Chapter XII: A Baptism of Fire

The day after the visit to the fleet found Eirene a prey to nervous headache, and absolutely unable to leave her bed, the slightest sound, even the voice of her little son, intensifying the pain almost to the point of distraction. Zoe was frightened, fearing fever, and wished to entreat Admiral Essiter to abate his righteous wrath and allow the _Magniloquent’s_ surgeon to come and see her; but Eirene, groaning on her uneasy couch--a mattress from the yacht laid upon a stone divan--forbade her to gratify the oppressor by so abject an appeal.

“It’s only because of yesterday,” she moaned. “The strain was awful.”

“Why? You don’t mean that Lieutenant Cotway tried to escape--when he was a hostage?”

“Of course not. He was telling Con stories and cutting out a boat for him all day--gave me no trouble whatever. But I had to think--if there was treachery--if you were not allowed to come back----”

“Well?” demanded Zoe, with keen curiosity.

“I should have given him over to the Emathians and told them to treat him as they thought right. And--a good many of them have been brigands, you know.”

“Eirene, you must be mad! You make my blood run cold.”

“I made up my mind to do it. The Powers must learn that we are in earnest. But it was not necessary.”

“I should think not!” Zoe spoke with good-humoured tolerance. “Don’t try to be mediæval another time, Eirene; you haven’t the physique for it. Your amiable predecessor, the Empress Isidora, would have handed over an innocent man to torture without a qualm, no doubt, but we poor moderns don’t possess her nerves. Now I am going to take Con for a walk and leave you perfectly quiet. But do, for goodness’ sake, put these ideas out of your head.”

Eirene struggled up from her pillow. “I won’t have you take Constantine to the camp without me!” she cried. “He will be playing with the children and getting fever. Oh!” and she lay down again with a moan of pain.

“I am not going near the camp,” said Zoe patiently, covering her up. “We are going to look for orchises on the cliffs. One of the fishermen’s children at Ephestilo gave me a great bunch the other day, which she said grew just beyond there, and Con is longing to find them.”

“You’ll let him fall over,” protested Eirene faintly, “or the Roumis will land----”

“Ephestilo is the last place they will choose if they do, for Colonel Wylie and the Emathians are practising coast defence there this very morning. And the place for the orchises is in the next bay, where no one could land if they tried. And I shan’t let him fall over the cliff, Eirene. You know he’s always good with me,--not that he gets much chance of showing it,--and of course we won’t even go near any dangerous places.”

Eirene, vanquished, turned her face to the wall with another groan, and Zoe pulled the makeshift curtain they had arranged over the doorless doorway so as to deaden the light, and went out to find her little nephew, who was waiting for her in the gallery. He was a quiet, serious child, reproducing, to her secret joy, in bodily and mental characteristics the sobered Maurice of these later years, with hardly a trace of Eirene. A cause of contention from his very birth, he had developed a longing for peace and quietness strange in a child, and was always on the alert to escape from his mother’s exacting devotion to follow his father about, content to remain unnoticed if he might hold his hand. Eirene resented bitterly what she chose to consider this perverseness, and Maurice was constrained to discourage as much as possible his little son’s desire for his society. “Not to-day, old man,” he had said this same morning. “Poor mamma is ill, and will want Con.”

Zoe had heard this, and it was with something of unholy satisfaction that she witnessed Eirene’s unavailing struggles to conceal the agony the boy’s voice and movements caused her. He should have a treat to-day, she told herself, and be a real child for once, not the unconscious inheritor of strife-provoking dynastic claims.

“Such a big bastick, Auntie Zoe!” he exclaimed, dragging towards her one of the baskets used by the lay-brethren of the monastery when they made foraging expeditions down to Skandalo; “and steward has given me a lot of little cakes, all tied up in leaves.”

“Paper havin’ run short, ma’am,” said the cook, appearing from his sanctum at the end of the gallery; “but I thought maybe you’d like to take some lunch with you.”

“Thank you, steward; it’s a very good idea. Oh, Con, what a lovely walk we will have! Now gently, so as not to wake poor mamma.”

