“Down in the saddles!” he shouted to his followers milling by the side of the boat.
Too late! Grigory had raised his hand and his two lines came to an abrupt halt. An instant later, the lancers leveled their rifles and fired. A dozen of Amar’s men toppled from their horses and slid into the current of the river. At a second signal from Grigory, the rear line of Cossacks passed through that of the lancers, aimed their rifles and fired. Another dozen of the raiders dropped from their saddles.
“Face the charge!” screamed Amar.
Even had his men heard and understood and tried to obey, it would have made little difference. Before the stunned Cherkessians could take a breath, the rear rank had slung their rifles, lowered their steel-tipped lances and charged, the front rank letting them through, then, slinging their own rifles, whipping out sabres, and racing directly behind their assaulting comrades.
It was sheer slaughter. The Moslems, mounted on smaller, more agile horses, but caught in deep water and unable to maneuver, could not escape the cruel lances. Ten or more were thrust through, screaming, driven from their saddles and flung under the threshing hooves of their startled mounts, At once the lancers pulled back and made room for the yelling, sabre-wielding line behind them, then drew their own sabres to join the battle. And here, too, the Cherkessians were at a disadvantage, since their smaller horses were unable to slip out of the way quickly enough and their scimitars, shorter by nature of the greater curve, could be used only for defense.
Amar made his decision the instant the first rank of Cossacks fired. Shouting to the men nearest him, he ordered them to swim their horses to the opposite bank and form a covering force. Then jumping back on his horse, he plunged into the fray, yelling to his shattered, lanced, sabred, disorganized men to seek escape. Leading fifteen of the bravest of his fighters, he charged directly at the Cossacks, the unexpectedness and ferocity of his attack pulling them up short for a few moments, precious moments for his hard-beset followers to draw themselves together. He saw two Cossacks, the dark-haired giant with a blond one by his side, cutting their way into the ragged line his men were desperately trying to form. Five of his fifteen brave ones had fallen, but shouting to the remainder, he wheeled towards the two deadly swordsmen, thrusting and slashing to reach them and prevent the splitting of his line.
Suddenly, all was hopeless, and Amar recognized it instantly. To attempt to hold a line or to fight back step by step or even hope for a gallant few to sacrifice their lives to permit the others to escape was no longer possible. All that remained was flight, ignoble, hasty, terrified retreat and Amar was too wise and experienced a leader not to accept it at once.
“Retreat!” he shouted, turning his own mount deeper into the river and swimming it towards the opposite bank. In small groups, his men disengaged from battle and fled after him, hotly pursued by the howling Cossacks who cut them down one by one.
A dozen of the men ordered to the far shore were in position when Amar’s horse climbed out of the water.
“Skirmish line!” snapped Amar. “Cover the ones most likely to reach us.”
Drawing out his revolver, Amar directed the fire, knocking from their saddles half a dozen Cossacks before they became aware of the danger facing them. At once, the attacking Cossacks stopped and whipped the rifles from off their shoulders, quickly reloading and returning the fire. But, praised be Allah, the respite gained a few more precious seconds, and soon over eighty of his original band of two hundred had reached the opposite bank. The Cossacks came after them, firing as their horses swam, not at all inclined to let them depart in peace. Amar waited not one moment longer than necessary before ordering his men to flee over open meadows towards the shelter of a forest a few miles away.
Behind them, the Cossacks Grigory and Paul in the lead, clawed their way to the bank and set off after their foe. In seconds, Paul was far in advance of the heavier Grigory, and little by little he closed on the retreating Cherkessians. Soon he caught up to the rearmost, and, raising himself high in his stirrups, swung his sabre. The keen blade struck the fleeing Moslem at the base of his neck, almost severing his head. Without slowing down to watch him hit the ground, Paul pushed on and was soon up to a second man. Here was a more alert fighter, and his blade passed an inch from Paul’s face as he leaned back in his saddle and lashed out with a desperate back-hand swing. Paul drove the heels of his boots into the sides of his horse, gaining a step, then lashed out with a back-hand stroke of his own. The Cherkessian ducked to one side, but his shoulder was struck by the blade and he tumbled off his mount. Paul looked behind to see Grigory whirling his sabre in a great arc, splitting the grounded man almost in two.
