VII
On the night of the 14th to 15th of June Feodoroff woke me.
“Mikhailich, do you hear?”
“What is it?”
“Firing. They are crossing the Danube.”
I began to listen. A strong wind was blowing, driving before it lowering black clouds which hid the moon. It blew against the canvas of our tents, making them flap, whistled through the guy-ropes, and made a faint sighing sound through the piles of arms. Through these sounds could be heard occasional deep reports.
“Many are being killed now,” whispered Feodoroff with a sigh. “Will they order us forward or not? What do you think? It sounds like thunder.”
“Perhaps it is only a thunderstorm?”
“No, it is so regular. Listen, do you hear them one after another?”
The booming was certainly very regular in its intervals. I crawled out of the tent and gazed in the direction of the sounds. No flashes of flame were visible. Sometimes a light appeared to be visible to the straining eyes in the direction whence the reports were coming, but it was only fancy.
At last it has come, I thought.
And I tried to picture to myself what was happening in the darkness there. I imagined a wide black river with precipitous banks, utterly unlike the real Danube as I afterwards saw it. Hundreds of boats are crossing. These measured, frequent shots are at them. Will many of them escape? A cold shiver ran down my back. “Would I like to be there?” I asked myself involuntarily.
I gazed at the sleeping camp. All was quiet. In the intervals between the distant thunder of guns and the noise of the wind could be heard the heavy breathing of the men. And I had a sudden passionate longing that all this should not take place, that the march should continue, that all these soundly sleeping men and with them myself should not be obliged to go where the firing was taking place.
Sometimes the cannonade became heavier. Sometimes I heard confusedly a less loud deep noise. They are firing volleys, I thought, not knowing that we were still twenty versts from the Danube and that a painfully strained imagination was creating these sounds. But though imaginary, they roused, nevertheless, quickened fancy, causing it to picture fearful scenes. In imagination I heard the cries and groans, I saw thousands of human beings falling, and heard the desperate hoarse hurrahs. I pictured the bayonet charge, the carnage. And if beaten off, it will all be for nothing!
Grey dawn commenced in the dark east. The wind began to die away. The clouds parted, disclosing stars waning in the paling heavens. It grew lighter. Somebody in the camp awoke and, hearing the sounds of battle, aroused the others. They spoke little and quietly. The unknown had approached closely to us. No one knew what the morrow would bring. No one cared to think or speak of it.
I slept until daylight and awoke rather late. The cannon continued to rumble deeply, and, although no news had come from the Danube, there were rumours amongst us, each one more improbable than the other. Some said that we had already crossed and were pursuing the Turks, others said the attempt to cross had failed and whole regiments had been destroyed.
“Some had been drowned, others had been shot,” said someone.
“And you are lying,” interrupted Vassili Karpich.
“Why am I lying, if it is true?”
“True! Who told you?”
“What?”
“The truth? Where did you hear it?”
“We all know. The firing goes on and nothing more.”
“All say it. A Cossack has been to the General, and …”
“Cossack! Did you see him? What is he like, this Cossack?”
“An ordinary Cossack … just as he ought to look.”
“As he ought to! What a tongue you have got—just like an old woman. Better to keep your mouth shut. No one has been, so no one could know.”
I went to Ivan Platonich. The officers were sitting fully equipped and ready, with their revolvers fastened to their waist-belts. Ivan Platonich, as usual, was red, puffing, and breathing heavily, and was wiping his neck with a dirty handkerchief. Stebelkoff was excited, bright, and for some reason had pomaded his usually drooping moustaches so that they stuck out in pointed ends.
“Look at our Lieutenant! He has got himself up for action,” said Ivan Platonich, winking at him. “Ah, my dear chap, I am sorry for you. We shall have no such moustaches in our mess! They will do for you, Stebelkoff,” said the Captain jokingly. “Well, you are not afraid?”
“I shall try not to be,” said Stebelkoff in a brave voice.
“Well, and you, you warrior, is it terrifying?”
“I don’t know, Ivan Platonich. … Has nothing been heard from there?”
“Nothing. The Lord only knows what is happening there.” Ivan Platonich sighed deeply. “We move off in an hour’s time,” he added after a short pause.
The fly of the tent opened, and the Adjutant Lukin poked his head in. He looked very serious and pale.
“You here, Ivanoff? Orders have been given to swear you in. … Not now, but when we move off. Ivan Platonich, a fifth packet of cartridges to the men.”
He refused to come in and sit down, saying that he had much to do, and went off somewhere. I also left.
About twelve o’clock dinners were served. The men ate little. After dinner we were ordered to remove our sight-protectors (leather covers) from our rifles and extra ammunition was issued. The men began to prepare for action. They commenced to examine their knapsacks and throw away anything superfluous. Torn shirts and drawers, various kinds of rags, old boots, brushes, greasy handbooks—all were thrown away. Some of the men appeared to have brought a quantity of useless things in their knapsacks as far as the Danube. I saw a “schelkun”—a small piece of wood used in time of peace before parades and reviews for polishing kit-straps—lying on the ground, heavy stone pomade jars, all sorts of small boxes and bits of boards, and even a whole boot-tree.
“Go on; throw away. It will be easier marching. We shall not want them tomorrow.”
“Five hundred versts I have carried you … and what for?” argued Lutikoff, examining some rag. “I can’t take you with me.”
It became the fashion that day to throw away things and to clean out knapsacks. When we left the camp it showed up in the dark background of the Steppe as a quadrangular space dotted with multicoloured rags and other articles.
Before marching, when the regiment was already standing waiting the word of command, several officers and our young regimental chaplain collected in front. I was called out of the ranks with four “volunteers” from other regiments. All had enlisted for the campaign. Having handed over our rifles to neighbours, we went forward and stood near the colours. My unknown comrades were in a state of agitation, and I, too, felt my heart beating faster than usual.
“Take hold of the colours,” said the battalion commandant. The colour-bearer lowered the colour and others of the colour-party removed the case. An old faded green silk fabric unfolded to the wind. We stood around it, and, grasping the pole with one hand and holding the other aloft, we repeated the words of the chaplain, as he read out the ancient military oath of Peter’s time. They recalled to me what Vassili Karpich had said on our first march. Where does it come in? thought I, and after a long list of the occasions and places on and in which His Imperial Majesty had served, I heard these words: “Do not spare your life.” We five all repeated them in one voice, and, glancing at the rows of gloomy men ready for action, I felt that they were no empty words.
We returned to our places. The regiment stirred, and dissolving into a long column, set off with forced step for the Danube. The firing which we had heard had now ceased.
As through a dream I remember that march. The dust raised by the horses of Cossack regiments as they overtook us, the broad steppes sloping down to the Danube, the opposite bank showing up blue, fifteen versts away. The fatigue, heat, and the jostling and fighting at the wells under Zimnitza. The dirty little town filled with troops, some Generals who waved their caps at us from a balcony and shouted “Hurrah!” to which we replied.
“They have crossed! They are over!” buzzed voices around us.
“Two hundred killed, five hundred wounded.”