Swords From the Sea (53 page)

"Mr. Edwards!" Paul Jones's voice rang out. "We must dislodge those fellows on the poop. Order the boatswain to whip up that bucket of hand grenades from his shallop. He can light his slow match from the lantern at the mainm'st."

At the moment Dmitri was occupied in a self-appointed task. He had armed himself with an ax and was hacking at the door of the poop cabin, which had been fastened from within. The overhang of the deck protected him from the muskets of the Algerians, and he was making the splinters fly. When Edwards shouted at him he had chopped a hole in the door and smashed the bar that held it in place.

Either he did not hear, or he refused to obey the order. Edwards started toward him, when a shout went up simultaneously from Algerians and Cossacks.

"Hassan!"

A stocky form thrust through the men on one of the ladders, and the sailors below scattered. The pasha, the sea rover of Algeria, stood on his own quarterdeck for the last time, his beard bristling as his lips lathered in animal-like rage. His cloth-of-gold coat was stained and spotted on the side where a bullet had raked his ribs.

He held up his left hand and spoke, panting between the words.

"'Tis quarter he offers you, sir," explained Edwards in the lull that followed the appearance of the Moslem leader. "He says that you and your men will never win free from here."

Paul Jones smiled.

"On the contrary, Mr. Edwards, I will offer him quarter. The galley is my prize."

The first words had barely passed the Englishman's lip when the Moslem swung up his heavy scimitar and leaped, not at the officers but at Dmitri, who was peering into the dark entrance of the cabin.

The Greek saw him coming and hurled the ax, drawing his knife at the same time. Hassan, quick on his feet as a wrestler, dodged the missile and struck. The curved blade of the scimitar swept across Dmitri's torso and came away dripping. And the big boatswain moaned, falling heavily on his face, the soft muscles under his ribs severed and his stomach cut open.

Hassan spared him not a second glance, but rushed at Paul Jones, who took the sweep of the scimitar on his rapier and turned it aside with a twist of the wrist. Before Hassan could strike again, or the American could recover his guard, Ivak came back between them and engaged the pasha's blade with his saber.

For a full moment those on the quarterdeck stepped back, to give room to the swordsmen. The two blades clashed and slithered together and sparks flew under the waning glow of the flare overhead. Ivak, the taller, was also the calmer of the two; but Hassan's strength and cat-like swiftness evened the balance.

Jones and Edwards, resting the tips of their rapiers on the deck, followed with fascinated eyes the progress of this duel; for here was no riposte, no thrust in tierce, but the savage onset of giants, both swordsmen of a race of swordsmen. So might Sohrab have fought with Rustam on the plains of Iran, slashing with a full-armed sweep and leaping clear, the two blades making a ring of light over their heads.

They passed over the groaning Dmitri, smashed against the quarterdeck rail, and jumped clear. This gave the Cossack the chance he had been looking for. He tossed his saber from his right to his left hand and struck over Hassan's guard.

The pounding of their feet on the deck boards ceased, and those who watched saw that Ivak's blade had cut to the Moslem's shoulder on the right side and was caught in the neck muscles. Hassan's scimitar clattered on the deck. Then, with a wrench that must have meant sheer agony, he twisted free and leaped to the rail, springing into the water.

A wail like the cry of a seagull stilled the shout of the sailors. Out of the black cabin entrance emerged a shape half hidden in swirling silk and a veil that concealed everything but a woman's eyes. A woman's eyes that blazed with fury, and wild grief.

Her bare arms, gleaming with bracelets, were raised over her head and her anklets clinked as she sprang over the prostrate Greek and climbed to the rail. The superstitious sailors drew back and crossed themselves as if an apparition had come up out of the underworld.

Ivak, who stood nearest, peered at her and gave tongue-

"Kalil! The she of Hassan."

Poised on the rail she stared down at the men as if summoning Allah's thunderbolts out of the sky to blast them.

"Aye, Kalil," she screamed, "the beloved of Hassan. Hear, 0 Hassan, for I come to thee ..."

With that she was gone, disappearing into the void of blackness so silently that men were found thereafter who swore that she had vanished into the air itself. But the Russian lieutenant who had been reloading his pistols methodically stepped to the rail and leveled his weapons at the two streams of phosphorescence that moved away from the galley's side where the Moslems were swimming.

