The sounds of battle had temporarily subsided around the town of Plevna in the Balkan foothills two hundred miles northwest of Constantinople.
Preparations were underway for another attack against the town, which had been even more heavily fortified with the arrival of additional Turkish troops. All the smaller forts had been shored up with more men and guns and cannons, creating a twelve-mile barrier against the Russian attack. The cunning Turkish commander Osman Pasha and his men were ready behind their thick walls of stone for any onslaught.
At the same time the arrival of reinforcements had doubled the size of the Russian army. The tsar had negotiated for the assistance of Romanian forces as well, adding still another forty thousand troops to their number. The narrow roads and valleys in and around Plevna were filled with hundreds of thousands of men, Turks and Russians and their allies, every man among them awaiting orders to begin the carnage.
The evening before the attack, many of the officers found time to engage in whatever recreation they could invent for themselves. Dmitri had initiated a game of cards, and Sergei and two of their fellow officers joined them. The party was rounded out by three Cossacks, Mikhail Grigorov among them. He and Sergei had met once or twice in St. Petersburg, although they were hardly even considered acquaintances, and they now greeted one another with only a nod.
“So, what do you think of my little casino, eh men?” said Dmitri, lighting a candle.
“For a supply tent, you might at least have chosen one without the aroma of dead rats and dried fish!” jeered one of the company.
“Where else but in such a hole will we be safe from prying eyes and ears?”
“Why do we need to hide? I for one would prefer a table to these supply crates.”
“Why, indeed,” said Dmitri, “except for these?” From inside his coat he produced two bottles of vodka with a flourish.
“Against regulations, Dmitri,” said Sergei. “Although I should have suspected it when I saw that gleam in your eye an hour ago. Where did you get them?”
“I have my sources,” laughed Dmitri.
“And if we are discovered, it will be the front lines for us all tomorrow!”
“Relax, my friend! Now come, all of you, find a stool or a box and gather round.” As he spoke, Dmitri constructed a makeshift table from several of the crates in the place, and within ten minutes the game was underway.
As the liquor flowed and the money changed hands, tensions gradually mounted between the army regulars and the Cossacks. The image of the Cossack as inefficient and uneducated persisted even into modern times, and this prejudice was never far from the surface in the minds of soldiers of the Imperial Army, especially those officers from an aristocratic background. The typical Cossack was cunning and bold, and served the tsar invaluably with superb horsemanship by scouting and getting messages through enemy lines; yet they were looked down upon and often abused among the ranks of army regulars who considered them altogether a strange breed of rough, peasant soldier.
As the night wore on, the Cossacks gradually pocketed most of the money which lay atop the center crate, and Grigorov had made an especially good show of it with the play of his cards. Count Remizov, however, did not like to lose, least of all to a low-life Cossack. His pitiful hands, combined with the effects of the alcohol and the frustration that his wound would keep him out of the up-coming battle, made him particularly surly.
Grigorov raised Dmitri’s wager by five rubles, tossing his money into the pot with as much cool assurance as he displayed on the battlefield. Dmitri glanced down at his cards, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“You can’t possibly be holding a hand that strong, not after just winning the last pile,” said Dmitri, his tone laced with accusation.
“What does that mean?” asked Grigorov tautly.
“It means a man can only be so lucky. You are either trying to bluff me, or else you—”
Dmitri broke off suddenly as the other Cossacks pushed back their stools and began to rise to their feet.
“Just a moment,” cut in Sergei sharply. “There is no cheating going on here. You misunderstand my friend. He only meant that the Cossack Lieutenant must have a powerful icon in his pocket. Isn’t that so, Dmitri?”
Still glaring at Grigorov, Dmitri relented. The officers had a numerical advantage of one over the Cossacks, but that advantage was Dmitri and he had a lame arm. To incite a pitched hand-to-hand fight with these Cossacks now would be foolish and could well get one of his friends hurt; maybe even killed. Besides, vodka and all, Dmitri knew the Cossack wasn’t cheating—not this time anyway. But he would watch him with an eagle eye.
“Five rubles?” he said tightly. “I think you are bluffing.”
“It will take five rubles for you to find out, Count Remizov,” Grigorov replied.
Dmitri tossed in the money and Grigorov laid down his cards for all to see. Almost the same moment Dmitri’s good hand smashed down, breaking the crate in two and sending the money flying in all directions.
“Blast you and your foul Cossack luck!” he cried. “Bring another one of those crates over here and deal the cards!”
“I am afraid this game has already gone one hand too long,” laughed Grigorov, stooping down to pick up the money. “It is late, and there will be much to do tomorrow.”
