Meshkov hesitated for a minute or so and then waved down his hand abruptly.
“All right, go ahead. Tell him I agree, and the officers are in agreement as well. I’ll have a talk with them myself. Let Djantemir get everything ready together with you, and now go and see him in the aul… No, take a horse and ride there. You’ve got sick legs, haven’t you, Shevchenko? Going on foot will make you tired,” Meshkov added with a polite grin. “Tell Silantyev to have the stallion Rapid hitched to my sleigh for you.”
“Well? Didn’t I tell you that he’d take the bait!” Kozlovsky rejoiced on their way to the battalion stables. “He hasn’t had a sniff of vodka yet, but remembered your illness. And he addressed you politely. Here’s the first result of a clever venture.”
Djantemir was overjoyed at the news. Shevchenko managed to achieve in one day what the bai had failed to do throughout the whole of last winter. He pressed the poet’s hands in both of his and immediately started talking about what would be best to treat the hunters to. The number of hunters and beaters made him start from fright at first, but Shevchenko promised to bring along a sack of flour and three pailfuls of vodka.
“Good, good,” Djantemir said. “That’s for the soldiers, but we don’t know what the mayirs will need. Tell us and we’ll get it.”
“Vodka is not enough for the officers. They’ll have to have champagne,” Kozlovsky said, anticipating a sumptuous banquet.
“Everything will be done. It will be a big toi,” Djantemir said with an emphatic nod. “There will be the wine that burns in a spoon and smells so fine, and the one that shoots like a gun. We’ll buy everything. Allah has prohibited us to drink such things, but for the mayirs we’ll buy it. They will be pleased. For three days they will be so drunk they’ll be lying around like logs. Here, take a look.”
To support his point, he opened a trunk, in which stood bottles of rum, cognac, vodka and other alcoholic drinks the names of which he did not even know. Seeing the greedy glint in Kozlovsky’s eyes, Djantemir brought out a bottle of vodka and ordered cooked lamb to be served.
Then he had Jaisak summoned so that he show Shevchenko and Kozlovsky the location of the wolves’ den.
The men mounted the horses Djantemir had provided for the purpose and galloped off down the bank of the Or where the snow was covered with abundant fox and wolf tracks. Kozlovsky dismounted now and again and closely inspected the tracks. They rode round the valley along the edge of a cliff that dropped steeply as if it were diving under the ground, and then they rode back on its crest.
Shevchenko was silent for some time, reluctant to betray his complete ignorance of wolves’ habits, but in the end he asked Jaisak:
“Can the wolves really scramble out of that gulch?”
“Oh no, Taras Aga,” Jaisak replied with a smile. “Thanks be to Allah they have no wings yet, because if they did, we would be defenseless against them both in the yurts and on our horses.”
“I thought there might be some sloping paths under the snow here.”
“There is one, but it’s a little further down where a brook falls into the river,” Jaisak said with a wave of his hand in that direction.
Kozlovsky kept looking out for wolf tracks here as well, but there were almost none. The men realized that the wolves went on the prowl at the end of the valley where there were no steep cliffs.
Back at the aul, Shevchenko and Kozlovsky got into the sleigh to hurry off to Orsk before dusk.
“Tell Djantemir that we’ll bring everything we have promised next week,” Shevchenko said on parting with the group of Kirghiz who had gathered around the sleigh.
Half a verst away from the aul Kozlovsky reined in the horses and turned to Shevchenko.
“We’ll have to set our brains to some good work now,” he said, worried. “The scale of the chase is different from what it might be, say, in Belorussia or Polessie. To surround such a valley we’ll need not fifty infantry but our entire company along with the Cossacks and Kirghiz, but in this case we’ll be short of money for the vodka and meat pies. You can’t leave a soldier out in the cold for the whole day without a shot of vodka.”
“There is no way of backing out of it now,” Shevchenko said with a sigh.
“That’s true. No backing out. We’ll have to use pennants.”
“What kind of pennants?”
