My last memory of Lemeni is of a throng of mourners standing in the graveyard, staring at us as we abandoned them.
Chapter Twenty-seven : Zito Hellas
We arrived at Tsimava late at night, to find the streets already clogged with armed men.
“There will be twice as many tomorrow,” grunted Petrobey, “by morning there will be two thousand armatoloi ready to follow us to Kalamata. Then, as you say in England, you will see some fun.”
And so we did. Before that, however, I had unwelcome news.
I came down for breakfast to find Petrobey alone in the room.
“Are Morland and Golightly still abed?” I asked.
“They left an hour ago,” was the reply.
“They left?”
“I have sent Monsieur le Curé to Papaflessas. The two men of God may debate doctrine in their moments of leisure. The Doctor has gone to Nikitaras, where he may serve to treat the Turk-eater’s indigestion if he over-indulges.”
“And did they undertake these errands willingly?”
“They saw the utility of their missions when I explained my plan, as I will explain it to you, now. We march for Kalamata within the hour. Kolokotronis will join us on the way, and together we will attack the city from the east. That is the plan, at least, though with the Old Man of the Morea one may never be sure. At the same time, or as near as can be managed, Nikitaras will attack from the north, and Flessas from the east. Now each force will have an Englishman to encourage them, and to remind them that we are not alone.”
“Oh, yes,” I thought, for a night spent in sleepless anxiety over one’s loved ones may be relied upon to promote feelings of cynicism, “and to serve as a scapegoat should things go wrong, or get conveniently killed to inflame British opinion against the Turks.”
I held my tongue, however, for how else were the captives to be rescued? I even consented to wear a red coat that was conveniently available, to ‘present a martial appearance’.
It was dressed in this garment, and feeling both conspicuous and ridiculous that I witnessed Petrobey’s address to his troops before we set off.
The main square was thronged with ruffians brandishing every sort of weapon and calling for death to the Turks. A platform had been erected at one end, and I climbed onto it behind Petrobey and looked sheepishly about me while he held up his arms for silence.
Of the speech which followed, I have a confession to make to the reader. I struggled to follow it on the spot, and relied largely on the services of Costas as a translator. I believe the version below provides an accurate record of the meaning of want was said, and gives something of the flavour, too. I cannot, however attest to the veracity of every word.
“Men of the Mani,” he said, “you all know me. I am Petrobey. I have led you, given you justice, protected you from the Klephts and the Turks for many years. My father and my father’s father led you when the Russians came. For seven years now, no Turk has dared set foot in the Mani. Alone, of all the Romans, we are free.”
“You all know what happened yesterday at Lemeni. You know that the Turks killed Papa Andreas, defiled our holy icon, and stole our women, carrying them off to Kalamata, you all know what for. You know that such actions cannot be borne.”
“Now I will tell you something you do not know. I have had guests for the last two weeks, four English lords and their wives, and the Turks stole the English ladies too. One of my guests was an English general, and he is gone to Cerigo to fetch the English army there, and an English battleship too. They will be in Kalamata in two days, three at the most. You all remember how the English beat the French, and does any one of you think they cannot beat the Turks.”
“But I will tell you something else you do not know. All over Hellas the Romans are resolved to bear the Turkish yoke no more. Some of you know that Kolokotronis was here of late, and Makriyiannis, and may have guessed that they are gathering their men. But did you know, even as we speak, Papaflessas and Nikitaras the Eater of Turks are approaching Kalamata with their bands? Do you know that Ypsilantis has already risen in Moldavia?”
“You may know that the English Lord Byron has been urging our compatriots to fight the Turks in Epirus? Now we have our own English Lord to lead us, Lord Venettos here. We have an English army on the way, and an English fleet to batter the walls of Kalamata with their irresistible guns. Why, then, do we wait?”
“Fight for Faith and Fatherland! The time has come, O Hellenes. Who hinders your manly arms? Our cowardly enemy is sick and weak. Our generals are tried and true, and all our fellow countrymen are full of enthusiasm.
Are we to lie down while our wives and children are dishonoured, our holy icons desecrated, our priests killed? Are we to wait while others gather the glory?”
“We are the Mani, and Maniots are ever first in the fight. I say to you, we must strike now, or be forever shamed. Tomorrow Petrobey Mavromichalis marches on Kalamata. Must he rely on his English friends, or are there still men in the Mani, men with heart enough and honour enough to cry ‘Long Live the Mani, Long Live England, Long Live Hellas’?”
The great roar from the crowd, the cries of ‘Zito Petrobey, Zito Hellas, Zito Anglia’ that went up were answer enough.
Petrobey gestured to one of his men, who broke out a great flag on top of the long staff he was holding, a blue cross on a white ground, embroidered with the words “Niki I Thanatos.”
We were committed now. It was Victory or Death.
Chapter Twenty-eight : Kalamatianos
Be not alarmed, dear Lizzie, or sweet Jane, or whoever it may be that reads this chronicle, that scenes of death and carnage lie in front of you, nor yet that there will be a long, complicated account of the Siege of Kalamata.
