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Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  - The book uses both Palaeologus and Palaelogus.
  - The book uses both DeStreeses and De Streeses.
  In both cases, both spellings have been retained as printed.

  Page 304:  Ramedan should possibly be Ramadan.





     "_Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg,
     Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,
     And skilled in every warlike art,
     Riding through his Albanian lands,
     And following the auspicious star
     That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar._"

     LONGFELLOW




     THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES

     _A STORY OF THE TIMES OF SCANDERBEG
     AND
     THE FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE_

     BY JAMES M. LUDLOW, D.D. LITT.D

     ELEVENTH EDITION


     NEW YORK AND LONDON
     HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS




     Copyright, 1886, by DODD, MEAD & CO.

     Copyright, 1890, by JAMES M. LUDLOW.

     _Electrotyped by Dodd, Mead & Co._




PREFACE.


The story of the Captain of the Janizaries originated, not in the
author's desire to write a book, but in the fascinating interest of
the times and characters he has attempted to depict. It seems strange
that the world should have so generally forgotten George Castriot, or
Scanderbeg, as the Turks named him, whose career was as romantic as it
was significant in the history of the Eastern Mediterranean. Gibbon
assigns to him but a few brief pages, just enough to make us wonder
that he did not write more of the man who, he confessed, "with unequal
arms resisted twenty-three years the powers of the Ottoman Empire."
Creasy, in his history of the Turks, devotes less than a page to the
exploits of one who "possessed strength and activity such as rarely
fall to the lot of man," "humbled the pride of Amurath and baffled the
skill and power of his successor Mahomet." History, as we make it in
events, is an ever-widening river, but, as remembered, it is like a
stream bursting eastward from the Lebanons, growing less as it flows
until it is drained away in the desert.

Though our story is in the form of romance, it is more than "founded
upon fact." The details are drawn from historical records, such as the
chronicles of the monk Barletius--a contemporary, though perhaps a
prejudiced admirer, of Scanderbeg--the later Byzantine annals, the
customs of the Albanian people, and scenes observed while travelling
in the East.

The author takes the occasion of the publication of a new edition to
gratefully acknowledge many letters from scholars, as well as notices
from the press, which have expressed appreciation of this attempt to
revive popular interest in lands and peoples that are to reappear in
the drama of the Ottoman expulsion from Europe, upon which the curtain
is now rising.




THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES.

CHAPTER I


From the centre of the old town of Brousa, in Asia Minor--old even at
the time of our story, about the middle of the fifteenth
century--rises an immense plateau of rock, crowned with the fortress
whose battlements and towers cut their clear outlines high against the
sky. An officer of noble rank in the Ottoman service stood leaning
upon the parapet, apparently regaling himself with the marvellous
panorama of natural beauty and historic interest which lay before him.
The vast plain, undulating down to the distant sea of Marmora, was
mottled with fields of grain, gardens enclosed in hedges of cactus,
orchards in which the light green of the fig-trees blended with the
duskier hues of the olive, and dense forests of oak plumed with the
light yellow blooms of the chestnut. Here and there writhed the heavy
vapors of the hot sulphurous streams springing out of the base of the
Phrygian Olympus, which reared its snow-clad peak seven thousand feet
above. The lower stones of the fortress of Brousa were the mementoes
of twenty centuries which had drifted by them since they were laid by
the old Phrygian kings. The flags of many empires had floated from
those walls, not the least significant of which was that of the
Ottoman, who, a hundred years before, had consecrated Brousa as his
capital by burying in yonder mausoleum the body of Othman, the founder
of the Ottoman dynasty of the Sultans.

But the Turkish officer was thinking of neither the beauty of the
scene nor the historic impressiveness of the place. His face, shaded
by the folds of his enormous turban, wore deeper shadows which were
flung upon it from within. He was talking to himself.

"The Padishah[1] has a nobler capital now than this,--across the sea
there in Christian Europe. But by whose hands was it conquered? By
Christian hands! by Janizaries! renegades! Ay, this hand!"--he
stripped his arm bare to the shoulder and looked upon its gnarled
muscles as he hissed the words through his teeth--"this hand has cut a
wider swathe through the enemies of the Ottoman than any other man's;
a swathe down which the Padishah can walk without tripping his feet.
And this was a Christian's hand once! Well may I believe the story my
old nurse so often told me,--that, when the priest was dropping the
water of baptism upon my baby brow, this hand seized the sacred
vessel, and it fell shattered upon the pavement. Ah, well have I
fulfilled that omen!"

