by Harold Lamb
"It is a maestro wind," explained Ostrog wisely. "For two days it will lash us. Slay the horses while there is time."
But the Cossacks would not do that. The ponies staggered against the dip of the vessel and jerked at their halters. One screamed, and another, plunging, broke its halter. The men nearest the frantic animals began to barricade themselves behind piled-up benches.
Balaban and Ayub took one of the steering sweeps, Ostrog and Michael held to the other. A dull creaking began in the depth of the galley, and before the third watch the sail ripped loose from its sheet. Snapping and lurching, it whipped forward from the slanting spar. But the braces held.
The mishap to the sail brought about what the seamen on El Riman had been dreading—the stampede of the ponies. Rearing on each other, and crashing against the rail, half of them were loose in a moment. Demid, running to the break in the poop saw what had happened and went down with Togrukh and a half dozen Cossacks. They climbed over the barricade of benches, and worked in among the horses, half swept from their feet when a roller came over the windward rail.
Several of the beasts were lost in this wave, borne over the side. Cursing and straining every muscle, the Cossacks worked to get the rest in hand. To add to the confusion on the galley many of the long oars had broken from their lashings. These had to be secured, and the heads of the ponies bound in sacks. With their heads muffled the beasts quieted somewhat, but the gray light of morning revealed the Cossacks still among them, silent and blue with cold.
They were driving ahead in high seas, the tatters of the sail on the spar serving to keep the prow of the galley steady. Rain, in gusts, lashed them, and the whine of the wind sank to a moan.
From the depth of the galley came again the song of Lali, barely to be heard, fitful as the cry of a ghil of the waste. The Cossacks crossed themselves. One of their mates had been washed from the waist and another lay crippled among the horses.
Late the next afternoon they sighted a Moslem war galley. Only a mild swell was running, and for some time they had been drawing in to a new shore.
An irregular coast, with jutting headlands and dense forests first appeared and, later, the white walls of houses and the cupolas and minarets of mosques. They had not observed the town until they rounded a long point and found themselves almost in the mouth of a narrow harbor where a score of carracks and galleys had assembled to ride out the storm.
Balaban perhaps, could have told them what they would come upon, but he kept his own counsel, and Demid, after a glance into the bay, gave order to row on, without haste. He made out the ramparts of a fort, and noticed that one of the galleys had its anchor up.
They had no choice but to try to steal past, trusting that no one would think it worth while to send after them.
Sight of a half-dismantled Algerine galley passing the port without putting in proved to be too much for the curiosity of the commander of the war vessel, and the Cossacks saw its prow appear around the headland before they were two miles distant. Presently smoke puffed from a port in the fore-deck of the pursuer, and Ayub swore under his breath.
"Yonder serpent of the seas carries half a dozen barkers, and fourscore warriors. Demid, kunak, we must put spurs to El Riman, and outstrip the dogs, or they will pound us with iron balls and sprinkle us with arrows."
"Aye," assented Balaban, "nor can you close with them, for the war-gal-ley is handier and by the way the oars dip, the rowers are fresh."
Demid nodded, observing everything with care, as was his way when matters went ill. His own rowers were tired after the two days' battle with the storm; water had seeped into the hull of El Riman and the galley moved sluggishly. The Moslem craft was covering two spans to their one, and in an hour they would be overtaken. Never before now had he been called upon to defend a galley and his mind misgave him, as to what should be done.
"What is our best course?" he asked Balaban, who stood with Ostrog at the steering oars.
"Row on, lash the slaves and gain what time we may. The sun is near to setting, and when darkness falls we may run the galley ashore and shift, each for himself, in the forest."
"Better," growled Ayub, who liked this counsel little, "to turn in our tracks and fall on them with our sabers."
"They are no lack-wits, to be taken so," the Levantine pointed out. "Rather, they will comb us over with cannon and bows, and your men will die like sheep."
There was truth in this, and Ayub glanced helplessly at Demid, muttering that their plight was the work of the witch. Had she not summoned up the storm with her song, and had not the tempest made El Riman like a foundered horse, fit only to drop into a ditch and be plucked by kites?
