"The clinging children at their mother's kneeSlain; and the sire and kindred one by oneFlayed or hewn piecemeal; and things nameless doneNot to be told: while imperturbablyThe nations gaze, where Rhine unto the sea,Where Seine and Danube, Thames and Tiber run,And where great armies glitter in the sun,And great kings rule, and man is boasted free!"—"The Purple East," by William Watson.
"The clinging children at their mother's kneeSlain; and the sire and kindred one by oneFlayed or hewn piecemeal; and things nameless doneNot to be told: while imperturbablyThe nations gaze, where Rhine unto the sea,Where Seine and Danube, Thames and Tiber run,And where great armies glitter in the sun,And great kings rule, and man is boasted free!"—"The Purple East," by William Watson.
"The clinging children at their mother's kneeSlain; and the sire and kindred one by oneFlayed or hewn piecemeal; and things nameless doneNot to be told: while imperturbablyThe nations gaze, where Rhine unto the sea,Where Seine and Danube, Thames and Tiber run,And where great armies glitter in the sun,And great kings rule, and man is boasted free!"—"The Purple East," by William Watson.
"The clinging children at their mother's knee
Slain; and the sire and kindred one by one
Flayed or hewn piecemeal; and things nameless done
Not to be told: while imperturbably
The nations gaze, where Rhine unto the sea,
Where Seine and Danube, Thames and Tiber run,
And where great armies glitter in the sun,
And great kings rule, and man is boasted free!"
—"The Purple East," by William Watson.
Meanwhile, over the crowd of anxious hearts the Mission House sheltered, the sad days went slowly by. Shushan's fears for her husband could find no relief, and they were intensified by apprehensions about her father, of whose state disquieting rumours reached her. Her entreaties prevailed on Miss Celandine to send a couple of her zaptiehs to ascertain the truth. The zaptiehs brought back word that Boghos Meneshian was dying, and prayed that his daughter might be allowed to come to him, in order that he might give her his blessing. Miss Celandine sent her accordingly, in the charge of a trusted Armenianservant, and with a guard of four zaptiehs. This was early on the morning of Saturday, the 28th of December.
She was left by her escort at the house of the Selferians, where her father had been staying, and was still supposed to be. The zaptiehs promised to return for her in an hour. The Armenian said he would be close at hand; he was going to see a friend in a neighbouring house.
"Oh, my dear Oriort Shushan," said Hanum Selferian, hurrying to meet her, "in the name of God, what brings you here?"
Shushan looked at her in amazement. "I have come to see my father," she said. "How is he?"
"Well enough, I suppose. He went to the Vartonians, cured, with your mother, Mariam Hanum, about a week ago."
"Thank God!" said Shushan, drawing a long breath of relief. "They told me he was dying."
"Whotold you such a story, my dear? He is dying as much as we all are, no more."
Shushan felt surprised and uneasy, though she did not yet know, perhaps she was destined never to know, that she was the victim of a plot. "It may be," she said, a shadow crossing her face, "that they told me wrong about the house. I ought to go to my cousins."
"What? through the streets? You cannot—not even if my husband went with you. Besides, if the zaptiehs should come back, and find you gone? No, Oriort Shushan; this is what we will do—my husband will go to the Vartonians, and, if possible, bring your father to see you here."
"I like not to take him from his work, Josephine Hanum."
"What signifies his work? There is little enough to do here now, and more than time enough to do it in."
Hagop Selferian, who was at work, stood up from his board, wiped his brow, and threw on his jacket. "Yes, I will go," he said.
Shushan remained with the women and children, and shared the pillav that formed their early meal, afterwards helping Josephine Hanum in her pleasant household tasks.
But, as time passed on, she grew increasingly anxious. "I wonder the zaptiehs do not come back," she said. It was now between ten and eleven in the forenoon.
Josephine Hanum went to the window that looked out upon the street. "There is no sign of them," she said. "But here comes my husband."
He crossed the court and came in, looking pale and frightened. "My father?" Shushan breathed, only one cause of distress occurring to her mind.
"He is well. But there is an army on the slope of the hill. In the town, the minarets are black with men, and the roofs of the Turkish houses with women and children. Jesus help us, what is going to happen?"
"I would give my right hand to have you back in the Mission House, Oriort Shushan," said Josephine Hanum, looking at her guest in a sort of despair. "Hagop, dost think thou couldst bring her there?"
Selferian shook his head. "It is notmylife I think of," he said. "Wife, I met in the street that Syrian who used to work with me, Mar Tomas. He had a black turban on, and was hurrying to his church. He is a Roman Catholic, you know. It seems there is an order that all Christians who are not Armenians are to go to their churches, and stay there all the day. And they are not to let a single Armenian cross the threshold, at their peril."
Here Krikor, the eldest boy, came running in. He had been up on the roof. "Father, mother, come up," he said. "Come and look. Such a wonderful sight you never saw!"
"A sight that bodes no good to us. What is it, boy?"
"Oh, so much, father! I could never tell you. Come and look."
All four mounted the stairs that led to the flatroof. The younger children followed them, eager to see.
The slope of the hill above them glittered with Turkish and Kourdish soldiers, the gay dresses of the latter lending animation to the scene, and the swords and bayonets of all flashing in the sunlight. Every point at which the Armenian Quarter could be entered bristled with soldiers drawn up in battle array, while behind them surged and swayed a savage mob, men and boys, and even young children amongst them. All were armed, many with guns, the rest with daggers, knives or bludgeons. In the Turkish Quarter the housetops swarmed with women; and above the confused noises of the great city, above the hoarse murmurs of the soldiers and the mob, was heard their peculiar throat-sound, called the Zilghit: "Tchk, Tchk, Tchk, Tchk," which means, "Go, men, and fight for Mahomet. We are with you."
