Only toward evening did a light wind rise up, bringing a blue chill to my fingertips and the outer edges of my ears, as the cooling sun descended until it hung barely a hand's breadth above the horizon. Then as I topped the next low rise, the rough-hewn hut that Daddy Eroshka used for his hunting parties came into sight. Above its slanted roof, a thin column of white smoke from the old Cossack's tiled stove trailed upward to disappear into the gathering gray clouds.
Just outside of the beaten-down yard, I slid stiffly down the side of my saddle, hobbled my horse to graze, and was still a couple of strides from the hut when its only door banged open. Daddy Eroshka, in his usual sheepskin coat and winter hat, peered cautiously out over my shoulder toward the long shadows gradually creeping across the rolling land. Quickly, he clutched me by the forearm and yanked me inside. The door slammed shut behind.
In the smoky dim light of the cabin's interior, the old white-bearded Cossack threw one bearlike arm around my waist and the other across my shoulder. He hugged me briefly to his broad chest, pounding his large, calloused palms on my back, before standing me onto my feet again and inquiring in a flat voice, “Tell me, kunak, did you see anything out there?"
I tried to read the deep lines in his face for expectations on my answer, but his expression gave nothing away.
"Only a wild boar crashing through the frozen reeds down by the river at noon, some pheasants scratching for seeds at the edge of the forest much later, and a hungry buzzard circling high over the steppes just before I rode into view of your hut,” was my reply.
"No animals of the two-legged variety?"
"Not for the last several versts along my journey."
"Then you are a lucky man, Armenian. When we saw you ride up, we thought maybe some of our lads from the river cordon had heard our troubles and come to help us."
Quickly, I glanced around inside the one-room shanty used as a night shelter on those occasions when sunlight grew short and Eroshka's hunting group was still far afield from the village. The hut smelled of burning wood, damp wool, leather harness, pipe tobacco, and old earth. Lingering above the other aromas came the faint scent of pungent tea from a samovar on the brick and tile stove.
To my right stood Garaska, a graybeard Cossack I had oft paid small bribes in the past to ensure my trading party's safe crossing south into the Wild Country of the hill tribes. On this night, Garaska stayed carefully to one side of a small window and its propped-open shutter while his musket leaned near at hand against the wall. I considered this man as one of my friends among the border guards, yet this night he spoke no word of greeting. He kept staring anxiously out at clumps of dead grass stalks swaying in the evening wind, out toward the Terek River and far distant snow-capped peaks of the Caucasus Mountains. Except for a short nod in my direction, Garaska barely acknowledged my entrance.
To the rear of the hunting hut, three soldiers wearing uniforms of the tsar's army stared at us from around a rickety wood table where a smoke-blackened lantern hanging from the crude ceiling supplied dim light to the back of the room. Two of these Russians held playing cards but seemed more interested in my arrival. The third soldier appeared to have already thrown in his hand. He paused with his unlit clay pipe halfway to his mouth.
"All looks fairly peaceful to me,” I said in a low voice to the old whitebeard. “What troubles do you have here?"
"Abreks,” Daddy muttered.
"Chechens from the Wild Country?"
The old Cossack nodded.
"Some of their shave-headed braves must've crossed over to go raiding north of the Terek River while the ice was still strong. The sudden thaw trapped them on our side of the river, unless they wanted to make a cold swim for it or found some other way of crossing. This morning we surprised each other out there on the steppes. They fired a few musket balls at us, but we retreated, holed up here, and soon drove them back. Since then it's been a waiting game until you showed up."
"But when I left your guard tower at the river cordon several hours ago,” I replied “no one there heard the rattle of gunfire. All was peaceful. And I saw no one in the tall grass outside your door just now."
"Bah,” replied the old Cossack. “It's said that three of those Sons of Muhammad can hide behind a single blade of grass. A true Old Believer like me has to cross himself twice in the old way before pulling the trigger if he hopes to kill even one of them devils in hiding."
