by Harold Lamb
"Name of a dog," shouted the seaman, "this Liman-it is not the sea! 'Tis a bay!"
He could see the opposite shore, five miles away, a long line of sandy spits. To his right, nearly hidden in the heat haze, the masts of the Moslem fleet were visible. A single glance told him that they had blockaded Jones's squadron in the Liman.
When they came within hailing distance of the Russian line, Pierre rested on his oars, brushing the sweat and the gnats from his eyes. He saw two three-deckers, and counted the guns in the tiers-seventy-two. They were in the center of the line. The others were frigates, with a few sloops, eighteen in all.
Black hulls, encrusted with gray salt at the waterline, squat bows and lofty poops set with rows of stern windows that reflected the sun, stumpy masts and short spars, small sails-he did not like the look of all that.
"Dutch belly boats," he muttered, "crank and dull before the wind. They would make no way in the teeth of the wind."
He could see, however, that they carried heavy batteries. Behind the line, at the jetties by the Dnieper mouth, were half a hundred smaller craft, bomb ketches, double shallops, and great scows mounting a single long twenty-four or a mortar.
"The flotilla," nodded Ivak, "Nassau's flotilla."
Behind these, a barren shore, nearly white with salt, under the clear sky, as blue as the skies of Provence. He pulled slowly for the Vladimir, which he made out by the ensign at the staff over the stern lanterns. Passing under the towering stern with its gilded carving, he looked at the small gallery. This was called the Admiral's Walk, being sacred from immortal custom to that personage. No one was there.
Pierre waited until Ivak had gone over the rail. Then he kicked the skiff away and went up eagerly.
By shouted orders and the creak of block and tackle he knew that the gun-deck crews were at battery drill, but on the spar deck men were overhauling rigging, and he halted by the booms to stare around him, filling his nostrils with familiar smells.
A bearded Greek boatswain, wearing green pantaloons spotted with tar and a crimson scarf bound over his head, jostled against him and turned around to curse. Then, surprised by Pierre's bulk and long yellow hair, he growled a question.
"What are you about?"
Pierre began to explain that he had come from the Kherson dockyard, and wanted service with the marines on the Vladimir, but the other cut him short with a bellowing laugh.
"Oho-ho! Marines! Do you think this is Toulon? We have no marines and few men who have seen blue water. Have you? Then go below, my bully. You are big enough to pull a rope, and Number Four gun of the port battery lacks a ropeman. Bear a hand my fine lad and you'll have vodka to wet your whistle, before the Turks hack you."
He gave Pierre a push toward the fore skuttle, adding under his breath:
"I know your kind-deserter from the army, looking for a soft berth. No duffel, and a poor account of yourself."
Going below, Pierre reported to the gun captain and fell to work with a will.
An hour later he was laughing. It was hotter than the slave benches of a Turkish galley, and the men who flung themselves down beside him when the drill was ended reeked of stale sweat; the tackle of the eighteenpounder that he had been handling was stiff and caught in the blocks. A Syrian boy, half naked, wearing an amulet around his thin throat, had curled up like a dog, falling asleep as if worn out by toil.
Near the gun carriage a group of Tatars squatted without a word, only their eyes moving-fishermen by the smell of them. From the deck above came the shrill pipe of whistles and the patter of naked feet, but around Pierre welled the murmur of polyglot tongues.
A Cossack, who had been leaning against a stanchion picking his teeth, swaggered off, kicking the Syrian out of his way and grinning down when the yellow face snarled up at him. Pushing a Greek swabber from the water butt, he drank in long gulps, paying no attention to the sailor who fingered at his dirk, cursing venomously.
Somewhere a Portuguese was singing. Pierre chuckled, drinking it all in. So these were Ivak's sea wolves! Ten years ago he had been one of such a crew. Except that no Americans were to be seen, the gun deck of the Vladimir might be that of the Bon Homme Richard with its motley crew. And, unless Pierre was mistaken, there was a fight in these men.
Chapter VI
Pierre Makes an Enemy
"Those chaps will stand to their guns," he told Ivak after quarters that evening, standing by the bole of the mainmast.
