“The ministers and the grand vizier were all agreed that the kindness shown by those on board the English ship should suffice to save your lives, but the Sultan decides for himself, and he was known to be so enraged at foreigners joining the Greeks in their rebellion against him that they feared nothing would move him. Everything, therefore, was prepared for the attempt. The twelve soldiers were directed to be at a spot near the dockyard at seven in the morning; and the bimbashi, with his three men, took up his post near the entrance to the ministry. I had nothing to do. At twelve o’clock last night Hassan came here, bringing the official letter and a suit of his uniform. Everything had gone well. The messenger had been seized in a lonely street leading to one of the barracks, and was overpowered and silenced before he had time to utter a sound. Hassan accompanied the men carrying the basket in case by any accident they should be questioned, and saw the officer placed, securely bound, in the hut. As he had been blindfolded the instant he had been seized he could not have seen that his assailants were soldiers. Ahmed can tell you the rest.”
“There is nothing to tell,” the young man said. “I found the soldiers waiting at the spot agreed upon, and gave them the arranged sign. We went into the dockyard. I showed the order, and demanded a large boat, which was at once given me. Then I went off to the vessel, where our friends were handed over to me without a question; rowed to the wharf; the clothes were changed in the lane; and here we are.”
“I cannot thank you sufficiently for your kindness, Osman Bey, on behalf of myself and my friend here, and express our gratitude also to your son, to Hassan Bimbashi, and to Fazli Bey. You have indeed nobly repaid the service that my father and all of us were glad to have been able to render you.”
“Do not talk about gratitude,” the bey said. “You saved not only us, but our wives and families, and that at the risk of your lives, for I expected that the Greeks would fall upon you for interfering in their butchery. What you did for us was done for strangers against whom you were in arms. What we have done for you has been done for our benefactors. Therefore let no more be said. My wife and daughters would have despised me had I not done all in my power to rescue their preservers. Now let us return to the next room, where we will have a meal. I think it would be as well, Ahmed, to send Mourad at once down to the bridge to hire a caique there, and tell him to take it to the next landing to that at which you disembarked, and there wait for you. What do you say?”
“I think, father, it would be better to go boldly down to the bridge and take the boat there. I am sure to see some of the men we generally employ, and it will seem natural to them that I should be going with two friends up to our kiosk; whereas the other way would be unusual, and when inquiries are made, as there are sure to be, they might speak of it. But I agree with you that it will be as well not to wait until the evening. Directly the officer gets free there is sure to be a great stir, and there may be janissaries placed at the various landings, as it might be supposed the escaped prisoners would try to get on board a neutral ship.”
“Perhaps that would be better, Ahmed. I think they might boldly go through the crowd with a little more attention to their dress.”
BEFORE starting, the disguises of Horace and the doctor were perfected. They were so bronzed by the sun and air that their skin was no fairer than that of many Turks of the better class; but it was thought as well to apply a slight tinge of dye to them, and to darken the doctor’s eyelashes and eyebrows with henna. The hair was cut closely off the nape of the neck, below the line to which the turban, properly adjusted, came down, and the skin was stained to match that of their faces. The garments they wore formed part of Ahmed’s wardrobe, and only needed somewhat more careful adjustment than they had at first received. The ladies came up to bid them farewell; but, as it had been arranged that in the course of a few days, when inquiry should have ceased, the bey, with his wife and daughters, should also proceed to their country residence, they would meet again ere long. Mourad was to accompany them, and putting a large box on his shoulders, filled with changes of clothes and other necessaries, he followed them down the street.
In a short time they were in a busy thoroughfare, the number of people becoming larger and larger as they went down towards the water. Janissaries in their showy uniform swaggered along, soldiers of the line, merchants, and peasants, while hamals staggering along under enormous burdens swung from bamboo poles, made their way, keeping up a constant shout to the crowd to clear the road. State functionaries moved gravely along on their way to the offices of the Porte. Veiled women, with children in their arms or clinging to them, stopped to talk to each other in the streets or bargained with the traders at the little shops. Military officers and Turks of the upper class rode along on showy horses, prancing and curvetting and scattering the foot passengers right and left.
Ahmed and his companions kept straight on, paying apparently no attention to what was going on around them, Ahmed occasionally making a remark in Turkish, the others keeping silent.
When they reached the water-side a number of boatmen surrounded Ahmed, who soon found two men whom he had frequently employed. The caique was brought alongside. Ahmed had already told Horace to step in without hesitation with his companion, and to take their seats at the bottom of the boat in the stern, while he and Mourad would sit between them and the boatmen. The latter took their places, and each seized a pair of the sculls. These, which were much lighter than the sculls of an English boat, were round with a long broad blade. They were not in rollocks, but in a strap of leather fastened to a single thole-pin; inside this they thickened to a bulk of three or four inches in diameter, narrowing at the extremity for the grip of the hand. This thick bulge gave an excellent balance to the sculls, and was rendered necessary by the fact that the boats were high out of water, and the length of the sculls outboard disproportionately large to that inboard.
A few vigorous strokes by the rowers sent the boat out into the open water. Then the forward oarsman let his sculls hang by their thongs alongside, took out four long pipes from the bottom of the caique, filled and lighted them, and passed them aft to the passengers, and then again betook himself to his sculls. Bearing gradually across they reached the other side below Scutari, and then kept along the shore at a distance of a hundred yards from the land. Ahmed chatted to the oarsman next to him, and to Mourad, occasionally making some remark to the others in Turkish in reference to the pretty kiosks that fringed the shore; enforcing what he said by pointing to the objects of which he was speaking. They assumed an appearance of interest at what he was saying, and occasionally Horace, who was next to him, talked to him in low tones in Greek, so that the boatman should not catch the words, Ahmed each time replying in Turkish in louder tones.
No class of boatmen in the world row with the vigour and strength with which those of the Bosphorus—who are for the most part Albanians—ply their sculls, and both Horace and the doctor were struck with surprise and admiration at the steady and unflagging way in which the men rowed, their breath seeming to come no quicker, though the perspiration stood in beads on their brown faces and muscular arms, and streamed down their swarthy chests, which were left bare by the open shirts of almost filmy material of snowy whiteness. Once only in the two hours’ journey did they cease rowing and indulge for five minutes in a smoke; after which they renewed their labours with as much vigour as when they first started.
“That is the kiosk,” Ahmed said at last, pointing to one standing by itself near the water’s edge on a projecting point of land, and in a few minutes the caique swept in to the stairs. Ahmed had quietly passed a few small silver coins into Horace’s hand, whispering in Greek:
“Give them these as you land; an extra tip is always welcome.”
Then he paid the men as he got out, saying to them:
“I expect the ladies in a few days. You had better go up each morning to the house, and then you can secure the job.”