“Red ones, of course! Wolves shy away at the sight of red, believing it to be fire. We’ll have to calculate how many pennants we’d need and get enough string and red calico. The cliff cuts off the wolves’ route of retreat. That’s where we won’t need any people or pennants. But along the river and at the further end of the valley we’ll have to station beaters or put up pennants. They are sewn one arshin from one another on a string which is stretched between bushes, pegs or reeds. We’ll drop in to the store now and ask how much that red calico costs, and then cut the pennants.”
The storekeeper threw a roll of red calico at five kopecks an arshin on the table, and hard as Kozlovsky bargained, the storekeeper sliced off only thirty kopecks for the entire roll of fifty-six arshins, charging two and a half rubles for it.
Shevchenko’s face clouded.
“We’ve surely got ourselves into a mess, which I think we won’t get out of.”
“We’d better get out of it or else Meshkov will make it too hot for us. Fifteen rubles will buy us a sack of flour and three pailfuls of vodka. Let Meshkov give us their dry issues. That’ll save us another fifteen rubles to buy string and red calico. If we cut the roll of calico in three parts lengthwise, we’ll have one hundred and sixty-eight arshins, and out of each arshin we’ll make four pennants, that is, six hundred and seventy-two pennants altogether. They’ll have to be stretched over two versts along the river bank. One verst has five hundred sazhens or one thousand five hundred arshins. Consequently, we’ll have to have three and a half thousand pennants, whereas we’ve got only six hundred and seventy-two so far. That means we’ll have to buy another roll of calico…”
“But then we won’t have anything left to buy the string with.”
“I don’t believe in hopeless situations,” Kozlovsky said, shrugging his shoulders. “And my name won’t be Andrei Kozlovsky if I don’t find a way out.”
Indeed, he roused himself into energetic activity. First he rushed off to the storekeeper, then he had lengthy confidential talks with the quartermaster-sergeant and the property clerk of the quartermaster supply unit, and when Shevchenko was about to hit his bunk with a heavy heart of imminent disaster, Kozlovsky suddenly came to him and, with his usual aplomb, declared peremptorily:
“The string is ours, and I got it for a song — half a bottle of vodka, and without as much as a pickled cucumber to go with it. But I surely had to toil to get it.”
Shevchenko looked silently at Kozlovsky.
“That’s it, mon cher! In the storehouse we have huge nets for catching herring. When our battalion was stationed at Guryev, they caught herring in the Caspian Sea. Then the nets were discarded. But if they’re no good for holding loads of fish, they’re good for holding our pennants. The quartermaster-sergeant gave them to me for half a bottle of vodka. It’s a fantastic bargain! Comprenez vous? It’s just a stroke of genius on my part! We’ll grease our betters so they’ll remember us for a long time, and drain a lavish cup with everything that goes with it!”
“Wait a minute,” Shevchenko stopped him. “Nets are not string yet. It’s a terribly difficult job untying the knots.”
“And what about this dim rabble?” Kozlovsky said, pointing at the soldiers. “Instead of stinking and cursing the whole evening through, they might as well do some work. The quartermaster-sergeant showed me how the knots can be untied quickly with an awl of which he has as many as you could ask for.”
“But the calico! The storekeeper said he had only one roll.”
“Oh damn it! That’s true,” Kozlovsky said, the oversight making him slump on his bunk. He scratched his head, lo
oking perplexed at Shevchenko.
“What about making the pennants out of the tattered underwear we cast off at the bathhouse?” Shevchenko suggested.
“A marvelous idea!” Kozlovsky jumped from the bunk and slapped his forehead. uMon cher, you’re beginning to show some signs of brightness. We’ll just have to dye it red — and there you’ve got three thousand pennants!”
Kozlovsky disappeared abruptly again.
In the morning of the third day of the holidays, he dragged Shevchenko to the quartermaster-sergeant, and speaking in a voice choking with enthusiasm, told the sergeant about the “fantastic” plan of making pennants out of the tattered underwear.
“Well, the underwear is quite fit for that purpose, I should say,” the sergeant confirmed gravely. “But I cannot give it to you without a proper write-off record. Let the major issue the order, and you’ll have the whole lot. But I haven’t got any dye-stuff for you.”
“What about red ink?” Shevchenko said. “I have a big bottle of it. Lidia Andreievna gave it to me before she left.”
