Zoe had heard this, and it was with something of unholy satisfaction
that she witnessed Eirene’s unavailing struggles to conceal the agony
the boy’s voice and movements caused her. He should have a treat
to-day, she told herself, and be a real child for once, not the
unconscious inheritor of strife-provoking dynastic claims.
“Such a big bastick, Auntie Zoe!” he exclaimed, dragging towards her
one of the baskets used by the lay-brethren of the monastery when they
made foraging expeditions down to Skandalo; “and steward has given me
a lot of little cakes, all tied up in leaves.”
“Paper havin’ run short, ma’am,” said the cook, appearing from his
sanctum at the end of the gallery; “but I thought maybe you’d like to
take some lunch with you.”
“Thank you, steward; it’s a very good idea. Oh, Con, what a lovely
walk we will have! Now gently, so as not to wake poor mamma.”
They crept down the steps and out at the gate, Constantine saluting
the monk who kept watch there in his own tongue, and receiving a
blessing in return, then out along the rocky path. There was no need
for a guard to-day, as the walk lay within the region constantly
patrolled by the insurgents, and Zoe felt extraordinarily free and
happy, in marked contrast with the gloom that had oppressed her the
night before. She carried the basket, and Constantine was absolutely
obedient, holding her hand and walking on the inside when the path was
narrow. As she answered his endless questions she scoffed mentally at
Eirene’s fears. What harm could befall the child on such a day?
Descending the hills in the direction of the sea, they came in sight
of the bay of Ephestilo, with Wylie and his motley force hard at work.
Zoe and her nephew stood for some time watching, fascinated, the
stealthy entrance of a boat through the opening in the reef, and its
reception by riflemen posted at various points. Wylie was marking the
different ranges covered by the course the boat must take, and was so
deeply occupied that Zoe would not allow Constantine to run down and
disturb him, even to ask what was that funny thing he had in his hand?
why did the boat come in so slowly? why did the men only pretend to
fire? and a score of other whats and whys. They tore themselves away
at last, and walked on over the short turf of the cliffs to the next
bay, which presented a very different aspect from that of Ephestilo,
with its village of fishermen’s huts clustered on the slope, and boats
drawn up on the shore. Here there was only one hut, built of rough
limestone blocks and sods of turf, and looking as uninviting as the
reputed character of its occupant, a solitary man who had once been a
fisherman of Ephestilo. He had done, or been suspected of doing,
something that cut him off for ever from the society of his kind. What
it was Zoe had never been able to find out exactly, but she gathered
that it was some service to the Roumi authorities, who had been able
to protect him from the vengeance of his fellows until it gradually
became clear that his lonely and blasted existence was a stronger
deterrent against following his example than even his death would have
been. No smoke rose from the roof of Janni’s abode as Zoe and the
child went by it at a distance, Constantine holding tightly to his
aunt’s hand, for he had somehow picked up the prevalent idea of the
ill-omened nature of the spot. But the cottage once passed, all was
enchantment, for the face of this cliff was broken away in the most
fascinating manner, hollows full of rich grass and flowers alternating
with bare faces of limestone rock. From here the sea looked so close
that one might have believed the gradual slope extended to the beach
itself, but Zoe knew well that about half-way down it broke off
suddenly, encircling the bay with sheer cliffs and isolated needles of
rock.
“Don’t run on in front, Con. Wait for me!” she called, noticing that
the space of turf they were treading was crossed in various directions
by footmarks, as if it was trodden not infrequently by some one who
was yet careful not to make a path. It seemed as though Janni must
have some eyrie in the cliffs, some look-out post where he spent his
solitary days, and she was by no means anxious to come upon him
suddenly. Constantine came back at her call, and in another moment she
was able to reward him by showing him that what he had acclaimed as an
insect was in reality a flower. Thenceforward she had no more anxiety
as to his wandering in advance. His patience was admirable, and his
method thorough. Every hollow to which they came must be absolutely
cleared of orchises before he would consent to go on to another, and
all the while his little tongue kept up a dropping fire of questions
on the natural history of flowers and bees. Working their way steadily
downwards, they came at length to a spot so thick with blossoms that
even Constantine’s energy flagged in contemplating it, and he
suggested sitting down to consider where it would be best to begin.
This seemed a suitable moment for bringing out the steward’s provision
of cakes, and when they had been consumed Constantine set to work like
a giant refreshed. Zoe was glad to see him happily occupied, for she
had caught sight of a ledge a little way farther down, on which the
flowers seemed to be of quite a different variety. It was easy for her
to reach it, but the descent would not be very safe for her nephew,
and she meant to attempt it alone.
