CHAPTER XXX
THE FIG-TREE GROVE—A DOUBLE AMBUSCADE—THE LEECH-FISHER—HOW
THE TRAP WAS BAITED, AND HOW IT TOOK—SOMETHING LIKE THE OLD
FORM—TRIUMPHANT MARCH OF HARKAWAY AND CO.
Within an hour—nay, less—of the foregoing conversation you might have seen an aged man wending his weary way along the high road from Athens towards the mountains.
Thickly-grown fig trees leant over the road, and their well-garnished branches formed a roof of foliage through which no ray of sunlight could penetrate.
He seemed an aged man.
His steps tottered.
It was strange that he did not seek the aid of a stout staff, or walking stick at least.
But no, he preferred to keep his hands in his coat pockets.
Now the coat he wore was a full-skirted frock, much resembling in shape the garment which was worn by our grandfathers, or their fathers, when George the Third was king, with huge pockets in the skirts and lappets.
And into these big pockets the old wanderer's arms were buried up to the elbows.
Perhaps it was because he felt somewhat chilly.
There was a gentle breeze blowing through the trees.
As he went along, he shot sly glances from time to time about him, almost as if he were expecting someone; but he had got nearly over a third of the distance down the fig-tree grove before there were the faintest signs of life about him, and there, apparently overcome by the fatigue of his walk, he dropped down upon a moss-grown bank to rest.
He looked up at the leafy canopy overhead, and sniffed down the sweet odours that floated along on the gentlest of zephyrs.
"Not such bad quarters," he muttered to himself (it was in English that he spoke); "not at all bad. There is only one thing required to make this the happiest day of my life; only one thing, and that is, success in my present undertaking—"
He paused.
"Hark!"
What was it?
He heard a faint rustling in the foliage hard by.
This part of the country was reported to be infested with thieves, the regular hunting grounds of the brigands.
A faint smile lurked round the corners of the old man's mouth, and there was a twinkle in his eye.
"At last," he muttered to himself, "at last!"
Just then there was a noise as of branches being pushed aside and dry twigs being crushed; and forth stepped a stalwart peasant, all in rags and tatters, and placed himself, hat in hand, before the old man.
"Hullo!" exclaimed the latter, "why, where did you come from?"
And yet his surprise looked more assumed than real.
"Charity!" replied the beggar.
"Charity!" echoed the old man, fumbling in his pockets, "by all means; take this, my honest fellow."
So saying, he dropped a piece of money into his open palm.
"Gold! Yes, a golden piece, by all the saints in the calendar."
The beggar's eyes glistened greedily at the piece.
"Heaven bless you!" he exclaimed; "may you live for ever."
"Don't wish me that," responded the old man; "that is no blessing."
"Not with your riches?" said the mendicant
"No."
"You are not easily satisfied then."
And then came forth from the beggar a strange sound.
Was it a signal?
It almost appeared to be the result of a preconcerted arrangement, for while the sound of his laughter echoed down the leafy grove, there was a crashing of branches and general breaking of the dried twigs and undergrowth, and out swarmed a group of men numbering perhaps ten or a dozen.
A villanous-looking mob they were too.
They surrounded the old man and were about to attack him, when the first man who had already profited by the old man's charity warned them off.
"There is no need for violence here," said he, hurriedly, and speaking in their native language; "he will give us up all he has got without so much as dirtying a knife over him."
The old man laughed.
A dry, cynical laugh it was too, and almost calculated to make one believe that he had understood what they said.
"Who are these people?" he asked of the first beggar.
"Poor men worthy of your pious charity, like myself," was the reply.
"Then they shall have it," replied the old man; "more than they expect."
He looked around him rather anxiously, as if expecting some more people to arrive.
Now that glance was observed by more than one of the men, and it was no very difficult matter to excite suspicion in their minds.
"He expects someone," said the foremost man of the party; "he is a spy."
"See how he's looking about him," observed another. "What shall we do?"
"Kill him at once."
"Yes, kill him."
"On to him."
And the speaker himself was the first to act upon his own counsel.
He stepped forward to catch the old man by the coat, but the latter, retreating a couple of paces, appeared startled.
"Keep your distance, my masters," he said; "keep your distance, because I am a very dangerous fellow."
They laughed at this.
"Dangerous, you are?" cried one of them, "oh, oh! what is your name?"
"Why, they call me the leech-fisher."
"The leech-fisher!"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Because I am my own trap and bait and all,"
They looked puzzled.
"He's mad."
"Daft as he can be."
"Poor old fool. But let us get his money if he has any, without killing him."
"Money!" echoed the self-styled leech-fisher. "Here's plenty."
And with these words he threw a pile of gold pieces upon the ground, making all the lawless ruffians' eyes glisten greedily.
"You don't seem yet to understand the parable of the leech-fisher," said the singular old man. "You are dense blockheads."
"Ha, ha, ha! hear him," cried the first beggar. "He is quite a treat."
"What I meant was that I am a trap for you. I have set myself to catch you; I am the bait; the leech fishers are their own bait, I am my own. So now come on, my merry men, my unbelieving pagans."
One of the men here laid a rough hand upon his shoulder, when there was a loud explosion.
