Knight Without Armour

“Then after our little meal I will take you along. Perhaps, after all, I need not be in any hurry to enlist with the Whites. A few days’ rest first of all, anyhow. We have three hours vet before dawn. If we hurry we shall reach the woods in good time.”

They ate quickly but with enjoyment, and then began the walk over the stubble fields. During the first mile or so they passed many dead bodies, but after that the signs of battle grew less evident. They avoided the road, along which White military wagons were still tearing westward in the rear of the pursuing army. A.J. wondered if there were not some danger of their being found and taken prisoner, but his companion, whose name was Oblimov, seemed quite confident of being able to reach the hills in safety. He had thrown away his soldier’s cap and the rest of his clothing was certainly so nondescript that it could convey little to any observer. “Besides,” he said, “if anyone questions us, we can say we are White refugees returning to our homes.”

They skirted Saratursk on the north side, working their way through orchards and private gardens, and passing within sight of several big houses in which lights were visible. In one of them the blinds had not been lowered, and they could sec that a party of some kind was in progress. White officers were drinking and shouting, and there carne also, tinkling over the night air, the sound of women’s laughter. A.J. wondered if his former prisoner were there, or in some other such house, celebrating her freedom and rescue. Oblimov said: “They will soon drink away their victory.” It certainly looked as if many of the White officers had preferred Saratursk to the continued pursuit of the enemy.

They reached the lower slopes of the hills just as the first tint of dawn appeared, and by the time the sun rose they were high amongst the woods. A.J. was by now beginning to feel very comfortable amongst the pine trees; he liked their clean, sharp tang and the rustle of fir-cones under his feet. He was tired, however, after the climb, and also, beyond his relief, rather depressed. The world seemed a sadly vague and pointless kind of place, with its continual movement of armies and refugees, and its battles and tragedies and separations. He kept wondering how his prisoner had fared. He did not particularly regret her escape; he had done his best, but Fate had out-manoeuvred him. Nine-tenths of life seemed always to consist of letting things happen.

Oblimov was an excellent and resourceful companion. He made a fire and boiled tea, and while A.J. slept in the dappled sunshine he raided a woodman’s cottage in the valley and came back with bread and meat. He also brought some coarse tobacco, which he smoked joyously during the whole of the afternoon. He was a great talker and looked on life in a mood of pleasant fatalism. Soldiering was doubtless the worst job in the world, but what else was there for a man of his type? He had no home; he couldn’t settle down. And soldiers did, in a sense, see the world. They met people, too—people they would never have met otherwise—“like yourself, brother. We came across each other on the battlefield, surrounded by dead men, and now we are yarning in a wood with our bellies full and the blue sky over us. To-morrow, maybe, we shall say good-bye and never see each other again. But is it not worth while? And will you ever forget me, or I you?”