Gervaise, on consideration, was obliged to own to himself that Ralph was
right in saying that he had no ground whatever for suspicion against
the Greek he had met at Signor Vrados's; and he could see no means of
following the matter up. It would not, he felt, be honourable to go
again to the merchant's house, and to avail himself of his hospitality,
while watching his guest. He determined to dismiss the matter from
his mind, and had, indeed, altogether done so when, a week later, it
suddenly recurred to his memory.
A party of slaves, under the escort of overseers and in charge of a
knight who had been with them at their work on the fortifications, were
passing along the street on their way back to barracks. It was already
dusk, and as Gervaise was going the same way as they were, he stood
aside in a doorway to let them pass. He was on the point of stepping out
to follow them, when he saw a man, who had been standing in the shadow
of the wall, fall in with their ranks, and, as he walked engaged in an
earnest conversation with one of the slaves. He kept beside him for a
hundred yards or so, then passed something into the slave's hand, and
turned abruptly down a side opening. There were but few people about,
and in the growing darkness the action of the man passed unobserved by
the overseers. Gervaise, thinking the occurrence a strange one, turned
down the same lane as the man.
He slackened his pace until the latter was fifty yards ahead, so that he
would not, had he looked round, have been able to perceive that it was
a knight who was behind him. After passing through several streets, the
man turned into a refreshment house. The door stood open, and as the
place was brightly lit up, Gervaise, pausing outside, was able to see
what was going on inside. The man he had followed was on the point
of seating himself at one of the tables, and as he did so Gervaise
recognised him as the Greek he had met at the merchant's house. He at
once walked on a short distance, and then paused to think.
The vague suspicions he had before entertained as to the man now
recurred with double force; he was certainly in communication with one
or more of the slaves, and such communication, so secretly effected,
could be for no good purpose. So far, however, there was nothing he
could tax the man with. He would probably deny altogether that he had
spoken to any of the slaves, and Gervaise could not point out the one
he had conversed with. At any rate, nothing could be done now, and he
required time to think what steps he could take to follow up the matter.
He resolved, however, to wait and follow the Greek when he came out.
After a few minutes he again repassed the door, and saw that the man was
engaged in earnest conversation with another. After considering for
a time, Gervaise thought that it would be best for him to follow this
other man when he left, and ascertain who he was, rather than to keep
a watch on the movements of the Greek, who, as likely as not, would now
return to the merchant's.
He walked several times up and down the street, until at last he saw the
two men issue out together. They stopped for a moment outside, and
then, after exchanging a few words, separated, the Greek going in the
direction of the quarter in which lay the house of Vrados, while the
other walked towards Gervaise. The latter passed him carelessly, but
when the man had gone nearly to the end of the street, he turned and
followed him. He could see at once that he was a lay brother of the
Order. This class consisted of men of an inferior social position to the
knights; they filled many of the minor offices, but were not eligible
for promotion. Following for ten minutes, Gervaise saw him approach one
of the barracks, or prisons, occupied by the slaves. He knocked at the
door, and, upon its being opened, at once entered.
The matter had now assumed a much more serious aspect. This young Greek,
a stranger to Rhodes, was in communication not only with some of the
slaves, but with a prison official, and the matter appeared so grave to
Gervaise that, after some deliberation, he thought it was too important
for him to endeavour to follow out alone, and that it was necessary to
lay it before the bailiff. Accordingly, after the evening meal he went
up to Sir John Kendall, and asked if he could confer with him alone on
a matter over which he was somewhat troubled. The bailiff assented at
once, and Gervaise followed him to his private apartment.
“Now, what is this matter, Sir Gervaise?” he asked pleasantly. “Nothing
serious, I trust?”
“I don't know, Sir John. That is a matter for your consideration; but
it seems to me of such importance that it ought to be brought to your
knowledge.”
The face of the bailiff grew more grave, and, seating himself in a
chair, he motioned to Gervaise to do the same.
“Now, let me hear what it is,” he said.
Gervaise told his story simply. A slight smile passed across the
bailiff's face as he mentioned that he had met the Greek on the roof
of the house of Signor Vrados, and had not liked the expression of his
face.
“Vrados has some fair daughters, has he not?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; but I know little of them. That is the only visit that I ever
paid there, or, indeed, to the house of any one in the town.”
