81

ALEXANDER FADEYEV

p “We were privileged to be the first to tell people about the socialist way of life and about how it was achieved,” said Alexander Fadeyev, speaking of that generation of writers who entered the literary field at the time of the October Revolution.

p Alexander Fadeyev (1901-1956) took part in the revolution and the Civil War in the Far East, where he, a seventeenyear-old lad, covered thousands of kilometres of forest paths with a partisan column. From these years of fighting Fadeyev gained many unforgettable impressions, both heroic and tragic. Sergei Lazo, leader of the Far East partisans, and F.acleyev’s own cousin, Vsevolod Sibirtsev, were burned alive in a locomotive fire-box by the Japanese intervention forces.

Fadeyev’s novels, The Rout and The Last of the Udegeh, and also a large number of short stories deal with the Civil War in the Far East. The story which follows is a chapter from The Rout.

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p When Levinson, who commanded the partisan column, sent Metelitsa out to reconnoitre, he ordered him to be sure and return that night. The village he sent him to, however, was much farther away than Levinson had thought; Metelitsa left the column at four in the afternoon and rode his stallion hell for leather, crouched over its neck like a bird of prey. There was something both cruel and joyful in the way he distended his delicate nostrils, as though he were intoxicated by that mad ride after five slow, dull days on the march. When twilight fell, he was still hemmed in by the autumnal taiga, which showed no signs of thinning out, and could still hear nothing but the endless rustle of the grass in the cold, mournful light of the dying day. It was quite dark when he eventually got out of the forest and pulled the stallion up beside an old rotting log shed where beehives had been kept in winter; the roof had fallen in and it looked as if it had been abandoned long ago.

p He tethered the horse, and, holding on to the edge of the woodwork, which crumbled under his hands, worked his way up to the roof at the risk of falling into a dark pit from which came the sickening stench of rotten wood and rancid grass. Rising on his strong legs to a half crouch, he stood motionless for about ten minutes, peering keenly into the night and listening, invisible against the dark background of the forest and more like a bird of prey than ever. Below lay a gloomy valley full of dark haystacks and small clumps of trees squeezed between two rows of hills that stood out black against an unfriendly, starlit sky.

p Metelitsa leaped into the saddle and made for the road. It was a long time since carts had passed 83 that way and the ruts were scarcely visible in the grass. The slender trunks of birch-trees gleamed calm and white in the darkness, like extinguished candles.

p He rode on to a low hill; to his left there was still the row of black hills that curved like the backbone of some gigantic animal. He could hear the sound of a stream. About two versts away, probably by the stream, a fire was burning and it reminded Metelitsa of the damp, lonely life of the herdsman; further on the unwinking lights of the village straddled the road. The line of hills to his right turned away and disappeared in the blue darkness; in that direction the terrain was much lower, probably an old watercourse; the slope was edged with black, gloomy timber.

p “There must be a swamp down there,” Metelitsa thought. He was beginning to feel the cold. His quilted jacket was unbuttoned and his army shirt, which had no buttons on it at all, was also open at the neck. He decided to go to the fire first. By way of precaution he pulled his revolver from its holster and stuck it in his belt under the jacket, putting the holster away in his saddle pouch. He had no rifle with him. Now he looked like a peasant riding in from the fields; since the war against the Germans many of them had been wearing soldiers’ jackets.

p He was quite close to the fire when the anxious neighing of horses broke out in the darkness. The stallion leaped forward, its mighty body trembling, its ears pressed back, and neighed in passionate and plaintive response. At that moment a shadow moved in front of the fire, and with a crack of his whip Metelitsa made the stallion rear.

