The Grand Cham (Lamb, Adventure magazine)/Chapter 2
II
THE RIVER OF DEATH
ANOTHER sunset, and a war galleass was feeling its way with a double bank of oars against the sluggish current of a broad river. There was no wind and the heavy red pennon emblazoned with a winged lion hung nearly to the water between the steering-oars of the high stern castle.
The dark figures of men-at-arms pressed close to the rail of the benches that ran along each side of the waist of the vessel, above the moving gray shapes that were the rowers’ backs.
“Give way, to the shore,” called a voice from the stern platform.
As the heavy-timbered galleass drew in, fully manned for action, toward the rushes of the bank, the speaker cupped his left hand to his eyes and stared at the ruddy light of countless fires. His right arm hung stiffly at his side.
A year had not availed to restore the use of his injured arm to the man who had been a Turk’s slave. Now by infinite pains he could manage with his left. Unlike the men-at-arms and the mailed Venetian archers clustered upon the stern, he wore no weapon.
Michael Bearn had reached the Venetian fleet in the Black Sea at an opportune moment. Experienced ship-masters were needed to take command of the new galleys that were to cooperate under the Venetian flag with the Christian army on the mainland.
The body of the Venetian fleet lay off the mouth of the Danube, waiting to convey the victorious army of the Christian Allies to Asia Minor and Jerusalem.
It was a great array that had come against the Ottoman. Besides the Venetian war-craft, Sigismund of Hungary was up the river and the cohorts of Slavs, Magyars and the Serbs. With these were the pick of the chivalry of France, the forces of the Elector Palatine and the Knights of Saint John.
They had struck down through the mountains of the Serbs and besieged Nicopolis, on the river. Warnings of the approach of the conqueror Bayezid had reached them, and the French knights who had brought shiploads of women and wine down the Danube had laughed, saying that if the sky were to fall, they would hold it up with their spears.
Verily it was a goodly array of Christendom before Nicopolis—an army blessed by the Pope and dispatched against the Ottoman, who had swept over Arabia, Egypt, Asia Minor—far into Greece, now impotent, and the rugged mainland behind Constantinople.
The Moslems held Gallipoli and a khadi held court beside the marble and gold palace of Paleologus. Bayezid the Conqueror, surnamed the Thunderbolt, had never met defeat.
Bayezid had advanced to the relief of the Moslem governor of Nicopolis and Emperor Sigismund and Count Nevers, commander of the French, had given battle.
For days, hearing of the coming struggle, Michael Bearn had chafed upon the narrow after-deck of his galleass. He had urged the Venetian commander to make his way up the river, to assist in the struggle if possible.
Bearn had been told by the proveditore that the fleet of the Signory of Venice had promised to convey the army only to Asia Minor. It was not the policy of the Maritime Council to risk the loss of good ships—but Bearn was allowed to go, to bring news.
It had been a dangerous path up the Danube, for small Turkish craft thronged the shore and bodies of Janissaries were to be seen from time to time in openings in the dense forests.
Now, conning the darkened galleass close to the bank, Michael Bearn strained his ears to read the meaning of the tumult on shore. He could see horsemen riding past the glow of burning huts and the clash of weapons drifted out over the quiet waters.
“Sigismund pursues the Saracen!” exulted a man among the archers on deck.
Wild hope leaped into the heart of Michael Bearn. Was the issue of the battle so soon decided? Had the armed chivalry of France outmatched the power and skill of Bayezid? He yearned for the first glimpse of victorious French standards. Yet, knowing the discipline and power of the veteran Moslem army, he doubted the evidence of his eyes that the emperor and the French could have pursued their foe so far.
“What ship is that?” cried a high voice, and the splash of hoofs sounded in the rushes as a man rode out toward the galleass.
“Venetian,” answered Michael promptly. “Is the battle won?”
The men on the vessel held their breath as the rider, before answering, swam his horse out to them and, grasping at ropes lowered over the stern where the oar-banks permitted him to gain the side of the galleass, climbed heavily upon the deck.
“If you are a Venetian—fly!” he cried, staggering against Michael. “Never have the eyes of God seen such a defeat. Bayezid has sworn he will stable his horse in Saint Peter’s. I am alone, of a company of knights who followed the Constable of France.”
Michael Bearn gripped the knight by the shoulder fiercely.
“The Constable of France—defeated—”
“Slain.”
The wounded man was too weary to be surprised at the fire in the eyes that burned into his. Michael drew a long breath. He was too late. And his countrymen had fallen before Bayezid.
