by Harold Lamb
Before anyone could reply Khlit spoke. He had been looking around on all sides, paying no attention to the quarreling. "Where is the standard? You had it in your fist, Ayub."
"The buntchauk? What standard? What in the fiend's name do we want with the standard when there is corn brandy yet in the casks!"
Meanwhile Kirdy, who had sighted the glimmer of the spreading horns near the gate, pointed it out to Khlit. Demid had it, in a circle of a half dozen Cossacks who were no longer drinking, and toward this group the old warrior strode. His grandson could not refrain from looking back at Ayub.
The warrior of the yataghan had made a song out of Ayub's haphazard words, and the revelers, forgetting all disputes, were chanting the chorus:
One, two! Left, right!
We know you, Muscovite!
They stamped on the hard earth with their silver heels at each beat, and drained their cups at the end. Other fires took it up. In a moment the whole square was vibrating to the "one, two."
The pulse throbbed in Kirdy's wrists and his heart hammered his ribs. He wanted to shout, at the shrill cry of the fiddles to leap into the dance. He stared boldly at his new comrades, at these men who had not a thought except the wild carouse of the moment, who sang like angels, who toasted no woman but lifted their cups to Mother Death.
Kirdy held his head high and tried to swagger like Khlit, and wished he had silver heels to stamp strongly on the earth. All at once a single desire flooded every part of his being. To find his horse, to mount and ride! Over the endless steppe, across rivers. To seek out foemen and cut at them with bare steel.
Instead, without feeling his limbs move, he found himself at Khlit's side in the ring of silent warriors by the standard. He heard their voices as if from far off, and noticed that Demid's head was steaming, and that the ataman had torn open his shirt to breathe the better, for he had drunk more than Ayub himself. His eyes were glowing, his white teeth shone under his mustache, and his splendidly molded countenance was dark.
"Sir brothers," he was saying "listen to my advice. Khlit, the Wolf, is wise in counsel; his head has grown white by reason of many battles. He has struck more blows than any of us, and moreover he has been Koshevoi Ataman3 of all the Cossacks. And so I say to you, who are kuren atamans— take the Wolf for your leader on the journey to Urgench." He held out the ivory staff, the baton of the ataman, to Khlit. "Take it, sir brother!"
"Your advice is good," cried a handsome warrior in a fine red damask coat—one who was called Makshim by the others.
Khlit took off his black sheepskin hat and bowed. "I thank you, sir brothers, and you, Falcon. That's my first speech. Now harken to my second. I am oldest in years—that's a fact. But my eyes are not keen; I'm good only to sit at the fire and eat game that another man has killed. If you had any fault to find with Demid it would be different. He has raided Moslems many a time; he's a fine Cossack, your Falcon, your father. I say the baton is his."
At this the leader of the Donskoi bent his head in thought for a while. "You have spoken well, koshevoi," he responded. "Yet I have never carried the standard across the Volga, nor do I know the Turkoman khans. So I say to you, 'Give me counsel, and ride at my side.' I will keep the baton, and the sir brothers will rejoice when they hear that the Wolf is with them."
"Aye," added Makshim. "He freed us from the stakes of the Muscovites."
"That is true," acknowledged Demid frankly. "We would have been given to the torture before now. We all bend the forehead to him for that deed."
Tall Makshim, who was bold of tongue, was not satisfied. "There is the ouchar, the fledgling grandson of Khlit. Surely he should be given a kuren to lead."
Hearing this, Khlit frowned. "Makshim has not spoken well. What does this puppy of mine know of Cossack warfare? He must scratch out his own bed."
Demid glanced at Kirdy appraisingly; they had talked together on the march and had hunted roe deer on the steppe. Now the chieftain looked at the youth with the eye of a leader, not a comrade—for the hour was at hand when Demid's word was to be law. He noticed that the boy's eves were cast down respectfully, and that he blushed at the attention of the elder warriors. He noticed, too, Kirdy's well knit shoulders and powerful hands, his wide, firm lips and high cheekbones, and the splendid sword girdled high against his chest, Moslem-fashion.
