The Captain of the Janizaries

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  Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

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  Page 304: Ramedan should possibly be Ramadan.

  "_Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, And skilled in every warlike art, Riding through his Albanian lands, And following the auspicious star That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar._"

  LONGFELLOW

  THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES

  _A STORY OF THE TIMES OF SCANDERBEG AND THE FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE_

  BY JAMES M. LUDLOW, D.D. LITT.D

  ELEVENTH EDITION

  NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

  Copyright, 1886, by DODD, MEAD & CO.

  Copyright, 1890, by JAMES M. LUDLOW.

  _Electrotyped by Dodd, Mead & Co._

  PREFACE.

  The story of the Captain of the Janizaries originated, not in theauthor's desire to write a book, but in the fascinating interest ofthe times and characters he has attempted to depict. It seems strangethat the world should have so generally forgotten George Castriot, orScanderbeg, as the Turks named him, whose career was as romantic as itwas significant in the history of the Eastern Mediterranean. Gibbonassigns to him but a few brief pages, just enough to make us wonderthat he did not write more of the man who, he confessed, "with unequalarms resisted twenty-three years the powers of the Ottoman Empire."Creasy, in his history of the Turks, devotes less than a page to theexploits of one who "possessed strength and activity such as rarelyfall to the lot of man," "humbled the pride of Amurath and baffled theskill and power of his successor Mahomet." History, as we make it inevents, is an ever-widening river, but, as remembered, it is like astream bursting eastward from the Lebanons, growing less as it flowsuntil it is drained away in the desert.

  Though our story is in the form of romance, it is more than "foundedupon fact." The details are drawn from historical records, such as thechronicles of the monk Barletius--a contemporary, though perhaps aprejudiced admirer, of Scanderbeg--the later Byzantine annals, thecustoms of the Albanian people, and scenes observed while travellingin the East.

  The author takes the occasion of the publication of a new edition togratefully acknowledge many letters from scholars, as well as noticesfrom the press, which have expressed appreciation of this attempt torevive popular interest in lands and peoples that are to reappear inthe drama of the Ottoman expulsion from Europe, upon which the curtainis now rising.

  THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES.

  CHAPTER I

  From the centre of the old town of Brousa, in Asia Minor--old even atthe time of our story, about the middle of the fifteenthcentury--rises an immense plateau of rock, crowned with the fortresswhose battlements and towers cut their clear outlines high against thesky. An officer of noble rank in the Ottoman service stood leaningupon the parapet, apparently regaling himself with the marvellouspanorama of natural beauty and historic interest which lay before him.The vast plain, undulating down to the distant sea of Marmora, wasmottled with fields of grain, gardens enclosed in hedges of cactus,orchards in which the light green of the fig-trees blended with theduskier hues of the olive, and dense forests of oak plumed with thelight yellow blooms of the chestnut. Here and there writhed the heavyvapors of the hot sulphurous streams springing out of the base of thePhrygian Olympus, which reared its snow-clad peak seven thousand feetabove. The lower stones of the fortress of Brousa were the mementoesof twenty centuries which had drifted by them since they were laid bythe old Phrygian kings. The flags of many empires had floated fromthose walls, not the least significant of which was that of theOttoman, who, a hundred years before, had consecrated Brousa as hiscapital by burying in yonder mausoleum the body of Othman, the founderof the Ottoman dynasty of the Sultans.

  But the Turkish officer was thinking of neither the beauty of thescene nor the historic impressiveness of the place. His face, shadedby the folds of his enormous turban, wore deeper shadows which wereflung upon it from within. He was talking to himself.

  "The Padishah[1] has a nobler capital now than this,--across the seathere in Christian Europe. But by whose hands was it conquered? ByChristian hands! by Janizaries! renegades! Ay, this hand!"--hestripped his arm bare to the shoulder and looked upon its gnarledmuscles as he hissed the words through his teeth--"this hand has cut awider swathe through the enemies of the Ottoman than any other man's;a swathe down which the Padishah can walk without tripping his feet.And this was a Christian's hand once! Well may I believe the story myold nurse so often told me,--that, when the priest was dropping thewater of baptism upon my baby brow, this hand seized the sacredvessel, and it fell shattered upon the pavement. Ah, well have Ifulfilled that omen!"

