by Harold Lamb
A rush of cold air put an end to his reverie. The tavern door had been kicked open and a pair of strapping figures swung into the room. They were men as large as Pierre, resplendent in white silk khalats, bound with red sashes. Both wore turbans and red morocco boots.
Yet they were not Mohammedans, and Pierre wondered if they were boyars-noblemen-'til he scanned their broad red faces and saw the cudgels that they carried instead of swords. One, who was puffing at a large meerschaum pipe, spoke to Kehl, and then they began to search the room, running about and jostling the drinkers, kicking benches out of their way and poking into the straw.
"Heydukes in the livery of a high official," explained Kehl. "They are looking for some Gypsy or other-a girl who was to sing at their master's house. She ran away."
Out of the corners of his eyes Pierre glanced at the Jew in the shadows. The woman who had come with him was no longer to be seen, but the Provencal fancied that the packs by the wall had changed position and that the girl was among them, crouching down with the fur cloak pulled over her.
He said nothing, because he did not relish the behavior of the heydukes.
"She came in," added Kehl. "And she did not go out. Na-they will run her down. Look, now, the lads are having a little fun."
The sergeant chuckled, but Pierre stood up swearing under his breath. One of the servants had halted to survey the refugees of the straw. He aimed a kick at a protruding foot, missed, and, with a foolish grin, poured the hot coals from his pipe into the broken tip of the peasant girl's shoe.
She screamed and whipped around in the straw, and the other heyduke caught a handful of her tresses, trying clumsily to thrust them into the blaze that was springing up where some of the coals had fallen.
Pierre Pillon usually acted on impulse, without bothering to think things out. Walking over to the newcomers, he kicked out the fire in the straw and stamped on the fingers of the second heyduke. He had taken the half-empty wine bottle from the counter. This he upended and thrust down the neck of the man with the pipe.
For several seconds the heyduke gaped at him over the butt of the bottle, until the white front of the uniform turned plum color. So did the man's face. He began to breathe heavily and finally found his voice.
"Put him down! Crack his skull!"
Pierre stepped back, eyes alert. But those nearest him gave way, hastening to the walls. His heel struck a stool, and as the two Russians ran at him he reached back and gripped it. A twist of his shoulders hurled it into the first man's chest, knocking the big heyduke flat on his shoulder blades.
The other struck at Pierre's head, and the sailor ducked under the cudgel, taking a kick in the stomach as he did so. His assailant, bellowing with rage, ran at him again. Pierre, standing his ground, moved his head aside as the cudgel came down on his shoulder. His knotted fist went out, catching the heyduke full in the throat.
The man spun back against a table and reeled, dropping his stick and coughing. For a moment he gasped, his hands fastened on his throat, then ran out of the door unsteadily. His companion followed as best he could.
At once with a scamper and rush the vagrants of the straw fled from the tavern, crowding to be first out of the door. Those at the tables followed, and Pierre saw the Jew and his girl slip out with them.
"Ventre an diable!" he swore. "Is the tavern a lazar-house? What's amiss with all these chaps?"
Kehl was studying him with professional interest, astonished at the latent power of the man, and the ease with which he had put down two formidable antagonists with cudgels.
"Those two ninepins you bowled over were servants of his Highness, the Prince-Marshal Potemkin. He's the reigning favorite, you knowemperor in all but name-and your goose is cooked, my lad. When the Prince-Marshal hears that you've helped a wench get clear of his heydukes, you'll swallow a bullet the wrong way."
"Hark'ee," said Pierre suddenly, more than a little disappointed at the tame end to what had promised to be a pleasant brawl. "I've had enough of Petersburg. The folk here can't sing; their liquor makes 'em doleful; and they can't fight! I'll join the service, but-" he poked a knotted finger into the Russian's midriff-"but only with the rating of sergeant of marines, and service in the Black Sea fleet. A bargain's a bargain. Is it agreed?"
"Agreed! Quick's the word, my tall buck. When you're in regimentals all Potemkin's heydukes can't smell you out."