Demid's keen eyes studied the polished poop of the pursuer, outlined clearly in the setting sun, and the steady beat of the long oars. Now he could hear the measured throbbing of the drum on the Moslem ship— could make out the lateen sail clewed up skillfully. Every warrior except the helmsman and the reis was stretched prone on the deck, to offer less resistance to the air.
"Aye," Balaban noticed his gaze, "'tis a corsair from Barbary, on cruise in the Black Sea to collect wealth for the sultan, doubtless. Those —— know the art of racing a galley. Better for you if it had been a Turk."
The commander of the corsair was still in doubt as to El Riman, which flew a Moslem pennant; but the fact that she avoided him made him suspicious; in a few moments he would be able to see the Cossacks, and then all doubt would vanish. The distance between the two galleys had been cut in haft.
"Lash the slaves!" Balaban whispered to Demid, who gave the order to Togrukh.
The sergeant had picked up a nagaika, a Cossack whip, and was running to the break in the poop when a shout from Ayub arrested him.
Simultaneously, Balaban and Ostrog had let fall the steering sweeps, and had sprung to the rail at the stern. Leaping far out, they disappeared into the foaming wake, while the galley, without a hand at the helm, lurched in its course.
"Akh!"
The sergeant, in whose care the prisoners had been, ran to the rail, plucking out the long pistols from his belt and staring down at the swirling water. When the heads of the swimmers came to view, they were a cable's length away.
Togrukh steadied his hand and fired at the broad skull of Ostrog, the seaman. No splash in the water followed the report, but, Ostrog flinched and sank from sight quietly. Togrukh took the second pistol in his right hand and sighted with care.
The weapon flashed, and this time the bullet struck spray a foot from Balaban's ear. Togrukh, peering through the smoke, muttered to himself, and came to attention before Demid. The renegades had been in his charge, and, except during the storm, he had not left them unguarded a moment. True, he had an excellent excuse, but among the Cossacks excuses were not in favor.
Demid saw Balaban raise an arm and wave it, in taunt, and then strike out toward the onrushing corsair. The Levantine had taken a desperate chance, that the Moslems would pause to pick him up, for the shore was beyond reach at this point. He was able, however to make some signal that caught the attention of the reis, for the oars were lifted, the galley slowed as its momentum ceased, and a rope was cast to the swimmer who hauled himself to the rail.
Turning, Demid was aware of the sergeant, standing at attention, and realized that Togrukh considering himself at fault, expected a blow from his saber or denunciation before the warriors which to a man of Togrukh's long service was as bad.
"You had an order, essaul. Go forward with the whip."
"Then there is no blame, father?"
"No blame to you."
Togrukh's eyes brightened and he cracked his whip, glancing around to make certain that the Cossacks had heard. Meanwhile the galley gained speed again, for Ayub and Michael had caught up the steering-sweeps. There was now no seaman on El Riman, and a distant shout from the corsair announced that Balaban had lost no time in making known the identity of the fleeing galley.
He had chosen well the moment to make his hazard, for
he would be honored for boldness in escaping from the Nazarenes, as well as for the news he brought. Ayub glared back resentfully.
"That fellow has turned his coat so often,-alone knows which is
the lining and which the color. May he burn!"
"We have not done with him," responded Demid. "A barb is in him that will goad him against us."
"See the Turk reins in, and slows from a gallop to a trot. He seeks to tire out our men at the oars, knowing that we cannot hide our trail from him."
So said Ayub, and in fact the pursuer settled down to a long stroke that kept him about a mile distant. Aware by now of the exact strength of the men he was following and their lack of seamanship, he could afford to choose his own time to attack. El Riman had drawn closer inshore, but the coast was rocky and bare of cover. They searched it with their eyes, rounding a cliff-like headland, but saw no place for a landing.
It was Michael who first noticed that around the headland the shore fell away and the mouth of a river showed. With a cry he swung hard upon his sweep, motioning for Ayub to do the same, and the prow of El Riman entered the shadows between the hills.
