A _RUSE DE GUERRE._
When the fog cleared away that evening, a sight ominous of doom met
the eyes of the blockaded inhabitants of the peninsula. Inside the
line of warships lay a row of other vessels, Roumi transports packed
with troops, waiting like vultures for the dying agonies of their
prey. The sight seemed to infuse a desperate resolution into the
luckless refugees, for that night an epidemic of desertion set in. The
insurgents and their leaders made no attempt to stay it, arguing, as
Zoe had done, that in the absence of the refugees the food would hold
out much longer. Therefore the Skandalo boatmen reaped after dark a
rich harvest of jewels and other treasures saved from devastated homes
in Therma, and the force guarding the Karakula lines also found
opportunities of turning a more or less honest penny. Boat after boat
put out into the darkness from the port, and a long straggling train
of fugitives streamed along the isthmus. The morning light saw the
boats returning, laden as when they started. They had been turned back
by the picket-boats from the warships, and told that in future no
craft from the peninsula would be allowed to pass the line of
transports, while the Roumis on board the transports promised
faithfully thenceforth to sink any boat approaching them that did not
bring an offer of surrender. The fugitives who had chosen the land
route came straggling back at intervals through the day. They also had
been stopped by Jalal-ud-din’s force, and told to go back and
starve,--or else bring about a surrender. When they would have flung
themselves down to die round about the Roumi camp, they were driven
back across the isthmus at the bayonet’s point. At present the Roumis
considered their hungry mouths more desirable even than their blood,
for not only would they help to consume the insurgents’ stores, but
their clamorous misery would weaken the hearts of the fighting men.
The returning fugitives were shepherded once more into their allotted
camps, and supplied with their meagre rations, to supplement which
they wandered over the hills, seeking leaves and roots. The
townspeople were openly mutinous, the insurgents angry and
discontented. The only class not absolutely destitute were the
fishermen, who found an eager market for whatever they could catch,
but their operations were now restricted by the transports, which
fired on them whenever they ventured more than a few hundred yards
from the shore. Otherwise there was no further attempt at hostilities,
only the dark masses looming ominous on the horizon. Gradually the
belief spread that the Powers had forbidden the Roumis to engage in
actual warfare, while allowing them to blockade the peninsula until
its inhabitants were too much reduced to offer any resistance to a
landing, and on the sixth day Prince Romanos came to Maurice.
“We must do something, or else all starve together,” he said. “I
propose to cross the isthmus to-night, take the shore road, and attack
Jalal-ud-din’s camp in the rear. The attack will merely be a cover for
a raid upon his stores, which are the only thing we care about.”
“You will be shelled by the fleets,” said Maurice.
“I think not. The camp lies inland, and we shall return through the
defiles. We must see that no one slips past to take the news of the
attack to the ships, and then I hope we shall get back across the
isthmus unmolested.”
“Then go, in God’s name! To see these unfortunate women and children
suffering--and with no hope for them but worse suffering, and no
prospect of any good from it--is heartrending. I will take command at
Karakula while you are gone, and Terminoff will look after this end of
the place. Pick your men, and don’t let them know what duty they’re
on. We don’t want to raise the hopes of the people unnecessarily--and
besides, plans leak out sometimes.”
Prince Romanos looked at him keenly. “You suspect some one. Is it
Nilischeff?”
“I don’t like the way in which he keeps Skandalo in a ferment. And
there’s no denying that he favours neither my claim nor yours. But I
have no proof against him.”
“M. Nilischeff must be watched. The same thought had occurred to me.
But I go to revictual the garrison. If we do not return, at least you
will have fewer mouths to feed.”
But Prince Romanos and his men returned triumphant. The Roumis had
apparently concentrated their attention on the mouth of the defile as
the only spot from which the insurgents might be expected to appear,
and their stores and transport were all at the other side of the camp,
on which the attack was actually made. One of the first and chief
prizes of the assailants was a herd of cattle, which they drove
straight through the camp to the mouth of the defile, overthrowing
tents and huts, and knocking down and trampling the startled soldiers
who tried to stop them. Behind the maddened cattle came the
insurgents, laden with everything in the way of food they could
possibly lay hands on, from live sheep to tinned delicacies sacred to
the Pasha himself. The Roumis had blocked the mouth of the defile,
leaving only a narrow passage, so as to make it easier to stop
fugitives, and this was held without difficulty by a rearguard, when
the main body of the assailants had passed through with their spoils.
