Jilin lived in this way for a month. During the day he wandered about
the village or busied himself with some handicraft, and at night he dug
in his shed. The digging was difficult because of the stones, but he
worked away at them with his file and at last made a hole beneath the
wall big enough to crawl through. “If only I knew the neighbourhood well
and which way to turn,” he thought; “the Tartars would not tell me.”
He chose a day when the master was away, left the village after dinner
and went up a hill, hoping to find out the lie of the land from there.
But before the master departed he told one of his boys to look after
Jilin and not let him out of his sight. The boy ran after Jilin, crying,
“Don’t go away! My father told you not to! I’ll call for help!”
Jilin tried to soothe him.
“I’m not going far,” he said. “I only want to go to the top of that hill
to find a certain herb with which to cure your people when they are
sick. Come with me; I can’t run away with the shackles on my feet. I’ll
make you a bow and some arrows to-morrow.”
After some persuasion the boy went with him. The hill did not seem very
far off, but it was difficult to get there shackled as he was. He
struggled and struggled until he got to the top. Jilin sat down and
began to look about him. To the south, beyond the shed, a herd of horses
could be seen in a valley, and at the bottom of the valley was another
village. Beyond the village was a steep hill and another hill beyond
that. Between the two hills was a dark patch that looked like a wood;
hill upon hill rose beyond it, and higher than all rose the snow-capped
mountains as white as sugar, the peak of one standing out above the
rest. To the east and west were other such hills; here and there were
villages in the valleys from which the smoke curled up. “This is all
Tartar country,” he thought. He looked in the direction of Russia--below
was a river, and the village he lived in, surrounded by gardens. On the
river bank, looking as tiny as dolls, sat Tartar women, washing clothes.
Beyond the village was a hill, lower than the one to the south and
beyond that two wooded hills. Between these two hills was a plain and
away in the distance on this plain smoke seemed to rise. Jilin tried to
recollect where the sun rose and set when he lived in the fort. He came
to the conclusion that the fortress must lie in that very valley.
Between these two hills would he have to make his way when he escaped.
The sun began to set. The snow-clad mountains turned from white to red;
the dark mountains grew darker still; a vapour rose from the valley, and
the plain where he supposed the fortress to be seemed on fire with the
sunset’s glow. Jilin gazed intently; something seemed to quiver in that
plain, like smoke rising from a chimney, and Jilin felt sure that the
Russian fortress was there.
It was getting late. The Mullah’s cry was heard. The flocks and herds
were driven home; the cows were lowing. The boy kept on begging “Come
home,” but Jilin had no desire to move.
They returned home. “Now that I know the place I must lose no time in
running away,” Jilin thought. He wanted to escape that very night, for
the nights were dark then; the moon had waned, but as luck would have
it, the Tartars returned that evening. Sometimes when they brought
cattle home they would come back in a jolly mood, but this time there
were no cattle, and on the saddle of his horse they brought back the
red-bearded Tartar’s brother who had been killed. They returned in a
gloomy mood and gathered the village together for the burial. Jilin,
too, came out to look on. They wrapped the body in a sheet and without a
coffin carried it out and laid it on the grass beneath some plane-trees.
The Mullah arrived and the old men; they wrapped towels around their
caps, took off their shoes, and squatted down on their heels before the
body. In front was the Mullah, behind him three old men in turbans, and
behind them three other Tartars. They sat silent, eyes downcast, for a
long time, then the Mullah raised his head and said, “Allah!” (meaning
God). After this word he again bowed his head, and there was another
long silence. They all sat motionless. Again the Mullah raised his head
and said “Allah!” All repeated “Allah!” and again there was silence. The
dead man lay on the grass motionless and the others, too, seemed dead.
Not a single man moved. The only sound to be heard was the rustling of
the leaves on the plane-trees. After a while the Mullah said a prayer;
all rose, and raising the dead man with their hands they carried him
away. They brought him to a pit. It was not an ordinary pit, but
hollowed out under the ground like a vault. They lifted the dead man
under the arms, bent him into a sitting posture and let him down into
the pit, gently, his hands folded in front of him.
The master’s servant brought some green rushes which they stuffed into
the pit, then they hastily covered it with earth, levelled the ground
properly and placed a stone, upright, at the head of the grave. They
stamped down the soil and once more sat down round the grave side by
side. For a long time they were silent.
“Allah! Allah!” they sighed and rose.
The red-bearded Tartar gave some money to the old men, then he took a
whip, struck himself three times on the forehead and went home.
In the morning Jilin saw the red-bearded Tartar leading a mare out of
the village, followed by three other Tartars. When they left the village
behind them the red-bearded Tartar took off his coat, rolled up his
sleeves--his arms were strong and muscular--and taking out a dagger, he
sharpened it on a whetstone. The other Tartars raised the mare’s head
and he cut her throat. The mare dropped down and he began to skin her
with his big hands. Women and girls came up and washed the entrails. The
mare was cut up and the pieces carried to the red Tartar’s hut, where
the whole village gathered for a funeral feast.
