It was already dark night, and the camp was lighted only by the
flickering bonfires, when I rejoined my soldiers, after giving my
orders. A great smouldering log was lying on the coals. Around it
were sitting only three of the men,--Antónof, who had set his kettle
on the fire to boil his _ryábko,_ or hard-tack and tallow; Zhdánof,
thoughtfully poking the ashes with a stick; and Chikin, with his pipe,
which was forever in his mouth. The rest had already turned in, some
under gun carriages, others in the hay, some around the fires. By the
faint light of the coals I recognized the backs, the legs, and the
heads of those whom I knew. Among the latter was the recruit, who,
curling up close to the fire, was already fast asleep. Antónof made
room for me. I sat down by him, and began to smoke a cigarette. The
odor of the mist and of the smoke from the wet branches spreading
through the air made one's eyes smart, and the same penetrating drizzle
fell from the gloomy sky.
Behind us could be heard regular snoring, the crackling of wood in
the fire, muffled conversation, and occasionally the clank of muskets
among the infantry. Everywhere about us the watch-fires were glowing,
throwing their red reflections within narrow circles on the dark forms
of the soldiers. Around the nearer fires I distinguished, in places
where it was light, the figures of naked soldiers waving their shirts
in the very flames. Many of the men had not yet gone to bed, but were
wandering round, and talking over a space of fifteen square _sazhens;_
but the thick, gloomy night imparted a peculiarly mysterious tone to
all this movement, as though each felt this gloomy silence, and feared
to disturb its peaceful harmony. When I spoke, it seemed to me that my
voice sounded strange. On the faces of all the soldiers sitting by the
fire I read the same mood. I thought, that, when I joined them, they
were talking about their wounded comrade; but it was nothing of the
sort. Chikin was telling about the condition of things at Tiflis, and
about school-children there.
Always and everywhere, especially in the Caucasus, I have remarked
in our soldiery at the time of danger peculiar tact in ignoring
or avoiding those things that might have a depressing effect upon
their comrades' spirits. The spirit of the Russian soldier is not
constituted, like the courage of the Southern nations, for quickly
kindled and quickly cooling enthusiasm; it is as hard to set him on
fire as it is to cause him to lose courage. For him it is not necessary
to have accessories, speeches, martial shouts, songs, and drums; on
the contrary, he wants calmness, order, and avoidance of every thing
unnatural. In the Russian, the genuine Russian soldier, you never find
braggadocio, bravado, or the tendency to get demoralized or excited
in time of danger; on the contrary, discretion, simplicity, and the
faculty of seeing in peril something quite distinct from the peril,
constitute the chief traits of his character. I have seen a soldier
wounded in the leg, at the first moment mourning only over the hole in
his new jacket; a messenger thrown from his horse, which was killed
under him, unbuckling the girth so as to save the saddle. Who does
not recollect the incident at the siege of Hergebel when the fuse of a
loaded bomb was on fire in the powder-room, and the artillerist ordered
two soldiers to take the bomb and fling it over the wall, and how the
soldiers did not take it to the most convenient place, which was near
the colonel's tent on the rampart, but carried it farther, lest it
should wake the gentlemen who were asleep in the tent, and both of them
were blown to pieces?
I remember, that, during this same expedition of 1852, one of the young
soldiers, during action, said to some one that it was not proper for
the division to go into danger, and how the whole division in scorn
went for him for saying such shameful words that they would not even
repeat them. And here now the thought of Velenchúk must have been in
the mind of each; and when any second might bring upon us the broadside
of the stealthy Tatars, all were listening to Chikin's lively story,
and no one mentioned the events of the day, nor the present danger, nor
their wounded friend, as though it had happened God knows how long ago,
or had never been at all. But still, it seemed to me that their faces
were more serious than usual; they listened with too little attention
to Chikin's tale, and even Chikin himself felt that they were not
listening to him, but let him talk to himself.
Maksímof came to the bonfire, and sat down by me. Chikin made room for
him, stopped talking, and again began to suck at his pipe.
