by Harold Lamb
His prisoners—according to his orders they were to be treated as such— had ridden from Moscow a regiment of skeletons. Now the flesh on their bones had grown firm, although the rations issued to them were scanty. They made themselves bows, and shot down wild duck. After they brought to his tent one evening the choice loin of a stag, Van Elfsberg permitted the Cossacks to go on hunting forays during the day's march.
The plain abounded in game and the Cossacks ran down the great herds of buffalo and roe deer.
Punctiliously every dawn Van Elfsberg had them mustered in squadrons and his officers called the roll. He found to his amazement that he now had more Cossacks than he had started with. Where the others came from he did not know, except that sentries reported riders appearing at night from out of the steppe, as wolves might slip from a forest. In fact he heard wolf-like howling beyond his lines in the darkness, and this howling was answered by the cries of panthers and the baying of dogs in the direction of the Cossacks' tents where there were neither dogs nor panthers.
Van Elfsberg saw that this wilderness, this barren sea of grass, supported human life, and he believed that the villages of the Don Cossacks could not be many days' ride distant. The tidings of his march had gone before him. Although he had good reason to be pleased with the successful end of his march he wondered if the invisible friends of the Donskoi were not preparing to rescue the captives at Kamushink—until he reflected that men who would be free in another day would not bring on a conflict with his men in order to leave him now.
The rising spirits of the Cossacks he attributed to this nearness to liberty, and he fully expected that once they were across the Volga with wagons and supplies and arms they would circle back somewhere and think no longer of their oath given to the tsar.
But at Kamushink trouble awaited him.
"Excellency," a sergeant of chasseurs—his own troop of armored cavalry—reported to Van Elfsberg one evening at his tent entrance, "the Cossack savages have broken bonds."
"How?" demanded the veteran captain.
"They are smashing the doors of the merchants' storehouses and rolling out barrels of brandy and wine. They are taking logs to build fires."
"Are they armed?"
That noon the distribution of the stores—barley, and wheat and powder and lead for bullets—had been made to the chief of the Cossacks. The two hundred firelocks had been counted over, with flints and slings for the powder charges; the wagons had been inspected and greased and oxen picked out to haul them. Five hundred sabers had been accepted and the Cossacks had set to work at once loading the wagons and sharpening the sabers. The work had been finished at sunset.
"Their lances are stacked, Excellency, but they wear the sabers. The firearms—the flintlocks—are in the wagons."
"The devil!" muttered Van Elfsberg. "They have waited until they are fitted out and now—send their captain to me, at once. Wait! Offer him my compliments and beg that he will speak with me at this tent."
"At command!"
The sergeant of chasseurs saluted, mounted, and galloped away. The quiet of the night was broken by shouting and hurrying footsteps, by the neighing of horses and the crackling of flames. Van Elfsberg sent his orderly to bid a squadron commander muster his men in readiness to mount, and to double the guards stationed at the cannon in the watch-towers of the town.
"The Cossacks act like men who expect a rescue," he muttered. "Well, they'll swallow bullets, that's all—ah, ataman!"
"Health to you, sotnik."
Demid cantered up on a horse that the Swede had never seen before. His arm had healed, and the blood coursed again in his cheeks. Van Elf-sberg noticed that the scimitar at his belt was not the saber issued from the Muscovite stores. And the young Cossack did not dismount, which displeased the Swede, who was a stickler for discipline.
"Your men are rioting, ataman," he said curtly, "and by the devil, I think you have been drinking."
"Aye, captain," smiled Demid, "the warriors are playing a bit. There is no harm, in this hour."
An outburst of shots from the central square, near log shops of the town's merchants, interrupted them. Van Elfsberg's yellow mustache bristled and his long chin with its pointed beard thrust out as he looked down the street between the barracks. The light from the fires was growing stronger, and he saw the Don warriors in their long coats rolling out barrels.
"Order them to cease! Send them out of the gate—bind the leaders and stake them out."
Demid shook his head good-naturedly. "In this hour, captain, I have no authority."
