Читать книгу The Beauty of the Purple - William Stearns Davis - Страница 5

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HOW FERGAL FOUND A MISTRESS

Unseen from the quay a ferry-boat had been urging her course across from Galata. The craft was very clumsy, so that at best her crew of ten made slow work with their long oars. But this morning the crowding with passengers had been unusual. A party of nuns from the Convent of St. Lydia in Pera had wished to visit and adore the new relics at the Church of St. Diomed, and had wedged aboard a deck already well filled. Then at the last moment a Cappadocian oil merchant had appeared and demanded transit for himself, three servants, and no less than three camels. Some of the earlier passengers had protested, but the ferry captain (against an extra fare) had admitted the creatures. The boat therefore had been grievously over-laden, and the camels had become restive, frightened and grunting ere they were fairly clear of the Galata wharf.

However, despite a great press of shipping, the boat made more than half the passage in safety, and the nuns were looking hopefully towards the looming warehouses above the nearing quays, when a wheat ship from Trebizond moved awkwardly across her bows. While backing water to avoid collision, the ferry captain’s long oar snapped, and that worthy sprawled upon the deck amid curses and confusion, while his boat partially lost way, and swung her broadside across the southerly breeze. At this critical instant she was rammed by a lumber barge trying to make the timber wharves higher up the Golden Horn. The shock was great, but the splintering of wood and the squalls of the women were drowned by the frantic screams and neighs of the camels, now plunging beyond control. No one could explain precisely what happened next, but a twinkling later the ferry-boat had turned turtle, and discharged its terrified crew and passengers into the harbour.

From his pillar Marinos was the first on land to glimpse the catastrophe, but as the lumber barge swung aside a cry of horror swelled along the quay. Frantic orders were shouted upon many vessels. Several caiques headed towards the disaster, but to excited onlookers their distance seemed enormous. On the water rose bobbing and struggling the unfortunate women. The ferry crew, true cowards, were seen striking off towards the barge, although a hundred voices hooted them. Then out of the groans and panic came leadership and action. In the sight of all men, Leo the Spatharios was standing on the edge of the quay, stripping off his cuirass and beckoning for others to imitate. His voice rang like a trumpet far down the frantic wharves.

“Call the boats moored at the Navy Yard (don’t loiter here, Basil, bring down your men) and meantime whoever here can swim and has love for wife, mother or sister—follow me!”

The patriarch with the zodiac medal caught at his elbow, his old eyes staring wide:

“My younger daughter,” he besought; “I think I see her in the waves——”

“And I my mother,” responded Leo coolly; “I’ll do all I can.” And forthwith he sprang into the Golden Horn.

As the water closed over him, a second splash sounded, ere a dozen other men (who had skill and courage to obey the officer) imitated Leo. Fergal the Armorican had leaped into the harbour like a fish into its element.

Hormisdas at the quay’s edge dissolved in agony:

“Cursed wretch that I was to unlock the shackle! Drowned! Surely drowned! Vilest ingratitude. Alas, my lost solidi—all the profits of the voyage. Oh, blessed Saints——”

Nobody heeded. With speechless anxiety the crowd on the wharves followed the swimmers. Leo’s strokes were long, but the Celt instantly passed him. Commander and slave—in that instant the latter was superior.

“Your mother—where?” demanded Fergal, as he shot by the officer.

“Yonder. The green cloak. An old woman—small and round.” There was no nice choosing in Leo’s words as he spat out the brine. “She’s going down again.”

“Fear nothing, I can reach her.”

The Celt literally sprang across the water. Leo made his best speed. It irked him to see his mother rescued by an utter alien, but seconds were precious. Ten fathoms away he saw Fergal seize his quarry with one hand, then hasten along with her, blowing and struggling, towards the nearest cargo boat, which was now casting out lines.

The officer pressed onward. A stout nun bobbed up beside him, sputtering her, “Mother of God, rescue! rescue!” but a nimble stevedore—the best of the other swimmers, snatched at her trailing hood and began towing her away to safety. Leo turned towards a more distant nun when out of the waters shot up something red. A woman’s face, very pallid, with streaming brown hair, lifted itself. Her hands beat the water, but she was evidently imprisoned by her heavy crimson cloak. She seemed nigh spent and ready to go under for the last time, when Leo seized her hair.

