Read online "skobelev". B. Vasiliev. Skobelev. There is only a moment Boris Lvovich Vasiliev

Boris Lvovich VASILIEV

Skobelev, or There is only a moment...

Boris Lvovich Vasiliev was born in 1924 in Smolensk into the family of a Red Army commander. Participant of the Great Patriotic War. In 1948 he graduated from the Military Academy of Armored Forces, specializing as a combat vehicle test engineer. Since 1955 - professional writer. After the release of the story “The Dawns Here Are Quiet” (1969), his name became famous. Boris Vasiliev is the author of many stories and novels, among them: “The Very Last Day” (1970), “Don’t Shoot White Swans” (1973), “Not on the Lists” (1974), “Counter Battle” (1979), “ My horses are flying" (1982), "They were and were not" (1977-78, 1980).

The historical novel “There is only a moment” is a new work by the writer.

Skobelev

Historical reference

From the Encyclopedic Dictionary. Ed. Brockhaus and Efron. T. 56, St. Petersburg, 1890.

SKOBELEV MIKHAIL DMITRIEVICH (1843-1882), Adjutant General. First he was brought up at home, then at the Girardet boarding house in Paris; in 1861 he entered St. Petersburg University, from where he was dismissed a month later due to unrest among students. He became a cadet in a cavalry regiment and in 1863 was promoted to cornet. When the Polish rebellion broke out, Skobelev went on vacation to his father, who was in Poland, but on the way there he joined one of the Russian infantry detachments as a volunteer and spent the entire vacation searching for and chasing bands of rebels.

In 1864, Skobelev was transferred to the Grodno Hussar Regiment and participated in expeditions against the rebels. After completing a course at the Nikolaev Academy of the General Staff, he was assigned to the troops of the Turkestan Military District. In 1873, during an expedition to Khiva, Skobelev was with the detachment of Colonel Lomakin. In 1875-1876 he took part in the Kokand expedition, where, in addition to remarkable courage combined with prudent foresight, he showed organizational talent and a thorough acquaintance with the region and the tactics of the Asians. In March 1877, he was sent to the command of the commander-in-chief of the army assigned to operate in European Turkey. Skobelev was received very unfriendly by his new colleagues. The young 34-year-old general was looked upon as an upstart who had achieved ranks and distinctions through easy victories over the Asian rabble. For some time, Skobelev did not receive any assignment; during the crossing of the Danube he was with General Dragomirov as a simple volunteer, and only from the second half of July he began to be entrusted with the command of combined detachments. Soon, the capture of Lovchi and the battles of August 30 and 31 near Plevna drew general attention to him, and the passage through the Imetlinsky Pass in the Balkans and the battle near Sheynov, followed by the surrender of the Turkish army of Wessel Pasha (late December 1877), confirmed Skobelev’s loud and brilliant fame. He returned to Russia after the 1878 campaign as a corps commander, with the rank of lieutenant general and the rank of adjutant general. Having embarked on peaceful pursuits, he led the education of the troops entrusted to him in an environment closely resembling the conditions of military life, while paying primary attention to the practical side of the matter, especially to the development of the endurance and daring of the cavalry.

Skobelev's last and most remarkable feat was the conquest of Ahal-Teke, for which he was promoted to infantry general and received the Order of St. George, second degree. Upon returning from this expedition, Skobelev spent several months abroad. On January 12, 1882, he delivered a speech to the officers who had gathered to celebrate the anniversary of the capture of Geok-Tepe, which caused a lot of noise in its time: it pointed out the oppression suffered by the Slavs of our same faith. This speech, which had a sharp political overtones, caused great irritation in Germany and Austria. When Skobelev was then in Paris and local Serbian students presented him with an address of gratitude for the above-mentioned speech, he answered them with only a few words, but of an extremely perky nature, while expressing his political ideas even more clearly and pointing even more sharply at the enemies of the Slavs. All this led to the fact that Skobelev was called from abroad before the end of his vacation. On the night of June 26, 1882, Skobelev, while in Moscow, died suddenly.

Emperor Alexander III, wanting military valor to bind the army and navy with common memories, ordered the corvette “Vityaz” to henceforth be called “Skobelev”.

Part one

Chapter first

The summer of 1865 turned out to be incredibly rainy. Just as it began to drizzle on Yegoryev’s Day, it continued to drizzle without interruption all subsequent days and nights. And if St. Petersburg was always suffering from the abundance of canals, rivers and rivulets, because of which, as Muscovites believed, dresses and shirts became watery in the morning, as if by themselves, and sugar and salt were always damp, now we have become familiar with these misfortunes and residents of the Mother See. Everyone cursed the weather, everyone was gloomy and dissatisfied, and only the shopkeepers tried their best to restrain their joy, since in their skillful hands even the cloth became shorter, as if it was drying out, contrary to nature, under the incessant rain, not to mention the products that had legitimately gained weight.

A Moscow man in the street talked about this, jolting along Tverskaya in a city stagecoach drawn by a pair of nags. Some called it a “ruler”, some called it a “guitar”, but this did not improve the crew’s comfort. And since the “guitar” was considered covered and, in principle, was so, but from the sun, and not from the endless rain, which I couldn’t even call rain, it was so shallow, pitiful, vague, piercing and endless, these unusual qualities especially affected the passengers of the Moscow "rulers", because the passengers sat on them on both sides, with their backs to each other, sideways to the horses and facing the sidewalks, and the water lashed them not only from above, but also from all other sides, including and from under the wheels.

What is this being done? The fields will get wet, honey mushrooms will grow on the huts, and all the evil spirits of the swamp will rejoice joyfully.

Flood. The true biblical flood...

Boris Lvovich VASILIEV

Skobelev, or There is only a moment...

Boris Lvovich Vasiliev was born in 1924 in Smolensk into the family of a Red Army commander. Participant of the Great Patriotic War. In 1948 he graduated from the Military Academy of Armored Forces, specializing as a combat vehicle test engineer. Since 1955 – professional writer. After the release of the story “The Dawns Here Are Quiet” (1969), his name became famous. Boris Vasiliev is the author of many stories and novels, among them: “The Very Last Day” (1970), “Don’t Shoot White Swans” (1973), “Not on the Lists” (1974), “Counter Battle” (1979), “ My horses are flying" (1982), "They were and were not" (1977-78, 1980).

The historical novel “There is only a moment” is a new work by the writer.

Skobelev

Historical reference

From the Encyclopedic Dictionary. Ed. Brockhaus and Efron. T. 56, St. Petersburg, 1890.

In 1864, Skobelev was transferred to the Grodno Hussar Regiment and participated in expeditions against the rebels. After completing a course at the Nikolaev Academy of the General Staff, he was assigned to the troops of the Turkestan Military District. In 1873, during an expedition to Khiva, Skobelev was with the detachment of Colonel Lomakin. In 1875-1876 he took part in the Kokand expedition, where, in addition to remarkable courage, combined with prudent foresight, he showed organizational talent and a thorough acquaintance with the region and the tactics of the Asians. In March 1877, he was sent to the command of the commander-in-chief of the army assigned to operate in European Turkey. Skobelev was received very unfriendly by his new colleagues. The young 34-year-old general was looked upon as an upstart who had achieved rank and distinction through easy victories over the Asian rabble. For some time Skobelev did not receive any assignment; during the crossing of the Danube he was with General Dragomirov as a simple volunteer, and only from the second half of July he was entrusted with the command of combined detachments. Soon, the capture of Lovchi and the battles of August 30 and 31 near Plevna drew general attention to him, and the passage through the Imetlinsky Pass in the Balkans and the battle near Sheynov, followed by the surrender of the Turkish army of Wessel Pasha (late December 1877), confirmed Skobelev’s loud and brilliant fame. He returned to Russia after the 1878 campaign as a corps commander, with the rank of lieutenant general and the rank of adjutant general. Having embarked on peaceful pursuits, he led the education of the troops entrusted to him in an environment closely resembling the conditions of military life, while paying primary attention to the practical side of the matter, especially to the development of the endurance and daring of the cavalry.

Skobelev's last and most remarkable feat was the conquest of Ahal-Teke, for which he was promoted to infantry general and received the Order of St. George, second degree. Upon returning from this expedition, Skobelev spent several months abroad. On January 12, 1882, he made a speech to the officers who had gathered to celebrate the anniversary of the capture of Geok-Tepe, which caused a lot of noise in its time: it pointed out the oppression suffered by the Slavs of our same faith. This speech, which had a sharp political overtones, caused great irritation in Germany and Austria. When Skobelev was then in Paris and local Serbian students presented him with an address of gratitude for the above-mentioned speech, he answered them with only a few words, but of an extremely perky nature, while expressing his political ideas even more clearly and pointing even more sharply at the enemies of the Slavs. All this led to the fact that Skobelev was called from abroad before the end of his vacation. On the night of June 26, 1882, Skobelev, while in Moscow, died suddenly.

Emperor Alexander III, wanting military valor to bind the army and navy with common memories, ordered the corvette “Vityaz” to henceforth be called “Skobelev”.

Part one

Chapter first

The summer of 1865 turned out to be incredibly rainy. Just as it began to drizzle on Yegoryev’s Day, it continued to drizzle without interruption all subsequent days and nights. And if St. Petersburg was always suffering from the abundance of canals, rivers and rivulets, because of which, as Muscovites believed, dresses and shirts became watery in the morning, as if by themselves, and sugar and salt were always damp, now we have become familiar with these misfortunes and residents of the Mother See. Everyone cursed the weather, everyone was gloomy and dissatisfied, and only the shopkeepers did their best to restrain their joy, since in their skillful hands even the cloth became shorter, as if, contrary to nature, they were drying out under the incessant rain, not to mention the products that had legitimately gained weight.

A Moscow man in the street talked about this, jolting along Tverskaya in a city stagecoach drawn by a pair of nags. Some called it a “ruler”, some called it a “guitar”, but this did not improve the crew’s comfort. And since the “guitar” was considered covered and, in principle, was so, but from the sun, and not from the endless rain, which one couldn’t even call rain, it was so shallow, pitiful, vague, piercing and endless, these unusual qualities especially affected the passengers of the Moscow "rulers", because the passengers sat on them on both sides, with their backs to each other, sideways to the horses and facing the sidewalks, and the water lashed them not only from above, but also from all other sides, including and from under the wheels.

- What is this being done? The fields will get wet, honey mushrooms will grow on the huts, and all the evil spirits of the swamp will rejoice joyfully.

- Flood. The true biblical flood...

Everyone saved themselves from the flood as best they could, but most often in their own arks. Only the Taganskaya fool Mokritsa, known throughout Moscow, danced in the rain and was very happy:

- Moscow is wet! Moscow is wet!

Muscovites sighed:

- You know, we have angered our Lord...

Apparently, they really got angry, because in the Hermitage restaurant the fountain itself began to cry around the clock, and in the English Club, founded by English merchants under Catherine the Great, the very explanation for the all-Moscow wet disaster was born. In the room on the first floor, called the waiting room, where lackeys, grooms and other accompanying persons whiled away the time over a cup of tea and conversation while waiting for the gentlemen, someone said on these very wet days:

– Any failure to win a war changes the climate of space and population.

And in this wise conclusion there was a considerable amount of truth, since not only Muscovites, but all of Russia deeply and sadly experienced the failure of the Crimean War, and no private victories in the Caucasus could bring any relief to wet souls and bodies. Undoubtedly, the heroic defense of Sevastopol dropped drops of balm on the wounded patriotic organisms, but only resounding victories, but not resounding defenses, can bring true joy of life and great triumph of the spirit. Russia thirsted for victorious heroes, and no amount of courage and steadfastness of the heroic defenders could quench this unbearable thirst. That is why all the newspapers suddenly began to trumpet in unison, cheerfully and cheerfully, when the first deafening telegrams arrived from the far, far south. From Turkestan, the existence of which the Russian average person of those times had hardly heard of. On June 15, 1865, Major General Mikhail Grigorievich Chernyaev, commanding a detachment of one thousand nine hundred and fifty people and with only twelve guns, with a sudden assault took some kind of Tashkent, in which a hundred thousand people lived, defended by thirty thousand (“selected”, as the newspapers emphasized) with an army with as many as sixty-three guns. True, he accomplished this heroic feat, forgetting to inform his superiors about his desire for him, for which he was immediately dismissed from service, however, receiving the rank of lieutenant general for his daring courage. And all the newspapers literally suffocated in an acute attack of patriotic delight, without once mentioning the annoying adherence to principles of the Sovereign-Emperor Alexander II.

These long-awaited feats, which is quite natural, were discussed with particular fervor in officer meetings in the clink of crystal glasses. The chief officers anticipated both future victories and future orders with professional trepidation and shoulders turned in advance.

- Two thousand against thirty! For revival, gentlemen!

– This proves the theorem of the highest military skill of Russian generals!

– Or the unbridled boasting of our press.

- Stop it, Skobelev! Chernyaev is a hero and talent!

“I agree with the first, I’ll wait with the second,” grinned the young officer in the uniform of the Life Guards of the Grodno Hussar Regiment. – The commander proves his talent only with his second victory. Otherwise, his feat is just an accidental luck of an adventurer.

- Are you jealous, Skobelev?

“I envy you,” the hussar admitted sincerely. – But it’s not Chernyaev’s luck at all, but only his courage. And luck, and success, and the manifestation of a person’s talent depend not so much on himself, but on the coincidence of circumstances. And courage is always a manifestation of the will of the individual, gentlemen. And therefore - for courage!

Hussar Mishka Skobelev in his youth was perceived by those around him as, so to speak, separate. Separately - as a true hussar, a gambler and a drinker, a good friend without visible friends, a tireless lover and a dashing duelist. Separately - like Skobelev. As the grandson of an ordinary soldier who accomplished such a legendary feat in the Battle of Borodino that Emperor Alexander I was surprised to grant him hereditary nobility, his eternal favor, and even the high post of commandant of the Peter and Paul Fortress, and his successor Emperor Nicholas I bestowed on yesterday’s soldier Ivan Nikitich Skobelev In this post he also held the rank of infantry general. Ivan Nikitich not only maintained the fortress and the royal tomb in exemplary order, but also wrote very popular stories from a soldier’s life under the pseudonym “Russian Invalid Man,” which he actually was, having lost his arm in the Battle of Borodino. His only son, Dmitry Ivanovich, very quickly grew into a cavalry general, known not only for his legendary father, but also for his personal courage, surprising even for the Caucasus, which earned the respect of all non-peaceful highlanders.

But the grandson of the commandant-writer, whose acquaintance Pushkin especially noted in his diary, named Mikhail, essentially no one knew then. Mishka received an excellent education, spoke fluently in four languages, teachers could not praise him enough for his abilities, but he himself was in no hurry to put these abilities into practice. By the age of twenty-two, he managed to graduate from the Girardet boarding school in Paris, study at the Faculty of Mathematics at St. Petersburg University, serve in the Life Guards Cavalry Regiment, and even go on two business trips abroad, from where he returned each time with foreign orders. So in Denmark, having gone on reconnaissance with half a platoon of lancers, he threw this half-platoon into an attack on a foot column of Germans who were then fighting the Kingdom of Denmark, at the head of it he cut into the confused enemy, captured the standard and left with several surviving soldiers. In Sardinia, he led a handful of desperate thugs to shoot grapeshot, broke into enemy artillery positions, killed the servants and captured the cannon. At home, however, he limited himself to duels, which is why one day he was forced to switch from cavalry guards to hussars. And no one wondered why a dashing hussar officer needed an impeccable knowledge of foreign languages, a love for Balzac, Sheridan and Lermontov mixed with an inexplicable craving for the ladies of the demimonde, endless drinking bouts and gambling card games. Everyone perceived him as he seemed, not realizing that Skobelev himself had no idea what he really was like.

If that year there were slushy rains in Great Russia, then in Central Asia, which was then called Turkestan, and its inhabitants were Kyrgyz, Bukharians, Khivans, Turkmens and Tekins, it was as hot as in a Russian oven. Within half an hour, the shirts of Russian soldiers were soaked through with sweat, which immediately dried out, and the clothes rattled like tin. In Russia they did not know about this, but meticulous foreign journalists, based on the rich experience of their own conquests, tirelessly reminded that the Russian bear was rushing to the wrong place where it should be. Behind all this, of course, was the British Empire, which for the first time in its colonial history was helplessly trampled in Afghanistan. This fueled the interest of the reading public, and the American newspaper The New York Herald was the first to think of sending its own correspondent directly to the battlefields in Turkestan, unimaginably far from America.

The best suited for this purpose was the imperturbable and very good-natured Irishman McGahan, who earned experience and fame from reports, articles and essays on the customs of the Wild West. Now it was proposed to go to the even wilder East, and McGahan prepared for this task very seriously, taking with him an English double-barreled combat rifle, a double-barreled hunting shotgun, an eighteen-round Winchester, three heavy Colts, a couple of hunting rifles, a Mexican saber and a machete. And the corresponding amount of ammunition. Having reached Tashkent, he was surprised to learn that there was an obstacle on the way that could not be broken through even with a dozen good hard drives.

“Alas, Mr. Correspondent, you will have to return to Russia tomorrow,” said the official registering non-military gentlemen with a sigh.

“Ah, baksheesh,” McGahan was ready for such a start to the conversation, since he was not too lazy to familiarize himself with some of the national characteristics of the administrators of the Russian Empire.

“Once again, alas,” the official sighed for the second time, but much more sadly. – There is an order categorically prohibiting all Europeans from entering the Turkestan region.

“A very reasonable order,” McGahan agreed. – Europeans tend to consider everyone barbarians. But I don't belong to the Europeans. I am a citizen of the North American United States, which is what is written on my passport.

– North American?..

– Yes, I am an American, and therefore I am not subject to your very correct order.

The official had no choice but to issue the appropriate permit to a foreigner not subject to the order. Four days later, McGahan, quite legally, went in search of General Kaufman to the area of direct combat operations. On local horses, he, with a guide and a Kyrgyz horse breeder, walked through the parched wormwood steppes, crossed the Kizyl-Kum desert, safely reached the Russian troops near Khiva, where, with great relief, he gave away his entire arsenal to the Russian officers, leaving himself only the familiar Colt.

A variety of adventure, excitement and exotic seekers also suddenly rushed from Great Russia to Turkestan. Young officers are thirsty for rank and glory. Singers, chorus girls, harpists and ladies of the demimonde without specific occupations. Traders, newspapermen, draftsmen, card sharpers, adventurers of all stripes and calibers, not to mention quite worthy people. And among these, the most famous was the already world-famous artist Vasily Vasilyevich Vereshchagin.

