Mother Hellas, though also haunted by Charos, was going short of food in order to give it to the starving Cretans. Miserly householders opened their purses, newly married couples sacrificed their wedding presents, popes raised their hands to God, and ships put out from places on the near-by coast to smuggle ammunition, food and volunteers into Crete.
On the island of Syra, rich in ships, Captain Stefanes limped about the. back alleys of the small town and stretched out his hands in entreaty. “A ship for me, too, Christians, a ship for Crete!”
And God did arrange that, precisely at the time the two leaders who were his friends were marching to Christ the Lord Monastery, Captain Stefanes was hopping on the ship that the patriots of Syra had entrusted to him. It had a cargo of flour, belts, muslin bandages and cartridges.
Captain Stefanes crossed himself, took the icon of Saint Nicholas and placed it well forward in the bows. He whispered to it. “I’m placing you here, Saint Nicholas, my saint, because your eyes see better than two pairs of men’s eye Never say, after this, that you were in the cabin and saw nothing!” The sea saint with the short beard looked at him in silence. In his hands, eaten away y salt, he was holding a toya ship with tiny men on board. He was smiling. Captain Stefanes bent over him and kissed him.
A small cloud like a smoke cloud appeared in the sky to the south. It grew, and other clouds came frisking behind it like sheep, driven along by the hot south wind as by a shepherd. By midday the whole sky was covered. The first lukewarm drops of autumn rain fell, and the first claps of thunder boomed over the sea.
Captain Stefanes turned his flashing eyes to the south and smiled. “Up, south wind, master of waters, pour your floods down, so that neither sun nor moon appears and I can bring Crete’s dowry to land in pitch-black darkness, with a turn of the hand.”
Vendusos, too, heard the thunder as he climbed the mountain. He was oppressed by the sky hanging dark above him. “Wait, sky,” he muttered, “till I get to my godfather Jorgaros. Then you can let your temper go!”
He quickened his pace, to reach the mountain village of Anapoli. He wanted to ask his godfather to look after his wife and two daughters until Crete should be at peace again.
He arrived in the deep of night. He knocked on the door. Not a soul! He knocked again, and his godfather came to the door, with reddened eyes, disheveled hair and pale face.
“Greetings, Godfather Jorgaros,” said Vendusos. “May I lie down in your house tonight?”
“Ask for my head and it’s yours,” answered the godfather. “Welcome!”
Vendusos entered the house. The wife did not appear. Jorgaros left his godson for a moment, and subdued voices came from the bedroom upstairs. Soon they ceased. “And Godmother?” Vendusos asked. “You must excuse her, Godson Vendusos,” Jorgaros answered. “She’s not been well, these last days. She sends you her greetings and bids you welcome.”
The godfather laid the table, brought food and wine and lighted a lamp.
“Excuse me, Godson,” he said, “I’ve not much to offer you. But how was I to know you’d do me the favor of coming this evening? Tomorrow I’ll kill you a chicken, God willing.”
The south wind raged, the rain slapped against door and steps.
“Tomorrow, first thing, Godfather, I must be gone, God willing,” Vendusos replied. “I’ve given Captain Michales my word. I’ve come, Godfather Jorgaros, to ask you a favor.”
“Anything hi my power,” replied Jorgaros, nodding his head.
“If you have a room to spare, to shelter my family, till the weapons are silent…”
Jorgaros drank a gulp of w;ne, as though his throat were constricted.
“It happens that a room is vacant,” he said, lowering his eyes, “just since the last few days. Take it, Godson Vendusos!”
He stood up to open the door and go out into the yard. He came in again at once, wet through. “God be thanked,” he said, “it’s raining. The soil will be soft for the plowing.”
He pushed the table to one side and made up a bed for his godson on the settle. “Sleep, Godson,” he said. “You’ve come a long way.”
Next morning Jorgaros brought him a mug of milk, a dry barley loaf and a large hunk of cheese. The sky was now clear. The cocks of the village were fluttering on the roofs and crowing.
