The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Think, Nephew! The ship itself is a treasure, but the bales of silk! Only let me hold it! Let me bargain! There are men who would pay roundly for such a vessel!”

  Ben Salom, the old Jewish man who kept the stall, scented a bargain. “What troubles you, friend?”

  Shir Ali wailed louder and a small crowd gathered, then he burst into a torrent of expostulation and malediction. His dear brother, the best of brothers, was dead! His ship, which lay in the harbor, must be sold, and this beardless youth, this lad beside him, he must be on his way to Toledo before the sun had set.

  Argument and explanation followed, and Shir Ali told of the richness of the silk, the aroma of the spices. My beggar showed himself a man of imagination, even of poetry.

  He wailed; he berated his bad fortune, the evil of the times, the sin of selling now when so much might be gained by waiting.

  Suddenly, he broke off. “Come! Come, my nephew, I know just the man! For such a cargo he will pay—”

  “Hold!” Ben Salom put up a hand. “Wait! Perhaps you need go no further. No doubt the ship is old. The silk has probably been long in her hull. The spices may have spoiled, but still…”

  Shir Ali drew himself up, looking on Ben Salom with disdain. “What? You speak of buying? Where would you get a hundred thousand dinars? Where, indeed?”

  “Who speaks of a hundred thousand dinars? It is the mouthing of fools…yet, let us not be hasty. Of a verity, Allah has sent you to me. Come inside.”

  Shir Ali pulled away. “Who speaks of Allah? What have we to do with you? There is no time to waste! The ship must be sold before nightfall, so how can I waste time in idle talk?”

  Yet after much argument and many protests, we allowed ourselves to be led inside and seated cross-legged on the floor cushions while Shir Ali protested of wasted time. Several times he made as if to rise only to be pushed down again.

  Ben Salom took the list and studied it, muttering the while and counting on his fingers. Shir Ali, Selim, and I accepted the wine he offered, and waited.

  The shop was humble, but no man can long be in the streets without knowing what goes on in any city. There is a league of beggars, and what they do not know nobody knows.

  The merchant summoned a boy and sent him hurrying from the shop, and in a matter of minutes he returned with two old, bearded men. Putting their heads together, they consulted the list, arguing and protesting.

  Shir Ali got suddenly to his feet. “Enough! Enough of this!”

  We were at the door when Ben Salom stopped us. “Take us to this ship. If it is as you say, we will buy.”

  “The ship also?”

  “And the ship.”

  Now came the time of greatest anxiety. What if Walther had returned? Or what if he returned while we were aboard? A pitched battle would surely take place in which the port officials might well interfere. Yet the risk must be taken.

  All was quiet as we approached the ship. The sun was warm; water lapped lazily against the hull. The merchants studied the vessel, their faces revealing nothing.

  Taking a chance that they would understand, I spoke to Selim in the Frankish tongue. “I think we waste time. It would be better to sell in Málaga or Valencia.”

  Ben Salom spoke anxiously to the man beside him, and Shir Ali glanced at me slyly, guessing my intent.

  We were met at the bulwark by Red Mark and a dozen armed slaves. While Shir Ali and Selim showed the merchants the vessel, we waited anxiously, watching the shore.

  Now was the dangerous hour. If we did not complete our sale before—along the shore a party of men were strolling, vaguely familiar.

  Red Mark followed my gaze. “I think we are in trouble,” he said.

  “Walther is one of them,” I added.

  “What will we do?”

  The big Saxon was frightened. Bold man that he was, the prospect of finding himself again in chains was a terrible thing.

  “There are but five or six,” I told him quietly. “We will take them.”

  “What about them?” His thumb indicated the buyers.

  “They will be getting a bargain, and we will let them talk us down a little further.”

  Selim caught my signal. “Get them below,” I whispered. “Show them the silk, open a cask of cinnamon. Keep them busy.”

  The former slaves resumed their places except for a picked lot of twelve who crouched along the bulwarks in readiness. Four others stood ready with their bows in case any tried to escape.

