by Holub, Josef
I consider: If the surgeon can stitch up and snip off arms and legs, then he probably can take care of the young lieutenant’s illness as well. I’m sure he has made a thorough study of people’s insides and will know how to quell a mutinous belly.
I ride up to the head of the regiment without too much ceremony, and against all protocol ask the colonel’s adjutant for help for my lieutenant. After all, it’s a life-or-death situation. The adjutant listens to me and summons the regimental surgeon. Who is an elderly, plodding gentleman, but pretty well preserved and healthy looking. I expect he gets given enough to eat. He comes back with me and looks at the lieutenant for a little while. “A count, is he?” he asks. No other questions. That’s all he does. Other than making a face. I start to get a tickling feeling in my head. The man just makes a face and then spouts all sorts of silly nonsense. It is impossible to overlook the fact that the lieutenant is halfway to soldiers’ heaven, says the surgeon, quite unmoved, and that he doesn’t smell very aristocratic, but really more like a corpse. He, the regimental surgeon, is unable to do much for him, because half the army is suffering in the same way from diarrhea, or a bad case of the runs, as it’s also known.
“And so?” I venture to ask him hopefully. “Then the lieutenant doesn’t need anything beyond a square meal and clean water. Then he’ll be fit as a fiddle again.”
“I’m afraid that’s right,” says the regimental surgeon. “I have nothing to eat myself. No one has anything to eat. There’s nothing to be done about that at the moment. Either the count will survive this spell of weakness, or not. Of course, it would be a pity to lose the young man. But then again, we are at war, and war always comes at a price.”
And then, to top it all off, he makes me responsible for his well-being and orders a course of treatment, including, if need be, a ride in a carriage or cart back to Vilnius, so that the lieutenant can be put on a sound diet and nursed back to health — unless, as was all too probable, he happened to have perished in the meantime. “Let’s not delude ourselves about that,” the regimental surgeon concludes. “The regiments diarrhea victims are dropping like flies.”
And then he gallops off, the regimental quack. Because he’s got not just one, but four or five hundred other patients to tend to. When it comes down to it, the whole army’s sick.
I have rarely been as angry. I could have done without that wiseacre. You won’t catch me going to him to get a leg taken off or reattached. No, sir. He’s about as much help as a rat in a granary.
So the surgeon either can’t or won’t do anything. Except for spout silly nonsense. First, he doesn’t need to authorize me to look after my lieutenant. As his servant, I have that authority already. Second, how am I supposed to look after him? He needs food and clean water, which I can’t produce out of thin air. And third, where am I supposed to get a coach or cart to take him to Vilnius? Anyway, in the state he’s in, he would never make it that far.
The piercing sun comes out from behind the departing rain clouds. Mercilessly, it boils off the last of the rain to steam, which infests your lungs and makes it even harder to breathe. This steamy air is going to see off my lieutenant. His belly is gurgling and spluttering with damp muck, and in spite of the damp, he’s racked with crazy thirst. Then he sweats out the excess water, and I can hear his teeth chatter with cold.
The lieutenant is sagging on his horse.
I’m terribly afraid for him.
We’ve got to get away from the mess of people, away from the sickly Grande Armée. It’s all men infected with cholera, anyway, all trying to hold on to life as best they can. No man will do anything for another. And in amongst us all, you can’t overlook the bony form of Death.
The next chance I have, I move us off the main army route, and leave the noise and stench behind. We’re alone now, the lieutenant and I. There’s a dark line on the horizon. Probably a birch forest. That’s the only forest there is in these parts. We ride toward it. It will at least give us some shelter. If only, pray to God, there aren’t any Cossacks hiding out in it. We’re still alone when we get to the edge of the forest. We need to go farther into the trees. The lieutenant and the horses need a chance to get their breath back. I lay the lieutenant on some dry heather. Thank God he’s still breathing. He’s gurgling and panting in swift alternation. And, unless I’ve just misheard, he has just whispered some words to his mama, who’s no more than a couple of thousand miles away. That’s not a good sign.
