by Harold Lamb
"What are those fellows, your excellency?"
Pierre's deep voice, addressing his officer, was the only one heard in the advance guard, where the men had turned and were staring blankly at the scene behind them.
The captain, who had grown red in the face, fingered his sword and his reins irresolutely. It was his first engagement and he was wondering what was expected of him.
"Bashkirs," he muttered. "Tribesmen from over the border. Listen-"
As if satisfied with the damage they had inflicted, and the few horses they had driven off, the raiders had formed in a solid mass on the slope across from where they had waited in ambush. Now a shrill yell broke from the mass, high-pitched, exulting.
"Allah it akbar-ya Allah!"
It was the ululation of the Moslems, and Pierre had heard it before, when the Algerian corsairs sailed out to meet their prey. An answering growl rose in Pierre's throat as he watched the dust settle around the wagon train. He expected to see the carts close up, the infantry form to face the raiders, the front rank kneeling, the rear standing. Then a few volleys, and the tribesmen would scatter. Such chaps as they would never charge massed infantry.
"Only look, little brother," exclaimed Feodor, nudging him. "Christ aid us!"
Pierre now saw why the Bashkirs had shouted. Between his half company and the main body one powder wagon had been moving in advance of the others. Beside this solitary wagon the major in command had been riding when the attack came. The driver of the wagon was whipping his horses toward the knoll on which Pierre and his comrades stood.
The major, after hesitating a long time, was spurring in the other direction, to the battalion. And a Bashkir in a crimson cloak with heron's feathers in his cap was racing down to cut off the officer.
The infantry by the wagons could not fire on this rider, who was now between them and their major. The Russian had drawn his saber, holding it high over his head. The Moslem, riding like a fiend, swept down on him. For a second the two blades flashed together, and dust swirled up.
Reining his pony about, almost in its tracks, the Moslem slashed at the back of the officer, who was slower in recovering. Then, when the wounded man swayed in the saddle, the Bashkir killed him with a second stroke. The major's orderly, spurring a big cob desperately, fired a pistol at the Bashkir and missed. Again the scimitar lashed out. The orderly swayed and slid to the ground over his horse's rump.
Standing high in his short stirrups, his cloak fluttering like a flag in a stiff breeze, the Bashkir swordsman darted back to his companions, who greeted him with strident acclaim.
"Ya kutb-ya kutb-Allah it Allah!"
The major's horse, with an empty saddle, trotted up to the main body and took its place among the officers. The wagon reached Pierre's half company, which scattered to let it draw up its center.
Pierre looked around impatiently, expecting an order to double back to the battalion. The Bashkirs, emboldened as tribesmen always are by a first success, were showing signs of attacking again. But his captain was talking in a strained voice to the company sergeant, who was a veteran of several campaigns.
"Bashkirs across the border-probably the Tatar tribes are out as wellcommunication between the army and Moscow must be cut off-bad business."
It became clear to Pierre all at once the Russian captain did not know what order to give. The men were watching him, the sergeant was waiting for an order, and nothing was done.
Meanwhile, although the tribesmen were getting ready to charge, the battalion began to break formation. The death of the major had left it leaderless. No one appeared to take his place. Instead, officers shouted contradictory orders, and wagons at the end of the line were moving away from the raiders. One company of infantry shouldered arms and wheeled off beside the wagons.
Another company seemed to be in disorder. Pierre stared, too amazed to swear. He saw that the Russians were trying to form a square with the carts, although there was no need of it, and just at that moment it was suicidal.
The Bashkirs loosed their horses. A ragged volley, fired too soon by the infantry, brought down only three or four men. Only a single line, some two hundred bayonets, faced the tribesmen, who were now gripped by the bloodlust. Yelling they crashed into the bayonets, or swept over the two companies that stood their ground stolidly.
What had been a few moments ago a disciplined battalion became now a mass of men without formation. Groups here and there stood back to back. Other groups gathered around the carts, which were motionless, the Tatar drivers having freed horses from the traces and fled. It was like a pantomime in miniature-puffs of smoke darting up, the glitter of scimitars in the sun, horses rearing.
