Chapter XVII: The Hope That Failed

Leaving Sir Frank Francis to pursue his dignified way alone, Wylie ran back to the village, only to see a considerable body of insurgents, armed with rifles hastily snatched up, half-way to the tower. They were approaching it from the back, whereas the Consuls and their forces, with the rescued garrison, were assembled in front of it, waiting for Sir Frank’s return to begin their march back to the sea, but a collision seemed inevitable. With a wild idea of flinging himself between the contending parties, Wylie ran towards the tower, hoping to intercept his followers before they could reach the front of the building. Sir Frank, in the natural exasperation induced by intercourse with these wretched insurgents, who were giving the consular body trouble so absurdly disproportionate to their importance, might call him a renegade Englishman, but he could not see the British flag fired upon by his own men. His intention was frustrated, however, by two of them, who rose up, as if by magic, from behind a bush, and laid violent hands upon him. Protest, command, entreat as he might, it was no use; they dragged him behind the bush and held him fast there, considerately choosing a position from which the tower and its assailants were clearly visible. To Wylie’s intense relief, the main body of his men halted at a ridge which commanded the whole side of the tower, and lay down behind it, covering the consular force with their rifles. Only three ran on, and Wylie saw that they carried ropes. Arrived at the back of the tower, one of them threw his rope over a sculptured gargoyle which projected from the building at about a third of its height, and wriggled up it, his companions holding the ends. The lower part of the masonry alone had been kept in good repair, and when he reached the gargoyle the climber had passed his greatest difficulty--the stretch of squared stones with the crevices well filled with mortar. Above it the stones were weather-worn, and the mortar of the Venetian builders was crumbling away from between them, so that he was able to find holes for his feet and hands. Wylie gathered from the remarks of the men who held him that the adventurer was a noted cliff-climber, and smiled, even in his disgust, at the reticence which had hitherto been maintained as to his profession. With such an auxiliary it would have been comparatively easy to storm the tower on a windy night, with the garrison in the proper state of exhaustion, induced by constant false alarms, but the man and his associates had alike kept their own counsel.

The approach of the insurgents to the tower had not passed unnoticed by the rear ranks of the consular force in the front, and when the three men ran forward warning shouts were raised, two or three officers stepping out and calling to them, evidently under the impression that they did not know the place was mined. As they took no notice, the commander of the Magnagrecian guard, who was the nearest, began to march his men round to the back. Instantly, to Wylie’s speechless horror, the insurgents lining the ridge fired a volley. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw that they had fired into the air, and that the Magnagrecian detachment was untouched. But the bullets whistling overhead had alarmed the rest of the force, and the Magnagrecians were hastily recalled. No one seemed quite to know whether the volley had been an accident, an act of hostility or one of warning, and while the officers of various nationalities discussed the matter excitedly, a shout of triumph from the insurgents drew their attention to the top of the tower. The daring climber stood there, and the Roumi flag which had floated proudly from its staff was torn down and rent savagely into fragments. In its place the eagle of the Eastern Empire rose into view and blew out defiantly. So much they saw, then the climber seemed to throw himself headlong from the battlements, scrambling down the ruined masonry for dear life. Arrived at the gargoyle, he took a flying leap, regardless of safety, and as his feet touched the ground the building blew up. The time-worn walls, which had seen so many changes since their builders had first hoisted the standard of St Mark, ended their career under the flag of Free Emathia.

In the shock and amazement of this transformation scene, it was difficult to perceive what actually happened. The Consuls and their naval contingents declared that the insurgents lining the roofs of Ahmed Pasha, in the excitement of their triumph, opened fire upon the representatives of Europe. The insurgents, on the other hand, declared, and Wylie believed they spoke the truth, that it was not bullets that wounded several sailors at this juncture, but flying fragments of masonry, and that they had merely fired their rifles again into the air. However this might be, there was no doubt that the consular force, with marvellous celerity, took cover behind the ruins of Segreti, and that bullets were flying between it and Ahmed Pasha, rendering the position of those who found themselves on the broken ground stretching from one to the other unpleasant in the extreme. The insurgents lining the ridge behaved with a steadiness of which Wylie would have been proud in less exasperating circumstances. They separated into two parties, which took turns in running back and halting to cover each other’s retreat with the greatest precision, picking up Wylie and his two guards by the way, and tumbling proudly into Ahmed Pasha without the loss of a man, though one or two exhibited flesh-wounds. Even the climber and his two companions had somehow escaped from the wreck of the tower, and joined the rest.