The man walked to and fro on the platform with quick and jarring step,
as if to shake off the grip of unwelcome thoughts. There was a majesty
in his mien which did not need the play of his partially suppressed
fury to fascinate the attention of any who might have beheld him at
the moment. He was tall of stature, immensely broad at the shoulders,
deep lunged, comparatively light and trim in the loins, as the close
drawn sash beneath the embroidered jacket revealed: arms long; hands
large. He looked as if he might wrestle with a bear without a weapon.
His features were not less notable than his form. His forehead was
high and square, with such fulness at the corners as to leave two
cross valleys in the middle. Deep-set eyes gleamed from beneath broad
and heavy brows. The lips were firm, as if they had grown rigid from
the habit of concealing, rather than expressing, thought, except in
the briefest words of authority,--Caesar-lips to summarize a campaign
in a sentence. The chin was heavy, and would have unduly protruded
were it not that there were needed bulk and strength to stand as the
base of such prominent upper features. Altogether his face would have
been pronounced hard and forbidding, had it not been relieved as
remarkably by that strange radiance with which strong intelligence and
greatness of soul sometimes transfigure the coarsest features.

These peculiarities of the man were observed and commented upon by two
officers who were sitting in the embrasure of the parapet at the
farther end of the battlement. The elder of the two, who had grown
gray in the service, addressed his comrade, a young man, though
wearing the insignia of rank equal to that of the other.

"Yes, Bashaw,[2] he is not only the right hand of the Padishah, but
the army has not seen an abler soldier since the Ottoman entered
Europe. You know his history?"

"Only as every one knows it, for in recent years he has written it
with his cimeter flashing through battle dust as the lightning through
clouds," replied the young officer.

The veteran warmed with enthusiasm as he narrated, "I well remember
him as a lad when he was brought from the Arnaout's[3] country. He was
not over nine years of age when Sultan Mahomet conquered the lands of
Epirus, where our general's father, John Castriot, was duke. As a
hostage young George Castriot was brought with his three brothers to
Adrianople."

"Are his brothers of the same metal?" asked the listener.

"Allah only knows what they would have been had not state
necessity----" The narrator completed the sentence by a significant
gesture, imitating the swirl of the executioner's sword as he takes
off the head of an offender.

"But George Castriot was a favorite of the Sultan, who fondled him as
the Roman Hadrian did his beautiful page, Antinous. And well he might,
for a lad more lithe of limb and of wit never walked the ground since
Allah bade the angels worship the goodly form of Adam.[4] Once when a
prize was offered for the best display of armor, and the provinces
were represented by their different champions in novel helmets and
corselets and shields, none of which pleased the imperial taste, it
was the whim of the Padishah to have young Castriot parade before the
judges panoplied only in his naked muscle, and to order that the prize
should be given to him, together with the title Iscanderbeg.[5] And
well he won it. In the after wrestling matches he put upon his hip the
best of them, Turcomans from Asia, and Moors from Africa, and
Giaours[6] from the West. And he was as skilful on a horse's legs as
he was on his own. His namesake, Alexander, could not have managed
Bucephalus better than he. I well remember his game with the two
Scythians. They came from far to have a joust with the best of the
Padishah's court. They were to fight singly: if one were overthrown,
the other, after the victor had breathed himself, was to redeem the
honor of his comrade. Scanderbeg sent his spear-head into the throat
of his antagonist at the first encounter, when the second barbarian
villain treacherously set upon him from the rear. The young champion
wheeled his horse as quickly as a Dervish twists his body, and with
one blow of his sword, clove him in twain from skull to saddle."

"Bravo!" cried the listener, "I believe it, for look at the arm that
he has uncovered now."

"It is a custom he has," continued the narrator. "He always fights
with his sword-arm bared to the shoulder. When he was scarce nineteen
years old he was at the siege of Constantinople, in 800 of the
Hegira,[7] with Sultan Amurath. His skill there won him a Sanjak.[8]
Since that time you know his career."

"Ay! his squadrons have shaken the world."

"He has changed of late, however; grown heavy at the brows. But he
comes this way."

As the general approached, the two bashaws bowed low to the ground,
and then stood in the attitude of profound obeisance until he
addressed them. His face gleamed with frank and genial familiarity as
he exchanged with them a few words; but it was again masked in sombre
thoughtfulness as he passed on.

Near the gate by which the fortress was entered from the lower town
was gathered a group of soldiers who were bantering a strange looking
creature with hands tied behind him--evidently some captive.

"What have you here?" said Scanderbeg, approaching them.

"That we cannot tell. It is a secret," replied the subaltern officer
in charge of the squad, making a low salam, and with a twinkle in his
eyes which took from his reply all semblance of disrespect.

"But I must have your secret," said the general good-naturedly.

"It is not our secret, Sire," replied the man, "but his. He will not
tell us who he is."

"Where does he belong? What tongue has he, Aladdin? You who were once
interpreter to the Bey of Anatolia should know any man by his tongue."

