Читать книгу The Cossack Cowboy - Lester S. Taube - Страница 11

CHAPTER III

Don Cossack Captain Grigory Kolkoff eased his horse down the narrow street, its hooves thudding lightly on the hard-packed dirt, the leather of his well-soaped saddle emitting only muted, disciplined squeaks as he shifted his weight. Both Grigory and his horse were weary of the saddle, each in his own way, for it had been the bond between them for sixteen long hours, with the exception of brief periods of rest for the thirty-year-old Captain to stretch his legs and snatch a quick bite of sausage and black bread, washed down by water from a nearby stream, and for the horse to sigh in relief and turn to nibbling at the thick, rich, Caucasian valley grass, grateful for the respite from carrying the huge Cossack officer. And Captain Grigory Kolkoff was huge. Nearly seven feet tall, his massive frame bearing two hundred and fifty pounds of hard-boned, hard-muscled fighting man, he seemed even bigger with his ten-inch-high black karakul hat topped by blood-red wool cloth decorated with a cross of silver threads running from edge to edge and tilted roguishly to one side over black, close-cropped hair. On the front of the hat was his kokarda, the small oval insignia of his unit, with its stripes of white, blue and red. Everything about Grigory was big, from his thick black brows hovering over grey eyes spaced far apart to his large jutting nose and his wide lips, almost lost in a heavy growth of black moustache and beard, properly trimmed by scissors, as is the custom of the Cossack fighting man.

His dark-blue, high-necked tunic fell to his thighs when he sat, and below it were trousers of the same blue color, slashed by wide red seams down the sides, bagged at the knees and tucked into black leather boots upon which were strapped stubby silver spurs. Both Grigory and his horse knew that the spurs were purely ornamental, since the thick riding crop dangling from his waist was sufficient evidence of what kept both the animal and the subjects of the Russian Tzar respectfully obedient.

Looped from his right shoulder to his left hip was a sturdy brown leather strap that held his sabre encased in a leather scabbard. Grigory was proud of his sabre, for it had been handed down from his father, who had gotten it from his father, who had gotten it from his father, who had had it specially made in the Turkish province of as-Souriya of Damascus steel that was guaranteed not to yield to anything yet made of man. On his right hip, he wore a seven-shot revolver, sheathed in a brown leather holster and fixed to a wide belt of similar brown leather.

Grigory Kolkoff paid no attention to the darkened huts on both sides of the street he was riding down, even though they contained the despised Cherkessians, his Moslem enemy. There were three excellent reasons why he ignored the hostile village; first, twenty-four hours earlier he had attacked it with his troop of Cossack cavalry and had cleared it of enemy warriors, house by house, chasing the remnants of the cursed Moslem heathen for eight hours into the hills; second, he was on a mission that brooked no delay; and third, and most important, behind him rode eighty-four of his officers and men, none of them quite the size of their Captain, but just as hardy fighters. Each was dressed almost exactly like Grigory, although the cloth of their uniforms was not as fine, nor was the karakul of their hats made from such select lambskins, nor did they wear spurs or carry revolvers - or even riding crops. Instead, across their back were the rugged single-shot, breech-loading rifles held in place by brown leather slings, and across their chests were bandoliers of ammunition, and every second man carried the deadly cavalry lance, eleven feet long, tipped with several inches of keenly sharpened steel, the butts resting in cups fixed to the right stirrups of their saddles, and held in place by leather loops circling their brawny right arms. And instead of the finely-worked Damascus steel sabre of the Captain, the men carried plainer swords, equally curved and ruthlessly sharp, but with a straighter hilt and lacking the hand-guard. One item, though, was carried only by the enlisted men, and this, even more than the vaunted horsemanship or gleaming sabres, struck terror into the hearts of their enemies - the cruel nagaika, the Cossack whip. Attached to a lanyard slung over the neck and left shoulder, the nagaika was a wooden handle eighteen inches long holding sixteen strands of toughened leather braided together to form a vicious lash twenty inches long. A tap of this whip would lay a man’s head open to the bone; a blow would crack the skull like an eggshell. It was tucked into the belt next to the sabre, and merely pulling it out would give strength to the most weary horse or dim the fervor of the most defiant peasant,