  We heard the beat of oars, the bump of the boat alongside. Sweat trickled down my face and neck. I tried to wet my lips, but my tongue was dry. An attempt to swallow required a real effort. I went to the side of the ship that they might see me.

  “Where is the Finnveden?” Walther demanded.

  “Asleep. They found your store of wine.”

  That would anger him, and angry men are not cautious. “The fools! I’ll show—”

  He grabbed a line and came up the side like a cat, the others following. Yet, as he threw a leg over the rail, something caught his eye and he hesitated.

  “What is it?” Alarm shadowed his face. “What—”

  Too late he saw his danger as I leaped to seize him. An instant he hesitated whether to run or fight, and it was to his credit that he started to draw his sword.

  Coward he might be, and bully he undoubtedly was, but cornered he was a powerful and dangerous man. He threw himself at me, and I retreated, trying to keep him off me.

  There was a clash of arms, a choking cry, then my blade nicked his arm, drawing blood. He drew back suddenly, and before he could come at me, Red Mark’s arm slipped across his throat and jerked him backward, off-balance.

  Quickly, the fight was over, and the prisoners were bound with a sailor’s speed and skill, all taken alive but one man. His would not be the first body to be found afloat in the harbor of Cádiz.

  Attracted by the scuffle, Ben Salom came on deck. His eyes searched but found nothing amiss. “There is trouble?”

  “Some rebellious slaves,” I said.

  Walther tried to shout, but Red Mark struck him in the stomach.

  “You said nothing of slaves,” Ben Salom protested.

  “They go with the ship.” I pointed at Walther. “But beware of that one, a wily rogue and a very great liar, but a taste of the lash and he will work well.”

  Ben Salom glanced at me. “You are young,” he said, “but you speak with the voice of command.”

  “The ship is my inheritance,” I replied.

  All were silent. Undoubtedly, something here did not seem right. “I spoke quickly in the matter of the slaves, but I am sure it was my uncle’s intention.”

  Ben Salom plucked at his beard. “We fear trouble! All is not well here.”

  “That is for you to decide. The galley is yours for a price, and these strong slaves with it.”

  “We must think. It is sudden.”

  Turning away, I said to Red Mark, “Bring their boat alongside. These men are leaving. We can catch the wind for Málaga.”

  “Wait!” Shir Ali cried. “I am sure Allah has brought wisdom to my friends. They will wish to buy.”

  Ben Salom began to wag his head, and I said, “To the boat. We sail for Málaga. After all, it was my uncle who wished to sell in Cádiz.”

  “Now, now,” Ben Salom protested. “It is true your offer is good, but we just—”

  “Cash,” I said, “and within the hour. There will be no further talk.”

  “All right,” Ben Salom spoke reluctantly. “We will buy.”

  “You,” I said, “will remain aboard until the others return with the money.”

  An hour and ten minutes later, with darkness falling, I stood upon the streets of Cádiz with more money than I had ever seen in my life.

  At the last
I could have pitied Walther until I recalled the girl who swam ashore.

  Red Mark was gone. To Selim I extended my hand. “Go with Allah,” I said.

  He hesitated. “But if we went together? You have freed me. I would serve you and only you.”

  “Go, then, to Málaga, ask discreetly of the maid Aziza and of Count Redwan. Learn if she is safe. Serve her if you can, and spend your money wisely.”

  We parted, and I walked up the narrow street, noticing the ragged beggar who drew hastily into an alleyway as I drew near.

  First, I must inquire for my father, and if there was no knowledge of him, I would proceed to Córdoba where there would be records of all that happened in the Mediterranean. The caliph was a watchful man.

  Too much time has passed, yet together my father and I must return to our own Armorica and our vengeance against the Baron de Tournemine.

  Meanwhile, the baron carried the scar I had left on his cheek, a memento of what was to follow.

  It came to me then that I would send a message.

