“Look at ’em, it’s like a dam burst,” the Cossack said, stopping hopelessly. “Are there many of you there?”
“One shy of a million,” a merry soldier in a torn greatcoat, passing close by, said with a wink and vanished; after him came another old soldier.
“Once he” (he was the enemy) “starts peppering the bridge,” the old soldier said gloomily, addressing his comrade, “you’ll forget about scratching yourself.”
And the soldier passed by. After him came another soldier on a cart.
“Where the devil did you stuff those foot cloths?” said an orderly, running behind the cart and rummaging in the back.
And this one passed by with the cart.
After him came some merry and apparently tipsy soldiers.
“He just gave it to him, the dear fellow, right in the teeth with his musket butt…” one soldier in a high-tucked greatcoat said joyfully, swinging his arm widely.
“That’s it, the sweet taste of ham,” replied another with a guffaw.
And they passed by, so that Nesvitsky never learned who got it in the teeth and what the ham referred to.
“Look at ’em scurrying! He fires off a cold one, and you’d think they were all getting killed,” a warrant officer said angrily and reproachfully.
“When that cannonball went flying by me, uncle,” a young soldier with a huge mouth said, barely holding back his laughter, “I just went dead. By God, I got scared really bad!” the soldier said, as if boasting that he was scared.
And that one passed by. After him came a cart unlike all those that had driven by so far. It was a German Vorspann and pair, loaded with what seemed like a whole household; behind the Vorspann, led by a German, was tied a beautiful spotted cow with a huge udder. A woman with a nursing baby, an old woman, and a young, healthy German girl with purple-red cheeks were sitting on featherbeds. It was clear that these were local people, who had been allowed to move by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers turned to the women, and as the cart went by, moving step by step, all the soldiers’ remarks were addressed only to these two women. All the soldiers’ faces bore virtually one and the same smile of indecent thoughts about these women.
“Look, the sausage is also taking off!”
“Sell me the little lady,” another soldier said, with a stress on the last syllable, addressing the German, who, lowering his eyes, walked on with big strides, angry and frightened.
“Look how dressed up she is! The devils!”
“Nice to get billeted on them, Fedotov!”
“I should live so long, brother!”
“Where are you going?” asked an infantry officer, eating an apple, also with a half smile and looking at the beautiful girl.
The German shut his eyes to show that he did not understand.
“If you want it, take it,” said the officer, handing the apple to the girl.
The girl smiled and took it. Like everyone else on the bridge, Nesvitsky never took his eyes off the women until they had passed. Once they had passed, there again came the same soldiers, with the same talk, and finally everybody stopped. As often happens, the horses pulling the company cart balked at the exit from the bridge, and the whole crowd had to wait.
“What did they stop for? There’s no order!” said the soldiers. “What’s this shoving ahead? Devil take it! There’s such a thing as waiting. It’ll be worse if he sets fire to the bridge. See, even the officer got shoved aside,” the halted crowds were saying on different sides, looking at each other, and still pressing forward towards the exit.
Having looked under the bridge at the waters of the Enns, Nesvitsky suddenly heard a sound still new to him, the swift approach of…something big, and something splashed into the water.
“See what he’s fixing on!” a soldier standing nearby said sternly, turning towards the sound.
“He’s hustling us so we’ll cross quicker,” another said uneasily.
The crowd started moving again. Nesvitsky realized that it was a cannonball.
“Hey, Cossack, my horse!” he said. “Hey, you! Aside, step aside! make way!”
With great effort he reached his horse. Shouting constantly, he began to move ahead. The soldiers pressed back to let him pass, then pressed together again so hard that his leg was squashed, and those closest to him were not to blame, for they were pressed still harder.
“Nesvitsky! Nesvitsky! You rascal!” a hoarse voice came from behind just then.
Nesvitsky turned and saw, fifteen paces away, separated from him by the living mass of moving infantry, red, black, disheveled, his peaked cap pushed back, his dolman thrown dashingly over his shoulder—Vaska Denisov.
“Tell these damned devils to clear the road!” shouted Denisov, obviously in a fit of temper, his coal-black eyes with bloodshot whites rolling and shining, and waving his sheathed saber, which he held in a small, bare hand as red as his face.
“Hey! Vasya!” Nesvitsky replied joyfully. “What’s the matter?”
“The squadron can’t pass,” shouted Vaska Denisov, angrily baring his white teeth, spurring his handsome raven-black Bedouin, who, twitching his ears from running into bayonets, snorting, spraying foam around him from his bit, jingling, stamped his hooves on the planks of the bridge and seemed ready to jump over the railing if his rider would let him.
“What is this? like sheep! just like sheep! Away!…clear the road! Wait, you there! you with the cart, you devil! I’ll take my sword to you!” he shouted, actually drawing his saber and beginning to wave it.
The soldiers pressed close together with frightened faces, and Denisov joined Nesvitsky.
“How is it you’re not drunk today?” Nesvitsky said to Denisov, when he rode up to him.
“They don’t even give us time to drink!” replied Vaska Denisov. “They drag the regiment here and there all day. If it’s fighting, it’s fighting. Or else devil knows what it is!”
“What a dandy you are today!” said Nesvitsky, looking over his new dolman and saddlecloth.
Denisov smiled, took from his pouch a handkerchief that gave off a smell of scent, and put it to Nesvitsky’s nose.
“Have to be, I’m going into action! Shaved, brushed my teeth, and doused myself with scent.”
The stately figure of Nesvitsky, accompanied by the Cossack, and the resoluteness of Denisov, waving his saber and shouting desperately, had such an effect that they pushed through to the other end of the bridge and stopped the infantry. At the exit Nesvitsky found the colonel to whom he was to give the order, and, having fulfilled his mission, rode back again.
Having cleared the road, Denisov stopped at the entrance to the bridge. Casually holding back his stallion, who was straining towards his fellows and stamping his foot, he looked at the squadron that was moving towards him. The transparent sounds of hooves rang out on the planks of the bridge, as if several horses were galloping, and the squadron, with officers in front, four men abreast, stretched across the bridge and began to come out on the other side.
The halted infantry soldiers, crowding in the trampled mud by the bridge, gazed at the clean, foppish hussars going past them in order, with that special feeling of ill will, alienation, and mockery with which different branches of the military usually meet each other.
“Spruced-up lads! Fit for the fairground!”
“What’s the good of them! They’re only led around for show!” said another.