Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Koum

  The essaul reined in his horse and looked around.

  "We can halt here," he said.

  The seven Cossacks of the detachment also glanced about them, at the rolling plain with its brown grass and occasional clump of poplars down in some gully. Here and there a knob of red rock uprose. Ahead of them, within a stone's toss, the cinnamon-colored river moved sluggishly between its borders of dark rushes. They were on a bare knoll, and they could see across the river.

  All of them searched the far bank with their eyes. Nothing moved. Only banks of yellow clay and sand stretched above the rank steppe grass. From the banks light gleamed fitfully; but it was no more than the reflected glow of the sunset behind them upon some bits of quartz.

  For a moment the Cossacks whispered among themselves, and one of them addressed the essaul, who was in command of the detachment.

  "Look here, Father Kirdiak, we ought to have a fire."

  "Can't be done," Kirdiak grunted, and then reflected. They had shot an antelope back in the hills, and they had had a long, hot ride to the river. "Don't you know this is an outpost of the cordon? Over the river yonder are Tartars and other devils."

  "But the captain won't come out this far, and who will know?"

  "Well—" Kirdiak pushed his kalpak back and scratched his shaven forehead—"all right. Only make it behind the mound."

  Promptly the Cossacks dismounted. They lifted their packs from behind the saddles, stretched and yawned. While two of them led the horses down to water, the others scattered about the knoll and reappeared with armfuls of thorn bush, withered tamarisk and roots. One had even found some dried dung.

  "Camels." He smiled as he passed the stout essaul.

  "Was there a trail, Ostap?"

  "A path?" The young Cossack shook his head impatiently. "God knows, Father. We'll have a look in the morning."

  Kirdiak thought of going down to examine the ground where the dung had been. If there was a trail passing over the steppe here, he ought to know about it. But his legs were stiff, and he felt very comfortable stretched out on his sheepskins. It would be dark down in the gullies, he told himself— better to have a look round in the morning. So he struck a spark into a handful of dry grass and lighted his pipe.

  As he did so he looked longingly at a clay jug beside him. The jug contained a gallon of corn brandy, and Kirdiak had brought it along in case God should send an emergency, when he and the detachment might have need of something to drink. Otherwise, it was forbidden to drink spirits when on duty. The detachment knew that he had the jug, and so he dared not let it out of his sight.

  "Hi there, Borchik!" he called to one of the men who had been watering the horses. "Go and watch by the river."

  The tall Cossack hastening toward the fire turned aside and picked up his musket. Without a word he disappeared through the brush into the gloom.

  Kirdiak stretched himself out on his massive back and pulled at his pipe. He could hear the whispering of the river, the croaking of frogs and some of the Cossacks arguing about snares they were going to set for the waterfowl. They would have fish, too—much better than the dried meat and rusks of their rations.

  They were all registered Cossacks. That is, they were enrolled in the frontier force which served along the vast borderland stretching from the Caspian Sea up to the white tundras of the polar sea. They were the trail breakers and the guardians of the Empire of All the Russias, which moved slowly and inexorably as a juggernaut car into the east.

  Already in this Midsummer of the year 1806 the frontier had passed over Mother Volga and was stretching its posts toward the salt deserts of the southeast.

  And ahead of the posts moved the stanitzas of the Cossacks who had once been a free people along the River Don. The older men among them remembered well how the Empress Catherine had abolished their liberty and had broken up the siech—the war encampment of the Zaporogian Cossacks. So the cordon of Cossack villages moved away from the forts and soldiers of the tsars, out into the ranges. Here they had no tithes to pay, and they could worship in the old fashion as they pleased. Only they had to defend themselves against the Kalmuk and Kirghiz Tartars who had grazed over these same ranges.

  Behind them the Empire smiled indulgently at their trek because it helped enlarge the frontier and beat off the Tartar clans.

  Kirdiak's detachment had been ordered out by the stanitza ataman who wanted to have an advanced post at the river, twenty miles from the villages of the stanitza with their cattle and maize and melon fields. A horde of Tartars could gallop that twenty miles in two hours, and the ataman instructed Kirdiak to watch for any tribesmen crossing the river, which was then shoaling in the Midsummer heat. The Cossacks of the detachment all had picked horses, and at least two of them were to start back with the news if Tartars were seen in force.

