MAHMOUD'S FAMILY
I. Mahmoud
A fusillade of musketry fire had just broken out between the Russian and Turkish advance-posts.
The fog was so dense that the confused masses of the Balkan mountains could hardly be distinguished. They seemed more like clouds which had descended on the earth to pass the night there. A red light showed through the fog from a distance; perhaps it was a Turkish bivouac-fire or the conflagration of some lonely farm. The Cossacks turned their piercing eyes in this direction, but in vain, for it was absolutely impossible to make out what it was in such dense gloom.
It was the Turks who had begun firing; the Russians were content with merely replying. Neither side was visible to the other, but they fired, fearing lest, owing to the denseness of the fog, the enemy might approach close to them without being seen. On such occasions one fires involuntarily; it is a kind of mutual warning, "I am not asleep, you understand; take care!"
The sounds of firing died away in the damp and heavy atmosphere. Slowly the night fell, gradually blotting out from view the field of battle, and the corpses still lying on the snow. Everything was silent; only a groan from a wounded man or the death-rattle of a horse was audible from time to time. But that was all, and the soldiers, exhausted by marching during the day and fighting in the evening, had not sufficient energy left to think of carrying away the bodies of their comrades. They wished for nothing but a night of rest and sleep.
"Not very cheerful for us, the night of the New Year, eh, Major?" said the Colonel, a short stout man addressing a tall thin one, who had his arm in a sling. The two were sitting on the balcony of a Turkish house.
"No, it isn't! And no letters from home either."
"That is the least of my anxieties; I know our military post too well."
"Ah, how gladly one would see those one loves, were it only for a single moment! But to spend Christmas in the Shipka Pass and the New Year here, sapristi! there is no fun in that. In our house the Christmas tree is lighted and the children are running round it. Your wife and children are sure to be with mine, and they will be talking of us. Probably they are anxious because of our silence. As if we could write—we who only rush on, like madmen, at the risk of breaking our heads! By the way, how is your arm?"