Fire in the Steppe

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  "God pity us!—forty men! There is hardly any one to guard the fortalice; and if the Tartars living here in Mohiloff were to rise, I know not how I could defend myself."

  "But why do they not rise against you?" inquired Basia.

  "They do not, because they cannot in any way. Many of them live permanently in the Commonwealth with their wives and children, and they are on our side. As to strangers, they are here for commerce, not for war; they are good people."

  "I will leave your grace fifty horse from my force," said Azya.

  "God reward! You will oblige me greatly by this, for I shall have some one to send out to get intelligence. But can you leave them?"

  "I can. We shall have in Rashkoff the parties of those captains who in their time went over to the Sultan, but now wish to resume obedience to the Commonwealth. Krychinski will bring three hundred horse certainly; and perhaps Adurovich, too, will come; others will arrive later. I am to take command over all by order of the hetman, and before spring a whole division will be assembled."

  Pan Gorzenski inclined before Azya. He had known him for a long time, but had had small esteem for him, as being a man of doubtful origin. But knowing now that he was the son of Tugai Bey, for an account of this had been brought by the recent caravan in which Naviragh was travelling, Gorzenski honored in the young Tartar the blood of a great though hostile warrior; he honored in him, besides, an officer to whom the hetman had confided such significant functions.

  Azya went out to give orders, and calling the sotnik David, said,—

  "David, son of Skander, thou wilt remain in Mohiloff with fifty horse. Thou wilt see with thy eyes and hear with thy ears what is happening around thee. If the Little Falcon in Hreptyoff sends letters to me, thou wilt stop his messenger, take the letters from him, and send them with thy own man. Thou wilt remain here till I send an order to withdraw. If my messenger says, 'It is night,' thou wilt go out in peace; but if he says, 'Day is near,' thou wilt burn the place, cross to the Moldavian bank, and go whither I command thee."

  "Thou hast spoken," answered David; "I will see with my eyes and hear with my ears; I will stop messengers from the Little Falcon, and when I have taken letters from them I will send those letters through our man to thee. I will remain till I receive an order; and if the messenger says to me, 'It is night,' I will go out quietly; if he says, 'Day is near,' I will burn the place, cross to the Moldavian bank, and go whither the command directs."

  Next morning the caravan, less by fifty horse, continued the journey. Pan Gorzenski escorted Basia beyond the ravine of Mohiloff. There, after he had stuttered forth a farewell oration, he returned to Mohiloff, and they went on toward Yampol very hurriedly. Azya was unusually joyful, and urged his men to a degree that astonished Basia.

  "Why are you in such haste?" inquired she.

  "Every man hastens to happiness," answered Azya, "and mine will begin in Rashkoff."

  Eva, taking these words to herself, smiled tenderly, and collecting courage, answered, "But my father?"

  "Pan Novoveski will obstruct me in nothing," answered the Tartar, and gloomy lightning flashed through his face.

  In Yampol they found almost no troops. There had never been any infantry there, and nearly all the cavalry had gone; barely a few men remained in the castle, or rather in the ruins of it. Lodgings were prepared, but Basia slept badly, for those rumors had begun to disturb her. She pondered over this especially,—how alarmed the little knight would be should it turn out that one of Doroshenko's chambuls had advanced really; but she strengthened herself with the thought that it might be untrue. It occurred to her whether it would not be better to return, taking for safety a part of Azya's soldiers; but various obstacles presented themselves. First, Azya, having to increase the garrison at Rashkoff, could give only a small guard, hence, in case of real danger, that guard might prove insufficient; secondly, two thirds of the road was passed already; in Rashkoff there was an officer known to her, and a strong garrison, which, increased by Azya's detachment and by the companies of those captains, might grow to a power quite important. Taking all this into consideration, Basia determined to journey farther.