Horace dropped the coins into the boatman’s hand, with a nod, as he stepped out, and then they walked up to the house. The boatmen again lighted their pipes for a smoke before starting back on their long row. The kiosk was shut up. Mourad opened the door with a key, and threw the shutters open.
“I wonder you leave the place entirely shut up,” Horace said.
“There is nothing to steal,” Ahmed laughed. “A few mats for the floors and cushions for the divans. The cooking pots and crockery are locked up in a big chest; there is little else. There are a few vases for flowers and other ornaments stowed away in a cupboard somewhere, but altogether there is little to tempt robbers; and, indeed, there are very few of them about. The houses are always left so, and it is an almost unknown thing for them to be disturbed. You see everything is left clean and dusted, so the place is always ready when we like to run down for a day or two. The house has not been used much lately, for my parents and sisters have been two years at Athens, and I have been frequently away at our estates, which lie some fifteen miles west of Constantinople. Now we will take a turn round, while Mourad is getting dinner ready.”
The latter had brought with him, in addition to the box, a large basket containing charcoal, provisions, and several black bottles.
“There is a village half a mile farther along the shore, where he will do his marketing to-morrow,” Ahmed had explained as he pointed to the basket.
The garden was a rough triangle, two sides being washed by the water, while a high wall running across the little promontory formed the third side. It was some sixty or seventy yards each way; the house stood nearly in the middle; the ground sloped down on either side of it to the water, and was here clear of shrubs, which covered the rest of the garden, interspersed with a few shady trees. There were seats placed under these, and a small summer-house, surrounded on three sides by high shrubs but open to the water, stood at the end of the point.
“It is a little bit of a place, as you see,” Ahmed said; “but my mother and the girls are very fond of it, and generally stay here during the hot season. It is quite secluded, and at the same time they have a good view of everything going up and down the Sea of Marmora; and if there is any breeze at all, it sweeps right through the house.”
“It is charming,” Horace said. “With a boat here, one could not want anything better.”
“We always have a boat, with two men, while we are here,” Ahmed said. “The two men who rowed us have been with us two or three seasons. My father often wants to go into Constantinople, and I generally go when he does. We usually sleep at our house there, and come back the next evening. If the ladies want to go out while we are away, they can get a caique at the village.”
After they had taken a turn round the garden they went into the house again. The principal room on the ground-floor was at the end of the house, and occupied its full width. The windows extended entirely round three sides of it, a divan, four feet wide, running below them.
“You see, on a hot day,” Ahmed said, “and with all these windows open, it is almost like being in the open air; and whichever way the wind is, we can open or close those on one side, according to its strength.”
The ceiling and the wall on the fourth side of the room were coloured pink, with arabesques in white. The windows extended from the level of the divan up to the ceiling, and were of unpainted wood varnished, as was the wood-work of the divan. The floor was very carefully and evenly laid, and the planks planed and varnished. Beyond two or three little tables of green-painted wood, there was no furniture whatever in the room. Outside the windows were jalousies or perforated shutters, which could be closed during the heat of the day to keep the room dark and cool.
Mourad had already got out the cushions and pillows and spread them on the divan; had placed a small iron bowl full of lighted charcoal in a low box full of sand in the centre of the room, and a brass casket full of tobacco on one of the tables. Half a dozen chibouks, with amber mouthpieces and cherry or jasmine-wood stems, leant in a corner.
Three of the pipes were soon filled, and a piece of glowing charcoal, taken from the fire with a pair of small tongs lying beside it, was placed on each bowl. A few puffs were taken to get the tobacco alight, then the pieces of charcoal were dropped into the fire again, and shaking off their slippers they took their seats on the cushions of the divan.
“It is very unfortunate that your friend does not speak Greek,” Ahmed began.
“Yes, it is unfortunate for him,” Horace said as he translated the remark to Macfarlane.
“If I had known that my lot was going to be cast out here,” the doctor said, “I would have insisted on learning modern Greek instead of ancient at school—that is, if I could have got a dominie who could have taught me. It is a very serious drawback, especially when you know that people are talking of things that may or may not mean that you are going to get your throat cut in an hour or so. For the last two days I seem to have been just drifting in the dark.”
“But I always translate to you as much as I can, doctor.”
“You do all that, Horace, and I will say this that you do your best; but it is unsatisfactory getting things at second hand. One likes to know precisely how things are said. However, as matters have gone there is nothing to grumble at, though where one’s life is concerned it is a natural weakness that one should like to have some sort of say in the matter, instead of feeling that one is the helpless sport of fate.”
Horace laughed, and Ahmed smiled gravely, when he translated the doctor’s complaint.
“It comes all the harder to me,” the doctor went on, “because I have always liked to know the why and the wherefore of a matter before I did it. I must confess that since I have been in the navy that wish has been very seldom gratified. Captains are not in the habit of giving their reasons to their surgeons, overlooking the fact altogether that these are scientific men, and that their opinion on most subjects is valuable. They have too much of the spirit of the centurion of old. They say ‘Do this,’ and it has to be done, ‘You will accompany the boats, Dr. Macfarlane,’ or ‘You will not accompany the boats.’ I wonder sometimes that, after an action, they don’t come down into the cockpit and say, ‘You will cut off this leg,’ or ‘This arm is not to be amputated.’ The highness-and-mightiness of a captain in His Majesty’s navy is something that borders on the omnipotent. There is a maxim that the king can do no wrong; but a king is a poor fallible body in comparison with a captain.”
“Well, I don’t think you have anything to complain of with Martyn,” Horace laughed.
“Martyn is only an acting-captain, Horace, and it is not till they get the two swabs on their shoulders that the dignity of their position makes itself felt. A first lieutenant begins, as a rule, to take the disease badly, but it is not till he gets his step that it takes entire possession of him. I have even known a first lieutenant listen to argument. It’s rare, lad, very rare, but I have known such a thing; as for a captain, argument is as bad as downright open mutiny. Well, this is a comfortable place that we have got into, at least in hot weather, but I should say that an ice-house would be preferable in winter. These windows don’t fit anyhow, and there would be a draft through them that would be calculated to establish acute rheumatism in the system in the course of half an hour.”
“The house is not used at all in winter,” Ahmed said, when he understood the nature of the doctor’s criticisms. “Almost all the kiosks along here belong to people in the town, and are closed entirely for four months of the year. We are fond of warmth, and when the snow is on the ground, and there is a cold wind blowing, there would be no living here in any comfort.”
