And quiet flows the Don; a novel
Page 28
it hurt him and his palm sweated. The whistle of flying bullets made him duck his head down to the wet neck of his horse, and the pungent scent of the animal's sweat penetrated his nostrils. As though through the misty glass of binoculars he saw the brown ridges of trenches, and men in grey running back to the town. A machine-gun hurled a fan of whistling bullets tirelessly at the Cossacks; in front of them and under the horses' feet the bullets tore up woolly spurts of dust.
The part of Grigory that before the attack had sent the blood coursing faster through his veins now turned to stone within him; he felt nothing except the ringing in his ears and a pain in the toes of his left foot. His thoughts, emasculated by fear, congealed in a heavy mass in his head.
Cornet Lyakhovsky was the first to drop from his horse. Prokhor rode over him. Grigory glanced back, and a fragment of what he saw was impressed on his memory as though cut with a diamond on glass. As Prokhor's horse leaped over the fallen cornet, it bared its teeth and stumbled. Prokhor was catapulted out of the saddle and, falling headlong, was crushed under the hoofs of the horse behind him. Grigory heard no cry, but from Prokhor's face, with its distorted mouth and its calf-like eyes
bulging out of their sockets, he realized that he must be screaming inhumanly. Others fell, both horses and Cossacks. Through the film of tears caused by the wind in his eyes Grigory stared ahead at the grey, seething mass of Austrians fleeing from the trenches.
The squadron, which had torn away from the village in an orderly stream, now scattered and broke into fragments. Those in front, Grigory among them, had nearly reached the trenches, others were lagging behind.
A tall, white-eyebrowed Austrian, his cap drawn over his eyes, fired almost point-blank at Grigory. The heat of the bullet scorched his cheek. He struck with his lance, at the same time pulling on the reins with all his strength. The blow was so powerful that it plunged for half a shaft length into the Austrian's body. Grigory was not quick enough to withdraw the lance. He felt a quivering convulsion in his hand, and saw the Austrian, bent right back so that only the point of his unshaven chin was visible, clutching the shaft and clawing at it with his nails. Grigory dropped the lance and felt with numbed fingers for his sabre-hilt.
The Austrians fled into the streets of the town. Cossack horses reared up over the grey clots of their uniforms.
In the first moment after dropping his lance
Grigory, without knowing why, turned his horse and saw the sergeant-major gallop past him, his lips parted in a snarl. Grigory struck at his horse with the flat of his sabre; arching its neck, it carried him away down the street. An Austrian was running along by the railings of a garden, swaying, without a rifle, his cap clutched in his hand. Grigory saw the back of his head and the damp collar of his tunic. He overtook him and, lashed on by the frenzy of the moment, whirled his sabre above his head. The Austrian was running close to the railings on the left-hand side, and it was awkward for Grigory to hew him down. But, leaning over his saddle, holding his sabre aslant, he struck at the man's temple. Without a cry the Austrian pressed his hand to the wound and spun around with his back to the railings. Grigory rode past reining in his horse, turned round, and rode back at a trot. The square fear-contorted face of the Austrian was black as cast iron. His arms hung at his sides, his ashen lips were quivering. The sabre had struck him a glancing blow on the temple, and the flesh was hanging over his cheek like a crimson rag. The blood streamed on to his uniform. Gri-gory's eyes met the terror-stricken eyes of the Austrian. The man was sagging at the knees; a gurgling groan came from his throat. Screw-
ing up his eyes, Grigory swept his sabre down. The blow split the cranium in two. The man flung out his arms and fell; his shattered skull knocked heavily against the stone of the road. At the sound Grigory's horse reared and, snorting, carried him into the middle of the street.
Ragged firing sounded in the streets. A foaming horse carried a dead Cossack past Grigory. One foot was caught in the stirrup, and the horse was dragging the bruised and battered body over the stones. Grigory saw only the red stripe on the trousers and the torn green tunic drawn in a bundle over the head.
