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Wolf of the Steppes

University of Nebraska Press

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ISBN: 0-8032-8048-3

Chapter One

When the noonday sun struck through clouds and fell upon the
saber on his knee, Khlit made up his mind it was time to eat.
Putting aside the sheepskin rag with which he had been wiping
specks of rust from his weapon, Khlit drew from the pocket of
his coat several hard barley cakes. These he broke over the silver
heel of his boot and munched. Thus did Khlit satisfy his noonday
hunger.

All the forenoon, seated beside one of the streets of the Zaporogian
Siech, as the Cossacks of the sixteenth and well into the
seventeenth century called their isolated war encampment-an
island midway between the Russian and the Tatar banks of the
great river Dnieper-Khlit had been polishing his cherished saber,
a curved Turkish blade of Damascus forging. That morning, when
he had awakened after a night of wine-guzzling, Khlit had heard
rumors of war bandied about the kurens, or barracks, and like the
scent of game to a wolfhound, the tidings had set the warrior to
nursing his sword.

Peering out under shaggy brows, the keen eyes of the Cossack,
which every now and then sought the river, noticed a stirring
among the kurens. Knights of the siech were gathering ingroups
to learn if there was truth in the rumors. As the hammering
on blacksmith forges became louder, young Cossacks sprang to
horse.

Khlit sat still, sheepskin hat on the back of his sunburned head,
bald save for the long scalp lock that trailed over his shoulders.
His gray sheepskin coat was flung back under the rays of a midday
sun, a broad leather belt making it fast at the waist. The warrior's
costly nankeen breeches of brilliant red were tucked in his heavy
boots. A short pipe stuck out from under his long gray mustaches.

In Khlit's mind the matter was clear enough. He could not
understand why comrades bickered and bayed like dogs about
war when all the Koshevoi Ataman, their leader, needed to do
was to say the word and forth the Zaporogian Siech would fare,
thousands in number, the flower of the world's knighthood, ready
to take the field against Turk, Tatar, Pole, or other foe of the
Orthodox Church.

Why, wondered Khlit, was there any hesitation, when their
godfather, the czar himself, had appointed them watchdogs of
the Ukraine and the Russian land? Watchdogs of stout heart and
good red blood did not lie in kennels and stuff their carcasses with
food. Nor did they wait for an adversary to come to the kennel
door and poke a stick at them before they sallied forth. Why then,
the Cossack asked himself, did the flower of the Ukraine linger
on the island encampment in the middle of the wide Dnieper and
waste the strength and sinews of the young men in mimic battles
suited to the entertainment of women, not full-grown men?

In a people where few grow old before cut down by an enemy
sword, Khlit had been fortunate to survive many wars. The old
knight had marched into Poland and he had laid waste the territory
of the khans hundreds of versts away across the Volga. In
his cottage in the village of Rusk he kept treasures of these campaigns,
weapons wrested from the unbelievers, ransoms gleaned
from wealthy Turks, and pillage from sacked towns. But the
eyes of Khlit did not turn toward the cottage. They searched the
distant banks of the Dnieper where foes might be found. If his
thoughts wandered to home, it was to the young Cossacks who
were coming to the siech from the village that day, and especially
to Menelitza, his foster son who would join him before sundown.

A shout from a nearby group attracted his attention. Several
Cossacks were crouched over dice, and a burly warrior who
seemed to have met with bad fortune stood up with a curse.
Hesitating a second, he tore off his heavy coat and boots and
threw them on the ground. His sword had been claimed by his
adversary as payment for all debts, and he signified that he would
wager his coat and shoes against the sword, which he was loath
to relinquish.

Those in the ring about them peered at the dice casually as the
big Cossack threw, and one clapped him on the back with a loud
laugh as the result was known. He had won.

Next the Cossack wagered his coat and shoes against some
gold sequins of his adversary, a thin, hook-nosed warrior with a
scarred cheek. He lost.

