“Grushenka!” I cried.
“She’s waiting in back. We can’t go out the front door. I’ve never been inside the house. You must lead the way!”
“Follow me!”
Gripping the shot bags tightly, I dashed down the hall, past the corpses, past the staircase, my cloak flapping, the money bag banging against my thigh. The house was filled with screams and cries of alarm now as the servants began to scatter and race through the rooms. A terrified maid darted past us, heading for the front hall, splitting the air with her screams when she spotted the corpses. I led Mitya through the dusty back hall with its clutter of discarded furniture and boxes and on into the kitchen with its huge iron stove. The slovenly cook was huddled against the wall, clutching a skillet, her face the color of dough.
“Run!” I cried. “You must leave at once!”
She shook her head, muttering gibberish. Mitya threw open the back door. Standing in the shadows beside the steps, Grushenka gave a cry of relief as we hurried out. The moon was high in a cloudless black sky, and the bright moonlight washed the yard with silver, mottling the inky black buildings with silver and pewter gray. Mitya led the way across the cobbles, past the barracks, past the pens, around the stables. The peasants had almost reached the house now. Their shouting was a demonic din, sounds from hell itself, and the cries and shrieks of terror from within the house added to the horror.
We paused for a moment in back of the stables, standing against the wall, in the shadows. Before us lay a vast expanse of snowy ground, dazzling in the moonlight, coated a pale silver-blue, the woods beyond at least four or five hundred yards away. Until we reached the shelter of those trees we would be clearly exposed in the brilliant light. My heart was pounding. My lungs felt as though they were ready to burst. Grushenka was gasping for breath, an expression of stark terror on her face. We could hear glass shattering, wood splintering. In moments they would be tearing around to the back and swarming all over. None of us relished the thought of racing across that brilliant expanse of ground, but we couldn’t stay here.
“We must go,” I said.
“I—I don’t think I can make—” Grushenka began.
“You must!” Mitya cried.
“Mitya, I—”
“Come! We have no time to lose!”
We dashed out of the protective shadows and started across the ground and were immediately bathed in bright silver. It was as light as day here on the snow, with no shadows to relieve the glare. Our footsteps crunched noisily as we ran, and I stumbled several times, certain I was going to fly facedown and skid across the hard-packed snow slippery as ice. Grushenka had the food bag slung across her back and she dropped it and it burst open, cheese, bread, apples, and meat scattering in every direction. She cried out, stopped, began to gather things up. Mitya slung one of the rifles over his back by its strap and seized the girl’s wrist, propelling her forward, yelling that there was no time. We raced on, pursued by demons, it seemed, for the cries echoed weirdly, reverberating all around.
On and on we ran, the trees two hundred yards away a haven of darkness and shadow in this blazing silver hell. My foot turned the wrong way, lost purchase. I fell to my knees, dropping both bags of ammunition. One skidded twenty feet away, spewing shot like hard black marbles over the snow. I grabbed the other and got to my feet and lurched on ahead, my ankle smarting. A hundred yards. Seventy-five. Behind us the wild fury of noise rose in volume. Were they pursuing us? I dared not look back. I was going to collapse any moment now. My lungs were going to explode. My heart was going to burst open. I couldn’t run any longer. I couldn’t! Fifty yards left now. Only fifty. I had to make it. Madly, blindly, I pushed on, and the blazing light vanished and shadows enveloped me and I leaned against the trunk of a tree, panting furiously.
I closed my eyes, and for several moments I knew nothing but agonizing pain as my lungs burned and my heart continued to pound and my breath came in furious gasps. My throat felt raw, as though the skin had been lacerated. My mouth was dry. My bosom heaved, and my legs seemed to be on fire. I whirled in darkness, it seemed, only half-conscious but still aware of the torture, and eventually my heart stopped battering against my rib cage and beat more slowly and I caught my breath and opened my eyes. Grushenka was sobbing. Mitya was holding her tightly in his arms, telling her not to look.
I looked.
