# The Vintage/Part 3/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X
THE FALL OF TRIPOLI
The order to break up camp was received with shouts of acclamation, and all day long on the 25th the processions of mules passed, like ants on a home run, up and down the steop, narrow path from the plain. The Mainat corps were the first to move, and took up their place opposite the southern wall, and worked there under the sun for a couple of hours or more throwing up some sort of earth embankment; while in the space behind marked out for their lines went up the rows of their barracks, pole by pole, and gradually roofed in with osier and oleander boughs. On the walls of the town lounged Turkish men, and now and then a woman passed, closely veiled, but casting curious glances at tho advancing troops not four hundred yards from the gate, The men worked like horses to get their intrenchments aud defences up, and by the time each corps had done its work, the huts behind were finished; and, streaming with perspiration, the men were glad to throw themselves down in the shade. As there was no regular corps of sappers and engineers, each regiment had to do its intrenching and defence work for itself, and they worked on late into the night before the transfer of the entire camp was effected. Meantime Petrobey had ordered the posts on the hills to the east to close in, and by noon on the 27th he saw his long-delayed dream realized, for on ​all sides of the town ran the Greek lines. Still, from inside the beleaguered place came no sign of resistance, attack, or capitulation; but towards sunset a white flag was hoisted on the tower above the south gate, and a few moments afterwards Mehemet Salik, attended by his staff, came out, and were met by Petrobey. Yanni, as aide-de-camp, was in attendance on his father, and he had the pleasure of meeting his old host again.
Mehemet followed Petrobey to his quarters, Yanni looking at him as a cat in the act to spring looks at a bird. He was a short-legged, stout man, appearing tall when he was sitting, but when he stood, heavy and badly proportioned. He had grown a little thinner, or so thought Yanni, and the skin hung bagging below his eyes, though he was still hardly more than thirty. He looked Yanni over from head to foot without speaking, adjusted his green turban, and then, shrugging his shoulders slightly, took a seat and turned to Petrobey.
"I have been sent to ask the terms on which you will grant a capitulation," he said; "please consider and name them."
"I will do so," replied Petrobey, "and let you have them by midnight."
Mehemet glanced at his watch.
"Thank you; we shall expect them then."
He rose from his seat and again looked at Yanni, who was standing by the door. The two presented a very striking contrast—the one pale, flabby, clay-colored, slow-moving; the other, though there were not ten years between them, fresh, brown, and alert. Mehemet continued looking at him for a moment below his drooping eyelids without speaking, and then the corners of his sensual mouth straightened themselves into a smile. He held out his hand to the boy.
​"So we meet again, my guest," he said; "your leave-taking was somewhat abrupt. Will you shake hands?"
Yanni bristled like a collie dog, and looked sideways at him without speaking, but kept his hands stiff to his aide.
"You vanished unexpectedly, just when I hoped to begin to know you better," continued Mehemet.
But Petrobey interfered sternly.
"You are not here, sir, to confer insults," he said.
Mehemet turned round slowly towards him with a face of sallow death.
"Surely my teeth are drawn, as far as the boy is concerned," he said; "but let me know one thing," he continued, "for I have a heavy wager about it. Did you bribe the porter, or did you get through the roof?"
"Through the roof," said Yanni, as stiff as a poker.
"I have lost. I said you bribed the porter. He shall come out of prison to-night and have poultices, for he was much beaten. Good-evening, gentlemen."
Yanni turned to Petrobey with blazing eyes.
"Cannot I kick him now?" he whispered.
"How can I give you permission?" said Petrobey.
Yanni looked at him a moment and then his lips parted in a smile, and he went out of the tent.
Mehemet was a few yards down the path, going towards the gate of the camp where his staff was waiting, and in three strides Yanni canght up with him.
"Oh, man!" he said, and no more; but next moment Yanni's foot was deep in the folds of his excellency's baggy trousers. His excelleney was lifted slightly forward from behind, and picked himself up with a cry of lamentation, for the pain had been exquisite. Yanni was by him with a brilliant smile on his face.
"YANNI WAS BY HIM WITH A BRILLIANT SMILE ON HIS FACE."
​kindly, "and under the flag of truce I have answered you. There is quits." And he turned and went back to his father.
Petrobey appeared to be absorbed in writing, and he did not look up, but handed Yanni a paper.