It was no instant for civilities. Though without Fergal’s speed the officer was a good swimmer, and had kept all his wits. A fierce tug at the shoulder brooch made the cloak drift safely away. The instant she felt assistance the woman collapsed and floated a dead weight, which fact made Leo’s task somewhat easier. Keeping her head emerged, he paddled steadily, encouraged now by rising shouts from the quay. “They come!”—and at length with swinging stroke four long, slim cutters bore down from the Navy Yard with Basil standing in the stern-sheets of the nearest and trumpeting orders to his men.

Leo lifted himself and shouted. In a moment the captain’s craft was beside him, and ready arms dragged the spatharios and his charge aboard. “Your mother?” was Basil’s first demand, but learning of her rescue, he cast an experienced eye upon the woman now lying on his bottom boards. “A pretty little whippet,” he announced bluntly. “See the blood! A timber has bruised her forehead. She was nigh helpless, and about to give it up. You were just in time.”

And so, amid splashing, shouting, screaming, ordering, countermanding, swearing, applauding—tragedy was everywhere averted. Even the three camels were steered ashore, sorely bedraggled. A sergeant of the watch duly arrested the unlucky ferry skipper for violating the imperial ordinance against overcrowding his vessel. When Leo, still in dripping tunic, sprang upon the landing stage, the numerous soldiers who had run up and witnessed the rescue raised a shout which pealed along the wharves, “Leo the Spatharios! Ten thousand years to Leo the Spatharios, the pride of the army!”

But the hero of this applause heeded nothing as he ran precipitately to a second boat that was just pulling to the quay from an anchored coaster, then opened his arms wide for a fat little woman, whose dishevelled grey head came far beneath his shoulder, and next smothered her with kisses even as with chokings and coughings she declared, “Your old mother Kasia has been splashing like a fool, but is very safe!”

* * * * * * *

Kasia was safe, and so were the nuns, despite wet garments, groans to the saints and general excitement. For a few moments, however, this was not so certain about the young woman Leo had rescued, and whom the patriarch anxiously claimed as “My daughter, Anthusa Maria.” Her sister, Sophia, seemed aghast at her insensible state, and the nuns were too demoralized to assist. It was Kasia who broke through the ring of stupidly baffled men-o’-war’s men, soldiers and stevedores, loosened the girl’s wet undergarments, raised her feet, and lifted her arms with a calm efficiency whereon Leo and Basil gazed helpless and humble. Then came the rush of colour to the cheeks, and two large, brown eyes opened wonderingly, while Kasia wiped away the blood still oozing from a slight bruise on the temple. Hurt more by the blow from some shattered timber of the capsizing ferry than by the wetting, Anthusa at length smiled feebly, drew herself together and essayed to lift herself upon the stone bench whereon she rested.

“Ei! makaira—blessed dear!” encouraged Kasia, with vigorous arms around the girl, “all is safe. A shrewd knock, but ‘well ended is half forgotten.’ Your father is here, and your sister. And you, Leo”—with a lightning glance at her puissant son—“haven’t you and these other he-asses wits enough to know that your mother, this young mistress, and all these holy nuns are cold and dripping, and that dry clothes are better than dumb gaping?”

Thus inspired, many things soon happened. An oily-tongued old-clothes vendor appeared by some magic out of his lair under an adjoining rope walk. He had elegant garments for their Reverendesses and Nobilities and “would trust for his reward to God.” Whereupon two Armenian women who ran a little wine-shop chased out their few morning customers, and sheltered Kasia, Anthusa and the nuns until they were all dry, reclad, and tolerably personable, albeit in most uncourtly motley.

The young woman whom Leo had rescued, had recovered part of her strength and faculties, although she was still rubbing her forehead and laughing a little hysterically. She came out of the wine-shop clad in a faded violet mantle that had first graced a merchant’s wife and then her tire-woman ere reaching the pledge shop. The dingy colour and the threadbare picture of the Good Shepherd sewed to the bosom increased Anthusa’s appearance of pallor, but on her softly moulded neck there had remained a gold chain dangling a very fine Egyptian cameo. Over delicate little ears Kasia had tied up her long, brown hair in a tight, plain knot, increasing the height of a naturally lofty forehead. Her features were smaller than her sister’s, her lips more sensitive. On quitting the friendly wine-shop she winced at sight of the swarming strangers, then her colour flushed back with a charming confusion, but she came straight forward to the embraces of her father.

