THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER XI

THE REBELS' CAMP

I LEFT the General and hastened to my lodgings. Savelyitch met me with his usual admonitions.

'Why ever do you go fighting those drunken brigands, sir? It isn't the thing for a gentleman. You may perish for nothing any day. If al least they were Turks or Swedes— but these wretches are not fit to be mentioned. . . .'

I interrupted him by asking how much money we had.

'We have enough,' he said, with an air of satisfaction;

'the rascals rummaged everywhere, but I have managed to hide it from them.' With these words he took out of his pocket a long knitted purse full of silver.

'Well, Savelyitch,' said I to him, 'give me half of it and take the rest for yourself. I am going to the Belogorsky fortress.'

'My dear Pyotr Andreyitch!' said the kind old man in a shaking voice, 'what are you thinking of! How can you go at a time like this when the brigands are all over the place? Have pity on your parents if you don't care about yourself. How can you go? What for? Wait a little; troops will come and catch the rascals; then go anywhere you like.'

But my decision was firm.

'It is too late to argue,' I answered; 'I must go, I cannot help it. Don't grieve, Savelyitch; God willing, we will meet again. Now don't be over-scrupulous or stint yourself. Buy everything you need, even if you have to pay three times the price. I make you a present of that money. If I don't return in three days. . . .'

'What, sir!' Savelyitch interrupted me. ' Do you imagine I would let you go alone? Don't you dream of asking that. Since you have decided to go, I will follow you; if I have to walk I won't leave you. To think of my sitting behind a stone wall without you! I haven't taken leave of my senses yet. Say what you like, sir, but I will go with you.'

I knew it was useless to argue with Savelyitch and so I allowed him to prepare for the journey. Half an hour later I mounted my good horse and Savelyitch a lame and starving nag which one of the townspeople presented to him, not having the means to feed it. We rode to the town gates; the sentries let us pass; we left Orenburg.

It was growing dusk. My way lay through Berda, occupied by Pugatchov's troops. The main road was covered with snow-drifts, but traces of horses' hoofs were all over the steppe, marked afresh each day. I was riding at a quick trot, Savelyitch could hardly follow me at a distance and kept shouting:

'Not so fast, sir; for God's sake not so fast! My cursed nag cannot keep up with your long-legged devil. Where are you hurrying to? It's not to a feast we are going—more likely to our funeral! Pyotr Andreyitch! . . . Pyotr Andreyitch, my dear! . . . Good Lord, that child will come to grief!'

The lights of Berda soon came into sight. We rode up to the ravines that formed the natural defences of the village. Savelyitch kept pace with me, never ceasing from his pitiful entreaties. I was hoping to get round the village when suddenly I saw before me in the twilight some five peasants armed with clubs: it was the advance-guard of Pugatchov's camp. They called to us. Not knowing their password, I wanted to ride past them without saying anything; but they immediately surrounded me and one of them seized my horse by the bridle. I seized my sword and hit the peasant on the head; his cap saved him, but he staggered and let go the bridle. The others were confused and ran away; I took advantage of that moment, spurred my horse and galloped on. The darkness of the approaching night might have saved me from all danger, when turning round I suddenly saw that Savelyitch was not with me. The poor old man could not ride away from the brigands on his lame horse. What was I to do? After waiting a few minutes and making certain that he had been detained, I turned my horse back and went to his rescue.

As I rode up to the ravine I heard a noise, shouts and my Savelyitch's voice. I rode faster and soon found myself once more among the peasant watchmen who had stopped me a few minutes before. Savelyitch was with them. They had pulled the old man off his nag and were preparing to bind him. My return pleased them. They rushed at me with a shout and instantly pulled me off my horse. One of them, evidently the chief watchman, said that he would take us to the Tsar at once.

'And it is for the Father-Tsar to decide,' he added,' whether we are to hang you at once or wait till dawn.'

I offered no resistance; Savelyitch followed my example, and the watchmen led us along in triumph.

We crossed the ravine and entered the village. Lights were burning in all the windows. Noise and shouting came from everywhere. We met a number of people in the streets, but in the dark no one noticed us or recognized me for an officer from Orenburg. We were brought straight to a cottage that stood at the cross-roads. There were several wine-barrels and two cannon at the gate.

'Here is the palace,' one of the peasants said. 'I'll go and announce you.'

