The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 5

  He was furious, hating me more than ever. He had never intended for the girl to be freed, yet he had intended, I am sure, that Cervon was to die.

  “I don’t understand!” I protested. “I was chasing her when I was hit! How could she have escaped from us all?”

  “You did not see the Moors?”

  The rush of feet I remembered had been the ship’s crew, but the shouts and the charge had been the Moors, but whose? Were they the men of Duban? Or of ibn-Haram?

  Had Aziza escaped our ship only to fall into their hands? It was an ugly thought. Yet, would they harm her? Would she not be a valuable hostage?

  “I was pursuing them when something hit me.”

  “You were trying to escape.”

  “What? And leave the reward you promised?”

  That stopped him, bottling up his doubts, for what man would run away from a promise of gold? “You will get nothing,” he said irritably. “You are a fool.”

  Who is the wise man and who the fool? The question has puzzled philosophers. “Perhaps the gold you keep from me will buy you pain in the bazaars of Cádiz, pain left to you by some cheap wench.”

  “Cádiz? Who spoke of Cádiz?”

  “Where else? When one has gold, where else to go but where there are the finest women, the best wines, the luxuries of the earth?”

  Four men, I learned, had been slain in the charge, and one of the Finnvedens had died earlier. Another had been killed by an arrow after they had gotten into the boat, and of course, Cervon was dead. They did not suspect that it was I who killed him.

  The sword had been taken from me, and my dagger as well, but they needed me now, and I would have both weapons back one day.

  The roll of the ship was sickening to me. My mouth tasted evil, and my head throbbed. What struck me was probably a stone from a sling. Well, we Celts are noted for our hard heads. And with that thought I drifted into sleep.

  Rain awakened me. A hard dash of rain, then another. I staggered to the bulwark. Walther was nearby, revealed in a flash of lightning. “Get busy!” he shouted. “Do something!”

  “In this storm? With all the gold you have, I would be snugged down in some port with a loaf and a bottle of wine.”

  The seas were crested with white. I got a hand on the steering oar. We were headed west, which was right for Cádiz, so I tried as best I might to hold that course. Then, as the sky was gray with arriving day, he came to me, his fat jowls glistening with rain. “I like not the weather,” he grumbled. “Take us to Cádiz.”

  The lush beauty of Málaga had spoiled me for the dirt of the galley and the greasy faces of the crew. They hated me and I them, and it was but a matter of time until I escaped or they killed me.

  Yet chained to their oars were Selim and Red Mark, among others, and to them I had promised release. How long ago it seemed.

  Cádiz…it was my port of destiny. Somehow, some way I would seek payment from Walther, and somehow I would escape and be my own man once more.

  And I knew how—if only I could make it happen.

  Wild the wind and dark the rolling sea, yet not so dark as the waves within my mind. Walther must pay, and my old companions of the oars must be freed.

  Then, the wide world would be mine! I would be off to find my father, off to seek what fortune there was for me, and somewhere, somewither, a lass.

  5

  MY EYES OPENED on despair. The galley was silent; water lapped lazily against the hull, but I was a prisoner. The crew, except for a few to guard the slaves and myself, had gone ashore to Cádiz.

  All my plans had come to nothing, and I lay still, trying to think my way out of the situation. Sitting up, I looked down the line of sleeping slaves. Only Selim was awake. Our eyes met.

  Here was a man who knew hope. His eyes burned with the hot fire of eagerness, and it was I who had given him hope. Yet what could I do against four armed men?

  From the granite and green of the Armorican hills of Brittany, from her lonely moors and shores, her menhirs and dolmens, the world outside had seemed a place of bright romance where I would stride heroically among my enemies. And here I sat a prisoner to a pack of petty thieves on a stinking ship.

  Was I, the son of Kerbouchard the Corsair, to stand for this?

  One of the four was a Finnveden with no cause to like me, with a bow and arrow at his hand. His arrow would transfix my guts before I could even stand erect.

  To be reckless is not to be brave, it is only to be a fool.