I turned for the door, but Daddy Eroshka caught my upper arm in a firm grasp.
"Where are you going?"
"My horse, I left him to graze."
"You'll not see him again,” boomed Garaska from beside the window. “They've already taken ours. Those Abreks are a race of thieves. Can't keep their hands off anything left lying around."
"Besides,” said Eroshka, “as you can see, there's no room for your horse in here. Don't worry my friend, we'll steal you another horse back from them after the river fully thaws. Maybe even a better mount than the one you rode here."
In the meticulous accounts I kept of my trading ventures in this dangerous land, such a swap would balance my sums. But I wasn't sure I wanted to be trading my Turkic goods south of the Terek in the Wild Country a couple of months from now and have one of my Chechen customers recognize the replacement horse I would then be riding as a horse he had previously owned. For now, I said nothing. I had always found it was better to deal with each problem in its own time.
"This is sooner than we usually expect those brigands,” continued the old Cossack in his plodding manner. “But then spring came early this year. I thought we'd have two more weeks of peace and quiet until the ice is gone and it's safe to cross, but here those devils are, raiding on our side of the river already."
As a neutral party and a merchant of much-desired silver jewelry and items of fine silk, I could generally travel on either side of the border and receive a warm welcome. But with three Russian soldiers now forted up here in Daddy Eroshka's hut, this was no time to voice that claim. These Russians, with the expansion of their Muscovy Empire, were a different breed from my easygoing Cossacks. With Russians you were expected to choose a side and stay there, as a friend to them and as an enemy to their enemies.
The tallest Muscovite, with the markings of a colonel of the line on his army uniform and with a revolver in his right hand, stood up from behind their rickety table at the rear of the hut. I noticed most of the silver coins from their card game seemed to be stacked on his side of the table.
"Eroshka, who comes to visit us?"
Daddy turned his head toward the commanding voice.
"It is the man we call the Armenian, a kunak—a comrade—of mine. He often brings me a bottle or two of chikhir—wine—from the village."
"Good,” replied the colonel, “we can use a drink to pass the time."
The old Cossack turned his gaze back to me, lowered his voice, and grinned for the first time since I had arrived.
"I heard the clink of glass in your knapsack when I lifted you up to greet you. So what have you brought us?"
Opening the top of my knapsack, I displayed three bottles of local wine.
Eroshka quickly pushed one of them farther down into the knapsack and out of sight. He winked at me. Then with the two remaining bottles, one in each hand, he advanced toward the table of Russians.
"Your Excellency, we have two bottles of chikhir from the village to share amongst the six of us. One for you three good soldiers, and one for the other three of us."
"Get your drinking cups,” replied the colonel. “I will do the pouring."
Daddy Eroshka ducked his head and muttered just loud enough for me to hear. “It's no less than what I expected. Ever since we lost the rebellion, a Cossack gets short shrift when his Russian masters dispense the wealth."
As I watched how events proceeded, I had to admit the old Cossack was right in what he'd said. Our first bottle and part of the second went to the Russians. As ranking officer, the colonel portioned the most to himself.
On his right, Cadet Aleksei, who claimed family connections to Tsar Nicholas in Moscow, also received a large portion. Even their army orderly, Vassili, on the colonel's left, ended up with a full cup. Any leftovers were ours to share.
"Now we play cards again,” roared the colonel.
"Not me,” replied Vassili. “I've lost all my pay. There is no more to be had. I'm going to sleep.” He found a corner on the floor next to the brick oven decorated with colorful tiles in the Cossack style. Covering himself with his army greatcoat, he settled in.
"Aleksei?” inquired the colonel.
The cadet snorted. “You've cleaned me out."
"I'll loan you rubles on credit until your allowance comes from your estates next month."
"Very well, your luck can't hold forever."
And the two of them sat down to play at cards again.