Pierre nodded. He had thought of that, but he had changed his mind for another reason. To walk the deck of a king's ship again, to take a crack at his old enemies the Turks, and to serve Paul Jones, the American. All this tempted him greatly-Pierre knew more than a little about Paul Jones, who was a Chevalier of France.
"Remember old Schnapps and Snuff," he said dryly, when Kehl turned back to the counter for a last glass and a leer at the woman behind the counter by way of payment. "I'm for the south and the marine guard. You're for the bounty."
"Agreed."
At the guardroom by the Neva bridgehead, the sergeant brought his heels together with a click and saluted smartly. A young lieutenant who was dealing piquet against himself looked up and yawned.
"Sergeant Kehl, with a man for the ranks!"
"Well, take him away. Bed him down with the other cattle!"
"With the Herr Leutnant's permission-"
Kehl bent his stiff back a little and lowered his voice, explaining that this man was different; a -- of a fellow, a regular Turk, and strong as an ox. Besides, he had been sergeant of marines, claimed to be a veteran of the French service. So, would it not be better for the Herr Leutnant to have the recruit sign the rolls?
"The deuce! I see very well you want the rix-dollar bounty before sunup." The young Russian shuffled the cards together, looked at his watch, and drew a long paper rolled up at both ends from a drawer of the table.
"You there-what's your name?"
"Pierre Pillon, sir."
"Ah, you speak French. Curse me, Kehl; here's a proper paragon of military virtue-Ulysses as well as Mars." He dipped a quill into ink and scrawled on the roster. "Pierre's the of a name-our non-corns will never get their tongues around it. You'll be Peter-Pietr, son of-who is your sire, if you know?"
"Mathurin, sir."
"Who is your master?" As the Provencal hesitated, he turned to Kehl impatiently. "Who is his owner?"
As far as Pierre's memory went he had been a vagrant of the coast, picking up a lean living among the fisher folk, who were little better off themselves. But neither he nor his father before him had been a peasant, bound to the land and a seigniorial lord.
"The sea, monsieur," he hazarded.
"Well, no matter. We'll enter you as a masterless man. Make your mark here." When the sailor had drawn something resembling a star on the rolls, he nodded. "Now, Peter, son of Little Matthew, you've pledged yourself to serve the Empress Catherine, the anointed of God. Be brave and obey orders. Dismissed!"
But Pierre glanced at Kehl, who clicked his heels again and coughed. The lieutenant called for his servant, who gave the Prussian a silver coin which he pocketed swiftly.
"Your excellency-" his dry lips parted, showing yellow teeth, in what was meant for a smile-"this Frenchman is an old hand-knows the musket drill. He requests to be sent to the Black Sea, rated sergeant of marines."
For the first time the officer glanced at Pierre, taking notice of his massive build and the eagerness in his swarthy face.
"You, Pietr-you request to be sent to that lake of the --?"
"Aye, sir."
The lieutenant looked puzzled and pulled at his mustache.
"Oh, burn and blister me, Kehl, this is rich. A man asks for service down there where-" he checked himself and laughed with relish. The sergeant of grenadiers sniggered. "I'll see to it, Pietr, that you're rated properly."
It struck Pierre as a bit queer, this enlistment. Moreover, he did not like Kehl's amusement. But he was dealing with strangers, and entering a new service. On the king's ships he had never exchanged as many words
as this with the gentlemen of the poop; yet the officers of his acquaintance had always kept promises made to the men.
"Now go to the deuce or the recruit battalion." The lieutenant was looking at his watch impatiently. "The empress and the imperial retinue will pass over this bridge, and I want you two mangy dogs out of here."
Pierre saluted and followed his companion to the door. They had barely gained the street when they heard a distant musical jangling of sleigh bells that came nearer rapidly, echoed by shouting down the street.
The sentry at the bridge called out, and in a moment the officer appeared from the guardhouse, buckling on his sword belt and fastening his tunic at the throat and snarling at a score of soldiers who tumbled out half asleep and fell into ranks beside the new recruit. Kehl watched with a covert sneer, as the young lieutenant fumed and swore at the guard for slovenly dressing and fell to beating them into better alignment with the flat of his sword.