  Kirdiak was pondering this idly, when he sat up suddenly—his pipe falling from his teeth and his hand grasping at the long pistol in his belt. A strange figure stood against the sunset glow beside him, although he had heard no tread on the ground.

  He drew out the pistol but did not lift it. He saw that the man wore a long, black lambskin coat with torn sleeves, and boots of soft, unpolished leather, and a high black kalpak like his own but much the worse for wear. Over his shoulder was slung a musket, and from his wide belt hung some bloody pheasants, a curved Circassian dagger, a tobacco pouch and powder horn.

  "Christ save us!" Kirdiak muttered. "Why didn't you speak?"

  The stranger looked around the knoll.

  "What's in the jug?" he asked in a deep, ringing voice.

  "A little—" the essaul remembered his dignity. He picked up his pipe and got to his feet. His bullet head only came to the stranger's chin. "Eh, what's this? What's your name—why are you wandering out here?"

  The tall Cossack glanced down at the sergeant.

  "I am Koum," he said, and walked away toward the embers of the fire where the antelope steaks were sizzling in a pan by the kasha pot.

  "God be with you, Uncle!" The other men greeted him.

  "Chelam vam," responded Koum. "The forehead to you, brothers."

  When the sergeant came up, they all got out daggers and caught up the steaks, wrapping strings of fried garlic round them. While he ate, Kirdiak scanned the stranger, tossing some loose brush upon the embers so that the fire sprang up.

  Koum had taken off his kalpak. His head had been shaved—all except a long lock of black hair on the top. So was his chin shaved and the middle of his mustache trimmed, leaving the ends hanging down in shaggy bunches. His brown eyes slanted a little at the corners, and the hard skin of his face had dried and wrinkled from years of exposure. The muscles of his full neck wrinkled under his long jaw. His shirt, open at the throat, had been soaked in tar.

  "Black as a she-devil," Kirdiak thought. "No one could see him at night. He walks like a hunter, but he wears a long sword. He's had a bath, too, by God, and a Tartar barber trimmed his head like that—so Allah can pull him up by the scalp lock when he dies."

  He drew the cork out of the jug and at once small bowls and silver cups appeared in the hands of the Cossacks. But Kirdiak filled his own cup first and offered it to the stranger.

  "Koshkildui!" Koum said in his deep voice. "God be with you!"

  That was a Tartar greeting, Kirdiak reflected. He noticed that the stranger had claw scratches over his right hand and wrist. So Koum owned a hawk— carried the falcon around without a glove.

  "Look here, lads," he muttered, "we'll have a cup of the brandy because we have a guest."

  Koum handed back the sergeant's cup, which Kirdiak filled and drained before he poured out measures for the men.

  "Health to you, Koum!" Ostap laughed, drinking. "How do you live out here?"

  "How not? There's meat enough—aye, buffalo and antelope and the water fowl."

  "But how did you find us?"

  "Only village girls would light a fire against a red sunset. The smoke can be seen.
You're young—you still smell of milk. Besides, it's not good."

  "How, not good?"

  "This sunset, like blood. Aye, the Tartars say it means Allah has hung the banners of death in the sky, and someone will die before the sun is seen again."

  "An old woman's tale," grunted Kirdiak. "If a man dies, it happens that way. A sunset can't do good or ill to any one."

  "A red moon is worse," put in one of the older men.

  Brandy gurgled from the jug, and tongues were loosened. Some said it was a bad sign when horses stumbled or snorted, although it was good when they neighed. Others maintained that the worst of all was to see a vampire, whining in the darkness.

  "That may be, but a sunset means nothing—nothing," persisted the sergeant who was a stubborn man and, besides, had served years in the regular army where an order was an order and the officers took no account of omens. "Harken, Koum—how is it along the river here? Do the Tartars raid often?"

  "Nay," said the stranger slowly. "The Black Hats are moving to the north, looking for better grass. Now, the White Sheep are on the range across the river."

  "What white sheep?" demanded Kirdiak.