“Good-by, Godfather,” said Vendusos. “How can I repay your friendship? Only God can reward you.”
“The Almighty pays what is due, don’t worry, Godson Vendusos. Good-by!”
The washed rocks glittered hi the morning light, and the raindrops on the branches shimmered. Vendusos strode down the mountain, whistling gaily. He had found protection for his family, he was relieved of that nightmare, and he was now in a hurry to get back to Captain Michales, Kajabes and Furogatos.
The door of a hovel outside the village opened, and a little old man appeared on the threshold. Vendusos recognized him. He was old Zacharias, Jorgaros’ uncle and a man of skill. He grafted trees and barbered and doctored men and women. Every Saturday he took a clay bowl, some soap, a pair of clippers and a razor, and sat down on the small bench by the church, to shear and scrape as many heads as presented themselves. Close by him he had a small sack, which his customers filled with bread, vegetables and raisins; next to it, there stood two jugs, for .wine and oil. When he had done his barber’s work, he heaped up the cut-off hair and set fire to it, so that the space around him was veiled in stinking smoke.
“A long life to you, Uncle Zacharias!” Vendusos called out to him, and stopped.
“Welcome to the lyre player!” the old man answered. “What’s happening in the world, my child? Where is it going?”
“Don’t ask, Uncle! To the devil!”
“And you?”
“I’m going with it. Can I get away from it? Last night I slept at my Godfather Jorgaros’ house. We had a good long talk. Now I’m off.”
The old man raised his hands to Heaven. “At Jorgaros’,” he muttered. “Lord have mercy on me! So that’s why the poor man sent a message that no one was to come to his house to mourn for the dead!”
“What’s that, Uncle? What mourning?”
“Didn’t you notice anything?”
“What should I have noticed?”
“His son was killed yesterday morning. They had the body in the bedroom.”
Vendusos covered his face.
“Hey, Vendusos,” exclaimed the old man, “don’t cry! Fare you well! We all have to die!”
At Christ the Lord Monastery too it had rained that night. The faces of the monks, who had been kneeling for three days and nights behind their bulwarks, waiting for the Turks, looked fresh.
There were thirty-two of them all told, together with about twenty peasants from near by, who had been ashamed to leave the Christ the Lord in the lurch. When they had heard the storm bells, they had taken their wives and children to a highlying cave, a citadel made by God, and then repaired to the monastery with their provisionsa sheep or a goat and a woolen sack full of barley biscuits.
Noon was already near when Captain Polyxigis with his palikars reached the top of the pass and began to approach the monastery. From a distance they caught the sound of shots and of Turkish trumpets. Some of the comrades hastily took up positions at the top of the pass, to protect their brothers in the rear.
Captain Polyxigis stood up in his stirrups. “Greetings, brothers,” he shouted, and fired a pistol shot. Then he turned to his panting companions. “Let ‘em have your greetings, my children! But I don’t want a single bullet wasted!”
He pointed at the huge mass of accursed red fezzes swarming about the monastery. Fifteen bullets whistled into the Turks from behind. Some twenty bodies fell to the ground, bellowing.
The monastery echoed back cries of “Welcome, children!” Old Ilarion, the deaf bell ringer, grasped the bell rope and began ringing festively.
The Turks raged as they raised their eyes and saw through the mist that the top of the pass was occupied by Greeks, who
were now seeking cover behind the cliffs.
“Allah! Allah!” they bawled.
Most of the Turkish ranks remained where they were, with a close grip on the monastery; the others stormed up toward the crest.
It began to rain heavily. A cloud hid the top of the pass, while the rain beat into the faces of the Turkish soldiers and blinded them.
“God’s with us,” shouted Captain Polyxigis. “Give ‘em another volley.”
They reloaded and fired. Shouts and curses rang out. But the clouds now sank lower and protected the Turks too. Their red fezzes and glittering bayonets could barely be made out.
The abbot, who saw through the loophole that the Turkish numbers had divided, called out the news to his people. “Forward, children!” he shouted. “Now! Let’s attack them and loosen their grip!”
