"Melekhov, go and unsaddle his horse!" the sergeant ordered, regretfully spitting out the end of his cigarette, which he had smoked till it burned his fingers. Grigory went to the fallen animal, removed the saddle, and then for some undefined reason picked up the cap ly-
ing close by. He smelled the lining and caught the scent of cheap soap and sweat. He carried the horse's equipment back to the trees, holding the hussar's cap carefully in his left hand. Squatting on their haunches, the Cossacks rummaged in the saddle-bags and examined the unfamiliar design of the saddle.
"That tobacco he had was good; we should have asked him for some more," the sergeant sighed at the memory and swallowed down his spittle.
Not many minutes had passed when a horse's head appeared through the pines, and Uryupin rode up.
"Why, where's the Austrian? You haven't let him go?" the sergeant exclaimed, jumping up in alarm. Uryupin rode up waving his whip, dismounted and stretched his shoulders.
"What have you done with the Austrian?" the sergeant asked again, going up to him.
"He tried to run away," Uryupin snarled.
"And so you let him?"
"We came to an open glade, and he. ... So I cut him down."
"You're a liar!" Grigory shouted. "You killed him for nothing."
"What are you shouting about? What's it to do with you?" Uryupin fixed icy eyes on Gri-gory's face.
"What?" Grigory was slowly rising, his hand groping along the ground.
"Don't poke your nose in where it isn't wanted! Understand?" the other replied sternly. Grigory snatched up his rifle and threw it to his shoulder. His finger quivered as it felt for the trigger, and his ashen face worked angrily.
"Now then!" the sergeant exclaimed threateningly, running to him. He struck the rifle before it fired and the bullet cut a branch from a tree and went whistling away.
"What's going on?" Koshevoi gasped.
Silantyev's jaw dropped and he sat still with his mouth open.
The sergeant pushed Grigory in the chest and tore the rifle out of his hands. Uryupin stood without changing his position, his feet planted apart, his left hand on his belt.
"Fire again!"
"I'll kill you!" Grigory rushed towards him.
"Here, what's all this about? Do you want to be court-martialled and shot? Put your arms down!" the sergeant shouted.
Thrusting Grigory back, he placed himself with arms outstretched between the two men.
"You lie, you won't kill me!" Uryupin smiled.
As they were riding back in the dusk Grigory was the first to notice the body of the
hussar lying in the path. He rode up in front of the others, and reining in his frightened horse, stared down. The man lay with arms flung out over the velvety moss, his face downward, his palms, yellow like autumn leaves, turned upward and open. A terrible blow from behind had cloven him in two from the shoulder to the belt.
"Cut him in two . . ." the sergeant muttered as he rode past glancing in alarm at the dead man's flaxen tuft of hair sticking up lop-sidedly from the twisted head.
The Cossacks rode past the body and on to the squadron headquarters in silence. The evening shadows deepened. A breeze was driving up a black, feathery cloud from the west. From a swamp near by came the stagnant scent of marshgrass, of rusty dampness and rot. A bittern boomed. The drowsy silence was broken by the jingle of the horses' equipment, and the occasional clank of sabre on stirrup, or the scrunch of pine cones under the horses' hoofs. Through the glade the dark ruddy gleam of the departed sun streamed over the pine trunks. Uryupin smoked incessantly, and the fleeting spark of his cigarette lit up his thick fingers with their blackened nails firmly gripping the cigarette.
The cloud floated over the forest, emphasizing and deepening the fading, inexpressibly mournful hues of the evening shadows on the ground.
XIII
The following morning an assault was begun on the town. Flanked by cavalry and with cavalry units in reserve, the infantry was to have advanced from the forest at dawn. But somewhere, someone blundered; the two infantry regiments did not arrive in time; the 211th Rifle Regiment was ordered to cross over to the left flank, and during the encircling movement initiated by another regiment it was raked with fire from its own batteries. The hopeless confusion upset the plans, and the attack threatened to end in failure, if not disaster. While the infantry was thus being shuffled about and the artillery hauled its guns out of a bog into which it had been sent on someone's instructions, the order came for the Eleventh Cavalry Division to advance. The wooded and marshy land in which they had been held in readiness did not permit of an extended frontal attack, and in some cases the Cossacks had to advance in troops. The Fourth and Fifth squadrons of the Twelfth Regiment were held in reserve in the forest, and within a few minutes of the general
advance the roaring, rending sound of the battle reached their ears.