"Kirdy has been over the trail to Urgench," he observed slowly—he never spoke in haste. "I will give him ten other youths and they can go before us as scouts."
Flushing with pleasure, the boy bent his head, and sought for the right words to make response. "I am your servant, brothers, Cossacks," he said in Tatar, that was his native speech. "Only give me orders, for I am unskilled in war."
Demid smiled. "You, who have come hither from Cathay—what path have you followed, save that of war?" he answered in the same tongue. Then he glanced over his shoulder and held up his hand for silence. Out by the stables the first cocks were crowing, and upon the dark plain across the river there was a level streak of orange light.
"It is time!" he cried.
"Time!" echoed Khlit, stroking down his gray mustache.
"Are we agreed, my brothers?" went on Demid. "Then the council is at an end, and I will give the military command."
At these words he put his high kalpak on his head and thrust the baton into his girdle. Immediately the others doffed their hats and waited in attentive silence. During the imprisonment in Moscow and while they were under the orders of Van Elfsberg, and when the revelry was on, Demid had been no more than their nominal head—their adviser and friend.
Now that they were to march into Asia as a military unit, all authority rested in the ataman. From his commands there would be no appeal, unless circumstances should compel them to call another council. In his hand was life or death; the responsibility was his, and not even the outspoken Makshim would have presumed to question an order of the ataman.
"Goloto's kuren will yoke up the oxen," said Demid, "and assist the Tatar drivers. The two kurens with muskets will escort the wagons down to the river. Makshim, go in advance and see that the barges are ready with oars. The three squadrons of lancers will follow. Khlit, rouse up that drunken dog Ayub and bid him take the standard."
Seeing that he had not finished speaking, the Cossacks merely nodded understanding, glanced up at the stars and waited.
"Break the barrels—pour out any brandy that is left. If you find a warrior carrying off anything, set him on an ox and let the Tatars goad him. If, when we are across the Volga, any son of a dog is seen drinking, flay his feet and tie him to a wagon tail. On the march, do not let your horses be heated—change saddle to a spare mount instead. Load your weapons before mounting, and don't let any —— try to swim his horse across the Volga. It is too wide and beside, the river is in flood."
He glanced once more around the square with its maudlin throng and lifted his head. To Kirdy it seemed as if the young ataman grew taller and sterner.
"Na kdn! To horse!"
The group of leaders scattered at once, and the nearest Cossacks stopped their song and looked at Demid. The command was repeated from crowd to crowd, and after a last hasty cup the warriors ran toward the gates, pausing to kick up their comrades who lay stretched on the ground. "Time to go!" they shouted, when the drunkards cursed and stumbled erect. Immediately these began to stagger after their mates, picking up their caps and tightening their belts. Some—Ayub among them—paused to thrust their heads under a water pump.
The more sober ones had smashed in the kegs and tossed blazing brands into the vodka casks, and now vivid blue flames leaped up like tortured demons. In a few moments the square was deserted except for the reeling Muscovites who had stayed to the end. Ayub came up unsteadily, gripped the pole of the standard and leaned on it.
Kirdy sought first the stacked lances, then the horse lines. The darkness around him was filled with hurrying figures, yet surprisingly little noise was made. He heard saddles flung on ponies, and the brief jangle
of bit chains, then the creak of leather and was aware of the black shapes of riders spurring in circles against the growing light in the east, lances projecting from their shoulders, their heads rising into the long sheepskin hats. When he was in the saddle of his piebald he looked for his other pony but found that the horse-tenders had driven it off with the remounts. A fresh, cool wind fanned the steam from his face, and he sniffed the odor of sheepskins and leather and horses.
The kuren atamans were calling out, low-voiced: "Goloto this way! Makshim this way!"
The lance points began to arrange themselves in ranks, and presently there was silence except for the stamp of a restless horse and the grunting of an ox. Kirdy had not been assigned to any kuren and for a moment he had the feeling of being astray, and that all the men were looking at him in the darkness. He edged over toward the wagon train and his stirrup struck against another. Someone swore at him softly and he tightened his rein, making up his mind to go where he could see the horns and the buffalo tails of the standard outlined over Ayub's great bulk.
