by V. A. Stuart
“The prevailing wind, sir,” Erikson explained, in his correct, careful English. “It prevents the snow from lying on this side. These men—and the young one in particular—are very good mountaineers. There are not many who would dare ride a horse on this path, but he is doing so—look at him, sir!”
Watching Dafir’s progress, Phillip marvelled at the boy’s consummate horsemanship. He did not appear to be hurrying but he never hesitated and quite soon was so far ahead of the rest of the party that the mist swallowed him up and it was possible to catch only an occasional glimpse of him when the track he was following doubled back, high above their own. The men leading the baggage ponies had, at times, to drag them, slithering unwillingly on the wet rock, but Dafir left his pony its head, letting the animal pick its own way and the sturdy little beast seldom faltered. As they climbed higher, the stream which had provided their unwelcome breakfast beverage became a rushing torrent, fed by a waterfall that cascaded down from a cleft in the rock a dizzy fifty or sixty feet above and to the right of the track. From where he was, Phillip could see no way round this obstacle but, as Dafir appeared suddenly in a break in the cloud on the far side of the leaping water, he pushed on doggedly, supposing that there must be a bridge or some other means of crossing higher up. There was, and he drew in his breath in shocked disbelief when he came in sight of it and realized that it consisted of four huge rocks set, like giant stepping stones, immediately above the waterfall.
“My God!” Cochrane drew level with him and he, too, was incredulous. “He surely didn’t ride over that, did he, sir?”
“He seems to have done. I didn’t see him dismount.” Phillip moved forward slowly, bracing himself for what he knew would be an ordeal. For a man on foot, the crossing was perilous enough, in all conscience—the rocks were streaming with moisture and the gaps between them varied from a foot or so to well over a yard—but to have ridden over them, as Dafir apparently had, required an iron nerve and faultless judgement. The Circassians were grinning delightedly, indicating by signs what they thought of their young leader’s feat and, as he followed them across, a few moments later and glanced at the sheer drop into the raging water beneath him, Phillip could not suppress a shudder. Heights seldom bothered him; his training, since his days as a naval cadet, had seen to that but . . . safely over the chasm, he turned back to meet Erikson’s gaze.
“That boy, sir,” the Norwegian said dryly. “I think it is good that we have him on our side.”
Even Thompson, who had until now been a trifle mistrustful of their strange new allies, echoed his words with unusual fervour, as they paused to watch the baggage ponies being manoeuvred across. “They’re good men, sir—darned good men, the whole bunch of ’em. Like Erikson says, I’d rather have them on our side than against us, and that’s the gospel truth.” He shifted the rifle he was carrying from one shoulder to the other and, despite the misty chill, mopped his brow with a big hand. “How much farther do you reckon we’ve still to go, sir?”
Phillip fumbled for his pocket watch. Up here, in the clouds where the sun did not penetrate, it was difficult even to guess at the time and he was astonished to see that the hands of his watch pointed only to ten-fifteen. The muscles of his legs were painfully stiff and his whole body ached—he had imagined that they had been toiling up the narrow goat track for six or seven hours at least, instead of which . . . he, too, passed a hand wearily across his brow.
“I should imagine we’ve come about three quarters of the way,” he answered. “Another three or four hours ought to see us at the Pasha’s camp, but I’m guessing—I could be wrong.”
Anthony Cochrane, who had been massaging his cramped leg muscles, straightened himself reluctantly as the last of the baggage ponies was pushed and dragged over the giant stepping stones and the Circassians prepared to resume their march. “I trust you’re right, sir,” he said feelingly. “I don’t mind telling you, I’m just about all in. And to think”—he sighed—“I was quite annoyed, when we set off, because they hadn’t provided horses for us. All I can say now is thank heaven they didn’t!”