"They are your men!"
Glancing at the chasseurs who were forming in front of the Muscovite barracks under a boyar ensign, Demid spoke more seriously.
"Keep your men out of ranks, commander, unless you want blows. Come with me, if you wish to see what is going on."
Suspicion grew in the officer, as he noticed newcomers in the increasing throng about the fires, and heard the thudding hoofs of a multitude of ponies outside the low mud wall of the town. Calling for his horse and orderly, he climbed into the saddle and looked toward the camp of the Donskoi which was between the town and the river. The long dark line of wagons was deserted, while Cossacks, visible in the glow of the watch fires, were crowding to look at groups of ponies—shaggy little animals from which boys and girls and old men were dismounting.
Evidently, if reinforcements were reaching the Don warriors, the newcomers were a poor sort. Van Elfsberg decided to look into the matter before making a show of force to stop the rioting. Taking only his orderly—he did not lack courage—and bidding the ensign await his command, he trotted beside Demid to the square and began to swear under his breath.
The stalls of the merchants had been torn up for fuel and the Muscovites had barred themselves in their log houses. Kegs and whole barrels of brandy and mead had been broached, and the warriors were swarming around these like bees, dipping in with their caps or cupped hands. In and out between the throngs bareheaded riders were passing at full gallop, avoiding, by what Van Elfsberg considered a miracle, running the drinkers down, and letting off muskets and pistols.
First one youth, then another, leaped in the air and began the wild kosaka dance, to the strumming of the balalaikas and the shouts of those who watched eagerly.
Among the dancers appeared Cossack girls in kerchiefs and loose smocks. Barefoot, they tossed back their long locks and advanced and retreated before the warriors, while the mutter of voices deepened into a roar.
"Ou-ha! Ou-ha!"
Too, among the revelers were to be seen more than a few green and white uniforms of Van Elfsberg's chasseurs and the somber coats of the strelsui—the guards of the Cossacks.
Winding in and out, a procession formed behind burly Ayub. The big Zaporogian had been given a standard—such a standard as the Swedish officer had never beheld before. A pole as long as a lance supported a pair of horns from which hung white buffalo tails. Above the horns shone the head of a white falcon.
"The standard of the Donskoi, captain," said Demid, who had followed his glance. "Only listen!"
Ayub's great voice rang out above the tumult.
Shall we sit idle?
Follow Death's dance!
Pick up your bridle,
Saddle and lance—
Brothers—advance!
At once the fiddles and guitars struck up the melody, and from somewhere a drum rumbled. A hundred voices chimed in—not the dragging chorus of a mob singing but the splendid harmony of trained voices—and the clear soprano of the young girls floated above the diapason of the men.
"Ma foi," muttered Van Elfsberg, "that is well done."
The song quickened into a wild surge of melody and ended on a single high note that seemed to echo in the air like the aftertone of a bell.
Though the dark Raider Rob us of joy—
Death the invader Come to destroy—
Nitchdgo—stoi! *
"What is it—that song?" asked the officer.
"It is old," Demid hesitated. "It is called the march of the Donskoi."
"But where did all these people come from!" Van Elfsberg was trying to catch the eye of a lass in a white kerchief and cloth-of-silver cap who had left the circle of dancers and seemed to be searching for someone in the throng of warriors.
"From the villages along the Don," responded the Cossack curtly. "They brought my standard and baton—the Muscovites did not capture those. They brought the extra horses that we need. Look yonder, sotnik."
Turning in the saddle he swept his arm at the darkness through which the gray surface of the broad Volga gleamed. Kamushink, nestled between mountains, overlooked the rushes and the bare plain of the far bank.
"What is it?
"The desert. Of those who venture into it not many come back. Before setting out on such a road it is the custom of the Cossacks to frolic. Today they will drink and dance and burn powder; at dawn they will set out. But until then I, the ataman, have no orders to give—"
Van Elfsberg did not think that these revelers would assemble under arms at daybreak, or for many hours after; but just then one of the warriors sighted the two officers and caught up a high pewter tankard, dipping it full in the nearest brandy keg. Staggering, he approached the Swede and leaned against his horse.
