CHAPTER II

I

On the verandah, under the shade thrown by the blossoming almond tree, sat a boy who at first sight would seem to be some fourteen years of age. It was a hot day without the suspicion of a breeze, and he stretched himself out in a wicker chair while he fanned himself with a broad, soft-brimmed white hat. He was dressed, although it was only early spring, as boys in England dress in the hottest days of summer, that is when they are holidaying and have escaped the vigilance of their mothers. A white cricket shirt, open at the neck, showed a chest and throat tanned to a rich brown by the suns of Asia Minor. His face had the deep healthy tone of one who had exposed himself to the fiercest heat of the sun, but the tan could not hide the pink and red which mantled the clear skin of the boy's face. His head was covered with a disordered mass of brown hair that had a tendency to curl. The impression of all who saw young John Dean, was that of a remarkably handsome English boy. The mouth was finely shaped, the nose straight, with a curious little curve in the nostrils which gave at times an expression of disdain to the face. But the eyes were the arresting feature, they looked out from beneath long lashes, with a light in them so luminous that they appeared to be always on the verge of laughter. John was now twelve years of age, and not thirteen or fourteen as his robust frame suggested. Dressed in a pair of short white knickers, with a long length of brown leg showing, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows, he gave promise of a wonderful manhood. For Charles Dean's whim was daily growing true. This straight tall boy had a classic mould that followed the grace of the "Narcissus" which had given him his name. And to this distinction was added a manner that attracted all. The boy's voice was clear, his laughter infectious; he had an air of command which probably was half innate and partly due to being a European among foreigners. For he ruled his playmates imperiously. The _arabya_ drivers who gave him many a lift along the roads, the _zaptiehs_ whose rifles he handled, and whose stories he listened to breathlessly, down to the Turkish and Armenian boys of his own age, recognised without question his imperious will. He was "John effendi" in the eyes of all the inhabitants of Amasia, not only because he was the son of the Englishman, but also by reason of that will to rule.

But there was one follower of John effendi who not only respected and obeyed, but worshipped silently. It was Ali, the son of the watermill owner. Ali was a Turk and proud of his blood. He was a year older than John, tall, and in a different way quite as notable as his friend. He had fair wavy hair, always kept close-cropped. His whole life had been spent playing on the banks of the Yeshil Irmak, or the Iris as it was popularly called, and his young body was lithe and brown as a panther's. When he moved it was with the sleek grace of that animal. The muscles slid under their satiny sheaths with a suggestion of cryptic strength. He could run like a hare and swim like an otter, accomplishments which quickly endeared him to John who was his rival in all these things. Ali, by his father's position,--for he was a well-to-do, judged by oriental standard--though more because of his own spirit and strength, was a boy who reigned among his companions. Only to one was he known to give way, to John, whom he followed with an intense, doglike devotion.

It was of Ali that John was thinking this morning as he sat on the verandah. Where was Ali now? Probably he had gone to the mosque with his father, for it was nearing noon. He wondered whether Ali would come round to the house. They had planned a great adventure for that day. They were to meet by the market drinking-fountain at eleven o'clock and then to climb the great rock on whose summit stood the castle. Ali's uncle, the warden, was going to show them all the dungeons and court rooms. It would have been a wonderful treat, and now he had been forbidden to leave the gardens because of a silly suspicion of his father's. Last night they had heard the drums droning even louder than usual. The sound grew to such a volume that the whole gorge had reverberated with it, and it had awakened him although he always slept soundly. At breakfast his father had looked worried, and it was plain to see from Anna's nervousness that something was upsetting them. His father had been in the garden soon after rising, and he heard him tell Anna that Achmed was like a bear with a sore head. Then Anna did a mean thing. She said, "Do you think that John should go up to the Castle, sir," and his father immediately said "No." It was in vain that he pleaded that Ali expected him. Ali would have to go alone, he was forbidden to leave the garden.

So John sat on the chair idly swinging one leg over the arm while he fanned himself. Anna was becoming a nuisance. She had increased her authority ever since his dear mother had died two years ago now. The thought of his mother led his mind back to the almond tree he and his father had planted on the grave in the little cemetery of the American Mission at Marsovan. He remembered that day clearly, because he could never forget seeing his father as he bent down, stamping the soil about the roots of the sapling. His father's shoulders seemed to be twitching curiously and when John looked at his face, he saw he was crying. It was strange to see his father cry, he did not know men could do that, and it hurt him so much, that he had grasped his strong hand and cried "Don't Daddy!" which did not improve matters, for his father had gathered him up in his arms and pressed him to him until he could scarcely breathe. And then John too cried. He would never forget that day.

If only his mother were living now, thought John; she would not let Anna be so strict with him, although he knew that his nurse was like a second mother.

As he sat there with nothing to do on this lovely morning, the spirit of rebellion was strong within him. Restless, he got up and ran down the verandah steps towards the courtyard. In front of the stable door he paused, as if thinking, then swung back the door and entered. It was but the work of a minute to saddle his pony. There was just time in which to reach the fountain and tell Ali that he could not go and then be back for lunch with his father.