Sir John's face grew grave again as Gervaise recounted how he had seen
the man enter into communication with a slave; and he frowned heavily
when he heard of his meeting afterwards with one of the prison officers.
“In truth, Sir Gervaise,” he said, after a pause, “this seems to be a
right serious matter, and you have done wisely in informing me of what
you have seen. Assuredly there is mischief of some sort in the wind. The
question is how to get to the bottom of it. Of course, the grand master
might order the arrest of this Greek and of the prison officer, but
you may be sure that neither would commit himself unless torture were
applied; and I, for one, have no belief in what any man says under such
circumstances. The most honest man may own himself a traitor when racked
with torture, and may denounce innocent men. It is at best a clumsy
device. What think you of the matter?”
“I have hardly thought it over yet, Sir John; and certainly no plan has
yet occurred to me.”
“Well, think it over, Sir Gervaise. It is not likely that a few days
will make any difference. But I will take measures to see that this
Greek does not sail away from the Island at present, and will speak to
the port master about it. I will myself give the matter consideration,
but as you have shown yourself so quick witted in following up the
matter so far, I rely upon you more than myself to carry it farther.
There may possibly be some simple explanation of the matter. He may come
from an island where the Turks are masters, and has, perhaps, brought a
message from some relatives of a slave; as to the talk with the prison
officer, it may be wholly innocent. If we should find that it is so we
will keep this matter to ourselves, if possible, or we shall get finely
laughed at by our comrades for having run upon a false scent. If, on the
other hand, the matter should turn out to be serious, you will assuredly
get great credit for having discovered it. Therefore, turn it over in
your mind tonight, and see if you can arrive at some scheme for seeing
further into it before we take any steps.”
In the morning Gervaise again called upon Sir John Kendall.
“Well, Sir Gervaise, I hope that you have hit upon some scheme for
getting to the bottom of this matter. I confess that I myself, though I
have had a sleepless night over it, have not been able to see any
method of getting to the root of the affair, save by the application of
torture.”
“I do not know whether the plan I have thought of will commend itself to
your opinion, sir, but I have worked out a scheme which will, I think,
enable us to get to the bottom of the matter. I believe that a galley is
expected back from a cruise today or tomorrow. Now, sir, my idea is that
I should go on board a small craft, under the command of a knight upon
whose discretion and silence you can rely, such as, for example, Sir
John Boswell, and that we should intercept the galley. Before we board
her I should disguise myself as a Turkish slave, and as such Sir John
should hand me over to the officer in command of the galley, giving him
a letter of private instructions from you as to my disposal. If they
have other slaves on board I would ask that I should be kept apart from
them, as well as from the rowers of the galley. On being landed I should
be sent to the prison where I saw the officer enter last night, and the
slaves and rowers should be distributed among the other prisons. Thus,
then, the slaves I should be placed with would only know that I had
arrived in the galley with other slaves captured by it. I have no doubt
I should be able to maintain my assumed character, and should in a short
time be taken into the confidence of the others, and should learn what
is going on. It would be well, of course, that none of the officials
of the prison should be informed as to my true character, for others,
besides the one I saw, may have been bribed to participate in whatever
plot is going on.”
“And do you mean to say, Sir Gervaise, that you, a knight of the Order,
are willing to submit to the indignity of being treated as a slave? To
keep up the disguise long enough to be taken into the confidence of the
plotters, you might have to stay there for some time; and if the prison
officials believe you to be but an ordinary slave, you will be put to
work either on the walls or in one of the galleys.”
“I am ready to do anything for the benefit of the Order, and the safety
of Rhodes, that will meet with your approval,” Gervaise replied. “It
will no doubt be unpleasant, but we did not enter the Order to do
pleasant things, but to perform certain duties, and those duties
necessarily involve a certain amount of sacrifice.”
“Do you think you would be able to maintain the character? Because
you must remember that if detected you might be torn in pieces by the
slaves, before the officers could interfere to protect you.”
“I feel sure that I can do so, Sir John.”
“What story would you tell them?”
“I would say that I had come from Syria, and sailed from Acre in a
trader, which is perfectly true, and also that I was taken off the ship
I was on by a galley--which would not be altogether false, as I crossed
one as I landed. I think there would be very little questioning, for I
should pretend to be in a state of sullen despair, and give such short
answers to questions that I should soon be left alone.”