There was a long quivering cheer. Now and then a Cossack spoke:
"That's ours."
"They've started."
"What a row that machine-gun's making."
"Giving our chaps what for,"
"They're not cheering now, are they?"
"Not there yet,"
"We'll be at it in a minute."
The two squadrons were drawn up in a glade. The stout pine trunks hemmed them in and prevented them from following the course of the battle.
A company of infantry went by almost at a trot. A brisk, smart-looking N.C.O. dropped back to the rear ranks and shouted hoarsely:
"Order in the ranks!"
The company tramped past with their equipment jangling and disappeared into an alder thicket.
Far away now, faintly through the trees came that quivering cheer, suddenly breaking off. A deep silence fell.
"They've got there now."
"Aye, now they're at it . . . killing each other."
§38
The Cossacks strained their ears, but could hear nothing more; on the right flank the Austrian artillery thundered away at the attacking forces; the roar was interspersed with the rattle of machine-guns.
Grigory glanced around his troop. The Cossacks were fidgeting nervously, and the horses were restive as though troubled by gadflies. Uryupin had hung his cap on the saddle-bow and was wiping his bald head; at Grigory's side Misha Koshevoi puffed fiercely at his homegrown tobacco. All the objects around were distinct and exaggeratedly real, as they appear after a night of wakefulness.
The squadrons were held in reserve for three hours.
The firing now died, now rose to a still higher pitch. An aeroplane roared overhead. After circling a few times at a great height, it flew eastward, gaining altitude. Milky puffs of bursting shells dotted the blue as anti-aircraft guns opened fire.
All stocks of tobacco had been exhausted and the men were pining in expectation, when just before noon an orderly galloped up with instructions. The commander of the Fourth Squadron immediately led his men off to one side. To Grigory it seemed that they were retreating rather than advancing. His own squad-
ron rode for some twenty minutes through the forest, the sound of the battle drawing nearer and nearer. Not far behind them a battery was firing rapidly; the shells tore through the resisting air with a shrieking roar. The narrow forest paths broke up the squadron's formation, and they emerged into the open in disorder. About half a verst away Hungarian hussars were sabring the crew of a Russian battery.
"Squadron, form!" the commander shouted.
The Cossacks had not completely carried out the order when the further command came:
"Squadron, draw sabres; into the attack, forward!"
A blue lightening flash of blades. From a swift trot the Cossacks broke into a gallop.
Six Hungarian hussars were busily occupied with the horses of the field-gun on the extreme right of the battery. One was dragging at the bits of the excited artillery horses, another was beating them with the flat of his sword, while the others were tugging and pulling at the s
pokes of the carriage wheels. An officer on a dock-tailed chocolate mare was giving orders. At the sight of the Cossacks the hussars leapt to their horses.
