The Walking Drum

by Louis L'Amour

  They went below, under the afterdeck, and then came tumbling back to the deck clutching the wine I had seen Walther hide. They began to work the corks loose with their teeth and to drink. One waved a bottle over me, laughing contemptuously when wine splashed in my face.

  The sun rose higher. Walther and the others would be waking up in the bordellos ashore. Suppose a relief was sent before these had drunk enough?

  Closing my eyes, I let the sun warm my muscles. Bound though I was, I could yet enjoy this pleasure, for I am one that from his earliest days has loved the physical delights: the warmth of the sun, the drinking of cold, clear water, the taste of salt spray, the damp feel of fog upon the flesh, and the touch of a woman's hands.

  Lying upon my back, I could feel the gentle movement of the deck beneath me, the creak of resting oars, the muttering of sleeping slaves, the clank of a chain as one moved restlessly in his sleep.

  Drunken laughter came to my ears, a welcome sound. The crew might return at any moment, but one could not fret over what might be. One does what one can, solving problems as they appear.

  I heard a soft snore. The Finnveden was asleep. The others conversed in a desultory fashion, nursing the last bottle of wine. For them it was a lazy, easy time. They were in port, the vessel lay at anchor.

  There was slack in my bonds, but pitifully little, yet by shrinking myself as small as possible, rolling my shoulders inward and bringing my arms as close together as possible, I gained a little room in which to work.

  As they talked, I worked my fingers around until I could pluck at the knots. By the time another man was asleep, my hands were free. Impatient of delay and fearing the return of the crew, I worked swiftly to free my ankles. A sword lay beside the sleeping guard. Carefully, I got to my feet. Selim was watching, his eyes hard and bright.

  Measuring the distance to the sword, I started toward it. One of the guards turned and looked straight into my eyes. Shocked, he was for the moment immobile, then as he started to rise, I kicked him. It was a style of fighting we in Brittany had long known where the feet were used as well as the hands. My kick was sharp, accurate, and it caught him under the chin, snapping his head back as if it were hinged. I seized the sword as the other guard grabbed for it.

  The razor-sharp edge of the scimitar swept up, slitting his clothing and slicing through his chin as if it were butter. He fell, trying to scream from a throat already choking with blood.

  Selim cried out, and I spun about to see the Finnveden fumbling with his bow and an arrow, still befuddled by sleep and wine. It was too far to jump. Tossing the sword up, I caught the blade in my fingers and threw it like a javelin. His bow came up, arrow lining on me, but in the instant he would have let go, the thrown blade struck home and sank deep.

  The struggle had been swift, silent, almost noiseless. Glancing shoreward, I saw no boats upon the bay. Sunlight sparkled on the water, but nothing moved. Quickly, I bound the sleeping guard and then ran to the armorer's chest for tools.

  With a bar I ripped away the hasps that bound Selim, and then we crossed to Red Mark. Slaves caught at our garments, begging to be freed, but Red Mark came first. In part because he was my friend, but still more because I needed another strong man beside me to enforce discipline necessary to our survival.

  Suddenly, as Selim and Red Mark were freed, my plan matured, and I knew what I must do. As the men came on deck, I caught Red Mark's arm. "I want the galley cleaned, stern to stern."

  "What?" He was incredulous. "We must escape!"

  "Look at them! Look at yourself! If you go into Cadiz like this, you will be known for what you are, and you will be enslaved again.

  "Listen to me! I know what I do! First, we will clean the galley, then we will clean ourselves. There is clothing, bales of it, from the goods we have taken. Each of us will have an outfit, each will have gold, then you shall hear what I have in mind.

  "But no wine! No drinking of anything more than water. Trust me!"

  With a careful watch kept for any approaching boat, the slaves worked swiftly. The galley was given a thorough cleaning, and the decks were sluiced down with salt water hoisted by buckets from the bay.

  Selim and another man, on my orders, went below to calculate the value of the cargo. He had just returned to the deck with his report when we saw a returning boat. Instantly, the slaves returned to their stations. Two others took their places as guards.