Chernyaev’s successful insolence stirred up the Russian troops dormant on the borders of Turkestan. General Romanovsky with four of them boldly attacked Ijar, where he defeated the forty-thousand-strong Bukhara army, losing one soldier. Without stopping, Romanovsky continued to build on his success, taking the cities of Khudzhent, Ura-Tyube and Jizzakh by storm. Inspired by these easy and quick victories, the soldiers immediately composed a song to which it was easier to march in the hellish heat:

Let's remember, brothers, about the past,

Like in Chinaz on Daria

We gathered quickly

Beat the emir in Ijar.

Thunder, glory, with a trumpet,

We fought for Daria,

Along your steppes, Chinaz,

Our fame has spread!

They sang loudly and cheerfully, but neither a definite plan of military action nor even a unified control system existed yet; each detachment, as well as each general, acted at their own peril and risk, and this could not continue for long. Finally, in July 1867, Emperor Alexander II personally appointed a sole military leader and governor-general of the entire Turkestan territory. The royal choice fell on Lieutenant General Konstantin Petrovich von Kaufman, widely known both in the army and throughout Russia. A new page was opening in the history of the Russian conquests of Central Asia.

At that time, the young officer Mikhail Skobelev was already studying at the Nikolaev Academy of the General Staff. He greedily devoured military sciences, invariably received high scores, but was not distinguished by discipline, perseverance, or even diligence. He solved theoretical combat tasks in a very unique way, often perplexing teachers; he didn’t think twice about answering exams, but he also answered far from the way academic laws required.

– The enemy has strongly fortified himself in inaccessible mountainous terrain. – The teacher’s pointer slid across the teaching terrain with professional grace. “You must break into his position.” Think and show your chosen route on the relief.

“Here,” Skobelev pointed his finger at the painted papier-mâché relief, without thinking for a second.

- Excuse me, this is the most difficult direction. Take the trouble to think.

- The enemy will think when I find myself above his fortifications from the rear.

– But artillery will not pass along the path you indicated!

“That’s why the enemy doesn’t expect me here.”

“But this is contrary to all the rules recognized by military authorities.”

It was at the academy that he began to receive not one, like everyone else, but two mutually exclusive characteristics at the same time. According to one, he was noted as an officer who undoubtedly possessed remarkable military abilities, everyday unpretentiousness, a sense of camaraderie and even modesty. But the second one characterized him as an arrogant rogue, a drinker, a brawler and a very impudent impudent person. The first belonged to academic professors, the second to academic teachers. It was impossible to determine which of them most accurately corresponded to reality, because both carefully described the same character from two points of view.

Having not yet completed the academic course, Skobelev got bored and submitted a report with a request to be sent to the war zone, that is, to Turkestan. However, father Dmitry Ivanovich caught himself in time and forced his obstinate son to withdraw the report and patiently complete the teaching. Reluctantly, Skobelev obeyed, pushed, graduated from the academy on the first list, giving the right to choose his place of service, and legally chose the Turkestan Military District.

Before leaving, he was invited by the head of the department of tactics at the Academy of the General Staff, Lieutenant General, Professor Mikhail Ivanovich Dragomirov.

“I assumed that you would rush to the theater of operations at the first opportunity,” he said, inviting Skobelev to sit opposite the service table. “I am pleased and dissatisfied with you at the same time, but I am convinced that you will strengthen my first impression and cancel out the second.” You are a very complex nature, they evaluate you, I will say frankly, from two mutually exclusive points of view, which is why I allowed myself a personal letter with my assessment of your character. I urgently ask you to hand over this letter on my behalf to General Kaufman.

- Thank you, Your Excellency, but...

“No “buts,” captain,” Dragomirov said sternly. – I’m not worried about you, but about the future of the Russian army. Based on this, I will give you some advice regarding the education of your tomorrow's subordinates.

Skobelev frowned with displeasure and sighed, and Mikhail Ivanovich smiled.

– Still, I ask you to listen. Task one: what should a soldier do in order to achieve victory over the enemy as cheaply as possible. Task two: what place in all the soldier’s activities should be given by oral examples, and what place should be given by the personal example of the commander. And finally, the third task: how to merge the various forms of soldier education in peaceful exercises into one whole so that none of them develops at the expense of the other.

Skobelev looked at the professor with sincere surprise. He did not tolerate advice, but what General Dragomirov said was not advice. He was told about the problems of soldier education that the officer was obliged to solve. That is, he personally, Captain Skobelev, as well as all the other lieutenants and captains, infantrymen and cavalrymen.

“I ask you to personally deliver the letter to Konstantin Petrovich Kaufman,” Dragomirov said, handing over the envelope. “I’m parting with the firm hope of soon meeting you as a general.”

At the beginning of 1868, a graduate of the General Staff Academy, Captain Mikhail Skobelev, arrived in the capital of the General Government, the city of Tashkent. General Kaufman was in no hurry to get to know him, and the envelope with the recommendation of Mikhail Ivanovich Dragomirov lay for a long time at the very bottom of Skobelev’s bag. The captain-captain quickly made friends, and the Turkestan nights were unusually cold, and somehow, at another fun drinking party, Dragomirov’s letter addressed to Konstantin Petrovich served as excellent kindling for a saving friendly fire...

The man to whom the Russian Empire owed the annexation of a fat piece of territory, Governor-General Konstantin Petrovich von Kaufman, was distinguished by excellent balance, sometimes, however, interrupted by attacks of irascibility, which he immediately sincerely repented of, a lack of humor, but an understanding that he, in principle, had the right to exist, and the German love of order. He did not like officer mischief, noisy drinking bouts, and even more so duels, which were prohibited and therefore strictly punished, but, oddly enough, he did not like the punishments themselves for this violation. He generally treated his subordinates in a fatherly manner, trying to find mild punishments if possible, but at the same time he tried to get rid of troublemakers as soon as possible. General Dragomirov studied his character well, which is why, contrary to all the rules and his own principles, he provided the obstinate Skobelev with a letter of recommendation, which cheerfully burned at an equally cheerful officer’s party on a cold night.

On one of these dark nights, an event occurred that led to the personal acquaintance of Lieutenant General von Kaufmann with the headquarters captain Mikhail Skobelev.

Despite numerous defeats, elusive either Bukhara or Kokand gangs continued to actively operate in the rear of the Russian troops, since no front existed, and could not exist over a vast territory with a very limited number of Russians. The only salvation from daring raids was reinforced cavalry patrols and patrols; they vigilantly guarded, especially at night, Tashkent itself, which sometimes was reached by particularly desperate horsemen not so much in the name of revenge as for the sake of stealing cattle and robbing the civilian population. And on one of the dark nights, the Cossack patrol suddenly heard strange screams.

- The middle, or what? Damn, it's so dark! I don't see my own gun.

- Count your steps, lieutenant!

- What for? We still don't see each other. We'd rather face each other with pistols...

- Required according to the dueling code. Have you ever seen a single Sardinian?

- No, but I saw sardines. In banks. A good snack with Madeira, I’ll tell you...

- Or maybe this captain... Skobelev, or what?.. Made up an idea about the Sardinian duel? This is utter stupidity: shooting at each other in pitch darkness.

- But it’s romantic, gentlemen. Night, coolness, stars in the sky. Command, captain, command.

- In this kind of blackness? Maybe my back is now turned to them, to the duelists. Or you and I, captain, have already been brought right into the line of fire. Can you imagine if they fired their revolvers from both sides at the same time?

- Don't waste time, captain. We yell at the entire Turkestan region instead of doing business.

- Well, to hell with you, captain. Listen to the command! Come together! After three steps you have the right to shoot. One two Three!..

In the darkness, frequent revolver shots rang out over and over again. It was unclear who fired at whom, but the Cossack commander ordered his Cossacks to fire a volley into the air. There was silence, and the driver shouted, his voice breaking:

- Stop shooting! Drop your weapon! You are surrounded, if you disobey, I will open fire!..

The entire noisy company was arrested and taken to the commander's headquarters. Kaufman generally got up very early, and for such an occasion he appeared immediately and immediately began interrogating the detainees, but the headquarters captain Skobelev had to suffer, since he was the last to be summoned.

- Staff Captain Skobelev! I have the honor to appear!

The general looked at him for a long time, his eyes narrowed from lack of sleep. Then he asked with some disinterested laziness:

– Have you ever been to Sardinia?

- That's right, Your Excellency! Awarded an order personally presented by His Majesty the King of Sardinia!

– And with what idea did you come up with this idiotic duel in the pitch darkness?

– Only for the sake of her idiotic performance, Your Excellency.

- I don’t quite understand. Please explain.

“I am well aware that duels are categorically prohibited by His Imperial Majesty, but this absolutely correct decision runs into an exaggerated idea of \u200b\u200bhonor among gentlemen officers. Based on this, I proposed a Sardinian duel: firing from a full drum, but in complete darkness. This is the most humane of all duels known to me.

“But it doesn’t exist in nature, Captain,” Kaufman sighed.

- Of course, Your Excellency. However, none of the officers of the local garrison even really knows where this very Sardinia is, not to mention its customs.

- Therefore, you made it up?

“I’ve rather thought about it, Your Excellency.” In clear light, the duelist is forced to either shoot, putting the life of his comrade in danger, or refuse to shoot, inevitably and forever losing his honor. And darkness is very beneficial. The duelist can shoot into the sky, saving the life of a comrade, or lie down on the ground, saving his own life. Thus, the violation of the imperial ban takes on a somewhat, so to speak, ephemeral form. It’s like an eternal girl’s dream is coming true: to have fun while maintaining innocence.

“The idea is undoubtedly brilliant,” Kaufman said after a pause, holding back the smile breaking out from under his mustache with an effort of will. - However, the duel took place and, consequently, a daring violation of the categorical prohibition of the Sovereign-Emperor took place. True, you did not take part in the duel itself, but you were its inspirer and inventor. Which is sad, because I have the honor of being on friendly terms with your father back in the Caucasus and deeply honor your grandfather. Receive a verbal reprimand for inspiration and do not now try to transfer anything from the customs of the Danish Kingdom to Russian soil. You can go, captain. And don't chat about it in vain.

Konstantin Petrovich never made his official or private conversations public, but the rumor about his conversation with Captain Skobelev still escaped from the walls of his office. The reason for this was the dull adjutant of the commander himself, a handsome cuirassier, the son of a famous general and military friend of Kaufman. They made fun of the unlucky duelists who fell for Skobel's bait, of the farcical nature of the situation, but, as a rule, they did not offend the captain himself. On the contrary, in this unusual incident he looked more like an entrepreneur than a vaudeville hero.

The nightly “Sardinian” duels stopped, the firing in the darkness ceased, and Skobelev himself calmed down a little. In any case, he did not flash unnecessarily before the eyes of his superiors. He was engaged in a hussar half-squadron, in which he temporarily replaced an ill commander, and the young officers said that the capital's whip had tucked his tail between his legs after the first harsh conversation with Konstantin Petrovich. However, then an event happened that overshadowed all the jokes, gossip and gossip.

The matter was truly out of the ordinary. A hundred Ural Cossacks, accompanying the movement of camels purchased for the army, found themselves surrounded, well thought out and prepared by the commander of the Kokand detachment. Surrounded on all sides by horsemen, the hundred fought a three-day continuous battle with four thousand well-armed cavalrymen, resolutely rejecting numerous proposals to lay down their arms and surrender to the mercy of the winner. For three days without the slightest rest, without water, in the terrible heat, the Cossacks stood behind their own horses until help arrived. The hundred was commanded by the middle-aged, serious captain Serov, who instantly became the most famous man in all of Turkestan.

Skobelev was impatient to personally testify to his admiration for the Cossacks, but he waited until the first excitement subsided. He wanted to talk with their commander, and not just congratulate the Urals on their victory and drink a good glass with them. And after waiting the time, he came. He bowed to the Cossacks, squeezed the captain’s hand for a long time, feelingly, with both palms, drank as expected, and then nevertheless took Serov aside for the sake of the conversation that he had already thought about.

- How did you end up in an ambush? Did the patrols really miss?

“The Kokand people quietly removed our patrols with knives,” the captain smiled sadly. -Are you curious?

- I want to know. I have to fight them.

“It’s another matter,” the captain hid his grin. - They have Tekin horses. They are capable of jumping on the sands for a day without food. You won’t leave and you won’t catch up.

- How are they armed?

- These English rapid-fire guns had. And the first thing they did was shoot all our horses.

- At a gallop?

“They shoot poorly when galloping.” But they didn’t need to shoot while galloping. Their rifles are longer-range than our Berdans. So they fired from their saddles. Targeted and slowly.

- What did you do?

- He surrounded himself with horse corpses on all sides and lay down with the Cossacks.

– Did you attack often?

– They didn’t attack at all. They wanted to starve us out, so they shouted at us to surrender to mercy. And as luck would have it, we found ourselves without water, relying on the wells ahead.

- How can you spend three days under the sun...

“They licked the hooves of dead horses; before dawn they become wet. You should take this into account, captain, when you have to seriously fight with them.

- I will definitely take it into account. Thanks for the science, esaul.

“And one more thing,” said the captain. - Yes, for memory. Their horsemen cut off the tails of their killed horses along with the tip. Khan gives a new horse for the cut off tail. Because this is proof that the horse fell in battle. So if you see a tailless horse somewhere, know that horsemen passed through here. Warriors, not some kind of gangs.

– Thank you very much again, captain. Let's hug goodbye.

The Cossacks received orders and medals, chose government horses themselves to replace the ones killed, gladly put on a new uniform, adjusted the brand new equipment given to them and galloped off to their troubled borders. And during this time Skobelev handed over the half-squadron to the recovered legitimate commander and boredly hung around the operations department.

Now he avoided the former noisy companies. Secular gossip and rumors that the gallant hussar was frightened by Kaufman’s severe beating proved that he had no friends, but only drinking buddies and casual acquaintances. In addition, he kept thinking about the conversation with Yesaul Serov, which he diligently recorded, word for word, in a thick notebook specially purchased for this purpose.

The friend showed up himself. Yes, not just any one, but one tested in shared boarding accommodation in the city of Paris. The quiet, smiling young prince Nasekin: the only one to whom everyone addressed only “you,” because the prince himself recognized only this form of communication, even with servants. Skobelev had not seen him since his brief studies at the university; he did not know whether he had graduated, how he lived and what he was doing. And he was so happy about his sudden arrival that he even grabbed him into his arms, although he knew that the prince did not really favor such violent manifestations of feelings.

- Serge, my dear! There’s someone I didn’t expect to see in our dusty wilderness, it’s you. What wind carried you to these Palestines?

– Frankly speaking, they asked me about this, and I immediately agreed.

-Who asked you? – asked Skobelev, slightly stung by the princely directness.

– Our mentor, Skobelev. Monsignor Girardet.

– Ah... Sorry, I didn’t quite understand. For what purpose?

“He’s a little embarrassed by his French accent, which is why he wanted me to accompany him.”

-What is his need in Turkestan?

- In my opinion, the request of your mother Olga Nikolaevna, whom he always lacked the strength to refuse.

Skobelev was completely confused in all the causes and consequences. But, having paused in concentration and thought thoroughly, he asked directly:

“So, the respected Master Girardet has come to check how I’m behaving?” Who whispered in mother’s ear, I wonder?

“I don’t collect other people’s secrets, Michel,” the prince smiled a pale, tired smile.

“I beg your pardon, Serge,” Skobelev sighed. “I’ve been under supervision all my life.”

“I understand your feelings, Michel, however...” Prince Nasekin took out a chronometer and clicked the lid. - However, I apologize. In thirty-seven minutes our master is waiting for us in a restaurant in the glorious city of Tashkent.

“Agree, prince, that all this is at least strange,” Skobelev muttered displeasedly, fastening his saber. – I am brought up before I give a reason for this...

His mood was completely ruined, and he was sullenly silent the whole way. Nasekin was also silent, since the only restaurant in Tashkent was just a stone's throw away. Either because he agreed with his friend on something, or because he disagreed, but, as always, he did not argue due to his characteristic extreme scrupulousness.

They entered a small restaurant, opened by an efficient Armenian mainly for gentlemen officers. Even at the entrance, Skobelev noticed his old mentor, but Monsieur Girardet was not alone. Next to him sat a bearded young man in a private dress, whom the captain immediately recognized, although until now he had not known him, since no one had introduced them to each other. This was the artist Vasily Vasilyevich Vereshchagin, whom Kaufman seconded to himself with the title of “ensign attached to the Governor General.” Seeing those entering, the “ensign attached to the Governor General” immediately stood up, extended his hand to Skobelev and smiled good-naturedly:

- And here is our naughty hussar!

Skobelev was thrown into a fever: he could not stand cheeky familiarity. And since he found Vereshchagin at the table with Girardet, he immediately decided that it was to this “attached governor general” that he owed the arrival of Girardet himself to Tashkent. He answered the handshake dryly and said with hostility:

“Now I seem to understand what the responsibilities of someone who works under the governor’s person are.”

Now Vereshchagin was starting to feel feverish, but he restrained himself. And he even forced himself to smile almost with the same good nature:

– Don’t get excited, Skobelev. And be baptized if it seems so.

– Have we already switched to “you”?

“From this moment,” said Vasily Vasilyevich. – I have an inexplicable weakness for daringly frank people.

“Michel,” Monsieur Girardet began in French, and there was a soft reproach in his tone. – We had such a nice conversation about Paris...

- Sorry, gentlemen, I have to leave you. - Vereshchagin bowed, went to the exit, but stopped:

“But we will certainly become friends, hussar.” I have a feeling.

“Sit down, my friends,” Girardet sighed upset. – You should never get excited, Michel. Never. I ordered lunch on the recommendation of the kind Mr. Vereshchagin. You need to apologize to him, Michelle. Necessary. And don’t put this noble deed on the back burner.

Skobelev snorted with displeasure, but remained silent.

Chapter two

Twenty-three-year-old artist Vasily Vasilyevich Vereshchagin was returning home in a strange, somewhat divided mood. On the one hand, he felt insulted by some vague to him, but clearly vile suspicion, and on the other, he was to a certain extent fascinated by the daring sincerity of the young captain. He always highly valued human frankness, and therefore this “second” now outweighed the “first” in his soul. He considered himself an impetuous person, ready to act rashly, dictated much more often by temperament than by reason, but he was more of a decisive person, although he did not lose the ability to act impulsively at times. For example, he burned three of his paintings (“Forgotten,” “Surrounded and Pursued,” and “Entered”) more on the spur of the moment than after mature reflection.

