A Victor of Salamis
“Men of Athens, this is no hour for windy rage. Else I should rage the
most, for who is more wronged than I? One whom we loved is fallen—later
let us weep for him. One whom we trusted is false—later punish him. But
now the work is neither to weep nor to punish, but to save Hellas. A great
battle impends in Bœotia. Except the Zeus of our sires and Athena of the
Pure Eyes be with us, we are men without home, without fatherland.
Pausanias and Aristeides must be warned. The _Nausicaä_ is the
‘Salaminia,’—the swiftest trireme in the fleet. Ours must be the deed, and
ours the glory. Enough of this—the men must hear, and then to the oars.”
Themistocles had changed from despair to a triumph note. There was uplift
even to look upon him. He strode before all his lieutenants up and out
upon the poop. The long tiers of benches and the gangways filled with
rowers peered up at him. They had seen their officers gather in the cabin,
and Dame Rumour, subtlest of Zeus’s messengers, had breathed
“ill-tidings.” Now the admiral stood forth, and in few words told all the
heavy tale. Again a great shout, whilst the bronzed men groaned on the
benches.
“Democrates is a traitor!”
A deity had fallen from their Olympus; the darling of the Athenians’s
democracy was sunk to vilest of the vile. But the admiral knew how to play
on their two hundred hearts better than Orpheus upon his lyre. Again the
note changed from despair to incitement, and when at last he called, “And
can we cross the Ægean as never trireme crossed and pluck back Hellas from
her fate?” thalamite, zygite, and thranite rose, tossing their brawny arms
into the air.
“_We can!_”
Then Themistocles folded his own arms and smiled. He felt the god was
still with him.
* * * * * * *
Yet, eager as was the will, they could not race forth instantly. Orders
must be written to Xanthippus, the Athenian vice-admiral far away, bidding
him at all hazards to keep the Persian fleet near Samos. Cimon was long in
privy council with Themistocles in the state cabin. At the same time a
prisoner was passed aboard the _Nausicaä_, not gently bound,—Hiram, a
precious witness, before the dogs had their final meal on him. But the
rest of the _Bozra’s_ people found a quicker release. The penteconter’s
people decided their fate with a yell.
“Sell such harpies for slaves? The money would stink through our pouches!”
So two by two, tied neck to neck and heel to heel, the wretches were flung
overboard, “because we lack place and wood to crucify you,” called the
_Nausicaä’s_ governor, as he pushed the last pair off into the leaden
sea,—for the day was distant when the destruction of such Barbarian rogues
would weigh even on tender consciences.
So the Carthaginians ceased from troubling, but before the penteconter and
the _Bozra_ bore away to join the remaining fleet, another deed was done
in sight of all three ships. For whilst Themistocles was with Cimon,
Simonides and Sicinnus had taken Glaucon to the _Nausicaä’s_ forecastle.
Now as the penteconter was casting off, again he came to view, and the
shout that greeted him was not of fear this time, but wonder and delight.
The Alcmæonid was clean-shaven, his hair clipped close, the black dye even
in a manner washed away. He had flung off the rough seaman’s dress, and
stood forth in all his godlike beauty.
Before all men Cimon, coming from the cabin, ran and kissed him once more,
whilst the rowers clapped their hands.
“Apollo—it is Delian Apollo! Glaucon the Beautiful lives again. _Io! Io!
pæan!_”
“Yes,” spoke Themistocles, in a burst of gladness. “The gods take one
friend, they restore another. Œdipus has read the sphinx’s riddle. Honour
this man, for he is worthy of honour through Hellas!”
The officers ran to the athlete, after them the sailors. They covered his
face and hands with kisses. He seemed escaped the Carthaginian to perish
in the embrace of his countrymen. Never was his blush more boyish, more
divine. Then a bugle-blast sent every man to his station. Cimon leaped
across to his smaller ship. The rowers of the _Nausicaä_ ran out their
oars, the hundred and seventy blades trailed in the water. Every man took
a long breath and fixed his eyes on the admiral standing on the poop. He
held a golden goblet set with turquoise, and filled with the blood-red
Pramnian wine. Loudly Themistocles prayed.
“Zeus of Olympus and Dodona, Zeus Orchios, rewarder of the oath-breaker,
to whom the Hellenes do not vainly pray, and thou Athena of the Pure Eyes,
give ear. Make our ship swift, our arms strong, our hearts bold. Hold back
the battle that we come not too late. Grant that we confound the guilty,
put to flight the Barbarian, recompense the traitor. So to you and all
other holy gods whose love is for the righteous we will proffer prayer and
sacrifice forever. Amen.”
He poured out the crimson liquor; far into the sea he flung the golden
cup.
“Heaven speed you!” shouted from the penteconter. Themistocles nodded. The
_keleustes_ smote his gavel upon the sounding-board. The triple oar bank
rose as one and plunged into the foam. A long “h-a!” went up from the
benches. The race to save Hellas was begun.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE RACE TO SAVE HELLAS
The chase had cost the Athenians dear. Before the _Bozra_ had submitted to
her fate, she had led the _Nausicaä_ and her consort well down into the
southern Ægean. A little more and they would have lifted the shaggy
headlands of Crete. The route before the great trireme was a long one. Two
thousand stadia,(13) as the crow flies, sundered them from the Euripus,
the nearest point whence they could despatch a runner to Pausanias and
Aristeides; and what with the twistings around the scattered Cyclades the
route was one-fourth longer. But men had ceased reckoning distance. Their
hearts were in the flying oars, and at first the _Nausicaä_ ran leaping
across the waves as leaps the dolphin,—the long gleaming blades springing
like shuttles in the hands of the ready crew. They had taken from the
penteconter all her spare rowers, and to make the great ship bound over
the steel-gray deep was children’s play. “We must save Hellas, and we
can!” That was the thought of all from Themistocles to the meanest
thranite.
