Эдвард Бенсон
The Vintage: A Romance of the Greek War of Independence

There was a dead silence. Germanos sat voiceless, with his eyes on the floor.

"If he is thinking over the evidence in his mind," said Nicholas, "fitting it together as a witness and an accuser should, let him say so, and I will wait."

Still there was silence, and Germanos, still proud and full of hate, sat there without speech.

"So it is even as I told you," said Nicholas; "and these are malicious and lying words he has spoken against me. I am a man easily provoked, and, to my shame I speak it, one to whom forgiveness is a hard matter; but that, or so I think it, is a thing for which I ask pardon, not of man, but of God. Here, in this assembly, I have been accused of the blackest offences; but the accusation was blacker still, for it was the fruit of malice and falsehood. This is no matter for words of regret from one or of pardon from the other, for there is in my heart no pardon, and in his, I am very sure, no regret. Yet can I rid myself of the need of either? My heart is sick of intrigue and dissension, accusation and slander answering accusation, and I will have no more of them. As I stand in the presence of God I have only one thought, and that is the freedom of my country, and I do not serve it by spending my time throwing words at men whose salt I would not eat. It is not so very long since another said his voice would be heard no more here, yet since then it has not been silent. To-day those words are mine; but, before I go, one word. For the love of God, if any who sit here suspect me of treachery, treason, or any of those things of which I have been accused, as he hopes to be forgiven at the last day, let him stand out and say so."

Once again there was a dead silence, and Nicholas's face brightened, for the silence was sweet to him.

"So be it," he said, at length. "I go hence untouched by slander."

Then unbuckling his sword, he laid it on the table in front of the prince.

"My seat in the senate, sir, I resign," he said; "my commission as an officer I resign also. By birth I am a Mainat, and with your highness's permission I wish to be enrolled among the private soldiers of the corps."

Then turning to Petrobey:

"Old friend," he said, "once more we are together in the clan."

And with a step as light as a boy's, and a heart springing upward like a lark, rid at last of the burden of personal ambition, he left the room and went straight to where the corps were quartered.

Nicholas found Mitsos and Yanni sitting on the wall of the camp near the Mainat quarters, lecturing a small audience on the use and abuse of fire-ships, for another attempt had been made on a vessel of the cruising Turkish squadron, with the result of first half-roasting its navigator and then completely drowning him; but the men seeing an officer approach got up and saluted.

Nicholas, still with a singing heart, told them to be seated, and, lighting a pipe, drew in the smoke in long, contented breaths.

"This is the first tobacco I have enjoyed since we came here," he said, "for tobacco is tasted by the heart. Never again, lads, need you jump up when I come, for I am no longer an officer, but just a private like yourselves."

Mitsos stared aghast.

"Uncle Nicholas, what do you mean?" he gasped, wrinkling his eyebrows. "Is this Germanos's doing?"

"Not so, little Mitsos, for neither Germanos nor another could do that, but only myself. I have resigned my place in the senate, I have resigned my commission, and all that is left of me is plain Nicholas; but a man as happy as a king, instead of a bundle of malice and a bag of bad words which squirted out like new must. Eh, but I am happy, and it is God's own morning."

And he puffed out a great cloud of smoke and laughed out a great mouthful of laughter.

"But what has happened?" cried Mitsos, still feeling that the world was upsidedown.

"This has happened, little one," said Nicholas; "that a foul-tempered man has made up his mind to be foul tempered no more, and as the thing was an impossibility when he had to sit cocked up on a chair opposite the proud primates, why he has been sensible enough to refuse to sit there any longer. And as he was tired of tripping up on his fine tin sword, he has given it back to the fine tin prince. And may that man never do anything which he regrets less. Ah! here come my superior officers. There will be talking to do, but little of it will I lay my tongue to."

And he sprang up and saluted Petrobey.

Petrobey came up, quickly followed by two or three of the other officers, among whom was the prince, smiling at Nicholas through his annoyance, as the man stood at attention comely and erect.

"Drop that nonsense, dear cousin," he said, "and come to my tent for a talk. Look, we have all come to fetch you."

Nicholas looked at him radiantly.

"I have had a set of good minutes since I left you," he said. "Say your say, cousin, but little talking will I do."

