Then it became a real military
fraternisation. Officers inside, soldiers out. No civilian was allowed
to approach within three versts, except the old Kirghis chief who,
dressed in his picturesque native dress, had travelled over fifty versts
to attend the function of making an English Ataman. The band of the
Cossack regiment tried valiantly to enliven the proceedings with music,
but the English marching choruses soon silenced all opposition. Then the
Cossack commander called his men around, and giving time with his
cowhide thong, led them through some of the most weird Cossack war songs
it is possible to imagine. The difference in our mentality was never so
well illustrated as in the songs of the two people. Ours were lively,
happy, and full of frolic and fun; theirs were slow, sad wails, which
can only come from the heart of a long troubled people. The songs of
Ermak Tinothavitch, the conqueror of Siberia, were fierce and martial,
but the strain of tragedy ran through them all.
Then the Cossacks placed their commander upon two swords and tossed him
while singing the song of Stenkarazin, the robber chief, and at the end
drew their swords and demanded toll, which took the form of five bottles
extra. I was then admitted to the fraternity and presented with the
Ataman's badge, and after due ceremony with a Cossack sword, by the
regiment, admitted to their circle.
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