p Beside the fire stood a skinny, black-haired boy, his frightened eyes starting out of his head; in one hand he held a whip, while the other, in a ragged 84 sleeve, was lifted as though to protect himself. He was dressed in torn trousers, bast shoes and a jacket far too long for him, belted round with a hemp rope. Metelitsa brought his horse down savagely right in front of the boy, only just missing him. He wanted to shout a rough command but hesitated as he saw the frightened eyes looking at him over the dangling sleeve, the bare knees showing through the torn trousers, and the old jacket that must have belonged to the boy’s employer. That childish neck was so absurdly thin and it protruded so guiltily and pitifully from the jacket—-

p “What are you standing there for? Scared, eh? You’re a fool, my little sparrow, that’s what you are!” Metelitsa was embarrassed and he spoke with a rough tenderness that he used when speaking to horses but never to people. “Wouldn’t budge a step! Suppose I’d crushed you?... Silly little fool," he repeated, softening completely, feeling that the sight of this boy and his poverty had awakened something within him that was just as pitiful, funny and childish___The boy could scarcely catch his breath from fright; he dropped his hand.

p “Why did you come flying at me like a madman?" he said, trying to speak sensibly and independently like a grown-up, but nevertheless timidly. "Who wouldn’t be scared? I’ve got horses here—-"

p “Horses?" Metelitsa drawled sarcastically. “You don’t say!" He leaned back, arms akimbo, and looked again at the lad, screwing up his eyes and slightly raising his silky eyebrows, and suddenly he burst out laughing so honestly loud and in such kindly, merry tones that he himself wondered how he could produce such sounds.

p The boy sniffed, still embarrassed and mistrustful, but then realised that there was nothing to be afraid of but, on the contrary, everything was turning out to be real fun. He wrinkled his nose so hard that 85 even its tip turned up, and also burst into thin, cheeky, childish laughter. It was so sudden that Metelitsa laughed still louder and the two of them, unwittingly egging each other on, continued laughing for several minutes—one of them rocking back and forth in his saddle, his teeth reflecting the light from the fire, and the other sitting on the ground, holding himself up with his hands as his body shook with each burst of laughter.

p “You certainly made me laugh, boss!" Metelitsa said at last, kicking his feet out of the stirrups. “You’re a queer chap, you are.. ..” He jumped to the ground and held his hand out to the fire.

p The lad stopped laughing and looked at him in serious and joyful astonishment, as though waiting for further amazing eccentricities.

p “You’re a merry devil, aren’t you?" the boy said at last, very clearly, as though summing up his deepest convictions.

p Metelitsa grinned. “Me? Yes, I am, lad.. ..”

p “And I was scared out of my skin,” the boy admitted. “I’ve got the horses here. I was baking some spuds....”

p “Spuds? That’s good! ...” Metelitsa sat down beside him but kept hold of the reins of his horse. “Where do you get ’em?”

p “Over there—-There are plenty of them!" The boy waved his arm in a circle.

p “So you steal them?”

p “Yes. Let me hold the horse. It’s a stallion, isn’t it? I won’t let it go, don’t worry—-It’s a good one, isn’t it?" he added, casting an experienced glance at the animal’s fine lines. “Where are you from?”

p “Yes, not a bad animal,” Metelitsa agreed. “And where are you from?”

p “Over there.” The boy nodded in the direction of the lights. “Khanikheza, that’s our village. . . . 86 Hundred and twenty farms, no more’n no less,” he said, repeating someone else’s words, and spat on the ground.

p “Oh—-And I’m from Vorobyovka across the mountains. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

p “From Vorobyovka? No, I’ve never heard of it. Must be a long way off. ...”

p “It is.. . .”

p “What are you doing here?”

p “Well, how shall I put it? It’s a long story.... I thought of buying some horses here, they tell me you have a lot. ... You know, boy, I’m very fond of horses,” said Metelitsa confidentially, “I’ve been looking after horses all my life, only not my own.”

p “D’you think these are mine? They’re the boss’s. . ..”

p The boy pulled a thin, dirty hand out of the dangling sleeve and began raking in the ashes with the whip handle; blackened potatoes rolled out alluringly.

p “Want some?" the boy asked. “I’ve got some bread, too. Not much, though.”

p “Thanks, but I’ve just eaten—I’m full up!" Metelitsa lied, putting his hand to his throat; only then did he feel how hungry he really was.

p The boy broke open a potato, blew on it, put one half in his mouth with the skin on, rolled it over with his tongue and began to chew it with great gusto, his pointed ears moving in unison with his jaws. When he had eaten that piece, he looked up at Metelitsa and spoke again, as clearly and distinctly as when he had pronounced him a merry devil.

p “I’m an orphan, I’ve been an orphan for six months. The Cossacks killed my Dad, and they raped Mum and killed her, too, and my brother as well....”