He went in. I glanced at Savelyitch; the old man was silently repeating a prayer and crossing himself. I waited for many minutes; at last the peasant returned and said to me:

'Walk in, our Father says he will see the officer.' I went into the cottage or the palace as the peasants called it. It was lighted by two tallow candles and the walls were papered with gold paper; but the benches, the table the washing arrangements, the towel on a nail, the pot-holder in the corner and the stove-shelf covered with pots, were just as in any other cottage. Pugatchov, wearing a red coat and a tall cap, was sitting under the icons with an air of importance, his arms akimbo. Several of his chief associates were standing by him with an expression of feigned servility: news of the arrival of an Orenburg officer had evidently aroused the rebels' curiosity and they had prepared an impressive reception for me. Pugatchov recognized me at the first glance. His assumed air of importance suddenly disappeared.

'Ah, your honour!' he said genially. 'How are you? What brings you here?'

I answered that I was travelling on my own business and that his men had detained me.

'And what is your business?' he asked me.

I did not know what to say. Thinking I did not want to speak before witnesses, Pugatchov turned to his comrades and told them to go out of the room. All obeyed except two who did not stir.

'Speak confidently in their presence,' Pugatchov said to me, 'I hide nothing from them.'

I threw a sidelong glance at the Pretender's confidants. One of them, a puny, bent old man with a grey beard, had nothing remarkable about him except a blue ribbon worn across the shoulder over a grey peasant coat. But I shall never forget his comrade. He was tall, stout, and broad-shouldered, and seemed to be about forty-five. A thick red beard, grey glittering eyes, a nose without nostrils, and reddish marks on the forehead and the cheeks gave an indescribable expression to his broad, pock-marked face. He wore a red shirt, a Kirghis gown and Cossack trousers. As I learned later, the first was a runaway corporal, Beloborodov; the second, Afanasy Sokolov, nicknamed Hlopusha, a convict who had escaped three times from the Siberian mines. In spite of the feelings which absorbed me, the company in which I so unexpectedly found myself strongly appealed to my imagination. But Pugatchov brought me back to myself by repeating:

'Tell me on what business have you left Orenburg?'

A strange idea came into my head: it seemed to me that Providence which had brought me for the second time to Pugatchov was giving me an opportunity to carry out my intention. I decided to take advantage of it and, without stopping to consider my decision, said in answer to Pugatchov:

'I was going to the Belogorsky fortress to rescue an orplian who is being ill-treated there.'

Pugatchov's eyes glittered.

'Which of my men dares to ill-treat an orphan?' he cried. 'He may be as clever as you please, but he won't escape my sentence. Tell me, who is the guilty man?'

'Shvabrin,' I answered. 'He keeps under lock and key the girl whom you saw lying ill at the priest's house, and wants to marry her by force.'

'I'll teach Shvabrin!' said Pugatchov, menacingly. 'I'll show him what it is to take the law into his own hands and to ill-treat people. I will hang him!'

'Allow me to say a word,' Hlopusha said, in a hoarse voice. ' You were in a hurry to put Shvabrin in command of the fortress and now you are in a hurry to hang him. You have already offended the Cossacks by putting a gentleman over them; do not now frighten the gentry by hanging him at the first accusation.'

'One need not pity them nor show them favours!' said the old man with the blue ribbon. 'There is no harm in hanging Shvabrin; but it wouldn't be amiss to question this officer thoroughly, too. Why has he come here? If he doesn't recognize you for Tsar he need not seek justice from you; and if he does acknowledge you, why has he sat till to-day with your enemies in Orenburg? Won't you let me take him to the office and light a fire under his toes? It seems to me his honour has been sent to us by the Orenburg commanders.'

The old villain's logic struck me as rather convincing. A shiver ran down my back when I thought in whose hands I was. Pugatchov noticed my confusion.

'Eh, your honour?' he said to me with a wink. 'I fancy my field-marshal is talking sense. What do you think ?'

Pugatchov's mockery gave me back my courage. I calmly answered that I was in his power and that he was free to do what he liked with me.

'Good,' said Pugatchov, 'and now tell me how are things going with you in the town?'

'Thank Heaven, all is well!' I answered.

'All is well?' Pugatchov repeated, 'and people are dying of starvation?' The Pretender was right; but in accordance with my duty I began assuring him that this was an empty rumour and that there were plenty of provisions in Orenburg.