As Grigory reached the edge of the village, he looked east, noting the first light of dawn rising above the forest line. His keen eyes searched the darkness and saw the outlines of a large house off to one side. It was the Cherkessian chieftain’s home, that he knew, for he had missed trapping him only by minutes when his troop had swept down on the village. Missing him had cost the lives of two good Cossacks, for the chieftain had organized and commanded the rearguard that had slowed down the pursuit and allowed the bulk of his men to slip away into the night.

Grigory raised his hand, signaling his troop to halt, then pointed towards the house. Immediately, six of his men slid down from their horses and posted themselves next to the windows at the sides and rear. Grigory dismounted quietly and tiptoed to the door, placing his ear against it.

The rapid breathing and low moans of a woman in ecstasy could clearly be heard. He grimaced and scratched his head in perplexity, then his eyes turned to the forest line to measure the time remaining before morning would break. He took a deep breath and tapped gently on the door.

“Paul,” he whispered. “It is me, your friend, Grigory. Come, we must go.”

A muffled curse came from the woman.

Grigory tapped louder on the door. “Come, my little English Cossack. Please do not make trouble for me.”

“Go away, you swine-eater!” yelled the woman. “Don’t bother us. Come back in a day - an hour.” Her whimpers of delight grew louder.

Paul,” called Grigory, more loudly. “We must go now. It is nearly dawn. You gave me your word.”

A heavy object crashed against the inside of the door. “You father of a diseased dog!” screamed the woman. “I will cut out _.your eyes and spit on them if you don’t leave at once.” Another object shattered against the door to emphasize her point.

Grigory sighed and turned to his waiting troop, raising his hand in a signal. One of the Cossacks moved his horse a few paces to one side, quietly cleared his throat, and then in a high-pitched voice, called out, “What are you men doing at my house?”

Utter silence gripped the occupants of the house, then a strangled whisper came from the woman. “My husband! May Allah have mercy on me.”

An instant later, a man came hurtling out of a rear window clad only in a karakul hat and the green shirt worn under a Cossack tunic, carrying his underpants, trousers, tunic and boots under one arm. Directly behind him crawled out a voluptuous Turkish woman, wearing only a hastily donned shift, her hair hanging lank and loose over her face.

Three of the Cossacks stationed at the rear of the house instantly pounced on the man, bringing him to earth in a tangle of arms and legs. Two others ran up and grasped the arms of the woman, who had flung herself on the men holding her lover and was scratching at their eyes.

Grigory came striding up. “Paul,” he called out to the struggling man. “We must go. Look, it is almost dawn.”

Paul stopped fighting at once. He sat up and looked about. “Why, I do believe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, my little friend. You have been in that house eighteen hours.”

“Eighteen hours!” exclaimed Paul. “Impossible.” He turned to the woman. “Nadia, have I been here eighteen hours?”

“He lies, that big son of a whore. It has been only minutes, my golden lamb. Tell him to give us an hour more. A half-hour. Anything.”

Grigory motioned to the Cossacks holding the woman and they dragged her around the side of the house.

“Paul!” she yelled. “Come back to me. Promise, or I will kill myself!”

Grigory squatted in front of Paul. “Little Cossack,” he said, shaking his head in wonder and waving away the three guards. “You must stop taking leave while a battle is being fought.”

“I say, old man,” protested Paul indignantly, “didn’t we expressly agree that I would have fourteen days’ leave each year?”

“Yes, but …”

“And was anything said as to exactly when they were to be taken?”

“No, but …”

“Then I can’t for the life of me see what you’re complaining about.”

“But during a battle, my friend. It just isn’t done.”