Amar dropped back. He had seen two of his followers cut down by the swift-riding blond Cossack and it was obvious that others would fall under his sabre if he was not stopped. Deliberately he let his horse lag until he was at the rear, then when he heard the beat of hooves immediately behind himself, he glanced down and to the left for the flash of the animal’s leg. There it was! Instantly, Amar bent far over his horse’s mane. He felt the wind of a sabre as it passed over him, then suddenly he straightened, checked his horse for the barest second and thrust to the left with his scimitar.
There was no avoiding the blow and Paul made no attempt to do so. Instead, he sucked in his stomach and turned slightly to his right, taking the blade in his side rather than his abdomen. It went in and out like a flash, and Paul felt a stab of sharp pain and a wave of dizziness.
By reflex, he tightened his knee grip and neck-reined his horse viciously to the right, directly behind Amar’s mount. It saved his life, for Amar had swung with a swift chop. The blade missed him by a hair,
Amar waited no longer. He had halted the blond terror, so he bent low on his horse and thwacked its flank with the flat of his sword. In seconds he was yards away, shepherding the slower riders of his flock. Just as he reached the trees, he heard the thunder of hooves behind him again, He looked back and a gleam of wonder and respect came to his eyes. There was the blond one, his face white and taut, the reins of his horse gripped between his teeth, his cruel Cossack whip, the nagaika, in his left hand beating his wild-eyed mount, his sabre in his right, poised to strike.
Amar recognized the blood lust in his pursuer and knew that just as surely as a cheetah will sprint almost blindly for the victim he had chosen so would the blond Cossack, blood pouring from his side, aim for him and no one else. At once he reined to the right and galloped away from him, then diagonally deeper into the forest.
Here he was at home, his smaller, more agile horse slipping between the trees without slackening speed, with him bending and swaying to avoid striking branches and helping to lift his horse over fallen stumps.
Then, amazingly, he heard the pounding of hooves close behind him and looked back. The blond one had let the nagaika drop to his side, had grasped the reins with his left hand again and was only two lengths away. He marveled at the magnificent horsemanship of the man who must be crazy to continue the pursuit with a wound in his side. Then he himself felt the urge to do battle again so he took a tighter grip on his scimitar and straightened in his saddle.
Through the trees he saw a large clearing, and the instant he was in the open area he whirled his horse smoothly about and faced the bleeding Cossack. Paul slashed out as he thundered by, feeling his blow easily deflected by the slim, dark-faced man, as tall as he but at least twenty pounds lighter than his more solid one hundred and seventy.
Paul knew he was in trouble when the Cherkessian’s horse leaped after him and ran hot on his tail. At once, he reined hard to the right, then immediately to the left. Amar stayed directly behind him. Around and around the clearing they raced, Paul weaving and bobbing, twisting his horse from side to side, only his superb balance keeping him inches away from the murderous Moslem blade. He had to work fast, he knew, for the blood pumping out of his side was weakening him and it would be a matter of minutes before his reactions slowed and signed his death
warrant.
Desperately, he threw all into a single gamble. With an abrupt, mighty pull on the reins, he lifted his horse and whirled it about---and rammed it directly into that of the Moslem! The smaller horse went down like it had been shot, flinging its rider against a tree. Paul’s mount fell to its knees, but he was already off its back and streaking over to the stunned Cherkessian.
Amar shook his head to clear it, and, realizing his sword had been lost in the fall, he groped for a dagger at his waist. Suddenly, he felt the cold point of a sabre at his throat. He froze. His eyes cleared and he saw the blond one standing over him, his fingers white on the hilt, and then he felt the slight pressure of the hand as it prepared to drive the blade right into him.