  But she could not sleep. For the first time during that journey alarm seized her, as if unknown danger were hanging over her head. Perhaps lodging in Yampol had its share in those alarms, for that was a bloody and a terrible place; Basia knew it from the narratives of her husband and Pan Zagloba. Here had been stationed in Hmelnitski's time the main forces of the Podolian cut-throats under Burlai; hither captives had been brought and sold for the markets of the East, or killed by a cruel death; finally, in the spring of 1651, during the time of a crowded fair, Pan Stanislav Lantskoronski, the voevoda of Bratslav, had burst in and made a dreadful slaughter, the memory of which was fresh throughout the whole borderland of the Dniester.

  Hence, there hung everywhere over the whole settlement bloody memories; hence, here and there were blackened ruins, and from the walls of the half-destroyed castle seemed to gaze white faces of slaughtered Poles and Cossacks. Basia was daring, but she feared ghosts; it was said that in Yampol itself, at the mouth of the Shumilovka, and on the neighboring cataracts of the Dniester, great wailing was heard at midnight and groans, and that the water became red in the moonlight as if colored with blood. The thought of this filled Basia's heart with bitter alarm. She listened, in spite of herself, to hear in the still night, in the sounds of the cataract, weeping and groans. She heard only the prolonged "watch call" of the sentries. Then she remembered the quiet room in Hreptyoff, her husband, Pan Zagloba, the friendly faces of Pan Nyenashinyets, Mushalski, Motovidlo, Snitko, and others, and for the first time she felt that she was far from them, very far, in a strange region; and such a homesickness for Hreptyoff seized her that she wanted to weep. It was near morning when she fell asleep, but she had wonderful dreams. Burlai, the cut-throats, the Tartars, bloody pictures of massacre, passed through her sleeping head; and in those pictures she saw continually the face of Azya,—not the same Azya, however, but as it were a Cossack, or a wild Tartar, or Tugai Bey himself.

  She rose early, glad that night and the disagreeable visions had ended. She had determined to make the rest of the journey on horseback,—first, to enjoy the movement; second, to give an opportunity for free speech to Azya and Eva, who, in view of the nearness of Rashkoff, needed, of course, to settle the way of declaring everything to old Pan Novoveski, and to receive his consent. Azya held the stirrup with his own hand; he did not sit, however, in the sleigh with Eva, but went without delay to the head of the detachment, and remained near Basia.

  She noticed at once that again the cavalry were fewer in number than when they came to Yampol; she turned therefore to the young Tartar and said, "I see that you have left some men in Yampol?"

  "Fifty horse, the same as in Mohiloff," answered Azya.

  "Why was that?"

  He laughed peculiarly; his lips rose as those of a wicked dog do when he shows his teeth, and he answered only after a while.

  "I wished to have those places in my power, and to secure the homeward road for your grace."

  "If the troops return from the steppes, there will be forces there then."

  "The troops will not come back so soon."

  "Whence do you know that?"

  "They cannot, because first they must learn clearly what Doroshenko is doing; that will occupy about three or four weeks."

  "If that is the case you did well to leave those men."

  They rode a while in silence. Azya looked from time to time at the rosy face of Basia, half concealed by the raised collar of her mantle and her cap, and after every glance he closed his eyes, as if wishing to fix that charming picture more firmly in his mind.

  "You ought to talk with Eva," said Basia, renewing the conversation. "You talk altogether too little with her; she knows not what to think. You will stand before the face of Pan Novoveski soon; alarm even seizes me. You and she should take counsel together, and settle how you are to begin."


  "I should like to speak first with your grace," said Azya, with a strange voice.

  "Then why not speak at once?"

  "I am waiting for a messenger from Rashkoff; I thought to find him in Yampol. I expect him every moment."

  "But what," said Basia, "has the messenger to do with our conversation?"

  "I think that he is coming now," said the Tartar, avoiding an answer. And he galloped forward, but returned after a while. "No; that is not he."

  In his whole posture, in his speech, in his look, in his voice, there was something so excited and feverish that unquietude was communicated to Basia; still the least suspicion had not risen in her head yet. Azya's unrest could be explained perfectly by the nearness of Rashkoff and of Eva's terrible father; still, something oppressed Basia, as if her own fate were in question. Approaching the sleigh, she rode near Eva for a number of hours, speaking with her of Rashkoff, of old Pan Novoveski, of Pan Adam, of Zosia Boski, finally of the region about them, which was becoming a wilder and more terrible wilderness. It was, in truth, a wilderness immediately beyond Hreptyoff; but there at least a column of smoke rose from time to time on the horizon, indicating some habitation. Here there were no traces of man; and if Basia had not known that she was going to Rashkoff, where people were living, and a Polish garrison was stationed, she might have thought that they were taking her somewhere into an unknown desert, into strange lands at the end of the world.