“Why, I don’t see your point at all. Has there been a day when we have not been fighting during the eleven months I’ve been with you?”

“No.”

“And do you expect to have one day without fighting during the next twelve months?”

“Well, it’s unlikely.”

“Exactly. Therefore, you can count these eighteen hours against my leave. Now, doesn’t that sound just?”

Grigory scratched his head. “Paul, my friend, sometimes I think you will make me a little crazy before I die. Come, we will argue later, we have to hurry now. Dress. I will explain while we ride.” He walked back to his troop while Paul put on his clothes.

Paul dressed swiftly, slipping his lean, five-feet-ten-inch body into his pants and buttoning the tunic over his square, powerful shoulders. His blond hair, whose waves could not be controlled by brash or comb, seemed even lighter against the black karakul hat, and his unruly blond eyebrows met over laughing blue eyes as clear as a mountain sky in the summer. His nose was a most undistinguished one, and turned up slightly at its tip, but his lips revealed his carefree character with their ready smile, a smile that even his bushy blond moustache and beard could not hide.

When he stamped his feet into his boots, it became immediately obvious that this man in his mid-twenties was a superb horseman, for his legs were long, well-balanced and slightly bowed. His hands were those of a horseman, too -slender, sinewy, blunt-tipped.

In the woods near the house, he found his horse tied to a tree, munching contentedly at a mound of hay he had placed there before entering Nadia’s arms, Throwing on his saddle, lie buckled the cinch, slipped his sabre strap and nagaika lanyard over his head and shoulder, slung his rifle and a bandolier of ammunition, and leapt up on his horse.

His mount, a tall chestnut stallion with wicked eyes and dancing hooves, snorted with satisfaction as Paul rejoined the troop, riding beside Grigory at the head of the column.

“Did you catch up with them?” asked Paul.

Grigory stretched in his saddle, “No, they slipped away. But I found tracks heading east of here, towards the river. I think they doubled back.”

“Whatever would they want at the river? There’s only fishing boats there.”

“That was the mystery, my Little Cossack. So I sent off a patrol yesterday when I saw their tracks change direction. The men reported back a couple of hours ago that a special boat will be coming by this morning.”

“But the river is hundreds of miles long. How do you expect to find them?”

Grigory smiled with satisfaction. “When you have fought the cursed infidels for five generations you learn to read their minds. The best place to ambush a boat is at a point about fifteen miles from here. The river swings to the left and a strip of land stretches far out into the water. If they intend to attack, it will be there. By my calculations the boat should be there in two hours.”

Paul yawned. “Fifteen miles, eh? We’ve time to spare.” He rubbed a hand through his blond beard. “I’d give a month’s pay to cut this off. It itches.”

Grigory grinned. “I could not have you in my troop if you did, my friend. We Cossacks are the Old Believers. To us, religion means more than life. It is only when we are fighting that we can even trim our beards. It is against our belief to put scissors to it otherwise.” He chuckled. “My grandfather had a beautiful beard, down to here …” his hand went halfway down his chest, “… parted in the middle, and one day, while lighting a fire, one side burned nearly to his chin. He was going to leave it like that, but everyone in the village laughed at such a comical sight, so he took two stones and beat them together against the longer beard until he had chopped it as short as the burnt one. That is the way we Old Believers are.”

“Why did you allow me to join your troop?”

The big Cossack threw an arm around Paul’s shoulders. “Who could resist you? Your love of horses and fighting. In each man’s life he is destined to meet another man who will be his friend forever. I am yours, my Little English Cossack. I cannot explain it, but I feel it. Therefore, you are a true Cossack to me.”

Paul grasped his wrist. “And I am your friend and always will be?”

Grigory straightened in his saddle. “Come, we must speed it up a bit.”