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p “Cossacks?" asked Metelitsa, on the alert.

p “Who else? And for no reason. And they set fire to the farm, and not only to ours, to about a dozen at least, and they come every month and raid us. About forty of them are there now. The volost centre, Rakitnoye, isn’t far away. There’s been a whole regiment there all summer. Savages, they are. ... Have a spud. ...”

p “Why haven’t your people run away? ... You’ve got plenty of forests here.. ..” Metelitsa even sat up.

p “What use is the forest? You can’t hide there for ever. And there are swamps there, such bogs that you’d never get out.. ..”

p “Just as I thought,” Metelitsa said to himself, remembering his recent assessment of the terrain.

p “D’you know what,” he said, rising to his feet, “you put my horse to pasture and I’ll go to the village on foot. I see there’s nothing to be bought here. They’re more likely to take the last shirt off your back....”

p “What’s the hurry? Sit down!" said the young herdsman, disappointedly. He also got up. "It’s lonely here,” he explained in a plaintive voice looking at Metelitsa with his big, moist, pleading eyes.

p “I can’t stay, old chap.” Metelitsa indicated inevitability with his outspread arms. “I must see for myself while it’s still dark.. .. I’ll soon be back and we’ll hobble the stallion meanwhile. Where’s the chief of these Cossacks staying?”

p The lad explained how to find the house in which the squadron commander was living and how to get there by back ways.

p “Are there many dogs?”

p “Plenty, but they’re not savage.”

p Guided by the boy’s description, Metelitsa passed through a number of lanes, turned by the church and eventually reached the painted fence of the 88 priest’s garden. (The squadron commander was staying with the priest.) Metelitsa looked into the place and all round it and listened carefully and, not finding anything suspicious, climbed soundlessly over the fence.

p He found himself in a densely planted orchard, but the wide-spreading branches were already leafless. Metelitsa made his way forward, holding his breath and trying to restrain the powerful beating of his heart. Suddenly he found that the orchard was intersected by a path, and about twenty yards up it to the left he saw a lighted window; it was open and there were people in the room. An even light spread over the dead leaves and the apple trees looked strangely golden where the light fell on their boughs.

p “So there they are!" thought Metelitsa, his cheek twitching nervously as he felt himself fired by the grim, inescapable urge of fearless desperation that usually drove him to the most reckless exploits; while he was still wondering whether anybody required him to listen to the conversation of these people in the lighted room, he realised that actually he would not go away from there until he had. A few minutes later he was standing behind an apple tree right under the window, listening eagerly and remembering everything that was happening there.

p There were four of them playing cards at a table on the other side of the room. On the right sat a little old priest with his hair slicked back and keen eyes darting here and there as he dealt the cards skilfully with his tiny hands, trying so hard to get a glimpse of each of them that his neighbour, whose back was towards Metelitsa, took the cards as they were dealt and concealed them under the table, giving them no more than a hurried, apprehensive glance. Facing Metelitsa sat a handsome, stout, lazylooking and apparently good-humoured officer with 89 a pipe between his teeth—Metelitsa took him for the squadron commander, probably because he was so stout. But Metelitsa, although he could not have explained why, paid most attention to the fourth player, a man with a pale, puffy face and unwinking eyes; he was wearing a black sheepskin cap and a Caucasian goatskin cloak without shoulder-straps, which he wrapped closer round himself every time he played a card.

p Contrary to Metelitsa’s expectations, they spoke of the commonest and most uninteresting things; at least half their talk revolved around the cards.

