I could not sleep during the night, and did not even undress. I intended
to be at the fortress gates at day-dawn to see Marie set out, and bid
her a last adieu. I was completely changed. Excitement was less painful
than my former melancholy, for with the grief of separation there
mingled vague but secret hope, impatient expectation of danger, and a
high ambition. Night passed quickly. I was on the point of going out,
when my door opened, and the Corporal entered, saying that our Cossacks
had deserted the fortress during the night, forcing with them Zoulac,
the Christian Kalmouk, and that all around our ramparts, unknown people
were riding. The idea that Marie had not been able to get off, froze me
with terror. I gave, in haste, a few instructions to the Corporal, and
ran to the Commandant’s.
Day was breaking. I was going down the street swiftly when I heard my
name called. I stopped.
“Where are you going, dare I ask?” said Ignatius, catching up with me;
“the Captain is on the rampart and sends me for you. Pougatcheff is
here.”
“Is Marie gone?” I said, shuddering.
“She was not ready in time; communication with Orenbourg is cut off; the
fortress is surrounded. Peter, this is bad work.”
We went to the rampart--a small height formed by nature and fortified
by a palisade. The garrison was there under arms. The cannon had been
dragged there the evening before. The Commandant was walking up and down
before his little troop--the approach of danger had restored to the old
warrior extraordinary vigor. On the steppe, not far from the fortress,
there were some twenty horsemen, who looked like Cossacks; but amongst
them were a few Bashkirs, easily recognized by their caps and quivers.
The Commandant passed before the ranks of his small army and said to the
soldiers: “Come, boys, let us fight today for our mother the Empress,
and show the world that we are brave men and faithful to our oath.”
The soldiers, with loud shouts, testified their good will. Alexis was
standing by me examining the enemy. The people on the steppe, seeing, no
doubt, some movement in our fort, collected in groups and spoke amongst
themselves. The Commandant ordered Ignatius to point the cannon upon
them, he himself applying the light. The ball whistled over their heads
without doing them any harm. The horsemen dispersed at once, setting
off on a gallop, and the steppe became deserted. At this moment Basilia
appeared on the rampart, followed by Marie, who would not leave her.
“Well,” said the Captain’s wife, “how is the battle going? Where is the
enemy?”
“The enemy is not far off,” replied Ivan, “but if God wills it, all will
be well; and thou, Marie, art thou afraid?”
“No, papa,” said Marie, “I am more afraid by myself in the house.” She
glanced at me, and tried to smile. I pressed my sword, remembering that
I had received it from her on the preceding eve, as if for her defense.
My heart was on fire. I fancied myself her knight, and longed to prove
myself worthy of her trust. I awaited the decisive moment impatiently.
Suddenly coming from behind a hill, eight versts from the fortress,
appeared new groups of horsemen, and soon the whole steppe was covered
by men armed with lances and arrows. Amongst them, wearing a scarlet
cafetan, sword in hand, could be distinguished a man mounted on a white
horse. This was Pougatcheff himself. He halted, was surrounded by his
followers, and very soon, probably by his orders, four men left the
crowd and galloped to our ramparts. We recognized among them our
traitors. One of them raised a sheet of paper above his cap and another
carried on the point of his lance Zoulac’s head, which he threw to us
over the palisade. The poor Kalmouk’s head rolled at the feet of the
Commandant.
The traitors shouted to us: “Do not fire, come out and receive the Czar.
The Czar is here.”
“Fire!” shouted the Captain as sole reply.
The soldiers discharged their pieces. The Cossack who held the letter,
tottered and fell from his horse; the others fled. I glanced at Marie.
Petrified by horror at the sight of the Kalmouk’s head, dizzy from the
noise of the discharge, she seemed lifeless. The Commandant ordered the
Corporal to take the letter from the hand of the dead Cossack. Ignatius
sallied out and returned, leading by the bridle the man’s horse. He gave
the letter to Ivan, who read it in a low voice and tore it up. Meantime
the rebels were preparing for an attack. Very soon balls whistled about
our ears, and arrows fell around us, buried deep in the ground.
“Basilia,” said the Captain, “women have nothing to do here; take away
Marie; you see the child is more dead than alive.” Basilia, whom the
sound of the balls had rendered more yielding, glanced at the steppe
where much movement was visible, and said: “Ivan, life and death are
from God; bless Marie; come, child, to thy father.”
Pale and trembling, Marie came and knelt, bending low before him. The
old Commandant made three times the sign of the cross over her, then
raising, kissed her, and said in a broken voice: “Oh! my dear Marie!
pray to God, he will never abandon thee. If an honest man seek thee, may
God give you both love and goodness. Live together as we have lived; my
wife and I. Adieu! my dear Marie! Basilia, take her away quickly.”
Marie put her arms around his neck and sobbed. The Captain’s wife, in
tears, said: “Embrace us also; adieu, Ivan; if ever I have crossed you,
forgive me.”
“Adieu! adieu! my dear,” said the Commandant, kissing his old companion.
“Come! enough! go to the house, and if you have time dress Marie in her
best; let her wear a sarafan, embroidered in gold, as is our custom for
burial.”
Ivan Mironoff returned to us, and fixed all his attention upon the
enemy. The rebels collected around their chief and suddenly began to
advance. “Be firm, boys,” said the Commandant, “the assault begins.” At
that instant savage war-cries were heard. The rebels were approaching
the fortress with their accustomed fleetness. Our cannon was charged
with grape and canister. The Commandant let them come within short
range, and again put a light to his piece. The shot struck in the midst
of the force, which scattered in every direction. Only their chief
remained in advance, and he, waving his sabre, seemed to be rallying
them. Their piercing shouts, which had ceased an instant, redoubled
again. “Now, children,” ordered the Captain, “open the gate, beat the
drum, and advance! Follow me, for a sortie!”