The rearguard, unencumbered, fought its way back over the familiar
ground just before dawn, and when daylight came the whole force was
safely inside the Karakula lines, with remarkably few casualties to
report.
The day was a grand one for all the occupants of the peninsula.
Maurice’s desire that the whole of the spoil should at once be placed
under guard and issued only as rations was unanimously scouted, and
the hunger-stricken people gave themselves up to a whole day’s
feasting, with its inevitable waste and excess. On the morrow they
realised their mistake, and agreed that what was left should be
strictly preserved, but this would barely supply their needs for a
week longer. Naturally the cry soon arose for a fresh foray, and the
men who had ranged themselves under the banner of Prince Romanos
demanded to be led once more against the Roumi camp. It was useless to
point out to them that the first attack had succeeded entirely because
it was a surprise, and that a repetition of the assault would now be
provided against. They ascribed the delay to pusillanimity on
Maurice’s part, and openly urged his rival to act in opposition to
him. As the question of food was once more becoming urgent, the two
leaders agreed at length that Prince Romanos should take his servant
Petros and one or two trustworthy men, and make a scouting expedition
through the defiles, to discover in what part of the camp
Jalal-ud-din’s commissariat was now located, and whether there was any
chance of raiding it successfully, either from the front, flank, or
rear. Having made his observations, he was to return and communicate
them to Maurice, who would then take command at Karakula as before,
while the picked force under his rival made a further attempt.
The evening after the departure of Prince Romanos was an anxious one
for Maurice. He had sat up the night before with Wylie, who lay in a
kind of stupor during the daytime, but became violently excited during
the hours of darkness, calling loudly for Zoe, or holding imaginary
conversations with her, rebutting accusations of unkindness on her
part, which must presumably have been suggested by his own conscience.
Then he would imagine that an attack was imminent, and insist on
getting up and taking part in the defence,--a determination which it
required much tact and skilful humouring to combat. The early part of
the day had been spent in a mournful succession of funerals, the dead
drawn alike from among the wounded in the hospital and the
half-starved refugees, and the afternoon in the court-martial--or
rather, the trial before the Assembly--of a Skandalote who had been
caught stealing off to the Roumi ships, presumably with the intention
of carrying news. The man was defended by Lazar Nilischeff, who
asserted that he knew him well, and that his only object was to try to
buy some food from the sailors,--a defence received with ridicule by
the Greek portion of the Assembly, who declared unanimously for death.
Nilischeff’s followers declared with equal determination in favour of
acquittal, while the dynastic Slavs, on whose support Maurice could
always count, devised a compromise which placed him in a most
invidious position while apparently exalting his authority, by
desiring that the issue of life or death should be decided by him
alone. In the end, the man was remanded to prison, and Maurice turned
to the necessary but inevitably disagreeable task of superintending
the distribution of the evening rations to the refugees and sick. The
fighting men, who might be supposed to be endowed with some portion of
self-control, received theirs only once a-day, in the morning; but
experience had shown that the refugees had no idea of making their
supplies last out, but consumed at once what was intended to feed them
for twenty-four hours, and then wandered about with mournful
lamentations, or begged from their more provident companions. This
evening, however, the expectant throng was not confined to these
weaker souls. It appeared that the impression had somehow got about
that the absence of Prince Romanos betokened a foray that night, and a
consequent abundance of provisions on the morrow, so that from all the
nearer posts the garrisons had come in to demand that the food in hand
should at once be distributed to all alike, and delegates had arrived
from the Karakula lines with the same request. With his little band of
faithful men at his back, Maurice refused it absolutely. There was no
likelihood whatever of a raid that night. It might not take place for
three or four days, perhaps not at all, and it would be madness to
consume all the available supplies. The men were not sufficiently
ravenous to use force, but there was an ugly mutinous spirit among
them, which showed itself in the defiant raising of the cry, “Romanos
for Prince!” as they returned to their respective posts.