  The man walked to and fro on the platform with quick and jarring step,as if to shake off the grip of unwelcome thoughts. There was a majestyin his mien which did not need the play of his partially suppressedfury to fascinate the attention of any who might have beheld him atthe moment. He was tall of stature, immensely broad at the shoulders,deep lunged, comparatively light and trim in the loins, as the closedrawn sash beneath the embroidered jacket revealed: arms long; handslarge. He looked as if he might wrestle with a bear without a weapon.His features were not less notable than his form. His forehead washigh and square, with such fulness at the corners as to leave twocross valleys in the middle. Deep-set eyes gleamed from beneath broadand heavy brows. The lips were firm, as if they had grown rigid fromthe habit of concealing, rather than expressing, thought, except inthe briefest words of authority,--Caesar-lips to summarize a campaignin a sentence. The chin was heavy, and would have unduly protrudedwere it not that there were needed bulk and strength to stand as thebase of such prominent upper features. Altogether his face would havebeen pronounced hard and forbidding, had it not been relieved asremarkably by that strange radiance with which strong intelligence andgreatness of soul sometimes transfigure the coarsest features.

  These peculiarities of the man were observed and commented upon by twoofficers who were sitting in the embrasure of the parapet at thefarther end of the battlement. The elder of the two, who had growngray in the service, addressed his comrade, a young man, thoughwearing the insignia of rank equal to that of the other.

  "Yes, Bashaw,[2] he is not only the right hand of the Padishah, butthe army has not seen an abler soldier since the Ottoman enteredEurope. You know his history?"

  "Only as every one knows it, for in recent years he has written itwith his cimeter flashing through battle dust as the lightning throughclouds," replied the young officer.

  The veteran warmed with enthusiasm as he narrated, "I well rememberhim as a lad when he was brought from the Arnaout's[3] country. He wasnot over nine years of age when Sultan Mahomet conquered the lands ofEpirus, where our general's father, John Castriot, was duke. As ahostage young George Castriot was brought with his three brothers toAdrianople."

  "Are his brothers of the same metal?" asked the listener.

  "Allah only knows what they would have been had not statenecessity----" The narrator completed the sentence by a significantgesture, imitating the swirl of the executioner's sword as he takesoff the head of an offender.

  "But George Castr
iot was a favorite of the Sultan, who fondled him asthe Roman Hadrian did his beautiful page, Antinous. And well he might,for a lad more lithe of limb and of wit never walked the ground sinceAllah bade the angels worship the goodly form of Adam.[4] Once when aprize was offered for the best display of armor, and the provinceswere represented by their different champions in novel helmets andcorselets and shields, none of which pleased the imperial taste, itwas the whim of the Padishah to have young Castriot parade before thejudges panoplied only in his naked muscle, and to order that the prizeshould be given to him, together with the title Iscanderbeg.[5] Andwell he won it. In the after wrestling matches he put upon his hip thebest of them, Turcomans from Asia, and Moors from Africa, andGiaours[6] from the West. And he was as skilful on a horse's legs ashe was on his own. His namesake, Alexander, could not have managedBucephalus better than he. I well remember his game with the twoScythians. They came from far to have a joust with the best of thePadishah's court. They were to fight singly: if one were overthrown,the other, after the victor had breathed himself, was to redeem thehonor of his comrade. Scanderbeg sent his spear-head into the throatof his antagonist at the first encounter, when the second barbarianvillain treacherously set upon him from the rear. The young championwheeled his horse as quickly as a Dervish twists his body, and withone blow of his sword, clove him in twain from skull to saddle."

  "Bravo!" cried the listener, "I believe it, for look at the arm thathe has uncovered now."

  "It is a custom he has," continued the narrator. "He always fightswith his sword-arm bared to the shoulder. When he was scarce nineteenyears old he was at the siege of Constantinople, in 800 of theHegira,[7] with Sultan Amurath. His skill there won him a Sanjak.[8]Since that time you know his career."

  "Ay! his squadrons have shaken the world."

  "He has changed of late, however; grown heavy at the brows. But hecomes this way."