Edwards however struck up his pistols with the flat of his rapier.

"Would you fire on a woman? Let them have their chance, man! Faith," he laughed, "this night is out of the very pages of the Thousand and One Nights. Look yonder!"

The Moslems on the poop had lost heart at the downfall of their leader, and the rein himself, cloaked and hooded and striding with the pride that is greater than defeat and disgrace, had descended the ladder and thrown down his weapons in front of Paul Jones. The others followed his example, hearing that the American had offered them their lives. Some fifty surrendered and were astonished past belief when they were not slain out of hand in spite of promises.

Jones issued strict orders that none of the prisoners should be harmed, and they were herded in the waist of the galley. Edwards, cupping his eyes in his hands, could no longer make out Hassan and Kalil swimming toward the shore. But he thought he could see two shadows moving away into the mists.

He wondered-for Edwards was always cool and meditative of the why and wherefore of things that happened in the Black Sea-whether Hassan had come down because he had understood the order to bring the grenades, or whether he had tried to reach Kalil.

Pierre bent over Dmitri, who lay curled up, one arm gripping his slashed abdomen. The other hand stabbed the air in the direction of the cabin entrance. The Greek seemed to want him to go in there.

"I'm counted out, Pierre," he muttered through set teeth. "Search the poop. Hassan keeps treasure-on galley. Loot, for all."

Pierre's memory was stirred by half-forgotten words; Kalil-she had talked of the riches on this galley. And Dmitri had hazarded his life to break down the door.

The two were unnoticed in the corner by the wheel, while the Russians were gathering the prisoners together and combing out the forecastle and lower deck, and the Cossacks under Jones and Edwards were endeavoring to make sail. The flare had gone out, leaving the deck in gloom. But across the Liman the sky was growing less opaque, and the outlines of the shore and fortifications were taking shape.

The Greek gripped Pierre's knee convulsively.

"Sant' Nicolo! Alexiano will follow me-with short shrift. We-bothrenegados in Algiers. Moslems we were, by --! And the Moslems will seek him out and put an end to him. The followers of the prophet have marked their bullets for those who go over to the giaours."

"Aye, aye," said Pierre, and Dmitri's torrent of words went on.

"Kalil talked with Alexiano after he took command. He is afraid. He promised that he would do what he could to hamstring the Russians if Hassan would spare his life. Now he is more afraid, because the Russians have flayed Hassan. He knows the Moslems will find him." A gulping groan choked the words in his throat. "The dogs! The sons of swine-I did not fear them."

Inarticulate curses bubbled the blood on his lips, and Pierre hastened away to seek Ivak. He found the Cossack inspecting Hassan's sword by the lantern, and after a glance around to see that there was no fighting and nothing to be done except by sailors, the Provencal led the way into the poop cabin, cutlass in hand.

The passage was empty and most of the compartments dark. They stumbled over a pile of quilts left by someone roused from a sound sleep, perhaps Hassan himself. At the end of the passage was a glow of ruddy light, and Ivak halted to listen and make sure that no one was breathing near at hand.

Then he strode through the opening and kicked against a solid teak door to make certain no one lurked behind it. The compartment had no other opening and the air was heavy with the smell of sandalwood and aloes.

"Allah!" he said feelingly, as he caught sight of the scimitars and tulwars piled in the corner and the round shields hung on the bulkheads. "Hai, here is a blade made in Damascus; here is the saber of a mameluke-aga-mark the crescent of emeralds-and here-may the - fly away with me else is the sticker that belonged to Gherai Khan. He used to be master of the Crimea."

While Ivak was turning over the trophies, Pierre opened one or two of the sandalwood boxes and poked a speculative finger into the rolls of silk so delicate in texture that he could see through it. A rattan chest pleased him better, being filled with gold plate of every description. Ivak joined him and picked up some of the pieces eagerly.

"This is from the table of a Roman duke. See the crest! And this noggin was fashioned in Stamboul. Yonder's a Persian thing with writing on it. Ekh, Hassan took plunder from all places. What a fellow! He-"

They stared in mute amazement at the glowing jewels in an ivory casket that Pierre opened. Even in the dull light of the lantern, precious stones gleamed with a life of their own. Pierre had never seen such things, but Ivak knew the value of plunder like this.