After our rest, I can hardly can get him back in the saddle. He keeps slipping through my hands. I spend a long time wrestling with him, and thank my lucky stars he’s lost so much weight. Finally, I’ve got him swaying in the saddle. The horses move off, exhausted.
We remain undisturbed. No Cossacks, and no sick, omnivorous Grand Armée. Could there be some peaceful, undisturbed stretch of country on the other side of the forest? Where we’ll find everything the sick lieutenant needs to get better? We should be out of the forest by nightfall and in our little paradise. If it exists.
I imagine it intensely to myself. I don’t think about anything else. There wouldn’t have to be roast pigeons. Bread, a piece of bread, would do just as well. I would give the noble Arab in exchange for the life of the lieutenant. And mine, too, of course. Say, for a hunk of bread and a glass of milk each. There’s not much time left. I must hurry, while the lieutenant can still breathe and before his belly explodes.
I’m in despair. If only I was as knowledgeable as the wisewoman in our village. She would just have pulled up some roots or plucked a few leaves, and boiled them up into a tea. And got the lieutenant up and about in no time. I’m sorry I’m not a wisewoman.
“Damn, blasted war!” I yell out at the birches and the endless sky. Then I get a grip on myself again. If I curse, I’m sure I won’t get anything from the big Whoever behind the birches and the sky. Any child knows that. So, without beating about the bush, I speak a loud prayer for my life and the lieutenant’s to be spared. No power, great or small, could ignore such a desperate and passionate plea.
“I’m too young to die, and so is the count!”
Of course, absolutely nothing happens. Nothing like what happened with the youth of Pharnaum in the Bible, for instance. He was even already dead, and then got his life back afterward, and went on to spend many years in health and happiness.
My hopes are withering.
As I sadly and gloomily beg the great expanse beyond birches and sky, I see the snake. It’s lying on a slab of stone, completely motionless, a big fat snake. Maybe three feet long. Poisonous? Could be. I only know grass snakes, adders, and measly slow worms. I don’t know this Russian variety. Where would I have learned about Russian snakes? I watch it for a while. A beautiful reptile, with a strange pattern on its back. Careful, though. A snake like that might very easily dart up and bite me with its hollow poison-filled teeth. The way the adder does at home.
Then quite suddenly, a strange idea shoots into my head. Roast snake. Of course, roast snake!
I ask the snake to be so good as not to leave its nice slab of warm rock.
It agrees.
After that, everything happens very quickly. I get the lieutenants saber. The snake is still lying out on the slab of rock. Its tongue flicks out nervously to taste the air. Has it noticed anything? Never mind, it’s too late. I catch it directly behind the head. Even so, it jerks up and whiplashes through the air. I’m sure it was dead on the spot. Without a head! I wait a while longer. Better safe than sorry. Then I make a fire of dead birch twigs, wait for it to burn down to hot embers, and drop the snake in it. This style of baking is something I learned to do with potatoes back home. You just had to be careful that the fire didn’t get too hot, because then the potatoes would be charred.
I’d never have thought that plain adder would taste so good, without salt or butter. I feed my lieutenant like a child with little peeled morsels of snake meat. He is still capable of swallowing. That’s good. Perhaps he senses it’s his last chance.
The snake does wonders, his breathing comes slower and calmer. That’s my impression, anyway.
I’m right! The lieutenant comes back to life. He looks at me in astonishment. I wonder what’s going through his mind?
The snake really seems to have been the salvation of him. I feel much better too. Thank the sky behind the birches! Respectful thanks to the Very Great One!
I am so full of joy, I promise to return the favor through a minister. With my wage. I’ll also accompany the next Popish procession I come across, if I ever see another one. Belt and braces! Because, finally, I don’t know for certain whether the Almighty inclines more to Lutherans or Papists.
I scan the surroundings for any more snakes. Unfortunately, I can’t find any others. All other critters are either too small, or else won’t permit themselves to be caught by me.
