The Vintage: A Romance of the Greek War of Independence

"The Mainats?" said Germanos; "the Mainats, whom I hold a degree only above the Turks?"

"My dear archbishop – my dear archbishop," piped the prince.

"But there are true and loyal men in Greece besides those hounds," continued Germanos, not even hearing the prince speak.

"Archbishop," said the prince again, with a certain dignity, "I command you, I order you, to be silent."

Germanos turned round on him, still mad with rage.

"You order, you command?" he said, with infinite scorn, and broke into a sudden, unnatural laugh.

Prince Demetrius flushed, and on all the senate fell a dead hush. For once the man showed the dignity of birth and breeding, and standing up, he faced the angry prelate. His nervous, weak manner had left him; he rose to the occasion.

"You will please to take your seat, archbishop," he said. "I have a few words to say."

Germanos looked round and saw on all sides eager, attentive faces bent, not on him, but on the prince. His anger still burned like fire within him, and he paused not to consider.

"I prefer to leave the room," he said. "I take no further part in these proceedings."

"You choose to disregard my request," said the prince, and with that his voice rose sudden and screaming and fierce; "I will therefore order – Sit down!" he cried.

Germanos's anger went out as suddenly as lightning at night is followed by darkness, and he realized what he had done. The prince's favor he had forfeited hopelessly, and though the prince was nothing, he had forgotten in the man's insignificance the power he represented. Henceforth he would have to fight without the expectancy of help from there; and feeling his schemes already threatening to totter and fall about his head, in sheer blank bewilderment he sat down.

The prince stood silent a moment and then spoke.

"I feel," he said, "that all the good I hoped to do, and all the efforts I wished to make for the great cause, are not to be fulfilled. With the exception of the commander of this army, the senate generally have chosen to disregard my presence here. From Petrobey, however, I have always had courtesy and respect. The party of the church, in particular, has chosen to adopt an insolent demeanor towards me, the like of which I accept from no man. You have seen, gentlemen, the example their head has given them. I regret the decision which I have long thought was possible, but which has been forced upon me. Gentlemen, I leave the camp to-day. The meeting is adjourned."

Then turning to Petrobey, and bowing to the rest:

"Come with me," he said; "we will leave this assembly together," and taking his arm, he left the room.

Half an hour later he quitted the camp with a small guard, leaving the rest of his retinue to follow as quickly as they could get ready. But the news of his departure and the reason for it spread like wildfire through Trikorpha, and the men, who still regarded him, partly because of the marked favor he showed to Petrobey, partly from the prestige of the revolutionary Hetairia which he represented, as their champion, were wildly indignant with the primates. A riot nearly ensued, and had not Petrobey and other commanders, notably Nicholas himself, had them guarded in a place of safety, it is not improbable that some would have been murdered. Germanos, however, who, whatever his faults were, was perfectly fearless, refused all protection, and when one of the Mainats passing near him, spit at him, the archbishop dealt the man a blow which knocked him off his feet, and passed on without hurry or discomposure, though he was in the middle of the clan. But the Mainats, who were without a particle of reverence for him, but had a deep respect for personal pluck, appreciated the act fully and made no attempt to stop him, though a minute before it was very doubtful whether he would have reached his quarters alive.

All day the feeling in the camp against the primates rose higher and higher, for, from the soldiers' point of view, the prince was their protector not only against them, but their own commanders, who, as the primates had told them, rousing suspicion if not belief in their minds, were employed in making private arrangements with the Turks, promising them their lives in exchange for their property. No one, it is true, had breathed a suspicion about either Petrobey or Nicholas, for they stood beyond any shadow of scandal, and for the time the ugly thoughts the primates had suggested were cast aside in the fierce indignation excited by the immediate cause of the withdrawal of the prince, for which the primates alone were to be thanked. A knot of angry men assembled outside the building where primates and muskets were stored, demanding that they should be given up to be dealt with as they deserved; and, indeed, such a fate was not unmerited, and it would have saved a world of trouble to Petrobey. For they were responsible for all this doubt and division; they were traitors in the camp, and in time of war a traitor is worse than a regiment of foes. Next day there was no abatement of popular feeling, and in the afternoon the whole body of commanders and captains went to Petrobey, after exacting a promise from their men of quietude in their absence, asking that the prince might be petitioned to return, for his absence could but end in one thing, the death of all the primates, either with the authority of the commanders, or, in default of that, by mutiny.