The prince came forward with a fine, courteous air.

"We have come," he said, "to beg you to reconsider this step. I fancy you will find no more insults awaiting you in the senate."

"Your highness," he said, "I can look back on my life and say I have done one wise thing in it, and that this morning. And if, as you say, there are no insults awaiting me in the senate, that confirms my belief in its wisdom."

"But this is absurd, Nicholas," remonstrated Petrobey, "and all the primates, even Germanos himself, regret what you have done."

Nicholas laughed.

"That is a sweet word to me," he said, "and you know it. But I am no child to be coaxed with sugar."

"But think of us – we want your help. You have more weight with the men than any of us!"

"I shall not fail you," said Nicholas, "and if I do my duty in the ranks as well as I hope, I think I shall be more useful there than anywhere else."

"But your career, now on the point of being crowned," said Petrobey, eagerly. "The prince has promised – "

But Nicholas waved his hand impatiently.

"I have just got rid of my career," he said, "and I feel like a tired horse when a stout rider dismounts and loosens the girth. Do not attempt to saddle me again. Ah, dear cousin," he went on, suddenly with affection and more gravity, "even you know me not at all if you speak like that. Believe me, I care only for one thing in this world, and that is the object for which we have labored together so long. That cause I serve best here, and for these months I have been puffing myself up to think that fine, angry words were of no avail. But I will try them no longer; I am sick of anger, and my belly moves, whether I will or not, when I sit there and have to listen – you know to what. Leave me in peace. It is better so."

He glanced across at Mitsos a moment, who was standing by.

"I wish to speak to you alone, cousin," he said to Petrobey, "but that will wait. Meantime, I thank you for all your friendliness to me, and I decline entirely to listen to you. The thing is finished."

Petrobey saw that, for the present at least, it was no manner of use trying to persuade him, and left him for a time; and Nicholas, remarking that it was time for rations, and that these officers were horribly unpunctual, took Mitsos by the arm and led him off to the canteen, telling him on the way what had happened.

Mitsos was furiously indignant with Germanos, and vowed that the camp should ring with the hissing of his name, but Nicholas stopped him.

"I neither forgive nor forget," he said, "but it is mere waste of time and temper to curse. The harm is done, leave the vermin alone; oh, they have bitten me sorely, I don't deny that, but if we are going scavenging, as I pray God we may, let us begin in our own house. There are purging and washing to be done among the men, I fear, little Mitsos. And from this day, if there is any traffic or dishonorable barter among the corps of the clan, have me out and shoot me, for I make it my business that there shall be none. Now we will go and get our rations. I ordered supplies of fresh beef for the men yesterday; that was a good act to finish up with, and see already I reap the fruits of it."

Nicholas remained perfectly firm, and Petrobey eventually desisted from his attempt to persuade him to take up his commission again, for he might as well have tried to lever the sun out of its orbit. But he still continued to ask Nicholas's advice about the affairs of the army, which the latter could not very well withhold. Among the men, and especially among the Mainats, he underwent a sort of upsidedown apotheosis. Germanos had made villanous accusations; here was a fine answer. As for that proud man himself, he found his position was no longer tenable. So far from being able to profit by Nicholas's action, he discovered, though too late, that he had overreached himself in making so preposterous a statement about his enemy, and the army buzzed away through his fine woven web, leaving it dangling in the wind. He saw that his chance of power was over, and, accepting the inevitable, took his departure for Kalavryta, where he hoped his authority remained intact. But, alas! for the triumphal reception by the united army – alas! too, for his chance of the Patriarchate. His name, which he had prospectively throned in the hearts of myriads, was flotsam on the tide of their righteous anger against him, thrown up on the beach, tossed to and fro once or twice, and then left. His followers, the primates and bishops, less wise than he, still stayed on, hoping against hope that the popular favor would set their way. But the evil he and his had done lived after them; nothing now could undo the distrust and suspicion they had caused, for their first malignant slander had found fulfilment, and the army distrusted its officers, while the officers were not certain of their men. Nicholas had cleared himself, leaping with a shout of triumph free from the web spun round him; others had not the manliness to do the same, to challenge the evidence, for they knew there was evidence.

