A Victor of Salamis 29Book II · Before the Death Grapple
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 29
Book II · Before the Death Grapple
DavisEnglish
For the fourth time the subaltern who stood at Eurybiades’s elbow turned the water-glass that marked the passing of the hours. The lamps in the low-ceiled cabin were flickering dimly. Men glared on one another across the narrow table with drawn and heated faces. Adeimantus of Corinth was rising to reply to the last appeal of the Athenian.
“We have had enough, Eurybiades, of Themistocles’s wordy folly. Because the Athenian admiral is resolved to lead all Hellas to destruction, is no reason that we should follow. As for his threat that he will desert us with his ships if we refuse to fight, I fling it in his face that he dare not make it good. Why go all over the well-threshed straw again? Is not the fleet of the king overwhelming? Were we not saved by a miracle from overthrow at Artemisium? Do not the scouts tell us the Persians are advancing beyond Eleusis toward Megara and the Isthmus? Is not our best fighting blood here in the fleet? Then if the Isthmus is threatened, our business is to defend it and save the Peloponnesus, the last remnant of Hellas unconquered. Now then, headstrong son of Neocles, answer that!”
The Corinthian, a tall domineering man, threw back his shoulders like a boxer awaiting battle. Themistocles did not answer, but only smiled up at him from his seat opposite.
“I have silenced you, grinning babbler, at last,” thundered Adeimantus, “and I demand of you, O Eurybiades, that we end this tedious debate. If we are to retreat, let us retreat. A vote, I say, a vote!”
Eurybiades rose at the head of the table. He was a heavy, florid individual with more than the average Spartan’s slowness of tongue and intellect. Physically he was no coward, but he dreaded responsibility.
“Much has been said,” he announced ponderously, “many opinions offered. It would seem the majority of the council favour the decision to retire forthwith. Has Themistocles anything more to say why the vote should not be taken?”
“Nothing,” rejoined the Athenian, with an equanimity that made Adeimantus snap his teeth.
“We will therefore take the vote city by city,” went on Eurybiades. “Do you, Phlegon of Seriphos, give your vote.”
Seriphos—wretched islet—sent only one ship, but thanks to the Greek mania for “equality” Phlegon’s vote had equal weight with that of Themistocles.
“Salamis is not defensible,” announced the Seriphian, shortly. “Retreat.”
“And you, Charmides of Melos?”
“Retreat.”
“And you, Phoibodas of Trœzene?”
“Retreat, by all the gods.”
“And you, Hippocrates of Ægina?”
“Stay and fight. If you go back to the Isthmus, Ægina must be abandoned to the Barbarians. I am with Themistocles.”
“Record his vote,” shouted Adeimantus, ill-naturedly, “he is but one against twenty. But I warn you, Eurybiades, do not call for Themistocles’s vote, or the rest of us will be angry. The man whose city is under the power of the Barbarian has no vote in this council, however much we condescend to listen to his chatterings.”
The Athenian sprang from his seat, his aspect as threatening as Apollo descending Olympus in wrath.
“Where is my country, Adeimantus? Yonder!” he pointed out the open port-hole, “there rides the array of our Athenian ships. What other state in Hellas sends so many and sets better men within them? Athens still lives, though her Acropolis be wrapped in flames. ‘Strong-hearted men and naught else are warp and woof of a city.’ Do you forget Alcæus’s word so soon, O Boaster from Corinth? Yes, by Athena Promachos, Mistress of Battles, while those nine score ships ride on the deep, I have a city fairer, braver, than yours. And will you still deny me equal voice and vote with this noble trierarch from Siphinos with his one, or with his comrade from Melos with his twain?”
Themistocles’s voice rang like a trumpet. Adeimantus winced. Eurybiades broke in with soothing tones.
“No one intends to deny your right to vote, Themistocles. The excellent Corinthian did but jest.”
“A fitting hour for jesting!” muttered the Athenian, sinking back into his seat.
“The vote, the vote!” urged the Sicyonian chief, from Adeimantus’s elbow, and the voting went on. Of more than twenty voices only three—Themistocles’s and those of the Æginetan and Megarian admirals—were in favour of abiding the onset. Yet even when Eurybiades arose to announce the decision, the son of Neocles sat with his hands sprawling on the table, his face set in an inscrutable smile as he looked on Adeimantus.