They crept down the steps and out at the gate, Constantine saluting the monk who kept watch there in his own tongue, and receiving a blessing in return, then out along the rocky path. There was no need for a guard to-day, as the walk lay within the region constantly patrolled by the insurgents, and Zoe felt extraordinarily free and happy, in marked contrast with the gloom that had oppressed her the night before. She carried the basket, and Constantine was absolutely obedient, holding her hand and walking on the inside when the path was narrow. As she answered his endless questions she scoffed mentally at Eirene’s fears. What harm could befall the child on such a day?

Descending the hills in the direction of the sea, they came in sight of the bay of Ephestilo, with Wylie and his motley force hard at work. Zoe and her nephew stood for some time watching, fascinated, the stealthy entrance of a boat through the opening in the reef, and its reception by riflemen posted at various points. Wylie was marking the different ranges covered by the course the boat must take, and was so deeply occupied that Zoe would not allow Constantine to run down and disturb him, even to ask what was that funny thing he had in his hand? why did the boat come in so slowly? why did the men only pretend to fire? and a score of other whats and whys. They tore themselves away at last, and walked on over the short turf of the cliffs to the next bay, which presented a very different aspect from that of Ephestilo, with its village of fishermen’s huts clustered on the slope, and boats drawn up on the shore. Here there was only one hut, built of rough limestone blocks and sods of turf, and looking as uninviting as the reputed character of its occupant, a solitary man who had once been a fisherman of Ephestilo. He had done, or been suspected of doing, something that cut him off for ever from the society of his kind. What it was Zoe had never been able to find out exactly, but she gathered that it was some service to the Roumi authorities, who had been able to protect him from the vengeance of his fellows until it gradually became clear that his lonely and blasted existence was a stronger deterrent against following his example than even his death would have been. No smoke rose from the roof of Janni’s abode as Zoe and the child went by it at a distance, Constantine holding tightly to his aunt’s hand, for he had somehow picked up the prevalent idea of the ill-omened nature of the spot. But the cottage once passed, all was enchantment, for the face of this cliff was broken away in the most fascinating manner, hollows full of rich grass and flowers alternating with bare faces of limestone rock. From here the sea looked so close that one might have believed the gradual slope extended to the beach itself, but Zoe knew well that about half-way down it broke off suddenly, encircling the bay with sheer cliffs and isolated needles of rock.

“Don’t run on in front, Con. Wait for me!” she called, noticing that the space of turf they were treading was crossed in various directions by footmarks, as if it was trodden not infrequently by some one who was yet careful not to make a path. It seemed as though Janni must have some eyrie in the cliffs, some look-out post where he spent his solitary days, and she was by no means anxious to come upon him suddenly. Constantine came back at her call, and in another moment she was able to reward him by showing him that what he had acclaimed as an insect was in reality a flower. Thenceforward she had no more anxiety as to his wandering in advance. His patience was admirable, and his method thorough. Every hollow to which they came must be absolutely cleared of orchises before he would consent to go on to another, and all the while his little tongue kept up a dropping fire of questions on the natural history of flowers and bees. Working their way steadily downwards, they came at length to a spot so thick with blossoms that even Constantine’s energy flagged in contemplating it, and he suggested sitting down to consider where it would be best to begin. This seemed a suitable moment for bringing out the steward’s provision of cakes, and when they had been consumed Constantine set to work like a giant refreshed. Zoe was glad to see him happily occupied, for she had caught sight of a ledge a little way farther down, on which the flowers seemed to be of quite a different variety. It was easy for her to reach it, but the descent would not be very safe for her nephew, and she meant to attempt it alone.

Scrambling down, and tearing her gown in the process, she was rather disgusted to find that the flowers were merely overblown specimens of the kind she had been picking all morning, but when she sat down to pin up the hanging braid, she found that she was rewarded for her trouble by an exquisite view of the entrance to the bay. The water was very blue in the noontide stillness, and the cliffs rose straight from it with a curious effect of being painted in different shades of white. She was mentally cataloguing them when her attention was attracted by something moving at the base of the headland on the left--the one remote from the direction of Ephestilo. Scarcely able to believe her eyes, she watched narrowly, and saw that it was a boat--a boat creeping into the bay, as close under the cliffs as the depth of water would allow. The evident wish of the occupants for secrecy, and the curious fact that they should be rowing hard at a time of day when all the fisher population were enjoying their siesta, struck her as suspicious, and she ran over the probabilities hastily in her mind. It could hardly be a Roumi raid, for what could one boatful of men do? Perhaps it was a boat from the fleet, examining the bay to see if it afforded any landing-place that would need to be watched in view of the blockade. Secure in her conviction of the inaccessibility of her perch, she sat watching the boat, until she saw a glass turned upon her, and realised that her white gown must be clearly visible against the grass on which she was sitting. Then astonishment seized her, for she distinctly saw a man in the boat take up a gun and aim it in her direction, but it was pushed down by another, and he did not fire.