“It’s all right for the purpose, but one bottle is not enough, even if it is the size of a champagne bottle. Lavrentiev, though, has about twenty of them in his office. He might give you some.”
So Lavrentiev had to be told about the details of the forthcoming battue.
All the preparations seemed to be going well, but Shevchenko and Kozlovsky failed to see Meshkov that day because he had left for the nearest fort some sixty versts away and would be back only the next morning — with the wolves being abroad, no one dared ride through the steppe at night.
“One — two! One — two!” the next morning the soldiers were going through the arduous drill on the parade ground as before.
Shevchenko’s legs throbbed with pain, and in half an hour his heart was thumping wildly and he panted from lack of air. If only he could get out of the barracks for a week or two to take medical treatment. The hopes for a battue hung on a thread again. Everything depended on whether or not Meshkov would agree to write off the old underwear before the general annual inventory.
Back home, Meshkov learned from his batman that the day before he was again visited “by those two who were busy preparing the wolf hunt.” Meshkov intentionally went to the parade ground to have a talk with “that odd Shevchenko” who evoked so much concern among Colonel Matveiev, General Fedyaev and other high officers from Orenburg. When at last Globa ordered “At ease!” and the men lit up, Meshkov crossed the parade ground and went up to Shevchenko.
On seeing the major, Shevchenko stiffened to attention.
“Good morning, Shevchenko,” Meshkov said. “I was told you wanted to see me.”
“Good morning, your Excellency! Yes, I was at your home together with Kozlovsky. It is our idea to regale the officers pleasingly and feed the men after the hunt. The more money we spare on the pennants the more we’ll have for the drink and food,” Shevchenko said, ironic sparks flickering in his eyes which he hid immediately by dropping his eyelids. Even the primitive-minded Meshkov could not help smiling.
“Oh, I see you two are quite some tricksters! I suppose that’s not everything you want?”
“No, sir. We need a lot of other things too. Firstly, I beg your Excellency to let the late general’s batman Private Gordeiev go to the aul two days before the hunt. As you know, your Excellency, he is a superb cook. Well, and we need a sleigh and horses to take the vodka, a sack of flour, crockery, and foodstuffs to the aul along with the pennants, rifles, shot and other hunting equipment. Besides, do us a gracious favor — give all the beaters their rations on the day of the hunt, and to that food we’ll add vodka and other fare to make the men drink and eat their fill.”
“You’ve thought that out wonderfully!” Meshkov said with a smile. “All right, everything will be done. I relieve you and Kozlovsky from drill up to the New Year so that you prepare all these things properly. Come to my office in the afternoon. I’ll have the order ready, and you go ahead with the preparations. At times it’s good to have some diversion in our dull life,” be added, as he tipped Shevchenko a friendly nod and left the parade ground.
Rifle shots rent the quiet of the steppe for over an hour, after which twenty-three wolves and eleven red and silver fox fell a prey to the hunters. The jigits shot five wolves. The wolves were loaded on sleighs and taken to the aul. The entire aul, both young and old, gathered around the sleighs to have a close look at the animals which struck so much fear in man and beast.
The meal that followed was truly sumptuous and tasty: broth with meat pie, hare and lamb roast, Kazakh mantys and puff pastry with nuts and raisins. Vodka and wine appeared alternately on the table. Tea was served, each cup flavored with half a glassful of Jamaica rum Djantemir had bought from the Bukharan merchants back in the summer.
For the beaters a white, well-heated yurt was pitched near Djantemir’s house. Shevchenko personally treated each beater to a glass of vodka, half a herring, and a big chunk of meat pie. Then Jaisak, whom Djantemir had put in charge of the yurt, brought in with Iskhak a huge pot of borshch and another pot of cooked mutton, and gave each soldier a big piece of cooked meat. The meal was so plenteous that the soldiers barely touched the liberally buttered buckwheat porridge; drowsy from drink and languid from the warmth and the fat and tasty food, they laughed merrily at Jaisak who categorically refused to have a drop of vodka.