Nicholas found opportunity to tell Petrobey about Mitsos' love affairs, but a few days afterwards news came to the camp that a landing of the Turks from their western squadron was expected on the Gulf of Corinth, near Vostitza, and the prince, with some acuteness, found in this rumor sufficient reason to make his presence there desirable. Petrobey, wishing to have a speedy and reliable messenger who could communicate with the camp in the event taking place, sent Mitsos off with him, and before the end of the third week in September the prince took his departure in some haste, hoping to regain in fresh fields the loss of prestige he had suffered here and at Monemvasia. The news, if confirmed, was serious, for it meant that the Turkish squadron had evaded the Greek fleet and threatened the Morea from the north, while, if once a landing was effected, the Turks would, without doubt, march straight to the relief of Tripoli just when its need was sorest. The prince left the camp with much state and dignity, but with nothing else, and Mitsos, to whom he had given a place on his staff as aide-de-camp extraordinary to the Viceroy of Greece, with the rank of lieutenant in the Hellenic army, pranced gayly along on a fine-stepping horse, and for the first time fully sympathized with Nicholas's resignation. They travelled by short marches, "like women," as Mitsos described it afterwards, and one night the aide-de-camp extraordinary, having occasion to bring a message to his master, woke him out of his sleep, and saw the commander-in-chief in a night-cap, which left a deep, bilious impression on his barbarian mind wholly out of proportion to so innocuous a discovery.

For a time, at least, in Tripoli there was no more intriguing between the besiegers and the besieged, for Petrobey redoubled his vigilance, and every night sent down a corps of trustworthy men to lie in wait round the town. Meantime he knew a strong band of cavalry and a large force of Albanian mercenaries were within the town, and in the citadel was enough artillery to be formidable; so that while there was a chance of capitulation, provided the rumor of the expected landing of troops on the Gulf of Corinth continued unconfirmed, he was unwilling to make an assault on the town. But it began to be known that the fall of Tripoli was inevitable, and from all over the country the peasants flocked together on the hills waiting for the end and a share in the booty. It was in vain that Petrobey tried to drive them back; as soon as he had cleared one range of hills they swarmed upon another like sparrows in the vines, springing as it seemed from the ground, or as vultures grow in the air before a battle. Some came armed with guns, requesting to be enrolled in the various corps; others with sickles or reaping-hooks, or just with a knife or a stick. Every evening on the hills round shone out the fires of this unorganized rabble, gathering thicker and thicker as the days went on.

Then, on the 24th of September, a refugee from the town was captured and brought to the camp, and being promised his life if he gave intelligence of what was going on inside, told them that famine had begun; that many of the horses of the cavalry corps had been killed for meat, and that unless help came the end was but a matter of hours. Once again Petrobey consulted Nicholas, who advised an assault at once; but the other argued that as long as no news came of the reinforcements from the north the case of the town was hopeless, and as it was for the Greeks to demand terms, they might as well wait for a proposal to come. Nicholas disagreed; there had been treachery before in the camp; there might be treachery now. Let them, at any rate, minimize the disgrace to the nation. Petrobey in part yielded, and consented to do as Nicholas advised if no proposals were made in three days. In the mean time, since there was no longer any fear of the cavalry, they would move down closer onto the plain and directly below the walls. Then, if fire was opened on them from the citadel, they would storm it out of hand; but if not – and he had suspected for a long time that the guns were not all serviceable – they would wait for three days, unless Mitsos came back saying that reinforcements were on the way from the north.

