Kosmas kept thinking out ways to speak to this wild, proud man, to guide him into the desired course. At the same time he was torn by his own anxieties. What kind of son would the sickly body of Noe’mi, to which he had entrusted the terrible seed of his race, bear him? He trembled when he thought of it. Then his thoughts would rush back to the land of the Franks, to the injustice, shamelessness and poverty he had seen there. And finally, what about his own course? Where would his own life’s battle take place? His grandfather had had his place, so had his father, and this uncle still had his. But he? Where was he to take up his position and say: “Here I fight, no one’s going to drive me out.” He felt that he was hanging in the air.
The rain stopped at last, A sharp frost-wind blew, chasing the clouds. Constellations appeared, and Charidimos stopped and looked searchingly at the sky.
“It’s after midnight. We’ve made good time,” he said. “If you believe in God, master, let’s stop awhile under this cliff. It’s out of the wind, and we can light a cigarette.”
“Are you tired, Charidimos?”
“Yes, I’m tired. You must realize I’m old. My bones are getting heavy.”
The sly fellow was not tired at all. But he was determined to have his talk. They sat down under the cliff, and Kosmas gave him a cigarette. And now, how was Charidimos to begin the conversation? First he looked up at the sky. What could one say about that? He let it go and considered as possible themes, one after another, his village, Megalokastro, Crete. But what there was to say about them, this Frank certainly had at his fingertips. So that was no good. Suddenly there sprang to his mind one of his uncles, a little fellow called Andrulios. What was this leanbottom’s uncle compared to him? A midge. Now I’ll show him.
He pulled eagerly at his cigarette, and turned to Kosmas.
“Do you know, master, what’s the biggest wild beast in the world? The lion, you’ll say. Not a bit of it! Man! Why? you ask. Because he fights and kills Turks like your uncle? Or because he invents weapons with the devil’s ^cunning and kills the lions? Not a bit of it! I’ll tell you. I had an uncle. They called him, God forgive him, Andrulios. He was only a half-helping. So they gave him the nickname ‘Brownie,’ because he was no bigger than a pea, poor man. God’s refuse, not worth spitting out. He ran here and thereno, he didn’t run, he hopped like a grasshopper, and moaned because his kidneys hurt him. The doctors said he had a stone and was sure to die. And he, my childyes, what a thing a man is!he took his ax and went out, and knelt down on the mountain outside Venerato, his village. Ping! Ping! Ping! He began breaking up the mountain with the ax. One year, two years, three. The peasants used to come by, see him and shake with laughter. ‘Pitting yourself against the mountain, Andrulios?’ ‘Yes, against the mountain! I’m going to eat it p!’ he answered, without taking his eyes off his ax. In the third year he began building a house at the bottom of the mountain. ‘Don’t build a house, Andrulios, just take our advice. Whoever builds a house gets married.’ ‘I shall do that too, you sausages,’ Andrulios answered. ‘I mean to marry and beget children, so that they can help me beat the mountain.’ The peasants laughed. ‘What woman will take you, Brownie?’ ‘When there’s a crowd in the butcher shop nothing gets left over,’ he answered. “There’ll be a wife even for me.’
“He built the house, and one day a peasant’s widow, short and fat and ugly, came by. But she was young. She had a good look at the yard, the cellar, the kitchen, the bedroom. She liked the house. ‘Andrulios,’ she said, ‘what do you think?’ And winked at him. My uncle understood. To cut a long story short, they got married. He slept with her and made the best use of the night. But next morning, first thing, when he was still sleepy, he looked out at the mountain, took his ax and began hacking at it again: ping, ping, ping. Every day he bit off another piece. When enough fresh stone had been hewed out, he built a house next door, with another bedroom. He enlarged the yard and built a stable. ‘Andrulios,’ said the peasants, ‘do you mean to build a town?’ ‘Yes, a town,’ he answered. ‘My wife’s with child, where am I to put my children?’ ‘And you haven’t any pains in your kidneys any more?’ ‘What’s that about pains, you idle carcasses? I haven’t the time.’