“It is the plain opinion,”—Eurybiades hemmed and hawed with his words,—“the plain opinion, I say, of this council that the allied fleet retire at once to the Isthmus. Therefore, I, as admiral-in-chief, do order each commander to proceed to his own flag-ship and prepare his triremes to retire at dawn.”
“Well said,” shouted Adeimantus, already on his feet; “now to obey.”
But with him rose Themistocles. He stood tall and calm, his thumbs thrust in his girdle. His smile was a little broader, his head held a little higher, than of wont.
“Good Eurybiades, I grieve to blast the wisdom of all these valiant gentlemen, but they cannot retire if they wish.”
“Explain!” a dozen shouted.
“Very simply. I have had good reason to know that the king has moved forward the western horn of his fleet, so as to enclose our anchorage at Salamis. It is impossible to retire save through the Persian line of battle.”
Perseus upholding the Gorgon’s head before Polydectes’s guests and turning them to stone wrought hardly more of a miracle than this calm announcement of Themistocles. Men stared at him vacantly, stunned by the tidings, then Adeimantus’s frightened wrath broke loose.
“Fox!(10) Was this your doing?”
“I did not ask you to thank me, philotate,” was the easy answer. “It is, however, urgent to consider whether you wish to be taken unresisting in the morning.”
The Corinthian shook his fist across the table.
“Liar, as a last device to ruin us, you invent this folly.”
“It is easy to see if I lie,” rejoined Themistocles; “send out a pinnace and note where the Persians anchor. It will not take long.”
For an instant swords seemed about to leap from their scabbards, and the enraged Peloponnesians to sheathe them in the Athenian’s breast. He stood unflinching, smiling, while a volley of curses flew over him. Then an orderly summoned him on deck, while Adeimantus and his fellows foamed and contended below. Under the battle lantern Themistocles saw a man who was his elder in years, rugged in feature, with massive forehead and wise gray eyes. This was Aristeides the Just, the admiral’s enemy, but their feud had died when Xerxes drew near to Athens.
Hands clasped heartily as the twain stood face to face.
“Our rivalry forever more shall be a rivalry which of us can do most to profit Athens,” spoke the returning exile; then Aristeides told how he had even now come from Ægina, how he had heard of the clamours to retreat, how retreat was impossible, for the Persians were pressing in. A laugh from Themistocles interrupted.
“My handiwork! Come to the council. They will not believe me, no, not my oath.”
Aristeides told his story, and how his vessel to Salamis had scarce escaped the Egyptian triremes, and how by this time all entrance and exit was surely closed. But even now many an angry captain called him “liar.” The strife of words was at white heat when Eurybiades himself silenced the fiercest doubter.
“Captains of Hellas, a trireme of Teos has deserted from the Barbarian to us. Her navarch sends word that all is even as Themistocles and Aristeides tell. The Egyptians hold the passage to Eleusis. Infantry are disembarked on Psyttaleia. The Phœnicians and Ionians enclose us on the eastern strait. We are hemmed in.”
Once more the orderly turned the water-clock. It was past midnight. The clouds had blown apart before the rising wind. The debate must end. Eurybiades stood again to take the votes of the wearied, tense-strung men.
“In view of the report of the Teans, what is your voice and vote?”
Before all the rest up leaped Adeimantus. He was no craven at heart, though an evil genius had possessed him.
“You have your will, Themistocles,” he made the concession sullenly yet firmly, “you have your will. May Poseidon prove you in the right. If it is battle or slavery at dawn, the choice is quick. Battle!”
“Battle!” shouted the twenty, arising together, and Eurybiades had no need to declare the vote. The commanders scattered to their flag-ships, to give orders to be ready to fight at dawn. Themistocles went to his pinnace last. He walked proudly. He knew that whatever glory he might gain on the morrow, he could never win a fairer victory than he had won that night. When his barge came alongside, his boat crew knew that his eyes were dancing, that his whole mien was of a man in love with his fortune. Many times, as Glaucon sat beside him, he heard the son of Neocles repeating as in ecstasy:—
“They must fight. They must fight.”