As soon as he arrived in Tashkent, Kaufman seconded him to his place with the title “ensign Vereshchagin attached to the Governor General” only in order to give him as much freedom as possible to walk, watch and draw not only everyday life, but also military operations without the nagging of the locals commanders And in that huge military camp, which was then Turkestan, this turned out to be a huge advantage, which Vereshchagin very quickly appreciated.

He first noticed Captain Skobelev at a modest exhibition of his own drawings organized by Kaufman, and he liked the young hussar. And I noticed because I had already heard about Mishka Skobelev’s unbridled drinking bouts, and about daily card games, and especially about “Sardinian” duels, the humor of which he appreciated. Skobelev did not stand out in any way at that time and could only dream of the military glory that went to the artist Vereshchagin.

Vasily Vasilyevich arrived in Samarkand on the second day after its surrender to Russian troops and was, by his own admission, “blinded and depressed” by the beauty of Timur’s ancient capital. He wandered around the city and drove around the surrounding area, amazed, amazed and endlessly sketching what he saw. The assistant to the Samarkand commandant, Major Sergeev, in vain begged him not to risk his life in vain, but Vasily Vasilyevich did not pay the slightest attention to his warnings and persuasion, every day from early morning, or even on a moonlit night, continuing to look, wonder and - draw.

However, tense relations with Bukhara did not allow General Kaufman to stay in the city for long. He moved forward with a detachment of one and a half thousand people, leaving in Samarkand a garrison of about five hundred soldiers and officers under the command of the commandant Baron Shtempel. Enchanted by the ancient Maracanda, Vereshchagin did not follow the troops, wandering with the same tenacity through the narrow streets, never tired of admiring the splendor of mosques, palaces and tombs. However, a few days later, when he, tired from his morning walk, was drinking tea in the house in which he was settled, suddenly shots and wild cries were heard: “Hurr!..” Grabbing a revolver, he rushed towards the noise.

As it turned out later, about twenty-five thousand rebel Uzbeks, in agreement with the Samarkand residents, burst into the city and started fighting in its narrow and cramped streets. And these battles lasted eight days without the slightest break.

Vereshchagin was on time everywhere. He fought off the furious attacks of the rebels, fired back, remembering his training in the Naval Corps, fought hand-to-hand several times and only miraculously emerged from the battle alive. One day he was grabbed and dragged into a shop, but the soldiers arrived in time and managed to fight him off.

One of the enemy’s surprise attacks on an artillery battery turned out to be especially formidable. The soldiers trembled and rushed about, their commander, Colonel Nazarov, shouted in vain and even hit them with a saber, this only intensified the panic. Then Vasily Vasilyevich himself rushed forward with a gun at the ready:

- Follow me, brothers!..

About forty people were killed near him, his entire canvas coat was covered in blood: from that day on, he went into attacks wearing only a shirt and canvas pants. His bright hat was knocked off by a bullet, and Vereshchagin was forced to put a cover from an officer’s cap on his head in order to protect himself from the merciless Turkestan sun. Once a bullet hit the stock of a rifle, which at that moment he was fortunately carrying across his chest, and broke his leg with a stone, so much so that it was difficult to stop the bleeding. The desperate assault lasted eight days and eight nights without a single break; the forces of the defenders were already beyond the limits of human capabilities, and at the military council it was decided to blow up the fortress in the event of an enemy breakthrough. Only Vasily Vasilyevich resolutely opposed:

“Blowing everyone up is as easy as shelling pears and somehow very military-like.” But in the Samarkand fortress there are not only military men and not only Russians. Armenians, peaceful Kyrgyz, Jews, and God knows who else took refuge here, but all with their families. With wives, children, old people. Do we have the right to control their lives? I think that we do not have such a right.

- Yes, they will be cut anyway, Vasil Vasilich! – Colonel Nazarov sighed. - No, you're wrong. For the sake of military honor, for the sake of banners and cannons, which will then be fired at our own, we must blow up the entire fortress when our own fortress is not enough.

- Will they cut everyone off? – Vereshchagin asked quietly, and everyone fell silent. – Where does this confidence come from, Colonel? Yes, if at least one little boy, even one tiny girl survives, that is a great blessing. There are no such fortresses that for the sake of their explosion, for the sake of honor, banners and guns, at least one innocent child would die!

The entire garrison, everyone hiding in the fortress, called Vereshchagin the same way: “Vasil Vasilich,” as the closest, almost dear person. That's what he was. Despite his terrible fatigue, he bandaged the wounded, found encouraging words for the confused, and even managed to bury the dead.

“I don’t remember sleeping,” he said later. – Sometimes I fell into blackness, but never for more than half an hour.

Five times they sent messengers from the peaceful Kirghiz, who were also hiding in the fortress along with their families, and four times the besiegers threw their severed heads over the walls back into the fortress. Only the fifth reached Kaufman, who handed him a note written in German from the commandant Baron Stempel: “The garrison is in extremes. More than half of the people were killed and slaughtered. There is no water, no salt." Kaufman immediately moved towards Samarkand with a forced march, raised the besiegers to bayonets, burned the bazaar, and only then did the fortress gates open.

– The greatest hero of the siege was Ensign Vereshchagin, who was with you.

These were the first words of the commandant of the fortress, the twice-wounded Baron Shtempel. Before the official report.

“That’s right, Your Excellency,” wheezed the non-commissioned officer, leaning heavily on his rifle. “It is impossible to give crosses to anyone before our Vasil Vasilich.”

– Where is Vereshchagin himself? – Konstantin Petrovich asked in surprise, looking around.

They rushed to look, but found it with difficulty. Vasily Vasilyevich was fast asleep in the corner of the cool casemate. And when he, who had not slept well, was taken to headquarters, where General Kaufman announced personal gratitude to him in front of everyone, and said:

- But I have no gratitude to you. You left without building a fortress.

Konstantin Petrovich had the intelligence and tact not to pay any attention to this insolence. And calmly continue in the same sincere tone:

– Highly appreciating your courage and devotion to the Sovereign, I decided to petition His Imperial Majesty to award you the officer’s Cross of St. George, dear Vasily Vasilyevich.

- No way! - Vereshchagin suddenly shouted. - No, no and NO! I will refuse publicly and with scandal!

Now it was Kaufman's turn to be furious. At first he just yelled, but Vereshchagin also yelled back. Then Konstantin Petrovich changed his tone and began to persuade him, but the stubborn, dirty, sleep-deprived and endlessly tired artist stubbornly insisted. Kaufman fell silent, knitted his eyebrows and went straight to Vasily Vasilyevich. Vereshchagin fell silent and began to back away until his back hit the wall. And as soon as this happened, the general silently removed the officer’s St. George’s Cross from his own chest and put it on Vereshchagin.

“I wore it for fifteen years with honor and dignity.” Just dare to take it off!

Girardet told about this story in general terms over dinner: Skobelev learned the details from Vasily Vasilyevich himself later, when they really became friends. But what he heard now was enough to call himself a fool and poutingly listen to the moral teachings of the venerable master.

- Excuse me, my dear, but how could you come up with the idea of some strange duel in complete darkness? The joke is in very bad taste, which His Excellency notified your father about in a special message. Your father wrote a letter in response, which he read to me.

- And what does he write? – Skobelev asked gloomily.

- He asks His Excellency not to keep you in Tashkent any longer, but to send you to detachments operating against the nomads. And mother asked to inquire about your health and nutrition. Besides, she sent you a package...

The parcel from his father's house also contained his father's investment: a bottle of excellent cognac, which greatly delighted the dissolute son. That same evening, having barely escorted Monsieur Girardet to the hotel room he had rented, the captain put the bottle wrapped in paper under his arm and went to look for Vasily Vasilyevich.

Vereshchagin met him in a robe fairly smeared with paint, but, apparently, from sleep, and not from the easel, and therefore looked somewhat dissatisfied, said:

“That’s it,” Skobelev grumbled and put his father’s treasured bottle on the table littered with drawings. - Let's make peace, Vereshchagin. I was dead wrong.

“I’m ready to make peace, but not at this table,” Vasily Vasilyevich first of all rearranged the bottle, instantly appreciating it. “We have some good cognac ahead of us, captain.” True, you will have to drink from mugs. Wouldn't that upset you too much?

- It would be something to drink.

“Here we agree,” Vereshchagin brought two soldiers’ mugs, some food and placed it all on some kind of stand smeared with dried paints. – The appetizer, of course, is not so hot, but excuse the free artist.

He himself busily opened the bottle and poured it into the glasses.

- Do you forgive?

- I, Mishka, value sincerity above all human qualities, because Russia lies. He lies completely and completely shamelessly, habitually and indifferently.

They drank tastefully and ate tastefully. And only after that Skobelev asked:

-Where is your officer Georgiy?

– It’s lying in a box somewhere.

- Why? I wear mine. This one is from the Kingdom of Denmark, and this one was granted to me by the King of Sardinia.

– Orders look great on a uniform. And on the artist’s blouse - excuse me, it looks like the blouse is out of order.

“We definitely need to take a second glass of wine,” Skobelev sighed. – The conversation is like at a social event. But I would like a heart-to-heart.

- Well, let's have a heart-to-heart talk.

They accepted the second one and for some reason fell silent. Then the captain asked, not very confidently, however:

– Did you know that you were so brave?

- Did you know? – Vereshchagin shrugged. - No. Quite the contrary. As a child, I was afraid of the dark forest. Especially when all around there are only seasoned ones eating. And wind. And they make noise and wave their paws.

- What about hand-to-hand combat? They don't use paws there, they wave sabers. And the soldiers over there are creating legends about you.

“It’s different there, faces are visible there.” You know, I quite clearly remember some fierce, distorted snouts. I remember the red reflections of the fires on the soldiers’ bayonets and to this day I can hear the hoarse, broken cries of the officers giving commands. And, would you believe it, some voice seemed to whisper to me: “You will not die. You will remember everything you see and then draw it in your paintings.”

– What then do you think is military courage?

“Courage?..” Vereshchagin shrugged again, which was his favorite gesture in difficult circumstances. “They didn’t seem like particularly fierce brave men to me.” In my opinion, the one who managed to suppress his rage and anger with his own will, who does not lose his mind even in battle, only he is truly brave. Misha, when I was a child, my father told me about your grandfather, how he led a regiment into an attack in the battle of Borodino. After all, it wasn’t dark rage that drove him? What do you think?

“I don’t know what to tell you...” Skobelev smiled uncertainly. – In Rus', courage and military courage have long been valued above all else. Maybe that's what he was thinking about? He has already proven everything, both to himself and to everyone. The regiment had already caught up with him, the grandfather was wounded, but he still ran. Is it because he, already exhausted, barely able to stand on his feet, ran towards the enemy because he was thinking about his own future? About my sons, about me.

- Some kind of mysticism.

- Maybe it’s mystic, but my father is a general, I graduated from the General Staff Academy, my career is ahead, if I don’t ruin it myself. But he’s a peasant’s grandson, Vasya. My sisters are also, naturally, peasant granddaughters - and even more so. One is a countess, the second is a princess, and the third is getting married to the Duke of Leuchtenberg. Was it their happiness that my grandfather Ivan Nikitich was thinking about when, bleeding and crippled, he ran and ran against the enemy?.. This is what I sometimes think about, and this is very dangerous, because a military man should only think about maps.

- Above the map or above the cards, hussar? – Vasily Vasilyevich smiled.

- Both over those and over others! – Skobelev laughed. - Pour it, Vasya, good cognac polishes the blood...

They polished the blood with half circles and were silent. Then the guest said thoughtfully:

“I have never been in serious business yet, but in those raids that fell to my share, I felt festive. It’s as if someone is protecting me, as if the bullet has not yet been cast, and the saber has not yet been forged, which will release the soul from me. It’s all strange, Vasya, isn’t it?

“Probably this is innate courage,” Vereshchagin said after thinking. “For you, battle is a holiday, but for me it is a grave necessity.” I didn’t think about myself, I had no time for that. Screams, groans, inhuman screams all around, what kind of holiday is there when there is suffering and bloodshed all around.

“But you believed that you would survive even in this bloodshed.” After all, he believed, he believed!..

– And how often do you think about this?

“If such a thought stirs even for a single moment, I immediately drive it out of myself,” Vereshchagin said very seriously. - And you, Skobelev, drive her mercilessly. What should be, must be, cannot be avoided. That's what we'll drink to.

- In one moment? - The captain smiled.

- All life is in such a moment, Mishka. Only he blinds. The rest is gray.

They both stood up and very solemnly clinked their tin soldier mugs.

Soon Monsieur Girardet decided to return to Moscow. Not only in order, as he put it, to testify to Olga Nikolaevna his deepest respect, but also to assure her that her beloved son did not give the slightest reason for concern. Mikhail Dmitrievich very much loved and respected his teacher and educator, but was glad of his departure. He could not stand “self-control,” as he put it, even from very close people.

Therefore, he was unpleasantly alarmed by Prince Nasekin’s desire to stay in Tashkent for an indefinite period. Skobelev suspected the same element of supervision in this desire and directly asked Nasekin about it, but the prince only smiled shyly:

“God be with you, Michel, I’m not fit for such roles.” And the reason why I decided to stay is very prosaic and simple, although it seems to me extremely noble today. That’s why it seemed to me that it was here, on the warring outskirts, that I would finally find something to my liking.

– Have you decided, Serge, to enroll in the Turkestan Army as a volunteer?

“And I’m not fit for that.” However, there are so many sick, wounded and simply restless people here that I decided to open in Tashkent something like a nursing home with a hospital attached to it. It seems that this is the only area where my condition, connections, and I myself can provide all possible help.

They talked in the same restaurant where Skobelev had recently met Vereshchagin. We came here for lunch after seeing off Monsieur Girardet, drank a glass to his happy journey, but then Skobelev finished the bottle alone.

– What do you intend to do this evening, Michel?

– In the evening I intend to visit a certain very appetizing brunette. In the presence of a mentor, I refrained from such visits, but long fasting was not for me. If you wish, we can go together: she will find a charming girlfriend.

The prince smiled a pale smile:

- Alas, my friend. I appreciate the company of ladies, but I prefer modest and intelligent ladies to ladies who are pleasant in all respects.

“You and I are complete opposites in absolutely everything,” Skobelev sighed. – If you are a model, then imagine I’m built the opposite way. It is quite possible that the first communication with females is to blame for everything, who knows. It just so happened that when I was about twelve years old, I fell madly in love with a girl my age, the daughter of a neighboring landowner. We played nicely with her until one day I felt that I was literally burning with the desire to pounce on this sweet, well-mannered, modest girl like an animal. Then I ran away from her, but did not sleep all night, afraid that I would wake up with the same bestial desire. And he lay in bed, exhausted from an insane internal overstrain: you, Serge, I’m sure, are also familiar with this adolescent feeling of awakening. And then suddenly the maid entered, a rather pretty girl of about eighteen years old. She said something, but I don’t remember what exactly, because I jumped up and rushed at her head first. I growled, cried and butted her magnificent breasts with my own forehead until I pressed her against the wall. I don’t know what would have happened next if she had gotten scared or screamed. But she was not afraid and did not scream, but understood everything. And she accepted my impulse with kindness and complete sympathy, quickly and quite worthily saving me from all my internal devilish torments. And since then I have felt incredibly constrained and awkward in the company of smart, modest girls and blissful surrounded by unassuming representatives of the demi-monde. And here, apparently, nothing can be done: in all likelihood, childhood experience is reinforced for life.

“From your confession it follows that we are both flawed people in some way,” the prince smiled.

The very next day, Skobelev was unexpectedly summoned to General Kaufman. Konstantin Petrovich was strict and so businesslike that he didn’t even offer to sit down.

“They told me in time that you were exhausted in inaction, captain.” Tomorrow you will lead a search group and go to the Orta-Kuyu wells. You should check the caravan road going there in both directions, but no more than five miles. Do not get involved in battles, even if the enemy seems small in number.

- Yes, Your Excellency.

– I am interested in the possible movements of the Khiva and Kokand detachments, as such. The number is a secondary matter, the main thing is the direction of movement of such detachments.

The order was rather vague, and the captain understood perfectly well that he was being tested in his first independent case. This somewhat offended the proud Skobelev, but he prepared for the upcoming campaign with special care. I spent the whole day in the topographical department of the headquarters until I thoroughly understood the incredible interweaving of caravan trails. To such an extent that he was now able, without thinking, to sketch them out from memory.

The next day he set out early at the head of a combined detachment consisting of a half-squadron of hussars and fifty Ural Cossacks. He drove them quickly and mercilessly, without turning to a local guide, but relying on his own visual memory and the accuracy of the staff maps. The topographers did not disappoint, and the equestrian group arrived at the wells indicated by Kaufman, near which there was no one. However, there were enough fresh horse tracks, and the elderly Ural police officer looked at them for a long time.

“We were moving forward,” he reported to Skobelev. “One horse is noticeably falling on the right front, but they also drove him so that he would not fall behind the others. Therefore, they were leaving someone, your honor, but from whom, you don’t understand, there are no other traces.

“Let’s see who they were leaving from,” Skobelev decided. - Strengthen the patrols, the constable with five Cossacks - go ahead. And keep your eyes open, guys.

Three versts later, the constable commanding the head patrol sent a Cossack to report that he had stumbled upon the battlefield, but did not find any enemy. Skobelev immediately ordered to turn around and galloped after the messenger.

Soon, behind the dune, a takyr, dry to the sound of hooves, opened up. There were a dozen horse corpses lying on it, already swollen from the terrible heat, but Skobelev did not notice any human bodies, no fragments of weapons, or any foreign objects. From the saddle, at first he could not see any human footprints or horse hoof prints, but in some places he still noticed stains of dried blood that had turned black. The dismounted police officer, who had previously been carefully examining the takyr, approached with a report:

- It looks like there was a chopping block, your honor. But fleeting and somehow not very confident. It seems like they accidentally ran into each other, cut themselves off in a hurry and ran away.

- And they didn’t kill anyone?

“Maybe they didn’t take anyone with them, or maybe they took them with them.” If there is any opportunity, they do not abandon their dead. They told me that the Koran did not tell them to.

- Were there many of them?

– It’s difficult to determine from the footprints, the takyr has hardened, the prints are weak. Maybe a hundred, or maybe even half a thousand. Apparently, the wild troops ran into each other, cut down reluctantly, and fled from sin.

Skobelev jumped from the saddle, threw the reins to the handler, and walked around, peering carefully. There were almost no traces visible, and those that were still imprinted here and there turned out to be unsystematic and confusing. It was completely impossible to understand who stumbled upon whom and who ran where after the fleeting felling. The captain abandoned this task and went to the horse corpses, which were already stinking in the scorching sun. He remembered well the words of the brave captain Serov, spoken as if by the way, for memory. And indeed, the tails of three dead horses were cut off along with the tip.

