Swords From the Sea (45 page)

"And-"

"In the cabin of the pasha are chests of gold and fine silks and rubies from Badakshan and strings of pearls that you could wind around both arms. I have seen them. Come to Otchakof and see for yourself. Hassan of Algiers is a just man."

In silence Pierre listened; the soft gutturals of the woman's voice mingled with the hissing of the fire. Her long hair gave out a scent that was not musk or aloes, but more like jasmine when the sun is warm upon it. Why not go with her? She must know her way out of this infernal steppe. Aye, she could lead him down to the sea.

And then, a few mumbled words, a shaving of the head, other garments and he could turn Moslem-renegade. Life would be easier than this.

"Fly away, little Kalil," he said slowly, "I'll bide here."

Anger darkened her cheeks and narrowed the full line of her lips. When she realized that he meant what he said, she rose and went away, her slender back and the poise of her head expressive of utter scorn. When she had disappeared into the shadows he listened until he heard the tramp of the squads going the rounds to change guard.

"Eh?" he muttered, bending down.

Blue-eyed Feodor stared up at him anxiously.

"Did she put a spell on you, brother? I saw her stop and look at that stone woman, just like a sister-"

Pierre nudged him and held up a hand for silence. They could hear a bustle in the horse lines, a trampling and shouted questions that no one answered. Then hoofs thudded off into the darkness and lanterns winked into being, wandering around aimlessly. Before long he saw his captain, who had gone to investigate the disturbance, walking back to the hut and went to intercept him.

"Tribesmen around? Danger of attack?"

The officer, who had a liking for the Provencal, was more than a little irritated. The guides had wandered off the trail that day and now horses had broken loose from the picket lines. His quarters were highly unsatisfactory and he was sleepy. One of the horse tenders had sworn that he saw a witch ride off on a pony, as if it were a broomstick. He wondered what had got into the men. He was new to field service, but the moujiks of his estate had been just as prone to restlessness on a warm spring night.

"Back to your place! And stay away from vodka if you can't keep your tongue between your teeth."

The next day Pierre was sure that they had lost their way. Men were sent to a hillock to study the lie of the land, and they changed direction more than once before noon. All around them the stiff grass, brilliant with poppies and the purple cornflowers, swelled over dunes that were like waves.

And over one of these ridges rode a thousand horsemen in skullcaps and fluttering caftans, brandishing long muskets and scimitars.

They charged down on the column, firing as they came. Only one company of Russians was in time to loose a volley before the horsemen were on them, slashing with the deadly curved swords.

Pierre was in his squad with the advance-half a company under his captain. They had pushed on ahead and three hundred yards separated them from the wagons and the main body. In the brilliant sunlight Pierre could see clearly all that took place. The raiders got home with the first charge, something that should never have happened if the infantry had been properly drilled, and accustomed to their muskets.

As it was, with the bayonets they beat off the horsemen, who circled around the rear, wiping out the detachment in that place.

"What are those fellows, your excellency?"

Pierre's deep voice, addressing his officer, was the only one heard in the advance guard, where the men had turned and were staring blankly at the scene behind them.

The captain, who had grown red in the face, fingered his sword and his reins irresolutely. It was his first engagement and he was wondering what was expected of him.

"Bashkirs," he muttered. "Tribesmen from over the border. Listen-"

As if satisfied with the damage they had inflicted, and the few horses they had driven off, the raiders had formed in a solid mass on the slope across from where they had waited in ambush. Now a shrill yell broke from the mass, high-pitched, exulting.

"Allah it akbar-ya Allah!"

It was the ululation of the Moslems, and Pierre had heard it before, when the Algerian corsairs sailed out to meet their prey. An answering growl rose in Pierre's throat as he watched the dust settle around the wagon train. He expected to see the carts close up, the infantry form to face the raiders, the front rank kneeling, the rear standing. Then a few volleys, and the tribesmen would scatter. Such chaps as they would never charge massed infantry.

"Only look, little brother," exclaimed Feodor, nudging him. "Christ aid us!"