The one snake hasn’t exactly filled us up, but the color really is coming back to the lieutenant’s cheeks. Even if he’s still like a feeble, cacky baby, life is slowly but surely returning to his veins.
Evening comes. We have to go on and find somewhere that has clean water and a piece of bread. The snake was just a drop in the bucket. If we don’t pull ourselves together now, we’ll never make it. We’ll just perish where we are. And if we’re lucky, a Russian peasant may find us in a hundred years’ time.
Twilight brings a little freshness to the forest. Still the thirst is burning in our mouths and throats. We’re parched.
We can’t expect any help from anywhere near here. There’s no clean water. Nothing to be seen. Just a few brown, swampy rain holes and froggy ponds. Better nothing than more of that dirty, marshy swill.
The scrubby forest seems endless. More and more birches and juniper thickets, heather clumps and long, sharp grass. It gets a little darker, but not much. That’s how summer is here. It doesn’t get properly dark. No sooner does the sun go down on the evening side than a red glow appears in the east. In spite of my tormenting thirst, I’m looking for a suitable place to sleep. I need somewhere I can think in peace. It does me no good at all having to push on through the night with the lieutenant. We don’t see anything, and quite possibly we’re going straight past paradise.
I hear the whinnying of horses. Somewhere ahead of us, but not far ahead. We quickly turn back and ride away a little. Our horses could easily betray us by whinnying back.
Wherever there are horses, there will be people. Cossacks? I hope not. After the initial shock, I become curious. Perhaps it’s just other men from the Grande Armée. Our side. People like the lieutenant and me. And they may even have something drinkable with them. It’s not impossible.
I pack the lieutenant for safekeeping in some half-nibbled heather, tie the horses to a birch, and cautiously set off in the direction where I heard the horses whinnying. I don’t hear any more of them, but I soon smell wood smoke. Before long I see flickering light in the dusk. Then I hear a murmur of voices. So the direction was right.
There’s a goodly campfire blazing away under the birches. It’s rather careless, can be seen and smelled from miles away. Four men are sitting around it. I can’t make out the uniforms. Russians’ or ours? Why did the men start such a blaze? Because of the wolves? There are said to be as many wolves in Russia as there are voles in our own grain fields at home. I hope the wolves don’t get interested in my lieutenant.
Slowly, I move closer to the fire. The men are wearing pretty distressed uniforms. Then shock sends me crumpling to the heather. Those derelict-looking soldiers are wearing the blue of the horse artillery.
Have I lost my mind? Can I no longer trust my eyes? In this endless expanse of forest, miles away from the nearest road, can I really have run up against the man I most wish to the devil? At that campfire sits none other than my archenemy, Sergeant Krauter. He’s sitting there, solid and secure, with the firelight dappling him, his voice as loud and harsh as ever it was.
16
Cossacks I would have found less frightening. They were sort of what I expected. But not Krauter! He’s much worse than any Russian. I must not on any account fall into his hands. Whoever aims a cannon against his own side is more dangerous than the worst enemy.
So what are the sergeant and the three transport soldiers doing, so far off the road? Are they on a booty expedition? Or are they trying to get back to Vilnius, as my sick lieutenant was told to do, and sticking to back routes? They certainly don’t appear to be in any great hurry.
There’s great confusion in my head. I’m shaking with fear and rage and hate. Why is it I keep running into Krauter? It’s maddening. But then I come to some more sensible conclusions. I have to get away from here as quickly as I can with my lieutenant. Before Krauter finds us. We’ll have to make a big detour around the fire. So we avoid any possibility of contact with them.
It’s easier said than done. If only the lieutenant wasn’t in such poor shape. He can hardly ride. He sways around on the saddle, and it looks as though he might slip off at any moment. There’s no possibility of a canter or a fast trot. He needs something proper to drink first. None of that puddle swill. And then he should be allowed to sleep himself healthy. No, we can’t ride off now. We’ll have to wait for morning. Besides, we could easily fall into a trap if we ride at night. The Cossacks are bound to be combing the area. In fact, we’re in a reasonably good place, so close to that big fire. If there are Cossacks about, they will turn to their visible enemies first. That will give us warning, and the lieutenant and I can run for it. Also, it’s certainly better if I don’t let the sergeant out of my sight. So we have a little prior warning of what Krauter might undertake next.