As soon as he had reached his friend he heard Demid's voice.
"RishiyMarsh! Trot!"
The wagons creaked, the oxen shuffled, and hoofs thudded on the earth. The squadrons moved toward the river.
"Smartly done and in the darkness, too," observed Van Elfsberg, who had gone to one of the towers at sunrise with the young boyar who was still yawning. "Ma foi, I thought we would have our hands full with the sauvages today."
"Ah, well, Excellency, they haven't any tents to strike or baggage to look after, and they are regular wizards with horses. Speaking of wizards, may the plague take me, but there's one on that List wagon."
"Where!" asked the officer idly.
"On that bearskin beside the hooded eagle. I'm--if it isn't the Tatar
from the palace—what's his name?"
"Shamaki?" Van Elfsberg shaded his eyes and gazed at the wagon which was rumbling down hill in a cloud of dust. "I believe you're right, mon ami. But—if you will pardon a paradox so early in the morning, what do those devils of Cossacks want with a demon of a Tatar—and the tsar's familiar?"
"May the foul fiend take them all! They do not know he is anything but a wagoneer. Still—"
The boyar hesitated. Shamaki had the privilege of going and coming unannounced in the tsar's chambers, with Kholop the dwarf, and the boyar believed that the old conjurer knew a deal of what passed in the palace. He was just as pleased that Shamaki was going with the Cossacks and not remaining in Kamushink because he might be a spy.
"I'll lay you odds, my captain," he went on, "that those vagabonds only go a little way into the desert before they circle back to their villages."
Van Elfsberg glanced down to where the dismounted warriors were waiting patiently to cross in the barges. "Well," he shrugged, "I'll wager one thing—we'll have a long wait before they turn up, if they do, and damned little to drink in the meanwhile."
He pointed across the river. The sun had burned through the clouds and even now its touch was warm. It lighted the stretch of sandy hillocks and gray, lifeless reeds that extended as far as the eye could penetrate, to the dull wraith of mist on the horizon.
From the river's edge a snatch of song floated back to them:
Women and horses—
Singer and dancer—
Fall to the lancer!
1
The Sea of Aral.
2
The strelsui were the Moscow militia.
3
Koshevoi Ataman, commander of the kosh—camp. Ataman, leader, or colonel. Kuren Ataman, commander of a kuren, a barracks—captain.
Chapter 5 The Hawk
At first the younger warriors scoured the plain in pursuit of deer and wolves. They raced after the scattered bands of Tatars who appeared on the skyline, astonished at sight of the long wagon train moving steadily to the southeast away from the Volga. The Tatars were never overtaken because they wheeled away on their small ponies, darting into dense patches of thorn or leading the young warriors into sandy gullies where further pursuit was impossible.
The regiment was too strong for the nomads to attack and they knew better than to try to cut out the Cossacks' horses at night. They only rode up, often within bowshot, to stare at the wagons and at such times the
Donskoi shouted at them good-naturedly. "We are not going to slash you, brothers. We are after other game!'
Once a shrill voice screamed at the Tatars from a wagon in the rear and every tribesman reined in his pony to listen. After that they did not appear again and the Cossacks spent a moment or so in wondering what voice had cried out from among the wagoneers. As the days went on they were more careful of their horses, for the grazing was steadily growing worse.
Because Demid wished to reserve the strength of his animals the tabor, the long Cossack wagon train, pushed slowly across the dry plain. There was no trail, but Khlit said that they needed only to keep to the southeast until they reached the first rivers that ran down to the inland seas.
Yet they made time. Before dawn the tabor got under way, guarded by one kuren. Then followed the herd of led horses, wandering off to hillocks where the dry grass offered some sustenance, watched over by another kuren. The main body of riders brought up the rear, scattering to escape the dust clouds that sprang up under a hot wind.