Monks and peasants leaped up, the bell ringer again seized his rope and rang the signal for attack. They gathered in the courtyard. The abbot ran ahead, opened the big door, and they all rushed out, shouting.
For a moment the Turks were bewildered by the two attacks. Some tried by means 9f a counterattack to drive the monks back into the monastery, but in the midst of the attack they received the order to withdraw deeper into the ravine. They were pursued by the monks.
Suddenly a trumpet call rang out. The Turks stopped. Immediately afterward, behind the monks, other trumpets sounded.
“The Turks have encircled us,” shouted a monk. “We’re in a trap! Back, Reverend Abbot!”
“They’ve broken into the monastery!” yelled another.
The abbot stuck his pistols into his belt, drew a knife and without a word hastened back to the gate of the monastery.
Captain Polyxigis had at once seen the new danger and stormed down with his palikars. The rain had grown heavier. Twilight spread. Turks and Christians formed a uge knot of fighting men, each of them at once attacking and on the defensive.
“Follow me!” the abbot now shouted, and Captain Polyxigis also urged his companions on and pressed through to the gate.
A few Turks had already got into the monastery courtyard and were running toward the church. They were flinging burning tow and rags in all directions.
“You damned dogs!” they heard two wild, hoarse voices behind them. The abbot and Captain Polyxigis had crossed the threshold together, and they now rushed on the intruders. The Turks who were following were driven against the church wall and massacred by the monks and palikars, who now arrived all at once.
For the present the danger had been averted. The heavy outer gate of the monastery was double-bolted. Night came. The fighters broke ranks and silence fell.
“Back to the pass!” ordered Captain Polyxigis. “God will be with us again tomorrow.”
The Christians counted their losses. Of the monks and peasants, three had been killed and several wounded. Ilarion the bell ringer was missing. Two of Captain Polyxigis’ band had been killed and many wounded. They buried the dead by night at the top of the pass: two doughty palikars, both from Kasteli, uncle and nephew. Captain Polyxigis took two sticks, made them into a cross and placed it on the mound.
“We’ll be back later,” he said. Then he turned to his comrades.
“Now for some food, children! We’re still alive and we’re hungry!”
They, lighted a fire, cooked and ate. The excitement of the battle flickered in their talk. Sentries were posted for the night. The rest folded their arms and slept, exhausted.
Down below, the lights in the church burned till midnight. The monks were praising God, Who had stretched out His hand and saved the monastery from fire and death. The aged Photios mixed balsam and tended the wounded all night.
The Turkish soldiers also were burying their dead, caring for the wounded and thinking, as they stared silently into the campfires, of their wives and children in far-off Anatolia. Who would plow the fields there, prune the vines, and earn bread for the family?
As the first pallid light appeared in the sky, Christians and Turks sprang to arms. Two dervishes, one with a drum, the other with a flute, ran among the Turkish soldiers from group to group, to give them courage and fire.
The monks, too, took up their posts. The abbot’s head was bandaged. His wounds were still bleeding, his white beard was full of red drops. He kneeled down before the loophole, and his eagle eye flew over the enemy’s position. Wherever a head poked up, his bullet hit it without fail. It’s an evil craft, killing men, he thought. But it’s not our fault, O God! Make us free, God, then we’ll have peace.
Above, at the top of the pass, Captain Polyxigis made his rounds and gave each man his orders. Each was already behind a boulder and aiming his gun at the red fezzes. But Captain Polyxigis was too proud to hide and walked upright from man to man.
Bullets were already whistling over their heads.
“Take cover, Captain, or you’ll get hit!” his palikars called to him.
But Captain Polyxigis laughed.
“I’d like to, children. I’m frightened too, God knows. But I’m ashamed. Want to be captain, Polyxigis? Then you must pay for it.”
“You carry a splinter of the Holy Cross about with you,” shouted a tall lad with a poison tongue. “That’s why you’re so fearless.”
That angered Captain Polyxigis. “The holy splinter, you idiot,” he said, “is the soul of a man. I know no other!”
