Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  "I did not think—forgot your leg was bad. We won't fight. We'll bed down over there, back of the rocks. It's true what you say, Gurka—these Muscovites cause too much trouble. So we'll wait until they are gone. Only I was not drunk. Saint Nicholas looked out for me."

  Gurka laughed and turned to his saddle.

  "Then he did wonders."

  This pleased Koum.

  "Aye, he's like that." Swinging himself into the saddle, he sheathed his knife and fumbled for tobacco. "We'll have a pipe, eh, kunak?"

  As he filled the clay pipe, he reflected admiringly that Gurka was a fine Cossack—had cut down two men with three strokes of a blade after being trussed up on a cross. And he thought of everything, made plans as easily as Koum could spit.

  Although it was cold and Koum wore only a shirt, he felt warm and comfortable. His enemies might be within hail, but he wasted no thoughts upon them.

  It was good to have a kunak, a real comrade to talk to. And after his sip or two of mare's milk and the fast ride over the steppe, Koum felt well content with the day.

  The Post in the Steppe

  Gurka paced the dusty street in front of the tavern. Most Cossacks would have waited inside the tavern, as long as they had any silver in their pockets for brandy or vodka. But Gurka was restless.

  Hands thrust in his belt, his white kalpak pushed back on his head, he stared up the wide dirt street lined with log houses. He paid no attention to a pair of girls who passed near him, their long beshmets swirling in the wind puffs—although they glanced back at the tall Cossack with the face of an officer and the sword with gold inlay on the hilt.

  "Devil take him," he muttered, "he's off again."

  Gurka thought that he had waited long enough for his comrade. Koum had a way of disappearing for hours or days at a time, after entrusting his valuables to Gurka. But Koum was a hunter, a stiepnik—born in the steppe—and had only a child's notion of time. Moreover the hunter, accustomed to his hut beyond the frontier and the fellowship of a horse and falcon, felt uncomfortable in this great town where hundreds of human beings walked in and out of buildings, thronging the markets and the drinking places. Yesterday noon Koum had left his musket and bagpipe and the white Kabarda horse with Gurka, and had departed on foot without any explanation, or any indication whatever of the hour he might return. "He's like a child, the son of a dog," Gurka muttered, going around the inn to the stable yard. "Unless he's tied up he's always in trouble."

  Leading out the white horse, Gurka saddled him. The saddle had a red morocco cover rather the worse for wear but much esteemed by Koum, who had carried it off with the horse during an affray with a Turkoman clan. Gurka mounted and trotted forth to find the hunter. He went first to the earth rampart of the town where old-fashioned cannon stood pointing out into the endless brown plain. Here, amid dust and swarms of flies,

  Tartars and fishermen thronged the native market, and a line of drowsy camels knelt under their loads.

  Gurka rode past stalls of fruit and wool and paused to look carefully around the horse market. Koum had no money on him, he knew, but the hunter was quite capable of bargaining a pony out of his friends, the Kah-nuks, and then trading the pony in for vodka.

  There was no sign of Koum in the markets, or any fighting. Gurka went on to the town jail, a log pen open to the sky within which a score of men slept or argued, watched by a Russian sentry. Several were Cossacks—strangers.

  Gurka reasoned that if Koum had left the traders and had not yet arrived at the pen, he must be in one of the numerous taverns. The Cossack passed by the better places with painted wooden doors, and drew rein at a log house by the river, where he heard singing. Dismounting, he made his way into a smoke-dimmed room, below the level of the street, reeking of frying fish and onions.

  Koum was not singing. He sat peaceably enough in a corner, an empty pipe in his teeth, working with his knife at a piece of pearl shell. His broad head was shaved in the old Zaporogian fashion, except for a long scalp lock, and it was almost as dark as his tarred shirt. His long lambskin coat, the Cossack svitza, was not to be seen.

  "Well," remarked Gurka, "where did you spend the night?" He sat down on the bench, running his whip between his fingers.

  "Cosatka chata," grunted Koum, without looking up from his carving. "In the Cossack's palace."

  This meant the sand or mud outside the tavern doors. The name came from the Jews and shopkeepers who were accustomed to find the men of the border snoring on the earth by the doors.

