Just as he entered the street of Douvanka, where everything was in
ruins, Sub-lieutenant Koseltzoff was stopped by a wagon-train of
cannon-balls and shells going towards Sebastopol, which was halted in
the middle of the road.
Two infantrymen, seated in the dust on the stones of an overthrown wall,
were eating bread and watermelon.
“Are you going far, fellow-countryman?” said one of them, chewing his
mouthful. He was speaking to a soldier standing near them with a small
knapsack on his shoulder.
“We are going to join our company; we have come from the country,”
replied the soldier, turning his eyes from the watermelon and arranging
his knapsack. “For three weeks we have been guarding the company’s hay,
but now they have summoned everybody, and we don’t know where our
regiment is to-day. They tell us that since last week our fellows have
been at Korabelnaïa. Do you know anything about it, gentlemen?”
“It is in the city, brother, in the city,” replied an old soldier of the
wagon-train, busy cutting with his pocket-knife the white meat of an
unripe melon. “We just came from there. What a terrible business,
brother!”
“What is that, gentlemen?”
“Don’t you hear how he is firing now? No shelter anywhere! It is
frightful how many of our men _he_ has killed!” added the speaker,
making a gesture, and straightening up his cap.
The soldier on his travels pensively shook his head, clacked his tongue,
took his short pipe out of its box, stirred up the half-burned tobacco
with his finger, lighted a bit of tinder from the pipe of a comrade who
was smoking, and lifting his cap, said,
“There is no one but God, gentlemen. We say good-by to you;” and putting
his knapsack in place, went his way.
“Ah! it is better worth while to wait,” said the watermelon eater, with
tone of conviction.
“It is all the same,” murmured the soldier, settling the knapsack on his
back, and worming his way between the wheels of the halted carts.