Refusing all offers of further wagers, the Cossack thrust his
sword in his belt and marched off up the street, swaying a little
from the effects of drink. Coming abreast of Khlit he halted
irresolutely.

"A health to you, noble sir," he muttered, raising a huge hand
in drink-solemn greeting. "You are of the Rusk kuren? I know you
among many, Khlit, bogatyr. That son of a devil's dog, Taravitch,
diced me out of coat and shoes. And with the young Cossack
brood coming from Rusk to our kuren tonight."

"Have you other boots, or money to buy them? There is talk of
war," said Khlit after a moment's inspection of the other, whose
face he now recognized.

"Hey-money?" The giant shook his head and grinned. "I gave
the silver in my heels to the Jews for corn brandy last night. I have
not the smell of a sequin."

"Then say to the hetman of our kuren," replied Khlit, "that I
bid him give you boots and whatever you may need. There will
be war, and the siech will march."

"Hey-that is good," chuckled the Cossack. "I shall swagger
before the striplings tonight."

"You can thank your sword for it, offspring of swine," explained
Khlit, "for you would not lose that. A Cossack and his
sword are one until death."

The giant shook his head, as though he did not grasp this piece
of wisdom. Staggering, he went on his way, but no more wine was
to pass his bearded lips. The magic word "war" was a talisman
that brought the light of anticipation to his bloodshot eyes and
purpose to his heavy steps. When the siech went to war no drunkards
were tolerated.

Khlit looked up a second time to find Taravitch, the successful
gambler, watching him. Khlit mistrusted Taravitch, for the hook-nosed
Cossack was a person rare among the folk of the siech, a
shrewd getter of money. To the open-handed warriors money was
only a means to wine and weapons, to cherish it for itself was a
symptom of the malady that afflicted the Jewish camp followers.
Taravitch was known to be a winner at dice or other games, a
hard bargainer, and a heartless creditor. Many of the Cossacks
had been poor and worse than poor for years at a stretch for owing
Taravitch money.

On the other hand Taravitch had no love for Khlit, whose name
was coupled with much spoil and riches, and who was forever urging
the men of the Ukraine to war, when the camp proved more
profitable to Taravitch. If the truth were known, Khlit wasted no
words of ceremony in speaking of the gambler, and some of these
remarks had come to the ears of the other.

Several of the Cossacks who had been watching the dice stood
beside Taravitch and contemplated Khlit as the latter, his meal
ended long since, wiped at his saber with the sheepskin cloth.
Finally Taravitch was moved to speak.

"Hail to you, Khlit," he said, mouthing his words and watching
the other the while. "Do you polish your saber to show the young
men who come to the Rusk kuren at sundown today? Or are you
ready to give it to a better warrior and return to your cottage with
the women?"

There was a laugh at this from the watchers, but Khlit did not
even look up.

"I have heard," continued Taravitch, "that the young men
from Rusk are not as fine a lot as when we smoked our pipes
in the ruins of Anatolian churches. Devil take them! None of the
lot will come to camp as we did; like a good knight, with a brave
display."

As it is the first test of his knighthood, the manner of a
stripling's coming to the siech for the first time, when he is
of age, is taken as a measure of his bravery. If he comes gaily
appareled and well mounted with a crowd of companions and
makes his horse go through feats before the hetmans, he is well
received. If he enters camp timidly, or shows any fear, he is held
in dishonor by the Cossacks.

"Health to you, Taravitch," responded Khlit carelessly. "Do
you watch when the son of Menelitza, my foster son, comes to the
siech. It will be a sight to brighten your heart. He is the offspring
of a bogatyr-bred from a stock that excelled in courage all in
our Russian land."

"Nay, Khlit," said Taravitch, his eyes narrowing as when he
seized an advantage at dice. "The young Cossacks are weaklings.
They are schooled in books and weaned by women. There are
none in these days to leap their horse over the palisade about the
siech, breaking both their necks as Borodagy did once, or to come
bearing a whole cask of wine on their shoulder for the Koshevoi
Ataman and the hetmans."