Petrobey readily consented to go in person, for things were at an absolute impasse, and without the prince's co-operation and presence he was really afraid that the worst might happen, and in the name of the entire army, and with the earnest appeals of the primates, he waited upon him at Leondari, a revolted town not far from Megalopolis. The prince at first hesitated, or seemed to hesitate, but privately he was very much gratified at what seemed so universal a mark of confidence; for on thinking his action over, it had appeared to him that he must cut but a sorry figure if he returned to the Hetairia, saying that the army disregarded his authority and met his commands with insolence, while if he came back, his withdrawal assumed the aspect of a most successful piece of diplomacy. Accordingly, at the end of the week he returned amid the welcoming acclamations of the army, and was pleased to accept – having insisted on the same – the apology of Germanos, which was bitter herbs to that proud man, but to Nicholas as sweet as honey in the mouth.

Throughout July, but waning with the moon, continued the reign of that incompetent, but honest man, Prince Demetrius. His indecision amounted to a disease of the mind; he seemed morally incapable of acting, or, through his pretentious viceregal claims, of letting others act for him; a creature afflicted with acute paralysis of will. Inside Tripoli there was still no famine of food or water, and though Achmet Bey saw that escape was impossible, for the weakness of the troops inside would have rendered an attempt to cut through the occupations on the hills quite hopeless, yet he was in no mind to surrender when no attempts were made to induce him to do so. There were provisions in the camp which would last three months more, for the harvest had been got in before the occupation of Valtetzi; the ravages of the Greeks had destroyed only the villages and the winter crops, and Mehemet Salik remarked one morning that one seemed safer in Tripoli than anywhere else.

And the hot month throbbed by, while to the Greeks every day's close saw another day lost.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SONG FROM TRIPOLI

Early in August news came to the camp that the Turks in Monemvasia had made a proposal for a capitulation, for it will be remembered that a small fleet of vessels from Spetzas was blockading it by sea, in addition to a regiment from south Greece by land, and these tidings gave Prince Demetrius a most ill-conceived idea. The terms of the capitulation were discussed at a meeting of the senate, and caused a very considerable difference of opinion, Nicholas and Petrobey advising that the Turks should be given a passage over to Smyrna, or some Asia Minor port, on condition that they surrendered their arms, refunded the expenses of the siege – for the soldiers had been serving without pay – and further, gave an indemnity of ten thousand Turkish pounds, which should be divided among the fleet, the army, and the national treasury. Germanos and his party opposed this. Monemvasia was notably one of the wealthiest towns in the Peloponnesus, and he proposed that the besieged should only be given their lives on the surrender of all their property. Prince Demetrius went to the other extreme. The Hetairia would charge itself with the arrears of the soldiers' pay, since it was for that very purpose its funds had been raised; to the soldiers was due their pay and nothing more, and if easy terms were granted to Monemvasia, the Turks in Tripoli would be more disposed to capitulate. The discussion degenerated into wrangling, but in the middle of it Prince Demetrius suddenly commanded silence. Since the affair with Germanos, he had secured the formalities of obedience, and he was listened to in silence.

"I shall go to Monemvasia in person," he said, "to receive and to accept the capitulation of the town as commander-in-chief of the army, and viceroy, appointed by the supreme council of the Hetairia. The troops there, so I hear, are out of hand, and the Mainat corps under their commander, Petrobey, will accompany me. We will continue to discuss the terms of the capitulation, and observe a little more decorum."

But the senate had experienced his deficiency in power of command too long, and his words were like the words coming from the mouth of a mask, when every one knew how insignificant a figure stood behind it. The autocratic tone was ludicrous, and in this particular case peculiarly out of place. Petrobey, who, when it was possible, supported the prince, now found himself obliged to oppose him, and, with a courtesy he found it hard to assume, spoke in answer:

"Your highness will remember," he said, "that the siege has been going on for three months, and has been entirely the work of the people. The Hetairia has not helped them in any way. It is surely, then, their right to demand their own terms, and the surrender must be made to the captains of the blockading forces, or to whomever they appoint, and to no other."

The prince flushed angrily.

"Do I understand, then, that I am not the commander-in-chief of the whole army?"