p “Eighty,” said the player whose back was towards Metelitsa.

p “Too low, Your Excellency,” said the one in the black sheepskin cap. “A hundred blind,” he added carelessly.

p The stout, handsome officer examined his cards with narrowed eyes and, taking the pipe out of his mouth, raised the betting to a hundred and five.

p “Pass,” said the first, turning to the priest, who was holding the remainder of the pack.

p “That’s what I thought,” grinned the sheepskin cap.

p “Is it my fault if I don’t get any cards?" answered the other, turning to the priest for sympathy.

p “Every little helps,” joked the priest, closing his eyes and giving a tiny little laugh, as though by such an insignificant laugh he wished to stress.the insignificance of his companion’s play. “Two hundred points and two already down to you—we know you! ...”

p He wagged a threatening finger and pretended to smile with affectionate slyness.

p What a louse, thought Metelitsa.

p “And you pass, too?" the priest asked the lazylooking officer. "And these go to you.” The last 90 remark was addressed to the sheepskin cap, to whom the priest passed additional cards face down.

p For a minute they slapped their cards frantically on the table until at last the sheepskin cap lost. You boasted too much, fishy eyes, Metelitsa thought disdainfully; he did not know whether he ought to go or wait a little longer. But he could not have gone in any case, because the loser had now turned to the window and Metelitsa felt that piercing stare fixed on him in unwinking precision.

p In the meantime the player with his back to the window began shuffling the cards. He did it carefully and with a strange economy of movement, like an old lady praying.

p “Nechitailo isn’t back yet,” said the lazy one, yawning. “Seems to have had some luck. Pity I didn’t go with him—-"

p “Two of you?" asked the sheepskin cap, turning away from the window. “Why not, she’s a sturdy wench,” he added, with a grimace.

p “Vasenka?" enquired the priest. “Uh, uh___She certainly is. ... We had a big, hefty singer here—I think I told you about him.. . . Only Sergei Ivanovich wouldn’t have agreed. Never. ... D’you know what he told me yesterday in secret? Til take her with me,’ he said, ’and I,’ he said, ’won’t be afraid to marry her.’ .. . Oh!" the priest stopped short and covered his mouth with his hand, a cunning twinkle in his crafty little eyes. “There’s a memory for you. I’ve let the cat out of the bag, although I didn’t intend to. Don’t give me away!" And he waved his hands in mock fright. Although they all, like Metelitsa, could see the insincerity and covert obsequiousness in his every word and gesture, nobody referred to it and all laughed.

p Metelitsa, still crouching, backed away from the window. He had just turned into the path running across the orchard when he ran into a man with a 91 Cossack greatcoat thrown over one shoulder; behind him were two more.

p “What are you doing here?" the man asked him in surprise, hitching up the greatcoat, which had almost fallen when Metelitsa ran into him.

p Metelitsa leapt back and made for the bushes.

p “Stop! Hold him! Hold him! There he is! Hi!" several voices shouted. A few sharp shots rang out behind him. Metelitsa got tangled in the bushes and lost his cap, then went forward by guesswork; but voices were now yelling and howling ahead of him and the angry barking of a dog came from the street.

p “There he is! Hold him!" someone shouted, jumping at him with one hand outstretched. A bullet hummed past Metelitsa’s ear.. Metelitsa fired back. The man running after him stumbled and fell.

p “You won’t catch me!" Metelitsa exclaimed triumphantly; and up to the very last minute he really did not believe they could capture him.

p But someone big and heavy jumped on him from behind and crushed him to the ground. He tried to get his hand free, but a cruel blow on the head dazed him.. ..

p Then they all took turns at beating him, and even as he lost consciousness he could still feel blow after blow on his helpless body....

p Metelitsa regained consciousness in a big, dark shed. He was lying on the damp ground and his first sensation was of the cold, earthy dampness striking through him. He immediately recalled what had happened. The blows he had received still rang in his head, there was clotted blood in his hair and he could feel the dried blood on his cheeks and forehead.

