The sun is just dipping below the horizon as we reach Semi-Karakorskaya, and anchor for the night as usual; for to navigate the Lower Don in the dark is beyond the power of any pilot afloat. Here a Cossack official,[L] whose acquaintance we have made on board, proposes to us to land and be presented to the "Ataman," or chief of the tribe, with the certainty of seeing something worth looking at. The offer is joyfully accepted, and five minutes later we are scrambling up the steep, crumbling bank—in the course of which feat Allfact slips and rolls bodily down into the river.
"There's something for the notebook at last, old boy!" cries Smoothbore spitefully. "Write down that you notice a great falling off in this part of the country!"
To find one's way into a Cossack village at night is almost as hopeless as the proverbial hunt for a needle in a haystack. The whole country seems to consist of a series of carefully dug pitfalls, into which we tumble one over the other, like fish out of a net; and our final approach to the village is only to be guessed by the yells of the dogs, which come about us with such zeal as to necessitate some vigorous cudgelling, and a shower of trenchant Russian oaths, in which our leader, thanks to his official character, seems to be quite a proficient. At length a few lights, which appear to start from the very ground under our feet, announce that we are among houses—underground ones, it is true, but houses still. Then the first glimmer of the rising moon lights up a row of log-cabins on either side, and the abyss of half-dried mud between them; and at last, following our leader, we enter one of those immeasurable courtyards in which the Cossack heart delights, pass through a low doorway, ascend a creaking, ladder-like stair, and, entering a small room at the head of it, find ourselves in the presence of two men—one old and decrepit, the other in the prime of life. The younger is the Ataman himself; the elder is his father, an old soldier of the first campaigns of Nicholas.
Seen by the dim light of the lamp that stands on the rough-hewn table, the "interior" is sufficiently picturesque: the heavy crossbeams of the roof, the skins that cover the walls, intermingled with weapons of every kind, from the long Cossack lance to the light carabine which is fast superseding it; the fresh complexions and Western costume of the English party, contrasting strangely enough with the commanding figure and dark, handsome face of our host, in his picturesque native dress and high boots; the long white beard and vacant, wondering eyes of the ancient soldier; the picture of the Ataman's patron saint in the corner, with its little oil light burning before it, and a pious cockroach making a laborious pilgrimage around its gilt frame; and, through the narrow, loophole-like window, a glimpse of the great waste outside, lit by fitful gleams of moonlight.
Hospitality has been a Cossack virtue since the day that Bogdan Khmelnitski gave meat from his own dish to the prisoners whom he was about to slaughter; and we have hardly time to exchange greetings with our new friends when we are set down to a plentiful meal of rye bread, the splendid grapes of the Don, and "nardek"—a rich syrup strained from the rind of the watermelon, not unlike molasses both in appearance and flavor.
The "bread and salt" (as the Russians technically call it) being despatched, my three comrades, with the native official as interpreter, fasten upon the Ataman, while I devote myself to the old soldier, and begin to question him on the Danubian campaign of 1826. It is a sight to see how the worn old face lights up, and how the sunken eyes flash at the sound of the familiar name; and he plunges at once into his story. Seldom is it given to any man to hear such a tale as that to which I listen for the next half hour, told by one of its chief actors. Weary struggles through miles of hideous morass—men dropping from sheer exhaustion, with the wheels of the heavy artillery ploughing through their living flesh; vultures haunting the long march of death to tear the still quivering limbs of the fallen; soldiers, in the rage of hunger, feeding upon the corpses of their comrades—all the hideous details of that terrible campaign, told in a quiet, matter-of-course way, which makes them doubly horrible. My impromptu Xenophon is still in full swing when high above the clamor of tongues rises a sound from without, which nothing on earth can match save the war whoop of the Western Indian—the shrill, long-drawn "Hourra!" of the Cossack, which made many a veteran grenadier's stout heart grow chill within, as it came pealing over the endless snows of 1812. We rush headlong to the outer door, and this is what we see:
In the centre of the courtyard, under the full splendor of the moonlight, stand some twenty tall, sinewy figures, in the high sheepskin cap, wide trousers, and huge knee-high boots of the Cossack irregular. They salute the Ataman as he appears by drawing their long knives and waving them in the air, again uttering their shrill war cry; and then begin to move in a kind of measured dance, advancing and retreating by turns, to the sound of a low, dirge-like chant. Presently the music grows quicker, the motion faster and fiercer; the dancers dart to and fro through each other's ranks, brandishing their weapons, turning, leaping, striking right and left—acting in terribly lifelike pantomime the fury of a deadly battle. Seen in the heart of this great solitude, with the cold moon looking silently down upon it, this whirl of wild figures, and gleaming weapons, and dark, fierce faces, all eyes and teeth, has a very grim effect; and even Sinbad's seasoned nerves quiver slightly as the dancers at length join hands, and, whirling round like madmen, burst forth with the deep, stern chorus with which their ancestors swept the coasts of the Black Sea five hundred years ago:
Our horses have trodden the steep Kavkaz (Caucasus); Of the Krim (Crimea) we have taken our share; And the way that we went is dabbled with blood, To show that we have been there!
The volume of sound (stern and savage to the last degree, but yet full of a weird, unearthly melody) fills the whole air like the rush of a storm; and now, the Cossack blood being thoroughly heated, the play suddenly turns to earnest. The nearest dancer, a tall, handsome lad with a heavy black moustache, suddenly fells his next neighbor with a tremendous blow between the eyes, which Heenan himself might have applauded. The next moment the conqueror falls in his turn before a crushing right-hander from his vis-à-vis; and in an instant the whole band are at it hammer and tongs—apparently without "sides," order, or object of any kind, except the mere pleasure of thrashing and being thrashed. There is little science among the combatants, who deliver their blows in a slashing, round-hand style that would agonize a professional "bruiser"; but every blow dealt by those brawny arms leaves its mark, and the whole company speedily look as if they had been taking part in an election.
"By Jove!" says Smoothbore, with considerable feeling; "it does one good to see a real good fight so far away from home!"