  Caution always, but when a man acts he should act suddenly and with decision.

  The others slept, but what could I do against the Finnveden?

  What was it the pockmarked sailor had told me long ago? “Trust to your wits, boy.”

  Perhaps I had no wits, but that stupid ox with the bow…I might think myself wiser than he, but what price wisdom with an arrow in the guts?

  “They are having their fun ashore,” I suggested. “It is a pity Walther would not allow us a bottle of wine.”

  The Finnveden did not reply. He did not ask the question I hoped for, so I suggested, “He could at least have given us a bottle from the stores.”

  The Finnveden was alert. “What stores?”

  “He will be having plenty of wine ashore. Why did he forget to tell us we might help ourselves from what lies below?”

  “There’s wine below?”

  “Of course. It is stored under the arms chest where Walther sleeps.”

  His piglike eyes searched mine. He was a man sadly lacking in faith in his fellow man. He trusted me not at all.

  Selim was listening, understanding our talk.

  It needed time for the Finnveden to make up his mind. He was a heavy-shouldered, hairy man, uncertain of temper as an old bear with a sore tooth. Finally, he awakened the others, and they whispered together. Suddenly, they came over to me, knocked me sprawling, and bound me, hand and foot. There was a trick my father had taught me, to take a deep breath and to distend the muscles while being bound. With the slack gained when one exhales and relaxes the muscles, one can do much.

  The time was not yet…

  They went below, under the afterdeck, and then came tumbling back to the deck clutching the wine I had seen Walther hide. They began to work the corks loose with their teeth and to drink.

  One waved a bottle over me, laughing contemptuously when wine splashed in my face.

  The sun rose higher. Walther and the others would be waking up in the bordellos ashore. Suppose a relief was sent before these had drunk enough?

  Closing my eyes, I let the sun warm my muscles. Bound though I was, I could yet enjoy this pleasure, for I am one that from his earliest days has loved the physical delights: the warmth of the sun, the drinking of cold, clear water, the taste of salt spray, the damp feel of fog upon the flesh, and the touch of a woman’s hands.

  Lying upon my back, I could feel the gentle movement of the deck beneath me, the creak of resting oars, the muttering of sleeping slaves, the clank of a chain as one moved restlessly in his sleep.

  Drunken laughter came to my ears, a welcome sound.

  The crew might return at any moment, but one could not fret over what might be. One does what one can, solving problems as they appear. I heard a soft snore.

  The Finnveden was asleep. The others conversed in a desultory fashion, nursing the last bottle of wine. For them it was a lazy, easy time. They were in port, the vessel lay at anchor.

  There was slack in my bonds, but pitifully little, yet by shrinking myself as small as possible, rolling my shoulders inward and bringing my arms as close together as possible, I gained a little room in which to work.

  As they talked, I worked my fingers around until I could pluck at the knots. By the time another man was asleep, my hands were free.

  Impatient of delay and fearing the ret
urn of the crew, I worked swiftly to free my ankles. A sword lay beside the sleeping guard. Carefully, I got to my feet. Selim was watching, his eyes hard and bright.

  Measuring the distance to the sword, I started toward it. One of the guards turned and looked straight into my eyes.

  Shocked, he was for the moment immobile, then as he started to rise, I kicked him. It was a style of fighting we in Brittany had long known where the feet were used as well as the hands. My kick was sharp, accurate, and it caught him under the chin, snapping his head back as if it were hinged. I seized the sword as the other guard grabbed for it.

  The razor-sharp edge of the scimitar swept up, slitting his clothing and slicing through his chin as if it were butter. He fell, trying to scream from a throat already choking with blood.

  Selim cried out, and I spun about to see the Finnveden fumbling with his bow and an arrow, still befuddled by sleep and wine.

  It was too far to jump. Tossing the sword up, I caught the blade in my fingers and threw it like a javelin. His bow came up, arrow lining on me, but in the instant he would have let go, the thrown blade struck home and sank deep.