- Wild, you say? - he asked. - No, constable, the Khan’s detachment was walking on one side. Either Khiva or Kokand. Do you see the severed tails?

– And which ones do they take with them for reporting? Exactly, your honor, Khan's horsemen.

- Cut me a piece of the ridge with a severed tip. Also for the record: I will show it to General Kaufman. Let him think about who could move here and where.

The sergeant deftly, with two blows, cut out the tail process of the horse's ridge, procured a piece of torn cloth from the Cossacks, wrapped it, and handed it to Skobelev:

- It stinks.

- It’s okay, we’ll be patient.

The captain attached the bundle to the saddle and jumped onto his horse.

- Let's hurry up, servants. We have an important report, it was not in vain that we steamed in the sun.

Extremely pleased with what was, from his point of view, a successful reconnaissance, Captain Skobelev returned to Tashkent on a controversial march. And he immediately went to headquarters to immediately report to General Kaufman not only the situation, but also his thoughts. These considerations were based on a package that emitted a very unpleasant smell, which is why the zealous captain carried it somewhat on departure.

However, the general was not there. His adjutant, a young cuirassier, smiled not without malice, which always offended Skobelev unpleasantly.

“We weren’t expecting you so early, captain.” You got off too quickly. His Excellency will be there in the evening, but will only be able to receive you tomorrow.

– Give His Excellency my written report and certainly along with this parcel.

He immediately wrote a short but very succinct report on the results of the reconnaissance, ending it somewhat mysteriously: “The main conclusion lies in the premise attached to this report. Your vast experience will itself prompt you to the appropriate conclusions.”

It was a rather arrogant and rather boastful ending, but Skobelev could not resist. He really didn’t like the condescension that he felt in the general’s attitude towards his own person.

“I’m going to headquarters,” he said, handing the cuirassier a report and a stinking souvenir. “Something needs to be checked, which I ask you to notify His Excellency about.”

“Certainly, sir,” the adjutant shuffled. – We understand: the formation of a capital city imposes certain obligations. For example, receiving advice from headquarters before the commander’s conclusion.

“This doesn’t concern you at all,” Skobelev retorted and immediately left.

The captain was assigned to the operational department of the headquarters, so to speak, according to the official staff formation, since there was always a shortage of competent staff officers on the outskirts of the empire. However, the troops did not conduct large-scale operations; local battles, much less small skirmishes, did not really require staff developments, and Skobelev constantly felt truly assigned to something absolutely unnecessary in these conditions. However, Mikhail Dmitrievich was extremely inquisitive, did not waste time and established strong friendly relations with topographers, wanting to learn as much as possible about the theater of military operations. Curiosity was encouraged in every possible way, Skobelev was gladly shown maps and diagrams, introduced to the location of wells and explained what the difference is between takyrs and, say, blinkers and which of them pose a danger in the Turkestan winters, and which ones in the Turkestan heat. It was both instructive and interesting, but on that day Mikhail Dmitrievich was in a hurry not only to get a hint where exactly the detachment that he had not discovered could move, but also to check the words of Esaul Serov: he suddenly thought whether Esaul’s the story is a typical Cossack tale.

However, there were no ethnographer specialists in the operational department; some confirmed Serov’s words, while others laughed at them, and Skobelev soon left with nothing, since the end of all presence had come. He went to look for Vereshchagin, but Vasily Vasilyevich also disappeared unknown where (Skobelev decided that he had gone with General Kaufman), it was already late, hunger was making itself felt after a whole day of racing in the heat, and Skobelev, on reflection, went to the restaurant .

Screams, laughter and the clinking of glasses were heard in the dimly lit hall. Everything was floating in tobacco smoke, there were no empty seats in sight, but they knew Mikhail Dmitrievich very well here, which is why they set up a separate table for him behind a light curtain. He ordered a hearty dinner, a bottle of local araki, and tucked into the food with gusto.

The noise was such that at first he could not distinguish individual voices at all. Voices began to reach him after he had satisfied his first hunger, and they came from behind the curtain.

- ... and in the burlap there is horse bone. The stench is terrible, gentlemen, to the point of spasms in the throat! Well, I, naturally, ordered the soldier to bury it away from the general’s residence...

“Did he bring her with him for the sake of the jellied meat?”

“It’s quite possible that this supply has just gone rotten to, so to speak, a flagrant state.” And this state screamed, so to speak, throughout the entire mansion.

– They say that Chinese cuisine is becoming fashionable in the capital. Someone even brought rotten eggs to St. Petersburg.

The tipsy officers were chatting, and the voice of one of them - the one who led the main party - seemed familiar to Skobelev. He carefully pulled back the edge of the curtain: at the next table, sitting with his back to him, was Kaufman’s adjutant in a civilian suit, stretched tightly over his heroic shoulders.

“And then, having smelled the aroma brought from the business trip, I dared, gentlemen, to personally familiarize myself with Skobelev’s report. And, imagine, I also discovered, so to speak, a certain amber that actually emanated from him.

– What did you discover, Leshka?

- Indefatigable staff and very foul-smelling boastfulness. The academic officer goes on the first reconnaissance and in the very first reconnaissance he discovers the hidden transfers of the Khiva cavalry. Well, no one has ever had such luck before, but Captain Skobelev - just imagine - on the first try!

- Why do you think so? Maybe there was something useful in that package.

“There was nothing in it except a piece of rotten meat.” That same evening I handed over Skobelev’s report to the general, and he ordered that the Ural policeman who was with the captain on the reconnaissance mission be urgently brought to him. And the constable reported to me that they didn’t even see any natives, but found only the place of a fight between someone and seven dead horses.

– It turns out that the capital’s slick was imagining things?

– He lied, but didn’t make it up!..

Skobelev stood up sharply, pulled back the curtain and stepped towards the nearby officer’s table. The officers sitting behind him fell silent in confusion, and the captain rapped out, over the noise of the restaurant:

“Please immediately and publicly offer me your deepest apologies, Mr. Adjutant.”

The cuirassier slowly rose. He looked around at his acquaintances and grinned unpleasantly:

- What, sir... Shall we call you a dreamer out of respect for your shoulder straps?

- The fact that you are a scoundrel, a scoundrel and a talker. However, your apologies are no longer required. I expect seconds no later than Tuesday.

The restaurant fell silent. Skobelev hesitated for a second and walked out almost at a marching pace.

The mortally offended captain postponed the appearance of the seconds until Tuesday, based on two considerations. Firstly, he wanted to explain to Kaufman even before the duel what evidence his kindly adjutant had ordered to destroy, and secondly, he was expecting the return of Vereshchagin, whom he intended to invite as his own second. However, Konstantin Petrovich did not accept him (Skobelev suspected the intrigues of the cuirassier-adjutant in this neglect), Vereshchagin could not be found anywhere, and he had to turn with such a delicate request to Prince Nasekin, who enthusiastically continued to organize a shelter for the suffering with a hospital with him.

“I won’t be offended if you refuse, Serge,” said Skobelev very seriously. “I don’t intend to shoot into the air, and therefore it won’t be possible to hush up the matter.” In all likelihood, I will be demoted, and you will simply be expelled from the Turkestan General Government.

– Do you intend to kill him, Michel?

“No,” the captain winced in annoyance. “It’s a pity for the fool, he’ll be able to produce more children.” So, I’ll shoot him lightly so that he’ll be kicked out of the army.

“Then have complete control over me.” Just explain what I should do.

“I believe that today His Excellency’s adjutant will send seconds: he is a rare idiot, but he still values \u200b\u200bhonor.” If not his own, then at least his father's. You must defend two conditions, prince, and please be stubborn in this, like a mule.

– I’m generally stubborn. What are the conditions?

– The main thing: a duel is in Sardinian style, fortunately, tomorrow the new moon begins. Shoot from revolvers with full drums until the first blood is drawn.

- Well, what if in the darkness all the bullets go into the dark skies?

“Then it’s either his public apology, or it’s completely screwed again.”

The cuirassier's seconds accepted all the conditions. Skobelev, knowing about the adjutant’s connections, was afraid that the duelists would be caught by an extraordinary patrol, but the cuirassier, as it turned out, had some decent properties, and they arrived at the site of the “Sardinian” duel without complications.

“Ask, prince, my enemy if he would agree to apologize to me before the start of the shootout.” The darkness will hide the color of shame on his sleek face.

- No apologies! – the adjutant shouted in response to Nasekin’s proposal. - I accepted your conditions, captain, this, I think, is quite enough.

“You’ll regret it,” Skobelev grumbled, receiving a loaded revolver from his seconds.

“Please, prince, escort the gentlemen duelists to the agreed places,” the cuirassier’s second said with a displeased sigh. - I will give the command when you return.

- Follow me, gentlemen.

Shining a lantern at his feet, Nasekin led the silent opponents to the designated places, once again reminded that they should open fire on command and fire at will, and returned to the original place where the horses, the carriage and the doctor with the cuirassier's second stood.

“The duelists are in position, captain,” he reported. - Please give the command.

“Oh, I don’t like this entertainment,” the doctor sighed.

“It’s an empty matter,” the captain grinned. “You can’t see your own hand in this darkness.” They will fire a dozen rounds and make peace. Are you ready, gentlemen? On the count of three you can open fire. Ready! Once! Two! Three!..

Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, and immediately a painful cry was heard:

- I injured!..

For some time, everyone was confused, expecting either shots or cries for help. From the darkness I heard:

- Damn... Shot in the leg...

The doctor with the bag and Prince Nasekin with the torch immediately ran away into the darkness. Skobelev also appeared from the same place, but slightly from the side. He handed the captain a revolver:

– I have no more complaints.

- How did you get into it in such darkness, captain? – the second of the wounded cuirassier asked in surprise.

- Accidentally.

The adjutant of Governor General Kaufman was shot in the thigh. The doctor bandaged him on the spot, and together with the prince they carried him to the carriage. The captain went with the wounded man, Skobelev and Nasekin returned alone.

“Did you really hit him by accident, Michel?” Or do you know some secret of this stupid duel?

“Who knows,” Skobelev grinned. “I must admit, I was waiting for his first shot, realizing that he couldn’t stand it and would fire quickly.” As a rule, the guilty quickly lose their nerve. Well, before that, naturally, I estimated his height and shooting style. I waited for the shot and pulled the trigger as soon as I saw the flash.

The next day, General Kaufman found time to call Captain Skobelev right in the morning. Mikhail Dmitrievich was escorted into the office by a new adjutant, from whom he inquired about the health of the cuirassier on the way.

“He’ll be running in half a month,” the adjutant smiled. “You didn’t deliberately break his bone?”

Konstantin Petrovich was gloomy and preoccupied. He listened to Skobelev's presentation in silence, did not offer to sit down, but he did not sit, but slowly walked around the office.

“I’m tired of your antics, captain,” he sighed. - An officer has no right to fantasies.

“Then he will retire as an officer,” Skobelev said defiantly. “And I hope not only to continue, but also to consolidate the family tradition, becoming the third general in our family.”

“But not under my command,” the general emphasized sharply. – I have already signed the order for your transfer to the Caucasian Army. Today you hand over your cases, tomorrow you will leave for a new duty station.

– Is that all, Your Excellency? – Skobelev asked disappointedly.

- No, not everything, if you please listen. The report that was given to me by the adjutant you crippled indicated the movement of the regular Khiva detachment. I asked the Ural policeman who accompanied you: he had never seen any mounted detachments of natives. Where did you get these Khivans from? And how did you have the audacity to lie in the official report?

– I didn’t lie, Your Excellency! – Skobelev blushed and got angry. – Evidence of the movements of the regular detachment was contained in a piece of the tail part of the ridge of the killed horse. His tail was cut off along with his tip, but your stupid adjutant ordered the soldier to bury this most important evidence somewhere.

“And for this you shot him,” Konstantin Petrovich clarified. “Now something is becoming clear to me.” By the way, how did you manage to get into it so accurately in pitch darkness?

- By pure chance.

“It’s too clean,” Kaufman chuckled.

He paused and walked around the office with his hands behind his back. Then he stopped in front of the captain. He said, looking into his eyes:

“I sent two patrols on both sides of those wells. One of them returned yesterday and reported that he had indeed discovered a Khiva detachment numbering up to five thousand sabers. The detachment did not accept the battle and disappeared behind the dunes. – He paused. – You are observant, Skobelev, and know how to draw the right conclusions from your observations. I believe that you will continue the family tradition, but not in my army. Sign with the adjutant that you have received my written order and carry it out immediately. Go, captain.

Skobelev clearly turned around and walked towards the doors.

“For the excellent reconnaissance, I introduced you to the rank of lieutenant colonel,” Konstantin Petrovich unexpectedly added. - Please convey my regards to your father.

- Thank you, Your Excellency! – Skobelev barked cheerfully.

“Happy service, Colonel,” the Governor General smiled.

Chapter Three

It took Skobelev at most one and a half to two hours to complete his assignments: he was only assigned to the operations department to carry out individual assignments. And yet, Mikhail Dmitrievich sat at the headquarters until the end of the work, not only looking through all the patrol reports concerning the movements of the Khiva and Kokand regular detachments, but also diligently writing out all the reports in a book acquired after a conversation with Esaul Serov with a neat indication of when exactly these events occurred meetings and where exactly the detachments discovered by the patrols were moving. Only after this did he go to Prince Nasekin with an invitation to a farewell dinner.

The prince was very upset by the sudden departure of his friend, although he did his best to hide it. It was difficult for him to get along with people, his friends could be counted on one hand, he was very shy from birth and always felt uncomfortable in a society in which there was no atmosphere familiar to him.

He suddenly became unpleasantly sarcastic and demonstratively distant, although by nature he was a kind and sympathetic person. And even his favorite work, to which he devoted himself with all his soul, seemed to him then unnecessary, painful and tedious.

– When and where will we meet again, Michel? – he asked with a smile, but he could not hide the bitterness of this smile. - And will we see you at all?

- I'll definitely see you, Serge. Definitely soon and certainly in Turkestan. I have a feeling, my friend!

Skobelev did not have any special premonition, but he had a certain and still very vague idea, which he intended to implement at a new place of service - in the Caucasus. And the impetus for the implementation of this idea was the firm intention to return to Turkestan crowned with victorious laurels. “You need to come back from the front door,” his father once said, teaching him to be smart. This formulation fully corresponded to his self-confidence and pride; there was nothing left to do - to translate theory into practice.

Actually, what modestly dawned in his head was still premature to call it an idea. Thus, certain theoretical prerequisites, for their implementation, require not only a material base, but also a very specific, ensured at every step and calculated minute by minute special plan of military operations, taking into account the absence of a united front in the Turkestan theater of military operations in the European sense of the word. Only such a plan could make his proposals real, with which one could go to the Viceroy himself, His Highness Mikhail Nikolaevich, the younger brother of Alexander II, without risking being accused of dashing hussar adventurism. However, before that, such a plan should have been developed in detail, at least for oneself.

And here he was lucky, although at first he perceived the sudden gift of fate with resentment and annoyance, seeing in it some kind of neglect of his person. The point was that the uncoordinated and therefore sudden transfer of Lieutenant Colonel Skobelev to the Caucasus, where all the positions corresponding to his rank, experience and knowledge had long ago been replaced, put the local authorities in difficulty. The position that was required to be given to a lieutenant colonel who had arrived from Turkestan (and, moreover, who had received a high staff officer rank ahead of schedule, and, therefore, for some unknown merit), was bound to be quite high, but there were no such vacancies, and the staff authorities, Having pretty much racked my brains, I appointed Lieutenant Colonel Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev as senior inspector for tactical training of officers with the responsibility of giving lectures on the tactics of cavalry units and formations, based on the experience of military operations in Turkestan.

It was much more fun and easier for Skobelev to serve in the Caucasus than in Turkestan. Here his father was well known, who gained fame as a fearless officer not only in the Russian army. In addition, numerous friends of Mikhail Dmitrievich served in the Caucasus, both from the Academy of the General Staff and from many regiments in which he himself once had to pull the garrison strap. But this was not the main thing. His new position provided an opportunity to become thoroughly familiar with the Caucasian War, which had been dragging on since the time of Peter the Great, turning out to be the longest war in Russian history. It, like the war in Turkestan, was a war of conquest, a war for the full expansion of an already vast empire, but that was where their similarities ended. Differences began to emerge, the comparison of which gave Mikhail Dmitrievich food for serious thought.

In the Caucasus, there was a long-term but constant displacement of indigenous people from fertile valleys into the mountains. The valleys were immediately populated by Cossacks, and the highlanders lost their main food supply, fiercely resisting the Russians and at the same time slowly retreating into the mountains. There was no point in crowding the Central Asian steppes: there was enough space in the steppes, but there was not enough water, and it was either very difficult or simply impossible for Russian settlers to feed themselves there. The Caucasian experience of displacement was not suitable there, nor was the Russian custom of burning populated areas to the ground, learned as a result of a difficult war. In Turkestan, villages were also burned, but to restore them in a new place, the natives did not need to expend much effort: the nomadic lifestyle of the overwhelming majority of the population gave rise to an easy and simple type of housing, the restoration of which did not require much effort. On the contrary, in the Caucasus the bulk of the population were sedentary peoples, accustomed to building their houses to last for centuries, counting on their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. To this was added the memory of the burial places of ancestors; each village had cemeteries, which remained in the same place, were overgrown with weeds, destroyed, or even plowed open by Russian settlers. The nomadic lifestyle of the Central Asian population long ago taught them to preserve the memory of their ancestors in songs and tales, and not in tombstones. This led to a very important conclusion for Skobelev: direct transfer of the experience of the Caucasian War to the Turkestan theater of military operations was not only useless, but also dangerous. The Turkestan nomads had to be crushed, and not driven out, otherwise the war with them threatened to become a meaningless chase across barren steppes and deserts for elusive horsemen who knew how to navigate without any visible landmarks and had very fast and undemanding horses.

These are the conclusions that Mikhail Dmitrievich came to, reflecting on the past, questioning old Caucasian grunts, giving lectures on tactics to gentlemen officers, crawling with them over the hills and mountains in practical classes, riskily and recklessly playing cards in the evenings and studying until it hurt his eyes at night topographic maps. And he also regularly, every month, wrote letters to the Viceroy with the humble request to give him half an hour for a very important conversation. But from the Office of His Highness they answered every time that at the moment the Viceroy could not accept him.

So days after days dragged on, and it is unknown how the further fate of Lieutenant Colonel Skobelev would have developed if the Viceroy’s adjutant, General Murashov, had not unexpectedly arrived in Vladikavkaz.

