That was why there were genuine soldiers in the tent and ones who had been demoted to soldiers: Akulev, Dmitriev, Gorkin, Shaposhnikov, Yeremeyev, Baikov, former noncommissioned officers, and now soldiers: Shutikov and Lomov, former Guards Lieutenant Nil Kozhevnikov and the former Guards Colonel, and now soldier, Alexander Berstel.
A corporal had just looked into the tent, seen to the roll call, and left.
Noncommissioned officers and corporals were not allowed to lodge with soldiers; they were supposed to stay nearby and to check on the sleepers twice a night.
A young, pale-faced soldier, Dmitriev, said:
“That bastard will wake us up again during the night. He keeps coming in and staring…”
He was lying on his greatcoat, which he had unrolled right at the entrance. It was very stuffy inside.
A gray-haired soldier, Akulev, stuffed his pipe and said calmly:
“It’s unlikely he’ll come back …”
He puffed on his pipe, blew the smoke out the door, directing it with his hand, and said again:
“It’s unlikely …”
And looking jovially at his comrades, he explained:
“He must have had a drop or two by now.”
He turned to Berstel, who pointed his gray mustaches at the floor and offered him his tobacco pouch:
“Alexander Karlovich, would you like some tobacco? I got some in Tabriz, three pounds in weight, dirt cheap.”
Berstel took some tobacco and lit up too.
They were the oldest in the tent.
Akulev was calm and talkative. A conversation before bedtime is more enjoyable for a soldier than reading novels in bed for a writer. And soldiers look forward to those conversations. The remark about the corporal, and to a certain extent the offer of tobacco, were a narrator’s prologue. When talking, Akulev always seemed to be addressing Berstel, while the others were just listeners.
“I bought the tobacco dirt cheap when we guarded Abbas, the shah’s heir” said Akuliev. “Is it any good, Alexander Karlovich?”
“Smells good,” said Berstel.
“Exactly why I bought it. Odintsov, two others, and myself were on guard. We saw a passer-by. If a human being walks there at night, it’s either a thief or a slut. He was the former. His nose was cut off, and parts of his ears were missing under his hat. He came straight at us. Odintsov waved his rifle at him, telling him to get lost. One has to admit that their thieves are much worse than ours. Without saying a word, he approached and showed us the tobacco, about five pounds of it. He let us smell it. I showed him on my fingers: how much? He showed me his hand with just two fingers left on it. The other ones were missing. In Persia, they chop men’s fingers off for thievery. We told him: if you’ve shown two fingers, you get two coins. He tried to object, Odintsov pointed his gun at him, as a joke. He saw that there were two of us, he was alone; he showed us his teeth and left.”
The pockmarked soldier, Yeremeyev asked:
“Tell us, guvnor, what has happened to Odintsov. Missing in action?”
“That’s because of Naib Naumov,” replied Akulev. “Naib Naumov sent him a note. He is a colonel with Samson Yakovlich Makintsev. Take a lookout, would you?” and he winked at Yeremeyev.
Yeremeyev got up and left quietly.
Five minutes later, he came back and waved his hand:
“Everything is fine. Speak freely. I went to take a leak. The sentry doesn’t understand Russian—must be one of the Georgians.”
“Naib Naumov is a big shot among Samson Makintsev’s officers. Samson Yakovlich sent him to Tabriz with a note tempting the Russian soldiers to remain in his kingdom. Odintsov hadn’t passed the note to anyone else. He was a loner. On his last night, when saying his goodbyes, he told me: we won’t meet again. I didn’t blame him. You can’t stop a man who is prepared to die. He was a lone wolf. They say that three more left too, not from our Moscow Regiment, but from the Horse Guards. And from the other regiments, a sergeant and a few soldiers. About two hundred people altogether. One master-at-arms left, and he had a medal and a cross. To start a new life. Yes.”
They kept silent.
“Yes,” said the lean and swarthy Kozhevnikov, a former second lieutenant, and sat up on his greatcoat, “we too serve for crosses—wooden ones.”