  7

  THE OLD TOWN of Cádiz stood atop a cliff, its harbor opening toward the western sea, and there were buildings that remained from ancient times. Some, it was said, built by the Phoenicians, others by the Romans or Visigoths.

  Pausing on the dark street, I drew my cloak about me, for there was dampness in the wind from the sea. Selim had told me of an inn on a cliff above the sea, the Inn of the White Horse.

  It was a place known to men who follow the sea, and I might come upon some news of my father there. There was in me an urge to be off, to be away from Cádiz. What if one of the slaves, celebrating his freedom, talked too much?

  The tavern’s common room was low-raftered and shadowed but crowded by men from all the ports: from Alexandria, Venice, Aleppo, and Constantinople. The tables were long and lined with benches. I found an empty place and ordered a tuna fried in olive oil, a loaf, and a bottle.

  Across from me was a lean and one-eyed sailor with a savage face. He lingered unhappily over an empty glass.

  “It is dry weather ashore,” I said, “fill your glass.” I pushed the bottle toward him.

  He filled, then lifted, his glass. “Yol bolsun!” he said.

  “Your language is strange,” I said.

  “My people were born on the steppes, far to the east and north. The words are a greeting, but sometimes a toast. They mean ‘May there be a road!’ ”

  “I shall drink to that,” I said, and we drank together.

  “Long ago,” I said, “a Greek told me of the steppes, of far grass plains where fierce warriors rode, and of a land still farther called Cathay.”

  “He was a knowing man. You travel far?”

  “As far as necessary.”

  “I am Abaka Khan, a king among my people.” He smiled with sudden humor. “A small king, but still a king.”

  “I am Mathurin,” I said, “with another name better left unspoken for the time.”

  “A man’s name is his own.”

  “You are far from home.”

  “Ah.” He shrugged, looked into his empty glass, and I refilled it.

  “You look upon a man,” he said, “who has been a king and a slave, a warrior and a sailor, a fugitive and a rescuer.”

  “I have been nothing,” I said, “but there is tomorrow.”

  A voice was raised in drunken argument. “Dead! I tell you Kerbouchard is dead!”

  “I do not believe it,” another said.

  “There will never be another Kerbouchard.”

  “I will not believe he is dead,” the second man insisted stubbornly.

  “He lay upon his back, eyes wide open to the sun. I say it who saw him, a gaping hole in his chest and blood staining red the water about him.”

  “When I was young,” I prompted, “I heard tales of this Kerbouchard.”

  “Whatever was said was less than the truth,” the second man said. “I say it, who sailed with him! Oh, a good man! A fair man! An extra share for all when Kerbouchard commanded.”

  Eating my tuna and bread, I listened to the fine talk, the home from the sea talk of ships and men and fights and blood and loot and women and the sound of oars and flapping sails. Among it all, again and again, the name of Kerbouchard. The Turk watched me, and suddenly he said, “I knew him, too, and that other name of yours? I believe I know it.”

  “Do not speak it here.”

  “A name is a name”—he shrugged—“only some names have a ring to them, like Kerbouchard!”

  “He was trapped in a cove when the sun rose,” a man was saying, “and there were five vessels. They closed in from both sides, shearing his oars and boarding him. They swept his deck with arrows, then with the sword.”

  “He lives,” the second man insisted. “A lion is not to be slain by jackals.”

  “Do you call Abd-al-Ala a jackal?”

  Ordering another bottle, I glanced across the room and saw a beggar in a corner by the door, a beggar with the money to buy a bottle. Where had I seen him before?

  He did not look my way, yet I was sure he had been. Suddenly the room seemed close. Tasting my wine, I saw a door open at the side, and a slave came in, followed by a breath of cool night air.

  Abaka Khan’s eyes followed mine when I again glanced at the beggar. “It is a thing I could do for you,” he suggested, “small payment for the wine.”

  “When I give wine there is no payment.” Some men had arisen cutting off the beggar’s view of me. “Take the bottle,” I said, “and yol bolsun!”