General Pyotr Nikolaevich Murashov was exiled to the Caucasus for a duel as a nineteen-year-old cornet, and has remained here to this day. He fought here, rose to the rank of lieutenant general and adjutant general, got married here, had children and grandchildren, and lived out his rather turbulent life quietly and peacefully. In the Caucasus, everyone knew him and, what is most surprising, everyone treated him kindly. He won his epaulettes and the favor of His Highness not on the palace parquet, but in hot battles with dashing highlanders, he was always even-tempered, smiling, calm and self-possessed, helped old comrades in any way he could, and was a dear guest in any home. In addition, he had a thirst for knowledge, rare for a military man, he read a lot, and in his old age he became interested in various kinds of sages, home-grown prophets and soothsayers, collecting their sayings and sayings and even recording them in a special little book, which he intended to someday publish as a sample of original human thought. At the same time, he was sincerely tolerant, meeting with equal pleasure Orthodox hermits, Jewish prophets, Muslim soothsayers and sectarian sages.

He asked for a business trip to Vladikavkaz himself, since it was he who, due to the nature of his service, had to respond to the persistent requests of Lieutenant Colonel Skobelev for a meeting with the Viceroy. He was friends with Mikhail Dmitrievich’s father, whom he knew from joint military activities, carefully maintained personal respect for him, but had never even heard of his son. However, having appreciated the persistence of Skobelev Jr., he finally decided to get to know him in order to help him to the best of his ability. In addition, there was another reason for his arrival, but this will have to be discussed separately.

Pyotr Nikolaevich was very pleased with Skobelev’s activities, his keen interest in the Caucasian War and his short, informative report, as did the lieutenant colonel himself - the son of a revered military friend, with whom the general maintained constant correspondence. All this taken together was the reason for inviting the lieutenant colonel to dinner at the residence assigned to the adjutant of the Viceroy himself.

And Skobelev was openly dissatisfied with this meeting and was in a very gloomy mood. He believed that the reason for the sudden inspection of his activities was the letters that filled His Highness’s patience, which is why the Adjutant General decided to clarify this issue immediately.

- I believe, Your Excellency, that I am quite annoying with my requests for a personal meeting...

“Let’s forget about formality, my friend,” Murashov said complacently. – Your father Dmitry Ivanovich is my old regimental friend, even a friend, I dare say. I won’t lie, I’m curious to know the reason for your persistence, but this is not the only reason for my visit.

– Thank you, Pyotr Nikolaevich. Frankly, I’m tired of unsubscribes with the same reason: “His Highness cannot receive you in the near future due to illness.” Let me ask you directly: is this really an illness or the usual palace reluctance to devote time to some staff officer?

Pyotr Nikolaevich sighed:

“I understand your offense, but His Highness’s illness, alas, is not palace-related, but most natural.” He caught Mingrelian fever, the paroxysms of which are painful, unexpected and take a lot of strength. Tell me what’s troubling you, and I’ll decide for myself whether to address His Highness to your concerns, or we’ll find a worthy way out ourselves.

“I’m not worried about myself,” Skobelev winced in annoyance. “I care exclusively about our common cause—the war in Turkestan.” I had the opportunity to look at it there and compare it with the Caucasian War here. The conclusion I made turned out to be disappointing, which is why I allowed myself to disturb His Highness with letters. What I have come to can only be decided by His Highness, if he considers my proposals worthy of solving them at all.

“Well, tell me, tell me,” Pyotr Nikolaevich became keenly interested.

Skobelev was preparing for a serious conversation, having barely received the general’s invitation to dine in private. He immediately pulled out a thick briefcase, from which he began to remove maps, diagrams and pre-compiled tables.

– The Turkestan theater of military operations has nothing in common with the experience of our entire long-term Caucasian war. We are dealing with steppe peoples, easy-going, quickly escaping persecution, having at their disposal many cavalry units with excellent riders on fast and picky local horses. They always attack unexpectedly and always swiftly, leaving the battle just as quickly and hiding without any trace. They chose the right tactics, Pyotr Nikolaevich, which will ultimately drag us into a hopeless guerrilla war on completely unfamiliar and unusual territory for us, where there is neither water nor feed for horses...

Skobelev reported in detail, with diagrams, maps and tables, to the general the real picture, for the time being covered up by external military successes, which the newspapers described as the final crushing of all Turkestan forces and capabilities. Murashov listened very attentively, asked clarifying questions, and the benevolent smile of the hospitable host gradually disappeared from his face.

“Your analysis is impeccable, but frightening,” he sighed. – You have definitely noticed the disease, but do you have the appropriate medicine in stock?

“Yes, Pyotr Nikolaevich,” Skobelev said very seriously. – We need to conquer khanates, and not chase troops. But the khanates are well protected both by deserts and fortress walls, behind which selected horsemen will take refuge for the time being, always ready for rapid attacks. You cannot bring heavy artillery to these fortresses, therefore, they must be attacked from the side from which they do not expect an attack. Khiva holds all its forces in the north and northeast, awaiting the advance of our troops from there. And General Kaufman must not disappoint their expectations. Moreover, he should actively demonstrate his readiness to strike from exactly the side where they are waiting for him, but...

The lieutenant colonel fell silent, looking very significantly and sternly at General Murashov.

“Well?..” asked Pyotr Nikolaevich impatiently.

“But someone must strike Khiva from the west, crossing the salt marsh steppes and semi-deserts, which are impassable even from the point of view of the Khivans. There are no khan-trained troops there.

- Where, where to hit?

– It is necessary to move a fairly strong detachment from the Kinderlinda Bay of the Caspian Sea in the direction of Khiva. Peaceful Kyrgyz wander there, and I am sure that finding a guide will not be difficult. I have described the approximate composition of such a detachment. Mostly Ural Cossacks, one or two light batteries and a couple of rocket launchers for noise and rumble. Such artillery can be dragged through salt marshes, even if the horses die of hunger and thirst.

“Yes...” Murashov sighed with concern. - With your permission, I will take this briefcase from you. And I will report accordingly.

“Try to convince His Highness,” Skobelev said almost pleadingly.

“I’ll use all my eloquence, but I won’t promise anything.” In two weeks everything will become clear.

- Why in two weeks?

– Because in fifteen days you will receive either written consent or a written refusal, Lieutenant Colonel. I repeat, I cannot give you any guarantees, although I will fight for your plan like a lion.

Pyotr Nikolaevich liked the son of his old military friend so much that, contrary to his custom, he wrote down the main conclusion of this meeting in a treasured little book, where until now he had only written down the sayings, prophecies and paradoxes of home-grown sages. And the recording sounded like this:

“Today I had the pleasure of meeting the son of Dimitry Ivanovich Skobelev, Lieutenant Colonel Mikhail Skobelev.

I was surprised: he thinks in statesmanship. To be a general..."

That is why, a day after the memorable dinner, he again found the lieutenant colonel:

“They say a very smart and insightful old man lives in a cave nearby here. And his biography itself is extraordinary. Imagine, Mikhail, a soldier from the Old Believers is captured by the highlanders, tries to escape three times, and is caught three times. And then suddenly, of his own free will, he converts to Islam, makes the Hajj on foot to Mecca twice, is awarded a green turban, gets married, and has children. And again - suddenly! - returns to us, tries to preach the benefits of Mohammedanism, but the church threatens him with serious punishment, and out of harm’s way he digs himself a cave and quietly lives there, healing those who suffer physically and spiritually. And I, you know, love such human specimens and even, I must admit, I collect them or something. And I want to listen to this strange double-religious hermit. Come with me?

“I’ll go,” the inquisitive Mikhail Dmitrievich immediately agreed. - Does he predict the future?

- No, he considers this a sin, an intrusion into matters under the jurisdiction of the Lord God alone. But, they told me, the answers to various questions are the most curious and most unexpected. So prepare your questions, Mikhail. And preferably not from the section, does she love me.

“I know all the answers from this section,” Skobelev grinned. - When do you order us to be ready, Pyotr Nikolaevich?

- Tomorrow morning. They promised horses and a guide who knew the hermit well. He doesn’t talk to anyone, only on serious recommendations...

We set out early, accompanied by an elderly retired non-commissioned officer, a horse guide and five Cossacks. So, just in case, since the restless Chechen abreks happened to penetrate into the outskirts of Vladikavkaz. The retired non-commissioned officer showed the road while it was still possible to travel on horseback, and talked about the sage he visited. And when it became impossible to ride further, he asked to dismount, left a horse handler and a Cossack with a gun with the horses, and led the general and lieutenant colonel along a difficult path, accompanied by four dismounted Cossacks. The non-commissioned officer was careful, and the guests were too important. This was the first time he had to accompany such people, and he was very worried.

“He has his own conditions,” he explained along the way. “You can read the questions from a piece of paper, he allows that.” But there is no way to write down the answers. If he notices that you are recording, he will immediately stop all conversation.

- Why is that so? – Murashov asked, puffing (the path was steep).

– He says that the soul itself remembers what is most important for it. That’s what she remembers, that’s the very essence of it.

Skobelev spent a good half of the night composing his questions, trying to make them look unexpected and to make the answers to them quite difficult, since he was told that the strange hermit-two-believer always answers with the utmost brevity.

We arrived at a cave dug by the hermit himself in a steep cliff next to a spring with cold, clear water gushing out from under a stone. Mikhail Dmitrievich conceded the championship to the general, not only taking into account his rank and age, but also because he decided to once again check the questions written out on a piece of paper. Pyotr Nikolaevich decisively dived into the narrow hole of the cave, and Skobelev, exposing his back to the early sun, carefully re-read his own questionnaire for the umpteenth time, clarified some things in it, corrected some things, and now simply waited patiently for General Murashov to return.

“A most colorful personality, I’ll tell you,” said Pyotr Nikolaevich, crawling out of the cave into the light of God. – Very, very. It's your turn, Mikhail.

Skobelev, bending down, walked through a narrow and low passage and found himself in a certain space with an overhanging ceiling covered with boards and dimly lit by a resin torch. There must have been an invisible vent somewhere, because in the neat cave there was no smell of smoke or fumes. He said hello, waited until his eyes got used to the twilight, and saw a stout, broad-shouldered old man with a green turban on his head, sitting on a shabby rug, crossing his legs cross-legged and fingering an old brown rosary in his hands.

Skobelev unfolded the paper and cleared his throat. For some reason he suddenly felt uncomfortable, and he asked with a timidity completely unusual for him:

-Can we start?

– Don’t force your nature.

“Yeah,” Mikhail Dmitrievich agreed, cleared his throat again and read out the first question:

– Who can be called a hero?

- Someone who is not shocked by the look of a beauty.

– Who can be compared to the light of the moon?

- A modest person.

The old man answered instantly, without hesitation for a second. The answers seemed to roll off his tongue by themselves, and Skobelev really liked it.

-What is hell?

– Dependence on others.

-Who is a true friend?

- The one who keeps from evil.

– What serves as decoration for speech?

- The truth.

-What is invincible in this world?

- Justice and patience.

– What can we compare the shine of lightning to?

- With the beauty of a woman.

– What quality can you be surprised by in a person who has complete well-being?

- Generosity.

– What is the most difficult thing for a person?

– Knowledge without pride, heroism with meekness, wealth with generosity.

– What can gnaw at the heart until death?

- A crime that has to be hidden.

– What does “dead soul” mean?

- Stupid soul.

- Then who is a fool?

- Someone who doesn’t know how to say a kind word in time.

– What is the source of unhappiness?

- An obstinate heart.

– What do all people strive for?

- It’s good to get settled in life.

– What should you never ignore?

- On someone else's wife and someone else's property.

– What do you need to love about yourself?

- Compassion, mercy and forbearance.

– What is poverty?

- Discontent.

-What is blinder than a blind man?

- Passion.

– What is a right life?

- Integrity.

– What is a dream?

- Stupid waste of time.

– What is stupidity then?

– When they don’t strive to become smarter.

-What is more intoxicating than wine?

- Tenderness.

– What is eternal anxiety?

– Youth, wealth, idle life.

– Then what is life itself?

The elder remained silent, and Skobelev left him very puzzled. He didn’t answer Murashov’s question about how he liked the sage, and kept a preoccupied silence the entire way back.

The next day, the adjutant of His Highness the Viceroy, General Murashov, left for Tiflis. Skobelev accompanied him the whole way, to the next postal station, where they said goodbye warmly, drinking a glass each on the way.

– Do you remember any of yesterday’s answers? – asked Pyotr Nikolaevich.

– Only one thing: what is life?

- And what did the old man answer?

Mikhail Dmitrievich said this word, somehow especially highlighting it, as if he emphasized it. The general shook his gray head thoughtfully and smiled:

“It’s not you who remembered, Misha, it’s your soul who remembers.” Therefore, a moment is the motto of your whole life. Catch him, Mikhail, always catch him on time!..

Chapter Four

Mikhail Dmitrievich had an unshakable conviction that the Kinderlinda campaign would take place. That Pyotr Nikolaevich Murashov will be able to convince the not very decisive Viceroy to assemble a small but quite powerful detachment, which, completely unexpectedly, will strike the Khivans in the back. And he not only looked forward to good news from his father’s old friend, but also actively prepared for a difficult campaign through the salt marsh steppes and deserts.

To do this, he not only had some experience, but also a treasured notebook, bought after a conversation with Esaul Serov. In particular, there were drawings of large yurts designed specifically for the Russian army, accommodating twenty people each. Felt tents provided better protection from the heat than the canvas tents used in the army, the air in which heated up to sixty degrees. And the felt kept the heat outside, the tents were well ventilated, and therefore sleep in them was much calmer and healthier than in army tents. They were proposed by General Kaufman, and Skobelev highly appreciated this innovation, introduced, by the way, without permission, contrary to all instructions and instructions. These wagons were transported on camels; with some skill, setting them up took less time than setting up a tent, and the soldiers liked to sleep in them, despite a lot of fleas. According to the calculations made by Mikhail Dmitrievich, based on the possible size of the detachment, at least one thousand three hundred camels were required to transport these wagons, as well as water, food and ammunition, but he was firmly convinced that the game was worth the candle.

Another very important note was kept in his memorial book. The fact is that, according to the approved daily ration, soldiers were given two pounds of black bread, half a pound of meat, cooked foods (porridge or cabbage) without limitation, sweet tea in the morning and evening, and in addition - cheese, vegetables, vinegar (to prevent stomach diseases) and two glasses of vodka a week. Considering the incredible heat in the summer and the equally incredible cold - and even with the wind! - in winter, General Kaufman, with his authority, added another half a pound of meat per day to the soldier’s ration, and in the morning and evening he ordered dried melon or apricots to be issued with tea. This made it possible to cope with long marches, and the soldiers, being drawn in, could more easily endure both heat and cold. The Turkestan War was not at all similar to the Caucasian War, and Skobelev firmly decided to take into account the experience of Konstantin Petrovich Kaufman, for whom a sick soldier was almost a personal dishonor.

But there were still no messages. Mikhail Dmitrievich began to nervously count the days when the long-awaited package finally arrived from Tiflis:

“Dear Mikhail Dmitrievich! Since you, as it suddenly turned out, are not with the Caucasian Army, but with the General Staff, His Highness allowed you to participate in the expedition only as a volunteer. Colonel Lomakin was entrusted with commanding the detachment.”

- Well, how do you want me to understand this? – Skobelev asked himself irritably.

But he still wrote a request to enlist him in the expeditionary detachment of Colonel Lomakin. And he sent it by courier.

Instead of a reply message, General Murashov and a tall, thin, seemingly bilious-looking Colonel Nikolai Pavlovich Lomakin came to Skobelev.

“His Highness approved your petition,” Pyotr Nikolaevich said to Skobelev as soon as he had a minute. - However, Lomakin wanted to meet you personally.

And then Mikhail Dmitrievich suddenly got carried away, which, however, happened to him quite often. Instead of calmly answering the questions of Nikolai Pavlovich, who had already been appointed commander of the detachment, he opened his treasured little book and began to express his own thoughts, believing that Colonel Lomakin, as a reasonable person, would immediately grab onto them. He laid out everything about the advantage of wagons for soldiers, and about calculating the required number of camels for transporting them, and about the sharp increase in the soldier’s ration, taking into account the long marches in the Turkestan heat. The colonel listened in silence and even seemed to be very attentive, and the general sighed, and reproach was clearly heard in his sighs.

“You are, apparently, a good staff member,” Lomakin said boringly when Skobelev finished presenting his proposals and fell silent expectantly.

- You are absolutely right. I graduated from the Academy of the General Staff in the top three graduates with the right to choose my place of service, as a result of which I ended up in the Turkestan theater of military operations.

– However, according to my information, you took part in military operations exactly once, and your only combat report contained very, very dangerous liberties.

“These dangerous liberties, as you deigned to put it, have been completely confirmed,” Skobelev flared up.

“I have different information,” Lomakin said boredly. – However, let’s return to your proposals, Mikhail Dmitrievich. I don’t know how you could come up with the original idea of moving soldiers into felt tents. The army provides tents for overnight stays during campaigns; tents are not listed in any charters, instructions or other provisions, and what is not listed in the Russian army does not exist at all.

“There is a special war in Turkestan, Nikolai Pavlovich,” Skobelev noted, restraining himself. – During the day the heat reaches forty degrees, at night frost down to minus three or four Celsius is quite possible. In addition, yurts - also known as tents - are set up in a matter of minutes.

“War is the same everywhere, Colonel,” Lomakin remarked edifyingly. – In the Caucasus, in Turkestan, in China or, say, in France. It consists in the exact execution of command orders and strict adherence to regulations and instructions. I apologize for having to remind these truisms to an officer who graduated from the General Staff Academy in the top three. As for the previous one, tents are transported by pack horses...

– Horses need water every day, while a camel can go without it for up to two weeks.

“Perhaps I am not an expert on camels.” These animals are not listed in the army, therefore, it is as if they do not exist. And what you don’t have, you have to buy.

- Or dress it up. The price of a dressed camel is fifteen rubles in winter and twelve in summer.

– Multiply the figure you mentioned by the one thousand three hundred camels that we should have with the detachment according to your own calculations. Where will we get that kind of money?

– I’m ready to buy camels with my own money! - Skobelev said louder than he should have.

“The army is not a monastery, and exists not on donations, but on public account,” Lomakin continued to speak in the same tone, not paying attention to Mikhail Dmitrievich’s sudden outburst. – Your proposal is insulting to the Russian army, despite your sincere ardor, Mikhail Dmitrievich. Besides…

- Besides the fact that we will simply die in the sand, Nikolai Pavlovich!

“Mikhail Dmitrievich...” General Murashov shook his head reproachfully.

“Besides, you propose to arbitrarily change the soldier’s diet,” Lomakin continued calmly. “This, too, is a violation of the orders of higher authorities, and therefore must be discarded once and for all.” The soldier is quite well off...

