The Cossacks (8 page)

The greater part of the night had passed. The black cloud had stretched westward, revealing the clear, starry sky from within its torn edges, and the tilted, golden crescent of the moon shone reddish above the mountains. There was now a chill in the air. Nazarka woke, muttered a few words, and fell asleep again. Lukashka was bored, got up, and began stripping the sapling he had found earlier in the evening into a rod for cleaning his rifle. His head was filled with thoughts of the Chechens living in the mountains, and how their young fighters crossed the Terek, unafraid of the Cossacks; but they might be crossing at some other point. He leaned out from his hiding place and looked up and down the river, but saw nothing. He gazed at the opposite bank, which stood out weakly against the water in the timid light of the moon, and stopped thinking about the Chechens. He was now only waiting for it to be time to wake his comrades so they could all
return to the village for the festival. He imagined Dunaika there, his “sweet soul,” as the Cossacks call their mistresses, and he was filled with anger. He saw the first signs of morning—a silvery mist whitening over the water, and young eagles nearby whistling shrilly and flapping their wings. Finally the first cockcrow came from the distant village, followed by a second, which was answered by others.

“It’s time to wake them up,” Lukashka thought. He had finished stripping the rod, and his eyes were growing heavy. He turned to his comrades and tried to figure out which legs belonged to whom; but suddenly he thought he heard a splash from the opposite bank of the river. He again glanced at the brightening mountains on the horizon beneath the moon’s tilted sickle, at the outline of the opposite bank, at the river, and at the driftwood now clearly visible floating downstream. He felt as if it was he who was moving while the river with its driftwood was stationary—but this feeling was only momentary. He fixed his eyes again on the driftwood. A large, black log with a branch sticking out of it caught his attention. There was something strange about it. It was floating along in the middle of the river without swaying or rolling. It did not look as if it were being carried downstream by the current but more as if it were cutting across the river toward the shallows. Lukashka carefully leaned forward and watched its progress. The tree trunk floated toward a sandbank, stopped, and then began to shift strangely. Lukashka thought he saw a hand appear from behind the log.

“I’m going to get that Chechen myself!” he muttered, reaching for his rifle. He set up his rifle rest with calm, quick movements, leaned the rifle on it, held it there silently, cocked the trigger, and holding his breath, his eyes darting up and down the river, took aim. “No, I’m not going to wake the others first,” he thought. His heart began beating so fast that he had to stop. He listened. The log suddenly jolted forward and once more began floating toward him. “I mustn’t miss!” he thought, and suddenly, in the weak light of the moon, he saw the head of a Chechen bob up in front of the log. He aimed directly at the head, it seemed quite near, right at the end of the rifle barrel. He peered over it.

“Yes, it’s a Chechen all right!” he thought with a surge of joy and, rising to his knees, once more took aim and peered at his target, just
visible at the end of his long rifle. “In the name of the Father and the Son,” he said, in the Cossack way he had learnt in his earliest years, and pulled the trigger. For an instant a flash of lightning lit the reeds and the water. The sharp, piercing sound of the shot carried across the river and turned into a rumble somewhere far away. The log was no longer floating across the river but bobbing and rolling downstream.

“Grab him!” Ergushov yelled, snatching for his rifle and scrambling up from behind their hideout.

“Shut up!” Lukashka hissed through clenched teeth. “Chechens!”

“Who did you shoot?” Nazarka asked.

Lukashka did not answer but immediately reloaded his gun and watched the floating log. A little way down the river it stopped in the shallows, and something large floated out from behind it.

“What did you shoot? Why won’t you tell us?” the Cossacks repeated.

“I told you, a Chechen!” Lukashka said.

“You’re pulling our leg! I bet your gun just went off!”

“I killed a Chechen—that’s what the shot was!” Lukashka said, jumping to his feet, his voice shaking. “There was a man swimming across, and I killed him! Look over there!” He pointed to the shallows.

“You’re lying!” Ergushov said, rubbing his eyes.

“No, I’m not! Look over there! Look!” Lukashka said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him with such force that Ergushov gasped.

Ergushov looked to where Lukashka was pointing. He saw the body in the water and immediately changed his tone. “Well, look at that! But, as God is my witness, I’m sure there’ll be others coming, too!” he said quietly and began loading his rifle. “That man you shot was a scout! The others must be close by—somewhere up that riverbank, as God is my witness!”

