The Playground of Satan Part 42

"One is to arrive from Warsaw," persisted the Jew. "It will take the rest of the wounded and such of the citizens as want to go."

"Who said so?"

"Our Rabbi."

"What does he know about it?"

"He had it from the transport officer."

Ostap, listening, looked at the Jew with mingled scorn, wonder and admiration.

"You Jews are strange people," was his verdict. "Here have we been trying to get information from the authorities for half an hour, one a great gentleman in these parts, the other a Cossack officer anxious to rejoin his troop, and n.o.body will give us a good word. Yet this Jew horse-dealer here knows everything."

"He may be wrong," said Ian. "They often are."

"But I am right," said Hermann. "You'll see for yourself I am right if you wait in the station. Meanwhile, I must go, for a messenger calls me home." And off he went.

Ostap looked down the forlorn road which led from the station to the town and pointed to a Red Cross flag flying from a distant building.

"There are wounded left. Our people will try to get them away. We may not have to tramp after all. I'll go to that transport officer again."

"Don't. He'll only swear at you. Let us get on the train, if it comes, without asking anybody's leave."

Ostap gave him a quick look of alarm; he had spoken in a listless tone the Cossack heard from him for the first time since they met.

"You're ill?"

"Nothing. A pain in my side and the devil's own thirst."

"It's the broken ribs. Go to one of the hospital tents and get a bandage put around you. It helps a lot."

"They've something else to do than see to a trifle like that. I'll go and get a drink." And he rose from a trunk, abandoned by some hasty traveler, which stood near the station steps.

"Good. Do you go get your drink at the station pump and await me.

There must be food in this town and I mean to have it."

Ian produced a banknote, but the other waved it aside.

"No. Let this be my meal. Besides, I don't count to spend money." And he hurried down the forlorn road.

Ian went to the pump, slaked his thirst with its cool water, soused his head and began to feel better. The long summer twilight still lingered and, as he sat down on the bank, he saw a vaguely familiar figure come towards him. It was a Cossack, grizzled, thin as a rake, hard as nails.

As the newcomer began to work the pump he recognized the bluff colonel who had refused to have him as a volunteer at the beginning of the war.

He waited till the man had drunk and washed, baring himself to the waist, showing strong muscles that stood out from his fair skin and a large scar on his right arm. Then he said:

"Are you still refusing volunteers?"

The Cossack turned sharply.

"Who the devil are you?" was his greeting.

"Do you remember a Polish squire who asked for a commission at the beginning of the war?"

"No," he grunted, drying himself as best he might with a bandana handkerchief he pulled out of his wide trouser-leg. But it was a hopeless business so he gave it up, walking about and waving his arms.

"You said I was too fat."

"You don't look it."

"And too old."

"Older, better men than you are strewing the fields to-night."

"Do you want volunteers now?"

At this the Cossack turned upon him, rage, mortification and sorrow choking his voice, so that it came harsh and thick.

"Want!" he cried. "I want guns, gun-fodder, batteries, honesty. I want to sweep out all those German-sp.a.w.ned traitors at Petrograd. I want to clean out the ministries, put honest soldiers there instead of the breed of thieves and liars. Want, indeed! Russia wants everything.

Everything! Where are my men? Where to G.o.d are the three thousand Cossacks I led from the Don? There! There!" He thrust his bare, muscular arms towards the west. "Carrion," he cried, with a half-stifled sob. "Not killed in fair fight. Never a one of them. But murdered; yes, murdered by a horde of thieves in Petrograd, who sent me promises for guns, empty words for muskets, champagne for shrapnel! Oh, think of it! The flower of the Don Troop, crying for the wherewithal to fight, beating off the Germans with sticks we tore from the trees, with never a musket, never a gas-mask, nothing but corruption and treachery, bought with German gold. Oh, my heart bursts with the burden of it! All my good Cossacks flung into the cannon's mouth, belching forth fire, whilst we had nothing, nothing!"

He broke off, tore up and down, muttering like a wounded lion.

"And they died like dogs! For this!" His arms swept the desolate landscape. "For rapine and retreat! For burning corn and ruined farmsteads! To leave the Lakes of Masuria; to leave the Vistula, the Dneiper, the Niemen and G.o.d knows what besides!"

He stopped, overcome with his emotion, strode back to the pump, let a stream of water flow over his grizzled head, gave a gigantic sigh and relapsed into silence. And thus they stayed together for some time. Ian did not even try to comfort him; what solace could he offer when he knew that those bitter words were all too true? The Cossack spoke first.

"A cigarette," he demanded.

Ian handed him the packet which Healy had brought up to the train. He took a couple, threw back the rest, and asked for matches. It was now almost dark and in the light of the little flame he scanned Ian's face.

"I remember you," he said when his cigarette was half smoked through.

"You talked of shooting quail on the wing and wanted to shoot me."

"Not quite. But I was sore because you wouldn't have me."

"It was all so different then. Eh, G.o.d! What a fool I was to believe in that lying, thieving horde at Petrograd! Petrograd forsooth! They might as well have kept it Petersburg, for all the Germans that are in it still. Phew! I spit on these politicians!" And he did so.

"Russia is wide," said Ian.

"Wide and bungling! With a little order, a little honesty we should have been in Berlin long ago. G.o.d! How they ran from the Lakes of Masuria! How they scuttled like geese before our Cossack spears! And then our supplies gave out, and none were forthcoming, Oh, the Empire is a prey to a horde of thieves. Many defeats await us yet. By the way, you spoke of your country house and your lady mother and your forests, when in Warsaw. What of them?"

Briefly Ian told him.

"Ay. The same story everywhere. And I thought I'd be coming to you with German booty," he remarked sadly. "It made my heart bleed to see the fugitives. But you may be glad your womenfolk got safely away. And what will you do now?"

"Fight. Won't you take me in your regiment?"

"Regiment!" the other echoed bitterly, beating his chest "I am the regiment."