“So, this is Cossack courtesy?” sneered Dmitri. “Abandon the game while you are ahead?”
“It is the best time, I would say,” rejoined Grigorov.
Sergei joined in the laughter, giving the Cossack lieutenant an admiring nod.
“I will give you the satisfaction of an opportunity to win your money back tomorrow evening if you wish,” said Grigorov.
“With my luck,” moped Dmitri, “you will all be killed in the battle and will deny me my opportunity to get even.”
“I shall attempt to remain alive at all costs, then—for your benefit, Count.”
Sergei laughed again and gave Dmitri a thump on the back. “Come on, Dmitri—what more could you ask for than that?”
“Tomorrow then,” mumbled Dmitri, still seated. He did not bother to rise or shake the other man’s offered hand.
Sergei walked the three Cossacks outside the tent before going back to retrieve his half-drunk friend.
It was a clear, crisp night with a hint of approaching autumn in the air. The stars from the mountainous heights seemed larger and brighter than Sergei remembered them being at home. This was beautiful, wild, rugged country and he regretted he could not travel here during more peaceful times. With a sigh he realized that he would never be able to recall this land without the pervasive stench of gunpowder, blood, and death filling his memory.
The two other Cossacks and the other Army officers were walking down the hillside in opposite directions, but Grigorov paused and turned back toward Sergei.
“Thank you for your intercession in there, Sergei Viktorovich,” he said. “I did not wish for trouble.”
“Neither did I, Lieutenant.”
“I almost hoped for a losing hand,” Grigorov chuckled.
“But what man can throw away winning cards, eh?”
“Indeed! I probably should have, but I couldn’t make myself do it.” He paused. “I wasn’t cheating, you know?” he added.
“I know.”
“I suggested another game tomorrow only to avert trouble. But I doubt that would be wise. Your friend the count is something of a hothead, and does not take well to losing.”
Sergei laughed. “How well I know! How many times have I pulled him out of brawls that his temper would instigate before his reason had the chance to catch up.”
“Every man like Remizov needs a friend like you.”
Sergei laughed again. “But in any case, he is an honorable man—deep inside, at least. It is your prerogative whether to return tomorrow. Perhaps Dmitri will win back some of his losses. The odds would seem to favor him. In the meantime though, Lieutenant, I think we have other things to think about.”
“Yes. One battle at a time, eh, Prince Fedorcenko?”
Sergei nodded. “Godspeed tomorrow.”
“And to you.”
“I am glad you spoke to me. You too are a man of honor.”
“For a Cossack, at least, eh?” Grigorov replied. His grin bore a hint of defensiveness.
“For a Russian! That is a name to do any man proud.” Sergei smiled.
The two men shook hands and parted. Sergei returned to find Dmitri unmoved from his seat. He gathered up his best friend, threw his coat over his shoulders, blew out the candle, and then began the walk down to their own tent, Dmitri leaning upon him, half-unconscious.
Sergei shook his head and smiled ironically at Dmitri. He was a rake and a bit of a scoundrel, and he seldom took life seriously. How they had managed to be such close friends since boyhood he could never understand, with the frustrations Dmitri continually caused him. Yet they complemented one another, as opposites often do. Sergei could appreciate the good times he often had with Dmitri, as long as the vodka didn’t get out of hand. And Dmitri, on his part, was well aware of the steadying and positive influence Sergei had on him.
He had meant it when he told Grigorov that Dmitri was a man of honor. Sergei would trust his life into his friend’s hands. At the same time, however, he was glad Dmitri would be out of the battle tomorrow. It had been a terrifying experience for Sergei to see his friend cut down by a Turkish bullet and not be able to reach him for hours to find out whether he was alive or dead.
That was not an experience he wanted to relive. Sergei would rather take a bullet in the heart himself than to see Dmitri fall in battle again. He would enter the battle tomorrow prepared to meet his own fate, knowing that Dmitri lay safely behind the lines.
Sergei eased Dmitri down on his cot and stretched out his legs on his blankets. He then took up his notebook where he kept his journal and spent the next hour recording the feelings of a novice young Russian officer on the eve of a great battle. Tomorrow night, if he lived, he would add to the account.
If only these notes might someday . . .
Sergei could not even complete a sentence without his thoughts turning to Anna, and the hope that they would soon be together again. Dear Anna . . . if only he had the courage to write to her! He longed to share with her every moment, every thought. But he could not risk Katrina or his mother intercepting the letter. He dared not! If they read what he ached to tell Anna, it would probably result in her instant dismissal—or worse.
He would have to wait. They would have all their lives to share together. Then he could tell her everything! But for now he must survive this ordeal, if only to see her sweet face once more!