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p The first thought that took clear shape in his mind was—could he get away? It was incredible to him that after everything he had experienced in life, after all his exploits, all the successes that had made his name famous, he would in the end lie and rot like everyone else. He went over the whole shed, feeling every tiny crack, and even tried to break open the door, but to no effect. On all sides there was nothing but cold, dead wood, and the cracks were so hopelessly small that he could not so much as see through them; they scarcely let in the light of the dull autumn dawn.

p He kept feeling his way about, however, until at last he realised with deadly, implacable certainty that this time there was no getting away. When he was finally convinced of this the question of his own life and death immediately ceased to interest him. All his spiritual and physical strength was now concentrated on something that was actually insignificant when compared with his own life and death but which now mattered to him more than anything else—the problem of how he, Metelitsa, the famous daredevil, could show the people who would kill him that he was not afraid of them and utterly despised them.

p He had not had time to give the matter sufficient thought when he heard a noise outside the door, bolts were pushed back and two Cossacks, armed and in uniform, entered the shed together with the pale, quivering light. Metelitsa, standing with his feet astride, stared at them with narrowed eyes.

p When they saw him, they hesitated in the doorway, and the one who was behind sniffed uncomfortably.

p “Come on out, boy,” said the one in front mildly, in an almost guilty tone.

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p Metelitsa, his head lowered stubbornly, went out of the shed.

p He was soon standing in front of a familiar figure —the man in the black sheepskin cap and Caucasian cloak—in the room he had watched during the night from the priest’s orchard. There, too, sitting erect in an armchair, was the handsome, stout and goodnatured officer whom Metelitsa had taken for the squadron commander; he looked at Metelitsa in surprise but not sternly. As Metelitsa now surveyed the pair of them he realised by certain barely perceptible signs that the man in the cloak and not the kindly-looking officer was the commander.

p “You may go,” snapped the commander to the two Cossacks who were standing in the doorway.

p They .stumbled awkwardly against each other as they left the room.

p “What were you doing in the orchard yesterday?" the commander asked rapidly, standing in front of Metelitsa and looking at him with his precise, unwinking glance.

p Without answering Metelitsa stared at him derisively, standing up to the officer’s glance; his silky black eyebrows quivered slightly and his whole pose showed that irrespective of what questions were put to him and what they did to make him answer them he would not tell them anything that could satisfy his inquisitors.

p “Drop that nonsense, said the commander, not in the least angrily; he did not raise his voice but spoke in tones that showed he understood exactly what was going on inside Metelitsa at the moment.

p “Why talk for nothing?" Metelitsa said, condescendingly.

p For several seconds the squadron commander studied the motionless, pock-marked face, smeared with dried blood.

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p “Is it a long time since you had small pox?"

p “What?" asked Metelitsa in confusion. He was confused because there was neither derision nor mockery in the commander’s question; the officer was apparently merely interested in his pock-marked face. When he realised this, however, Metelitsa grew even more angry than if they had mocked and derided him; the officer’s question was obviously an attempt to establish some sort of human contact between them.

p “Are you a local man, or do you come from some other part?”

p “Cut it out, Your Honour!. . .” said Metelitsa, in angry determination. He clenched his fists; his face was flushed and he could hardly prevent himself from attacking the officer. He wanted to add something, but the thought that he could actually seize the man in black with the unpleasantly calm bloated face and the untidy reddish growth of beard and could strangle him suddenly took hold of Metelitsa so forcibly that he forgot what he had been going to say and took a step forward, his fingers twitching and his pock-marked face bathed in sweat.

p “Oho!" the officer exclaimed loudly, for the first time expressing surprise. He did not, however,’step back or take his eyes off Metelitsa, who stood still irresolutely, his eyes flashing.

p Then the officer drew his revolver and brandished it under Metelitsa’s nose. Metelitsa regained control of himself, turned away to the window and froze into a contemptuous silence. After that, no matter how much he was threatened with the revolver, no matter what awful punishment was promised for the future, no matter how much they urged him to tell the truth about everything and offered him his freedom—he did not say a single word and did not look once at his interrogators.

