And quiet flows the Don; a novel

by Sholokhov, Mikhail Aleksandrovich, 1905-

  Shchegolkov lit a cigarette, and remarked as he went back to the shed: "Look at the glow of that sunset! We'll be having some wind."

  "Reckon so," Ivankov agreed.

  That night the horses stood unsaddled. In the village all lights were extinguished and all sound died away.

  The next morning Kruchkov called Ivankov from the shed.

  "Let's go to town."

  "What for?"

  "We can get something to eat and have a drink there."

  "Can we?" Ivankov looked doubtful.

  "Sure we can. I asked our host. It's over there in that house. See the tiled roof?" Kruchkov pointed with his black-nailed finger. "The Sheeny over there has beer. Let's go."

  They started out. Astakhov called after them:

  "Where are you going?"

  Kruchkov, who was senior in rank to Astakhov, waved him aside.

  "We'll be back soon,"

  "Come back, lads!"

  "Stop barking!"

  An old Jew with a wrinkled eyelid and long side-curls bowed them in.

  "Got any beer?"

  "None left. Mister Cossack."

  "We'll pay for it."

  "Jesus-Maria, as if I . . , Mister Cossack, believe an honest Jew, I have no more beer!"

  "You're lying. Sheeny!"

  "Mister Cossack, I'm telling you. . . ."

  "Look here," Kruchkov vexedly interrupted, pulling a shabby purse from his trouser pocket. "Get us some beer or I'll get angry."

  The Jew pressed the coin between his palm and little finger, lowered his twisted lid and went into the passage.

  A minute later he brought a bottle of vodka, damp and plastered with barley-chaff.

  "And you told us you didn't have any! You old...!"

  "I said I had no beer."

  "Get us something to eat."

  Kruchkov slapped the bottom of the bottle to knock out the cork, and poured himself a cup of vodka.

  They went out half drunk. Kruchkov pranced along, shaking his fist at the black empty sockets of the windows.

  In the shed, Astakhov was yawning. Behind the wall horses were munching damp hay.

  The day passed in idleness. In the afternoon Popov was sent back to the squadron with a report.

  Evening. Night. The yellow rim of the young moon rose over the village. From time to time a ripe apple dropped with a soft squelching thud from the tree in the garden.

  About midnight, while Ivankov was on guard, he heard the sound of horses along the village street. He crawled out of the ditch to look, but the moon was swathed in cloud, and he could see nothing through the impenetrable darkness. He went and awoke Kruchkov, who was sleeping at the door.

  "Kozma! Horsemen coming! Get up!"

  "Where from?"

  "They're riding into the village."

  They went out. The clatter of hoofs came clearly from the street, some hundred yards away.

  "Let's go into the garden. We can hear better there."

  They ran past the hut into the tiny front garden, and dropped down by the fence. The jingle of stirrups and creak of saddles came nearer. Now they could see the dim outline of the horsemen riding four abreast.

  "Who goes there?"

  "And what do you want?" a voice answered in Russian from the leading rank.

  "Who goes there? I shall fire!" Kruchkov rattled the bolt of his rifle.

  One of the riders reined in his horse and turned it towards the fence.

  "We're the frontier guard," he said. "Are you an outpost?"

  "Yes."

  "What regiment?"

  "The Third Cossack.. .."

  "Who are you talking to there, Trishin?" a voice called out of the darkness. The man by the fence replied:

  "There's a Cossack outpost stationed here. Your Honour."

  A second horseman rode up to the fence.

  "Hullo there, Cossacks!"

  "Hullo," Ivankov answered guardedly.

  "Have you been here long?"

  "Since yesterday."

  The second rider struck a match and lighted a cigarette. By the momentary gleam Kruchkov saw an officer of the frontier guard.

  "Our regiment is being withdrawn," the officer said. "You must bear well in mind that you're now the farthest outpost. The enemy may advance tomorrow." He turned and gave the order for his men to ride on.

  "Where are you making for. Your Honour?" Kruchkov asked, keeping his finger on the trigger.

  "We are to link up with our squadron two versts from here. Come on, lads, let's move. Good luck, Cossacks!"