The bells swept nearer rapidly and the lieutenant ran to the front of his men and flung up his blade.
"Pre-sent arms."
A Jew who had been bartering tobacco and sweets at the guardhouse hurried to cross the street and upset his basket in his hurry. Stooping to gather up his scattered possessions, he fumbled in the snow, his head craned over his shoulder.
Around a bend in the street a troop of hussars came at a trot, stretching the full width of the bridge. The huckster began to run out on the bridge. Pierre saw the two lines of black horses sweep past, knocking the Jew headlong. Then he heard a curious roaring and blaring of music.
A sledge, filled with horns and bagpipes and men, slid by him, a sledge drawn by a dozen bears, growling and snarling. He turned to look at the Jew, who was trying to crawl out of the way.
The bears, lashed by men who ran alongside, overtook the unfortunate trader. When Pierre saw him next he was writhing in the snow at one side of the bridge, bleeding from the throat.
Sleighs whipped past, filled with men and women in court dress, wrapped in furs, laughing, with flushed faces.
Last of all came a long sleigh, gilded, two gold eagles poised on either side of the driver. A dozen white horses drew it, and on the runners and behind stood linkboys holding blazing torches.
"Slave bohun!" cried a voice down the street. "Glory to God-health to your Imperial Majesty! "
Pierre had a glimpse of a swarthy and strikingly handsome nobleman whose gigantic body was clad in the white dress uniform of a cavalry colonel. Over his belt was a gold star, on his chest the ribbon of an order.
Beside him sat a woman, erect and powerful as a man, in a long ermine cloak.
"Health to your Majesty!" cried Kehl.
The sleigh sped away across the bridge, a second troop of hussars trotted by, and the lieutenant dismissed his men. Then he strode over to Pierre, the drawn sword swinging in his hand.
"So, you keep your feet when the empress passes?" he bellowed. "We must teach you a thing or two!"
For the first time, as he replaced his cap, Pierre was aware that the other civilians near him were rising from their knees with bared heads. Only the soldiers of the guard and himself had stood while Catherine passed along the street.
Before he could answer, the officer struck him twice over the head with the flat of the saber. The force of the blows half dazed him and he dropped to the snow. When his brain cleared, he checked an impulse to rush at the man with a sword. The lieutenant was his officer now, and he-Pierre Pil- lon-a soldier of the empress.
Blood trickled down his face as he stood up, and he wiped it away quietly. But the youngster with the sword had caught the flash in his eyes, the quick twist of anger on his lips.
"Sergeant Kehl," he ordered briskly, "take this fellow to the barracks under guard. He is a bad customer."
The officer was returning his sword to its scabbard, hoofs drummed again on the hard-beaten snow, and four riders swept down the street as blown leaves flicker in the wake of a wind gust. Coming abreast the guardhouse they quickened their pace instead of slowing down, and the sentry's startled challenge went unheeded.
As they passed the lighted windows, Pierre saw three Moslems, wrapped in flying cloaks, bending over the necks of their horses. They were gone in a second-four blurred shapes streaking across the bridge-while the sentry, running out of his box, stared after them and fingered his musket. But Pierre had seen that the other rider was the girl of the foxskins, and the three were the Bashkirs with whom she had spoken in the tavern.
By now the sentry had made up his mind that they were no heydukes, and, spurred by a shout from the officer, he fired his piece. The bark of the musket-fruitless as a pebble tossed into the darkness-was answered by a woman's laugh, shrilling over the drumming hoofs and vibrant with savage delight.
"Na," grunted Kehl, "that would be Kalil, the Gypsy girl of Potemkin."
He listened until he was sure that the riders had got away from the town, then he nodded to Pierre and struck off toward the barracks, being, as the lieutenant had said, in a hurry to spend his rix-dollar while wine was still to be had in the taverns.
The next day Pierre was sent to a camp on the outskirts of Petersburg and given a uniform and knapsack. The hair on the front half of his head was shaved off, and he was made to strip with the others of his detachment and enter a bath house. Here he was steamed and scalded and, following the example of his companions, rubbed himself down with a coarse towel. Then he waded through a tank and lined up to submit to the casual scrutiny of a surgeon who walked through the room holding a scented handkerchief to his nose.
