War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [711]
“Well, that’ll do, that’ll do,” the sergeant major said calmly.
The little soldier fell silent, and the conversation went on.
“Quite a few of these Frenchmen got taken today; but, to say it straight out, not a one had a real pair of boots on, just in name only,” one of the soldiers began a new subject.
“The Cossacks always take them. When we cleaned the cottage for the colonel, we carried some of them out. It’s a pity to see, lads,” said the dancer. “We unwrapped them: one was still alive, believe me, he babbled something in his own talk.”
“But they’re clean folk, lads,” said the first. “White, white as that birch, and gallant, you might say, noble fellows.”
“But what did you think? He has them recruited from all the classes.”
“But they don’t know anything of our talk,” the dancer said with a perplexed smile. “I say to him: ‘Whose crown are you under?’ and he babbles in his own way. Funny folk!”
“There’s this puzzler, brothers,” the one who had been surprised at their whiteness went on. “The muzhiks at Mozhaisk said, when they started clearing away the dead where the battle was, so you can reckon it’s a whole month their dead were lying there—so, they say, some of them’s lying there, they say, white as paper, clean, not a whiff off them.”
“What, from the cold or something?” asked one.
“A smart one you are! From the cold! It was hot then. If it’d been from the cold, ours wouldn’t have gone bad either. But, they say, you go up to one of ours, and he’s all rotten and wormy. So, they say, we’d cover ourselves with handkerchiefs and turn our mugs away as we dragged them out. Couldn’t stand it. But theirs, they say—white as paper, not a whiff off them.”
They all fell silent.
“Must be the food,” said the sergeant major. “They ate gentry’s grub.”
Nobody objected.
“That muzhik was telling, the one there at Mozhaisk where the battle was, it took ten villages to cart them off, and they were twenty days at it, and there were still some dead left. There were so many wolves, they say…”
“That was a real battle,” said the old soldier. “So there’s something to remember; but everything after…It’s just only to make folk suffer.”
“That’s right, uncle. Two days ago we made a rush, but nothing doing, they wouldn’t let us get at them. Dropped their muskets quick. Fell on their knees. ‘Pardon,’ they say. That’s just one example. They say Platov took Poleon himself twice. Doesn’t know a word. So they take him: he turns into a bird in their hands and flies away, just flies away. And there’s also no permit to kill him.”
“You’re lying your head off, Kiselev, as I’m looking at you.”
“How, lying—it’s the real truth.”
“If I had it my way, I’d catch him and bury him right in the ground. And put an aspen stake through him. He’s destroyed a lot of folk.”
“We’ll put an end to him one way or another, he won’t be around long,” the old soldier said, yawning.
The conversation ceased, the soldiers began settling down to sleep.
“Look at the stars, burning away something awful! You’d say it was women spreading sheets,” a soldier said, admiring the Milky Way.
“That means a good harvest this year.”
“We’ll need more firewood.”
“You warm your back and your belly gets cold. It’s funny.”
“Oh, Lord!”
“What are you shoving for—is the fire just for you alone or something? Look at him…sprawling.”
Silence was now setting in, and several sleepers could be heard snoring; the others turned and warmed themselves, occasionally exchanging words. From a campfire some hundred paces away came a chorus of merry guffaws.
“Look how they’re roaring in the fifth company,” said one soldier. “And so many folk—it’s awful!”
One soldier got up and went to the fifth company.
“They’re having fun there,” he said, coming back. “Two Frenchmen have joined them. One’s completely frozen, but the other’s pretty frisky! He’s playing songs.”
“Oh? Let’s go see…” Several soldiers went over to the fifth company.
IX
The fifth company was camped just by the forest. An