  "Good luck."

  At that moment the wind pitilessly tore the

  apron of cloud from the moon, and over the village, the gardens, the steep roof of the hut and the detachment of frontier guards riding up the hill, fell a flood of deathly yellow light.

  Next morning Rvachev rode back to the squadron with a report. During the night the horses had stood saddled. The Cossacks were alarmed by the thought that they were now left to confront the enemy. They had experienced no feeling of isolation and loneliness so long as they knew the frontier guard was ahead of them, but the news that the frontier was open had had a marked effect upon them.

  Astakhov had a talk with the Polish farmer, and for a small sum the man agreed to let them cut clover for their horses. The Pole's meadow lay not far from the shed. Astakhov sent Ivan-kov and Shchegolkov to mow. Shchegolkov mowed while Ivankov raked the dank, heavy grass together and tied it into bundles.

  As they were thus occupied, Astakhov, who was gazing through the binoculars along the road leading to the frontier, noticed a boy running across the fields from the south-west. The lad ran down the hill like a brown hare; when still some distance off he shouted and waved the long sleeve of his coat. He ran up to Astakhov, gasping for breath and rolling his eyes, and panted:

  "Cossack! Cossack! The Germans! The Germans are coming!"

  He pointed with his hand. Holding the binoculars to his eyes, Astakhov saw a distant bunch of horsemen. Without removing the binoculars he shouted:

  "Kruchkov!"

  Kruchkov appeared from the shed, looking round.

  "Run and call the lads. A German patrol is coming!"

  He heard Kruchkov dash away and now he could clearly see the group of horsemen flowing along beyond the greyish streak of grassland. He could even make out the bay colour of their horses and the dark-blue tint of their uniforms. There were over twenty of them, and they were riding in a compact mass, coming from the south-west, whereas he had been expecting them from the north-west. They crossed the road and struck along the ridge above the valley in which the village lay.

  Breathing hard, the tip of his tongue showing between his tight-pressed lips, Ivankov was stuffing an armful of grass into a forage sack. The bandy-legged Pole stood near by, sucking a pipe. With his hands tucked into his belt he stared from under the brim of his hat at Shche-golkov, who was mowing.

  "Call this a scythe?" Shchegolkov grumbled, wielding the toy-like blade fiercely. "Do you mow with it?"

  "I mow," the Pole replied and took one finger out of his belt.

  "This scythe of yours is just about big enough to mow a woman in the right place!"

  "Uh-huh," the Pole agreed.

  Ivankov giggled. He was about to say something but, looking round, saw Kruchkov running across the rough ploughland with his hand on his sabre.

  "Drop it!" he shouted as he came up.

  "Now what's the matter?" Shchegolkov asked, thrusting the point of the scythe into the ground,

  "The Germans!"

  Ivankov threw down the bundle of grass. The Pole, bending double as if bullets were already whistling over his head, ran off to the house.

  They had just reached the shed and jumped on their horses when they saw a company of Russian soldiers entering the village from the direction of Pelikaliye. The Cossacks galloped to meet them. Astakhov reported to the company commander that a German detachment was making its way round the village by way of the hill. The ca
ptain inspected the dust-sprinkled toes of his boots severely and asked:

  "How many are there?"

  "More than twenty."

  "Cut them off and we'll fire on them from here." He turned to his company, ordered them to form up and led them away at a rapid march.

  When the Cossacks reached the crest of the hill the Germans were already between them and the town of Pelikaliye. They were riding at a trot, led by an officer on a dock-tailed roan.

  "After them! We'll drive them along to our second outpost," Astakhov ordered.

  The mounted frontier guard who had joined up with them in the village lagged behind.

  "What's up? Leaving us, brother?" Astakhov shouted, turning in his saddle.

  The frontier guard waved carelessly and rode down into the village at a walking pace. The Cossacks put their horses into a swift trot. The blue uniforms of the German dragoons were clearly visible. They had caught sight of the Cossacks following them, and were cantering in the direction of the second Russian outpost, which was stationed at a farm some three versts back from the village of Lyubov. The distance between the two parties perceptibly diminished.