Aleksei suddenly paused in counting his pile of newly borrowed coins. “What about the Abreks?” he asked, glancing toward the small open window.
The colonel looked up from shuffling cards.
"Eroshka,” he commanded, “You, Garaska, and the Armenian keep watch during the night. We'll decide what to do about the Chechens at daybreak."
"Of course, your Honor,” said the old Cossack. He motioned to Garaska.
Garaska, musket in hand, strode over from the window. The three of us huddled together in whispers so as not to disturb the Russians and thus draw attention to ourselves. By now, it was full dark out on the steppes, except for a few pale streaks of light from the rising half moon as it fought its way through gaps in black drifting clouds. In the rear of the hut, the soldier's one hanging lantern gave off only a faint glow, barely enough to distinguish one card from another. Still, the light was sufficient to silhouette the head of any watcher at the window, if one were unwise enough to show much of himself as a target within that small wooden frame.
"Armenian,” said Daddy Eroshka as he opened my knapsack, “you take the first watch. It is the easiest of the night. I'll have the second watch, and Garaska can take over until dawn."
I nodded my agreement and went unarmed to the far side of the open window.
My two Cossack friends huddled in a corner on the other side of the door and made themselves comfortable. I heard the soft clink of glass on metal and knew they'd started in on the third bottle, the one Daddy Eroshka had pushed back into my knapsack in order to withhold some tribute from the Russians.
Time passed slowly at the window. Above the steppes, the half moon floated higher, casting dim silver light on swaying grass tops. Shadows moved with the grass. From a distance came sharp squeals of an unlucky rabbit caught by a quick four-footed predator; closer at hand sounded cries of night birds on the wing. Out there were the hunter and the hunted. To my mind, the inside of this rude hut seemed a very suitable place for me to spend the night, safe in the company of good friends and other armed men.
At the front corner of the hut, whispers drifted by from the two old Cossacks reliving their youthful days of past glory. Out of the hut's rear came muted exclamations of gloating intermingled with curses of displeasure and the clink of silver as coins changed hands. The two Russians played on into the hours. Eventually, the lantern burned out and the card players retired to makeshift beds; the cadet to a pile of cut grass on the dirt floor and the colonel to the warm, flat bench above the tiled oven along the side wall.
After a few hours, Daddy Eroshka relieved me at the window. With a yawn of thanks, I soon stretched myself out in front of the door and fell fast asleep. Considering the circumstances, my dreams were fairly untroubled.
I awoke to morning streaks of sunlight pouring onto my face through thin cracks in the wooden door, and an insistent Russian boot nudging my ribs.
"Get up, thief."
My eyes widened to see the muzzle of the orderly's rifle pointed directly between my eyes. I sat up, my back against the door, and my hands raised to shoulder level. To my left, Daddy Eroshka, the old whitebeard, sat with his giant scarred hands placed flat on top of his short-cropped head. He stared at the cadet, who covered him with a revolver. On my right, Garaska slumped peaceably against the wall beside the open window. The third bottle lay empty on the floor at Garaska's feet, and he snored as if he had no fear of Judgment Day. I now noticed his musket had been removed far from his reach.
"A fine lot we have here,” the colonel said in a soft voice. “Sleeping on duty."
"A shooting offense,” crowed Cadet Aleksei.
"Not yet,” replied the colonel. “First we see who stole my money while we slept. Search them."
Very carefully, Aleksei went through all of Daddy Eroshka's clothing, then searched the old Cossack's other meager belongings.
"Nothing on this thief,” he said, before stepping back and covering Eroshka again.
The colonel gestured at me.
Vassili handed his rifle to the colonel. At the orderly's urging, I stood and was searched from head to boot. Finding my purse tied to my belt, the orderly tossed the leather pouch to the colonel who quickly counted its Russian and Turkic coins.
"Not as much as I lost, but it will do for a beginning."
"Those are mine from many months of trading,” I exclaimed.
"So you say, Armenian, so you say. Tell me who the thief is and you may have these back."
