The Vintage/Part 3/Chapter 11

by Edward Frederic Benson

CHAPTER XI

FATHER AND DAUGHTER

Nicholas waited there for perhaps a minute, while the Mainats swarmed up and formed in lines on the broad-terraced wall. He had mounted to the zenith of his life, the glorious visionary noon of his hopes was his, the work of years crowned, and the foul disgrace of the week of waiting over. When forty men or so had joined him he bade them follow, and, falling on the guards at the gate, forced his way through, and with his own hand drew back the bolts and flung it open. The Arcadian corps opposite had seen the flag wave on the tower and poured in, sweeping the Mainats along with them up the main street of the lower town.

A pack of wolves Penelope had called them—aye, and the wolves were hungry. Six months' waiting in inaction, all trust in their captains gone, and the treacherous marketing of the captains gone likewise! The soldiers knew that for days past promises of protection had flowed in on the besieged, and signed papers promising to pay king's ransoms had come out; but there was little chance now of these ransoms going where they were promised. The soldiers would have a hand in that promised gold, it was their hour now; the captains might flourish their infamous paper bargains; let them, if thay could, protect their pashas, and let them collect their rewards from those who spoiled the palaces.

There was such order in the ranks as the water of a river in flood observes when it has broken its banks; among the besieged such resistance as sticks and straws show when the torrent catches them. Close on the heels of the regular troops fighting to gain an entrance came the mob of peasants, the scavengers of the siege, who had come for the pickings. The troops thrust them back till they had themselves got in; some were ground against the walls, some thrown under foot in the narrow gateways and trodden by the heels of the advancing columns. Once inside, each man went where he willed or where the stream of men bore him, most of them making for the large houses stood round the square, where the richest booty was expected. Close above stood the citadel, with empty-monthed guns pointing this way and that, but silent, and if those mouths had been roaring with an iron death none would have regarded. Petrobey, who had joined the Mainats, wondered at this; the Turks, he thought, might at least sell their lives as dear as they could, but the reason was not known till three days later, when the citadel fell. All thoughts of discipline or order were out of the question; he was jostled along with the others; he was one among many, and all were equal, and each was a wild animal.

The attack had been utterly unexpected by the besieged, and on the north side of the town provisions were being conveyed over the walls even while at the Argos gate the flag of Greece was flying. The hoarse roar of crowds came to the servants of Mehemet Salik as they were returning to the house with meat and bread. There was no mistaking that sound, and they dropped whatever they had and fled home for refuge, only to find the women of the harem and the other servants streaming out to seek escape. The long-delayed day had come, the stronghold and centre of the Turkish power was in the hands of those who had been slaves so long, and each link of the chains that had held them was broken by another and another Turk stabbed, shot, or trampled to death. The Mainat corps gained the square first and cut into the mob escaping from Mehemet's house, and a lane of blood and bodies marked their march. Mehemet and a few soldiers had barricaded themselves in an upper story and fired a few shots at the men at the rear of the column, who pressed forward unable to get in; but in ten seconds the foremost men had passed up the stairs, broken through the barricaded doors, and were on them. As was their wont, they fought in silence, and for the most part with knives only, and inside the room only the trampling of feet, short gasps, and a sharp cry or two were heard against that long hoarse roar outside. Yanni, who was among the first, forced his way to where Mehemet was standing, still pale and unconcerned, defending himself desperately, and as if introducing himself:

"He who was to serve in your harem!" he cried, and stabbed him to the heart.

Here and there in the streets a group of Turks collected, but the wave of men passed over them, leaving naught but wreckage behind, and others ran up to the citadel gates, where they beat on the door demanding admittance. But before the gates could be opened the Mainats, who had finished their work at Mehemet's, were on them, as they stood close pressed, men and women together, in a living wall. For an hour that piece of shambles-work lasted; they met resistance, for the Turks were not lacking in courage, and when it was over, and the living wall was only a tumbled pile of death, they went back, still silent and stern-featured, but leaving some thirty or forty of their clan behind them, whose death they were going to avenge.