“The scheme is a good one, Sir Gervaise, though full of danger and
difficulty. If you are ready to render this great service to the Order,
I willingly accept the sacrifice you offer to make. I will send one of
my slaves down into the town to buy garments suitable for you, and also
stains for your skin. It will, of course, be necessary for you to shave
a portion of your head in Turkish fashion. I will also see Sir John
Boswell, and ask him to arrange for a craft to be ready to start at
noon. The galley is not expected in until evening, but of course she may
arrive at any moment now. Come here again in an hour's time, and I will
have the clothes ready for you.”
“May I suggest, sir, that they should be those appropriate to a small
merchant? This might seem to account for my not being placed with the
other slaves who may be on board the galley, as it would be supposed
that I was set apart in order that I should be sent to one of the
auberges as a servant; and my afterwards being herded with the others
would be explained by its being found that there was no opening for
me in such a capacity. I should think there would be no difficulty in
obtaining such a suit, as garments of all kinds are brought here in
prizes, and are bought up by some of the Greek merchants, who afterwards
find opportunities of despatching them by craft trading among the
islands.”
Just before noon Gervaise walked down to the port with Sir John Boswell,
a servant following with a bundle.
“It seems to me a hare brained scheme, lad,” Sir John, who had just
joined him, said, as they issued from the auberge; “though I own, from
what the bailiff tells me, that there must be some treacherous plot on
hand, and when that is the case it is necessary that it should be probed
to the bottom. But for a knight to go in the disguise of an infidel
slave seems to me to be beyond all bounds.”
“If one is ready to give one's life for the Order, Sir John, surely one
need not mind a few weeks' inconvenience. I shall, at any rate, be no
worse off than you were when serving as a Turkish slave.”
“Well, no, I don't know that you will,” Sir John replied doubtfully.
“But that was from necessity, and not from choice; and it is, moreover,
an accident we are all exposed to.”
“It is surely better to do a thing of one's own free will than because
one is forced to do it, Sir John?”
The knight was silent. He was a stout fighting man, but unused to
argument.
“Well,” he said, after a long pause, “I can only hope that it will turn
out all right, and promise that if you are strangled in prison, I will
see that every slave who had a hand in it shall be strung up. I have
told Kendall frankly that if I were in his place I would not permit you
to try such a venture. However, as I could think of no other plan by
which there would be a chance of getting to the bottom of this matter,
my words had no effect with him. I should not have so much cared if the
officers of the gaol knew who you were; but I can see that if there is
treachery at work this would defeat your object altogether. What do you
suppose this rascal Greek can be intending?”
“That I cannot say, Sir John. He may be trying to get an exact plan of
the fortifications, or he may be arranging some plan of communication by
which, in case of siege, news of our condition and of the state of our
defences may be conveyed to the Turkish commander.”
By this time they had reached the port, and embarked at once on a
trading vessel belonging to one of the merchants, from whom Sir John
had readily obtained her use for a day or two. Her sails were hoisted
at once, and she rowed out from the port. Having proceeded some three
or four miles, they lowered her sails, and lay to in the course a galley
making for the port would take. A sailor was sent up to the masthead to
keep a lookout. Late in the afternoon he called down that he could make
out a black speck some twelve miles away. She carried no sails, and he
judged her to be a galley.
“It will be dark before she comes along,” Sir John Boswell said. “You
can hoist your sails, captain, and return to within half a mile of the
port, or she may pass us beyond hailing distance.”
Gervaise at once retired to the cabin that had been set aside for their
use, and proceeded to disguise himself. An hour later Sir John came
down. He looked at Gervaise critically.
“You are all right as far as appearances go. I should take you anywhere
for a young Turk. Your clothes are not too new, and are in accordance
with the tale you are going to tell, which is that you are the son of
a Syrian trader. If, as Suleiman says, you speak Turkish well enough to
pose as a native, I think you ought to be able to pass muster. How long
will that dye last? Because if it begins to fade they will soon suspect
you.”
“It will last a fortnight; at least, so Sir John Kendall says. But he
has arranged that if at the end of ten days I have not succeeded in
finding out anything, he will send down to the prison, and under the
pretence that he wants to ask me some questions about what ransom my
father would be likely to pay for me, he will have me up to the auberge,
and there I can dye myself afresh.”
