Swords From the Sea (43 page)

"Agreed."

At the guardroom by the Neva bridgehead, the sergeant brought his heels together with a click and saluted smartly. A young lieutenant who was dealing piquet against himself looked up and yawned.

"Sergeant Kehl, with a man for the ranks!"

"Well, take him away. Bed him down with the other cattle!"

"With the Herr Leutnant's permission-"

Kehl bent his stiff back a little and lowered his voice, explaining that this man was different; a -- of a fellow, a regular Turk, and strong as an ox. Besides, he had been sergeant of marines, claimed to be a veteran of the French service. So, would it not be better for the Herr Leutnant to have the recruit sign the rolls?

"The deuce! I see very well you want the rix-dollar bounty before sunup." The young Russian shuffled the cards together, looked at his watch, and drew a long paper rolled up at both ends from a drawer of the table.

"You there-what's your name?"

"Pierre Pillon, sir."

"Ah, you speak French. Curse me, Kehl; here's a proper paragon of military virtue-Ulysses as well as Mars." He dipped a quill into ink and scrawled on the roster. "Pierre's the of a name-our non-corns will never get their tongues around it. You'll be Peter-Pietr, son of-who is your sire, if you know?"

"Mathurin, sir."

"Who is your master?" As the Provencal hesitated, he turned to Kehl impatiently. "Who is his owner?"

As far as Pierre's memory went he had been a vagrant of the coast, picking up a lean living among the fisher folk, who were little better off themselves. But neither he nor his father before him had been a peasant, bound to the land and a seigniorial lord.

"The sea, monsieur," he hazarded.

"Well, no matter. We'll enter you as a masterless man. Make your mark here." When the sailor had drawn something resembling a star on the rolls, he nodded. "Now, Peter, son of Little Matthew, you've pledged yourself to serve the Empress Catherine, the anointed of God. Be brave and obey orders. Dismissed!"

But Pierre glanced at Kehl, who clicked his heels again and coughed. The lieutenant called for his servant, who gave the Prussian a silver coin which he pocketed swiftly.

"Your excellency-" his dry lips parted, showing yellow teeth, in what was meant for a smile-"this Frenchman is an old hand-knows the musket drill. He requests to be sent to the Black Sea, rated sergeant of marines."

For the first time the officer glanced at Pierre, taking notice of his massive build and the eagerness in his swarthy face.

"You, Pietr-you request to be sent to that lake of the --?"

"Aye, sir."

The lieutenant looked puzzled and pulled at his mustache.

"Oh, burn and blister me, Kehl, this is rich. A man asks for service down there where-" he checked himself and laughed with relish. The sergeant of grenadiers sniggered. "I'll see to it, Pietr, that you're rated properly."

It struck Pierre as a bit queer, this enlistment. Moreover, he did not like Kehl's amusement. But he was dealing with strangers, and entering a new service. On the king's ships he had never exchanged as many words as this with the gentlemen of the poop; yet the officers of his acquaintance had always kept promises made to the men.

"Now go to the deuce or the recruit battalion." The lieutenant was looking at his watch impatiently. "The empress and the imperial retinue will pass over this bridge, and I want you two mangy dogs out of here."

Pierre saluted and followed his companion to the door. They had barely gained the street when they heard a distant musical jangling of sleigh bells that came nearer rapidly, echoed by shouting down the street.

The sentry at the bridge called out, and in a moment the officer appeared from the guardhouse, buckling on his sword belt and fastening his tunic at the throat and snarling at a score of soldiers who tumbled out half asleep and fell into ranks beside the new recruit. Kehl watched with a covert sneer, as the young lieutenant fumed and swore at the guard for slovenly dressing and fell to beating them into better alignment with the flat of his sword.

The bells swept nearer rapidly and the lieutenant ran to the front of his men and flung up his blade.

"Pre-sent arms."

A Jew who had been bartering tobacco and sweets at the guardhouse hurried to cross the street and upset his basket in his hurry. Stooping to gather up his scattered possessions, he fumbled in the snow, his head craned over his shoulder.