For three days they ate the mare’s flesh and drank beer in honour of the
dead man. All the Tartars were at home. On the fourth day, about dinner
time, Jilin saw that they were preparing to go away somewhere. The
horses were brought out, they got ready, and about ten of the Tartars,
the red one among them, went away, Abdul remaining at home. There was a
new moon and the nights were still dark.
“To-night we must escape,” Jilin thought, and he unfolded his plan to
Kostilin. But Kostilin was afraid.
“How can we run away? We don’t know the way even.”
“I know the way.”
“We couldn’t get there in one night.”
“If we can’t, we can hide in the wood. I’ve got some cakes here for us
to eat. What’s the good of sitting here? If they send your ransom, well
and good, but supposing they can’t raise the money? The Tartars are
getting vicious because our people have killed one of their men. They
will probably kill us.”
Kostilin reflected.
“Very well; let us go,” he said.
V
Jilin went down the hole and made it a little bigger so that Kostilin
could crawl through, then they sat down to wait till all grew quiet in
the village.
When the Tartars had all retired to rest Jilin crawled under the wall
and got outside. “Follow me,” he whispered to Kostilin.
Kostilin crept into the hole, but his foot hit against a stone and made
a clatter. The master had a speckled watch-dog--a vicious creature it
was, called Ulashin. The dog growled and rushed forward, followed by
other dogs. Jilin gave a low whistle and threw it a cake. Ulashin
recognized him, wagged his tail and ceased his growling.
The master heard the dog and called from the hut, “_Hait, hait_,
Ulashin!”
But Jilin stroked the dog by the ears and it did not move. It rubbed
itself against Jilin’s legs and wagged its tail.
They sat crouching round the corner. All grew quiet; only a sheep was
heard to cough in a barn, and below, the water rippled over the stones.
It was dark; the stars were high in the sky and the new moon looked red
as it set behind the hill, horns upwards. A mist as white as milk lay
over the valley.
Jilin got up and turning to Kostilin said, “Let us come, brother.”
They set off, but they had no sooner done so than the Mullah intoned
from the roof “Allah Besmilla! Ilrachman!” That meant that the people
would be going to the Mosque. They sat down again, crouching behind the
wall. For a long time they sat there waiting till the people went past.
All grew quiet again.
“Now then; with God’s help we must get away,” Jilin said.
They crossed themselves and started. They went through the yard and
downhill to the river which they forded and came out into the valley.
The mist hung low and dense; above, the stars were visible. By the stars
Jilin could tell the direction they had to take. It was cool in the mist
and walking was easy, only their boots were uncomfortable, being old and
worn out. Jilin cast his off and went bare-foot. He leapt over the
stones, gazing up at the stars. Kostilin began to lag behind.
“Slower, please,” he said, “these cursed boots hurt my feet.”
“Take them off and you’ll find it easier.”
Kostilin too went barefoot, but that was still worse. The stones cut his
feet and he lagged behind more than ever.
Jilin said to him, “The cuts on your feet will heal up soon enough, but
if the Tartars catch us it will be much more serious; they will kill
us.”
Kostilin did not say anything, but walked along, groaning.
They walked along the valley for a long time, when suddenly they heard
the barking of dogs. Jilin stopped and looked about him. He climbed up
the hill on all fours.
“We mistook our way, and turned to the right. Another Tartar village
lies here; I saw it from the hill the other day. We must turn back and
go to the left up the hill. There must be a wood here.”
And Kostilin said, “Let us rest a while; my feet are all bleeding.”
“They’ll get better in good time, brother. Walk more lightly--like
this.”
And Jilin turned back and went up the hill to the left into the wood.
Kostilin kept on lagging behind and groaning. Jilin remonstrated with
him and walked on ahead.
They reached the top of the hill, where they found a wood, as Jilin had
surmised. They went into it. The brambles tore the last of their
clothes. At last they found a path and followed it.
“Stop!” Jilin said. There was a trampling of hoofs on the path. They
listened. It sounded like the trampling of horses’ hoofs, but the sound
ceased. They moved on and again they heard the trampling. They stopped
again, and the sound ceased. Jilin crept nearer and in a patch of light
on the path he saw something standing. It seemed like a horse, yet not
like a horse, and it had something queer on its back that was not a man.
The creature snorted. “What a strange thing!” Jilin thought, and gave a
low whistle. The animal bounded off the path into the thicket and there
was a sound of cracking branches as though a storm had swept through the
wood.
Kostilin fell to the ground in terror; Jilin laughed, saying, “It’s a
stag. Can’t you hear how it’s breaking the branches with its antlers? We
are afraid of him and he is afraid of us.”