White to the lips, Selferian turned to the women. "This means death," he said.
As he spoke, a glittering crescent shone out on the fort above the hill, catching the sunshine on its glassy disc. At the same moment, a green flag appeared on a minaret at the opposite side of the Armenian Quarter. From another minaret a Muezzin sang out over the town the Moslem call to prayer,—
"La ilaha ill Allah, Mohammed resoul Oullah."
Then came the shrill blast of a trumpet, and Shushan, who was looking at the troop of soldiers nearest them, saw them deliberately open their ranks, and allow the mob behind to pass with them into the Armenian Quarter.
All the family rushed down again from the roof. Selferian barred the door, and his wife drew the shutters across the windows. The children began to cry with terror; though, except Krikor, they scarcely knew what they feared. Selferian's aged mother was there also, weeping and wringing her hands.
Soon the sound of shots, the noise of hurrying feet outside, and the shrieks and cries that filled the air, told that the killing had begun.
How is it with men and women, and little children, in these dire extremities? Thank God that we do not know,—that we are never likely to know!
"Oh God, do not let them kill us!" children sobbed in their terror. "Oh God only let them kill us at once!" men and women prayed, their lips white with a deadlier fear.
It was deliberate, organized, wholesale murder. First came the soldiers—Zaptiehs, Redifs, Hamidiehs,—then the Turks of all classes, especially the lowest, well furnished with guns and knives. Theirlittle boys ran before them as scouts to unearth their prey. "Here, father, here's another Giaour," they would cry, espying some unhappy Armenian in an unused well or behind a door. Then the Moslem, perhaps, would put his knife or his dagger into the hands of his little son, and hold fast the Giaour till the child had dealt the death blow, winning thus, for all his future life, the honourable title ofGhazi. After the murderers came the plunderers, a miscellaneous rabble, who took away what they could, and destroyed the rest. They would heap the provisions together in the midst of the living-rooms, mix them with wood and coal and other combustibles, then pour kerosene on the mass, and set it on fire.
The Vartonians, the Meneshians, and a few others, were gathered in the courtyard of the large Vartonian house. The two families were all there, except Baron Vartonian, who was still in Aleppo, old Hohannes Meneshian, who happened to be visiting some friends, Kevork, who had gone in search of him—and Shushan. They clung together, the women and children weeping, the men for the most part silent in their terror. Above the sorrowful crowd rose a voice that said, "Let us die praying." Immediately all knelt down, and their hearts went up to heaven in that last prayer, which wasnotthe cry of their despair, but thevoice of a hope that, even then, could pierce beyond the grave.
Thus the murderers found them, when they burst in the gate. Even in their madness the sight arrested them—for one moment. So the Giaours prayed! Then let them pray to Allah, and acknowledge His prophet, and they might be allowed to live. Cries were heard, "Say 'La ilaha ill Allah.' No, you need not speak. Only lift up one finger—we will take it for 'Yes.'"
Brave answers rang through that place of death. "I will not lift up one finger." "I will not become a Moslem." "I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ——" Ere the confessor could complete the sentence, he stood in the presence of Him in whom he believed.
Boghos and Mariam Meneshian died in each other's arms, slain almost by one stroke. Nor did Mariam greatly care to live, for she had seen Hagop, her youngest born, slain first, clinging in vain to his father. Gabriel remained; and something in the boy's look and attitude seemed to touch the Moslems. They made a special effort to save him. "Only acknowledge the prophet; only lift up your finger," they said.
The boy stood erect before them, and looked at them fearlessly, face to face. "Am I betterthan my father, whom you have killed? Am I better than my mother, whom you have killed, and who taught me the way of holiness? No; I willnotbecome a Moslem, and deny my Lord and Saviour Christ." And he tore his clothing open to receive the death blow. They were angry enough now, far too angry to kill him at once. Blows and cuts rained on him, till at last he fell at their feet, bleeding from one and twenty cruel wounds.
It is enough. We can look no farther. "They had heaped high the piles of dead" reads well in song and story; and it is not too horrible to think of, when brave men fall in equal fight. But those slain, lying in their blood, with their faces raised to the wintry sky,—it is best for us not to see them. Not now. It may be we shall see them one day, when those who were slain for the Word of God and the Testimony of Jesus Christ have part in the First Resurrection.
In the large courtyard of another house near by, there were many men together. The women of their families were gathered, for the most part, in a great room looking out on the court. The men were trying to conceal themselves, some in a disused well, some on the roof, some within the house. One man, however, made no effort to escape. He stood calmly at the top of theflight of steps which led to the room where the women were. It was Stepanian, the pastor. By his advice, the gate of the courtyard was left open, that the Turks might see they had no thought of resistance.
The howling, shouting mob came near, and nearer still. They poured in through the open gate; and, being men of the town, at once they recognised the Pastor. "Here is Stepanian; let us make an end of him," was the cry.
"Fellow townsmen, you ought to spare us," he said, "for we have done you no wrong. We are unarmed and defenceless, our little ones depend upon us, and will be left to starve."
"Down with him!" cried the mob. "It is the will of Allah!" "Preach us a sermon first," added a mocking voice in the crowd.
"Do not touch me here; I will come out to you," said the Pastor calmly, and began to descend the steps.