Pierre now saw why the Bashkirs had shouted. Between his half company and the main body one powder wagon had been moving in advance of the others. Beside this solitary wagon the major in command had been riding when the attack came. The driver of the wagon was whipping his horses toward the knoll on which Pierre and his comrades stood.

The major, after hesitating a long time, was spurring in the other direction, to the battalion. And a Bashkir in a crimson cloak with heron's feathers in his cap was racing down to cut off the officer.

The infantry by the wagons could not fire on this rider, who was now between them and their major. The Russian had drawn his saber, holding it high over his head. The Moslem, riding like a fiend, swept down on him. For a second the two blades flashed together, and dust swirled up.

Reining his pony about, almost in its tracks, the Moslem slashed at the back of the officer, who was slower in recovering. Then, when the wounded man swayed in the saddle, the Bashkir killed him with a second stroke. The major's orderly, spurring a big cob desperately, fired a pistol at the Bashkir and missed. Again the scimitar lashed out. The orderly swayed and slid to the ground over his horse's rump.

Standing high in his short stirrups, his cloak fluttering like a flag in a stiff breeze, the Bashkir swordsman darted back to his companions, who greeted him with strident acclaim.

"Ya kutb-ya kutb-Allah it Allah!"

The major's horse, with an empty saddle, trotted up to the main body and took its place among the officers. The wagon reached Pierre's half company, which scattered to let it draw up its center.

Pierre looked around impatiently, expecting an order to double back to the battalion. The Bashkirs, emboldened as tribesmen always are by a first success, were showing signs of attacking again. But his captain was talking in a strained voice to the company sergeant, who was a veteran of several campaigns.

"Bashkirs across the border-probably the Tatar tribes are out as wellcommunication between the army and Moscow must be cut off-bad business."

It became clear to Pierre all at once the Russian captain did not know what order to give. The men were watching him, the sergeant was waiting for an order, and nothing was done.

Meanwhile, although the tribesmen were getting ready to charge, the battalion began to break formation. The death of the major had left it leaderless. No one appeared to take his place. Instead, officers shouted contradictory orders, and wagons at the end of the line were moving away from the raiders. One company of infantry shouldered arms and wheeled off beside the wagons.

Another company seemed to be in disorder. Pierre stared, too amazed to swear. He saw that the Russians were trying to form a square with the carts, although there was no need of it, and just at that moment it was suicidal.

The Bashkirs loosed their horses. A ragged volley, fired too soon by the infantry, brought down only three or four men. Only a single line, some two hundred bayonets, faced the tribesmen, who were now gripped by the bloodlust. Yelling they crashed into the bayonets, or swept over the two companies that stood their ground stolidly.

What had been a few moments ago a disciplined battalion became now a mass of men without formation. Groups here and there stood back to back. Other groups gathered around the carts, which were motionless, the Tatar drivers having freed horses from the traces and fled. It was like a pantomime in miniature-puffs of smoke darting up, the glitter of scimitars in the sun, horses rearing.

Only a dull murmur reached the advance detachment on the knoll, a murmur that was made up of the thudding of hoofs, the booming of firelocks, the neighing of horses, and the hoarse voices of men.

Pierre saw a familiar figure in claw-hammer coat and gaiters-the sergeant who had broken in the raw recruits-with a squad of men at bay near one of the wagons.

He had abandoned his cane and picked up a musket. With the bayonet he skewered a leaping Moslem, clubbed another with the butt. His movements were as unhurried as on the parade ground at Petersburg.

Before he could get back to his men a rider lanced him, and turned, to drive the spear again into the body that threshed on the ground.

Pierre leaned his musket against his shoulder and spat on his hands. It would be their turn next.

Two hundred or more Bashkirs detached themselves from the throng that was slaughtering and plundering the remnant of the battalion, and rode toward them at a hand pace. The sergeant dared not wait any longer for an order from the bewildered captain. Hastily forming his squads into a rough triangle, with its point toward the tribesmen-three squads to every side-he called to the outer rank to kneel. This done, the pans of the muskets were primed and the men waited.

"Hold your fire," growled the sergeant.