There was a new gleam in the Provencal's eyes, a new swing to his shoulders. He had discarded the infantry coat, and the clumsy boots. His garments differed from the rest, because the bulk of the Vladimir's crew were drafted from the infantry regiments.
"But on the spar deck," he went on, "they are Greeks-"
Ivak nudged him in the ribs, and a man who had been passing forward stopped, to come closer. Dusk was falling-the long twilight of the southern sea-and the newcomer leered into his face.
"Oho, our little cockerel crows! Aye, 'tis our deserter from Kherson. Harken to Dmitri-you've made a bad bargain, you have."
It was the big boatswain of the green pantaloons, who turned to Ivak with something resembling respect.
"Where is his illustriousness, the admiral? He gave orders that men who could handle firelocks were to be told off, and the best of the lot picked for sharpshooters. They are to go to the tops-"
"Where?" asked the Cossack.
Dmitri pointed over his head, to the square platform that was the fight ing top, above the main yard. Ivak surveyed with interest the shadowy antennae of the shrouds.
"He ain't aft, where the gentry sit at table," grumbled the Greek.
"Yonder is monsieur, the admiral," broke in Pierre. "Only listen, bosun, and you'll hear him."
Men who had come up from the stifling 'tween decks were grouped around the foremast. From the group rang out a voice that the Provencal knew well.
It was an old ballad that Paul Jones must have got by heart from the mariners of Solway Firth when he was a lad, and he watched ships put in to Kircudbright from the American colonies. The men who listened reeked not of the words, but the plaintive drift of the ballad appealed to them.
The songs of the steppe, like those of the sea, held a burden of sorrow, and Cossacks, who had an ear for harmony, soon caught the air. Rich voices joined the American's deep tenor.
Jones was sitting on the breech of a twelve-pounder, hatless. Unlike the other officers he wore his hair unpowdered. Ten years had left lines in his swarthy face; his hands were thin, and the flesh had fallen away from his high cheekbones. But the quick brown eyes and the lift of the chin had not altered.
"Oh, he's a pretty fellow," grunted the Greek, "and very free with his songs and his double tots of rum and his airs about discipline. But what will he do when the time comes, and it's 'boarders away'?"
Pierre's temper flared instantly.
"When that time comes, you won't be treading on his heels, by you-"
He checked himself, remembering where he was, and why he had come to the ship. Dmitri put a hand to his hip where a knife was sheathed in his belt. But, glancing at the sotnik who was watching them, he stepped back with an oath.
"I'll pay you out! I'll send you to your account!"
Still muttering he hastened forward.
Lieutenant Edwards, the English aide and interpreter who had come from Petersburg with Jones, joined in the last verse with a ringing baritone. Then someone produced a balalaika.
Ivak grinned at Pierre.
"Watch out for Dmitri; he's a bad one with a knife. Now get down below and keep your tongue between your teeth, if you can."
When the Provencal had gone, Ivak inclined his head critically, listening to the khorovod, thrummed by the guitar and roared out by the deep voices of the Don Cossacks. One youngster sprang into the center of the circle, outlined against the after-gleam of the sunset. Arms akimbo, bare feet striking the deck planks, he began the wild cosachka, the dance of the southern steppe.
Squatting on his heels, he leaped up, his coat swirling, and Ivak began to pat the deck in time, thinking of other days when he had danced in the villages on feast days and had broken into the ring of girls, to kiss first one then another.
The riding lights of the squadron gleamed brighter as the red streaks faded from the sky. Overhead the yards creaked. For the first time in a week a fresh breeze was coming out of the south, blowing from Otchakof toward the anchored squadron.
Jones, who had been watching the men, with Edwards, rose and went aft to select the new topmen. Whether taking a Russian artilleryman aside to explain by example the mysteries of side tackle and crowbar or showing the gun captains how to quicken their work by stacking round shot in the stands near the gun muzzles, the American was in every drill.
