XIII.
It was dark night, and the fires dimly illuminated the camp, when I, having put everything away, walked up to my soldiers. A large stump was glimmering on the coals. Three soldiers only were sitting around it: Antónov, who was turning around on the fire a little kettle in which hardtack soaked in lard was cooking, Zhdánov, who was thoughtfully poking the ashes with a stick, and Chíkin, with his eternally unlighted pipe. The others had already retired for their rest, some under the caissons, others in the hay, and others again around the fires. In the faint light of coals I could distinguish the familiar backs, legs, and heads; among the latter was also the recruit, who was lying close to the fire and was apparently asleep. Antónov made a place for me. I sat down near him and lighted my pipe. The mist and the pungent smoke from the green wood was borne through the air, and made my eyes smart, and the same damp mist drizzled down from the murky sky.
Near us could be heard the even snoring, the crackling of the branches in the fire, a light conversation, and occasionally the clattering of the infantry muskets. All about us glowed the fires, illuminating in a small circle the black shadows of the soldiers. At the nearest fires I could distinguish in the lighted spaces the figures of naked soldiers waving their shirts over the very fire. Many other men were not asleep, but moving about and speaking in the space of fifteen square fathoms; but the dark, gloomy night gave a peculiar, mysterious aspect to
522