A few minutes later John was cantering down the highway into Amasia. He passed the heavily laden camels trudging along with their deep-sounding camel bells slowly tolling, a cloud of dust rising about their pounding feet. Now and then a Turk would greet the boy with a profound salaam, but he could not help observing that the greetings were not so cordial or numerous this morning. A few of the Turks he passed, who knew him well by sight, turned their faces away as he went by, and John recalled his father's words when he had come in from the garden before breakfast. Had they all got sore heads, he wondered.

In the market place he passed little groups that stood talking around their merchandise spread out on the ground, but he had no time this morning for sauntering in and out of the motley gathering. When he reached the fountain, it was exactly eleven o'clock but there was no sign of Ali. So dismounting, John slung the rein over his arm and waited. A number of dusty _arabyas_ rattled by, evidently coming in from Marsovan. Two Circassians, their coloured waist-bands gleaming with dagger handles, and long breeched revolvers, rode up to the fountain to water their horses, two superb animals which these wild men rode as if born in the saddle. With characteristic insolence they pushed away a Turk who was watering his mule, and the angry old fellow went off waving his arms and leaving a stream of abuse behind him.

It was very hot and the increasing heat made John realise that it must be getting near noon. There was still no sign of Ali, but John dared not wait any longer, for he knew the penalty he would have to pay if his escapade were discovered. So mounting his pony, he gave it a flick with his whip and started off at a sharp canter on the way home. But he had not gone far before he became aware of a great commotion in front of him where the street narrowed just at the entrance to the bazaar. A crowd of loose-cloaked Turks were seething towards the door, and a frantic yelling broke on the boy's ears as he approached. Impelled by curiosity he urged his pony forward and soon reached the fringe of the mob. As he did so a Turk caught hold of his rein and forced the pony back on its haunches. The frightened animal immediately wheeled and kicked out, scattering the dense crowd left and right, and when the boy had managed to rein in his frightened mount, he saw that he was hemmed in by the crowd, with his back to the wall.

Even then he was not aware of the danger in which he stood, but at his side in a heap, huddled against the wall, was a figure. Hastily looking down John saw it was a man. One glance told him that the Armenian was dead, and as he stared at the corpse, with its bloodstained tunic, the yelling broke loose again, and the crowd surged up towards him. From the bazaar door another Armenian came out. Before the man saw his peril, his retreat was cut off, and he flung himself behind the pony and the boy. Mounted on his saddle, John's head was just above those of the crowd, and as he looked down upon the scowling angry mob, his heart thumped in his chest.

With set face, the boy backed his pony so as to cover the terrified Armenian. But the crowd would not be baulked of its prey, it was determined to set blood flowing. A bullet sang through the air and hit the wall with a sharp thud, and a fat dirty Turk, drawing a wicked-looking knife from his belt, tried to get between the Armenian and his protector. Instantly John raised his hand, the lash of his whip whistled as it cut through the air, and the man backed with a howl of rage and pain. John raised his whip again, his eyes blazing in his tense face.

"If any of you want a thrashing, come and get it!" he cried, his young voice sounding shrilly above the low muttering of the crowd. They stared at this young English boy, with his firm set face and defiant head. Perhaps his courage stirred them, or it may have been the fury of this child bare-throated and slim, who looked at them unflinchingly. The crowd backed a little and as it did so John saw in its midst, Mehmet, the brother of their gardener Achmed.

"Mehmet!" he cried, "if anything happens to this man I shall give information to the _Zaptiehs_ about you."

The threat had its effect, the English never invoked the authorities in vain. Seeing his opportunity, the boy turned his pony sideways.

"Keep between me and the wall!" he shouted to the terrified Armenian, as he urged the animal forwards. Out-man[oe]uvred, the mob made no attempt to follow, and the Armenian and his protector went their way down the street. When they were at a safe distance and the clamour had died away, the boy pulled up his pony to give the man time to get breath.

"Oh, master!" cried the man, "my poor brother!" John looked down at the Armenian. He was a man of about fifty, thin, with black straggling hair and pinched cheeks.

"Was that your brother?" asked John.

The man nodded his head, choked with tears.

"How did it begin?"

"A boy stole a ring from our stall. He fled into the street and my poor brother ran after him and was beating him when the father came up--Usef the butcher."

The Armenian shook from head to foot, and John waited while he gathered his breath, then they moved on again. After going for about half a mile, the Armenian stopped and clasped the boy's hand.

"Young master, God bless you for this!" he cried, kissing the boy's hand. "I am safe here, my home is near by. I shall never forget you, young master," and kissing this time the boy's knee, he turned and disappeared down a narrow courtway.

On the outskirts of Amasia, John realised how near he had been to disaster. His courage was sinking rapidly, no longer sustained by the excitement. Whipping up his pony he cantered up the home drive and rode with a clatter into the courtyard, and as he did so, he saw that his thoughtlessness had betrayed him, for his father, hearing the sound, came out on to the verandah.