- From the point of view of the quartermasters who are snickering in the rear!

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Pyotr Nikolaevich intervened. – Your picking has sharply exceeded the permissible temperature of a business conversation. With your permission, Mikhail Dmitrievich, I will convey your thoughts to His Highness. By the way, it's time to have lunch.

This was the end of the first meeting between Lieutenant Colonel Skobelev and Colonel Lomakin. Murashov promptly reminded Mikhail Dmitrievich of his duties as a master, and the dinner went quite decently. Skobelev proclaimed toasts in full accordance with the customs that had developed during the Caucasian War, and the general finally breathed a sigh of relief.

However, he rejoiced prematurely, since the crack in the relationship between the colonel-commander and the lieutenant-colonel-volunteer was then just becoming apparent. However, everything that happens is for the better, as Pyotr Nikolaevich always believed, believing that such a style of acquaintance would warn Skobelev from rash steps in a difficult joint enterprise.

It should be noted that General Murashov, having bravely spent his youth in combat, somehow calmed down in a peaceful, hassle-free position. Sincerely falling in love with people who were attractive to him, he did not really understand the characters who were unattractive to him and therefore uninteresting. He was much more attracted to mystically mysterious people than to ordinary people, although it would be both incorrect and reckless to classify Colonel Lomakin as one of the latter. In other words, Pyotr Nikolaevich was far from stupid, but, alas, simple-minded and ingenuous, for which, in fact, the Viceroy of the Sovereign-Emperor in the Caucasus, His Highness Mikhail Nikolaevich, loved him.

The fact is that Nikolai Pavlovich Lomakin, having broken down enough, swung himself and commanded in endless Caucasian skirmishes, mastered for himself a kind of mask of a rude grunt. The mask impressed not only the parquet generals, but even very experienced grunts. However, if those far from the gunfire and sabers listened to the rude warrior with a certain respect, then the military officers sometimes had to be in some way dumbfounded by outright hostility. As a rule, many were confused or angry, knowing the strange and generally inexplicable favor of the Viceroy himself towards Colonel Lomakin.

And the goodwill was explained by one phrase, said, by the way, personally to General Murashov after His Highness’s first meeting with the hitherto inconspicuous colonel:

– For some reason, since childhood I preferred Antony to Caesar. Directness is at least honest.

Pyotr Nikolaevich immediately agreed, but forever forgot about this, to a certain extent, key remark. And because he was not particularly memorized, and because he had never read Shakespeare, and because he was in spheres of a slightly mystical color. Be that as it may, Colonel Lomakin’s emphasized unfriendly attitude towards Lieutenant Colonel Skobelev, demonstrated on the very first date, was not deciphered by Adjutant General Murashov, why he only sighed in bewilderment and threw up his hands.

Soon, Colonel Lomakin asked Mikhail Dmitrievich to visit the newly created headquarters of the future detachment. Not so much in order to get to know the lieutenant colonel better, who for some reason agreed to a volunteer status that was strange for an officer of his rank, but rather to stun him once again:

– His Highness shares my opposition to replacing standard tents with the tents you proposed, which is why he deigned to postpone the start of our operation to April. I hope we won’t need your felt tents in April. The same applies to the enhanced soldier nutrition you proposed, since the cold has already passed, and the heat has not yet arrived.

In fact, the Viceroy received a dispatch from Kaufman with a request to slightly delay the detachment’s performance, based on real considerations: he was pulling his widely scattered detachments to the borders of Khiva and quite reasonably believed that the performance might be premature. But Skobelev, naturally, did not know about this, and therefore considered himself somewhat wounded, but refrained from any clarifications.

However, he noted that Colonel Lomakin never allows himself not only jokes in bad taste, but even irony addressed to him in front of officers already assigned to the detachment. Not under Lieutenant Colonel Poyarov, not under Major Navrotsky, not even under the young second lieutenant Grodikov. On the contrary, in front of them he behaved more than correctly, as if emphasizing the special mission of Lieutenant Colonel Skobelev, who was not included in the official register of officers, as if for special reasons from the higher authorities. However, this was not the main reason why Mikhail Dmitrievich did not leave the detachment with the same ease with which he joined it.

“A premonition,” he would explain much later, grinning, “a premonition that it was he, Nikolai Pavlovich Lomakin, who would become the alpha and omega of my entire military career.”

Strange, but that's exactly what happened.

At the beginning of April, the detachment began to be transferred from the Caucasian coast to the Mangyshlak Peninsula. The detachment assembled from fragments of units was not numerous: three companies of infantry, two artillery pieces, one rocket battery and two hundred Cossacks, who, however, had not yet arrived at the crossing point. In total, they were able to allocate two thousand one hundred and forty people, including staff officers, rear guards and horse handlers, but not out of reluctance to use Caucasian warriors far from their usual places, but at the urgent request of Skobelev, conveyed by General Murashov to the Viceroy personally. Mikhail Dmitrievich relied on surprise and speed, and on the steppe impassability a large detachment would certainly have stretched for many miles, losing both in surprise and in speed. Colonel Lomakin eventually agreed with this, although after long, tedious conversations.

- Do me a favor, Skobelev, ask for more Cossacks. At least fifty. Collect them, then cross over.

Mikhail Dmitrievich did not like asking at all, but in this case he understood that requests were useless. The Caucasian theater of military operations was so familiar, it became so familiar, native, hereditary, that it was always viewed through the magnifying glass of local connections, relationships and interests. Everything else - even the recent and very painfully experienced Crimean War - was perceived as something external, “St. Petersburg”, and therefore not native. He was very glad when the promised two hundred arrived without any additional reminders, although the Cossacks did not think of hiding their understanding of what was happening and dissatisfaction with the actions of their superiors:

- Kalmyks need to go there. Or at least the Bashkir people. They are natural steppe dwellers.

However, things did not go beyond this usual Cossack grumbling. The horses were cleaned and in good condition, the harness and ammunition were the same, and Skobelev, like an avid cavalryman, joked smilingly in response to the Cossack grumbling. And even, taking advantage of the time, he carried out a short hike - more for the sake of the horses than for the sake of the riders. And then a steamship arrived, and they sailed across the Caspian Sea to lands that even Mikhail Dmitrievich knew only from topographical diagrams, little tied to real geography.

- Congratulations. This is a great purchase.

“The trouble is that he’s a civilian,” the colonel sighed. – Yes, and on my mother’s side – either Kyrgyz or Kalmyk. True, I graduated from high school, but... How can I tell you, Mikhail Dmitrievich, I am somewhat confused.

- Grant him the rank of ensign with your authority, and all confusion will end. Firstly, the soldiers will bite their tongues, and secondly, he will take the oath. After all, the second worries you much more than the first, doesn’t it, Nikolai Pavlovich?

– Perhaps you are right.

This was where the somewhat strange conversation ended. Skobelev was busy organizing the Cossacks, never saw Colonel Lomakin again, and never once thought about why Nikolai Pavlovich decided to inform him about the supposed translator. Until this translator personally came to him, quietly and not very skillfully reporting:

- Ensign Mlynov. I introduce myself because of my promotion to the rank of headquarters officer.

“A chicken is not a bird, a warrant officer is not an officer,” Mikhail Dmitrievich grinned. – Why, exactly, are you introducing yourself to me? I am a voluntary person, and, therefore, without any official position.

– You have been appointed commander of the vanguard, Mr. Colonel. Therefore, I have to serve under you.

– I don’t know anything about this.

– I know how to listen, Mr. Colonel.

- What about being silent? – Skobelev narrowed his eyes.

- And even more so to be silent.

How the newly appointed warrant officer Mlynov learned about the appointment of Lieutenant Colonel Skobelev, who voluntarily joined the Mangyshlak detachment, as the commander of the vanguard, remained a mystery. He indeed turned out to be unusually taciturn, and his impassive Kalmyk face expressed absolutely nothing. But the written order (Colonel Lomakin was a diligent servant) soon actually arrived, although with a reservation about Skobelev’s personal desire. Probably, the reservation was made for the sake of this personal consent, but Mikhail Dmitrievich did not think about it. He was a cavalryman not so much by military profession as by the inclination of his impetuous nature, and therefore he agreed immediately and with joy.

Camels were nevertheless purchased from the local population, but not enough, since the treasury allocated a very modest amount for this. And April turned out to be unusually hot; crossing sun-scorched semi-deserts and saline steppes with a small caravan was very dangerous, which even Colonel Lomakin understood, having felt the unkind climate with his own body. However, the old Caucasian habit affected him more than any understanding, which is why he gave Major Navrotsky the order to take the camels by force. Navrotsky rushed to carry out the order with all his ardor, but soon returned discouraged with nothing: the Kirghiz migrated further away and in an unknown direction.

“Someone obviously warned them, Mr. Colonel.” They could not go to their steppes for no reason at all.

Skobelev guessed who could advise the nomads to drive their herds away from the Russian troops, but he understood what such expropriation meant for them. The local Kyrgyz were never at enmity with Russia, they helped as much as they could, and he did not want to introduce the military customs of the Caucasian War in this region. And he resolutely put an end to Major Navrotsky’s guess:

– Ensign Mlynov was with me continuously.

And he asked the interpreter in private:

– Do we have enough camels to at least carry the necessary supply of water with us?

– If the Khivans don’t poison the wells.

– Judging by the topographical diagrams, there are quite enough of these wells on our route.

Skobelev was interested in how the interpreter would answer. In the name of saving government funds, the diligent and very distrustful Lomakin refused the guide, completely trusting Mlynov. No one asked Mikhail Dmitrievich’s opinion: the young translator was recommended by local authorities as a rare expert on all of Turkestan.

– Enough – espe.

Skobelev knew what “espe” was, but still asked:

– “Espe” means “small”?

“In this heat, they can either dry out or become thickened with insects.” There are not many deep ones, and God forbid that the Khivans do not poison them.

– Did you volunteer to combine two positions for the sake of earning money?

– I depend on my mother and two sisters. My father died two years ago.

- Don't think. He was a topographer and taught me how to navigate by the stars at night and by the lines of dunes during the day. I graduated from high school as an external student; I had to feed my family.

– Served as a guide?

– At first I studied with my uncle, my mother’s brother. He is a famous caravan bashi. Went with caravans to Bukhara, Khojent, Khiva, Kokand. Even to Persia. True, just once. Besides, I have a good advisor. My cousin, who from childhood accompanied his father in all caravan labors.

– Do you yourself have enough experience to say frankly what you fear on the road?

The young man smiled sadly:

– In Turkestan, all caravan bashis fear one thing.

- Unexpected attack?

- Dry wells.

– But how can they dry out? – Skobelev asked in surprise. – It’s only the month of April.

“That’s why I said about poisoned wells.”

April had just begun when a merciless heat suddenly fell on Mangyshlak and the adjacent salt marshes and semi-deserts. And it fell on the day destined to be the beginning of their military expedition, as if someone had deliberately guessed the very hour of the speech. Of course, even before that it was very hot, but in general it was somehow familiar, or something. And what began on the day of the performance, continued later, turned out to be completely unknown not only to the Russian soldiers, but even to the newly appointed warrant officer Mlynov himself, who was born and raised here.

“Even the most ancient of the aksakals don’t remember such heat,” he said very concerned.

“Nothing,” Skobelev grinned. – The detachment of the ataman of the Ural Cossack army, General Verevkin, had to endure the cold, while we experienced the heat. And if we add up our pros and cons and divide them in half, we get an average temperature that is quite consistent with the capabilities of the Russian army.

Mikhail Dmitrievich joked strainedly, because forty degrees in the shadow remained forty degrees without any addition or division. He knew that a Russian soldier endures heat much more painfully than cold, and this did not make him happy. So much so that he secretly even envied General Verevkin’s Orenburg detachment.

The Orenburg detachment of Nikolai Aleksandrovich Verevkin, intended to strike the Khiva Khanate from the north, set out from the Emba post in late February. At the most windy, snowy and frosty time, but that’s how they calculated it at headquarters, hoping that all military forces would reach the borders of the Khanate at approximately the same time. The calculation was justified, and that’s what happened in the end, but this headquarters precision made General Verevkin’s Cossacks no easier and, most importantly, no warmer.

The Urals made every step through the desert steppes, covered with deep snow. The wind, which did not subside for an hour, dragged these snows across the bare, flat, pancake-like plain, wherever it pleased, piling up snow mountains in one place and exposing frozen ground in another, only to do the opposite tomorrow. The Cossacks, wrapped in hoods up to their eyebrows, loudly scolded the out-of-mind staff, the gentlemen officers took their souls away in shouting at their own Cossacks, and only Major General Nikolai Aleksandrovich Verevkin never allowed himself to raise his voice, although sometimes he really wanted to. Not because he did not tolerate rollicking Cossack swearing - he knew how to speak with the Cossacks in their language - but because he completely shared their point of view about the gentlemen staff officers who paved the route for his Orenburg detachment with one movement of a dashingly sharpened pencil.

Sympathizing with the Cossacks, Nikolai Alexandrovich at the same time perfectly understood the need to defeat the Khiva Khanate. Since the time of Ivan the Terrible, Russia has persistently strived for this, and the path to Khiva was generously strewn with the bones of Russian soldiers. Khiva was not only a junction of trade roads connecting distant China with Europe, not only the main slave market for all of Central Asia - Khiva became a symbol of Turkestan in the most unsightly sense of the word. And, cursing the route that fell to the lot of the Orenburg detachment, General Verevkin firmly and persistently moved forward, fearing only one thing: to be late and to be unclaimed at the most decisive moment.

– Those who are frostbitten and sick should be tied to their saddles. No time to stop.

If Verevkin’s Cossacks froze in the snow, conquering every mile with incredible difficulty, then Colonel Lomakin’s Mangyshlak detachment soon fell from the frying pan into the fire, as the soldiers accurately determined. The fact is that due to the incredible heat, which did not subside even at night, the water in the shallow wells began to bloom. To its unpleasant bitter-salty taste was added, at first, a slight, and then an unbearably disgusting smell of rotting. And the soldiers were bleeding out at the very first mile, unbearable thirst rose like a prickly lump in their throats, and their flasks were empty by noon.

The vanguard, commanded by Skobelev, was lucky not because they went first: the water was disgusting for everyone. Therefore, they were lucky, if this word is even appropriate here, that with them there was a person who had happened to get into such troubles.

– I wonder what they drink in such hell? - Skobelev asked when they first pulled out rotten, blooming water from a shallow well (“espe”).

He asked with a smile, but the very worried Mlynov answered quite seriously:

- Tea, Mister Colonel. Be sure to add salt and fat, and only at night.

- Well, I also understand salt: we lose it with sweat. But what does fat have to do with it?

– Fat retains moisture, an example of which is camel humps. I understand that this requires habit, but there is no other way out.

Mikhail Dmitrievich immediately believed in the experienced young man and with this faith rushed to the main detachment.

– Do you offer Kalmyk tea? – Colonel Lomakin winced. – Well, you know, Skobelev, this is not for the Russian stomach.

– This is for Russian health.

- Boiling water is another matter. But fat and salt...

- This is the advice of an experienced person.

“Leave the advice, Skobelev,” Lomakin sighed. “I’m already sick.”

Cursing the colonel's stubbornness, Mikhail Dmitrievich returned to his vanguard, where he introduced Kalmyk tea by special order. The Cossacks frowned and cursed, but they carried out the order unquestioningly: they were disciplined people. And then they got used to it so much that they drank not without pleasure, which saved the entire Skobelev avant-garde not only from loss of strength, but also from illness.

Unfortunately, Colonel Lomakin’s disgust, coupled with stubbornness, did not save the main detachment. People died from heat strokes on long marches and from widespread stomach diseases. And Nikolai Pavlovich Lomakin himself became so weak that in the mornings they put him in the saddle, and in the evenings they took him out of it and laid him on a cloak almost unconscious.

And the expanse of the steppe was deserted from horizon to horizon. Neither the Khiva sentry patrols nor the dashing Turkmen horsemen scouring the desert for prey were visible. Once, however, a caravan appeared in the distance, but it walked calmly, on its own way, and they didn’t even notice the guards.

“Trading,” Mlynov defined.

- Why is there no security?

– Merchants are usually not robbed; the punishment is too severe. Of course, during war everything is possible.

However, everything soon changed. True, even then they did not find the enemy anywhere, but, apparently, this invisible enemy discovered the movement of their detachment. The deep wells of Islam-Kuyu and Orta-Kuyu, in which they hoped to find clean water, turned out to be filled with sheep corpses.

“So they know about us,” Skobelev sighed.

He strengthened the guards, and Lomakin was forced to cut back on the already small portions of stinking water. Mikhail Dmitrievich himself went on long-distance reconnaissance missions several times together with Mlynov, to whom he had already become accustomed and unaccountably trusted. But they were unable to find anyone. Not only the riders, but even the traces of their horses.

“We made our way through the takyrs,” Mlynov explained. – In this heat, takyrs are as hard as winter asphalt.

Colonel Lomakin became so weak that he could no longer stay in the saddle. It was necessary to construct a stretcher, which was suspended between pack horses, if the terrain permitted. Well, where the terrain did not allow this, the soldiers carried the sick Nikolai Pavlovich in their arms. This slowed down the advance of the detachment as a whole, exhausted the soldiers with additional hassle, and the officers with a violation of the calculated speed of advance.

“It may turn out that everything was started in vain,” Major Navrotsky grumbled. - By the time we get there, Kaufman will already take Khiva.

Probably the same thought worried General Verevkin. Ten days after Navrotsky’s sad withdrawal, the advanced patrol of Skobelev’s avant-garde, with joyful cries, delivered three immensely tired Urals residents to Mikhail Dmitrievich.

- Khorunzhiy Usoltsev, Mr. Colonel. Sent with a dispatch by the appointed ataman, His Excellency Major General Verevkin, to Mr. Colonel Lomakin, but your Cossacks said that you are for him here.

The Uralian blurted out all this at once, clearly and without hesitation: apparently, he repeated his first important report to himself many times. And he was so young that his future beard still stuck out like pink pig tufts on his sunken, frostbitten cheeks.

The dispatch said that the Orenburg detachment intended to meet with the Mangyshlak detachment in mid-May in the area of the village of Khojeyli for a joint attack on Khiva.

Chapter Five

Mikhail Dmitrievich delivered the dispatch to Lomakin personally. Nikolai Pavlovich became very weak from his debilitating illness; he no longer stood up and spoke unusually quietly and with difficulty. Having carefully read General Verevkin’s message, he said to Skobelev:

– Take command of the detachment and proceed to the junction with the Orenburg Cossacks.

