CHAPTER XI
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
Nicholas waited there for perhaps a minute, while the Mainats swarmedup and formed in lines on the broad-terraced wall. He had mounted tothe zenith of his life, the glorious visionary noon of his hopes washis, the work of years crowned, and the foul disgrace of the week ofwaiting 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, andwith his own hand drew back the bolts and flung it open. The Arcadiancorps opposite had seen the flag wave on the tower and poured in,sweeping the Mainats along with them up the main street of the lowertown.
A pack of wolves Penelope had called them--aye, and the wolves werehungry. Six months' waiting in inaction, all trust in their captainsgone, and the treacherous marketing of the captains gone likewise! Thesoldiers knew that for days past promises of protection had flowed inon the besieged, and signed papers promising to pay king's ransoms hadcome out; but there was little chance now of these ransoms going wherethey were promised. The soldiers would have a hand in that promisedgold, it was their hour now; the captains might flourish their infamouspaper bargains; let them, if they could, protect their pashas, and letthem collect their rewards from those who spoiled the palaces.
There was such order in the ranks as the water of a river in floodobserves when it has broken its banks; among the besieged suchresistance as sticks and straws show when the torrent catches them.Close on the heels of the regular troops fighting to gain an entrancecame the mob of peasants, the scavengers of the siege, who had comefor the pickings. The troops thrust them back till they had themselvesgot in; some were ground against the walls, some thrown under foot inthe narrow gateways and trodden by the heels of the advancing columns.Once inside, each man went where he willed or where the stream ofmen bore him, most of them making for the large houses stood roundthe square, where the richest booty was expected. Close above stoodthe citadel, with empty-mouthed guns pointing this way and that, butsilent, and if those months had been roaring with an iron death nonewould have regarded. Petrobey, who had joined the Mainats, wondered atthis; the Turks, he thought, might at least sell their lives as dear asthey could, but the reason was not known till three days later, whenthe citadel fell. All thoughts of discipline or order were out of thequestion; 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 thenorth side of the town provisions were being conveyed over the wallseven while at the Argos gate the flag of Greece was flying. The hoarseroar of crowds came to the servants of Mehemet Salik as they werereturning to the house with meat and bread. There was no mistaking thatsound, and they dropped whatever they had and fled home for refuge,only to find the women of the harem and the other servants streamingout to seek escape. The long-delayed day had come, the stronghold andcentre of the Turkish power was in the hands of those who had beenslaves so long, and each link of the chains that had held them wasbroken by another and another Turk stabbed, shot, or trampled to death.The Mainat corps gained the square first and cut into the mob escapingfrom Mehemet's house, and a lane of blood and bodies marked theirmarch. Mehemet and a few soldiers had barricaded themselves in an upperstory and fired a few shots at the men at the rear of the column, whopressed forward unable to get in; but in ten seconds the foremost menhad passed up the stairs, broken through the barricaded doors, and wereon them. As was their wont, they fought in silence, and for the mostpart 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 hoarseroar outside. Yanni, who was among the first, forced his way to whereMehemet was standing, still pale and unconcerned, defending himselfdesperately, and as if introducing himself:
"He who was to serve in your harem!" he cried, and stabbed him to theheart.
Here and there in the streets a group of Turks collected, but the waveof men passed over them, leaving naught but wreckage behind, and othersran up to the citadel gates, where they beat on the door demandingadmittance. But before the gates could be opened the Mainats, who hadfinished their work at Mehemet's, were on them, as they stood closepressed, men and women together, in a living wall. For an hour thatpiece of shambles-work lasted; they met resistance, for the Turks werenot lacking in courage, and when it was over, and the living wallwas only a tumbled pile of death, they went back, still silent andstern-featured, but leaving some thirty or forty of their clan behindthem, whose death they were going to avenge.
Meantime the Albanian mercenaries, who had concluded a truce with theGreeks, hearing the tumult begin, formed under arms in the immensecourt-yard of the palace of Elmar Bey, their commander, prepared, ifthe Greeks attempted to violate their conditions, to charge--and witha fair chance of success--this disorganized rabble, and cut their waythrough. The mob was swarming outside the iron-barred gate, and somewere even attempting to break it in, when Anagnostes, who was amongthem and saw the danger, struggled up to the gate, and by his immensepersonal strength pushed away the Greeks who were trying to forceit. One man, thinking that there was some vast treasure within, andthat Anagnostes had made an agreement by which it should be guardedfor him, ran at him with a drawn sword, crying "Treachery!" and theother lifting his pistol calmly shot him dead. For a few moments hislife hung on a thread, but he succeeded in making the men nearesthim understand that inside were the Albanians, who had made a truceand only desired to leave the town; and forming a certain number ofmen across the street to stop the mob, secured a clear space for theAlbanians to march out. Thence they went straight down the road to theArgos gate, round which lay the poorer quarter of the town, by thistime almost entirely deserted by the Greek troops, though the hordesof peasants were swarming into the houses to secure all they could layhands on, and then out of the town, where they took up their quartersin the deserted camp at Trikorpha, whence they watched the destructionof the city, and from there on the seventh day marched north to theGulf of Corinth, took ship across the Gulf, and at length reached theirmountain homes in safety.