He sighed and leaned back ever so slightly. “If one must go before Allah,” he whispered softly, “one is content that it was done by the sword of a mighty fighter.” He closed his eyes.
Then, amazingly, he felt the blade draw away from his throat and his eyes snapped opened. The blond Cossack was walking towards his horse.
Amar rose to his feet. “Cossack!” he called. Paul stopped. “Why do you give me my life?”
Paul shrugged and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. He mounted his horse and looked down at the Cherkessian. “I’m a friend of the family,” he finally said, grinning. His hand rose in salute.
Amar smiled in return as he bowed his head. “Go with Allah, blond one.”
Paul whirled his horse back the way he had come.
Grigory was racing up and down the edge of the forest when Paul rode out. “Paul!” he shouted, spurring his horse over to his friend. “I have been searching for you for half an hour.” He heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought you were dead, Little Cossack.”
“No, I’m all right. Got lost in the forest for a while, that’s all. I’m glad to see you’re in one piece.”
Grigory untied the strips of undershirt that Paul had used to bandage his side and examined the wound. “You are lucky, my friend, it is a clean one. But we’d better get it tended before it becomes infected.”
“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Paul. “I’m taking this wound back to the village. It needs soft, tender hands, not those horny claws you Old Believers carry about.”
Grigory laughed, slapping his knee. “And take a guess, Little Cossack, what we fished out of that boat we saved.”
Paul eyed him narrowly. “Impossible,” he said. “Women don’t sail in river boats.”
“Oh, no! And what would you say if I told you there are twenty-two ladies aboard on their way to Navarok to dance in a ballet?”
Paul sat up straighter and cocked his hat at a rakish angle. “I’d say you are greatest liar west of the Urals or a magician in disguise.”
“And what else would you say, Little Cossack, if I told you it will take two, maybe three days to find a new Captain and pilot for the boat and that we will have to watch over these little pigeons until they come?”
Paul licked his lips. “Then I would say, you magnificent Cossack, that we are wasting time standing here.” And with that, be slipped out his nagaika and brought it crashing down on the rump of his horse.
It was a joyous three days. To prevent his men from crippling each other within the hour, Grigory sent all but nineteen of them back to their base camp under the command of one of his lieutenants. He realized that keeping only nineteen men plus Paul and himself for twenty-two girls meant that they had an extra girl on hand, but he also knew Paul. They set up camp on shore, took supplies from the boat, including cases of vodka, and settled down to enjoy the fruits of Victory. It developed into such an orgy that fishermen who passed by spoke of it for fifty miles up and down the river. Actually, it became such a riot that two Cossacks were nearly killed doing tricks on horseback while blind drunk.
The celebration came to an end when a fast river boat sailed up with a replacement crew and the women waved a tearful goodbye to the Cossacks. Well, not all of them. Two of the women were missing when the new Captain counted heads, and they were found hiding in the forest waiting to follow Paul when the Cossacks moved on. They had to be tied hand and foot and dragged aboard, where they kept screaming until the boat reached its destination.
The fast river boat brought more than the replacement crew. It also brought three well-dressed men carrying black leather cases. Mr. Blatherbell eyed the two struggling, shouting women as they were taken below deck and he turned to his partners.
“I do believe our search is ended,” he said.
“It could be a coincidence,” warned Mr. Poopendal.
“Impossible,” said Mr. Blatherbell without hesitation. He looked about. “My good man,” he called out to a Cossack reeling by. “Who is in charge here?”
The Cossack pointed to Grigory sitting forlornly on the beach watching the women waving goodbye. Then the Cossack passed out.
Mr. Blatherbell led the way gingerly through the whooping singing Cossacks and approached the giant.
“Pardon me,” he said. “Would you know the whereabouts of an Englishman named Mr. Paul Sanderson?”
Grigory climbed ponderously to his feet and glared down at the three men. They shuddered and shrank back. “I don’t know any Paul Sanderson,” he growled. “What do you want with my friend, Paul anyhow? Have you come to make trouble?”