Only a dull murmur reached the advance detachment on the knoll, a murmur that was made up of the thudding of hoofs, the booming of firelocks, the neighing of horses, and the hoarse voices of men.
Pierre saw a familiar figure in claw-hammer coat and gaiters-the sergeant who had broken in the raw recruits-with a squad of men at bay near one of the wagons.
He had abandoned his cane and picked up a musket. With the bayonet he skewered a leaping Moslem, clubbed another with the butt. His movements were as unhurried as on the parade ground at Petersburg.
Before he could get back to his men a rider lanced him, and turned, to drive the spear again into the body that threshed on the ground.
Pierre leaned his musket against his shoulder and spat on his hands. It would be their turn next.
Two hundred or more Bashkirs detached themselves from the throng that was slaughtering and plundering the remnant of the battalion, and rode toward them at a hand pace. The sergeant dared not wait any longer for an order from the bewildered captain. Hastily forming his squads into a rough triangle, with its point toward the tribesmen-three squads to every side-he called to the outer rank to kneel. This done, the pans of the muskets were primed and the men waited.
"Hold your fire," growled the sergeant.
Feodor, kneeling by Pierre, was muttering a prayer. He was as calm as if waiting for the evening pot of gruel, gazing at the oncoming riders with childish curiosity.
The tribesmen began to trot, lashing their horses up the slope. Some of their long firelocks bellowed, the smoke swirling almost into Pierre's eyes. He heard the whine of the small bullets and his captain's voice.
"Fire, my children!" The muskets flashed and men began to cough as the fumes of the black powder got down their lungs. Pierre made out horses passing, and with his bayonet turned aside a spear aimed at his head. Then the smoke cleared away and he saw nothing but the green slope with a dozen wounded tribesmen crawling away or lying still.
His officer still sat in the saddle of a big bay horse, saber at his shoulder. Pierre heard him muttering:
"Valuable wagon-major's orders are to look after it."
Then he began to sway from side to side, and his orderly ran up, catching him as he clutched at the mane of his charger. He had been shot in the head.
The Bashkirs attacked the rear of the detachment and this time plunged in among the bayonets. Taking the second rank from the other two sides, the sergeant cleared the triangle with the bayonet and gave them a volley as they rode off.
They had lost a large percentage of their men in the two charges and contented themselves with firing on the wagon from a distance. The Rus sians, most of whom had never handled muskets before, answered as best they could. Pierre, drenched with sweat, worked swiftly with ramrod and powder horn, making the most of what time was left him.
Meanwhile the Bashkirs had been forming for another charge, and surged up the knoll again with their lances. They struck full upon the dwindling knot of men by the wagon, and Pierre was driven back against a wheel. Half blinded by sweat, he thrust with the bayonet and felt it bend against a man's chest: then he jerked it free, took the barrel in his hands, and cleared a space around him.
By degrees the pressure around him grew less, and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve to clear away the sweat. Then he looked
around.
A yard in front of him lay Feodor, thin arms clutching the breast of his coat, which was slashed open. The blue eyes of the fur hunter stared straight up into the sun without blinking. Only his ruddy cheeks had been drained of all color. Pierre leaned on his musket, panting, blood running from the bent bayonet down over his fingers. The Bashkirs were riding away, toward their main body which was withdrawing over the steppe with the wagons of the Russian battalion.
"The deuce-it's all over!"
The battalion itself was visible again-scattered white bodies, stripped of all clothing, half hidden in the trampled grass. But around the powder wagon with Pierre some twenty men still stood, weapons in hand. Evidently the tribesmen sent to wipe them out had found the game too costly, and had gone off to claim their share of the booty taken by the others.
A soldier beckoned to Pierre and pointed to the ground beneath the cart. Here, beside the shivering driver, the captain lay, his head turned toward them. Pierre dropped to his hands and knees to try to hear what the officer was saying.
"Powder-wagon. Major's orders-drive to Kherson." The wounded man stabbed the air with his finger. "South-south!"
