Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

A distant, steady cry pulsed through the uproar below them. Stenka Razin shaded his eyes against the flare of the lights. Beyond, he could discern dark masses that moved over the plain.

  "Tartars," he said.

  Zamourza nodded. "Ai, the horde of Mirak Khan, the Kalmuk."

  Stenka Razin was silent, thinking. When grass came along the Volga, the settlers turned their cattle out to the plain to graze. At such a time, when the ground was dry enough to bear horses at a fast pace, the Tartar hordes beyond the Volga were apt to raid. They came fast, at night, avoiding the frontier posts, until they reached some settlement on the river.

  Zamourza grunted with satisfaction. "Now they have no eyes for us, ataman. Now we can go unseen back to the river gate."

  But Stenka Razin was watching the Muscovites with a calculating eye. These halberdiers and matchlock-men were town militia, trained to march and stand in line and fire off their weapons at command. The sudden raid had frightened them—they were clucking about like a barnyard at the coming of a fox. Their officers did not seem to know what to do.

  Stenka Razin had licked up his fill of corn brandy. He was in no mood to turn his back on a battle.

  "Nay," he said, "we'll do more than that."

  Zamourza followed his chief with misgivings, down the ladders, and out to the street.

  At the main gate the young starosta and a bewildered Swedish captain of artillery were listening to the uproar, trying to decide what next to do, in the face of an invisible foe that loosed deadly arrows out of the dark.

  Through the group around him Stenka Razin strode, staff in hand, towering over the smaller Muscovites.

  "Eh, fledgling," he hailed, "what are you doing? Douse the flares on the walls—don't waste powder until they attack." He grinned at the young officer. "So the wolves have come out of the steppes?"

  Petr Noga's hand tightened on his sword. "You're under arrest—"

  "Tfu!" The Cossack spat. "No time for that. I'll help you, starosta."

  "I ask for no aid from you."

  "You'll need it. But put out the flares—don't make marks of your men."

  Stenka Razin's deep voice had the ring of command in it, and he knew how to jest. The men were listening to him, and the Swede shouted an order to extinguish all fire along the parapet. And to load the cannon and stand by.

  "It's Mirak Khan with his Kalmuks," Stenka Razin explained. "He's fond of gold, as a hog loves corn. Buy him off before it's too late. If you shed blood enough, he'll tear down your wall, and kindle up all the town. He'll pile your heads over there by the church, and take the women off to his tents."

  "We'll escape by the boat," said Petr Noga unsteadily. He was in command of the garrison, and the responsibility weighed on him.

  Stenka Razin looked amused. "Ay, so—in the fishing boats, Excellency? My men are waiting out on Mother Volga with thirty and seven of their little ships. They'll be glad to see you, with all these merchants and gold and gear. They'll feed the fish with you."

  The two officers stared at him. Somehow they did not doubt him— they knew that the Volga pirates were bound down the river, and they had heard that Stenka Razin never ventured far from his band.

  "If you are a Christian," the Swede said stiffly, pulling at his yellow mustache, "you'll summon your followers to aid us against these devils."

  Stenka Razin laughed. "I'll save your hides, if that's what you mean. Mirak Khan knows my face—he'll listen to me. Only give me some of your coins, for a gift."

  "You mean—to ransom Gorod?" Petr Noga asked.

  "Ay, so."

  "How much?"

  Stenka Razin rubbed his shaven head. "Five thousand silver ducats— that's the price of my head, or yours."

  "You'll take the ransom out to the Tartars?"

  The Cossack nodded.

  "Why?" demanded Petr Noga.

  "Because I brought a blind girl to Gorod. And I've no mind to let the Tartars ride over her. Look!"

  His eye had caught a flame in the sky, that rose over the dark wall and dropped, sizzling, into the mud. Another burning arrow followed, in a red arc, lodging in the roof of a hut. Petr Noga stared at it, and made up his mind. Better to pay the ransom than to see Gorod sacked.

  He ordered his lieutenants to collect the ransom from the town merchants. "Put it in two saddlebags," ordered Stenka Razin. "Put the bags on a white horse. Get me a white camel hair svitza, to cover my shirt, and be quick about it." Then he turned to the starosta: "Where is Nada?"