The river was not wide, but it was deep and tortuous, between shelving clay banks. No landing place offered, and Demid gave order to cast over anything that would lighten the galley—water-butts, anchor, and such of the stores as were on deck. Some of the warriors walked among the benches thrusting biscuits soaked in wine into the mouths of the rowers, while others saddled the ponies—to the amazement of the slaves— and filled the saddle-bags hastily.
"The saints grant us a place to land," muttered Ayub, "before the Turk comes up."
But by the time they had passed through the range of hills on the coast and were approaching open country darkness had fallen, and the pursuers were within gunshot. El Riman limped along while Ayub and Michael strained their sight ahead, making out the channel by the break in the trees that lined each bank.
So the race had been lost, and they were forced to listen to the mocking shouts of the pursuers who were clearly to be seen under lighted flares and torches, set in place on the corsair's rail.
"They are taking their daggers in their teeth, father," Togrukh pointed out. "They are ready to attack."
Demid's indecision vanished at the prospect of action. Making sure that his leaders understood what they were to do, he explained that El Riman must be run to shore—beached, so that one side should be toward the river. Meanwhile Ayub was to issue to the Christian captives the weapons taken from the janissaries, and the starboard rail was to be cut away in one place, to allow the ponies to jump from the deck and make their way ashore. The defense of the poop he entrusted to Togrukh with a dozen of the Cossacks who had arquebuses and pistols.
"Can you beach the galley?" he asked the cavalier quietly.
"I think so, if you will take the other sweep and do as I do."
Michael leaned forward to peer into the dark lane of the river. Behind them, the corsair was coming up quickly, her beak cutting into the wake of their galley—so swiftly that already the glare of the torches shone on the water. This light enabled Michael to make out a short sandbar and the glint of rushes along the shore to the right. Where rushes grew he knew the bank must be muddy and low.
"Weigh starboard oars!" he barked, and thrust his back against the steering oar. Demid followed his example.
"Pull, all!" he commanded, moving his sweep over sharply.
El Riman glided in, diagonally, toward the rushes, and Michael, glancing over his shoulder, saw the corsair duplicate the maneuver.
"Weigh, all!"
Once more he leaned his weight on the steering oar, bringing the drifting galley parallel to the shore, and braced himself for the shock. The beak of El Riman plowed into the mud and sand of the bar at the same time that the keel grated over rocks and came to rest in the ooze. Slowly the deck inclined a few degrees toward the land, so that the starboard waist was nearly level with the water.
Red flashes rent the darkness and thudding reports deafened the Cossacks who were scrambling to their feet. The corsair had raked the stranded galley with its cannon, and now checked its course. Its ram ripped slanting along the ribs of the galley, splintering the long oars, and bringing the forecastle abreast the poop of the galley.
"Yah Allah!" howled a hundred throats.
The Cossacks answered with a discharge from their firearms, and Demid sprang to the rail as lithe figures swarmed upon it. Togrukh and his men stood shoulder to shoulder with him and sabers rang against scimitars.
"Slash, slash!" roared the Cossacks.
Arrows whizzed down from the higher after-castle of the corsair, and Ayub, running aft, saw several of his comrades fall. The big warrior was in a seething rage because the Christian slaves would not touch the weapons he offered them. Aware that the Cossacks were bound to lose in the fight, they sat passively on the rowing benches, choosing for the most part to go back to their lot as slaves rather than be cut down by the Moslems. Some jumped into the water and waded ashore with the ponies who stampeded as soon as the firing began.
Barely half a dozen followed Ayub to the poop. He was met by Demid, who had cleared a space on the afterdeck for the moment, aided by the cavalier. The eyes of the young ataman were dark with excitement, and his lips snarled. The hot blood raced in his veins, and he longed to cast himself back into the thick of his foes and strike with the sword that served him so well, until he could strike no more.
Upon him, however, rested the fate of his men, and a quick glance fore and aft told him the fight was lost, on the galley. The janissaries were shouting and breaking from their bonds in the waist, and behind them scores of bowmen were wading through the rushes from the corsair, to cut them off from the shore.