  The boat bumped alongside, and a man on board called out. When there was no response the man swore. "Sleeping!" he said angrily. "Wait until Walther hears of this!"

  Over the side they came, and into our hands. The surprise was complete. One elected to fight, and Red Mark's sword spitted him like a pheasant over a fire. Two others were seized, thrown down, and bound. One of the slaves raised up and put an arrow into the neck of the boatman.

  The ship was ours so swiftly that it worried me, yet the crew had been a bunch of louts. The wonder was they had even thought of relieving the guards. Half drunk, the returning crewmen had no warning, no readiness for what took place.

  The rest of my plan remained, yet each moment was an invitation to disaster. Why not forget what I planned, divide the money, and let each go his way?

  The Moors of Cadiz would not be friendly to escaped slaves, and Walther would certainly enlist their aid in our recapture. "Use your wits," the pockmarked one had said.

  Moreover, I had a score to settle. If my plan worked, I could send each slave on his way a modestly rich man, and I should have taught Walther a needed lesson.

  "You are in charge," I told Red Mark. "I shall take Selim and go ashore. If any of the crew return, make prisoners of them."

  What I needed now was a beggar, a beggar with a certain face.

  6

  ONCE ASHORE I left the waterfront and proceeded to the narrow streets of the city. The plan was one that must be quickly completed, and it was not the Moslem habit to hurry in such matters.

  Delay could mean disaster. Again, I hesitated. Why not simply free the slaves and allow them to make their own way out of the country? Were they my responsibility? They were not, yet well I knew that, freed and with gold to spend, they would be lured by the fleshpots of Cadiz, would attract attention, and in no time be discovered as escaped slaves and be in chains again.

  My clothing had been carefully brushed and cleaned so that once again I looked the young man of fashion. The scimitar was mine again, and I had recovered my knife, yet to accomplish my purpose I appeared too young. What was needed was an assistant of age and dignity whose appearance would command respect. Selim, who accompanied me, was at once too fierce in appearance and too piratical to inspire trust.

  Cadiz in this year of 1176 was one of the great ports of the world, and to her bazaars came merchants with silks, spices, camphor and pearls, frankincense and ivory. The wools of England, the furs of Scandinavia, the wines of France, the carpets of the Levant were here and exhibited for sale.

  Among the crowds were men of all nations and every manner of dress. Merchants mingled with pirates, soldiers, slave dealers, and scholars. Long had Cadiz been famous for shipping and trade. My old tutor, of Greek-Arab family, told me of a manuscript, left by Eudoxus, which described finding the prow of a ship from Cadiz floating in the sea off the coast of East Africa, and that long before Christ.

  A beggar tugged at my sleeve. "Alms! Alms! For the love of Allah!"

  It was a lean hawk's face into which I gazed, piercing eyes and a beak of a nose, a face ancient with evil and shadowed by cunning, yet there was something more, a touch of wicked humor, was it?

  "Oh, Father of Lice," I said, "what claim have you for alms? You look to be a thief and a son of thieves!"

  His shrewd old eyes held a gleam of satanic amusement. "A thousand pardons, Noble One! Pity, for my poverty and weakness! Alms, for the love of Allah!"

  The face, the manner ... now if he were clean?

  "Conveyor of Vermin," I said, "I give no alms, but if you would have a gold
piece, then we shall talk. A gold piece," I added, "or an edge of steel if you betray me."

  "A gold piece?" His eyes gleamed maliciously. "For a gold piece I would smuggle you into the finest harem in all of Spain! For a gold piece I might—ah, I know just the wench! A devil she is, a fiend out of Hell, but wise in the ways of pleasure, and she has a—"

  "I said nothing of women. Follow me."

  Outside a public bath we paused. A muscular Negro with huge gold rings in his ears stood there. Gesturing to the beggar, I said, "Take this bag of fleas and dip it, scour it, clip it, and comb it. I would have it resemble a gentleman!"

  "By Allah." The slave spat into the dust. "Am I a djinn, to perform miracles?"

  The beggar leered at him. "O Master! With so many baths in Cadiz why bring me to this, which houses this stench in the nostrils of humanity? Why must I, in my old years, be forced to listen to this Shadow of Ignorance?"