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p While the interrogation was still in progress, the door opened softly and a hairy head with big, scared, foolish eyes poked into the room.

p “So they are ready, are they?" said the squadron commander. “All right, tell the boys to take this fellow along.”

p The same two Cossacks led Metelitsa out into the yard, pointed to an open gate and followed him through it. He did pot look round but felt that the two officers were also following behind. They reached the square in front of the church. There was a crowd outside the churchwarden’s house, hemmed in on all s,ides by mounted Cossacks.

p It had always seemed to Metelitsa that he disliked and despised people, engrossed as they were in petty and trivial affairs. He had thought himself completely indifferent to what they thought of him or said about him; he had never had any friends and had never tried to have any. Nevertheless, although he had never noticed it himself, everything of any importance that he had done in his life he had done for people, for the sake of people, so that they would look at him, be proud of him, admire and praise him. And now, when he threw back his head, he suddenly took in, not only with his glance but with his whole heart, that silent, colourful, fidgeting crowd of peasants, boys, women in skirts of bright homespun cloth, girls in white scarves with floral designs, cheeky horsemen with floppy forelocks, all as clean, brightly-coloured and smartly attired as in cheap prints, their long mobile shadows dancing on the sward, and even the ancient domes of the church overhead that towered motionless in the cold sky lit up by the scanty sunshine.

p “That’s something like!" he almost exclaimed. He opened up completely, overjoyed with it all, the life, the brightness, the poverty, with everything that moved and breathed and shone all round and 96 thrilled within him. He strode forward more quickly and freely with a light, animal tread that seemed scarcely to touch the earth; his pliant body swayed as he walked and everyone on the square turned towards him and with sudden excitement also felt that an animal strength, as light as that tread, lived in his pliant and eager body.

p He walked through the crowd, looking over their heads, but feeling their silent and concentrated attention, and halted at the porch of the churchwarden’s house. The officers overtook him and went up on to the porch.

p “Over here, over here,” said the squadron commander to Metelitsa, showing him a place beside the officers. Metelitsa took the steps in a single bound, and stood next to him.

p Now he was plainly visible to everyone—a lithe, upright figure, black-haired, wearing deerskin breeches and an unbuttoned shirt belted with a cord the green tassels of which showed from under his quilted jacket; there was a distant animal fire in his restless eyes that stared towards the high mountain peaks towering motionless in the grey mist of early morning.

p “Who knows this man?" the squadron commander asked, turning his sharp, piercing eyes on the crowd, his glance resting for a second first on one face, then on another.

p And every man on whom that glance came to rest lowered his head uncomfortably—only the women, who did not possess the power to turn their eyes away from him, stared at him dumbly and stupidly in awed curiosity.

p “Does nobody know him?" the commander asked again. He mockingly stressed the word “nobody” as though he were absolutely certain that, on the contrary, everyone knew or ought to know “this 97 man”. “We’ll soon see about that... . Nechitailo!" he shouted. He waved his hand to a tall officer in a long Cossack greatcoat seated on a prancing chestnut stallion.

p There was suppressed excitement in the crowd and those standing at the front turned to look back— someone in a black waistcoat was pushing his way determinedly through the crowd, his head bowed so low that only his warm fur cap could be seen.

p “Let me through, let me through!" he said rapidly. With one hand he was clearing a way for himself, and with the other, dragging someone along behind him.

p At last he reached the porch and it could be seen that he was leading a skinny, black-haired lad in a long jacket, who was hanging back fearfully and staring wide-eyed first at Metelitsa, then at the squadron commander. The crowd became more voluble, sighs and the soft murmuring of women could be heard. Metelitsa looked down and at once recognised the black-haired boy as yesterday’s herdsman—the same frightened eyes, the same funny, thin, childish neck—with whom he had left his horse.

