“Where are you off to? Come back! Where are you going?” I shouted to the recruit, who, with his reserve linstock under his arm and a stick of some sort in his hand, was, in the coolest manner, following the cart that bore the wounded man.
But the recruit only looked at me lazily, muttered something or other, and continued his way, so that I had to send a soldier to bring him back. He took off his red cap and looked at me with a stupid smile.
“Where were you going?” I asked.
“To the camp.”
“Why?”
“Why? … Velenchuk is wounded,” he said, again smiling.
“What’s that to you? You must stay here.”
He looked at me with surprise, then turned quietly round, put on his cap, and went back to his place.
The affair in general was successful. The Cossacks, as we heard, had made a fine charge and brought back three dead Tartars; the infantry had provided itself with firewood, and had only half a dozen men wounded; the artillery had lost only Velenchuk and two horses. For that, two miles of forest had been cut down, and the place so cleared as to be unrecognizable. Instead of the thick outskirts of the forest you saw before you a large plain covered with smoking fires, and cavalry and infantry marching back to camp.