Feodor, kneeling by Pierre, was muttering a prayer. He was as calm as if waiting for the evening pot of gruel, gazing at the oncoming riders with childish curiosity.

The tribesmen began to trot, lashing their horses up the slope. Some of their long firelocks bellowed, the smoke swirling almost into Pierre's eyes. He heard the whine of the small bullets and his captain's voice.

"Fire, my children!" The muskets flashed and men began to cough as the fumes of the black powder got down their lungs. Pierre made out horses passing, and with his bayonet turned aside a spear aimed at his head. Then the smoke cleared away and he saw nothing but the green slope with a dozen wounded tribesmen crawling away or lying still.

His officer still sat in the saddle of a big bay horse, saber at his shoulder. Pierre heard him muttering:

"Valuable wagon-major's orders are to look after it."

Then he began to sway from side to side, and his orderly ran up, catching him as he clutched at the mane of his charger. He had been shot in the head.

The Bashkirs attacked the rear of the detachment and this time plunged in among the bayonets. Taking the second rank from the other two sides, the sergeant cleared the triangle with the bayonet and gave them a volley as they rode off.

They had lost a large percentage of their men in the two charges and contented themselves with firing on the wagon from a distance. The Rus sians, most of whom had never handled muskets before, answered as best they could. Pierre, drenched with sweat, worked swiftly with ramrod and powder horn, making the most of what time was left him.

Meanwhile the Bashkirs had been forming for another charge, and surged up the knoll again with their lances. They struck full upon the dwindling knot of men by the wagon, and Pierre was driven back against a wheel. Half blinded by sweat, he thrust with the bayonet and felt it bend against a man's chest: then he jerked it free, took the barrel in his hands, and cleared a space around him.

By degrees the pressure around him grew less, and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve to clear away the sweat. Then he looked around.

A yard in front of him lay Feodor, thin arms clutching the breast of his coat, which was slashed open. The blue eyes of the fur hunter stared straight up into the sun without blinking. Only his ruddy cheeks had been drained of all color. Pierre leaned on his musket, panting, blood running from the bent bayonet down over his fingers. The Bashkirs were riding away, toward their main body which was withdrawing over the steppe with the wagons of the Russian battalion.

"The deuce-it's all over!"

The battalion itself was visible again-scattered white bodies, stripped of all clothing, half hidden in the trampled grass. But around the powder wagon with Pierre some twenty men still stood, weapons in hand. Evidently the tribesmen sent to wipe them out had found the game too costly, and had gone off to claim their share of the booty taken by the others.

A soldier beckoned to Pierre and pointed to the ground beneath the cart. Here, beside the shivering driver, the captain lay, his head turned toward them. Pierre dropped to his hands and knees to try to hear what the officer was saying.

"Powder-wagon. Major's orders-drive to Kherson." The wounded man stabbed the air with his finger. "South-south!"

Nodding, Pierre regained his feet and looked around for the sergeant. He found him lying under a dead horse.

"Stiff," he ruminated. "Captain going, too. Those balls in the skull always end a chap-wonder that he said anything at all. Well, we're alive, after a bit of warm work, too."

Not only was he alive, but Pierre perceived that the Russians were all looking to him for a word to what they were going to do next. They had heard the dead sergeant praise him and had seen the captain give him in structions. They were incapable of thinking for themselves, and the big Provencal became their leader without a word spoken.

Pierre threw back his head and laughed into a blazing sky. "Satre nom d'un cochon-Sergeant Pillon, it is. Epaulets at the first skirmish and the command of a battalion, with its wagon train. Kehl told more truth than he thought. Well, what's to be done now?"

He thought for a moment and decided they must count noses, take stock of their supplies, and get away from the scene of the fight.

Little indeed he knew of the Russian tongue, but he could give the routine orders, and they expected no more than that. After the dying captain was lifted on top of the load and screened from the sun by a thatch of sedge branches, Pierre ordered the injured horses removed from the harness. Two of the Tatar ponies, overlooked by the pillagers, were rounded up, making six fit enough to draw the cart.