Through the trunks of the trees, beyond the vast expanse of silvered snow, I saw the great house, dark against the brightness, like some little girl’s doll house from this distance, the outbuildings even smaller, and I saw the flickering orange lights blazing in the windows and saw the tongues of flame reaching out to lick the walls. I saw the tiny figures dancing and leaping like imps in the glare, dozens of them, dozens and dozens, waving their makeshift weapons as their frenzy increased. The stables and barracks were already sheathed in vivid flame, burning rapidly, roofs collapsing, flames shooting higher.
I saw a slender female figure running across the snow, saw three men pursuing her, pouncing on her as she fell, one grabbing her arms, another grabbing her feet, the third falling atop her, and I saw a footman fleeing and saw tiny imps chase him and saw one of them swing a shovel, hitting his head, knocking him down. The others had shovels too, and they began to stab at him and he was literally hacked to pieces, decapitated. One of the imps held up a tiny dripping ball and waved it and I realized it was a head and shuddered and turned away, clinging to the trunk of the tree.
“I do not think they see us,” Mitya said. “They would have come after us if they had. I see you fall. Are you all right?”
“I didn’t hurt myself. Grushenka?”
Her face was buried against his chest, his right arm still wrapped around her. She was trembling violently.
“She will be all right, too. This rifle you give me, it is loaded?”
“The one you took from the guard is, of course, but there wasn’t time for me to load the other one.”
“We do this now,” he said grimly.
He handed the rifle to me, and I realized he had never loaded one before, had no idea how to go about it. I took out the powder horn and opened the bag of shot. Although the woods were thick and full of deep shadow, rays of moonlight sifting through the canopy of bare limbs mottled the ground with patches of silver, and there was plenty of light for him to see me as I loaded the rifle. He watched carefully, memorizing each step, nodding curtly when I handed it back to him. I loaded the pistol as well, then put the powder horn and the bag of shot inside the pockets of my cloak, keeping the pistol in my left hand, ready to fire.
“How far is the clearing you mentioned?” I asked.
“Not far. Half a mile perhaps.”
“I just hope your man is there with the horse and sleigh.”
“He will be,” Mitya assured me. “He very much wants the rest of the gold I carry here in my pocket.”
Grushenka straightened up and moved away from the shelter of Mitya’s arm. Her face was still pale, her cheeks tear-stained, but she made a valiant effort to pull herself together, made an effort not to listen to the horrible shouting and the sound of crackling flames that carried clearly across the night. Wrapping the cloak more closely around her, she apologized for dropping the bag of food.
“It couldn’t be helped,” I said.
“Now we will have nothing to eat. Now—”
“We worry about that later,” Mitya said curtly. “Now we get to the clearing as soon as possible.”
We started through the labyrinth of trees, Mitya leading the way, Grushenka and I following close behind. We moved through alternate patches of shadowy darkness and gleaming moonlight, frequently ducking to avoid low-hanging ice-encrusted branches, and the hideous noise gradually grew dimmer as we moved deeper into the woods. Looking back through the maze of tree trunks, I could see a vivid orange glow, like sunset, and finally that disappeared and there was nothing but the blue-gray sheen on the snow and silvery rays of moonlight penetrating the gloom, inte
nsifying the darkness. Our footsteps crunched loudly on the snow, the sounds magnified in the stillness of the woods and echoing strangely, as though we were being followed.
I prayed Mitya knew where he was going. I was already hopelessly lost and had no idea in which direction we were moving. One rifle slung over his back, the other held awkwardly in front of him, he forged ahead confidently, eyes and ears alert for any unusual sound or movement. I knew he was looking for wolves. I tried not to think about wolves. Please, God, spare us that, I prayed. Tomorrow I can face them, but not tonight. Grushenka was nervous about them as well, tripping along closely behind Mitya, casting apprehensive glances into the shadows. I gripped the pistol tightly, having no confidence at all in Mitya’s ability to use the rifle. I started with alarm as something gray and furry darted out in front of us. My finger tightened on the trigger, but it was only a hare. My nerves weren’t going to take too much more of this. If and when we ever got to St. Petersburg I would probably be certifiably mad.
