by Harold Lamb
It was Sir Michael's turn to reflect. His countrymen, he explained, carried on a trade between Baghdad and Damascus by caravan, and recently they had been forced to give a third of their goods to a certain pasha—the Governor of Aleppo—to gain passage for the caravans.
The English ambassador at court knew of this, and Sir Michael had urged him to demand justice from the sultan for the robbery. But the ambassador was afraid to act, aware that Sidi Ahmad, the pasha in question, was the favorite of Mustapha and the most powerful noble among the Moslems.
"There are eyes and ears hidden about the Imperial City," grunted Demid, "and they reach even to here. Have you been in Aleppo?"
Sir Michael shook his head.
"No Christian can pass the gates."
"Hearken, Frank: Have you a master? Whom do you serve?"
"Myself."
The adventurer shook his head slightly. English, French and Turkish monarchs, he had served them with his youth and he bore the scars of this service; yet faith in princes he had none.
"Good! We Zaporogians are masterless men. Do you believe in God and Christ?"
"Aye, so."
"Then make the Sign of the Cross."
When the Irishman had done so, Demid nodded approvingly.
"We are on the trail of a treasure and a mighty one. It is a hard trail and a steep one, and not often will we breathe our horses. Join us, and you can claim a sotnik's share in gold and silver, if we find what we seek. If we fail, you will not have a knightly death. Nay, you will taste fire or the stake."
For a full moment Sir Michael of Rohan studied the impassive countenance of the young chief, wondering a little at its dark beauty which was more than a woman's, being without fear or consciousness of self.
"No rafik, no road companion will I be, unless you make known to me the end of the road."
It was not Demid's liking to speak of his plans, and he was silent a while. Then, with the tip of his scabbard he drew a rough triangle in the snow and dotted the three corners, explaining that the one to the southeast was Baghdad, the one to the north, Trebisond, on the Black Sea, and the third Aleppo.
During this season in Midwinter, the caravan trade from India, Persia and Arabia came partly overland to the Euphrates, but mainly up that river, through Baghdad. Then—the passes of the Caucasus being under deep snow—it was borne over the desert from Baghdad to Aleppo, thence to the ports in the Levant.
This flow of silks—even from China—ivory, woven carpets and worked leather, amber, jewels and cotton, spices and gold gave to the sultan of the Turks his great wealth. Heretofore the Cossacks had sometimes raided the trading-galleys on the Black Sea, but they had never gone into the coast of Asia Minor, the stronghold of Islam.
Demid sought the value of ten thousand pieces of gold. Few cargoes were coming out of the port of Trebisond, from the northern corner of the triangle. He meant to make himself master of a seaworthy craft when they reached the sea coast, and sail to Asia Minor.
Sir Michael shook his head.
"To win through to the caravans you would need to cross the upper passes of the Caucasus in Winter. Then, on the trade routes you would meet the wolfpacks, the Kurdish and Arab robbers, out of the hills and desert. So the merchants of the English say. The caravans are strongly guarded. You might cut one up, but then you would be hunted down—"
"We do not look for pickings from the traders."
"What, then? 'Tis folly for thirty and five to draw sword against the pasha of Asia."
"True, if we were an army. But we are five and thirty, and we will fight with the heels of our horses."
"You cannot carry off gold pieces that way."
"Aye, if we put them first in our saddlebags."
Demid rose, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"It would be folly to sit in one place, where the eyes of the Moslems are upon us."
He put his finger on the hilt of the Irishman's rapier. "You can use that. How would you thrust against a shrewder swordsman? Openly, at his throat?"
"Not so." Sir Michael smiled. "I would use my blade clumsily at first— as you did—and pass it under his guard when he struck."
Springing to his feet, he let his glance rove over the white sea of the snowbound prairie, the glittering ribbon of the river, and the gray murk that hid the horizon on every hand, as if a shroud had been drawn around that particular spot on the earth. The loneliness of the vast spaces penetrated the spirit of the Irishman like a cold wind that could not be evaded, turn where he would.
