“Vasilisa Egorovna!” said the commandant. “Women have no business here. Take Masha away. Look: the girl’s more dead than alive.”
Vasilisa Egorovna, grown quiet under the bullets, glanced at the steppe, on which great movement could be seen; then she turned to her husband and said to him:
“Ivan Kuzmich, life and death are as God wills: bless Masha. Masha, go to your father.”
Masha, pale and trembling, went to Ivan Kuzmich, knelt, and bowed to the ground before him. The old commandant crossed her three times; then he raised her up, kissed her, and said in an altered voice:
“Well, Masha, be happy. Pray to God: he won’t abandon you. If a good man comes along, God grant you love and harmony. Live as Vasilisa Egorovna and I have lived. So, farewell, Masha. Vasilisa Egorovna, take her away quickly.”
Masha threw herself on his neck and burst into sobs.
“Let’s us, too, kiss each other,” the commandant’s wife said, weeping. “Farewell, my Ivan Kuzmich. Forgive me if I’ve vexed you in any way!”
“Farewell, farewell, my dearest!” said the commandant, embracing his old woman. “Enough, now! Go, go home; and if you have time, put Masha in a peasant dress.”
The commandant’s wife and daughter went away. I followed Marya Ivanovna with my eyes; she looked back and nodded to me. Then Ivan Kuzmich turned to us, and fixed all his attention on the enemy. The rebels were gathering around their leader and suddenly began to dismount.
“Stand firm now,” said the commandant. “There’ll be an assault…”
Just then a terrible shrieking and shouting rang out; the rebels were rushing towards the fortress. Our cannon was loaded with grapeshot. The commandant let them get as close as possible and suddenly fired again. The grapeshot struck right in the middle of their crowd. The rebels shied away on either side and fell back. Their leader was left alone out in front…He brandished his sword and seemed to be heatedly exhorting them…The shouting and shrieking, which had ceased for a moment, revived again at once.
“Now, lads,” said the commandant, “open the gates, beat the drum. Forward, lads! Into the attack, follow me!”
The commandant, Ivan Ignatyich, and I instantly found ourselves outside the rampart; but the frightened soldiers did not budge.
“Why are you standing there, children?” Ivan Kuzmich shouted. “If we die, we die: it comes with the job!”
Just then the rebels overran us and burst into the fortress. The drumbeat stopped; the garrison dropped their guns; I was knocked off my feet, but I got up and entered the fortress along with the rebels. The commandant, wounded in the head, stood in a little knot of the villains, who were demanding the keys from him. I was just rushing to his aid when several stalwart Cossacks seized me and bound me with belts, repeating all the while: “Ah, you’re going to get it for disobeying the sovereign!” They dragged us down the street; people were coming out of the houses with bread and salt.24 Church bells rang. Suddenly someone in the crowd shouted that the sovereign was in the square, waiting for the prisoners and receiving oaths of allegiance. People thronged towards the square; we, too, were driven there.
Pugachev was sitting in an armchair on the porch of the commandant’s house. He was wearing a red Cossack kaftan trimmed with galloons. A tall sable hat with gold tassels was pulled down to his flashing eyes. His face seemed familiar to me. Cossack chiefs surrounded him. Father Gerasim, pale and trembling, stood by the porch with a cross in his hands and seemed to be silently pleading with him for the soon-to-be victims. A gallows was being hastily set up on the square. When we came closer, the Bashkirs drove the people aside, and we were introduced to Pugachev. The bells stopped ringing; a deep silence ensued.
“Which is the commandant?” asked the impostor. Our sergeant stepped out of the crowd and pointed to Ivan Kuzmich. Pugachev looked menacingly at the old man and said to him:
“How dared you oppose me, your sovereign?”
The commandant, growing faint from his wound, gathered his last strength and replied in a firm voice:
“You are not my sovereign, you are a thief and an impostor, see here!”
Pugachev frowned darkly and waved a white handkerchief. Several Cossacks picked up the old captain and dragged him to the gallows. The mutilated Bashkir whom we had questioned the day before turned up sitting astride the crossbar. He held a rope in his hand, and a moment later I saw poor Ivan Kuzmich hoisted into the air. Then Ivan Ignatyich was brought before Pugachev.
“Swear allegiance,” Pugachev said to him, “to the sovereign Pyotr Feodorovich!”25
“You’re not our sovereign,” Ivan Ignatyich answered, repeating his captain’s words. “You, uncle, are a thief and an impostor!”
Pugachev waved his handkerchief again, and the good lieutenant hung beside his old superior.