  "Tek!" Koum shook his head. "You are new to the steppe, my brother. They are Turkomans of the White Sheep clan—real wolves. Now, the hordes used to raid twice in the year, at harvest time, just like this—and when the snow hardens. But you can't tell what the Turkomans will do. They slash and rush off like wolves, or perhaps they make war without warning. They are slayers—eh, they carry off even eight-year-old girls. But they kill all the younger ones, and the very old people."

  For an instant the sergeant thought of the hundreds of people back in the new stanitza, putting roofs on their cottages, and working in the fields still full of stones. They had maize and melons and cattle, but little else.

  "Is there a Turkoman village near?" He nodded toward the river.

  "Nay—two hours ride is their aul, by a salt lake. At times they come over to hunt, one or two of them. They took my horse and shot my dog once when I was off with the hawk. Down there is a ford, where they come over."

  Again Kirdiak meditated upon the camel dung and the path and the ford so close at hand. He wished he had not let the men make a fire—but then they would have had no steaks. He leaned over and thrust the cork into the jug. "What are you doing?" rumbled Koum.

  "No more brandy. We've had enough."

  "It's bad luck, essaul." Koum shook his head ominously. "Never cork up wine until it's all been drunk. The devil watches out for a thing like that. He will have it in for you if you don't pour out the rest."

  One of the older Cossacks muttered assent. Kirdiak, however, was stubborn.

  "Against orders to drink at a post," he said bluntly.

  "That won't change the bad luck," responded Koum. "I'll drink the half that's left—then the bad luck won't come."

  "Devil take you!" roared the sergeant. "The jug is half full, with corn brandy, not red wine. Hey, it won't go down the gullet of an antelope hunter."

  Koum stood up and stretched his long arms.

  "Tck! Kirdiak, you may be a sergeant of the new army, but it's clear that you never learned how to drink like a Cossack. When you were nuzzling your mother, I was in the siech, in the brotherhood of the Zaporogians. You have heard of them, when the bandura players sang. They didn't drill in the village street—one, two, halt! Nay, by the hide and hair of the horned one, they went to war. They crossed the great sea Charnomar in their ka-yuks. Even the sultan trembled when the Zaporogians took to the road. And the khan of all the hordes was glad to call them brothers."

  The younger men of the detachment glanced up, grinning. For the balalaika players and the blind men sang of the glorious time when the Cossacks had been free, and of the deeds of the atamans of long ago—of Khlit who had been called the Wolf, and Demid who had raided Aleppo. Few Za-porogians survived. Koum must have been young when he had belonged to the last brotherhood of the war camp.

  "We may drill," muttered Kirdiak who was ruffled by the veteran's boasting, "but we have long muskets and we can use them. We have horses, too, and we don't let the tribesmen lift them."

  "I'll get mine back from the devils." Koum's white teeth flashed in a smile. "Only wait a bit. But take heed, essaul—the Turkomans are real wolves. If they take one of you, they'll send him back with a pair of high, red boots. They'll strip the skin off him, below the knees, and turn him out to walk in the salt desert." He pondered, frowning. "Nay, it will not be easy for you, out here. The signs are bad. Don't you know it's tempting God not to drink up what has been opened? In the siech they used to drink from barrels, not jugs. A man who couldn't empty your jug and dance the trepak after it, or jump from one side to the other of a running horse, would be sent back to the villages. In the old time they knew how to drink and how to love the girls. Ask the beauties of Stamboul or Aleppo if that wasn't so. Do you know why the cavalry of the sultan and

  the khan of the Krim—aye, and the Cherkess and the Persian shah is so fine today?"

  "Nay," growled Kirdiak, "but—"

  "Because there's Cossack blood in all of them. The Cossacks of the siech embraced their Moslem mothers—"

  A shout of laughter interrupted Koum, and voices called out to the sergeant to open the jug again.

  "Drink health to the Zaporogian. He's right, Father—it's a sin to hoard up the jug. Borchik hasn't had his cup yet."

  Kirdiak, however, got to his feet angrily and spat.

  "Fools! You can listen to the old beggar's lying. I'm going to sleep. By God, it's for me to give orders here. Ostap, go and relieve Borchik. And one of you tie up the horses near the fire and sleep outside of them."