Lukashka began unfastening his belt and slipped off his Circassian coat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ergushov hissed. “If you so much as show yourself, you’ll be done for, as God is my witness! You’ve already shot that Chechen, it’s not like he’s going to get away now! Give me some powder—you have some? Nazarka, get back to the checkpoint as fast as you can, but don’t go along the riverbank, otherwise they’ll pick you off!”

“Go back on my own?” Nazarka snapped angrily. “You go!”

Lukashka, having removed his jacket, crawled toward the riverbank.

“Don’t go in the water!” Ergushov said, priming the pan of his rifle with powder. “Can’t you see he’s not moving? It’s almost morning—let’s wait till our mounted patrol gets here! Go back to the checkpoint, Nazarka! Look at him, he’s frightened! There’s no need to be frightened, as God is my witness!”

“Lukashka, hey, Lukashka!” Nazarka called out. “You didn’t say how you shot him!”

Lukashka suddenly stopped, having changed his mind about going into the river.

“Why don’t the two of you head back to the checkpoint! I’ll keep watch here! Tell the others to send the patrol; those Chechens might well be on this side of the river by now, we have to catch them!”

“My point exactly! They’ll get away!” Ergushov said, getting up. “They have to be caught, that’s for sure! Stay here and don’t move! You’ll be done for if they see you! Keep your eyes peeled, do you hear?”

“I know, I know,” Lukashka said. Examining his rifle again, he crouched back down behind the log. Ergushov and Nazarka crossed themselves and headed back to the checkpoint over the forest path, cutting their way through the brambles to avoid the riverbank.

Lukashka sat alone, watching the shallows and listening for the Cossack patrol. It was a long way to the checkpoint, but he was plagued by impatience—he was worrying that the Chechens following the man he had killed might manage to escape. He was just as furious as he had been when the boar had gotten away the evening before. He kept glancing around, looking up and down the bank, expecting to see a man any moment. He had set up his rifle rest and was ready to shoot. That he might be the one who could be shot never crossed his mind.

It was growing light. The Chechen’s body, bobbing gently in the shallows, was now clearly visible. There was a rustling in the reeds next to
Lukashka; he heard steps and saw the tops of the reeds moving. He cocked his rifle and whispered, “In the name of the Father and the Son,” but as the rifle catch clicked the footsteps fell silent.

“Hey there, Cossacks! Don’t shoot old Uncle Eroshka!” a calm bass voice called, and the old man stepped out from the reeds.

“By God, I almost killed you!” Lukashka said.

“What did you shoot?” The old man’s sonorous voice echoed through the forest and down the river, breaking the silence and mystery of the night that had enveloped Lukashka. It was as if everything around suddenly became clearer and brighter.

“You might not have shot anything last night, but I certainly did,” Lukashka said, uncocking his rifle and getting up with remarkable calmness.

The old man stared at the Chechen’s back, now clearly glistening in the water rippling around it.

“He was swimming behind the log, but I saw him, and … Hey, look at that! Can you see it? He has a rifle! Do you see it?” Lukashka asked.

“Of course!” the old man said angrily, his face serious and stern. “You killed a Chechen warrior!” he added with a touch of sadness.

“I was sitting here, and looked over there and wondered what that black thing was. I spotted him while he was on the other side—it looked as if a man had been walking along the bank and suddenly fallen into the river. ‘How strange!’ I thought. And the log, a nice big log, comes floating along, not downstream, but across the river! I’m watching the log, and suddenly I see a head poking out. ‘Really strange!’ I think. I look out from the reeds where I’m crouching and see nothing. I get up, and I’m sure the bastard hears me, he swims over to the shallows, where he looks around. ‘Ha!’—I think to myself—’You‘re not going to get away!’ I felt like something was stuck in my throat! I get my rifle ready and wait, not moving a hair! The Chechen waited a bit, waited some more, and then swam on, and the moment he swam into the moonlight I could see his back! ‘In the name of the Father and the Son, and the Holy Ghost!’ Then I look through the smoke of my rifle and see him floundering. He was moaning—at least I thought he was. Ah, God be praised, I’ve killed him! And when he floated over to the shallows, I could see him clearly. He tried to get up
but didn’t have the strength. He kept thrashing about and then just lay there. I saw it all clearly! He wasn’t moving, so he had to be dead, is what I thought. Nazarka and Ergushov ran back to the checkpoint to get the others, in case there are more Chechens around.”

