Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  For a long time the koshevoi reflected. Then his mustache twitched in a smile.

  "If Charnomar got to sea, he's safe. The devil himself could not pull that brother of a dog down, at sea. But the girl must have bewitched him, because he has not come back."

  He drew the wallet from his pipe case and tossed it to Shamoval, who caught it deftly and immediately weighed it in his hand. "He was a good Cossack. I'll pay his debt."

  By Midwinter there was a new koshevoi in command of the camp. The leader with the scar did not return from an Autumn campaign across the border, and with him died the older Cossacks who had been in his hut the day that Charnomar was sent away. And Shamoval no longer had his stall near the siech, because the Cossacks had been cut up in the campaign, and there were few men in the barracks. Along the trampled snow only an occasional blacksmith's shop or tavern was open.

  Still Cossacks drifted in to the siech—youths from the steppe camps, veteran warriors tired of village life, adventurers who had turned their backs on the cities. More and more gathered at the cooks' fires in the barracks at evening, greeting old companions, or asking for friends who were no longer in the ranks. Some brought their sons, who listened in awe to the tales that were repeated while the kasha bowls were emptied and the brandy cask opened.

  So the faces of the men in the Kuban barrack were almost all strange when Charnomar came in alone at the supper hour and flung his saddle bags in a corner near the fire.

  The kuren ataman stared at him over his pipe, because Charnomar was bareheaded, and his skull, where he had worn the turban, was lighter than his weather-darkened face. And his green breeches were stained and faded by salt water and the mud. The barrack leader looked at his much-worn riding slippers.

  "Cherkess?" he asked. "Circassian?"

  Charnomar shook his head. This ataman was a new man who did not know him. He went over to the rack and took up a bowl, filling it with barley gruel from the pot. Then he borrowed a cup and dipped it into the brandy cask.

  "Health to you, sir brothers," he said.

  A short and powerful man who had been lying in his blankets, sat up and looked over toward the fire.

  "By God, that's Charnomar back again," he shouted, and came over to the group. "That brother of a dog always turns up."

  Others who had known Charnomar pushed the strangers aside from the fire and struck his shoulders with their fists. "Eh, we heard you'd left your bones in the sultan's horse yard."

  "Nay, we heard you had found an island out in the sea—an island ruled by a witch who took you down under the water with her."

  "Give us the tale," urged the first speaker.

  Charnomar looked at them, smiling. He was glad to be back. From Sa-rai Point at Stamboul he had made the slaves of the felucca head down the length of the Black Sea, and he had wandered with Ilga to her village on the Terek in the Caucasus. But he was a man of few words and he did not know how to tell the story.

  "I've been down the sea a bit," he said, and lifted his cup. "To the brotherhood!"

  "To luck!" one repeated.

  Again Charnomar smiled. "Nay—to the singing girl."

  Cossack Wolf

  The airplane came over after moonset, waking Yarak. He sat up with a snort. By the drone of the motor, he knew it to be a machine, and in consequence something with which he had no concern.

  But in thinking about a machine, he remembered Kirdy, his grandson and the only human being for whom Yarak cared. Kirdy rode, instead of a horse, the biggest of the machines that roared up and down the valley road, going from Novocherkessk to the Kavkas—the Caucasus Mountains. It was, in fact, a military road.

  And Kirdy had told his grandfather Yarak that he had a girl now. This girl, Ileana by name, he had added, was a black-browed Cossack beauty, a perfect delight. And while Kirdy was absent, driving his convoy car, he had wanted Grandfather Yarak to look out for Ileana who would soon be in town. She was, Yarak calculated, down there in the town now. But Yarak had reasons, both personal and potent, for not showing his gray mustache and his six-feet-three of ambling height down in the town.

  "Devil take the girls," he muttered, "the darlings!"

  He pulled his sheepskin jacket around him; he felt for and jerked down a slab of salt fish hanging over his head and munched it.

  All at once he felt thirsty. He had passed a hard Autumn hunting down meat and skins, without tasting anything stronger than red Georgian wine, out of bottles. Somewhere in the town of Kizlyar there would be a jug of brandy, and Yarak meant to find it.