  The girl had been sent to the church, where the priests were praying, with the other people, Petr Noga explained. Stenka Razin said they'd go to the church, he and the starosta, for a word with her.

  They set out together swiftly, because the Cossack gripped fast the young starosta's arm, and he walked with long strides.

  "Listen, you cub," he breathed, "there's one thing more you'll do, or Gorod will burn like a hayrick. You'll wed that blind girl, Nada—"

  "Drunken hound!" Petr Noga tried to get at his sword, but Stenka Ra-zin held his arm in a vise.

  "You made love to her up north. Now a painted tenpenny slut makes sheep's eyes at you, Petr Noga, and you won't look at Nada. Eh—isn't it so?"

  "Nay—"

  "Ay, it's so. Now, you unlicked cub, this girl is a flower, a saint—" the big Cossack choked, and spat. "Now you make love to her again, and say before the priests you'll wed her, and Gorod will be safe. I swear it."

  Petr Noga's brain whirled dizzily. He had cared for the girl Nada, and now, when he heard her voice again—if only he could stave off the attack of the wild Tartars—if he—

  They came on Nada standing by a post of the church.

  "Nada."

  "Oh, Master Cain!" She groped toward him. She had lost Omelko, and fear tugged at her heart.

  "Nada," he said with an effort, "I'm going away. I'm a pirate, a blood-licking dog, and the name of Cain is burned on my hide—"

  Trembling, she shrank back.

  "But Petr Noga's here, girl," Stenka Razin went on. "When he saw you first he had troubles on his mind. Ay, fighting and raids and such. But now he's looking for you—" Stenka Razin eyed the officer like a wolf— "to tell you how his heart's full of love for you, and he'll be asking you to marry him."

  "Ay, Nada," said Petr Noga, quietly, "we'll be wed tomorrow."

  And he took the girl's groping hands in his. A smile touched his lips, but her face was like that of a saint in a holy picture. Stenka Razin looked at them once and swung away.

  Some, who were standing at the gate that night, said afterward that he was roaring drunk. But Zamourza, who waited, holding the rein of the white horse, did not think so. Stenka Razin came up, his heels stamping in time to the tolling of the bell. He looked at the saddlebags that the merchants were filling with coins and golden jewelry. He slung the bags over the saddle, and pulled the white cloak across his shoulders.

  Then he swung himself into the saddle, and yelled for the gates to be opened.

  To the tattoo of the drums, and the tolling of the bell, Stenka Razin trotted through the half-open gate, with Zarmourza running beside him. Hastily the log gates swung shut behind him.

  Stenka Razin rode on, and he nudged Zamourza with his foot.

  "Eh, tell them my name," he said. Just beyond the circle of torchlight he could make out figures on shaggy ponies, and the flicker of steel lance tips.

  "Ahai, men of the tents," Zamourza wailed, "the Lord of the River goes to his ships. Make way!"

  No arrow sped toward them, and Zamourza drew breath anew.

  "Hark to the yang-yang of the bell," he chanted. "Hark to the drums. This is the mighty khan of the sea, friend of Mirak Khan of the steppes."

  "Ai!" a voice exclaimed. The fame of Stenka Razin was known in the steppes.

  "Behold how the Muscovites bow down to him," Zamourza chanted. "They are his slaves. They pay tribute to him. And he says to Mirak Khan that this town of the wooden wall is under his hand. Let Mirak Khan go back to the steppe
s, with his cattle."

  Stanka Razin hurled the torch away from him, and reined in, to listen. He heard hoofs moving away, and the trampling of driven cattle. When he was sure the Tartars were retreating with their plunder, he stretched his arms and laughed. "Eh, Zamourza," he chuckled, "those militiamen didn't know that Tartars won't storm a wall."

  With that he turned his horse's head toward the river. They came out on the bank opposite his boats just as the first light streaked the sky.

  Zamourza quested about until he found a fishing boat, which he ran into the water. As Stenka Razin came up, carrying the saddlebags, he touched his arm.

  "Ataman," he whispered, "look twice before you step into your own boat. There is one waiting who would put a sword into your back."

  "Hai," said Stenka Razin, "so Filka has been throwing his brawn about."

