The Crimson Tide: A Novel. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      They rode into a forest, slowly, filing among the silver birches, then trotting out amid the pines.

      The Swedish girl towered in her saddle, dwarfing the shaggy pony. She wore her grey wool cap, overcoat, and boots. Pistols bulged in the saddle holsters; sacks of grain and a bag of camp tins lay across pommel and cantle.

      Beside her rode the novice, swathed to the eyes in a sheepskin greatcoat, and a fur cap sheltering her shorn head.

      Her lethargy–a week’s reaction from the horrors of the convent–had vanished; and a feverish, restless alertness had taken its place.

      Nothing of the still, white novice was visible now in her brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks.

      Her tragic silence had given place to an unnatural loquacity; her grief to easily aroused mirth; and the dark sorrow in her haunted eyes was gone, and they grew brown and sunny and vivacious.

      She talked freely with her comrade, Ilse Westgard; she exchanged gossip and banter with the Cossacks, argued with them, laughed with them, sang with them.

      At night she slept in her sheepskin in Ilse Westgard’s vigorous arms; morning, noon and evening she filled the samovar with snow beside Cossack fires, or in the rare cantonments afforded in wretched villages, where whiskered and filthy mujiks cringed to the Cossacks, whispering to one another: “There is no end to death; there is no end to the fighting and the dying, God bless us all. There is no end.”

      In the glare of great fires in muddy streets she stood, swathed in her greatcoat, her cap pushed back, looking like some beautiful, impudent boy, while the Cossacks sang “Lada oy Lada!”–and let their slanting eyes wander sideways toward her, till her frank laughter set the singers grinning and the gusli was laid aside.

      And once, after a swift gallop to cross a railroad and an exchange of shots with the Red guards at long range, the sotnia of the Wild Division rode at evening into a little hamlet of one short, miserable street, and shouted for a fire that could be seen as far as Moscow.

      That night they discovered vodka–not much–enough to set them singing first, then dancing. The troopers danced together in the fire-glare–clumsily, in their boots, with interims of the pas seul savouring of the capers of those ancient Mongol horsemen in the Hezars of Genghis Khan.

      But no dancing, no singing, no clumsy capers were enough to satisfy these riders of the Wild Division, now made boisterous by vodka and horse-meat. Gossip crackled in every group; jests flew; they shouted at the peasants; they roared at their own jokes.

      “Comrade novice!–Pretty boy with a shorn head!” they bawled. “Harangue us once more on law and love.”

      She stood with legs apart and thumbs hooked in her belt, laughing at them across the fire. And all around crowded the wretched mujiks, peering at her through shaggy hair, out of little wolfish eyes.

      A Cossack shouted: “My law first! Land for all! That is what we have, we Cossacks! Land for the people, one and all–land for the mujik; land for the bourgeois; land for the aristocrat! That law solves all, clears all questions, satisfies all. It is the Law of Peace!”

      A Cossack shoved a soldier-deserter forward into the firelight. He wore a patch of red on his sleeve.

      “Answer, comrade! Is that the true law? Or have you and your comrades made a better one in Petrograd?”

      The deserter, a little frightened, tried to grin: “A good law is, kill all generals,” he said huskily. “Afterward we shall have peace.”

      A roar of laughter greeted him; these dark, thickset Cossacks with slanting eyes were from the Urals. What did they care how many generals were killed? Besides, their hetman had already killed himself.

      Their officer moved out into the firelight–a reckless rider but a dull brain–and stood lashing at his snow-crusted boots with the silver-mounted quirt.

      “Like gendarmes,” he said, “we Cossacks are forever doing the dirty work of other people. Why? It begins to sicken me. Why are we forever executing the law! What law? Who made it? The Tzar. And he is dead, and what is the good of the law he made?

      “Why should free Cossacks be policemen any more when there is no law?

      “We played gendarme for the Monarchists. We answered the distress call of the Cadets and the bourgeoisie! Where are they? Where is the law they made?”

      He stood switching his dirty boots and swinging his heavy head right and left with the stupid, lowering menace of a bull.

      “Then came the Mensheviki with their law,” he bellowed suddenly. “Again we became policemen, galloping to their whistle. Where are they? Where is their law?”

      He spat on the snow, twirled his quirt.

      “There is only one law to govern the land,” he roared. “It is the law of hands off and mind your business! It’s a good law.”

      “A good law for those who already have something,” cried a high, thin voice from the throng of peasants.

      The Cossacks, who all possessed their portion of land, yelled with laughter. One of them called out to the Swedish girl for her opinion, and the fair young giantess strode gracefully out into the fire-ring, her cap in her hand and the thick blond ringlets shining like gold on her beautiful head.

      “Listen! Listen to this soldier of the Death Battalion!” shouted the Cossacks in great glee. “She will tell us what the law should be!”

      She laughed: “We fought for it–we women soldiers,” she said. “And the law we fought for was made when the first tyrant fell.

      “This is the law: Freedom of mind; liberty of choice; an equal chance for all; no violence; only orderly debate to determine the will of the land.”

      A Cossack said loudly: “Da volna! Those who have nothing would take, then, from those who have!”

      “I think not!” cried another,“–not in the Urals!”

      Thunderous laughter from their comrades and cries of, “Palla! Let us hear our pretty boy, who has made for the whole world a law.”

      Palla Dumont, her slender hands thrust deep in her great coat sleeves, and standing like a nun lost in mystic revery, looked up with gay audacity–not like a nun at all, now, save for the virginal allure that seemed a part of the girl.

      “There is only one law, Tavarishi,” she said, turning slightly from her hips as she spoke, to include those behind her in the circle: “and that law was not made by man. That law was born, already made, when the first man was born. It has never changed. It comprehends everything; includes everything and everybody; it solves all perplexity, clears all doubts, decides all questions.

      “It is a living law; it exists; it is the key to every problem; and it is all ready for you.”

      The girl’s face had altered; the half mischievous audacity in defiance of her situation–the gay, impudent confidence in herself and in these wild comrades of hers, had given place to something more serious, more ardent–the youthful intensity that smiles through the flaming enchantment of suddenly discovered knowledge.

      “It is the oldest of all laws,” she said. “It was born perfect. It is yours if you accept it. And this law is the Law of Love.”

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