But ere he reached the last, a shot went through his breast, and he fell. No sound was heard, and no blood was seen.
Elmas, standing at the window, had witnessed all. Strong in her great love, that frail girl went out amongst the murderous crowd, knelt down beside her father, and put her hand upon his forehead.
He opened his eyes, looked up at her, and smiled.
"Father," she prayed, "father, speak to me! Only once; only one word more!"
That word was given to him, and to her. "Fear not, the Lord is with you. I have no fear, for I am going to my dear Saviour."
Again he closed his eyes, and in another moment, without struggle or suffering, he saw Him face to face.
She "sat there in her grief, and all the world was dark—blank" (the words are her own). She seemed to have no consciousness of the terrors all around her. The first sound that touched her broken heart was the wailing of her little brother, a babe of three, who wanted "father." He had followed her down the steps. She took him in her arms, and held him up that he might see. His sobs grew still at once. "Father is asleep," he said. So He giveth His beloved sleep.
Could they but have all lain down by his side and slept! But their rest was yet to be won. More Moslems crowded into the yard, slaying all the men they could discover. Then they seized the women, the girls, and the children, tore off their clothing and their jewels, and drove them in their midst as a flock of frightened sheep and lambs are driven to the slaughter.
The last thing Elmas ever saw of that beloved form on the ground, was that some Moslem had brought a mule, upon which he seemed about to place it.
She was dragged from her dead father to the unutterable horror that followed. Oh, that endless walk, with bare, bleeding feet, through the blood-stained streets! Oh, the clinging hands, the terrified faces, the piteous sobs and wailing of the children! Thus the crowd of women and girls, almost without clothing, were paraded through the town between files of brutal soldiers—and every now and then, some of them seized and dragged away, in spite of their shrieks and cries. Vartan pushed his way to his sister, and whispered, "Do not fear, Elmas. I have the knife my father gave me hid in my zeboun. It will do to kill you."
That was all Elmas remembered afterwards with any clearness—that, and the clinging of her baby brother's arms about her neck.
At last they came to streets that had no stain of blood, over which no storm of agony had passed. They were in the Moslem Quarter. On and on they went, until they reached the destined place—one of the great mosques of the city, the Kusseljohme Mosque. The iron gates swung open to receive them, and closed again on that mass of helpless misery, shutting out all mercy, save the mercy of God.
"It is not in the shipwreck or the strifeWe feel benumbed, and wish to be no more;But in the after-silence on the shore,When all is lost, except a little life."—Byron.
"It is not in the shipwreck or the strifeWe feel benumbed, and wish to be no more;But in the after-silence on the shore,When all is lost, except a little life."—Byron.
"It is not in the shipwreck or the strifeWe feel benumbed, and wish to be no more;But in the after-silence on the shore,When all is lost, except a little life."—Byron.
"It is not in the shipwreck or the strife
We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more;
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life."
—Byron.
John Grayson sat alone in his prison room. It was a very different prison from the two he had known before—a room of convenient size, fairly clean, with a divan along one side under the grated windows, a mattress to sleep on, a rug, and several cushions. A comfortable meal—almost untouched however—lay near him on a stool. Moreover, he had been permitted a bath, and allowed to purchase clothing, anything he wished. He had chosen to have an ordinary jacket and zeboun, and a crimson fez.
He sat on the divan in an attitude of deepest dejection, his face covered with his hands. Continually the scenes of four days ago were passing through his mind, and before his eyes.
He saw them all again; he thought he shouldsee them always, till his life's end. The band of confessors were led out of prison; they stood before the Turkish Kadi. A single question was put to them: Would they become Moslems, or would they not? Thomassian, in every way the foremost man amongst them, answered for the rest: "We follow Christ; we are ready to die for Him." With one voice all signified their assent.
The executioner began with Dikran, the youngest. John Grayson veiled his face, but not till he had seen too much. Could he ever cease to see it? A deadly faintness swept over him, from which he was roused by Thomassian's brave words of comfort and encouragement, spoken to the victim: "Dear boy, be strong; it will soon be over! you will soon be with Christ." Then came the poor lad's own murmured words of confession and of prayer, ending at last with one strong, joyful "Praise to Jesus Christ!"
John Grayson looked up again. It was time; he was wanted now. His turn had come. At that supreme moment, faintness and sickness, and every trace of fear, passed from him. One thought possessed him wholly—God was there.
Yet, he could have shaken like a leaf at Thomassian's sudden call to the executioners, "Hold, I have something to say!" Martyrdomcould be borne, but the moments of suspense that followed seemed the most unbearable he had ever lived through. He heard Thomassian protesting, "It will be on your peril if you touch this man. He is an Englishman; I know it. He can prove it if you give him time; which, for your own sakes, you ought to do."
Jack might have said this himself till he was hoarse, and the Turks in their present state of frantic excitement would not have listened to, still less have believed, him. It was different when a man of mark, a "notable" like Thomassian, averred it solemnly and at the point of death. Their orders not to kill foreigners were precise and stringent, and hitherto had been wonderfully well obeyed. There might be trouble if they were transgressed. Jack was informed that it was not the will of Allah he should die that day; and, to his sorrow, was led away, without seeing what became of his fellow captives.
He was transferred that evening to a comfortable room, and told he might order any conveniences he desired and could afford. He begged to be told the fate of his friends, and was informed that several of them had died "with unparalleled obstinacy"; the rest were reserved for another time.
"Was Baron Thomassian amongst the dead?"