  "We'll fire at them!" Astakhov shouted, jumping from his saddle.

  Standing with the reins looped over their arms, the Cossacks fired. Ivankov's horse reared at the shot and sent him headlong. As he fell he saw one of the Germans first lean to one side, then, throwing out his arms, suddenly tumble from his saddle. The others did not stop or even unsling their carbines from their shoulders, but rode on at a gallop in open formation. The pennants on their lances fluttered in the wind. Astakhov was the first to remount his horse. The Cossacks plied their whips. The Germans swung to the left, and the Cossacks following them passed close to the fallen dragoon. Beyond, an undulating stretch of country was intersected with shallow ravines. As the Germans rode up the farther side of each ravine the Cossacks dismounted and sent shots after them. A little farther on another German went down.

  "Our Cossacks should be coming from that farm in a minute. That's the second outpost," Astakhov muttered, thrusting a cartridge clip into the magazine of his rifle with his tobacco-stained finger. The Germans broke into a steady trot. As the Cossacks rode past the farm they glanced towards it, but it was deserted. The sun licked greedily at the tiled roof. Afterwards they learned that the outpost had withdrawn the previous night, having discovered that the

  telegraph wires about half a verst away had been cut.

  Astakhov sent another shot after the Germans, firing from the saddle, and one of them who had been lagging slightly behind shook his head and spurred on his horse.

  "We'll drive them along to the first outpost," Astakhov shouted, turning round to the others behind him. As he did so, Ivankov noticed that Astakhov's nose was peeling and a piece of skin was hanging from his nostril.

  "Why don't they turn and defend themselves?" he asked anxiously, adjusting his rifle on his back.

  "Wait and see," grunted Shchegolkov, panting like a broken-winded horse.

  The Germans dropped into a ravine and disappeared. On the farther side was ploughed land. On this side, scrub and an occasional bush. Astakhov reined in his horse, pushed back his cap, and wiped the beads of sweat away with the back of his hand. He looked at the others, spat and said:

  "Ivankov, you ride down and see where they've got to."

  Ivankov, red in the face, his back damp with sweat, licked his crusted lips thirstily and rode off.

  "Oh for a smoke!" Kruchkov muttered, driving the gadflies off with his whip.

  Ivankov rode steadily down into the ravine, rising in his stirrups and gazing across the bottom. Suddenly he saw the glittering points of lances; then the Germans appeared; they had turned their horses and were galloping back up the slope to the attack. The officer was in front, his sword raised picturesquely. In the seconds that elapsed while Ivankov wheeled his horse, the moody clean-shaven face of the officer and the fine way he sat in the saddle engraved themselves on Ivankov's memory. The thunder of German horses' hoofs flailed his heart. His back felt the pinching chill of death almost painfully. Without a cry he wheeled his horse round and rode back towards the others.

  Astakhov did not have time to put his tobacco pouch in his pocket. Seeing the Germans behind Ivankov, Kruchkov was the first to ride down to meet them. The dragoons on the right flank were sweeping round to cut Ivankov off, and were overtaking him at amazing speed. Ivankov was lashing at his horse, wry shudders passing over his face and his eyes starting out of his head. Bent to the saddle-bow, Astakhov took the lead. Brown dust boiled in the horses' wake.

  "Any moment now they'll catch me!" The numbing thought gripped Ivankov's mind and it did not occur to him to show resistance. He gathered his great body into a ball, his head touching his horse's mane.

  A big, ruddy-faced German overtook him and thrust his lance at his back. The point pierced Ivankov's leather belt and passed sideways for about an inch into his body.

  "Brothers, turn back!" he shouted insanely, drawing his sabre. He parried a second thrust aimed at his side, and cut down a German riding at him from the left. The next moment he was surrounded. A burly German horse struck the side of his mount, almost knocking it off its feet, and Ivankov got a terrible blurred close-up of an enemy face.

