Katerina looked at the minuscule stars overhead and knew she had stayed away too long. It was time to see her father and make one last effort to make him understand. There must be trust between us, she cried silently. Still she didn’t move. Her eyes closed wearily as she lay back on the thick grass.
The tall reeds were still, their slender shafts straight and supple in the gentle night air. Nothing stirred, save the snakelike movements of the Terek Cossacks as they crawled on their bellies through the shoulder-high stalks. The moment the moon took cover behind approaching storm clouds, the Tereks infiltrated the grasses. Each man crawled with his knife clutched between his teeth. They made no sign, nor did they disturb the graceful lengths of greenery that hid them and kept their presence secret from the Don Cossacks. Each man bore a sense of pride as he crawled. This was the closest any man had ever come to the village of Volin, except for the horse traders and buyers. Gregory Bohacky was right, his timing was incredible. The lonely nights they had ridden to get to the outer perimeters of the village, and then sat sentinel, were finally going to be rewarded. After tonight the village would be no more; the Cosars would belong to the Tereks and then to the highest bidder, Czar Ivan.
Gregory lay still, barely inches from the fences that encircled the compound. Still shielded by the tall grasses, he could hear the men of Volin brawling and shouting boisterously as they consumed jug after jug of vodka. From the sound of the merrymaking, he wagered they had been drinking for days as they prepared for their departure to the Carpathians. He listened for Katlof and smirked when he heard him drunkenly address one of his men. He was the only man to worry about. If the hetman was sodden, the others would be in even worse condition. They would be able to wield a weapon, but not with any accuracy. Gregory knew in his gut that his men could cut down the entire village and be back in their own quarters within a short time.
He cast an anxious eye overhead to see if the threatening storm clouds would continue to give him cover. His long body relaxed in the grass as he pondered his next move.
To his left and standing sentry outside the wall surrounding the compound a guard argued vehemently with a Cossack youth. “Someone has to be alert. What you’re doing is a disgrace to the village. All of you are so drunk you can barely stand. You’re a disgrace to our forefathers.”
“Bah, you talk like an old woman. This is a night for pleasure and celebrating. All the wagons are loaded, the horses have been readied for hours, and the houses will soon be closed for the winter. If the hetman says we can drink, then we can drink,” the young man said drunkenly as he brought a bottle to his lips and drank greedily. “The Kat said to bring you this jug, but since you don’t want it, I’ll drink it myself.” The youth laughed raucously as he toppled from the wall, alcohol spilling over his face.
The guard looked at him and felt only disgust. One of the horses whickered, and his head jerked upright. He knew that sound, he had been hearing it for hours. It didn’t come from an animal, at least not one with four legs. Should he leave his post and report what he thought he knew? And to whom? he asked himself. The Kat was in no condition to hear what he said, let alone make a decision. One other guard stood at his post on the far side of the compound. Should he venture over there and ask him if he, too, had heard the noise and if he realized what it meant? An ominous feeling crept up his spine. No matter what, a Cossack never left his post. There it was again. The soft whicker and then an even softer one in reply. He peered into the velvety darkness and could see nothing. He looked down at the prone young Cossack and cursed long and loud.
A wild whoop was heard; the guard’s hand automatically came up with his sword outstretched in front of him. He was cut down from behind before he could move. Everywhere wild shouts and curses filled the air as men struggled and fought. The Don Cossacks, in their drunken condition, were no match for the trim, hard-fighting Tereks with only one thought in mind: the Cosars!
Katlof reeled drunkenly toward the fire, where his sword rested among the others. His hand reached for his saber; just as his fingers closed over the hilt, he felt a blade strike him across the back between his shoulders. He dropped to his knees. As he cried out to his people, “Run! Hide!” blood gushed from his mouth.
Women and children fell beneath the savage onslaught, the Tereks merciless in their attack. Katlof watched in horror as a small child crawled away from his dead mother’s arms toward the fire. He reached out a hand as a wild-eyed Terek scooped up the child and tossed him into the roaring inferno. He died with the child’s agonized screams ringing in his ears. It was over in a matter of moments.
