Knight Without Armour (18 page)

A.J. went to sleep almost instantly and knew nothing thenceforward till he
felt himself being energetically shaken. “What’s the
matter?” he cried, rubbing his eyes and groping for his revolver. It
was still dark and all was perfectly silent except for the scurry of
cockroaches disturbed by his sudden movement. “It’s only me,
brother—Dorenko the woodcutter,” came a hoarse whisper a few
inches from his right ear. “I waited till your daughter was asleep so
that we could have a little talk together in private.”

“But I’m really far too sleepy to talk—”

“Ah, but listen, brother. You are a poor man, are you
not?”

“Certainly, but does it matter at this time of night?”

“It matters a great deal when you have to tramp the roads with a
poor sick daughter. She looked so very tired and ill to-night,
brother—it’s plain she isn’t used to walking the
roads.”

“Of course she isn’t—as I told you, she’s been
used to a much more delicate life.”

“In a fine house no doubt, eh, brother? Ah, that’s
it—it’s a home she wants—a roof over her head—not to
be tramping the roads all day long. And you—wouldn’t you be able
to get to Petrograd quicker without her? After all, a man can rough things,
but it’s different when he has a girl dragging along with him.”
He added in a fierce whisper: “Brother, haven’t you ever thought
of her getting married to some decent hardworking fellow who, maybe, has a
comfortable house and a bit of money put away? I’m a good fellow, I
assure you, though I am only a woodcutter, and to tell the truth, your
daughter’s just the kind of woman I’ve been looking out for ever
since my poor wife died. And you shall have a hundred silver roubles for
yourself, brother, if you give her to me.”

A.J. was still too sleepy to be either amused or annoyed. He said merely:
“Dorenko, it’s quite out of the question. My daughter, I know,
wouldn’t consider it.”

“But if, as her father, you ordered her to?”

“She wouldn’t, even then.”

“She would disobey you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Ah, I sympathise. My own daughter was like that—disobedient
to her own father. It is a dreadful thing to have children like that. All the
same, brother, I will make it a hundred and fifty roubles for you if you
could manage to persuade her.”

“No, Dorenko, it’s no use—it’s
impossible.”

“Not because I am only a woodcutter?”

“Oh no, by no means. Not in the least for that reason.”

“Ah, Peter Petrovitch, you are a good fellow like myself, I can see.
It is a pity we could not have come to some arrangement. However, perhaps it
is God’s will that I should look elsewhere. Good-night—Good-
night.”

A.J. was soon asleep again and did not wake till the sunlight was pouring
through the narrow window. Dorenko was already up and preparing a breakfast
meal. He did not refer to the matter he had broached during the night, and
after a homely meal the two travellers thanked him and set out to continue
their journey. A.J. would have liked to offer him money, but that such
generosity would not have suited the story of being poor.

Dorenko had given them directions before starting, telling them how they
might travel so as to avoid the village which the soldiers had raided, and
reach another less dangerous one by the end of the day. The route led them
through the forest for several miles and then along a narrow winding track
amidst the hills. It was again very hot in the middle of the day. They slept
for a time in the shade of the pines, and then, towards evening, walked into
a small town named Saratursk, whose market-place was full of Red soldiers,
bedraggled and badly disciplined after long marches. It was hardly likely
that they could be bothering about a casual forest murder, for much more
serious events had happened during the past twenty-four hours. The Whites and
the Czecho-Slovaks, acting together, had crossed the Urals and were reported
in rapid invasion; the entire Revolution seemed in danger. All day long a
steadily increasing stream of refugees had been entering Saratursk from the
east; A.J. and Daly were but two out of thousands, and quite inconspicuous.
They found it impossible to obtain any food except black bread at an
extortionate price, and every room in the town was full of sleepers.
Fortunately the night was warm, and it was not unpleasant to spread out
one’s bundle on the cobbled stones and breathe the mountainy air.
Sleep, however, was interrupted by the constant noise and shouting; fresh
detachments of soldiers were entering the town from the west and south and
reuniting with their comrades already in possession. They were a
fierce-looking crowd, all of them, dressed in shabby, tattered, and
nondescript uniforms—dirty, unkempt, heavy with fatigue. They had no
obvious leaders, but throughout the night they held meetings in the
market-square to elect new officers. There was much fervid oratory and
cheering. The news of the White advance had put them in considerable
consternation, for they themselves were badly armed—only one man in
five or six possessing a rifle. The rest carried swords, knives, and even
sticks. Some of them had been dragged out of hospitals too soon, and still
wore dirty red-stained bandages. This curious, slatternly throng was, for the
moment, all that stood between Moscow and counter-revolution.