The Captain, Ignatius and I were in an instant beyond the parapet. But
the frightened garrison had not moved from the square. “What are you
doing, my children?” shouted the Captain; “if we must die, let us die;
the imperial service demands it!”
At this moment the rebels fell upon us, and forced the entrance to the
citadel. The drum was silent; the garrison threw down their arms. I had
been knocked down, but I rose and entered, pell-mell, with the crowds
into the fortress. I saw the Commandant wounded on the head, and closed
upon by a small troop of bandits, who demanded the keys. I was running
to his aid when several powerful Cossacks seized me and bound me with
their long sashes, crying out: “Wait there, traitor to the Czar, till we
know what to do with you.”
We were dragged along the streets. The inhabitants came out of their
houses offering bread and salt. The bells were rung. Suddenly, shouts
announced that the Czar was on the square, awaiting to receive the oaths
of the prisoners.
Pougatcheff was seated in an arm-chair on the steps of the Commandant’s
house. He was robed in an elegant Cossack cafetan embroidered on the
seams. A high cap of martin-skin, ornamented with gold tassels, covered
his brow almost to his flashing eyes. His face seemed to me not unknown.
Cossack chiefs surrounded him. Father Garasim, pale and trembling,
stood, the cross in his hand, at the foot of the steps, and seemed to
supplicate in silence for the victims brought before him.
On the square itself, a gallows was hastily erected. When we approached,
the Bashkirs opened a passage through the crowd and presented us to
Pougatcheff. The bells ceased; the deepest silence prevailed. “Which is
the Commandant?” asked the usurper. Our Corporal came out of the crowd
and pointed to Mironoff. Pougatcheff looked at the old man with a
terrible expression, and said to him: “How did you dare to oppose me,
your emperor?”
The Commandant, weakened by his wound, collected all his energy, and
said, in a firm but faint voice: “You are not my emperor; you are a
usurper and a brigand.”
Pougatcheff frowned and raised his white handkerchief. Immediately the
old Captain was seized by Cossacks and dragged to the gibbet. Astride
the cross-beam of the gallows, sat the mutilated Bashkirs who we had
questioned; he held a rope in his hand, and I saw, an instant after,
poor Ivan Mironoff suspended in the air. Then Ignatius was brought up
before Pougatcheff.
“Take the oath to the emperor, Peter Fedorovitch.”
“You are not our emperor,” replied the Lieutenant, repeating his
Captain’s words, “you are a brigand and a usurper.”
Pougatcheff again made a signal with his handkerchief, and the kind
Ignatius hung beside his ancient chief. It was my turn. I looked boldly
at Pougatcheff, preparing to repeat the words of my brave comrades, when
to my inexpressible astonishment I saw Alexis amongst the rebels. He had
had time to cut his hair round, and exchange his uniform for a Cossack
cafetan. He approached Pougatcheff and whispered to him. “Let him be
hung,” said Pougatcheff, not deigning to look at me. A rope was put
around my neck. I uttered a prayer to God in a low voice, expressing
sincere repentance for my sins, and imploring him to save all those dear
to my heart. I was led beneath the gibbet. A shout was heard, “Stop!
Stop!” The executioners paused. I looked. Saveliitch was kneeling at
Pougatcheff’s feet. “O my lord and master,” said my dear old serf, “what
do you want with that nobleman’s child? Set him free, you will get a
good ransom for his life; but for an example, and to frighten the rest,
command that I, an old man, shall be hung.”
Pougatcheff made a sign. They unbound me at once. “Our emperor pardons
you,” they said. At the moment I did not know that my deliverance was a
cause for joy or for sorrow. My mind was too confused. I was taken again
before the usurper and made to kneel at his feet. Pougatcheff offered me
his muscular hand. “Kiss his hand! Kiss his hand!” cried out all
around me. But I would have preferred the most atrocious torture to a
degradation so infamous. “My dear Peter,” whispered Saveliitch, who was
standing behind me, “do not play the obstinate; what does it cost? Kiss
the brigand’s hand.”
I did not move. Pougatcheff drew back his hand: “His lordship is
stupefied with joy; raise him up,” said he. I was at liberty. Then I
witnessed the continuation of the infamous comedy.
The inhabitants began to take the oath. They went one by one to kiss the
cross and salute the usurper. After them came the garrison soldiers.
The company’s tailor, armed with his great blunt-pointed shears, cut off
their queues; they shook their heads and kissed the hand of Pougatcheff,
who declared them pardoned and received into his troops. This lasted for
nearly three hours. At last Pougatcheff rose from his arm-chair and went
down the steps, followed by his chiefs. A white horse richly caparisoned
was led to him; tow Cossacks helped him into the saddle. He signified
to Father Garasim that he would dine with him. At this moment wild
heart-rending shrieks from a woman filled the air. Basilia, without her
mantle, her hair in disorder, was dragged out on the steps; one the
brigands had on her mantle; the others were carrying away her chests,
her linen, and other household goods. “O good men,” she cried, “let
me go, take me to Ivan Mironoff.” Suddenly she saw the gibbet and
recognized her husband. “Wretches,” she cried, “What have you done? O my
light, Ivan! Brave soldier! no Prussian ball, nor Turkish sabre killed
thee, but a vile condemned deserter.”
“Silence that old sorceress,” said Pougatcheff.
A young Cossack struck her with his sabre on the head. She fell dead at
the foot of the steps. Pougatcheff rode off, all the people following.