Six days passed. Ahmed went once to Constantinople to learn what was going on. He brought back news that the escape of the two English prisoners had caused a great sensation at the Porte, that all the officers in the regiments there had been paraded in order that the boatmen and the officers of the brig might pick out the one who had brought off the order, but that naturally no one had been identified. The soldiers had also been inspected, but as none of these had been particularly noticed by the boatmen, the search for those engaged had been equally unsuccessful. Fazli Bey had been severely interrogated, his servants questioned, and his house searched, but nothing had been found to connect him in any way with the escape. A vigilant watch had been set upon every European ship in port, and directions had been sent that every vessel passing down the straits was to bring-to off the castles, and to undergo a strict search.
Ahmed said that his father had heard from Fazli Bey that while the Sultan was furious at the manner in which the prisoners had been released, it was against those who had taken part in it that his anger was principally directed, and that it was thought he was at heart not altogether sorry that the two men who had befriended the Turks at Athens had got off, although he would not have wavered in his own expressed determination to put to death without exception all foreigners who had aided the Greeks. “My father has not at present thought of any plan for getting you away,” Ahmed said. “The search is too rigorous, and no master of a vessel would dare to carry you off; but in a short time the matter will be forgotten, and the search in the port and in the Dardanelles will be slackened. It causes a great deal of trouble and inconvenience, and the officials will soon begin to relax their efforts. It is one of our national characteristics, you know, to hate trouble. My father will be here with the others in a couple of days, and then we will hold a council over it.”
The next day a boat arrived with carpets and hangings for the rooms upstairs, which were entirely devoted to the females of the household; and on the following evening Osman Bey, with his wife and daughters, arrived in the same caique that Ahmed had come in, two female servants with a quantity of luggage coming in another boat. The next few days passed very pleasantly. The ladies took their meals apart upstairs, but at other times sat in the room below, treating Horace and the doctor as if they were members of the family. There were many discussions as to the best method of effecting their escape, and Ahmed went twice to Constantinople to ascertain whether the search for them was being relaxed.
At last he and his father agreed that it would be the best plan for them to go to Izmid, and to take a passage from there if some small craft could be found sailing for Chios, or one of the southern ports or islands. Ahmed was to accompany them, and was first to go to Izmid to make the necessary arrangements. He knew many merchants in the port, and as some of these were intimate friends they would probably be disposed to assist those who had rendered so great a service to Osman Bey and his family, but at the same time Ahmed said: “You must not be impatient. The news of your being carried off by sham soldiers, as they say, after their having assaulted and robbed the officer who was bearer of the order for your delivery, has made a great talk, and I shall have to be very careful as to how I open the subject.”
“Pray run no risks,” Horace said. “You have all done so already, and we should be unhappy, indeed, were any ill-fortune to befall you or your family for what you have done for us. We are very comfortable here. I would much rather wait for some really favourable opportunity than hazard your safety, to say nothing of our own, by impatience. It is but a fortnight since we made our escape.”
“I am going up the Bosphorus to-morrow,” Ahmed said. “I have to see a bey whose property adjoins ours, and who has a kiosk some distance above Scutari. It is only a question of business, and I shall not be many minutes. I shall be glad if you will go with me; you can remain in the boat. The rowers are so accustomed to see you that they can have no curiosity about you; besides, now that they are regularly in our service, and sleep and live here, there is no one for them to gossip with, and, indeed, as we are good patrons of theirs I do not think they would say anything about you, whatever they might suspect.”
“I suppose you can take us both, Ahmed?”
“Certainly I meant that, of course. Your friend would find it dull indeed alone here.”
Accordingly the next morning they started. When they neared Scutari they saw on the other side of the water a brig making her way in from the Dardanelles.
“That is a slovenly-looking craft, doctor, with those dirty ill-fitting sails; rather a contrast that to our schooner. I wonder where she is and what she is doing. That brig is about her size too, and the hull is not unlike hers, looking at it from here.”
The doctor gazed at the craft intently. “Eh, man,” he said in low tones, grasping his companion’s arm tightly, “I believe that it is our craft, Horace.”
“What, that dirty looking brig, doctor, with her sides looking as rusty as if she had not had a coat of paint for the last year!”
“It’s the schooner disguised. It is easy enough, lad, to alter the rig, and to get hold of dirty sails and to dirty the paint, but you can’t alter the shape. No Greek, or Turk either, ever turned out the hull of that brig.”
“It is marvellously like the schooner,” Horace said. “I should almost have sworn that it was her.”
“It is the schooner, lad. How she got there, and what she is doing, I don’t know, but it is her.”
“What is it?” Ahmed asked. “What is there curious in that brig that you are so interested in her?”
“We both think it is our schooner, Ahmed; the one in which we took your father and mother from Athens in.”
“That!” Ahmed exclaimed incredulously; “why, my sisters were always saying what a beautiful vessel it was, with snow-white sails.”
“So she had, Ahmed; but if it is the schooner she is disguised altogether. They have taken down her top-masts and put those stumpy spars in instead; they have put up yards and turned her into a brig; they have got sails from somewhere and slackened all her ropes, and made her look dirty and untidy; still we both think that it is her. Please tell the boatmen to cross to the vessel and row alongside.”
Ahmed gave the order, and as the caique shot away from the shore said: “But how could it be your ship? Do you think that she has been captured? If not, she could not have ventured up here.”
“She has not been captured,” Horace said confidently, “and if she had been her captors would not have taken the trouble to spoil her appearance. If that is the schooner they have come up to make inquiries about us, and to try to rescue us if possible.”
It was fully two miles across, and as they approached the brig the doctor and Horace became more and more convinced that they were not mistaken.
“Please tell the men to pull in behind her,” Horace said, “so that we can see her better. There can be no mistake about her if we can catch a sight of her fore and aft.”
When they fell into the brig’s wake they were some three hundred yards astern of her, and the last vestige of doubt disappeared as they saw her great breadth and fine run.
“That is my father’s craft, Ahmed, I could swear to her now. Will you tell the men to row up alongside.”
There were only four or five men visible on deck in the ordinary dress of Turkish sailors. As the caique came alongside a man put his head over the rail and asked in Turkish “what they wanted?”
“We want to come on board,” Ahmed said; “we have business with the captain.”
“I am the captain,” the man said; “are you one of the port officers?”
“Drop astern to the chains,” Ahmed said to the boatmen, who were hanging on by a boat-hook. They let the caique fall aft her own length, and then, seizing the shrouds, the doctor and Horace sprang up on to the chains and then leapt on board, Ahmed following them more slowly. There was no doubt that it was the schooner, though her decks were covered with dirt and litter, and the paint of her bulwarks discoloured as if they had been daubed with mud which had been allowed to dry. The sailors looked up as if in surprise at the sudden appearance of the strangers on their deck. Horace glanced at them. He knew none of their faces.
“Well, sir,” the captain said, coming up, “may I again ask what you want with us?”
“You talk to him, Ahmed,” Horace said in Greek. “We will run below;” and at a bound he was at the top of the companion and sprang down into the cabin. “Father,” he shouted, “are you here?”