"Your highness is commander-in-chief over all the army which has been organized or supplied by the Hetairists or their agents. The force that blockades Monemvasia was raised by private enterprise before your appointment by the Hetairia, and during your stay in the Morea you have not either taken the command there or assisted that force. The commander of the land force there is a member of this senate, and no doubt he will obey its resolves."

"Sooner than that of the viceroy?"

"The viceroy also is a member of this senate," said Petrobey, with some adroitness.

The prince was silent a moment.

"The senate will, therefore, vote as to whether Monemvasia is to be occupied in the name of the senate or in my name," he said, shortly.

For once there was unanimity between the two parties, and it was decided that Monemvasia was to be occupied in the name of the senate. The discussions about the terms of the capitulation were then renewed, but as it was felt that the commander of the blockading force had more voice in the matter than any one else, Germanos, with the amiable desire of perhaps thwarting Nicholas, whose proposal had been more moderate than his own, suggested that this point should be settled between the commander and the prince upon the arrival there of the latter, for it was absurd that commanders of a force which was besieging Tripoli should have a voice in the matter. Nicholas, knowing that Petrobey would be there too, and that he had more influence with the prince than any one, acquiesced with a smile, saying that Germanos's sage reflection applied equally to primates who were not in command of anything.

So for a time the centre of the war, like some slow-moving stream, shifted to Monemvasia, and during the whole of August half the army lay idle on the hills round Tripoli; and with the departure of the prince the tales of scandalous slander were again taken up by the primates, the result of which was to appear later. Germanos, though he must have known what was going on, held aloof, and did not mix up in the affairs of the camp; though, to his shame be it said, he appeared to make no effort to check the outrageous intrigues.

To Nicholas, however, the month was full of work, and he at once put in hand arrangements for the regular supplies of the camp, and was occupied with drilling the men; under his wise yet severe rule the unorganized troops began slowly to take shape, and his example shamed many of the other idle and irresponsible captains into following his lead, though, having little knowledge of military matters themselves, it must be concluded that their men were not able to advance to a high degree of efficiency. Meantime, among the men themselves the utter inability of the prince either to check abuses or to enforce discipline had become apparent, and from the time of his departure for Monemvasia his power may be said to have ceased altogether. And when the news of what had taken place at that town came to hand, from being nothing he became ridiculous.

The nightly raids ceased, for all the cultivated land round Tripoli was already devastated, and neither in the town nor in the camp was any particular vigilance observed. The Turks knew it was hopeless to attack Trikorpha; till the return of Petrobey the Greeks had no thought of attempting to storm the town; and Mitsos, brooding inwardly one night on the rough wall where he and Yanni used often to sit, had an idea which arose from this inaction.

For several weeks after the adventure of the fire-ship his anxieties about Suleima had been stilled, for that escape seemed to him so heaven-sent that with childlike faith he had no manner of doubt but that the saints watched over her, and though at times his heart went a-mourning for her absence, yet he trusted an unreasoning conviction that at the time appointed he would see her again. The strong probability that she was in this beleaguered town did not at first weigh on him at all. Some day, when provisions ran short, it would capitulate, and there would be a repetition of the scene at Kalamata; or they would storm it, and there would be fighting inside. But the women would all be in the houses, and even if the houses were attacked she would remember what he had told her, and cry out to them in Greek, saying she was of their blood, and all would be well. But when the excitement of the skirmish at Valtetzi, now nearly two months ago, and the move to Trikorpha, with all the delightful night-raiding, was over, and was succeeded by an inaction sickened by the odious intrigues of the primates, he began to weary sore for her, and then to be filled with panic fears as unfounded as his first security. Safety in a siege, there was no such thing! A chance bullet, an angry Greek, and a repetition of that infernal butchery of women and children on board the ship bound for Egypt. What was more horribly possible? A burning house, a falling wall, and then a mass of pulped bodies.

On this particular night his fears grew like the monstrous visions of some hag-ridden nightmare. A hundred terrible scenes loomed enormous before him, and in each Suleima, with white, imploring face, was struck out of life, now by a bullet, now by a sword. Below, in the part of the town nearest him, where five or six big houses were built on the wall, there gleamed rows of lights from narrow-barred windows, and from each Suleima's face looked out from a room burning within, while she shook the iron bars with impotent hands as the flames flickered and rose behind her.