The knight was removing his mail hood with shaking hands. “We thought the Saracen was shattered,” he said hopelessly. “Our camp was surprised, yet the French mounted and rode to the attack, through the skirmishers and the cavalry with white woolen hats”
“The Janissaries,” nodded Michael.
“—and past them, into the ranks of the horse-guards that are called Sipahis, of Bayezid. Our lances, forsooth, had broken them asunder. We had lost many and our ranks were ill-formed when we gained the summit of the hill where we found not a rabble of defeated soldiery, but a forest of forty thousand lances. Ah, Saint Denis!”
“Bayezid ever keeps his best troops till the last.”
“He has ordered slain ten thousand Christian captives, sparing only the Count of Nevers and twenty knights. I escaped.”
“And the emperor?”
“Floats down the river in a boat. He made a brave stand, ’tis said, until the Serbs joined the Moslems and struck his flank”
“’Tis done. Rest you and sleep.” Michael spoke curtly, what with the hurt of the news. “There are wounded to be brought off from shore.”
URGING his vessel almost upon the shore, he formed his men-at-arms into lines to pass out what of the injured they could find, while he made his way inland to turn aside the fugitives he met into the galleass.
He saw only haggard and dusty men, weaponless and exhausted. On mules and purloined horses camp-followers dashed past along the highway, striking aside those who got in their path. Semblance of order or discipline there was none.
Wounded foot-soldiers who had cast aside their heavier armor limped into the light of the burning houses nearby, silent and grim-lipped. Michael was mustering a group of these at the water’s edge when a mailed horseman spurred up and grasped at his shoulder.
“For the love of! Is’t true there is a ship at hand?”
Michael looked up under drawn brows and saw a handsome Italian cavalier, his velvet finery besmirched and his jeweled cap awry.
“A hundred ducats, sailor, if you will take me on your ship at once,” the horseman cried, fingering at a heavy purse with a quivering hand.
“Spare your purse-strings and wait your turn,” responded Michael shortly. But the cavalier, befuddled by fear, was pushing aside the watchful foot-soldiers, to leap at the ropes that had been lowered from the vessel, when Michael’s left arm, thrust across his chest, stayed him.
“You are a captain, signor,” he observed quietly. “Help me to get these wounded to safety.”
The Italian glanced back and saw that a fresh route of fugitives had come into the light at the shore. A tall bazaar trader with his servants was striking down those who sought to climb into a muddy cart drawn by nearly exhausted horses. Michael could read the fear in the red-bearded face of the trader. A woman, her skirt dragging about her knees, ran screaming into the path of the cart, holding out imploring arms.
The servants, under the oaths of their bearded master, lashed the horses on and the woman, in all her sad finery, was cast to earth under the hoofs of the beasts. The cart disappeared into the darkness but she lay where she had fallen.
“You see!” cried the Italian. “Death is upon us unless we fly. Out of my way, dogs”
Drawing back his arm, Michael struck the man, sending him headlong into the water. Heedless of the blow, the other rose and fought his way to the ropes that offered a way to safety.
“Wo!” His cry came back to Michael. “Death is upon us. Fly!”
“Fly!” echoed the wounded, struggling toward the ropes. “The Turks are at our heels.”
Those who could not stand unsupported were thrust down into the water. Men, striking at one another’s heads and tearing at the surcoats which bore a crimson cross—the stronger among the fugitives, up to their necks in water, fought for the ropes.
When Michael at last—seeing that the galleass was crowded to capacity—clambered up the gilded woodwork of the stern and gave the signal to get under weigh, the tumult on shore took on a fiercer note.
Looking back, he could see the flash of scimitars among the huddle of the flying. Lean, turbaned horsemen wheeled and charged through the burning houses. A shrill shout pierced the wails of the injured.
“Ya, Allah! Hai—Allah—hai!”
Michael Bearn, hearing this familiar cry of triumph of the Moslems, saw again in his mind’s eye the ruined villages of Armenia, the tortured slaves, and—most clearly of all—the grave in the sand before the Gate of Shadows.
He looked at the two men beside him, the sleeping French knight whose valor had been fruitless, and the sullen Italian officer who regarded him askance, fingering his bruised face.
The army of crusaders that he had journeyed for a year to join was no more. And Bayezid, angered by the loss of so many of his men, had doomed ten thousand captives to death. Was there no power on earth that could match the Thunderbolt?
“I wonder,” thought Michael. He knew that of one place Bayezid was afraid, or at least that the Thunderbolt shunned that place.
It was the Gate of Shadows.