If only there weren’t this terrible thirst. How can the lieutenant survive it? He must be half dried up already. I hope he doesn’t crawl off to a swamp hole in sheer despair, and, in return for a few moments of relief, catch his death of that dreck. I want to get back to him quickly. Also on account of the wolves. On the other hand, I want to get a bit closer to the sergeant and the transport soldiers. They seem to be drinking something with merry abandon. I’m bound that’s no puddle water. Either they have found some store of drinkables, or else there’s a clean source somewhere in the area.
In the meantime, it’s gotten quite dark. The campfire burns brighter.
An odd smell comes winding across the heather and into the birches. A very good smell. It comes to me with the smoke from the fire. Bread? Bread! Only bread smells so good. Freshly baked flatbread or something similar. My head reels. The sergeant and the transport soldiers are baking bread. No doubt about it. The closer I get to the fire, the more indisputable the smell. I almost forget myself. The wonderful smell addles my brain. I’m on the point of walking up to the men and proposing a trade to the sergeant. A cavalry horse in exchange for bread and something proper to drink. That would be a good deal. For both parties. A valuable horse for the sergeant and the prospect of a longer life for the lieutenant and me. I’m sure the lieutenant would have no objection. He wants to get well as soon as he can. His life is worth more even than a purebred horse.
But a flash or spark or some such thing in my brain holds me back from offering this little deal. The sergeant hates me too much. There’s no evil action I’d put past him, and no good one I’d expect from him. What if he doesn’t give me any bread or water, and just takes the horse anyway? And who knows what else he might want to do? Out here in the wilds, where there’s no one to hold him back. He’d have to get rid of me as a potential future witness against him. And who would look after the sickly lieutenant then? No, I’m not going through with it. Krauter’s too dangerous.
By now I’m so close to the fire, I can make out the faces. There’s no doubt about it. That’s the sergeant sitting there. I don’t know who the others are, I’ve never seen them before.
One by one, the four of them are taking big bites out of some chunks of meat and the large flat loaves lying next to them. I’m so hungry and wound up, I start to tremble. I could scream. Not only do the four men have plenty
to eat, they’re holding mugs, from which they take deep drafts. Next to the sergeant is a little barrel, from which he keeps refilling the mugs. I wonder what it’s got in it. Beer? Wine?
A giddy weakness lames me. The fire and the men are swirling this way and that. Which way is up? My belly spasms and growls piteously. My legs won’t do what I tell them anymore. Quickly, I drop behind a little birch sapling. Only now do I realize how bad I feel. It’s got hold of me as well. Not just the lieutenant. Oh my God!
We need a miracle, a big miracle.
After some time, I come around.
One of the transport soldiers is leaving the bonfire. He moves off into the half-dark. No danger for me, he’s going the other way. After a time, he comes back, bringing blankets, in which the four men roll themselves up. So they’re going to go to sleep.
Where did the man get the blankets from? They must have been somewhere nearby. My imagination starts to run away with me. I picture a large baggage cart standing by and imagine what things I might find there. Maybe — no, certainly — salvation for my lieutenant and me. I become wide awake. The wildest notions start stacking up in my mind.
Krauter is issuing energetic instructions. Rosters for the night. He and two of the others lie down by the fire. One of them remains sitting. He must be the sentry.
I am very tired, too. But my thirst for whatever is in the barrel and my worry over my lieutenant keep me alert and restless. Is he even still alive? I hope the wolves haven’t found him. If they set upon him, he won’t stand a chance.
I know what I have to do. Never mind what happens. Somewhere, on the other side of the fire, there must be supplies. I have to find them and help myself to what we need.
I wait a while longer. Krauter and the two soldiers by the fire are still. They seem to be very tired and are surely fast asleep. The sentry tosses a couple of branches into the fire. The flames get brighter and a little higher.