p The man who held the boy by the hand removed his cap, revealing an unusually flat crown. His brown hair was speckled with grey, just as if it had been unevenly sprinkled with salt. Bowing to the officers, he started to tell his tale.

p “This young herdsman of mine....”

p But suddenly he became afraid they would not hear him out, so he bent down to the boy and then pointed his finger at Metelitsa.

p “Is that him?”

p For several seconds the boy and Metelitsa looked each other straight in the eyes—Metelitsa with feigned indifference, the boy with fear, sympathy 98 and pity. Then the boy turned his eyes towards the squadron commander, stared at him woodenly tor a moment, and finally looked at the man who was gripping his arm and bending over him, waiting for an answer; he heaved a deep and painful sigh and shook his head in denial. . .. The crowd, which had grown so quiet that the people could hear the fidgeting of the calf in the sexton’s cowshed, wavered slightly and again froze into immobility. .. .

p “Don’t you be afraid, silly, don’t be afraid,” said the man gently, although he was becoming frightened himself and kept jerking his finger nervously at Metelitsa. “Who could it be if it wasn’t him? . . . You admit it, admit it, or else. ... Oh, to hell with you!" Suddenly, with all his force, he tugged fiercely at the boy’s arm and let it go. “It’s him, Excellency, who else could it be!" he exclaimed loudly, as though excusing himself, and humbly twisted his cap in his hands. “Only the boy’s afraid. But who else could it be, when the horse is saddled and there’s a holster in the bag.. . . He rode up to the fire in the evening. ’Graze my horse,’ he says and off he goes to the village; and the boy waited and waited until it got light, and then brought in the horse. And the horse was saddled, and the holster’s in the saddle-bag. .. . Who else could it be?”

p “Who rode up? What holster?" asked the commander, doing his best to understand what it was all about. The man twisted his cap in still greater confusion and again, halting and stammering, told the story of how his herdsman had that morning brought home a strange saddled horse with a revolver holster in the saddle-bag.

p “So that’s it, is it?" drawled the squadron commander. “But he doesn’t want to admit it?" He nodded towards the boy. "All right, bring him here, we’ll ask him in our own way....”

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p The boy, pushed on from behind, approached the porch but hesitated to go on to it. The officer ran down the steps, seized him by his thin, trembling shoulders, and stared into the boy’s terrified face with his piercing, awe-inspiring eyes.. . .

p The boy suddenly began screaming and rolling his eyes.

p “What do you call that?" gasped one of the women, unable to contain herself.

p But at that moment a lithe, swift body flew from the porch. The crowd swayed back, arms waving, as though from a single body; the squadron commander was knocked off his feet by a powerful blow.. ..

p “Shoot him! Why don’t you do something?" bawled the handsome officer holding out his hand helplessly, flustered, foolish and apparently forgetting that he could have fired at Metelitsa himself.

p Some of the horsemen rode into the crowd, pushing the people aside with their horses. Metelitsa was holding his enemy down by the weight of his whole body and trying to grab him by the throat, but the officer was writhing as if he were a wood spirit, his goatskin cape spread out on the ground like black wings; one hand was frantically fumbling for the revolver at his belt. At last he managed to unfasten the holster, and just as Metelitsa took him by the throat he fired several shots into his assailant’s body.. ..

p When the Cossacks who had come hurrying up pulled Metelitsa away by the legs he was still clutching at the grass; he ground his teeth and tried to raise his head, but it dropped helplessly and dragged along the ground.

p “Nechitailo!" shouted the handsome officer. “Form up the squadron! ... Will you go, too?" he asked 100 Emacs-File-stamp: "/home/ysverdlov/leninist.biz/en/1974/OSA354/20070209/199.tx" the commander courteously, although he avoided meeting his glance.

p “Yes.”

p “The squadron commander’s charger! ...”

p Half an hour later the Cossack squadron in full battle order left the village and hurried uphill along the road Metelitsa had travelled the previous evening.

Translated by George H. Hanna