"The infantry have sent to camp for some vodka," said Maksímof after a
considerably long silence. "They'll be back with it very soon." He spat
into the fire. "A subaltern was saying that he had seen our comrade."
"Was he still alive?" asked Antónof, turning his kettle round.
"No, he is dead."
The recruit suddenly raised above the fire his graceful head within his
red cap, for an instant gazed intently at Maksímof and me, then quickly
dropped it, and rolled himself up in his cloak.
"You see, it was death that was coming upon him this morning when I
woke him in the gun-park," said Antónof.
"Nonsense!" said Zhdánof, turning over the smouldering log; and all
were silent.
Amid the general silence a shot was heard behind us in the camp. Our
drummers took it up immediately, and beat the tattoo. When the last
roll had ceased, Zhdánof was already up, and the first to take off his
cap. The rest of us followed his example.
Amid the deep silence of the night a choir of harmonious male voices
resounded:--
"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come;
thy will be done, as on earth, so in heaven. Give us this day our daily
bread, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us
not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one."
"It was just so with us in '45: one man was contused in this place,"
said Antónof when we had put on our hats and were sitting around the
fire, "and so we carried him two days on the gun. Do you remember
Shevchenko, Zhdánof?... We left him there under a tree."
At this time a foot-soldier with tremendous whiskers and mustaches,
carrying a gun and a knapsack, came to our fire.
"Please give a fellow-countryman a coal for his pipe," said he.
"Of course,[29] smoke away; there is plenty of fire," remarked Chikin.
"You were talking about Dargi, weren't you, friend?" asked the soldier,
addressing Antónof.
The soldier shook his head, frowned, and squatted down near us on his
heels.
"There were all sorts of things there," he remarked.
"Why did you leave him?" I asked of Antónof.
"He had awful cramps in his belly. When we stood still, he did not feel
it; but when we moved, he screeched and screeched. He besought us by
all that was holy to leave him: it was pitiful. Well, and when _he_
began to vex us solely, and had killed three of our men at the guns and
one officer, then our batteries opened on him, and did some execution
too. We weren't able to drag out the guns, there was such mud."
"It was muddier under the Indian mountains than anywhere else,"
remarked the strange soldier.
"Well, but indeed it kept growing worse and worse for him; and we
decided, Anóshenka--he was an old artillerist--and the rest of us,
that indeed there was no chance for him but to say a prayer, and so we
left him there. And so we decided. A tree grew there, welcome enough.
We left some hard-tack for him,--Zhdánof had some,--we put him against
the tree, put a clean shirt on him, said good-by to him, and so we left
him."
"Was he a man of importance?"
"Not at all: he was a soldier," remarked Zhdánof.
"And what became of him, God knows," added Antónof. "Many of our
brothers were left there."
"At Dargi?" asked the infantry man, standing up and picking up his
pipe, and again frowning and shaking his head.... "There were all sorts
of things there."
And he left us.
"Say, are there many of the soldiers in our battery who were at Dargi?"
I asked.
"Let us see;[30] here is Zhdánof, myself, Patsan,--who is now on
furlough,--and some six men more. There wouldn't be any others."
"Why has our Patsan gone off on leave of absence?" asked Chikin,
shaking out his legs, and laying his head on a log. "It's almost a year
since he went."
"Well, are you going to take your furlough?" I asked of Zhdánof.
"No, I'm not," he replied reluctantly.
"I tell you it's a good thing to go," said Antónof, "when you come from
a rich home, or when you are able to work; and it's rather flattering
to go and have the folks glad to see you."
"But how about going when you have a brother,", asked Zhdánof, "and
would have to be supported by him? They have enough for themselves, but
there's nothing for a brother who's a soldier. Poor kind of help after
serving twenty-five years. Besides, whether they are alive or no, who
knows?"
"But why haven't you written?" I asked.
"Written? I did send two letters, but they don't reply. Either they are
dead, or they don't reply because, of course, they are poor. It's so
everywhere."
"Have you written lately?"
"When we left Dargi I wrote my last letter."
"You had better sing that song about the birch," said Zhdánof to
Antónof, who at this moment was on his knees, and was purring some song.