The sergeant-major brought them some honeycombs on a board.
There was no sigh of any Chechens and early in the afternoon the order was given to retreat.
The companies formed into a column behind the aoul and Butler happened to be in the rearguard.
As soon as they started Chechens appeared, following and firing at the detachment, but they ceased this pursuit as soon as they came out into an open space.
Not one of Butler’s company had been wounded, and he returned in a most happy and energetic mood.
When after fording the same stream it had crossed in the morning, the detachment spread over the maize fields and the meadows, the singers of each company came forward and songs filled the air.
“Verry diff’rent, very diff’rent, Fagers are, Fagers are!” sang Butler’s singers, and his horse stepped merrily to the music.
Trezorka, the shaggy grey dog belonging to the company, ran in front, with his tail curled up with an air of responsibility like a commander.
Butler felt buoyant, calm, and joyful.
War presented itself to him as consisting only in his exposing himself to danger and to possible death, thereby gaining rewards and the respect of his comrades here, as well as of his friends in Russia.
Strange to say, his imagination never pictured the other aspect of war: the death and wounds of the soldiers, officers, and mountaineers.
To retain his poetic conception he even unconsciously avoided looking at the dead and wounded.
So that day when we had three dead and twelve wounded, he passed by a corpse lying on its back and did not stop to look, seeing only with one eye the strange position of the waxen hand and a dark red spot on the head.
The hosslmen appeared to him only a mounted dzhigits from whom he had to defend himself.
“You see, my dear sir,” said his major in an interval between two songs, “it’s not as it is with you in Petersburg — ‘Eyes right! Eyes left!’
Here we have done our job, and now we go home and Masha will set a pie and some nice cabbage soup before us.
That’s life — don’t you think so?
— Now then!
As the Dawn Was Breaking!” He called for his favorite song.
There was no wind, the air was fresh and clear and so transparent that the snow hills nearly a hundred miles away seemed quite near, and in the intervals between the songs the regular sound of the footsteps and the jingle of the guns was heard as a background on which each song began and ended.
The song that was being sung in Butler’s company was composed by a cadet in honor of the regiment, and went to a dance tune. The chorus was:
“Verry diff’rent, very diff’rent, Fagers are, Fagers are!”
Butler rode beside the officer next in rank above him, Major Petrov, with whom he lived, and he felt he could not be thankful enough to have exchanged from the Guards and come to the Caucasus.
His chief reason for exchanging was that he had lost all he had at cards and was afraid that if he remained there he would be unable to resist playing though he had nothing more to lose.
Now all that was over, his life was quite changed and was such a pleasant and brave one!
He forgot that he was ruined, and forgot his unpaid debts.
The Caucasus, the war, the soldiers, the officers — those tipsy, brave, good-natured fellows — and Major Petrov himself, all seemed so delightful that sometimes it appeared too good to be true that he was not in Petersburg — in a room filled with tobacco smoke, turning down the corners of cards and gambling, hating the holder of the bank and feeling a dull pain in his head — but was really here in this glorious region among these brave Caucasians.
The major and the daughter of a surgeon’s orderly, formerly known as Masha, but now generally called by the more respectful name of Marya Dmitrievna, lived together as man and wife.
Marya Dmitrievna was a handsome, fair-haired, very freckled, childless woman of thirty.
Whatever her past may have been she was now the major’s faithful companion and looked after him like a nurse — a very necessary matter, since he often drank himself into oblivion.
When they reached the fort everything happened as the major had foreseen.
Marya Dmitrievna gave him and Butler, and two other officers of the detachment who had been invited, a nourishing and tasty dinner, and the major ate and drank till he was unable to speak, and then went off to his room to sleep.
Butler, having drunk rather more chikhir wine than was good for him, went to his bedroom, tired but contented, and hardly had time to undress before he fell into a sound, dreamless, and unbroken sleep with his hand under his handsome curly head.
Chapter XVII
The aoul which had been destroyed was that in which Hadji Murad had spent the night before he went over to the Russians.
Sado and his family had left the aoul on the approach of the Russian detachment, and when he returned he found his saklya in ruins — the roof fallen in, the door and the posts supporting the penthouse burned, and the interior filthy.
His son, the handsome bright-eyed boy who had gazed with such ecstasy at Hadji Murad, was brought dead to the mosque on a horse covered with a barka; he had been stabbed in the back with a bayonet. the dignified woman who had served Hadji Murad when he was at the house now stood over her son’s body, her smock torn in front, her withered old breasts exposed, her hair down, and she dug her hails into her face till it bled, and wailed incessantly.
Sado, taking a pick-axe and spade, had gone with his relatives to dig a grave for his son.
The old grandfather sat by the wall of the ruined saklya cutting a stick and gazing stolidly in front of him.
He had only just returned from the apiary.
The two stacks of hay there had been burnt, the apricot and cherry trees he had planted and reared were broken and scorched, and worse still all the beehives and bees had been burnt.
The wailing of the women and the little children, who cried with their mothers, mingled with the lowing of the hungry cattle for whom there was no food.
The bigger children, instead of playing, followed their elders with frightened eyes.
The fountain was polluted, evidently on purpose, so that the water could not be used.
The mosque was polluted in the same way, and the Mullah and his assistants were cleaning it out.
No one spoke of hatred of the Russians. the feeling experienced by all the Chechens, from the youngest to the oldest, was stronger than hate.
It was not hatred, for they did not regard those Russian dogs as human beings, but it was such repulsion, disgust, and perplexity at the senseless cruelty of these creatures, that the desire to exterminate them — like the desire to exterminate rats, poisonous spiders, or wolves — was as natural an instinct as that of self-preservation.
The inhabitants of the aoul were confronted by the choice of remaining there and restoring with frightful effort what had been produced with such labor and had been so lightly and senselessly destroyed, facing every moment the possibility of a repetition of what had happened; or to submit to the Russians — contrary to their religion and despite the repulsion and contempt they felt for them.
The old men prayed, and unanimously decided to send envoys to Shamil asking him for help. Then they immediately set to work to restore what had been destroyed.
Chapter XVIII