Grigory felt a leaden heaviness in his head. He slipped from his horse and shook his head vigorously. Cossacks of the Third Squadron galloped by. A wounded man was carried past on a greatcoat. A crowd of Austrian prisoners were driven past at a trot. The men ran in a huddled grey herd, their iron-shod boots clattering joylessly on the stones. Grigory saw them as a jellied blob, the colour of clay. He dropped his horse's reins and went across to the Austrian soldier he had cut down. The man lay where he had fallen, by the fanciful wrought-iron work of the railings, his dirty brown palm stretched out as though begging. Grigory glanced at his face. It seemed small, almost childlike, despite the hanging moustache and the
tortured expression (was it from physical suffering or a joyless past?) of the harsh, distorted mouth.
"Hey, you!" a strange Cossack officer shouted as he rode down the middle of the street.
Grigory looked up and stumbled across to his horse. His steps were heavy and tottering, as though he were carrying an unbearable weight on his back. Loathing and bewilderment crushed his spirit. He took the stirrup in his hand, but for a long time could not lift his heavy foot into it.
VI
The first reserve Cossacks from Tatarsky and the neighbouring villages spent the second night after their departure from home in a little village. The men from the lower end of Tatarsky drew into a separate group from those of the upper end, so Pyotr Melekhov, Anikush-ka, Christonya, Stepan Astakhov, Ivan Tomilin and others were all billeted in one house. The Cossacks had lain down to sleep, spreading out their blankets in the kitchen and the front room, and were having a last smoke for the night. The master of the house, a tall, decrepit old man who had served in the Turkish war, sat talking with them.
"So you're off to war, soldiers?"
"Yes, Grandad, off to war."
"It won't be anything like the Turkish war was, I don't suppose. They've got different weapons now!"
"It'll be just the same. Just as devilish. Just as they killed people then, so it'll be now," Tomilin grunted, angry with no one knew whom.
"That's stupid talk, young fellow. It'll be a different kind of war."
" 'Course it will," Christonya affirmed, yawning lazily, and stubbing out a cigarette with his finger-nail.
"We'll do a bit of fighting," Pyotr Melekhov yawned and, making the sign of the cross over his mouth, covered his head with his greatcoat.
"My sons, I ask you one thing. I ask you seriously, and you mark what I say," the old man said. "Remember this! If you want to come back from the mortal struggle alive and with a whole skin, you must keep the law of humanity."
"Which one?" Stepan Astakhov asked, smiling distrustfully. He had begun to smile again from the day he heard of the war. The war called him, and the general anxiety and pain assuaged his own.
"This law: don't take other men's goods.
That's one. As you fear God, don't do wrong to any woman. That's the second. And then you must know certain prayers."
The Cossacks sat up, and all spoke at once:
"More likely to lose our own stuff than get other people's!"
"And why mustn't we touch a woman? You can't make her, but suppose she's willing?"
"It's hard to be without a woman."
"You bet!"
"What about the prayer?"
The old man fixed his eyes sternly on them and answered:
"You must not touch a woman. Never! If you can't restrain yourselves you'll lose your heads, or you'll be wounded. You'll be sorry after, but then it will be too late. I'll tell you the prayers. I went right through the Turkish war, death at my heels like a saddle-bag, but I came through alive because of these prayers."
He went into the other room, rummaged under the icon and brought back a crumbling, faded scrap of paper.
"Get up now and write them down!" he commanded. "You'll be off again befo
re cock-crow tomorrow, won't you?"
He spread the paper out on the table and left it. Anikushka was the first to get up; the shadows cast by the flickering light played on his
smooth, womanish face. All except Stepan sat down and wrote out the prayers. Anikushka rolled up the paper he had used and fastened it to the string of the crucifix at his breast. Stepan jeered at him:
"That's a nice nest you've made for the lice, wasn't the cross cosy enough?"
"Young man, if you don't believe, hold your tongue!" the old man interrupted him sternly. "Don't be a stumbling block to others and don't laugh at faith. It's a sin."
Stepan grinned, but he lapsed into silence.
The prayers which the Cossacks wrote down were three, one could take one's choice.
