Broken in body and spirit and half insane, I was beginning to lose
consciousness. Suddenly ... or is it only a delusion of a distressed
imagination? Yes, I think I hear voices. The clatter of horses’
hoofs--and human voices. I almost came near shouting, but restrained
myself. Suppose they should be Turks? They, of course--as if I already
hadn’t suffered enough--will subject me to terrible torture, such as
makes your hair stand on end just to read about in the newspapers.
They’ll peel my skin off, and they’ll apply a fire to my wounded
legs ... or they might invent some new torture. Is it not better to
end my life at their hands than die here? Who can tell?--they may be
my countrymen! Oh, accursed bushes! Why have you fenced yourselves
so thickly around me? There is no opening except one aperture in
the foliage, that opens like a window upon a hollow visible in the
distance. There, I think, is a brook from which we drank before the
battle. I can see, too, the huge flat stone across the stream, put
there to serve as a bridge. They will surely cross it. The voices are
dying away. I cannot make out the language they speak; my hearing too
has grown weak. Oh, Lord! what if they are my countrymen!... I will
shout. They will hear me even from the brook. That is better than
falling into the hands of the Bashi-Bazouks. What has become of them? I
don’t see them. I am being consumed with impatience; I no longer even
notice the smell of the corpse, although it has not grown any less.
Suddenly a body of horsemen make their appearance crossing the bridge.
Cossacks! Blue uniforms, red stripes, lances! About fifty of them! At
the fore, upon a handsome horse, is an officer with a black beard. No
sooner do the fifty horsemen cross the brook than he turns full face in
his saddle and shouts:
“Tro-t, march!”
“Stop, stop, for God’s sake! Help, help, brothers!” But the stamping of
sturdy horses, the clanging of many sabres, and the lusty shouting of
Cossack throats are too much for my weak outcry--and I am not heard.
Oh, curses! In complete exhaustion, I fall face to the ground and begin
to weep. In my falling, I fail to notice that I have upset the flask
and out of its mouth the water--my life, my deliverance, my respite
from death--is oozing. I notice it only when there is no more than a
half-cupful left; the rest has been absorbed by the dry, thirsty earth.
It is simply agony to recall the stupor which seized me after this
terrible accident. I lay motionless, with half-closed eyes. The wind
kept changing, and now fanned me with pure, clear air and now sent
the stench upon me anew. My neighbor has become unsightly beyond all
description. Once I opened my eyes to glance at him, and I recoiled in
horror. He no longer had any face. The flesh seemed to peel right off
the bone. That horrible smile of bones, that eternal grin, seemed never
so repulsive, never so awful, although it had been my lot to hold many
a human skull in my hands before, in the medical classes. The skeleton
in uniform with shining buttons caused me to shudder. “This is war,” I
reflected, “and here is its symbol.”
The sun is burning and scorching me as before. My hands and face have
been smarting for some time. I drank up the remaining water. The thirst
tortured me so intensely that in trying to take a single swallow I
gulped down all. Fool that I was not to have called to the Cossacks
when they were so near! Even if they had been Turks, it would have
been better than this. They would have tortured me an hour or two; but
now there’s no saying how long I am to lie here and suffer. My dear,
dearest mother! If you only knew! You would tear your gray hair out,
you would knock your head against the wall, you would curse the day of
my birth, you would curse the world which invented war and its sorrows.
It is well that you and Masha will not hear of my sufferings. Farewell,
Mother; farewell, my sweetheart, my love! But how sad and bitter I
feel! And there is something gnawing at the heart....
Again I am thinking of that little white dog! The porter did not pity
it, but knocked its head against the wall and threw it into a garbage
heap. And still it was alive; and suffered a whole day. I am more
unfortunate, because I have suffered already three days. To-morrow will
be the fourth day, then the fifth, the sixth.... Death, where art thou?
Come, come! Take me!
But death does not come. And I am lying in the blaze of this terrible
sun; and there is not a drop of water to refreshen my inflamed throat;
the corpse, too, is making me ill. Myriads of vermin are feeding in it.
How they swarm! When he is eaten, and there is nothing left except the
bones and the uniform, then it will be my turn. I too shall share the
same fate.
The day passes, and the night passes. No change. Again morning. No
change. Another day will pass....
The bushes are stirring and rustling, as if they were talking among
themselves. “You will die, you will die, you will die!” they whisper.
“You will not see, you will not see, you will not see!” answer the
bushes on the other side.
“No, you will not see them here!” I hear a loud voice quite near.
I tremble and at once come to myself. I look up, to find the good blue
eyes of our corporal Yakovlev looking at me.
“Spades!” he cries out. “There are two more of them here--and one of
them is theirs!”
“There is no need for spades, no need to bury me; I’m alive!” I wish to
cry out; but only a feeble groan issues from my parched lips.
“Lord! But he is alive! _Barin_[1] Ivanov! Children, come this way! Our
_Barin_ is alive! And bring the doctor, quick!”
Presently I feel the pleasant contact in my mouth of water, whiskey,
and of something else. Then everything disappears.
The stretcher sways with a measured motion. This motion is soothing.
Now I recall myself, now everything lapses from my memory. The bandaged
wounds no longer hurt. An inexpressible feeling of comfort has diffused
itself through my entire body....
“Hal-t! L-lo-wer! Fresh hands to the stretchers! Now get
hold--lift--march!”
The command is issued by Peter Ivanich, our sanitary officer, a tall,
lean, and very kindly man. He is so tall that as I turn my eyes in
his direction I can see his head, his peculiar long beard, and his
shoulders, although the stretcher is being carried on the shoulders of
four big men.
“Peter Ivanich!” I whisper.
“What is it, dear fellow?”
Peter Ivanich leans toward me.
“Peter Ivanich, what did the doctor tell you? Will I die soon?”
“What are you saying, Ivanov? Of course you will live. Your bones are
whole. What a lucky fellow you are! Your bones are all right, and so
are your arteries! But tell me, how did you manage to pull through
these three and a half days? What did you eat?”
“Nothing.”
“And had you anything to drink?”
“I took the Turk’s flask. Peter Ivanich, I cannot speak now. Later....”
“Well, God be with you, dear fellow, and have your nap.”
Again sleep, forgetfulness....
When I awake again, I am in the division hospital, surrounded by nurses
and doctors. At my feet stands a man whom I recognize as a celebrated
St. Petersburg professor. His hands are blood-stained. He is attending
to me, and presently he turns to speak to me:
“Well, the Lord has been good to you, young man. You will remain alive.
We’ve deprived you of one leg; but that is a mere trifle. Can you
talk?”
Yes, I can talk, and I am telling him all that I have written here.