“How are you to communicate with him in case of need?”
“His servant Ahmet, who got the things for me, is to come down every
morning, and to be near the door of the prison at the hour when the
slaves are taken out to work. If I have aught to communicate I am to
nod twice, and Sir John Kendall will send down that evening to fetch me,
instead of waiting until it is time for me to renew my dye.”
“What is going to be said to Harcourt and the others to account for your
absence?”
“The bailiff will merely say that he has suddenly sent me away by ship,
on a private mission. They may wonder, perhaps, but none of them will
venture to ask him its nature.”
“Well, I must say that you seem to have made all your arrangements
carefully, Tresham, and I hope it will turn out well. I was against
the scheme at first, but I own that I do not see now why it should not
succeed; and if there is any plot really on hand, you may be able to get
to the bottom of it.”
It was an hour after darkness had completely fallen when the regular
beat of oars was heard. The ship's boat was already in the water, and
Gervaise, wrapped up in his mantle, followed Sir John out of his cabin
and descended with him into the boat, which was at once rowed towards
the approaching galley. Sir John hailed it as it came along.
“Who is it calls?” a voice said.
“It is I--Sir John Boswell. Pray take me on board, Sir Almeric. It is a
somewhat special matter.”
The order was given, the galley slaves ceased rowing, and the boat ran
alongside. Gervaise unclasped his mantle and gave it to Sir John, and
then followed him on board.
“I congratulate you on your return, and on your good fortune in having,
as your letter stated, made a prosperous voyage,” Sir John said, as he
shook hands with the commander of the galley.
“I would speak a word with you aside,” he added in a low voice.
Sir Almeric moved with him a few paces from the other knights.
“I am sent here by our bailiff, Sir Almeric. I have a Turkish prisoner
here with me who is to be landed with those you have taken. There are
special reasons for this, which I need not now enter into. Will you let
him sit down here by the helm? My instructions are that he is not to
mingle with the other slaves; and as there are reasons why it is wished
that his coming on board in this manner shall not be known to them, I
myself am to take him up to one of the prisons, or at least to hand him
over to the officer sent down from that prison to take up the captives
allotted to it. The matter is of more importance than it seems to be,
or, as you may imagine, I should not be charged to intercept you on such
an errand.”
“Of course, I don't understand anything about it, Sir John, but will do
as you ask me.”
He went to where Gervaise had crouched down by the bulwark, beckoned him
to follow, and, walking aft, motioned to him to sit down there. Then
he returned to Sir John, and joined the other knights, who were all too
anxious to learn the latest news--who had left the island, and who had
come to it since they sailed--to interest themselves in any way with
the figure who had gone aft, supposing him, indeed, to be Sir John's
servant, the lantern suspended over the poop giving too feeble a light
for his costume to be noted.
A quarter of an hour later they anchored in the harbour. Some of the
knights at once went ashore to their respective auberges, but Sir
Almeric and a few others remained on board until relieved of their
charge in the morning, an account being sent on shore of the number of
captives that had been brought in. No thought was given to Gervaise, who
slept curled up on the poop. Sir John Boswell passed the night on board.
In the morning an officer came off with a list of the prisons to which
the slaves were to be sent. Sir John Kendall had seen the officer
charged with the distribution, who had, at his request, not included the
prison of St. Pelagius in the list.
A message, however, had been sent to that prison, as well as to the
others, for an officer to attend at the landing stage. In the morning
Sir John went ashore in one of the boats conveying the slaves, of whom
some forty had been captured. Gervaise followed him into the boat, and
took his seat by the others, who were too dispirited at the fate which
had befallen them to pay any attention to him.
When he landed, Sir John asked which was the officer from St. Pelagius.
One stepped forward.
“This is the only slave for you,” he said, pointing to Gervaise. “He is
of a better class than the rest, and in the future may be he will do for
a servitor at one of the auberges, but none have at present occasion for
one, and so he is to go to you. He says that his father is a merchant,
and will be ready to pay a ransom for him; but they all say that, and we
must not heed it overmuch. As he seems a smart young fellow, it may be
that he will be sent to one of the auberges later on; but at present,
at any rate, you can put him with the rest, and send him out with the
gangs.”
