Fiction; Short stories, Russian -- Translations into English
Just above our heads the sentinel walked to and fro, whistling through
his teeth a tune. Whenever he approached I stopped my work, though,
as a matter of fact, this was a useless precaution; he could not even
have suspected that a person would sit up to his neck in the water,
at a spot where the backwash of a wave might at any moment carry him
off his feet. Besides, the chains never ceased clanking, as the wind
swung them backward and forward.
Shakro was already lying full length along the bottom of
the boat, muttering something, which the noise of the waves
prevented me from hearing. At last the ring was in my hand.
At the same moment a wave caught our boat, and dashed it
suddenly some ten yards away from the side of the quay.
I bad to swim for a few seconds by the side of the boat,
holding the chain in my hand. At last I managed to scramble in.
We tore up two boards from the bottom, and using these as oars,
I paddled away as fast as I could.
Clouds sailed rapidly over our heads; around, and underneath the boat,
waves splashed furiously. Shakro sat aft. Every now and then I
lost sight of him as the whole stern of the boat slipped into some
deep watery gulf; the next moment he would rise high above my head,
shouting desperately, and almost falling forward into my arms. I told
him not to shout, but to fasten his feet to the seat of the boat, as I
had already fastened mine. I feared his shouts might give the alarm.
He obeyed, and grew so silent that I only knew he was in the boat
by the white spot opposite to me, which I knew must be his face.
The whole time he held the rudder in his hand; we could not change places,
we dared not move.
From time to time I called out instructions as to the handling
of the boat, and he understood me so quickly, and did everything
so cleverly, that one might have thought he had been born a sailor.
The boards I was using in the place of oars were of little use;
they only blistered my hands. The furious gusts of wind served
to carry the boat forward.
I cared little for the direction, my only thought was to get
the boat across to the other side. It was not difficult to steer,
for the lights in Kertch were still visible, and served as a beacon.
The waves splashed over our boat with angry hissings. The farther
across we got, the more furious and the wilder became the waves.
Already we could hear a sort of roar that held mind and soul
as with a spell. Faster and faster our boat flew on before
the wind, till it became almost impossible to steer a course.
Every now and then we would sink into a gulf, and the next moment
we would rise high on the summit of some enormous watery hill.
The darkness was increasing, the clouds were sinking lower and lower.
The lights of the town had disappeared.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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