I went to my allotted billet, where Savelich was already making himself at home, and began waiting impatiently for the meeting that would decide my fate. The reader will not be surprised to learn that I presented myself at the general’s house in good time.
One of the city officials was already there. He was, I recall, the director of the customs house, a stout red-faced old man in a brocade robe. He asked me about the fate of Ivan Kuzmich, whom he referred to as an old friend, and kept interrupting me with further questions and moral observations that showed him to be shrewd and intelligent, if unversed in the arts of war. The others arrived as we talked; apart from the general himself, there was not a single military man among them. When everyone had sat down and been served a cup of tea, the general gave a clear and unhurried account of the situation. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “we must decide what course of action to take against the rebels: offensive or defensive. Each course has its advantages and disadvantages. Offensive action is more likely to lead to the swiftest possible annihilation of the enemy; defensive action is safer and surer. And so, let us put this question to the vote in the proper way, that is, beginning with the most junior in rank. Ensign,” he concluded, “please give us your opinion.”
I stood up, said a few words about Pugachov and his band, and declared resolutely that it would be impossible for the impostor to stand his ground against properly armed troops.
It was only too clear that the civilian officials disagreed, that they felt able to dismiss my opinions as those of a rash and hot-headed youth. There was a murmur of disapproval and I heard someone whisper the word “greenhorn.” The general turned to me and said with a smile, “Ensign, the first votes in a council of war are usually cast in favor of taking the offensive. This is to be expected. Let us proceed with the voting. Mister Collegiate Councilor, [2] tell us what you think.”
The little old man in the brocade robe quickly downed his third cup of tea, diluted with a considerable quantity of rum, and said, “My own view, your Honor, is that we should take neither the offensive nor the defensive.”
What do you mean, Mister Collegiate Councilor?” the general replied, clearly surprised. “The art of tactics knows of nothing else—only offensive measures and defensive measures.”
“I mean bribing measures, Your Excellency. We should employ bribing measures.”
“Aha! Your suggestion is a most sensible one. The art of tactics does indeed allow for suborning measures. We will follow your advice. We can offer a reward of seventy rubles—or maybe even a hundred—for the rascal’s head, to be paid out of the secret fund.”
“And then,” the little old man interrupted, “if those brigands don’t surrender their leader to us, bound hand and foot, I’m not a collegiate councilor but a Kirghiz ram!”
“We will discuss your suggestion further,” said the general. “But we do in any case have to decide on military measures too. Gentlemen, let me have your votes according to the proper procedure.”
Everyone argued against what I had said. Each of the officials referred to the unreliability of our troops, the uncertainty of success, the need for caution, and the like; each thought it wiser to remain behind strong stone walls defended by cannon than to trust to the fortunes of war in the open field. At last, having heard all their opinions, the general knocked the ash from his pipe and pronounced: “My dear sirs! I have to tell you that for my part I entirely agree with the young ensign, for his opinion is in accord with all the rules of sound tactics, which almost always favor taking the offensive.”
Here he paused and began filling his pipe. This was my moment of triumph. I looked proudly at the officials, who were whispering to one another in frustration and alarm.
“Nevertheless, dear sirs,” the general went on, letting out a deep sigh and a dense cloud of tobacco smoke, “I dare not take upon myself so great a responsibility when what is at stake is the safety of provinces entrusted to me by Her Imperial Majesty, our most gracious Sovereign Lady. And so I cast my vote with the majority, which has resolved that the cautious and prudent course of action is to await a siege within the city walls and to repel the enemy’s attacks by means of artillery fire and—when possible—sorties.”
It was now the turn of the officials to look mockingly at me. The council broke up. I felt dismayed that an honorable warrior had shown such weakness; against his better judgment, he had chosen to follow the advice of ignorant and inexperienced men.
A few days after this notorious council, we learned that Pugachov, true to his word, was approaching Orenburg. I saw the rebel forces from the city wall. Their numbers appeared to have increased tenfold since the fall of Belogorsk. They also now had pieces of artillery from other small fortresses that Pugachov had taken. Remembering the council’s decision, I foresaw a long confinement within the city walls; I almost wept with frustration.