  "Enough!" I spoke harshly, for we Kerbouchards know the way of command. "Get him inside. Burn that hive of corruption he wears for clothing. I shall return in less than the hour with fresh clothing!"

  When at last he stood before me—his beard trimmed, his hair clipped and combed, dressed as befitted a man of dignity and means—he looked a noble if a crafty man, and such a one as I wanted.

  His name, and I have no doubt the rascal lied, was Shir Ali, from Damascus, a merchant in his time and later a dervish, who had fallen on evil days.

  "You are a merchant again," I told him, "freshly arrived from Aleppo to dispose of a cargo and galley with all possible speed. The cargo is of spices and silk in bales. Dispose of it well, Shir Ali, dispose of it this afternoon, and you shall be amply rewarded.

  "If there is a false move or I am betrayed in any way, I shall"—I put my hand upon the knife—"empty your guts into the dust!"

  Selim leaned toward him. "And I will slice you to ribbons and feed you to the dogs!"

  At a small shop we drank wine together, and I showed him the cargo manifest and measured the ship with words. He glanced at the manifest and nodded. "Excellent! In a week's time—"

  "You have four hours," I said. "I am your impatient nephew from Palermo, whose inheritance this is, and I must leave at once for Toledo. You abhor haste, but with such an impatient youth, what can one do? Besides, there is a girl—"

  He raved, he protested it could not be done. We would lose money! We would be cheated! It might be done in two days but…

  "It is a pirate ship," I told him coolly. "The crew is in town getting drunk. You will sell it now ... today."

  His glance was unbelieving, then he shrugged. "You have courage," he said, "or you are a fool."

  "My blade cuts both ways, so be quick." Merchant he undoubtedly had been; thief he had probably been, but he had a way with him, did Shir Ali. At every step I feared to come face to face with Walther or one of the crew, yet the old beggar would not hasten. "You have chosen well," he said, "for a beggar sees much that others do not. We know who is honest and who the cheat, who has the gold and who talks only into the wind." Suddenly, he stopped before a small booth, a mere stall in the bazaar, and he began to wail and tear his hair.

  "Ruined!" he cried. "I shall be ruined! To sell now? This I cannot do! It is a sin against Allah to sell a ship at such a time!

  "Think, Nephew! The ship itself is a treasure, but the bales of silk! Only let me hold it! Let me bargain! There are men who would pay roundly for such a vessel!"

  Ben Salom, the old Jewish man who kept the stall, scented a bargain. "What troubles you, friend?"

  Shir Ali wailed louder and a small crowd gathered, then he burst into a torrent of expostulation and malediction. His dear brother, the best of brothers, was dead! His ship, which lay in the harbor, must be sold, and this beardless youth, this lad beside him, he must be on his way to Toledo before the sun had set.

  Argument and explanation followed, and Shir Ali told of the richness of the silk, the aroma of the spices. My beggar showed himself a man of imagination, even of poetry. He wailed; he berated his bad fortune, the evil of the times, the sin of selling now when so much might be gained by waiting.

  Suddenly, he broke off. "Come! Come, my nephew, I know just the man! For such a cargo he will pay—"

  "Hold!" Ben Salom put up a hand. "Wait! Perhaps you need go no further. No doubt the ship is old. The silk has probably been long in her hull. The spices may have spoiled, but still ..."

  Shir Ali drew himself up, looking on Ben Salom with disdain. "What? You speak of buying? Where would you get a hundred thousand dinars? Where, indeed?"

  "Who speaks of a hundred thousand dinars? It is the mouthing of fools ... yet, let us not be hasty. Of a verity, Allah has sent you to me. Come inside."

  Shir Ali pulled away. "Who speaks of Allah? What have we to do with you? There is no time to waste! The ship must be sold before nightfall, so how can I waste time in idle talk?"

  Yet after much argument and many protests, we allowed ourselves to be led inside and seated cross-legged on the floor cushions while Shir Ali protested of wasted time. Several times he made as if to rise only to be pushed down again.