The door of the main cabin opened, and a Turk with a flowing white beard made his appearance.
“My dear father, is it you?”
“Why, Horace, Horace, my dear boy, where do you come from, what miracle is this?” And in a moment they were clasped in each other’s arms. A moment later a tall Nubian rushed out and seized Horace’s hand.
“Why, Martyn, you don’t mean to say it is you in this disguise?”
“It is indeed, Horace. I am delighted to see you, lad; and you too, doctor. I had never thought to clap eyes on you again;” and he shook hands heartily with Macfarlane, as also did Mr. Beveridge.
“I seem to be in a dream,” the latter said; “how do you come here, what has happened?”
“I may say the same, father; but first, where are Miller, Tarleton, and the crew?”
“They are all down in the hold,” Martyn said; “they are all in hiding.”
“I have a friend on deck, father; he is the son of one of the Turks we saved at Athens. He and his friends saved our lives, and have been concealing us since they got us away. I expect he is having some difficulty with the man who calls himself captain.”
“Come up with me then, Horace, and we will fetch him down; and I will tell Iskos that it is all right.”
As soon as they reached the deck Mr. Beveridge explained to the supposed captain that these were the friends he had come to find, and that all was well.
Martyn had also come up. “What had we better do now, Martyn?”
Martyn looked up at the sails, and at the water, “Fortunately the wind is dying out fast,” he said. “I don’t think we are making way against the current now, and we shall certainly not do so long. Hold on a few minutes longer, Iskos, and then anchor. It will seem as if we could not get up against the stream to the other shipping. If you see a boat coming off, let us know. They will probably be sending off to look at our papers; but perhaps they may not trouble about it till we get up to the regular anchorage. Now, Mr. Beveridge, we will go down below and gladden their hearts there.”
The main-deck was filled with casks, bales, and merchandise of all sorts, and the hatchways of the hold covered with sacks of flour. Macfarlane joined them, and aided Martyn and Horace in removing the sacks. Horace saw as he did so that what appeared a solid pile was really hollow, and that the hatchway was only partially closed so as to allow a certain amount of air to pass down below. The bags were but partly removed when there was a rush from below, Miller and Tarleton with their cutlasses in hand, followed by the sailors with boarding-pikes dashed through the opening. They paused in astonishment upon seeing only Martyn, Mr. Beveridge, and three Turkish gentlemen, but as they recognized Horace and the doctor, the officers threw down their swords and with a shout of joy seized them by the hand. The sailors close behind them broke into a cheer which swelled into a roar as the men below gathered the news that their two officers had returned.
“The men can come up between decks, Miller,” Martyn said. “Let them have a stiff ration of grog all round. Boatswain, see that the sacks are piled again as before, leaving two or three out of their place to allow the men to go down again if necessary. If the word is passed that a boat is coming off, let them hurry back again and replace the sacks carefully after them as they go down.”
The sailors continued pouring up through the hatchway, and behind them came the two Greeks, whose joy at seeing Horace was excessive.
“Now,” Mr. Beveridge said, “let us adjourn to the cabin and hear all about this wonderful story.”
On entering the main cabin Horace found that its appearance, like that of the rest of the ship, had been completely altered, all the handsome fittings had been removed, and the whole of the woodwork painted with what he thought must have been a mixture of white paint and mud, so dirty and dingy did it appear.
“Now, father, in the first place I must properly introduce my friend Ahmed to you all. He is the son of Osman Bey, who was one of the principal Turks of the party we took to Tenedos, as no doubt you remember; it is to him and his father, aided by Fazli Bey, and the bimbashi who was in command of the troops, and some of the soldiers, that we owe our lives.”
THE DOCTOR TELLS THE STORY
This was said in Greek, and while Mr. Beveridge was expressing his gratitude to Ahmed, Horace repeated the same in English to the three officers, who warmly shook hands with the young Turk. Marco and his brother placed refreshments of all kinds on the table.
Ahmed partook of them sparingly, and then said to Horace: “Of course you will not be returning with me now. I think I had better be going on, it will be dark before I have done my business and get back again; and besides, the boatmen will be wondering at my long stay here.”
“I am afraid your father will think us horribly ungrateful if we go off without thanking him and your mother for all their kindness to us,” Horace said; “but of course we must be getting out of this as soon as we can.”
“My father and mother will be delighted to hear that you have so suddenly and unexpectedly got out of your difficulties,” Ahmed said, “and that in a manner from which no suspicion can possibly arise to us. What we have done has been but a small return for the service you rendered us.”
Mr. Beveridge added his warmest thanks to those of Horace, and Ahmed then went up with the others on to the deck and took his place in the caique; Horace making a present of a small gold piece to each of the boatmen. Ahmed said good-bye to him and the doctor in Turkish, expressing the hope that when they got back to Cyprus they would write to him, a message that Iskos afterwards translated to Horace. As soon as he had rowed away the rest of them returned to the cabin.
“And now for the story,” Mr. Beveridge said as they took their places round the table.
“The doctor shall tell it,” Horace said. “He has had no chance of talking for the last fortnight, and it is only fair he should have his turn now.”
The doctor accordingly, in his slow and deliberate way, related the whole story of their adventures from the time they landed from the schooner until their return on board, a narration which lasted nearly two hours.
Then Martyn related what had happened on board since. “You know,” he said, “that directly we heard the firing on shore and saw the boat rowing off we began to get ready to send a strong party off. You can imagine how horrified we were when, on the boat coming alongside, we found you were both missing. The beggars fired away at us as we rowed ashore, but they bolted before we reached it, and when we made a rush into the village, it was empty. We could find no one to ask questions of, for, as we found afterwards, they had all made off while the brigands were firing at us. However, as there were no signs of you it was evident the only thing to do was to follow the ruffians, and off we set. We chased them four miles, but they scattered directly they left the village and we only came up with two of them. Unfortunately they showed fight, and the sailors cut them down before we could come up.
“After searching about for some time we thought the best plan was to go back to the village. There we quartered ourselves among the houses, and, as you have been telling us, the man came with a letter. We noticed how you had worded it and had underscored the names, and we saw the fellows did not know that you were the son of the owner, so your father pretended to hang back for a bit. As soon as the man had gone off with the message we thought that it was all right, and everyone was in the highest spirits. Of course there was nothing to do next day, but the following morning Mr. Beveridge and Miller went off with thirty men, as the time named for giving you up was one o’clock.
“We began to expect them back at four, and as the hours went on I was in a regular stew. I did not like to land, and as I had only twenty men I was afraid of weakening her further, as we should have been in an awkward fix if a Turkish man-of-war had come along; however, at nine o’clock I sent Tarleton ashore with five men to see if he could gather some news from the villagers, who had all come back again soon after the brigands had left. It was not till after eleven o’clock that he came off, with the news that the party had returned and had heard nothing of you.