I shall not describe the siege of Orenburg, which belongs to history rather than to a family chronicle. I will say only that this siege, thanks to the carelessness of the local administration, proved calamitous for the city’s inhabitants, who had to endure hunger and every conceivable privation. Life in the city, as the reader can easily imagine, was unbearable.[3] Everyone waited despairingly for their fate to be decided; everyone complained about the high prices, which were indeed terrible. People grew used to cannonballs falling on their homes; even attempts to storm the walls ceased to excite interest. I was dying from the tedium of it all. Time passed. I received no letters from Belogorsk. Every road was blocked. Separation from Maria Ivanovna felt more and more painful. Knowing nothing about her fate was a constant torment. My only diversion lay in the regular sorties beyond the walls. Thanks to Pugachov I had a good horse, with whom I shared my scant rations and on whom I rode out every day to exchange shots with Pugachov’s horsemen. In these skirmishes, the advantage was usually with the rebels, who were well fed, well supplied with liquor, and well mounted. Our own emaciated cavalry was no match for them. Sometimes our half-starved infantry also made sorties, but there was little it could do in the deep snow against horsemen able to scatter about the plain. Our guns thundered away to no effect from the top of the ramparts; when taken into the field, they got stuck and our horses proved too weak to move them. And so we made war. This was what the city officials called caution and prudence.
Once, when we had somehow managed to put to flight quite a dense throng of rebels, I caught up with a Cossack who had been cut off from his comrades. I was about to strike him with my Turkish saber when he removed his cap and called out, “Greetings, Pyotr Andreich! Has the Lord been merciful to you?”
It was our Cossack sergeant. I was overjoyed to see him. “Greetings, Maximich! When were you last in Belogorsk?”
“Not long ago, Pyotr Andreich. I only got back from there yesterday. I have a letter for you.”
“Where is it?” I shouted, flushing crimson.
“Here,” he replied, reaching under his shirt. “I promised Palasha I’d get it to you no matter what.” He handed me a folded piece of paper and galloped off. I opened out the letter. My heart racing, I read:
It was God’s will to deprive me at once of both father and mother; I have no relative or protector left in this world. I turn to you, knowing that you wish me well and that you are always ready to be of help to people. I pray God that somehow this letter may reach you. Maximich has promised to deliver it. Maximich has also told Palasha that he often catches sight of you in the distance, riding out on sorties, and that you take not the least care of yourself and give no thought to those who pray to God for you with tears in their eyes. I was ill for a long time; when I recovered, Alexey Ivanich, who has taken the place of my late father as commandant, forced Father Gerasim to hand me over to him, threatening to denounce him to Pugachov. I live as a prisoner in our old house. Alexey Ivanich is trying to force me to marry him. He says he saved my life by not giving Akulina Pamfilovna away when she told the villains that I was her niece. But I would rather die than marr
y a man like Alexey Ivanich. He treats me most cruelly and says that if I do not change my mind and consent, he will take me to Pugachov’s camp. There, he tells me, I will suffer the same fate as Lizaveta Kharlova.[4] I have begged Alexey Ivanich to give me time to think. He has agreed to wait another three days; if I do not marry him then, I am to expect no mercy. Dear Pyotr Andreich! You are my only protector. Please help me in my misfortune. Beg the general and all your superiors to despatch a relief force as soon as possible, and come yourself if you can. Poor orphan that I am, I remain obediently yours,
Maria Mironova.
As I read this, I almost went out of my mind. I galloped back to the city, spurring my poor horse mercilessly. I thought up plan after plan for rescuing Maria Ivanovna but could settle on nothing. On reaching the city, I went straight to the general’s and rushed in to see him.
I found him pacing up and down his room, smoking his carved pipe. Probably alarmed by the look on my face, he stood still and asked with concern what had brought me to him in such haste.
“Your Excellency,” I began, “I am turning to you as if to my own father. For the love of God, do not refuse me. The happiness of my whole life is at stake.”
“What is it, my man?” he asked in amazement. “What can I do for you? Tell me.”
“Your Excellency, command me to take a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks so I can recapture Fort Belogorsk.”
The general stared at me, probably thinking I had gone mad; he would not have been far wrong.
“Recapture Fort Belogorsk?” he said at last. “What do you mean?”