The night passed without alarm, and Maurice rejoiced that the
monastery guard and the men at the nearest encampment were all Slavs,
since they felt a natural inclination to champion his cause against
that of Prince Romanos, and might be relied upon to warn him if any
treachery was attempted against him personally. There was no sign of
the scouting party in the morning, and Maurice hurried down to
Ephestilo to see Wylie, and returned to the usual daily routine,
issuing rations, judging small causes, and arranging for funerals,
while Eirene and Zoe visited the hospital. It was about mid-day that
the unmistakable sound of rifle-fire reached him, coming from the
direction of the isthmus. Seizing a glass, he ran up to the top of the
gateway. Did his eyes deceive him, or was the line of Roumi transports
shorter than before? He counted them; there were two less on the
horizon, and all were moving northwards. The sound of firing grew
louder; was it merely heavier, or was it approaching? The guards were
assembling in groups, looking, with almost stupid astonishment, in the
direction of Karakula, and discussing what the meaning of the sound
could be. Maurice ran down again, sent off a messenger to recall
Eirene and Zoe, and to warn the refugees to seek shelter round the
monastery, and leaving a small guard there, started for the isthmus
with the rest of his men. Before they had gone far, a breathless
messenger came toiling up the path in front and met them.
“Lord, the Roumis have landed on the isthmus, and are inside the lines
of Karakula.”
“Inside? But what has happened to the garrison?”
“Lord, many of them had followed the Lord Romanos into the defiles,
and there was no time to recall them. There were some who remained,
but they were killed or driven back. And the Roumis have captured the
hermitage of Akri, for all the men there had departed.”
“Akri lost?” cried Maurice. The blow was a heavy one, for the post
commanded both the lines of Karakula in front of it and the next line
of defence in the rear. “Is there no one left? Where is the picked
force?”
“They are all gone across the isthmus, lord. When the message came
from the Lord Romanos, an hour before dawn, only the picked force were
summoned, but all the rest went also, saying they would get food for
themselves, since it was not given them.”
“A message? to the force--not to me?”
“I know not, lord. Gatso the fisherman brought it.”
Maurice turned to the ex-brigand Zeko. “Find Gatso, if he is anywhere
inside the lines, and bring him to me,” he said. “Come on, the rest of
you.”
As they hurried on along the precipitous paths, it became clear from
the sound of the firing that the inner line of defences was being
attacked, and when they reached them, crawling on hands and knees for
the last part of the way, they were a welcome reinforcement to the
defenders. The Roumis had not yet realised the full advantage given
them by the possession of the height of Akri, from which they could
have rendered the lower breastworks untenable, but their riflemen were
keeping up a heavy fire from cover in front. Maurice divided the men
who had come with him, sending parties away on both sides to reinforce
the weakest points, and taking the rifle of a man who had been killed,
settled himself at a loophole in the breastwork at which he had first
arrived, which was that commanding the chief path into the interior.
In the intervals of firing he questioned the men on either side as to
the events of the morning, of which their impressions were somewhat
hazy. The message brought by Gatso in the darkness, to the effect that
Prince Romanos had discovered a large provision-convoy, on its way
from Therma, halted outside the Roumi camp, and that he was about to
attack it immediately, had drawn away more than half of the Karakula
force, while the garrisons of Akri and other isolated points had
deserted _en masse_. They had crossed the isthmus and entered the
defiles without alarm, and those left behind had thought of nothing
but what was going on beyond the hills. Even the consciousness of
superior virtue could not keep them from grumbling as they gathered
round their fires and made coffee at dawn, and into the midst of their
grumbling came the volley which told them that the Roumis had landed.
During Wylie’s illness, a number of lazy men, who found it took them
too long to go round the marsh, had made a rough path across it with
hurdles and bundles of reeds, intending, of course, to remove these
stepping-stones at the first hint of a landing. They had not had time
to do so, however, and the Roumis, landing unobserved in the twilight,
had stolen up, and were inside the defences before their presence was
even suspected. Taken absolutely by surprise, the defenders fought
like heroes, and succeeded in keeping back their assailants
sufficiently to secure their own retreat on the second line, only to
discover that this disastrous morning’s work had been crowned by the
abandonment of Akri, up which two or three daring Roumis crept, to
find themselves, much to their elation, masters of the position. Until
they should occupy it in force, matters remained at a standstill, both
sides firing at each other from cover, and neither venturing to show
themselves. In this interval a diversion was caused by the entrance
into Maurice’s redoubt of the stalwart Zeko, dragging and pushing a
protesting Greek.
“Gatso the fisherman, lord,” he announced, with a final shove that
cast his victim prone at Maurice’s feet. “I found him hiding in a cave
on the way to Ephestilo.”
