CHAPTER XXXVI

AN INTERRUPTED RESCUE

"Ah, the shade is so delicious!" said the Turkish Major, stepping under a pine and removing his fez. Lindbohm dragged the handkerchief, tied turban-fashion, from his brow, and wiped his face with it. The cloth was black with powder-smoke and grimy with dust from previous contact with his features.

"It is always cool in the shade in this country," he observed, running his fingers through his damp pompadour, "no matter how white hot it is in the sun."

They were following a path that wound like the thread of a screw athwart the face of a hill that had been terraced with infinite pains and labor. Plateaus, from four to twenty feet in width, supported by walls of cobblestones, rose one above the other like steps of a wide stairway.

After the terraces came a forest of small pines, cool and fragrant. It was now nearing the middle of the afternoon and the locusts were at work, plying their sleepy rasps, infinitely numerous and monotonous. They emerged from the grove into a narrow path on the edge of a steep incline. The soldiers ran to a point a little farther on, where a pear tree, growing close by the side of a precipice, served as a ladder. They scrambled down its branches into the garden that surrounded a farmhouse not far distant.

"Was this a Turkish or a Christian house?" asked Lindbohm. The windows and doors were broken, and a pile of smashed furniture lay in the middle of the floor. A clematis vine, that had once carried its fragrant snow up to the tiny balcony, lay upon the ground, among the ruins of its trellis.

The Major shrugged his shoulders.

"Who knows?" he replied. "Whichever it was, the results are the same. If we look around, perhaps we may find a body somewhere."

"No, no," said the Swede; "I have no curiosity. Let us be going."

He furtively stooped and picked from the tangled clematis a crude rag doll, and slipped it into the tail pocket of the long coat. His little blue-eyed sister at home had once possessed such a doll, and this ruined house touched a very tender spot in his heart. The Turkish Major, white-haired, erect and slender, was strolling away through the stumps of what had been a pear orchard before the ax of the vandal had laid it low. Curtis was following, holding the crooked simitar clumsily away from his hip. Lindbohm wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his big pink hand.

"It's nice to have a wife and children," he mused, "to love them and bring them up. I'll help him find her, and then--America!"

They came to a broad white road cutting in twain the level greenness of an interminable vineyard. The vines along the highway were powdered white with dust and the dusty little grapes, green and hard, gave small comfort to the thirsty wayfarer. The three pedestrians cast their eyes down the long, shining stretch, over which the heat quivered visibly. They were standing beneath an olive tree at the edge of the rocky and wooded tract through which they had come. The only other shade visible for at least a mile was that made by a solitary brush watch-tower, far out in mid-field. The Turk sat down upon a rock, and, removing his fez, fanned with it his scanty gray locks.

"Do you know?" he asked, smiling sweetly at his companions, "the proverb of this country concerning people who walk in the sun?"

They said they had not heard it.

"It is 'Only fools and Englishmen walk in the sun.'"

"Ah," said Curtis, laughing. "I remember now that I have heard it, but it was not exactly like that. It was 'fools and foreigners' when I heard it. Now I understand why you Turks are called the 'French of the orient.' It is because of your politeness."

Hassan Bey protested feebly and drowsily. Sleep, more powerful in the orient even than politeness, was overcoming him. He settled himself comfortably against the trunk of the olive tree; his head lolled to one side and his mouth dropped open.

"It would be a pity to wake him," said Curtis. The relaxed features looked tired and old. "He's not a bad sort, as Turks go, and he does look done up."

"He's a brave man," said Lindbohm. "Let him sleep for a little while," and the Swede, sitting down upon a flat rock, with his face between his palms, gazed at a little patch of sea, glittering far away, like a lake among mountains.

Curtis lay down upon his back, with his fingers interlocked behind his head, and watched the innumerable twinkling of the pale green olive leaves above him.