To tell the truth, Sir Michael had no joy of this steppe that dwarfed the moors of his homeland, and he yearned for the fellowship of men.
Demid, towering over him, with arms knotted on a placid chest that hardly seemed to breathe, was at home here. The dark eyes of the young Cossack saw not the desolation of the prairie over which a raven circled on slow wings. His mind's eye saw the tall grass of the steppe under the warm sun, the smoke rising from wicker cottages by the beds of streams— a horse plunging into a covert whither a stag had started up, and the rider of the horse shouting in exultation of the hunt.
He saw children playing by sleeping cattle, their ears attuned to the ceaseless murmur of the wind upon the prairie.
"I will go with you," said Sir Michael abruptly. "But I serve myself."
Demid nodded, pleased. He had added to his small company a rare swordsman.
"We bid you to our bread and salt," he accepted, gravely, the companionship of the other, and returned to Sir Michael his passport, remarking that it were better burned.
But the cavalier, being anxious to have a reckoning with his erstwhile dragoman, forgot about it. He found, on returning to the camp, that Giorgos was gone. When he asked Ayub how this had happened, the giant pointed to the hole that had been cut in the ice, adding that there was one spy the less in the world.
IV
Ayub Casts a Net
"Mad is he, the Falcon—aye, and yonder his mate is mad." So said Captain Balaban, whispering under his twisted lip as he watched Michael Rohan casting dice, one hand against the other. Michael shaded his eyes to look down upon the strip of beach and the dark line of the Black Sea.
The Cossack detachment had arrived at the shore and quartered itself upon a Tatar fishing village on the sheltered side of a long headland that stretched like a giant's finger out into the waters. The score of natives who lived on the neck of land had been rounded up and placed in the care of Togrukh, the essaul, who counted them promptly and let them understand that if one were found missing from the village the rest would be wrapped up in the great fishing nets of twisted hemp weighted with stones, and dropped into the sea.
"I can read the signs in the sky," went on Balaban, who had discovered that Michael understood much Turki and could speak some. "When we rode, at the heels of the Cossacks through the snow wilderness, spirits howled in our wake."
He glanced sidewise at Demid, who sat near them, apparently asleep, his back against a side of a hut, his sword across his knees. The Cossack chief understood Balaban perfectly, and knew that the howling had been from bands of Tatars who had hit upon their trail at times and pursued, without coming up with the swift-moving warriors. The first stage of the journey had been made safely.
"Aye," resumed Balaban, "on horses the brethren do well enough. If they could swim their beasts across to the Asia shore—" he laughed and continued—
"You have more wit than these Cossacks, and it is time you and I took thought for what the morrow would bring us, of evil or good."
Michael cast his dice and picked them up in the other hand. Never in his twenty-five years of life had he taken thought for the morrow. If he had!
Before his mind's eye appeared his home in the fens, the stone house with the thatched roof, the barefooted, long-tressed maids who served him and his, the fold of the countryside listening to the prayers of the old priest—the mist of the sea, and within the house a glowing fire, a nuggin of spirits—talk of other days, o
ver the clay pipes—a comfortable pension from the British king, who would have made him deputy over his clan. Peace and fullness of the body, yet sickness in the spirit.
A deputy, to administer the king's writ, upon his own people! Better the fortune of the road than that! Michael cast down the dice, his eyes somber.
Then his lips twitched and he laughed. For the first time he saw what the Cossacks on the beach were about. Ayub and some others were heating tar and plastering the sides of the half dozen fishing skiffs with it. They had been gathering reeds from the salt marshes of the shore, and these they stuck into the warm tar, making a thick fringe upon the sides of the skiffs. Others were rolling up the heavy fishing nets and laying them beside the boats.