“Years passed. The woman bore children, always two at a time. He kept chopping with the ax. There were caves and pits in the mountainAndrulios was eating it up. He and the mountain could not be parted. My uncle’s hair had turned gray, and his body was even more like a hobgoblin’s, but his arms now had a mighty strength, and his hands were broader and longerthey reached down to his knees. Soon he had such a stoop that his paws touched the stones. Whoever saw him burst out laughing. He looked like an ape the pasha once brought to Megalokastro. Whoever saw Andrulios laughed, certainly, but trembled too. The peasants now kept their distance, for ne day he had caught one of the laughing louts by the knee joint and squashed his bones so that he limped ever afterwards. As his children grew, they too threw themselves upon the mountain with the ax, ate it up bit by bit, and built. They married and begot children. My uncle Andrulios was now old and weak, the ax grew too heavy for him. And one evening, as he came home from the mountain, he felt his end drawing near. He lay down on his bed and called his children and grandchildren to him. He ordered them to bury him in the mountain, and to lay his ax by his side. Then he folded his arms and departed. If you happen to pass by Venerato one day, master, have them point out to you Andrulios Village. My uncle’s buildings are now a model place.”
He stopped. He was sure he had properly impressed the Frank. His eyes shone with satisfaction and excitement through the darkness.
“Charidimos, I know another wild beast, bigger than the lion and your Uncle Andrulios.” “Which one?” “The corpse-worm.”
“Heaven preserve us! In God’s name, don’t think of that! Bad luck to it!” muttered Charidimos, and crossed himself.
He spat, and grabbed hold of his stick. “Forward, master,” he said, impatiently.
By dawn Kosmas had reached the peak of Selena. Charidimos hung back. “Go ahead, master,” he said, “and when you’ve done what has to be done, call me, so that we can go back together. I’d rather not see your uncle. Forgive me!”
Standing at his lookout post, Captain Michales had not slept all night. At the first glimmer of light he picked up his field glasses to observe the position of the Turkish posts below. They were dug in a little higher each day. The Turks were not hurrying. From the few salvos the Christians now sent them, they concluded that their supply of powder and shot must be meager. They knew, too, hat the rebels had only a little barley bread left to eat. The siege was perfect and let neither man nor beast through. There was now only one concealed goat path by which a native could reach the eagle’s nest by night.
The pasha had never stopped sending messages to Captain Michales, to persuade this last of the leaders to obedience. It would be more useful to Turkey, he had been informed by Constantinople, if the rebels humbled themselves than if they were killed. For then Crete would have gone back under the yoke of her own free will, and the claim of the Franks would fall to the ground. Yesterday evening the pasha had once more sent a message to Captain Michales: “I grant you a last respite. Surrender tomorrow morning and retire with all military honors. I shall not touch you. Otherwise I shall pound you all to pieces, by Mohammed!”
All night Captain Michales had weighed which course he should choosenot for himself, for he had already chosen, but for his companions. There was no hope of winning, and he did not want to burden his conscience with their fate. So let each of them be free to go his way. He had told them of the pasha’s message. He had asked them to think it over and at daybreak to bring him their answer.
None of them had slept. As the sun touched the mountain, each man separately had come to the captain. Unwashed, uncombed, in torn clothes spotted with blood, they now surrounded him and waited for him to speak. But he stared at the rocks and waited for the wrath in his heart to subside. When he did speak, it must be with a s
erene voice and not with a roar. Thought after thought flashed through his mind: Thrasaki, the Circassian woman, the Monastery of Christ the Lord. … He let out a curse, picked up a stone and gripped it till the blood dripped from his hand.
His lips and his brows contracted. He looked at his comrades, at the Turks far below, at the uninhabited sky. “Freedom or death,” he muttered, shaking his head fiercely. “Freedom or death! O poor Cretans! ‘Freedom nd death’that’s what I should have written on my banner. That’s the true banner of every fighter: Freedom and death! Freedom and death!”