"We will see, Taravitch," said Khlit.

"It will be poor sport," replied the gambler in scorn. "Perchance
your Menelitza will have courage enough to ride a horse
and make the beast stand on three legs before us. A woman's
feat!"

"The son of Menelitza," said Khlit slowly, "will come to the
siech as no other before him has come. You will see-"

"Hey!" Taravitch swung round on the spectators, but his
glance still measured the old Cossack. "What nonsense are you
mouthing? Do you think we are children, to believe that? Your
precious Menelitza will come with a crowd, and none can tell
him from the others!"

"The father of Menelitza ran his horse through a Tatar camp
to fetch me from the grasp of the khan," said Khlit, unmoved,
"and Menelitza will show you a feat of daring that will warm the
hearts of the old men."

"A wager," cried Taravitch, "that Menelitza, who comes to the
siech at sundown, will not surpass all others in a feat of daring!
My Arab stallion against a hundred sequins of gold. Ha, old fox,
where is your valor?"

"No man has asked that upon the battlefield, Taravitch,"
replied Khlit, "but you shall have your wager. Only it will be
a man's wager, not a child's plaything."

He paused and looked up calmly at the circle that pressed about
them.

"In my house at Rusk," he went on, "are fifty goblets of silver
and gold taken from the enemies of the siech, Persian carpets
several in number, rare swords from Turkey, four horses of the
finest blood. Also Polish trophies and gold-chased armor, with a
thousand sequins of gold. All this will I wager against your coin of
five thousand sequins and your Arab horses. Come now, are you
a staunch wold, Taravitch, or a rabbit that dives into his burrow
when he sees a man?"

Taravitch gazed at the Cossack as if fascinated. His eyes narrowed
as he wet his lips. The riches Khlit had mentioned, he
knew to be in the cottage at Rusk. Also, if Khlit pledged his word
before witnesses the promise was good. Yet never had the gambler
staked the bulk of his wealth on any one throw. The prospect
dazzled him.

"Menelitza comes today, Khlit?" he asked, weighing his
words.

"He has promised me," assented the old man.

"Then it is a wager." Taravitch turned to the watchers, who
gaped at him. "You have heard the terms," he cried, "and the
wager-that Menelitza comes today to the siech as none other
has come before him. The wager is offered and accepted."

II

The sun, which had been high, was nearing the Russian bank of
the Dnieper when the burly Cossack who had been befriended
by old Khlit returned to the spot and found his benefactor seated
where he had been before. The bright saber still reflected sun's
rays. Khlit glanced up as he approached. The Cossack was again
without coat and boots.

"Devil take you," Khlit said affectionately. "Can't you keep
a coat upon your fat back? But tell me, is there any news of the
approach of men from Rusk? It draws near sundown."

"Hey, old sword-eater," growled the Cossack, "I have heard of
the wager you made. News of it has got from one end of the camp
to the other. The noble knights are all watching to see the result.
Nay, I gave your coat and boots away to one who needed them."

"Have the men from Rusk been sighted?"

"Hey? I don't know. Taravitch was talking about it to the
knight who has charge of the ferry and the good man said he'd
be flogged with a saber if the Dnieper wasn't rising and jumping
about with the wind so much that it were a perilous task to take
out the boat from shore. Besides, the oars are lost. So the fine
fellow who pilots the boat told me."

"Lost!" Khlit's glance flickered over the Cossack. "Devil take
the rascal, has he but the one boat? Where are the others?"

"Away up the river, Khlit," responded the big warrior with a
hearty laugh at the discomfiture of his friend, "and old Father
Dnieper is growling to himself and gnashing his white teeth at
the wind. Did Menelitza swear he would be in camp this day?"

"He swore it on a holy image, Waggle-Tongue," Khlit made
reply, inspecting his sword. "And Menelitza does not waste his
words for love of hearing himself bray. He will come at sundown."