Gregory stood near the fire on top of one of the loaded wagons, his arm held high above his head in a show of victory. A wild cry rang out as the men reached to pull their leader to the ground. “Ready the horses and burn these wagons after you confiscate the supplies. We can use them ourselves. And don’t forget the vodka, we’ll do our own celebrating when we return to camp. We did what no Russian has been able to do!” he shouted arrogantly. “We now own the Cosars. Czar Ivan will be proud of us!” A lusty shout of approval rang through the blood-soaked night.
“Are they all dead?” one of Gregory’s men shouted.
“Every last bitch and bastard!” came a hoarse shout in reply.
Gregory smiled to himself as the moon slid behind its hiding place, storm clouds moving on. With a wicked flourish of his sword and a wild cry of victory, Gregory spurred the horse beneath him, his men thundering behind him as they rode victoriously from Volin.
When Gregory Bohacky turned his head, those mounted behind glimpsed his heavily greased mustache. No one ever joked about the corkscrew curl at each end, as Gregory’s mustache was his manhood, his pride and joy. Many words were spoken about it in jest behind his back, where he would never overhear, but nobody ever uttered a demeaning word to his face. To his face, only words of adoration or praise, if one valued one’s head.
The pale moonlight silhouetted the hard outline of his profile as he looked over his shoulder. A sheepskin hat sat on top of his black, curly hair, which circled his chiseled face, emphasizing the small, shrewd blue eyes set upon high-boned cheeks that were separated by a large, aquiline nose. The one redeeming feature that made him attractive to women was his full, sensuous mouth and the voice within. His commands held an authoritative manner, leaving no doubt that he meant what he said. But when he wooed the lovelies of his choice, his resonant voice was a choir singing the Gregorian chants, compelling and hypnotizing, so soothing that surrender was a gift of thanks, gladly and freely given to him. Gregory Bohacky, a warrior among warriors, a man among men, was so respected by those under him that he inspired complete obedience.
Gregory twisted in the saddle, raising his hand upward, signaling his men to stop. “The hour grows late and soon our village will be in view. Our families will be asleep, but tonight when we arrive, the thunder of the Cosar hooves, along with our cries of joy, will awaken everyone. Tonight our mir will ring with joy, music, and dancing, and the vodka will flow like the Dnieper. Tonight we’ll celebrate our victory and conquest, stopping only when we all fall unconscious. We have done what others only dreamed of doing—we captured the Cosars from the Don Cossacks!” A loud roar of approval boomed from the warriors, almost stampeding the horses.
“Keep those beauties calm and quiet, my brothers, we mustn’t lose them now. As happy as I am, I’ll behead any man who lets one horse escape!”
The threat of the Don Cossacks coming after them was as nonexistent as the lives of the people of Volin. Secure in this knowledge, the Tereks broke into a Cossack song of victory, their voices filling the night air with a melody of joy.
Gregory, at the water’s edge of the Dnieper, reined in his horse and instructed his men, “As we cross the river, carefully lead the Cosars through the rocks, for lame horses are of no value to anyone. When we are once again on our island of Khortitsa, I’ll personally check the animals, and someone will pay with his life if one lame Cosar is foun
d.”
Restraining his stallion, Gregory waited on the bank as the Cossacks led the horses through the shallow waters. He smiled to himself as he watched. Never had he seen his rough men handle anything or anyone as gently as they handled the Cosars; not even their women were afforded such tenderness. The mothers of the village would mock us forever if they witnessed this scene, he thought.
As they left the banks of the Dnieper behind, the faint outline of their huts came into view. Gregory felt a warm glow sweep over him; it was good to be home. Returning this time was that much sweeter, for he would be proclaimed a hero. The gutting of Volin and his victorious capture of the horses would have the mir celebrating for days, and the men would talk of his exploits for years after his death. Gregory Bohacky would be a folk hero in Russian history, and the Tereks would sing his praises across the vast, endless steppe of the Ukraine. He trembled as he envisioned his welcome from the moment his stallion’s hoof first crossed the village entrance. The anticipation telegraphed itself to his legs as he dug his heels into the animal’s flanks, driving him into a full canter. His men sensed his eagerness and rode rapidly behind him, the Cosars driven along with them.