Meantime the Albanian mercenaries, who had concluded a truce with the Greeks, hearing the tumult begin, formed under arms in the immense court-yard of the palace of Elmar Bey, their commander, prepared, if the Greeks attempted to violate their conditions, to charge—and with a fair chance of success—this disorganized rable, and cut their way through. The mob was swarming outside the iron-barred gate, and some were even attempting to break it in, when Anagnostes, who was among them and saw the danger, struggled up to the gate, and by his immense personal strength pushed away the Greeks who were trying to force it. One man, thinking that there was some vast treasure within, and that Anagnostes had made an agreement by which it should be guarded for him, ran at him with a drawn sword, crying "Treachery!" and the other lifting his pistol calmly shot him dead. For a few moments his life hung on a thread, but he succeeded in making the men nearest him understand that inside were the Albanians, who had made a truce and only desired to leave the town; and forming a certain number of men across the street to stop the mob, secured a clear space for the Albanians to march out. Thence they went straight down the road to the Argos gate, round which lay the poorer quarter of the town, by this time almost entirely deserted by the Greek troops, thongh the hordes of peasants were swarming inte the houses to secure all they could lay hands on, and then out of the town, where they took up their quarters in the deserted camp at Trikorpha, whence they watched the destruction of the city, and from there on the seventh day marched north to the Gulf of Corinth, took ship across the Gulf, and at length reached their mountain homes in safety.

The house of Abdul Achmet, where Suleima lived, was near the western gate of the city, opposite to which were stationed the Argive corps. Though the Greek troops there could not see across the houses to the gate where the flag was flying, they heard the tumult of shouts and firing begin, they saw the sentries on the gate turn and fly, and without waiting for news or instructions they assaulted the gate and tried to force it. But it held firm against their attack, and they had to blow out the staples of the bolts before they could get in. The main street up towards the square lay straight before them, and they poured up it to where they could see the crowds battering at the houses, killing all the Turks, men, women, and children, whom they met flying away. Among the foremost was Father Andréa, a priest of the Prince of Peace no more, but a fury of hatred. In ten minutes his long, two-edged knife was red from point to hilt, and as he dealt death to the masses of refugees one sentence came from his mouth, "The sword of the Lord!" But just at the corner, where the side street ran down to the little door opening from Abdul Achmet's house below the harem window, a Turk whom he had charged attacked him, evading his upraised knife, and knocked him over, only to find death two yards off. Andréa hit his head against the curbstone of the pavement, lay there for a few moments stunned, and came to himself with the world spinning round him. He rose and staggered out of the blinding sunshine into a cool, dark doorway, some yards down the street, to recover himself a little and to stanch the blood which was flowing from his head; but his knife, which had been struck from his hand, he picked up and carried with him.

Meantime Suleima, from the latticed window, had seen the charge of the Argives, and the terrified women, calling on Allah and the Prophet, ran trembling and sobbing about like frightened birds caught in a net. Abdul did not appear; he had probably run from the house, and the servants seemed to have fled too. Some of the women were for following their example and trying to escape to the western gate, which was only two hundred yards off, as soon as the road was more clear; others were for climbing up to the roof, and hiding themselves there; others for shutting themselves into some small chamber in the house, hoping they would not be discovered. At length, amid an infinity of wailing clatter, they agreed on this, and Suleima, obedient to Penelope's instructions, waited among the hindermost, and then turned to slip down-stairs and out. Zuleika saw her and cried to her to come back, then seemed disposed to follow herself, but Suleima heard her not, and glided down the stairs like a ghost. On the first landing she stopped for a moment and took the veil off her face; her black hair streamed down over her shoulders reaching to her waist, and she tied it up in a great knot behind her head. Then she wrapped her bernouse round her, and waited a moment till she was certain that none were following her. A strange new courage made steel of her muscles; never in her life had she known so warm a bravery, for when she was out in the boat with Mitsos, or returning to the honse after one of those excursions, she had trembled with fright lest she should be discovered, and all this last weck she had had sudden qualms and shiverings of terror at the thought of the innumerable dangers that lay before her. But now that the time had come she slipped down the stairs as calmly as she went to her bed or her bath; she thought of herself no longer, but of the unborn babe she carried. A moment's faltering, a babbling word where a firm one was wanted, would be death to that which was dearer to her than herself, and she hastened to the doorway, and seeing that the side street seemed deserted, slipped out, strong in the strength that is the offspring of the protective instinct for that which is as intimately dear as self, and dearer in that it is not self, which only women can know. That day saw many bloody and cruel acts, and many cowardly and craven things, and perhaps only one deed of instinctive, unconscious heroism, and that was Suleima's sublime attempt to save the child of him she loved.