Akulev nodded to him.
“True. But nothing’s to be done.”
“How odd! A whole Russian kingdom in Persia?”
“So what?” said Akulev. “Haven’t you heard of the Oponian kingdom?”
“The Japanese kingdom is in Japan,” he said firmly. “And the Russian Oponia is the one to which the dissenters left under Peter the Great. There are ten Russian towns and the main one is called the Oponian Moscow. The Oponians have great respect for them, and they mostly trade in timber and fish. A sailor told me once.”
“Are there any soldiers?” asked Yeremeyev.
“Why would they need soldiers? They don’t trouble anybody, and nobody bothers them either. They don’t need you.”
Berstel was deep in thought. He tapped the tobacco out of his pipe:
“And what do you think, Akulev, is this true?”
“A sailor told me, Alexander Karlovich, and I think that if such a thing can happen in Tehran, in Tabriz, for example, why can’t it happen in Oponia? Samson Yakovlich is a big wig over here, he is larger than life, and did we hear a lot of him in Petersburg? And look what a kingdom he has set up, with more than three thousand people under his command.”
“And where did Samson Yakovlich appear from? How did he come about?” asked Dmitriev, who had been listening avidly.
“I’ve heard how,” said Akulev meaningfully. “Except it’s time to sleep.”
“Tell us, Akulev,” asked the soldiers.
“I can tell you, but keep in mind that I have never seen Samson Yakovlich myself. And it’s an old story. What is there to tell?”
He put the pipe into his pocket, pulled off his knee-high boots, looked at his comrades, saw that none of them seemed sleepy, drew a deep breath, and began.
THE STORY OF SAMSON YAKOVLICH
Samson Yakovlich was the son of a Cossack. He was fifteen when he was conscripted. He served in the Nizhny Novgorod Dragoons. When we fought near Erivan, his regiment attacked from the left flank. That was thirty years ago, when Pavel Petrovich was emperor. You might not remember him. Do you remember Alexander Pavlych? He is the one who stayed upright when on horseback. And Pavel Petrovich leaned back in the saddle. And he used to wave with his glove. He was the sternest emperor on the throne, a no-nonsense man. Well, it’s a different story.
The service was hard—not much free time at all. Everything had to be just so, not a hair out of place. The commanders were eager to do their best to distinguish themselves. They were a grim lot, dry as hell.
The general there had a funny name, let me remember … Gryzenap, yes, that was his surname. He was a German. A martinet. And then there was a lieutenant, also German, a well-known figure. His nickname was Rozyov “The Bird,” or “Punch.”
He was indeed just like a bird: like a cuckoo, no tent of his own, swear to God. He spent the nights with his mates. A leather cap, a cloak, and a whip—that was his uniform. Punch, in other words. He always distinguished himself at riding, though; couldn’t get enough of the drill.
Riding at the manège, riding without a saddle on a longe, with a saddle without stirrups.
Rank drill.
Over the hurdles.
Over the ditches.
There was just no rest from the drill. Even horses collapsed.
Rozyov the Bird invented his own term of abuse.
He would shout at whoever made a mistake during the drill:
“You nag!”
If the squadron made a wrong move at parade, it would be the same thing:
“You old nags!”
“What kind of jumping is this, you nags? Why are you gawping at me like that, nags? I’ll court-martial you, nags!”
Ever
yone was sick and tired of hearing it: no matter what you did, you were called “nag.”
We were fighting in the Caucasus at that time, fighting this lot, the locals.
Samson Yakovlich was twenty-five then, and already a sergeant-major. Rozyov the Bird was his direct superior, and above him was Gryzenap. Samson was some man, strong and mighty, a handsome fellow with a mop of curls—a Cossack’s son. The whole regiment knew him as Samson Yakovlich, and that’s what we called him—respectfully.