They went on further. The Great Bear was already setting and the dawn
was not far off. They did not know whether they were going in the right
direction. It seemed to Jilin that the Tartars had brought him along
this path when they captured him and that it was still another seven
miles to the fortress, but he had nothing certain to go by, and at night
one could easily mistake the way.
Kostilin dropped to the ground and said, “Do what you like, but I can’t
go any further. My legs won’t carry me.”
Jilin attempted persuasion.
“It’s no good,” Kostilin said; “I can’t go on.”
Jilin grew angry and vented his disgust.
“Then I’m going alone--good-bye.”
Kostilin jumped up and followed.
They walked another three miles. The mist grew denser; they could not
see ahead of them and the stars were no longer visible.
They suddenly heard a trampling of horses coming from the direction in
which they were going. They could hear the horse’s hoofs hit against the
stones. Jilin lay flat down and put his ear to the ground to listen.
“There is certainly a horseman coming towards us,” he said. They ran off
the path into the thicket and sat down to wait. After a while Jilin
crept out into the path to look. A mounted Tartar was coming along,
driving a cow and humming softly to himself. When he had passed Jilin
turned to Kostilin, “Thank God the danger is over. Come, let us go.”
Kostilin attempted to rise, but dropped down again.
“I can’t, I can’t! I’ve no more strength left.”
The man was heavy and stout and had perspired freely. The heavy mist had
chilled him, tired and bleeding as he was, and made him quite stiff.
Jilin tried to lift him, but Kostilin cried out, “Oh, it hurts!”
Jilin turned to stone.
“Why did you shout? The Tartar is still near; he will have heard you,”
he remonstrated, while to himself he thought, “The man is evidently
exhausted; what shall I do with him? I can’t desert him.” “Come,” he
said, “climb on to my back, then, and I’ll carry you if you really can’t
walk.”
He helped Kostilin up, put his arms under his thighs and carried him on
to the path.
“For heaven’s sake don’t put your arms round my neck or you’ll throttle
me. Hold on to my shoulders.”
It was hard work for Jilin; his feet, too, were bleeding and tired. He
bent down now and then to get him in a more comfortable position, or
jerked him up so that he sat higher up, and went on his weary way.
The Tartar had evidently heard Kostilin’s cry. Jilin heard some one
following behind, calling out in the Tartar tongue. Jilin rushed into
the thicket. The Tartar seized his gun and aimed; the shot missed; the
Tartar yelled and galloped down the path.
“I’m afraid we’re lost,” Jilin said. “He’ll collect the Tartars to hunt
us down. If we don’t cover a couple of miles before they’ve time to set
out, nothing will save us.” To himself he thought, “Why the devil did I
saddle myself with this block? I should have got there long ago had I
been alone.”
Kostilin said, “Why should you be caught because of me?”
“I can’t go alone; it would be mean to desert a comrade.”
Again he raised Kostilin on to his shoulders and went on. They walked
along for another half-mile. They were still in the wood and could not
see the end of it. The mist had dispersed; the clouds seemed to gather;
the stars were no longer visible. Jilin was worn out. They came to a
spring walled in by stones. He stopped and put Kostilin down.
“Let us rest a minute or two and have a drink and a bite of this cake.
We can’t be very far off now.”
He had no sooner lain down to take a drink from the spring than he heard
the stamping of horses behind him. Again they rushed into the thicket to
the right and lay down on a slope.
They heard a sound of Tartar voices. The Tartars stopped at the very
spot where they had turned off the path. They seemed to confer for a bit
and then set a dog on the scent. There was a crackling among the bushes
and a strange dog appeared. It stopped and began to bark. The Tartars
followed it. They were also strangers. They bound Jilin and Kostilin and
took them off on their horses.
When they had ridden for about two miles they were met by the master,
Abdul, and two other Tartars. He exchanged some words with the strange
Tartars, after which Jilin and Kostilin were removed to his horses and
he took them back to the village.
Abdul was no longer laughing, and did not say a word to them.
They reached the village at daybreak and were placed in the street. The
children gathered round them and threw stones at them and lashed them
with whips, yelling all the time.
All the Tartars collected in a circle, the old man from the hills among
them. They began to talk; Jilin gathered that they were considering what
was to be done with him and Kostilin. Some said that they should be sent
into the hills, and the old man persisted that they should be killed.
Abdul would not agree to either plan, saying, “I paid money for them and
must get their ransom.”
The old man said, “They will not pay the ransom; they’ll only do a great
deal of harm. It is a sin to keep Russians. Kill them and have done with
it.”
The Tartars dispersed. The master came to Jilin and said to him, “If
your ransom does not come in two weeks, I’ll have you flogged, and if
you attempt to run away again, I’ll kill you like a dog. Write home, and
write to the point!”
They brought them pen and paper and they wrote home. The shackles were
put on them and they were taken behind the Mosque, where there was a
pit of about twelve feet deep, into which they were flung.