"No," said his informant, with an evil smile. He was much the worst, and should stay till the last.
As for himself, what were they going to do with him?
Let the Effendi give himself no uneasiness on that score. His Highness the Pasha had been informed of the circumstances, and would take care of him. Probably he would send him, under a safe escort, out of the country. But nothing could be done until order was restored, and the town quiet. "Let the Effendi be patient, and put his trust in Allah. The Effendi knew things had to go—Jevash—Jevash."
Jack was very miserable. How could he take pleasure in the comfort of his surroundings, when he knew what his friends had suffered and were suffering? Only for Shushan, he would not have cared at all to live. He asked if Miss Celandine was gone yet.—No, not yet. There was some delay about her passport, his informant thought. But no doubt all would be ready soon, and she would go. Would the Effendi like to take exercise in the prison court? If so, he was quite at liberty. No one wished the Effendi to be incommoded; it was entirely for his own safety he was placed under restraint, until the rebellion amongst the Armenians should be put down.
Two long, slow days, Thursday and Friday, wore on. On Saturday morning he was aware of some unusual excitement in the court of the prison. The prisoners there, who were all Moslems, hung together in groups, talking eagerly, and more than once a word reached his ears about "killing the Giaours." Moreover, he heard shouts and cries from outside, increasing gradually until the uproar became terrible. The extraordinary sound of the "Zilghit" reached his ears, but he could not understand it.
The guards who brought him his food shared in the general excitement and exhilaration. After returning their "salaams," he said casually, "It is a fine day," to which one of them answered, "It will be a bad one for the Giaours"; and the other added, "It will be wet in the Armenian Quarter,—but the rain will be red."
He entreated them to tell him more; but they would not. Evidently they had their orders. Did the Effendi want anything more? No. Then peace be with him.
They departed, securing the door behind them, as he thought, with unusual care.
Peace wasnotwith him. Instead of it, a fierce tumult raged in his heart. On that strange Christmas morning, when he thought himself about to die for the Name of Christ, there hadbeen a calm over him which was wonderful, "mysterious even to himself." The conflict was not his, but God's. God had called him to it, and would bring him through. He was very near him, and would be with him, even to the end.
But the chariots and horses of fire, which the prophet of old saw about him, did not stay. When the hostile hosts departed, the resplendent vision vanished too. Martyrdom at a distance, martyr strength seems at a distance also; sometimes it even seems unimaginable. Patient, powerless waiting is often harder than heroic doing or suffering. Perhaps the hardest thing of all is to be brave and strongfor others, when they have the peril and the suffering, and we the bitter comfort of compulsory safety.
But the longest day must end at last. Evening brought to John Grayson the doubtful pleasure of a companion in misfortune. This was a handsome young Turk, who seemed much amazed, and still more annoyed, at the predicament in which he found himself. Paying little heed to his companion, he walked up and down, cursing certain persons, apparently his own kinsfolk, in the name of Allah and the Prophet, with true Eastern volubility.
In one of these perambulations he accidentally kicked over Jack's tray of food, and stopped toask his pardon very politely, of course in Turkish. "I think," he said, looking at him attentively, "I think you are a Christian?"
"Yes," said Jack. "In fact, I am an Englishman; though I have been in this country for some years."
"Oh! Then I suppose you are the Mr. Grayson I have heard my friends speak of?"
Jack bowed, then added immediately, "I am unutterably anxious about dear friends of mine who are in the Armenian Quarter. Can you tell me how it has been with them to-day?"
The young man turned his face away and did not speak.
"For God's sake, saysomething," Jack cried; "sayanything; only tell me all!"
"It was the will of Allah," said the Turk.
"Have you killed them?" Jack gasped out.
"Yes, a great many. Chiefly men and boys. But I did not see the end. That uncle of mine—Allah give him his deserts!—had me taken up and clapped in here."
"What? For killing our people?"
The Turk stared. "That were merit," he said. "No; what I did was to resist a soldier, a Hamidieh. In fact, I struck him. But what would you have? A man must have friends." He sat down, and taking out his tobacco pouch began leisurelyto make cigarettes, apparently with the purpose of restoring his calmness, imperilled by the thought of his wrongs. "The matter was this," he resumed: "I passed by a long row of Giaours, fine young men, lying on the ground with their throats cut. In one of them I recognised a friend, and looking closer, saw he was not dead, for the work had been very ill done. Just then this Hamidieh came by, and wanted to finish him. Like a fool instead of giving him a couple of medjids, I gave him the butt end of my gun. I took my friend to my house, and thought no more of it; but, by the beard of the Prophet, what did that rascal do but go and complain to his captain, who knows my uncle, and must needs go to him? Then my uncle informs against me, and has me put in here, to keep me out of mischief, as he says. Curse his mother, and his grandmother, and his wife and his daughters, and all his relations, male and female, unto the fourth and fifth generations!"
Apparently, the Turk forgot that amongst these relations he was cursing himself.
Jack listened in horror. "Only tell me who are slain," he said. "How many?"
"How should I tell that? I could only see what I saw with my own eyes."
"Do you know aught of the Meneshians?—or of the Vartonians?"
"Yes; I fear that all of both families are killed, with perhaps one exception," he added slowly, stroking his beard. "I saw the mob burst into their courtyard."
"Oh God, it is horrible!" Jack said with a groan, and covering his face. After a while he spoke again. "The Stepanians?"
"Of them I know more. With my own hand I shot the Pastor."
Jack sprang on him, his eyes blazing, his hand at his throat. He had nearly been a martyr, but he was an Englishman, and a very human Englishman too.