Amar Czerik, chief of the Cherkessian village overrun by Grigory, raised his head from his position behind a rock and looked downriver. He grunted with satisfaction at the sight of the boat only fifteen minutes or so away. He estimated it to be fifty-five or sixty feet long, a side-paddle steamer that must have been used upriver exclusively, for he had never seen it in this region before. That was why the news had come to his ears, because it was an unusual boat. He hoped it carried more than just passengers - something he could trade for guns and ammunition. During the past two years, the Cossack attacks had almost decimated his flocks of sheep and herds of horses, his principal source of wealth, and his arms supply had run low. Before that time, life had been most amusing. One year the Cossacks raided his village, raped a few women, stole a few animals, then went back to their farming or horse raising. The next year, he had taken his men and raided a Cossack village, raping a few women, stealing a few animals, and then coming back to tend his flocks. But since the war between Russia and Turkey three years ago, the assaults by full-time Cossack cavalry had become more numerous. He had reached the conclusion that he must pull two or three good forays to rebuild his fortune before moving everything, his herds and people, deep into Turkey, from where he could make raids without exposing his village to Cossack attacks.

He wondered how Nadia had made out this time. His other three wives gave him not a moment’s concern, for they were just lumps of flesh, but Nadia could make love so extraordinarily, deliriously exciting that the promises of Allah’s Paradise would pale in comparison. He hoped the man, or men, who covered her didn’t ruin any of her abilities. The thought made him chuckle aloud. Ruin her? Allah help the man who decided to spend the night with her, for she was not above cracking his testicles or slitting his penis if he didn’t keep her bouncing about at least half the time.

A whisper from one of his men attracted his attention. He looked downriver again. The boat was only five minutes or so away. Crawling back to the edge of the forest, he rose and rejoined his men, who were standing to horse. There were almost two hundred of them, uniformed exactly like their other enemies, the Kuban Cossacks, wearing black karakul hats, two inches lower then those of the Don Cossacks and rising to a point, long grey coats falling to their knees with cartridge loops on their chests, tight trousers of red or blue tucked into the same black, knee-high boots that the Don Cossacks wore but without heels. They were armed more simply, with scimitars, daggers, and an assortment of heavy-stocked Turkish muskets and lighter, finer British Enfield musket-rifles which had been turned over to them after the Crimean War.

At a signal from a scout at the water’s edge, Amar whipped out his sword, raised himself in his stirrups and released a high, shrill yell. At once, two hundred dark, high-cheek-boned faces let out a roar as they emerged from the forest and raced across the short stretch of open ground to the river. A hundred feet further on was the boat, sailing in water only four feet deep, the people inside oblivious to the danger sweeping down on them. Out into the river sped the raiders, throwing up fountains of spray as they splashed halfway to the boat, then slowing down as their horses sank belly deep.

The Captain of the boat finally took action. His hand grasped the bell cord and sounded the alarm. Half a dozen men rushed up from below carrying rifles.

Without pausing, the Cherkessians loosed off a volley of shots. The Captain, his pilot, who was standing next to him in the control booth, and the six men on the deck fell as if poleaxed. Shouting with glee, twenty of the Cherkessians closed in on the boat, rising to their feet on their saddles and leaping over the rail, swords in hand. Four men came up from below deck to meet them. Within seconds, two of them were cut down, the other two backing down the stairs, blocking it for the instant, fighting for their lives.

Amar was the first aboard. Leaving the few remaining men to the scimitars of his warriors, he looked about. The boat contained a row of cabins, their windows at knee-height from the deck, and scores of wooden cases piled fore and aft. His keen ears caught the screams of women below and he smiled. He hoped there were at least ten of them, for more then twenty men to a woman generally did not make for good sport.

While some of his men rushed to the control cabin to stop the boat, he shouted to a new wave of his followers clambering aboard. “The windows! Break them down!”

As the Moslems kicked in the glass and started climbing through, the screams of the women grew in number and volume.