“Next morning one of the boats came off with Mr. Beveridge. Half an hour before a Greek had come in and stated that he was one of the party bringing you down to the place agreed upon when they were suddenly fired upon from a wood. Two of the party fell dead and the rest ran and were hotly pursued for some distance. He was unable to say what had become of you, nor did he know who the men were who had attacked them, except that they were certainly Albanians. We held a council, and then I started off with Tarleton and ten men and Marco. Mr. Beveridge wanted to go, but I persuaded him not to, for it was morally certain that we should not find you, and all we could hope for was to get some sort of clue, and if the Albanians were still in the neighbourhood Marco would have opened negotiations with them for a ransom. The man who had brought the news acted as guide. We found the bodies of his comrades who had been killed, but no signs of you, which was a comfort in one way. It was pretty evident that you had both been carried off.
“We had taken with us a dozen men from the village to which you were to have been sent, and we offered what to them must have been a big reward for news as to these Albanians. So after finding the bodies we sent them off in different directions, and went back to their village. Late in the evening they straggled in. They had done their work well, spreading all over the country and getting hold of shepherds and charcoal-burners and wood-cutters; and they were able to tell us for certain that the Albanians had come over the range of hills between us and Thessaly. They had been doing a good deal of plundering and some murdering, had destroyed two small villages at the foot of the mountains, and had been seen soon after the hour at which you must have been captured making their way back. They assured us that the troops of Ali Pasha lay in the plain beyond the hills, and that, doubtless, the Albanians had taken you to him. We had a good long rest in the afternoon, and as I knew what a state of anxiety your father was in we started at once and got on board at four o’clock in the morning. We had a long talk over what was the best thing to be done, and resolved at any rate to sail out of the bay and round the Cape, and then keep along the coast until we were off Thessaly.
“As soon as it was daylight we weighed anchor. The wind was so light that it took us two days to get there, and half that time at least, I should say, the men were in the boats towing. Marco had volunteered to land and make his way to the Turkish camp to try to find out what had become of you. We landed him at night; he bought from some of the villagers a suit of their clothes, and in twenty-four hours came down again to the boat we had sent ashore for him with the news that you had been sent to Constantinople; that you had been taken by an escort of cavalry down to the little port at the mouth of the river that flows in between Ossa and Olympus; that he had seen some of the soldiers who formed your escort, who told him that they had seen you go on board a Turkish brig-of-war with their officer and two of their comrades who had accompanied you.
“This was horrible news, and as the brig had got four days’ start there was little chance of our catching her. For another three days we were almost becalmed. We had every stitch of canvas set and yet most of the time we had not even steerage-way. The men behaved splendidly, and all the time, day and night, we had two boats out ahead towing; and on the fourth day we arrived off Tenedos. Then we got a breeze again, and soon afterwards picked up a fishing-boat. From them we learned that the brig had lain becalmed two days off the town, that some of the people that we brought from Athens had gone out with little presents of fruit to you and had seen you.
“We anchored that night a short distance from the town, for there were no Turkish ships of war there. At night a boat came off with a woman whom we had brought from Athens, and she told us that her husband, a discharged soldier, had gone to Constantinople to tell some of the people whom we brought from Athens that two of our officers had been captured, and to ask them to do what they could to save your lives. We did not think anything of it, though of course it was pleasant to see that some of the people were grateful, and Mr. Beveridge made her a handsome present, which I will do her the justice to say she refused until he almost had to force it upon her. Knowing how bitter the Sultan is against foreigners in the Greek service, and that after the harm we had done he was not likely to be specially well disposed towards us, the thing seemed almost hopeless. The two Greeks volunteered if we would put them ashore to the west of the straits to make their way to Constantinople, but as it did not seem to us that they could do any good that idea was given up.
“At last Tarleton proposed that we should disguise the schooner and go up ourselves. He admitted that the betting was a hundred to one against our being able to help you in any way, especially as it was almost certain you would have been hung a few hours after you got there. Still, if that had been put off, and you should be in a prison, there was just the possibility we might land at night, make our way to the prison, blow in the gate, get you out, and make our way across the country to some place where the boats would be waiting for us, and be on board before daylight. It was certainly a desperate undertaking, but as none of us could think of any other plan, we agreed it would be well to try it, so we sailed at once to Athens.
“We had a great debate whether it would not be better to buy some Turkish brig that had been brought in as a prize; but we finally agreed to stick to the schooner, for if we were discovered on the way, or if we did get you on board, we should have to sail, and we knew that nothing the Turks have got could outsail the schooner. We worked hard at Athens. We sent down the tall spars, got those clumsy poles up in their place, got up yards, and turned her into a brig. Then we bought a lot of old sails, and, as you see, turned her into as lubberly-looking a craft as you will meet even in these seas. Then we filled her up between decks with goods we bought out of some prizes brought in by the Hydriots, dirtied her decks, threw acid down her sides to take off the paint, took down the cabin fittings, as you see, and daubed over the woodwork with dirty paint. It was enough to make one cry to see the Misericordia spoilt. It was like disguising a girl of fashion as a dirty gipsy.
“While we had been at this work the two Greeks had been on shore, and had gathered up eight men who spoke Turkish as well as Greek. The most intelligent we made captain, with two officers under him. We got the papers from a Turkish prize, a brig about the same size which had been captured by the Hydriots on her way from Rhodes to Constantinople. Then it was agreed that your father should disguise himself as a Turk, a respectable land-owner of Rhodes, going as a passenger to Constantinople, with myself as his Nubian servant. That way we could stay on deck. When all was ready we started. The crew kept on deck till we got near the Dardanelles, and then stowed themselves away in the hold as you saw. We were stopped at the castle, but as the papers were all right there was no suspicion excited, and nothing happened till Iskos came down and told us a caique was coming alongside, and then a minute or two later we heard your voice.”
THE hours passed on. It was still a dead calm, and, as Martyn had thought likely, no visit was paid by the Turkish port officials, as the brig was lying a good mile below the usual anchorage, and would no doubt move up to the wharves as soon as she got the wind. Horace went to the main deck and gave a sketch of his adventures to Tom Burdett, who he knew would retail them to the crew.
“Well, Mr. Horace,” the boatswain said, “you are certainly a good one at getting out of scrapes.”
“I had nothing to do with getting out of it, Tom; it was all done without any effort on my part.”
