As he entered the street of the ruined remains of the stone wall,
forming the Tatar houses of Duvanka, Lieutenant Kozeltzoff was stopped
by a transport of bombs and grape-shot, which were on their way to
Sevastopol, and had accumulated on the road. Two infantry soldiers
were seated in the dust, on the stones of a ruined garden-wall by the
roadside, devouring a watermelon and bread.
“Have you come far, fellow-countryman?” said one of them, as he chewed
his bread, to the soldier, with a small knapsack on his back, who had
halted near them.
“I have come from my government to join my regiment,” replied the
soldier, turning his eyes away from the watermelon, and readjusting the
sack on his back. “There we were, two weeks ago, at work on the hay,
a whole troop of us; but now they have drafted all of us, and we don't
know where our regiment is at the present time. They say that our men
went on the Korabelnaya last week. Have you heard anything, gentlemen?”
“It's stationed in the town, brother,” said the second, an old soldier
of the reserves, digging away with his clasp-knife at the white, unripe
melon. “We have just come from there, this afternoon. It's terrible, my
brother!”
“How so, gentlemen?”
“Don't you hear how they are firing all around to-day, so that there
is not a whole spot anywhere? It is impossible to say how many of our
brethren have been killed.” And the speaker waved his hand and adjusted
his cap.
The passing soldier shook his head thoughtfully, gave a clack with his
tongue, then pulled his pipe from his boot-leg, and, without filling
it, stirred up the half-burned tobacco, lit a bit of tinder from the
soldier who was smoking, and raised his cap.
“There is no one like God, gentlemen! Good-bye,” said he, and, with a
shake of the sack on his back, he went his way.
“Hey, there! you'd better wait,” said the man who was digging out the
watermelon, with an air of conviction.
“It makes no difference!” muttered the traveller, threading his way
among the wheels of the assembled transports.