"Don't you go, I'll find out first what's up," said the Chief of Staff hastily.
Rows and shooting on the territory of headquarters had become a commonplace.
Sorokin's army was composed of two basic groups: Cossacks from the Kuban, their nucleus formed by Sorokin himself the year before, and Ukrainians, the remnants of the Ukrainian Red armies which had retreated under pressure of the Germans. There was longstanding hostility between the Kuban Cossacks and the Ukrainians.
The Ukrainians proved indifferent soldiers when it came to fighting on "foreign" soil, and helped themselves unabashed to fodder and provisions when passing through villages.
Rows and fights were of daily occurrence.
But today's incident was of a more serious nature.
The mounted Cossacks galloped up with loud cries.
Startled groups of Red Army men came running up under cover of fences and orchards.
The sound of desperate firing came from the direction of the station.
A wounded Cossack, crawling and writhing in the dust of the square right under the windows of headquarters, was yelling frantically.
There was profound perturbation at headquarters.
The telegraph, silent in the morning, had begun to pour out a stream of messages, each more fantastic than the other.
All that could be ascertained was that the Whites, moving rapidly along the Sosika-Umanskaya line, were putting the Red troops to panic-stricken flight.
The foremost units, having reached Army Headquarters, had begun looting at the station, and in the village.
The Kuban troops were opening fire.
The battle had begun.
Sorokin dashed out of the yard on a tall, fierce, chestnut mare.
At his back was his escort of fifty, in Circassian tunics, the ends of their hoods streaming over their shoulders, their scimitars drawn.
Sorokin sat his horse as if he were part of it.
He wore no cap, so as to enable all to recognize him immediately.
His handsome head was thrown back, and the wind fluttered his hair, and the sleeves and skirts of his coat.
He was still drunk, but his face was pale and resolute.
The glance of his piercing eyes was terrifying.
The dust rose in clouds beneath the hoofs of the galloping horses.
A few shots were heard from behind a hedge in the neighbourhood of the station.
Some of the soldiers in the escort were emitting loud cries, one fell off his horse, but Sorokin did not even turn his head.
His gaze was fixed upon the spot where, amidst the standing goods trains, there seethed a grey struggling mass of soldiers.
He was recognized from the distance.
Many climbed up on to the roofs of the trains.
Rifles were waved in the crowd, and men shouted.
Without slowing down for a moment, Sorokin made his horse jump the palings around the station allotment, and flew along the rails, into the very thick of the crowd.
His bridle was seized instantly.
Raising his hands above his head, he shouted:
"Comrades, companions-in-arms, warriors!
What's the matter?
What's the firing about?
What's the panic for?
Who's been turning your heads?
Where is the bastard?"
"We have been betrayed!" cried a panic-stricken voice.
"The commanders have sold us!
They have let the enemy in!" shouted many voices. The immense crowd, running into thousands, was spreading over the tracks and the fields beyond them, clambering on to trucks, and roaring out:
"We have been sold... the army is utterly destroyed.... Down with the command!
Kill the Commander in Chief!"
There was a whistling wailing sound, as if some infernal wind were blowing.
The horses in the escort reared and whinnied.
Distorted faces, grimy hands, began closing in upon Sorokin.
And Sorokin thundered out, so that the muscles of his powerful neck bulged:
"Silence!
You're not a revolutionary army ... you're a gang of bandits, a herd of swine.... Show me the knaves of panicmongers.... Show me the White-Guard spies!"