'You see,' the old man chimed in, 'he is deceiving you to your face. All refugees say with one voice that there is famine and pestilence in Orenburg; people eat carcasses and even that is a treat; and his honour assures you they have plenty of everything. If you want to hang Shvabrin, hang this fellow, too, on the same gallows so as to be fair to both!'

The cursed old man's words seemed to have shaken Pugatchov. Fortunately Hlopusha began contradicting his comrade.

" Come, Naumitch,' he said to him, 'you always want to be hanging and murdering. And you are not much of a man to look at—you can hardly keep body and soul together. You have one foot in the grave and yet you are destroying others. Isn't there enough blood on your conscience ?'

'You are a fine saint!' Beloborodov retorted. 'Why should you have pity?'

' Of course, I, too, have things on my conscience,' Hlopusha answered, 'and this hand' (he clenched his bony fist and, turning up his sleeve, showed a hairy arm) 'has been guilty of shedding Christian blood. But I destroyed enemies, not guests; on a high road and in the dark forest and not at home behind the stove; with a club and an axe and not with womanish slander.'

The old man turned away and muttered: 'Torn nostrils . . .'

'What are you muttering, you old wretch?' Hlopusha shouted. ' I'll give you " torn nostrils " ! Wait a bit, your time will come, too; God willing, you, too, will sniff the hangman' s pincers. . . . And, meanwhile, take care I don't pull out your scurvy beard!'

' My Generals!' Pugatchov said pompously, ' that's enough quarrelling! It does not matter if all the Orenburg pack wriggle under the same gallows; but it does matter if our dogs are at one another's throats. There, make peace!'

Hlopusha and Beloborodov did not say a word and looked at each other gloomily. I saw that it was necessary to change the subject of the conversation which might end very badly for me and, turning to Pugatchov, I said to him with a cheerful air:

'Oh, I have forgotten to thank you for the horse and the sheepskin. Had it not been for you I could not have found the road and should have been frozen on the way.'

My ruse succeeded. Pugatchov's good humour was restored.

'One good turn deserves another,' he said, with a wink. 'And tell me now why are you concerned about the girl whom Shvabrin is ill-treating? Is she your sweetheart by any chance ?'

'She is my betrothed!' I answered, seeing the favourable change in the weather and not thinking it necessary to conceal the truth.

'Your betrothed!' Pugatchov shouted. 'Why didn't you say so before? Why, we'll have you married and make merry at your wedding!'

Then he turned to Beloborodov and said: 'Listen, Field-marshal! His honour and I are old friends, so let us sit down to supper. Morning is wiser than evening; we shall see to-morrow what we are to do with him'.

I should have been glad to refuse the honour, but there was nothing for it. Two young girls, daughters of the Cossack to whom the hut belonged, spread a white cloth on the table, brought bread, fish-soup, and several bottles of vodka and beer. Once more I found myself at the same table with Pugatchov and his terrible comrades.

The orgy of which I was an involuntary witness lasted far into the night. At last the company were overpowered with drink. Pugatchov dozed; his friends got up and made me a sign to leave him. I went with them out of the room. At Hlopusha's orders the watchman took me into the cottage that served as office; I found Savelyitch there and we were locked up together for the night. The old man was so amazed at all that was happening that he did not ask me a single question. He lay down in the dark and was a long time sighing and groaning; at last he snored, and I gave myself up to thoughts which did not give me a wink of sleep all night.

In the morning Pugatchov sent for me. I went to him. A chaise, drawn by three Tatar horses was standing at his gate. There was a crowd in the street. I met Pugatchov in the entry, he was dressed for the journey in a fur coat and a Kirghis cap. His comrades of the day before surrounded him with an air of servility which little accorded with all that I had seen in the evening. Pugatchov greeted me cheerfully and told me to step into the chaise with him. We took our seats.

'To the Belogorsky fortress!' Pugatchov said to the broad-shouldered Tatar who drove the troika standing.

My heart beat violently. The horses set off, the bell clanged, the chaise flew along . . .

'Stop! Stop!' a familiar voice called out, and I saw Savelyitch running towards us. Pugatchov told the driver to stop.

My dear Pyotr Andreyitch!' Savelyitch cried, 'don't abandon me in my old age among these rascals!'

'Ah, you old creature!' Pugatchov said to him. 'So God has brought us together again. Well, climb on to the box!'

'Thank you, sire, thank you, our father!' said Savelyitch, climbing up. 'May God let you live to be a hundred for your kindness to an old man. I will pray for you as long as I live and will never mention the hareskin jacket again.'