Nodding, Pierre regained his feet and looked around for the sergeant. He found him lying under a dead horse.
"Stiff," he ruminated. "Captain going, too. Those balls in the skull always end a chap-wonder that he said anything at all. Well, we're alive, after a bit of warm work, too."
Not only was he alive, but Pierre perceived that the Russians were all looking to him for a word to what they were going to do next. They had heard the dead sergeant praise him and had seen the captain give him in structions. They were incapable of thinking for themselves, and the big Provencal became their leader without a word spoken.
Pierre threw back his head and laughed into a blazing sky. "Satre nom d'un cochon-Sergeant Pillon, it is. Epaulets at the first skirmish and the command of a battalion, with its wagon train. Kehl told more truth than he thought. Well, what's to be done now?"
He thought for a moment and decided they must count noses, take stock of their supplies, and get away from the scene of the fight.
Little indeed he knew of the Russian tongue, but he could give the routine orders, and they expected no more than that. After the dying captain was lifted on top of the load and screened from the sun by a thatch of sedge branches, Pierre ordered the injured horses removed from the harness. Two of the Tatar ponies, overlooked by the pillagers, were rounded up, making six fit enough to draw the cart.
Meanwhile a trench was dug and the dead of the half company were given shallow burial. After a glance at the vultures and wolves thronging to the bodies of the battalion, Pierre abandoned thought of doing anything for them.
Bullet pouches and the rations in the knapsacks of the slain were taken, and Pierre looked grave when he found only three or four jugs of water in the cart. They had powder enough for a lifetime.
After every man had been given one cup of water Pierre signed to them to pile their knapsacks on the load. Then he blew down the muzzle of every musket to see if the touchhole were clear. When the pieces were loaded again, and twenty others, taken from the field, he walked to a ridge to make a survey of the country.
The last of the Bashkirs had disappeared toward the east, and the green sea of the steppe was empty of human life. Pierre signed to the driver to start his horses, and walked to the head of his little column. He did not know how far they were from the sea or what lay in front of them, but he believed that he could steer a course due south as his officer had directed. He would take his bearings by the stars.
"Come along, my heroes," he called out. "Shagom marsh!"
The trace chains rattled, the wagon axles creaked, and the injured groaned in unison, but the sailor rolled along in front of his detachment-"To keep a lookout for'ard," he assured himself-and lifted a mellow voice in song:
Chapter III
The Galley
Kalil, a dun-colored pony between her knees, and two Bashkir swordsmen to attend her, rode like a gray shadow over the green dunes, halting only to rest the horses and to sleep. She had coaxed the warriors from the chief of the raiding party, and when they would have sat down to argue for hours concerning suitable rewards, she silenced them with a word-
"Hassan!"
She could ride as well as they, and from somewhere she had conjured up a veil that covered her breast and face to the eyes. It was she who, when they entered a barren region of clay gullies topped by sage and tamarisk, pointed out the glint of water to the south and east.
But the eyes of the three were drawn to dense columns of smoke that rose from a grove of olive trees beneath them. Here should have been a Cossack village, and, since it was burning, here they would find Turks.
The Bashkirs rode down the hill at a gallop, reckless of rocks and hidden gullies, fearful only of being too late for the looting. They sped over a level patch of tilled land, where the grain had been trampled before their coming. And they swore in their beards when they found a regiment of cavalry dismounted and ransacking the last of the burning huts-a regiment of spahis, the crack cavalry from Constantinople. Where the spahis had looted the tribesmen knew that not so much as a belt or a woman's shirt would be left for latecomers.
With Kalil they were brought before the aga of the regiment, a Turk bearded to the eyes, with a jeweled crest to his turban.
"Ohai," cried the girl, "Hassan hath kindled a torch on this side of the river. Have the Russians fled before his wrath, 0 captain of a thousand-slayer of unbelievers?"
Beneath the flattery was a note of keen anxiety, and she held her breath until the aga made response.
"Nay, daughter of Islam. The dogs sit in their camps yonder and their ships sit at anchor. The time is not yet." Suspicion, lulled by her instant admiration, assailed him. "Who art thou and what are these jackals?"
