II
THE GALLOWS BIRDS
WHEN the bells of the church ceased ringing the snow no longer fell, and it was seen that the center square of the Siech was filling rapidly with warriors from the barracks. Although the muster-drum had not been beaten, the orderly of the camp scribe had had a thrashing at the hands of the Don men, and his tongue was loosened.
The cooks were kicked up, grunting, and kindled fires under still warm caldrons wherein were quarters of sheep and sides of beef; as if they had been summoned by the drum, the older warriors appeared and headed for the casks, wiping their mustaches. In their hands they bore beakers and nuggins and broken dippers, and soon the gurgle of corn-brandy was heard as clearly as the crackle of the flames, where fresh fires were sending sparks whirling up toward a cold and star-lit sky.
The more inexperienced who came late were fain to gather the liquor in caps or cupped fists; and the youngest of them were sent to pull down the stalls of the Jews to throw on the flames. Soon a dense throng of warriors gathered around the balalaika players and the six-foot youngsters who were beginning to dance the Cosachka on the hard-packed snow.
They leaped and crouched by the red flames, casting off their long coats, their scalp-locks flying in the wild swing of the dance of the Ukraina, and the watchers put hands on hips and moved booted feet restlessly as the rhythm of it got into their veins.
They asked the sotnik who had been first on the scene how the vodka and brandy had come hither.
“On the ataman’s—Demid’s—sledges. He drove down the river in the storm, from Kodak where he had been to bend the forehead to Ileana, granddaughter of Rurik. Eh, he must be hot with wine, for he promised the maid he would find ransom for Rurik.”
Beating in the head of a fresh cask with a smith’s hammer, the officer added reflectively:
“He has called a squadron of the Don men to horse, and he will not take more than that. Because he says we others are ox-tails, fit to beat at flies, and he is going south, beyond the frontier.”
“Where, then?”
“To the most likely, because he is young and mad. He will not say how, since there are spies in the Siech.”
“Spies? Not to be thought of!”
“Well, the Sultan has eyes and ears north of the frontier, by which he knows our strength and our plans. How else did they cut us up last Summer and truss up Rurik like a sheep.”
There was no answer to this, and the warriors began to sample the new keg. Always when a war party went out, they had a carouse, arid the setting out of the Donskoi was apt to be memorable. The wailing of the fiddles rose against the note of the wind, and the thudding feet of the dancers. Word came presently from the church that the priest had been buried and they hastened to drink off a cup to the sturdy brother who had left them.
“Colonel Ayub had sworn he will bring back new garments for the images and jewels for the ikons. What days! Our church is like a jackal’s hole”
“Aye, and the Turkish mosques shine like harlots”
“That is not the worst of it, sir brothers. These mosques, what are they? May the fiends spit on me if they are not Christian churches taken by the Moslems, who rubbed out the holy pictures on the walls. So it is with Saint Sophia, in the Imperial City,[1] so it is with the Holy Sepulcher.”
They muttered angry assent, hanging their heads, for the Cossacks were seldom free from brooding; their moods were born of the great steppe, grim in the long Winter, palpitating and mirthful in the brief Summer.
“What days!” assented the sotnik, glaring about him. “Even in the Siech a war party must set out at night, or spies would bear word to the Sultan. And now that Demid is setting forth, who is there to smoke out the spies?”
“Let us make Demid our koshevoil,” shouted one of the dancers. “Even a wolf can not hunt without a head. Give us the sword-slayer for a leader!”
“Aye, he is a sword-slayer,” admitted the sotnik, “the finest to be found in the frontier. But he was only weaned a few Winters ago; along the Dnieper he kept his feet, true enough, and his enemies were laid to rest on their backs. But where are his gray hairs, where his Cossack cunning?”
“May the dogs bite you!” Broad Breeches pushed through the throng. “You are brave enough when words are in the air; but as God is my witness no man can find you when swords are out. You drink the falcon’s vodka, and that gives you a little courage”
“Death to you!”
“The lie to you, ox-tail! Did not Rurik betroth his granddaughter, Heana of Kudak, to our falcon? He found no better man than Demid, and who says otherwise will cover himself with his legs.”
The officer stood his ground sturdily, although the snarling face of the Don warrior was thrust close to his eyes.
“What I say,” he maintained, “is known to all the brethren. Your chieftain is a hero, but he is a wild one, a mad-cap. At Kudak a white-armed maid awaits him, like a dove. But he takes the snow road, beyond the frontier, and leaves the castle of Kudak without a master.”
Broad Breeches laughed tauntingly.
“Is that otherwise than a Cossack would do? I say Demid will bring back a mighty treasure, enough to ransom all the captives!”
The eyes of the other brightened for an instant; then he shook his head.
“It can not be. At this season the storms are on the Black Sea, and our boats would founder; the large treasure-ships of the Turks stick to the southern shore, as fleas stick where a dog can’t scratch.”
“Then he will seek the southern shore!”
“How, seek it, when no one of you knows a rudder from a centerboard, or a compass from a Nurenburg watch?”