All night long the hubbub proceeded, and soon after dawn
something—but it was not clear exactly what—was decided upon. A
few squads of men marched out of the town to the east; the rest, apparently,
were to follow later. But shortly afterwards came a sharp outbreak of
rifle-fire among the hills behind the town, and in less than an hour the
original squads returned in a condition bordering on panic. The hills, they
reported, were already in the hands of White outposts; Saratursk must be
abandoned instantly. Whereupon soldiers, civilians, and refugees immediately
gathered up as many of their personal possessions as they could and took part
in a furious stampede to the west. The road was narrow—no more than a
mere track—and military wagons jammed and collided into an immovable
obstruction during the first quarter-mile. The wagons were full of ammunition
and other military equipment, and after a vain attempt to disentangle the
chaos the soldiers unloaded the stores and carried them forward on their
backs. The sun rose blindingly on weary men staggering ahead with glazed and
desperate eyes, straining the utmost nerve to put distance between themselves
and a relentless enemy. Some of them, tired of scuffles in the roadway, took
to the open fields and blundered on, with no guide to direction save the
blaze of the sun on their backs. All through the morning came intermittent
bursts of rifle-fire, each one rather nearer, it seemed; and there was a
fresh outbreak of panic when a small child, fleeing with her parents, was
struck and slightly injured by a spent bullet. Towards noon the rout was
already becoming more than many could endure; refugees and even soldiers were
collapsing by dozens along the roadside, throwing themselves face downwards
in the dust and writhing convulsively. Some of them seemed to be dying, and
there were rumours that White spies in Saratursk had put poison in the
drinking-water from which many of the fugitives had filled their bottles.

A.J., hastening onwards, felt suddenly very ill himself. Severe internal
pains gripped him, and at last he guessed that he was on the verge of
collapse. He staggered and fell, tried to rise again, but could not; all the
earth and the wide sky swam in circles before his eyes. He had to say:
“I can’t go on any further. I’m ill.” And to himself
he added that Fate, after all, was giving her the chance she had been wishing
for; she could escape now, quite easily, and he had no power to stop her.

He knew that she was raising his head and staring into his eyes. “Is
there anything I can do?” she asked.

“Nothing at all for me. But for yourself—well, you have only
to go back into Saratursk and meet your friends.”

“They’ll find me here if I stay.”

“Yes, but in that case they’d find me, too, and I don’t
fancy being taken prisoner. Besides, there’s bound to be firing along
this road. Take the papers out of my coat—they’ll prove who you
are.”

“And yourself?”

“I shall manage, I daresay, with luck.”

“You want me to leave you here?”

“I think you ought to take the chance that offers itself. If you
stay, there’ll only be greater danger to both of us. So go
now—and hurry. Don’t forget the papers.”

“You are letting me go, then?”

“Circumstances compel me, that’s all.”

“It—it is—good of you. I hope you manage yourself all
right.”

“Most probably I shall if I’m not found with you. Take the
papers.”

“Good-bye.”

“Yes, but the papers—the papers—in the lining of my
coat.”