Around a bend in the street a troop of hussars came at a trot, stretching the full width of the bridge. The huckster began to run out on the bridge. Pierre saw the two lines of black horses sweep past, knocking the Jew headlong. Then he heard a curious roaring and blaring of music.

A sledge, filled with horns and bagpipes and men, slid by him, a sledge drawn by a dozen bears, growling and snarling. He turned to look at the Jew, who was trying to crawl out of the way.

The bears, lashed by men who ran alongside, overtook the unfortunate trader. When Pierre saw him next he was writhing in the snow at one side of the bridge, bleeding from the throat.

Sleighs whipped past, filled with men and women in court dress, wrapped in furs, laughing, with flushed faces.

Last of all came a long sleigh, gilded, two gold eagles poised on either side of the driver. A dozen white horses drew it, and on the runners and behind stood linkboys holding blazing torches.

"Slave bohun!" cried a voice down the street. "Glory to God-health to your Imperial Majesty! "

Pierre had a glimpse of a swarthy and strikingly handsome nobleman whose gigantic body was clad in the white dress uniform of a cavalry colonel. Over his belt was a gold star, on his chest the ribbon of an order.

Beside him sat a woman, erect and powerful as a man, in a long ermine cloak.

"Health to your Majesty!" cried Kehl.

The sleigh sped away across the bridge, a second troop of hussars trotted by, and the lieutenant dismissed his men. Then he strode over to Pierre, the drawn sword swinging in his hand.

"So, you keep your feet when the empress passes?" he bellowed. "We must teach you a thing or two!"

For the first time, as he replaced his cap, Pierre was aware that the other civilians near him were rising from their knees with bared heads. Only the soldiers of the guard and himself had stood while Catherine passed along the street.

Before he could answer, the officer struck him twice over the head with the flat of the saber. The force of the blows half dazed him and he dropped to the snow. When his brain cleared, he checked an impulse to rush at the man with a sword. The lieutenant was his officer now, and he-Pierre Pil- lon-a soldier of the empress.

Blood trickled down his face as he stood up, and he wiped it away quietly. But the youngster with the sword had caught the flash in his eyes, the quick twist of anger on his lips.

"Sergeant Kehl," he ordered briskly, "take this fellow to the barracks under guard. He is a bad customer."

The officer was returning his sword to its scabbard, hoofs drummed again on the hard-beaten snow, and four riders swept down the street as blown leaves flicker in the wake of a wind gust. Coming abreast the guardhouse they quickened their pace instead of slowing down, and the sentry's startled challenge went unheeded.

As they passed the lighted windows, Pierre saw three Moslems, wrapped in flying cloaks, bending over the necks of their horses. They were gone in a second-four blurred shapes streaking across the bridge-while the sentry, running out of his box, stared after them and fingered his musket. But Pierre had seen that the other rider was the girl of the foxskins, and the three were the Bashkirs with whom she had spoken in the tavern.

By now the sentry had made up his mind that they were no heydukes, and, spurred by a shout from the officer, he fired his piece. The bark of the musket-fruitless as a pebble tossed into the darkness-was answered by a woman's laugh, shrilling over the drumming hoofs and vibrant with savage delight.

"Na," grunted Kehl, "that would be Kalil, the Gypsy girl of Potemkin."

He listened until he was sure that the riders had got away from the town, then he nodded to Pierre and struck off toward the barracks, being, as the lieutenant had said, in a hurry to spend his rix-dollar while wine was still to be had in the taverns.

The next day Pierre was sent to a camp on the outskirts of Petersburg and given a uniform and knapsack. The hair on the front half of his head was shaved off, and he was made to strip with the others of his detachment and enter a bath house. Here he was steamed and scalded and, following the example of his companions, rubbed himself down with a coarse towel. Then he waded through a tank and lined up to submit to the casual scrutiny of a surgeon who walked through the room holding a scented handkerchief to his nose.

At sight of Pierre's scars, the Russian paused a moment and raised his brows, saying something to the non-commissioned officer who accompanied him. Pierre could read in their faces that they thought him a refractory peasant who had tasted the knout frequently, and might give them some trouble.

And this same sergeant kept a close watch on him during the first drill, after the recruits had got into their new leg wrappings, double pantaloons, and sheepskin shubas.

