They shot at targets with great accuracy, and swam the Dnieper against the current, a feat for which novices were festively inducted into Cossack ranks.

But old Taras was preparing something different for them. This life of idleness went against his grain. He kept wondering how he might rouse the Sech to some valiant enterprise, where the Cossacks could then carouse as befits knights. Finally one day he went over to the Ataman.

“Isn’t it time these Zaporozhians had some fun?” he asked him gruffly.

“There’s no fun to be had,” the Ataman answered, pulling out of his mouth the pipe he was smoking, and spitting to the side.

“What do you mean, no fun to be had? We could go after the Turk or the Tatar.”

“We can’t go after the Turk or the Tatar.”

“What do you mean we can’t go after them?”

“We promised the Sultan peace.”

“But he’s a heathen, and God and Holy Writ demand that we kill heathens!”

“We don’t have the right. It was by our faith that we swore peace; otherwise we could have gone after them. But as things stand, we can’t.”

“What do you mean we can’t? Why are you saying we don’t have the right? I have two sons here, both of them young men! Not once has either of them seen battle, and you’re telling me we don’t have the right, and that the Zaporozhians need not go to war?”

“They must not go to war.”

“Then Cossack strength will be wasted! The men will go to the dogs without a good cause to fight for, and our Cossacks will be of use neither to our fatherland nor to the Christian world! Then tell me what we are living for! You are a clever man, we didn’t elect you Ataman for nothing, so can you tell me what we are living for?”

The Ataman did not respond to this question. He was a stubborn Cossack. He remained silent for a while and then said, “Be that as it may, there will be no war.”

“There will be no war?” Taras asked once more.

“No, there won’t.”

“You are saying there is not the slightest chance?”

“No, there’s not the slightest chance.”

“Just you wait, you devil!” Bulba thought. “You haven’t heard the last of this!” And he swore then and there that he would seek revenge on the Ataman.

Taras spoke to some of the men and threw a feast for them; the drunken Cossacks, few in number, went rushing straight to the square where the drums were beaten to call together an assembly. Not finding the drumstick, which was always kept by the drummer, the Cossacks grabbed bits of wood and began beating the drums. The first man to come running was the drummer, a tall man with only one eye, which was nevertheless very heavy with sleep.

“Who dared do this?” he shouted.

“Hold your tongue and pound the drum! That’s an order!” the carousing men shouted back.

The drummer took out the drumsticks he had brought, because he well knew the outcome of such matters. The drums thundered, and soon black clusters of Cossacks began gathering on the square like bees. They formed a circle, and after the third drumroll the council of commanders appeared: the Ataman with his staff in his hand—a sign of his dignity—the judge carrying the war crest, the scribe with his inkpot, and the captain with his baton. The Ataman and the council commanders took off their hats and bowed in all directions to the Cossacks, who stood glaring at them haughtily, their arms on their hips.

“What is the meaning of this gathering? What is it you want?” the Ataman asked.

His voice was drowned out by shouts and curses.

“Lay down your staff!” shouted Cossacks from the crowd. “Lay it down, you devil! Lay it down immediately! We don’t want you anymore!”

Some of the sober companies seemed to want to resist, and soon different groups, drunk and sober, flew at each other with their fists. The noise and shouting spread through the crowd.

The Ataman wanted to speak but, sensing that the heated, self-willed crowd would beat him to death, which almost always happened on similar occasions, he bent his head down low, put on his hat, and hid in the crowd.

“Brothers, are you also ordering us to lay down our regalia?” shouted the judge, the scribe, and the captain, ready to relinquish the crest, the inkpot, and the baton.

“Stay where you are!” the crowd shouted. “We only want to get rid of the Ataman, because he is an old woman! What we need is a real Ataman!”

“Who will you elect as Ataman?” the commanders asked.

“Kukubenko!” some of the Cossacks shouted.

“No, we don’t want Kukubenko!” others yelled. “He’s not up to it, he’s still got his mother’s milk on his lips!”

“We want Shilo!” others shouted. “Make Shilo the Ataman!”

“To hell with Shilo!” others shouted back. “What kind of Cossack is he? We caught him stealing like a low Tatar, the son of a bitch! He should be put in a sack and drowned, the drunken bastard!”

“Borodaty! We want Borodaty!”

“No we don’t! To hell with the bastard!”

“Call out Kirdyaga’s name,” Taras Bulba whispered to some of the men.

“Kirdyaga! Kirdyaga!” the crowd began to shout.

“Borodaty! Borodaty!”

“Kirdyaga! Kirdyaga!”

“Shilo!”

“Damn Shilo! We want Kirdyaga!”

On hearing their names shouted, the candidates quickly left the crowd so that no one would think they were trying to further their own cause.

Kirdyaga’s name was shouted louder than all the rest.

“Borodaty!”

Different factions furthered their candidates’ names with their fists, and Kirdyaga triumphed.

“Go get Kirdyaga!” the Zaporozhians shouted.

A dozen or so Cossacks staggered out of the crowd, some so drunk they were barely able to stand, and went looking for Kirdyaga to tell him he had been chosen Ataman.

Kirdyaga, a clever Cossack advanced in years, was sitting in his hut as if unaware of what had occurred.

“Yes, brothers? What do you want?” he asked.

“Come with us! You have been elected Ataman!”

“Upon my soul! I do not deserve such an honor!” Kirdyaga exclaimed. “How can I be the Ataman, I’m not wise enough to undertake such an office. In all the army, couldn’t you have found someone better?”

“You are to come with us!” the Zaporozhians shouted. Two of them grabbed him by the arms, and though he dug in his heels he was dragged to the square with swearing, blows, kicks, and admonishments. “Stop dragging your feet, you devil! You should accept the honor we gave you, you dog!”

Kirdyaga was brought before the Cossack assembly.

“Well, brothers,” the Cossacks accompanying him called out, “is everyone agreed that this man is to be our Ataman?”

“We agree!” the crowd shouted, and the whole square thundered with their yells.

One of the council commanders took the staff and brought it to the newly elected Ataman. Kirdyaga declined the staff, as custom dictated. The elder held it out to him a second time. Kirdyaga refused it again, but then the third time accepted it. Shouts of approval resounded through the crowd, and once more the whole field rumbled with the Cossacks’ voices. Four of the oldest gray-bearded and gray-forelocked Cossacks stepped out of the crowd (there were no very old men at the Sech, as Zaporozhians never died of old age); each picked up a clump of earth muddied by a downpour earlier in the day and placed it on Kirdyaga’s head. The wet earth trickled over his mustache and cheeks, smudging his whole face.