"He has no tongue, Sire. He is dumb as a toad. His beard has gone
untrimmed so long that it has sewed fast his jaws. He has not
performed his ablutions since the last shower washed him, and his ears
are so filled with dirt plugs that he could not hear a thunder clap."

The face of the captive seemed to strangely interest the general, who
said as he turned away, "Send him to our quarters. The Padishah has
taken a fancy to deaf mutes of late. They overhear no secrets and tell
no tales. We will scrape him deep enough to find if he has a soul. If
he knows his foot from his buttocks he will be as valued a present to
His Majesty as a fifth wife.[9] Send him to our quarters."

The general soon returned to the fortress. A room dimly lighted
through two narrow windows that opened into a small inner court, and
contained a divan or couch, a table, and a motley collection of arms,
was the residence of the commandant. A soldier stood by the entrance
guarding the unfortunate captive.

"You may leave him with me," said Scanderbeg approaching.

The man was thrust into the apartment, and stood with head bowed until
the guard withdrew. The general turned quickly upon him as soon as
they were alone.

"If I mistake not, man, though your tongue be tied, your eye spake to
me by the gate."

"It was heaven's blessing upon my errand reflected there," replied the
man in the Albanian language. "I bear thee a message from Moses
Goleme, of Lower Dibria, and from all the provinces of Albania, from
every valley and every heart."

"Let me hear it, for I love the very flints on the mountains and every
pebble on the shore of old Albania," replied Scanderbeg eagerly.

"Heaven be praised! Were my ears dull as the stones they would open to
hear such words," said the man with suppressed emotion. "For since the
death of thy noble father--"

"My father's death! I had not heard it. When?" exclaimed the general.

"It is four moons since we buried him beneath the holy stones of the
church at Croia, and the Sultan sent us General Sebaly to govern in
his stead."

"Do you speak true?" cried Scanderbeg, laying his hand upon the man's
shoulder and glaring into his face. "My father dead? and a stranger
appointed in his stead? and Sultan Amurath has not even told me!
Beware, man, lest you mistake."

"I cannot mistake, Sire, for these hands closed the eyes of John
Castriot after he had breathed a prayer for his land and for his
son--one prayer for both. Moses Goleme was with us, for you know he
was thy father's dearest friend and wisest counsellor, and to him thy
father gave charge that word should be sent thee that to thee he
bequeathed his lands."

"Stop! Stop!" said Scanderbeg, pacing the little room like a caged
lion. "Let me think. But go on. He did not curse me, then? Swear to
me,"--and he turned facing the man--"swear to me that my father did
not curse me with his dying breath! Swear it!"

"I swear it," said the man, "and that all Albania prays to-day for
George Castriot. These are the tidings which the noble Moses bade me
bring thee, though I found thee at the Indus or under the throne of
the Sultan himself. I have no other message. That I might tell thee
this in the free speech of Albania I have kept dumb to all others. If
it be treason to the Sultan for thee to hear it, let my head pay the
penalty. But know, Sire, that our land will rest under no other rule
than that of a Castriot."

"A Castriot!" soliloquized the general. "Well, it is a better name
than Scanderbeg. Ho, guard! Take this fellow! Let him share your
mess!"

When alone the general threw himself upon the divan for a moment, then
paced again the apartment, and muttered to himself----

"And for what has a Castriot given himself to the Turk! Yet I did not
betray my land and myself. They stole me. They seduced my judgment as
a child. They flattered my conceit as a man. Like a leopard I have
fought in the Padishah's arena, and for a leopard's pay--the meat that
makes him strong, and the gilded cage that sets off his spots. I have
led his armies, for what? For glory. But whose glory? The Padishah
cries in every emergency, 'Where is _my_ Scanderbeg? Scanderbeg to the
rescue!' But it means, 'Slave, do my bidding!' And I, the tinselled
slave, bow my head to the neck of my steed, and the empire rings with
the tramp of my squadrons, and the praise of Scanderbeg's loyalty!
Pshaw! He calls me his lightning, but he is honored as the invisible
Jove who hurls it. And I am a Castriot! A Christian! Ay, a Christian
dog,[10] indeed, to fawn and lick the hands of one who would despise
me were he not afraid of my teeth. He takes my father's lands and
gives them to another; and I--I am of too little account to be even
told 'Thy father is dead.'"

Scanderbeg paused in the light that streamed through the western
window. It was near sunset, and a ruddy gleam shot across the room.

"This light comes from the direction of Albania, and so there comes a
red gleam--blood red--from Albania into my soul."

He drew the sleeve of the left arm and gazed at a small round spot
tattooed just above the elbow--the indelible mark of the Janizary.