Phillip laughed shortly and forced himself to continue the seemingly endless climb. About an hour later, still in cloud, they gained the crest of the ridge they had been ascending and he saw, to his surprise, that Dafir had halted. When the first of his men reached him, he slipped gracefully out of the saddle and flung his reins to the nearest of the baggage pony holders. The Circassians at once set to work to remove part of the ponies’ loads, including the case of ammunition, which they broke open, distributing its contents between half a dozen of their number.
Phillip reached them, breathless and spent, intending to protest at their summary seizure of his ammunition but Dafir, guessing his purpose, caught his arm and led him forward a few paces. Holding him firmly by the arm, he gestured downwards and Phillip had to bite back a gasp of dismay. Below them was a precipitous wall of rock, far steeper than the one by which they had ascended, its foot indiscernible for the damp, swirling mist into which it disappeared. He did not need the stone Dafir cast down, almost derisively, to prove to him that the drop was a long one and virtually sheer.
“Erikson . . .” the Norwegian, still looking by far the fittest of the small party from the Huntress, came in response to his call, to peer downwards with narrowed, alert blue eyes. “What do you think of it?” Phillip asked.
“Well, sir, they are wise not to attempt to take the ponies,” Erikson answered, his tone a trifle dry. “And in my country, we should use ropes for such a descent but . . . this is their country. Perhaps we should leave it to them, sir, and see how they propose to tackle it.”
It was evident that this was good advice. The Circassians were quietly and efficiently making their preparations and Erikson went to join them. He had established a means of communication with them, consisting mainly of gestures and grunts, but it was proving quite effective and he returned to Phillip’s side with the news that ropes were to be used.
“There’s quite a clear way down, sir,” he said. “Once you know where to look for the hand and footholds, and there are rocks and bushes suitable for belays. I think,” he added, thoughtfully, “that this is a short cut . . . there must be an easier way, if the Pasha has brought mounted troops to a camp in these mountains. Indeed, sir, from what I’ve seen of that lad Dafir, I should not be at all surprised to find that we’ve been taking a different route from the Pasha’s soldiers, ever since we left Ghelenjik. But we have covered a fair distance, sir, and at a fair pace, too, so I don’t think we need complain on that score.”
“You speak for yourself, Able-Seaman Erikson!” Anthony Cochrane groaned, as he flung himself gasping to the ground. “I have a score of reasons for complaint—not least because my legs seem to have turned to jelly and I can scarcely breathe!”
“It is the height, sir,” Erikson assured him. “These men are accustomed to the rarified air but you are not.” He squatted down and began to rub Cochrane’s legs, kneading the stiff muscles with strong, skilful fingers. “You will recover very quickly once we descend to two or three thousand feet.”
“Not if I have to go down that way,” Cochrane retorted, glancing downwards as one of the Circassians, a rope loosely knotted about his waist and a pick-headed hammer thrust into his belt, stepped nonchalantly over the edge of the precipice. The rope, belayed round a rock, was slowly paid out by two of his companions, the sound of his hammer, as he plied it vigorously, reaching the ears of those waiting at the cliff top. Erikson smiled. “This, sir,” he stated with conviction, “will be the easiest part of the whole journey. These men know what they are doing and they’ve been this way before, I’m quite certain.”
Once again his forecast proved correct—initially at any rate. The Circassians lowered themselves and their four British allies to a mantelshelf ledge on the rock face, from whence— skilfully drawing the rope after them and making a fresh belay—they repeated the process. Predictably, Dafir waited till last and came d
own with only a hand on the rope, although he had insisted that even Erikson should secure himself to it for the first difficult phase of the descent. This became a good deal easier as the distance from the foot of the ravine decreased and they had no longer to watch for patches of ice or pockets of wind-blown snow in their path. For the last seventy or eighty feet the rope was dispensed with, the trees and bushes growing from crannies in the rock affording ample handholds. Visibility improved, as the grey mist of the mountain was left behind and, emerging into bright sunlight, three or four of the Circassians raced ahead, laughing and skylarking like so many small boys unexpectedly released from school.