CHAPTER X
THE FALL OF TRIPOLI

The order to break up camp was received with shouts of acclamation, and all day long on the 25th the processions of mules passed, like ants on a home run, up and down the steep, narrow path from the plain. The Mainat corps were the first to move, and took up their place opposite the southern wall, and worked there under the sun for a couple of hours or more throwing up some sort of earth embankment; while in the space behind marked out for their lines went up the rows of their barracks, pole by pole, and gradually roofed in with osier and oleander boughs. On the walls of the town lounged Turkish men, and now and then a woman passed, closely veiled, but casting curious glances at the advancing troops not four hundred yards from the gate. The men worked like horses to get their intrenchments and defences up, and by the time each corps had done its work, the huts behind were finished; and, streaming with perspiration, the men were glad to throw themselves down in the shade. As there was no regular corps of sappers and engineers, each regiment had to do its intrenching and defence work for itself, and they worked on late into the night before the transfer of the entire camp was effected. Meantime Petrobey had ordered the posts on the hills to the east to close in, and by noon on the 27th he saw his long-delayed dream realized, for on all sides of the town ran the Greek lines. Still, from inside the beleaguered place came no sign of resistance, attack, or capitulation; but towards sunset a white flag was hoisted on the tower above the south gate, and a few moments afterwards Mehemet Salik, attended by his staff, came out, and were met by Petrobey. Yanni, as aide-de-camp, was in attendance on his father, and he had the pleasure of meeting his old host again.

Mehemet followed Petrobey to his quarters, Yanni looking at him as a cat in the act to spring looks at a bird. He was a short-legged, stout man, appearing tall when he was sitting, but when he stood, heavy and badly proportioned. He had grown a little thinner, or so thought Yanni, and the skin hung bagging below his eyes, though he was still hardly more than thirty. He looked Yanni over from head to foot without speaking, adjusted his green turban, and then, shrugging his shoulders slightly, took a seat and turned to Petrobey.

"I have been sent to ask the terms on which you will grant a capitulation," he said; "please consider and name them."

"I will do so," replied Petrobey, "and let you have them by midnight."

Mehemet glanced at his watch.

"Thank you; we shall expect them then."

He rose from his seat and again looked at Yanni, who was standing by the door. The two presented a very striking contrast – the one pale, flabby, clay-colored, slow-moving; the other, though there were not ten years between them, fresh, brown, and alert. Mehemet continued looking at him for a moment below his drooping eyelids without speaking, and then the corners of his sensual mouth straightened themselves into a smile. He held out his hand to the boy.

"So we meet again, my guest," he said; "your leave-taking was somewhat abrupt. Will you shake hands?"

Yanni bristled like a collie dog, and looked sideways at him without speaking, but kept his hands stiff to his side.

"You vanished unexpectedly, just when I hoped to begin to know you better," continued Mehemet.

But Petrobey interfered sternly.

"You are not here, sir, to confer insults," he said.

Mehemet turned round slowly towards him with a face of sallow death.

"Surely my teeth are drawn, as far as the boy is concerned," he said; "but let me know one thing," he continued, "for I have a heavy wager about it. Did you bribe the porter, or did you get through the roof?"

"Through the roof," said Yanni, as stiff as a poker.

"I have lost. I said you bribed the porter. He shall come out of prison to-night and have poultices, for he was much beaten. Good-evening, gentlemen."

Yanni turned to Petrobey with blazing eyes.

"Cannot I kick him now?" he whispered.

"How can I give you permission?" said Petrobey.

Yanni looked at him a moment and then his lips parted in a smile, and he went out of the tent.

Mehemet was a few yards down the path, going towards the gate of the camp where his staff was waiting, and in three strides Yanni caught up with him.

"Oh, man!" he said, and no more; but next moment Yanni's foot was deep in the folds of his excellency's baggy trousers. His excellency was lifted slightly forward from behind, and picked himself up with a cry of lamentation, for the pain had been exquisite. Yanni was by him with a brilliant smile on his face.

"You insulted me under the flag of truce," he said, kindly, "and under the flag of truce I have answered you. There is quits." And he turned and went back to his father.

Petrobey appeared to be absorbed in writing, and he did not look up, but handed Yanni a paper.

"Go at once to the captains whose names I have written here, Yanni," he said, "and tell them to come immediately to consult about the terms of capitulation. I thought," he added, "that I heard a slight disturbance outside. Can you account for it?"

"It seemed to be the settlement of some private difference, sir," said Yanni. "It is all over."

"Is the difference settled?"

"There is a very sore man," said Yanni.