"Let be," the Turk gasped, cool though choking. "A moment, if you please."
Jack loosened his hold. "You can strangle me, of course, if such be the will of Allah," the Turk continued. "But you may as well hear me first. For, if you get free, you can tell your people the words of Osman."
"Osman!Are you then the Turk I have heard the Pastor speak of so kindly? That you should sit there before me, and tell me you have killed him!—killed him!How could you?"
"Can't you understand?" the Turk returned with an expressive look. "There were his daughter and all his children looking on. His last thought was for them. 'Do not touch mehere,' he said.Was I going to let them see him cut to pieces? At least, I could save him—and them—fromthat. He had not a moment's pain."
Jack stretched out his hand to him impulsively, but drew it back again. "I cannot touch your hand," he said; "but I can say from my heart, God bless you!"
The Turk went on: "I could save the dead from insult, and I did. I wanted to save the children too, and might have managed it, but for my fool of an uncle."
"Is Miss Celandine—are the people with her in the Mission House all safe?" Jack enquired. He had little doubt of it, yet he could not help the beating of his heart.
"Oh, yes; they have a special guard of zaptiehs. Only an hour before the killing began the Pasha sent to Miss Celandine, to say that now she might leave the city; everything was safe and quiet. But she has not gone. Perhaps she thought she could help the other Giaours by staying. That however she cannot do. Even her own people are not safe beyond the Mission premises. A young lady in her charge had gone into the town with a guard of zaptiehs, to see her dying father at the house of one Selferian. She never returned. Mehmed Ibrahim, who has long wanted her for his harem, took care of that. In fact, I believe thesummons to her father was a pretence, and the whole thing a plot of his. I saw them leading her away—Allah!"
With a cry of agony John Grayson fell senseless on the floor.
The Turk sat gazing at him, without stirring hand or foot. To use any means for his restoration was the last thing he would have thought of. Allah had stricken him, and Allah would restore his senses—when He pleased. A logical Western might ask, why he did not reason thus in the case of his Armenian friend, or of the Pastor and his family; but a man's heart may be sometimes better than his logic.
Jack at last recovered consciousness and struggled to his feet.
Osman did not know the story of his marriage, but he drew his own conclusions from what he saw "How hard you Franks take things!" he remarked by way of consolation. "Now there are in the world a great many girls, any of whom a man can marry, if he pleases."
"Don't," Jack said hoarsely.
"My dear fellow," the Turk went on kindly, "I am very sorry for you. See the advantage it would be to you now, if you were only a true Believer. We lose a wife, and we are very sorry—oh, yes! But then, you see, we have so many, it isonly just like losing a cow. There are others quite as good."
Jack, fortunately, did not hear a word of this. He stood as one bewildered; then made a sudden rush to the door, which he pulled and shook with all his might.
"What are you doing?" asked the Turk serenely.
"I must get out!" cried Jack. "I must get out and save her."
"You cannot save her. She could not be more out of your reach if she were up there in yonder sky. Take my advice, and be quiet. It is the will of Allah."
"I must get out!" Jack shouted, once more shaking at the door.
"You had much better stay where you are. If you were out, you would do something rash, and bring trouble on yourself."
"Onmyself?" Jack repeated in a voice of despair. "For myself, there is no trouble any more."
"I could tell you how you might get out, if it were really good for you," Osman mused; "but the truth is, I do not want more of you to be killed. I am sick of all this misery and bloodshed."
"Osman Effendi, I think you have a kind and pitying heart; therefore I pray you to help menow, and so may God help you if you ever come to a bitter hour like this. I must get out, or I shall go mad."
"I wish I could do you a better service—but if you will try it, wait until the morning light. Then the killing will begin again. They are going to let the Moslem prisoners out that they may take part in it, and thus deserve their pardon from God and the Sultan. Tell the jailor, when he comes to us, that you want to walk in the courtyard. That he will allow. Once there, you may be able to slip out unnoticed among the rest. Take my scarlet fez instead of your crimson one, and see, here is a green kerchief to tie over it."
"The fez I take, and thank you; the kerchief—no."
"As you please. I wish you well, Grayson Effendi, and if I can help you in anything, I will. Should you want a refuge, come to my mother's house. You know where it is. In fact, that is the best thing you could do," he added. "My people will make it known you are an Englishman, and then no one will even wish to hurt you. There will be a mark set upon you, as it were."
"Ay," cried Jack wildly—"the mark of Cain—'lest any finding him should kill him.' To save my own miserable life, and see all I love perish around me! Isthatwhat it means, the mark ofCain? He saved himself, others he did not save."
"I do not understand you."
"How should you? I don't understand myself. I think I am going mad. Only I know it was notthatmark which was put upon her forehead and mine; it was the cross of Christ, and that means just the contrary—'He saved others, Himself He did not save.'"
The young Turk took the cigarette from his lips and stared at him, wondering. Into his hard, black eyes there came for an instant a perplexed, wistful look, like that of a dumb creature who longs and tries to understand, but cannot pass the limitations of his being. At length he said in a softened voice, "When I get out of this cursed place, with the help of Allah and a handful of good medjids, I will try to do what I can to help your people. But now it is the hour of prayer. I will pray, and then try to sleep. Grayson Effendi, you ought to pray too. It may be Allah the Merciful will hear you, though you do not acknowledge His Prophet. He may remember you are a Frank, and make allowance."
