CHAPTER XVI
THE REWARD
The angry words of a soldier suddenly rang through the market, and the music at the lower end of the street ceased. The people, attracted by the commotion, began to flock in that direction, for a fight was one of the features of market day. At a sign from the priest, the soldier raised his rifle and knocked down the Armenian with whom he was quarreling. The other soldiers immediately sprang to their feet; and the Lazis, taking from beneath their cloaks the long knotty clubs which they had secreted, crowded about as if to join the fray.
“Why are those mountaineers here in such numbers? and why are they armed?” whispered the terror-stricken people.
There was some comfort in the thought that the unusual number of soldiers in the village would afford some protection, should there be trouble, yet the alarm spread through the market. The lemonade man no longer clanked his glasses; the butcher forgot to switch the flies from his mutton; the unknown Jew ceased to chant the praises of his cheap “Americani” goods. The noisy bustle of the market suddenly became an intense silence; the blow that felled the Armenian was apparently the beginning of the rumored massacre. The excited Lazis stood for a moment watching the mollah; and at a motion of his hand they rushed at the crowd.
Beneath the floor of Dicran’s shop was a small cellar-like hole, to which a trap door gave access. It was so seldom used that few of the villagers knew of its existence. While the terrified people were trying to escape from the pursuing Lazis, Dicran hurriedly raised the door, lifted Armenouhi and Vassinag down, and then following with Vartan, fastened the door from below; he hoped they might remain concealed until the trouble was over. The shrieks and groans of the victims pierced their ears. Crouching in the far corner against the dirt wall, and trembling with fright, the girls threw their arms about each other, while the men stood ready to defy entrance, if they were discovered. They presently heard the heavy tread of soldiers on the boards above.
“And where is Dicran, chief of them all?” the priest demanded of the tax collector, who was close at his heels.
Hassan Bey, half dead with fright, fearing that some Laz would kill him for the Armenian that he was, and hoping to secure his own safety, was encouraging the massacre of his own people. He knew of the place beneath the floor, over which the mollah was at that moment standing, and he believed that Dicran was hiding there. He hesitated, but only for an instant. Had not old Dicran refused him Armenouhi? Was not vengeance sweet? and he pointed to the door beneath the priest’s feet.
“Leave him down there, and we’ll keep him for the last,” cried the priest, finding that the door was securely fastened; and to prevent escape, he stationed the chaoush and his four soldiers in the shop.
The mollah’s savage words alarmed the captives beneath. Vassinag fainted in Armenouhi’s arms; Vartan was dazed and silent, but the old man set his teeth with a firm resolve to sell his life as dearly as possible. They heard the sound of retreating steps, and the shuffling of the soldiers’ feet on the boards above their heads.
It would be distressing to describe half the horrors enacted in the village on that market day. Some of the Armenians escaped to the mountains. Others concealed themselves in their houses, and were dragged out and beaten to death before their wives and children. Others sought refuge in the church, hoping that the sanctity of the place might save them. A heavy blow against the door turned their hope to alarm. A second blow burst the door open, and in rushed the frenzied savages. It was but a moment’s work to thrust the old women and children into the street, and bid them be off, while the fairest of the young women were seized to become the slaves of the soldiers, a reward for their services. The church door was then closed and barred, imprisoning a score of defenseless men.
“Straw! Straw!” shouted the priest.
A dozen men, among them Hassan Bey, rushed to the neighboring stables, and in a moment returned with great bundles of it. They stuffed it into the openings beneath the building.
“Gaz!” again shouted the mollah, and three men who had anticipated the order came running from the grocer’s shop with large cans of Russian petroleum.
The oil was quickly poured over the combustible materials; the mollah took from his turban a box of matches, ignited one, and threw it into the straw. The flames darted upward and soon enveloped the building. The Moslem waited until he was satisfied that none within could be alive, and then slowly walked along the street to the old well on which the village depended for water; if the dead were to be buried, there was a grave already dug; and bidding the Turks collect the bodies, he watched them as they fell splashing into the water.