"You could match stones with the caliph of grand Cairo," he muttered, "and have enough left over to buy Egypt."

His eyes yearned toward the weapons while Pierre's fingers itched to bear off and hide some of the gold.

"In other years I heard of this," he whispered. "In the galleys of Algiers they told me of this ship of Hassan's. Bon sang! What will become of all this?"

Ivak scratched his head with the hilt of his saber.

"'Twill go into the breeches of the grandees-Potemkin and his monkey Nassau and the rest. May they pare the 's hoofs!"

For a moment temptation seized them and they did not look at each other. "Nay, 'tis lean Paul's prize," swore Pierre suddenly. "We will tell him-"

"After locking it up," assented the Cossack-who had been examining the door, which had a serviceable iron lock with a key in place. Evidently Hassan or Kalil had been sleeping in the cabin when the galley was boarded. "I promised the lads they would find loot-"

A sudden lurch of the ship made him lose his footing and stagger against the chests.

By mutual consent they turned to the door, and Ivak locked it carefully, thrusting the key into his pocket. In the dark passage he stopped abruptly, pulling Pierre to his side. They could hear a man moving toward them cautiously, and others breathing near at hand. Ivak's blade slithered from his scabbard and he crouched, motioning for Pierre to do the same. They could not tell who the others were in the poop, and if they had been seen handling the riches in the stern cabin. Ivak was ready for a knife thrust at his throat, if they had been spied upon by a Greek or Syrian who would most certainly expect that they had carried off on their persons the pick of the loot.

His keen ears caught the click of a pistol hammer pulled hack and then a man's knees blundered against his shoulder, and a hoarse voice muttered feelingly-

"your eyes!"

Pierre seized the Cossack's sword-arm, and stood up. He had heard that expression in the past, though he did not know what it meant, and invariably it was used by men of one nation.

"That is an Englishman," he whispered, adding, "Is that Lieutenant Edwards? 'Tis Pierre Pillon who speaks, and the sotnik Ivak is here."

"What the are you two about?" grumbled Edwards. "Are the cabins cleared? Well, bear a hand then, at these nine-pounders in the poop. Pillon, you can lay a gun. Come with me-'ware my left arm. There's a bit of shrapnel in it."

Sailors were trying to bring one of the small guns to bear on the shadowy outline of a felucca that had opened fire on them with grape. The other vessels were closing in on the galley. Matters could not very well be worse for them.

Some of the Russians on the foredeck, while fighting was still going on at the poop, had slipped the cable without waiting for orders. The result, not at first perceptible, was that the galley had drifted with the wind until it brought up in the mud. Edwards thought that they were now within musket shot of one of the shore batteries.

Owing to the confusion among the Turks, this battery had not opened on them; but the nearest feluccas were aware by now that a small party had boarded the galley and captured it. Their escape was cut off and in another hour it would be full daylight, when they would be blown out of the water if they did not surrender.

One of the shallops was still beside the galley, lashed fast by a sailor. Edwards had offered to fight the galley, if Jones would take to the shallop and make off with a boat's crew. In the smoke and the dense mist that hung like a veil over the Liman he could still escape. But Jones had refused to leave his men behind.

The American had ransacked the vessel for another anchor and cable on the chance of working the galley off-without finding anything that would serve his purpose.

Now he was throwing overside everything movable, to lighten ship.

"'Tis the end of our luck," groaned Pierre.

He thought ruefully of the treasure he had had in his hands a moment ago, and searched the uttermost limits of a vocabulary enriched by years in a slave galley to express his opinion of Russian seamanship, while Ivak listened in approving silence.

"Allons, mes camerades," he said grimly, seizing the first of the powder sacks that were fetched up from below, "stand by to show these how honest Christian mariners say their prayers."

For half an hour the dozen cannon of the galley roared defiantly at the growing array of Moslem small craft which took position around Hassan's ship. Hampered by the dense mist and the danger of firing on their comrades, the Turks held off-content to wait for daylight when they could see their target clearly. Pierre worked at the nine-pounder until the first shots from the shore battery smashed into the galley, and a chain shot struck the gun, dismounting it and killing three of its crew. He was hit by flying splinters in the chest and thigh, and, after a glance at the useless piece, made his way to the quarterdeck with difficulty.