Scrambling down, and tearing her gown in the process, she was rather
disgusted to find that the flowers were merely overblown specimens of
the kind she had been picking all morning, but when she sat down to
pin up the hanging braid, she found that she was rewarded for her
trouble by an exquisite view of the entrance to the bay. The water was
very blue in the noontide stillness, and the cliffs rose straight from
it with a curious effect of being painted in different shades of
white. She was mentally cataloguing them when her attention was
attracted by something moving at the base of the headland on the
left--the one remote from the direction of Ephestilo. Scarcely able to
believe her eyes, she watched narrowly, and saw that it was a boat--a
boat creeping into the bay, as close under the cliffs as the depth of
water would allow. The evident wish of the occupants for secrecy, and
the curious fact that they should be rowing hard at a time of day when
all the fisher population were enjoying their siesta, struck her as
suspicious, and she ran over the probabilities hastily in her mind. It
could hardly be a Roumi raid, for what could one boatful of men do?
Perhaps it was a boat from the fleet, examining the bay to see if it
afforded any landing-place that would need to be watched in view of
the blockade. Secure in her conviction of the inaccessibility of her
perch, she sat watching the boat, until she saw a glass turned upon
her, and realised that her white gown must be clearly visible against
the grass on which she was sitting. Then astonishment seized her, for
she distinctly saw a man in the boat take up a gun and aim it in her
direction, but it was pushed down by another, and he did not fire.
Zoe was very angry. Whether the people in the boat were fishermen, as
their caps seemed to show, or sailors from the fleet in some attempt
at disguise, they had no right to try and frighten inoffensive females
who were merely looking at them. Well, she was not going to be
frightened. She would remain where she was, and do her best to find
out who these intruders might be. When the boat passed beneath her,
she must hear their voices, for even at this distance the sound of the
oars was audible in the clear air, and it would be hard if she could
not distinguish what language they were speaking. It was out of sight
now, and she sat and waited, fixing her eyes on a tall needle of rock
which rose up close to her platform, and looked as though it had once
formed part of it, but was now, as she found by crawling to the edge
and looking over, separated from it right down to the water-level, as
if by one straight, clean cut. The sound of voices was so long in
coming that at last she grew tired of waiting, and, taking off her hat
lest it should be seen, she lay down and peered through the grass that
fringed the edge of the hollow--then drew back with a feeling of
absolute suffocation, as if the blood had all ebbed from her heart and
rushed to her throat. The men had landed, landed there below her,
where no landing-place existed, and one of them was beginning to work
his way up between the needle and the cliff, as though the fissure was
a “chimney” in the Alps. The boat, with two men in it, one of whom had
a gun, was rowing out again, evidently to keep her in sight, lest she
should escape before the climber reached her.
Zoe drew back, sat up, and mechanically pinned on her hat again. Her
lips were saying hurriedly, “I must be calm. I must keep cool,” even
while voices seemed to fill the air, crying “Constantine!
Constantine!” She had brought him into danger, and she must save him,
even if it cost her own life. “Con!” she called gently, for fear of
attracting the attention of the men below; “Con, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Auntie Zoe.” The roguish little face peered over the ledge above
her. “Shall I come? I haven’t nearly finished this place yet.”
“No. I want you to be a very brave boy, Con.” She tried hard to speak
so as to impress the child without frightening him. “Dare you go all
the way back by yourself, to the place where we saw Colonel Wylie with
that funny thing this morning, and take him a message?”
“Oh, Auntie Zoe!” the disappointment was poignant. “There’s sixty
million flowers here that I haven’t picked yet.”
“It’s to do something for father, Con. There are naughty men who want
to hurt him. Tell Colonel Wylie that they are here in a boat, and he
must come round in another boat and catch them. Poor Auntie must stay
here till Colonel Wylie comes, so tell him to be quick. Don’t walk on
the nice grass, Con--it--it isn’t safe--until you get to the very top,
and then run. Oh, Con!” as the sound of something being dragged over
the stones reached her, “don’t take the basket. Auntie will bring it
when she comes. Think of father!”
She sent the appeal after him despairingly, for she knew well his
tenacity of purpose. “And if any of the flowers fall out, he’ll stop
and pick them up!” she groaned to herself. How long would he take to
get to the top of the cliff? How would his little scrambling childish
feet manage to clamber up those slippery limestone slopes? If he
avoided the grassy hollows, as she had told him to do, his holland
overall would hardly be seen against the rocks by any one who was not
looking specially for it. She must occupy the attention of the men in
the boat, and keep them from looking at the cliff above her, whence
the rattle of fragments of stone as they fell showed her that
Constantine was somehow working his way up. She stood forward and
looked out to sea, as though watching for ships, her figure boldly
outlined against the green of the hollow. Suddenly the boat shot out
from beneath her into her field of vision, and she started violently,
making vehement gestures of astonishment, as though unable to credit
what she saw. Both men were watching her every movement, and the rifle
was pointed directly at her. If she could keep their eyes fixed on
herself, Constantine would be able to escape. Making a
speaking-trumpet of her hands, she called out the Greek “Good day!”