  Astakhov was the first to reach the group. He was driven off. He swung his sabre and twisted like an eel in his saddle, his teeth bared, his face changed and deathly. Ivankov was lashed across the neck with the point of a sword. A dragoon towered above him on the left, and the terrifying gleam of steel glittered in his eyes. He countered with his sabre; steel clashed against steel. From behind, a lance caught in his shoulder-strap and thrust insistently, tearing the strap away. Beyond his horse's head appeared the perspiring, fevered face

  of a freckled elderly German, who tried to get at Ivankov's chest with his sword. But the sword would not reach, and dropping it, the German tore his carbine from its yellow saddle-holster, his blinking eyes fixed on Ivankov's face. He did not succeed in freeing his carbine, for Kruchkov reached at him across his horse with a lance. The German, tearing the lance away from his breast, threw himself back, groaning in fear and astonishment.

  Eight dragoons surrounded Kruchkov, trying to capture him alive. But causing his horse to rear, he fought until they succeeded in knocking the sabre out of his hand. He snatched a lance from a German and wielded it as though on the parade ground. Beaten back, the Germans hacked at the lance with their swords. They bunched together over a small patch of dismal, clayey ploughed land, seething and rocking in the struggle as though shaken by the wind.

  Maddened with terror, the Cossacks and Germans thrust and hacked at whatever came their way: backs, arms, horses and weapons. The horses jostled and kicked against one another in a frenzy of mortal fear. Regaining some measure of self-command, Ivankov tried several times to strike at the head of a long-faced, flaxen-haired German who had fastened on him,

  but his sabre fell on the man's helmet and slipped off.

  Astakhov broke through the ring and galloped free, streaming with blood. The German officer chased after him. Tearing his rifle from his shoulder, Astakhov fired and killed him almost at point-blank range. This proved to be the turning-point in the struggle. Having lost their commander, the Germans, all of them wounded with clumsy blows, dispersed and retreated. The Cossacks did not pursue them. They did not fire after them. They rode straight back to their squadron at Pelikaliye, while the Germans picked up a wounded comrade and fled towards the frontier.

  After riding perhaps half a verst Ivankov swayed in his saddle.

  "I'm. ... I shall drop . . ." he halted his horse. But Astakhov pulled at his reins, crying:

  "Come on!"

  Kruchkov smeared the blood over his face and felt his chest. Crimson spots were showing damply on his shirt. Beyond the farm where the second outpost had been stationed the party disagreed as to the way.

  "To the right!" Astakhov said, pointing towards the green, swa
mpy ground of an alder wood.

  "No, to the left!" Kruchkov insisted.

  They separated. Astakhov and Ivankov arrived at the regimental headquarters after Kruch-kov and Shchegolkov. They found the Cossacks of their squadron awaiting them. Ivankov dropped the reins, jumped from the saddle, swayed and fell. They had difficulty in freeing the sabre-hilt from his clutching fingers.

  Within an hour almost the entire squadron rode out to where the German officer lay. The Cossacks removed his boots, clothing and weapons and crowded around to look at the young, frowning, yellow face of the dead man. One of them managed to capture the officer's watch with a silver face-guard, and sold it on the spot to his troop sergeant. In a wallet they found a few bank-notes, a letter, a lock of flaxen hair and a photograph of a girl with a proud, smiling mouth.

  IX

  Afterwards this incident was transformed into a heroic exploit. Kruchkov, a favourite of the squadron commander, received the Cross of St. George. His comrades remained in shadow. The hero was sent to the divisional staff headquarters, where he lived in clover until the end of the war, receiving three more crosses because influential ladies and officers came from Petersburg and Moscow to look at him. The ladies "ah-ed"

  and "oh-ed," and regaled the Don Cossack with expensive cigarettes and chocolates. At first he cursed them by all the devils, but afterwards, under the benevolent influence of the staff toadies in officers' uniform, he made a remunerative business of it. He told the story of his "exploit," laying the colours on thick and lying without a twinge of conscience, while the ladies went into raptures, and stared admiringly at the pock-marked, brigand face of the Cossack hero. Everyone was pleased and happy.

  The tsar visited headquarters, and Kruchkov was taken to be shown to him. The sleepy emperor looked Kruchkov over as if he were a horse, blinked his heavy eyelids, and patted the Cossack on the shoulder.

  "A fine Cossack lad!" he remarked and, turning to his suite, asked for some Seltzer water.