“But I am, so to speak, a volunteer, Nikolai Pavlovich,” Mikhail Dmitrievich was somewhat taken aback, although he was delighted. “I understand the special circumstances, but will your officers understand them properly?”

“The officers will thank you if you take them out of this hell.” If you like, I will sign a written order.

– I am satisfied with your sincere words, Nikolai Pavlovich. And I will do everything to justify them.

The officers accepted Skobelev's appointment as commander with a sigh of relief, although this sigh was not easy for Major Navrotsky. Everyone had already realized that the Turkestan War, which only Mikhail Dmitrievich knew to a certain extent, was in no way similar to the Caucasian War they were used to, which is why they saw in this unexpected assignment the only chance to cross the desert that frightened them and finally get to the Khiva Khanate with its ditches , gardens, shady coolness and inhabited villages. There it would be possible to exist normally, and therefore to fight as they were accustomed to, and not to trudge through wild, parched salt marshes, exhausted from the heat and thirst.

In early May, the Mangyshlak detachment reached the borders of the Khiva Khanate. There were only a few miles left before joining the Orenburg detachment, but as luck would have it, the small border fortress of Kizyl-Agir was on the way.

The Cossack patrol reported this. Skobelev immediately sent a constable to the main forces with the order to immediately pull up to the vanguard, sending an artillery half-battery forward.

“The fortress is old,” he said, having left with the arriving officers for reconnaissance. “Judging by its size, its garrison is small, and as soon as the artillerymen demolish the gates, we will invite them to lay down their arms.”

“Parliamentarian,” Mlynov noted.

A horseman in a colorful robe rushed from the fortress gates at full gallop, waving a rag tied to a spear, but for some reason it was colorful and not white. He jumped up and screamed loudly, continuing to vigorously wave the colored rag.

“The commander of the fortress asks the tall gentleman Russian commander to wait with the assault until they drag their gun from the southern wall to the northern one,” Mlynov calmly translated.

- What kind of news is this? – Mikhail Dmitrievich frowned. - Are we being asked to wait until they concentrate all their artillery against our detachment?

Ensign Mlynov spoke quietly with the parliamentarian and grinned:

“All their artillery consists of one ancient bronze weapon, Mr. Colonel.” And they ask your permission to fire it exactly once. At the same time, they swear by Allah that they will shoot at an empty place.

- Gentlemen, do you understand anything? – Skobelev asked his officers gloomily.

“It seems that we are dealing with a sophisticated Asian cunning,” suggested the chief of staff of the detachment, Lieutenant Colonel Poyarov.

“They swore in the name of Allah,” Mlynov reminded seriously. “After their only shot in the direction we indicated, they ask us to fire an artillery salvo at the wall, but at the same time warn in advance where exactly we will shoot.

– Why else?

“So that they take all their people away from the shots,” the translator shrugged.

– Explain, Mlynov, what does all this mean? – Skobelev asked worriedly. “Are they stalling for time so that reinforcements can arrive and attack us from the rear?”

“I don’t think so,” the ensign grinned. – The commander, commandant, defenders of the fortress and all its inhabitants really want to surrender to our mercy. However, if the fortress is surrendered without firing a shot, the khan will cut off the heads of all relatives of the garrison commander and commandant. And so it will be, because these are the laws of Khiva, as far as I know.

Mikhail Dmitrievich silently fingered his sideburns, wondering what to do in such unusual circumstances.

“The Asians are disingenuous,” sighed Major Navrotsky, “oh, they are disingenuous!” Don't give in, Colonel, this is some kind of trap.

- A trap, you say? Perhaps... - Skobelev sighed and looked back at the artillery officers standing behind him. - Lieutenant Grodikov, take two Cossacks and, together with Ensign Mlynov, go to the fortress with the envoy. Look at what kind of gun they have and tell them where to put it so they don't get hit.

- I obey, Mr. Colonel.

- Mlynov, warn the commandant and the head of the garrison that they have the right to fire only after you return. Otherwise, I will destroy all the walls, and at the same time all the houses.

- It will be done, Mr. Colonel.

Artillery Lieutenant Grodikov, Ensign Mlynov and two sedate (Mikhail Dmitrievich personally selected them) Cossacks galloped into the fortress after the envoy. Everyone who remained silently followed them with their gazes and sighed with concern when the fortress gates closed behind them.

“I don’t trust the natives,” said Lieutenant Colonel Poyarov gloomily. – I don’t trust you from the start.

Everyone remained silent. Then Major Navrotsky said with a sigh and sadly:

“I must admit, gentlemen, I expect with horror that all four heads will be thrown over the fortress walls at any moment.”

“God willing, this won’t happen,” Skobelev remarked as if to himself.

– But still, Mikhail Dmitrievich, are you sure that God will give? – Lieutenant Colonel Poyarov said with a grin. – Or is it just that strange that everyone fights here?

– I don’t undertake to answer for everyone, but I will answer for myself. We must fight with a clear conscience, gentlemen.

- And in the name of the purity of your own conscience, you...

Skobelev looked at Lieutenant Colonel Poyarov so much that the chief of staff did not finish his sentence. And everyone fell silent, without taking their eyes off the fortress gates.

Mikhail Dmitrievich was now very uneasy. He, too, did not really trust the local commanders; he had heard enough about their cunning, their cunning, and the fact that they were completely unfamiliar with the European concept of officer honor. But it just so happened that he unaccountably trusted Mlynov almost from the first day of their acquaintance. The ensign knew very well not only local languages and even not only local customs, but, as it seemed to Skobelev, also the psychology of the inhabitants themselves. And one day, as if casually, he remarked in a conversation:

– They have their own concept of honor. We deceive them much more often than they deceive us, believe me.

An agonizing forty minutes passed before the fortress gates swung open.

- They're coming! – someone said with relief.

However, the gate allowed only one rider through and immediately closed behind him. The horseman approached slowly, at a sweeping trot, and a certain time passed until the officers recognized him as Ensign Mlynov.

- Well, gentlemen, everything is clear! - exclaimed Navrotsky. “They released one so that he could communicate the conditions for the release of the others. And of course, it was Mlynov who turned out to be this lucky one. A brother-in-law sees his brother-in-law from afar: this Mlynov’s mother is Kyrgyz.

“You are capricious and suspicious, like a seasoned girl,” Skobelev said without hiding his irritation. – Firstly, we still know absolutely nothing, and secondly, the mother of our translator is from the Kipchak tribe...

The arguments stopped because Mlynov shouted loudly from afar:

– They accepted all our conditions!

- Why were they the only ones released? – Mikhail Dmitrievich asked angrily.

He was tired of worrying and waiting and was out of sorts.

“The Khivans didn’t have a single artilleryman in the fortress,” the ensign calmly explained, dismounting. - Having found out this, Lieutenant Grodikov considered it best to shoot from their arquebus himself. The Cossacks remained to help him, and the lieutenant sent me to warn you about this incident. After his shot, the Khivans asked you, Mr. Colonel, to smash their gates to pieces.

– Why exactly the gate?

- For three reasons. First: outside the gates there is a market square, and thus not a single house will suffer from our volley. Second: broken gates are the best proof of the seriousness of our intentions. And most importantly: the gates are very old, and the khan did not allocate money for their repair, despite the commandant’s repeated requests...

A thick cloud of black smoke appeared on the fortress wall, and almost immediately a roar was heard. The cannonball fired by the ancient weapon flew so slowly that everyone followed it with their eyes until it fell somewhere far from the squad.

- Volley on goal! - Skobelev shouted.

- Battery, get ready! – the artillery officer began the command in a sing-song voice. - Aim at the goal, one shell... Fire!..

Both guns hit the fortress gates in a single volley. Explosions roared, for a moment everything was covered in smoke, and when it cleared, the gate was no longer there. Through the opening littered with their debris, an empty square was visible, covered in shell smoke. Then a rider appeared on it without a spear or rag, but accompanied by Lieutenant Grodikov with two Cossacks and in a rather smart robe.

“Head of the garrison,” Mlynov explained. - Prepare an act of surrender, Mr. Chief of Staff. This garrison official goes to sign it with great relief...

This story became an anecdote, which they later loved to tell in St. Petersburg and Moscow salons, along with the anecdote about the Sardinian duel. They gave rise to a whole series of stories and fables about the Turkestan activities of Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev, which subsequently affected his military career and greatly spoiled both his mood and nerves.

But that’s all later, in both capitals, later. And then the path to the junction of the Mangyshlak and Orenburg detachments was open, and Skobelev did not think about anything more. The fatigue turned out to be too overwhelming even for him...

On the fourteenth of May, the vanguard of the Mangyshlak detachment met with the vanguard of the Orenburgers, commanded by Colonel Saranchov: he specifically warned Mikhail Dmitrievich that it was spelled with an “o”. The colonel was middle-aged, taciturn and looked very preoccupied. However, there was something to look at: God greeted his steppe prowess with four daughters, and the colonel was only thinking about where to get funds for a dowry. He didn’t think about anything else, but his considerable experience more than compensated for his one-sidedness, and he always coped with the assigned task faster and better than any young careerist.

- They say that General Kaufman will give a thousand rubles to the commander whose soldiers will be the first to break into the Khiva fortress?

This was his first question addressed to Skobelev upon meeting him. And Mikhail Dmitrievich immediately understood everything about Colonel Saranchov. And that the colonel is from the Cossacks, and that the allotment is small, and that the expenses are much greater than the income. And that this constantly depresses the colonel, burdening his difficult service with vanity, and his soul with completely earthly material thoughts. And said:

- I don’t know exactly, Colonel, but... But they should, huh?

“We should,” sighed Saranchov. - We are frozen, you are fried. They should.

The regular commanders of the detachments intended for a surprise attack on Khiva, hitherto reliably covered by deserts, seemed to be out of work. As if in the rear echelon, which equally concerned both the ill Colonel Lomakin and General Verevkin, who was preoccupied not with his illness, but with the helpless situation of numerous frostbitten Cossacks. In an unfamiliar area, wide open to all surprises, he could not leave them, fearing a sudden attack by the horsemen of the Khiva Khan or wandering gangs looking for easy prey. And he trudged along in the convoy, entrusting, like Colonel Lomakin, the command of the most combat-ready units to his permanent vanguard commander. And both officers - young and old - understood each other perfectly, without wasting time trying to clarify the eternal question of the Russian army: “Who is more important?”

The vanguards of the Mangyshlak and Orenburg detachments united near Kungrad. There were still two hundred and fifty miles left to Khiva itself, and these miles turned out to be the most difficult and bloody. The mounted detachments of the Khiva guard, having discovered large Russian forces in their own khanate from nowhere, blocked all the roads to the capital, stubbornly fighting for every village and every ditch. The Khivans fought for their freedom surprisingly steadfastly and bravely, without fear of deep flank raids, swift cavalry attacks, furious slashing and scattered retreat, after which they gathered again in a pre-agreed place. They burned all the bridges over deep ditches behind them, destroyed dams, filled up wells with good water or filled them up with animal corpses.

“Well done,” said Saranchov. – Not to fight to the death for your land is a great and unforgivable sin. What is before our Lord, what is before theirs.

He came to visit Mikhail Dmitrievich, who received seven wounds in the last wheelhouse and was lying down in a cart. He liked Skobelev, who was old enough to be his son, but did not like his wounds. It was too hot for open cut wounds.

– Won’t you rot, Mikhail? Maybe we should call a doctor from our rear for you?

“Ensign Mlynov uses me,” Skobelev grinned forcefully. “I don’t know what kind of rubbish, but the worms haven’t started yet.”

– What kind of Kyrgyz is this ensign?

- His relative.

- Well, girls at fourteen are all pretty. Either take ours or take theirs. Their strength is within.

He sighed sadly and shook his head worriedly. Then he suddenly said:

- A foreign newspaperman has arrived. Tortures everything when we storm Khiva. I'll send him to you, eh, Mikhail? You must understand it their way.

- I understand! – Skobelev admitted joyfully.

The next day, Saranchov sent with an escort - he did not really trust foreigners - a stocky, reddish gentleman in a strange hat, miraculously sitting on the back of his head.

– McGahan. Newspaper correspondent...

“It will be easier for you if we switch to English,” Mikhail Dmitrievich smiled.

The American did not leave the wounded lieutenant colonel for two days, happily chatting in his native language. And Mikhail Dmitrievich polished his pronunciation, and at the same time enlightened the curious foreigner:

– Russians have a different kind of courage than Europeans, my friend. We are fatalists, and the favorite saying of soldiers before an assault is: “What happens, cannot be avoided.” And the officer’s favorite order for the assault: “You can’t have two deaths, guys. Follow me!..” You must feel this yourself, and therefore I invite you to one of my upcoming assaults. Will you go?

- Why not, Mr. General, “Follow me!”? – McGahan smiled.

“I'm just a lieutenant colonel, sir.”

– And I never accidentally misspoke.

“Spit according to Russian custom,” Skobelev was very flattered, but he hid his smug smile with all his might. – What motivates you: calculation or emotions?

– Americans always proceed from pragmatic considerations, unlike Russian bearded romantics. So you and I represent the two poles of the ideal male soul. And this is bad, because the poles never converge.

“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” Mikhail Dmitrievich smiled. “They converge in a magnet, and that’s it, and we both seem to have this property in abundance.”

Skobelev's nature possessed not only enormous magnetism, but also a God-given ability to capture the tension of a combat situation. And although at that time he had neither bloody military experience nor reports that would allow the commander to draw a definite conclusion, he inexplicably felt that the opponents were quite ripe in order to qualitatively change the existing guerrilla war, the specter of which worried Mikhail Dmitrievich all the time. Such a war was in the hands of the Khivans, but Kaufman was smart and experienced and had to, had to - from the point of view of Lieutenant Colonel Skobelev, of course - to knock this trump card out of the deck of military capabilities of the Khiva Khan.

And Nikolai Aleksandrovich Verevkin, who had hitherto been in the rear of the assigned ataman of the Ural Cossack army, recalled that he was not only an ataman, but also a military general. The Khiva cavalry was pushed back to the capital of the Khanate, concerns about convoys with frostbite and the sick were somewhat dulled, and the general considered it necessary to be personally present in his combat-ready units. On the way to them, he was intercepted by a messenger from General Kaufman, and Nikolai Alexandrovich appeared on a meeting with Saranchov and Skobelev with a dispatch in his hands.

“Order to unite at the Sarykupryuk bridge,” he said to the vanguard commanders. “I’m in a hurry to meet with Konstantin Petrovich, but the general asks to delay the attack because he doesn’t want unnecessary bloodshed and really hopes for the surrender of the garrison without any conditions.”

- And what? – Skobelev asked with poorly hidden irritation. – The people of Khiva already know about this and are enthusiastically ready to surrender the fortress without any reservations?

“Your impetuousness, Colonel, is, to say the least, inappropriate,” Verevkin said reproachfully. “I only carry out the orders given to me, nothing more.”

“A week ago, Michal Dmitrich ran into an ambush,” Saranchov sighed. – He barely fought back and left. With seven cuts. That’s how things are here, Nikolai Alexandrovich.

“I will attack the Shahabad Gate,” Skobelev said gloomily. – Even if you, general, refuse to help me.

“I’ll tell Kaufman about this.” But I ask you, Colonel Saranchov, to refrain from rash actions. Not one of our Cossacks should participate in the adventure that Skobelev conceived.

“I obey, Nikolai Alexandrovich,” Saranchov grumbled displeasedly.

General Verevkin went on a meeting with Kaufman, which, however, never took place, since the ataman of the Ural Cossack Army was shell-shocked in the head by a random bullet. This circumstance did not change Konstantin Petrovich’s intentions to do without storming the Khiva citadel at all costs. He tried to pursue a policy of peace that was completely unfamiliar to Turkestan, but so far he had been unsuccessful. However, Kaufman was persistent and purposeful, because he well remembered the parting words of Alexander II: Russian history will now be created in Turkestan, Konstantin Petrovich. You can compose anything, but write it down - either with a pen or with a bayonet. And writing with ink is much more durable than writing with human blood.

Immediately after the departure of General Verevkin, Skobelev ordered all his forces to concentrate against the Shahabad Gate of the Khiva citadel. And early in the morning I went to pick up McGahan.

“I promised to give you, my friend, the opportunity to take part in the assault.” Please join me if you haven't changed your mind.

- A cup of coffee? – the correspondent grinned.

– With pleasure, if you agree.

“Otherwise I would offer you some brandy.”

After drinking coffee, the friends went to their positions. Saranchov was there, watching the retreat of his Cossacks.

“It’s a pity that I was in a hurry,” Skobelev said with displeasure. “I must admit, I was counting on your gunners.”

“They are army, not Cossack,” the colonel explained. - Therefore, their order does not concern Nikolai Alexandrovich. And I will order them to catch up with me after you let them go.

The artillerymen of the Orenburg detachment gladly responded to Skobelev’s personal request. However, even before their salvo, the devil brought Count Shuvalov’s cornet with a categorical order from General Kaufman to refrain from the assault at all costs, and Mikhail Dmitrievich was very upset.

- That's bad luck...

“Cornets love fame,” the correspondent grumbled. – I fully admit that this one too.

He immediately, with typical American amicosity, met the count, who enthusiastically told him what dangers he had been exposed to in his haste to convey to Skobelev Konstantin Petrovich’s order under no circumstances to storm the citadel until further notice.

“They’re shooting with all their might, gentlemen!” the young cornet ranted.

- Imagine, the horse under my handler was wounded! A little to the left, and...

“And,” agreed McGahan. – Consider that this “and” has already happened. In any case, this is exactly what I will write in my correspondence: “Under the brave cornet of Count Shuvalov, a horse was wounded.” The whole of St. Petersburg will gasp with horror, since it is there, according to agreements, that my articles will be read first.

- Is the horse wounded? – the cornet asked dumbfounded. - Well, that’s what I’m saying: under the guard...

“Yours, Count, yours,” McGahan explained softly. - But, being a brave man, you hurried after Colonel Skobelev, who had already burst into the fortress at the head of his soldiers...

At this time, a salvo thundered from two guns left behind by Locust. The Shakhabad gates were torn off their hinges, someone was already enthusiastically shouting “Hurray!”, and the cornet Count Shuvalov was completely confused about whose horse was wounded, and why he was here in the first place.

- It's our turn, friends. – Mikhail Dmitrievich sighed deeply, as if before jumping into water. - Follow me, guys!..

He was the first to break into the citadel. The American with the Winchester ran a step behind, and the cornet Shuvalov hurried after them, rapturously waving his saber. They shot from the roofs in a hurry, but very often, which greatly surprised Skobelev:

- These are stubborn people! Out of fright, or what? Get down, McGahan, you're not in the Wild West!..

