Batu

Batu thought about it. The Russian major had pushed his men too far. He had even cursed and kicked Batu’s nephew in the stomach. He had slapped and beaten other Mongols like they were dogs.

  Somebody would have to do something, but Batu did not want his men to be insubordinate. Still the Russians must learn to respect his men. Even to fear them. It was obvious that the fat Russian major was no soldier, not one that a Mongol could respect. And he was certainly no horseman.

  Batu had a plan. They would entrain that night. He waited.

  The steam from the locomotive billowed out and thawed the crust of the frozen snow.

  The engineer saw the Mongols as a wave of silent shadows as the train slowed and the couplings slammed one against the other and slackened to a stop.

  Noncoms and officers began to bellow orders in Russian and Mongolian. The Russian major began to berate and kick the men in Batu’s company. Although by now they could understand most commands, though not the language. Batu’s men milled around as if perplexed. The Russian swore and kicked, but to little avail.

  By now the rest of the Mongol troops had entrained to the forward cars to which they had been assigned. Still most of Batu’s men were milling around as if disoriented. Puffs of smoke rose impatiently from the smokestack. The train jerked forward a few feet. Soon only Batu and a dozen Mongols remained. The major was behind cursing and kicking.

  Suddenly they ran forward. The train rocked backward slightly then rolled forward, some more, and some more.

  Batu slammed the door behind them. Outside was the Russian major. A knife stuck in his throat, to the hilt, his open mouth for once silent.

  Batu had thought of everything. He had made sure that they were near the forward car so that the conductor and engineer could clearly anticipate their coming aboard, and more important every Mongol and every Russian would see the major struggling to pull the knife out of his throat where it would remain, for Batu had sunk it well.

  The train rolled across the steppes. The Russians were silent. The Mongols were relaxed, jocular, though they did not gloat, one could feel their mood.

  Was the real enemy on the battlefields where the train was headed or with them on the train, looking at them with eyes full of hatred and scoffing at them in a strange language they would never understand?

  Nurse Jama