The sotnik took his hand from his sword hilt and turned to the listeners:
“It is true that Demid is mad. If he could lead a horde without falling into the pagan’s traps—if he could take a walled city, or outwit one of those accursed pashas of the janizaries—if he were a wolf like Khlit who could catch a Tatar khan asleep, or Rurik who could take a ship through the Dardanelles”
“He can, you toad!”
“Then let him show how he can! If he does, he will be our koshevoi, and we will not say that he is young and mad.”
Some murmurs of assent greeted this, and the Don warrior had no answer to the argument.
“Too much talk, too much talk altogether,” he muttered angrily. “Out of the way, old women: stand aside dish-cloths, that a man may drink!”
Elbowing aside the other Cossacks who did not resent his hard words, as the warrior was going on the road, the man from the Don gained the side of the nearest keg, refusing all proffers of beakers and dippers.
“Hail to the fair young mistress,” he roared, throwing back his head, “the round-armed, the soft-eyed maiden! Hail to her whose embrace is the warmest, whose kiss awaits a Cossack”
“To Lady Death!” echoed the sotnik.
At this Broad Breeches plunged his head in the cask, and sprang up, panting, shaking the liquor from his long scalp-lock, not quite oblivious to the admiring glances of the younger brethren.
The pent-up passions of the throng sought an outlet and one offered in the prison pen. Two criminals had been confined there, awaiting execution: one for striking the priest some time since—the other for the lesser matter of knifing a Cossack. The men of the Siech were accustomed to fighting, but they used their fists. To draw a knife was held to be a shameful act, natural enough for a Greek or Syrian, but contrary to the ethics of Cossackdom.
Warriors were already beating down the gate when the party from the brandy-cask came up. Axes appeared at once, and made short work of the beams of the door, so that a black gap showed in the high palisade. Torches flickered above the heads of the crowd and voices shouted for the gallows birds to come out.
Before a second summons could be uttered, a tall man walked through the gate. So singular was his appearance that for a moment it distracted the attention of the throng. His head, wrapped in a crimson scarf, did not come to the level of the long Cossacks, but he carried himself erect, and walked slowly forward, eyeing his captors. One eye, in fact was half-closed by a scar that ran down to his lip, lifting it in a kind of perpetual sneer. Instead of the usual Cossack coat he wore a flowing khalat, with a velvet vest, heavily sewn with silver ornaments. His yellow boots were high and good—the heels painted red.
“What bird is this?” demanded the sotnik.
“’Tis Balaban, Captain Balaban, the Levantine,” a voice made response.
Whether Levantine, or man from Barbary, no one knew or cared; it was known that he had once been aboard the Barbary corsairs, and had gone into the service of the Turks for a while, until he had fled the galleys, and, professing Christianity, had been received into the asylum of the Siech. He it was who had knifed a Cossack, and he had done it expertly.
“Aye,” his voice rang out shrilly for such a powerful man, “’tis Captain Balaban, at your service, my kunaks. Do you wish entertainment—then I will give it!”
“As the fiend sired you, that you will, 'Wry Mouth,!’”
Hands seized him and voices cried out for the other prisoner, who had struck the priest.
This was a man as broad as Balaban was tall, a man of swarthy face, who rolled for ward as if treading the moving deck of a ship. His tiny black eyes flickered around, seeking in vain some avenue of escape, but his roaring voice showed that he had a steady nerve.
“Aye, sir brothers! Ostrog is present—Ostrog who burned the pagan galley off the Chersonese. What is your will, with Ostrog?”
“That you bum, Ostrog—that you burn!” Laughter greeted this sally. “You will make a rare candle—-after you are tarred. To the tar barrels!”
So cried those at the outer fringe of the throng. The Barbary captain had been walking slowly about the ring, staring into the bronzed faces, apparently utterly in different to what was in store for him. Of a sudden his right arm shot out and he ripped from its scabbard the yataghan of a young warrior.
With the slender, curved weapon in his hand, he leaped back, to stand against the palisade, his eyes fairly blazing with malignant fury. From under his twisted lip flowed such a stream of sheer blasphemy that the nearest Cossacks stood transfixed. Whatever oaths their lips might utter, they were religious at heart. The Levantine knew well how to arouse them to use steel on him and to forget the torture.
Ostrog, slower of wit, took advantage of the pause to catch up one of the fragments of the door beams and take his stand beside Balaban.
“Cut, slash!” roared the sotnik finding his tongue.
Sabers slithered out of sheaths and the throng surged forward. Balaban fell silent, his blade poised, dangerous as a coiled snake. But between him and the nearest warriors stepped a youth who had pushed through the crowd unheeded. He was bare-headed, and in his shirt-sleeves, and the sotnik, seeing him, spread out both arms and thrust back against the men behind.
“The ataman, Demid, is here, brothers.”
THE chief of the Don men waited until a space had been cleared behind him—waited patiently, his gray eyes studying Balaban.
“Back you dogs,” muttered the non-coms within sight of the colonel. “Do not tread on his heels—see how his head steams! The sword-slayer has been licking up vodka, with the wounded in the Don barracks. See, he is going to play with Captain Balaban. Stand back, you sow’s ears!”
“Father,” Broad Breeches addressed his chief, “shall we drop lassos over their sconces, and truss them up? I have a rope.”