It was then, without warning, that Dafir the sure-footed slipped on a loose stone and, after slithering helplessly for several yards, cannoned into Phillip, who was spread-eagled on the rock face just below him. He had, fortunately, a firm toehold for both feet and his right arm was hooked round the trunk of a tough young pine tree growing above his head but, even so, the impact almost unbalanced him. Dafir grabbed his shoulder, clinging to him with all the strength in his wiry young body and managed somehow to arrest his descent. Phillip, reacting more from instinct than from reason, freed his left arm and locked it about the boy’s waist, driving both knees as hard as he could against the unyielding rock. The Bey’s son was lightly built but his dead weight nearly wrenched the arm from its socket, and they hung there for a long moment in imminent danger of crashing down together, the pine sapling bent over at so acute an angle it was little short of a miracle that it was not uprooted.
Dafir did not utter a sound, although his face was deathly pale and, just for an instant, Phillip glimpsed naked fear in his eyes. Then one of his threshing feet found the hold it was seeking, he twisted his body round, clawing at the rock face with both hands and contrived to regain his balance, thereby reducing the threat to his rescuer’s stability. The whole incident was over in a matter of seconds but as Dafir, cursing loudly and angrily in his own language, dragged himself clear, Phillip was conscious of a sharp stab of pain and knew that the old wound in his right thigh had opened up again. The boy, unaware that he was hurt, scampered down the rest of the way without a backward glance and it was the alert Erikson who came to his aid.
“That was a close thing, sir,” he said anxiously. “I thought he was going to bring you down. Take it easy for a minute or two, until you get your breath back, and then I’ll give you a hand. You’re not hurt, are you, sir?”
Phillip shook his head. “I wrenched my leg, I think, but it’s nothing,” he evaded, grateful nevertheless, for Erikson’s steadying hand as he finally completed the descent, to find Cochrane waiting for him.
“Are you all right, sir?” his second-in-command enquired, studying his face with some concern. “I didn’t see what happened but Thompson told me that Dafir nearly knocked you to kingdom-come. Silly young idiot, trying to make a descent like that without a rope! He’s been asking for trouble, though, hasn’t he, ever since we started? Trying to impress us, I suppose.”
“He’s very young,” Phillip defended. He felt oddly light-headed and when Cochrane, still concerned, suggested that he should sit down, he did not argue.
“This is a pleasant spot for a breather, sir, and the Circassians don’t seem to be ready to move on yet. I wonder how much farther it is to the Pasha’s camp?”
Phillip lowered himself gingerly on to a patch of mossy grass and looked about him. They were now, he saw, in a narrow valley, hemmed in by mountains but completely free of snow and, although he could see no sign of human habitation, the presence of a large herd of goats, placidly grazing nearby, suggested that the valley could not be entirely deserted. It was, as Cochrane had observed, a pleasant spot and he, as much as any of them, welcomed the chance to rest and recoup his strength before having to move on. Dafir and his men, having coiled their rope and redistributed their various loads, were also sitting down—waiting, he could only suppose for some sort of signal, since none of them appeared in need of rest— and he did not feel disposed to hurry them. Instead, he lay back, his head pillowed on his linked hands, letting his weary muscles relax their tension and luxuriating in the warm sunshine. His leg did not hurt quite so much now, the pain having died to a dull ache . . . perhaps, after all, he had only jarred it. He sighed, recalling Graham’s warning and deliberately made no attempt to ascertain whether or not the wound had reopened.
Beside him, Cochrane followed his example and stretched out at full length on his front, chin cupped between his hands.
“This is great, sir, isn’t it?” he said happily. Able to breathe without effort now, he swiftly recovered his spirits, chatting away about their journey and the feats of their strange new companions. “If they fight as well as they shin up and down these infernal mountains, I can’t see the Muscovs holding Anapa or Soujak for much longer, can you, sir?”
