“That was the time when I was half-finished with my term of service. The memories of my family were just numb spots in my mind, and the anticipation of getting out of the army was a dream, endlessly far away.
“After the wars, Ursov was given a soft administerial position in the military, right where he could embezzle money which was supposed to buy better food and uniforms for the soldiers. Then the Tsar started his program of military colonies, and transferred Ursov out of his easy desk job and dropped him here in the wilderness to establish a new colony!” Endovik allowed himself a small chuckle. I was beginning to suspect that he was making much of this up, but I didn’t know how much, nor did I really care.
“Tsar Alexander had selected this piece of land to be the site of Ursov’s colony—out in a muddy swamp—where stood a generations-old peasant village named Vendeévna. It was common practice in erecting a military colony to raze the existing village, level it to the ground, and build a new military colony on the site, each building constructed according to a master plan. However, the peasants of Vendeévna had lived in their traditional village for as far as their memories stretched into the past—and they realized that Ursov was a lazy desk-man who had gone to fat in the previous few years.
“The peasants of Vendeévna rose up and refused to allow the construction of the colony, saying that the document of authorization from the Tsar had been forged—even though none of them could read—because the Tsar would never do such a thing.
“Then Ursov changed into a completely different person. He was like a raving, bloodthirsty general. He resented being here even more than the soldiers did and decided to make things even more miserable for the rest of us. Perhaps he saw a chance to make up for his cowardice at Borodinó—although he would probably make me run the gauntlet if he knew I had suggested he has a conscience—maybe there were other reasons. The General had us soldiers take out our weapons, fit the bayonets. We were to put the peasants in their places by violence.
“I remember one of our soldiers . . . I can’t remember his name . . . was originally from Vendeévna, and he refused to fight against his own townspeople. Ursov shot him dead right in front of all of us and ordered the rest of us to attack—our muskets and bayonets against sticks and pitchforks . . . we had seen what would have happened had we disobeyed the General’s orders. What could we do? The soldiers had been worn thin from Ursov’s discipline—and he unleashed them to burn and pillage. I don’t know how many peasants were killed before Vendeévna surrendered. Ursov sent the survivors out into the steppe, without provisions, with orders to travel to the nearest military colony, which was about a hundred versts away, with no villages in between.” Endovik sighed, “We never received word if any of them reached their destination. . . .”
The old man drew a heavy breath. Many of the other soldiers had already gone to sleep. I was startled by the sudden darkness as the gameplayers extinguished their lantern and got up from their table, groping in shadows to find their bunks.
“But why would anyone claim to be from Vendeévna seven years after that village was leveled?”
Endovik was silent for a short while, then spoke. “I just tell the stories—don’t ask me to explain them.”
* * *
Three days a week we practiced our military drill. On alternate days we worked. Hard. Since it was springtime, most of the soldiers and peasants were out working in the fields, plowing and planting. Lt. Goliepin had taken Corporal Belidaev and his twenty peasants out into the swamp to try to “drain” it. Nobody really knew what they were doing out in the swamp—Goliepin least of all—but they were kept busy sloshing in the mud, skirting the deep and treacherous muddy pools, and digging random trenches that led nowhere.
I had been assigned to sweep the streets and sidewalks, due to the cholera-inflicted shortage of peasants. This was the first time I had done this job, but I found it much more tolerable than working in the swamp, or even in the fields. Ursov is very imaginative, I must admit, for he can find tasks which absolutely must be done that no one else would even think of doing. Such as sweeping the trunks of trees. . . .
It was midmorning, and I had been working for five hours. I had swept most of the main street clean, and I was working on the walk in front of General Ursov’s headquarters. I was tired, but I dared not rest so close to the General’s watchful eye. I kept working, and it was very quiet.