As he said this, he grew easier. After so many years this much was clear at last. His heart strengthened. He now turned calmly to his comrades:
“You know what that dog announces to us. You’re men, we’re struggling for freedom, speak out freely! We’ve no more powder and shot, no bread, no hope. The Turks are an army, we a handful. Whoever of you wants to leave, let him go: by my saber, which I shall give up only to God, it’s no dishonor! Bat I’m not going.”
For a few moments there was silence. The sun already stood a hand’s breadth high in the sky, and the drums began beating. The Turkish soldiers were mustering.
“Speak out freely!” Captain Michales repeated. “And be quick about it!”
A dark-haired, haggard man, whose ancient gun was tied together with string, began:
“That I’m a man, you all know. That I never gave way before anyone, you also know. I’m not afraid of being called unmanly, and I mean to give my opinion frankly. Captain, we’re foundering uselessly. It brings no profit to us or to Christendom. Soon there will be another rising in Crete, and we shall not be there to strike our blow too. Our life is now much more important for Crete than our death. Honor or dishonor, I don’t care. Advantage or disadvantage to Cretethat’s what is on my mind.”
Captain Michales listened intently. When the voice was silent, he asked, “Have you done, Janaros?”
“I have.”
Captain Michales turned to the others. “Your turn, Furogatos.”
Furogatos stroked his mustache, turned his face away, and said:
“All night two devils struggled inside me. One of them said, ‘Leave, there’s no hope of winning.’ The other said, ‘Stay, because there’s no hope of winning.’ When dawn came, one of the two devils won.”
“And which?” asked Captain Michales, his eyes boring into those of his companion.
“As for you, Captain Michalesdamn the hour I got to know you!”
“Well?”
“I’m not going!”
“Captain Michales went around the circle. “And what about you, Kajabes?”
“I,” he answered with a sigh, “am newly married; I’ve a wife and haven’t had a chance to enjoy our happiness! That’s burning inside me!”
“Well,” insisted the captain. “Leave the woman aside. What does the man say? We’re asking him.”
“Curse the hour I met you, Captain Michales. I too say that. I’d like to leave, but you have shamed me. I’m not going.”
“And you, Thodores?” said the captain, turning now to his nephew, who, while his companions had been speaking, had cleaned and loaded his gun. “What do you say, beardless one?”
Thodores scowled. He stared at his uncle with mingled anger, admiration and envy. “Do you think because you’ve got a beard, you’re the only one with courage? I’m not leaving.”
“Nor I!”
“Nor I,” two with graying temples exclaimed.
The others, some twenty of them, silently bent their heads.
“We’ve no time, the sun’s already two hands’ breadths high,” cried Captain Michales. “Speak! Do you want to go? You’re free. Good-by!”
Krasojorgis whispered with the man beside him. Then he stood up and laid his hand on his breast.
“Forgive me, brothers,” he said in a strangled voice. “We have unmarried sisters, sons who are unemployed, wives and children. And our death does nobody any good. We are leaving.”
“Forgive us, brothers,” Mastrapas said too, “we’re going.”
“Bless you! Bless you, brothers!” cried Captain Michales. “God is my witness, I have no complaint against you. Greet the people down there. But go quickly, each man in turn, and don’t let ‘em see you. Quick, before the sun gets higher still.”
“Forgive us, and may God forgive you!”
“You are forgiven,” answered Captain Michales. “Damn the man who says anything against you! Good homecoming!”
Five remained. Captain Michales looked at each in turn. “There are six of us,” he said. “It’s enough. It’s more than enough. The brain says, Ve want to leave!’ But the heartGod help us!won’t allow it. We are not leaving. Here we shall die as a sacrifice for Crete. Let her speak. We who are dying are doing better than they who will live. For Crete doesn’t need householders, she needs madmen like us. Such madmen make Crete immortal.”
He looked up at the sky. The sun was climbing rapidly.
“Pick up your guns. Keep changing loopholes, so they don’t notice there are fewer of us. In God’s name!”
The palikars had begun to disperse and Captain Michales was kneeling down at his loophole, when he heard the clatter of pebbles. He turned around and stared at Kosmas.
“Well, who are you?” he asked. “Keep your head down, if you don’t want a bullet through you.”