"Go at once to the captains whose names I have written here, Yanni," he said, "and tell them to come immediately to consult about the terms of capitulation. I thought," he added, "that I heard a slight disturbance outside. Can you account for it?"
"It seemed to be the settlement of some private difference, sir," said Yanni. "It is all over."
"Is the difference settled?"
"There is a very sore man," said Yanni.
The conference among the captains lasted only a short time, and in a couple of hours the terms were despatched to Mehemet. The Turks were to give up their arms and were to be allowed, or rather compelled, to leave the Morea. They were further to pay the indemnity of forty million piastres, that being approximately the cost of the war, including the provisions and pay of all the men, from the time of its outbreak. In less than an hour the answer came back. The demand was preposterous, for it was impossible to collect the money, but in return they made a counter-proposition. They would give up the whole of their property within the town, renounce all rights of land, retaining only sufficient means to enable them to reach some port on the Asia Minor coast, but demanding leave to retain their arms in order to secure themselves from massacre on the way to Nauplia. They also insisted on occupying the pass over Mount Parthenius, between the Argive plain and Tripoli, until the women and children had been embarked in safety. This precaution, they added, was due to themselves, for ​they had no guarantee that without their arms the Greeks would not violate the terms of the capitulation as they had violated them at Navarin.
The Greek chiefs refused to consider the proposal, for if the Turks distrusted them, they at least had no reason to trust the Turks; and if the regiments in the town occupied Parthenius, what was to hinder them from marching on to Nauplia and remaining there? Nauplia still held communication with the sea, and they had not spent six months in reducing Tripoli only at the end to let the besieged go out in peace to another and better-equipped fortress.
Once more affairs were at a deadlock, and at this point Petrobey made an inexcusable mistake. He ought, without doubt, to have stormed the place and have done with it; but when, in a moment of weakness, he put the proposal to the captains, the majority of them were for waiting. The reason was unhappily but too plain. They knew that famine prevailed in the town, they knew, too, that its capitulation was inevitable, but they saw for themselves a rich harvest gained in a few days by secretly supplying the besieged with provisions, and for the next week Germanos's bitter words were terribly true. This was no siege of Tripoli; it was the market of Tripoli.
On the 28th came another proposal frem the town, this time not from the Turks, but from the Albanian mercenaries who had formed the attack on the post at Valtetzi in May. They were fifteen hundred strong, and good soldiers, but as mercenaries they had no feelings of obligation or honor to their employers, and did not in the least desire a fierce engagement with the Greeks; and now that all idea of capitulation was over, for neither side would accept the ultimatum of the ​other, it was clearly to their advantage to get away, if they could, with their lives and their pay. The town would, without doubt, fall by storm, their employers would be massacred, and their best chance was to stand well with the besiegers. They, therefore, offered to go back to Albania, and never again to enlist in the Turkish service, provided they might retire with their arms. The Greeks, on their side, had no quarrel with them; many were related to them by ties of friendship and blood; they had no desire to gain a bloody and hard-won victory if there was a chance of detaching the mainstay of their foes, and they agreed to their terms.
The weather was hot and stifling beyond description, and the Mainats who were on the south felt all day the reflected glare and heat from the walls as from a furnace. In that week of waiting Petrobey lost all the confidence of the clan, for they alone were blameless of this outrageous traffic that had sprung up again, and they were waiting while Petrobey let it go on. He had asked the advice of men who were without principle or honor, who were filling their pockets at the expense of the honor of others, and though he himself was without stain, yet his weakness at this point was criminal. It seemed that he refused to believe what the army knew, and persisted in judging the whole by the behavior of the clan themselves. Nicholas appealed to him in vain, but Petrobey always asked whether he had himself seen evidence of the scandal, and being in the Mainat corps, he had not. In vain Nicholas pointed out that a week ago they knew that famine was preying on the besieged, yet a week had gone and the famine seemed to have made no impression. How was it possible that the town could hold out unless it was being supplied? And how could a commander know what was going on among the hordes of peasants ​who flocked to the camp? Now that the evil was so wide-spread and universal, a whole regiment perhaps profited by the traffic; and where was the use of any man informing his captain?—for the captains were the worst of all.