The Levantine looked askance at the Irishman. A Moslem at heart, he considered himself the superior of Christians, who were savages and dolts—although the women of the Franks were fair and spirited. Bala-ban knew to a dirhem the price they fetched in the slave markets of the Turks, who sought them at some pains—so much for the dark-browed Greek women, so much for the pallid French. A high price for the Venetian maidens, who were better skilled at the guitar and the needle. Once he had sold a French duchess to the captain-pasha of the Turkish galleys in the Mediterranean. A good price, that.
So, a shrewd man, Balaban failed to weigh Michael well. He could not understand a spirit that laughed at the tarred reed skiffs and yet would set foot in the leaky and unseaworthy craft. Still, he felt his way with care, for he wanted something that Michael had—the safe conduct of the sultan.
"Aye, they are mad," he said again. "I know them. Half a moon have we been here, resting on our heels, and their chief sits and looks at the sea. He has not a plan in his head."
Thinking that Demid was asleep, Balaban spat on the ground and shook his head.
"Why will not the Falcon tell his plan, if he has one? Did he hope to gain passage in a ship, so that he could raid into Asia? He has posted a lookout, yet the galleys, the caiques and the barkentines that have passed along this cursed strip are under command of the Turks."
"Taib," said Michael, in his broken Turkish. "True. What is that craft yonder?"
Against the gray of the sea and the blue of the late afternoon sky a two-masted galley was drawing up to the headland. Balaban had observed it long ago, but had seen fit to keep his knowledge to himself.
"A fast galley out of Constantinople, under oars," he said, squinting against the glare on the water.
"Why," asked Michael, "do these craft keep along shore?"
"The Equinox is long past, and the run across, from north to south, is against the prevailing winds—dangerous in this season. The sultan's vessels are coasting."
Michael nodded; with his eyes shut he could vision what was happening as the black ship turned slowly into the half-moon of the protecting headland. It was customary when coasting to anchor at night in such a spot, and perhaps to go ashore for fresh water. But no boat put off from the galley, which now swung idly as the oars ceased moving and were lashed to the rowers' benches for the night.
The anchor splashed down, and the thick rope to which it was attached ran out through the trunnel-hole at the prow. On the high poop of the galley figures gathered under the canopy to gaze at the shore, and the setting sun picked out the red and green of kaftans, the steel of helmet and spearhead.
Along the strip of bridge that ran the length of the vessel a turbaned figure walked, and Michael knew that one of the overseers of the slaves was tossing to the rowers their evening meal—biscuits soaked in oil and vinegar. Plainly the galley was anchored for the night, half a mile from shore.
Demid had been studying it leisurely.
"How many fighters does that craft carry?" he asked Balaban.
"'Tis a one-bank galley, a courier ship, without cannon. Forty slaves at the bars, a score in the crew, wardens, helmsmen and officers—perchance thirty in yonder company on the poop."
"Come," said the Cossack, "here is metal for our welding."
He turned toward the fires over which the pots of gruel were heating, but the Levantine plucked Michael by the sleeve.
"A wager, O Frank. My sapphire girdle against the scroll you carry in your wallet—'tis worthless to you, now."
"Can you read the writing?"
Balaban shrugged.
"I have a mind to it. One cast of the dice—"
"For the bearer, the seguro is a death warrant."
Now the mind of the Levantine read into this response that Michael valued the paper and would not hazard it. So his desire for it grew the more. Time pressed and he spoke under his lip. "Hearken, O Aga—leader of warriors—You and I have our feet in the same path. If the Cossacks are cut up we must look to ourselves. I can serve you, and you me."
"How?"
"What will be, will be. A pity if this Falcon falls under the sword, for he would be worth a thousand gold pieces alive—and a prisoner."
"On which side are you, in this war?"
Balaban raised his eye to the evening sky and lifted both hands.
"Am I not with the Christians, O my Aga?" Adding, under his breath—
"May Allah the All-Knowing cast me down, but I give them cause to remember me!"
Michael studied him a moment and suppressed a grin.
"Be it so. My safe conduct against your girdle upon one cast of the dice."
Gathering up the dice carelessly, he tossed them down on the earth.
"Bi’llah!" Balaban muttered, for the adventurer had made a good throw.
