Wickham was immediately summoned, and came hurrying, almost running along the quayside.
Lydia flung herself into his arms with a string of endearments, kissing him full on the mouth in front of all the company, raising cheers from the surrounding soldiers.
Then she drew back and began to scold.
“Where have you been all this time? What kept you so long? I expected you days ago. Do you think so little of me?…..etc. etc.”
I will not continue. There were a lot of etceteras, and I really cannot remember them all.
Wickham cut her short, however.
“Later, my dear. Let us get you safely on board the ship and you may upbraid me as much as you like as we sail home. But where are the others? Where are the Doctor and the Reverend? We must scour the city for them before it is too late.”
“I think there will be no pressing need for haste,” I replied. “Listen.”
The sound of gunshots and battle cries had died away, to be replaced by cheering. We all turned and looked towards the castle, plainly visible on top of its hill, and watched as the crescent banner of the Turks came down the flagpole, to be replaced with Petrobey’s blue cross on a white ground.
My minders dissolved into a frenzy of ‘Zito Hellases’.
“Kalos orisate,” I said, turning to my beloved family, “welcome to the first city in Greece to be liberated from the Turkish yoke.”
Chapter Twenty-nine : The Return of the Heroes
The morning after was bound to be flat. We, by which I mean the eight of us, had spent the night, not on board ship, but at the house of the old Turkish governor. It had been a night punctuated by the noise of celebrations from the street outside, and we had enjoyed very little sleep.
I doubt if Petrobey, whose active participation in the celebrations had been obligatory, had had any sleep at all, but it did not show on his face as he greeted us after breakfast.
“My friends, the other kapetanoi, would like to speak to you all as soon as may be, gentlemen, along with the good Captain Price. There are things that must be discussed. We shall meet in the divan in an hour’s time. The ladies, of course, are excused.”
“And why, pray, should we be excused?” enquired Margaret Morland, with a dangerous note in her voice, “Have we not also suffered for the cause as much as any of our menfolk?”
“Indeed you have, my dear Madame Morland, and I honour you for it. But my colleagues, you know, they are not as advanced as I am, not as modern in their views. They would feel restrained in the presence of ladies and could not speak their minds properly. And it is important that we should all understand one another now.”
“Well, I dare say it will all be very boring anyway, and I must say goodbye properly to your mother and to Madame Mavromichalis. So I will say goodbye to you now, Monsieur.”
“Not goodbye, I beg you. Let it be au revoir, I pray.”
“Your prayers are your own concern, monsieur. I trust they may all be answered.”
The ladies then left us, followed shortly afterwards, by Petrobey. It was just as well that only the five of us were present, for Captain Price arrived shortly after our host’s departure, and we had much to discuss.
The meeting that followed made history, or, rather unmade it.
A long table had been set up in the old Turkish courtroom, and we sat on one side of it with the four Greek leaders on the other.
Petrobey and Kolokotronis were already known to me, but I had yet to make the acquaintance of Papaflessas and Nikitaras. The former was a glowering, full-faced gentleman with a bushy chestnut beard, clad in a red coat trimmed with fur, and with an unlikely number of pistols sticking out of his sash. I do not believe I have ever met anyone who looked less like an archdeacon, which is the nearest Anglican equivalent of his ecclesiastical rank of archimandrite. The famous Turk-eater was equally glowering, but restricted his facial hair to a walrus moustache wore Greek costume in a sombre black, and favoured cold steel in the equally unreasonable number of weapons in his sash.
Petrobey began speaking immediately after introductions had been effected.
“My dear English friends,” he began, “how can we thank you enough for you help? I know the heroic worth of Lordos Venettos and General Ouickham personally, as does my friend Kolokotronis, and his nephew tells me that many of his band owe their lives to the services of the good Doctor Morland. And I am sure that Papas Golightly’s prayers had their influence with the almighty, as why should they not? But, my friends, we need to ask of you one more service…”
At this point, Wickham stood up and interrupted.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “I think I know what you are going to ask, and wish to spare you the embarrassment of an inevitable refusal. We, too, are grateful for the hospitality we have received from all the people of the Mani, and from Monsieur Mavromichalis particularly. But before any of us say any more, there is one thing I must say.”
“The events to which you refer, the services you acknowledge, never happened. I never led a landing on Greek shore. Mr Bennet never rescued the maidens of Lemeni. The victims of the Turkish raid at Lemeni received orthodox burial, and Monsieur Nikitaras’ men recovered of their own resources. Captain Price, who happened to be exercising in the gulf of Kalamata with a contingent on board from the Cythera garrison, heard of British ladies trapped in the town and hastened to provide a means of escape for them. He did not bombard the town, nor did he land troops.”
“There was no British involvement in the capture – in the liberation – of Kalamata, just as there will be, I fear, no British participation in what I think will be a long, cruel war for you, my friends.”
Petrobey crossed the floor, and embraced him.
“But this is precisely the service we thought to ask of you, mon ami. Kalamata is the first city in Greece to be liberated from the Turks. That liberation must have been – it must be seen to have been- the work of Greeks alone, without help of any sort from any other power. The Turk must be taught to fear us Romans as he already fears the English and the Russians.”
“He must know that we are ready to die for our freedom, alone and with no help from anyone, and that we will not rest until every last Turk is driven out of our homeland, no we will not rest until a Roman emperor sits again in our holy city of Constantinople. Then we, may with God’s help, make shift to liberate other cities in our poor, downtrodden land. And we still have our supporters in the West, do we not? We still have the Philiki Hetairia to send us arms and gold. We still have Lordos Vyronos to encourage us. And one day, I think, other English ships will come to our aid.”