Gatso protested incoherently as he knelt that he had given his message
word for word. The Lord Romanos had indeed discovered a rich convoy,
only waiting to be attacked, and had despatched him with the news,
which he had duly delivered. Maurice interrupted him.
“To whom were you told to take the news?” he demanded.
“To the picked force, lord,” was the glib answer.
“To them first?” Gatso declared with much invocation of saints that it
was so, but Zeko’s grip descended again on the back of his neck, and
changed his tune. “To--to you, lord, at the monastery,” he gasped.
“Oh, Holy Virgin, I shall be choked!”
“Let him go, Zeko,” said Maurice contemptuously. “You see what he has
done,” he added to the other men. “Instead of delivering his message
as he was told, he has spread it broadcast, and by drawing the
garrisons from their posts, has brought about this defeat. What does
he deserve?”
“Death, lord,” was the unanimous answer, and every man in the redoubt
looked ready to execute the sentence. But Maurice waved them back.
“We have lost too many men to waste more,” he said. “You ought to be
shot, Gatso, but take this rifle and see how many Roumis you can shoot
instead.”
There was a murmur of discontent, and Gatso himself showed no
particular gratitude; but he took the rifle and crawled to the
loophole, while Maurice set himself to work along the line and see
whether it was in immediate danger of being pierced at any other
point. Everywhere he found his men confronted by the Roumis, and shots
being exchanged at intervals. The enemy had already landed troops
enough to outnumber his force twice over, and he was hopelessly cut
off from his best men, who were all with Prince Romanos beyond the
isthmus. A determined rush on the part of the Roumis must break the
weak line. Perhaps they were waiting until night to make it, or
perhaps they were planning to make a second landing at disaffected
Skandalo, or in one of the smaller bays, and take him in the rear. He
thought of Wylie lying sick at Ephestilo, of Eirene and Zoe and the
other women practically defenceless at the monastery, and reflected
bitterly that he could not depend on the guards at the various
landing-places even to warn him of an attack unless he was in the
immediate neighbourhood. “We must certainly have either Wylie’s Sikhs
or some other force that we can trust, as a nucleus, before we can
hope to turn these chaps into soldiers,” he said to himself, and then
remembered that he was planning for a future which his short-lived
sovereignty would now never see. There was just the chance that Prince
Romanos, with his victorious force, might be keeping out of sight in
the defiles, intending to make a rear attack, when darkness fell, on
the Roumis who barred his way, in which case there would be more hope
of the stubborn defence, contesting each inch of ground, on which they
had relied, in the last resort, to awaken the tardy sympathy of
Europe. But when he reached the right-hand extremity of his line,
resting on the sea, a chorus of lamentation met him. The men not at
the loopholes were gathered round a dripping form, which they were
wrapping in their own clothes, and plying with coffee.
“The only one escaped!” they told Maurice, with awe. “He saw the Lord
Romanos fall.”
“Tell me,” said Maurice, and the fugitive sat up. He was a Greek from
the mainland, who had been foremost in pressing the claims of Prince
Romanos, but now he saluted Maurice as Prince.
“You are left, lord,” he said. “The Lord Romanos is slain.”
“Tell me,” said Maurice again, while a groan broke from the listeners.
“Lord, I was one of those who went from Akri when the message came of
the spoil at hand. The Lord Romanos was angry that we had forsaken our
posts, but said he would make use of us before sending us back. Under
his orders we attacked the convoy, which was encamped in no order,
every cart having halted where it chose--an easy prey. But it was a
trap, and nothing more. In the carts, under the coverings, were
men--Roumis--and upon us, as we fought with them, came other Roumis
from behind, while in front the Pasha’s camp turned out at the alarm.
We saw that an ambush had been laid for us, and that death was at
hand, and every man sought only to slay as many of the accursed as
possible before dying himself. I saw the Lord Romanos struck down,
fighting with sword and revolver, and the accursed raised a mighty
shout. How I escaped I know not, but I found myself on the outskirts
of the fight, and the sea not far off, and life was strong within me.
Therefore I flung myself from the rocks, and sometimes swimming, and
again wading along the shore, I passed the hills and the isthmus, and
seeing the Roumis at Karakula, cast myself into the sea once more and
reached this place, which is now little better----”
“Lord!” a panting herald of disaster burst into the group and
confronted Maurice, “the Roumis are firing from Akri, and the sons of
freedom fall fast. Is it your pleasure that they should hold the
breastwork until all are slain?”
“I will come,” said Maurice.