John stabled the pony, and then entered through the dining room on to the verandah where his father sat waiting.

"Well?" was his greeting.

John hung his head a little; he was still quivering with the excitement of the last half hour, but he tensed his muscles and threw his head up with a determined look. Bean watching his son closely, saw the lithe young body stiffen, and he mistook the effort of self-control for one of defiance.

"You know I forbade you to go out: Have you anything to say?"

"No, father."

"Very well,--fetch the switch."

II

Three days later, John sat with his father having dinner on the verandah, for it was a warm evening and the stars glimmered in a cloudless sky. Over the western precipice the daylight had not quite disappeared, there was a strip of red which higher up changed to a light green and gradually merged into the dark blue of the night. They could hear the Iris singing along its bed, a deep full-toned note now, for the melting of the mountain snows was increasing its volume. John did not usually sit up to dinner, but to-night he was enjoying a special privilege which his father gave him occasionally. After dinner he would sit on his father's knee while he was read to from an exciting story book--a custom of his mother's which had been faithfully retained. So when the dinner had been served and the servants had cleared the table and shut the windows behind them, John fetched the book for his father to read. As he handed it to him, Dean took the child's hand in his own, holding it while the boy stood between his knees.

"John, why didn't you tell me what happened when you disobeyed me the other morning?"

John looked into his father's face; some one had told him then.

"I didn't think that was any excuse, Daddy," he said simply.

As he spoke, Dean looked at the boy. What an astounding sense of logic the child had! Of course it was no excuse, he had disobeyed and had accepted his punishment; but it was amazing that no advantage had been taken of the incident at the bazaar. For a minute there was silence, in which neither spoke, and Dean's hand closed tightly over his son's. This boy was made of good stuff. A great pride in him leapt up in Dean's heart.

"John," he said gravely, "I am very proud of you. You were a young Englishman that morning. You made no excuses--which I loathe, and you didn't flinch in a tight corner, which makes me proud of you," and with that said, he lifted the boy up on to his knees and began reading.

John's taste for fiction had undergone a change. Once he had loved tiger stories, and hunting yarns in India; now he wanted school stories. It fascinated him to know how English boys lived in that far country where he had been born. Their escapades at school, their tricks on masters, their friendships, sports, quarrels, the fagging and the lordly prefects, all filled him with wonder and delight. As he listened to these tales, a great desire grew up within him. He longed to be with them, to go to an English school. It would be St. Martin's or St. David's--for all big schools began with St. something he discovered. He would be among English boys there and perhaps share a study with one of them. They would be great friends and then they would quarrel and "cut" one another. He didn't like the idea of the quarrel, but it was necessary, otherwise he couldn't get hurt on the football field, scoring the goal that won the match for the school.

Yes, he would have to quarrel, because how otherwise could his friend help him to limp back to his study, and then shake hands, and sit down to make toast, as in the days before they had quarrelled? John also wondered what the school chapel would be like. He had never been in a chapel. He imagined there would be hundreds of boys bowing their heads, and the stern-faced headmaster would speak in a deep voice (that was really kind although it would seem terrible), and at his side there would be a big boy crying, a prefect--for was not this his last Sunday? There would also be the pealing organ--he wondered how an organ would sound--and the light would stream down through the high-coloured windows and rest on the heads of the boys while the lines of the last hymn died away. For the light always streamed through highly coloured windows in school chapels--that was what helped the prefect to cry. It would be---

"John, you are not listening--are you sleepy?" said his father.

"No, Daddy--I was only wondering--"

"What?"

"If only I could go to a big school like that, and have friends and--"

"Well, you will one day."

"Oh! In England?" asked John, his eyes dancing with excitement.

"Yes--when you are a little older."

"O-o-oh!" cried John, flinging his brown arms round Dean's neck, and wriggling his body until his face touched his father's. "And shall I have a study, and a big box with my name on it--'J. N. Dean' in great black letters?"

"Yes, Anna will pack it full with your clothes."

"Oh, how glorious--and you will come too?"

Dean laughed, and pinched his son's leg.

"No, old son--they won't have daddies at school." Then seeing the young face cloud over, "But I shall take you there. When you are fourteen we will all go to England for a holiday, and I shall leave you at school."

"And come back here?"

"Yes, you see your father has to make money to pay for your schooling."

The young arm tightened around his neck, and in the dim light Dean saw the boy's mouth quiver.

"I don't want to leave you, Daddy."

"It won't be for long, not very long," he said, "and when you have grown up you will be able to keep your old Daddy always by your side--if you want him."

"I shall always want you. There's--there's only us."

There was a silence then between the man and the boy. Dean stared out across the valley. The stars glittered frostily and the moon was coming up behind the precipice. But he hardly noticed that, for his thoughts were far away in England. In two years or so he would be alone--out here, an exile, with his boy far away.

The moon slowly climbed, peered over the precipice and then flooded the gorge. A breeze came wandering along the night and stirred the boy's hair as he lay sleeping in his father's arms. It was growing late, but Dean sat on, moving not, just looking down on the sleeping face of the tired boy.