Life was very hard for them now. Their shackles were never removed, and
they were never allowed out into the fresh air. Raw dough was thrown
down to them, as one throws a scrap to a dog, and water was let down in
a jug. The stench in the pit was awful and it was damp as well. Kostilin
grew quite ill; he swelled very much and every bone in his body ached.
He either groaned or slept all the time. Jilin, too, was depressed; he
saw that their position was hopeless and did not know how to get out of
it.
He tried to make a tunnel but there was nowhere to throw the earth, and
when the master saw it, he threatened to kill him.
One day when he was most downcast, squatting in the pit and thinking of
his freedom, a cake fell from above, then another, and some cherries
rained down. Jilin looked up and saw Dina. She looked at him, laughed
and ran away.
“I wonder if Dina would help us?” Jilin thought.
He cleared a space in the pit, dug a little clay and began to make some
dolls. He moulded some men and horses and dogs, thinking, “When Dina
comes, I will throw these up to her.”
But Dina did not come the next day. Jilin heard a stamping of horses;
some Tartars seemed to have come and all gathered at the Mosque,
shouting and arguing. It was something about the Russians. The voice of
the old man was heard, too. Jilin could not understand all they said,
but he made out that the Russians were near, that the Tartars were
afraid of them and did not know what to do with their prisoners.
After a while they dispersed. Suddenly Jilin heard a rustling overhead
and saw Dina crouching at the edge of the pit, her knees higher than her
head. She bent over so that the coins at the end of her plaits dangled
over the pit. Her eyes were twinkling like two stars. From her sleeve
she took two cakes made of cheese and threw them down to him. Jilin
picked them up and said, “What a long time it is since you’ve been to
see me! I’ve made you some toys. Look, here they are!” He threw them up
to her one by one. She shook her head and averted her gaze. “I don’t
want them, Ivan,” she said. “They want to kill you, Ivan,” she added,
pointing to her throat.
“Who wants to kill me?”
“My father. The old man told him to, but I’m sorry for you.”
Jilin said, “If you are sorry for me, bring me a long pole.”
She shook her head, as much as to say that it was impossible.
He put up his hands and implored her, “Please, Dina! Be a dear and bring
it!”
“I can’t,” she said; “they’ll catch me at home.” Then she went away.
In the evening Jilin sat in the pit wondering what would happen. He kept
looking up; the stars were visible, but the moon had not yet risen. The
Mullah’s call was heard, and all grew quiet. Jilin began to doze,
thinking “The child is afraid.” Suddenly some clay dropped on to his
head. He looked up, and saw a long pole poking into the opposite wall of
the pit; it began to slide down. Jilin took hold of it and lowered it
with a feeling of gladness at his heart. It was a stout, strong pole; he
had noticed it many times on the roof of the master’s hut.
He looked up. The stars were shining high in the sky and above the pit
Dina’s eyes gleamed in the darkness like a cat’s. She leant her head
over the pit and whispered, “Ivan, Ivan!” making signs to him to speak
low.
“What is it?” Jilin asked.
“They’ve all gone but two.”
“Come, Kostilin,” Jilin said; “let us try our luck for the last time;
I’ll help you up.”
But Kostilin would not listen to him.
“No,” he said; “it seems that I can’t get away from here. How can I come
when I’ve hardly strength enough to move?”
“Well, good-bye, then. Don’t think ill of me.”
He kissed Kostilin, and seizing the pole, he asked Dina to hold it at
the top and swarmed up. Twice he fell back again; the shackles hindered
him. But Jilin persevered and got to the top somehow. Dina clutched hold
of his shirt and pulled at him with all her might, unable to control her
laughter.
When he clambered out Jilin handed her the pole, saying, “Put it back in
its place, Dina, for if they notice its absence they’ll beat you.”
Dina dragged the pole away, and Jilin went down the hill. When he got to
the bottom he sat down under its shelter, took a sharp stone and tried
to wrench the lock off the shackles. But the lock was a strong one and
would not give way, and it was difficult to get at it. Suddenly he heard
some one coming downhill, skipping lightly. “It must be Dina again,” he
thought.
She came up, took the stone and said, “Let me try.”
She knelt down and tried to wrench the lock off, but her little hands
were as slender as little twigs and there was no strength in them. She
threw the stone down and burst into tears. Jilin made another attempt,
while Dina squatted down beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.
