The detachment finally came to a halt. The clatter of soldiers and shouts of orders echoed across the quiet plain. After a quick glance at his troops, the General dismounted. An old mossy stone wall ran through the road for a few yards. He leaned against it, out of sight of his men. A wind from the Urals had risen over the Volga. The General sighed with emotion, his face in the breeze. He closed his eyes for a few moments, allowing the icy fingers of the wind to stroke his face. In an eager rush, he unfolded his leather notebook and read Blok once more:
Our road – lies through the steppe – and endless
anguish, your anguish, Russia!
And I no longer even fear, the dark of night.
that lies beyond the border.
A long shiver forced him to pull his cloak tighter around him.
“Petrokhov!" he called loudly, lighting a cigarette from a small iron box.
His young adjutant rushed over, adjusting the ermine cap that threatened to fall from his head. He wondered why he had allowed this clumsy boy to serve him. “His father begged me” he thought, remembering how he came to meet prince B*** at court. All these details seem to belong to another time.
“Your Excellency?”
“All the troops have stopped, haven't they?” “No, Your Excellency, the group led by
Sergeant Piotr Andreivitch has not yet joined us.”
He shook his head in agreement. No wonder they hadn’t arrived yet. The column was so long that it took the last of his troops an hour to join the rest. "6 versts at the most." He was right on time, perfectly executed as usual. He tossed the cigarette and crushed it between two tufts of grass, then turned to his adjutant who was waiting patiently for his order.
“Send for Nikolai Sebastianovitch.”
The young soldier nodded respectfully. Once he was alone, his eyes wandered over the landscape that surrounded the detachment. Plains swollen by the early spring wind, green heath with golden reflections. There were no trees in sight and the ground they had trampled was muddy from the recent rains. Yet the wind still carried its winter breath. A clump of wild roses twirling around the wall reminded him of Natasha Pavlovna. Bitter tears flooded her cheeks when she understood the cause of his unusual joy.
On a bright June morning, he had reluctantly strolled down Povarskaya to return the countess’s letters. “Leaving. Always, leaving” she sobbed in a childlike voice before falling to her knees. Ah, Natasha’s fair cheeks. He almost regretted her.
The silence of the steppe echoed the footsteps of Sergeant Nikolai Sebastianovitch Tversky, walking down the road. With his phlegmatic stride and the unique smile of a charming man who loves women, he joined his General on the wall. "No war for him. He is a bloody courtier" he thought as he handed Tversky a cigarette fresh from its tin case and lit one for himself.
“Piotr hasn't found us yet,” he said, unhooking the dirty scarf around his neck with a nimble finger. “We'll leave as soon as the column is complete. How far away is the next village?”
“Six versts at the most," Nikolai replied, unfolding an old worn map.
He placed his bruised finger on a circled point on the map.
“Assuming it still exists.”
The General took a long puff of smoke and stared out over the deserted plains. They finished smoking in silence, glancing occasionally at the scattered columns.
“What are you thinking about, comrade? Surely, you'd rather be in the warmth of your castle than among these wretched souls.”
The General looked up gravely, his faded green eyes sparking with emotion.
“I have no other memories than those my little mother gave me.”
Sebastianovitch placed a respectful hand on his heart. “The scouts are coming back, General”
The young soldier panting from his long run, jumped to his feet.
“General! Sergeant Piotr Andreivitch was wounded. His troops were attacked by the Tsar's soldiers.”
“How many were there?" cried Sebastianovitch, grabbing the boy by the arm.
“No one could tell! A lightning attack. I was allowed into his tent to give this to you.”
He held out a folded piece of paper, soaked in sweat and dust. The General looked through it calmly. “Your Excellence, Andreivitch is sure. They were not the Tsar’s. He says they did not intend to attack all the columns.”
“An ambush by marauders? In these parts? No, General. White officers are massing in the forest. They wait patiently in remote places to attack those who pass.”
The General folded the missive and walked briskly up the sent. With a loud voice and an authoritative wave of his hand, he called his groom. He had almost reached his horse when he noticed several infantrymen sitting casually, one of whom was laughing particularly loudly. With an angry kick, he grabbed him by the collar and lifted him to his feet.
“Double the guards on the flanks of the column. You'll be up all night. If you ever fall asleep, your eyes will open at your Maker.”
He glanced at all the soldiers on alert. A hand brushed his arm. The next thing he knew, he was pointing his rifle at Nikolai's face. It took a few seconds for him to recognize his lieutenant. Nicolai Sebastianovitch raised both hands harmlessly.
“The fate of Russia depends on my joining forces with Mikhailov,” he hissed in the sergeant's face. I am its salvation. Sergeant, gather your troops.”
Fearing another outburst of rage, the General's tent was erected as quickly as the orderlies could. A camp bed had been set up not far from the hearth. The General, his head in his hands, had called for Tverskov. His long coat lay on the floor, and he wore nothing but a light shirt in the coldness of the night. Sitting at an unsteady camp table, he nervously tapped a spot on the map. His sergeant almost stepped on his budenovka as he took a seat in front of him. An oil lamp shone dimly on the two men. After wiping his face with both hands, he finally looked into his lieutenant’s eyes.
‘I take comfort in many truths, Kolya. For I know that only certainty can light the way. The night entering the day is a certainty. The day fading into the night is a certainty. Where do we get certainty, you ask? From our foreheads.’
His sergeant stifled a chuckle. But gently, the General laid icy fingers on Nicolai's hand and locked feverish eyes.
“No, don’t laugh dear Kolya. My fate, your fate. They’re both written on our foreheads, don’t you see?”
Mechanically, he took a cigarette from its case and raised it to his lips without lighting it. He could not fathom the carelessness of Nikolai. It almost made him feel sick.
“If your forehead says that you are a weakling, there is glory for you in this life. But mine is high and proud. And unlike Blok who bowed to the feebleness of his will I do not believe that,
“I – I am not the first warrior, nor the last,
the Motherland’s illness will be long.””
A firefly flew across the table. The General caught it between his two fingers and crushed it distractedly. Nicolai could laugh as he wished. For his part, he had already embraced his fate. What cause was purer than to relinquish your entire being? To sacrifice your violent desires, your arms, legs, and ears. To offer a weak soul to Love.
“No, it isn’t love if I can’t conceive it; he mumbled as the fever grew more intense. It must be far more supreme. Oh, take Me then!”.
As far as he could remember, he had never melted into a higher purpose. The flesh had been his only source of content and had begotten even more unreliable desires. But now, he understood. Should he fail to see the purpose of his endeavors because of Piotr? This ungifted drunkard whom God never looked at when he was born. No halo was crowning his forehead! He chuckled, merely aware of Nicolai’s alarmed gaze. No one could understand his own certainty. Because he had been bestowed the ultimate grace, he had to keep it a secret to mortal beings. He was God’s wrath on earth.
“I am the salvation, dearest Kolya. For I know that the All-Mighty has chosen me and I have chosen you. Why else would my soul be bewitched? Here, surrounded by the plains of my beloved. I hear the Lord’s call even clearer. You’ll hear it too.”
“We move on” the voice says in my head. “And “he” slows us down”.
He lit a cigarette.
“Sergeant.”
Tverskov stiffened immediately.
“Go and 'enquire' about Piotr Andreivitch. The troops leave before dawn.”
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