  "Where is your svitza?"

  "What is it to you?" Koum held up the shell, from which he was shaping a belt buckle. "I drank it up, of course."

  A grievance rankled in Koum's brain. He had not wanted to ride down the river to this town. They had been fine and comfortable in his choutar, with plenty to eat. But Gurka wanted to make plans—to sit with the officers of the garrison, drinking tea and wine.

  True, Gurka had been a gentleman once, even a noble, a barin. Once he had owned wide lands and horses and servants, off in a place called Hungary. After he had lost all that in the wars he had come out to the frontier—joined the Cossacks. So it was natural enough that the Hungarian should want to talk to the officers and their ladies; but the hunter, without saying anything about it, felt aggrieved and went off to the dingy drinking places by the river.

  "Look here," remarked Gurka, "you've got to come with me this afternoon. I've talked with a lieutenant, an aide to His Excellency. They have a mission for us."

  "A what?"

  "Something for us to do over the frontier. I don't know what, but they'll pay."

  "They'll pay—when the devil rings for church with his tail."

  But Koum ached with hunger, and the odor of fish and onions tormented him. After a little persuasion he borrowed back his svitza from the tavern-keeper for long enough to visit the general. On previous occasions he had discovered that a visit to Russian officers meant either work or punishment. Yet he and Gurka had not three silver rubles between them, and they must do something to get money. These people of the town would not give even a starving man food without payment.

  The officers at Sarachikof led a dull life, being isolated upon the salt plain where the sluggish Ural River runs into the Caspian. Their fort was the farthest point of the Russian Empire, to the southeast. Astrakhan with its theaters lay eight days' fast riding behind them, and Moscow six weeks' journey. Their military district extended for some thirty thousand square miles—no one except the clerks in Moscow knew just where—and in this miniature empire of sand and grassland the officers were supposed to minister to the wandering Tartar tribes and to guard the caravan route through Khiva from the east.

  This duty fell in particular upon the stout shoulders adorned with gleaming epaulets of His Excellency, General Andriev Lermontoff, whose inclination lay rather toward Gypsy singers, card clubs and the opera— and who in consequence deeply resented his exile where not one of these luxuries could be had. Of course the imperial minister of state at Moscow should have known that the military forces attached to Sarachikof were incapable of keeping order within such a desert; but after the manner of bureaus, Moscow demanded reports of the commander's activities. And these reports were the bane of Lermontoff's easy life.

  He had discovered some amusements in Sarachikof, and had gathered in various sums of money. But he avoided moving on expeditions—it was no easy matter to enter the desert beyond the Ural—and sent reports of patrols and garrison posts which did not as yet exist. These reports to Moscow hung over his well-groomed head like ghostly swords. Because no one knew better than Lermontoff that decorations and disgrace alike came out of the ministry at Moscow. So far, he had avoided both.

  On the day when he summoned the two wandering Cossacks to appear before him, he had a vexatious problem to solve.

  After finishing his dinner he wiped his plump hands on the tablecloth and motioned for a soldier to hold a wax-light to his pipe. Loosening his collar, he blinked drowsily at t
he empty dishes and at the stout lieutenant of dragoons who sat at the end of the table, ready to write down anything the general might command.

  "You came from up the river," said the general, "and so you do not know the country here. But still you ask for service. Well, I need two men who won't run off."

  He did not look at the two Cossacks who stood opposite him, and they made no answer.

  "This is how it is. My town is on the edge of the sea, and the caravan road from the east—from Samarkand through Khiva—circles the sea and approaches us from the desert yonder." He sighed, drank a little brandy from a glass and nodded toward the river. "The merchants who have come through from Khiva complain that the tribes have attacked them. They say some caravans were taken--looted and carried off. That's a pity."

  Lermontoff glanced at Koum, who grunted uneasily.

  "They're horned devils," the Russian went on, "these tribesmen--Black Hats and Tartars. Akh—they come right up to the river and raid ships that have put in to the shore for the night. No doubt some of them come into the horse market here, to steal and to spy on us. But the worst is the raiding of the caravan road."