"I know nothing of any thief. I stood my watch as you requested and then slept through the rest of the night."
"Too bad for you, Armenian."
"That leaves the old graybeard,” blurted the cadet. “He's the only one left."
After much prodding from a rifle barrel, Garaska was roused from his slumber. He rolled his eyes in my direction, but there was naught for me to say. The colonel commanded us to silence except to answer their questions.
"On your feet, thief,” taunted the orderly.
Garaska slowly pushed his way up and was searched.
"Bah,” exclaimed Vassili, “nothing on him either."
Cadet Aleksei drew a Circassian dagger from the sheath at his own waist.
"Give me an hour with each of them and they'll quickly tell us where your stolen money is hidden."
Being a merchant rather than a warrior, I had never dealt well with pain. Instead I had always relied much on the quickness of my brain to keep me from these troubling types of situations, even if my quickness rushed me to a hasty judgment or possibly made me appear foolish to others. Brain or pain? I knew my choice, and therefore addressed the colonel directly.
"I believe I can solve your problem."
The colonel fixed his eyes on me.
"See,” said the cadet, “now we come to it. They admit taking your money while we slept."
The colonel motioned for me to speak further.
"You three gentlemen in service to Nicholas, tsar of all the Russias, consider yourselves to be men of honor, is this not so?"
The colonel barely nodded.
"And these two Cossacks, along with myself, also consider ourselves to be honorable men, in our own way."
"Armenian, where are you going with this?” muttered Eroshka.
"Therefore,” I continued before any of the Russians could interrupt, “we can agree on one common ground. Everyone here is honest, except for the thief among us."
"Except for the thief,” echoed the colonel.
"It is good we agree,” I replied, “because this truth-finding method I now propose works only with men of honor such as yourselves."
Garaska stared at me with wide-open eyes.
Daddy Eroshka crossed his arms over his chest, resigned to whatever the fates held.
Vassili looked to the colonel.
"It's a trick,” muttered Cadet Aleksei.
The colonel kept his gaze fixed on me, waiting.
"In the Turkic lands to the south,” I said, “at the sultan's court, I learned a way that works with all honest men, regardless of their religion. Merely lend me a knife to make two little cuts—” I held up the first two fingers on
my left hand to emphasize such a small number. “—and I'll quickly demonstrate how it works."
In the ensuing silence, I mentally counted from one to forty-six before the colonel made up his mind to speak. I could tell he was curious, but then he also had the upper hand and had nothing to lose if my little amusement soon fell short.
"Vassili, give him that small knife you use to clean the horses’ hooves."
"The Armenian is one of them,” protested Aleksei, “we can't give them a weapon to use against us."
"In the coming Summer Campaign against the Chechens,” replied the colonel in a dry voice, “we face sabers and musket balls on the field of battle. Right now you have a firearm in your hand, and you're telling me you are afraid of someone holding a blade no longer than your little finger? How will your family explain this fear of yours to the tsar's court in Moscow?"
Cadet Aleksei tightened his jaw and said nothing more.
The colonel inclined his head in my direction. Vassili reached into the pocket of his army greatcoat and tossed me a small knife.
I motioned the cadet to take a few steps backward before I bent over to pick up several stalks of dried grass from the floor near Daddy Eroshka's boots, grass stalks had clung to the cadet's coat from his bed on the floor and had only recently been dislodged during his search of the old Cossack. Selecting six long pieces of this grass, I placed them against the wooden door frame and cut the stalks evenly across the bottom. Then interposing my body between the door frame and everyone else's sight, I reversed the grass stalks and made another cut. Turning around, I tossed the short knife to the earth at the orderly's feet.
"This finding of truth is simplistic in its approach.” I spoke in a serious tone and made sure to look each of the other five directly in the eyes. “Whoever draws the longest straw is the thief, and I will prove it to your satisfaction."
AHMM, March 2008 Page 8