"Health to you, Puss-in-Boots. Here's something to wet your whistle."
The officer sniffed, but he sniffed above the brimming tankard and, though he frowned, he took a long swallow of the burning spirits.
"Don't wet your bib!" said the Cossack gravely. He had been staring at the enormous red collar that hung down over the Swede's chest. Van Elfs-berg lifted his whip angrily but the warrior, who had grasped the tankard again, was gulping down the brandy. To the officer's surprise he raised the jug higher and higher until the last drop had gone down his throat. Then he snorted, and turned slowly on his heels.
A rider cantered up from the gate and the drunken Cossack cast the heavy tankard at his head. The mounted warrior merely swerved his body and laughed, while his comrade after one or two attempts to walk back to the brandy barrel, stretched himself out on the ground heedless of horses and dancers alike.
Meanwhile the rider had reined his pony at a group of girls, drawing the beast back on its haunches so suddenly that gravel scattered over the bright dresses. Leaning on one stirrup, he caught one of the young women around the waist, and lifted her, laughing and struggling, to his saddle peak.
"Nay," said Van Elfsberg. "Who will pay for all this?"
But Demid no longer gave him any attention; the ataman was going from group to group and the warriors roared greetings at him, calling him Falcon and Father and dog-brother.
Left to himself, Van Elfsberg looked after the young Cossack who had carried off the girl. In the red glow from the fires the lad's eyes shone, and surely there were tears in the eyes of the maid, and yet she was laughing. One of her dark tresses, escaping from her cloth-of-silver cap, wound around his throat when a wind gust whipped her garments, as if she were holding him to her and did not want to let him go.
"Plague take it!" said the officer heartily, when the two had passed beyond the circle of light. He felt vaguely dissatisfied and restless as if he had intruded into a place where he was not wanted. Presently he decided the best thing to do would be to go to his own quarters and wait for morning.
No sooner had he left the square than scores of his chasseurs appeared from the alleys where they had been in hiding and ran to the fires where they were soon drinking with the Cossacks.
Kirdy, all eyes and ears, wandered from circle to circle, listening to the singing and the stories of the bandura players, but he did not find Khlit for whom he was seeking, until he came to a fire over which a great pot was sizzling. The old Cossack was just chewing the last meat off a sheep's knuckle and when his grandson came up he gave the bone to a dog and wiped his hands on the dog's back.
"Eh, fledgling," he growled. "Have you eaten—have you drunk your fill of corn brandy? Good! Then listen to me."
He fumbled in his pouch and filled his short clay pipe, and Kirdy, pulling a burning stick from the fire, lighted it for him. Then he looked up at the stars. "My eyes are not young. I cannot see Aldebaran, but there's the Flying Geese. In another hour it will be cock crow and then the Don men will take their saddles."
Kirdy did not break his wonted silence. He knew that if his grandsire spoke so many words there was a message to be given. Not advice—for
Khlit never tried to give the young warrior counsel—but a warning or a question.
"Ouchar," he went on, in the Tatar in which they conversed, "we have been over the road to Urgench before, but we hid our swords and our faces. It is a long road and of those who set out not all will return. Some will be flayed alive; some will taste a stake. The Turkomans are wolves—wolves."
"Yachim batyushka—aye, little grandfather."
"You have seen the power of the tsar of Muscovy. He cannot protect his caravans from the Turkoman raiders. Eh, fledgling, we were drawing our reins toward the great war camp of the Cossacks. We can still go there; you will win a name and honor—I will drink with old friends again. We have been long on the trail."
"Aye, long."
"Or you can take service with the khan bimbashi, the captain of the Muscovites. But in the desert you will have only a drawn belly and wounds to lick."
Under grizzled brows the hard eyes of the old Cossack peered at the fine brown eyes beside him. "What is your choice, lad?"
"I will go with the Don Cossacks." As his grandfather was silent Kirdy wondered if he could be displeased, and he added, pondering his words. "Surely honor is to be found where the way is hardest."