“I cannot speak for His Majesty’s Government,” replied Wickham, “but you will always have a friend in the Ionian Islands while I am there. And I am glad you see the situation in the same way that we do. We wish you every success in your struggle, and have no doubt of your ultimate triumph.”
After that, there was very little to be said or done, other than to take our leave. The Greek commanders had more pressing concerns, and we were all, I think, glad to be returning to real life.
The thought that we were but a few hours ride now from Nestor’s Pylos did cross my mind, but in the circumstances I thought it best to let it keep on crossing until it had made its exit from the other side.
Our return home was uneventful, by comparison, at least, although the ship was rather crowded until we returned to Cythera and the soldiers disembarked. The rest of our baggage was waiting for us there, and was unloaded on the quayside at Otranto after a voyage distinguished only by its short duration and its exceptional freedom from malaise of any description. We had stopped at Corfu on the way, of course and there said our tearful farewells to Lydia and Wickham.
“Are you sure you will not stop for the official opening of King Tom’s Monument?” asked Wickham.
“I fear I must reluctantly decline,” I replied. “How reluctantly I leave it to yourself to determine.”
“But you must at least kiss the
children goodbye,” cried Lydia.
I could see Mrs Bennet weakening by the moment at the thought of her grandchildren, and thought it best to observe that, for all we knew there were grandchildren waiting for us back home. Captain Price, good man, took the hint and signaled for the boat to be lowered, and we were left with no resource but waved handkerchiefs and shouts of “God Speed!”
We traversed the length of Italy from the bottom left hand corner to the top right without any major incidents. Most of the way to Rome was on the Appian Way itself, and I might observe that the ancient Roman roads are still the best kept and surfaced in the peninsula.
At Rome I offered to stay for a while, but finding myself so strongly overruled as to be unable to resist, had to make do with no more than a hurried dash through the Forum and a mere glimpse of the Colosseum in the middle distance. What little value this world places on scholarship!
It was just as well, however, for the early start from Rome enabled us to pass the Alps in the height of summer, with scarcely enough snow to hinder us but quite sufficient to lend enchantment to the view.
I had thought the Italian coaches slow and inefficient, but I had not then suffered the French diligences. Were it not for carrying our baggage, we should have done as well to walk, for the horses never got above a walking pace, and hours were wasted at the stopping points. The enormous size of these vehicles did not stop them being packed to bursting point with travellers. At one halt I positively counted thirty-four passengers on our conveyance, not counting the driver and postilion. Our first experience, from Grenoble to Lyon was of the older type of vehicle where the body of the carriage rests upon large thongs of leather, fastened to heavy blocks of wood, instead of springs, and the whole is drawn by seven horses. Good English guineas secured the coupé to ourselves, for the French may not like the English but they do love our gold, but even so I should not like to repeat the experience.
From Lyon onwards, the French coachmakers had taken the trouble to fit springs for their passengers’ comfort, and the conducteurs displayed more care for their charges as we neared Paris, no doubt with the size of their tips in mind. On board one, we were particularly entertained by the grotesque dress and tintinnabular taste of the driver, who attached small bells to the horses, thereby providing a jingling announcement of his moving mass as we crept from village to village and town to town.
Of Paris I will say nothing. It is a sort of French London, only more so, and contains nothing that will appeal to a gentleman and less of interest to a scholar. The French are welcome to it, say I.
As for the famed French culinary prowess, it is all exploded. They have no notion of breakfast. A cup of coffee and a flaky pastry is no way to start the day. As for their haute cuisine, that is merely another name for a range of strong-tasting – and usually very greasy – sauces calculated to disguise the fact that there is very little actual food on your plate. And it is true, they do eat frogs and snails. I saw them at it,
So, we passed at last to Calais, crossed the Channel on a particularly calm and fine day, and made our way to Georgiana’s, in London.
We found no grandchildren waiting, nor even any news of grandchildren, in posse or in esse and so, having recuperated ourselves there and given a regrettably censored account of our travels we at last returned to Longbourn, where all was as if we had never been away.
Kitty and Golightly did not stay with us long, and we were obliged to concede to them the pleasure of relating our adventures to Lizzie and Jane.
We kept for ourselves the spreading of our news in Meryton. We had enough to do there, for sure. Our sea voyage, our escape from veritable pirates, the sights and residents of Corfu, and our travels among the Ionian Islands were quite enough to provide sport for our neighbours for many a day, and for what else do we live?
We could have occasioned much more sport among them had we mentioned our exploits on the mainland of Greece. I can imagine how Sir William, for instance, would gape.
But of all that we could not and must not speak. Our actions may well have started a conflict which might yet determine the fate of a great empire, but they must remain unknown. After all, none of it ever happened.
Author’s Note
Nearly two years ago, staying in the very pleasant town of Kalamata as a convenient base for both Pylos, Sparta and Mystra, I was struck by how proud all the inhabitants were that their town was the first in Greece to be liberated from the Turks.
The dates of these things are debatable, but all were agreed that everything happened in Kalamata two days before anywhere else in Greece. No-one, however, could tell me why this should be so.
Why should what must have been a carefully organized and long planned simultaneous uprising gone off early in the southern Peloponnese?
This book has been two years in the making, and is an attempt to provide a (fictional) excuse for the early start. It makes no pretence at being serious history, although the details of the British Protectorate of the Ionian Islands, of the siege of Kalamata, and of such characters as Petrobey, Kolokotronis, Papaflessas, Nikitaras and Makriyiannnis, all of whom except the last were involved in the taking of Kalamata and all of whom are known to have been in the Morea at the time, are as accurate as I can make them without turning this work into a ‘Parallel Lives’.
I make no claims for veracity in the involvement of the Bennet family, since, of course, it never happened.
RM
25 March 2018.
If you liked this book, please try my others
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Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Page 19