"I've been in this island so long," he mused, "that I don't believe I shall be able to go around the world. Shame, too, as the governor had sort of set his heart on it. I haven't spent much money in Crete, it's true, but I promised to be back and take hold in the office."

Closing his eyes, he could see the great shoe factory, as plainly as though it were there before him, the neatly fenced enclosure and the path by which the small army of employees came and went every day. There was the office, a one-story building painted white, that stood near the gate. He looked into the front room, and there, on high stools, writing in great ledgers, sat his father's clerks, an old man and four younger ones. And in the little private office was his father. There he sat tilted back in his swing-chair, a young appearing man, cheerful, prosperous, shrewd; not an educated man, but his son's most intimate companion. Curtis laughed as he thought of the "Trilby Club" of which his father was president. They made Welsh Rabbits, played penny ante and sang rollicking songs. There was a club house where they met in summer and ate fish dinners.

Then his mind reverted to Panayota. He always saw her in thought with a jug upon her shoulder, standing on the edge of a precipice.

"I wonder what the governor will think of Panayota?" he muttered. His father was the high priest of common sense in the Curtis household. From infancy he had respected his father's judgment and feared his good-natured ridicule. John Curtis had been brought up as an exemplification of the motto, "My son will never make a fool of himself," and, so far, he had been the pride of his father's heart.

"Come to dress Panayota in European costume," he mused, "and she would make a sensation in America. But lord, wouldn't she be queer! She's grand here in her native mountains, but you can't lug a mountain around with a girl. It would take about four years of education to fit her for Boston, or even for Lynn. I wonder if she'd give up crossing herself. My mother would have seven kinds of fits if she ever saw the girl cross herself."

Mrs. Curtis represented the religious responsibilities of the family. A tall, angular, bespectacled New England woman, brought up strictly in the Presbyterian faith, she regarded all foreigners as heathen, pining to be converted to the doctrine of infant damnation; and a taint of papacy was to her as a taint of leprosy. That this woman had eloped with William Curtis when he was a penniless drummer for a shoe house, was no indication that she would countenance similar conduct in her son.

"If I could manage in some way to have Panayota educated for a couple of years," he mused, "and then bring mother and the governor over here to see her--they've long been talking about taking a trip abroad. The first thing is to get her away from Kostakes." But here a thought occurred to him of a more serious nature than any that had yet passed through his mind in connection with Panayota.

"I wonder if Americans wouldn't look askance at a woman who had lived in a Turkish harem? Wouldn't she bring a taint of suspicion with her, no matter how pure she might be? Of course, if I caught anybody--"

His reflections were interrupted by Lindbohm exclaiming:

"Hello! What's that?"

The Turk sprang to his feet and looked away toward Canea, as he realized that a cannon had been fired. It was the first gun of the "Hazard."

"Perhaps Yanne has set up his flag on the blockhouse again," commented Curtis. "The Greek flag seems to act on those English like a red rag on a bull."

"It is not in that direction," said Lindbohm; "it is toward Canea, is it not, Monsieur?"

"Exactly," replied the Turk. "Perhaps it is a salute of some ship just arrived." For, even as he spoke, the sound was heard again.

"Possibly," assented the Swede, "and yet the interval did not seem exactly right--no, by damn! It is a bombardment!" Two guns had spoken almost together.

"Could they be bombarding Canea?" asked Curtis.

"Let me see," replied the Swede. "Well, it is not probable, but possible. Suppose there was one grand uprising and one party had seized the forts and fired on the town. Then they might reduce the forts. Suppose there was one grand massacre--Turks kill all the Christians, or Christians kill all the Turks, or both kill each other; then they might drop a few shells yust to scare them."

"But might not some innocent persons be killed by the shells?"

"In times of massacre and war, innocent persons must yust take their chances."

The sounds continued, irregular but frequent. Lindbohm stood gazing in the direction from whence they came, a dreamy look in his blue eyes. The dull detonations seemed to come from half way round the world. They were the heart-beats of war, throbbing fiercely in the far jungles of Cuba. He pulled the handkerchief from his brow and picked clumsily at the knot.