Glaucon sat mutely in the pinnace which had headed not for the Nausicaä, but toward the shore, where a few faint beacons were burning.
“I must confer with the strategi as to the morning,” Themistocles declared after a long interval, at which Sicinnus broke in anxiously:—
“You will not sleep, kyrie?”
“Sleep?” laughed the admiral, as at an excellent jest, “I have forgotten there was such a god as Hypnos.” Then, ignoring Sicinnus, he addressed the outlaw.
“I am grateful to you, my friend,” he did not call Glaucon by name before the others, “you have saved me, and I have saved Hellas. You brought me a new plan when I seemed at the last resource. How can the son of Neocles reward you?”
“Give me a part to play to-morrow.”
“Thermopylæ was not brisk enough fighting, ha? Can you still fling a javelin?”
“I can try.”
“Euge! Try you shall.” He let his voice drop. “Do not forget your name henceforth is Critias. The Nausicaä’s crew are mostly from Sunium and the Mesogia. They’d hardly recognize you under that beard; still Sicinnus must alter you.”
“Command me, kyrie,” said the Asiatic.
“A strange time and place, but you must do it. Find some dark dye for this man’s hair to-night, and at dawn have him aboard the flag-ship.”
“The thing can be done, kyrie.”
“After that, lie down and sleep. Because Themistocles is awake, is no cause for others’ star-gazing. Sleep sound. Pray Apollo and Hephæstus to make your eye sure, your hand strong. Then awake to see the glory of Hellas.”
Confidence, yes, power came through the tones of the admiral’s voice. Themistocles went away to the belated council. Sicinnus led his charge through the crooked streets of the town of Salamis. Sailors were sleeping in the open night, and they stumbled over them. At last they found a small tavern where a dozen shipmen sprawled on the earthen floor, and a gaping host was just quenching his last lamp. Sicinnus, however, seemed to know him. There was much protesting and headshaking, at last ended by the glint of a daric. The man grumbled, departed, returned after a tedious interval with a pot of ointment, found Hermes knew where. By a rush-candle’s flicker Sicinnus applied the dark dye with a practised hand.
“You know the art well,” observed the outlaw.
“Assuredly; the agent of Themistocles must be a Proteus with his disguises.”
Sicinnus laid down his pot and brushes. They had no mirror, but Glaucon knew that he was transformed. The host got his daric. Again they went out into the night and forsaking the crowded town sought the seaside. The strand was broad, the sand soft and cool, the circling stars gave three hours yet of night, and they lay down to rest. The sea and the shore stretched away, a magic vista with a thousand mystic shapes springing out of the charmed darkness, made and unmade as overwrought fancy summoned them. As from an unreal world Glaucon—whilst he lay—saw the lights of the scattered ships, heard the clank of chains, the rattling of tacklings. Nature slept. Only man was waking.
“The mountain brows, the rocks, the peaks are sleeping,
Uplands and gorges hush!
The thousand moorland things are silence keeping,
The beasts under each bush
Crouch, and the hived bees
Rest in their honeyed ease;
In the purple sea fish lie as they were dead,
And each bird folds his wing over his head.”
The school-learned lines of Alcman, with a thousand other trivial things, swarmed back through the head of Glaucon the Alcmæonid. How much he had lived through that night, how much he would live through,—if indeed he was to live,—upon the morrow! The thought was benumbing in its greatness. His head swam with confused memories. Then at last all things dimmed. Once more he dreamed. He was with Hermione gathering red poppies on the hill above Eleusis. She had filled her basket full. He called to her to wait for him. She ran away. He chased, she fled with laughter and sparkling eyes. He could hear the wavings of her dress, the little cries she flung back over her shoulder. Then by the sacred well near the temple he caught her. He felt her struggling gayly. He felt her warm breath upon his face, her hair was touching his forehead. Rejoicing in his strength, he was bending her head toward his—but here he wakened. Sicinnus had disappeared. A bar of gray gold hung over the water in the east.
“This was the day. This was the day!”
