Patrick O’Brian 3-Book Adventure Collection: The Road to Samarcand, The Golden Ocean, The Unknown Shore. Patrick O’Brian
their saddles, and in his right hand the mounted man held a lance.
Sullivan motioned Chingiz and Derrick to a halt and rode slowly forward.
‘Peace be with you,’ he said.
‘And on you be peace,’ replied the mounted man.
At this moment the eagle came down to Derrick’s arm, and he was too busy hooding it to catch what was being said. But when the bird was quietly on his arm again he heard the mounted man say, ‘Are you in the company of the idolaters?’
‘We are people of the Book also,’ answered Sullivan.
Derrick noticed that the dismounted man had his rifle unslung, and for a second he thought there was going to be trouble, but Sullivan swung his horse about, and saying over his shoulder, ‘A good journey and peace, in the Name of God,’ he rode back to them.
The Tartar’s deep reply, ‘In the Name of God, peace and a good journey,’ came over the sand, and each group rode away from the other.
Sullivan went on silently for some time, and although Derrick looked questioningly at him he said nothing until they were nearly up to the column.
‘They were Kazaks,’ he said in an off-hand tone. ‘They are Mohammedans, you know. They are probably on a journey. Can you tell what horde they belong to, Chingiz?’
‘They were not Kirei Kazaks,’ said Chingiz, ‘nor Uwak. They might have been from the Altai, though that is far away. But they were Kazaks, and they must have had my father’s permission to be here.
‘And yet,’ said Chingiz, as they rode up to the halted column, ‘if they were going on a journey, it is strange that they had no led horses. The Kazaks always lead two or three if they are far from home.’
Derrick thought it strange, too, but the camp was just forming, and as they hurried to the kitchen tent to deliver the antelope to Li Han, he forgot all about it.
Li Han was doling out a measure of rice to Timur, a lame, one-eyed, dog-faced Mongol to whom he had delegated nearly all the work of cooking for the past few weeks.
‘Come on, Li Han, you’ve got to do this yourself,’ cried Derrick, bringing in the antelope. Timur was an expert in loading camels, but his one idea of cooking was thin, rubbery strips of flesh, as nearly raw as possible.
‘That’s right,’ said Olaf, suddenly appearing from behind a mound of provisions. ‘You turn sea-cook again for a day, Li Han.’
Li Han sniffed, and turned to light the fire. The Professor had more and more entrusted him with duties as far from those of a sea-cook as could be imagined. For a long time now he had copied Chinese inscriptions and had arranged the Professor’s notes, taking endless pains and writing with beautiful neatness: he had thrown himself into it heart and soul, and all day long, as they rode, he was to be seen gazing into a book, in order, as he said, ‘to fit himself for service and society of august philosophical sage’. But all this, though it pleased the Professor, pleased nobody else. Both Derrick and Olaf regretted the days when Li Han would turn out a succulent dish at a moment’s notice. They reminded one another of the meals aboard the Wanderer, wonderful meals that came in rapid succession from the galley stove; and that evening, when the keen air and the long day’s march had given them a needle-sharp appetite, they looked forward eagerly to something very good indeed from the antelope.
But as they sat round the fire, Li Han appeared from the Professor’s tent, carrying a fresh sheaf of papers: he pointed to the iron pot and sat on a box, frowning over the written sheets. Olaf helped himself and stirred moodily in his dish: it contained an evil mess prepared by Timur by way of an experiment. The antelope was still untouched. Li Han sipped at his tea-bowl, staring thoughtfully into the distance.
‘You going to eat any of this duff, eh?’ growled Olaf.
‘By no means,’ replied Li Han. ‘Have already partaken of egg with learned Professor.’
‘Humph. Ay reckon you ought to try some of this stuff. What you say, Derrick, eh?’
‘It is horrible duff,’ said Derrick, offering a little to Chang, who refused it apologetically. ‘Why don’t you cook us some decent chop, Li Han?’
‘When engaged in learned pursuits, cannot bend mind to menial tasks.’
‘Don’t you like to eat good food yourself?’
‘For disciple of philosopher, preserved egg suffices. I no longer worship belly, as in former days of besotted ignorance.’
‘You ban getting too high-hat,’ said Olaf, angrily. ‘Who are you calling besotted ignorance, anyway? You mouldy son of a half-baked weevil, if you was in the Wanderer’s galley right now, Ay reckon we would wipe the dishes with you, eh, Derrick?’
‘Abusive language invariable mark of cultural backward person,’ said Li Han.
‘Relax, Li Han, and turn us out something we can eat. Look, there’s a nice clear fire, and there’s that antelope all ready at hand,’ said Derrick, persuasively.
‘Regret am otherwise engaged. Also, certain personal remarks add touch of obnoxious compulsion. Shall remain in vindictive immobility.’
There was a short silence, in which Olaf came to a slow boil. ‘Skavensk!’ he cried, suddenly throwing down his bowl and leaping to his feet. ‘Lookit here, you cook-boy, you cook us a meal right now, or Ay ban going to tie you up in a knot like you’ve never seen before.’
‘Steady, Olaf. You can’t beat him up: he’s too small.’
‘Well, is he going to sit there like a heathen image just because he’s small, eh? Too high-hat, he is, see? Besotted ignorance, eh? You heard what he said? Ay sure got a mind to turn him inside out. Maybe he’d look better that way.’
Derrick whistled softly, and Chang thrust his muzzle against his knee. ‘Listen, Chang,’ he said. ‘You grab a hold of Li Han and make mincemeat out of him. Seize him, Chang! Break him and tear him then. Bring me his liver and lights, Chang.’ Chang rumbled like thunder in his throat, waving his tail.
Li Han started up. ‘Physical violence is mark of barbarian mind,’ he said apprehensively. ‘I will dissociate self from distasteful brawlery.’
‘High-hat, eh?’ cried Olaf. ‘You dissociate yourself from that!’ Olaf swung the iron pot in a high arc. Li Han dodged, but too late. The mess came down squelch on top of his head and the pot slammed down over his ears. At this moment Chang joined in, leaping delightedly for the seat of Li Han’s trousers and roaring like a bloodhound.
Li Han sprawled into the fire, sprang out, spinning like a teetotum, and shrieked curses in a high-pitched yell. Derrick tripped him up and sat on his stomach. ‘You’d better pull the pot off, Olaf,’ he said, ‘it might be hot.’
‘Ay reckon we ought to leave it on for ever,’ said Olaf. ‘That ban a fine high hat, eh?’ Olaf had rarely made a joke of his own, and now he was so pleased with it that he could hardly stand for laughing.
When he could stop he pulled once or twice at the pot, but it was immovable. Muffled bellows came from Li Han.
‘Crack it, Olaf,’ said Derrick.
‘That won’t never crack. It’s iron, see?’
By now the bellowing from inside had assumed a pleading tone.
‘No. Ay reckon there’s nothing but a winch will ever unship this pot,’ said Olaf. ‘Or maybe a monkey wrench,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘I’ll hold him by the shoulders and you pull,’ said Derrick. ‘I think he’s drowning.’
‘Drowning a thousand miles from the nearest creek!’ exclaimed Olaf. ‘Cor stone the crows, that ban funny.’ He howled with laughter, but he grasped the pot again and heaved. But suddenly he changed his mind, rapped smartly on the sounding iron and hailed Li Han within, ‘Ahoy, Li Han. Will you