  "Promised that dog of a Kirdy to watch out for Ileana," he told himself. "Can't go back on a given word. Impossible."

  Gathering up his musket and powder horn and belt bullet mold, the Cossack tightened his belt, pulled the lambskin kalpak on his shaven head, scooped up a handful of old snow outside the door of his hut to ease his throat, wiped his hands on his greasy breeches and was ready for the raid into town.

  Almost at once Yarak scented something unusual about the town of Kizlyar. On the uplands, where the snow ended, the black goats and cattle were wandering unattended even by dogs.

  When he skirted the outlying farms he saw carts standing, their poles in the air. When he entered the town, he saw crowds in the streets. And an explanation occurred to him. A tamasha—a festival. That was the reason why the people were in the streets, instead of on the farms. And if it was a festival, he might find a jug to lick.

  Then his nose caught the unmistakable odor of alcohol. Across the square Cossacks clustered like flies around some tables, and there Yarak found the source of the odor. The merry boys were drinking vodka out of small glasses.

  "Here's a dyadya," shouted one, "a grandfather come along."

  "A steppe wolf," said another.

  Thus encouraged, Yarak shoved into the group and emptied the first glass he saw without a hand on it. Colorless and tasteless, made out of potatoes, the alcohol still moistened his throat. "Health to you, brothers," he grunted.

  Some of them carried old rifles. A big man in a business suit brought a bottle out of the store and filled glasses all around. He did this several times before Yarak realized the extraordinary truth. No one was paying. Instantly he held out his glass, and the big man filled it up.

  "Glory to God," said Yarak, who was beginning to think kindly of Ki-zlyar and its festival, "this is a day of days."

  "A hard day," said the big man, "a day of misfortune. Why should any comrade pay today?"

  Fluent Ukrainian he spoke—not through his nose like the Russians. And yet, Yarak thought, not like a Cossack born.

  "Well, brother, it's all the same," he remarked politely. "Good or bad. Sometimes you ride, sometimes you carry your saddle. Nichevo!"

  "Old wolf," laughed the big man. "Steppe wolf. Have you heard?" He leaned closer. "The wires to Moscow are down."

  "What of it?" demanded Yarak.

  "Can't get any news from the north." The big man shook his head. "They say rifles are being sent from Novocherkassk. But—who knows?"

  One of the drinkers shoved in his face. "Well, how can we know, Menel-itza? It's true, all the same, that the Division had to get out."

  "True enough." Menelitza nodded. "And even if we get the rifles, what good will they do as long as the soldiers have cleared out?"

  All this sounded vaguely familiar to Yarak. He began to warm up, in the midst of all this festival. Then he bethought him of that girl.

  "Het!" he said, loud. "Which of you brothers of dogs knows a girl named Ileana?"

  The big man Menelitza was the only one to pay attention to him. "Ileana what and who?" he asked.

  "Black brows. A perfect beauty."

  "Tfu! That's Ileana. Certainly, she's curator of the Ithnolo-logikul Museum."

  Yarak blinked. "The Ith—"

  "The museum of old days and people." Menelitza pointed impatiently. "Over there. She's making a speech."

  Confused by these strange directions, Yarak gathered up his musket and wandered
along the square to a doorway where bunting was fastened. Sure enough, here he heard a young woman's voice. Going in he saw little at first except a crowd of bareheaded men and silent women with kerchiefs. Then he sighted something really extraordinary. Along the wall stood glass cases.

  And in those cases, stuck up somehow, the red and green and gold-embroidered svitzas of Cossack leaders of long-forgotten times, ranged beside gold-chased yataghans, jeweled belts and ivory batons. The costumes and weapons of Cossack Koshevoi Atamans. Yes, in the corner stood the staff and crosspiece hung with gray buffalo tails, and surmounted by a shining cross. The buntchauk—the standard itself of a day long before Yarak's birth. He recognized these trappings with surprise.

  Then he was aware of the girl Ileana. Before a small metal box on a stick she stood, tossing her head and crying out " . . . brother comrades of the Ukraine, this is the day when the workers will be shoulder to shoulder with the soldiers. Remember Cossack glory of old days when the Ko-shevoi Ataman ordered all the projects of the steppes and gave commands in every district. . . ."