At sight of Pierre's scars, the Russian paused a moment and raised his brows, saying something to the non-commissioned officer who accompanied him. Pierre could read in their faces that they thought him a refractory peasant who had tasted the knout frequently, and might give them some trouble.
And this same sergeant kept a close watch on him during the first drill, after the recruits had got into their new leg wrappings, double pantaloons, and sheepskin shubas.
The Provencal had expected to be sent south, and it was not pleasant to realize he had been thrust into an infantry company. But Pierre had learned a lesson from the buffet he had been given that first evening. He had been gulled by Kehl, and he was not going to whine about it. Instead of a berth as sergeant of marines, he had been put into the ranks. This was Kehl's doing.
Pierre set about making the best of a temporarily bad bargain. The first thing to be done was to familiarize himself with the Russian words of command, and this was not difficult because his companions were green men who had to have everything dinned into them.
They were strange men, slow-moving, voiceless-cheerful enough after dinner. Pierre thought the food-gruel and bread with vodka at times-poor enough, but these shaggy, blue-eyed men gorged themselves on it with muttered delight. Among them were short, slant-eyed beings who never spoke and who looked like old men-Finns-and others with long, oily hair and blunt faces-Tatars as he came to know later.
Pierre discovered that the muskets issued them were of French make, and he showed those of his squad how to clean theirs-as well as the mysteries of the ramrod and priming pan. He could think and move three times as quickly as any of them, and carry the weight of knapsack, musket, and heavy coat without feeling it during a day's drill.
When the sergeant found out that Pierre knew the drill and gave no trouble-being rather helpful in coaching the other moujiks-he left the Provencal to his own devices.
And Pierre was satisfied when he overheard his captain say to a staff officer who came through on inspection that the company would be sent to Kherson on the Black Sea while the snow made transport easy.
"They are not good for much, it's true," assented the other, "but down there they'll learn to use the bayonet and that's all Suvarof cares about."
"Well, they're not the White hussars," the captain pointed out. "But they won't turn their backs when the first cannon goes off-I'll answer for that."
Pierre wo
ndered how these peasants could be expected to stand against the veteran armies of the sultan. The next day the sergeant was replaced by a foreign drillmaster, and at the end of the week Sergeant Kehl appeared with his rattan cane and his thin smile.
For the first time the recruit battalion was put through musketry drill, without powder or balls. Kehl's method was simple: he showed by example what he wanted done with each command, loading, ramming home the charge and wadding, dropping in the bullet, priming the pan, and then aiming and firing. He alone had powder horn and bullet sack. Months later Pierre learned that the recruits were never trusted with these until they were in the field, confronted by the enemy.
Then Kehl called out men from the ranks and made them go through the motions. When they made mistakes he would order them to present arms, and lash their backs with his supple rattan. This he could use with telling effect, and Pierre saw one tow-headed Russian sway on his feet, tears wetting his face. For not standing rigid he was given a beating over the head that finally stretched him unconscious in the snow.
The company, muskets grounded, was kept at attention all the time, until Kehl's sharp eye picked out Pierre. Then the sergeant was pleased to bark an order to stand at ease and to call out the Provencal.
Pierre shouldered his musket and stepped forward. For a quarter of an hour without a moment's letup Kehl put him through the manual, and the musketry drill. The big recruit handled his weapon, which weighed close to twenty pounds, with its bayonet, as easily as a pike. Kehl seemed surprised and ill pleased when he discovered that his victim of the tavern had mastered the Russian commands, and Pierre's mustache twitched in a grin.
"Shagom marsh!" snapped the sergeant.
Pierre did not move. This was something new.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Ah, you are sullen! You give a bit of lip to an under-officer? Good! Pre-sent arms!"
Instead Pierre executed an about-face as Kehl stepped behind him, with the rattan raised to strike. It was unprovoked, deliberate-Kehl's way of dealing with a man in the ranks who stood up to him.