This hareskin jacket might anger Pugatchov in earnest at last. Fortunately he had not heard or took no notice of the inopportune remark. The horses set off at a gallop; the people in the street stopped and bowed. Pugatchov nodded right and left. A minute later we left the village and flew along the smooth road.

One may well imagine what I was feeling at that moment. In a few hours I was to see her whom I had already considered as lost to me. I was picturing the moment of our meeting. ... I was also thinking of the man in whose hands I was and who was mysteriously connected with me through a strange combination of circumstances. I was recalling the thoughtless cruelty, the bloodthirsty habits of the would-be rescuer of my beloved. Pugatchov did not know that she was Captain Mironov's daughter; Shvabrin in his bitterness might tell him; or Pugatchov might discover the truth in other ways. . . . What would become of Marya Ivanovna tlien? A shiver ran down my back and my hair stood on end.

Suddenly Pugatchov interrupted my reflections with a question: ' What are you thinking of so deeply, your honour?'

'How can I help thinking,' I answered. 'I am an officel and a gentleman; only yesterday I was fighting against you and to-day I am driving beside you and the happiness of my whole life depends upon you.'

'Well, are you afraid?' Pugatchov asked.

I answered that since he had spared me once, I was hoping he would do so again and would, indeed, help me.

'And you are right, upon my soul, you are right!' Pugatchov said. 'You saw that my men were looking askance at you; and the old man again insisted this morning that you were a spy and ought to be tortured and hanged; but I did not agree,' he added, lowering his voice so that Savelyitch and the Tatar should not hear him, 'remembering your glass of vodka and the hareskin jacket. You see I am not so bloodthirsty as your people make me out.'

I recalled the taking of the Belogorsky fortress but did not think it necessary to contradict him and did not answer.

'What do they say of me in Orenburg?' Pugatchov asked, after a silence.

'They say it 's not easy to deal with you. There 's no denying it, you 've made your presence felt.'

The Pretender's face assumed an expression of satisfied vanity.

'Yes!' he said cheerfully. 'I am quite a hand at fighting. Do they know at Orenburg about the battle at Yuzeeva? Forty generals were killed, four armies taken captive. What do you think? would the Prussian king be a match for me?'

The brigand's boasting amused me.

'What do you think yourself?' I asked him; 'could you beat Frederick?'

'Why not? I beat your generals and they used to beat him. So far I have been lucky in war. Wait, you'll see even better things when I march on Moscow.'

'Are you thinking of doing that?'

Pugatchov pondered and said in a low voice:

'God only knows. I am cramped; I cannot do as I like. My men are too independent. They are thieves. I have to keep a sharp look out; at the first defeat they will ransom their necks with my head.'

'That's just it!' I said. 'Hadn't you better leave them yourself in good time and appeal to the Empress's mercy?'

Pugatchov smiled bitterly.

'No,' he said; 'it is too late for me to repent. There will be no mercy for me. I will go on as I have begun. Who knows? I may succeed after all! Grishka Otrepyev did reign over Moscow, you know.'

'And do you know what his end was? They threw him out of window, killed him, burned his body and fired a cannon with his ashes.'

'Listen,' Pugatchov said, with a kind of wild inspiration, 'I will tell you a fairy-tale which in my childhood an old Calmuck woman told me. The eagle asked the raven one day: " Tell me, raven-bird, why do you live in the world for three hundred years and I only for thirty-three? " —" Because, father-eagle, you drink living blood," the raven said, " and I feed on things that are dead." The eagle thought " I will try and feed as he does." Very well. The eagle and the raven flew along. They saw the carcass of a horse, came down and perched on it. The raven plucked and praised the food. The eagle took a peck or two, then waved his wing and said: " No, brother raven, rather than feed on dead flesh for three hundred years, I would have one drink of living blood—and leave the rest to God!" What do you think of the Calmuck tale?'

'It is clever,' I answered. 'But to live by murder and brigandage is, to my mind, just what plucking dead flesh means.'

Pugatchov looked at me with surprise and made no answer. We both sank into silence, each absorbed with his own reflections. The Tatar struck up a doleful song; Savelyitch dozed as he sat, rocking to and fro on the box. The chaise flew along the smooth winter road. . . . Suddenly I saw on the steep bank of the Yai'k a village with a palisade round it and a belfry rising above it—and in another quarter of an hour we drove into the Belogorsky fortress.

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