Demid paid no attention to the man. His brows, curving down over deep-set eyes, his sharp aquiline nose, his skull shaven, except for the scalp-lock—in the glow of the torches these features did somewhat resemble a falcon. Although he had been drinking heavily he did not sway on his feet as he confronted the Levantine.
Then Ostrog hurled his timber, at the young Cossack. Demid sank on one knee, bending his head as the heavy club whirled over him, but his eyes did not leave Captain Balaban. His simitar flashed out as the tall man cut down at him with the yataghan.
The two blades clashed and Demid parried, rising to his feet as he did so. To the onlookers it seemed as if the weapons merged into a flowing stream of light, so swiftly did Balaban, who had determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, press the attack, crouching, his teeth gnashing together. He could use a cutlas well and, under the flowing khalat, his supple muscles were like steel.
Demid’s right arm moved only from the elbow, and—without indulging in the whirlwind sword-play of the Cossacks—he rested his weight on his left leg.
“Raise your weapon, Balaban,” he said suddenly, shifting his weight to his forward foot and engaging the other’s blade at close quarters.
The Levantine’s answer was a snarl that changed to a grunt as he found the hand- guard of the yataghan caught against Demid’s hilt and the two blades wedged together. In spite of his efforts to free his sword, he felt his weapon raised high over his head as the Cossack put forth his strength.
“Now lower it,” ordered Demid, and this time his Ups curved in a smile.
The two swords swept down in a wide arc, to the snow, and before Balaban could draw the yataghan clear the Cossack had planted his foot on it. Placing the hilt of his simitar against his chest, he moved forward until the point pricked the skin under the Levantine’s lower ribs, over the vitals.
Perforce Captain Balaban released the hilt of his weapon and stepped back against the log pen. With nearly an inch of steel in him he stood quietly, without making a plea for his life.
“Have you heart, Balaban,” asked the chief of the Don warriors in a low voice, “to go on a venture with me, over the black water? Will you go against the galleys of the Turks? Have you lust for the feel of gold and the light of jewels? We seek a treasure.”
“Why not?” Balaban was surprized. “If I said nay, you would skewer me, so—why not, say I?”
“Your life will be short; I will see to that,” Demid promised. “You know ships and their ways and the paths of the sea. I do not. If you go with me you will aid me to the utmost; but you will not be a slave. Some months of life you will earn for yourself, and Ostrog. Otherwise, seconds.”
Balaban spat to one side, half closing his good eye. If the Cossacks were venturing on a raid of the Strait and Constantinople, he might fare badly. On the other hand, Demid had spoken of months in which to live. Balaban had been through enough tight places to be a fatalist. Much could happen in several months, particularly if he managed to get these Don Cossacks, who did not know one end of a galley from the other, into a sailing craft.
If luck favored him and he could lead the ataman into the hands of the Moslems, why then his reward would be great. No longer could he remain in the Siech, and here was a way out. A moment ago he was doomed to tar and fire, while now
“Take your steel out of my guts,” he growled. “I’m your man. Do you want me to swear an oath?”
“The ,” observed Ayub who had come up in time to hear the last remarks, “would leap up and laugh if you took an oath! Nay, Demid, evil will come of this gallant. I can face any man on a horse, but the sea is an unruly beast, look you—when it rears up there is no putting the whip to it.”
“We need the pair of them, Ayub. Put them under Togrukh’s wing; tell him he will walk to the Black Sea tied to the cart-tail if they escape. No blows for them, but death if a weapon is seen in their hands.”
The Levantine shrugged. Under his breath he muttered a Turkish phrase—
“Time will have another story to tell.”
Demid caught the words and understood, being familiar with the Turkish and Tatar dialects; but he held his peace. Withdrawing his sword point he wiped it on the Levantine’s girdle. The Cossacks, suspecting that their prisoners were about to be taken out of their hands, swept forward with a mutter of anger.
“Back, dog-brothers,” cried Demid. “These men are mine.”
“Back, pot-lickers,” repeated Balaban with a malevolent grin. “Back to your stoves, I say. We mean to wet our gullets, Ostrog and I.”
Heedless of the uproar, he elbowed his way toward the wine casks, followed by the squat seaman, convinced of the truth that the warriors would not go against the word of Demid.
“He keeps his head up,” remarked the young ataman, following the progress of the renegade with his eyes. “Noble blood is in him somewhere. Hai—the Pleiades are low, and dawn is near. We must be across the open ice of the river before light comes. It is time—time!”
“Time!” One of the Don men caught the word.
Balaban, standing at one of the open casks, emptied a beaker of vodka down his throat and laughed, stretching his arms.
“Oh—time! Now for one bravo, now for another! A toast, Broad Breeches, to the fair courtesan, Luck! When we are gone, no one will drink.”
With a stifled chuckle he picked a burning stick out of the fire and dropped it into the keg of liquor. Blue flame rushed up from the vodka and the Levantine laughed again.
From across the camp a deep voice began one of the Cossack chants—
“Glorious fame will come
To the Cossacks,
To the heroes,
For many a year,
Till the end of time.”
- ↑ Constantinople.