"Closer, closer," Grigory counted to the rhythm of his galloping horse. As he galloped, one foot momentarily lost its stirrup, and feeling
himself insecure in his saddle, with inward alarm he bent over and fished with his toe for the dangling iron. When he had recovered his foothold he looked up and saw the six horses of the field-gun in front of him. The outrider on the foremost in a blood- and brain-spattered shirt, was lying over the animal's neck, embracing it. Grigory's horse brought its hoof down with a sickening scrunch on the body of the dead gunner. Two more were lying by an overturned case of shells. A fourth was stretched face downward over the gun-carriage. Silantyev was just in front of Grigory. The Hungarian officer fired at almost point-blank range and the Cossack fell, his hands clutching and embracing the air. Grigory pulled on his reins and tried to approach the officer from the left, the better to use his sabre; but the officer saw through his manoeuvre and fired under his arm at him. Having discharged the contents of his revolver, he drew his sword. He parried three smashing blows with the skill of a trained fencer. Grigory gritted his teeth and lunged at him yet a fourth time, standing in his stirrups. Their horses were now galloping almost side by side, and he noticed the ashy clean-shaven cheek of the Hungarian and the regimental number sewn on his collar. With a feint he diverted the officer's attention, and changing the direction of
his stroke, thrust the point of his sabre between the Hungarian's shoulder-blades. He aimed a second blow at the neck, just at the top of the spine. The officer dropped his sword and reins from his hands, and arched his back as if he had been bitten, then toppled over his saddlebow. Feeling a terrible relief, Grigory lashed at his head, and saw the sabre smash into the bone above the ear.
A terrible blow on the head from behind tore consciousness away from Grigory. He felt a burning, salty taste of blood in his mouth, and realized that he was falling; from one side the stubbled earth came whirling and flying up at him. The heavy crash of his body against the ground brought him momentarily back to reality. He opened his eyes; blood poured into them. A trample past his ears, and the heavy breathing of horses. For the last time he opened his eyes and saw the pink dilated nostrils of a horse, and someone's foot in a stirrup. "The end!" the comforting thought crawled through his mind like a snake. A roar, and then black emptiness.
XIV
In the middle of August Yevgeny Listnitsky decided to apply for a transfer from the Ataman's Lifeauard Regiment to one of the Cos-
sack regular army regiments. He made his formal application, and within three weeks received the appointment he desired. Before leaving St. Petersburg he wrote to his father:
Father, I have applied tor a transfer from the Ataman's Regiment to the regular army. I received my appointment today, and am leaving for the front to report to the commander of the Second Corps. You will probably be surprised at my decision, hut I want to explain my reasons. I am sick of my surroundings. Parades, escorts, sentry duty-all this palace service sets my teeth on edge. I am fed up with it. I want live work and-if you wish-heroic deeds. I suppose it's my Listnitsky blood that is beginning to tell, the honourable blood of those who ever since the War of 1812 have added laurels to the glory of Russian arms. I am leaving for the front. Please give me your blessing.
Last week I saw the Emperor before he left for headquarters. I worship the man. I was standing guard inside the palace, he smiled as he passed me and said in English to Rodzyanko, who was with him: 'My glorious Guard. I'll beat Wilhelm's hand with it' I worship him like a schoolgirl. I am not ashamed to confess it, although I am over twenty-eight now. I am terribly upset by the palace gossip, besmirch-
ing the Emperor's glorious name. I don't believe it, I can't believe it. The other day I nearly shot Captain Gromov for uttering disrespectful words about Her Imperial Majesty in my presence. It was vile, and I told him that only people who had the blood of serfs flowing in their veins could stoop to such filthy slander. The incident took place before several other officers. I was beside myself, I drew my revolver and was about to waste a bullet on the cad, but my comrades disarmed me. My life becomes more miserable with each day spent in this cesspool. In the guards' regiments-among the officers, in particular-there is no genuine patriotism, and-one is terrified to utter it-there is even no love for the dynasty. This isn't the nobility, it's the rabble. This is really the explanation of my break with the regiment. I cannot associate with people I don't respect.
Well, that's about all. Please forgive my incoherence, I am in a hurry, I must pack my things and leave. Keep well, Papa. I shall write you a long letter from the front.
Your Yevgeny.
The train for Warsaw left Petrograd* at 8 p.m. Listnitsky took a drozhki and drove to the
* St. Petersburg was renamed Petrograd in 1914. 544
station. Behind him lay Petrograd in a dove blue twinkle of lights.
The station was noisy and crowded with troops. The porter brought in Listnitsky's suitcase and, on receiving a few coins, wished the young gentleman a good journey. Listnitsky removed his swordbelt and coat, and spread a flowery silk Caucasian eiderdown on the seat. By the window sat a priest with the lean face of an ascetic, his provisions from home laid out on a small table. Brushing the crumbs from his hemp-like beard, he offered some curd-cake to a slim dark girl in school uniform sitting in the seat opposite him.
