‘Your Excellency, proceed by bribery.’
‘Ha, ha, ha! Your suggestion iss a very sensible one. Military tactics admit of procedure by bribery, und ve vill make use of your advice. Ve might offer seventy… or perhaps even an hundred… for der rascal’s head… to be paid out of the secret purpose funds….’
‘And then,’ interrupted the Chief Customs Officer, ‘may I be a Kirghiz ram and not a collegiate councillor if those thieves do not surrender their leader to us, bound hand and foot.’
‘Ve vill consider t’at furt’er, and discuss it again,’ replied the general. ‘But in any case ve must take military precautions. Gentlemen, please gif your votes in the usual manner.’
The opinions of all were opposed to mine. The civilian officials expatiated upon the unreliability of the troops, the uncertainty of success, the necessity of being cautious, and the like. All thought it wiser to remain behind strong walls of stone defended by cannon, rather than to try the fortune of arms in open country. At last the general, having heard all their opinions, shook the ashes from his pipe and made the following speech:
‘Gentleman, I must state dat for my part I entirely agree mit der Ensign, for his view iss based upon sound rules of tactics, which nearly always prefers offensive to defensive action.’
At this point he paused and began to fill his pipe. My vanity felt very gratified. I cast a proud glance at the officials, who were whispering to one another with an air of vexation and anxiety.
‘But, gentlemen’ continued the general, giving vent to a deep sigh and at the same time emitting a thick puff of tobacco smoke, ‘I dare not take upon myself so great a responsibility when der security of der provinces entrusted to me by Her Imperial Majesty, my Most Gracious Sovereign, is at stake. Therefore I adopt der view of der majority dat it is viser und safer to stay wit’in der city walls und repulse der enemy’s attacks by artillery und (if possible) by sorties.’
The officials in their turn now glanced mockingly at me. The council dispersed. I could not help regretting the weakness of the estimable soldier who had decided, against his own convictions, to follow the advice of ignorant and inexperienced persons.
Some days after this memorable council we learned that Pugachev, true to his promise, was approaching Orenburg. From the top of the town ramparts I saw the rebel army. It seemed to me that their numbers had increased tenfold since the last attack which I had witnessed. They now had artillery, taken by Pugachev from the small fortresses he had captured. Remembering the council’s decision, I foresaw a prolonged confinement within the walls of Orenburg and nearly wept with vexation.
I will not describe the siege of Orenburg which belongs to history and is not a subject for family memoirs. I will merely observe that, owing to the carelessness of the local authorities, this siege was a frightful one for the inhabitants, who had to endure famine and every possible privation. It is not difficult to imagine that life in Orenburg was well nigh unbearable. All waited despondently for their fate to be decided: all groaned over the dearness of everything – prices, indeed, were exorbitant. The inhabitants became accustomed to cannon-balls falling in their back-yards: even Pugachev’s assaults no longer produced any excitement. I was dying of ennui. Time wore on. I received no letter from the Bielogorsky fortress. All the roads were cut off. Separation from Maria Ivanovna was growing intolerable. Uncertainty as to her fate tortured me. My one distraction was in making a sortie outside the city. Thanks to Pugachev I had a good horse, with whom I shared my scanty pittance, and I rode out every day to exchange shots with the partisans. As a rule the advantage in these skirmishes was on the side of the villains, who had plenty to eat and drink and were well mounted. The emaciated cavalry of the town could not get the better of them. Sometimes our famished infantry also went afield; but the thick snow prevented their operations from being successful against horsemen scattered all over the plain. The artillery thundered in vain from the top of the rampart, and in the open country stuck in the snow because the horses were too wasted to drag it out. Such was the nature of our military operations! But this was what the civilian officials of Orenburg called being cautious and sensible!
One day when we had somehow succeeded in scattering and driving off a sizeable body of the enemy, I came up with a Cossack who had lagged behind his companions. I was just about to thrust at him with my Turkish sabre when he suddenly took off his cap and cried: ‘Piotr Andreich! How is God treating you?’
I looked at him and recognized our Cossack sergeant. I cannot express how delighted I was to see him.