A flash and smoke issued from the old man's square coat pocket, and the brigand staggered back.
The rest of the party looked utterly amazed.
What was it?
"An ambuscade," ejaculated one of them.
"No, no; it came from the old man's coat skirt. See, it is smoking."
There was a small round hole in the cloth, and it was singed and smelt of gunpowder.
"Death to the spy!" cried the Greeks.
Two of the brigands fell upon him, one on each side, when lo! there was a double explosion, and with loud cries of pain, each fell back dead.
The rest of the brigands now began to recover from the state of stupefaction into which this sudden and unexpected attack had thrown them, and accustomed to rapid action upon emergencies such as the present, they prepared to fall simultaneously upon this ancient Tartar.
"Oh, oh! What, you think to capture me, do you?" he cried.
In an instant all his feebleness had dropped, and lo! he appeared a very nimble man.
Springing back about six feet, he drew both hands from those capacious pockets to which we recently drew the reader's attention, and then the mystery was revealed.
Each had held a six-barrelled revolver.
"How like you my music, you ruffians?" cried the strange man. "Oh, what would I give if my poor friend Pike was with me now!"
Bang!
Another shot, and another hors de combat.
The foremost of the brigands rolled over, stone dead.
This was warm work.
But as if it had not grown hot enough, there suddenly appeared upon the scene two men armed with rifles and revolvers.
These two men were crack shots, unluckily for the brigands, and they speedily gave proof of their skill.
Two of the mountaineers bit the dust before they could dream of helping themselves.
Not three minutes had elapsed since the firing of the first shot, and already six men were down.
"Surrender!" said one of the new-comers, in a loud, authoritative voice.
But instead of responding, one of the Greeks drew a pistol and levelled it at the towering figure of Harkaway, for of course he was one of the marksmen, but before he could pull the trigger, bang went another chamber of the old man's revolver, and the pistol fell to the ground.
The hand which had held it was helpless, the arm shattered at the elbow.
There was in truth something dreadful in this carnage.
But neither Harkaway nor Jefferson thought any thing of this.
Indeed, horrible as it may sound, they killed a brigand with as little compunction as they would have slaughtered a wolf.
"Surrender!" cried Harkaway, for the second time. "Yield now, or by Heaven, you shall all die on the field."
The Greeks looked around for assistance.
They were five.
The enemy only three.
As a rule, these ruffians were not deficient in bulldog courage and ferocity, but this desperate fighting had surprised and frightened them.
"Yield, ruffians, to better men than yourselves."
They paused.
"To pause is death," cried Jack Harkaway, in a loud voice.
As the last word was spoken, up went the two rifles.
"Nabley," cried the American.
"All right," answered the disguised old man.
"Look after that outside brigand on your left."
"I will, and his neighbour, too?"
"If you can."
"I am thinking of my murdered friend, Pike, and I feel I can take twenty such vagabonds!" echoed the detective, fiercely.
"I'll take that big fellow, Jeff," said Harkaway. "You pot the other."
"Good."
"Now, then, you villains, when I count three, look out," said the detective, with a mild expletive.
Not mild enough for repetition here, by the way.
"One, two—"
The brigands, having held a hurried consultation, here threw down their arms.
Just in the very nick of time.
Two seconds more and they would have had no chance.
"Now," cried Harkaway, still with the gun ready for use, "forward! march!"
The brigands looked mischievous for a moment.
So did the rifles.
So did the revolver.
These two weapons were great persuaders.
With slow, unwilling steps the five men marched onward into captivity.
"I'll see to the wounded," said the detective.
Four of the brigands had been killed outright.
Others were writhing on the ground and using bad language.
"Two and four make six," muttered Mr. Nabley; "six and four are ten. Why, I could have sworn that there were eleven. Yes, certainly there was another. Where the deuce could he have got to?"
The most diligent search, that is, the most diligent search possible under the circumstances, failed to find the faintest trace of the missing man.
"That's the one I gave that smack in the face," said Nabley to himself. "Well, I know I gave it to him pretty warm besides that. He hasn't got far. He has crawled somewhere to die, I suppose. Well, well, I can't deny him that little luxury."
And then, by dint of threatening the wounded with instant death, he persuaded them to crawl after the rest.
* * * * *
And when our three adventurers marched into the town with their prisoners between them, there was a loud outcry.
Cheers, bravos, huzzahs, at every step of the way.
"That's the Englishman Harkaway," said one of the bystanders, as they marched onward towards the prison, "and that is the American Jefferson."
"Dreadful men those to make enemies of. I have heard that Harkaway has destroyed hundreds of brigands and pirates."
"Yes, I have heard so," answered the other. "It was an evil moment for those villains of brigands when they shot the poor young Harkaways. They will lose many a life for those two."
"Ah, that they will."
"Who is that driving the two wounded men before him?"
"That is an English secret police officer. He is even more dangerous than the others. He has killed four men with his own hands in this skirmish. I believe an old friend of his has been murdered by the brigands, and he has sworn to have revenge."
"It is taking the law into their own hands with a vengeance."
"All honour to them for their bravery."
"Three cheers for Harkaway!"