  He said nothing more, but hot rage darkened his face.

  The Cossacks in the boats had not slept that night. They had heard the tolling of the distant bell, and the echoes of the fighting, and they had wondered into what kettle their ataman had fallen. Some of them had wanted to row in, to find out; but Filka, assuming command, had reminded them that Stenka Razin would flay alive any who followed.

  They saw the fishing boat coming out, and recognized Zamourza— then Stenka Razin in a new svitza. Filka rubbed his fingers together softly, perceiving these two alive.

  Stenka Razin stepped through the screen of rushes to the deck of his boat and threw down the saddlebags. Coins and flashing gold scattered around the boots of the watching Volga men.

  "There, dogs," said Stenka Razin, "is the ransom of Gorod."

  Filka saw this, and saw the blood lust in the eyes of the ataman. Without warning, Filka thrust aside the man in front of him, and leaped at Stenka Razin, drawing his sword as he did so. The sword swung up, glittering.

  Stenka Razin needed no warning. He caught the flash of steel, and lowered his head. Like a gray buffalo, his body plunged toward Filka, as his arms thrust out the steel-tipped staff.

  The point caught Filka in midair, under the ribs. He screamed as the point came out of his back. The sword in his hand struck Stenka Razin across the shoulders, without force behind it—and clattered to the deck.

  Stenka Razin put forth the strength of his shoulders, and swung up the pike with the dying man on it. He tossed Filka into the water, jerking his staff clear of the body as it vanished. Then he strode into his cabin.

  But Zamourza crept to the rail, and looked into the water, reddening with blood. The splash had startled a wild crane, and the bird winged overhead. A wolf that had come to the bank to drink at sunrise lifted its head and turned back into the rushes. So Zamourza saw the omens fulfilled.

  And in his cabin, Stenka Razin sat on the couch that bore the impress of Nada's body—even the scent of her hair. He stared at the guttered candles. His hand, passing heavily over his face, touched the brand on his shoulder.

  His head swayed from side to side, like a buffalo in pain. For he was lonely—lonely.

  Mark of Astrakhan

  I am Barbakosta, the stag hunter. My dogs are worth looking at. Now, I have no horses. But when I was younger I had a fine string—Circassian breeds.

  It is true, your honor, that I would rather sit here in the sun against the wall of the tavern than jigit around yonder where the young fellows are showing off their horses to the girls. They did not steal those ponies from the Circassians up in the foothills. They bought them from the Gypsies. They pretend they stole the horses, but that is a lie.

  In my day I got many a fine nag from the Circassian auls. When it was dark, with knives in my belt, I would crawl up, like a shadow into the stonewalled pastures of the villages. That was the way of it, your honor!

  Pistols—like those long horse-pistols in your honor's belt—are not good for anything in the dark. They flash and roar, and you can see nothing for a moment afterward, and God only knows where the bullet has gone. That is bad.

  I have sat for an hour waiting for sunrise near a thicket where a stag has slept the night. It was no easy matter to stalk anything in those days of matchlocks. Now, your honor has a fine flintlock with a long barrel. Eh, I would like to try it out. I can still see an eagle under the clouds against the snow cap of Mount Kasbek, yonder. Once I had a kunak, a friend who called these mountains the Caucasus. He said, too, that my name was Uncle Konstantine.

  Yet he was not a liar. He was a man of his word, a hard man—altogether after my heart. Your honor knows that when we Cossacks have a friend we would pull out an eye for him. This one came to me out of a snowstorm after he had traveled from the edge of the world.

  Nay, that is truth! It is also true that he drank, cup for cup, with Stenka Razin, lord of the steppe, ataman of the Volga brigands. That was a night of fear. Never were men so feared on the steppe as these two. And in the end God rewarded them in a strange fashion, one with death, the other with banishment. And they were ready. They desired nothing more than that. Such men they were. A little your honor may have heard of them at the battle of the Volga mouths. Always battles and hangings are written down in books by the chroniclers. But what is said of the men?

  What does your honor know of the terror that came to Astrakhan, or of Chvedor, the black priest, or the young lass that became a Cossack?