Suddenly a bugle sounded and a great shout came from the shore! Amar wheeled about and his eyes opened wide. Two lines of cavalry were racing from the forest, a giant Cossack in the lead. Amar stood fixed to the deck in amazement as the Cossacks he had led on a wild-goose chase scores of miles in the opposite direction materialized where he least expected them. He observed the formation of the two attacking waves and a cold fist gripped his heart at the sight of the Cossack lancers leading the assault with their lances still looped to their upper arms and rifles in the hands of all.

“Down in the saddles!” he shouted to his followers milling by the side of the boat.

Too late! Grigory had raised his hand and his two lines came to an abrupt halt. An instant later, the lancers leveled their rifles and fired. A dozen of Amar’s men toppled from their horses and slid into the current of the river. At a second signal from Grigory, the rear line of Cossacks passed through that of the lancers, aimed their rifles and fired. Another dozen of the raiders dropped from their saddles.

“Face the charge!” screamed Amar.

Even had his men heard and understood and tried to obey, it would have made little difference. Before the stunned Cherkessians could take a breath, the rear rank had slung their rifles, lowered their steel-tipped lances and charged, the front rank letting them through, then, slinging their own rifles, whipping out sabres, and racing directly behind their assaulting comrades.

It was sheer slaughter. The Moslems, mounted on smaller, more agile horses, but caught in deep water and unable to maneuver, could not escape the cruel lances. Ten or more were thrust through, screaming, driven from their saddles and flung under the threshing hooves of their startled mounts, At once the lancers pulled back and made room for the yelling, sabre-wielding line behind them, then drew their own sabres to join the battle. And here, too, the Cherkessians were at a disadvantage, since their smaller horses were unable to slip out of the way quickly enough and their scimitars, shorter by nature of the greater curve, could be used only for defense.

Amar made his decision the instant the first rank of Cossacks fired. Shouting to the men nearest him, he ordered them to swim their horses to the opposite bank and form a covering force. Then jumping back on his horse, he plunged into the fray, yelling to his shattered, lanced, sabred, disorganized men to seek escape. Leading fifteen of the bravest of his fighters, he charged directly at the Cossacks, the unexpectedness and ferocity of his attack pulling them up short for a few moments, precious moments for his hard-beset followers to draw themselves together. He saw two Cossacks, the dark-haired giant with a blond one by his side, cutting their way into the ragged line his men were desperately trying to form. Five of his fifteen brave ones had fallen, but shouting to the remainder, he wheeled towards the two deadly swordsmen, thrusting and slashing to reach them and prevent the splitting of his line.

Suddenly, all was hopeless, and Amar recognized it instantly. To attempt to hold a line or to fight back step by step or even hope for a gallant few to sacrifice their lives to permit the others to escape was no longer possible. All that remained was flight, ignoble, hasty, terrified retreat and Amar was too wise and experienced a leader not to accept it at once.

“Retreat!” he shouted, turning his own mount deeper into the river and swimming it towards the opposite bank. In small groups, his men disengaged from battle and fled after him, hotly pursued by the howling Cossacks who cut them down one by one.

A dozen of the men ordered to the far shore were in position when Amar’s horse climbed out of the water.

“Skirmish line!” snapped Amar. “Cover the ones most likely to reach us.”

Drawing out his revolver, Amar directed the fire, knocking from their saddles half a dozen Cossacks before they became aware of the danger facing them. At once, the attacking Cossacks stopped and whipped the rifles from off their shoulders, quickly reloading and returning the fire. But, praised be Allah, the respite gained a few more precious seconds, and soon over eighty of his original band of two hundred had reached the opposite bank. The Cossacks came after them, firing as their horses swam, not at all inclined to let them depart in peace. Amar waited not one moment longer than necessary before ordering his men to flee over open meadows towards the shelter of a forest a few miles away.