Some moments he lay trying to realize the fact in its full moment. A thin mist rested on the black water waiting to be dispelled by the sun. From afar came sounds not of seamen’s trumpets, but horns, harps, kettledrums, from the hidden mainland across the strait, as of a host advancing along the shore. “Xerxes goes down to the marge with his myriads,” Glaucon told himself. “Have not all his captains bowed and smiled, ‘Your Eternity’s victory is certain. Come and behold.’ ” But here the Athenian shut his teeth.
People at length were passing up and down the strand. The coast was waking. The gray bar was becoming silver. Friends passed, deep in talk,—perchance for the last time. Glaucon lay still a moment longer, and as he rested caught a voice so familiar he felt all the blood surge to his forehead,—Democrates’s voice.
“I tell you, Hiram,—I told you before,—I have no part in the ordering of the fleet. Were I to interfere with ever so good a heart, it would only breed trouble for us all.”
So close were the twain, the orator’s trailing chiton almost fell on Glaucon’s face. The latter marvelled that his own heart did not spring from its prison in his breast, so fierce were its beatings.
“If my Lord would go to Adeimantus and suggest,”—the other’s Greek came with a marked Oriental accent.
“Harpy! Adeimantus is no Medizer. He is pushed to bay now, and is sure to fight. Have you Barbarians no confidence? Has not the king two triremes to our one? Only fools can demand more. Tell Lycon, your master, I have long since done my uttermost to serve him.”
“Yet remember, Excellency.”
“Begone, scoundrel. Don’t threaten again. If I know your power over me, I can also promise you not to go down to Orchus alone, but take excellent pains to have fair company.”
“I am sorry to bear such tidings to Lycon, Excellency.”
“Away with you!”
“Do not raise your voice, kyrie,” spoke Hiram, never more blandly, “here is a man asleep.”
The hint sent Democrates from the spot almost on a run. Hiram disappeared in the opposite direction. Glaucon rose, shook the sand from his cloak, and stood an instant with his head whirling. The voice of his boyhood friend, of the man who had ruined him because of a suspicion of treason—and now deep in compromising talk with the agent of the chief of the peace party at Sparta! And wherefore had Mardonius spoken those mysterious words at their parting, “Beware of Democrates”? For an instant the problems evoked made him forget even the coming battle.
A clear trumpet-blast down the strand gave a truce to questioning. Sicinnus reappeared, and led Glaucon to one of the great fires roaring on the beach, where the provident Greek sailors were breakfasting on barley porridge and meat broth before dining on spears and arrow-heads. A silent company, no laughter, no jesting. All knew another sun for them might never rise. Glaucon ate not because he hungered, but because duty ordered it. As the light strengthened, the strand grew alive with thousands of men at toil. The triremes drawn on shore went down into the sea on their rollers. More trumpet-blasts sent the rowers aboard their ships. But last of all, before thrusting out to do or die, the Greeks must feast their ears as well as their stomachs. On the sloping beach gathered the officers and the armoured marines,—eighteen from each trireme,—and heard one stirring harangue after another. The old feuds were forgotten. Adeimantus and Eurybiades both spoke bravely. The seers announced that every bird and cloud gave good omen. Prayer was offered to Ajax of Salamis that the hero should fight for his people. Last of all Themistocles spoke, and never to fairer purpose. No boasts, no lip courage, a painting of the noble and the base, the glory of dying as freemen, the infamy of existing as slaves. He told of Marathon, of Thermopylæ, and asked if Leonidas had died as died a fool. He drew tears. He drew vows of vengeance. He never drew applause. Men were too strained for that. At last he sent the thousands forth.
“Go, then. Quit yourselves as Hellenes. That is all the task. And I say to you, in the after days this shall be your joy, to hear the greatest declare of you, ‘Reverence this man, for he saved us all at Salamis.’ ”
The company dispersed, each man to his ship. Themistocles went to his pinnace, and a cheer uprose from sea and land as the boat shot out to the Nausicaä. Eurybiades might be chief in name; who did not know that Themistocles was the surest bulwark of Hellas?
The son of Neocles, standing in the boat, uplifted his face to the now golden east.
“Be witness, Helios,” he cried aloud, “be witness when thou comest, I have done all things possible. And do thou and thy fellow-gods on bright Olympus rule our battle now; the lot is in your hands!”
