A fusillade of musketry fire had just broken out between the Russian and
Turkish advance-posts.
The fog was so dense that the confused masses of the Balkan mountains
could hardly be distinguished. They seemed more like clouds which had
descended on the earth to pass the night there. A red light showed
through the fog from a distance; perhaps it was a Turkish bivouac-fire
or the conflagration of some lonely farm. The Cossacks turned their
piercing eyes in this direction, but in vain, for it was absolutely
impossible to make out what it was in such dense gloom.
It was the Turks who had begun firing; the Russians were content with
merely replying. Neither side was visible to the other, but they fired,
fearing lest, owing to the denseness of the fog, the enemy might
approach close to them without being seen. On such occasions one fires
involuntarily; it is a kind of mutual warning, "I am not asleep, you
understand; take care!"
The sounds of firing died away in the damp and heavy atmosphere. Slowly
the night fell, gradually blotting out from view the field of battle,
and the corpses still lying on the snow. Everything was silent; only a
groan from a wounded man or the death-rattle of a horse was audible from
time to time. But that was all, and the soldiers, exhausted by marching
during the day and fighting in the evening, had not sufficient energy
left to think of carrying away the bodies of their comrades. They wished
for nothing but a night of rest and sleep.
"Not very cheerful for us, the night of the New Year, eh, Major?" said
the Colonel, a short stout man addressing a tall thin one, who had his
arm in a sling. The two were sitting on the balcony of a Turkish house.
"No, it isn't! And no letters from home either."
"That is the least of my anxieties; I know our military post too well."
"Ah, how gladly one would see those one loves, were it only for a single
moment! But to spend Christmas in the Shipka Pass and the New Year here,
sapristi! there is no fun in that. In our house the Christmas tree is
lighted and the children are running round it. Your wife and children
are sure to be with mine, and they will be talking of us. Probably they
are anxious because of our silence. As if we could write--we who only
rush on, like madmen, at the risk of breaking our heads! By the way, how
is your arm?"
"Not very grand, you know."
"Well, make use of it!"
"To do what?"
"To go away. Apply for leave for health's sake."
"_You_ ought not to say so to me."
"Why?"
"Because we are already short of officers as you know very well. In my
battalion there are sub-lieutenants commanding whole companies.
Moreover, you and I are not in the habit of separating. We will return
home together, that is all. Don't let us talk any more about it."
It was now quite dark, and the horizon was hidden. Here and there the
darkness was pierced by the luminous points of some windows in the
village which were still lit up. Suddenly there appeared in the street
the red moving flame of torch and in the circle of light formed by it a
red face wearing a pair of moustaches. At moments there also came to
view in the same luminous circle a horse's head with its ears erect.
"Panteleieff!" cried the Colonel in the direction of the torch. The
torch entered into the courtyard, and soon the horse stood before the
officers, snorting and scraping the hard snow with its hoofs. The
Cossack who was riding it reversed his torch, and clouds of black smoke,
rising heavily, surrounded his arm.
"Where are you going like that?"
"To the advance-posts, Colonel."
"Why?"
"The firing has begun again."
"Go and tell them, that if it is nothing unusual, it is useless to
reply. When the Turks are tired of throwing away ammunition, they will
stop of themselves."
Several soldiers entered the courtyard, stamping heavily. Panteleieff
lifted his torch and it was seen that they had some one in their midst.
"March on, march on, shaven pate! There is no chance of getting any rest
with you fellows about; may the Devil take you!" the soldiers said,
grumbling. It was evident that they were not yet aware of the officers'
presence.
"Well, well! Must we then encourage you with a butt-end?"
"What is it, my children?" said the Colonel, rising.
"We are bringing a Turk, Colonel. We met him by chance--picked him up
under a bush."
"Under a bush? How?"
"He was crouched down like a quail. Lieutenant Vassilieff told us to
take him alive and to bring him to you, Colonel. His name is Mahmoud."
"Give us a light, Panteleieff."
The Cossack held his torch near the group and the red light showed
distinctly a face with a large nose and straggling grey moustaches. The
nose had a lump in the middle; the reddish scar of a recent wound was
visible on the forehead surmounted by a turban formed of a piece of
dirty cloth snatched from some old tent. Mahmoud also wore a yellow
cloak made of camel-skin.
"Stop! Stop! he is an officer," said the Colonel, turning towards his
friend.
The Major looked at the Turk attentively. "Yes, and he is also an old
acquaintance. Don't you recognize him. That scar to begin with, and I am
sure he has two fingers missing from his left hand. Show us his left
hand."
The soldier who was standing next to Mahmoud took hold of his hand and
held it up.
"Yes, it is Mahmoud Bey, a Turkish Colonel. Prisoner and runaway; his
account is settled. The general will probably have him shot. That
depends on the mood he is in. It is a pity. Bring him here, my children.
One of you stay with us; the rest go as quickly as possible."
Mahmoud Bey was brought into the room next to the balcony. A soldier
armed with a musket stationed himself on the threshold.
The prisoner was almost a giant, thickset and broad-shouldered. He
appeared to be over fifty. His eyes had a melancholy expression under
their bristling grey eyebrows; his ragged moustache, also grey, was
constantly twitching; his feet were bound round with rags, his cloak was
torn and had a blood-stain on one shoulder.
"What is this blood?"
"Kyriloff tickled him up a little with his bayonet behind the bush,
Colonel."
"Why?"
"Because, Colonel, it was in vain that we called to him in good Russian,
'Come out, shaven-pate!' He did not listen to us, but only waved his
hands. Kyriloff was annoyed, and pricked him a little. Then he left his
bush. To tell the truth, we wanted to finish him on the spot, but
Lieutenant Vassilieff told us to bring him here."
"Somione! give him a chair."
The prisoner sat down, after placing his hand on his heart, his mouth,
and his head successively. His expression was still melancholy; he
evidently did not expect anything pleasant from his new masters. His
large nose drooped over his ragged moustaches, his head was sunk between
his shoulders.