Page 407 of 470
“Well, now he’ll come away,” Ptya thought every moment as he stood by the campfire listening to the talk.
But Dlokhov restarted the conversation which had dropped and began putting direct questions as to how many men there were in the battalion, how many battalions, and how many prisoners. Asking about the Russian prisoners with that detachment, Dlokhov said:
“A horrid business dragging these corpses about with one! It would be better to shoot such rabble,” and burst into loud laughter, so strange that Ptya thought the French would immediately detect their disguise, and involuntarily took a step back from the campfire.
No one replied a word to Dlokhov’s laughter, and a French officer whom they could not see (he lay wrapped in a greatcoat) rose and whispered something to a companion. Dlokhov got up and called to the soldier who was holding their horses.
“Will they bring our horses or not?” thought Ptya, instinctively drawing nearer to Dlokhov.
The horses were brought.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Dlokhov.
Ptya wished to say “Good night” but could not utter a word. The officers were whispering together. Dlokhov was a long time mounting his horse which would not stand still, then he rode out of the yard at a footpace. Ptya rode beside him, longing to look round to see whether or not the French were running after them, but not daring to.
Coming out onto the road Dlokhov did not ride back across the open country, but through the village. At one spot he stopped and listened. “Do you hear?” he asked. Ptya recognized the sound of Russian voices and saw the dark figures of Russian prisoners round their campfires. When they had descended to the bridge Ptya and Dlokhov rode past the sentinel, who without saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then they descended into the hollow where the Cossacks awaited them.
“Well now, good-by. Tell Densov, ‘at the first shot at daybreak,’” said Dlokhov and was about to ride away, but Ptya seized hold of him.
“Really!” he cried, “you are such a hero! Oh, how fine, how splendid! How I love you!”
“All right, all right!” said Dlokhov. But Ptya did not let go of him and Dlokhov saw through the gloom that Ptya was bending toward him and wanted to kiss him. Dlokhov kissed him, laughed, turned his horse, and vanished into the darkness.
Having returned to the watchman’s hut, Ptya found Densov in the passage. He was awaiting Ptya’s return in a state of agitation, anxiety, and self-reproach for having let him go.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “Yes, thank God!” he repeated, listening to Ptya’s rapturous account. “But, devil take you, I haven’t slept because of you! Well, thank God. Now lie down. We can still get a nap before morning.”
“But... no,” said Ptya, “I don’t want to sleep yet. Besides I know myself, if I fall asleep it’s finished. And then I am used to not sleeping before a battle.”
He sat awhile in the hut joyfully recalling the details of his expedition and vividly picturing to himself what would happen next day.
Then, noticing that Densov was asleep, he rose and went out of doors.
It was still quite dark outside. The rain was over, but drops were still falling from the trees. Near the watchman’s hut the black shapes of the Cossacks’ shanties and of horses tethered together could be seen. Behind the hut the dark shapes of the two wagons with their horses beside them were discernible, and in the hollow the dying campfire gleamed red. Not all the Cossacks and hussars were asleep; here and there, amid the sounds of falling drops and the munching of the horses near by, could be heard low voices which seemed to be whispering.
Ptya came out, peered into the darkness, and went up to the wagons. Someone was snoring under them, and around them stood saddled horses munching their oats. In the dark Ptya recognized his own horse, which he called “Karabkh” though it was of Ukranian breed, and went up to it.
“Well, Karabkh! We’ll do some service tomorrow,” said he, sniffing its nostrils and kissing it.
“Why aren’t you asleep, sir?” said a Cossack who was sitting under a wagon.
“No, ah... Likhachv—isn’t that your name? Do you know I have only just come back! We’ve been into the French camp.”
And Ptya gave the Cossack a detailed account not only of his ride but also of his object, and why he considered it better to risk his life than to act “just anyhow.”
“Well, you should get some sleep now,” said the Cossack.
“No, I am used to this,” said Ptya. “I say, aren’t the flints in your pistols worn out? I brought some with me. Don’t you want any? You can have some.”
The Cossack bent forward from under the wagon to get a closer look at Ptya.
“Because I am accustomed to doing everything accurately,” said Ptya. “Some fellows do things just anyhow, without preparation, and then they’re sorry for it afterwards. I don’t like that.”
“Just so,” said the Cossack.
“Oh yes, another thing! Please, my dear fellow, will you sharpen my saber for me? It’s got bl...” (Ptya feared to tell a lie, and the saber never had been sharpened.) “Can you do it?”
“Of course I can.”
Likhachv got up, rummaged in his pack, and soon Ptya heard the warlike sound of steel on whetstone. He climbed onto the wagon and sat on its edge. The Cossack was sharpening the saber under the wagon.
“I say! Are the lads asleep?” asked Ptya.
“Some are, and some aren’t—like us.”
“Well, and that boy?”
“Vesnny? Oh, he’s thrown himself down there in the passage. Fast asleep after his fright. He was that glad!”
After that Ptya remained silent for a long time, listening to the sounds. He heard footsteps in the darkness and a black figure appeared.
“What are you sharpening?” asked a man coming up to the wagon.
“Why, this gentleman’s saber.”
“That’s right,” said the man, whom Ptya took to be an hussar. “Was the cup left here?”
“There, by the wheel!”
The hussar took the cup.
“It must be daylight soon,” said he, yawning, and went away.