An informal Assembly for mutual congratulation was, of course, the first thing to be thought of, the periods of the orators being pleasantly punctuated by the bullets which struck the houses round them. Nobody was concerned to apologise to Wylie, who had very skilfully been prevented, so the general opinion seemed to run, from making a regrettable exhibition of himself, and the seriousness of the situation was quite overborne by the gratifying reflection that Emathia was actually engaged in hostilities with the whole of envious Europe. But it was very speedily borne in upon the minds of the triumphant talkers that war with Europe did not merely mean exchanging long shots from cover with another force equally well protected. A shell came screaming and tearing overhead, without any innocuous warning this time, and exploded in the courtyard of one of the houses, from which rose a thick cloud of smoke. Other shells followed, one dropping almost in the midst of the Assembly, which broke up with unprecedented celerity, and Wylie seized the opportunity of the general consternation to resume his command. It was useless to try and retain Ahmed Pasha under the fire of the ships, but the fact had in it this compensation, that it would be equally impossible for the Powers to reestablish the Roumis in the place if they could be beguiled into destroying it. They would probably go on dropping shells as long as no sign of surrender appeared, and by sunset the place would be untenable for any self-respecting Moslems. The insurgents, confused and terrified by the sudden reversal of their fortunes, were willing enough to obey the man who proposed to deprive their enemies of any profit from it, and under Wylie’s orders the wounded were first conveyed out at the back of the village, and then such stores as remained. Lastly, the garrison left in small parties, keeping the now burning houses between themselves and Segreti, and taking care not to concentrate anywhere on the road, lest the ships should take a fancy to enlarge the area of their fire. Wylie was perhaps the only man present who realised that the brief attempt of the insurgents to obtain a footing on the mainland was now ended. They were driven back upon Karakula, and might be thankful if they were allowed to retain even that.

Though the insurgents’ love for the Powers could hardly be expected to have been increased by the events of the day, they were sufficiently frightened by this second bombardment and its results to become more amenable to discipline. Ahmed Pasha was now a heap of smoking ruins, and the shells began to fall into Karakula--apparently out of pure vindictiveness, since it was well within the line which the Admirals had laid down as the limit of the insurgents’ territory. The village itself was not capable of defence, as the houses had never been repaired since its first seizure, and it was commanded by the steep slope behind it, and therefore Wylie did not linger there. He posted his pickets from shore to shore of the isthmus, in case an attempt should be made by the Roumis to break through, and concentrated the rest of his force in a hollow well shielded from the fire of the warships, from which they could quickly reinforce any part of the line that might be threatened. From a high point of the ridge which formed the backbone of the peninsula he could obtain a view of the consular force sheltering behind Segreti, and he noted that the firing ceased as though at a signal, presumably when each ship had dropped a certain number of shells. A detachment of armed sailors was then thrown forward to examine the ruins and make sure that they were not occupied, and thereafter the Consuls, their guards and their rescued charges, embarked in safety. No attempt was made to cross the line and approach Karakula, for which Wylie was devoutly thankful, since his men, posted in an advantageous position, which the fire from the ships could not easily search out, would certainly have refused to withdraw without fighting, and could not have been dislodged without heavy loss.

Night fell at last, and leaving Prince Romanos in command on one shore of the isthmus, Wylie took up his post on the other, that nearest to Therma and Skandalo. It was here, if anywhere on the isthmus, that an attack would be made, and he had conceived a plan for drawing the assailants into a morass not far from the shore by means of a feigned retreat. He had everything in readiness to give them a warm reception, but with a sad lack of consideration they declined to come. Distrustful, owing to much bitter experience, of the wakefulness of his supporters, he watched through most of the night himself, and felt almost as if he had been cheated when it had passed uneventfully. The labours and trials of the last few days had left their mark upon him, and Prince Romanos started when they met.

“You are ill!” he said. “Or were you wounded yesterday after all?”

“This place is feverish,” said Wylie irritably. “I felt it in the night. I suppose I had no business to sleep out, but there wasn’t much choice. I must send for my quinine from the monastery, and then I daresay I shall shake it off.”

