"Forward—charge with the bayonets!"
It seemed to Krasilnikov that one of the stripy-robed figures had rolled off his horse on purpose, while the good steed, turning a terrified eye over its shoulder galloped away.
A metallic clashing sound, clouds of smoke, and the yellow lightning of shrapnel burst over the line.
And Vaska, the wag in the outsized greatcoat, suddenly threw down his rifle in a panic, staring pale and open-mouthed, as death came thundering up.
The horsemen drew nearer, getting larger and larger.
One of them was tearing ahead, his horse almost hugging the ground, holding its head down like a dog.
Its rider straightened up, and stood in the stirrups, the skirts of his robe flying apart.
"The swine!"
Krasilnikov reached for his rifle.
"He'll kill our Commissar!"
The horseman charged at the leather jacket.
"Shoot him, shoot him—can't you?"
Krasilnikov only had time to see the crooked sword come sweeping down on the leather jacket.... And the next minute the whole stream of cavalry fell upon the line.
There was a hot whiff of horses' sweat.
The Turkmen overran the line and turned to the flanks.
At the same time men in light-grey and black greatcoats, their officers' shoulder straps gleaming, came running out of the ravine, and stumbled across the field.
"Hurrah-ah-ah!"
The fighting moved nearer to the railway line.
For a long time Krasilnikov could only hear the groans of the wounded Commissar.
The shots grew more and more infrequent.
The guns fell silent.
Krasilnikov closed his eyes —there was a buzzing in his head, and he had a pain in his chest.
He felt a wave of self pity, he did not want to die.
His body seemed to be getting heavier, to be sinking into the ground.
He thought pityingly of his wife, Matryona.
She would be lost without him.
How she had longed for him, forever writing to him in Taganrog— come, oh, come!
If his Matryona were with him now she would bind up his wound, and bring him a drink.
How nice a glass of cold water would be... and then a bowl of curds....
When Krasilnikov heard voices swearing—officers' voices, not his comrades'—he opened his eyes cautiously.
There were four of them walking together—one in a grey Circassian tunic, two in officers' greatcoats, and the fourth in a students' overcoat with NCO shoulder straps sewn on to it.
They held their rifles under their armpits, as hunters do.
"Look, a sailor—finish him off, the bastard," said one.
"Leave him alone—he's dead. That one over there's still alive."
They stood still, looking at the prostrate figure of Vaska, the wag.
The one in the Circassian tunic suddenly barked out:
"Get up!" and gave Vaska a kick.
Krasilnikov saw Vaska get up, one half of his face streaming with blood.
"Ten-shun!" shouted the one in the Circassian tunic and hit Vaska in the mouth.
And instantly all four held their rifles atilt.
"Spare me, kind Uncle!" cried Vaska in a weeping voice.
The one in the Circassian tunic leaped away from him, and, drawing the air through his nostrils with a loud sound, thrust his bayonet into Vaska's stomach.
Then he turned and walked away.
The others bent over Vaska and dragged off his boots.
When the Volunteers, after shooting their prisoners and setting fire to the village council to teach the people to know better next time, proceeded on their way southward, Semyon Krasilnikov was picked up from the ploughland by Cossacks.
The cadet lines had hardly disappeared beneath the low horizon, leaving behind them the steppe, just beginning to show pale green sprouts, when the Cossacks with their wives, children and cattle, returned to their village.
Semyon did not want to die among strangers.
He had some money on him, and found a man to take him in a cart to Rostov.
From there he wrote to his brother that he was severely wounded and was afraid of dying among strangers, adding that he would like to see Matryona.
The letter was taken by a man from Semyon's village.