  The struggle had been swift, silent, almost noiseless. Glancing shoreward, I saw no boats upon the bay. Sunlight sparkled on the water, but nothing moved. Quickly, I bound the sleeping guard and then ran to the armorer’s chest for tools.

  With a bar I ripped away the hasps that bound Selim, and then we crossed to Red Mark. Slaves caught at our garments, begging to be freed, but Red Mark came first. In part because he was my friend, but still more because I needed another strong man beside me to enforce discipline necessary to our survival.

  Suddenly, as Selim and Red Mark were freed, my plan matured, and I knew what I must do.

  As the men came on deck, I caught Red Mark’s arm. “I want the galley cleaned, stem to stern.”

  “What?” He was incredulous. “We must escape!”

  “Look at them! Look at yourself! If you go into Cádiz like this, you will be known for what you are, and you will be enslaved again.

  “Listen to me! I know what I do! First, we will clean the galley, then we will clean ourselves. There is clothing, bales of it, from the goods we have taken. Each of us will have an outfit, each will have gold, then you shall hear what I have in mind.

  “But no wine! No drinking of anything more than water. Trust me!”

  With a careful watch kept for any approaching boat, the slaves worked swiftly. The galley was given a thorough cleaning, and the decks were sluiced down with salt water hoisted by buckets from the bay.

  Selim and another man, on my orders, went below to calculate the value of the cargo. He had just returned to the deck with his report when we saw a returning boat. Instantly, the slaves returned to their stations. Two others took their places as guards.

  The boat bumped alongside, and a man on board called out. When there was no response the man swore. “Sleeping!” he said angrily. “Wait until Walther hears of this!”

  Over the side they came, and into our hands. The surprise was complete. One elected to fight, and Red Mark’s sword spitted him like a pheasant over a fire. Two others were seized, thrown down, and bound. One of the slaves raised up and put an arrow into the neck of the boatman.

  The ship was ours so swiftly that it worried me, yet the crew had been a bunch of louts. The wonder was they had even thought of relieving the guards. Half drunk, the returning crewmen had no warning, no readiness for what took place.

  The rest of my plan remained, yet each moment was an invitation to disaster. Why not forget what I planned, divide the money, and let each go his way?

  The Moors of Cádiz would not be friendly to escaped slaves, and Walther would certainly enlist their aid in our recapture.

  “Use your wits,” the pockmarked one had said.

  Moreover, I had a score to settle. If my plan worked, I could send each slave on his way a modestly rich man, and I should have taught Walther a needed lesson.

  “You are in charge,” I told Red Mark. “I shall take Selim and go ashore. If any of the crew return, make prisoners of them.”

  What I needed now was a beggar, a beggar with a certain face.

  6

  ONCE ASHORE I left the waterfront and proceeded to the narrow streets of the city. The plan was one that must be quickly completed, and it was not the Moslem habit to hurry in such matters.

  Delay could mean disaster. Again, I hesitated. Why not simply free the slaves and allow them to make their own way out of the country? Were they my responsibility?

  They were not, yet well I knew that, freed and with gold to spend, they would be lured by the fleshpots of Cádiz, would attract attention, and in no time be discovered as escaped slaves and be in chains again.

  My clothing had been carefully brushed and cleaned so that once again I looked the young man of fashion. The scimitar was mine again, and I had recovered my knife, yet to accomplish my purpose I appeared too young. What was needed was an assistant of age and dignity whose appearance would command respect.

  Selim, who accompanied me, was at once too fierce in appearance and too piratical to inspire trust.

  Cádiz in this year of 1176 was one of the great ports of the world, and to her bazaars came merchants with silks, spices, camphor and pearls, frankincense and ivory. The wools of England, the furs of Scandinavia, the wines of France, the carpets of the Levant were here and exhibited for sale.

  Among the crowds were men of all nations and every manner of dress. Merchants mingled with pirates, soldiers, slave dealers, and scholars. Long had Cádiz been famous for shipping and trade. My old tutor, of Greek-Arab family, told me of a manuscript, left by Eudoxus, which described finding the prow of a ship from Cádiz floating in the sea off the coast of East Africa, and that long before Christ.