Behind them, the Cossacks Grigory and Paul in the lead, clawed their way to the bank and set off after their foe. In seconds, Paul was far in advance of the heavier Grigory, and little by little he closed on the retreating Cherkessians. Soon he caught up to the rearmost, and, raising himself high in his stirrups, swung his sabre. The keen blade struck the fleeing Moslem at the base of his neck, almost severing his head. Without slowing down to watch him hit the ground, Paul pushed on and was soon up to a second man. Here was a more alert fighter, and his blade passed an inch from Paul’s face as he leaned back in his saddle and lashed out with a desperate back-hand swing. Paul drove the heels of his boots into the sides of his horse, gaining a step, then lashed out with a back-hand stroke of his own. The Cherkessian ducked to one side, but his shoulder was struck by the blade and he tumbled off his mount. Paul looked behind to see Grigory whirling his sabre in a great arc, splitting the grounded man almost in two.

Amar dropped back. He had seen two of his followers cut down by the swift-riding blond Cossack and it was obvious that others would fall under his sabre if he was not stopped. Deliberately he let his horse lag until he was at the rear, then when he heard the beat of hooves immediately behind himself, he glanced down and to the left for the flash of the animal’s leg. There it was! Instantly, Amar bent far over his horse’s mane. He felt the wind of a sabre as it passed over him, then suddenly he straightened, checked his horse for the barest second and thrust to the left with his scimitar.

There was no avoiding the blow and Paul made no attempt to do so. Instead, he sucked in his stomach and turned slightly to his right, taking the blade in his side rather than his abdomen. It went in and out like a flash, and Paul felt a stab of sharp pain and a wave of dizziness.

By reflex, he tightened his knee grip and neck-reined his horse viciously to the right, directly behind Amar’s mount. It saved his life, for Amar had swung with a swift chop. The blade missed him by a hair,

Amar waited no longer. He had halted the blond terror, so he bent low on his horse and thwacked its flank with the flat of his sword. In seconds he was yards away, shepherding the slower riders of his flock. Just as he reached the trees, he heard the thunder of hooves behind him again, He looked back and a gleam of wonder and respect came to his eyes. There was the blond one, his face white and taut, the reins of his horse gripped between his teeth, his cruel Cossack whip, the nagaika, in his left hand beating his wild-eyed mount, his sabre in his right, poised to strike.

Amar recognized the blood lust in his pursuer and knew that just as surely as a cheetah will sprint almost blindly for the victim he had chosen so would the blond Cossack, blood pouring from his side, aim for him and no one else. At once he reined to the right and galloped away from him, then diagonally deeper into the forest.

Here he was at home, his smaller, more agile horse slipping between the trees without slackening speed, with him bending and swaying to avoid striking branches and helping to lift his horse over fallen stumps.

Then, amazingly, he heard the pounding of hooves close behind him and looked back. The blond one had let the nagaika drop to his side, had grasped the reins with his left hand again and was only two lengths away. He marveled at the magnificent horsemanship of the man who must be crazy to continue the pursuit with a wound in his side. Then he himself felt the urge to do battle again so he took a tighter grip on his scimitar and straightened in his saddle.

Through the trees he saw a large clearing, and the instant he was in the open area he whirled his horse smoothly about and faced the bleeding Cossack. Paul slashed out as he thundered by, feeling his blow easily deflected by the slim, dark-faced man, as tall as he but at least twenty pounds lighter than his more solid one hundred and seventy.

Paul knew he was in trouble when the Cherkessian’s horse leaped after him and ran hot on his tail. At once, he reined hard to the right, then immediately to the left. Amar stayed directly behind him. Around and around the clearing they raced, Paul weaving and bobbing, twisting his horse from side to side, only his superb balance keeping him inches away from the murderous Moslem blade. He had to work fast, he knew, for the blood pumping out of his side was weakening him and it would be a matter of minutes before his reactions slowed and signed his death warrant.

Desperately, he threw all into a single gamble. With an abrupt, mighty pull on the reins, he lifted his horse and whirled it about---and rammed it directly into that of the Moslem! The smaller horse went down like it had been shot, flinging its rider against a tree. Paul’s mount fell to its knees, but he was already off its back and streaking over to the stunned Cherkessian.