“Your nephew, Captain Michales. Kosmas.”
The captain frowned. He understood what wind brought this one here. He said, roughly, “A most welcome visit. Why have you come all the way up here? What does the fox want in the bazaar?”
Kosmas bit his lips, to keep the angry words back. “I’m no fox,” he said with a dry laugh, “and this is no bazaar. I too am a man, Captain Michales. Your nephew.”
“Only someone who fights is a man. Lie down beside me and tell me why you’ve come. But in a few words I’m busy.”
He glanced again at the sky. The sun was approaching midday height. He shouted to his companions, “Get ready, children! Load! But wait for my signal before you fire!”
Wild shouts came from below. Kosmas peered through a gap in the rock and saw thick masses of Turkish soldiers beginning to climb.
“Speak! Who sent you?” said Captain Michales again. His glance had moved away from his nephew. He was now keeping his eyes sharply focused on the Turks.
“Crete,” Kosmas replied. At this word Captain Michales caught fire and bellowed, “None of your big words, schoolmaster! Talk like a man. And don’t tell me Crete sends you! D’you hear? I am Crete!”
Kosmas felt at once that before him was a man who would never yield. Even God could not change the mind of this manhe had made an unshakable decision. Why then grovel before him? The proud Cretan heart in Kosmas rose up. He was ashamed of clever tricks of speech.
“Well, what do you want?” roared Captain Michales, still without looking around.
“I want nothing,” answered Kosmas defiantly. His mind rejected all the words he had prepared.
“So you’ve come to pay a visit to your uncle?” scoffed the other. “Greetings!”
“I did come to tell you my grandfather’s dead.” Captain Michales laid down his gun to cross himself. “God be gracious to him,” he said. “He was an honorable man indeed. His dealings were good, his life was full. Now he departs, to sleep. … As for you: good-by. We’re at war here.”
“Have you no message?” “Go.”
“For your wife? For your son Thrasaki?” Captain Michales’ veins stood out, his look grew troubled. He cupped his hand, smeared with powder and blood, to his mouth and yelled, “In God’s name, brothers, freedom or death!”
He took aim and fired. The mountains echoed. At once
Turkish bullets whistled and a small cannon on the slope thundered. The shell landed behind Captain Michales and set the stones whirling.
“Oh,” rang out an agonized cry. The comrades turned. Kajabes rolled off the rock onto which he had climbed, and cru
mpled up at Captain Michales’ feet. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. But the stream of blood that flowed out stifled his voice.
Down below, the trumpets brayed, the soldiers and, at the head, the dervishes with the green flag of the Prophet, bawled.
“Let ‘em have it, children!” yelled Thodores. “Let fly at the dogs!”
The scraping of Turkish feet came nearer and nearer.
Captain Michales threw himself upon Kajabes, to take him in his arms. In doing so, he fell over Kosmas, who was lying by his side.
“Are you still here, schoolmaster?” he shouted at him. “Run away, don’t get mixed up with men!”
But Kosmas did not rise. Smeared with powder and blood, he was listening now to his heart, which had gone wild. In his breast his father, the terrible leader in battle, had awakened, and his grandfather, and Crete. This was not his first battle: for a thousand years he had been fighting, a thousand times he had been killed and had risen again. His blood stormed.
Captain Michales hastily felt the body of Kajabes to find his wound. For a second the man’s eyes still flashed, then they glazed. The captain laid the corpse back on the ground.
“Remember Arkadi, brothers!” he cried. “Let’s all die like men!”
They could hear the gasping breathing of the Turks.
“We’re lost,” yelled Furogatos, and felt a quivering in his chest and belly.
“Shut up!” cried Thodores, from whose forehead the blood was flowing and blinding his eyes. He wiped it off with his arm, saw the Turks in front and threw his gun away,
“Children,” he cried, “guns are no use now. Draw your knives!”
He pulled out his father’s black-hilted dagger and fell upon a dervish, who had rushed ahead and was fanatically waving his flag in the air. But he had hardly reached the dervish when a bullet pierced his heart and he staggered backward.
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