“He is a well built young fellow, Sir John,” the officer remarked, “and
should make a good rower in a galley. I will put him in the crew of the
St. Elmo. Follow me,” he said, in Turkish, to Gervaise, and then led the
way up to the prison. On entering he crossed a courtyard to a door which
was standing open. Within was a vaulted room, some forty feet long by
twenty wide; along each side there were rushes strewn thickly.
“The others have just started to their work,” he said, “so that for
today you can sleep.”
After he had left, Gervaise looked with some disgust at the rushes, that
had evidently been for weeks unchanged.
“I would rather have the bare stones, if they were clean,” he muttered
to himself. “However, it can't be helped.”
He presently strolled out into the courtyard, where some other slaves,
disabled by illness or injuries, were seated in the sun. Gervaise walked
across to them, and they looked listlessly up at him as he approached.
“You are a newcomer,” one said, as he came up. “I saw you brought in,
but it didn't need that. By the time you have been here a week or two,
your clothes will be like ours,” and he pointed to his ragged garments.
“When did you arrive? Are there no others coming up here?”
“The galley came in last night,” Gervaise said, “but they did not land
us until this morning. I wish they had killed me rather than that I
should have been brought here to work as a slave.”
“One always thinks so at first,” the man said. “But somehow one clings
to life. We shall die when Allah wills it, and not before.”
“What is the matter with your foot?” Gervaise asked.
“I was with the gang quarrying stones, and a mass of rock fell upon it.
I have been in the infirmary for weeks, and I own that the Christian
dogs treated me well. A slave has his value, you see. I am nearly cured
now, but I shall never walk well again. I expect they will put me in one
of their accursed galleys.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Seven years; it seems a lifetime. However, there is hope yet. They
don't tell us much, but we hear things sometimes, and they say that the
sultan is going to sweep them out of Rhodes as they were swept out of
Acre. When will it be?”
“I know not. I am from Syria, but even there they are making
preparations. The sultan has had troubles in the East, and that has
delayed him, but he will be here before long, and then we shall see. It
will be our turn then.”
“It will, indeed!” one of the others exclaimed. “Oh, to see these dogs
brought down, and suffering as we have suffered, toiling at oars in one
of our galleys, or at the fortifications of one of our castles! It will
make amends for all our suffering. Had you a hard fight with them?”
“No. We were but a small craft, and it was vain to attempt resistance. I
would gladly have fought, but the sailors said it would only throw away
their lives. There was but little on board, and they allowed the vessel
to go free with those of the sailors who were too old to be made useful
for hard work.”
No further questions were asked. The men seemed to have no interest save
in their own misery, and Gervaise soon left them, and, sitting down in a
shady corner, presently dropped off to sleep.
In the evening all came in from their various work. The officer man who
had brought Gervaise in went up to the overseer of the galley slaves
and informed him that he had told off the new slave--pointing to
Gervaise--to his gang.
“He was brought in by the galley that arrived last night,” he said; “he
was the only slave sent up here. I hear that he had been set aside to be
appointed a servitor, but there are no vacancies, so they sent him here
till one should occur; and I was ordered to make him useful in other
ways in the meantime.”
“I am two or three hands short,” the overseer said. “I wish now I had
sent in an application yesterday, for if I had done so, no doubt they
would have sent me some more men. However, this fellow will make up an
even number, and he is strong and active, though at present he looks
sulky enough under his bad fortune.”
A few of the slaves spoke to Gervaise as they were waiting for food to
be brought them, but the majority dropped upon the rushes, too exhausted
with toil and heat to feel an interest in anything. The food consisted
of rye bread, with thin broth, brought in a great iron vessel. Each
slave had a horn, which was used for soup or water, and which, when done
with, he had, by the rule enforced among themselves, to take out to the
fountain in the courtyard and wash, before it was added to the pile in
the corner of the room.
The cool of the evening aided the meal in restoring the energies of the
slaves. Several gathered round Gervaise, and asked questions as to what
he knew of the prospects of an early invasion of Rhodes; but as soon as
the officer left the room, closing and locking the door after him,
the slaves became for the most part silent. A few men sat in groups
together, talking in undertones, but the greater number threw themselves
down on the rushes, either to sleep or to think alone. Gervaise was
struck by the manner in which most of them lay, without making the
slightest movement, so long as there was light to enable him to make out
their figures. He himself addressed two or three of them, as they lay
with their eyes wide open, asking questions with reference to the work;
but in no case did he receive any reply. The men seemed altogether
unconscious of being addressed, being absorbed in the thought of their
far distant homes and families which they might never see again.
