Was it that the impression of Sklianka’s speech was still too vivid or that the regiment took offence at the word “cowardly”—for the most arrant coward will never forgive such a reminder—or, finally, was it the fault of the magic word “advance,” which for some time past had ceased to be tolerated in the Army? But anyhow Albov was not allowed to continue his speech.
The crowd bellowed, belched forth curses, pressed forward more and more, advancing toward the platform, and broke down the railing. An ominous roar, faces distorted with fury, and hands stretched forth towards the platform. The situation was becoming critical. 2nd Lieut. Yassny pushed his way through to Albov, took him by the arm, and forcibly led him to the exit. The soldiers of the First Company had already rushed up to it from all sides, and with their aid Albov, with great difficulty, made his way out of the crowd, amidst a shower of choice abuse. Someone shouted out after him:
“Wait a bit, you ——; we will settle accounts with you!”
Night. The bivouac had grown quiet. Clouds had covered the sky. It was dark. Albov, sitting on his bed in his narrow tent, illuminated by the stump of a candle, was writing a report to the Commander of the Regiment:
“The officers—powerless, insulted, meeting with distrust and disobedience from their subordinates—can be of no further use. I beg of you to apply for my reduction to the ranks, so that there I might fulfil my duty honestly and to the end.”
He lay down on his bed. He gripped his head in his hands. A kind of uncanny, incomprehensible emptiness seized him, just as if some unseen hand had drawn out of his head all thought, out of his heart all pain. What was that? A noise was heard, the tent-pole fell down, the light went out. A number of men on the tent. Hard, cruel blows were showered on the whole of his body. A sharp, intolerable pain shot through his head and his chest. Then his whole face seemed covered with a warm, sticky veil, and soon everything became still and calm again, as if all that was terrible and hard to bear had torn itself away, had remained here, on earth, while his soul was flying away somewhere and was feeling light and joyous.
Albov awoke to feel something cold touching him: a private of his company, Goulkin, an elderly man, was sitting at the foot of his bed and wiping away the blood from his head with a wet towel. He noticed that Albov had regained consciousness.
“Look how they have mangled the man, the scum! It can have been no other than the Fifth Company—I recognised one of them. Does it hurt you much? Perhaps you would like me to go for the doctor?”
“No, my friend, it does not matter. Thank you!” and Albov pressed his hand.
“And their Commander, too, Captain Bouravin, has met with a misfortune. During the night they carried him past us on a stretcher, wounded in the abdomen; the sanitar said that he would not live. He was returning from reconnoitring, and the bullet took just at our very barbed wire. Whether it was a German one or whether our own people did not recognise him—who knows?”