But peace doesn’t last very long in the colony. I heard a horse coming, and looked up to see Goliepin galloping down the street toward the General’s headquarters. Goliepin looked agitated, and his horse, covered up to its belly with globs of mud, looked angry at him for being so stupid as to bring a horse into the treacherous swamp. I watched the lumps of mud the horse left in its wake to mark its hoofprints, standing out in a bold trail down the center of the street I had just spent five hours sweeping.
“General! General!” Goliepin cried as he charged up the walk. I had to leap out of the way or be trampled. “There’s been an accident!”
Ursov burst out of his office, a half-crumpled piece of paper in his hand. Goliepin tried to catch his breath, but Ursov would have none of it. “Well, what’s happened? Have you—”
“One of the peasants is drowned! He fell into a deep pool of mud in the swamp and sank under! We tried to get him out, but . . . the mud must be softer than I thought—we couldn’t find him! Not even his body! And the other peasants just . . . just stood there!”
Ursov reacted strangely to the news of the death. He appeared almost happy for a moment, or relieved may be a better word. Then he suddenly turned angry and snapped at Goliepin. “You shouldn’t have left them alone out in the swamp just to tell me about the death of a peasant, you fool! They’re in your command! You aren’t a messenger boy, Goliepin! Now make the rest of them work harder for their carelessness!”
Goliepin looked confused for a moment, then seemed to think better of being confused; he saluted, turned his horse and rode back down the clean street, laying down another set of hoofprints. I looked at the mud and sighed. One doesn’t complain.
* * *
We stood rigidly in our ranks, enforcing absolute discipline on ourselves. Our faces betrayed no emotion, our bodies allowed no movement whatsoever, not even a shiver in the cold night. It was time for the final roll call before retiring to our barracks; Ursov seemed to find it helpful to our sleep that we each get a good chill before turning in. Our uniforms were old and thin, and did little to keep out the cold wind.
All the colonists stood in neat lines, facing the General who stalked back and forth in front of the ranks, hands clasped behind his back. Goliepin went carefully down each column, counting with his fingers, and losing track more than once so that we had to stand in the cold longer while the Lieutenant corrected his error.
Goliepin went to the single line of the twenty silent peasants under the supervision of Corporal Belidaev. Belidaev stood serenely as Goliepin counted his charges. Once again, the Lieutenant’s voice broke out in a half-whine of surprise. “General!”
Ursov had been watching Belidaev intently, and strode over as Goliepin shouted again, abruptly lowering his voice as he realized the General had stepped closer. “The new peasants are all here!”
Ursov frowned, “And should they not be? They were under your command.”
“No, sir, General! I mean they’re all here! Even the one who drowned! Well, he didn’t drown if he’s here—I mean the one we thought had drowned! The one I thought—”
Ursov pushed past the babbling Lieutenant and moved slowly down the column of peasants, glaring at each one of them. He came to the man, an old man, caked with mud, his clothes, his hair—mud dried even on his eyes and lips, in his mouth and teeth. He stared at the General with unblinking eyes, and made no sign that he saw anything.
It took a supreme effort for the rest of us soldiers not to break discipline and turn our heads to watch the silent conflict. We could feel the tension crawling in the air, and we were certai
n that much more was here than we were aware of.
“Excuse me, General.” The voice startled Ursov in the silence, and he snapped his head up. Belidaev had spoken. “I did not mention this before, but I believe you knew my sister?”
It appeared as if someone had physically struck the General. Ursov stormed up to Belidaev, and his face was terrible to see, yet he also appeared helpless at the same time.
“Surely you must remember her, General?” Belidaev continued, his voice mildly taunting. “She had long brown hair in braids. And a mole on her left cheek?”
Ursov seethed, and Belidaev raised his voice, almost shouting into the General’s face: “A mole on her left cheek!”
Something snapped in Ursov, and he let out a cry of rage as he struck Belidaev a blow across the face which would have toppled a horse. Belidaev stood firmly.
“Tomorrow morning you shall endure the knut!” Ursov roared, and he stormed off to his private quarters, but it seemed almost as if he fled.
Belidaev smiled.
