Why are the cadets being allowed to pass through to Ekaterinodar?
What sort of plan is this?
Let the Commander tell us!"
The thousand-strong crowd echoed:
"The Commander!" so thunderously that the rooks flew right up to the clouds.
Roshchin, standing on the station steps, could see the crumpled cap of the Commander floating towards the turf-covered icehouse through the mass of moving heads. His gaunt, pallid clean-shaven face, and fixed gaze were ten-se with determination.
Roshchin recognized his old acquaintance, Sergei Sergeyevich Sapozhkov.
There had been a time, before the war, when Sapozhkov had spoken on behalf of the "People of the Future" group, making mincemeat of the old moral system.
He had appeared in bourgeois society with seductive drawings on his cheeks, wearing a frock coat of bright green fustian.
During the war he had volunteered for the cavalry, become famous as a reckless scout and duellist, and been made a second lieutenant.
And quite unexpectedly, in the beginning of 1917, he had been arrested, sent to Petrograd, and sentenced to be shot for membership of a secret organization.
Set free by the February Revolution, he had for a short time identified himself with the anarchist group in the Soviet of Soldiers' Deputies.
Then he disappeared, reappearing in the end of October to take part in the seizing of the Winter Palace.
He was one of the first regular officers to join the Red Guard.
And now, slipping and losing his hold, he clambered on to the turf roof. Once there, he thrust his thumbs into his belt, his chin resting on the folds in his neck, and let his gaze rove over the thousands of heads craning towards him.
"D'you want to know, you yelling devils, why the gold-epauletted bastards beat you?
It's because of all this noise and to-do." He spoke mockingly and not very loud, but his voice could be heard by all.
"Not only do you disobey the orders of the Supreme Command, not only do you start yelling on the slightest provocation, but some of you are panicmongers, as well.
Who told you we were beaten at Filippovskaya?
Who told you Kornilov is moving on Ekaterinodar owing to treachery?
Was it you?" (He threw out a hand, holding a revolver, with a rapid movement, pointing to one of those standing in front.) "Come on up, then, let's have a talk! Aha-ah, so it wasn't you!" (He reluctantly returned his revolver to his pocket.) "D'you take me for a milksop, d'you think I don't know what you're yapping about? D'you want me to tell you?
Fedor Ivolgin, that's one, Pavlenkov, that's two, Terenti Dulya, that's three, and they all had direct information that there are vats full of booze at the village of Afipskaya...." (Laughter.
Even Roshchin smiled wryly:
"He got out of it ingeniously, the rascal!") "Well, of course, these chaps are all eager for the fight.
It's as plain as day our Commander in Chief's a traitor—supposing those vats of booze were to fall into the hands of Kornilov's officers.... Wouldn't that be a disaster for the republic?" (A burst of laughter, sending the rooks sky-high once more.) "I consider the incident closed, Comrades. I will read the latest field bulletin."
Sapozhkov drew out some leaflets and began reading in a loud voice.
Roshchin turned and went through the station to the platform, where, sitting down on a broken bench, he began rolling home-grown tobacco in a scrap of paper.
A week before (presenting forged papers), he had joined a Red Guard unit going to the front.
He and Katya had come to some sort of an arrangement.
After the painful conversation over the teacups with Tetkin, Roshchin had wandered about the town for the rest of the day, returning at night to Katya, and, averting his eyes from her face for fear of showing signs of weakness, said severely:
"You will live here for a month or two—I don't know exactly.... I hope you and Tetkin will find yourselves entirely in agreement. At the first opportunity I will pay him for your keep.
But kindly inform him immediately that he will be paid, I want no charity. Well—I mean to disappear for a time."
Katya asked, scarcely opening her lips:
"Are you going to the front?"
"Excuse me, but that concerns no one but myself."
Things were going badly with Katya, very badly.
Only last summer, one July day on the embankment, when the outlines of the bridges and the colonnades on Vasilyevsky Island were reflected in the mirrorlike Neva— on that far-off, sunny day, Roshchin had said to her, sitting on the stone bench by the water:
"Wars will pass, revolutions will disappear, and only your warm, loving heart will remain." And now they had parted enemies, in the dirty yard.... Katya deserved a better ending to her romance....
"But when the whole of Russia is coming to an end, what the devil did that amount to!"
Roshchin's plan was quite simple: to go with a Red Guard unit to the battle area against the Volunteer Army, and go over to the other side at the first opportunity.
In the army he was personally known to General Markov and Colonel Nezhentsev.
He could give them valuable information as to the disposition and condition of the Red troops.
But most important of all, he would feel himself among his own people, could cast off the accursed mask, breath© freely once more, and spit out, together with a clip of bullets, his violent contempt into the face of those "wretched dupes, those unruly savages...."
"The Commander was right about those spirits.
We make a lot of noise.
We're making a hell of a row, and we'll have no end of trouble, trying to find out what's it all about!" said an insignificant-looking individual in a sheepskin jacket with tufts of wool sticking out here and there.
He seated himself on the bench next to Roshchin, and asked him for a pinch of tobacco.
"I'm an oldster—I smoke a pipe." (He turned towards Roshchin a shrewd, weather-beaten face, with a bleached-looking beard and screwed-up eyes.) "I used to work in the barns for Nizhni merchants, and learned to smoke a pipe there.
I've been fighting since 1914 and can't give it up—I'm a fighter, brother, that's what I am."
"It's time for you to rest," said Roshchin with inward distaste.