  A beggar tugged at my sleeve. “Alms! Alms! For the love of Allah!”

  It was a lean hawk’s face into which I gazed, piercing eyes and a beak of a nose, a face ancient with evil and shadowed by cunning, yet there was something more, a touch of wicked humor, was it?

  “Oh, Father of Lice,” I said, “what claim have you for alms? You look to be a thief and a son of thieves!”

  His shrewd old eyes held a gleam of satanic amusement. “A thousand pardons, Noble One! Pity, for my poverty and weakness! Alms, for the love of Allah!”

  The face, the manner…now if he were clean?

  “Conveyor of Vermin,” I said, “I give no alms, but if you would have a gold piece, then we shall talk. A gold piece,” I added, “or an edge of steel if you betray me.”

  “A gold piece?” His eyes gleamed maliciously. “For a gold piece I would smuggle you into the finest harem in all of Spain! For a gold piece I might—ah, I know just the wench! A devil she is, a fiend out of Hell, but wise in the ways of pleasure, and she has a—”

  “I said nothing of women. Follow me.”

  Outside a public bath we paused. A muscular Negro with huge gold rings in his ears stood there. Gesturing to the beggar, I said, “Take this bag of fleas and dip it, scour it, clip it, and comb it. I would have it resemble a gentleman!”

  “By Allah.” The slave spat into the dust. “Am I a djinn, to perform miracles?”

  The beggar leered at him. “O Master! With so many baths in Cádiz why bring me to this, which houses this stench in the nostrils of humanity? Why must I, in my old years, be forced to listen to this Shadow of Ignorance?”

  “Enough!” I spoke harshly, for we Kerbouchards know the way of command. “Get him inside. Burn that hive of corruption he wears for clothing. I shall return in less than the hour with fresh clothing!”

  When at last he stood before me—his beard trimmed, his hair clipped and combed, dressed as befitted a man of dignity and means—he looked a noble if a crafty man, and such a one as I wanted.

  His name, and I ha
ve no doubt the rascal lied, was Shir Ali, from Damascus, a merchant in his time and later a dervish, who had fallen on evil days.

  “You are a merchant again,” I told him, “freshly arrived from Aleppo to dispose of a cargo and galley with all possible speed. The cargo is of spices and silk in bales. Dispose of it well, Shir Ali, dispose of it this afternoon, and you shall be amply rewarded.

  “If there is a false move or I am betrayed in any way, I shall”—I put my hand upon the knife—“empty your guts into the dust!”

  Selim leaned toward him. “And I will slice you to ribbons and feed you to the dogs!”

  At a small shop we drank wine together, and I showed him the cargo manifest and measured the ship with words. He glanced at the manifest and nodded. “Excellent! In a week’s time—”

  “You have four hours,” I said. “I am your impatient nephew from Palermo, whose inheritance this is, and I must leave at once for Toledo. You abhor haste, but with such an impatient youth, what can one do? Besides, there is a girl—”

  He raved, he protested it could not be done. We would lose money! We would be cheated! It might be done in two days but—

  “It is a pirate ship,” I told him coolly. “The crew is in town getting drunk. You will sell it now…today.”

  His glance was unbelieving, then he shrugged. “You have courage,” he said, “or you are a fool.”

  “My blade cuts both ways, so be quick.”

  Merchant he undoubtedly had been; thief he had probably been, but he had a way with him, did Shir Ali.

  At every step I feared to come face-to-face with Walther or one of the crew, yet the old beggar would not hasten. “You have chosen well,” he said, “for a beggar sees much that others do not. We know who is honest and who the cheat, who has the gold and who talks only into the wind.” Suddenly, he stopped before a small booth, a mere stall in the bazaar, and he began to wail and tear his hair.

  “Ruined!” he cried. “I shall be ruined! To sell now? This I cannot do! It is a sin against Allah to sell a ship at such a time!