Amar shook his head to clear it, and, realizing his sword had been lost in the fall, he groped for a dagger at his waist. Suddenly, he felt the cold point of a sabre at his throat. He froze. His eyes cleared and he saw the blond one standing over him, his fingers white on the hilt, and then he felt the slight pressure of the hand as it prepared to drive the blade right into him.

He sighed and leaned back ever so slightly. “If one must go before Allah,” he whispered softly, “one is content that it was done by the sword of a mighty fighter.” He closed his eyes.

Then, amazingly, he felt the blade draw away from his throat and his eyes snapped opened. The blond Cossack was walking towards his horse.

Amar rose to his feet. “Cossack!” he called. Paul stopped. “Why do you give me my life?”

Paul shrugged and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. He mounted his horse and looked down at the Cherkessian. “I’m a friend of the family,” he finally said, grinning. His hand rose in salute.

Amar smiled in return as he bowed his head. “Go with Allah, blond one.”

Paul whirled his horse back the way he had come.

Grigory was racing up and down the edge of the forest when Paul rode out. “Paul!” he shouted, spurring his horse over to his friend. “I have been searching for you for half an hour.” He heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought you were dead, Little Cossack.”

“No, I’m all right. Got lost in the forest for a while, that’s all. I’m glad to see you’re in one piece.”

Grigory untied the strips of undershirt that Paul had used to bandage his side and examined the wound. “You are lucky, my friend, it is a clean one. But we’d better get it tended before it becomes infected.”

“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Paul. “I’m taking this wound back to the village. It needs soft, tender hands, not those horny claws you Old Believers carry about.”

Grigory laughed, slapping his knee. “And take a guess, Little Cossack, what we fished out of that boat we saved.”

Paul eyed him narrowly. “Impossible,” he said. “Women don’t sail in river boats.”

“Oh, no! And what would you say if I told you there are twenty-two ladies aboard on their way to Navarok to dance in a ballet?”

Paul sat up straighter and cocked his hat at a rakish angle. “I’d say you are greatest liar west of the Urals or a magician in disguise.”

“And what else would you say, Little Cossack, if I told you it will take two, maybe three days to find a new Captain and pilot for the boat and that we will have to watch over these little pigeons until they come?”

Paul licked his lips. “Then I would say, you magnificent Cossack, that we are wasting time standing here.” And with that, be slipped out his nagaika and brought it crashing down on the rump of his horse.

It was a joyous three days. To prevent his men from crippling each other within the hour, Grigory sent all but nineteen of them back to their base camp under the command of one of his lieutenants. He realized that keeping only nineteen men plus Paul and himself for twenty-two girls meant that they had an extra girl on hand, but he also knew Paul. They set up camp on shore, took supplies from the boat, including cases of vodka, and settled down to enjoy the fruits of Victory. It developed into such an orgy that fishermen who passed by spoke of it for fifty miles up and down the river. Actually, it became such a riot that two Cossacks were nearly killed doing tricks on horseback while blind drunk.

The celebration came to an end when a fast river boat sailed up with a replacement crew and the women waved a tearful goodbye to the Cossacks. Well, not all of them. Two of the women were missing when the new Captain counted heads, and they were found hiding in the forest waiting to follow Paul when the Cossacks moved on. They had to be tied hand and foot and dragged aboard, where they kept screaming until the boat reached its destination.

The fast river boat brought more than the replacement crew. It also brought three well-dressed men carrying black leather cases. Mr. Blatherbell eyed the two struggling, shouting women as they were taken below deck and he turned to his partners.

“I do believe our search is ended,” he said.

“It could be a coincidence,” warned Mr. Poopendal.

“Impossible,” said Mr. Blatherbell without hesitation. He looked about. “My good man,” he called out to a Cossack reeling by. “Who is in charge here?”