“It was mighty well done, sir, and I would not have given them Turks credit for putting such a plan together. I always liked the chaps myself when I served with them as a young fellow in that Egyptian business under Abercrombie. Good-natured sort of coves they was, and wonderful good-tempered considering what shocking bad grub they had; but I never looked upon them as sharp. Still, there you are; you see, one never knows what a chap can do till he is pushed. Well, there is one thing, Mr. Horace, I don’t care how many Turkish fugitives we may take on board this ship in future, they will be heartily welcome by every man Jack on board for the sake of what these fellows did for you. I wish I had known it when you first came on board. I should have liked to have given that young Turk a hearty shake of the hand, and the men would have given him as good a cheer as ever you heard come from fifty British sailors.”
“It is just as well you didn’t know, Tom, for if they had given a cheer together on deck it would have been heard from shore to shore, and everyone who heard it would have known that it never came from Turkish throats.”
As soon as it was dark the anchor was weighed, and the vessel drifted down with the current, a boat towing ahead so as to give her steerage-way, while the rest of the crew set to work to unbend her sails.
“You are not going to put up her own sails, are you, Captain Martyn?” Horace asked, for as soon as it got dusk Martyn had removed the stain from his skin, and exchanged the Nubian attire for his uniform.
“No, Horace, the white sails would tell their tale at once. We got two suits at Athens, one that miserable lot you saw on us to-day, the other we had cut up to fit us as we are sparred now. They are not very clean, but that won’t affect her sailing, and though I don’t mean to say she will walk along as she would under her proper canvas, I fancy she is likely to sail as fast as anything we shall meet. I shall only get her foresail, a jib, and that square top-sail on her, as we want to go along as slowly as possible. I want to manage to anchor below Gallipoli after sunset; or if I can’t manage that I shall anchor a mile or two this side of the town, so as not to be visited by any of the port officers. Then when it gets quite dark we will get up all sail and run down the straits. It is against the rules to pass through at night, and if the forts catch sight of us no doubt they will send a few shots after us, but we must risk that. It is not easy to hit a moving mark when it is so dark that you can scarcely see her outline. There are half a dozen of their ships-of-war lying abreast of the forts. We must keep as far as we dare over on the other shore. I am not afraid of the ships. We shall be a mile away before the crews wake up and load, but I expect they keep a pretty sharp look-out in the forts, though most likely their attention is chiefly directed below them.”
It took a couple of hours’ work to unbend all the sails and bend on fresh ones. Horace spent the evening in the cabin chatting with his father, and when the others came down at ten o’clock for a glass of grog he heard that the boat had been run up and housed, and that the brig was now under easy sail.
“There is very little wind,” Martyn said, “but there is enough to give steerage-way. I shall not count you in for duty until to-morrow.”
“Oh, I am ready to take my watch as usual. I have been living a very lazy life for the last three weeks, and shall be very glad to be on duty again.”
“I shall get the guns up the first thing in the morning, Miller. We will throw a tarpaulin over them when we get into the narrow part of the straits.”
“Will you have the pivot-gun up too?”
“Yes, I think so; if we have to fight, we may as well fight as hard as we can. When we get it mounted we can put a few barrels along each side of it, cover the whole over with a sailcloth, and stow one of the gigs at the top of all. No one would have a suspicion that there was a gun there then, and if we wanted to use it we could clear it in a minute.”
“The Turkish custom-house officers will stare in the morning when they see the brig gone,” Miller said, “and will wonder what has become of her.”
“If they think of her at all, Miller, they will think she has got up sail at daylight and gone up the Bosphorus on her way to Varna or one of the Black Sea ports.”
“It would require a good deal more breeze than there is now.”
“Yes, I did not think of that. Well, then, perhaps they will suppose that we made a try to go up to the anchorage as soon as the day began to break, but simply drifted back. You see another half a mile astern would take us round that point there and out of sight of them. However, we don’t care much what they think. They are not likely to be interested enough in the matter to bother themselves about it one way or the other, and certainly not likely to do the only thing that would be of any consequence to us, I mean send down a messenger to Gallipoli telling them to overhaul us if we came down the straits. Now, then, the watch on deck; the others turn in. I am sure, Mr. Beveridge, you will be all the better for a quiet night’s rest. You have certainly not slept much for the last month, and you have been getting thinner and thinner daily, while you have also long arrears in the way of food to make up. It has been quite pitiful to see the faces of the Greeks as you sent away plate after plate untouched.”
“I shall soon be myself again, Martyn, and even one good night’s rest will, I am sure, do wonders for me.”
“We have been getting quite uneasy about your father,” Miller said as he and Horace went up on deck for the middle watch.
“Yes, he looks sadly broken down, Miller. Directly he had taken off that beard I was quite shocked; he looks years older.”
“We have been really anxious about him. He would turn up three or four times during the night watches and walk the deck for an hour or two talking to one or other of us as if he could not stop alone in his cabin. Neither Martyn nor I ever had the slightest idea of finding you were alive when we got here, and still less of getting you out. But when Tarleton proposed disguising the schooner and coming up, he caught at the idea so eagerly that we fell in with it at once. It seemed to us both rather a mad sort of business, but we should not have cared what it was so that it would but rouse him up; for from the time when we first got word that you had been taken to the Turks, till Tarleton made that proposal at Tenedos, he had scarcely spoken a word. He cheered up for an hour or two when Marco brought news that at any rate you had not been killed at Ali Pasha’s camp, but had been sent on to Constantinople; but that lasted for a very short time, for he soon saw that so far from improving your chances, it had lessened them. Ali might have taken a handsome sum for your ransom, or your guards might have been bribed; anyhow, there would have been a much better chance of getting you away from his camp than from a prison in Constantinople.
“Of course we did all we could to cheer him, and, I am afraid, told some awful crammers as to the easy job it would be to get you out. Still, the plan did do him good. It gave him something to think about, as at Athens we were constantly thinking of something or other that he could go ashore and see about. Since we sailed from there he has been in a sort of fever, walking restlessly about the deck, going down to the cabin and coming up again twenty times every hour, worrying about the wind, and complaining at the boat’s loss of speed. He took to Tarleton most, because he was nearest your age, I think. He talked to him several times about you as a child, and seemed specially unhappy because he had seen so little of you up to the time when he bought you that first craft you had. The two Greeks were terribly concerned about him. They are two fine fellows those. They were as gentle as women. Well, it has been an anxious time for us all. Even the men have felt for him, and it was quite curious to see how silent the ship became when he was on deck. They seemed to speak almost in whispers, and I have not heard a laugh forward from the hour that you and the doctor were missed. I was glad he was taken with you, for he is a good fellow, and it was a comfort to know that you were together.”
“It was a great pull,” Horace agreed. “He was just the same all the time as he is on board, quiet and slow in his talk, but with an occasional gleam of humour. It has been rather hard on him, too, because, from the day we first landed, there has always been someone with us who could speak Greek, and it is very slow for a man sitting listening to talk that he can’t understand, waiting for bits to be translated to him. Still, he never showed that he minded.”