"Try something, my dear."
"No, thank you."
"Now don't be shy, a girl with your complexion needs plenty to eat."
"No, thank you."
"Try some of this curd-cake then. Perhaps you will take something, sir?"
Listnitsky glanced down.
"Are you addressing me?"
"Yes, indeed." The priest's sombre eyes stared piercingly and only the thin lips smiled under his thin drooping moustache.
"No, thank you. I don't feel like food now."
"You are making a mistake. It is no sin to eat. Are you in the army?"
"Yes."
"May the Lord help you."
As Yevgeny dozed off he heard the priest's fruity voice as though coming from a distance, and it seemed to him that it was the disloyal Captain Gromov speaking:
"It's a miserable income my family gets, you know. So I'm off as a chaplain to the forces. The Russian people can't fight without faith. And you know, from year to year the faith increases. Of course there are some who fall away, but they are among the intelligentsia, the peasant holds fast to God."
The priest's bass voice failed to penetrate further into Yevgeny's consciousness. After two wakeful nights a refreshing sleep came to him. He awoke when the train was a good forty versts outside Petrograd. The wheels clattered rhythmically, the carriage swayed and rocked, in a neighbouring compartment someone was singing. The lamp cast slanting lilac shadows.
The regiment to which Listnitsky was assigned had suffered considerable losses, and had been withdrawn from the front to be remounted and have its complement made up. The regimental staff headquarters was at a large market village called Bereznyagi. Listnitsky left the train at some nameless halt. At the same station a field hospital was detrained. He inquired
the destination of the hospital from the doctor in charge, and learned that it had been transferred from the south-western front to the sector in which his own regiment was engaged. The doctor spoke very unfavourably of his immediate superiors, cursed the divisional staff officers and, tugging his beard, his eyes glowing behind his pince-nez, poured his jaundiced anger into the ears of his chance acquaintance.
"Can you take me to Bereznyagi?" Listnitsky interrupted him.
"Yes, get into the trap. Lieutenant," he agreed, and familiarly twisting the button on Listnitsky's coat, rumbled on with his complaints.
"Just imagine it. Lieutenant. We've travelled two hundred versts in cattle trucks only to loaf about here, with nothing to
do at a time when a bloody battle has been going on for two days in the section from which my hospital was transferred. There were hundreds of wounded there who needed our help badly!"
The doctor repeated the words "bloody battle" with spiteful relish.
"How do you explain such an absurdity?" the lieutenant asked out of politeness.
"How?" The doctor raised his eyebrows ironically over his pince-nez and roared: "Disorder, chaos, stupidity of the commanding staff -that's the reason why. Scoundrels occupy high
posts and mix things up. Inefficient, lacking even common sense. Do you remember Vere-sayev's memoirs of the Russo-Japanese war? Well, it's the same thing all over again, only twice as bad."
Listnitsky saluted him and went to the carts. The angry doctor, his puffy red cheeks trembling, was croaking behind him:
"We'll lose the war. Lieutenant. We lost one to the Japanese but didn't grow any the wiser. We can only brag, that's all." And he went along the rails, stepping over little puddles filmed with rainbow spangles of oil, and shaking his head despairingly.
Dusk was falling as the field hospital approached Bereznyagi. The wind ruffled the yellow stubble. Clouds were massing in the west. At their height they were a deep violet black, but below they shaded into a tender, smoky lilac. In the middle the formless mass, piled like ice-floes against a river dam, was drawn aside. Through the breach poured an orange flood of sunset rays, spreading in a spurtling fan of light and weaving a Bacchanalian spectrum of colours below.
A dead horse lay by the roadside ditch. On one of its hoofs, flung weirdly upward, the horseshoe gleamed. As the trap jogged past, Listnitsky stared at the carcass. The orderly with
And quiet flows the Don; a novel Page 34