  Ben Salom took the list and studied it, muttering the while and counting on his fingers. Shir Ali, Selim, and I accepted the wine he offered, and waited.

  The shop was humble, but no man can long be in the streets without knowing what goes on in any city. There is a league of beggars, and what they do not know nobody knows.

  The merchant summoned a boy and sent him hurrying from the shop, and in a matter of minutes he returned with two old, bearded men. Putting their heads together, they consulted the list, arguing and protesting.

  Shir Ali got suddenly to his feet. "Enough! Enough of this!"

  We were at the door when Ben Salom stopped us. "Take us to this ship. If it is as you say, we will buy."

  "The ship also?"

  "And the ship."

  Now came the time of greatest anxiety. What if Walther had returned? Or what if he returned while we were aboard? A pitched battle would surely take place in which the port officials might well interfere. Yet the risk must be taken.

  All was quiet as we approached the ship. The sun was warm; water lapped lazily against the hull. The merchants studied the vessel, their faces revealing nothing.

  Taking a chance that they would understand, I spoke to Selim in the Frankish tongue. "I think we waste time. It would be better to sell in Malaga or Valencia."

  Ben Salom spoke anxiously to the man beside him, and Shir Ali glanced at me slyly, guessing my intent. We were met at the bulwark by Red Mark and a dozen armed slaves. While Shir Ali and Selim showed the merchants the vessel, we waited anxiously, watching the shore.

  Now was the dangerous hour. If we did not complete our sale before—along the shore a party of men were strolling, vaguely familiar.

  Red Mark followed my gaze. "I think we are in trouble," he said.

  "Walther is one of them," I added. "What will we do?"

  The big Saxon was frightened. Bold man that he was, the prospect of finding himself again in chains was a terrible thing.

  "There are but five or six," I told him quietly. "We will take them."

  "What about them?" His thumb indicated the buyers. "They will be getting a bargain, and we will let them talk us down a little further."

  Selim caught my signal. "Get them below," I whispered. "Show them the silk, open a cask of cinnamon. Keep them busy."

  The former slaves resumed their places except for a picked lot of twelve who crouched along the bulwarks in readiness. Four others stood ready with their bows in case any tried to escape.

  We heard the beat of oars, the bump of the boat alongside. Sweat trickled down my face and neck. I tried to wet my lips, but my tongue was dry. An attempt to swallow required a real effort. I went to the side of the ship that they might see me.

  "Where is the Finnveden?" Walther demanded.

  "Asleep. They found your store of wine." That would anger him, and angry m
en are not cautious. "The fools! I'll show—"

  He grabbed a line and came up the side like a cat, the others following. Yet, as he threw a leg over the rail, something caught his eye and he hesitated.

  "What is it?" Alarm shadowed his face. "What—" Too late he saw his danger as I leaped to seize him. An instant he hesitated whether to run or fight, and it was to his credit that he started to draw his sword.

  Coward he might be, and bully he undoubtedly was, but cornered he was a powerful and dangerous man. He threw himself at me, and I retreated, trying to keep him off me. There was a clash of arms, a choking cry, then my blade nicked his arm, drawing blood. He drew back suddenly, and before he could come at me, Red Mark's arm slipped across his throat and jerked him backward, off-balance.

  Quickly, the fight was over, and the prisoners were bound with a sailor's speed and skill, all taken alive but one man. His would not be the first body to be found afloat in the harbor of Cadiz.

  Attracted by the scuffle, Ben Salom came on deck. His eyes searched but found nothing amiss. "There is trouble?"

  "Some rebellious slaves," I said.

  Walther tried to shout, but Red Mark struck him in the stomach.

  "You said nothing of slaves," Ben Salom protested.

  "They go with the ship." I pointed at Walther. "But beware of that one, a wily rogue and a very great liar, but a taste of the lash and he will work well."

  Ben Salom glanced at me. "You are young," he said, "but you speak with the voice of command."

  "The ship is my inheritance," I replied.

  All were silent. Undoubtedly, something here did not seem right. "I spoke quickly in the matter of the slaves, but I am sure it was my uncle's intention."