- I am in the wild East. And I dream of getting slightly injured...

He was not injured, nor was anyone else. Skobelev led his soldiers to the Khan's palace, where they were met by completely confused representatives of the Khan and stern gray-bearded elders.

– We surrendered the city without a fight...

“No matter how it is,” said Mikhail Dmitrievich, out of breath from running. - You handed him over to my sword...

In the evening he received a scolding from General Kaufman.

“You’re lucky that there weren’t any wounded.” What kind of boyishness is this, Colonel?

“I wanted to do you a favor, Your Excellency.”

“Then treat her in a civilized manner,” Konstantin Petrovich continued to grumble displeasedly. – At the same time as you, Markozov’s detachment set out from Krasnovodsk for Khiva. Find him and I will forget about your daring initiative.

Markozov’s detachment was really lost in the sands, it really needed to be found, but Kaufman sent Skobelev not so much to search, as to hide it from dissatisfied eyes. He liked the provocative activity of the actual commander of the Kinderlind detachment, but if there had been injuries during the assault, the commander-in-chief of all troops in Turkestan would have severely punished the overly active lieutenant colonel. But it worked out, and now it was necessary to hide Skobelev from his many enemies.

“Markozov’s detachment got lost somewhere in the Karakum sands,” he explained, when the thought of sending Skobelev away at all costs had finally taken possession of him. – It is necessary to find him and give the order to return to Krasnovodsk. Take all the Ural Cossacks at your disposal and carry out this operation with all your characteristic swiftness, while the enemy has not yet come to his senses.

- Ride quickly from well to well? – Skobelev grinned. - This is impossible, Your Excellency. All the fugitive horsemen from Khiva settled near the wells, of which there are very few along this route. Consequently, my squad will face endless protracted battles and numerous sudden skirmishes, which cannot lead us to the desired result.

“Perhaps you are right, Colonel.” But there is no other reason to send you out of sight.

“Thank you Your Excellency for your concern,” Mikhail Dmitrievich said sincerely, understanding the true reason for Kaufman’s sudden decision. - But why should innocent Cossacks suffer?

– Are you discussing the order, Skobelev?

- No way. I'm just looking for the most acceptable way to do it. May I report my thoughts in the morning?

The idea that suddenly came to Skobelev was crazy, which is why he appreciated it very especially. She didn’t just tickle her nerves and stroke her pride - she could help carry out Kaufman’s truly necessary order without risking Cossack lives. However, for some reason Mikhail Dmitrievich was embarrassed when he presented it to Mlynov. But the ensign said only one phrase:

“You will not utter a single word during the entire journey.” Until we return.

- That is? – Skobelev was taken aback.

- Vow of silence. Put the bandage on your forehead.

-What bandage?

- I'll knit it myself. My cousin will come with us.

- I don’t understand anything. Silence, brother... Where will it come from, your cousin?

- From the convoy. He led our caravan, as I reported to you. And only we will talk to everyone we meet. Him or me. Then it may happen that we will find the Krasnovodsk detachment and even return alive.

End of free trial.

One of the most filmed Soviet writers is definitely Boris Vasiliev (1924-2013). Only about the war we can name several, as they say, cult films: “The Dawns Here Are Quiet,” “Officers,” “Aty-Bati, the Soldiers Came.” Plus, even though it’s not the most successful production of the famous story “Not on the Lists,” but nevertheless, “I am a Russian Soldier.” In addition, a large number of non-war films and theater productions.

Until now, front-line soldier Vasiliev remains, first of all, the author of books about the war and his own modernity. His later interest in Russian history is much less known. Literally from the time of the first Rurikovichs. He was also interested in the subject of wars of the 19th century. The novel “They Were and They Were Not” about the Russian-Turkish War of 1877-1878 is quite well known.

And that’s why we started talking about him. In the 1990s - early 2000s, several series of historical novels were published at the instigation of the publishing houses "Astrel"/"Armada"/"AST". One of the series “Russian Commanders” included, among other things, a volume dedicated to General Skobelev. Well, the novel about Skobelev, “There Is Only a Moment,” was apparently written by order from the same Boris Vasiliev. In fact, he branched off this work from “Facts and Fables.” Well, be that as it may, the main thing is that such a work exists and can be read. It's completely independent. And the personality and track record of the author guarantee good quality.

In fact, a great many books have been written about General Skobelev. They are also books about the Russian-Turkish war of 1877-1878. The personality of the most charismatic and self-presenting commander is so bright that sometimes one gets the impression that it is synonymous with that war. We say “Skobelev”, we mean “Plevna, Shipka, Sheinovo”.

Boris Vasiliev’s book “There is Only a Moment” stands out from the general series precisely because the war of 77-78 occupies only one of the important places in the life of the commander. Yes, maybe central, but not the climax. Without focusing on the events of that war, expanding the story of Skobelev’s life, Vasiliev gives a broader idea of his personality. This is probably why we chose this particular work from the entire “skobeliana”.

In addition, the novel “There is Only a Moment” has become a bibliographic rarity. It is not republished and is not included in Vasiliev’s collected works. As a result, it risks remaining a forgotten, abandoned work. Well, let’s try to save a good book from oblivion.

The book is divided into three parts. The first is the early stage of Skobelev’s service in Turkestan, the campaign against Khiva, 1873. The second is the events of the Russian-Turkish war of 1877-1878. Third - Akhal-Teke operation of Russian troops under the command of Skobelev, 1880-1881.

It’s just a pity that the author did not bother himself to think about how to more elegantly integrate reference dates into his text, explaining to the reader the chronology of events, making it easier to navigate on the timeline. Well, that's okay. Both the paper edition that I once read and the electronic version that we offer for downloading are equipped with a chronological table. And no one canceled the Internet.

Nowadays it has generally become easy to read history books. I wanted to inquire about a term or name, voila on the Internet. I needed a portrait of someone for a better visual representation of the hero, at your service, sir. There is no life without a detailed historical map or diagram, so everything is on the Internet. Not life, but raspberries.

This is how the book begins with the appearance of a young officer, a graduate of the General Staff Academy in Turkestan under General Kaufman. Actually a very good and useful part. To this day, it’s a shame that we know little about the Turkestan campaigns of the Russian army. Even the almost parallel war in the Caucasus has become more firmly entrenched in people’s memory. General Ermolov is much more famous than Kaufman, and the battles with Shamil are better covered than the campaigns against Khiva and Bukhara. Turkestan did not have its own Leo Tolstoy or Bestuzhev-Marlinsky, Lermontov or Pushkin, who also propagated it among the people. Unless Vasily Vereshchagin’s paintings can compete with the Caucasian cycles of other artists. If only for this reason, Vasiliev’s chapters on Kaufman and the conquest/pacification of Turkestan make a significant contribution to the popularization of one of the important and striking episodes of Russian history.

Well, the central place here is occupied by the campaign to Khiva of the detachment in which young Skobelev was a member. Vasiliev, in his own way, refers to well-known anecdotes from the life of the general and weaves them into the thread of the novel. By the way, not always interpreted canonically. But the funniest episode with the Kizyl-Argil fortress is present here in all its glory.

Let me open it up in a little more detail to get you interested. This means that our detachment is approaching the Turkestan (Khiva) fortress. A parliamentarian comes out from there. But instead of offering to surrender, he asks not to attack the fortress right away.

“We have the only gun, and it faces in the opposite direction.” Wait, gentlemen, we will drag her to the front against you.

- Well, wow!

- No, no, you misunderstood. We will only fire once in your direction and immediately surrender. But something like that - they still fought.

- Oh, okay.

- Only here no one knows how to shoot from it. Could you give us a couple of specialists? They will shoot in your direction, let's say, undershoot. And we will surrender.

Yes, these are the oddities that Russian troops had to deal with in Turkestan.

V. Vereshchagin. Soldiers at the fortress wall

Before moving on to the description of the war in Bulgaria, let us touch upon the peculiarities of explaining the weaknesses of great people. It’s amazing how writers love to divide people into a mass of mediocrity and truly great ones. The sins of the former are sealed with harsh epithets, the weaknesses of the latter find very, very lofty justifications.

Let's take Skobelev. As his contemporaries say, he was a terrible weirdo. He sinned with an absolutely disregardful attitude towards orders and his duties. Just look at his flight from Turkestan. Imagine, a major general is appointed governor of the region, but he is bored and runs away to St. Petersburg, and from there to the active army. He drops everything, ignores his responsibilities and rushes to the Danube Army simply because he wants to. What would we say about any other person? Irresponsible, undisciplined, a person with enormous self-importance, and worse than that, he has a criminal attitude towards the assigned work. But Skobelev? Oh no, he is impetuous, sincere, feeling the strength within himself and ready to use it for the benefit of his homeland. Do you feel the difference?

According to Vasiliev, Skobelev “was a military man not just by vocation, but by a special disposition of the soul, where everything, everything was decisively subordinated to the enthusiastic excitement of battle, dazzling confidence in victory and conviction that he was right. He always respected his opponent, no matter who he was, but at the same time he internally demanded respect in return. Not to himself - he was self-confident enough for that - but to the cause he served.”

But this is something else, this is an almost sublime category. It’s much more interesting how the authors, and Vasiliev among them, justify Skobelev’s craving for prostitutes and drunkenness. An ordinary person would receive the categorical “slut,” “drunkard,” or even “alcoholic.” But Skobelev? Eh, no, the writer begins to spin around as if in a frying pan, trying to make his hero seem like a hero. What would it seem like? Well, yes, a lustful womanizer and a compulsive drunkard - just say so. This did not stop him from fighting well. Although who knows, maybe it got in the way. Maybe he would have fought better without it.

To illustrate this statement, we finally move on to Vasiliev’s description of the Russian-Turkish war. What is there in our canon that is tightly connected with Skobelev? Crossing of the Danube - one, assaults and siege of Plevna - two, crossing the Balkans - three, Battle of Shipko-Sheinovsky - four, throw at Constantinople - five. Boris Vasiliev goes over all these points. He does not set out to describe the entire war. He only identifies General Skobelev’s participation in it. Frankly speaking, participation is slightly exaggerated in our historiography and even more so in fiction.

Let's say, crossing the Danube. Skobelev’s role in it comes down to volunteer work. He didn't even command anyone or anything.

Assault on Plevna. The trouble is with them. Yes, they like to show that if the command had supported Skobelev, victory would have been in their pocket. And so - pure defeat. They say, what a great fellow Skobelev is - he almost took Plevna. But they didn’t support him and he was repulsed. But you can look at it from a different angle. Skobelev attacked, openly not caring about the plan and disposition. Under these conditions, he could not count on support. The result was not just defeat, but the vain death of his soldiers.

Shipka-Sheinovo. It is this battle that Vasiliev does not cover in detail. And maybe he’s doing the right thing, because it’s very common among us to forget that Skobelev commanded only part of the forces there, and Svyatopolk-Mirsky’s column did no less.

And so - through delays and silences - a legend is formed, a myth about the great and invincible “commander, equal to Suvorov.” At the end of the second part, when discussing the candidacy of General Gurko for the role of parade commander, an important remark is made. They say that correspondents will have to explain for a long time who Gurko is, but they know Skobelev well. But if we compare the contribution to the victory of Gurko and Skobelev, then... However, we will discuss the book about General Gurko next time.

Yes, sir, such is the power of Skobelev’s myth. But what’s interesting is that there is no need to invent anything at the expense of the truth. Skobelev does not need excuses or distortions to confirm his talents. Let's look at the third part of Vasiliev's book - a detailed description of the Akhal-Teke operation. What scope, what thoroughness, what result!

And indeed, it is very interesting how the Russian-Japanese war would have turned out if Skobelev had not died so early? In 1904 he would have been only 61 years old - the prime of life for a commander. He could well be a field marshal and commander of our troops in the Far East. True, if he had not previously quarreled with the emperor and the government in the trash. And given his character and inclinations, he very well could.

But Vasiliev’s book ends with the Akhal-Teke operation, and the author does not delve into conspiracy theories surrounding the death of one of the most prominent Russian generals of the second half of the 19th century. Eh, what’s there – not one of them, but himself.

V. Vereshchagin. Skobelev near Sheinovo

Quote:

“Plevna opened immediately, as if a curtain had been lifted. Not the town itself - it was covered by a small hill - but the suburbs, gardens, vineyards. But everyone was no longer looking there, but to the right, where several tens of thousands of askers stood in marching columns.

The Cossacks sighed, some crossing themselves, some cursing. Cornet Prishchepa whistled in puzzlement, immediately receiving a good slap on the wrist from the gloomy colonel. And Skobelev looked and looked, but not at the masses of Turkish reserves preparing for battle, but at the distant Grivitsky heights, which, according to the disposition, the first column of General Velyaminov was supposed to storm; on the barely noticeable troops of Shakhovsky, prepared according to the same disposition for a strike between Grivitsa and Plevna, and on Plevna itself, covered by the suburbs on a high-rise, against which stood the pitiful forces of his own detachment. Of course, Osman Pasha could not know the details of the plan for the second assault - Skobelev himself had not yet received the signed order - but, fully understanding the stupid stubbornness of the Russian commander, the Turkish commander far-sightedly forestalled his main attack, concentrating his main reserves near Grivitsy. In this direction, Russian troops, willy-nilly, were drawn into a protracted battle and were unable to break through to Plevna. Skobelev not only understood this - he saw it with his own eyes.

He saw something else too. If Shakhovsky had managed to change the direction of the attack during the battle and attack not on the Turkish troops preparing for battle, but to the left, behind their backs, he would have cut off the enemy’s reserves from the city, forced Osman Pasha to change his defense plan on the move, shuffle and move camps during the battle, and then... Then Skobelev received a real opportunity to throw his small detachment to storm Plevna along the shortest and practically unprotected direction by the enemy.

Keep the guns silent until the rest of the batteries arrive,” he said. - Stay here, Kukharenko, even with your teeth, and wait for the infantry. I'm going to Shakhovsky."

Boris Vasiliev. There is only a moment

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"Those who read books will always control those who watch TV"

Skobelev
Boris Lvovich Vasiliev

General Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev became legendary during his lifetime: a participant in military operations in Central Asia and the Caucasus, an inimitable hero of the Russian-Turkish war, a hero of the battles of Plevna and Shipka-Sheinovo, who earned the enthusiastic love of the Bulgarian people, which has not faded to this day, and simply a strong, talented person, Skobelev did not know defeat.

He lived a short but bright life and never once surrendered to the mercy of anyone - be it an enemy, a sovereign, fate or a woman. He was predicted to become a field marshal, his talent was compared with the talent of Suvorov and Napoleon, the people’s love for him aroused the jealousy of the monarchs, and General Skobelev always felt like a simple Russian soldier who daily defends the honor of Russia and through hard work earns its eternal glory.

The novel “Skobelev, or There is only a moment...” provides the reader with a unique opportunity to look at the fate and personality of General Skobelev from a completely new perspective.

Vasiliev B.L. Skobelev, or There is only a moment...

Boris Lvovich VASILIEV

Skobelev, or There is only a moment...

The historical novel “There is only a moment” is a new work by the writer.

Skobelev

Historical reference

From the Encyclopedic Dictionary. Ed. Brockhaus and Efron. T. 56, St. Petersburg, 1890.

SKOBELEV MIKHAIL DMITRIEVICH (1843-1882), adjutant general. First he was brought up at home, then at the Girardet boarding house in Paris; in 1861 he entered St. Petersburg University, from where he was dismissed a month later due to unrest among students. He became a cadet in a cavalry regiment and in 1863 was promoted to cornet. When the Polish rebellion broke out, Skobelev went on vacation to his father, who was in Poland, but on the way there he joined one of the Russian infantry detachments as a volunteer and spent the entire vacation searching for and chasing bands of rebels.

Emperor Alexander III, wanting military valor to bind the army and navy with common memories, ordered the corvette “Vityaz” to henceforth be called “Skobelev”.

Part one

Chapter first

What is this being done? The fields will get wet, honey mushrooms will grow on the huts, and all the evil spirits of the swamp will rejoice joyfully.

Flood. The true biblical flood...

Everyone saved themselves from the flood as best they could, but most often in their own arks. Only the Taganskaya fool Mokritsa, known throughout Moscow, danced in the rain and was very happy:

Moscow is wet! Moscow is wet!

Muscovites sighed:

To know, we have angered our Lord...

Any failure to win a war changes the climate of space and population.

And there was a considerable amount of truth in this wise conclusion, since not only Muscovites, but all of Russia deeply and sadly experienced the failure of the Crimean War, and no private victories in the Caucasus could bring any relief to wet souls and bodies. Undoubtedly, the heroic defense of Sevastopol dropped drops of balm on the wounded patriotic organisms, but only resounding victories, but not resounding defenses, can bring true joy of life and great triumph of the spirit. Russia thirsted for victorious heroes, and no amount of courage and steadfastness of the heroic defenders could quench this unbearable thirst. That’s why all the newspapers suddenly began to trumpet in unison, cheerfully and cheerfully, when the first deafening telegrams arrived from the far, far south. From Turkestan, the existence of which the Russian average person of those times had hardly heard of. On June 15, 1865, Major General Mikhail Grigorievich Chernyaev, commanding a detachment of one thousand nine hundred and fifty people and with only twelve guns, with a sudden assault took some kind of Tashkent, in which a hundred thousand people lived, defended by thirty thousand (“selected”, as the newspapers emphasized) with an army with as many as sixty-three guns. True, he accomplished this heroic feat, forgetting to inform his superiors about his desire for him, for which he was immediately dismissed from service, however, receiving the rank of lieutenant general for his daring courage. And all the newspapers literally suffocated in an acute attack of patriotic delight, without once mentioning the annoying adherence to principles of the Sovereign-Emperor Alexander II.

Two thousand against thirty! For revival, gentlemen!

This proves the theorem of the highest military skill of Russian generals!

Or the unbridled boasting of our press.

Stop it, Skobelev! Chernyaev is a hero and talent!

“I agree with the first, I’ll wait with the second,” grinned the young officer in the uniform of the Life Guards of the Grodno Hussar Regiment. - The commander proves his talent only with his second victory. Otherwise, his feat is just an accidental luck of an adventurer.

Are you jealous, Skobelev?

“I envy you,” the hussar sincerely admitted. - But it’s not Chernyaev’s luck at all, but only his courage. And luck, and success, and the manifestation of a person’s talent depend not so much on himself, but on the coincidence of circumstances. And courage is always a manifestation of the will of the individual, gentlemen. And therefore - for courage!

Read online "skobelev". B. Vasiliev. Skobelev. There is only a moment Boris Lvovich Vasiliev

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