  The commander did not add that letters had been written to him from Moscow, ordering him to retaliate against the tribes and protect all caravans from Khiva. How could he lead a column of infantry out into the salt steppe, where no good water or firewood or food was to be had? The nomads would keep out of his way, or hang on his rear like wolves, to harass him. He was aware that Moscow set great store by the new caravan trade out of Asia—but Moscow was a long way off, and the emperor was occupied in fighting a man named Bonaparte, a usurper back in Europe. Lermontoff had no intention of moving beyond the range of the cannon of Sarachikof.

  "Now, my lads," he went on. "There's only one post across the river— a Cossack troop eight versts along the road. After that, nothing. But the Cossacks say that sixty versts east of them the road passes an old fort on a mound. It is known as the Kurgan. The Tartars are afraid of it; they won't camp in it, although they camp near it and go up in the day for water."

  Lermontoff considered, rubbing his beard.

  "I'll send you two fine lads out to the Kurgan. You'll be given all the bread and dried fish and barley you need, with a packhorse and plenty of powder and bullets. You'll establish a post at the Kurgan, watch the movements of the Tartars and communicate with the caravans when they pass. Try to find out who the raiders are, and one of you ride in each week to report to the river post. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," said Gurka crisply. "I can write a report. But your Excellency knows that this is work for a strong detachment with artillery."

  "What is your name?" Lermontoff was amazed that a vagabond Cossack should be able to write and to criticize an order. "Are you registered— what rank have you?"

  "My name is Gurka. I am not registered, but—" he smiled—"I have seen service, your Excellency."

  He had held the rank of captain in Suvarof's campaign in the Alps, and he had fought through Austerlitz.

  "Well, Gurka, no detachment can be sent. My cavalry was called for the western mobilization. I want a pair of galliards at the Kurgan, who will use their eyes and not run from shadows. Eh—you'll have ten silver rubles paid this minute for a drink or two, and twenty each month, as long as you report."

  "Not enough," said Gurka promptly. "This is hazardous work, and your Russians won't undertake it."

  With a wave of his pipe, Lermontoff agreed.

  "Double pay then—twenty to each of you."

  "Pas de l’argent ici, les sales betes," muttered the lieutenant, in French. "No more money here for drinks, because these stinking animals will go off with it."

  Gurka, who understood this, made no response and Lermontoff answered in the same speech:

  "What matter? If only they will get to the Kurgan and occupy it!" To Gurka, he added, good-humoredly, "No more vodka money. Report to the supply officer tomorrow for your rations. I'll wager you fine lads will get yourselves plenty of antelope steak and catch some wild horses. Don't fail to spy out where the Tartars have their auls."

  "Would your Excellency," asked Gurka seriously, "also desire us to enlist Tartars to serve under us?"

  Lermontoff blinked his moist eyes and seemed pleased.

  "Certainly, my lad, if you can. Look here—I've heard that a caravan from Bokhara is coming in, under Ismail Bey. You'll have gold, if it gets in safe."

  "Then," the Cossack pointed out, "we should have written authority to enlist men and to protect caravans for Sarachikof."

  "Good!" The general dictated a brief order to his aide and signed the paper when it was written out. Handing it to Gurka with ten rubles, he waved his pipe again. "S’Bogum—Go with God!"

  The two Cossacks bowed and strode out. When the door closed behind them the lieutenant laughed.

  "Do you really expect them to go, mon General?"

  "Yes, Rostov. Did you notice the elder's head—shaved like the old Zaporogians? The young one's a fire-eater. They'll go just to boast of it."

  "The Tartars will tear them out of their skins. You did not explain that the Kurgan is really a tomb of some kind. When those mad tribesmen find two unbelievers cooking meat over the grave of a saint—"

  "We shall not have to pay the forty rubles."

  Lermontoff signed for the soldier at his back to fill his glass.

  "I wonder why Gurka asked for an order—imagine enlisting any one out there! Still, it will read well in our report. Write it out, Rostov, lad. After the usual, begin. 'The command of their high Excellencies, of ninth September, has been obeyed to the utmost. A picked detachment of mounted Cossacks has been sent to occupy the Tartar fort sixty versts east of Sar-achikof, on the Khiva road. The commander of the detachment will use every effort to enlist the Tartar tribesmen, and their high Excellencies may rest assured that the Khivan caravans will suffer no further molestation.'"

