Nobody knew what was going on in Ukraine in those days: armies came and went, won and lost battles, looted towns, were termed glorious allies, barbaric enemies, treacherous comrades - often within the same hour: bandits, Cossacks, Anarchists, Bolsheviks, Nationalists. The words were meaningless. The loyalties of the various armies were, as we say in chemistry, highly volatile. I could not know if Hrihorieff (who had already fought with Skoropadskya and Petlyura) was with the Bolsheviks or not. He could be pretending to be with them; he could be pretending to be against them. He could be pretending to parley to gain time for his men out on raids. It was the essence, I suppose, of guerilla war. Our land had become worse than the Western prairies at the time of Custer. It was even more savage and with no single government in control. The Seventh Cavalry might well arrive; but it could be in league with the Indians or working on its own account, like Quantrill in the American Civil War.
The oil-lamp in the room was burning low as I came back. All the soldiers with the exception of Captain Yermeloff had huddled down into rags and stolen shirts and were going to sleep. Yermeloff unbuttoned his greatcoat. He tried to roll a cigarette out of newspaper and tea-leaves. I slipped two of my papyrussa from my pocket and offered him one. He was grateful. We lit the cigarettes. It is a twentieth-century ritual, this exchanging and lighting of cigarettes. It requires proper analysis by those who study human behaviour. We sat down together against the wall nearest the door. Yermeloff put the lamp between us. It was cold. The other soldiers had taken the best positions near the stove. ‘Where’s your main host?’ I asked.
‘Hrihorieff? His headquarters. Alexandriya. We’re a foraging force.’
‘My father was a Zaporizhian Cossack,’ I said. ‘So I have blood-ties with the Ataman.’
‘You’re probably right. You’re both as likely to be Zaporizhians as not.’ Yermeloff was amiable. ‘He’s got about fifty titles, at the present count. More than Krassnoff.’ He enjoyed the cigarette slowly. He let it go out and then relit it from the waning lamp, ‘It’s strange how five years ago we were merely farmers or workers or even schoolboys. Infantrymen, cavalrymen. Now we’re all Cossacks. There must be enough of us to drive every Turk and Tatar over the edge of the world. But instead Christian kills Christian and socialists ram bayonets into the groins of socialists.’ He scratched his head and laughed.
‘You’re not a Cossack?’
‘I was with a Cossack brigade.’ He shrugged, ‘I can ride a horse. It’s enough. We’re fighting cavalry actions all over the place. Doesn’t it seem strange? Has some atavist engineered the whole thing for his private amusement? We’ve gone back in time a hundred years at least. Look.’ From the belt beneath his coat he drew two large and very beautiful flintlock pistols. I had seen old prints of Cossacks wearing them. They were black with elaborate silver decoration. Typically Caucasian, the weapons had buttons where triggers would normally be. There were flints in the locks. They looked as if they worked. ‘I got these out of a museum while everyone else was busy looking for gold and meat. I’ve shot two men with them now. One was wounded. One fell over and cracked his head. But he was killed. You use ball-bearings of the appropriate caliber. And I take them seriously. They’re loaded now. Think how many poor Jews’ arses they’ve been fired up!’ He balanced one in his gloved hand. ‘And they’re worth a small fortune as antiques.’
‘They’re not very practical, are they?’
‘They kill.’ He spoke in a baffled voice. ‘And if I wanted to make a run for it - I don’t know, to Berlin or somewhere - I could live for a month by selling them for the silver alone. I’ve seen two lots of men fighting, in the past week, with sabres and whips, just as in the days of Taras Bulba. Is it happening all over the world? Is it the Dark Ages?’ He seemed anxious to hear my considered opinion.
‘It looks that way,’ I said. ‘But the Entente forces still have aeroplanes and tanks. Even the Bolsheviks have a Spad. I saw it outside Kiev. Flying well.’
‘For how long?’
‘You really think it’s the end of civilisation?’
‘If I didn’t I wouldn’t be here. I want to learn how to survive. I want to become a successful savage. Can you see my point?’
‘It’s defeatist.’
‘So was deserting from the Galician Front.’
‘You deserted?’