Zoe was very angry. Whether the people in the boat were fishermen, as their caps seemed to show, or sailors from the fleet in some attempt at disguise, they had no right to try and frighten inoffensive females who were merely looking at them. Well, she was not going to be frightened. She would remain where she was, and do her best to find out who these intruders might be. When the boat passed beneath her, she must hear their voices, for even at this distance the sound of the oars was audible in the clear air, and it would be hard if she could not distinguish what language they were speaking. It was out of sight now, and she sat and waited, fixing her eyes on a tall needle of rock which rose up close to her platform, and looked as though it had once formed part of it, but was now, as she found by crawling to the edge and looking over, separated from it right down to the water-level, as if by one straight, clean cut. The sound of voices was so long in coming that at last she grew tired of waiting, and, taking off her hat lest it should be seen, she lay down and peered through the grass that fringed the edge of the hollow--then drew back with a feeling of absolute suffocation, as if the blood had all ebbed from her heart and rushed to her throat. The men had landed, landed there below her, where no landing-place existed, and one of them was beginning to work his way up between the needle and the cliff, as though the fissure was a “chimney” in the Alps. The boat, with two men in it, one of whom had a gun, was rowing out again, evidently to keep her in sight, lest she should escape before the climber reached her.

Zoe drew back, sat up, and mechanically pinned on her hat again. Her lips were saying hurriedly, “I must be calm. I must keep cool,” even while voices seemed to fill the air, crying “Constantine! Constantine!” She had brought him into danger, and she must save him, even if it cost her own life. “Con!” she called gently, for fear of attracting the attention of the men below; “Con, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Auntie Zoe.” The roguish little face peered over the ledge above her. “Shall I come? I haven’t nearly finished this place yet.”

“No. I want you to be a very brave boy, Con.” She tried hard to speak so as to impress the child without frightening him. “Dare you go all the way back by yourself, to the place where we saw Colonel Wylie with that funny thing this morning, and take him a message?”

“Oh, Auntie Zoe!” the disappointment was poignant. “There’s sixty million flowers here that I haven’t picked yet.”

“It’s to do something for father, Con. There are naughty men who want to hurt him. Tell Colonel Wylie that they are here in a boat, and he must come round in another boat and catch them. Poor Auntie must stay here till Colonel Wylie comes, so tell him to be quick. Don’t walk on the nice grass, Con--it--it isn’t safe--until you get to the very top, and then run. Oh, Con!” as the sound of something being dragged over the stones reached her, “don’t take the basket. Auntie will bring it when she comes. Think of father!”