  Lermontoff signed the dispatch with a sigh of relief. The order to guard the caravans had been troubling him for weeks, and now at the price of a few rubles he had earned a year's peace. Before then the Cossacks would be killed off, and—after a reasonable time—he could report the tragic fate of the detachment.

  "So," remarked Rostov, throwing down the pen, "Ismail is on the way with his—"

  A sudden gesture of Lermontoff checked him, and he remembered the soldier attending them.

  "He may not get through," he added.

  But the general shrugged.

  "He's a fox, Ismail is. And he'll be well guarded. I warned him to cross the river cautiously at night and stop in the old serai."

  The moist eyes of the general gleamed pleasantly. He was contemplating the arrival of a true treasure—a treasure such as a homesick campaigner in this isolated crossroads of Asia might well look for.

  Two days later Gurka and Koum were trotting easily over the dry plain, their long shadows going before them. Behind them the packhorse jogged methodically under its load of provisions, cooking pot and pan, and a small felt tent. Dust rose over them and hung motionless in the air. They were crossing a sandy depression where fragments of ancient shells sparkled in the dunes. Ages ago this depression had been the bed of a great inland sea, of which the Caspian and the Aral were the remnants.

  From time to time Koum swung over and lashed the pony, because he wanted to reach the Kurgan that evening. He had redeemed his svitza from the tavern-keeper and had bought a new supply of tobacco with his share of the ten rubles. Although he grumbled he was really well content, because he was out in the steppe again and he had seen plenty of antelope that day.

  "It always happens like that," he ruminated, shifting his musket sling to the other shoulder. "When you poke your snout into the city the Russians find work for you. They beat you, or perhaps they call you a fine lad, and send you off to some black work too dirty for them. . . . Eh, why did you ask the old fox for that order?"

  Moodily, Gurka shrugged his wide shoulders. He had expected to be tak
en on as a courier at Sarachikof, and he did not care for the desert.

  "Always get a written order if you can," he responded absently.

  "Well," Koum argued, "who will read it? It's in Russian, isn't it? No one can read it but the Russians and they aren't here—not a bit. And who will you enlist? Call in the jackals and say 'Dear little devils. Here's the written order of his High-Well-Born-ness, for you to enlist and serve us instead of trying to snatch our meat?'"

  He chuckled, shaking his head. Gurka frowned.

  "I don't like it, Koum. That general was not drunk—he had an idea in his head. It's a mad notion to send two men to hold a fort."

  "The Kurgan's a ruin, not a fort."

  "Whatever the accursed thing is, we can't do anything for the cara-vans—two men and one musket!"

  Koum was indifferent to the military aspect of their task.

  "We can get some good skins, and then hide when anything shows up. Then we'll ride in to the Cossacks for the forty rubles at the end of each month."

  "A fine mission!"

  "Well, you planned it. And why is it so bad? We might be walking and carrying our saddles, instead of riding in them."

  "I'd rather be walking back over the river."

  With sudden anxiety Koum looked up. "Do you feel unlucky, Gurka? The signs have not been bad. Horses haven't stumbled, and we've seen no myzga—"

  What the Cossacks called the myzga or steppe mist was the mirage, often seen in the salt desert. Gurka looked ahead curiously and pointed.

  "The devil! Isn't that the steppe mist?"

  Beyond the depression white lines gleamed in the air, through a gray curtain. High up, as if hung in the sky above rolling ramparts, a dome took shape. Koum spat hastily to both sides, and crossed himself, drawing out the miniature picture of Saint Nicholas, the Wonder Worker, that he always carried hung about his neck. For a moment he stared in silence.

  "No," he said. "That is a height with salt showing through the brushwood. Must be the Kurgan."

  After a while, when they had climbed out of the depression and the hot air ceased to rise in front of them like a quivering curtain, they saw that the apparition was really their post. Only the stone dome showed above the top of the mound. Before sunset they dismounted at the summit and went to inspect the Kurgan.