The Provencal had expected to be sent south, and it was not pleasant to realize he had been thrust into an infantry company. But Pierre had learned a lesson from the buffet he had been given that first evening. He had been gulled by Kehl, and he was not going to whine about it. Instead of a berth as sergeant of marines, he had been put into the ranks. This was Kehl's doing.

Pierre set about making the best of a temporarily bad bargain. The first thing to be done was to familiarize himself with the Russian words of command, and this was not difficult because his companions were green men who had to have everything dinned into them.

They were strange men, slow-moving, voiceless-cheerful enough after dinner. Pierre thought the food-gruel and bread with vodka at times-poor enough, but these shaggy, blue-eyed men gorged themselves on it with muttered delight. Among them were short, slant-eyed beings who never spoke and who looked like old men-Finns-and others with long, oily hair and blunt faces-Tatars as he came to know later.

Pierre discovered that the muskets issued them were of French make, and he showed those of his squad how to clean theirs-as well as the mysteries of the ramrod and priming pan. He could think and move three times as quickly as any of them, and carry the weight of knapsack, musket, and heavy coat without feeling it during a day's drill.

When the sergeant found out that Pierre knew the drill and gave no trouble-being rather helpful in coaching the other moujiks-he left the Provencal to his own devices.

And Pierre was satisfied when he overheard his captain say to a staff officer who came through on inspection that the company would be sent to Kherson on the Black Sea while the snow made transport easy.

"They are not good for much, it's true," assented the other, "but down there they'll learn to use the bayonet and that's all Suvarof cares about."

"Well, they're not the White hussars," the captain pointed out. "But they won't turn their backs when the first cannon goes off-I'll answer for that."

Pierre wondered how these peasants could be expected to stand against the veteran armies of the sultan. The next day the sergeant was replaced by a foreign drillmaster, and at the end of the week Sergeant Kehl appeared with his rattan cane and his thin smile.

For the first time the recruit battalion was put through musketry drill, without powder or balls. Kehl's method was simple: he showed by example what he wanted done with each command, loading, ramming home the charge and wadding, dropping in the bullet, priming the pan, and then aiming and firing. He alone had powder horn and bullet sack. Months later Pierre learned that the recruits were never trusted with these until they were in the field, confronted by the enemy.

Then Kehl called out men from the ranks and made them go through the motions. When they made mistakes he would order them to present arms, and lash their backs with his supple rattan. This he could use with telling effect, and Pierre saw one tow-headed Russian sway on his feet, tears wetting his face. For not standing rigid he was given a beating over the head that finally stretched him unconscious in the snow.

The company, muskets grounded, was kept at attention all the time, until Kehl's sharp eye picked out Pierre. Then the sergeant was pleased to bark an order to stand at ease and to call out the Provencal.

Pierre shouldered his musket and stepped forward. For a quarter of an hour without a moment's letup Kehl put him through the manual, and the musketry drill. The big recruit handled his weapon, which weighed close to twenty pounds, with its bayonet, as easily as a pike. Kehl seemed surprised and ill pleased when he discovered that his victim of the tavern had mastered the Russian commands, and Pierre's mustache twitched in a grin.

"Shagom marsh!" snapped the sergeant.

Pierre did not move. This was something new.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Ah, you are sullen! You give a bit of lip to an under-officer? Good! Pre-sent arms!"

Instead Pierre executed an about-face as Kehl stepped behind him, with the rattan raised to strike. It was unprovoked, deliberate-Kehl's way of dealing with a man in the ranks who stood up to him.

"Listen, sergeant," said the Provencal, "if you lay that stick over my shoulders I'll make a new buttonhole in your vest with this bayonet."

Kehl checked the downward swish of the cane and glared at Pierre, who was still smiling, ominously. It took a full moment for the meaning of the recruit's words to dawn upon his understanding. Then his teeth clicked together and his eyes narrowed.

"Many years ago," went on Pierre, "I vowed to the Holy Mary of the Seas that I would let the life out of the next chap who tried to flog me. Glad it's going to be you."

Amazement gave place to cunning in the Prussian's thin features. He looked around and saw no officers near. Visibly, he reflected. Pierre waited, sure of his man.