Patrick O’Brian 3-Book Adventure Collection: The Road to Samarcand, The Golden Ocean, The Unknown Shore. Patrick O’Brian
ruined the monastery.’
‘Red-Hats, sir?’
‘Another sort of lama – Tibetan monks, you know. A vicious, war-like set of men, from all I hear, whatever their theories may be. I should very much like to go up there. Sullivan, do you think we could go up to Gingbadze? The Kazaks were not seen today, I believe – and even if they are still behind us, they do not seem inclined to molest us any more.’
‘No, they do seem to be falling back now: but consider, Professor, we should have to leave the horses at the foot of the pass, and if the Kazaks were to come up, where should we be then?’
‘You are quite right, of course. How foolish of me. Still, on a happier occasion, it would be very agreeable to go up.’
They rode on, and that evening they camped in long grass, the most comfortable beds they had had for weeks: the grass was already in seed, and the horses ate themselves fat. In the morning they rode out at their leisure. There was still no sign of the Kazaks behind, but wishing to see farther back Derrick and Chingiz went up a knoll that gave them a clear view for a full day’s march and more behind them. The morning air was clear and sharp, but for a long while they saw nothing on their trail.
‘There they are,’ cried Chingiz, suddenly. He pointed, and Derrick saw a movement in the distance, far away, but still much nearer than he had been looking.
‘Yes, they are still there,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. He was just about to go down again when the cry of a bird along the mountain-side made him look round. He could not see the bird, but as he searched for it his eye caught a gleam from far away, something that sent back the rays of the rising sun. The gleam winked, twinkled, and was gone: yet he thought he could make out something moving far down there, between the desert and the hill. He called Chingiz, and they stared together. ‘It may be a mirage,’ said Derrick – they had seen plenty, in the Gobi and in the Takla Makan – but Chingiz shook his head. ‘We cannot risk its being a mirage,’ he said, and they hurried back to Sullivan. Sullivan looked doubtful. ‘It hardly can be anything,’ he said, ‘but you had better take the glasses and look again. Keep well out of sight.’
They rode quickly to the knoll again, and raising only their heads above the skyline they searched the country with the glasses. Derrick caught the gleam again, a little line of flashes, and focused the glasses nearer. For a moment he could not make it out: the reflection seemed to be attached to nothing. Then the distant horseman topped the rise, and Derrick understood. All he had seen before was the row of lance-heads winking in the sun: the Kazaks had been hidden by the rising ground. The first came over the brow and into full view, then the second, then the third. He counted them: fifty, sixty, eighty-seven men. He handed the glasses to Chingiz, who gave one look and raced back.
‘Dear me, what is the matter?’ asked the Professor, as Sullivan called in the outriders and swung the column round.
‘It’s Kazaks before and Kazaks behind,’ said Sullivan. ‘There’s the desert to the north and the mountains to the south. You’ll see Gingbadze yet, Professor.’
He seemed in a high good humour, and for the moment the Professor did not understand. ‘Why should we see Gingbadze?’ he asked. ‘Only yesterday you gave some excellent reason for not going there.’
‘They have cut the road before us,’ cried Sullivan, urging his horse to a gallop. ‘We have got to reach the Gingbadze steps before nightfall, or we shall be between two fires.’
They raced through the morning and the afternoon, never drawing rein for a moment, and continually watching the skyline before them for the Kazaks who had followed them so long. If the Kazaks from the east made a stand – and they were still too numerous to be brushed aside – the delay and the noise of battle would bring the western Kazaks up at full speed, and that would be the end.
Mile after mile sped by under their horses’ hooves, and at last they saw the great rampart of the Gingbadze wall appear. Still there was no sign of the Kazaks from the east.
At last the lamasery came in sight, vanishing and appearing through the drifting clouds high above them on the right, and at last they saw the Kazaks, a straggling band of men strung out over the plain.
‘Now for it,’ said Sullivan, as he saw the Kazaks drawing together in a compact body. He could make out no more than seven or eight riders, with a few led horses. The Kazaks stood firm, and one of them fired his rifle in the air – a signal, obviously, to bring up the slower men behind.
‘Ross,’ he said, when they were within extreme rifle-range, ‘you are a better shot than I am. See what you can do.’
Ross nodded, swung out of the column and dismounted. He unslung his rifle, the rifle he called the Messenger of Bad News, and rubbed its foresight on his sleeve: he lay down tranquilly on the grass and drew a bead on the midmost Tartar. But as his finger was curled round the trigger the Kazaks wheeled and fled from the advancing column. The dust obscured them, but Ross shifted his aim to the outside man on the left and fired. The Kazak threw up his arms and almost fell; but he gripped his horse’s neck and rode on, bowed low and drooping in his saddle.
Ross galloped after the column and rejoined them as they halted at the foot of the precipice. Already they were stripping the baggage-horses, loading the essentials into packs – warm clothes, food and ammunition – and one of the oldest Mongols was hastily scrawling a map on a piece of sheepskin for Sullivan.
Olaf was high up the steps, keeping watch. From time to time he reported that the eastern Kazaks were still going, and that those from the west were not yet in sight.
‘No, Professor, you cannot take the Han bronzes,’ said Sullivan firmly, folding away the map. ‘You can carry them well up the steps, and then you must bury them. Another expedition can fetch them away. After all, they have waited two thousand years – they can wait a little longer. And you had better do the same with the jade.’
‘I will bury the bronze, if you insist,’ said the Professor, ‘but I will not be parted from the jade. It is quite light. I can easily carry it.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Sullivan, tugging at a strap, ‘but whatever you do, do it quickly. Olaf, do you see anything to the west?’
‘Nothing, Cap’n. Unless that little cloud is their dust. The sun will last another hour.’
‘Hurry, hurry!’ cried Sullivan, and they bent to their task.
In the twilight they were ready. Chingiz and two Mongols were to stay with them – the Khan’s orders had been exact, and these men were not to leave them until they were on the Kirghiz steppe – and Hulagu, Kubilai and the tribesmen were to break out to the north through the desert. They could travel faster alone, and they hoped to rejoin their own horde, which would be gathering for the war at the Kodha well, before the Kazaks could reach them.
‘Horsemen in the west,’ cried Olaf from above.
‘It is time,’ said Hulagu. ‘Let the wise man give us a wind from the north, and we are safe.’
‘He will do his best,’ said Sullivan. They shook hands, and with a few words of parting they were gone.
For a moment the expedition watched them, and then began the climb. The steps were ancient and weather-worn, but they were as sound as the day they were first cut, for they were part of the hard rock itself. The rise was close on a yard with each step, and often the tread was narrow: it was a laborious climb, and after the first hundred they were sweating, though the air was cold.
At every hundredth step, wherever the rock formation made it possible, there was a broad platform for resting, but Sullivan drove them on and on. Derrick began counting the steps as he toiled up, but after a thousand he gave up.
In the gathering darkness they mounted, always up and up, and at last Sullivan said that they could take a rest.
‘We are still within their range,’ he said, ‘but this platform lies so far back that it gives us cover.’
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