“Better rest for to-day,” suggested Prince Romanos; but Wylie was an impracticable patient, all the more determined to do all he could at once because he knew it was highly unlikely that he would be able to do it on the morrow. The new line of defence behind Karakula must be strengthened, and more use made of the marsh, so that it might appear to be the only unguarded spot, positively inviting an attack. This was a kind of warfare the insurgents could understand, and they entered heartily into the contrivances for concentrating a heavy fire on an imaginary force in difficulties. One man even volunteered to offer to act as guide to the Roumis, with the amiable intention of leading them into the trap, but the drawback to this scheme was that there were no Roumis to lead astray--not the slightest apparent intention on the part of Jalal-ud-din to profit from the advantage secured for him by the Powers yesterday. Still Wylie worked on, growing more ghastly in appearance as the hours passed, until Prince Romanos was summoned by a violent outcry from the trench which was being dug under his superintendence. Wylie had collapsed at last, and as he lay insensible in the sun, knives were being drawn above him. His own guards, and the other Slavs in the neighbourhood, declared that the Greeks had murdered him, and the Greeks were vehemently rebutting the accusation, crying out that the Slavs had brought it against them to conceal their own guilt. Prince Romanos patched up a hollow peace by sending for Dr Terminoff, who pronounced the illness to be entirely due to natural causes, and ordered the patient to be carried to the hospital. Before he arrived there, however, Wylie recovered consciousness sufficiently to murmur, “Ephestilo camp; not hospital--not monastery,” and the doctor consented unwillingly to do as he wished, sending word to Maurice of the change. Maurice hurried to Ephestilo as soon as the news reached him, and found his friend established in the chief house in the village, from which his guards had expelled the inhabitants on their own authority. Wylie could not lift his head from the rolled-up cloak which served as a pillow, but his eyes met Maurice’s anxiously.

“Hoped I should be--sensible--when you came,” he said with difficulty. “Don’t let--ladies--come here.”

“But it’s nothing infectious,” said Maurice, in astonishment. “I know they will want to nurse you.”

“Then don’t--tell them,” was the obstinate reply.

“My dear fellow, you must be properly looked after,” remonstrated Maurice. “They won’t tease you to talk, or anything of that sort,” with a vague effort to get at the root of the objection.

“My men”--with an attempt to glance in the direction of the guards, who were sitting playing cards on the floor--“look after--me all right--good fellows--do as they’re told. I will not--have any one else. Promise.”

There was so much determination in the weak voice that Maurice compromised. “Well, if Terminoff thinks your men are enough----”

“Promise,” persisted Wylie. “Not even--if--I mention names.”

“Whose names?” asked Maurice, taken aback. Wylie glanced at him with a kind of sick contempt.

“Zoe’s, of course,” he said irritably. “I might call out for her--no, of course I shan’t,”--with a momentary accession of strength,--“but I might. Don’t let her come.”

“Of course not,” said Maurice quickly; and Wylie sighed with something like contentment, and then began to murmur incoherently, while Maurice relieved his feelings by turning the guards out of the room, and forbidding cards anywhere but on the piazza outside. One of the men, who had acted as Wylie’s servant, was appointed head-nurse, and told that he would be held responsible for the patient, and might choose his own assistants, who must obey the doctor’s orders implicitly. The men were all willing enough, but a very primitive surgery was their only notion of curative treatment, and Maurice returned to the monastery full of anxiety. Zoe was waiting for him at the gate.

“Colonel Wylie is ill?” she said.

“Attack of fever. I left him fairly comfortable.”

“And he won’t let me go near him, of course?”

“How did you know?” he asked in surprise.

“I know him. I suppose he has made you promise, Maurice? Don’t be afraid; I am not going to make a fuss--only you must tell me if he is dying.”

“I hope there’s no fear of that. If there was----”

“If there is, you must let me know, and I shall go to him. Even he would not wish to keep me away then--he would forgive me at last. Do you remember, Maurice?--‘an unforgiving brute,’ you called him once.” She laughed drearily. “But he wouldn’t deprive me of that one little scrap of comfort when there was no chance of my presuming upon it in the future.”

“Then you think”--Maurice hesitated--“that he cares for you still?”

“I know he does. But he can’t forgive me.”

“I don’t know--I had an idea somehow that it was you. Eirene thought you didn’t care for him.”

“Eirene ought to know better,” said Zoe indignantly. “But she really thinks you don’t care for a person unless you show it by doing something wild, I suppose. Maurice, if I had married him seven years ago, do you think we should have been saved all this?” with a wave of her hand that included the peninsula generally. “He would have been quartered somewhere in Egypt or India, I suppose, and he would be an ordinary hard-working soldier, and I the usual Anglo-Indian regimental lady. You would not have embarked on this without him?”

“I don’t know,” said Maurice again slowly. “We should have had Teffany-Wise’s legacy just the same, I imagine, and Eirene would have been the same. She would not have waited for Wylie, you know. No, I don’t think you need reproach yourself with that, Zoe,--as if you hadn’t enough to bear.”

“Don’t!” said Zoe quickly, dashing away an intrusive tear. “And the worst of it is that what I said to him when I refused him was perfectly justified--absolutely true. Any reasonable man would have seen it, only--you know----”

“This particular man is not reasonable?” suggested Maurice. “Of course he isn’t--on this subject. If he was, he wouldn’t be Wylie. But if he was, how glad I should have been if he had married you and taken you out of this!”

“He wouldn’t have gone, and I wouldn’t have been taken,” said Zoe with conviction. “We should stand by you and Eirene to the end, Maurice--as we shall now. But surely things are no worse now than they were, if the warships are going to let us alone? You and--he--always said that it was only a source of weakness to hold Ahmed Pasha.”