The men grumbled, yet their food had been better since Jones arrived, and they did not grumble overmuch when they saw that he shared in the hard work. He was in everybody's mess and everybody's watch, tying a Turk's-head knot for a clumsy apprentice and making a jest of it to the boatswain's mate, who would otherwise have kicked the boy around the mast. Or trying out a cutlass with a bearded giant of the Urals who had never been out of his depth in water before except on a horse's back.
Not knowing Russian, he could not talk to the men, except through Edwards. But they became accustomed to him and in the end they listened for his voice and took to following him around, only leaving him when he retired to the quarterdeck ladder.
Once alone in his cabin or on the admiral's gallery, he looked worried. He knew that the crew of the Vladimir was incapable of handling a vessel at sea. And daily advice came from Potemkin's staff, urging a movement on Otchakof.
Paul Jones answered that such a course would not be for the good of the service, and when opportunity offered he would act.
Potemkin replied-
"You are expected to do your duty courageously or to take the consequences."
Only Edwards knew what it had cost Jones to take this in tight-lipped silence and to go on cheerfully with the work of preparation, refraining from moving at once on the Turks and throwing away the lives of his men and officers.
Just now he was inspecting the muskets and hand grenades before issuing them to a gunner's mate, to stow in the tops. And he explained to the men who had been told off for duty aloft, the work of topmen, how musketry was to be directed on the gun crews of the enemy's upper deck. Ivak listened attentively and peered up at the shadowy bole of the mast. Finally he became restless and spoke to Edwards.
"Will Paul give permission for me to go to that platform, if there is a battle?"
"Can you handle a musket?"
"I can drop a wild pig in a thicket a hundred paces away."
Edwards smiled and turned to the American, who had a warm regard for the old Cossack.
"Eh, Ivak," Paul Jones asked, "why do you want to go aloft?"
"That up there is a lopazik." Ivak pointed to the fighting top. "'Tis a hunter's rest in a tree, and it should be easy to see game from such a high place." When this was interpreted to him, Jones laughed.
"Very well, Ivak. But you will find that tree more hazardous than the ground down here."
"Will the admiral allow me to take also a kunak who was once a sergeant of marines on French ships?"
"Faith; if there is a marine sergeant on the Vladimir he belongs in the maintop."
That night the wind freshened, whining in the stays of the anchored vessels, and Pierre had the second watch on deck. He leaned on the preventer tackle of an eighteen-pounder, staring out of the open port, listening to the wash against the ship's side.
It was becoming clear to him that neither he nor Ivak was cut out for scouts. If there was plotting on the Vladimir they could not hit on a trace of it.
He turned his head just a little, eyeing the shadows cast by the lantern at the mast. Then he swung around, his back against the bulwarks. Dmitri had been walking past the booms, and had stepped toward the eighteen-pounder, his bare feet noiseless on the deck.
For a moment they faced each other, the Greek grinning in his beard, Pierre watchful, his arms folded on his chest.
"Sant' Nicolo!" grunted the boatswain. "You have good ears even for a spy."
Pierre, remembering Ivak's advice, kept silent. He could see that Alexiano was on the poop, in talk with another officer. Most of the men of the watch were asleep, out of sight; no one paid any attention to the boatswain and his victim.
Dmitri brushed a hand across his throat, under his oiled beard. He had puffy, good-natured eyes and smelled of scent and wine.
"You are looking for your friends of the after-guard, eh? They won't trouble about you, after you're down with the fish."
By now Pierre had seen enough of the Russian service to be aware that if he answered the Greek back or struck him, Dmitri would knife him and go free, if the man was in favor with an officer.
"You come," went on the boatswain, "you ask questions, you whisper to that sotnik. You are to be topman, by the horns! Aye, Kherson is lousy with spies and they picked you off to keep an eye on us."
Pierre let his hands rest on his belt, and leaned forward a little.
"With your fine ways and your French gab," hissed Dmitri, "the grandees thought you would fool us bullies. But I have been to Kherson, with his excellency Alexiano. In the bazaar I heard talk. When the wind is off the sea the Russians will be torn to pieces by Hassan 's sea wolves. And that is true talk. Some of the men did not come back to the ships."
"Who said that?" Pierre was beginning to be puzzled.
