When his comrades approached him he was lying prone, holding his wounded stomach with both hands, and rocking himself with a rhythmic motion, moaned softly. He belonged to Poltorátsky’s company, and Poltorátsky, seeing a group of soldiers collected, rode up to them.
“What is it, lad? Been hit?” said Poltorátsky. “Where?”
Avdéev did not answer.
“I was just going to load, your honor, when I heard a click,” said a soldier who had been with Avdéev; “and I look, and see he’s dropped his gun.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” Poltorátsky clicked his tongue. “Does it hurt much, Avdéev?”
“It doesn’t hurt, but it stops me walking. A drop of vodka now, your honor!”
Some vodka (or rather the spirit drunk by the soldiers in the Caucasus) was found, and Panóv, severely frowning, brought Avdéev a can-lid full. Avdéev tried to drink it, but immediately handed back the lid.
“My soul turns against it,” he said. “Drink it yourself.”
Panóv drank up the spirit.
Avdéev raised himself, but sank back at once. They spread out a cloak and laid him on it.
“Your honor, the colonel is coming,” said the Sergeant-Major to Poltorátsky.
“All right. Then will you see to him?” said Poltorátsky; and flourishing his whip, he rode at a fast trot to meet Vorontsóv.
Vorontsóv was riding his thoroughbred English chestnut gelding, and was accompanied by the adjutant, a Cossack, and a Chechen interpreter.
“What’s happening here?” asked Vorontsóv.
“Why, a skirmishing party attacked our advanced line,” Poltorátsky answered.
“Come, come—you arranged the whole thing yourself!”
“Oh no, Prince, not I,” said Poltorátsky with a smile; “they pushed forward of their own accord.”
“I hear a soldier has been wounded?”
“Yes, it’s a great pity. He’s a good soldier.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously, I believe … in the stomach.”
“And do you know where I am going?” Vorontsóv asked.
“I don’t.”
“Can’t you guess?”
“No.”
“Hadji Murád has surrendered, and we are now going to meet him.”
“You don’t mean to say so?”
“His envoy came to me yesterday,” said Vorontsóv, with difficulty repressing a smile of pleasure. “He will be waiting for me at the Shalín glade in a few minutes. Place sharpshooters as far as the glade, and then come and join me.”
“I understand,” said Poltorátsky, lifting his hand to his cap, and rode back to his company. He led the sharpshooters to the right himself, and ordered the sergeant-major to do the same on the left side.
The wounded Avdéev had meanwhile been taken back to the fort by some of the soldiers.
On his way back to rejoin Vorontsóv, Poltorátsky noticed behind him several horsemen who were overtaking him. In front on a white-maned horse rode a man of imposing appearance. He wore a turban, and carried weapons with gold ornaments. This man was Hadji Murád. He approached Poltorátsky and said something to him in Tartar. Raising his eyebrows, Poltorátsky made a gesture with his arms to show that he did not understand, and smiled. Hadji Murád gave him smile for smile, and that smile struck Poltorátsky by its childlike kindliness. Poltorátsky had never expected to see the terrible mountain chief look like that. He had expected to see a morose, hard-featured man; and here was a vivacious person, whose smile was so kindly that Poltorátsky felt as if he were an old acquaintance. He had only one peculiarity: his eyes, set wide apart, which gazed from under their black brows calmly, attentively, and penetratingly into the eyes of others.
Hadji Murád’s suite consisted of five men. Among them was Khan Mahomá, who had been to see Prince Vorontsóv that night. He was a rosy, round-faced fellow, with black lashless eyes and a beaming expression, full of the joy of life. Then there was the Avar Khanéfi, a thick-set, hairy man, whose eyebrows met. He was in charge of all Hadji Murád’s property, and led a stud-bred horse which carried tightly-packed saddlebags. Two men of the suite were particularly striking. The first was a Lesghian: a youth, broad-shouldered, but with a waist as slim as a woman’s, a brown beard just appearing on his face, and beautiful ram-like eyes. This was Eldár. The other, Gamzálo, was a Chechen, blind in one eye, without eyebrows or eyelashes, with a short red beard, and a scar across his nose and face. Poltorátsky pointed out to Hadji Murád, Vorontsóv, who had just appeared on the road. Hadji Murád rode to meet him, and, putting his right hand on his heart, said something in Tartar, and stopped. The Chechen interpreter translated.
“He says, ‘I surrender myself to the will of the Russian Tsar. I wish to serve him,’ he says. ‘I wished to so do long ago but Shamil would not let me.’ ”
Having heard what the interpreter said, Vorontsóv stretched out his hand in its wash-leather glove to Hadji Murád. Hadji Murád looked at it hesitatingly for a moment and then pressed it firmly, again saying something, and looking first at the interpreter and then at Vorontsóv.
“He says he did not wish to surrender to anyone but you, as you are the son of the Sirdar, and he respects you much.”
Vorontsóv nodded to express his thanks. Hadji Murád again said something, pointing to his suite.
“He says that these men, his henchmen, will serve the Russians as well as he.”
Vorontsóv turned towards them and nodded to them too. The merry, black-eyed, lashless Chechen, Khan Mahomá, also nodded, and said something which was probably amusing, for the hairy Avar drew his lips into a smile, showing his ivory-white teeth. But the red-haired Gamzálo’s one red eye just glanced at Vorontsóv and then was again fixed on the ears of his horse.
When Vorontsóv and Hadji Murád with their retinues rode back to the fort, the soldiers, released from the lines, gathered in groups and made their own comments.
“What a number of souls the damned fellow has destroyed! And now see what a fuss they will make of him!”
“Naturally. He was Shamil’s right hand, and now—no fear!”
“Still there’s no