THE PRAYER AGAINST ARMS
God bless us. On the mountain there lies a white stone like a horse. As water enters not the stone, so may not bullet and arrow enter into me, the slave of God, nor my comrades, nor my horse. As the hammer flies back from the anvil, so may the bullet fly back from me. As millstones turn, so may the arrow turn and not touch me. As the sun and moon are bright, so may I, the slave of God, be strong. Behind this mountain there is a fortress, I shall lock this fortress, and throw the key into the sea. I shall put it under the white stone called Altor which can be seen by neither sorcerers nor witches, by neither monks nor nuns. Even as the waters flow not from the ocean and the yellow grains of sand cannot be counted, so may I, the slave of God, suffer no harm. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.
THE PRAYER IN BATTLE
There is a great ocean, and in this great ocean there is a white stone, Altor. On that stone there is a stone man of mighty stature. Cover me, the slave of God, and my comrades, with stone from east to west, from earth to sky. Protect me from sharp sabre and sword; from steel blade and bear-spear; from dagger tempered and untempered; from knife and axe, and from cannon-fire; from lead bullets and mortal weapons; from all arrows feathered with the feathers of eagles, swans, geese, cranes, or ravens; from all battles with Turks, Crimeans, Austri-ans, Tatars, Lithuanians, Germans and Kalmyks. Holy Fathers and Heavenly Powers, protect me, the slave of God. Amen.
THE PRAYER IN TIME OF ATTACK
Supreme Ruler, Holy Mother of God and our Lord Jesus Christ. Bless, Lord, thy servant entering battle, and my comrades who are with me. Wrap them in cloud, with thy heavenly, stony hail protect them. Holy Dmitry of Sa-lonica, defend me, the slave of God, and my comrades on all four sides; suffer not evil men to shoot, nor with spear to pierce, nor with pole-axe to strike, nor with butt-end of axe to sm.ite, nor with axe to hew down, nor with sword to cut down or pierce, nor with knife to stab or cut; neither old nor young, neither brown nor black; neither heretic nor sorcerer, nor any magic-worker. All is before me now, the slave of God, orphaned and judged. In the sea, in the ocean, on the island of Buyan stands an iron post; on the post is an iron man resting on an iron staff, and he biddeth iron, steel, lead, zinc and all manner of bolt: "Go, iron, into your mother-earth away from the slave of God and past my comrades and my horse. The
arrow-shafts into the forest, and the feather to its mother-bird, and the glue to the fish." Defend me, the slave of God, with a golden buckler from steel and from bullet, from cannon-fire and ball, from spear and knife. May my body be stronger than armour. Amen.
The Cossacks concealed the prayers under their shirts, tying them to the little icons with which their mothers had blessed them, and to the little bundles of their native earth. But death came upon all alike, upon those who did not carry prayers and upon those who did. Their bodies rotted on the fields of Galicia and East Prussia, in the Carpathians and Rumania, wherever the ruddy flames of war flickered and the hoof-marks of Cossack horses were imprinted on the earth.
VII
It was usual for the Cossacks of the upper stanitsas of the Don, including Vyeshenskaya, to be drafted into the Eleventh and Twelfth Cossack regiments and the Ataman's Lifeguards. But for some reason part of the enrolment of 1914 was assigned to the Third Don Cossack Regiment, which was composed mainly of Cossacks from the Ust-Medveditskaya stanitsa. Among those so drafted was Mitka Korshunov.
The Third Don Cossack Regiment was stationed at Vilno, together with certain units of the Third Cavalry Division. One day in June the various squadrons rode out from the city to take up country quarters.
The day was dull but warm. The flowing clouds herded together in the sky and concealed the sun. The regiment was marching in column of route. The regimental band blared at the head of the column, and the officers in their light summer caps and drill uniforms rode in a bunch at the back, a cloud of cigarette smoke rising above them.
On each side of the road the peasants and their gaily-dressed womenfolk were cutting the hay, stopping to gaze at the columns of Cossacks as they passed. The horses sweated in the heat, a yellowish foam appeared between their legs, and the light breeze blowing from the south-east did not cool, but rather intensified the steaming swelter.
