“Are they far?” was all Lukáshka said.
Just then they heard a sharp shot some thirty paces off. The corporal
smiled slightly.
“Our Gúrka is having shots at them,” he said, nodding in the direction
of the shot.
Having gone a few paces farther they saw Gúrka sitting behind a
sand-hillock and loading his gun. To while away the time he was
exchanging shots with the _abreks_, who were behind another sand-heap.
A bullet came whistling from their side.
The cornet was pale and grew confused. Lukáshka dismounted from his
horse, threw the reins to one of the other Cossacks, and went up to
Gúrka. Olénin also dismounted and, bending down, followed Lukáshka.
They had hardly reached Gúrka when two bullets whistled above them.
Lukáshka looked around laughing at Olénin and stooped a little.
“Look out or they will kill you, Dmítri Andréich,” he said. “You’d
better go away—you have no business here.” But Olénin wanted absolutely
to see the _abreks_.
From behind the mound he saw caps and muskets some two hundred paces
off. Suddenly a little cloud of smoke appeared from thence, and again a
bullet whistled past. The _abreks_ were hiding in a marsh at the foot
of the hill. Olénin was much impressed by the place in which they sat.
In reality it was very much like the rest of the steppe, but because
the _abreks_ sat there it seemed to detach itself from all the rest and
to have become distinguished. Indeed it appeared to Olénin that it was
the very spot for _abreks_ to occupy. Lukáshka went back to his horse
and Olénin followed him.
“We must get a hay-cart,” said Lukáshka, “or they will be killing some
of us. There behind that mound is a Nogáy cart with a load of hay.”
The cornet listened to him and the corporal agreed. The cart of hay was
fetched, and the Cossacks, hiding behind it, pushed it forward. Olénin
rode up a hillock from whence he could see everything. The hay-cart
moved on and the Cossacks crowded together behind it. The Cossacks
advanced, but the Chéchens, of whom there were nine, sat with their
knees in a row and did not fire.
All was quiet. Suddenly from the Chéchens arose the sound of a mournful
song, something like Daddy Eróshka’s “Ay day, dalalay.” The Chéchens
knew that they could not escape, and to prevent themselves from being
tempted to take to flight they had strapped themselves together, knee
to knee, had got their guns ready, and were singing their death-song.
The Cossacks with their hay-cart drew closer and closer, and Olénin
expected the firing to begin at any moment, but the silence was only
broken by the _abreks_’ mournful song. Suddenly the song ceased; there
was a sharp report, a bullet struck the front of the cart, and Chéchen
curses and yells broke the silence and shot followed on shot and one
bullet after another struck the cart. The Cossacks did not fire and
were now only five paces distant.
Another moment passed and the Cossacks with a whoop rushed out on both
sides from behind the cart—Lukáshka in front of them. Olénin heard only
a few shots, then shouting and moans. He thought he saw smoke and
blood, and abandoning his horse and quite beside himself he ran towards
the Cossacks. Horror seemed to blind him. He could not make out
anything, but understood that all was over. Lukáshka, pale as death,
was holding a wounded Chéchen by the arms and shouting, “Don’t kill
him. I’ll take him alive!” The Chéchen was the red-haired man who had
fetched his brother’s body away after Lukáshka had killed him. Lukáshka
was twisting his arms. Suddenly the Chéchen wrenched himself free and
fired his pistol. Lukáshka fell, and blood began to flow from his
stomach. He jumped up, but fell again, swearing in Russian and in
Tartar. More and more blood appeared on his clothes and under him. Some
Cossacks approached him and began loosening his girdle. One of them,
Nazárka, before beginning to help, fumbled for some time, unable to put
his sword in its sheath: it would not go the right way. The blade of
the sword was blood-stained.
The Chéchens with their red hair and clipped moustaches lay dead and
hacked about. Only the one we know of, who had fired at Lukáshka,
though wounded in many places was still alive. Like a wounded hawk all
covered with blood (blood was flowing from a wound under his right
eye), pale and gloomy, he looked about him with wide-open excited eyes
and clenched teeth as he crouched, dagger in hand, still prepared to
defend himself. The cornet went up to him as if intending to pass by,
and with a quick movement shot him in the ear. The Chéchen started up,
but it was too late, and he fell.
The Cossacks, quite out of breath, dragged the bodies aside and took
the weapons from them. Each of the red-haired Chéchens had been a man,
and each one had his own individual expression. Lukáshka was carried to
the cart. He continued to swear in Russian and in Tartar.
“No fear, I’ll strangle him with my hands. _Anna seni!_” he cried,
struggling. But he soon became quiet from weakness.
Olénin rode home. In the evening he was told that Lukáshka was at
death’s door, but that a Tartar from beyond the river had undertaken to
cure him with herbs.
The bodies were brought to the village office. The women and the little
boys hastened to look at them.
It was growing dark when Olénin returned, and he could not collect
himself after what he had seen. But towards night memories of the
evening before came rushing to his mind. He looked out of the window,
Maryánka was passing to and fro from the house to the cowshed, putting
things straight. Her mother had gone to the vineyard and her father to
the office. Olénin could not wait till she had quite finished her work,
but went out to meet her. She was in the hut standing with her back
towards him. Olénin thought she felt shy.
“Maryánka,” said he, “I say, Maryánka! May I come in?”
She suddenly turned. There was a scarcely perceptible trace of tears in
her eyes and her face was beautiful in its sadness. She looked at him
in silent dignity.
Olénin again said:
“Maryánka, I have come—”
“Leave me alone!” she said. Her face did not change but the tears ran
down her cheeks.
“What are you crying for? What is it?”
“What?” she repeated in a rough voice. “Cossacks have been killed,
that’s what for.”
“Lukáshka?” said Olénin.
“Go away! What do you want?”
“Maryánka!” said Olénin, approaching her.
“You will never get anything from me!”
“Maryánka, don’t speak like that,” Olénin entreated.
“Get away. I’m sick of you!” shouted the girl, stamping her foot, and
moved threateningly towards him. And her face expressed such
abhorrence, such contempt, and such anger that Olénin suddenly
understood that there was no hope for him, and that his first
impression of this woman’s inaccessibility had been perfectly correct.
Olénin said nothing more, but ran out of the hut.