"They that put it there said that by it I should remember my vow to
the Padishah. And, since I cannot get thee out, my little talisman, I
swear by thee that I shall never forget my vow; no, nor them that made
my child-lips take it, and taught me to abjure my father's name, my
country's faith, and broke my will to the bit and rein of their
caprice. It may be that some day I shall wash thee out in damned
Moslem blood. But hold! that would be treason. Scanderbeg a traitor?
How they will hiss it from Brousa to Adrianople; from the lips of
Vizier and pot-carrier! But is it treason to betray treason? But
patience! Bide thy time, Castriot!"

A slight commotion in the court drew the attention of Scanderbeg. In a
moment the sentry announced:

"A courier from His Majesty!"

The message told that the Ottoman forces had been defeated in
Europe--the noted bashaw, Schehadeddin, having been utterly routed by
Hunyades. The missive called the Sultan's "always liege and invincible
servant, Scanderbeg, to the rescue!" Within an hour a splendid suite
of officers, mounted on swift and gaily caparisoned steeds, gathered
about the great general, and at the raising of the horse-tail upon the
spear-head, dashed along the road to the coast of Marmora where
vessels were in waiting to convey them across to the European side.
Scanderbeg had but a moment's interview with the dumb captive,
sufficient to whisper,

"Return our salutation to the noble Moses Goleme; and say that George
Castriot will honor his confidence better in deeds than he could in
words. I know not the future, my brave fellow, and might not tell it
if I did, even to ears as deaf as yours. But say to Goleme that
Castriot swears by his beard--by the beard of Moses--that brighter
days shall come for Albania even if they must be flashed from our
swords. Farewell!"

The man fell at the general's feet and embraced them. Then rising he
raised his hand, "By the beard of Moses! Let that be the watchword
between our people and our rightful prince. Brave men scattered from
Adria to Haemus will listen for that watchword. Farewell, Sire. By the
beard of Moses!"

Scanderbeg summoned a soldier and said sternly, "Take this fellow
away. He is daft as well as dumb and deaf. Yet treat him well. Such
creatures are the special care of Allah. Take him to the Bosphorus
that he may cross over to his kin, the Greeks, at Constantinople."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A title of the Sultan.

[2] Bashaw; an old name for pasha.

[3] Arnaout; Turkish for Albanian, a corruption of the old Byzantine
word Arvanitae.

[4] Koran, Chap. II.

[5] Iscander-Beg; or The Lord Alexander.

[6] Giaours; a term of reproach by which the Turks designate the
unbelievers in Mahomet, especially Christians.

[7] 800 of the Hegira; 1422 of the Christian era.

[8] Sanjak; a military and administrative authority giving the
possessor command of 5,000 horse.

[9] The Moslems are allowed four wives. Beyond this number their women
can be only concubines.

[10] The Moslems call Christians dogs.




CHAPTER II.


A little hamlet lay, like an eagle's nest, high on the southern <DW72>
of the Balkan mountains. The half dozen huts of which it consisted
were made of rough stones, daubed within and without thick with clay.
The roofs were of logs, overlaid with mats of brushwood woven together
by flexible withes, and plastered heavily. The inhabitants were
goatherds. Their lives were simple. If they were denied indulgence in
luxuries, they were also removed from that contact with them which
excites desire, and so were contented. They seldom saw the faces of
any from the great world, upon so large a portion of which they looked
down. Their absorbing occupation was in summer to watch the flocks
which strolled far away among the cliffs, and in winter to keep them
close to the hamlet, for then terrific storms swept the mountains and
filled the ravines with impassable snow.

Milosch and his good wife, Helena--Maika Helena, good Mother Helena,
all the hamlet called her--were blessed with two boys. Their faces
were as bright as the sky in which, from their lofty lodgings, they
might be said to have made their morning ablutions for the eleven and
twelve years of their respective lives. Yet they were not children of
the cherubic type; rather tough little knots of humanity, with big
bullet-heads thatched over with heavy growths of hair, which would
have been red, had it not been bleached to a light yellow by sunshine
and cloud-mists. Instead of the toys and indolent pastimes of the
nursery they had only the steep rocks, the thick copse, the gnarled
trees, and the wild game of the mountains for their play-things. They
thus developed compactly knit muscles, depth of lung and thickness of
frame, which gave agility and endurance. At the same time, the
associations of their daily lives, the precipitous cliff, the
trembling edge of the avalanche, the caves of strange beasts, the wild
roaring of the winds, the awful grandeur of the storms, the impressive
solitude which filled the intervals of their play like untranslatable
but mighty whispers from the unknown world taking the place of the
prattle of this,--these fostered intrepidity, self-reliance, and
balance of disposition, if not of character. For religious discipline
they had the occasional ministrations of a Greek priest or missionary
monk from the Rilo