The house of Abdul Achmet, where Suleima lived, was near the westerngate of the city, opposite to which were stationed the Argive corps.Though the Greek troops there could not see across the houses to thegate where the flag was flying, they heard the tumult of shouts andfiring begin, they saw the sentries on the gate turn and fly, andwithout waiting for news or instructions they assaulted the gate andtried to force it. But it held firm against their attack, and they hadto blow out the staples of the bolts before they could get in. The mainstreet up towards the square lay straight before them, and they pouredup it to where they could see the crowds battering at the houses,killing all the Turks, men, women, and children, whom they met flyingaway. Among the foremost was Father Andrea, a priest of the Prince ofPeace no more, but a fury of hatred. In ten minutes his long, two-edgedknife was red from point to hilt, and as he dealt death to the massesof 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 littledoor opening from Abdul Achmet's house below the harem window, a Turkwhom he had charged attacked him, evading his upraised knife, andknocked him over, only to find death two yards off. Andrea hit his headagainst the curbstone of the pavement, lay there for a few momentsstunned, and came to himself with the world spinning round him. He roseand staggered out of the blinding sunshine into a cool, dark doorway,some yards down the street, to recover himself a little and to stanchthe blood which was flowing from his head; but his knife, which hadbeen struck from his hand, he picked up and carried with him.
Meantime Suleima, from the latticed window, had seen the charge of theArgives, 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 theservants seemed to have fled too. Some of the women were for followingtheir example and trying to escape to the western gate, which w
as onlytwo hundred yards off, as soon as the road was more clear; otherswere for climbing up to the roof, and hiding themselves there; othersfor shutting themselves into some small chamber in the house, hopingthey would not be discovered. At length, amid an infinity of wailingclatter, they agreed on this, and Suleima, obedient to Penelope'sinstructions, waited among the hindermost, and then turned to slipdown-stairs and out. Zuleika saw her and cried to her to come back,then seemed disposed to follow herself, but Suleima heard her not, andglided down the stairs like a ghost. On the first landing she stoppedfor a moment and took the veil off her face; her black hair streameddown over, her shoulders reaching to her waist, and she tied it up ina 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 hadshe known so warm a bravery, for when she was out in the boat withMitsos, or returning to the house after one of those excursions, shehad trembled with fright lest she should be discovered, and all thislast week she had had sudden qualms and shiverings of terror at thethought of the innumerable dangers that lay before her. But now thatthe time had come she slipped down the stairs as calmly as she wentto her bed or her bath; she thought of herself no longer, but of theunborn babe she carried. A moment's faltering, a babbling word wherea firm one was wanted, would be death to that which was dearer to herthan herself, and she hastened to the doorway, and seeing that the sidestreet seemed deserted, slipped out, strong in the strength that is theoffspring of the protective instinct for that which is as intimatelydear as self, and dearer in that it is not self, which only women canknow. That day saw many bloody and cruel acts, and many cowardly andcraven things, and perhaps only one deed of instinctive, unconsciousheroism, and that was Suleima's sublime attempt to save the child ofhim she loved.
As she opened the door, the roar of death and murder rose like the roarof the sea, and yet the dread of loneliness to one bred in a chatteringharem was hardly less terrible. Whither should she go on her desperateattempt? Looking up the street to the main road leading to the square,there suddenly came into sight a woman running distractedly with shrillcries towards the western gate, and, even as she passed, a Greek comingup from the opposite direction ran her through the body, and wipinghis sword on her dress, passed on. Cold fear rushed like a river roundher heart, yet she would not give it admittance. She must be brave;she would be brave. There was no safety within, that was sure; amongthe rest of the Turkish women how should she be spared? To the southa column of black smoke rose from a quarter already burning; flameand sword were around her. Then for fear she should lose her couragealtogether if she delayed, she drew one deep breath and stepped outinto the street, terrible to her in its emptiness, more terrible stillin 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 doorwayFather Andrea, only thirty yards off, got up with a heart that was onered flame of anger. He had wrapped a rough bandage round his bleedingtemple, 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, theywere all one accursed brood. With this thought whirling in his brainlike some mad, dervis thing he looked down the street and saw a Turkishwoman 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 ofyour blood!" And seeing by the long, black robe and hair that streamedover his shoulders that he was a priest, "Save me, father!" she criedagain, "I am of your blood!"
"Mother of devils! mother of devils!" muttered Andrea; but then stoppedsuddenly, with arm uplifted, not ten yards off, for over his wild brainthere came the astonished thought that she had spoken Greek. At thesight of that red knife, and at those fierce words, Suleima uttered alittle low cry of despair; but in a moment her strength came back toher redoubled, and she flung aside her bernouse, showing the lines ofher figure.