  Looking around at the country, she restrained her horse involuntarily, and was soon left in the rear of the sleighs and horsemen. Azya joined her after a while; and since he knew the region well, he began to show her various places, mentioning their names.

  This did not last very long, however, for the earth began to be smoky; evidently the winter had not such power in that southern region as in woody Hreptyoff. Snow was lying somewhat, it is true, in the valleys, on the cliffs, on the edges of the rocks, and also on the hillsides turned northward; but in general the earth was not covered, and looked dark with groves, or gleamed with damp withered grass. From that grass rose a light whitish fog, which, extending near the earth, formed in the distance the counterfeit of great waters, filling the valleys and spreading widely over the plains; then that fog rose higher and higher, till at last it hid the sunshine, and turned a clear day into a foggy and gloomy one.

  "There will be rain to-morrow," said Azya.

  "If not to-day. How far is it to Rashkoff?"

  Azya looked at the nearest place, barely visibly through the fog, and said,—

  "From that point it is nearer to Rashkoff than to Yampol." And he breathed deeply, as if a great weight had fallen from his breast.

  At that moment the tramp of a horse was heard from the direction of the cavalry, and some horseman was seen indistinctly in the fog.

  "Halim! I know him," cried Azya.

  Indeed, it was Halim, who, when he had rushed up to Azya and Basia, sprang from his horse and began to beat with his forehead toward the stirrup of the young Tartar.

  "From Rashkoff?" inquired Azya.

  "From Rashkoff, my lord," answered Halim.

  "What is to be heard there?"

  The old man raised toward Basia his ugly head, emaciated from unheard-of toils, as if wishing to inquire whether he might speak in her presence; but Tugai Bey's son said at once,—

  "Speak boldly. Have the troops gone out?"

  "They have. A handful remained."

  "Who led them?"

  "Pan Novoveski."

  "Have the Pyotroviches gone to the Crimea?"

  "Long ago. Only two women remained, and old Pan Novoveski with them."

  "Where is Krychinski?"

  "On the other bank of the river; he is waiting."

  "Who is with him?"

  "Adurovich with his company; both beat with the forehead to thy stirrup, O son of Tugai Bey, and give themselves under thy hand,—they, and all those who have not come yet."

  "'Tis well!" said Azya, with fire in his eyes. "Fly to Krychinski at once, and give the command to occupy Rashkoff."

  "Thy will, lord."

  Halim sprang on his horse in a moment, and vanished like a phantom in the fog. A terrible, ominous gleam issued from the face of Azya. The decisive moment had come,—the moment waited for, the moment of greatest happiness for him; but his heart was beating as if breath were failing him. He rode for a time in silence near Basia; and only when he felt that his voice would not deceive him did he turn toward her his eyes, inscrutable but bright, and say,—

  "Now I will speak to your grace with sincerity."

  "I listen," said Basia, scanning him carefully, as if she wished to read his changed countenance.

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  Azya urged his horse up so closely to Basia's pony that his stirrup almost touched hers. He rode forward a few steps in silence; during this time he strove to calm himself finally, and wondered why calmness came to him with such effort, since he had Basia in his hands, and there was no human power which could take her from him. But he did not know that in his soul, despite every probability, despite every evidence, there glimmered a certain spark of hope that the woman whom he desired would answer with a feeling like his own. If that hope was weak, the desire for its object was so strong that it shook him as a fever. The woman would not open her arms, would not cast herself into his embrace, would not say those words over which he had dreamed whole nights: "Azya, I am thine;" she would not hang with her lips on his lips,—he knew this. But how would she receive his words? What would she say? Would she lose all feeling, like a dove in the claws of a bird of prey, and let him take her, just as the hapless dove yields itself to the hawk? Would she beg for mercy tearfully, or would she fill that wilderness with a cry of terror? Would there be something more, or something less, of all this? Such questions were storming in the head of the Tartar. But in every case the hour had come to cast aside feigning, pretences, and show her a truthful, a terrible face. Here was his fear, here his alarm. One moment more, and all would be accomplished.