Khlit knocked out his pipe and, having noticed that others of the Don warriors who understood the Tatar tongue were following the talk, added sternly, "Only listen, noble sirs, to the young son of a dog! He has not made a raid yet, and he presumes to give counsel like an ataman."
One of the warriors nodded politely. "Aye, little grandfather, he is young yet, and there is more milk than brandy on his lips but, by God, we will make an ataman out of him."
Saying that they were going to seek the standard, Khlit went off with the youth, but Kirdy thought that he was pleased by what had passed. Khlit did not speak again of turning back and Kirdy saw that the old man's blood was aroused by the revelry of the warriors, by the stories of the bandura players and the stir of the camp.
"We will find Demid," he grunted. "He's a falcon they say—a sword-slayer. He cut down a sultan with his own hand. Yet he thinks of every-thing—look at these horses he's brought up."
Swaggering among the knots of warriors, and scrutinizing those stretched out on the ground, Khlit led the way through the roisterers, harkening to the shrill cry of the fiddles. He paused by two big men who were pounding and tearing at each other, rolling over in clouds of dust and grunting.
When the stoutest of the two pinned the other between his knees they saw that the victor was Ayub. Hands clenched in his adversary's beard he was beating the unfortunate's head against the hard clay and swearing heartily. To his surprise, Kirdy recognized the starosta who had made game of them at the gate of Moscow.
The red facings were torn off the black coat of the Muscovite and blood trickled from his nose. Although several of his own men were standing near no one offered to go to his assistance and Kirdy expected to hear his skull crack when Ayub paused to draw breath.
"May the dogs bite you! The hangman will light your way because no one else will want to be seen with you. You are a hero when it comes to catching flies on a wall. At your own gate you bay like a dog, but on the trail I didn't hear you at all. You'll be a man of deeds if you can get your wife to listen to you, but not otherwise."
"You called us 'Devils in stinking sheepskins' starosta," grinned another Cossack. "All the same, you lap up our brandy."
"It's not yours, you thieving dogs," shouted the Mu
scovite.
"Call out the militia!"2 gibed a thin warrior who wore a Turkish yataghan stuck through his sash. "Time to milk the cows."
"The forehead to you, starosta!" grinned one whose nose had been broken by a sword cut. "That's the way of it—if anything's stolen, the Cossacks are the thieves! But if there's a war the Cossacks are put in the van."
"I spit on you!" retorted the angered officer.
"You'll never spit on anything but your stomach," remarked Ayub.
"By--you'll sit in the sun here in Kamushink and make ox-eyes at the
native women but you won't stir a hand toward them for fear they might box your ears. Then when we come back from Urgench with the treasure for your master you'll take it and lock it up, and start marching back with it to Moscow—one, two! Left, right! I know you Muscovites!"
"The forehead to you, Ayub!" shouted the warrior with the scar across his brow. "You fight well with words." He laughed, and as he had been drinking from his cap at the time, the brandy poured out of his nostrils.
Ayub had been preparing to batter the head of the Muscovite underofficer again, but at this remark he started up, snorting, his anger directed into a new channel.
"With words! Steel to you, Dog-Face!"
He whipped out his light saber, given him by the Muscovites—for he had hidden his own heavy broadsword in the wagons when the weapons were issued—and swung it over his head.
"To one death, to the other life!" howled the scarred Cossack, beside himself at sight of bare steel. He drew his own weapon and sprang at Ayub and no one interfered because to do so would have earned a slash from a saber and besides this was the affair of the two antagonists. Unnoticed, the starosta of the Moscow militia rolled away from the fire and made his escape into the darkness.
Then Kirdy realized for the first time Ayub's strength. The sabers whistled in the air, clashed together, and at the second cut the blade of the smaller Cossack sprang from the hilt. It whirred into the glowing embers of the fire, scattering sparks on all who stood near.
"Give him a saber, someone!" cried Ayub. "Impossible to cut down a brother without a blade in his hand."