"Let 'em yust go it," he muttered; "shoot, kill, burn, and then blow the island off the earth. It's too mixed up for me."

Curtis was tired. He sat down beside the Major and listened. The Lieutenant stood looking at the sea, tying and untying the handkerchief, and, as the vision of scientific maneuvers, artillery duels and bayonet charges, took shape in his mind, the flush of excitement flooded the stubble on his unshaven cheek.

"I will join the Americans," he mused. "I will draw my sword for liberty and progress," and again the imaginary sword leaped from the scabbard and his pliable wrist moved nervously in unison with his thoughts. Then, of a sudden, the flush fled from his cheek and he started bareheaded down the white road.

"Hello!" cried Curtis, leaping to his feet, "what's the matter, old man? Wait for a chap, can't you?" and he ran after him.

"My God!" said Lindbohm, "have we forgotten that she is there? It may be Canea!"

"Gentlemen," expostulated the Turk, as he came up out of breath. "I assure you that this is madness in this hot sun. I was about to propose that we wait for two or three hours in the shade, and walk the rest of the way in the cool of the evening. See, your head even is uncovered," and taking the handkerchief which was hanging by one corner from Lindbohm's hand, he twisted it dexterously about the Swede's brow.

"It did not till this moment strike me forcibly that they may be bombarding Canea," explained Lindbohm, "and even now it does not seem possible to me." He talked as one apologizing partly to himself and partly to another, for a serious offense. "But the young lady in whom my friend here is--ah--interested, is in that city. We must go to her rescue." Emphasizing the remark with a violent thrust, he again hurried forward. The sun beat down with fearful intensity, but the tall Swede forged along the dusty road with doubled fists and a swinging stride. Curtis wondered afterward that the curious figure had not impressed him as ludicrous; with the long tails of the shrunken coat falling apart, the pompadour standing erect in the encircling handkerchief, like a field of ripe wheat in a fence, the huge fists striking at the trickling beads of sweat, as though they were living things. But no, old Lindbohm was never ridiculous, and Curtis struck out after him, his arm aching with the heavy saber, that would fall between his legs the moment he let it go.

"Lindbohm was right, of course. Poor Panayota, what a fright she must be in!"

In utter silence they strode ahead. The Turk said nothing, although he marveled and suffered greatly. He owed his life to these foreigners, and he had determined to see them safely into Canea. If they chose to go there in the broiling sun, and into a storm of cannon balls, and all for a unit in the tribe of women who are as the blades of grass--all alike, why it was "kismet." The four soldiers followed because he was their officer, and a Turkish soldier always goes stupidly wherever his officer goes, whether to a massacre of Christian babes or a hell of belching cannon. So, for a full hour they walked, till at last they came into a region of gardens, fenced in with high stone walls, and suddenly, from around a corner came a man, carrying a small child and holding a woman by the hand. The couple stopped and looked about them in a perplexity of terror. Then the woman leaped up and seizing the top of the wall, bristling as it was with broken glass, scrambled over like a cat. The man tossed the baby after her and followed. Curtis and Lindbohm both turned and looked inquiringly at the Turk.

"They are Christians," he explained. "Who knows what has happened?" A tall, bare-headed Cretan, holding a little girl under each arm like water jugs, appeared, stopped and stared irresolute. A half-dressed woman with a new-born babe at her breast, and a girl of twelve clinging to her skirts, followed him. The woman, with a shriek of terror, slid to her knees, beside the man. It was a painting of fear, a Christian family in the Coliseum awaiting the wild beasts.