“I swear to you that I will succeed,” I replied with fervor. “Just allow me to go.”
“No, young man,” he said, shaking his head. “At so great a distance the enemy could easily sever all communication between you and your headquarters and thus utterly and decisively defeat you. With communication lines severed—”
Dismayed to see him entering into a discourse on military tactics, I hurriedly interrupted.
“The daughter of Captain Mironov,” I said, “has written to me. She is asking for help. Shvabrin is trying to force her to marry him.”
“Is he indeed? Oh, that Shvabrin is a very great Schelm.[5] If I get the chance, I’ll have him court-martialed within twenty-four hours and shot on top of the city wall. But in the meantime we must grasp patience.”
“Grasp patience!” I cried, by now quite beside myself. “And while we do that, he will marry Maria Ivanovna.”
“Well,” said the general, “there’s worse than that could befall her. Let him marry her—then she’ll have some protection. And when we’ve shot him, she’ll find, God willing, that she has more than enough suitors. A sweet young widow never an old maid for long stays. No, no, what I mean is, young widows marry quicker than maidens.”
“I’d sooner die,” I said furiously, “than yield her to Shvabrin.”
“Ah!” said the old man, “now I see! You’re in love with Maria Ivanovna. Well, that’s another story altogether! My poor boy! But all the same, I still cannot give you a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks. Such an expedition would be imprudent. I cannot assume such a responsibility.”
I bowed my head; despair overwhelmed me. Then I had an idea. What this entailed, the reader will learn from the following chapter, as an old-fashioned novelist would say.
11. THE REBEL CAMP
The savage lion was sated then.
“What means this visit to my den?”
He asked with gentle courtesy.
—A. SUMAROKOV [1]
I left the general and hurried back to my quarters. Savelich met me with his usual admonitions: “Sir, why cross swords with drunken brigands? Is that a fit occupation for you? No man’s luck lasts forever and if you die, you’ll have died for nothing. It would be one thing if it were the Turks or the Swedes, but for a nobleman to be fighting rabble like this . . .”
I cut his speech short with a question: how much money did we have, all told? “Enough for all your needs,” he replied with a look of satisfaction. “The rogues ransacked and rummaged, but I still managed to hide this from them.” And he drew from his pocket a long knitted purse full of silver. “Very well, Savelich,” I said. “Give me half, and keep the rest for yourself. I’m going to Fort Belogorsk.”
“Pyotr Andreich! Dear master!” my kind old tutor exclaimed, his voice trembling. “Have you no fear of God? How can you set off at a time like this, with the roads all swarming with brigands? If you have no pity on yourself, then at least have pity on your poor parents! Who do you need to see? And why? Just wait a little. Reinforcements will be coming soon. They’ll round up these rascals—then you can ride to all four corners of the earth.”
But I had made up my mind.
“I’ve got no time to argue,” I said to the old man. “I must go; I can’t not go. Don’t grieve, Savelich. God willing, we shall meet again. Now then: don’t be stingy while I’m away, don’t stint yourself. Buy what you need, even if it costs three times what it should. The money’s yours now; it’s a gift. If I’m not back here in three days—”
“What do you mean, sir?” Savelich interrupted. “Do you think I’m going to let you go on your own? Not for one moment! If you’re set on going, then I’m coming too. Even if I have to walk all the way, I shan’t desert you. How could I sit here on my own, sheltering behind a stone wall? I haven’t taken leave of my senses yet! Say what you will, master, but I stay by your side.”
I could see there was no dissuading Savelich, and so I gave him time to prepare himself for the journey. Half an hour later I mounted my good horse; Savelich got onto a lame, skinny old nag he had been given for nothing by a townsman who could no longer afford to feed it. We rode to the city gates; the sentries let us through; we left Orenburg.
Darkness was falling. Our way led past the village of Berdy, which was now Pugachov’s stronghold. The road was deep in snow, but all over the steppe lay fresh tracks; horsemen were evidently going by every day. I was riding at a quick trot. Savelich could barely keep me in sight. “Not so fast, sir!” he was shouting. “For the love of God, not so fast! This damned nag of mine can’t keep up with your long-legged devil. And what’s the hurry? Anyone would think we were on our way to a feast but it’s more like to be our own funeral—mark my words! Pyotr Andreich! Master! Spare me! Lord God Almighty! The master’s child—this is going to be the death of the master’s child!”