For John Grayson there was no prayer that night. His anguish was beyond words; and as for tears, their very fount seemed dried up within him. Even the simplest cry to God for helpseemed to freeze upon his lips. Where was the use of it? He had prayed with all his soul, and God hadnotheard.
How that long night passed, how he watched and waited for the morning, none would ever know. The morning light came at last, though it brought no joy with it. He continued however to hold off the anguish of his soul, as it were at arm's length, while he made himself carefully up to look as like a Moslem as possible, though avoiding the greenkafiehfor conscience sake. Assuming a tone of indifference, he made his request of the jailor, who, with his mind running on killing Giaours, muttered a careless assent.
For a good while he lingered about the court, joining one group or another so as to avoid suspicion. At last the prison gate was opened, and, lost amidst a crowd of Moslem criminals, who were rushing out with tumultuous joy to earn at the same time Paradise and pardon by killing Giaours, John Grayson made his way into the street.
"God's Spirit sweet,Still Thou the heatOf our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.Quiet their swell,And gently tellThat His right Hand doeth all things well."Tell us that He,Who erst with the Three,Walked (also) with these in their agony;And drew them higherAnd rapt them nigherTo Heaven, whose chariot and horses are fire."—C. F. Alexander.
"God's Spirit sweet,Still Thou the heatOf our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.Quiet their swell,And gently tellThat His right Hand doeth all things well."Tell us that He,Who erst with the Three,Walked (also) with these in their agony;And drew them higherAnd rapt them nigherTo Heaven, whose chariot and horses are fire."—C. F. Alexander.
"God's Spirit sweet,Still Thou the heatOf our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.Quiet their swell,And gently tellThat His right Hand doeth all things well.
"God's Spirit sweet,
Still Thou the heat
Of our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.
Quiet their swell,
And gently tell
That His right Hand doeth all things well.
"Tell us that He,Who erst with the Three,Walked (also) with these in their agony;And drew them higherAnd rapt them nigherTo Heaven, whose chariot and horses are fire."—C. F. Alexander.
"Tell us that He,
Who erst with the Three,
Walked (also) with these in their agony;
And drew them higher
And rapt them nigher
To Heaven, whose chariot and horses are fire."
—C. F. Alexander.
Dread were the watches of that December night, amidst the unutterable agonies of half a city. In the Armenian Quarter the only sleepers were those—thrice happy!—who would never awake again—
"Until the Heavens be no more."
"Until the Heavens be no more."
"Until the Heavens be no more."
"Until the Heavens be no more."
They were very many, like the slain in some great battle that decides a nation's destiny. They lay in heaps, in the open street, in the court-yards, in the houses. Tearless, wild-eyed women, strong inthe strength of love, came and sought their own amongst them. Sometimes a wife who found her husband, a mother who embraced her son, wept and wailed and made sore lamentation, but for the most part they were still enough. Sometimes they thanked God that they had found them—there.
It went worse with those who sat in their desolate homes, and watched the slow ebbing, often in cruel anguish, of the lives they loved. The number of the wounded and the dying was enormous. For one thing, the murderers were unskilful, for another they were often deliberately—diabolically—cruel. Moreover, it was better economy to hack a Giaour to pieces with swords or knives than to shoot him, since every bullet cost two piastres!
It went worse still with the women, the girls, the little children even, who were dragged to the mosques and shut up there, in hunger, cold, and misery, until the murderers of their fathers, their husbands and brothers had leisure to come and take them, and work their will upon them. Oh God of mercy and pity, that these things should be in this world of Thine!
Had He quite forsaken Urfa? Not always, standing outside the Furnace, can we see therein the Form of One like unto the Son of God.In the Furnace, men know better.
That night, in the vast Gregorian Cathedral, a great congregation met. Many, no doubt, came there as to a place of refuge, hoping that even Moslems would respect that sacred spot. But many more came to worship, perhaps for the last time, in the courts of God upon earth. A band of heroic Gregorian priests—men who were ready to be offered, and who knew that the time of their departure was at hand—made of this last service a solemn and sacred feast. They showed forth the Death of their Lord, giving the Bread and the Wine, which He ordained for all time as its hallowed memorials, to the kneeling, awe-struck multitude. Men, and women, and little children, thinking thus upon His Death for them, were strengthened to meet death for Him in faith and patience. On one of the pillars of that church, now in ruins, some hand, now cold in death, has traced the record that eighteen hundred persons partook of that solemn Sacrament. Never again should they eat of that Bread or drink of that Cup—
"Until the Trump of God be heard,Until the ancient graves be stirred,And with the great commanding wordThe Lord shall come."
"Until the Trump of God be heard,Until the ancient graves be stirred,And with the great commanding wordThe Lord shall come."
"Until the Trump of God be heard,Until the ancient graves be stirred,And with the great commanding wordThe Lord shall come."
"Until the Trump of God be heard,
Until the ancient graves be stirred,
And with the great commanding word
The Lord shall come."
For those still left in the doomed city, that seemed indeed the last Trumpet which soundedin the early dawn of Sunday, the 29th of December. It sent a thrill of horror through every Armenian heart. They knew it was the signal for resuming the massacre, and completing the work of death and ruin left unfinished the previous day.
