A Touch of Sin (26 page)

That evening she consulted with Jean-Paul and Jules. Or more accurately informed them of her decision. "I've decided to try to find Pasha, or at least sail to Nauplia. The capital has been in Greek hands for three years now. It should be safer than Paris."

At the expected protest, she firmly declared, "The Clouards are willing to do anything to save their inheritance." And she related what the kidnapper had said. "Even such a man warned me against them. I
can't
stay here." She took a deep breath because in order to say what she was about to say, she would have to deal with the fact she was perhaps a woman of a certain class. "Pasha offered me his protection should I ever need it, and I'm desperate enough to do whatever's necessary to see that Chris is safe." It wasn't easy to take advantage of the brief relationship she'd had with Pasha, but he'd offered. Had his family been in Paris she would have petitioned them for help, but they were more difficult to reach than Pasha. And she couldn't trust legal means to stop the Clouards; they operated outside the law. So if it required fleeing to Greece to put her son out of harm's way, she intended to make that journey.

"We could put guards on the house," Jean-Paul suggested.

"The Clouards could bribe one of them. They're willing to use any means and any amount of money."

"Greece is in the throes of Ibrahim's invasion. The war is very uncertain," Jules warned.

"As is my life in civilized Paris or the quiet of Kent," Trixi countered. "I won't be deterred, gentlemen, so if you'd please arrange for an escort to Marseille, I'd appreciate it. Are there any restrictions on Pasha's orders concerning me?" She should be more polite, she thought, listening to her clipped voice. Pasha's household was exceedingly gracious to her, but she felt besieged by the Clouards, attacked in the very heart of a secure home. She'd been in fear for her son too long; she refused to remain a docile target. "Or if there are restrictions," she went on, "perhaps you could advance me funds which I'd repay from the sale of my horses, and I'd be happy to make the journey myself."

She refused to simply wait for the next attack.

Pasha's orders were explicit—Lady Grosvenor was to be accommodated, so it was agreed Jules would accompany her. Intent on seeing Pasha's orders followed to the letter, he immediately began arrangements for the journey. He understood as well that his employer's instructions hadn't been lightly given, even though Pasha had relayed his directions with an apparent casualness. But Pasha had never gone out of his way for any woman before. Jules suspected something more than friendship in his master's carte blanche generosity.

Now Lady Grosvenor had expressed her wishes, and it was up to him to see that the plans for their journey to Greece advanced with dispatch.

His first act was to send a message to Pasha informing him of Lady Grosvenor's intentions. He had one of the grooms ride with it in all haste to Marseille. He hoped it would precede their arrival.

One never knew the particular female company with whom Pasha was involved. He would prefer not walking into an embarrassing scene.

The only embarrassing thing about the scene in Greece at the moment was that two hundred twenty-seven Greek guerrilla fighters were facing twelve thousand of Ibrahim's Frank-trained troops, four hundred of his cavalry, and ten large-scale artillery pieces purchased in England.

"Even as a nonreligious man," Pasha sardonically murmured, surveying the force arrayed against them from behind the ruined garden wall at the Mills of Lerna, "I'm seriously thinking of having your priest give me a last blessing."

"You've plenty of time, my friend," Makriyannis lazily replied, sprawled with his back against the wall. "The Turks won't move in this hot sun. But take the priest's blessing anyway for good luck. And if his prayers don't protect you, his sharpshooting might. He's a crack shot."

The small force had been working for two days to ready the ground for the Turkish attack. The mill was crammed with supplies and ammunition the Greek ships had taken as prizes from the Turks, and Ibrahim was here now to take back their supplies. Also, unknown to Ibrahim, the chief part of the grain stores for Greece were at the mill, making it a crucial site to defend.

The Greeks had thrown a ring of redoubts round the mills and built up the wall right into the sea. The watchtower near the mill had been augmented with firing holes above the first floor and in the basement, and the water had been cut off from the millrace and made to flow underground to the tower, so there would be no lack of water as there'd been at Navarino. A sniper's nest had been built on the tiles of the tower; the area around the mills had been made so strong that they could fight there until they were shot to pieces. Which was the intent of the small guerrilla force. For if that ground was taken, Nauplia would go, too. There wasn't a drop of water in town, or any defensive artillery.

"Ibrahim hasn't moved from the sunshades they rigged up for him," Pasha murmured, gazing across the sloping ground. "Convenient way to fight a war."

"He won't move even when the sun goes down," Makriyannis noted. "The coward has others to fight for him."

"I wouldn't mind having some of Kolokotronis's army in the trenches with us."

"His army wore out their shoe leather running up to the safety of the mountains. We'll have to be the ones to save our country."

Pasha surveyed the millpond and garden, the azure sea behind them. "I suppose it's as good a place as any to die."

"When one is resolved to die," Makriyannis said, shutting his eyes, "seldom does one lose."