Meantime, inside, Suleima watched at her latticed window and looked for Mitsos. A week ago she had watched the men streaming down from Trikorpha to the plain, and had hardly been able to conceal her joy, while round her the other women wailed and lamented, saying that they would all fall into the hands of the barbarous folk. On the other side, away from the wall, the windows of the harem looked out onto a narrow, top-heavy street, the eaves of the houses nearly meeting across it, and on the top again was a large, flat roof, where they often went to sit in the evening and chatter across the street to the women on the house opposite. By day a ribbon of scorching sunlight moved slowly from one side to the other, and often Suleima would sit at the window which overhung the foot-path, watching and watching, but seeing, perhaps, hardly a couple of passengers in as many hours, for this was only a side street where few came. By leaning out she could just catch a glimpse of a main thoroughfare which led into the square, but only Turks passed up and down. The others looked at her with wonder and pity, thinking her hardly in her right mind to be smiling and happy at such a time, for close before her lay the trial and triumph of her sex, and the Greeks were at the door. The harem generally, and also the chief wife, whose slave she was, knew her condition, but from a feeling partly of pity and affection—for she was a favorite with all—partly from indifference, had not accused her to Abdul. Abdul himself, in the excitement and preoccupation of the ​siege, had not been in the harem more than twice in as many months, and thus her state had escaped detection.
So she went about with her day-dream and snatches of song, painting in her mind a hundred pictures as to how Mitsos would come. Should she see him stalking up the narrow street, then looking up and smiling at her, bringing the news that the town had capitulated and he had come to claim her? There would be a step on the stair and he would come in, bending to get through the door; and then, oh, the blessedness of talk and tears that would be hers! Or would there come a shout and the sound of riot and confusion, and streaming up the street a fighting crowd? He would be there in the middle of if all, slashing and hewing his way to her. He would look up—that he would always do—and see her at the window, and then get to work again, dealing death to all within reach. Perhaps he would be hurt, not much hurt, but enough to make her lean over him with anxious face and nimble, bandaging hands, and the joy of ministering to him leaping in her heart. It was towards this vision that she most inclined, to Mitsos, fighting and splendid as fresh from the dust and the ecstasy of struggle, coming to her—the mistress and lady of his arm—lover to lover. Or would he come by night silently beneath the stars, as he had come before, or with a whispered song which her heart had taught her ears to know, and take her away while the house slept, out of this horrible town, and to some place like in spirit to the lonely sea-scented beach near Nauplia, into remoteness from all things else? In these half-formulated dreams there was never any hitch or disturbance—doors yielded, men slept, or men fell, and throngh all like a ray of light came Mitsos, unhindered, irresistible.
But after three or four days her mood changed, and ​from her eyes looked out the soul of some timid, frightened animal. Why did he not come—by night or in peace or in the shout of war? What meant this sudden increase in their food, for now far more than a woek they had lived but on sparing rations? Yet the fresh meat and new bread revolted her; she was hungry, yet she could not eat. The women were kind to her, and Zuleika used to make her soup and force her with firm kindness to drink it; they were always plaguing her, so she thought, not to prowl about so much, to rest nore and to eat more, and when she understood why, she obeyed them. For a few nights before she had slept but lightly, and her sleep was peopled with vivid things—now she would be moving in a crowd of flying fiery globes, she one of them; now the dark was full of gray shapes that glided by her windily with a roar of the remote sea, but at the end they would disperse and leave her alone, and out of the darkness came Mitsos, and with that she would dream no more. But waking and the hours of the day changed place with the night, and it seemed that she moved in a nightmare until she slept again.
But when she understood the reason for which they pressed her to rest and eat, she quickly regained the serenity of her health, and during the last two days of waiting, though her fears and anxieties crouched in the shade ready to spring on her again, they lay still, and the claws and teeth spared her.
But one morning—it was the 3d of October—there was suddenly a tumult in the streets, and cries that the Greeks had come in, and Suleima went up to the housetop to see if she could find out where they were entering, prepared to run out into the street to meet them, crying to them as her deliverers, as Mitsos had told her, in ​the brightness of that sudden hope that the end had come, she felt no longer weary or ill, and she looked out over the town with expectant eyes. But by degrees the tumult died down again, and, bitterly disappointed, she crept back to the room of the harem where the women were sitting to ask what this meant. None knew, but in a little time they heard a renewed noise from the street, and running to look out, they saw a small body of Turkish soldiers advancing, and in the middle a very stout lady riding a horse. Behind her came two servants driving horses with big panniers slung on each side, and the stout lady talked in an animated manner to the soldiers, pointing now to one house and then to another. Then looking up at the window of Abdul Achmet's house, out of which Suleima was leaning, she shouted some shrill question in Turkish, which Suleima did not catch, and the procession turned up into the main street, seeming to halt opposite the door leading into the front court-yard.