"To the bank with the horses!" he ordered Ayub. "Hold the shore."
With that he sprang down into the after cabin and darted to the lattice, sweeping aside the quivering negroes. Here was gloom, relieved only by a flickering lamp—gloom where smoke swirled around the form of Lali, erect beside the couch, and the wailing maid. Since the capture of the galley these two had not met, and now the fine eyes of the girl stared at him tauntingly.
"Come out!" Demid cried.
"Nay, O captain of thieves, shall I flee when dogs are whipped? Said I not the hand of the sultan would cast you down?"
Demid stepped through the opening in the lattice and grasped at her waist. Lali evaded him deftly, and laughed as he stumbled over the rug.
Then his fingers caught her shoulder and she squirmed, beating at his throat and trying to set her teeth in his forearm.
Her veil was torn away and for the first time the young chief looked into the flushed face. The scent of musk was in his nostrils and the breath of the girl warmed his lips. Tears of sheer rage made her dark eyes brilliant as they flew to his, questioningly.
With the flat of his scimitar Demid struck Lali in the side, driving the breath from her lungs. An instant she quivered, and her eyes widened, then half closed as he caught her behind the knees with his left arm, throwing her over his shoulder. He could feel the throbbing of her heart against his throat.
Turning back through the lattice, he raced for the steps, expecting to have to hew his way through the throng of Turks upon the poop. But here Togrukh still stood with one of the warriors, back to back. And Michael, who had seen Demid go down into the cabin, was poised over the stairhead, his rapier making play against three scimitars, his lean face expressionless as a mask.
Signing to him to follow, Demid made his way down to the waist of the galley, struck the hilt of his sword into the eyes of a foe who was climbing over the wale, and leaped bodily down into the darkness and rushes. He went into water up to his waist, but kept his footing with an effort. Michael splashed beside him.
Arrows whistled overhead, and once Michael went headlong into the shallows, just as the giant form of Ayub loomed up before them.
"This way. We have the horses."
He
pulled the slender Michael bodily after him, and covered Demid with his long broadsword. On firm ground, under a network of trees a group of Cossacks were rounding up a dozen ponies.
Demid mounted the first that was offered him, and placed Lali before him.
"To saddles!" he commanded, and as he spoke, beheld Togrukh and the old Cossack in the center of a ring of Moslem swordsmen on the slanting deck of the galley.
The sergeant caught the voice of his leader over the uproar, and lifted his left hand.
"Farewell, father. Tell—of Togrukh—"
Demid started in his saddle and tightened his rein. Then, realizing that he could not leave his men, who were now about him, to go to the sergeant's aid, he whirled his horse and trotted back into the shadows. Once he glanced back, at a shout from the Moslems, and saw Togrukh's head, the eyes still quivering, stuck upon a spear.
"He had an order to hold the afterdeck!"
The thought tortured him, and he drove his spurs into the beast under him in silent fury. The Cossacks, accustomed to finding their way about in darkness, seemed to cluster about him by instinct. One spurred forward to seek out an opening in the trees. The rest muttered satisfaction. They were ashore, at a heavy cost, but upon the earth again, with horses under them.
Nine times in ten, a company of soldiers thoroughly thrashed and dispersed in strange country would have scattered helplessly through the forest. The cry, "Each man for himself," would have meant death for all at the hands of the Moslems.
In fact the warriors from the corsair had kindled torches and were searching the wood in bands, expecting to hunt down the fugitives.
On every hand, however, as the Turks advanced, the cries of beasts arose in the brush. The yelp of a jackal answered the whining snarl of a panther, and, more distant than the rest, the howling of a wolf rose steadily. Here and there the thickets ahead of the searchers were shaken by the rush of a four-footed animal.
But no forest animals were there. The men from the Don were at home in timber, and this was their fashion of calling to each other. Single warriors joined together, evaded the torches and made their way to the howling of the wolf, where Demid had assembled the nucleus of their band.