Mr. Blatherbell gulped to regain his breath, “We are here to bring very good news to Mr. Sanderson,” he said, then added hastily, ‘that is, if he should happen to pass by, of course, for you have convinced us that no Paul Sanderson is nearby.” He wiped his head with a large handkerchief.
“What’s this good news for my friend, Paul, who is not here?” asked Grigory, less sternly.
Mr. Blatherbell regained some of his composure. “A relative of Mr. Sanderson has died and left him considerable property.”
Grigory peered at them closely while rocking slightly backward and forward, his cropped hair standing on end, the collar of his tunic and green shirt open, his beard still damp from spilled vodka.
“Are you telling me the truth?” he growled. “I swear you will be fertilizer for sunflowers if you are lying to me.”
“The absolute truth,” said Mr. Blatherbell, again full of confidence. “However, if Mr. Sanderson is not here, we will be on our way.” He motioned to his partners and they began walking towards the river boat which was waiting for them.
“Wait!” shouted Grigory. He scratched his head vigorously, thinking furiously. Then his face cleared. “I know a man who is not Paul Sanderson, but I will have him listen to you.” He turned and scanned the area. “Hey, Little Cossack!” he yelled. He looked about, but Paul did not appear.
One of his Cossacks staggered by. “Are you looking for your friend Paul, my Captain?” he asked Grigory.
“I don’t have a friend named Paul,” shouted Grigory. “Do you know where the Little Cossack has gone?”
“Yes, my Captain,” mumbled the Cossack, pointing at the forest. ‘I saw him there barely an hour ago, sleeping.”
Grigory lurched towards the spot indicated by his soldier, and minutes later be returned, supporting Paul, whose legs were like jelly.
“This is the fellow who is not Paul Sanderson,” said Grigory. “You tell him what you told me.”
Paul forced his eyes open and worked desperately to focus them. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am James Blatherbell, senior partner of the firm of solicitors of Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas, Your Grace. We …”.
“What did you call me?” asked Paul, rapidly throwing off the drunken fog.
“Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell.
“You mean to say the old bastard is dead?” asked Paul grinning.
“Yes, Your Grace.. He died almost two months ago.”
“Well, what about old rump-licker, Percy? Did he forget to kiss the old bastard’s boot one day?”
“Lord Percival met with an unfortunate accident on the eve of your uncle’s demise. .A fatal ac
cident.”
“Well, good for old Percy boy. I always knew he would stumble at the last hurdle.” A wide grin came to his lips. “So I’m a blooming duke, am I?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Paul turned to Grigory. “How do you like that, you crazy Cossack! Little old Paul is a blooming duke.”
“You’re a real duke?” said Grigory, awed. “The same kind of duke as we have in Russia?”
“You can bet your sweet old life on that,” yelled Paul. “A real live, wind-passing, arse-pinching, village-owning duke, with a castle bigger than this whole blooming forest.” He spun towards Mr. Blatherbell. “How much can I get for the castle?”
“I don’t quite know, but it would be a large sum.”
Paul sobered. He turned and looked directly at Grigory. “You will come with me, won’t you, my friend?”
Grigory smiled wistfully as he shook his head. “It is a different world there, my Little Cossack. My world is here. I would not be the same man elsewhere.” He put his arms around Paul’s shoulders. “Go, my friend, be the Duke you are. Just remember that I love you more than a brother.”
They embraced unashamedly.
CHAPTER IV
Paul was deliriously happy. Rubbing his smooth, clean-shaven face, he leaned forward in the foamy, sweet-scented water of the tub to accept a light for his cigar from a voluptuous red-haired maid dressed in the briefest, lowest-cut blouse a seamstress could devise without full exposure of her high, rose-tipped breasts, and wearing the sheerest, tightest, shortest sarong ever dreamed up by a discriminating connoisseur of the female loins. As she bent over to fill a wine glass beside the tub, her blouse fell open completely, and Paul splashed the water frantically.
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