The White Guard - Mikhail Bulgakov [57]
The order was given and Bolbotun's troopers deployed at the gallop, dismounted, took cover and began an exchange of shots with the cadets. Pechorsk filled with the sound of gunfire which echoed from wall to wall and the district around Millionnaya Street seethed with action like a boiling tea-kettle.
Bolbotun's advance produced an immediate reaction in the center of the City, as steel shutters came crashing down on Elisa-vetinskaya, Vinogradnaya and Levashovskaya streets and all the gay shop-fronts turned sightless and blank. The sidewalks emptied at once and became eerily resonant. Janitors stealthily shut doors and gateways. The advance was also reflected in another way - the field-telephones in the defense headquarters fell silent one by one.
An outlying artillery troop calls up battery headquarters. What the hell's going on, they're not answering! An infantry detachment rings through to the garrison commander's headquarters and manages to get something done, but then the voice at headquarters mutters something nonsensical.
'Are your officers wearing badges of rank?'
'Well, so what?'
Rrrring . . .
'Send a detachment to Pechorsk immediately!'
'What's happening?'
And the sound of one name crept all over town: Bolbotun, Bolbotun, Bolbotun. . . .
How did people know that it was Bolbotun and not someone else? It was a mystery, but they knew. Perhaps they knew because from noon onward a number of men in overcoats with lambskin collars began mingling with the passers-by and the usual riff-raff of City idlers, and as they strolled about these men eavesdropped and watched. They stared after cadets, refugees and officers with long, insolent stares. And they whispered:
'Bolbotun's coming.'
And they whispered it without the least regret. On the con-trary, their eyes showed that they were delighted, and the stuttering rattle of machine-gun fire round the hills of Pechorsk echoed their news.
Rumors flew like wildfire:
'Bolbotun is the Grand Duke Mikhail Alexandrovich.'
'No he isn't: Bolbotun is the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich.'
'Bolbotun is simply Bolbotun.'
'There'll be a pogrom against the Jews.'
'No there won't: The troops are wearing red ribbons in theircaps.'
'Better go home.'
'Bolbotun's against Petlyura.'
'You're wrong - he's on the Bolsheviks' side.'
'Wrong again: he's for the Tsar, only without the officers.'
'Is it true the Hetman ran away?'
'Is it true ... Is it true ... Is it true ... Is it true . . .?'
*
A reconnaissance troop of Bolbotun's force, led by Sergeant Galanba, was trotting down the deserted Millionnaya Street.
Then, if you can believe it, a front door opened and out of it, straight towards the troop of five lancers, ran none other than Yakov Grigorievich Feldman, the well-known army contractor. Had he gone mad, running out into the streets at a time like this? He certainly looked crazy. His sealskin fur hat had slipped down on to the back of his neck, his overcoat was undone and he was staring wildly around him.
Yakov Grigorievich Feldman had reason to look crazy. As soon as the firing had begun at the Military Academy, there came a groan from his wife's bedroom. Another groan, and then silence.
'Oi, weh', said Yakov Grigorievich as he heard the groan. He looked out of the window and decided that the situation looked very bad indeed. Nothing but empty streets and gunfire.
There came another groan, louder this time, which cut Yakov Grigorievich to the heart. His stooping old mother put her head round the bedroom door and shrieked:
'Yasha! D'you hear? She's started!'
All Yakov Grigorievich's thoughts turned in one direction - to the little house on the corner of Millionnaya Street with its familiar, rusting sign with gold lettering: E. T. Shadnrskaya Registered Midwife
It was dangerous enough on Millionnaya Street, even though