“If the warships let us alone to starve?” said Maurice. “We can hold out for a week on the present restricted allowance, no longer. And how are we to get supplies?”

“Lord Armitage may come any day,” Zoe reminded him.

“No; I forgot to tell you. Demetri the fisherman came in to Skandalo when I was there this morning, and said he had actually sighted the yacht outside the blockading warships. He tried to signal to her how bad our plight was, but unfortunately his boat attracted the notice of a Hercynian destroyer,--she was beyond our own waters, of course. They came to order her back, sighted the yacht, and went off in chase. He heard the sound of firing, but can’t say whether she was captured. It’s just possible that she gave them the slip in the night, of course.”

“I should have thought Lord Armitage would have taken the risk and run for Skandalo,” said Zoe.

“Then he would have been sunk, to a certainty, and what good would his stores be to us at the bottom of the sea? No, he will try to keep out of sight till he finds a chance of getting in, but the worst of it is they will all be looking for him now.”

“I should send the refugees back to the mainland,” said Zoe suddenly. “The food would last much longer if we had only the insurgents and the regular inhabitants.”

“My dear Zoe, don’t you think the Powers know that, and the Roumis too? The moment our poor wretches showed their noses beyond that barren labyrinth where Wylie and Christodoridi held up Jalal-ud-din, they would be turned back, you may be sure. They would have tried it themselves long ago if they hadn’t been certain of that. No, the Powers, in the interests of humanity, will see us starved to the point at which the Roumis are certain of a walk-over. That’s the secret of their forbearance, in spite of all the moral sympathy that Panagiotis assures us they feel. They are cruel only to be kind, of course.”

Two days of the allotted week passed by, and still the Powers and the Roumis remained inactive. Wylie muttered incoherently on his sick-bed at Ephestilo, and Zoe tried to compensate herself for her banishment from him by caring for the wounded from Ahmed Pasha, who had at least gained their injuries in his company. The third night was very foggy, and the watchers along the coast could hear the muffled sound of sirens and whistles as the European warships talked to one another. The morning was also foggy, but the fog lay over the sea, not the land. The warships were moored too far out to be seen, and even the fishing-boats at anchor loomed dimly through the haze. From Skandalo came exciting news. The boats lying farthest out had caught a glimpse of the yacht. She had burst upon them out of the gloom, and they had cheered her on, thinking that nothing could now prevent her from reaching the port. But from the direction of Therma there came a small foreign ship, steaming parallel with the shore, so as to cut the yacht off from Skandalo, and she had turned and fled back into the fog. From the cliffs at the southern extremity of the peninsula one or two glimpses of her had been caught, and refugees and insurgents were now crowding to the coast to watch for her. The warship had followed her out of the range of vision, so there was still the hope that she might shake off pursuit and run safely for Ephestilo, the only practicable harbour on that side, and one into which the pursuer would not be able to follow her.

Work was at a standstill that morning, for the imminence of the crisis drew every one to the cliffs. Mothers carrying their babies, sick and wounded men dragging themselves painfully over the ground, warriors forsaking their posts inland, townspeople and farmers who were now feeling the pinch of famine like their guests,--all converged on Ephestilo. The slopes on either side of the bay down to the water’s edge were parti-coloured with people, and all eyes were fixed on the space between the headlands, looking out to sea, as though it were the stage of a natural amphitheatre. Boom! came a hollow sound from seaward, and as though the shot had rent the curtain of fog, the yacht ran into sight at that moment, sparks mingling with the smoke from her funnels in the intensity of her effort to reach the shore. Her pursuer was visible immediately afterwards, close--terribly close--upon her, and steaming as before to cut her off from the one opening in the rocks that guarded the harbour. Sighs and moans of sympathy broke from the watching people as the shells of the pursuer fell before, behind, beside the yacht, then on board, causing her to shrink and stagger, but she still held on.

“Good old Armitage! He’s going to run her on the rocks--thinks we can salve the stores from her then,” said Maurice, and as he spoke a great cry rose up from the multitude on the shore. The yacht had run straight upon the reef. The fishermen, led by Maurice, rushed for their boats, only to recoil in terror as a shell splashed into the water of the harbour. Amid the tears and groans of the crowd, the commander of the destroyer went about his work methodically, sending an occasional shot into the bay to keep the onlookers quiet. The crew of the yacht were taken off in boats and transferred to the pursuer, which then withdrew a short distance and fired shot after shot into the grounded vessel. Her boiler blew up at last, with a tremendous explosion, and her shattered remains sank gently into the deep water outside the rocks, followed by a long despairing wail from the shore.