The
Battle
of Maniaki
The
Battle
of Maniaki
was fought on June 1, 1825 in Maniaki,
Greece
(in the hills east of Gargalianoi)
between Egyptian
forces led by Ibrahim
Pasha
and Greek forces led by Papaflessas.
With
3,000 Greek soldiers, Papaflessas (his true name was Gregorios
Dikaios) chose to position his troops near Mount Malia in order to
acquire a decent view of the plain near Navarino.
From that entrenched position, Papaflessas awaited Ibrahim's forces.
During the night, many Greeks from within Papaflessas's ranks fled
after seeing Ibrahim's enormous armies. (Finlay places the number of
remaining Greek soldiers at 1500.[1])
Ibrahim,
in person, advanced towards the Greek position leading a force of
over 6,000 soldiers. (Phillips calls the Egyptian force
'innumerable'). Papaflessas provided an eloquent speech that enhanced
the morale of the remaining Greeks that decided to stay and fight. As
the Arabs in Ibrahim's army attacked, the Greeks held their positions
staunchly but were eventually overwhelmed. Ultimately, a large part
of the remaining Greeks including Papaflessas and 400 Arabs perished
in the aftermath of the battle.
(Finlay places the number of Greek casualties at 1000).
Aftermath
Despite
the defeat of Papaflessas, the battle itself helped to change and
strengthen the declining morale of other Greeks who contributed to
the independence movement.
From
Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Michael
Mitsakis (1863-1916)
Michael
Mitsakis was born in Megara, probably in 1868. He received his
education in Sparta, where as a student he published the short-lived
journal Taygetos.
In 1880 he matriculated in the Law Faculty at Athens University, but
after two years he dropped off in order to pursue a journalistic
career. His articles appeared in almost all the Athens dailies and
magazines, becoming at the same time a publisher of two satirical
newspapers, Noise
and
Capital City.
He writes his articles sometimes using his real name and sometimes a
pen name. In addition to journalism, Mitsakis is prolific in literary
works. He is a pioneer of naturalism and one of the founders of urban
prose in modern Greek literature. He portrays life in the city and
the alienation of the individual in it. His language is an amalgam of
the vernacular and the puristic strain.
Still
very young Mitsakis manifests symptoms of mental illness, which sinks
him in depression and makes him stop writing. His health deteriorates
and finally becomes an inmate of Dromokaiteio
Mental Hospital in Athens. He dies of pneumonia in hospital on June
6th,
1916.
His
works include a host of short stories, fiction and non-fiction.
Some
of his works can be found on-line:
Here
is a translation of Το Φίλημα. The
short story refers to the Battle of Maniaki and the heroic death of
Papaflessas.
The
Kiss (title of the original: To Φίλημα)
(Rendered
by Vassilis C. Militsis)
At
Maniaki, upon the top of the hill, of the three hundred fighters none
survived. When the sun rose that morning soaring from behind the
snow-capped mountains, he greeted all of them as they stood full of
vigor, shone upon their white pleated kilts, caressed their dark
hair, flashed into their fiery eyes, and mirrored upon the brass of
the sword blades gilding their hilts. And now setting over the sea,
he is sadly bidding them his last farewell as they lie dead, strewn
and sprawling on the dirt, and as he is slowly sinking in the water,
like a closing crimson eye, he wants to cast a last glance on those
brave men. All day long without food or drink, they fought against
the storm of bullets, stood the hail of bombs, shent the rain of
shrapnel, and mocked the brunt of the sword and the violence of the
saber. And after they consumed handfuls of gunpowder, the last grain
of which was exhausted in their bandolier pouches, after the last of
their muskets was cracked, and after the ultimate cutlass broke in
their hands, they fell on the ground, definitely dead, but not
defeated. Among them all, Papaflessas, the first to begin the
slaughter and the last to cease, sprawling on the ground, his face
livid, with a gaping wound on his chest, is still holding the blood
dripping stump of his broken sword, clasping it tight as if gripped
in an erotic spasm or rage. And lo! The Egyptian ascends the
acclivity, in horse gallop and sword clang, in drum beating and bugle
blast, their banners flapping and fluttering in the evening wind and
the crescents glittering with the reflection of the twilight glowing
on the clear western horizon. The throng of soldiers swarms the plain
and the hills like ants while their feet flump on the ground. The
Arabs plod on the wet gory ground, which causes their horses to slip
on their shoes. However, their joy at this unhoped-for victory is
very great, and such is their pleasure, now that they are delivered
from the battle fright, that it urges them to swiftly climb up the
hill and reach the top. Their leader has already arrived at the brow
of the hill, stood on it, cast his wandering gaze around, looked at
the red earth guzzling the blood of those valiant men, inspected his
ascending troops and saw around him the straggling fallen corpses of
soldiers. Astounded and unblinking, he ponders over their tall
bodies, broad torsos, sinewy arms, handsome countenances and lofty
brows. His low brow is clouded over, his look is slightly blurred,
and his lips twitch with an imperceptible tremor.
And
he looks, glances around, stares in admiration and wonder as though
he did not believe that such men have perished, that they lie
lifeless and not simply sleeping only to arise more frightful, and
that Death itself was mightier than they.
His
guides hurried to show his corpse soaked in the sweat of the battle,
blackened with the smoke, and his clothes tattered.
Two
men held him by the armpits, put him upright, stood him upon his feet
and headed with him to a nearby gurgling spring. There, they washed
his hands and face, scraped off the mud and the sweat, cleaned him
from the dust, soot and lymph, wiped him, tidied his clothes, and
brought him back.
The
men holding him on either side, walked to a tree shown them, lay him
at its roots, then raised and set him against the trunk balancing him
as if he were alive. Then they stepped back, drew away and left him
standing by dint of his own inertia. The corpse remained still,
upright leaning upon the trunk of the tree, the torso protruding, the
arms hanging limp at the sides, one hand still grasping the stump of
the broken scimitar, the legs astride, the head upraised.
Thereupon,
Ibrahim walks slowly towards the tree, stands and silently stares for
a long time the lifeless body of his opponent, and under the light of
the moon, which had just risen, blood red as if also stained by the
gore of the carnage, under the swaying branches – which rustled
lugubriously in the wind – he bestows a protracted kiss on the
standing dead man.
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