“Yes, that must have been very annoying,” Miller agreed, “especially when the talk was about matters that concerned his life. It makes you feel so helpless and baby-like to have everything managed for you and to be able to do nothing yourself. I don’t think he took kindly to that Turkish dress. He slipped away and changed it before he had been on board five minutes, while you kept yours on till you turned in for a nap two hours ago.”
“I was comfortable enough, and never gave the clothes a thought after I had worn them an hour or two,” Horace laughed. “Of course one felt very baggy about the legs, and I certainly should not like to go aloft in the things. No wonder the Turks are such clumsy sailors with their legs in bags like that; but I did notice that the doctor never seemed to move about naturally. I expect if he could have talked away as I did he would not have thought of them so much. The wind is heading us a bit.”
“Yes, it is;” and Miller gave the orders for the sheets and braces to be hauled aft.
“I should not be surprised if it is in the south by morning.”
“That would be all the better, for then we could choose our own time for getting off Gallipoli. We must get up all our sail when it is daylight and make a show of doing our best; but when one is tacking backwards and forwards one can always manage either to keep a little off the wind or so close into it as pretty well to deaden one’s way through the water.”
Horace turned in at four o’clock, and an hour and a half later heard a trampling of feet on deck, and knew that the watch was making sail. When he went up at eight o’clock the wind was blowing briskly from the south-east, and the schooner was making a long leg out from the land. He was now able to see the set of the sails that had been bent on the evening before. The lower sails were of the same size as the schooner’s original suit, and fitted her well. The upper sails contained less than half the canvas of her old ones, but her spread was sufficient to lay her over well and to send her through the water at an encouraging rate of speed.
“She is not going along so badly, is she, Horace?” Martyn asked.
“No, indeed. Of course in a light wind the loss of all that upper canvas will tell, but at present she is doing well enough for anything, quite well enough for anything we are likely to meet.”
“We have been holding our own for the last two hours with that felucca on the other tack, and we have been purposely sailing her a good bit off the wind. We could overhaul her soon enough if we liked, and most of those boats are fast; but we don’t want to get along too quickly. If the wind freshens any more I shall tow a sail alongside to deaden her way a bit. I want to arrive off Gallipoli about half an hour after sunset.”
Two of the broadside guns had just been brought up and put in position, and by midday the other six and the pivot-gun were in place, and the latter hidden by a screen of barrels and one of the gigs, bottom upwards, laid over it. The decks had been scrubbed, but, as Martyn said mournfully, it would take weeks to get them back to their former colour. The ropes still hung slackly, and although the schooner looked a good deal more ship-shape than when Horace had first seen her on the previous day, she was still as untidy as the average of vessels in Eastern waters. Her course was timed well, and the sun had already sunk some time, when she dropped anchor a short distance outside the craft lying off Gallipoli.
“I see some of their ships of war have come up from below since we passed three days ago. However, there is no fear of their sending a boat off to-night,” Martyn said as they gathered in the cabin for dinner, “and they will naturally suppose that we anchored so far out because we were going on down the straits the first thing in the morning.”
Mr. Beveridge had remained in his berth all day. The reaction after the long excitement and anxiety told severely upon him. Although he had got up the first thing, he had been obliged to lie down again, being too weak to stand. The doctor, however, told Horace that this was only to be expected.
“He will want a week’s quiet and plenty of nourishment to set him on his legs again. He has been fairly worn out. But there is no fever about him, and we can trust the Greeks to feed him up. It is just as well that he should keep perfectly quiet to-day and sleep as much as he can. To-morrow I hope I shall be able to get him up on deck. Then chatting with you and taking an interest in things will rouse him.”
At nine o’clock sail was again made and the anchor weighed. The wind had gone down very much, and had veered round to the south, which enabled them to lay their course through the greater part of the straits. Two men were placed in the chains with lead-lines. The lights were all extinguished, with the exception of the binnacle. The tarpaulins were removed from the guns and the barrels and gig from around the pivot-gun. The watch off duty was sent below, and two of the keenest-eyed men on board placed as look-outs at the bow. The European shore, which was comparatively high, could be made out as a dark bank, but the Asiatic shore, which was low, could scarcely be seen. The chart was laid on the cabin table, the port-holes having all been carefully covered with curtains, and a tarpaulin laid over the skylight.
The men in the chains kept on taking soundings, Horace going backwards and forwards between them and the quarterdeck with the news as to the depth of water. Miller was in charge of the deck, while Martyn paid frequent visits to the cabin to determine their position on the chart according to the depth of the soundings. There was no fear of their meeting with any craft until they approached the forts; but in the darkness it was necessary to be very careful, as the water was shallow on the eastern side, and were they to run on to a shoal, going as they were with the force of the current, there would be little chance of getting off again, unless by lightening the ship. There was just wind enough to give her steerage-way. Men were stationed in readiness to let go the anchor instantly, should it be necessary; while ten men, in the longboat, paddled gently ahead of her, just keeping a tow-rope taut in readiness to tow her instantly in any direction that might be required. None of them were acquainted with the set of the current, and Martyn had only the depth of water and the dim outline of the banks to direct his course by. Several times, when the water shoaled, the crew of the boat were directed to row vigorously in the direction of the right bank; and once or twice there were but a few feet under the keel, and a keen feeling of anxiety was experienced on board until the leads-man announced that the water was deepening. At last, according to Martyn’s calculations they could not be far away from the formidable forts.
The boat was directed to fall astern and hang on to the rope, in readiness either to come on board or to carry out any orders that might be given. The crew on deck were told to take axes and capstan-bars, so that should they drive down against one of the Turkish ships they could fend the schooner off as much as possible, or cut away any rope that might catch. They were directed to stand perfectly still, and not a word was to be spoken whatever happened. The greatest danger lay in the fact that most of the ships of war were lying above the forts, and that, consequently, should an alarm be given by them, the gunners at the batteries would be in readiness to pour in their fire upon her as she passed.
“The ground to our right looks much higher than it did, Miller. I think we must have been drifting a good deal over towards that side.”
“I think so too,” Miller agreed. “I have been fancying that we were getting over that way ever since we stopped sounding.”
“At any rate we must take our chance,” Martyn said. “I daren’t sound again; the splash would attract attention half a mile away on a quiet night like this. Besides, we could not tow her the other way now; we must take our chance. It is not likely they are keeping much of a look-out on board. We might pass within twenty yards of a vessel without being noticed on such a night as this. I will stay at the helm, Miller. Her sails are still full, and we have got steerage-way. Do you go up into the bow. Let two of the men take their boots off, and if they make out anything ahead, let one of them run to me like lightning with orders whether to port or starboard the helm.”