  Swiftly, I was gone, taking the door through which the slave entered.

  A moment for the door to open and close, another to let my eyes adjust. A narrow alley that debouched upon a steep hill above the harbor. From whom was I escaping? I knew not, but I knew the smell of trouble.

  It was time to leave Cádiz. What I needed now was a horse.

  Down the hill I went to where the harbor waters were, and a wall. Following the wall, I found a narrow gate and a guard whose attention was distracted by a coin.

  Scattered outside were merchants and travelers awaiting daybreak and the opening gates. Several fires were still burning, and I crossed to one of them, then paused to study the faces for those which seemed honest. Loosening my sword and dagger, I went up to the fire. Two men were there, a graybeard and a smooth-faced young man. They looked up at me.

  “You have horses,” I said, “and I need one.”

  “You travel late.”

  “If I do not travel late, I may not travel at all.”

  “Horses are never cheap.”

  Over a cup of mint tea we talked of many things, and bargained here and there. Perhaps I bargained well, for I remembered Shir Ali and things he had said. Would I ever see him again? Or Abaka Khan? How many are the lives we meet and pass!

  An hour before daylight I rode from their camp astride a dapple-gray. The horse was a Barb, a fine animal, almost black.

  When the money from the ship’s sale was divided I found myself with five hundred gold dinars, and sewn into my garments by my own hand were two fine emeralds, two rubies, a blue sapphire, and three small diamonds.

  Buying the Barb, I bought also a bow and a quiver of arrows. Yet traveling alone was foolhardy, and I hoped to attach myself to some group who wished to add to their strength.

  The beggar worried me. That he had followed me from the port there was no doubt. He had been nearby when I bade good-bye to Selim…why? Who was he? Did he act upon his own, or was he serving someone else?

  From the shelter of brush on a hillside I watched the day’s travel begin. My concealment was excellent and gave me opportunity to observe those who were upon the road.

  A merchant passed with ten camels and several mounted men, then a dozen soldiers in spiked helmets and coats of mail rode
by.

  A cart came along drawn by oxen and guarded by two mounted men, then came a motley, rough-seeming group. Two of these detached themselves from the others and took shelter on the hillside right below me, hiding themselves there. They settled down to observing the passersby.

  Suddenly their talked stilled. A new party of travelers appeared, a tall man in black riding a richly caparisoned mule, with three retainers also on mules. All were armed, yet they lacked the bearing of fighting men. There were two pack mules also, yet the interest of the watchers below centered less upon their burdens than upon the man in black.

  “It is John. It is John of Seville!”

  When the small group had gone on along the narrow road, one of the two observers mounted and rode over the hill, passing close enough for me to see him well—a squat, powerful man with a greasy skin and uncombed hair. He was heavily armed.

  The second man remained a little longer, then went down to the high road to follow John of Seville.

  The Greek who was my tutor had talked of John. He was a converted Jew who worked with Raymond of Toledo in translating Arab classics into Latin and Castilian. He was a famous scholar and a man of influence.

  My father was a man who respected knowledge, and our home had been a stopping place for travelers. Over the wine at night there had been much good talk of scholars and seekers after truth. My father’s interest had been whetted by his travels as well as his occasional contact with the wise men of Alexandria, Rome, Athens, and Moorish Spain.

  My father was dead.

  Hating the thought, I had almost come to accept it. Yet the man who would not believe Kerbouchard was dead had more faith than I.

  It was his faith against the knowledge of the other, yet did that man actually know Kerbouchard? He had spoken of seeing my father lying dead, and what could I place in the balance against that?

  If he was dead, then I must return to Armorica and crush the Baron de Tournemine by myself, this man who destroyed my home and killed my mother and our retainers, this man must die.

  There was no law to punish him, nor anyone but myself to see him pay for his crimes. I, Mathurin Kerbouchard, who was alone, I would see Tournemine die by my own blade.