* * *
When we finally retired to the barracks, generally with more noise than was necessary (but then we needed some release from the amount of control Ursov’s discipline forced on us), I found Endovik already in his bunk. I spoke to him, but he didn’t answer. I frowned, knowing he couldn’t be asleep with all the commotion the soldiers were causing, and upon bending closer to him I saw that he had a strange pallor. He was shivering.
“Endovik?”
His face had a tight expression of pain and discomfort, and when I touched him, his skin had a clammy feeling. Tears swam in front of my vision.
“Endovik?” I asked again.
He opened his eyes and sighed heavily. “I know. . . .”
We both had seen enough of the epidemic in the past weeks that neither of us could have any doubt. We had watched the same thing happen to our peasant hosts. I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t. Not from Endovik.
“Could you help me to the infirmary, please, Alexis?” Endovik looked up at me; and I helped him out of his bed.
That was the bravest thing I have ever done in my life—it required more courage than any battlefield would have. I remember stumbling across the compound, together in the darkness, Endovik leaning heavily on me, his steps uncertain. At any moment I waited for the fatal germ to cling to my clothes, to be inhaled in each breath, wondering if I had already contracted cholera, if I was already doomed. Endovik was shivering all the way, or was it me?
When I finally returned to my own bed, I lay shaking for a long time, listening to the silence which Endovik’s breathing normally filled. . . .
* * *
A heavy feeling of tension, uneasiness, filled the air as we filed out of the barracks early the next morning to witness the punishment of Belidaev. The sun had just risen, and the air was still chill as we marched to the plaza where we normally drilled at the center of the colony.
Ursov sent a group of soldiers with bayoneted muskets to the cholera houses to bring forth Belidaev and the peasants. The General’s face was bright and smiling in anticipation of the event. Ursov seemed to feel that since he was in a position of importance he was required to strike back viciously at anyone who questioned his authority, to fight back at anyone who fought against him. He knew he had not earned his rank—especially after his cowardice at the battle of Borodinó—and perhaps he felt he had to struggle harder to keep it, as he had against the insurrection of the original peasants of Vendeévna. And now Belidaev and his peasants were frustrating the General because they seemed to be taking care to do nothing Ursov could fight against. They were like ghosts from his past who had come—not to haunt the General—but to let him haunt himself.
Two of the soldiers reappeared, stiffly resting their guns on their shoulders, flanking Belidaev as he marched toward the General. Behind them came the column of twenty peasants, also closely guarded. I could see no reason for this and I am certain I wasn’t the only one mystified, since neither the peasants nor Corporal Belidaev had ever shown any form of resistance whatsoever.
Belidaev, however, did not seem to be disturbed in the least when he walked up to Ursov, even pulling slightly ahead of his guards (which we found to be one of his strangest actions yet, since each of the other colonists lives in mortal terror of the knut).
“Good morning, General!” he said.
Ursov’s face went livid with rage, and he angrily barked orders for Belidaev’s two escorts to strip the Corporal of his shirt and to bind him to a sloped wooden post sticking out of the ground at an angle. Dried blood stained the post and the ground around it, for we were forbidden to scrub this reminder of past punishments while we were forced to keep the rest of the colony so meticulously clean.
Belidaev rested against the post and did not struggle as the soldiers lashed his wrists together—more tightly than they had to, but they had no wish to incur the General’s rage. The peasants of Vendeévna stood silently, looking on with their staring eyes.
Ursov removed a long rawhide lash from his belt, holding the sweat-polished handle in one hand and caressing the braided leather thongs with his other. For the occasion he had added several sharp metal barbs to the end—I had not seen him do this for any other’s punishment.
“Before you whip me, General, aren’t you going to announce my crime?” Belidaev called, his voice pitched to draw the greatest irritation from Ursov. “You do remember my crime, don’t you, General?”
This evoked a brief murmur from the onlookers, almost a murmur, before they caught themselves and remained silent. Indeed, none of us understood exactly what Belidaev was being punished for.