So at the beginning when the task seemed light and hands were strong. The
breeze that had betrayed the _Bozra_ ever sank lower. Presently it died
altogether. The sails they set hung limp on the mast. The navarch had them
furled. The sea spread out before them, a glassy, leaden-coloured floor;
the waves roaring in their wake faded in a wide ripple far behind. To
hearten his men the _keleustes_ ceased his beating on the sounding-board,
and clapped lips to his pipe. The whole trireme chorussed the familiar
song together:—
“Fast and more fast
O’er the foam-spray we’re passed.
And our creaking sails swell
To the swift-breathing blast,
For Poseidon’s wild steeds
With their manifold feet,
Like a hundred white nymphs
On the blue sea-floor fleet.
And we wake as we go
Gray old Phorcys below,
Whilst on shell-clustered trumpets
The loud Tritons blow!
The loud Tritons blow!
“All of Æolus’s train
Springing o’er the blue main
To our pæans reply
With their long, long refrain;
And the sea-folk upleap
From their dark weedy caves;
With a clear, briny laugh
They dance over the waves;
Now their mistress below,—
See bright Thetis go,
As she leads the mad revels,
While loud Tritons blow!
While loud Tritons blow!
“With the foam gliding white,
Where the light flash is bright.
We feel the live keel
Leaping on with delight;
And in melody wild
Men and Nereids and wind
Sing and laugh all their praise,
To the bluff seagods kind;
Whilst deep down below,
Where no storm blasts may go,
On their care-charming trumpets
The loud Tritons blow,
The loud Tritons blow.”
Bravely thus for a while, but at last Themistocles, watching from the poop
with eyes that nothing evaded, saw how here and there the dip of the
blades was weakening, here and there a breast was heaving rapidly, a mouth
was panting for air.
“The relief,” he ordered. And the spare rowers ran gladly to the places of
those who seemed the weariest. Only a partial respite. Fifty
supernumeraries were a poor stop-gap for the one hundred and seventy. Only
the weakest could be relieved, and even those wept and pled to continue at
the benches a little longer. The thunderous threat of Ameinias, that he
who refused a proffered relief must stand all day by the mast with an iron
anchor on his shoulder, alone sufficed to make the malcontents give place.
Yet after a little while the singing died. Breath was too precious to
waste. It was mockery to troll of “Æolus’s winds” whilst the sea was one
motionless mirror of gray. The monotonous “beat,” “beat” of the
_keleustes’s_ hammer, and the creaking of the oars in their leathered
holes alone broke the stillness that reigned through the length of the
trireme. The penteconter and her prize had long since faded below the
horizon. With almost wistful eyes men watched the islets as they glided
past one after another, Thera now, then Ios, and presently the greater
Paros and Naxos lay before them. They relieved oars whenever possible. The
supernumeraries needed no urging after their scanty rest to spring to the
place of him who was fainting, but hardly any man spoke a word.
The first time the relief went in Glaucon had stepped forward.
“I am strong. I am able to pull an oar,” he had cried almost angrily when
Themistocles laid his hand upon him, but the admiral would have none of
it.
“You shall not. Sooner will I go on to the bench myself. You have been
through the gates of Tartarus these last days, and need all your strength.
Are you not the Isthmionices,—the swiftest runner in Hellas?”
Then Glaucon had stepped back and said no more. He knew now for what
Themistocles reserved him,—that after the _Nausicaä_ made land he must
run, as never man ran before across wide Bœotia to bear the tidings to
Pausanias.
They were betwixt Paros and Naxos at last. Wine and barley cakes soaked in
oil were passed among the men at the oars. They ate without leaving the
benches. And still the sea spread out glassy, motionless, and the pennon
hung limp on the mainmast. The _keleustes_ slowed his beatings, but the
men did not obey him. No whipped cattle were they, such as rowed the
triremes of Phœnicia, but freemen born, sons of Athens, who called it joy
to die for her in time of need. Therefore despite the _keleustes’s_ beats,
despite Themistocles’s command, the rowing might not slacken. And the
black wave around the _Nausicaä’s_ bow sang its monotonous music.
But Themistocles ever turned his face eastward, until men thought he was
awaiting some foe in chase, and presently—just as a rower among the
zygites fell back with the blood gushing from mouth and nostrils—the
admiral pointed his finger toward the sky-line of the morning.
“Look! Athena is with us!”
And for the first time in hours those panting, straining men let the hot
oar butts slip from their hands, even trail in the darkling water, whilst
they rose, looked, and blessed their gods.
It was coming, the strong kind Eurus out of the south and east. They could
see the black ripple springing over the glassy sea; they could hear the
singing of the cordage; they could catch the sweet sniff of the brine.
Admiral and rower lifted their hands together at this manifest favour of
heaven.
“Poseidon is with us! Athena is with us! Æolus is with us! We can save
Hellas!”
Soon the sun burst forth above the mist. All the wide ocean floor was