Soon we could see the lights of Berdy. We came to the gullies that served the village as a natural fortification. Never ceasing his plaintive entreaties, Savelich was managing to keep up with me. I was hoping to skirt the village unnoticed when suddenly, in the gloom ahead, I made out five men armed with cudgels; we had come to one of Pugachov’s outposts. The men challenged us. Not knowing the password, I tried to ride on without answering, but I was instantly surrounded and one of the men seized my horse’s bridle. I drew my sword and struck him over the head. His hat saved his life, but he staggered and dropped the bridle. The others took to their heels. Making the most of this moment of confusion, I put spurs to my horse and galloped off.
Nightfall might have saved me from all danger but, looking back, I realized that I had lost Savelich. On his lame horse, he must have been unable to shake off the brigands. What was I to do? After waiting a few minutes until there was no doubt about what had happened, I turned my horse and went to his rescue.
As I drew near the gully again, I heard confused shouts and the voice of my Savelich. I rode on faster and soon found myself among the peasant guards who had stopped me a few minutes before. They had dragged Savelich off his nag and were about to tie him up. My return filled them with joy. Shouting loudly, they rushed at me, and in less than a moment I too had been dragged from my horse. One of them, evidently their leader, said he would take us straight before the Tsar. “And then,” he added, “our Father will decide whether to have you hanged now or in the light of day.” I did not resist; nor did Savelich. The sentr
ies led us away in triumph.
We made our way over the gully and into the village. There were lights in every hut, and hubbub and shouting from all sides. The lanes were full of people, but it was too dark for anyone to notice us or to recognize me as an officer from Orenburg. We were taken to a hut next to the main crossroads. Beside the gate stood several empty casks and two cannon. “Here’s the palace,” said one of the peasants. “I’ll go in and report.” He went inside. I glanced at Savelich; the old man was crossing himself and quietly repeating a prayer. We waited a long time. In the end the peasant came back and said, “Come along. Our Father has ordered the officer to be brought in.”
I entered the hut or—as the peasants called it—the palace. It was lit by two tallow candles and the walls were hung with gold paper. Everything else—the benches, the table, the washstand with a towel on a nail and a little water-jug hanging from a string, the long iron oven-fork standing up in the corner, the cooking pots by the base of the stove—was the same as in any other peasant hut. Pugachov sat in the place of honor beneath the icons. He was wearing a red kaftan and a tall hat; with his hands on his thighs and his elbows jutting out to the side he looked imposing. Several of his chief confederates stood close by in attitudes of servility. It was clear that the arrival of an officer from Orenburg had aroused considerable curiosity among the rebels and that they intended to greet me in style. Pugachov, however, recognized me at first glance. His self-important manner melted away. “Your Honor!” he said animatedly, “how are you keeping? Why has God brought you here?” I replied that I was travelling on business of my own and that his men had detained me. “What kind of business?” he asked. I was lost for an answer. Thinking I did not want to talk in the presence of others, Pugachov turned to his comrades and told them to leave. They all obeyed, except two who did not stir at all. “I have no secrets from these two,” said Pugachov. “You may speak freely.” I glanced out of the corner of my eye at the impostor’s confidants. One of them, a puny hunchbacked old man with a grey beard, had nothing noteworthy about him except for a light blue ribbon worn diagonally across his grey overcoat.[2] But never in all my life shall I forget his companion. He was tall, stout, and broad-shouldered, probably about forty-five years old. A thick red beard, gleaming grey eyes, a nose whose nostrils had been torn off, reddish scars on his brow and cheeks—all this gave his wide, pockmarked face an expression I cannot describe. He was wearing a red shirt, a Kirghiz robe, and broad Cossack trousers. The first of the two (as I learned later) was a deserter, Corporal Beloborodov; the second was Afanasy Sokolov (commonly known as Khlopusha), a convict who had three times escaped from forced labor in the mines of Siberia. In spite of my anxieties, which until then had been preoccupying me to the exclusion of all else, the presence of these men had an overwhelming effect on me. Pugachov brought me back to myself with the words, “Speak: on what business did you leave Orenburg?”