  Here, then, is the tale:1

  It was a bad night, that one. Snow covered the trails on the steppe, and it was so deep you could not feel the way with your feet any longer. The wind picked it up and whirled it in the air—the east wind that comes off the sea.

  And it moaned, the wind, as if the Tchertiaka, the arch-fiend, were riding across the stars. Only you couldn't see the stars at all. It cut through sheepskins as if through cotton.

  Nay, you could not feel the way and when you opened your eyes you could not see anything at all. Perhaps a pony could have taken you from one place to another, but I had no pony. Mine had strayed, I thought, when the storm began, and I was seeking them. It was many days, as you shall see, before I learned that Bassangor Khan and his Nogai Tatars had made off with them.

  I searched, keeping direction by the wind and the beating of the surf on the edge of the sea. And I went forward toward a dark shape that turned out to be not a horse or a clump of sedge, but a man.

  He was not a Tatar. He had a cloak wrapped over his head and great boots that came above his knees, the tops turned down and flopping when he made a step. A horse would not endure a rider who wore boots like that.

  When I peered at his face I saw it was dark and broad, with a thin black mustache that ran from ear to ear. His teeth were chattering like the fangs of a wolf at bay. But this was not at all on account of fear.

  Nay, I put my hand on his coat and it was wet. Not from the snow's touch, but soaked with water. And God is my witness, it was no night to be upon the steppe in wet garments.

  I asked him what he was doing, and he shook his head, not understanding. I thought of the missing horses and of my cabin, and decided to lead the stranger to my place. I was born on the steppe, and my days have been passed beyond the border among the tribes of Islam—Circassians, Tatars and others. Because of that, I learned to look at matters through their eyes.

  They have a word that explains everything that happens—kismet. And perhaps it was written that I should come upon this stranger, nearly dead with cold on the edge of the steppe by the sea.

  "Well," I said to myself, "a life may be saved if the stranger is given shelter."

  And in the end I was rewarded for this thought, as you shall see.

  "Come!" I said, and gave him the end of my shawl girdle to hold so he would be able to follow me and I would know if he tumbled into a drift.

  He fell more than once, but he did not drag on the girdle and he did not complain when I lost the way and circled back to find it. Yet, I think if I had not found him, he would have made his way to the Tatar tents or to an aul of the hill people. That was the kind of man he was.

&nbs
p; Before very long we sighted the lantern I had left in the door of my cabin. When the door was shut and the stranger stood by the smoking stove, he swayed like a hamstrung pony.

  I heated some gorilka steaming hot, but his fingers were numbed so that he could not hold the cup, and I held it until he got it down. Then I made him sit on the stove while I pulled off his heavy morocco boots, being filled with curiosity because his garments were such as I had never seen before on a man. The cloak was velvet and had belonged to some Moslem officer, but the coat was that of a Frank, a Christian from Europe. His sharivari, bag trousers, were voluminous black damask, such as a Circassian or a Cossack might wear.

  He had on nothing else except a shirt of clean white linen embroidered with small crosses of St. George, and an Armenian must have made that. When everything was off he lay down on the stove to dry himself.

  His limbs were not long, but massive as a bear's. His ruddy face with its black mustache and deep-set gray eyes seemed to be stone. Not a smile or frown crossed it, and by looking at him I could not tell whether he was suffering or pleased in the least.

  " Zdorovenky bou-ly!" I said, dipping a cup for myself. "Health to you!"

  The gray eyes of the stranger considered me, and I think I puzzled him as much as he did me, though he did not show it.

  "Touloumbash!" he said presently, and was more surprised than ever because that was his way of saving "tch l’oum ’a basha," which means pasha or master of the drinking in Osmanli Turkish.

  Now I had picked up a good deal of Turkish from the fur merchants in Tiflis and Astrakhan and others, and I asked him in that tongue if he had come from Constantinople.

  He nodded, and I asked if he were not a Christian, a Nasrani.

  Again he assented, and I became more surprised, because the stranger wore the garments of half Asia and knew Turkish, and looked altogether like a Cossack except for his eyes, which were tawny gray.

  I asked him where he came from, and he considered, searching for words. It became clear to me that Turkish was not his own language.

  "Mour dan," he responded. "From the sea."

  Somewhere before then I had heard other men say, 'from the seas,' and they were pirates.