He felt her hands searching him; he heard her say something, but he could
not gather what—he was fast sinking into unconsciousness. Ages seemed
to pass; at intervals he opened his eyes and heard great commotion proceeding
all around and over him. Successive waves of pain assaulted and left him
gasping with weakness. It was dark when he finally awoke. Pain was ebbing by
then, and his strength with it. Queer sounds still echoed in his
ears—murmurs as of distant shouting, distant rifle-fire. The starlight
shone a pale radiance over the earth; he saw that he was lying in a sort of
gully and that, a few yards away, there was something that looked like
another man. He called ‘Hello!’ but there was no answer. Perhaps
the fellow was asleep. He was suddenly anxious to meet somebody, to speak a
word to somebody. There had been a battle, he guessed, and it would be
interesting to learn whether the Whites or the Reds had been victorious. It
hardly seemed to matter very much, but, just out of curiosity, as it were, he
would like to know. And Daly, his prisoner, had she by now been safely
received and identified by her friends?…God, how thirsty he was—he
would offer that man some money in return for a drink of anything but
poisoned water. Slowly, and with greater difficulty than he had expected, he
crawled along the gully towards the huddled figure. Then he perceived that
the man was dead—killed by a smashing blow in the face. That, for all
that he had seen so many dead bodies in his time, unnerved him a little; he
stared round him a little vaguely, as if uncertain how to interpret the
discovery. Then he rose unsteadily to his feet and began to stagger about. He
climbed on to the roadway and up the sloping bank on to the pale stubble
fields. He walked a little way—a few hundred yards—and then saw
another dead man. Then another. A man with his head nearly blown off at close
range. A man huddled in the final writhings of a bayonet-thrust through the
stomach. A man covered with blood from a drained and severed artery. Most of
the dead, from their uniforms, were Reds; a few only could have belonged to
the other side. Sickly qualms overspread him as he wandered aimlessly among
these huddled figures. Then he suddenly heard a cry. It seemed to come from a
distance; he turned slightly and heard it again. “Brother!” it
called. He walked towards it. “What is it?” he whispered, and the
reply came: “Are you not wounded,
brother?”—“No,” he answered, and the voice rejoined:
“Neither am I. Come here.”

He approached a prostrate form that proved to be a Red soldier whose face
was ghastly with congealed blood. Only, as the man explained with immediate
cheerfulness, it was not his own blood. “Brother,” he said,
“I am an old soldier and I know from experience what war is like. It is
all very fine if you are winning easily, but it is unpleasant when you are
being attacked by a much stronger enemy. The best thing to do at such a time,
in my opinion, is to fall down and pretend to be dead. Then, if you are
lucky, the enemy doesn’t bother about you. I have saved my life three
times by this method—twice with the Germans and once again today. I
suppose you too, brother, did the same?”

“No,” answered A.J. “I fell ill in the morning and
that’s all I remember.”

“Ah, yes, it happened to so many of our poor fellows. Some White spy
poisoned the water in Saratursk—a disgusting way of carrying on war, I
call it. Not that I’m tremendously against the Whites—I believe
they give their soldiers very good pay. For myself, I have a great mind to go
into Saratursk to-morrow and join them. Do you feel like coming with me,
brother?”

“No, thanks.”

“Mind you, I wouldn’t do it if the Reds were as generous. I
really
prefer
the Reds, really. But a soldier’s job, after all,
is to fight, and if he gets good food and pay, why should he bother what side
he fights on? It isn’t for him to pick and choose. That’s how I
feel about it. Would you like something to eat, brother?”

“I should indeed.”

“Then sit here with me. I have some bread and a sausage. I’m
afraid I was rather scared at first when I woke up and saw you walking about.
I thought you were a ghost—they say there are ghosts that haunt
battlefields, you know. Yes, it was a sharp little fight, but our men stood
no chance at all—every man on the other side had a rifle and
ammunition. It was ridiculous to make a stand.”

“Where are the Whites now?”

“Still chasing our poor fellows, I expect. Whereas you and I, my
friend, have had the sense to let them pass over us. We are all right. Two
hours’ walk and we shall be in the woods, and an army corps
wouldn’t find us there. Do you know this part of the
country?”

“Not very well.”

“Then after our little meal I will take you along. Perhaps, after
all, I need not be in any hurry to enlist with the Whites. A few days’
rest first of all, anyhow. We have three hours vet before dawn. If we hurry
we shall reach the woods in good time.”

They ate quickly but with enjoyment, and then began the walk over the
stubble fields. During the first mile or so they passed many dead bodies, but
after that the signs of battle grew less evident. They avoided the road,
along which White military wagons were still tearing westward in the rear of
the pursuing army. A.J. wondered if there were not some danger of their being
found and taken prisoner, but his companion, whose name was Oblimov, seemed
quite confident of being able to reach the hills in safety. He had thrown
away his soldier’s cap and the rest of his clothing was certainly so
nondescript that it could convey little to any observer.
“Besides,” he said, “if anyone questions us, we can say we
are White refugees returning to our homes.”