An officer named Zhílin was serving in the army in the Caucasus.
One day he received a letter from home. It was from his mother, who wrote: 'I am getting old, and should like to see
my dear son once more before I die. Come and say good-bye to me and bury me, and then, if God pleases, return to service again
with my blessing. But I have found a girl for you, who is sensible and good and has some property. If you can love her, you
might marry her and remain at home.'
Zhílin thought it over. It was quite true, the old
lady was failing fast and he might not have another chance to see her alive. He had better go, and, if the girl was nice,
why not marry her?
So he went to his Colonel, obtained leave of absence,
said good-bye to his comrades, stood the soldiers four pailfuls of vodka. As a farewell treat, and got ready to go.
It was a time of war in the Caucasus. The roads were
not safe by night or day. If ever a Russian ventured to ride or walk any distance away from his fort, the Tartars killed him
or carried him off to the hills. So it had been arranged that twice every week a body of soldiers should march from one fortress
to the next to convoy travelers from point to point.
It was summer. At daybreak the baggage-train got ready
under shelter of the fortress; the soldiers marched out; and all started along the road. Zhílin was on horseback, and a cart
with his things went with the baggage-train. They had sixteen miles to go. The baggage-train moved slowly; sometimes the soldiers
stopped, or perhaps a wheel would come off one of the carts, or a horse refuse to go on, and then everybody had to wait.
When by the sun it was already past noon, they had
not gone half the way. It was dusty and hot, the sun was scorching and there was no shelter anywhere: a bare plain all round
-- not a tree, not a bush, by the road.
Zhílin rode on in front, and stopped, waiting for the
baggage to overtake him. Then he heard the signal-horn sounded behind him: the company had again stopped. So he began to think:
'Hadn't I better ride on by myself? My horse is a good one: if the Tartars do attack me, I can gallop away. Perhaps, however,
it would be wiser to wait.'
As he sat considering, Kostílin, an officer carrying
a gun, rode up to him and said:
'Come along, Zhílin, let's go on by ourselves. It's dreadful; I am famished, and the heat is terrible. My shirt is
Kostílin was a stout, heavy man, and the perspiration
was running down his red face. Zhílin thought awhile, and then asked: 'Is your gun loaded?'
'Yes it is.'
'Well, then, let's go, but on condition that we keep together.'
So they rode forward along the road across the plain,
talking, but keeping a look-out on both sides. They could see afar all round. But after crossing the plain the road ran through
a valley between two hills, and Zhílin said: 'We had better climb that hill and have a look round, or the Tartars may be on
us before we know it.'
But Kostílin answered: 'What's the use? Let us go on.'
Zhílin, however, would not agree.
'No,' he said; 'you can wait here if you like, but I'll go and look round.' And he turned his horse to the left, up
the hill. Zhílin's horse was a hunter, and carried him up the hillside as if it had wings. (He had bought it for a hundred
roubles as a colt out of a herd, and had broken it in himself.) Hardly had he reached the top of the hill, when he saw some
thirty Tartars not much more than a hundred yards ahead of him. As soon as he caught sight of them he turned round but the
Tartars had also seen him, and rushed after him at full gallop, getting their guns out as they went. Down galloped Zhílin
as fast as the horse's legs could go, shouting to Kostílin: 'Get your gun ready!'
And, in thought, he said to his horse: 'Get me well
out of this, my pet; don't stumble, for if you do it's all up. Once I reach the gun, they shan't take me prisoner.'
But, instead of waiting, Kostílin, as soon as he caught
sight of the Tartars, turned back towards the fortress at full speed, whipping his horse now on one side now on the other,
and its switching tail was all that could be seen of him in the dust.
Zhílin saw it was a bad look-out; the gun was gone,
and what could he do with nothing but his sword? He turned his horse towards the escort, thinking to escape, but there were
six Tartars rushing to cut him off. His horse was a good one, but theirs were still better; and besides, they were across
his path. He tried to rein in his horse and to turn another way, but it was going so fast it could not stop, and dashed on
straight towards the Tartars. He saw a red-bearded Tartar on a grey horse, with his gun raised, come at him, yelling and showing
'Ah,' thought Zhílin, 'I know you, devils that you are. If you take me alive, you'll put me in a pit and flog me. I
will not be taken alive!'
Zhílin, though not a big fellow, was brave. He drew
his sword and dashed at the red-bearded Tartar thinking: 'Either I'll ride him down, or disable him with my sword.'
He was still a horse's length away from him, when he
was fired at from behind, and his horse was hit. It fell to the ground with all its weight, pinning Zhílin to the earth.
He tried to rise, but two ill-savoured Tartars were
already sitting on him and binding his hands behind his back. He made an effort and flung them off, but three others jumped
from their horses and began beating his head with the butts of their guns. His eyes grew dim, and he fell back. The Tartars
seized him, and, taking spare girths from their saddles, twisted his hands behind him and tied them with a Tartar knot. They
knocked his cap off, pulled off his boots, searched him all over, tore his clothes, and took his money and his watch.
Zhílin looked round at his horse. There it lay on its
side, poor thing, just as it had fallen; struggling, its legs in the air, unable to touch the ground. There was a hole in
its head, and black blood was pouring out, turning the dust to mud for a couple of feet around.
One of the Tartars went up to the horse and began taking
the saddle off, it still kicked, so he drew a dagger and cut its windpipe. A whistling sound came from its throat, the horse
gave one plunge, and all was over.
The Tartars took the saddle and trappings. The red-bearded
Tartar mounted his horse, and the others lifted Zhílin into the saddle behind him. To prevent his falling off, they strapped
him to the Tartar's girdle; and then they all rode away to the hills.
So there sat Zhílin, swaying from side to side, his
head striking against the Tartar's stinking back. He
could see nothing but that muscular back and sinewy neck, with its closely shaven, bluish nape. Zhílin's head was wounded:
the blood had dried over his eyes, and he could neither shift his position on the saddle nor wipe the blood off. His arms
were bound so tightly that his collar-bones ached.
They rode up and down hills for a long way. Then they
reached a river which they forded, and came to a hard road leading across a valley.
Zhílin tried to see where they were going, but his eyelids were stuck together with blood, and he could not turn.
Twilight began to fall; they crossed another river
and rode up a stony hillside. There was a smell of smoke here, and dogs were barking. They had reached an Aoul (a Tartar village).
The Tartars got off their horses; Tartar children came and stood round Zhílin, shrieking with pleasure and throwing stones
The Tartar drove the children away, took Zhílin off
the horse, and called his man. A Nogáy with high cheek-bones, and nothing on but a shirt (and that so torn that his breast
was all bare), answered the call. The Tartar gave him an order. He went and fetched shackles: two blocks of oak with iron
rings attached, and a clasp and lock fixed to one of the rings.
They untied Zhílin's arms, fastened the shackles on his leg, and dragged him to a barn, where they pushed him in and
locked the door.
Zhílin fell on a heap of manure. He lay still awhile
then groped about to find a soft place, and settled down.
the rest of the story go here.)