Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [391]
And it was then that Misha Bobrov suddenly realized that he could commit murder.
They were quite alone. Their men were several hundred yards away and out of sight. The place was otherwise deserted. Pinegin, as it happened, was not armed. He was kneeling with his back to Misha, fiddling with the fuse, while he crouched by the wall, keeping out of the snipers’ sight.
So who in the world would ever be the wiser? It would be so easy to do. He had only to show himself for a moment upon the parapet – just enough to draw the snipers’ fire. Even a single shot would do – something their men would hear. And then … His hand rested on his pistol. A single shot, it hardly mattered how it was done. The back of the head would do. He would leave Pinegin there, blow up the emplacement, tell the men a sniper caught the captain. No one would even suspect.
Was it really possible that he, Misha Bobrov, could commit a murder? He was surprised to find that he could. Perhaps it was the months in that hell-hole that had made him more careless of human life. But he did not think that was it. No, he admitted frankly, it was the simple human instinct for self-preservation. Pinegin was going to kill him in cold blood. He was just doing the same, getting his shot in first.
And what was there to prevent him? Morality? What morality, ultimately, was there in a duel where both men agree to commit murder? Was Pinegin’s life really worth so much compared to his? Hadn’t he himself a wife and child at home, while this fellow had nothing but his cold heart and his strange pride? No, Misha decided, there was nothing to stop him killing Pinegin, except for one thing.
Convention. Just that. Was mere convention so strong as to allow him to the for it? Convention – a code of honour that was, when you really looked at it, insane.
His hand rested on his pistol. Still he did not move.
And then Pinegin turned and looked at him. Misha saw his pale blue eyes take in everything about him. And he knew Pinegin guessed.
Then Pinegin smiled, and turned his back again, and continued fiddling with the fuse.
It was several minutes later that they lit the fuse and watched the little spark run away from them, along the wall, to its destination. Just before it reached the barrels, they both ducked down and held their breath. But then, for some reason, nothing happened. ‘Damned suppliers,’ Pinegin muttered. There had been problems recently with all kinds of supplies, even military, reaching the army. ‘God knows what’s wrong now. Wait here,’ he ordered. And he ran up and, keeping his head low, made his way swiftly along the wall. Just before he reached the barrels, a single sniper’s bullet whistled harmlessly overhead. Then the barrels blew up.
1857
Only one thing puzzled Misha Bobrov when, late in 1857, he returned at last to Russka.
It concerned Savva Suvorin and the priest.
Of course, there were better things to think about. The new reign of Alexander II seemed likely to bring many changes. The Crimean War had been concluded on terms that were humiliating to Russia. She had lost her right to a navy in the Black Sea. But no one had any stomach for further hostilities. ‘First,’ Misha declared, ‘the Tsar must sort things out at home. For this war has almost ruined us.’ Everyone knew that things had to change.
And of all the reforms that were being spoken of, none was more important, and none would affect Misha more, than the possible emancipation of the serfs.
Upon this great subject, in the years 1856 and 1857, the whole of Russia was a seething mass of rumour. From abroad, the radical writer Herzen was despatching his noble journal The Bell into Russia, calling upon the Tsar to set his subjects free. Closer to home, returning soldiers had even started a rumour – that spread like wildfire – that the new Tsar actually had granted the serfs their freedom, but that the landlords were concealing the proclamations!