Indeed, it would scarce be possible to give a long, complicated account of the Siege of Kalamata, for, as sieges go, it was practically what the racing community would call a ‘non-starter’.
It was all over in three days, most of which I spent carefully avoiding any sign of fighting or danger of any other kind, accompanied all the while by the inevitable Costas and four other burly Greek sheepdogs assigned me by Petrobey.
Kolokotronis joined us as planned, to much hallooing and huzzaing and wasting of powder, and astonished me by embracing me directly after Petrobey.
“My old coat not fit you too bad.” He chortled. “Make you easy to see, eh? So we know you there. Turks know you there, too, remember. Maybe they think ‘dare not shoot Englishman’, maybe they think ‘easy target’ who can tell, eh? Never mind, we teach the Turks to dance the Kalamatianos together, eh?””
And with a gruff cackle he was off to great other friends.
Soon afterwards we came upon our first Turkish troops, irregular light cavalry who ran off on sighting us. At the next crossroads we came across an infantry force drawn up to contest our passage, and the shooting began.
In such an affair, I was, so I considered, completely surplus to requirements. I had served my purpose, acting as a sort of mascot to lure any reluctant Maniots in the direction of the enemy, and felt I could now take thought for my own preservation.
Such considerations preoccupied me for the rest of that day and the next. While muskets roared and sabres clashed, I did not exactly hide behind the nearest convenient rock, but I made sure to keep sufficient space – and as many Greeks as possible - between myself and the nearest Turk as would give me time to make my escape if required.
On one thing I was resolved, however, and that was to find the ladies of my family as soon as it became possible. The Greek ladies too would be a bonus, but if what I had seen so far was any guide, they were probably setting about their new Turkish masters with kitchen knives and rolling pins by now. It was this resolve that compelled me, on the third day of the siege, to leave the relative safety of the Greek camp and venture into the streets of Kalamata.
By this stage the Turkish troops had retreated into the castle at the northern end of the town. I later learned that we had been lucky
in the timing of our assault, as the main Turkish army in the Morea had been withdrawn to deal with Ali Pasha, who had been carving out a kingdom for himself around Ioannina, and had been further delayed in the north by Ypsilanti’s rising in Moldavia. Had the Turks been able to bring their full weight to bear, I fear things would not have gone quite so swimmingly for the Greek armatoloi.
I will spare you, dear reader the fatigue of a description of the scene in Kalamata at the time, where the Greek population were merrily hunting down any Turks who had not escaped to the castle. Only those who have seen a city in such a state of disorder can have any conception of the scenes that met my eyes; those who have not done so must rejoice in their good fortune and forgive my inability even to attempt a description.
The streets of Kalamata on the twenty-third of March in the year of Our Lord 1821 were not a safe place to be in, especially if one was not obviously Greek. I thank God that I never actually needed to use the brass-barrelled blunderbuss hanging from my saddle, still less my pistols and sabre, but that was only because my minders had no such compunction, and dispensed blows as freely as oaths while encouraging their compatriots to ‘make way for the Anglos Lordos’.
We were quartering the maze of narrow streets between the cathedral and the castle, when Costas gripped my arm and pointed.
“Look, yer’onner,” he cried. “Union Jack!”
I followed the direction of his pointing arm, and there, hanging from an upstairs window, beheld something that was obviously meant to represent the British flag. The colours were not exactly right, and the lines perhaps not quite true, but the crosses of St George, St Andrew and St Patrick were there for all to see.
It was the work of a moment to dash to the doorway, faster than I had believed was still within my abilities, and try the handle on the stout door.
Alas, it was locked! This was just the opportunity that my companions, stout fellows all, with the true peasant’s delight in destroying townies’ property had been waiting for, and the boards were soon shattered by their musket butts, after which I must possess myself in patience while they entered first, ‘for who knows what might be waiting for us yeronner?’.
It can only have been a few moments I stood in the street, but it felt like a lifetime, so impatient was I to continue. At last I was summoned inside to behold a bourgeois room, singularly devoid of anything that might be called luxurious or valuable, while my protectors pockets and packs had a acquired a strangely full aspect.
From upstairs came shrill voices shouting “Voieethia!” interspersed with the occasional ‘Zito Hellas’ or ‘Zito oi Romaioi’.
A steep stairway, or rather ladder, led to the upper story, where another stout door barred our way. The lock was soon disposed of, but even then the door would not open, being evidently heavily barricaded inside. Meanwhile the female shrieks became louder and more shrill.
My patience deserted me.
“Mrs Bennet,” I called, “Lydia, Kitty, Margaret. If you are in there will you please stop hindering your rescue? Let me in at once. It is a terrible thing to find oneself thwarted in a heroic deed.”
There came an answer almost at once, in a voice I recognized instantly, though strangely muffled by the door and the furniture piled against it.
“ Mr Bennet, is that you?”
“Of course it is, Mrs Bennet. Who else should it be?”
“For all I know, you could be a Turk, come to murder us all.”
“I assure you I am not a Turk.”
“That is just what a Turk would say, to induce me to open the door precisely so that he could murder us. If you are really Mr Bennet, where is dear Wickham? Where are Mr Golightly and the Doctor?”