“Now by Christian saints and philosophers’ daimons,” exclaimed the old man, “be thanks to this brave officer for restoring you safe! Unpardonable was my folly when I let you go to your cousins in Pera, and did not promise to send Ephraim for you with a caique.”

“But Eudoros took me safely to the ferry,” replied Anthusa with returning composure. “I knew you’d meet me here. Who could expect——”

“Say no more,” commanded the patriarch. “Are you recovered enough to ride? Shall we call a litter? We have waited so long upon these unhappy ‘Stairs’ and I’m so shaken by my fright that I fear I can’t proceed with my researches and experiments all day.”

“I can ride the donkey,” answered Anthusa, with a brave toss of her head belying her white lips, “that is if—if Ephraim walks very close beside me. My temples will ring less by and by. But first,” collecting herself with an obvious effort of will, “let us proffer thanks to the gallant officer who plucked me from the harbour.”

Her father smote his breast, then turned to Leo and bowed with innate dignity.

“Valiant kyrios”—his Attic Greek became the purity of the Academy or the Porch—“forgive the emotions of a parent and the futile wanderings of a pedant. Where is my gratitude? Miserably did I reflect while you so gallantly proved yourself a very Nereus in the waves that not all the the physics of Aristotle, the mechanics of Archimedes, or the mathematics of Eratosthenes could avail me to save from a watery death one whom I prize beyond life. I cannot insult your Excellency by offer of material reward, but can only say, ‘Kallinikos, lecturer at the University, thanks you.’ ”

This speech, coxcombical and absurd from another, was uttered with perfect fitness and dignity. Leo, with equal dignity, lifted the old man’s mantle to his lips, “With the forehead, most learned kyrios. Fortunate I am to have rendered this service to one whose fame sheds lustre on Constantinople; and”—his eye turned respectfully to Anthusa—“to this gracious kyria.”

As he spoke, rescuer and rescued stood face to face. Was it mere vagrant curiosity that made them scan one another closely? Across the young lady’s pale lips there trembled a smile, not merely grateful now, but quizzical.

“Most noble Spatharios,” spoke she, “just now they have told me your name and rank. The fame of your success has long since reached even our quiet home; and well might we wish you fair fortune. Do you recall a certain day seven years ago, at a certain village of St. Theodore, and a certain venturesome little maid, and a certain great ram, and how then——” She stopped in growing confusion at her own unwonted boldness.

Leo’s blank countenance began to beam with friendly recollection.

“The day I was made Protector? Can it be, gracious kyria, that a second time I am permitted——”

But here Sophia interposed with guileful laughter: “Oh, the pity, brave Excellency, my little sister cannot repay as she did then!” A barbed sally that made both Anthusa and Leo blush to their ears; whereat Sophia more discreetly turned to Kasia: “Noble lady, this is the second time your gallant son has played a true Perseus to my sister’s Andromeda. If he’s not told you, then let my father and myself speak out our double gratitude in a better place than this foul quay.”

Kasia manifestly reckoned neither Perseus nor Andromeda among her gossips, but she acknowledged the speech with a rustical courtesy. Still exceedingly pale and with her head doubtless throbbing, Anthusa was lifted upon the waiting donkey, but the Spatharios stepped politely forward.

“Your favour, kyria,” he requested. Anthusa cast down her eyes, but held out her hand. He kissed it, and saw the white fingers whisk back promptly under the violet mantle. With Ephraim and Kallinikos close at either side she started away behind her sister. The nuns had already assembled their clothes and faculties and had departed. Only Kasia remained beside her son and Basil.

The old woman was still puffing with the excitement. “Where now, son Leo?” she demanded.

“I’ll call a sedan chair and take you home,” announced the officer directly, “since you persist in forgetting that the mother of spatharios should not wander around Constantinople without even one maid, like a green grocer’s dame. You, too, should have summoned a caique.”

But here the others beheld the old woman dart away with fire blazing from her black little eyes.