A guard hidden from view called out, “Is that you, comrade Bohacky? If it is, show yourself.”
Stepping forward into the light of a blazing campfire, Gregory answered, “Yes, comrade, it is Bohacky.”
“What do you bring with you? I see many black objects in the distance,” remarked the guard as he stepped from behind the high wooden wall that surrounded the camp.
“Those black objects you see in the darkness are white objects, and those white objects are the famous Cosar horses. The whole lot of them from the village of Volin!”
“You joke, Gregory! It can’t be. The Cosars belong to the Don Cossacks. They would never let them go.”
“They didn’t let them go, comrade, we captured them!”
“But the Don Cossacks? I don’t understand, you must be making jokes!”
“Comrade, I never make jokes. The Cosars now belong to the Tereks. The Don Cossacks of Volin are no more! We killed every last one of them. No one will come chasing after us for the horses; we saw to that!”
The guard shook his head in disbelief.
“Are our people asleep?” asked Gregory.
“All is quiet. With only four hours before dawn, the warm beds hold fast our people.”
“Comrade, wake them from their sleep and tell, no, shout the good news! Tell them Gregory Bohacky has returned triumphant from Volin with the Cosars! Tonight we begin the celebration. Wake the women and have them prepare food for the victory feast. Wake everyone and tell them!”
“Yes, comrade!”
“Then why are you standing here looking at me? Wake everyone. We’ll drive the Cosars through the village to help you. Move, comrade!” he shouted.
The guard mounted his horse, galloping down the roads, shouting as he went, “Wake up, wake up, Gregory Bohacky has returned from Volin with the Cosars! Wake up, wake up! The Cosars are here! Tonight we celebrate!”
The commotion woke Yuri. He arose from his bed, opened the door, and listened.
“The Cosars are ours! Volin is no more!” shouted the men.
Yuri couldn’t believe what he heard. His mind reeled as he tried to think. “Katerina, I must go to Katerina . . . she can’t be . . . I must get dressed.”
Within moments, he was outside his host’s hut looking for a horse.
“Ah! Yuri, my friend, I see you have heard the good news,” shouted Gregory above the din.
“I must have a horse!”
“A horse? You shall have one and anything else you may want this night,” exclaimed Gregory happily, as he motioned to a Terek to bring a horse.
“Before I go—”
“Go where?”
“You must tell me what happened at Volin. What do they mean, Volin is no more?” Yuri asked hesitantly, afraid to hear the answer.
“I am a hero now comrade. You have shared the hut of a Terek legend this summer,” Bohacky boasted.
Impatient, Yuri lost control. “I demand you tell me what happened at Volin!”
“I’ll gladly tell you. We took the Dons, slaughtered all the people, and burned the village to the ground. The Tereks are proud Cossacks now.”
“Proud? You slaughter a village and you’re proud? What of Katerina? Did you kill her, too? You knew how I felt about her, how could you do this? She was all I had left. Your hospitality is no longer needed by me.”
He jumped on the back of the waiting horse and disappeared into the night, the words of Gregory echoing in his head.
Still seated atop his stallion, Bohacky laughingly mocked Yuri’s words and said, “Bah, women! Tonight’s victory is all we’ll ever need.” He turned from the darkness and looked at his village and watched as shuttered windows flew open and candlelight peeped out at the night. Heads appeared in windows and hands rubbed away the sleep.
The Tereks quickly donned their tunics as the women scurried for their sarafans, and within minutes the men were out in the village circle, throwing wood on the campfire to brighten the area. Gregory ordered the women to prepare poppy cakes and kasha and sausage, and to ready a sheep and a goat for roasting on the spit. “Bring on the vodka, beer, and forty-year-old mead.”
The handful of women in Khortitsa worked feverishly to cook the food for the carousing men, knowing that when they finished they would be allowed to return to their huts. Once inside, they would whisper among themselves of the night’s events, not venturing outside until the men had fallen into a drunken stupor.