Ursov responded with a violent crack of the whip, striking across the Corporal’s back. Belidaev didn’t wince, or show any outward sign of pain; but a thin red line of blood appeared on his back.
“Hah! So you do bleed!” the General cried out, as if this were some odd sort of victory.
“You sound as if you expected otherwise, General?” Belidaev spoke calmly. Ursov whipped him again, and again.
And again, for a full hour. The pattern of interlaced red lines on Belidaev’s back had been obliterated by the flow of blood—but still the Corporal showed no pain, nor did he ask for any release from his punishment. He seemed to be drawing strength from the very ground his feet were touching, from the air he breathed, from the place that was Vendeévna.
The General too was drawing strength from his own reservoir of anger and bitterness, from some wellspring within himself which poured forth hatred for this Belidaev with a greater intensity than I have ever before seen, in any man!
At last Ursov, exhausted, had to pause for a moment. He wiped sweat off his forehead and his upper lip, reaching inside his coat for a silver flask of vodka. He filled the capful, took a small sip, then downed the rest in a gulp. The General replaced the flask and wiped his sweaty palm on his pant leg before gripping the whip handle again.
Ursov continued the beating for another hour, leaving us to wait and watch when we would normally be practicing military drill. The peasants of Vendeévna remained silent, looking on with their staring eyes. The General was trembling and seemed incapable of continuing.
Belidaev himself finally looked weakened; his eyes were closed, his back was shredded, and the flesh hung in bloody strips. As Ursov watched, the Corporal slowly slid down the post slippery with his own blood, and fell to his knees.
Ursov seemed to draw strength from this and shouted for the doctor to bring smelling salts. The doctor seemed to have been waiting for this, and passed the smelling salts in front of Belidaev’s face, reviving him. The doctor was a particularly uncaring man, with rough patches of stubble always scattered on his chin, as if he never shaved but could not grow a beard. His eyes were dull and tired. As Belidaev struggled to get to his feet, Ursov continued the beating again until the Corporal collapsed once more.
Like a wolf pouncing on his fallen prey, the General removed some small metal spikes from his pocket and
savagely branded Belidaev on the forehead and both cheeks, leaving ugly, raw wounds. Smiling, he rubbed gunpowder into the bleeding facial wounds so that the scars would be permanent; then Ursov stepped back to inspect his work.
Belidaev was silent, huddled against the post. Ursov turned smartly to glare at the peasants, as if to find some signs of despair or compassion for the Corporal. The General seemed furious when he failed to find any. He strode up to the peasants, glaring at them, slowly pacing before each one of them, gloating.
“You see, filth, I command here! My word is power in this colony, and your resistance has no effect. Belidaev is weak—you are all nothing! My command comes directly from the
Tsar—” The General stopped before the old man who had vanished into the swamp mire; the peasant was still caked with dried mud which clung to his hair, his lips, his eyes. “And my every action is sanctioned by him!”
Abruptly, the mud-covered peasant spat full in Ursov’s face. The General looked as if his throat would burst as his roar tried to charge out of his mouth.
“SOLDIERS! I want every person in this colony to form two columns! GOLIEPIN! See that every man has a rod or whip! Every one of these accursed peasants will run the gauntlet! With a full thousand men on a side! I will see their blood run on the ground!”
“Haven’t you seen that already, General?” A hoarse voice—Belidaev struggling against the ropes that bound him to the post. Ursov stormed over to him and kicked him savagely in the left kidney.
“You seem not to care about your own pain, Belidaev; I hope you find the punishment of your peasants more enjoyable!”
The gauntlet was formed rapidly. Ursov clapped his hand on certain soldiers as he passed, indicating that they were to lead the peasants between the two lines of soldiers armed with sticks and whips. Each soldier, when chosen, went up to a peasant, bared the peasant’s back, and pointed the bayonet of his musket at the other’s chest, lashing the peasant’s hands to the barrel of the gun. The peasants offered no resistance whatsoever.
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