An icy branch lashed my temple and knocked the hood away from my head. My hand felt frozen as I reached up to pull the hood in place. I was devastatingly cold, even bundled up as I was. Mitya had only a shabby cloth coat, a filthy sheepskin cap pulled down over his brow. Were we to stop moving, we would surely freeze to death. Thank God I had given Grushenka the sable cloak. I should have stolen one of Gregory’s cloaks for Mitya. Perhaps there would be blankets on the sleigh. If there was a sleigh. I knew it was only my imagination, but it seemed to me we had been trekking through these woods for hours. My cheeks and nose felt like solid ice.
“We are almost there,” Mitya said.
“Thank God,” I whispered.
“Yes, the sleigh is there. I can see it.”
Grushenka sobbed with relief and crossed herself. Up ahead, through thick columns of icy trunks, I could see a brilliant patch of snow, brushed a silvery blue by moonlight, and, yes, there was the sleigh, a small, dilapidated vehicle on wide wooden runners, the horse stamping restlessly in the snow. Dilapidated or not, it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen, the horse a magnificent beast even though its back was sagging and its legs frightfully wobbly. We hurried forward, stepping into the clearing a moment or so later.
It wasn’t a large clearing, perhaps thirty yards in circumference, a rough pathway barely wide enough for sleigh and horse leading into it, leading out on the opposite side. Mitya started toward the sleigh. Grushenka grabbed his arm, her face reflecting her alarm. Mitya frowned and tried to pull away, and then he felt it, too. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. It was in the atmosphere, hanging over the clearing like an invisible pall. The horse whinnied nervously, stamping in the snow, and the sleigh skidded a little on the icy surface. I felt the evil. It was almost tangible. It was all around. The hair on the back of my neck seemed to bristle. My blood ran cold.
“Where—where is Aloyosha Fyodorovich?” Mitya asked, puzzled. “He brings the horse and sleigh like he promises. He would not leave before collecting the rest of the gold.”
The horse whinnied again and took a few steps, dragging the sleigh forward a couple of feet, and we saw the body then. Grushenka tried to restrain him, but Mitya tore loose from her grip and went over to investigate. I followed him. I wished I hadn’t. Aloyosha Fyodorovich had been hacked to pieces, like the footman. The severed limbs still poured blood out onto the snow. I gasped, turning my head away, afraid I was going to retch. Mitya shook convulsively and stepped back. A moment passed, perhaps two, and then Grushenka screamed as the peasants came leaping out from behind the trees on the opposite side of the clearing.
I raised the pistol. I fired. One of them tumbled over backward, falling to the ground. Mitya swung the rifle up and tried to fire. A pitchfork sailed through the air, the sharp prongs going through his throat. He grabbed the handle of the pitchfork and made a horrible gurgling noise and staggered back, falling over, already dead before he hit the snow. Grushenka screamed again, tried to reach him. Four men grabbed her and threw her to the ground, tearing greedily at her clothing. Rough hands seized me. I smashed the butt of the pistol into a face, blood splattering as a nose broke. An arm flew around my throat. I was pulled violently back against the side of the sleigh, and half a dozen hands began to pull at my skirts.
“No!” a voice thundered. It was laced with steely authority. “Not her!”
The horse reared, whinnying wildly. Grushenka screamed one more time before a hand clamped over her mouth. The men pulling at my skirts fell back. The man holding my throat released me. Josef Pulaski moved slowly toward me, his hands on his thighs, his sheepskin coat flaring open. He had survived the flogging after all. A triumphant smile curled on his lips as he stopped two yards in front of me, and in the brilliant moonlight I could see the cruel satisfaction in his eyes as he studied me.
“We meet again,” he said.
“You—”
“Have your pleasure with the other one,” he told his men, “then kill her. This one we save for something special.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
We had been walking forever, it seemed, trudging steadily over the hardened snow, stopping only to drink water from the canteens and eat the food Pulaski had appropriated from one of the villages we passed. There were eleven men in the party, the youngest in his late teens, the oldest in his mid-fifties, all of them sullen, silent and consumed by a burning hatred of the ruling class, which had brought them together in the first place. We were on our way to Pugachev’s secret camp, this much I knew, although not a one of them had spoken a word to me. The main body, those who had attacked and burned Orlov’s house, were apparently two or three hours behind us, traveling in small groups to avoid arousing too much suspicion.