Khortitsa was a village of men. The women who were allowed to stay were middle-aged, forgotten and old before their time, forsaken by their husbands for the saber and life of the Cossack. Other tribes whispered about Khortitsa and its savage breed of Cossacks, the misfits of life: the killers, robbers, escaped prisoners, rapists, and political escapees. Khortitsa was a stewpot of vicious, cunning men. Cossacks who lived for the saber and the horse. There were no rules in the village. Rules were made for others, not for the Terek. Freedom was their motto, their life.
The few daughters born in the village were quickly sent off to the Crimea for safety, the threat of rape and death hanging over them if they were allowed to stay, but when a male child was born a celebration was held which lasted for three days. When a boy reached eight, a saber was thrust into his hands and his training as a Cossack began in earnest. At the age of twelve, he was expected to perform as well as any man, and when he reached eighteen he was given his fighting outfit—wide trousers of pleats and folds, drawn in with a golden cord, boots of morocco leather, a Cossack coat of bright crimson cloth, and a sash, gaily patterned, into which went an embossed Turkish pistol and a saber. His hat was a black, gold-topped astrakhan cap. In his battle attire he was a Cossack to be feared, and his forging would come in the fires of his first battle.
Campfires burned brightly along the roads of the village as the men ate, celebrated, and drank. The guards watched enviously, knowing their turn would come to join the merrymaking when some of the men sobered. For now their only concern was the safety and well-being of the Cosars in the compound, under heavy guard. They could eat till they burst, but they couldn’t drink.
That night, and for several nights thereafter, the Terek celebrated the capture of their golden treasure—the Cosar horses—every pound worth its weight in gold.
Yuri Zhuk lay in the thicket and knew he was dying. Never a religious man, he prayed, in his brief moments of lucidity, that his end would be quick and merciful. A wild fever raged through his body, and his dark eyes were glazed with a thin white film. The pain in his throat and neck was so intense, he began to pound the earth where he lay. He had heard of others that lived with no tongue, but he had no desire to be one of them. He blinked as pain shot up his arm. For a moment he had forgotten the loss of his fingers. Blood spurted from the severed stumps of his hands, and he wanted to cry out, but he didn’t.
Instead he rolled over and crushed his face into the welcoming dirt, the brush and twigs crackling with his movements. He wanted to savor this moment of clarity before he died. He wanted to remember how it was, and he wanted to remember Katerina’s face. If God chooses to smile upon me, perhaps the pleasant thoughts will drive away the pain, he thought as his mind wandered back in time.
What a fool he had been. The moment he rode from the Cossack camp he should have known that they would come after him. How confident, how arrogant he had felt when he had ridden out onto the steppe at the end of spring. There had only been one thought in his mind: spend the summer cementing ties with Ivan’s allies on the steppe, get back to Russia, make up some story for the Czar to explain his failure, and return for Katerina.
He knew he was being followed even now, months later, though he heard no sound. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and that was all the warning he needed. Making camp for the night at the first sign of dusk, he was certain that eyes watched him. Only once in the short time he waited for the Cossack did he have any feeling of panic. He had been trained well in the Czar’s army before his advancement to his present position and he would give a good accounting of himself, of that he was certain.
The two Cossacks had ridden boldly into his camp as soon as darkness settled. The only light was the small, flickering campfire, which threw the two riders into ghastly, eerie shadows. Yuri had waited for what he knew was coming. Oles, the young Cossack from the village, had walked over to the fire and stood looking down at the Russian. From where he lay Yuri could see the wild gleam in his eye as he made a motion for his companion to dismount. When both men stood towering over him, Yuri rose to his feet, his saber held loosely in his hand. “What do you want here at this time of night?” he asked harshly.
Oles and his friend stared at the Russian, their faces cold, dark, and forbidding. Yuri felt a twinge of fright. One man he could handle, but two Cossacks was something he hadn’t planned on. They would fight by their own rules, not the rules he had been trained under.
Whitefire Page 8
