Patrick O’Brian 3-Book Adventure Collection: The Road to Samarcand, The Golden Ocean, The Unknown Shore
their belts: they wore bandoliers criss-crossed over their chests, and they walked awkwardly in their long felt boots as they came over to salute Sullivan. Sullivan answered them with a flow of guttural words, and the leader handed him a piece of red silk, a brace of partridges and a small object closely wrapped. Sullivan turned to the car, brought a box from under the seat, and gave the Mongols a piece of red silk, three automatic pistols and a charm in the shape of a bronze horse.
The presents having been exchanged, the Mongols lit a fire in the lee of the ruined arch and began to prepare a meal. Speaking quietly to Derrick, Sullivan said, ‘These are the three sons of Hulagu Khan, the chief of the Kokonor Mongols. I sent to ask his help for transport animals, and perhaps for a tribesman or two, if he could spare them. Now he has sent his three sons with orders to do everything they can to help, in memory of a good turn that I did him long ago. It’s a way they have in these parts, and a very good way, too. I’ll introduce you, but remember that they don’t like a young man – and you’re a man by their reckoning – to talk unless he is spoken to.’
He spoke to the Mongols, obviously explaining who Derrick was, and then he said to Derrick. ‘This is young Hulagu, this is Chingiz, and this is Kubilai.’ The Mongols, hearing their names, bowed each in turn to Derrick, and Derrick bowed back, wondering what was going on behind their impassive, expressionless faces. The eldest broke a piece of bread, dipped it in salt and handed it to Derrick.
‘Don’t say anything,’ murmured Sullivan. ‘Bite it clean in half and give it back.’
Derrick did so; the Mongols gave a hint of a smile and divided the remaining piece among themselves. Then there was a silence until their fire had blazed away to glowing embers: one of the Mongols went back to the tethered horses, took some strips of dried horse-flesh from under the deep saddle, impaled them on the long iron skewers that he carried threaded in his felt boot and burnt them roughly on each side over the fire. He handed them round, and Sullivan whispered, ‘It would be a good thing if you could eat your piece in seven bites.’
It nearly choked Derrick, the raw, warm flesh, but he got it down, and immediately afterwards the Mongols scattered the ashes of their fire, remounted, and stood by while Sullivan attacked the car. Derrick marvelled to see how they controlled the half-wild ponies: they seemed to fit the saddles as though they grew from the horse. Chingiz, the youngest, sat on his madly bucking mount – it had never seen a car in its life, and it was terrified – as though it were no more than a wooden rocking-horse. By something not unlike a miracle the car started at once, and they went back to Peking in a cavalcade.
The next day the Mongols began their active assistance. They stayed in the Ka-Khan serai in the Tartar City, and they sent out word for horses, camels and ponies: the dealers flocked to them; they selected, judged, chaffered with unwearying patience; and at the same time they sent out messages with the caravans all along the route to their friends, warning them to have more beasts ready in due time.
Often when Sullivan was busy he would send Derrick to the serai with some message: he made Derrick repeat it over and over again until he was sure that it would be understood, and although the eldest of the Mongol brothers could make himself quite well understood in Chinese, Sullivan insisted that Derrick should stick to their language through thick and thin. He said it was the only way to learn, and he was right: within a remarkably short time Derrick could understand the gist of much that was said to him, and he could bring back an answer as well as carry a message.