  Ileana's face glowed as she tore off words. She was a short girl, but with a wide forehead and dark eyes. Strong, supple shoulders she had, and Yarak thought she would breed strong sons. Only she wore boots, and she had cut her hair off at the ears.

  "She has a devil in her, that one," he thought.

  Then he stared. Behind her, in a long blue silk coat stood Ghirei Khan, the Tatar horse breeder. His mahogany face was pinched with age, his shoulders bent. Uneasily Ghirei Khan took snuff from his belt and shoved it up his squat nose. He sneezed loud, in a fashion Yarak well remembered. Long and bitter had been the feud between the Tatar khan and Yarak, forty years ago, and since then they had not poured water on their swords. They had never made peace.

  And here, taking snuff, dressed up in his glory, Ghirei Khan had been brought out by this Ileana for the crowd to see. Nay more, she was even praising Ghirei Khan, "He was a Tatar, but he took the prize of the Kavkaz region for raising the black Kabardian horses two years ago. Now Ghirei Khan stands like a rock with us. So do the Circassians and the Lezghi-ans—shoulder to shoulder with the Cossack comrades!"

  What was she saying? Ghirei Khan a stock breeder, a comrade of the Cossacks. That could never be. Ghirei Khan, Yarak knew, was just as much a Tatar as he ever was. Restlessly, he listened to the flow of Ileana's speech.

  "It will be like the day of Mazeppa," cried Ileana, tossing her black hair, "when Mazeppa the greatest of the Cossacks rode the steppes like a storm, striking down the foes of our Russian land!"

  That was too much for Yarak, who was well warmed up inside. Here was Kirdy's girl making a speech like a book, putting that son of a dog Ghirei Khan on parade, and now lying about Mazeppa. Festival or no festival, Yarak began to grow angry. He pushed through the crowd and spat. "Het!" he yelled. "Shut your mouth, girl. Mazeppa! Mazeppa, the son of a Turkish bath tender, dressed himself up like a she-actor in silk. He sold himself for a woman, and rode with the Swedes, the spawn out of a dunghill—"

  And that was as far as he got. Some of the Cossacks began to hit him on the head, and Yarak, aroused, swung his gun. He kicked out at their belts, and swept the musket around like a flail. He howled like a wolf. Il-eana stopped talking at the box and ran at him.

  She pushed between the Cossacks and hung on Yarak's musket, her eyes blazing. "You drinker of vodka!" she cried. Very angry was Ileana. "I was addressing the Terek district."

  "I don't care what you were doing," said Yarak, "but you don't know anything about Mazeppa. A girl like you!"

  "A drinker like you!"

  To call three glasses of vodka drinking! "Listen, sparrow!" Yarak growled. "Why didn't you ask me about Cossack glory first? Now Khmiel-nitski was a koshevoi for you! What a fire he lighted on the steppes! And Sayaidnitski now, even the Turks trembled his name was spoken. They rode the steppes, they did."

  Some of the older Cossacks, listening, nodded agreement.

  "You've been reading books in university, girl," Yarak went on sternly "You don't know true from false. Just as Kirdy said."

  Ileana looked at him. "What did Kirdy say?"

  "For me to look out for you."

  "Are you the dyadya—Yarak?"

  "Of course I'm the grandsire!"

  "And he sent you. To—to look after me?"

  Yarak nodded triumphantly. That was the truth. Ileana hesitated. She seemed, all at once, to be tired. After speaking to the men around the metal box, she took Yarak out of the museum, paying no more attention to Ghirei Khan. "Come!" she said.

  "Where?" he demanded.

  "You spoiled my speech," she said "I'm taking you back to Kirdy."

  At once every other thought went out of Yarak's mind. Kirdy, son of his son, was here in town. This festival day seemed to have brought everyone to Kizlyar. But what was Kirdy doing here when he should have been riding his machine?

  He was lying asleep, wrapped in his coat, on the seat of his truck. Vigorously Ileana shook him. "Your grandfather ruined an air talk. He's been drinking. Take him away somewhere."