  Carrying the jug and without any other word to Koum, he went off to his sheepskins.

  "The Little Father's got his hair up," laughed the oldest Cossack. "Well, Uncle—"

  But Koum rose to his feet, throwing down the half dozen pheasants from his belt.

  "Here's a gift for the pot. I see there's no welcome in this post—no fun at all. God send you fortune, to change the bad luck."

  He picked up his musket and strode away into the gloom, when he heard a step behind him.

  "Stop, Uncle!" Ostap begged. "Don't go away angry."

  "I wasn't boasting," Koum muttered.

  "Well, come and watch with me. Show me where the ford is."

  After a moment the Zaporogian halted and leaned on his musket.

  "I'll watch the river with you, if you'll tell the sergeant—tell him we'll divide the time between us. He need send no one out until daylight."

  In a little while Koum joined the young Cossack in the darkness under some poplars, against a sandbank from which a long stretch of the river was visible. A full moon, rising above the dunes of the east bank, cast a vague radiance over the plain. Distant hillocks stood out clearly, while the river itself lay in the murk between black masses of rushes.

  Ostap wondered how Koum had found him, and how the hunter had come within a stone's throw of the poplars without being seen.

  "Borchik was wild." He laughed. "Because he did not taste a drop of the brandy."

  But Koum would not talk. He lay back on his elbow in the sand, and before long Ostap, who felt the drowsiness of youth after a full meal of meat, began to yawn.

  "You sleep," Koum advised him presently. "I'll call you in time to watch. If I walk around, don't pay attention—only if I fire the musket."

  Ostap muttered a protest, but presently wrapped his sheepskin coat over him and stretched out in the sand, dropping off to sleep in a moment. After listening to his breathing a while, Koum got up and moved about among the poplars. Ostap did not even check his heavy breathing.

  Two hours later the moon stood high over the river. Tiny gleams of light ran along the shallows and vanished. The edges of drifting clouds high over the steppe showed white, until they passed across the river, sinking everything in a half shadow.

  A dry breeze ruffled the deep pools, swayi
ng the dense rushes along the bank until they looked like silver. The rustling of the poplars merged into the croaking of the frogs and the hurrying whisper of the water. Soundlessly an owl passed over the moving rushes.

  Koum sat again on the sandbank. But now the clay jug rested between his knees, and at intervals he lifted it up, and a slight gurgling could be heard. Each time he had to lift the jug higher. He did not rouse Ostap, who was sleeping peacefully.

  Not for many moons had Koum tasted corn brandy like this. He sighed gratefully and checked a sudden snort. The skin pricked along his scalp and he threw off his heavy kalpak. He felt more than comfortably warm, and slid the lambskin coat from his shoulders. Such a fine night it was, he thought, for hunting along the river. But he had to watch for these village girls who called themselves Cossacks.

  The round moon glowed down upon his bare head. A golden moon. And what a river it was! Over there the owl skimmed the rushes again, and something slid into the water. A shadow slipped past the poplars and Koum sniffed. A red fox. And he couldn't even fire off his musket without bringing curses on his head. Koum tipped up the jug again. Strange that the brandy didn't come out of it any more!

  Across the river he heard a plunging and rushing among the high reeds. Only one thing made a sound like that—wild pigs rooting along the bank. Over there was tender roast pig, and here he was, sitting like an old mama by a cradle. To the devil with it all!

  Koum got to his feet restlessly, and planted his legs wide, to keep from swaying toward the rushing river. A strange thing he saw. There behind him the devil had hung another moon in the sky. But this did not fool Koum. He knew that the pig was across the river. So he loosened his long sword and laid it on his coat. Then taking up and priming his gun, he hastened toward the shallow ford. His black figure was only visible when it crossed the strip of moonlight in midstream, and he made no sound that could be heard above the wash of the river. The cold water ran into his leather bag trousers.

  Climbing out on a sandbank, he stepped into the mesh of rushes where the frogs were holding their chorus. Quietly as he advanced, the pig took alarm. A sudden splashing ahead of him changed to a rustling that went away swiftly.