A few days before everything was ready he went down to the Tartar City to tell Hulagu about a small alteration in the plans: but he found the serai deserted except for a few pie-dogs that ran when they saw Chang. It was a horse-racing day, but Derrick had not understood that when they told him some time before. He walked round the great hollow square of the serai, peering into the deeply-roofed verandah that ran clean round it, and looking for someone who could tell him where he might find the sons of the Khan. In the darkness of the stables he saw a dim figure squatting over a saddle-bag, and walking noiselessly over the trodden straw he went into the stable. He had left Chang far over in the other corner, sniffing about on the traces of a Tibetan mastiff. The man’s back was towards Derrick as he crouched over the saddle-bag, and until Derrick spoke he was unaware of his presence. Derrick greeted him in Mongol. The man froze, motionless for a second; then he turned and stared at Derrick without a word. Another man appeared from the shadows, and they both stared at Derrick. Derrick began to feel uneasy: he was beginning to repeat his greeting in Chinese when the first man grunted a word to his companion, and they both hurled themselves on Derrick. Derrick let out a yell and struck out wildly: his fist landed on the first man’s head – it felt like wood – and they fell in a writhing mass, with Derrick underneath. He felt crooked fingers gripping at his throat, and then heard a yell and felt the weight above him diminish as Chang wrenched one of the men off him.
But the other was still on him: Derrick’s head was covered with the black cloth of his kaftan, and through the cloth the strong fingers were pressing deep into his throat. His breath was coming short, and there was a thundering in his ears. He relaxed utterly, went dead under the man’s weight, and then suddenly, with all his force, writhed, brought his knee up into the man’s belly and rolled clear. He could see now, but what he saw was the man coming for him again, with a long knife gleaming in his left hand. Derrick was in a corner: there was no escape, and a fleeting glance showed him that Chang was completely taken up with his enemy. The man came in with a quick, silent, purposeful rush, and Derrick threw himself on his back, kicking up with both his feet. One caught the man in the stomach, but although he was winded he fell squarely on top of Derrick, pinning him down, and although he was gasping for breath he brought his right forearm across Derrick’s throat, pressing with all his weight. Derrick noticed, with a split-second of horror, that he had no right hand – the arm was a stump – but there was no time for horror: Derrick grabbed the man’s left wrist with both his hands and tried to twist the knife away. But the man was too strong by far, and twice he stabbed, driving the keen blade into the ground an inch from Derrick’s head. Derrick tried to bring up his knee again, and the man caught his leg in a wrestler’s lock. Slowly they strove and writhed together, glaring into one another’s faces with inhuman hatred, and then by a quick turn the man wrenched one of Derrick’s hands free and pinned it with his knee. Derrick lashed with his legs, vainly trying to unseat his enemy. But the man held firm, and with a furious backward jerk of his left arm he wrenched his wrist free from Derrick’s remaining grasp.
The clatter of hooves in the courtyard made him pause for an instant, cocking his head to the sound. Derrick heaved with all his force, arching his back in a last violent effort, but instantly the man pinned him again, and whipped back the knife. Then he stiffened, half rose and spun away from Derrick. The knife flew in a long curve to the middle of the serai, and the man fell, drumming with his hand upon the beaten ground.
Chingiz wiped his knife carefully on a wisp of straw and then pulled Derrick to his feet. Derrick stood, swayed and fell flat on his face.
When he came round, Chingiz was squatting beside him, holding a bowl of water. Chang stood on the other side of him, growling like thunder. Chingiz held up Derrick’s head and put the bowl to his mouth: Chang bared his teeth; he was not sure of the Mongol, and if Chingiz made one false move, Chang would be at his throat.
‘Shut up, Chang,’ said Derrick, weakly, between his gulps. Then he stood up, shook himself, and found that he was still all in one piece. He grinned palely at Chingiz, tried hard to remember the Mongol for thanks, failed, and held out his right hand. Chingiz looked at it with some surprise, hesitantly advanced his own, and was astonished to find it gripped and firmly shaken up and down.
Derrick averted his eyes from the huddled form beyond him and reached for Chang’s scruff. He hauled the dog forward, put his paw into Chingiz’s hand and said, ‘Listen, Chang. Listen. This is Chingiz. Chingiz. Do you understand? He has saved my life, and you do not growl at him, ever. Good Chingiz. You understand?’ Chang was not a fool: he knew what Derrick meant, and he looked at Chingiz with a new expression, barked twice and licked his hand.
They walked out of the square into the box-like rooms where Chingiz and his brothers stayed. Derrick’s wits were coming back, and with them what little Mongol he knew. He tried to thank Chingiz many