‘How are you, Maximich?’ I said to him. ‘Is it long since you left the Bielogorsky fortress?’
‘No, sir: I went back there only yesterday. I have a letter for you, Piotr Andreich.’
‘Where is it?’ I cried, beside myself with impatience.
‘Here,’ replied Maximich, thrusting his hand between his shirt and his skin. ‘I promised Palasha to get it to you somehow.’
He then gave me a folded paper and galloped away. I opened it and, deeply agitated, read the following lines:
It has pleased God to deprive me suddenly of both father and mother; I have no friends or relatives in this world. I appeal to you, knowing that you have always wished me well and that you are ever ready to help others. I pray that somehow or other this letter may reach you! Maximich has promised to take it to you. Palasha has also heard from Maximich that he often sees you from a distance in the sorties; and that you do not take the least care of yourself or think of those who pray for you with tears. I was ill for a long time and, when I recovered, Alexei Ivanovich Sbvabrin, who commands here in place of my late father, compelled Father Gerassim to deliver me up to him, threatening him with Pugachev. Alexei Ivanovicb is trying to make me marry him. He says that he saved my life because be did not betray Akulina Pamfilovna when she told the rebels that I was her niece. But I would rather die than become the wife of a man like Alexei Ivanovich. He treats me very cruelly, and threatens that if I do not change my mind and marry him he will take me to the brigand’s camp, and there, he says, I shall suffer the same fate as Lizaveta Kharlova.1 I have asked Alexei Ivanovicb to give me time to think. He has consented to wait for three more days and if I don’t marry him in three days’ time I am to look for no mercy. Dear Piotr Andreicb, you are my only protector: save a poor helpless girl! Implore and persuade the General and all the commanders to make haste and send a relief party, and come yourself if you can. Poor orphan that I am, I remain your dutiful
Maria Mironov
The reading of this letter almost drove me off my head. I galloped back to town, spurring my poor horse mercilessly. On the way I turned over in my mind one plan after another for rescuing the poor girl, but could not think of anything satisfactory. On reaching the town I rode straight to the general’s, and rushed headlong into his house.
The general was walking up and down the room, smoking his meerschaum pipe. At the sight of me he stood still. He must have been struck by my appearance: he inquired with concern the reason for my precipitate arrival.
‘Your Excellency,’ I said to him, ‘I come to you as I would to my own father. For God’s sake do not refuse me: the happiness of my whole life is at stake.’
‘What iss it, my dear?’ asked the astonished old man. ‘What can I do for you? Speak.’
‘Your Excellency, give me a company of soldiers and half a hundred Cossacks, and let me go and clear the Bielogorsky fortress.’
The general looked at me earnestly, probably thinking that I had taken leave of my senses (and for the matter of that he was not far wrong).
‘How do you mean – clear der Bielogorsky fortress?’ he brought out at last.
‘I will vouch for success,’ I said eagerly. ‘Only let me go.’
‘No, young man,’ said he, shaking his head. ‘At so great a distance der enemy would find it easy to cut off your communications mit der main strategic point, and gain a complete victory over you… Once der communication cut?
??.’
I was afraid when I perceived that he was about to enter upon a military dissertation, and made haste to interrupt him. ‘Captain Mironov’s daughter’, I said, ‘has written me a letter begging for help: Shvabrin wants to force her to marry him.’
‘Really? Oh, dat Shvabrin is a t’orough rogue, and if he falls into my hands I vill haf him court-martialled wit’in tventy-four hours and ve vill shoot him on der fortress parapet! But meanvhile ve must haf patience….’
‘Have patience!’ I cried, beside myself. ‘But meanwhile he will marry Maria Ivanovna!…’
‘Oh, that vill be no great misfortune,’ the general retorted. ‘Better for her to be Shvabrin’s wife for der time being: he can offer her protection for der present, and afterwards, ven ve haf shot him, God villing dere vill be no lack of suitors for her. Pretty little widows do not remain single long…. I mean, a young widow vill find a husband sooner dan a girl vould.’
‘I would rather die’, I cried in a rage, ‘than give her up to Shvabrin.’
