Knight Without Armour

“In a fine house no doubt, eh, brother? Ah, that’s it—it’s a home she wants—a roof over her head—not to be tramping the roads all day long. And you—wouldn’t you be able to get to Petrograd quicker without her? After all, a man can rough things, but it’s different when he has a girl dragging along with him.” He added in a fierce whisper: “Brother, haven’t you ever thought of her getting married to some decent hardworking fellow who, maybe, has a comfortable house and a bit of money put away? I’m a good fellow, I assure you, though I am only a woodcutter, and to tell the truth, your daughter’s just the kind of woman I’ve been looking out for ever since my poor wife died. And you shall have a hundred silver roubles for yourself, brother, if you give her to me.”

A.J. was still too sleepy to be either amused or annoyed. He said merely: “Dorenko, it’s quite out of the question. My daughter, I know, wouldn’t consider it.”

“But if, as her father, you ordered her to?”

“She wouldn’t, even then.”

“She would disobey you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Ah, I sympathise. My own daughter was like that—disobedient to her own father. It is a dreadful thing to have children like that. All the same, brother, I will make it a hundred and fifty roubles for you if you could manage to persuade her.”

“No, Dorenko, it’s no use—it’s impossible.”

“Not because I am only a woodcutter?”

“Oh no, by no means. Not in the least for that reason.”

“Ah, Peter Petrovitch, you are a good fellow like myself, I can see. It is a pity we could not have come to some arrangement. However, perhaps it is God’s will that I should look elsewhere. Good-night—Good- night.”

A.J. was soon asleep again and did not wake till the sunlight was pouring through the narrow window. Dorenko was already up and preparing a breakfast meal. He did not refer to the matter he had broached during the night, and after a homely meal the two travellers thanked him and set out to continue their journey. A.J. would have liked to offer him money, but that such generosity would not have suited the story of being poor.

Dorenko had given them directions before starting, telling them how they might travel so as to avoid the village which the soldiers had raided, and reach another less dangerous one by the end of the day. The route led them through the forest for several miles and then along a narrow winding track amidst the hills. It was again very hot in the middle of the day. They slept for a time in the shade of the pines, and then, towards evening, walked into a small town named Saratursk, whose market-place was full of Red soldiers, bedraggled and badly disciplined after long marches. It was hardly likely that they could be bothering about a casual forest murder, for much more serious events had happened during the past twenty-four hours. The Whites and the Czecho-Slovaks, acting together, had crossed the Urals and were reported in rapid invasion; the entire Revolution seemed in danger. All day long a steadily increasing stream of refugees had been entering Saratursk from the east; A.J. and Daly were but two out of thousands, and quite inconspicuous. They found it impossible to obtain any food except black bread at an extortionate price, and every room in the town was full of sleepers. Fortunately the night was warm, and it was not unpleasant to spread out one’s bundle on the cobbled stones and breathe the mountainy air. Sleep, however, was interrupted by the constant noise and shouting; fresh detachments of soldiers were entering the town from the west and south and reuniting with their comrades already in possession. They were a fierce-looking crowd, all of them, dressed in shabby, tattered, and nondescript uniforms—dirty, unkempt, heavy with fatigue. They had no obvious leaders, but throughout the night they held meetings in the market-square to elect new officers. There was much fervid oratory and cheering. The news of the White advance had put them in considerable consternation, for they themselves were badly armed—only one man in five or six possessing a rifle. The rest carried swords, knives, and even sticks. Some of them had been dragged out of hospitals too soon, and still wore dirty red-stained bandages. This curious, slatternly throng was, for the moment, all that stood between Moscow and counter-revolution.