In the meantime, a storm had gathered in the steppe again. When the soldiers were about to leave for the fortress at four in the afternoon, snow started to fall and a driving ground wind swept across the steppe. Sergeant-Major Laptev went out of the yurt, looked at the sky and steppe, and sent noncom Zlintsev to report to the major about the weather situation.
The major was so drunk by that time that he did not understand at first what Zlintsev was reporting to him about.
“What do you mean ‘they won’t make it?’” he asked with faltering tongue. “I won’t have none of that! Let the men march off immediately!” he roared, bringing his fist down on the table.
“I’m afraid they might lose their way, your Excellency,” Zlintsev explained carefully, afraid to arouse Meshkov’s rage again. “Take a look what a blizzard there is outdoors. You can’t see God’s world, let alone the road. There isn’t any road at all for that matter: we came here simply by crossing the steppe.”
For a moment Meshkov looked dully at the noncom, then he got heavily to his feet, and went out onto the porch. Even from this vantage point the white yurt sheltering the beaters was almost invisible in the swirling snow.
“Damn it!” Meshkov said hoarsely, scratching his head. “Right you are. If at least they’d ring the bell in the church, then the men might follow its sound.”
“I have a machine which will show you the way,” Djantemir suddenly said behind his back. “I’ll bring it to you right away.”
A moment later Djantemir was back, holding on the palm of his hand a real mariner’s compass.
Meshkov shook his head in confusion: he just did not know how to use this instrument with the flickering needle under a thick mirror glass, and the soldiers would not know how to use it either.
Shevchenko was just then coming out of the house with a heap of dirty dishes. He had seen how Djantemir took the compass out of his trunk, and now understood Meshkov’s perplexity. The major was drunk and could very well send the men to certain death in the snow-swept steppe. Shevchenko put the dishes on the steps of the porch and addressed Meshkov quietly:
“Your Excellency, among the soldiers there’s a fisherman from the Black Sea and he knows how to handle a compass. Request permission to have him called.”
“Yes, yes, Shevchenko! Call him, of course. It’s a good thing you happened to be around.”
Shevchenko ran off to the yurt with the beaters.
“Hey, Sahadji! The CO is calling you!”
“Do you know how to handle this thing?” Meshkov asked, carefully taking the compass out of
Djantemir’s hands.
“Yes, sir. Without it a sailor is just like a priest without a cross,” Sahadji said with a grin.
“Now look here, take it and lead the men to Orsk. And mind you get all of them there, to a man, without anyone lagging behind or being frostbitten. Take care to bring this thing in one piece to Orsk” — he motioned at the compass. “When the blizzard is over” — he slapped Djantemir on the shoulder — “you’ll have it back immediately. Thanks a lot for helping us out.”
The blizzard raged the whole night through, making the windowpanes in Djantemir’s house rattle. The officers had no heart to leave the safety of their host’s home. So mutton was cooked again, fresh mantys were kneaded, hares roasted, and samovars set to boil. The officers ate, drank strong tea and the still stronger liquor. Toward the evening of the next day the blizzard had spent itself, and however much Djantemir tried to make the guests stay, they ordered the horses to be hitched to the sleighs, loaded their rifles, lighted torches to ward off the wolves if any were to cross their path, and returned to the fortress without any mishap.
The next day it was drill as usual. But just before the midday meal an orderly arrived from the hospital to see Shevchenko.
“Hurry up! The doctor wants to examine you,” he gasped out.
On crossing the threshold of the hospital, Shevchenko saw Alexandriysky, Meshkov, Stepanov and Globa sitting in the room, with the medical attendant reporting on the state of Shevchenko’s health.
Part II
19
To the Blue Sea
Pletniov was reclining in a deep armchair at the desk in his study, and seemed to have dozed off. He had just returned from the university after the annual gala meeting. As University Rector and Professor of Russian Philology, he had to deliver a long speech. He was of sturdy stature and all too corpulent for his fifty-five years, which made him look older at this particular moment. A vigorous well-clipped beard densely streaked with gray fell smoothly over his snow-white dickey and the lapels of a dark-blue tailcoat of the finest English cloth, on which gleamed the gold of two stars, while a red ribbon of the Order of St. Anne ran obliquely across his waistcoat.
The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko Page 21