In a little while Abdul Achmet, with a eunuch, came in, at whose entrance Suleima drew back behind the other women aod wrapped her bernouse round her. He wore a face of woe, and behind they could hear the voice of the stout lady, who found the stairs a little trying. She entered the room with a shining, smiling face, and sat down puffing on a sofa.
"And when I've got my breath again," she said, volubly, as if still in the middle of a sentence, "I'll tell you who I am, and what I am going to do, and what you are going to do. A hot morning it is, and there's no denying it, and though I've seen many pretty faces in my day, sir, I can't remember that I ever set eyes on anything so nice as your little lot. And what may your name be, my dear?" she said, turning to Suleima, who ​shrank from her without knowing why; "but whatever your name is, it was a fine day for your kind master when he first set eyes on you."
She looked at Suleima more closely, and waiting till Achmet and the eunuch had left the room: "Poor lamb! and so young, too," she said, kindly enough; "and now I've got my breath a bit, I'll tell you my business. I'm a Greek by birth, though you can hear I talk Turkish like the Sultan himself, and as for my name, why, it's Penelope."
Suleima suddenly burst into a helpless fit of laughter at this funny old woman, though she was not funny at all, she thought, but simply a fat, disgusting old hag. Penelope stopped short at this unseemly interruption, and feor a moment seemed disposed to resent it; but some womanly feeling came to her aid, and she pulled a great bottle of some strong-smelling stuff out of her pocket and applied it to Suleima's nose as she sat recking herself backward and forward with peals of laughter.
"She'll faint if she laughs like that," she explained, "and this will pull her together a bit. Get some brandy, one of you, quickly. There, there, my dear," she went on to Suleima, "be quiet now, be quiet, it's all right, and take a spoonful of this, it'll do you good."
Suleima gradually recovered herself through a spasm of coughing and choking, and the brandy brought her round.
"I am sorry for laughing," she said, no longer shrinking from the woman; and speaking low to her, in Greek, "but I am not very well. And, oh, tell me, you look kind; have you seen Mitsos? Where is he? Why does he not come?"
Penelope started in surprise.
​"My poor little one," she answered, in Greek, "what does this mean? But wait a minute."
Then, speaking in Turkish again:
"I thought I'd seen her before," she explained alond, "and she says she comes from Spetzas, which is my home. And what I've come for is this, and I'm here to help all you women. You will give up to me all your money and jewels, my pretties, for the Greek commander, who is a relation of mine"—this was not the case—"wishes neither to hurt nor harm you; but if you are found, any of you, with jewels or money about you, why, it may be the siege of Navarin over again. So now I shall wait here, and each of you will fetch all you have; and to make things sure and certain, I'll just search you as well. This girl," and she pointed to Suleima, "shall come to me first; so get you all gone, and I'll call you in one at a time."
They all dispersed to their rooms to get their trinkets and money, and in a few moments Suleima came back, and the other closed the door quickly behind her.
"You are a Greek, child," she said. "Yes, put your bits of finery in my basket; we have not much time."
She heard Suleima's story with many raisings of the hand and exclamations of wonder, and when she had finished she kissed her, like a true woman, with pity and affection.
"Poor child, poor child!" she soothed her, "I will do the best I can. God knows what will happen when the end comes, for the camp is like a pack of wolves. This Mitsos of yours has some glimmerings of sense, but look at the risk you run if you do as he tells you. Fancy running to meet a lot of wolves, you in your Turkish dress, crying you are a wolf too. Ah, dear me, dear me, and the child and all! But this is my idea: separate ​yourself at all costs from the other women. If they stay in the house, run; if they run, stay here. Do not be seen with them; unveil your face, as the Greek women do, and if possible avoid a mob of Greeks. If you have to go into the street keep in a side street, where perhaps stragglers only will come. And the Lord be with you, poor child!"
