A Vagabond in the Caucasus by Stephen Graham

Author:Stephen Graham [Graham, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780710311450
Google: t_x2swEACAAJ
Goodreads: 145149
Publisher: Routledge
Published: 1911-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XVI

AT A MILL ON THE TEREK

THE yard cocks are at feud. There has been some harem trouble and so this is a day of war. Since first crow they have been tumbling over one another, shedding the red gore and eyeing one another terribly. Now, at four of the afternoon, they both show signs of strife. Their grand plumage is dirty, their combs soiled and ugly, their necks gory, their eyes bloodshot and terrible. Their wives, however, seem placid—almost indifferent. Unhappy is the lot of rival Sultans!

There are intervals between the battles, intervals of rest and crowing. Poor Abdul Hamid sits below me and groans with pain, whines almost like a dog. But in a minute “time’s up,” he goes out and challenges and again is bloodily overcome. Their claws are bloody, for they strike at one another with their feet. They jump at one another, balancing themselves and flapping their wings and try to roll each other in the dust. Truly it is no wonder there is cock-fighting in Russia when the birds behave like this when left to themselves. And it is a most interesting spectacle albeit not Christian.

KAZBEK MOUNTAIN, FROM THE NORTH-WEST

Whilst they are eyeing one another terribly and furtively, and it looks doubtful whether Abdul will continue the battle or will abdicate, Alimka, the yard urchin, steals up behind the victor and suddenly pulls one of his tail feathers. Consternation! But in a moment they are back again, beak to beak, and the ruby blood is flowing. A black hen is now in attendance, and risks having her eyes peeked out in her greedy endeavours to drink up the blood that is dropping on the ground.

This is happening in the yard of a mill where I am staying. I came here yesterday in a cart from the mountains, and I have given up the quest of a cottage for this summer. I have taken two rooms here, and although they are unfurnished they will suit my purposes. It is on the banks of the Terek, and presently I shall have to go to the river to fetch water for tea.

I had been wandering some days among the Georgian villages near Kobi, when one morning I came into the Georgian Road again and there met a Russian driving a three-horse cart. He seemed badly in want of company, so I consented to get in with him. We had the following conversation.

“How do you pray?” asked he.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“Are you orthodox?”

“I am not Russian,” I replied, “and I don’t belong to the Russian church.”

“What then? You are Esthonian, eh? Or a Tsech?”

“No, English.”

“English! Impossible! You have a moustache, no Englishman has a moustache.”

“I am English all the same.”

“Then you are a Protestant. I’m a Baptist.”

“Then we are brothers,” I replied.

“But how do you pray? Do you cross yourself? We pray so.” He showed me how he prayed, folded his hands on his stomach, and shut his eyes.

“I understand,” I replied. “We pray like that, but we kneel also, and some of our Protestants cross themselves also.

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