They had gone about half way and were not far from a small village when a young yearling colt trotted out from behind a fence and, seeing the great mass of horses, whinnied and came prancing up in front of the Fifth Squadron. Its bushy young tail waved to one side and the dust from its shapely hoofs scattered on the trampled grass. It pranced up to the First
Troop and poked its muzzle stupidly into the groin of the sergeant-major's stallion. The stallion jibbed but took pity on the youngster and did not kick.
"Out of the way, daft-head!" the sergeant-major shouted, waving his whip. But the colt looked so friendly and homely that the other Cossacks laughed. Then something unexpected happened. The colt cheekily pushed its way in between the ranks and the platoon broke up and lost its neat formation. The horses jibbed and refused to obey their riders. Squeezing between them, the colt tried to bite the horse next to it.
Up galloped the squadron commander:
"What's going on here?"
The horses were snorting and casting sidelong glances at the scatter-brained young colt while the grinning Cossacks tried to drive it off with their whips. The troop was in complete disorder with others pressing up from behind, and the furious troop officer could be seen galloping up from the rear of the column.
"What's all this?" boomed the squadron commander, steering his horse into the thick of the mob.
"It's a colt. . . ."
"He's got between us."
"You can't get rid of him, the devil!"
"Give him the whip, don't pamper him!"
Grinning sheepishly, the Cossacks tried to hold in their excited mounts.
"Sergeant-major! Squadron commander, what the devil is happening? Get your troops in order! I've never heard of such a thing!"
The squadron commander retired from the confusion and his horse's hindlegs slipped into the roadside ditch. He spurred it on and the horse scrambled out on to a bank overgrown with goosefoot and yellow daisies. In the distance the party of officers had stopped. The lieutenant-colonel had his head thrown back and was drinking from a flask, his hand resting with fatherly affection on his saddle pommel.
The sergeant-major broke up the troop and, swearing furiously, drove the colt off the road. The troop formed up again and a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes watched the sergeant-major standing in his stirrups as he chased after the colt. But the colt kept stopping and edging up to the sergeant-major's giant stallion, then prancing away so that the sergeant-major could not land a single blow, except on its brush-like tail, which fell under the lash only to rise again the next moment and wave bravely in the wind.
The whole squadron laughed, including the officers. Even the captain's gloomy face twisted into a crooked semblance of a smile.
Mitka Korshunov was riding in the third rank of the leading troop with Mikhail Ivan-kov and Kozma Kruchkov, both from stanitsas on the Don. Ivankov, broad in the shoulders and face, kept silent, and Kruchkov, a slightly pock-marked, round-shouldered Cossack,
known as "the camel," constantly found fault with Mitka. Kruchkov was an "old" Cossack, that is, a Cossack in his last year of service, and according to the unwritten rules of the regiment, shared with all other "old" Cossacks the right of chasing up the youngsters, ordering them about and giving them "stripes" for every petty offence. The established punishment for a Cossack of the 1913 draft was thirteen "stripes" and for a Cossack drafted in 1914, fourteen "stripes." The sergeants and officers encouraged this system on the ground that it imbued a Cossack with respect not only for rank but for age as well.
Kruchkov, who had recently been made a corporal, sat hunched in his saddle like a bird. He screwed up his eyes at a paunchy grey cloud and, imitating the accent of the squadron commander Captain Popov, asked Mitka:
"Ah . . . te-e-11 me, Korshunov, what do we ca-a-all our squadron comma-a-ander?"
Mitka, who had frequently had a taste of the
strap for his obstinacy and dislike of obedience, put on a respectful expression.
"Captain Popov, corporal!"
"What?"
"Captain Popov, corporal!"
"That's not what I want to know. You tell me what we, Cossacks, call him 'mongst ourselves."
Ivankov gave Mitka a cautioning wink and grinned widely. Mitka glanced round and sav. the captain riding up behind.
"Now then, answer up!"
"He is called Captain Popov, corporal."
"Fourteen stripes for you. Answer me, you young bastard!"
"I don't know, corporal."
"When we get to camp," Kruchkov said, speaking in his normal voice. "I'll belt the hide off you. Answer my question!"
"I don't know."
"Don't you know the nickname we've got for him, rat-face?"
Mitka heard the furtive tread of the captain's horse behind them and remained silent.