countless round wooden rollers, well treated with oil and grease, begin to move, and now ship after ship is hauled over the mountain on those rollers, drawn in its sleigh-like runners by countless pairs of oxen and with the help of the sailors pushing from behind. As soon as night hides the sight, this miraculous journey begins. Silent as all that is great, well thought out as all that is clever, the miracle of miracles is performed: an entire fleet crosses the mountain.
The crucial element in all great military operations is always the moment of surprise. And here Mahomet’s particulargenius proves its worth magnificently. No one has any idea what he plans—“if a hair in my beard knew my thoughts I would pluck it out,” that brilliantly wily man once said of himself—and in perfect order, while the cannon ostentatiously thunder against the walls, his commands are carried out. Seventy ships are moved over mountain and valley, through vineyards and fields and woods, from one sea to another on that single night of 22nd April. Next morning the citizens of Byzantium think they are dreaming: an enemy fleet brought here as if by a ghostly hand, sailing with pennants hoisted and fully manned, in the heart of their supposedly unapproachable bay. They are still rubbing their eyes, at a loss to imagine how this miracle was worked, when fanfares and cymbals and drums are already playing jubilant music right under the wall of their flank, hitherto protected by the harbour. As a result of this brilliant coup, the whole Golden Horn except for the neutral space occupied by Galata, where the Christian fleet is boxed in, belongs to the Sultan and his army. Unobstructed, he can now lead his troops over a pontoon bridge against the weaker wall. The weaker flank of the city is thus under threat, and the ranks of the defenders, sparse enough anyway, have to stretch over yet more space. An iron fist has closed more and more tightly round the victim’s throat.
EUROPE, HELP!
The besieged are no longer under any illusions. They know that if they are also attacked in the flank that has been tornopen, they will not be able to put up resistance for long behind their battered walls, 8,000 of them against 150,000, unless help comes very quickly. But did not the Signoria of Venice solemnly agree to send ships? Can the Pope remain indifferent when Hagia Sophia, the most magnificent church in the west, is in danger of becoming a mosque of the unbelievers? Does Europe, caught in strife and divided a hundred times over by unworthy jealousy, still not understand the danger to western culture? Perhaps—so the besieged say, consoling themselves—the fleet coming to their aid has been ready for a long time, and hesitates to set sail only because it does not know their predicament, and it would be enough if someone made the Europeans aware of the monstrous responsibility of this fatal delay?
But how can information be sent to the Venetian fleet? Turkish ships are scattered all over the Sea of Marmara; to break out from Byzantium with the whole fleet would be to deliver it up to destruction, also weakening the defence of the city, where every single man counts, by withdrawing a few hundred soldiers. They decide to venture only a very small ship with a tiny crew. Twelve men in all—if there were any justice in history, their names would be as well known as those of the Argonauts for such an act of heroism, but not a single name has come down to us. An enemy flag is hoisted on the little brigantine. The twelve men clothe themselves in the Turkish fashion, with turbans or tarbooshes on their heads, so as not to arouse attention. On 3rd May the chain closing off the harbour is let down without a sound, and with a muted beat of oars the bold boat glides out under cover of darkness. Loand behold, a miracle… unrecognized, the tiny vessel passes through the Dardanelles and into the Aegean Sea. It is the very extent of the crew’s audacity that cripples the
The crucial element in all great military operations is always the moment of surprise. And here Mahomet’s particulargenius proves its worth magnificently. No one has any idea what he plans—“if a hair in my beard knew my thoughts I would pluck it out,” that brilliantly wily man once said of himself—and in perfect order, while the cannon ostentatiously thunder against the walls, his commands are carried out. Seventy ships are moved over mountain and valley, through vineyards and fields and woods, from one sea to another on that single night of 22nd April. Next morning the citizens of Byzantium think they are dreaming: an enemy fleet brought here as if by a ghostly hand, sailing with pennants hoisted and fully manned, in the heart of their supposedly unapproachable bay. They are still rubbing their eyes, at a loss to imagine how this miracle was worked, when fanfares and cymbals and drums are already playing jubilant music right under the wall of their flank, hitherto protected by the harbour. As a result of this brilliant coup, the whole Golden Horn except for the neutral space occupied by Galata, where the Christian fleet is boxed in, belongs to the Sultan and his army. Unobstructed, he can now lead his troops over a pontoon bridge against the weaker wall. The weaker flank of the city is thus under threat, and the ranks of the defenders, sparse enough anyway, have to stretch over yet more space. An iron fist has closed more and more tightly round the victim’s throat.
EUROPE, HELP!
The besieged are no longer under any illusions. They know that if they are also attacked in the flank that has been tornopen, they will not be able to put up resistance for long behind their battered walls, 8,000 of them against 150,000, unless help comes very quickly. But did not the Signoria of Venice solemnly agree to send ships? Can the Pope remain indifferent when Hagia Sophia, the most magnificent church in the west, is in danger of becoming a mosque of the unbelievers? Does Europe, caught in strife and divided a hundred times over by unworthy jealousy, still not understand the danger to western culture? Perhaps—so the besieged say, consoling themselves—the fleet coming to their aid has been ready for a long time, and hesitates to set sail only because it does not know their predicament, and it would be enough if someone made the Europeans aware of the monstrous responsibility of this fatal delay?
But how can information be sent to the Venetian fleet? Turkish ships are scattered all over the Sea of Marmara; to break out from Byzantium with the whole fleet would be to deliver it up to destruction, also weakening the defence of the city, where every single man counts, by withdrawing a few hundred soldiers. They decide to venture only a very small ship with a tiny crew. Twelve men in all—if there were any justice in history, their names would be as well known as those of the Argonauts for such an act of heroism, but not a single name has come down to us. An enemy flag is hoisted on the little brigantine. The twelve men clothe themselves in the Turkish fashion, with turbans or tarbooshes on their heads, so as not to arouse attention. On 3rd May the chain closing off the harbour is let down without a sound, and with a muted beat of oars the bold boat glides out under cover of darkness. Loand behold, a miracle… unrecognized, the tiny vessel passes through the Dardanelles and into the Aegean Sea. It is the very extent of the crew’s audacity that cripples the
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