His eye dwelt watchfully on Michael, who, grave of face, turned to glance at the galley. And in that second the Levantine cupped the dice in his hand, rolling them off his fingers as if awkwardly as Michael looked down upon them.
"A main!" cried the Irishman. "The paper is yours."
Satisfying himself that no one was aware of the transfer, Balaban thrust it into his girdle and strode off, well-pleased with himself and utterly unthinking that the Christian had permitted himself to be cheated. Michael considered him philosophically.
"What will be, will be, quoth'a. Yon swashbuckler hath rarely the air of a Grand Turk."
From the beach the Cossacks were running up to where Demid stood in the center of the village street. The hamlet itself was half hidden from the galley and already mist veiled the outline of the beach.
"My children," said Demid, when the last man stood within hearing, "we have come far, and now our path lies upon the sea. Before now, I have not said what was in my mind. We are going against yonder galley with our sabers. What do you say?"
"Good, father," muttered Togrukh. "We will pound mightily with our blades."
"That is not all. It is not my plan to frolic on the black waters. What will it avail us to take the chaff that floats on the waters? Word came to me in Kudak that, over the Black Sea, is a treasure city of the Turks, where the caravans from Arabia and Persia unload. In command of this city is a pasha, to whose fingers stick the red gold and the gleaming jewels that pass through Aleppo. This pasha is Sidi Ahmad."
"True, ataman," observed Balaban readily. "My silver girdle against your scabbard that you do not come upon Sidi Ahmad unaware."
Demid looked at his men thoughtfully.
"It is far to Aleppo. We do not know what we will find on the way. For some of us there will be a grave dug; others will taste of the torture stake. God only knows who will see the siech again, or when."
The warriors nodded, stroking their mustaches, and eyeing Demid expectantly. Not quite understanding his plan, they were assured that the young chief would lead them to the place where they might set hands on treasure.
Balaban's eye glittered mockingly. He knew more of Aleppo and the road thither than his companions.
"If any one of you," Demid glanced at Michael and Balaban, "has no heart for the stake, let him take his horse out of the line and fill his saddlebags with fodder. No blame to him."
Togrukh ran his eye over his detachment menacingly, but the warr
iors did not draw back.
"Then," went on Demid, "from here, we are on the march. If one of you is found drunk—a pistol-ball in the forehead. If a brother turns aside to gather up silks or trinkets or silver, his saber will be broken."
"Father, we hear! Shall we go against the ship before dinner or after?"
"After."
Demid took Michael aside.
"It will not be like snaring birds—tackling the galley. You are not one of us and you need not go in the boats. Two men must guard the horses
"Not I, ataman."
The adventurer smote his hip with relish of a sudden thought.
"With your leave—I will snare some birds. Aye, the nets are ready." While the chief listened, he explained carefully what was in his mind. Demid considered a while, with deepening interest.
"But who would cast the nets?" he asked at length.
Near them, outlined against the sunset, the giant form of Ayub stood. The Cossack, with his companions, was praying before the evening meal, his arms raised, facing in turn to each quarter of the horizon.
"There is one who could do it." Michael pointed him out.
When the Great Bear, glittering overhead, indicated midnight, the Cossacks embarked. All the clumsy arquebuses were left with the horse guard, and Demid gave command that no pistol was to be fired until they gained the galley's deck; he himself took one of the caiques, the long skiffs, that were to approach the stern—Togrukh the other. Ayub with ten warriors guided the third skiff toward the bow of the Turkish ship and with him went Michael.
In the waist of the skiff the Tatar fishermen, brought for that purpose by the Cossacks, moved the oars slowly through the water; the warriors, with drawn sabers, knelt in the bow, their heads concealed by the fringe of rushes fastened to the skiff's side. Michael made himself comfortable on the great fishing net at Ayub's knees.
The night was bright—too bright for concealment—yet, obscure against the loom of the shore, the skiffs covered two-thirds of the distance to the galley without being observed.