VIII
It was already dark when, having come down from the bank, we crossed a tributary of the Danube by a small bridge, and marched over a low sandy island still wet from the water which had but just receded from it. I remember the sharp clank of the bayonets of the soldiers as the men collided with each other in the darkness, the deep rumble of the artillery which had overtaken us, the black expanse of the wide river, the lights on the other bank, where we had to cross tomorrow, and where, I reflected, tomorrow would be a fresh battle. … Better not to think, better to sleep, I decided, and laid down on the watery sand.
The sun was already high when I opened my eyes. Troops, transport, and parks were swarming over the sandy shore. At the very edge of the water they had already dug out gun-pits and trenches for the riflemen. Across the Danube, on its steep cliff could be discerned gardens and vineyards in which our troops swarmed. Behind these the land rose higher and higher, abruptly restricting the horizon. To the right, three versts from us, and showing white on the hills, were the houses and minarets of Sistovo. A steamer with a barge in tow was transferring battalion after battalion to the other side. On our side a little torpedo-boat was noisily blowing off steam.
“A successful crossing, Vladimir Mikhailich,” said Feodoroff to me gaily.
“The same to you. Only we have not crossed yet.”
“We shall directly. Look; the steamer will soon take us over. They say a Turkish ironclad is not far away. This little samovar is ready for it.” He pointed to the torpedo-boat.
“Great God! but what a number have been killed,” he continued, changing his tone. “They are already bringing and bringing them over from that side. …”
And he related to me the well-known details of the Battle of Sistovo.
“Now it is our turn. We shall cross over to that side. … The Turks will attack us. … Well, anyhow, we have had a respite. We at least are alive, but those there …” He nodded his head to a group of men and officers standing not far from us, who were crowded round some object not visible to us at which they were all gazing.
“What is it?”
“They have brought over our killed. Go and look, Mikhailich. How terrible!”
I went up to the group. All were silent, and with heads bared were gazing at the bodies lying side by side on the sand. Ivan Platonich, Stebelkoff, and Ventzel were also there. Ivan Platonich was frowning angrily, clearing his throat and breathing heavily. Stebelkoff, with frank horror, was stretching out his thin neck. Ventzel was standing wrapped in thought.
There were two of them lying on the sand. One was a full-grown, handsome Guardsman of the Finland Regiment, from the Composite Guards half-company—the same half-company which had lost half its strength during the attack. He had been wounded in the stomach, and must have suffered long agonies before he died. Suffering had left a faint impression of something spiritual, had left a shadow of refinement and something painfully tender on his face. His eyes were closed, and his arms were crossed on his chest. Had he himself adopted this position before death, or had his comrade tended him? His appearance did not excite terror or revulsion, but only infinite pity for the life so full of energy which had perished.
Ivan Platonich bent over the body and taking up the man’s cap lying near the head, read on the peak, “Ivan Jurenko, 3rd Company.” “The poor chap was a Little Russian,” he said quietly. It recalled to me my birthplace, the warm wind of the Steppe, the village nestling in the ravine, the gullies, the overgrow willows, the little white mud hut with its red shutters. … Who is waiting you there?
The other was a linesman of the Volhynia Regiment. Death had taken him suddenly. He was running madly to the attack, breathless from shouting. The bullet had struck the bridge of his nose and had penetrated into his head, leaving a black gaping wound. He lay with wide-opened eyes, now dimmed, with gaping mouth, and face already discoloured, but still distorted with rage.
“They have paid their accounts,” said Ivan Platonich; “they are in peace and want nothing more.”
He turned away. The soldiers hurriedly parted to let him through. I and Stebelkoff followed him. Ventzel caught us up.
“Well, Ivanoff,” he said, “did you see?”
“I have seen, Peter Nicolaievitch,” I replied.
“And what did you think as you looked at them?” he inquired moodily.
A sudden rage rose within me against this man and a mad desire to say something hard to him.
“Much. And most of all I thought that they were no longer ‘food for powder,’ that they no longer needed welding and discipline, and that nobody would now bully them for the sake of this welding. I thought that they are no longer soldiers, no longer subordinates,” I said in a trembling voice—“they are men!”
Ventzel’s eyes flashed, A sound came from his throat and broke off. No doubt he wished to answer me, but once more restrained himself. He walked by my side with lowered head, and after taking a few paces, not looking at me, said:
“Yes, Ivanoff, you are right. … They are men. … Dead men.”