Before noon the detachments would join where the tabor had made a halt, and here would be eaten the first meal of the day—mare's milk and barley cakes or cheese. After a rest the wagon train would push on to the spot Kirdy and the scouts had picked out for the night's camp. Fires were lighted, the oxen and horses cared for, guards told off and supper prepared— meat with perhaps a cup of brandy from the kegs on Demid's wagon.
Kirdy and the advance had little to do except to pick the easiest route for the oxen, and to wonder what lay beyond the unchanging skyline.
For, after the Tatars had left them, they had entered a land without rain or green growth, where the dew was light and the strong winds from the south were salty. Day by day they dropped lower and the heat haze closed in on them.
A fortnight after leaving the Volga Kirdy made out a line of small, dome-like hills through the haze, and saw that the ground was streaked with gray sand.
"Ride back to the ataman," he said to one of his companions as soon as he was certain that the hills were real and not a phantasm created by hanging dust clouds and haze, "and say that we can camp this night on the first river, the Jaick1 if such is his will."
The ocher galloped off and returned presently with Makshim, leader of one of the best squadrons. Although among the Donskoi were men of many races—gypsies, Hungarians, and Poles and even descendants of Tatars (Kirdy's father had been a Mongol prince)—Makshim was different from the rest of the brotherhood. Though like many of his companions he had fled to the border to escape persecution or punishment as the case might be—no questions were asked among the Don men as to the reasons why strangers joined them—he alone was known to be able to read and write not only his name but whole letters. Some said he had been a priest once, others, a Polish noble, and still others that his parents had been Jews.
Whatever his past, Makshim was a bold leader. Kirdy had noticed that while the other squadron commanders did not bother their heads about the route, Makshim asked questions of him and did some scouting on his own account. He was a slender warrior, evil-tempered when aroused; the skin was drawn over his bones and his long red damask coat was faded by the sun.
When he and the young warrior had passed through the shallow ravines and halted on the far side of the low range, he surveyed the narrow strip of sedge grass and saw by the angle of the rushes that the current was moderately swift.
"It is a pistol shot across," he said, rubbing his saddle horn reflectively. "Do you know where to find a ford?"
Kirdy shook his head and answered respectfully. "Nay, sir brother, the river is deep because in the north where it begins the streams are still full."
&
nbsp; "What do you know of northern rivers, fledgling!"
"Only a little. But all is known to my grandsire, who has crossed the roof of the world."
"The devil!" Makshim glanced at the youth from the corners of his eyes. "Just the same, the horses can swim this Jaick, but the wagons are a different affair. From this bank we could turn back to our villages, but once across only a magician can say what will be."
To this Kirdy made no answer. So far, all places were very much alike to him, who had been born in the Gobi and had straddled a horse in the year he had been weaned. In fact the silence of the many-colored desert was to him more of a welcome, as if to a homecoming than a hardship.
That evening Demid announced that they would camp for two days while they made the wagons ready for the crossing and the horses grazed. Makshim alone spoke up.
"All this is very well, but have you considered, ataman, that we will enter the lower desert in the time of greatest heat?"
"Then you'll sweat, Makshim," grunted Goloto, who was as ugly as Vulcan and never had a coat because his outer garments were sold, whenever he had them, for brandy or minstrels. "By the ten toes of St. Christopher, you'll shed your red coat."
So far the Cossacks had not given Makshim a nickname, because he held himself a little apart and would not take a jest, but the damask coat came in for more than one gibe.
Now he grew red and spoke to Goloto rather than Demid. "It is useless to push ahead into such a Satan's oven. Let us circle back to the Volga and await the rains and the cold. Then we can cross the gray desert more swiftly."
"Nay," said Demid at once, giving no reason.
"That is easy to say, ataman. But in your pledge to the tsar you did not agree to go over the desert in this month or the next."
Some of the Cossacks looked up at this, and Demid, chin on hand, pondered his reply until they who had been on the outskirts of the fire came closer to listen.
"That is not well said, Makshim," he observed. "There is a reason why we should press on at this time. You, sir brothers, are not falcons, to be kept hooded until the game is in sight. I have no secrets from you and this is the reason.