So a squadron stopped by the river. The natives, the bunch we were fighting at the time, were on the opposite bank. And one of their noblemen came over to negotiate, a strapping chap and a dead shot. They were asking if there was anybody who’d want to fight it out with him instead of wasting lives from both sides. If he won, the Nizhny Novgorod Regiment would retreat; if he were beaten, his lot would leave. These days, they wouldn’t allow it: now you have to fight no matter what, but back then, the mad Rozyov the Bird said he’d allow it.
“Which of you has no bride to lose?” he asked.
Samson Yakovlich thought about it for a while and then said:
“Permission to fight on behalf of the squadron?”
So the native got off his horse and Samson Yakovlich got down too, and the fight got under way. It swung first one way then the other, with no clear winner.
So they got back onto their horses, fanned out in opposite directions, picked up their lances, and charged at each other. And Samson Yakovlich speared that man with his lance like a cobbler with an awl, and the native flew right out of the saddle.
Samson Yakovlich had a charmed life, you could say—neither bullet nor lance had his name on it.
His people on the other bank wailed out, but they’re mostly true to their word over here, so they had their little squeal and then retreated behind the mountain. It was agreed that they’d be given a day’s grace. That was the arrangement.
Samson Yakovlich stood there staggering, blood all over his face—it hadn’t been easy for him, but he’d freed the whole squadron for a whole day. He was strong and tall. These days, he’s an old man, but they say that he can still bend a ramrod. At that time, he was only twenty-five.
So he stood there staggering and looking about him. He was looking for the horse. The native he’d killed had a very good horse. And since Samson Yakovlich was the winner, the weapons and the mount of his opponent were lawfully his.
He had no interest in the man’s weapons. He just stood there, tottering and looking all around, trying to work out where the horse had gone to.
The horse hadn’t cared much for standing still—he was pretty wild, untamed, and was useless at dressage. He’d bolted.
Rozyov the Bird had gone after him and was nowhere to be seen. He liked horses a great deal too and was trying to get himself a good mount so as to get one up on Gryzenap.
He came back an hour later. He was riding the new horse, the dead man’s, leading his own by the bridle. Samson Yakovlich stood there waiting.
“Thank you,” he said, “Your Honor, for bringing my horse back to me.”
Rozyov the Bird told him:
“This horse is too good for you, nag! Take mine.”
Samson Yakovlich just looked at him, gave a little laugh, and said very quietly:
“Hand back the horse, Your Honor, or I may accidentally tickle you with my lance, and it could be embarrassing if you went down like one of the natives.”
Rozyov pulled his saber out and barked:
“Arrest him.”
The soldiers refused to obey.
For the next two days, the squadron was in combat; everything was fine. When they returned to the camp, they found out what was to happen.
In the native language, it is called “Kazik-chekmen”—“red caftan.”
They set up a trestle, everybody stood in rows, and Samson Yakovlich was brought out, his arms twisted behind his back. Rozyov the Bird presided over the flogging personally.
“The mare hasn’t been out for a while and needs to be ridden. Ride fast, girl!” said Samson Yakovlich.
Rozyov said: “Not a chance in hell, she won’t save you, nag!”
But the mare did her bit. Afterward, he lay for two weeks unable to move, and then got up. The horse was Rozyov’s; there was nothing to be done about it.
Samson Yakovlich turned bitter. He stole into the stables and ripped open the horse’s belly with a knife. If it couldn’t be his, then it wouldn’t be Rozyov’s either.