The Cossack pointed to Grigory sitting forlornly on the beach watching the women waving goodbye. Then the Cossack passed out.

Mr. Blatherbell led the way gingerly through the whooping singing Cossacks and approached the giant.

“Pardon me,” he said. “Would you know the whereabouts of an Englishman named Mr. Paul Sanderson?”

Grigory climbed ponderously to his feet and glared down at the three men. They shuddered and shrank back. “I don’t know any Paul Sanderson,” he growled. “What do you want with my friend, Paul anyhow? Have you come to make trouble?”

Mr. Blatherbell gulped to regain his breath, “We are here to bring very good news to Mr. Sanderson,” he said, then added hastily, ‘that is, if he should happen to pass by, of course, for you have convinced us that no Paul Sanderson is nearby.” He wiped his head with a large handkerchief.

“What’s this good news for my friend, Paul, who is not here?” asked Grigory, less sternly.

Mr. Blatherbell regained some of his composure. “A relative of Mr. Sanderson has died and left him considerable property.”

Grigory peered at them closely while rocking slightly backward and forward, his cropped hair standing on end, the collar of his tunic and green shirt open, his beard still damp from spilled vodka.

“Are you telling me the truth?” he growled. “I swear you will be fertilizer for sunflowers if you are lying to me.”

“The absolute truth,” said Mr. Blatherbell, again full of confidence. “However, if Mr. Sanderson is not here, we will be on our way.” He motioned to his partners and they began walking towards the river boat which was waiting for them.

“Wait!” shouted Grigory. He scratched his head vigorously, thinking furiously. Then his face cleared. “I know a man who is not Paul Sanderson, but I will have him listen to you.” He turned and scanned the area. “Hey, Little Cossack!” he yelled. He looked about, but Paul did not appear.

One of his Cossacks staggered by. “Are you looking for your friend Paul, my Captain?” he asked Grigory.

“I don’t have a friend named Paul,” shouted Grigory. “Do you know where the Little Cossack has gone?”

“Yes, my Captain,” mumbled the Cossack, pointing at the forest. ‘I saw him there barely an hour ago, sleeping.”

Grigory lurched towards the spot indicated by his soldier, and minutes later be returned, supporting Paul, whose legs were like jelly.

“This is the fellow who is not Paul Sanderson,” said Grigory. “You tell him what you told me.”

Paul forced his eyes open and worked desperately to focus them. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am James Blatherbell, senior partner of the firm of solicitors of Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas, Your Grace. We …”.

“What did you call me?” asked Paul, rapidly throwing off the drunken fog.

“Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell.

“You mean to say the old bastard is dead?” asked Paul grinning.

“Yes, Your Grace.. He died almost two months ago.”

“Well, what about old rump-licker, Percy? Did he forget to kiss the old bastard’s boot one day?”

“Lord Percival met with an unfortunate accident on the eve of your uncle’s demise. .A fatal accident.”

“Well, good for old Percy boy. I always knew he would stumble at the last hurdle.” A wide grin came to his lips. “So I’m a blooming duke, am I?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Paul turned to Grigory. “How do you like that, you crazy Cossack! Little old Paul is a blooming duke.”

“You’re a real duke?” said Grigory, awed. “The same kind of duke as we have in Russia?”

“You can bet your sweet old life on that,” yelled Paul. “A real live, wind-passing, arse-pinching, village-owning duke, with a castle bigger than this whole blooming forest.” He spun towards Mr. Blatherbell. “How much can I get for the castle?”

“I don’t quite know, but it would be a large sum.”

Paul sobered. He turned and looked directly at Grigory. “You will come with me, won’t you, my friend?”

Grigory smiled wistfully as he shook his head. “It is a different world there, my Little Cossack. My world is here. I would not be the same man elsewhere.” He put his arms around Paul’s shoulders. “Go, my friend, be the Duke you are. Just remember that I love you more than a brother.”

They embraced unashamedly.