“They are busy elsewhere. They will be along soon, I expect.”
I could hear whispers behind the door, but they were drowned by the reply.
“That is just what a Turk would say, too.”
“Ah, but would he say it in your husband’s voice?”
“He might. I believe there are some very good mimics among the Turks. And your voice – if it is your voice – is altered. There is something strange about it.”
The whispers had now grown to murmurs, mixed with what sounded suspiciously like suppressed giggling.
“Perhaps the intervening woodwork has a muffling effect. Or perhaps fighting one’s way through a Turkish army to rescue one’s best beloved, only to be accused of impersonation with intent to commit homicide, might be allowed to have an effect upon the timbre of one’s voice.”
“I still cannot be sure that you are not a Turk.”
“Would a Turk know what it was you forgot to pack for your honeymoon, and what you did when you discovered the oversight? Would you like the information broadcast to the world?”
“Be not so hasty, Mr Bennet. The door shall be opened directly.”
With much scraping, creaking and a deal of shoving from our side, the door was eventually freed from the encumbrance of the six beds that had been piled against it on the inside, to reveal a long, narrow room containing Mrs Bennet, Lydia, Kitty, Margaret, Mesdames Mavromichalis cadet and ainée, and very little else. None of them bore any signs of molestation, or even of great hardship.
“The Union Jack was a brilliant idea,” I said. “We should be searching for you yet, else. But how did you ever come by it?”
“Fortunately, I had my hussif with me,” replied Margaret, “and we had no shortage of red, white and blue cloth. But is it true that our husbands are safe?”
“Mr Golightly and the Doctor are with the Greek Army. They were both well when I saw them last, and I dare say, they, too, are looking for your hiding place. But are you all well, my dears? Have you been mistreated.”
“Oh, the Turks were quite sweet,” said Lydia, “once the Contessa had explained who we were. They brought us here, and brought us all sorts of things, and were very gallant really, just like Byron’s Corsair. But where is dear George? Is he not here?”
“I expect him any moment, my dear, on Captain Price’s ship, which he went to fetch, along with the soldiers from Cythera. But are you sure you are all well?”
“Have you got anything to eat?” replied Kitty. “They locked the door yesterday morning, and we have seen nobody since.”
They all fell upon the bread and cheese from our packs, and did serious damage to the wine Costas produced from his, before they could be induced to leave.
“But is it safe?” asked Mrs Bennet,” and where are we to go?”
“First we go to set free the village women from Lemeni, if you know where they are.”
“The Turks locked them all in what looked like a warehouse on the quayside,” replied Margaret, “before they brought us here.”
“Then to the quayside we shall go. It has the added advantage of being to the south, and all the Turks, as far as I know, are north of here in the castle. It may also be convenient for the Telemachus, when she arrives. I cannot absolutely guarantee that we shall be free from molestation by marauding Greeks, but I think that when they see us they will look for easier targets.”
The streets, we found, were comparatively deserted, the Greek inhabitants of Kalamata having mostly retired beyond the cathedral, to enjoy the entertainment provided by the spectacle of the assault upon the castle, where an abundance of scaling ladders and an even greater abundance of wild enthusiasm must be relied upon to make up for the complete want of artillery.
We encountered no-one, in fact, until we entered the street parallel to the harbour, where we came upon a group of men unlocking the doors of a warehouse.
“Those are the Turkish slavers!” cried Margaret. “Stop them!”
There was no time to think of any Greek.
“Stop that, you villains!” I cried, punctuating my words with a pistol shot.
The shot went wide, as pistol shots generally do unless at very close quarters, but it procured the desired effect, for the Turks went scampering off, and I had to restrain my nursemaids from pursu
ing them.
That shot, I swear, was the only shot I fired in the whole proceedings, but at least I can now boast to have burnt powder in the Greek War of Independence.
The Turks had been obliging enough to leave the key in the lock, so that I had to deprive my companions of any further joys of breaking and entering, and we found the ladies of Lemeni within, stored with the other merchandise, on bales of which they were sitting, while regaling themselves on olives and raisins from the barrels against the wall.
They seemed unconcerned, having known all along that their menfolk would soon be along to rescue them, but I was now left with a problem.
Four ladies may possibly be escorted safely from a war zone by a few stout men, but the same can hardly be said of forty. I was still pondering what to do next when we heard the boom of a cannon. It had come from the seaward side, and was quite distinct from the popping of musketry to our north.
We dashed round the corner onto the quayside, to behold the Telemachus dropping anchor offshore, while boats filled with redcoats approached the moorings.
“Quick, Margaret,” I cried, “your Union Jack.”
It was the work of but a moment to tie the improvised flag to a musket and wave it aloft while huzzaing frantically, and we soon had the satisfaction of seeing the first boat alter course towards us.
It would be appropriately dramatic if I could say that Wickham stepped out of it, but unfortunately it was only a lieutenant of Marines whose name I forget. He had been properly briefed, however, and recognized the name of Bennet, as well as knowing an Englishman, however eccentrically dressed, when he saw one.
Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Page 18