Mikhaïloff also threw himself down on seeing the shell. Like
Praskoukine, he thought of a crowd of things during the two seconds
which preceded the explosion. He said his prayers mentally, repeating,
“May Thy will be done! Why, O Lord, am I a soldier? Why did I exchange
into the infantry to make this campaign? Why did I not remain in the
uhlan regiment, in the province of F----, near my friend Natacha? and
now see what is going to happen to me.”
He began to count--“One, two, three, four,” saying to himself that if
the shell exploded on an even number he would live, if at an odd number
he would be killed.
“It is all over, I am killed!” he thought, at the sound of the
explosion, without thinking any more of odd or even. Struck on the head,
he felt a terrible pain.
“Lord, pardon my sins!” he murmured, clasping his hands.
He tried to rise, and fell unconscious, face downward. His first
sensation when he came to himself was of blood running from his nose.
The pain in his head was much lessened.
“My soul is departing. What will there be over _yonder_? My God, receive
my soul in peace! It is nevertheless strange,” he reasoned, “that I am
dying, and I can distinctly hear the footsteps of the soldiers and the
sound of shots!”
“A stretcher this way! The company chief is killed!” cried a voice which
he recognized, that of the drummer Ignatieff.
Some one raised him up by the shoulders; he opened his eyes with an
effort and saw the dark-blue sky over his head, myriads of stars, and
two shells flying through space as if they were racing with each other.
He saw Ignatieff, soldiers loaded down with stretchers and with muskets,
the slope of the intrenchment, and suddenly he understood he was still
in the world.
A stone had slightly wounded him on the head. His first impression was
almost a regret. He felt so well, so quietly prepared to go over
_yonder_, that the return to reality, the sight of the shells, of the
trenches, and of blood, was painful to him. The second impression was an
involuntary joy at feeling himself alive, and the third was the desire
to leave the bastion as quickly as possible. The drummer bandaged his
chief’s head and led him towards the field-hospital, supporting him
under his arm.
“Where am I going, and what for?” thought the captain, coming to himself
a little. “My duty is to remain with my company--all the more,”
whispered a little voice within him, “since it will shortly be out of
range of the enemy’s fire.”
“It’s no use, my friend,” he said to the drummer, taking away his arm.
“I won’t go to the field-hospital; I will stay with my company.”
“You had better let yourself be properly taken care of, your Excellency.
It don’t seem to be anything at first, but it may grow worse. Indeed,
your Excellency--”
Mikhaïloff stopped, undecided what to do. He would have followed
Ignatieff’s advice, perhaps, but he saw what a number of wounded men
crowded the hospital, almost all of them seriously hurt.
“Perhaps the doctor will make fun of my scratch,” he said to himself,
and without listening to the drummer’s arguments he went with a firm
step to join his company.
“Where is officer Praskoukine, who was beside me a short time ago?” he
asked of the sub-lieutenant whom he found at the head of the company.
“I don’t know; I think he was killed,” hesitatingly replied the latter.
“Killed or wounded? Why, don’t you know? He was marching with us. Why
didn’t you bring him off?”
“It wasn’t possible in that furnace.”
“Oh! why did you abandon a living man, Mikhaïl Ivanitch?” said
Mikhaïloff, with a vexed tone. “If he is dead, we must bring off his
body.”
“How can he be alive? Indeed I tell you I went up to him, and I
saw--What would you have? We scarcely had time to bring off our own men.
Ah! the devils, how they are firing shell now!”
Mikhaïloff sat down, and held his head in his hands. The walk had
increased the violence of the pain.
“No,” said he, “we must certainly go and get him. Perhaps he is alive.
It is our duty, Mikhaïl Ivanitch.”
Mikhaïl Ivanitch did not reply.
“He didn’t think of bringing him off at the time, and now I must detail
men for it. Why send them into this hell-fire, which will kill them, for
nothing?” thought Mikhaïloff.
“Children, we must go back to get that officer who is wounded yonder in
the ditch,” he said, without raising his voice, and in a tone which had
no authority, for he guessed how disagreeable the execution of this
order would be to the men.
But since he addressed himself to no one in particular, not one of them
came forward at this call.
“Who knows? he is dead, perhaps, and it isn’t worth while to risk our
men uselessly. It is my fault; I ought to have thought of it. I will go
alone; it is my duty. Mikhaïl Ivanitch,” he added, aloud, “lead on the
company, I will overtake you.”
Gathering up the folds of his cloak with one hand, he touched the image
of St. Mitrophanes with the other. He wore this on his breast as a sign
of special devotion to the blessed one.
The captain retraced his steps, assured himself that Praskoukine was
really dead, and came back holding in his hand the bandage which had
become unwound from his own head. The battalion was already at the foot
of the hill, and almost out of reach of the balls, when Mikhaïloff
rejoined it. A few stray shells still came in their direction.
“I must go to-morrow and be registered in the field-hospital,” said the
captain to himself while the surgeon was dressing his wound.