The thing became intolerable; he rose and walked about, but found no rest. Thirty yards away the soldiers' huts began, and he could hear sounds of singing from the big shanty-built café a little farther on. The sentry had just been on his rounds, and Mitsos exchanged a word or two with him as he passed, and he would be back again in half an hour. The wall inside was only six feet high, outside perhaps ten or twelve, but with plenty of handhold for an agile lad, and the next moment, without thinking where or why he went, he had clambered up and dropped down on the other side.

Did he not know where he was going? Ah, but his heart told him. Somewhere in that fiery-eyed town, into which entrance was impossible, was she for whom he was made, she with the eyes of night and the history of his soul written on the curves of her lips. And inasmuch as she was there, the rekindled fever of his love drew him thither, neither willing nor unwilling, but steel to the magnet, a moth to the star. He had taken off his shoes in order to get a better grip in the crevices of the wall, and went down barefooted over the basalt rocks all ashine with dew. The moon had strayed westward beyond the zenith, casting his shadow a little in front of him, and round his head as he walked moved an opaline halo. Then he crossed the mountain stream and stood in it for a moment, for the coldness of the moon and the eternal youth of night had entered into its waters, making them vigorous and bracing. A little wind drawing down its course was full of the scent of water and green things, and streamed out to renovate the hot air of the plain. Then on again through a little belt of vineyard, still close to the camp and not destroyed, where the stream talked less noisily in the soft earth, with a whiff of summer from the ripening bunches, and the scuttle of some disturbed hare come down to feed on the leaves. Then he crossed the stream again, which lay in an elbow southward, and, pushing through a clump of oleanders which rose above his head, came out into the plain. The earth was warm under foot after the cold rocks, and he ran plunging across it, till, getting within a stone's-throw of the wall, he crept more slowly, and finally lay down in the shadow of a felled olive-tree, and looked to see if there was aught stirring.

The battlemented line of the wall opposite to him stood up clear-cut between the moon and the lights of the town, twenty feet above him, and ran on southward into vague shadow, untenanted. Fifty yards to the left it was interrupted, or rather crowned, by half a dozen big houses, built flush with the wall, pierced by several rows of rather narrow windows, the lower of which were barred, the upper, from their height, needing no such defence. As he crept up alongside of these he heard the subdued murmur of women's voices from within the first house – the home, perhaps, of some Turkish captain and his harem; and the sound of women's voices made mirth to him, and he listened for a while, smiling to himself. From the next house came more such music, and once a woman walked to the window and stood looking out for a minute, or perhaps two, unveiled and playing with the tassel of the blind-cord, till from within some one called her by a purring Turkish name, and she turned into the house again.

He crept slowly on to the end of the line of houses, where the battlemented wall began again, and feeling closer to Suleima in the sound of women's voices, came back and lay down again in the shadow of a tall toothed rock. It was something to be alone, away from the jarring camp, and to be nearer to her. His portentous nightmare beset him no longer, and his anxieties again were charmed to sleep. One by one the lights went out in the windows opposite, and the houses became blackness; the shadow of the rock moved a little forward in the setting moon, and he shifted to be in the shade again. Another half-hour went by, and the mountain ridge hid the moon.

Presently afterwards a man appeared on the top of the wall to the right. Mitsos, perhaps, would not have noticed him but that he waved some white linen thing up and down once or twice, and then waited again, and after a time uttered some impatient exclamation. Mitsos watched him, puzzled to know what this should mean, when suddenly a possible solution dawned upon him, and he crept up, still in the shadow, to below where the Turk was standing, and whistled softly.

Then a voice from above said:

"You are late. Here is the paper signed," and a white thing fluttered down. This done, the Turk turned, and, without waiting for a reply, went southward down the wall.

The paper, whatever it was, was in Mitsos' possession, and putting it in his pocket, for it was too dark to read it, he crept back to his old place to wait a few minutes more there before going back to the camp. Lights showed only in one house now, and before long they, too, were quenched, and the black mass of flat roofs rose against the sky silent and asleep. Then suddenly and softly from out that blackness, like a bird flying in the desert, came the sound of a voice singing, and at those notes Mitsos thought his heart would have burst. For it sang:

"Dig we deep among the vines,
Give the sweet spring showers a home,
Else the fairest sun that shines" —