A Victor of Salamis
“_Euge!_ Since the choice is to grapple or fly, we had better grapple.”
The governor shifted again the steering paddles. The head of the
_Nausicaä_ fell away toward her attacker, but no signal was given to
quicken the oars. The Barbarian, noting what her opponent did, but justly
fearing the handiness of the Greeks, slackened also. The two ships drifted
slowly together. Long before they closed in unfriendly contact the arrows
of the Phœnician pelted over the _Nausicaä_ like hail. Rowers fell as they
sat on the upper benches; on the poop the _prōreus_ lay with half his men.
Glaucon never counted how many missiles dinted his helmet and buckler. The
next instant the two ships were drifting without steerage-way. The
grappling-irons dashed down upon the Athenian, and simultaneously the
brown Phœnician boarders were scrambling like cats upon her decks.
“Swords, men!” called Themistocles, never less daunted than at the pinch,
“up and feed them with iron!”
Three times the Phœnicians poured as a flood over the _Nausicaä_. Three
times they were flung back with loss, but only to rage, call on their
gods, and return with tenfold fury. Glaucon had hurled one sheaf of
javelins, and tore loose another, eye and arm aiming, casting
mechanically. In the lulls he saw how wind and sea were sweeping the two
ships landward, until almost in arrow-shot of the rocky point where sat
Xerxes and his lords. He saw the king upon his ivory throne and all his
mighty men around him. He saw the scribes standing near with parchment and
papyrus, inscribing the names of this or that ship which did well or ill
in behalf of the lord of the Aryans. He saw the gaudy dresses of the
eunuchs, the litters, and from them peering forth the veiled women. Did
Artazostra think _now_ the Hellenes were mad fools to look her brother’s
power in the face? From the shores of Attica and of Salamis, where the
myriads rejoiced or wept as the scattered battle changed, the cries were
rising, falling, like the throb of a tragic chorus,—a chorus of Titans,
with the actors gods.
“Another charge!” shouted Ameinias, through the din, “meet them briskly,
lads!”
Once more the hoarse Semitic war-shout, the dark-faced Asiatics dropping
upon the decks, the whir of javelins, the scream of dying men, the clash
of steel on steel. A frantic charge, but stoutly met. Themistocles was in
the thickest _mêlée_. With his own spear he dashed two Tyrians overboard,
as they sprang upon the poop. The band that had leaped down among the oar
benches were hewn in pieces by the seamen. The remnant of the attackers
recoiled in howls of despair. On the Phœnician’s decks the Greeks saw the
officers laying the lash mercilessly across their men, but the
disheartened creatures did not stir. Now could be seen Ariamenes, the high
admiral himself, a giant warrior in his purple and gilded armour, going up
and down the poop, cursing, praying, threatening,—all in vain. The
_Nausicaä’s_ people rose and cheered madly.
“Enough! They have enough! Glory to Athens!”
But here Ameinias gripped Themistocles’s arm. The chief turned, and all
the Hellenes with him. The cheer died on their lips. A tall trireme was
bearing down on them in full charge even while the _Nausicaä_ drifted.
They were as helpless as the Sidonian they had sent to death. One groan
broke from the Athenians.
“Save, Athena! Save! It is Artemisia! The queen of Halicarnassus!”
The heavy trireme of the amazon princess was a magnificent sight as they
looked on her. Her oars flew in a flashing rhythm. The foam leaped in a
cataract over her ram. The sun made fire of the tossing weapons on her
prow. A yell of triumph rose from the Phœnicians. On the _Nausicaä_ men
dropped sword and spear, moaned, raved, and gazed wildly on Themistocles
as if he were a god possessing power to dash the death aside.
“To your places, men!” rang his shout, as he faced the foe unmoved, “and
die as Athenians!”
Then even while men glanced up at the sun to greet Helios for the last
time, there was a marvel. The threatening beak shot around. The trireme
flew past them, her oars leaping madly, her people too intent on escape
even to give a flight of javelins. And again the Athenians cheered.
“The _Perseus_! Cimon has saved us.”
Not three ships’ lengths behind the Halicarnassian raced the ship of the
son of Miltiades. They knew now why Artemisia had veered. Well she might;
had she struck the _Nausicaä_ down, her own broadside would have swung
defenceless to the fleet pursuer. The _Perseus_ sped past her consort at
full speed, Athenian cheering Athenian as she went.
“Need you help?” called Cimon, from his poop, as Themistocles waved his
sword.
“None, press on, smite the Barbarian! Athena is with us!”
“Athena is with us! Zeus is with us!”
The _Nausicaä’s_ crew were lifted from panic to mad enthusiasm. Still
above them towered the tall Phœnician, but they could have scaled Mt.
Caucasus at that instant.
“Onward! Up and after them,” rang Ameinias’s blast, “she is our own, we
will take her under the king’s own eye.”
The javelins and arrows were pelting from the Barbarian. The Athenians
mocked the shower as they leaped the void from bulwark to bulwark. Vainly
the Phœnicians strove to clear the grapples. Too firm! Their foes came on
to their decks with long leaps, or here and there ran deftly on projecting
spars, for what athlete of Hellas could not run the tight rope? In an
instant the long rowers’ deck of the Tyrian was won, and the attackers
cheered and blessed Athena. But this was only storming the first outpost.