As she opened the door, the roar of death and murder rose like the rear of the sea, and yet the dread of loneliness to one bred in a chattering harem was hardly less terrible. Whither should she go on her desperate attempt? Looking up the street to the main read leading to the square, there suddenly came into sight a woman running distractedly with shrill cries towards the western gate, and, even as she passed, a Greek coming up from the opposite direction ran her throngh the body, and wiping his sword on her dress, passed on. Cold fear rushed like a river round her heart, yet she would not give it admittance. She must be brave; she would be brave. There was no safety within, that was sure; among the rest of the Turkish women how should she be spared? To the south a column of black smoke rose from a quarter already burning; flame and sword were around her. Then for fear she should lose her courage altogether if she delayed, she drew one deep breath and stepped out into the street, terrible to her in its emptiness, more terrible still in the thought that at any moment it might sing and roar with death.

Now it was so that the moment after Suleima stepped out of the doorway Father Andréa, only thirty yards off, got up with a heart that was one red flame of anger. He had wrapped a rough bandage round his bleeding temple, and that blow had stung him to madness, while in his hand, so thought the wild, revengeful man, he held the sword of the Lord, dripping with the blood of the ungodly. Man, woman, and child, they were all one accursèd brood. With this thought whirling in his brain like some mad, dervis thing he looked down the street and saw a Turkish woman walking towards him, and "The sword of the Lord!" he cried again.

The woman fled not, but ran towards him, crying out "Save me; I am of your blood!" And seeing by the long, black robe and hair that streamed over his shoulders that he was a priest, "Save me, father!" she cried again, "I am of your blood!"

"Mother of devils! mother of devils!" muttered Andréa; but then stopped suddenly, with arm uplifted, not ten yards off, for over his wild brain there came the astonished thought that she had spoken Greek. At the sight of that red knife, and at those fierce wards, Suleima uttered little low ery of despair; but in a moment her strength came back to her redoubled, and she flung aside her bernouse, showing the lines of her figure.

"Would you slay me, father?" she cried again, "I who am of your blood? and see, I am with child!"

Father Andréa paused, stricken out of thought for a moment, and wiped his blade against his cassock. "Greek, she is Greek," he said to himself, "yet from the house of the Turk."

Suleima stood as still as a marble statue and as white. The black bernouse had fallen to the ground, and her silk robe flowed loosely round her figure. He moved a step nearer.

"You are Greek," he said to her. "How came you here?"

"I know not," said Suleima. "I was taken by the Turks ten years ago, or it may be twelve. Take me away, father, out of this horrible town."

The two were standing close together in the deserted street. From above came the wails of women, for the Greeks had forced their way through the door in the main street into Abdul Achmet's house, and from the square roared the mob. Andréa looked at her in silence for a moment, his brows knitted inte a frown, his brain one mill-race of thought, suggesting a possibility beyond the bounds of possibility. At length he spoke to her again, wondering at himself.

"I will save you, my daughter," he said; and as the words passed his lips his heart throbbed almost to burstimg. "Quick! come with me! Ah, wait a moment!"

And he thrust her back gently into the doorway out of which she had come, while a mob of his countrymen poured by the opening into the main street.

When they had passed he turned to her again.

"Come with me now," he said, making her take his arm, "and come as quickly as you can. Pray to God without ceasing that we get out safe. I am too bloody to pray."

Once more before they reached the main street they had to hide in the doorway where Father Andréa had sat, and, waiting there, he suddenly turned and took her hands, and with his soul in his eyes looked at her in dumb, agonized appeal. Suleima met his gaze directly end returned the pressure of his hands.

"'WOULD YOU SLAY ME FATHER?" SHE CRIED AGAIN."

"You will save me, father?" she said again.

"I will save you," he replied; "in the name of God, I will save you! Come again on; the mob has gone by."