Gervaise walked a few times up and down the room, and as he approached
a silence fell each time upon the groups of men talking together. More
than once a figure rose soon afterwards from the ground, and, as he came
along again, asked him a few questions about himself. As soon as it was
dark, he lay down in a vacant space on the rushes. Shortly afterwards
talking ceased altogether, and there was quiet in the vaulted room. With
the first gleam of daylight they were astir, and, when the doors were
opened, poured out into the courtyard, where all had a wash at the
fountain. Half an hour later, a meal, precisely similar to that of the
previous evening, was served out; then the overseers called over the
muster roll, the gangs were made up, and each, under its officer,
started for its work.
Gervaise, with the men of his room, proceeded down to the port, and
at once took their seats on the benches of the galley, one foot being
chained to a ring in the deck, the other to that of a companion at the
oar. The slaves were more cheerful now. As there was no work to do at
present, they were allowed to talk, and an occasional laugh was heard,
for the sun and brightness of the day cheered them. Many, after years
of captivity, had grown altogether reckless, and it was among these
that there was most talking; the younger men seemed, for the most part,
silent and moody.
“You will get accustomed to it,” the man next to Gervaise said
cheeringly. “When I first came here, it seemed to me that I could not
support the life for a month--that the fate was too dreadful to be
borne, and that death would be most welcome; but, like the rest, I
became accustomed to it in time. After all, the work is no harder than
one would do at home. There is no stint of food, and it is no worse than
one would have, were one labouring in the fields. Were it not for the
loss of those we love, it would be nothing; and in time one gets over
even that. I have long ago told myself that if they are not dead, at
least they are dead to me. They have their livings to get, and cannot
be always mourning, and I have tried to forget them, as they must have
forgotten me.”
“Do you work hard?” Gervaise asked.
“No. We who are in the galleys are regarded by the others with envy.
Sometimes--often, indeed--we have naught to do all day. We bask in the
sun, we talk, we sleep, we forget that we are slaves. But, generally, we
go out for an hour or two's exercise; that is well enough, and keeps us
strong and in health. Only when we are away on voyages is the work hard.
Sometimes we row from morning to night; but it is only when they are in
chase of another craft that we have really to exert ourselves greatly.
Then it is terrible. We may be doing our best, our very best, and yet to
the impatient knights it seems that we might do more. Then they shout to
the overseer, and he lays his whip on our backs without mercy. Then we
row until sometimes we drop, senseless, off the benches. But this, you
understand, is not very often; and though the work on a cruise is long,
it is not beyond our strength. Besides, when we are away in the galley
there is always hope. The galley may meet with four or five of our
ships, and be captured, or a storm may arise and dash her upon the
shore; and though many would lose their lives, some might escape,
and each man, in thinking of it, believes that he will be one of the
fortunate ones.
“Take my advice: always look cheerful if you can; always put your hand
on the oar when the order is given, and row as if you were glad to be at
work again; and always make a show, as if you were working your
hardest. Never complain when you are struck unjustly, and always speak
respectfully to the overseer. In that way you will find your life much
easier than you would think. You will be chosen for small boat service;
and that is a great thing, as we are not chained in the small boats.
Some men are foolish and obstinate, but, so far from doing any good,
this only brings trouble on themselves; they come in for punishment
daily, they are closely watched, and their lives made hells for them.
Even as a help to escape it pays best to be cheerful and alert. We all
think of escape, you know, though it is seldom indeed that a chance ever
comes to any of us. It is the one thing except death to look forward to,
and there is not a man among us who does not think of it scores of times
a day; but, small as the chance is, it is greatest for those who behave
best. For instance, it is they only who man small boats; and when a
small boat rows ashore, it is always possible that the guard may be
careless--that he will keep the boat at the landing place, instead of
pushing off at once into deep water, as he ought to do--and that in this
way a chance will, sooner or later, come for springing ashore and making
a dash for liberty.”