Like castles forward and aft reared the prow and poop, whither the sullen
defenders retreated. Turning at bay, the Phœnicians swarmed back into the
waist, waiting no scourging from their officers. Now their proud admiral
himself plunged into the _mêlée_, laying about with a mighty sword worthy
of Ajax at Troy, showing he was a prince of the Aryans indeed. It took all
the steadiness of Ameinias and his stoutest men to stop the rush, and save
the Athenians in turn from being driven overboard. The rush was halted
finally, though this was mere respite before a fiercer breaking of the
storm. The two ships were drifting yet closer to the strand. Only the fear
of striking their own men kept the Persians around the king from clouding
the air with arrows. Glaucon saw the grandees near Xerxes’s throne
brandishing their swords. In imagination he saw the monarch leaping from
his throne in agony as at Thermopylæ.
“Back to the charge,” pealed Ariamenes’s summons to the Tyrians; “will you
be cowards and dogs beneath the very eyes of the king?”
The defenders answered with a second rush. Others again hurled darts from
the stern and foreship. Then out of the mælstrom of men and weapons came a
truce. Athenian and Tyrian drew back, whilst Themistocles and Ariamenes
were fighting blade to blade. Twice the giant Persian almost dashed the
Hellene down. Twice Themistocles recovered poise, and paid back stroke for
stroke. He had smitten the helmet from Ariamenes’s head and was swinging
for a master-blow when his foot slipped on the bloody plank. He staggered.
Before he could recover, the Persian had brought his own weapon up, and
flung his might into the downward stroke.
“The admiral—lost!” Athenians shuddered together, but with the groan shot
a javelin. Clear through the scales of the cuirass it tore, and into the
Persian’s shoulder,—Glaucon’s cast, never at the Isthmus truer with hand
or eye. The ponderous blade turned, grazed the Athenian’s corselet,
clattered on the deck. The Persian sprang back disarmed and powerless. At
sight thereof the Phœnicians flung down their swords. True Orientals, in
the fate of their chief they saw decreeing Destiny,—what use to resist it?
“Yield, my Lord, yield,” called Glaucon, in Persian, “the battle is
against you, and no fault of yours. Save the lives of your men.”
Ariamenes gave a toss of his princely head, and with his left hand plucked
the javelin from his shoulder.
“A prince of the Aryans knows how to die, but not how to yield,” he cast
back, and before the Athenians guessed his intent he sprang upon the
bulwark. There in the sight of his king he stood and bowed his head and
with his left arm made the sign of adoration.
“Seize him!” shouted Ameinias, divining his intent, but too late. The
Persian leaped into the water. In his heavy mail he sank like lead. The
wave closed over him, as he passed forever from the sight of man.
There was stillness on the Tyrian for a moment. A groan of helpless horror
was rising from the Barbarians on the shore. Then the Phœnicians fell upon
their knees, crying in their harsh tongue, “Quarter! Quarter!” and
embracing and kissing the feet of the victors. Thanks to the moment of
quietness given them, the Athenians’ blood had cooled a little; they
gathered up the weapons cast upon the deck; there was no massacre.
Themistocles mounted the poop of the captured flag-ship, and Glaucon with
him. The wind was wafting them again into the centre of the channel. For
the first time for many moments they were able to look about them, to ask,
“How goes the battle?” Not the petty duel they had fought, but the great
battle of battles which was the life-struggle of Hellas. And behold, as
they gazed they pressed their hands upon their eyes and looked and looked
again, for the thing they saw seemed overgood for truth. Where the great
Barbarian line had been pushing up the strait, were only bands of
scattered ships, and most of these turning their beaks from Salamis. The
waves were strewn with wrecks, and nigh every one a Persian. And right,
left, and centre the triumphant Hellenes were pressing home, ramming,
grappling, capturing. Even whilst the fight raged, pinnaces were thrusting
out from Salamis—Aristeides’s deed, they later heard—crowded with martial
graybeards who could not look idly on while their sons fought on the
ships, and who speedily landed on Psyttaleia to massacre the luckless
Persians there stationed. The cheers of the Barbarians were ended now;
from the shores came only a beastlike howling which drowned the pæans of
the victors. As the _Nausicaä’s_ people looked, they could see the once
haughty Phœnicians and Cilicians thrusting back against the land, and the
thousands of footmen running down upon the shore to drag the shattered
triremes up and away from the triumphant Hellenes.
The _Nausicaä’s_ people in wondering gaze stood there for a long time as
if transfixed, forgetful how their ship and its prize drifted, forgetful
of weariness, forgetful of wounds. Then as one man they turned to the poop
of the captured Tyrian, and to Themistocles. _He_ had done it—their
admiral. He had saved Hellas under the eyes of the vaunting demigod who
thought to be her destroyer. They called to Themistocles, they worshipped
as if he were the Olympian himself.
CHAPTER XXX
THEMISTOCLES GIVES A PROMISE
After the _Nausicaä_ had returned that night to Salamis, after the old men
and the women had laughed and wept over the living,—they were too proud to
weep over the dead,—after the prudent admirals had set the fleet again in
order, for Xerxes might tempt fate again in the morning with his remaining
ships, Themistocles found himself once more in his cabin. With him was
only Glaucon the Alcmæonid. The admiral’s words were few and pointed.
“Son of Conon, last night you gave me the thought whereby I could save
Hellas. To-day your javelin saved me from death. I owe you much. I will
repay in true coin. To-morrow I can give you back to your wife and all
your friends if you will but suffer me.”
The younger man flushed a little, but his eyes did not brighten. He felt
Themistocles’s reservation.
“On what terms?”