“Holy Trinity, what do I see! The lad who saved me is being shackled like a brigand!” And her powerful fist descended with startling force upon the ear of Hormisdas, who had stooped to snap the fetter back upon the ankle of Fergal.

The slave-trader had lived in a Gehenna of fears until Fergal, after rescuing Kasia, so far from attempting to escape, had deliberately swum back to the quay. All chaffering being of course interrupted, Evagrios had piously muttered prayers while the nuns were being rescued, and Nikosia had produced a crystal vial filled with the tears of Mary Magdalene and kissed it passionately. After the crisis was past the deacon considered that his calling still demanded a decent delay ere resuming carnal commerce, and Hormisdas had waited with patience until, unable to trust the Celt’s intention longer, he had made his unlucky movement to secure him.

The vociferation and fury that followed Kasia’s onslaught at last calmed into explanations and apologies. Hormisdas wisely refrained from meddling again with the fetters, smirked, bowed and attempted to resume the sorely interrupted bargaining. Nikosia, whose veil did not conceal her curling contempt for the older woman, hastily renewed her last bid of twenty-six solidi. The trader, however, calmly declined less than thirty-five, glancing hopefully towards Leo, who stood somewhat irresolute, but his mother promptly took up the bargaining.

“Twenty-seven,” declared Kasia.

Nikosia smiled frigidly through her fine teeth, remarking: “Don’t be foolish, my worthy woman. Your son has already said he doesn’t need this porter, while I——”

“No need for the lad who has just fished me out of the harbour? While you, cat-faced ‘Spiritual Sister,’ ” broke out Kasia yet again, when Leo whispered hastily: “Calm yourself, mother, I beseech you. You are not in the old village. The dignity of my position requires——”

But here, to his friend’s no slight relief, Basil interposed, looking fixedly from Hormisdas to Evagrios.

“Reverend Deacon, you will not find it advantageous to bid against my noble friend whose good will can be worth more to you than many porters. And you, sirrah slave-trader, since loitering on this quay I’ve recalled your face. You were at Salonica four years since?”

“Not at all, most valorous captain, not at all!” asserted Hormisdas hastily.

“I think differently. I might make the City Prefect agree with me. Let his Excellency Leo have this lad for fifteen solidi, and save yourself a most unpleasant trip back to Salonica.”

“Oh, despotes!” Hormisdas crouched at Basil’s feet and the tears fairly squeezed from his eyes.

“Yes, fifteen. My memory becomes perfect. You know why you’d be welcome in Salonica.”

Nikosia turned in disgust. “Vulgar swashbucklers!” she snapped. “Let us go, Evagrios. Have him bring the cook around to our place to-morrow and get his money. We can find another porter.”

The pair mounted their mule car and clattered away. Hormisdas shrugged his shoulders in capitulation, produced an ink-horn and dirty parchment, and scribbled a bill of sale. Leo in turn wrote a brief order on a Mesē banking house and pressed it with his signet ring. A military orderly hitherto discreetly in the background, appeared to announce that the despotes’ horse and escort were ready, and that the sedan chair had been ordered for the despoina.[12]

Fergal had watched and listened as if caught in some agonizing dream. Now he knew that Neokles was wringing his hand and slobbering, “Don’t forget me!” and he saw Kasia beckoning towards him with her short, little fingers.

“Come, red-head,” she commanded.

“Oh, gracious lady,” cried the Celt, kneeling in the dust at her feet, “you have saved me from a living death. My life henceforth belongs to you.”

“Pish,” was the irrepressible answer, “as for our lives we’re more than quits! I only want honest service. Here you, Peter”—to the orderly—“show him the way.”

Leo sprang upon his steed. A file of four archers fell in behind him. Two porters shouldered Kasia’s sedan chair, and set forth with steady gait, Peter and the dazed Fergal following in the rear. Basil stood for an instant beside his mounted friend, his eyes twinkling maliciously.

“Well, comrade,” remarked he, “it’s not often you get two such nice hands to put under your lips within one morning hour. Which was the prettier?”

“My friend is a sailor, and sailors have a right to jest,” was Leo’s response with a dignity totally unexpected. Before Basil had devised a winged reply, the Spatharios and his little company had vanished up the street.