Before the façade of this edifice, a row of illuminated lanterns of various gaudy colours hung on orange-trees, while through its open door and arches of trellis-work came the hum of voices, a warm glow of light that gushed into the pitchy obscurity without, and the perfume of roasting coffee, with the fragrant odour of stewing kabobs. The building was spacious, and contained every requisite comfort as some one says somewhere, 'but clean sheets and a Christian bed.'
Entering, we found a number of Turks, all well armed of course, seated on mats round a species of raised divan; they were smoking and were attended by long-haired Greek girls, who were tripping about with their beautiful feet bare and stockingless, supplying these heavy-brained but true Believers with coffee in diminutive cups, or tobacco bruised with apples for their long chibouques, paper for cigarettes, and kabobs on wooden skewers, with caviar, olives, and cheese.
As we entered, all raised their dark and glittering eyes to scan us, by the light of a huge gilt lantern that hung from a dome in the centre of the Khan.
'Salaam aleikum,' said we, touching our caps.
'With you be Allah,' muttered all present; and the keeper of the Khan, a lively Greek in wide blue breeches, a tight brown jacket, a white apron and glittering skull cap, hurried forward to attend us.
As an excuse to remain and to observe the company, rather than from any necessity for refreshment, we asked for coffee and a slight supper. In a few minutes we had the first, black and fragrant, with milk, hot cake, and a preserve of grapes boiled with walnuts, all placed before us upon two little trays in a corner of the apartment, where a charming young Greek girl, with her black hair plaited over her delicate white ears, arrayed the mats and cushions for us; then cigars were brought, and seating ourselves, we proceeded to refresh and inspect the goodly company.
Little or no notice was taken of us by these lumbering and ponderous Orientals, for whom even the emotion of curiosity would be too exciting. Yet the large and crowded hall of this Roumelian khan presented one of the most striking scenes I have witnessed.
Therein seemed all the races of the Turkish empire at coffee and chibouques.
The old Effendi, grave, solemn, pretentious, and stupid; his turban white as snow, or green, to mark his descent from the Holy Prophet; his beard black as night; his nose fierce and aquiline; his eyes sparkling, and his heavy moustache curling over the amber mouth of his long chibouque; his scarlet nether garments and buff boots; his ample shawl, long caftan, and gilded dagger completing the picture. The noble Albanian, in his red jacket embroidered with blue cord; his ample white kilt (like ours, above the knee); his red-bandaged hose; his yataghan, musket, and brass-butted pistols. The sombre Armenian, with his long beard and flowing robes, his grave and respectful visage surmounted by an enormous kalpec of black felt. The handsome and lively Greek, unabashed by the presence of his Turkish tyrants, and all chatter, fun, and gaiety; closely shaved and bare-legged; with a blue turban, short trousers, and black shoes. The hardy Islesman in his shaggy capote; the modern Turkish artillery officer, in his tight surtout with gold fringe epaulettes; his little fez, with its brass plate; his red trousers strapped tightly under French glazed boots; his gold belt and keen Damascus sabre—oriental in face, but decidedly occidental in dress, and almost in idea; for the corps of Topchis were all organised à la Franque by the Sultan Selim. There, too, was a fierce and scowling Tartar—dropped Heaven knows from where—but armed to the teeth, with dagger, pistols, bow and arrows, toasting dough-balls in the brazier. A moolah and a dervish in their grey felt caps that taper like an extinguisher: and lastly, there was a disgusting Stamboul Jew, crushed in aspect, cunning in eye, with contracted brow and blubber lip; avaricious in soul and unyielding in purpose. A few black slaves, hideous in face and scanty in attire, but very intent on backsish, may complete this sketch of a picturesque group—or if aught be wanting, let me mention the powerful form of Callum Dhu, in his belted plaid, green kilt, and white sporran, as he sat hobbing and nobbing with a dervish over a dish of mutton ham; though honest Callum knew as much of the language and ideas of the dervish as he did about the nature and habits of 'the Dodo and its kindred.'
The conversation generally consisted of occasional and disjointed remarks, with long pauses between.
The war was less spoken of than the prices of tobacco, maize, rice, silk, cotton, and wheat, and other products of the land; but Jack and I could glean that they were not a little proud of the circumstance, that the little Turkish war-steamer, the Mahmoudieh, and a Hadriote brig, by steering in another direction, had escaped the storm which threw our vessel on the reefs of Palegrossa.
'Each of these fellows is quite a bijou,' said Jack Belton; 'I would give the world to have them all at home and comfortably ensconced in a handsome caravan, and to become their Barnum throughout Britain.'
'What are the news from Europe?' asked the Turkish officer of Topchis, in French.
'Very unimportant,' replied Belton; 'in the west, the eyes of all men are turned to the east, and nothing is heard of, thought of, or spoken of, but this protracted siege of Sevastopol—while diplomatists seem to be splitting straws at Paris and Vienna.'
'Splitting straws?' pondered the literal Turk, 'Glory be to Allah! A strong employment for generals and viziers—have they no grooms to chop their straw?'
