ck, and give time to the rest to escape by the river.
Without order, but with wild cries and shouts, they dashed forward
to meet the Kazaks; but not a single gun was taken from its belt,
not a single shashka glimmered in the air: a Tcherkess waits till
the last moment before he seizes his weapons. And thus, having
galloped to the distance of twenty paces, they levelled their
guns, fired at full speed, threw their fire-arms over their backs,
[24] and drew their shashkas; but the Kazaks of the Line having
replied with a volley, began to fly, and the mountaineers, heated by
the chase, fell into a stratagem which they often employ themselves.
The Kazaks had led them up to the chasseurs of the brave forty-third
regiment, who were concealed at the edge of the forest. Suddenly, as
if the little squares had started out of the earth, the bayonets
were leveled, and the fire poured on them, taking them in flank. It
was in vain that the mountaineers, dismounting from their horses,
essayed to occupy the underwood, and attack the Russians from the
rear; the artillery came up, and decided the affair. The experienced
Colonel Kortsareff, the dread of the Tchetchenetz, the man whose
bravery they feared, and whose honesty and disinterestedness they
respected, directed the movements of the troops, and success could
not be doubtful. The cannon dispersed the crowds of brigands, and
their grape flew after the flying. The defeat was terrible; two
guns, dashing at a gallop to the promontory, not far from which the
Tcherkess were throwing themselves into the river, enfiladed the stream;
with a rushing sound, the shot flew over the foaming waves, and at
each fire some of the horses might be seen to turn over with their
feet in the air, drowning their riders. It was sad to see how the
wounded clutched at the tails and bridles of the horses of their
companions, sinking them without saving themselves--how the
exhausted struggled against the scarped bank, endeavouring to
clamber up, fell back, and were borne away and engulfed by the
furious current. The corpses of the slain were whirled away, mingled
with the dying and streaks of blood curled and writhed like serpents
on the foam. The smoke floated far along the Terek, far in the
distance, and the snowy peaks of Caucasus, crowned with mist,
bounded the field of battle. Djemboulat and Ammalat Bek fought
desperately--twenty times did they rush to the attack, twenty times
were they repulsed; wearied, bu