  Yawning, Kirdy grinned at her. His broad brown face was unshaved.

  "Eh, Kirdy," said Yarak, pulling at his mustache.

  "Health to you, old one. Don't bother the girls. They're busy."

  Again Ileana's eyes blazed. She had a temper, that one. "Can't you do anything but sleep?"

  "What's to do? Can't get anywhere without juice."

  Striking her fists against the seat door, Ileara stormed at him. "Can't— can't! That's all you say. Nothing will be accomplished unless it is planned. First, think of something and then do the best you can."

  "You got that out of the book, dearest," grinned Kirdy.

  "Dumbhead!"

  Fully expecting his grandson to swipe the girl, Yarak stepped back. But Kirdy only laughed. "She bites hard, doesn't she, Grandfather?"

  Wiping the mud from her hands, Ileana turned away. "Two men—and all you're good for is to soak up vodka and sleep. You are both as brave as pigs."

  Red surged up into Kirdy's face and his grin vanished.

  "Pigs are brave enough," objected Yarak, who had had experience with wild boar. "Only they have more sense than men. They smell an enemy's track and they go away, because they want to keep on eating and living. There's a mound of sense in pigs."

  But Ileana went on walking away, not looking back.

  "Why don't you take a whip to her, and then kiss her afterward?" demanded Yarak. "That's the thing to do!"

  "They've taught her too much at school." Kirdy thought for a moment. "Look here, Yarak, you'd better make yourself scarce. There's a lot going on that you haven't caught up with. Ileana thinks we ought to dash up to Novocherkassk without any benzine, and fetch a convoy load of rifles. You'd better head up to the hut."

  "Then you come!"

  "Can't leave the machine."

  Without a word the old Cossack started back to the hills. He had a feeling that, somehow, he had offended Ileana, and made trouble for Kirdy, and he went away quickly in spite of it being a festival day.

  When, about noon, he heard a shot echo, he went to a knoll to look down into the valley.

  What he saw interested him immediately. Far down, the ribbon of the road wound through some bare hillocks. On the height nearest him, dozens of Cossacks were coming from town, to throw themselves down and crawl to the edge, by the road. Yarak's keen eyes observed that they all had guns.

  Evidently they were setting an ambush over the deserted road. But he couldn't think whom they'd be after. He was inclined to run down and join them, but reflected it would be better to see what might be at the other end of the ambush.

  It was not long before he saw it. A gray truck, crawling along the road.

  Others appeared after it. Presently he saw that they were filled with men, and he sat down expectantly to watch. Those men also had guns.

  The ambush had been set barely in time. Squirts of smoke ran along the hillocks where t
he Cossacks lay, and Yarak heard the familiar faint thud thud of the heavy Trokhlini rifles. The first truck on the road stopped abruptly and then began to back slowly. The sharper explosion of rifles came from it. The men in it were kneeling.

  Down the road to the west, men jumped from the oncoming trucks and deployed to either side. A large plane appeared from the west following the road, and circled over the hillocks above the Cossacks. After a while Yarak saw the sharp bursts of howitzer shells exploding along the hillocks. But he could not make out where the howitzers were hidden.

  The Cossacks changed their position, to escape the bursts, although they kept on firing.

  Then Yarak saw the bicycles. They came up, two abreast along a cattle lane extending behind the hillocks. Very fast the bicycles came on, scattering mud. The explosion of their motors mingled with the firing.

  Excited, Yarak jumped up. "Look behind your tails, dog-brothers!" he shouted. His voice did not carry to the Cossacks, unaware of their danger. Gray-green figures slipped off the bicycles and ran among the hillocks behind the Cossacks, carrying heavy weapons. And Yarak heard the clatter of machine guns and automatic rifles.

  "Tfu!" he grunted. Those Cossacks down there didn't have the sense of pigs. In a few moments they were shot or herded together, to surrender to the bearers of the machine guns. From his vantage point Yarak saw that not one Cossack escaped from the ambush which had turned into a death trap. Yarak was glad he had not hurried down to join them.