Mikhaïloff, on catching sight of the bomb, fell to the earth, and, like
Praskukhin, he went over in thought and feeling an incredible amount in
those two seconds while the bomb lay there unexploded. He prayed to God
mentally, and kept repeating: “Thy will be done!”
“And why did I enter the military service?” he thought at the same
time; “and why, again, did I exchange into the infantry, in order to
take part in this campaign? Would it not have been better for me to
remain in the regiment of Uhlans, in the town of T., and pass the time
with my friend Natasha? And now this is what has come of it.”
And he began to count, “One, two, three, four,” guessing that if it
burst on the even number, he would live, but if on the uneven number,
then he should be killed. “All is over; killed,” he thought, when the
bomb burst (he did not remember whether it was on the even or the
uneven number), and he felt a blow, and a sharp pain in his head.
“Lord, forgive my sins,” he murmured, folding his hands, then rose, and
fell back senseless.
His first sensation, when he came to himself, was the blood which was
flowing from his nose, and a pain in his head, which had become much
less powerful. “It is my soul departing,” he thought.—“What will it
be like _there_? Lord, receive my soul in peace!—But one thing is
strange,” he thought,—“and that is that, though dying, I can still hear
so plainly the footsteps of the soldiers and the report of the shots.”
“Send some bearers ... hey there ... the captain is killed!” shouted a
voice over his head, which he recognized as the voice of his drummer
Ignatieff.
Some one grasped him by the shoulders. He made an effort to open his
eyes, and saw overhead the dark blue heavens, the clusters of stars,
and two bombs, which were flying over him, one after the other; he saw
Ignatieff, the soldiers with the stretcher, the walls of the trench,
and all at once he became convinced that he was not yet in the other
world.
He had been slightly wounded in the head with a stone. His very first
impression was one resembling regret; he had so beautifully and so
calmly prepared himself for transit _yonder_ that a return to reality,
with its bombs, its trenches, and its blood, produced a disagreeable
effect on him; his second impression was an involuntary joy that he
was alive, and the third a desire to leave the bastion as speedily
as possible. The drummer bound up his commander's head with his
handkerchief, and, taking him under the arm, he led him to the place
where the bandaging was going on.
“But where am I going, and why?” thought the staff-captain, when
he recovered his senses a little.—“It is my duty to remain with my
men,—the more so as they will soon be out of range of the shots,” some
voice whispered to him.
“Never mind, brother,” he said, pulling his arm away from the obliging
drummer. “I will not go to the field-hospital; I will remain with my
men.”
And he turned back.
“You had better have your wound properly attended to, Your Honor,”
said Ignatieff. “In the heat of the moment, it seems as if it were
a trifle; but it will be the worse if not attended to. There is some
inflammation rising there ... really, now, Your Honor.”
Mikhaïloff paused for a moment in indecision, and would have
followed Ignatieff's advice, in all probability, had he not called
to mind how many severely wounded men there must needs be at the
field-hospital. “Perhaps the doctor will smile at my scratch,” thought
the staff-captain, and he returned with decision to his men, wholly
regardless of the drummer's admonitions.
“And where is Officer Praskukhin, who was walking with me?” he asked
the lieutenant, who was leading the corps when they met.
“I don't know—killed, probably,” replied the lieutenant, reluctantly.
“How is it that you do not know whether he was killed or wounded? He
was walking with us. And why have you not carried him with you?”
“How could it be done, brother, when the place was so hot for us!”
“Ah, how could you do such a thing, Mikhaïl Ivánowitch!” said
Mikhaïloff, angrily.—“How could you abandon him if he was alive; and if
he was dead, you should still have brought away his body.”
“How could he be alive when, as I tell you, I went up to him and saw!”
returned the lieutenant.—“As you like, however! Only, his own men might
carry him off. Here, you dogs! the cannonade has abated,” he added....
Mikhaïloff sat down, and clasped his head, which the motion caused to
pain him terribly.
“Yes, I must go and get him, without fail; perhaps he is still alive,”
said Mikhaïloff. “It is our duty, Mikhaïl Ivánowitch!”
Mikhaïl Ivánowitch made no reply.
“He did not take him at the time, and now the soldiers must be sent
alone—and how can they be sent? their lives may be sacrificed in vain,
under that hot fire,” thought Mikhaïloff.
“Children! we must go back—and get the officer who was wounded there in
the ditch,” he said, in not too loud and commanding a tone, for he felt
how unpleasant it would be to the soldiers to obey his order,—and, in
fact, as he did not address any one in particular by name, no one set
out to fulfil it.
“It is quite possible that he is already dead, and it is _not worth
while_ to subject the men to unnecessary danger; I alone am to blame
for not having seen to it. I will go myself and learn whether he is
alive. It is my duty,” said Mikhaïloff to himself.
“Mikhaïl Ivánowitch! Lead the men forward, and I will overtake you,”
he said, and, pulling up his cloak with one hand, and with the other
constantly touching the image of Saint Mitrofaniy, in which he
cherished a special faith, he set off on a run along the trench.
Having convinced himself that Praskukhin was dead, he dragged himself
back, panting, and supporting with his hand the loosened bandage and
his head, which began to pain him severely. The battalion had already
reached the foot of the hill, and a place almost out of range of shots,
when Mikhaïloff overtook it. I say, _almost_ out of range, because some
stray bombs struck here and there.
“At all events, I must go to the hospital to-morrow, and put down my
name,” thought the staff-captain, as the medical student assisting the
doctors bound his wound.