People fought their own flesh and blood—brother against brother, father against son, neighbour against neighbour—and therefore they fought ferociously, ruthlessly.
Whenever they scored a victory over the Reds, the kulaks armed themselves with rifles and machine guns, but did not discard their scythes.
This great peasant war, fought in the steppes round Samara, where the memory of Pugachev's campaigns was still green, left no annals or military archives, but a father and son might be overheard on some religious holiday discussing the battles of yore over a bucket of vodka, taunting one another with strategic mistakes.
"Remember that time at Koldiban, when you turned the big gun on us, Yasha?
That must be my Yasha, that son-of-a-bitch, Yasha,' I thought.... 'Should have licked the cub oftener....' Well, we managed to frighten you off that time.... You were lucky not to fall into my hands then...."
"Go on, brag away!
It was we who won!"
"Just you wait—we'll be fighting on opposite sides again!"
"That we will.... You always were a kulak, and you'll stick to your bloody kulak opinions."
"Your health, son!"
"Your health, Father!"
The steamer crossed over to the left bank.
The gangway was dropped, and Zakharkin, the commander of the Pugachevsk detachment, a man with a nose hooked like the beak of a vulture, came on board.
He was so strong and muscular that the planks creaked beneath his feet.
His faded tunic was splitting at the armpits, and a curved sabre banged against his high riding boots.
His older brothers, peasants from the Utev District, each had a division under his command.
After him came six guerrillas —his commanders—clad in picturesque and unusual attire: faded shirts, covered with dust and tar, unbuttoned collars, some in felt boots, with spurs fixed to them, some in bast shoes, cartridge belts slung across their shoulders, hand grenades thrust into their belts, flat German bayonets, sawed-off rifles.
Zakharkin and Khvedin met on the captain's bridge, with a handshake of mutual heartiness.
Cigarettes were handed round.
Khvedin gave a brief summary of the military situation.
Zakharkin said:
"I know who's stirring up trouble in Khvalinsk—it's Kukushkin, the chairman of the Zemstvo.... I wish I could take that swine alive...."
"About that gun," said Khvedin. "Is it in working order?"
"It fires all right, but you have to set it each time —there's no sight, you have to aim through the barrel.
But the damned thing can hit! E belfry or a pump house comes down every time!"
"Good!
And what's your opinion as to a landing and flanking movement, Comrade Zakharkin?"
"We'll throw the cavalry across to the other side.
Can your steamboat take a hundred men?"
"Easily—in two crossings."
"Then that's all right.
When it begins to get dark we'll make a cavalry landing above the town.
We'll mount the gun on the steamer.
And at dawn we'll attack."
Khvedin entrusted Ivan Ilyich with the command of the landing of the infantry, who were to make a frontal attack on the landing stage.
In the twilight the steamer moved cautiously, with no lights showing, up the side reach of the Volga, along the island.
The only sound in, the stillness was the voice of the sailor taking soundings in the river.
The Pugachevsk men followed the steamer along the riverbank.
Rifles were issued to the Khvalinsk men, who lay down on the sand.
Telegin walked backwards and forwards at the water's edge, seeing that no one smoked or showed a light.
The river lapped over the sand with scarcely a murmur.
There was a smell of swamp blossoms, and a humming of gnats.
The men on the sand kept very quiet.
The night became ever blacker, ever more velvety, more starry.
The dry smell of wormwood and the warbling "spat-porra, spat-porra" of a quail were wafted over the river from the steppe. Ivan Ilyich walked up and down at the water's edge, fighting off sleep.
Just when the shades of night were beginning to disperse, the sky to lose its velvety blackness, and cocks to crow in the distance, there came the sound of paddles splashing through the faint mist rising from the water.
The steamer was approaching.
Ivan Ilyich examined the drum of his revolver, tightened his leather trouser-belt, and went up and down the lines of sleepers, tapping them on their legs with a cane.
"Wake up, Comrades!"
They sprang wildly to their feet, shivering, still half asleep, and not quite understanding what was before them.... Many went to the river to drink, dipping their heads in the water.