The Cossack gazed at Khlit's shiny black boots admiringly.

"So you say, Khlit, bogatyr," he mused, "and the noble sirs
maintain that good sharp sword, or well-loaded pistol. Still, how
can the son of your comrade arrive here when the ferryman has
drunk two dozen glasses of corn brandy with that slimy lizard of
a Taravitch, and Father Dnieper is shaking his hair in anger?"

"Did Taravitch make the ferryman drunk?" demanded Khlit
thoughtfully.

"Aye, with corn brandy. And the oars are not to be found-"

"Did Taravitch hide them?"

"Hey? Most like. If a warrior will do one mischief he will not
hold his hand at two. He has you by the scalp lock, Khlit, and
your riches are as good as in his pocket."

"It is not sundown."

"Nay, but the sun kisses his bed behind the mountains. Already
the crowd of noble sirs who have gathered in the center
of the siech to watch for the fulfillment of your wager say that
you have lost. Talk turns to the rumors of a Tatar khan seen near
Rusk. Hey, but that is good news."

"Then we will hear it," declared Khlit.

Sheathing his sword, he tightened his belt and strode along by
the giant, his gray eyes almost hidden under shaggy brows, his
hands thrust idly in his pockets. As he went, Cossacks turned
to look after him, for tidings of the great wager had stirred the
interest of the siech. Groups gathered in the center square of the
siech made way for him until the pair stood within arm's reach
of the Koshevoi Ataman and the hetmans who were discussing
the appearance of the Tatars in the Ukraine.

"The khan has spread his wings near Rusk, Khlit," said one
of the hetmans. "The Tatar dogs took a batko of the Orthodox
Church and burned him for the village to see. That was an ill deed.
They have also burned our churches. The Zaporogian Siech girds
itself for war."

Khlit tugged at his mustache with pleasure.

"That is a good word in my ears, noble sir," he grinned. "Are
all the worthy knights in favor of setting out?"

"Nay, Khlit," the hetman shook his shaggy head, "there are
many who say the burning of one batko is not enough to make
the siech set out. Methinks they are the dogs who like to lie in
the sun and scratch. They say the messenger who brought the
tidings lies, and that it is a plot of those who want war."

"Who is the messenger?" demanded Khlit, frowning.

"Yon fellow in the big cloak and new boots. He came to the
camp in sore plight. He swears the Khan is near Rusk."

Khlit's gaze fell on a slender Cossack, dark-skinned, who
stood quietly before the Koshevoi Ataman, watching the warriors
around him curiously. The stranger seemed not to interest
Khlit.

"Hey," said the giant, "he is the vagabond I gave my coat and
boots to. He came to me near the ferry-"

He was silenced by murmurs from a group of Cossacks who
stood near, and who began to address the Koshevoi Ataman. One
of their number thrust through the crowd hastily and Khlit pulled
at his mustache as he recognized Taravitch.

"A word to the Koshevoi Ataman," cried Taravitch in a loud
voice. "This man who says that he comes from Rusk this afternoon
lies, for no man has come from the shore to the island."

"How is that, Taravitch?" asked Khlit quickly.

"It is true," persisted the gambler. "I know, for early in the
afternoon I saw the ferryman asleep by the shore, so filled with
wine he could not stand. And there are no other boats. So no one
could come from shore across Father Dnieper. Look!"

Taravitch pointed, and the Cossacks looked out over the river.
The red glow of sunset flamed on the tossing crest of the waves,
with here and there a white fleck of foam. The wind from the
west slapped their faces and pulled at their beards. Truly, Father
Dnieper was in no gentle mood. Taravitch, who loved better the
tranquility of the siech than the hardships of war, smiled as he
felt the amazement and concern of the gathering at his words. He
had made his point. Already he had won, he felt, a huge wager
from the wise Khlit, and now he went on to drive home his plan
to discredit the messenger.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Wolf of the Steppes
by Harold Lamb
Copyright © 2006 by University of Nebraska Press .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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