“But they will shoot you at sight,” objected Prince Romanos. “And who will row you out to the ships?”
“No one—not even one of my own men. I must row myself as best I can. But one man alone won’t look very alarming. They’ll hardly fire.”
“My man Petros shall row you. He won’t like it, but he’ll do it for me. You are wise, to send the poor wretches off before our friends remember them.”
“The only chance,” agreed Wylie, and presently Prince Romanos helped him to drag a small boat down to the beach, and he was soon being rowed towards the fleet by the deeply disapproving Petros, who objected equally to the errand, the darkness, and the danger.
“Halt! What boat’s that?” came a challenge, and a shape loomed up close to the little vessel, not the huge towering bulk of one of the warships, but a picket-boat which was patrolling the neighbourhood of the fleet. The precaution surprised Wylie, until he remembered that dynamite had always been one of the favourite weapons of the insurgents in their career on the mainland, and that the Powers could hardly imagine themselves to be enthusiastically beloved at this particular moment. He explained his errand, and the officer in the boat listened with surprise and evident incredulity, exchanging a few sentences with a subordinate, among which the words, “Trap. Pay us out for this afternoon,” were clearly audible.
“I am an Englishman myself—a British officer until two months ago,” said Wylie, and a lantern was flashed suddenly in his face. The scrutiny seemed to be satisfactory, for the lantern was turned to another use by being employed to flash signals to the nearest ship, and presently a steam-pinnace came swishing and panting through the darkness, bearing the commander who had carried the Admirals’ remonstrance a few days before, and who was now charged, as he pointed out, strictly to report upon the state of affairs. He invited Wylie into the pinnace, and ordered his boat to be towed behind, but his manner was the reverse of cordial.
“The Admiral has a high opinion of your impudence in asking us to do your dirty work for you,” he said. “Why don’t you foot your own butchers’ bill?”
“Our fellows are quite ready to do it,” returned Wylie in his driest tone. “Unfortunately, the Powers would hardly approve of their methods.”
“If you imagine we are going to help you out of the difficulties you get into through being unable to control your associates——” began the officer pugnaciously.
“Not at all. I propose to show you the Roumi wounded, whom Prince Theophanis and I have collected out of all sorts of places—there are fifteen of them. You will be good enough to satisfy yourself that they have been treated as well as the absence of proper appliances permits. If you take them on board, there will be no more trouble on the score of humanity. If you refuse—well, the Prince and I and a few of our men will protect them if we can, but the responsibility will not be ours. And they must share with us such food as we have, and we are on short commons already.”