"Back! back!" cried the father hoarsely, pushing the woman with his knee. Clutching wildly at his clothing, she pulled herself to her feet, and they all disappeared as they had come. Curtis ran down to the corner, just in time to see them dart into another lane, between two other gardens. These were but the forerunners of a long stream of terrified Christians, who, at the first sound of the firing at the custom house, had fled from the town. Lindbohm and the Turks came up, at sight of whom the fugitives were thrown into the greatest consternation. Curtis and Lindbohm, determined to learn what in truth had happened, walked briskly forward, and the motley, gibbering, Dantesque throng blew backward as though struck by a wind, with much looking over the shoulder and many pitiful shrieks. As they streamed in the other direction, the weaker and those bearing the greater burdens dropped behind in a thin line; aged women, the halt and the lame, frail mothers carrying their children. And now, in all that scene of despair and horror, there flashed out a spark of beauty, inspiring as a lone star on a dark night. A stripling--he could not have been over twelve--lingered behind, retreating slowly and threatening the oncomers with an antique gun. He was slender, this boy, bareheaded and coatless, in blue breeches of Cretan make and high, untanned boots. He held his long rifle featly, and as he stepped backward, shaking the yellow hair from his eyes, Lindbohm could not restrain a cry of admiration.

"Stop," he said, laying his hand on Curtis' shoulder, "that boy would yust as leave shoot as not. But what in the name of--ach, my God!"

As if in answer to the unfinished question, a woman, completely crazed with fear and grief, came stumbling along the stony road, bearing upon her back a lad nearly as large as herself, holding him by the wrists. His throat had been cut, and the head fell back horribly, lolling from side to side, pumping out the blood that had soaked her dress to the hips and her long hair that dabbled in the gash.

Lindbohm caught her by the arm and shouted to her in English:

"What is the matter, woman? What has happened in Canea?"

She looked at him with vacant eyes, and then staggered on with her awful burden.

"Come on, little Yanne; come on, my cypress tree. Hurry! Hurry! Mother will save him from the Turks!"

The Major stepped up to Lindbohm and Curtis and said firmly:

"Gentlemen, I see that a general massacre of Christians is taking place in Canea. If you go there, you will surely be killed. I beg of you to come with me to my country place near here, where I will protect you till the danger is over."

"Never!" cried the Swede. "We go to the rescue of a lady."

"You can do nothing," replied the Major, impatiently. "If she has not already escaped, it is too late, and our own position here is becoming dangerous, for I and my men are unarmed, and a band of armed Christians may appear at any moment. Join your voice with mine, Monsieur," turning to Curtis. "I assure you, on the honor of a Turk, you will never even get to the city alive."

Curtis hesitated.

"Doubtless the lady is at the English consul's?" hazarded the Major.

"No; she is in the most fearful danger. She is a Cretan in the house of a Turk."

"Ah, I remember. But then she is not in danger. At present she couldn't be in a safer place. Whatever her position is, it will remain the same, and you can find her later on. While if you go and get killed--" He shrugged his shoulders and snapped his fingers.

"By Jove, he's right, old man," cried Curtis. "He's right. Panayota's safe enough, and we'd only get her into trouble by going now. Of course, if you go, I'm with you, but he's right, by Jove, he's right."

Lindbohm who had been impatiently fencing with his invisible enemy, looked absent-mindedly away towards Canea the while he rammed the imaginary sword home into its sheath.

"Adieu, Monsieur," he said, sweetly, "and if I do not see you again, _merci bien_."

"All right, old man, I'm with you," shouted Curtis, grasping the sheath of the heavy simitar and starting after. At a motion from the Major, his four soldiers fell upon Lindbohm, and, after a mighty struggle, held him fast. The Turkish officer ran to Curtis.

"'Monsieur, as a friend, I do this. It is the only chance to save your lives! To advance is certain death!"

So they bore Lindbohm away to a little vine-clad stone tower in a garden; bore him away cursing in three languages, and sputtering vain Berserker froth from his white lips. And Curtis ran at his side shouting:

"But, listen, old man, damn it, listen a minute. The Turk is right, don't you see that he's right?"