Suleima clung to this woman—usually coarse and greedy, but one who had the springs of true womanliness in her—as to a rock of refuge, and without searching her, but kissing her again affectionately, she waited till the girl's tears had subsided before opening the door and calling in the next woman. In turn they all passed before her and gave up their valuables. There was but little money, for the women spent it for the most part on finery, and poured into Penelope's basket turquoise collars, fine filagree work from the bazaars, bracelets set with pearls or moonstones, and ear-rings of all sorts. The search was hastily done, for she had many houses to visit, and with a curious mixture of humanity and greed she wished to make as rich a harvest as possible—since she received a share of what she got—and at the same time do all she could for these poor caged women. And so for two days, as there were many houses to go to and much to be got, sometimes with difficulty—for some of the women would have preferred to run the risk of having valuables concealed about them—she went on her rounds of greedy mercy, and it was not till the morning of the 5th of October that she went out again to the camp.
During those two days matters outside had gone from bad to worse. Anagnostes had been detected trafficking with the besieged, and when Nicholas laid the proof af his guilt before Petrobey, he buried his face in his ​hands and said he could do nothing. That hour of weakness, when he had consulted men who he knew would only give him selfish and dishonorable counsel, had broken his authority like a reed. Anagnostes's corps shared his guilt, probably down to the youngest man in his service, and if he punished one he would have to punish hundreds.
"And, oh, Nicholas," said Petrebey, in piteous appeal, "if ever you have loved me, or can still remember that we are of one blood, help me now, by what way you will. I was over honorable, but I have been as weak as water; your strength and your honor are both unshaken."
This was on the morning of the 5th; and before Nicholas could reply, a shrill, rather breathless, voice bawled to Petrobey from outside, and Penelope demanded admittance. It was not her way to ask twice, and she followed her demand up by putting her red face through the tent-flap, and, entering herself, bade her servants, laden with jewels, also to enter.
Petrobey turned one last look at Nicholas.
"You will help me?" he said.
"I was always ready." said Nicholas, smilmg, and he went lightly out of the tent.
Some fine wrangling was going on in the Mainats' quarters when he appeared, and two men appealed to him.
"Is it true that the woman has taken all the spoils to Petrobey's tent?" asked one.
Nicholas dived at the meaning of the question.
"His honor is untouched," he said; "they are there only for safe keeping; I swear it, and will go bail for my life on it."
Then to himself: "The time has come," he thought, "when even he is not spared."
"Look you, lads," he said, aloud, "to-day Tripoli falls. ​When it has come to this, that you can suspect him, it is time. We make the attempt—we Mainats, who were ever the first at great deeds. Come, summon the men. Yes, I have the authority—more than that, I have promised to help, and there is only one way."
In five minutes the word had gone about, and the corps, some five hundred strong, flocked eagerly to hear Nicholas. He went with the captains into the officers' tent, and, forgetful of his rank among men who had always treated him as the king of men, bade them sit down.
"In ten minutes," he said, "the corps must stand under arms, and a moment's delay after that may spoil everything. I lead the way, and we go at a double's double straight to the Argos tower. At that corner a man can climb the wall, for there are rough, projecting stones. How do I know that? Because I climbed it last night when I was on sentry duty. So much for the vigilance of those moles and bats who are stationed there. With me I shall have a rope, which I shall fasten to the battlements, and then, in God's name, follow like the bridegroom to the bride-chamber. The man behind me carries the Greek flag, which he hands me as soon as I am up. Ah, my friends, grant me that one sweet moment. Yet—no, we will vote for the man who shall do that."
A deep murmur—"You, you, Nicholas, Nicholas"—ran round, and so another moment of happiness, so great that it was content, was given him.
"And now up with you," said Nicholas, "Ah, let us shake hands first. O mercifnl God, but Thou art very good to me!"
The attempt was so daring, so utterly unexpected, that the Arcadian corps stationed opposite the Argos tower merely stood in amazement, as with a clatter and a rush ​the Mainats streamed by them and up the wall in front. Agile as a cat, for all his sixty years, Nicholas laid hand and foot on the rough masonry, and the next moment he had dashed down the single sentry on the tower, who was smoking and talking to a woman on the wall. Then fastening the rope to one of the battlements he turned again to perform the crowning act of his adventurous life, and, before two men had swarmed up, the Greek flag waved from the tower.