‘Oho, I see!’ said the old man. ‘Now I onderstand: you are evidently in lof mit Maria Ivanovna, and dat alters der case entirely! Poor boy! But, for all dat, I cannot possibly gif you a detachment of soldiers und half a hundred Cossacks. Such an expedition would be the height of folly: I cannot take der responsibility for it.’
I bowed my head: despair possessed me. Suddenly an idea flashed through my mind: what it was, the reader will discover in the following chapter, as the old-fashioned novelists say.
11
THE REBELS’ CAMP
The lion had eaten his fill,
No longer ferocious was he,
So it was kindly he asked me
‘O what brings you here to my lair?’
A. SUMAROKOV
I LEFT the general and hastened to my lodgings. Savelich met me with his usual admonitions. ‘Why ever do you want to go measuring swords with those drunken brigands, sir? It isn’t the correct thing for a gentleman. Luck turns: you may lose your life for nothing. Well and good if you were fighting Turks or Swedes – but these wretches are not even fit to be spoken of.’
I interrupted his speech by asking: ‘How much money have we, all told?’ – ‘Enough for your needs,’ he replied with a satisfied air. ‘The thieves poked and rummaged but I still managed to hide it from them.’ And with these words he took from his pocket a long knitted purse full of silver.
‘Well, Savelich,’ I said to him, ‘give me half now, and keep the rest for yourself. I am going to the Bielogorsky fortress.’
‘Piotr Andreich, good master!’ said my dear old Savelich in a shaking voice. ‘Do not tempt God. How can you travel at a time like this with the brigands all over the place? Have pity on your parents, if you have no pity for yourself. Where do you want to go? And why? Wait a little while: troops will soon be here and make short work of the rascals. Then you can go anywhere you like.’
But my resolution was not to be shaken.
‘It is too late to argue,’ I said to the old man. ‘I must go, I cannot do otherwise than go. Do not take it to heart, Savelich: God willing, we will meet again! Mind now, have no scruples about spending the money, and don’t stint yourself. Buy everything you need, even if you have to pay three times its value. I make you a present of this money. If I am not back in three days…’
‘What are you talking about, sir?’ Savelich interrupted me. ‘Do you think I would let you go alone? Don’t dream of asking that. Since you have made up your mind to go, I shall accompany you, on foot if necessary – I will not let you go alone. The idea of my sitting down behind a stone wall without you! I haven’t taken leave of my senses yet. Say what you will, sir, but I am coming with you.’
I knew it was useless to argue with Savelich, and I allowed him to prepare for the journey. Half an hour later I mounted my good horse, and Savelich a lean and limping nag which one of the townspeople had given to him for nothing, not having the means to feed it any longer. We rode to the town gates; the sentries let us pass, and we left Orenburg.
It was growing dusk. My route led past the village of Berda, occupied by Pugachev’s troops. The straight road was blocked with snow; but all over the steppe could be seen the marks of horses’ hoofs, printed afresh each day. I rode at a quick trot. Savelich could barely follow me at a distance, and kept shouting: ‘Not so fast, sir, for heaven’s sake, not so fast! My sorry jade cannot keep up with your long-legged devil. What’s the use of hurrying? Well and good if we were on our way to a banquet, but, you mind, we be more likely going to our deaths…. Piotr Andreich!… Piotr Andreich, my dear!… Heavens above, my master’s child will perish!’
Soon the lights of Berda began to twinkle. We rode up to the ravines which formed the natural defences of the village. Savelich never let me alone, giving me no respite from his plaintive entreaties. I was hoping to skirt the place without being observed when suddenly I perceived in the twilight, straight in front of me, five or six peasants armed with clubs: it was the advance-guard of Pugachev’s camp. They challenged us. Not knowing the password, I wanted to ride past them without saying anything; but they immediately surrounded me, and one of them seized my horse by the bridle. I pulled out my sword and struck the peasant on the head: his cap saved him but he staggered and let the bridle fall from his hands. The others were disconcerted and took to their heels. I grasped the opportunity, set spurs to my horse and galloped on.