"Would you slay me, father?" she cried again, "I who am of your blood?and see, I am with child!"
Father Andrea paused, stricken out of thought for a moment, and wipedhis blade against his cassock. "Greek, she is Greek," he said tohimself, "yet from the house of the Turk."
Suleima stood as still as a marble statue and as white. The blackbernouse had fallen to the ground, and her silk robe flowed looselyround 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, orit may be twelve. Take me away, father, out of this horrible town."
The two were standing close together in the deserted street. From abovecame the wails of women, for the Greeks had forced their way throughthe door in the main street into Abdul Achmet's house, and from thesquare roared the mob. Andrea looked at her in silence for a moment,his brows knitted into a frown, his brain one mill-race of thought,suggesting a possibility beyond the bounds of possibility. At length hespoke to her again, wondering at himself.
"I will save you, my daughter," he said; and as the words passed hislips his heart throbbed almost to bursting. "Quick! come with me! Ah,wait a moment!"
And he thrust her back gently into the doorway out of which she hadcome, while a mob of his countrymen poured by the opening into the mainstreet.
When they had passed he turned to her again.
"Come with me now," he said, making her take his arm, "and come asquickly as you can. Pray to God without ceasing that we get out safe. Iam too bloody to pray."
Once more before they reached the main street they had to hide in thedoorway where Father Andrea had sat, and, waiting there, he suddenlyturned and took her hands, and with his soul in his eyes looked at herin dumb, agonized appeal. Suleima met his gaze directly and returnedthe 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, intime to get out before another band of men streamed down from themountains round. Father Andrea took her to his hut and bade her waitthere for him while he went and got a pony, for she was in no state towalk. All thought was drowned in one possibility, and without speakingto her again he placed her very gently on the beast, and, taking therope-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 questionthis strange pair, and they plodded across the plain and stopped not,neither spoke, till Tripoli had sunk behind the first range of the lowhills which lay spread round Mount Parthenius. There he led the ponyoff the path and left her in a shady hollow, while he went on to thevillage 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 wasto get her safe to Nauplia.
Only once on that ride had Suleima spoken, and that when they struckthe road.
"We are going to Nauplia?" she asked, with a sudden upspringing of hopein her heart.
"To Nauplia, my daughter," said Andrea. "Speak no more till we talktogether."
"But father, father," she cried, "tell me one thing. Where is Mitsos?Oh, take me to Mitsos."
"Mitsos, Mitsos?" said Andrea.
"Yes, the tall Mitsos, who lives in that house near the bay."
Father Andrea stopped.
"What do you know of Mitsos?" he said, almost fiercely, and as thegirl'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 onthe hill-side.
"O God, O merciful and loving One," he cried, in an agony ofsupplication; "if this be possible, if this be possible, for to Theeall 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 herdaughter 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 herstrength 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 atlast, getting it more in control:
"My daughter," he said, "we will rest here a little until the noon heatis past. And--and, for the love of God, answer me a few questions. Whenwas it you were taken to the house of the Turk?"
His anxiety made his voice harsh and fierce, and the girl shrank fromhim. 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 verywell 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 sleepa little, and when I wake up I will think and tell you all I know. Youhave been very kind to me."
And she dozed off and slept without moving for near an hour, withAndrea sitting by her. Then she stirred in her sleep, and withoutopening her eyes shifted her head so that it rested on his knee, and soslept again.
At last she woke, and seeing him above her, sat up.
"Has Mitsos come?" she asked. "Will he come soon? I have slept sowell," and she smiled at him like a child for no reason except that shesmiled.
"You were asking me--" she said, at length.
"Yes, yes," said Andrea.
"It is so little I remember," she said; "I was so young. But it wasnear Athens somewhere, and on a journey with my father, that I wascarried off to the house of Abdul Achmet."
"Abdul Achmet?" whispered Andrea.
"Yes, Abdul Achmet. He lived in Athens then; he moved to Naupliaafterwards. It was in the summer, too, I remember that, and that I waswith my father."
She had sunk down again with her head on his knee, but here she raisedherself on her elbow and looked at him.
"He was a priest--yes, he must have been a priest, for he had longblack robes and long hair; only his hair was black, not gray, likeyours. Ah--"
Then to Andrea the blessed relief of tears came--the great sobs thatcome from a man's heart--a pain and an exquisite happiness; and liftingher closer to him, he kissed her.
"Theodora," he cried, "little lost one. Ah, ah, merciful andcompassionate God. Do you not remember, my little one? Do you not know?Your father--am I not he whom you called 'father' as soon as you sawme? God put that word in your mouth, my darling. God sent me to fetchyou; and I who would have murdered you--O blessed Mother of compassionand sorrows--I--Theodora, Theodora--the gift of God."
Thus spoke they together, with many questions and answerings, tillAndrea was certain and content.