An orgie of blood and crime, worse than all that had gone before, began then. Many Moslems of the lowest class, who had hitherto been kept in check by the fear that the Christians might defend themselves, now joined the murderers. Moreover, all passions are blunted by indulgence, and require stronger and yet stronger stimulants. The passion of cruelty is no exception. Where it really exists, where men kill and torture—not for rage or hate, or greed, or fear—but for the joy they have in doing it, it is as a demon possessing the soul. It lives, it grows, it thirsts, it craves sacrifices ever greater and more ingenious. It develops a horrible, a Satanic subtlety. It inspires deeds at the mere recital of which humanity shudders. We may not tell, we may not even think of them. Involuntarily we close our eyes, we stop our ears. But ought we not sometimes to remember that our brothers and our sisters haveenduredthem all?
Hanum Selferian was sitting in what had been only yesterday the best room of her comfortablehome. Now not a single article of furniture remained unbroken or unspoiled. Curtains were torn down, presses were smashed open, and their contents either taken away, broken into fragments, or strewn about. In the midst of the floor lay all the food in the house—bulghour, rice, meal, coffee, vegetables, bread—tossed together in a confused heap, over which charcoal had been thrown and kerosene poured. But no eyes for this, or for aught else, had the broken-hearted wife. On a bed in the corner lay her husband, dying. He was horribly mutilated; but the hand of devoted love had bound up the fearful wounds, and done the little that was possible to assuage their anguish. All the long night she had watched beside him, her children clinging round her weeping and praying, the elder ones trying to help her when they could. No joy came in the morning, but a new and terrible fear. What if the Turks should return? Flight and concealment were out of the questionnow.
The gate of their courtyard was broken the day before; and now some one pushed open the door of the room where they were. Hanum Selferian started to her feet. A man stood before her, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his face stamped with an expression of unutterable horror. One short hour had passed since John Grayson went forthfrom the gate of the prison. In that time he had seen things which he never afterwards told to any one, and which he would have given a king's ransom for the power of forgetting. Now, like one walking in a dream—seeing nothing, hearing nothing—he strode up to her and asked, "Where is my wife?"
Hanum Selferian had seen him often, and knew all about him. But how could she recognise, in this broken, horror-stricken man, the bright, fearless English youth? He looked full fifty years of age. Besides, her own sorrow filled her heart, and dulled her senses. "Speak low," she said;—"my husband"—
"I am sorry," Jack answered mechanically. "But where is my wife, Shushan Meneshian?"
"Shushan?" She looked up now, her thoughts diverted for a moment. "You are not the Englishman?"
"Would I werenot! No one will kill me. There is a mark set upon me, that none may hurt me. It is the mark of Cain.—Where is my wife? I was told she came here."
"Yes; to see her father, Boghos, who was not here at all. It was all a trick," said the poor woman. "Amaan! do not ask me more."
"Don't cry, dear Effendi," broke in the youngest of the little girls, taking his hand caressingly, andtouching it with her forehead. "Mother hid me in the storeroom while the Turks were here, but I looked through the crack of the door and saw—I saw dreadful things. They hurt poor father, oh, so terribly! but they did not hurt Oriort Shushan at all—not the very least. They only took her away with them. I am sure they will be very kind to her, she is so dear and beautiful."
"Hush!" said the next sister, just a little older.
Krikor, the eldest boy, came running in. "Mother! mother! let us all go to the church. The neighbours—those of them who arehere—say it is the best thing to do. The Turks will not touch us there."
One loving glance she gave to her dying husband, then she looked at Jack. "Perhaps," she said, "the kind English Effendi would take you children there. And your grandmother—Parooz, where is she?"
"Not one of us will stir a step without you, mother; there is no use in asking us. We live or die all together," the boy said firmly, disregarding the looks and gestures with which his mother tried to stop him.
Then a feeble voice was heard, speaking from the bed. "In God's name, let us all go. I think I could walk—with help."
In John Grayson's broken heart the instinct of helpfulness survived. It was as if he were dead within, and his shell, his outer self, went on mechanically, acting out the impulses impressed, and the habits formed, during his life-time. "I will help you," he said, going over to the wounded man and preparing to raise him from the bed. Almost dying as he was, he was still able to stand, and even to walk a little.
Parooz, the eldest girl, fetched the white-haired grandmother, who had gone apart to weep, and was found in an upper room sleeping for sorrow. The children gathered round them. Jack put his strong arm about the dying man, his wife supported him on the other side, and they all went out together.
The state of the streets was indescribable. People were rushing through them wildly, shrieking, screaming, crying for help; and the dead and dying lay about under their very feet. Happily, the Cathedral was near at hand; but, for one of the little party, peace and safety were nearer still. As they came in sight of it, Selferian's strength failed. "Let me rest a moment," he prayed. They put down some of their upper garments, and laid him gently on them; and there he rested—from all his weariness and all his pain.
There was no time to mourn the dead. Theold grandmother went on first, taking with her the reluctant Krikor. Then Jack said to the new-made widow, "For your children's sake," and pointed to the Cathedral.
The sights of horror they had seen, even in their short walk, quickened their footsteps. They found the churchyard and the buildings around it, the dwellings of the priests and the school-houses, already full of people. Making their way through the throng, they got at last into the Cathedral; and, after some further delay, went up into the gallery, some people the Selferians knew being there already.
Jack kept with them; his behaviour outwardly was quite rational, but he had entirely lost control over his thoughts. Once he imagined he was back again in England, wildly imploring the Queen, the Government, the whole nation, to send men and guns and bayonets to Armenia—not to save the people, but to kill them—to kill them mercifully, all at once, and make an end of this agony. Shushan and Shushan's race seemed in his mind to have blended together into one. "'And in these days,'" he thought, "'shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.'"
All this time there were people pouring in, filling the vast spaces of the church till scarcestanding room remained. At last the great iron door swung to, and was shut.