The conversation was carried on in the lowest tone. Miller stole lightly forward; Tarleton and Horace were already there, one on each bow, straining their eyes into the darkness.
“We are a long way over on this side, Miller, I don’t believe that high ground over there is more than two or three hundred yards away.”
“That is just what I have been saying, Tarleton. The current must have set us across tremendously. Martyn is at the helm, and you see we are heading off that shore, but I don’t think we are going more than a couple of knots through the water.”
In five minutes Tarleton whispered:
“I think there is something dark just over the cathead.”
At the same moment Horace stepped from the other side.
“There is a ship a short way ahead, Miller, unless I am mistaken.”
“By Jove, so there is!” Miller said, looking out. “We shall never be able to clear her with the current taking us down.”
He had kicked off his own shoes when he reached the bow, thinking it better himself to carry any message.
“Port your helm, Martyn,” he said as he ran up. “There are two craft ahead, and we can never clear the outside one in this current. Our only chance is to run between them.”
Martyn had jammed the helm down as Miller spoke.
“Keep it there,” Martyn said to the helmsman, and sprang to the bulwark to look out himself. “That is enough,” he said; “straighten her now, just as she is. You con her from the other side, Miller.”
All on board saw the two vessels now. By their height and bulk they were evidently large frigates or men-of-war. They were not fifty yards away, and were about the same distance apart. Martyn pulled off his jacket and threw it over the binnacle, as its light would have been at once noticed by anyone looking down from the lofty hulls. Noiselessly the schooner passed into the gap between the ships; not the slightest sound was heard from her decks. The two officers looked anxiously up at the sails, for had one of these flapped, or a block rattled, the sleepiest look-out must have noticed it. The silence on the decks of the Turkish ships was as profound as that on the schooner. Rapidly the latter slid between them, the current taking her along faster than the wind. A minute more and she was beyond them; still no hail was heard. Another minute and they loomed dark and indistinct behind her.
“Thank God for that!” Miller said in a whisper as he crossed the deck to Martyn.
“Yes, indeed; it was touch and go. I expect they have only an anchor watch. Most likely they are asleep; they would know that nothing could come up the straits with this light breeze. I think, Miller, those are the two eighty-gun ships we noticed as we came up. They were moored a good bit outside the others; in which case we have a clear course before us.”
“Yes; I have no doubt those are the two,” Miller agreed.
“Now we have only the forts; they are about a quarter of a mile further down. Go forward, please, and tell the men not to move till they get orders.”
Another quarter of an hour passed, and Martyn felt sure that they were now well beyond the forts. For a few minutes longer he held on, and then passed the word along the deck that the danger was over. Now that they knew their exact position there was no longer any occasion for sounding. The men in the boat were called up, and the watch off duty ordered below, and when morning broke the land was far behind them. A brisk wind had sprung up from the south-east, and the vessel was just able to lay her course for Athens.
The doctor had remained below during their passage through the straits.
“I should only have been in the way if I had been on deck,” he said when Horace chaffed him for taking matters so easily. “When a man can do no good, it is always better for him to get out of the way; and after all there is no great pleasure in standing for hours afraid to move, and without any duty to perform; so I just chatted for a bit with your father, and directly I saw the sleeping draught I had given him was beginning to take effect I turned in myself, and had as comfortable a sleep as ever I had in my life. After sleeping on sofas for three weeks, in that heathen sort of way, it was a comfort to get between sheets again.”
“Well, but you went to bed the night before, doctor?”
“That was so,” the doctor agreed. “But a good thing is just as good the second time as it is the first—better, perhaps. The first time the novelty of a thing prevents you altogether enjoying it. I knew very well that if we ran into any of the Turkish ships, or the forts opened fire at us, I was like to hear it plainly enough.”
“And would you have lain there then, doctor?”
“No, lad. I would have had my duties to perform; and I would have dressed and gone into the main deck at once, with my instruments ready to do anything I could for those that required it.”
“Have you seen my father this morning, doctor?”
“Yes; and I am glad to say that he is all the better for his two nights’ sleep. His pulse is stronger, and I shall get him up here after breakfast. The news that we were fairly out to sea, and that all danger was over, was better for him than any medicine. Well, lad, we did not think eight-and-forty hours ago that we would be racing down the Ægean again, on board the Misericordia, by this time. We have had a wonderful escape of it altogether, and I would not like to go through it again for enough money to set me up for life in Scotland. When we were on board that Turkish brig, on our way to Constantinople, I would not have given a bawbee for our chances.”
When they arrived at Athens the Greek sailors who had personated Turks were landed. Mr. Beveridge was unequal to the exertion of going ashore; but day after day he was visited by politicians, military leaders, and others. After a fortnight spent there, Dr. Macfarlane said to him:
“It is no use, sir, my giving you medicines and trying to build you up, if you are going on as you are now doing. You are losing strength, man, instead of gaining it. Each morning you seem a little better; each evening you are fagged and worn out by these importunate beggars. I can see that it worries and dispirits you. It is all very good to wish well to Greece, Mr. Beveridge; but unless you have a desire to be buried in Greek soil, the sooner you are out of this the better. It is not so much change of air as change of thought that you require. Go anywhere, so that it is to some place where you will never hear the name of Greece.”
“I think you are right, doctor. The worry and disappointment has, I know, been telling on me for months. Yes, I will definitely decide to go away, at any rate for a time. Will you ask Captain Martyn to come down?”
“Captain Martyn,” he went on when the latter entered the cabin, “the doctor tells me I must absolutely get away from here.”
“I am quite sure that he is right, sir. You have been gradually wearing yourself out ever since you came here.”
“I think we will go back to England in the first place, Martyn. I have no doubt more bracing air will do me good. Then we can see how events go on here.”
“Very well, sir. I think we shall be all heartily glad to be on our way back.”
“You had better go ashore at once, Martyn. Take Horace with you, and go to my agents. You know they have always kept the papers in readiness for a re-sale of the vessel back to me. Go with them to the consulate and have the sale formally registered. I will write a note for you to take to my agent.”
Ten minutes later the gig took Martyn and Horace ashore. They returned four hours later. There was a little move of excitement among the crew as they stepped on deck again, for through the Greeks, who had heard the news from Mr. Beveridge, it had spread forward. On reaching the deck Martyn went to the signal locker. “Now, Miller,” he said, “down with that flag.”
The Greek flag fluttered down from the peak, and as the British ensign was run up in its place Martyn took off his cap and shouted: “Three cheers for the old flag, lads!” and the shout, given with all the strength of the lungs of officers and crew, showed how hearty was the pleasure that was felt at the change. As soon as the cheers had subsided orders were given to get down the awnings and prepare to make sail. In a few minutes the clank of the anchor chain was heard, and by the evening the schooner was running down past the shores of the Morea.