Alexandra Lapierre - Between Love and Honor

It was they, the blind of Untsukul, who brought the three women left at the bottom of the pit to their attention.

Jamal Eddin instantly recognized the figure they dragged up from the pit. His grandmother. He lunged toward the opening of his hideout in an instinctive desire to go to her. His gesture caught the attention of Bahou-Messadou, who spied his refuge with an eagle eye and shot her grandson a piercing look. She was fully aware of the location of his favorite hiding place, having pulled him out of it by his ear more than once. He was on the brink of leaping out, but her look suddenly stopped him. The order was clear, her expression dark: better to kill yourself than be captured! He understood and drew back. He saw them haul his aunt out. As always, Patimat screeched, keeping the giaours from approaching her or touching her, shouting insults at the men of the indigenous militia, spitting in the faces of the pacified. He saw his mother bent over Mohammed Ghazi as she held him in her arms, trying to protect him. They were thrown at the feet of the lieutenant and his soldiers who were bringing up the rear.

They didn’t even have a chance to appreciate the value of the captives just delivered to them.

A new salvo of gunfire mowed down all the men standing on the plateau. This time, it was the Russians who would not rise again.

Hundreds of horsemen sprang from the boulders, shouting the name of Allah in an immense roar. They thundered down from the ledges, clambered up from the ravine, appearing out of nowhere and firing into the crowd. Bahou-Messadou, fascinated, paid no attention to the men around her, dropping like marionettes with their strings cut. Her eyes were everywhere, seeking Shamil.

Her daughter grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her into the shelter of the ruins by the watchtowers. Fatima followed them at a run, her child clutched to her. Jamal Eddin saw their veils disappear among the boulders. Already his attention was elsewhere.

The horsemen ran straight across the rock planes, ignoring the trails, jumping over crevasses and precipices. The horses; the child stared at their horses.

Barrel-breasted, with hooves grinding rock and pebble and sparks shooting from their iron shoes, the horses’ beauty and power was stunning. Their manes were long, their tails silken, their coats lustrous, their nostrils on fire.

He felt their warm, damp breath above him and inhaled the mingled odors of sweat, dust, and leather as they passed over his hiding place. Their round flanks were covered with froth.

Charging with sabers drawn and pistols raised, the horsemen swept through the crowd, shattering the rifles the soldiers hastened to load, slicing the officers from crown to saddle with a vertical blow. In a single charge they reached the towers, then turned around to take the Russians from the rear. Standing in their stirrups or crouched over their horses’ necks, the men were seized by a hatred so fierce that it not only inspired their combat but was somehow akin to joy.

Their love of arms was entwined with a passion for these equestrian games as they rivaled each other in skill, speed, and ardor.

To Jamal Eddin, nothing distinguished this cavalcade from others he had witnessed, for man and beast had trained together on this ridge for generations. They knew all the traps, every rock and hole. They knew how to leap into their saddles and take off at a full gallop, how to cross the walls of the enclosure and the watchtower in one jump, how to hang down from the saddle, head at the belly of one’s mount, jump a precipice, get back in the saddle on the other side, and leap over the torrent once again. Jamal Eddin had grown up with one dream: to one day become such an amazing horseman, capable of the impossible, in unendurable climates and for unlimited distances. To become a djighit .

What could this cumbersome army of invaders do, stuck between the gorges of the Avar Koysu and the peaks of the Eperlee? How could they possibly fend off these hordes of centaurs?

Lithe, fervent, and quick, the natives could withstand the rigor of long marches and the intensity of attacks. Unlike the cumbersome convoys of Russian columns, they traveled light, without stocks of food, tents, samovars, or cannons. Even on long journeys across vast distances, they carried no supplies. Extremely frugal, they ate just what they needed to keep them going—a drink of water, a few greens, a little cheese. Raid after raid, they had a single purpose: to kill the most enemies, steal the most livestock, kidnap the most hostages. The terrain, the time, and the season were all immaterial. One rule and one only governed their choices: surprise the adversary.

They were never where the enemy expected them to be. When the Russians thought they were at Ashilta, they were at Kunzakh. When they thought they were at Kunzakh, they were at Ghimri. Speed, endurance, and ruse were the backbone of their skill. Their attacks were as brief as they were unpredictable, never lasting more than two or three hours. An electrifying charge. A sudden retreat. They disappeared as one body, leaving all in their wake breathless and terrified.

This was the state of General Lanskoy’s troops at the moment. Of the seven hundred troops that had accompanied him from the fort at Temir-Khan-Chura, two-thirds lay decapitated, their right hands already cut off. The few survivors, under the command of a wounded, inexperienced leader untutored in the technique of raids, scattered far and wide. The Chechen horsemen made a game of chasing them, letting their unbearable terror build before their kinjals sliced through the air, decapitating them midflight.

This time, the butchery was endless. The assailants did not retreat. After all, they were home. The Russians had no choice but to escape by clambering up the mountain to the ridge path, leaving the treasure, their cannons, and all their supplies below. To flee at all costs. They had not counted on the relentlessness of the most furious of the Montagnards, the one who struck with his left hand.

He had heard the echo of the fusillade earlier and wondered who was firing at Ghimri. He felt a pang of anguish as he recognized the sound of Russian rifles. Now that he was here, he would decimate these swine, down to the very last one.

With his pale gray eyes, translucent skin, and copper-colored beard, the horseman looked like a man of the North. This was no longer a young djighit eager to race but a wild animal of thirty-five, in full possession of all his faculties and talents. Taller than the other horsemen, more lithe and more powerful, he wore the same long, black coat cinched at the waist, the same purple boots that hugged calf and ankle. And on his head he wore the black sheepskin hat, draped with an immaculate, pleated turban, a panel of which trailed down his back and blew in the wind.

All were stunned by his elegance, his nobility, and his ferocity. Jamal Eddin had picked him out from afar. He loomed all the larger as he was riding a small horse the boy did not recognize, swift, rapid, and gray like his father’s eyes.

This time Bahou and Fatima wouldn’t stop him. Bounding forth from his hole, the little boy ran across the battlefield as fast as his legs would carry him. Barefoot beneath his long, rust-colored shirt, he zigzagged like a fox between the cadavers and the horsemen, running toward the one he called, deep down inside, by the same legendary name as the others: Shamil.

The horseman had seen him. Leaving the victim at hand to the vengeance of another, he turned and galloped toward the child. Without reining in his horse, he bent over to grab him, holding him tight as he placed him before him.

No one else would have dared to do such a thing. No one.

In a world where demonstrations of affection were a sign of weakness, a man’s kindness toward his progeny was considered undignified. Simply taking a baby in one’s arms to play with him was interpreted as a lack of virility, a dishonor only women could permit themselves to commit. In such a harsh world, Shamil’s patience with little ones and his love for children and cats remained a great mystery to those who were faithful to him.