A day and a half had gone by since the nightmare erupted. After the men had finished with Grushenka, after her broken, bleeding body had finally been abandoned, Pulaski had ordered the men to move and we had begun our journey, moving through the woods, along the narrow road, finally, around three in the morning, reaching an abandoned hovel where we had remained until daybreak. I had been bound securely, a gag stuffed into my mouth, and Pulaski had shoved me into the corner. All of them slept, packed tightly in the one-room hovel, snoring loudly, and after a while sheer exhaustion had enabled me to sleep as well. Pulaski had untied me as the first pink light of dawn slanted through the cracks in the walls.
He shoved a canteen at me, allowed me to take a few sips, and then he had fastened the noose around my neck again and took the end of the long rope and led me outside, forcing me to walk ten or twelve paces behind him. The noose was not tight, not unless I stumbled, not unless I failed to keep pace. Then it tightened painfully, and I would have strangled to death had I not regained balance or quickened my step. Pulaski never even bothered to glance back. He just kept walking, holding the end of the rope securely. He had not spoken to me either, not once. I was a pariah, beneath his notice, led along behind him like a calf being led to slaughter. We had walked all day, stopping at the village where he and his men had brutally commandeered food from the already starving peasants, trudging on then to spend the night in yet another deserted hovel.
It was perhaps five in the afternoon of the second day, and I walked briskly, the rope cutting brutally into my throat whenever I failed to keep in step. Why did I bother? Why didn’t I simply drop in my tracks and let it all end? I had no doubt Pulaski would simply keep on moving and drag my body along behind him. I had considered it. After witnessing the horror in the clearing, after seeing what they had done to Grushenka, I had had no desire to go on living, or at least I thought not. Somehow, though, despite the shock, despite the horror, a spark inside me refused to stop burning, even though all my senses were numbed, and I couldn’t do it. I kept on walking behind him, grabbing at the rope when I stumbled to relieve that terrible pressure biting into my throat, coughing, gasping, quickening my step to put an end to the pain.
Once, shortly before noon, horsemen had been heard ap
proaching from the distance. The men had scattered quickly into the woods for cover, Pulaski seizing my wrist and dragging me along roughly, clamping his large hand over my mouth as soon as we reached shelter, almost smothering me. The hoofbeats grew louder and harnesses jangled merrily and a few moments later I could see the riders through the frozen branches of the shrub we crouched behind. They all wore the handsome uniform of the Imperial Army, and there were perhaps twenty men in all, no doubt a reconnaissance group looking for signs of Pugachev’s secret camp. Pulaski’s hand tightened brutally over my mouth, forcing my head back against his shoulder. The soldiers passed on by, and shortly thereafter we were on our way again. So at least part of Catherine’s army was in the vicinity, I thought. They were probably scattered over a hundred-mile area, searching and interrogating or killing any peasants they found suspicious.
The Orlov brothers and their men were undoubtedly doing the same, wreaking destruction in their wake. Several hours had passed between the time they rode off and the time the peasants hit the house. By that time Gregory and the others had been at least twenty miles away, riding east in pursuit of the peasants who had slyly backtracked, keeping to the woods to avoid being seen. Although none of my captors had addressed a word. to me, I had learned from listening to their rough remarks to each other that Pulaski had known earlier that Aloyosha Fyodorovich was planning to provide a horse and sleigh for “a lady,” and he and his small group of men had detached themselves from the main body, had followed the man to the clearing and killed him only minutes before we arrived.
The sun was bright, sparkling on the snow and ice, transforming the trees into iridescent crystal wonders, and the sky was a pale gray-white with just a faint suggestion of indigo. It wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been two nights ago when I had been trekking through the moonlit woods with Mitya and Grushenka. In my boots, heavy silk underskirts, velvet gown, and mink cloak, I was comfortable, as far as the weather was concerned. The money bag still slapped heavily against my left thigh—because of their weight, the coins didn’t jingle as I had feared they would. My captors hadn’t discovered my small fortune, nor had they discovered the powder horn and bag of shot inside the pockets of my cloak. The pistol, of course, had been knocked out of my hand as soon as I had broken the nose of one of my attackers with the butt. The man was still in pain, his nose swollen and inflamed, but, stoically, he trudged along without complaint.
When Love Commands Page 48