The Bashkirs snarled but knew better than to make response to a colonel of the Turks. They looked at Kalil uneasily, having no doubt as to what punishment would be theirs if she failed to give satisfactory account of herself.
By way of answer she held out a hand, drawing back the loose sleeve of the cloak. The officer reined his horse nearer, stared at the ring set with sapphires that covered two joints of a slender finger, and salaamed respectfully.
"The signet of Ghazi Hassan, the unconquerable, the chosen of Allah-the ring that sets a seal upon all hearts, unlocks all doors. And yet-why dost thou ride from the direction of the giaours?"
"And yet quoth the dog when the wolf was at hand! "
Kalil laughed, and the Turk tugged at his beard irresolutely, for his men were looking on and had seen a woman laugh in his face.
"Because thou hast burned a village of peasants, hast thou grown to be equal in honor to the lord of Cairo, the conqueror of Syria, the scourge of Allah upon the sea?"
Kalil looked around with some interest, at the bodies that lay strewn in the street-bodies stripped even of socks and shirts, and marked with a crimson cross made by two slashes of a scimitar upon the breast.
"Nay," she added in a whisper, "even Hassan must have eyes to serve him among the giaours, and a tongue to tell him a certain thing he would know. Make haste and set me across the river, then give us fresh horses and an escort, and Hassan himself will thank thee."
The Turk, who had been more than a little doubtful, was won over by boldness. It was not well to detain a messenger of Hassan of Algiers.
Before midnight they had passed through the bivouac of a Turkish army division, and had entered the redoubts of Otchakof. While the tribesmen stared with all their eyes at more cannon than they imagined ever existed, and the lanterns of pickets, at the mounds of earth over powder cellars, and the riding lights of the squadron anchored in the roads, Kalil disappeared.
When they beheld her again they did not know her. She was sitting in an open palanquin, and in the light of the stars and crescent moon they caught the sheen of silk garments. They were aware of fresh
perfume, aloes, and attar of rose.
From the city the Moslems who now accompanied Kalil led them down through a line of water batteries to the shore. Here they dismounted and entered a skiff, rowing out to a galley at anchor near the jetties-a long vessel with a high poop and the towering, slanting yards of lateen sails-apart from the other men-of-war.
A voice from the head of the gangway hailed them.
"Who art thou?"
The Berber laughed softly.
"Have I grown to be other than I am, 0 Jaimir? Knowest not Kalil of Fez, the slave of Hassan-the eyes of Hassan?"
"Ma'shallah! The pasha awaits thee with impatience this long time."
Although two officers of his staff, wide awake and armed, sat in his cabin; although Kalil had taken off her slippers and walked lightly as thistle blown over the desert floor, Hassan started up from his quilt, out of a sound sleep. One hand gripped the butt of a pistol in the sash at his waist.
"Ha! "
A glance at the girl and he dismissed his companions, and Kalil salaamed. Detaching the veil, she tossed back the mass of her dark hair with both hands, knowing that the pasha ever took pleasure in contemplation of her beauty. Knowing, too, that she had served him well, as had happened many times in the past.
Before coming to him she had touched her eyelids with kohl and her lips and fingertips with dark red henna.
"What word do you bring, daughter of Mokador?"
"The way is open for thee to strike."
"The praise to Allah! "
In Hassan's full cheeks the muscles tightened, and his black eyes gleamed.
Years ago Hassan, too, had been a slave. A boatman, then a corsair, he had risen by his strength, his dominant will, and shrewdness to be pasha of Algiers. He had served the sultan by sea-his men were fond of relating how he had put his ship beside the flagship of Orioff, yardarm to yardarm until both had blown up. Scarred and undaunted, he had rallied the scum of Constantinople to follow him to victory on the island of Lemnos.
They called him Ghazi, the Conqueror, when for fifteen years he fought the Christians in the Levant and Egypt. They said of him that he had never met defeat. In this jehad, this holy war, against the Russians, Hassan's name was a rallying note for the fanatical.