and inquired whether the fishing had been successful. The men in the
boat did not appear to understand, but they were evidently amused, and
returned answers which she could not distinguish. But they were not
speaking either Greek or the Thracian dialect used by the majority of
the Slavic Emathians, of this she was sure. She stood there, calling
out incoherencies in Greek, and receiving irrelevant replies in the
unknown tongue, until voice and strength failed her simultaneously,
for the approach of the climber in the chimney became audible in
grunts and a kind of shuffling noise. She had sufficient presence of
mind to wave her hand to the men in the boat before she sat down,
trying to look as though it was not because her limbs refused to
support her. Still apparently gazing out to sea, she watched, with
dilated eyes and panting breath, for the appearance of a red-capped
head above the brink. When would it come? and what should she do?
Constantine must have reached the top of the cliff by this time, and
now that he was safe, the love of life regained its strength in her.
She looked round once at the rocky slope above her, with a wild idea
of leaping at it and scrambling up too fast for the man in the boat to
be able to take aim. But it was so steep. She would have found it
difficult to climb at any time, and now she was trembling all over.
And even above it there was no possible shelter until nearly the top
of the cliff, where a projecting rock might hide her from the view of
the marksman in the boat. But nothing could shelter her from the men
who were climbing up. Could she pretend to meet them
unsuspiciously--disarm their hostility, temporise, hold them in talk
until help was in sight? If she addressed the first that appeared in
French, which all educated Roumis might be supposed to understand----?
But a moment’s thought reminded her that the first man was certain to
be Janni, who had doubtless discovered and often used this way of
reaching his abode, and who would let down a rope, or even a
rope-ladder, before his confederates would venture on the climb. And
Janni--dark-browed Janni, who scowled angrily even at little
Constantine, and knew no language but his own, which she only spoke
very imperfectly,--how could she hope to conciliate him? Could
she--would she have the courage to push him down when he was climbing
over the edge? For that moment he would be at her mercy, since the man
in the boat would not venture to fire for fear of hitting him. But no,
she had not the nerves for it, as she had said to Eirene so long ago.
“And besides, I don’t _know_ that he means anything dreadful. He may
be merely coming home with some friends,” she told herself by way of
half-excuse, and then laughed at her own moral cowardice.
There was a sudden quickening of attitude on the part of the men in
the boat. The rifle was raised, and pointed not at Zoe, but at the top
of the cliff far above her. There was the sound of something striking
the rock overhead, bringing down a shower of small fragments, and
almost simultaneously came the report. Other bullets followed, and
then there was a report closer at hand--from overhead, in fact.
Something struck the sea near the boat, raising a little splash, and
then, after--but only momentarily after--a second near report, the man
who held the gun seemed to crumple up, and the weapon dropped from his
hands into the water. Looking up, Zoe had a fleeting impression of a
man kneeling at the top of the cliff, with a rifle raised to his
shoulder; but as she looked, he lowered it, and began to swing himself
down, taking a more direct way than the pleasant path by which she had
wandered with Constantine. Then her attention was distracted, for a
face surmounted by a red cap appeared over the edge of the hollow, and
resolved itself into that of Janni the fisherman, with a knife held
between his teeth. His eyes seemed to fascinate her. She could not
move, and watched in helpless silence while he drew himself up
gradually to her level.
There was a click on the ledge above her, where Constantine had been
left. “Jammed!” said Wylie’s voice, in a tone of such angry disgust
that she nearly laughed, just as Janni pulled himself over the brink
with a final effort, and ran at her, brandishing the knife.
“Take my hand,” said the voice overhead, clear and hard, and turning
mechanically to obey, she saw that Wylie was lying on the ledge above,
stretching out his left hand to her, while his right held the rifle
clubbed. She sprang at the rock, and scrambled wildly up its slippery
face. Presently Wylie was assisting her with both hands instead of
one, and now she crouched panting on the ledge beside him. Looking
round involuntarily for Janni and his knife, she saw that he was not,
as she had imagined, an inch or two behind her. He was kneeling at the
edge of the hollow she had left, fixing the end of a rope-ladder that
he had carried with him, and another man, with a rifle on his back,
was already visible upon it. Wylie whirled her to her feet, and
dragged her up the path.
“He was not really going for you,” he said, in an odd, muffled voice.
“That was a dodge to keep me from coming down and preventing his
fixing the ladder. He knew that when once this thing had jammed I
could do him no harm except at close quarters.”
He went on to discourse of the iniquities of the Mauser rifle, still
in the same curious voice, as if he was talking for talking’s sake,
without in the least thinking of what he said, and Zoe made no effort
to understand or respond. For one moment, as he lay on the ledge, she
had caught in his eyes the look she had not seen there for seven
years, and she could think of nothing else. She had not deceived
herself. He did care. Nothing else mattered.