The darkness of the approaching night might have saved me from further danger but, turning round, all at once I saw that Savelich was not with me. The poor old man on his lame horse had not been able to get clear of the brigands. What was I to do? After waiting for him a few minutes, and feeling convinced that he had been arrested, I turned my horse back and went to his rescue.
Approaching the ravine, I heard in the distance a noise, shouts and my Savelich’s voice. I rode faster and soon found myself once more in the midst of the peasant guard who had stopped me a few minutes before. Savelich was with them. They had dragged the old man off his nag and were preparing to bind him. They threw themselves on me with a shout, and in a twinkling I was unseated. One of them, apparently their leader, informed us that he was taking us at once to the Tsar. ‘And it is for our Father-Tsar to decide’, he added, ‘whether you shall be hanged immediately or wait till God’s daylight.’ I offered no resistance; Savelich followed my example, and the sentries led us away in triumph.
We crossed the ravine and entered the village. Lights were burning in all the windows. Noise and shouting resounded from every side. In the streets I met a large number of people; but in the dark no one noticed us or recognized me for an officer from Orenburg. They took us straight to a cottage which stood at the corner where two streets intersected. There were several wine-barrels and two pieces of artillery at the gate. ‘Here is the place,’ said one of the peasants. ‘We will announce you at once.’ He went into the cottage. I glanced at Savelich: the old man was making the sign of the cross and repeating a prayer to himself. I waited for a long time. At last the peasant returned and said to me: ‘Come inside; our Father says he will see the officer.’
I entered the cottage, or the palace as the peasants called it. It was lighted by two tallow candles, and the walls were hung with gold paper; otherwise, the benches, the table, the ewer suspended by a piece of string, the towel hanging on a nail, the oven-fork in the corner and the broad hearth loaded with pots – all were just as in any other cottage. Pugachev, wearing a red coat and a tall cap, was sitting in the place of honour under the icons, his arms importantly akimbo. Several of his principal associates were standing by him with expressions of feigned servility. It was obvious that news of the arrival of an officer from Orenburg had aroused great curiosity among the rebels, and they had prepared to receive me with as much pomp as possible. Pugachev recognized me at first glance. His assumed air of importance suddenly vanished. ‘Ah, your Honour!’ he said genially. ‘How are you? What fair wind brings you here?’ I replied that I was t
ravelling on a personal matter and that his men had detained me. ‘And what is this personal matter?’ he asked. I did not know how to answer. Supposing that I was unwilling to explain in the presence of witnesses, Pugachev turned to his comrades and bade them leave the room. All obeyed except two, who did not stir. ‘Speak boldly before them,’ Pugachev said to me. ‘I do not hide anything from them.’ I threw a sidelong glance at the impostor’s confidants. One of them, a puny, bent old man with a stubbly grey beard, had nothing remarkable about him except a blue ribbon worn across the shoulder over his grey tunic. But never in my life shall I forget his companion. He was tall, stout and broad-shouldered, and seemed to me to be about forty-five years of age. A thick red beard, glittering grey eyes, a nose without nostrils and reddish scars on his forehead and cheeks lent an indescribable expression to his broad, pock-marked face. He was wearing a red shirt, a Kirghiz robe and Cossack trousers. The first (as I learned later) was the deserter, Corporal Bieloborodov; the second, Afanassy Sokolov, nicknamed Hlopusha, a convict who had escaped three times from the mines of Siberia. In spite of the unusual feelings which agitated me, the company in which I so unexpectedly found myself profoundly stirred my imagination. But Pugachev brought me back to myself by repeating: ‘Speak, on what business did you leave Orenburg?’
A strange thought came into my head: it seemed that Providence, by bringing me for the second time to Pugachev, was giving me an opportunity to carry out my intention. I decided to take advantage of it and, without any further reflection, answered Pugachev:
‘I was going to the Bielogorsky fortress to rescue an orphan who is being ill-treated there.’
Pugachev’s eyes blazed.
‘Which of my people dares to ill-treat an orphan?’ he cried. ‘He may be more cunning than the devil but he won’t escape my justice. Tell me, who is the offender?’
‘Shvabrin is the offender,’ I replied. ‘He keeps under lock and key the girl whom you saw lying ill at the priest’s house, and he wants to marry her by force.’