Jilin looked round; to the left the sky was all red; the moon was
beginning to rise. “I must cross the valley and be under shelter of the
wood before the moon rises,” he thought. He got up and threw away the
stone. “I must go as I am in the shackles. Good-bye, Dina, dear; I shall
always remember you.”
Dina seized hold of him and groped about his coat with her hand to find
a place to thrust some cakes into. Jilin took the cakes.
“Thank you, little one,” he said. “There won’t be any one to make you
dolls when I am gone.” He stroked her head.
Dina burst into tears and, covering her face with her hands, she fled up
the hill, bounding along like a wild goat. The coins in her plait could
be heard jingling in the darkness.
Jilin crossed himself, took the lock of his shackles in his hand to
prevent a clatter and started on his way, dragging his shackled leg and
gazing at the red in the sky where the moon was rising. This time he
knew the way. He had to go straight on for six miles. If only he could
reach the wood before the moon had quite risen! He forded the river. The
red light over the hill had paled. He walked along the valley, looking
back now and then; the moon was not yet visible. The light grew brighter
and brighter; one side of the valley was quite light. The shadows crept
along the foot of the hill, drawing nearer to him.
Jilin kept in the shadow. He hurried, but the moon moved faster than he;
the hilltops on the right were already lit up. As he neared the wood,
the moon rose over the hills, all white, and it grew as light as day.
All the leaves on the trees could be seen distinctly. It was still and
light on the hills; there was a dead silence, except for the murmur of
the river below.
He reached the wood without meeting any one. He chose a dark spot and
sat down to rest.
When he had rested a while and eaten a cake, he found a stone and once
more tried to wrench the lock of the shackles. He cut his hands, but
could not manage it. He rose and went on his way. After a mile he was
quite worn out and his feet ached terribly. At every dozen steps or so
he stopped. “It can’t be helped,” he thought. “I must drag myself on so
long as my strength holds out, for if I once sit down I shan’t be able
to get up again. I can’t reach the fortress to-night, that is obvious;
as soon as it gets light I’ll hide in the wood and go on again when it
gets dark.”
He walked the whole night, meeting only two Tartars, but Jilin heard
them from a distance and took refuge behind a tree.
The moon began to pale; the dew fell; it was near dawn, but Jilin had
not yet reached the end of the wood. “I’ll walk another thirty steps or
so then I’ll creep into the thicket and sit down,” he thought. He
covered the thirty steps and saw that he had come to the edge of the
wood. When he came out it was quite light. Before him stretched the
steppe and to the left, near the foot of a hill, he saw a dying fire
from which the smoke rose and men were sitting about it.
He looked intently; there was a flash of guns--they were soldiers,
Cossacks!
Jilin was overjoyed. He summoned his remaining strength and began to
descend the hill, thinking, “God forbid that any mounted Tartar should
see me now in the open field; though near my own people, I could not
escape.”
The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than he saw three Tartars
standing on a hill, not more than a few yards away. They had seen him
and dashed down towards him. His heart gave a great bound. He waved his
arms and shouted with all his might, “Help, help, brothers!”
The soldiers heard him; a few Cossacks sprang upon their horses and
dashed forward to cut across the Tartars’ path.
The Cossacks were far off and the Tartars were near, but Jilin made one
last effort; lifting the shackles with his hand, he ran towards the
Cossacks. He hardly knew what he was doing and crossed himself wildly,
crying, “Help, brothers, help!”
The Cossacks numbered about fifteen.
The Tartars grew afraid and stopped in hesitation before they reached
him. Jilin managed to get to the Cossacks. They surrounded him, asking
who he was and where he came from, but Jilin was quite beside himself
and could only repeat, through his tears, “Brothers, brothers!”
The soldiers came up and crowded round him, one giving him bread,
another porridge, another some vodka to drink, another gave him his
cloak to cover him, and another wrenched off the shackles.
The officers recognized him and took him to the fortress. His men were
delighted to see him; his fellow-officers gathered about him.
Jilin told them all that had happened to him and ended by saying,
“That’s how I went home and got married. I wasn’t meant to marry,
evidently.”
And Jilin remained in the army in the Caucasus. It was not until a month
later that Kostilin was released, after paying a ransom of five thousand
roubles. He was brought back in a half-dead condition.