The conference among the captains lasted only a short time, and in a couple of hours the terms were despatched to Mehemet. The Turks were to give up their arms and were to be allowed, or rather compelled, to leave the Morea. They were further to pay the indemnity of forty million piastres, that being approximately the cost of the war, including the provisions and pay of all the men, from the time of its outbreak. In less than an hour the answer came back. The demand was preposterous, for it was impossible to collect the money, but in return they made a counter-proposition. They would give up the whole of their property within the town, renounce all rights of land, retaining only sufficient means to enable them to reach some port on the Asia Minor coast, but demanding leave to retain their arms in order to secure themselves from massacre on the way to Nauplia. They also insisted on occupying the pass over Mount Parthenius, between the Argive plain and Tripoli, until the women and children had been embarked in safety. This precaution, they added, was due to themselves, for they had no guarantee that without their arms the Greeks would not violate the terms of the capitulation as they had violated them at Navarin.

The Greek chiefs refused to consider the proposal, for if the Turks distrusted them, they at least had no reason to trust the Turks; and if the regiments in the town occupied Parthenius, what was to hinder them from marching on to Nauplia and remaining there? Nauplia still held communication with the sea, and they had not spent six months in reducing Tripoli only at the end to let the besieged go out in peace to another and better-equipped fortress.

Once more affairs were at a deadlock, and at this point Petrobey made an inexcusable mistake. He ought, without doubt, to have stormed the place and have done with it; but when, in a moment of weakness, he put the proposal to the captains, the majority of them were for waiting. The reason was unhappily but too plain. They knew that famine prevailed in the town, they knew, too, that its capitulation was inevitable, but they saw for themselves a rich harvest gained in a few days by secretly supplying the besieged with provisions, and for the next week Germanos's bitter words were terribly true. This was no siege of Tripoli; it was the market of Tripoli.

On the 28th came another proposal from the town, this time not from the Turks, but from the Albanian mercenaries who had formed the attack on the post at Valtetzi in May. They were fifteen hundred strong, and good soldiers, but as mercenaries they had no feelings of obligation or honor to their employers, and did not in the least desire a fierce engagement with the Greeks; and now that all idea of capitulation was over, for neither side would accept the ultimatum of the other, it was clearly to their advantage to get away, if they could, with their lives and their pay. The town would, without doubt, fall by storm, their employers would be massacred, and their best chance was to stand well with the besiegers. They, therefore, offered to go back to Albania, and never again to enlist in the Turkish service, provided they might retire with their arms. The Greeks, on their side, had no quarrel with them; many were related to them by ties of friendship and blood; they had no desire to gain a bloody and hard-won victory if there was a chance of detaching the mainstay of their foes, and they agreed to their terms.

The weather was hot and stifling beyond description, and the Mainats who were on the south felt all day the reflected glare and heat from the walls as from a furnace. In that week of waiting Petrobey lost all the confidence of the clan, for they alone were blameless of this outrageous traffic, that had sprung up again, and they were waiting while Petrobey let it go on. He had asked the advice of men who were without principle or honor, who were filling their pockets at the expense of the honor of others, and though he himself was without stain, yet his weakness at this point was criminal. It seemed that he refused to believe what the army knew, and persisted in judging the whole by the behavior of the clan themselves. Nicholas appealed to him in vain, but Petrobey always asked whether he had himself seen evidence of the scandal, and being in the Mainat corps, he had not. In vain Nicholas pointed out that a week ago they knew that famine was preying on the besieged, yet a week had gone and the famine seemed to have made no impression. How was it possible that the town could hold out unless it was being supplied? And how could a commander know what was going on among the hordes of peasants who flocked to the camp? Now that the evil was so wide-spread and universal, a whole regiment perhaps profited by the traffic; and where was the use of any man informing his captain? – for the captains were the worst of all.

