On the twelfth of July, Captain Hlopov entered the low door of my earth-hut. He was wearing epaulettes and carrying a sword, which I had never seen him do before since I had reached the Caucasus.
“I come straight from the colonel’s,” he said in answer to my questioning look. “Tomorrow our battalion is to march.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“To N⸺ N⸺. The forces are to assemble there.”
“And from there, I suppose, they will go into action?”
“I expect so.”
“In what direction? What do you think?”
“What’s there to think about? I am telling you what I know! A Tartar galloped here last night and brought orders from the general for the battalion to march with two days’ rations of rusks. But where to? Why, and for how long? We do not ask, my friend; we are told to go—and that’s enough!”
“But if you are to take only two days’ rations of rusks, it proves that the troops won’t be out longer than that.”
“It proves nothing at all!”
“How’s that?” I asked with surprise.
“Because it is so. We went to Dargo, and took one week’s rations of rusks, but we stayed there nearly a month.”