She sent the appeal after him despairingly, for she knew well his tenacity of purpose. “And if any of the flowers fall out, he’ll stop and pick them up!” she groaned to herself. How long would he take to get to the top of the cliff? How would his little scrambling childish feet manage to clamber up those slippery limestone slopes? If he avoided the grassy hollows, as she had told him to do, his holland overall would hardly be seen against the rocks by any one who was not looking specially for it. She must occupy the attention of the men in the boat, and keep them from looking at the cliff above her, whence the rattle of fragments of stone as they fell showed her that Constantine was somehow working his way up. She stood forward and looked out to sea, as though watching for ships, her figure boldly outlined against the green of the hollow. Suddenly the boat shot out from beneath her into her field of vision, and she started violently, making vehement gestures of astonishment, as though unable to credit what she saw. Both men were watching her every movement, and the rifle was pointed directly at her. If she could keep their eyes fixed on herself, Constantine would be able to escape. Making a speaking-trumpet of her hands, she called out the Greek “Good day!” and inquired whether the fishing had been successful. The men in the boat did not appear to understand, but they were evidently amused, and returned answers which she could not distinguish. But they were not speaking either Greek or the Thracian dialect used by the majority of the Slavic Emathians, of this she was sure. She stood there, calling out incoherencies in Greek, and receiving irrelevant replies in the unknown tongue, until voice and strength failed her simultaneously, for the approach of the climber in the chimney became audible in grunts and a kind of shuffling noise. She had sufficient presence of mind to wave her hand to the men in the boat before she sat down, trying to look as though it was not because her limbs refused to support her. Still apparently gazing out to sea, she watched, with dilated eyes and panting breath, for the appearance of a red-capped head above the brink. When would it come? and what should she do? Constantine must have reached the top of the cliff by this time, and now that he was safe, the love of life regained its strength in her. She looked round once at the rocky slope above her, with a wild idea of leaping at it and scrambling up too fast for the man in the boat to be able to take aim. But it was so steep. She would have found it difficult to climb at any time, and now she was trembling all over. And even above it there was no possible shelter until nearly the top of the cliff, where a projecting rock might hide her from the view of the marksman in the boat. But nothing could shelter her from the men who were climbing up. Could she pretend to meet them unsuspiciously--disarm their hostility, temporise, hold them in talk until help was in sight? If she addressed the first that appeared in French, which all educated Roumis might be supposed to understand----? But a moment’s thought reminded her that the first man was certain to be Janni, who had doubtless discovered and often used this way of reaching his abode, and who would let down a rope, or even a rope-ladder, before his confederates would venture on the climb. And Janni--dark-browed Janni, who scowled angrily even at little Constantine, and knew no language but his own, which she only spoke very imperfectly,--how could she hope to conciliate him? Could she--would she have the courage to push him down when he was climbing over the edge? For that moment he would be at her mercy, since the man in the boat would not venture to fire for fear of hitting him. But no, she had not the nerves for it, as she had said to Eirene so long ago. “And besides, I don’t _know_ that he means anything dreadful. He may be merely coming home with some friends,” she told herself by way of half-excuse, and then laughed at her own moral cowardice.

There was a sudden quickening of attitude on the part of the men in the boat. The rifle was raised, and pointed not at Zoe, but at the top of the cliff far above her. There was the sound of something striking the rock overhead, bringing down a shower of small fragments, and almost simultaneously came the report. Other bullets followed, and then there was a report closer at hand--from overhead, in fact. Something struck the sea near the boat, raising a little splash, and then, after--but only momentarily after--a second near report, the man who held the gun seemed to crumple up, and the weapon dropped from his hands into the water. Looking up, Zoe had a fleeting impression of a man kneeling at the top of the cliff, with a rifle raised to his shoulder; but as she looked, he lowered it, and began to swing himself down, taking a more direct way than the pleasant path by which she had wandered with Constantine. Then her attention was distracted, for a face surmounted by a red cap appeared over the edge of the hollow, and resolved itself into that of Janni the fisherman, with a knife held between his teeth. His eyes seemed to fascinate her. She could not move, and watched in helpless silence while he drew himself up gradually to her level.

There was a click on the ledge above her, where Constantine had been left. “Jammed!” said Wylie’s voice, in a tone of such angry disgust that she nearly laughed, just as Janni pulled himself over the brink with a final effort, and ran at her, brandishing the knife.

“Take my hand,” said the voice overhead, clear and hard, and turning mechanically to obey, she saw that Wylie was lying on the ledge above, stretching out his left hand to her, while his right held the rifle clubbed. She sprang at the rock, and scrambled wildly up its slippery face. Presently Wylie was assisting her with both hands instead of one, and now she crouched panting on the ledge beside him. Looking round involuntarily for Janni and his knife, she saw that he was not, as she had imagined, an inch or two behind her. He was kneeling at the edge of the hollow she had left, fixing the end of a rope-ladder that he had carried with him, and another man, with a rifle on his back, was already visible upon it. Wylie whirled her to her feet, and dragged her up the path.

“He was not really going for you,” he said, in an odd, muffled voice. “That was a dodge to keep me from coming down and preventing his fixing the ladder. He knew that when once this thing had jammed I could do him no harm except at close quarters.”

He went on to discourse of the iniquities of the Mauser rifle, still in the same curious voice, as if he was talking for talking’s sake, without in the least thinking of what he said, and Zoe made no effort to understand or respond. For one moment, as he lay on the ledge, she had caught in his eyes the look she had not seen there for seven years, and she could think of nothing else. She had not deceived herself. He did care. Nothing else mattered.