Before going to his officers, Kozeltzoff went to greet his company, and
to see where it was stationed.
The breastwork of gabions, the shapes of the trenches, the cannons
which he passed, even the fragments of shot, bombs, over which he
stumbled in his path—all this, incessantly illuminated by the light
of the firing, was well known to him, all this had engraved itself
in vivid colors on his memory, three months before, during the two
weeks which he had spent in this very bastion, without once leaving
it. Although there was much that was terrible in these reminiscences,
a certain charm of past things was mingled with it, and he recognized
the familiar places and objects with pleasure, as though the two weeks
spent there had been agreeable ones. The company was stationed along
the defensive wall toward the sixth bastion.
Kozeltzoff entered the long casemate, utterly unprotected at the
entrance side, in which they had told him that the ninth company
was stationed. There was, literally, no room to set his foot in the
casemate, so filled was it, from the very entrance, with soldiers. On
one side burned a crooked tallow candle, which a recumbent soldier
was holding to illuminate the book which another one was spelling
out slowly. Around the candle, in the reeking half-light, heads were
visible, eagerly raised in strained attention to the reader. The little
book in question was a primer. As Kozeltzoff entered the casemate, he
heard the following:
“Pray-er af-ter lear-ning. I thank Thee, Crea-tor ...”
“Snuff that candle!” said a voice. “That's a splendid book.” “My ...
God ...” went on the reader.
When Kozeltzoff asked for the sergeant, the reader stopped, the
soldiers began to move about, coughed, and blew their noses, as they
always do after enforced silence. The sergeant rose near the group
about the reader, buttoning up his coat as he did so, and stepping over
and on the feet of those who had no room to withdraw them, and came
forward to his officer.
“How are you, brother? Do all these belong to our company?”
“I wish you health! Welcome on your return, Your Honor!” replied the
sergeant, with a cheerful and friendly look at Kozeltzoff. “Has Your
Honor recovered your health? Well, God be praised. It has been very
dull for us without you.”
It was immediately apparent that Kozeltzoff was beloved in the company.
In the depths of the casemate, voices could be heard. Their old
commander, who had been wounded, Mikhaïl Semyónitch Kozeltzoff,
had arrived, and so forth; some even approached, and the drummer
congratulated him.
“How are you, Obantchuk?” said Kozeltzoff. “Are you all right?
Good-day, children!” he said, raising his voice.
“We wish you health!” sounded through the casemate.
“How are you getting on, children?”
“Badly, Your Honor. The French are getting the better of us.—Fighting
from behind the fortifications is bad work, and that's all there is
about it! and they won't come out into the open field.”
“Perhaps luck is with me, and God will grant that they shall come out
into the field, children!” said Kozeltzoff. “It won't be the first time
that you and I have taken a hand together: we'll beat them again.”
“We'll be glad to try it, Your Honor!” exclaimed several voices.
“And how about them—are they really bold?”
“Frightfully bold!” said the drummer, not loudly, but so that his words
were audible, turning to another soldier, as though justifying before
him the words of the commander, and persuading him that there was
nothing boastful or improbable in these words.
From the soldiers, Kozeltzoff proceeded to the defensive barracks and
his brother officers.