"Who sent the wind? Sukita fl adhimin-bite your thumbs for woe, you dog! Nay, Kalil, that wench out of Otchakof had visited the bazaar. But it is truth. I came back, yet we be as good as dead men."
Dmitri stepped nearer, his breath hot on the Provencal's throat.
"The Turks will be upon us with this wind. What chance have these ships against them?"
"Don't stir up your bile," Pierre growled. "Hold hard. Who do you think I serve?"
"The boyars who sent us here, to have our throats cut."
"-'s thunder! I'm Paul Jones's man."
"A lie!" Dmitri threw back his head, and glanced at the poop. Down the Liman a cannon had rumbled.
The Greek hesitated, then crouched suddenly, whipping out his dirk. Pierre swung his fist into the other's face, sending him back half a dozen paces. Dmitri snarled into his beard and shifted the knife in his hand, to throw it. Then he looked up and lowered his arm slowly.
Alexiano, flag captain of the fleet, was running along the poop railing, shouting that the Turks were bearing down on them. Pierre did not understand what he said, but it was evident that the man was thoroughly scared. Dmitri was staring at his countryman in astonished contempt of such behavior.
There came a long hail from the masthead, and a second shot down the estuary. After a moment drums beat to quarters and the boatswain thrust his knife back in its sheath. Alexiano was still vociferating, and Russian officers in every sort of uniform ran out of the wardroom to the quarterdeck, some still worse for wine.
"Moujiks-that's what they are, gentry and all!" Dmitri spat on the deck and jumped to the wheel. "Here, you dog-bear a hand."
Pierre joined him and helped with lashings, listening the while to the muttering groups that surged around the mainmast and the skuttles. Here and there he heard petty officers swearing and the impact of a blow. A half-naked Syrian stumbled over a lantern on the deck and howled when he fell headlong.
"Fools!" said Pierre from the depths of his heart.
Taken by surprise, with the ship at anchor-aroused from the deep sleep of the hours after midnight, and startled by Alexiano's mad bellow-speaking no common tongue, and the most of them landsmen, it was natural enough that the men of the Vladimir should be out of hand.
Hassan of Algiers had closed the jaws of the trap upon them.
From under the poop lantern Ivak emerged completely clad and looking pleased with events. He grinned w
hen he saw Pierre with one eye on Dmitri, who had had worse chances and less provocation than this to use a knife on an enemy.
"Come along, Pietr, show me the way to the lopazik. I have leave to go there. I'll take you."
"Well, in an hour we'll all be eating breakfast in purgatory, off the leaving of the saints' table above."
Dmitri grinned and rolled off to launch himself into the noisiest group in the waist, sending men to right and left, calling them unmentionable names.
While they waited for the topmen who had gathered at the after companion, Ivak explained that Dmitri was a former pirate of the Dnieper, a first-class pilot who would fight for his bread and salt and was worth a dozen men.
Pierre jumped to the bulwarks, running up the ratlines, and deriving some satisfaction from watching Ivak, who wore boots, laboring in the shrouds with a musket and powder horn.
When they stood in the maintop, under the clewed-up topsail, he heard a voice give an order through a trumpet from the poop rail.
"The admiral will pistol any man not found at his place."
By degrees quiet was restored, and Pierre saw-now that the battle lanterns were lighted-boys bringing up powder, and the crews gathering around the guns on the spar deck. Looking over the rail he could make out Jones at intervals, going quietly around the ship, exchanging a word or two with the gun captains.
Meanwhile Ivak had sighted the Turks. The keen eyes of the Cossack, accustomed to the murk of starlight, had picked out the blur of sails that showed well down the Liman. No more shots were fired, and after an hour Pierre wondered why the Turks had come no nearer. The wind had hauled steadily to the northeast, so that the Turks no longer had it over the stern.
Dawn revealed the reason why the Turks had held back. The largest ship, that of Hassan himself, which was headed for the Vladimir, had run aground on a shoal. Several feluccas were endeavoring to get the threedecker off, and the rest of the fleet was standing by.
Chapter VII
When the fat grow lean, the lean must die; when the leaders of the herd falter and look to right and left, the weakest fall by the wayside.