  As the general approached, the two bashaws bowed low to the ground,and then stood in the attitude of profound obeisance until headdressed them. His face gleamed with frank and genial familiarity ashe exchanged with them a few words; but it was again masked in sombrethoughtfulness as he passed on.

  Near the gate by which the fortress was entered from the lower townwas gathered a group of soldiers who were bantering a strange lookingcreature with hands tied behind him--evidently some captive.

  "What have you here?" said Scanderbeg, approaching them.

  "That we cannot tell. It is a secret," replied the subaltern officerin charge of the squad, making a low salam, and with a twinkle in hiseyes which took from his reply all semblance of disrespect.

  "But I must have your secret," said the general good-naturedly.

  "It is not our secret, Sire," replied the man, "but his. He will nottell us who he is."

  "Where does he belong? What tongue has he, Aladdin? You who were onceinterpreter to the Bey of Anatolia should know any man by his tongue."

  "He has no tongue, Sire. He is dumb as a toad. His beard has goneuntrimmed so long that it has sewed fast his jaws. He has notperformed his ablutions since the last shower washed him, and his earsare so filled with dirt plugs that he could not hear a thunder clap."

  The face of the captive seemed to strangely interest the general, whosaid as he turned away, "Send him to our quarters. The Padishah hastaken a fancy to deaf mutes of late. They overhear no secrets and tellno tales. We will scrape him deep enough to find if he has a soul. Ifhe knows his foot from his buttocks he will be as valued a present toHis Majesty as a fifth wife.[9] Send him to our quarters."

  The general soon returned to the fortress. A room dimly lightedthrough two narrow windows that opened into a small inner court, andcontained a divan or couch, a table, and a motley collection of arms,was the residence of the commandant. A soldier stood by the entranceguarding the unfortunate captive.

  "You may leave him with me," said Scanderbeg approaching.

  The man was thrust into the apartment, and stood with head bowed untilthe guard withdrew. The general turned quickly upon him as soon asthey were alone.

  "If I mistake not, man, though your tongue be tied, your eye spake tome by the gate."

  "It was heaven's blessing upon my errand reflected there," replied theman in the Albanian language. "I bear thee a message from MosesGoleme, of Lower Dibria, and from all the provinces of Albania, fromevery valley and every heart."

  "Let me hear it, for I love the very flints on the mountains and everypebble on the shore of old Albania," replied Scanderbeg eagerly.

  "Heaven be praised! Were my ears dull as the stones they would open tohear such words," said the man with suppressed emotion. "For since thedeath of thy noble father--"

  "My father's death! I had not heard it. When?" exclaimed the general.

  "It is four moons since we buried him beneath the holy stones of thechurch at Croia, and the Sultan sent us General Sebaly to govern inhis stead."

  "Do you speak true?" cried Scanderbeg, laying his hand upon the man'sshoulder and glaring into his face. "My father dead? and a strangerappointed in his stead? and Sultan Amurath has not even told me!Beware, man, lest you mistake."

  "I cannot mistake, Sire, for these hands closed the eyes of JohnCastriot after he had breathed a prayer for his land and for hisson--one prayer for both. Moses Goleme was with us, for you know hewas thy father's dearest friend and wisest counsellor, and to him thyfather gave charge that word should be sent thee that to thee hebequeathed his lands."

  "Stop! Stop!" said Scanderbeg, pacing the little room like a cagedlion. "Let me think. But go on. He did not curse me, then? Swear tome,"--and he turned facing the man--"swear to me that my father didnot curse me with his dying breath! Swear it!"

  "I swear it," said the man, "and that all Albania prays to-day forGeorge Castriot. These are the tidings which the noble Moses bade mebring thee, though I found thee at the Indus or under the throne ofthe Sultan himself. I have no other message. That I might tell theethis in the free speech of Albania I have kept dumb to all others. Ifit be treason to the Sultan for thee to hear it, let my head pay thepenalty. But know, Sire, that our land will rest under no other rulethan that of a Castriot."

  "A Castriot!" soliloquized the general. "Well, it is a better namethan Scanderbeg. Ho, guard! Take this fellow! Let him share yourmess!"