"A pleasant thought." Pasha made himself comfortable in the shade of the wall. "I hope you're right. Wake me when they attack."

Not till the shimmering haze of heat had subsided did the shout, "The Turks, the Turks!" wake everyone with a start. The defenders leaped into position, training their rifles on an attacking column coming up the hill at a run. The first Greek volley tore through the enemy ranks and the Turkish line faltered. Taking advantage of that small hesitation, the guerrillas poured over the walls like fiends from hell and fell upon the wavering line, slashing with their knives and swords, driving the Turks back down the hill.

The rashness of the Greek attack, its ferocity, unsettled the Turkish troops, and while they rallied their line, they didn't advance again. They waited for Ibrahim.

After a lengthy interval, he came up with six or seven more columns, deployed his mounted troops and infantry on every side, had his cavalry ring the mills ready at the charge, and set more artillery in position.

Everyone in the small defending force, knowing there was little chance against such odds, took their posts.

Dusk was approaching before the Turkish columns finally began moving in ranks of disciplined order. In his pride, Ibrahim had set up his heavy cannon and brought up two additional columns. In the first charge, the Turks overran the enclosure, the tower of the enclosure, and all the ground surrounding it—pushing the Greek forces back to the walls facing the sea.

There they dug in, picked their targets, sighted in, and prepared to die.

At the next assault a desperate hand-to-hand battle ensued, the heat still oppressive, not a breath of wind, the smoke from the muskets and rifles like a mist, a fog, the Turks slowly overwhelming the small force by their sheer numbers.

"Fire on the officers!" Pasha suddenly shouted, taking aim at a captain in gold braid. Through the smoke and din, the call passed from Greek to Greek. By this point, hundreds of Turks had been killed and wounded, the Greeks being accomplished marksmen, and the officers were forcing the columns up now against their will. One by one, the Greeks began picking off the officers, killing them with such precision it wasn't long before the spirit went out of the attack. The lines began to slow, falter, and break. Drawing his yataghan, Makriyannis shouted, "Up and over!" and leaped the wall with a bloodcurdling yell. The guerrilla fighters drew their swords and followed him, falling upon the wavering lines with a vengeance.

The Turks broke and ran.

But Ibrahim had his officers beat them back, and they charged once again, breaking the fragile Greek line, routing it. Retreating to their posts, the Greeks held against another attack.

Suddenly, a stillness fell over the field of battle. The Turks were bringing in their dead and wounded. Taking advantage of the lull, Pasha and Makriyannis handed out the last of the cartridges. As each man pocketed his twenty rounds, the guerrilla fighters understood the coming advance would be their last. "And now we try our luck against the tyranny of the Turks," Makriyannis said to the men with their backs to the sea. "And if we die, we die for our country and faith."

The Greeks took the offensive this time, vaulting over the wall, charging at the startled Turks, firing volley after volley until their weapons were empty, then drawing their yataghans because there wasn't time to reload. The unexpected, appalling slaughter was terrifying to the invaders, every Greek cartridge finding its mark, and against such wild, fierce attackers Ibrahim's forces turned fainthearted and ran.

A cheer went up all along the thin Greek line as the Turks abandoned their positions and took flight. The small, outnumbered force was triumphant, its enemies routed. Pasha's glance met Makriyannis's across the dead bodies and slaughter, the breeze lifting the smoke away into the twilight sky. He raised his sword in salute to the klepht
kapetan
. "To independence," he said, smiling broadly through the blood and grime of battle.

"To fine marksmanship," Makriyannis replied, his grin white against his powder-blackened face. "And good friends."

Trixi's flight began the following day, the journey to Marseille accomplished with speed, fresh horses ready at each post stop, the logistics smoothly managed by Jules. He was accomplished at his task, the run from Paris to the Duras shipping line at Marseille a matter of routine.

A small, fast schooner was at the ready when they arrived, and without delay they set sail. Safe at last, Trixi thought, watching the shoreline recede into a gray misty sky, feeling a tangible relief. Whatever faced her in the days ahead, at least she was free from the Clouards.

"Let her go," Phillipe was arguing, about the time the sails on the Duras's schooner filled and the ship picked up speed. "Even if we turn over the money as ordered by the magistrate, if she doesn't claim it, it reverts to our family. You're a fool to take this vendetta so far." Information on Trixi and Chris had finally been gleaned after two frenzied days of activity by Jerome's agents.

"It's three million francs, damn you. And it may or may not revert to us. She's not an innocent maid from Kent if she's sleeping with Pasha Duras. And he hasn't been within shooting distance of innocence his entire life. I'm telling you, the boy must be found and silenced. Or we lose three million."

"You're demented. Who will you find to scud off to
Greece in the hopes of tracking her down? All your paid informers are no more than gossip-collectors from the streets of Paris. Just give up, you fool. She's gone and good riddance."