Meantime, inside, Suleima watched at her latticed window and looked for Mitsos. A week ago she had watched the men streaming down from Trikorpha to the plain, and had hardly been able to conceal her joy, while round her the other women wailed and lamented, saying that they would all fall into the hands of the barbarous folk. On the other side, away from the wall, the windows of the harem looked out onto a narrow, top-heavy street, the eaves of the houses nearly meeting across it, and on the top again was a large, flat roof, where they often went to sit in the evening and chatter across the street to the women on the house opposite. By day a ribbon of scorching sunlight moved slowly from one side to the other, and often Suleima would sit at the window which overhung the foot-path, watching and watching, but seeing, perhaps, hardly a couple of passengers in as many hours, for this was only a side street where few came. By leaning out she could just catch a glimpse of a main thoroughfare which led into the square, but only Turks passed up and down. The others looked at her with wonder and pity, thinking her hardly in her right mind to be smiling and happy at such a time, for close before her lay the trial and triumph of her sex, and the Greeks were at the door. The harem generally, and also the chief wife, whose slave she was, knew her condition, but from a feeling partly of pity and affection – for she was a favorite with all – partly from indifference, had not accused her to Abdul. Abdul himself, in the excitement and preoccupation of the siege, had not been in the harem more than twice in as many months, and thus her state had escaped detection.

So she went about with her day-dream and snatches of song, painting in her mind a hundred pictures as to how Mitsos would come. Should she see him stalking up the narrow street, then looking up and smiling at her, bringing the news that the town had capitulated and he had come to claim her? There would be a step on the stair and he would come in, bending to get through the door; and then, oh, the blessedness of talk and tears that would be hers! Or would there come a shout and the sound of riot and confusion, and streaming up the street a fighting crowd? He would be there in the middle of it all, slashing and hewing his way to her. He would look up – that he would always do – and see her at the window, and then get to work again, dealing death to all within reach. Perhaps he would be hurt, not much hurt, but enough to make her lean over him with anxious face and nimble, bandaging hands, and the joy of ministering to him leaping in her heart. It was towards this vision that she most inclined, to Mitsos, fighting and splendid as fresh from the dust and the ecstasy of struggle, coming to her – the mistress and lady of his arm – lover to lover. Or would he come by night silently beneath the stars, as he had come before, or with a whispered song which her heart had taught her ears to know, and take her away while the house slept, out of this horrible town, and to some place like in spirit to the lonely sea-scented beach near Nauplia, into remoteness from all things else? In these half-formulated dreams there was never any hitch or disturbance – doors yielded, men slept, or men fell, and through all like a ray of light came Mitsos, unhindered, irresistible.

But after three or four days her mood changed, and from her eyes looked out the soul of some timid, frightened animal. Why did he not come – by night or in peace or in the shout of war? What meant this sudden increase in their food, for now for more than a week they had lived but on sparing rations? Yet the fresh meat and new bread revolted her; she was hungry, yet she could not eat. The women were kind to her, and Zuleika used to make her soup and force her with firm kindness to drink it; they were always plaguing her, so she thought, not to prowl about so much, to rest more and to eat more, and when she understood why, she obeyed them. For a few nights before she had slept but lightly, and her sleep was peopled with vivid things – now she would be moving in a crowd of flying fiery globes, she one of them; now the dark was full of gray shapes that glided by her windily with a roar of the remote sea, but at the end they would disperse and leave her alone, and out of the darkness came Mitsos, and with that she would dream no more. But waking and the hours of the day changed place with the night, and it seemed that she moved in a nightmare until she slept again.

But when she understood the reason for which they pressed her to rest and eat, she quickly regained the serenity of her health, and during the last two days of waiting, though her fears and anxieties crouched in the shade ready to spring on her again, they lay still, and the claws and teeth spared her.

But one morning – it was the 3d of October – there was suddenly a tumult in the streets, and cries that the Greeks had come in, and Suleima went up to the house-top to see if she could find out where they were entering, prepared to run out into the street to meet them, crying to them as her deliverers, as Mitsos had told her. In the brightness of that sudden hope that the end had come, she felt no longer weary or ill, and she looked out over the town with expectant eyes. But by degrees the tumult died down again, and, bitterly disappointed, she crept back to the room of the harem where the women were sitting to ask what this meant. None knew, but in a little time they heard a renewed noise from the street, and running to look out, they saw a small body of Turkish soldiers advancing, and in the middle a very stout lady riding a horse. Behind her came two servants driving horses with big panniers slung on each side, and the stout lady talked in an animated manner to the soldiers, pointing now to one house and then to another. Then looking up at the window of Abdul Achmet's house, out of which Suleima was leaning, she shouted some shrill question in Turkish, which Suleima did not catch, and the procession turned up into the main street, seeming to halt opposite the door leading into the front court-yard.