Phillip listened to him with half an ear, resisting an almost overwhelming desire to sleep. His feeling of light-headedness gradually passed and when Dafir waved to indicate that it was time to move on, he got to his feet willingly enough, shaking his head to Cochrane’s offer of assistance. The brief respite had enabled him to recover some, at least, of his normal energy and the others, he saw, were looking much more cheerful than they had a few hours ago on the wind-swept mountain top. Even the taciturn Thompson was now attempting to trade jokes with some of the older Circassians and grinning to himself, when they failed to understand what he was trying to say to them but laughed uproariously just the same.
“They’re a rum bunch of so-and-so’s,” he confided to Erikson. “Not a word of English between the lot of ’em and yet they’re laughing their ruddy heads off! Still, as foreigners go, they’re not bad blokes, are they, really?”
“I am also a foreigner,” Erikson pointed out, with pretended humility. “Had you forgotten that, Gunner’s Mate?”
“Come off it, lad!” the big gunner’s mate besought him, “You’ve been educated and you speak English a sight better than I do . . . and besides, you’re one of us, ain’t you? Here”— he slipped the sling of the extra rifle his shipmate had been carrying for him from his shoulder—“I’ll take that for a spell. Yours, too, if you like, now we’re back on terra firma—because we may have quite a way to go yet. I don’t see no sign of a camp, do you?”
“And frankly, nor do I, sir,” Anthony Cochrane remarked, lowering his voice and matching his step to Phillip’s.
“They won’t be in tents, Mr Cochrane,” Phillip reminded him.
“No, I suppose not—stupid of me, I was just thinking they would. What then—caves or just out in the open?”
“It could be either, I imagine. As far as I can gather from the reports I’ve read, these people have been fighting their own brand of war against the Russians for a long while. They cannot fight pitched battles against trained and disciplined troops, supported by artillery, of course, but they raid and plunder, ambush supply trains—as Serfir Pasha is apparently planning to do now—and then escape to the mountains to avoid retribution.”
“Pretty effective tactics, aren’t they, sir?” Cochrane suggested.
Phillip shrugged. “Effective but not decisive, Mr Cochrane. The trouble seems to be their mistrust of the Turks as allies— with reason, the Admiral says—and the fact that old tribal feuds are remembered for years, so that one tribe won’t unite with another against the common enemy. It takes a leader of the calibre of Schamyl, who is their paramount chief, to bring them together, although apparently Serfir Pasha is one who is universally respected, and also Emin Bey, who is one of Schamyl’s lieutenants. I’ve sent the Huntress to Soukoum Kaleh to fetch him.”
“With the object of trying to bring them together, sir?”
“That and to arrange a meeting with the Turkish commander at Batoum, Mustapha Pasha, who is now in a position to offer them quite considerable aid. In the Admiral’s view, he is one of the better Turkish generals and . . .” Phillip broke off as the sharp crack of a rifle shot came
from somewhere to their left. Instinctively his hand went to his own Minié, only to return to his side when he saw Dafir discharge a shot into the air and then run eagerly forward, shouting at the pitch of his lungs. From the concealment of a rocky defile about a quarter of a mile ahead of them, a score of leather-jacketed Circassian horsemen emerged and, setting spurs to their wild-looking mounts, galloped to meet the running boy. His own men ran after their young leader and were soon the centre of a chattering throng, evidently exchanging news and greeting old friends and, judging by the gestures in the direction of Phillip’s small party, explaining the reason for their presence. The Minié rifles and cartridges Dafir’s men carried attracted considerable attention and were minutely examined before the whole group, as if suddenly realizing that they had been wanting in courtesy, came trotting over to offer the new arrivals a belated welcome.
A handsome, grey-bearded man, who appeared to be in command of the scouting party, delivered a short speech, in response to which Phillip could only bow and nod his head solemnly, unable to understand a word. But it sounded friendly and, when the grey-bearded commander pointed to his horse, he nodded again and let the old man assist him into the saddle.
“Serfir Pasha?” he asked and the bearded lips parted in a beaming smile, as the man waved his rifle in the direction from which he had come, and then vaulted into the saddle behind him.