Not one moment too soon. The mob was already thundering at it. The yells and howls of the frenzied crowd outside mingled with the cries and groans of the terrified crowd within. At the same time shots came in through the windows, wounding some and killing others.
At last the storm prevailed, the iron door smashed in, and then the work of murder began in earnest. But the very density of the crowd of victims checked its progress. It was hard to cut through that mass of living flesh. One incident Jack saw which stamped itself upon his mind; though at the time he felt neither that nor anything else. Some Turk, mounted on a bench or stone, saw a face in the crowd he knew—that of a young Armenian singer, whose sweet voice was already winning him gold and glory, and who was a special favourite with the Moslems. He and others called to him by name. The youth sprang upon a pedestal, and in a minor key, with a voice of exquisite pathos and melody, began a plaintive Armenian song.
Then a strange thing was seen and heard—there were tears on Moslem faces, and sobs that broke from Moslem breasts. This would not do! Guns were pointed at the too successful singer. "Stop!"cried the voice of one having authority. "Dear youth, be a Moslem. We will save you alive, and give you wealth and honour, as much as you will."
"Never!" The dauntless word rang through the church, sweeter than melody of harp or lute sweeter than voice of song. It was the young singer's last utterance—the end came then, for him.
The work of death went on, the murderers hewing a way for themselves through the crowded aisles. Meanwhile, in the vast gallery, which ran quite round the building, the terrified multitude, mostly women and children, shrieked and wept and prayed, calling aloud on the name of Jesus. A few men tried to climb out through the windows; but this was impossible, and would have been useless, for the mob were waiting outside with firearms to pick off the fugitives. Jack stood where he was; for his own life he did not care the turning of a straw, and his instinct of protection kept him beside the Selferians. He saw all the work of murder going on in the church below. And now the Moslems had reached the altar. Some of them sprang upon it, while others tore the pictures, smashed the woodwork, and broke open anything they thought might contain treasure.
There was on the reading-desk a large,beautiful, and very ancient Bible, bound and clasped with silver. With a yell of triumph, a Moslem seized it, tore out the leaves, and flung down the desecrated volume. "Now, Prophet Jesus," he shouted, "save Thine own if Thou canst! Show Thyself stronger than Mahomet!"
For one brief moment a wild ecstatic hope sprang up in the heart of John Grayson. He looked up, and half expected the solid roof to open, revealing God's heaven above them, and in it the "sign of the Son of Man." His Christian lips re-echoed the Moslem cry, "Save Thine own! Show Thyself stronger than Mahomet!"
"There was no voice, neither any that answered." The silence of the ages—that strange, mysterious, awful silence—was not broken; it lasted, as it lasts still.
In the over-wrought brain of John Grayson some chord snapped then. "There is no Christ," he said. "He cannot hear us; He is dead long ago. There is no God; He is nothing but a dream—a dream of happy men, who sit at ease in quiet homes."
He did not know that he spoke aloud, but a woman near him heard the words. "How can you say there is no God?" she remonstrated. "It is not true;—butGod has gone mad!"
The next moment a shot from below struck thespeaker, and she fell into Jack's very arms. The Turks were firing up into the crowd in the gallery.
But that process was by far too slow. Now they were dragging mattrasses, rugs, clothing, light wood work from the adjoining priests' houses, and piling them on and amongst the heaps of dead and dying in the church. Then they carried in great vessels of kerosene, and poured their contents over the whole mass. To this horrible sacrifice they set fire in several places. The flames arose; the crowd in the gallery saw the awful fate prepared for them, and one wild, wailing shriek of terror drowned every other noise.
Turks, meanwhile, were rushing up the gallery stairs, seizing the younger women and girls, and carrying them out. A Turk forced his way between Jack and Hanum Selferian, "Do you know me?" he asked her. "I killed your husband yesterday because I want to marry you. Come with me, and I will save you and your children."
He seized her zeboun, but with an effort she freed herself from his grasp. Jack helping her, and the children keeping close to her, they pushed on to the front of the gallery, and looked down. A sea of fire was beneath them; its hot breath scorched their faces. The Turk was following them. Then the Armenian mother lifted her youngest child, a boy of eight, in her arms, and looked atthe three little girls clinging to her side. "Children," she said, "will you go with that man and be Moslems, or will you die for Christ with me?"
"Mother, we will die with you," said the little voices, speaking all at once.
She could do for them one thing yet. They should not suffer. In another moment they should be with Christ. Twenty feet down, right into the heart of the hottest fire, she flung her youngest child. Then followed the little girls; and then, just as the Turk's hand touched her shoulder, her own rest was won.
That was the last thing Jack saw in the burning church.
Oh, Christ, who that day didst keep silence in Thy Heaven, help us to remember that other day, when around Thy Cross the mocking voices sounded, "If Thou be the Christ, save Thyself,"—and Thou wert silent too. Help us to hold fast by that faith in Thee that lies between us and madness. Make us understand that these Thy people are indeed "members incorporate in Thy mystical Body." Notwiththem alone through sympathy, butinthem through vital organic union Thou sufferest still. In them Thou art "in Thine agony until the end of the world"; until the last member is complete, the last sheaf of the great Harvest gathered in. Thou lovest them too muchfor the mockery of Thy foes, or even for the passionate prayer of Thy friends, to move Thee to come down from the Cross until the work of the Cross is finished, and the earnest expectation of Thy suffering creatures changed into the joy unspeakable of the manifestation of the sons of God.