  Finally this mental alarm became in the Tartar that which alarm becomes most frequently in a wild beast,—rage; and he began to rouse himself with that rage. "Whatever happens," thought he, "she is mine, she is mine altogether; she will be mine to-morrow, and then will not return to her husband, but will follow me."

  At this thought wild delight seized him by the hair, and he said all at once in a voice which seemed strange to himself, "Your grace has not known me till now."

  "In this fog your voice has so changed," answered Basia, somewhat alarmed, "that it seems to me really as if another were speaking."

  "In Mohiloff there are no troops, in Yampol none, in Rashkoff none. I alone am lord here,—Krychinski, Adurovich, and those others are my slaves; for I am a prince, I am the son of a ruler. I am their vizir, I am their highest murza; I am their leader, as Tugai Bey was; I am their khan; I alone have authority; all here is in my power."

  "Why do you say this to me?"

  "Your grace has not known me hitherto. Rashkoff is not far away. I wished to become hetman of the Tartars and serve the Commonwealth; but Sobieski would not permit it. I am not to be a Lithuanian Tartar any longer; I am not to serve under any man's command, but to lead great chambuls myself, against Doroshenko, or the Commonwealth, as your grace wishes, as your grace commands."

  "How as I command? Azya, what is the matter with you?"

  "This, that here all are my slaves, and I am yours. What is the hetman to me? I care not whether he has permitted or not. Say a word, your grace, and I will put Akkerman at your feet; and the Dobrudja, and those hordes which have villages there, and those which wander in the Wilderness, and those who are everywhere in winter quarters will be your slaves, as I am your slave. Command, and I will not obey the Khan of the Crimea, I will not obey the Sultan; I will make war on them with the sword, and aid the Commonwealth. I will form new hordes in these regions, and be khan over them, and you will be alone over me; to you alone will I bow down, beg
for your favor and love."

  When he had said this, he bent in the saddle, and, seizing the woman, half terrified, and, as it were, stunned by his words, he continued to speak in a hurried, hoarse voice; "Have you not seen that I love only you? Ah, but I have suffered my share! I will take you now! You are mine, and you will be mine! No one will tear you from my hands in this place—you are mine, mine, mine!"

  "Jesus, Mary!" cried Basia.

  But he pressed her in his arms as if wishing to smother her. Hurried breathing struggled from his lips, his eyes grew misty; at last he drew her out of the stirrups, off the saddle, put her in front of him, pressed her breast to his own, and his bluish lips, opening greedily, like the mouth of a fish, began to seek her mouth.

  She uttered no cry, but began to resist with unexpected strength; between them rose a struggle in which only the panting of their breaths was to be heard. His violent movements and the nearness of his face restored her presence of mind. An instant of such clear vision came to Basia as comes to the drowning; she felt everything at once with the greatest vividness. Hence she felt first of all that the earth was vanishing from under her feet, and a bottomless ravine opening, to which he was dragging her; she saw his desire, his treason, her own dreadful fate, her weakness and helplessness; she felt alarm, and a ghastly pain and sorrow, and at the same time there burst forth in her a flame of immense indignation, rage, and revenge. Such was the courage and spirit of that daughter of a knight, that chosen wife of the most gallant soldier of the Commonwealth, that in that awful moment she thought first of all, "I will have revenge," then "I will save myself." All the faculties of her mind were strained, as hair is straightened with terror on the head; and that clearness of vision as in drowning became in her almost miraculous. While struggling her hands began to seek for weapons, and found at last the ivory butt of an Eastern pistol; but at the same time she had presence of mind to think of this also,—that even if the pistol were loaded, even if she should cock it, before she could bend her hand, before she could point the barrel at his head, he would seize her hand without fail, and take from her the last means of salvation. Hence she resolved to strike in another way.