A sudden commotion in the street without, and the irregular tramp of men marching, attracted the attention of all the loiterers in the khan; and as several Turks left their pipes and mats, and with their hands on their weapons, hurried to the door, Belton and I sprang up to see what was the matter.
The gleam of arms and the blaze of torches lightened in the dark and muddy street, as a party of six Turkish marines, in their blue uniforms and red fez caps, with crossed belts and fixed bayonets, escorted a Greek prisoner towards the barrack of the Bombardiers. After saying a few words to his guard, the prisoner paused at the open window of the khan, which faced the street, and begged 'a draught of cold water in the name of God.'
The keeper was about to give it, but paused; for the delinquent was his countryman, and the eyes of many armed Turks were fixed with a lowering expression on both.
During this brief pause, I scrutinized the prisoner.
He was a young man, as nearly as I could judge, about five-and-twenty: his features were no less remarkable for their manly beauty than singular in their character. His long hair, which hung in heavy locks from under his little blue Greek cap, were black as night; his eyes and his smart moustache were jet; but his features were wan, sickly, and as ghastly as those of a corpse. His attire was the splendidly-embroidered blue jacket, white kilt, and bandaged hose of an Albanian officer—but all frayed, torn, and disfigured. His appearance was singularly striking, and that nothing might be wanting to complete it, and excite our sympathy, on his wrists were two massive steel fetters, which were joined by a heavy iron chain.
Again he pointed to his parched lips, and hoarsely begged a cup of water.
From the hand of a Turk who stood near us I snatched a cup of wine—that Thracian wine which Pliny commended in the happier days of Greece—and handed it to the poor Albanian. A glance of deep gratitude flashed from his dark expressive eyes, as, thirstily and joyfully, he drained the cup and returned it to me with a graceful bow. With a few words of apology, I handed it to the Turk, but that personage drew back with a scowl on his brow, and, with a hand on his poniard, tossed the cup away.
The Greek kissed both his fettered hands to me, and retired: the fixed bayonets flashed again around him, and the dark group disappeared; but his glance of thankfulness was still before me, and it sunk deep into my heart.
'Bono!' said an old Moolah, who was named Moustapha, in approval of what I had done; ''twas a good action, Frank, and thy better angel will write it ten times down in Heaven.'
'Who is this Greek?' I inquired, of the fat old Yuze Bashi Hussein, who at that moment entered the khan, shouting imperiously, 'Hola, Boba!—Here woman, coffee!'—and the speed with which his wants were supplied, almost before he had seated his amplitude upon a carpet, showed that our captain of Bombardiers was not a person to be trifled with. He hated Greeks, but his animosity was confined only to the males of that race. Though he scowled at the keeper of the khan, he leered at his wife who attended us. She was a pretty woman of Scio, who wore the grotesque costume of that island—a braided red jacket, with a short padded green skirt. On her head was a small cap, from which hung a veil on the sides of her face and gracefully down her back; a circlet of Paphian diamonds, or rock crystals, from Baffo, glittered round her pretty neck, on which the huge eyes of the Yuze Bashi gloated from time to time. But to resume—'Who is this Greek?' I asked.
'The worst of traitors: 'grumbled Hussein. 'Every one who comes into this world is touched by the devil, who attends at his birth unseen; but Inshallah! Shaitaun must have taken a rough hold of our Greek! He was an officer—a mulazim in the regiment of Albanians who garrisoned this place before we came here.'
'An officer!' I reiterated, in astonishment.
'And chained thus!' added Belton, in the same tone.
'Now, by the seventh paradise, but you astonish me!' said the Captain Hussein, opening his great oriental eyes. 'Do you forget that the man is only a Greek, and that the Greeks, like the Russian, are all beasts—as Zerdusht the Prophet was, who married his grandmother, and who will have a bridle of fire in his jaws at the last day.'
'His crime—'
'Was desertion. He was stationed at the battery near the mouth of the harbour, and fled one night in an open boat, taking with him four Albanian soldiers. They rowed across the Sea of Marmora to the isle of that name; and after lurking for a time among its marble quarries, feeding on nuts like so many squirrels, they sailed over to Natolia, where they were taken in the Sangiac of Bigah, and made prisoners. The four Albanian soldiers were shot on the instant; but he has been sent here, on board the Mahmoudieh—yonder war-steamer now at anchor in the bay—and to-morrow, before the sun is at its height, he shall be shot to death in the Valley of the Little Mosque.'
'After all he has endured?'
'Poor fellow!'
'Mashallah! Human life is only a deceitful enjoyment,' replied Hussein, who was an inveterate quoter of the Koran; 'but may I never see Paradise if his story is not a strange one; I shall tell it to you—'tis a tale, like any other, and I heard it all, being one of the court-martial at Bigah which sentenced him to die.'
After draining his little coffee-cup, refilling the capacious bowl of his pipe, and taking a few prodigious whiffs, the Yuze Bashi related the following story, which—with the reader's permission—I will rehearse in my own words; and while he spoke, the noble figure, stately presence, pale beauty, and splendid eyes of the manly Albanian Greek, seemed ever and painfully to be before me.