Down below, the battle was flaring afresh. The Turks advanced and the monastery was again in danger.
“Christ will be the victor!” yelled Captain Polyxigis. “Down and at the Turks!”
The palikars leaped from behind the rocks and rushed down. Stones came rattling behind them; the whole mountain seemed to be in motion.
After the guns had done their work, the short daggers came into play in hand-to-hand combat. The guns in the monastery also were silent: it was no longer possible to distinguish the fighters. The abbot ordered his most daring men to join in the melee, while the others stayed behind the bulwarks and guarded the monastery. But the Mussulmans outnumbered the Christians, seven to one. The abbot and the captain moved among their men, putting fire into them. But wave on wave of Turkish attackers fell upon them, and toward midday the Christians began to weaken. The sun seemed to be standing still in the sky, and the rescuing night infinitely far away. The attackers pressed on. In the midst of the confusion the glances of the abbot and the captain met. Each saw the monastery burning in the eyes of the other.
Suddenly a salvo thundered in the low ravine. The Christians watched with amazement as a dark banner climbed higher and higher and with it, clambering from boulder to boulder, a bellowing horde. At its head, on his mare, rode Captain Michales, wearing his black headband.
“Hail to you, brothers!” he shouted, firing his pistol nd turned to the enemy.
That day and the next the wounded Turks poured back into Megalokastro.
“What’s happened with the monastery? Is it still standing? Do you call yourselves soldiers?” shouted the pasha, tearing his”beard.
“It was all going well, Pasha Effendi,” answered the wounded, “until that cursed Captain Michales fell upon s.”
They were hoarse with thirst and demanded sherbet from Barba Jannis. Efendina too emerged and recited verses from the Koran, to allay their pain. From the great plane tree hung, like a bell, poor Ilarion, the deaf bell inger. The Turks had taken him alive two days ago. He was still holding in his fist a piece of the bell rope, which he had refused to let go, so that the Turks had had to cut it.
The Metropolitan never put off his vestments, day and night. Each moment he expected that the Turks would force their way in to the Residence and haul him off to the gallows. He did not want to make that journey half naked and barefoot. He had sent for Pachunios the ascetic from the Kadumas Monastery by the Libyan Sea, to hear his confession. He took communion every day, that his soul might be ready at any time. Murzuflos did not move from his side, and kept him company like a dog. He slept on the threshold of his bedroom,
that he might in no case be separated from his master, and that their souls might pass together into the beyond.
At the monastery night came at last. Christ and Mohammed separated. The Christians lighted fires on the mountainside, the Turks around the monastery walls. The monastery remained hidden in deep darkness. Captain Michales and Polyxigis met and discussed the situation. They settled the place and manner of tomorrow’s attack, and parted without having exchanged a friendly word.
Captain Michales squatted alone by the fire, deep in a dark colloquy with himself, and rolled a cigarette. His heart was oppressed. He was fighting, killing and at every moment exposing himself to deathfor Crete. Yet his mind was not with Crete. When, mounted on his mare, he stormed forward with the cry: Follow me, you faithful!, in his secret self he doubted his own faith. And when night came he withdrew into solitude, he did not think, as in the past, about the freedom of Crete; his spirit wandered elsewhere.
What have you sunk to, Captain Michales? he asked himself, and spat into the fire.
In this bitter mood, he heard light footsteps and a cough behind him. He turned. It was Vendusos, to whom he had given leave to make arrangements for his family’s safety.
“What’s happened, Vendusos?” Captain Michales asked, and stood up.
Vendusos, who had long suspected what worm was gnawing at Captain Michales, whispered into his ear,
“Captain, Captain, Emine___”
Captain Michales started. Then he seized Vendusos by the arm. “Speak softly!”
“The Turks attacked Kasteli tonight and made off with her.”
Captain Michales stretched out his hand to the fire. He wanted the burning pain…. He wheeled around. “Where?” “Toward Megalokastro.”
Freedom or Death Page 32