They hurried on towards the western gate, he half carrying her, in time to get out before another band of men streamed down from the mountains round. Father Andréa took her to his hut and bade her wait there for him while he went and got a pony, for she was in no state to walk. All thought was drowned in one possibility, and without speaking to her again he placed her very gently on the beast, and, taking the rope-rein in his hand, led it along onto the road to Argos and Nauplia. The camp was absolutely empty, and there were none to stop or question this strange pair, and they plodded across the plain and stopped not, neither spoke, till Tripoli had sunk behind the first range of the low hills which lay spread round Mount Parthenius. There he led the pony off the path and left her in a shady hollow, while he went on to the village of Doliana, half a mile away, to get food and drink for her. Her time, he knew, must be very near at hand, and his one thought was to get her safe to Nauplia.

Only once on that ride had Suleima spoken, and that when they struck the road.

"We are going to Nauplia?" she asked, with a sudden upspringing of hope in her heart.

"To Nauplia, my daughter," said Andréa, "Speak no more till we talk together."

"But father, father," she cried, "tell me one thing. Where is Mitsos? Oh, take me to Mitsos."

"Mitsos, Mitsos?" said Andréa.

"Yes, the tall Mitsos, who lives in that honse near the bay."

Father Andréa stopped.

"What do you know of Mitsos?" he said, almost fiercely, and as the girl's tears answered him, he bowed his head in amazed wonder.

As soon as he had left her there and was out of sight he knelt down on the hill-side.

"O God, O merciful and loving One," he cried, in an agony of supplication; "if this be possible, if this be possible, for to Thee all things are possible! Did she not speak to me and call me 'father'? Oh, in Thy infinite compassion let her word be true! Did I not call her daughter while my heart burned within me? O merciful and loving One!"

He found Suleima where he had left her and the food and wine made her strength revive. When she had finished he came and sat by her.

His voice trembled so that at first he could not form the words, but at last, getting it more in control:

"My daughter," he said, "we will rest here a little until the noon heat is past. And—and, for the love of God, answer me a few questions. When was it you were taken to the house of the Turk?"

His anxiety made his voice harsh and fierce, and the girl shrank from him. He saw it, and it cut him to the heart.

"Ah, my poor lamb!" he said, "have pity on me and answer me."

"It was ten years ago," said Suleima, "or perhaps twelve. I do not very well know."

"Can you remember anything about it?"

Suleima shook her head wearily:

"I do not know; I was so young. And I am so tired, father. Let me sleep a little, and when I wake up I will think and tell you all I know. You have been very kind to me."

And she dozed off and slept without moving for near an hour, with Andréa sitting by her. Then she stirred in her sleep, and without opening her eyes shifted her head so that it rested on his knee, and so slept again.

At last she woke, and seeing him above her, sat up.

"Has Mitsos come?" she asked. "Will he come soon? I have slept so well," and she smiled at him like a child for no reason except that she smiled.

"You were asking me—" she said, at length.

"Yes, yes," said Andréa.

"It is so little I remember," she said; "I was so young. But it was near Athens somewhere, and on a journey with my father, that I was carried off to the house of Abdul Achmet."

"Abdul Achmet?" whispered Andréa.

"Yes, Abdul Achmet. He lived in Athens then; he moved to Nauplia afterwards. It was in the summer, too, I remember that, and that I was with my father."

She had sunk down again with her head on his knee, but here she raised herself on her elbow and looked at him.

"He was a priest—yes, he must have been a priest, for he had long black robes and long hair; only his hair was black, not gray, like yours. Ah—"

Then to Andréa the blessed relief of tears came—the great sobs that come from a man's heart—a pain and an exquisite happiness; and lifting her closer to him, he kissed her.

"Theodora," he cried, "little last one. Ah, ah, merciful and compassionate God. Do you not remember, my little one? Do you not know? Your father—am I not he whom you culled 'father' as soon as you saw me? God put that word in your mouth, my darling. God sent me to fetch you; and I who would have murdered you—O blessed Mother of compassion and sorrows—I—Theodora, Theodora—the gift of God."

Thus spoke they together, with many questions and answerings, till Andréa was certain and content.