  When alone the general threw himself upon the divan for a moment, thenpaced again the apartment, and muttered to himself----

  "And for what has a Castriot given himself to the Turk! Yet I did notbetray my land and myself. They stole me. They seduced my judgment asa child. They flattered my conceit as a man. Like a leopard I havefought in the Padishah's arena, and for a leopard's pay--the meat thatmakes him strong, and the gilded cage that sets off his spots. I haveled his armies, for what? For glory. But whose glory? The Padishahcries in every emergency, 'Where is _my_ Scanderbeg? Scanderbeg to therescue!' But it means, 'Slave, do my bidding!' And I, the tinselledslave, bow my head to the neck of my steed, and the empire rings withthe tramp of my squadrons, and the praise of Scanderbeg's loyalty!Pshaw! He calls me his lightning, but he is honored as the invisibleJove who hurls it. And I am a Castriot! A Christian! Ay, a Christiandog,[10] indeed, to fawn and lick the hands of one who would despiseme were he not afraid of my teeth. He takes my father's lands andgives them to another; and I--I am of too little account to be eventold 'Thy father is dead.'"

  Scanderbeg paused in the light that streamed through the westernwindow. It was near sunset, and a ruddy gleam shot across the room.

  "This light comes from the direction of Albania, and so there comes ared gleam--blood red--from Albania into my soul."

  He drew the sleeve of the left arm and gazed at a small round spottattooed just above the elbow--the indelible mark of the Janizary.

  "They that put it there said that by it I should remember my vow tothe Padishah. And, since I cannot get thee out, my little talisman, Iswear by thee that I shall never forget my vow; no, nor them that mademy child-lips take it, and taught m
e to abjure my father's name, mycountry's faith, and broke my will to the bit and rein of theircaprice. It may be that some day I shall wash thee out in damnedMoslem blood. But hold! that would be treason. Scanderbeg a traitor?How they will hiss it from Brousa to Adrianople; from the lips ofVizier and pot-carrier! But is it treason to betray treason? Butpatience! Bide thy time, Castriot!"

  A slight commotion in the court drew the attention of Scanderbeg. In amoment the sentry announced:

  "A courier from His Majesty!"

  The message told that the Ottoman forces had been defeated inEurope--the noted bashaw, Schehadeddin, having been utterly routed byHunyades. The missive called the Sultan's "always liege and invincibleservant, Scanderbeg, to the rescue!" Within an hour a splendid suiteof officers, mounted on swift and gaily caparisoned steeds, gatheredabout the great general, and at the raising of the horse-tail upon thespear-head, dashed along the road to the coast of Marmora wherevessels were in waiting to convey them across to the European side.Scanderbeg had but a moment's interview with the dumb captive,sufficient to whisper,

  "Return our salutation to the noble Moses Goleme; and say that GeorgeCastriot will honor his confidence better in deeds than he could inwords. I know not the future, my brave fellow, and might not tell itif I did, even to ears as deaf as yours. But say to Goleme thatCastriot swears by his beard--by the beard of Moses--that brighterdays shall come for Albania even if they must be flashed from ourswords. Farewell!"

  The man fell at the general's feet and embraced them. Then rising heraised his hand, "By the beard of Moses! Let that be the watchwordbetween our people and our rightful prince. Brave men scattered fromAdria to Haemus will listen for that watchword. Farewell, Sire. By thebeard of Moses!"

  Scanderbeg summoned a soldier and said sternly, "Take this fellowaway. He is daft as well as dumb and deaf. Yet treat him well. Suchcreatures are the special care of Allah. Take him to the Bosphorusthat he may cross over to his kin, the Greeks, at Constantinople."

  FOOTNOTES:

  [1] A title of the Sultan.

  [2] Bashaw; an old name for pasha.

  [3] Arnaout; Turkish for Albanian, a corruption of the old Byzantineword Arvanitae.

  [4] Koran, Chap. II.

  [5] Iscander-Beg; or The Lord Alexander.

  [6] Giaours; a term of reproach by which the Turks designate theunbelievers in Mahomet, especially Christians.

  [7] 800 of the Hegira; 1422 of the Christian era.

  [8] Sanjak; a military and administrative authority giving thepossessor command of 5,000 horse.

  [9] The Moslems are allowed four wives. Beyond this number their womencan be only concubines.

  [10] The Moslems call Christians dogs.