A snowstorm came up on the pass. The huge, wet snowflakes did not drop to the ground. They got caught in the wind and drifted, on a low-altitude flight. Where the pass began to dip, the snowflakes soared upward, as if the hanging, murky clouds were already waiting for them to come back. It slowly grew light.
Sitting motionless in the saddle, the general observed as the remnants of his army laboriously descended from the pass. The horses began slipping on the icy road, scrabbling to keep their balance, sometimes sitting on their haunches. Some fell, trapping their riders beneath them and pinning them to the frozen mud. Shouts and foul language hung over the pass. Many dismounted and carefully led the horses down, holding them by the reins. ‘Motion along an inclined plane,’ was the general’s notation in the margin.
When they arrived in Yalta, the general gave everyone several hours to rest. He headed for evacuation headquarters, stationed in the Oreanda Hotel. The general carefully familiarized himself with the list of evacuated personnel and inventory of vessels. He assigned the transportable wounded to the steamship Tsesarevich Georgy. (Bela Kun would shoot the untransportable wounded two days later.) The steamship Kronshtadt, on which the Sevastopol Navy Hospital and the Mine and Artillery School were evacuating, took numerous wounded. The rest were loaded on ships with their own troop units.
There were not enough vessels. At the last minute, the transports Siam, Sedzhet, Rion, Yakut, and Almaz were added to the available tonnage. Under the general’s order, everything in the Crimean ports that was capable of staying afloat, including old barges, was made available for the needs of the evacuation. It worked out to 126 large and small vessels. The majority of them were already prepared to sail and stood at outer anchorage.
After noon, a launch was sent directly to the Oreanda and the general, accompanied by his deputy, Admiral Kutepov, headed to the anchorage. The launch went past steamships packed with people. Past barges so laden that their sides nearly dipped into the water. It was frightening to let them set sail. But it was even more frightening to keep them here.
The general climbed up a rope ladder to the cruiser General Kornilov. The crowd on deck was so dense that it was almost unable to part when the general made his appearance. As he crossed the deck, he could barely elbow his way behind the Cossacks clearing a path for him. The exact same sort of crowd languished in the hold. At least it was warmer there than on deck, but there was already a palpable stench: there was only one toilet for the entire hold. The hold’s largest compartment turned out to be under lock and key.
‘What’s in there?’ asked the general.
‘The chief quartermaster’s cabin,’ said Admiral Kutepov.
‘Open it.’
The chief quartermaster held the key but it was already impossible to find him in the crowd. The general nodded to the Cossacks and they peppered the door, hitting it with their rifles’ butt ends. A minute later, the lock and the lower hinge had been broken off. The door swung on its upper hinge with a pitiful screech and dropped. The quartermaster’s compartment was completely stuffed with expensive furniture. Mahogany cabinets stood pressed against one another. The sides of the cabinets faced those entering, but they were astoundingly beautiful even from the side, gleaming in the porthole’s scant light. This light was reflected in several Venetian mirrors arranged along the walls. There were large crates neatly stacked in the corner of the cabin; baled tablecloths lay on them, right under the ceiling.
‘Overboard,’ said the general.
He came back on deck after finishing his inspection of the cabin. The first of the cabinets had already been delivered there. The sailors rocked the item and tossed it on the count of ‘three.’ It fell into the water with a fountain of spray and stayed afloat for a time. Then it began heavily sinking, to applause on deck. As it departed for the deep, the cabinet released bubbles as if it were a live being. As the general was making his way down to the launch, two sailors dragged the quartermaster out of the hold.
‘Does this one go overboard, too?’
‘Let him live,’ said the general.
He went ashore after visiting several more ships. He asked about those who had remained on Perekop, but nobody had seen them here yet. Dusk was falling. The general dismissed the Cossacks by the entrance to the Oreanda Hotel. He went up to his room and looked out the window at the sea. He sat at the table, poured himself some cognac from a decanter, and drank it. There was a knock at the door. He had no strength to answer.
‘May I?’
Admiral Kutepov entered the room. He laid a hand on the general’s shoulder.
‘You need to get some rest. We’re sailing in the morning.’
‘The ones coming from Perekop… They still haven’t arrived,’ said the general.
‘The Red artillery will smash us to smithereens if we don’t cast off tomorrow… May I?’ The admiral took the decanter and poured himself some cognac. ‘Besides, the ones you’re speaking of…’
‘Yes?’
‘I think nothing threatens them any longer.’
The admiral emptied his glass in one gulp and was now thoroughly savoring the drink. Pursing his lips. Closing his eyes. The general drank, too. And also closed his eyes.
When he opened them, Captain Kologrivov was standing before him. The general knew he was dreaming of Kologrivov; he saw in that nothing good for Kologrivov’s fate.
‘Well, how are you doing out there?’ the general asked, looking away.
‘Nothing threatens us any longer,’ said Kologrivov. He poured himself some cognac without asking permission.
‘It’s a pity you weren’t there. This was the only chance for you to get a genuine feel for Thermopylae after all.’
‘But there were only 150 of you.’
‘And you aren’t Leonidas, either, isn’t that right? And so here, you know, it’s one thing after another.’
The general woke up shortly before dawn. What he had thought was a firm pillow turned out to be the cuff of his sleeve. He could feel the table’s velvet covering under his hand. Lights were flashing to one another in the black motionless sea outside the window; the ships at anchor were ready to sail. The general looked at his watch. A farewell prayer service was to begin on the embankment in an hour.
The commanders of the forces sailing from Yalta came for the prayer. The embankment was packed with people. At the first sounds of the service, the general sank to his knees and all the officers followed suit. The entire huge crowd also knelt. A damp sea wind whipped at the priests’ stoles and snapped the tricolored banner against the flagpole. The general attempted to understand each word of the service but was distracted, without realizing it himself. He was thinking that the evacuation could certainly have taken place even without him.
The prayer service was ending. Bestowing his blessing, the bishop sprinkled the general with holy water and several drops fell behind his collar. There was no doubt this had already happened in his life. He had happened to experience so very many unforgettable things. Raindrops running under his tunic. Standing drowsily on the bank of the Zhdanovka River. Semi-darkness. A wind just as wet. Could that water, then, be considered holy? It had fallen straight from the sky. The general fingered a pencil in his overcoat pocket. It would have been better for him to have stayed on Perekop after all. Maybe he had stayed there, though.
The general slowly rose from his knees. From the faces of those standing, he understood they had been waiting only for him.