And he took off: first to the Sea of Azov, and then to Constantinople. But he didn’t like the Turks all that much. In those days, an Indian in the Shirvan kingdom had a huge fishing lease. The kingdom itself had not yet been conquered. Samson headed there. He fished for ray-finned fish with a silk net. Then he began to fish for himself. Got rich. As soon as he was flush, he began to booze and carouse. He was well off but bored. So back he went to Russia and wandered about the Caucasus searching for his regiment. He tracked it down and started circling around. He wanted to find his comrades—he hadn’t forgotten them, you see. He’d grown long hair and a beard and let them in on the secret. At first, they didn’t recognize him. Then his old mates talked it through, and a hundred of them decided to leave with him. They left in tens and then got together at an appointed place. When they approached the Julfa outpost on the border, they wondered how to cross it when they were being searched for in the woods. Samson Yakovlich split them into groups of ten again. He got them to grow long hair and beards and to tattoo the images of saints on their arms, just like mine—you see how I have a cross tattooed with gunpowder? He got them cassocks and priestly hoods. At the border, the Armenians were trading in fake papers. You could be a soldier or a merchant, it didn’t matter; they could fake documents to make you into a Greek priest or a monk, for example, who was going on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to kiss Christ’s tomb. That suited them fine, and they crossed the border as monks. Each of them carried a fistful of Russian earth in his handkerchief. Once they’d crossed over, they hugged each other, broke down and wept. At that point, even Samson Yakovlich became disheartened, but then he recovered and told them to sing out because so long as they kept singing, they’d feel as if they were back home again. As soon as they stopped singing, they’d remember that they were strangers in a foreign land.
Since then, nobody has ever sung as well as they do with Samson Yakovlich. Dragoons are easily the best singers.
He soon presented himself to the shah. One day, the shah went out for a ride and saw a stranger strolling along. The shah told his carriage to stop and beckoned Samson Yakovlich over.
“Who are you, where are you from, and what do you do? I don’t know you.”
Samson Yakovlich answered very calmly that he was born in Moscow and grew up in Petersburg, and told him where he’d been and what he’d done, the whole story, and now he was from the Makin kingdom, which meant that he was a Makinian. And he was an experienced man in military service. He told him that he was a Cossack’s son.
The shah liked him very much, told him to get into his golden carriage, and took him to his palace.
And Samson Yakovlich became known as Makintsev. The Persians were only just beginning to get an army together, and they used to take a pauper or a lot—that’s a thief—stick a gun in his hand—and there they had their soldier, a slipshod bungler, good for chasing frogs from under the cannon. Samson Yakovlich began to form a battalion. Our Russian prisoners in Persia all joined to a man and became grenadiers or bahaderan, which means “heroes” in Persian, and distinguished themselves. And now he has three thousand men under his command.
Samson Yakovlich has reservists as well. All in order, ready for action. When a soldier wanted to get married, Samson had no objections. He allowed them to settle, gave them a plot of land. Now that they have wives, the families live in their own houses. Women in Persia are all right—not much to look at, but at least they are quiet.
They also said later on that the shah’s daughter wa
s seeing Samson Yakovlich. And that they made love every day. Until the shah found out. But I don’t believe it. They say that the shah didn’t punish Samson Yakovlich; instead he threw his daughter into the pit. Who knows? Anything’s possible, of course.
And now Samson Yakovlich is called Samson-Khan, and his people are the shah’s personal guards. The shah talks to him every day. (That’s the custom.) He has deputies, officers called naibs. The main naib’s name is Borshchov.
Samson Yakovlich got married for the second time—after the shah’s daughter, that is. His own daughters are quite grown up by now. And over here he had left the love of his life, a Cossack woman, shapely, hale and hearty, as white as a lily. When he was hiding in the woods, she used to bring him food and drink. And she had a son by him. In Persia, women are dark-skinned and not much to look at.
The order from Petersburg is to keep an eye on this Cossack woman and not to let her leave for Persia.
Samson Yakovlich’s hair turned gray on account of this. He’s still pining after the Cossack woman. He’s unreachable now, the general in chief of the Persian army, in the grenadiers. Our commander is nothing in comparison. But at night he locks himself in his room and drinks vodka. On those nights, they’re afraid to bother him. He drinks and weeps. The shah himself is afraid of him at those times.
He keeps crying out:
“Where is my homeland? Where is my sweetheart? Where is my lily?”
How much native earth can you bring with you in a handkerchief?
The night was beginning to get lighter.
The white tent looked from the outside like an animate but long-dead creature.
All were asleep.
Kozhevnikov turned on the other side on his greatcoat and whispered to Berstel:
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 27