“And so you got him!” the old man said. “He is far away now, my boy!” And again he shook his head sadly.

Cossack horsemen and foot soldiers came crashing through the underbrush along the riverbank, talking loudly among themselves.

“Did you bring the boat?” Lukashka shouted to them.

“Good man, Luka! Let’s haul the Chechen out of the water!” one of the Cossacks called.

Lukashka, not waiting for the boat, began undressing, his eyes fixed on his prey.

“Wait! Nazarka is bringing the boat!” the sergeant called.

“You fool!” another Cossack shouted. “The Chechen might just be pretending to be dead! Take your dagger with you!”

“Nonsense!” Lukashka shouted back, taking off his trousers. He undressed, crossed himself, jumped into the water with a splash, and swam toward the shallows against the current, his white arms arcing high, his back rising out of the water. The Cossacks were talking loudly among themselves on the riverbank, and three mounted men rode off to patrol the area. The boat appeared at the bend in the river. Lukashka stood up in the shallows, bent over the body, and shook it twice. “He’s dead all right!” he called back sharply.

The bullet had hit the Chechen in the head. He was wearing blue trousers, a shirt, and a Circassian coat, and had a gun and a dagger slung over his shoulder. There was also a large branch tied to his back, which at first had misled Lukashka.

“That’s a big fish you’ve landed!” one of the Cossacks said as the Chechen’s body was pulled out of the boat and rolled onto the riverbank, pressing down the weeds.

“How yellow he looks!” another Cossack said.

“Where did our men go to hunt down the other Chechens?” a third asked. “I’m sure they’re still all on the other bank. This one had to be a scout if he was swimming like that, otherwise why would he have been alone?”

“He must have been a good fighter, with a sharper mind than the others! A brave warrior!” Lukashka said mockingly, shivering in the cold. “His beard is dyed and clipped.”

“And he had a coat in that sack tied to his back, so he could swim better,” one of the Cossacks added.

“Lukashka, you take the dagger and coat, and I’ll give you three rubles for the gun,” the sergeant said tentatively, holding out the dead man’s rifle. “You can see it’s all dented here,” he added quickly, blowing into the barrel. “I just want it for a keepsake.”

Lukashka did not answer. He was angry at the sergeant’s deviousness but knew he could not avoid giving him the rifle.

“That Chechen bastard! He could have had a good coat instead of this rag,” Lukashka said, glowering and hurling the Chechen’s coat on the ground.

“At least you can use it as a sack for kindling wood,” one of the Cossacks said.

“I’m heading back to the village,” Lukashka told the sergeant, forgetting his anger and ready to put the sergeant’s three rubles to good use.

“Yes, go ahead,” the sergeant said. Still eyeing the rifle, he turned to the Cossacks. “Boys, drag the body back to the checkpoint! And cover him with branches so he doesn’t lie in the sun—the Chechens might come down from the mountains to ransom him.”

“But it’s not yet all that hot,” one of the men said.

“What if the jackals get at the body? That wouldn’t be good, would it?” another Cossack cut in.

“We’ll set up a watch. It would be bad if they come to ransom him and he’s been torn to pieces.”

“Well, Lukashka, like it or not, you have to stand all the men here a hefty bucket of vodka!” the sergeant called out cheerfully.

“That’s the custom!” the Cossacks chimed in. “See how God has favored you? Still green behind the ears, and you’ve already felled a Chechen warrior!”

“Buy the dagger and the coat, and throw in a few more rubles and you can have the trousers too!” Lukashka said. “They don’t fit me—he was a bony devil!”

One of the Cossacks bought the coat for a ruble. Another bought the dagger for two buckets of vodka.

“You’ll drink your fill, boys! I’m standing you all a bucket of vodka!” Lukashka called out. “I’ll bring it myself from the village.”

“And cut the trousers up into kerchiefs for the girls!” Nazarka said.

The Cossacks guffawed.

“Enough horsing around!” the sergeant said. “Drag the body back to the checkpoint! And remember not to leave the carcass to rot outside the hut!”