Towards dusk the cannonade eased off. Alpatych came out of the cellar and stood in the doorway.
The evening sky, recently so clear, was blotted out with smoke. A new crescent moon stood high in the heavens, weirdly distorted through the smoke. After the terrible roar of the cannons a hush seemed to have settled on the town, broken only by footsteps that seemed to echo everywhere, the sound of groans and distant cries, and the crackle of buildings on fire. The cook had stopped moaning. On two sides palls of black smoke rose up from fires and drifted away. Out on the streets soldiers in their various uniforms marched or scurried all over the place, not in formation but like creatures from a shattered anthill. Several of them ran straight into Ferapontov’s yard before Alpatych’s very eyes. He went back to the gate. The street was blocked by a bustling, scurrying regiment in retreat.
‘They’ve surrendered the town. Get out while you can,’ said an officer noticing him standing there. Then he turned straight back to the soldiers and yelled, ‘I’ll give it you, running through the yards!’
Alpatych went back into the house, called out for the coachman and told him to get going. Alpatych and the coachman were followed out by Ferapontov’s entire household. When they saw smoke coming from burning houses and sometimes even flames, clearly visible despite the gathering gloom, the women, who had kept quiet until now, broke down and howled as they gazed at the fires. Similar cries came like echoes from other parts of the street. Alpatych’s hands shook as he and the coachman sorted out the tangled reins and traces of the horses under the shed-roofing.
As Alpatych was driving out through the gate he saw a dozen loudmouthed soldiers in Ferapontov’s open shop helping themselves to wheat flour and sunflower seeds, and filling their bags and knapsacks. Ferapontov chose this moment to arrive home and come back into his shop. When he saw the soldiers his first impulse was to yell at them, but he stopped himself, clutched at his hair, and broke down, half-laughing, half-sobbing.
‘Help yourselves, boys! Don’t leave it for those devils,’ he shouted, grabbing sacks with his own hands and hurling them into the street. Some of the soldiers ran away because they were scared; others went on filling their bags. Ferapontov caught sight of Alpatych and turned in his direction.
‘Russia’s had it!’ he roared. ‘Alpatych! We’ve had it! I’ll set fire to it myself. We’ve had it!’ Ferapontov ran into the yard.
A solid moving mass of soldiers blocked the whole steet; Alpatych could not get through and had no alternative but to wait. Ferapontov’s wife and children were also sitting there on top of a cart, waiting for a chance to get going.
By now night had fallen. There were stars in the sky, and from time to time the new moon shone down through the pall of smoke. Alpatych’s trap and his hostess’s cart trundled slowly along amidst rows of soldiers and other vehicles, and where the road sloped down to the Dnieper they came to a complete stop. Down a lane not far from the crossroads where they had halted some shops and a house were on fire. The fire had almost burnt itself out. The flames were dying down, lost in black smoke, but then they would suddenly flare up again, picking out the faces of the milling crowd held up at the crossroads with a peculiar clarity. Black figures flitted in and out near the fire, and people could be heard talking and shouting above the unceasing crackle of the flames. Alpatych could see it would be some time before his trap would be able to move on, so he got out and walked back to the lane to have a look at the fire. Soldiers were nipping in and out near the fire, and Alpatych saw two of them hard at work with a man in a rough coat, hauling burning beams from the fire across the street to a yard opposite, while others carried armfuls of hay.
Alpatych joined a large group of people standing in front of a tall barn that was well on fire. Flames were licking up the walls, the back one had collapsed, the boarded roof was falling in, and the beams were all ablaze. The crowd were obviously waiting for the roof to come down. Alpatych waited with them.
‘Alpatych!’ The old man suddenly heard a familiar voice calling to him.
‘Glory be, it’s your Excellency,’ answered Alpatych, instantly recognizing the voice of the young prince.
Prince Andrey, mounted on a black horse and wearing a cape across his shoulders, was there at the back of the crowd, looking down at Alpatych.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Your . . . your Excellency!’ was all Alpatych could get out, his voice choking with sobs . . . ‘Your, your . . . have we really had it? Your father . . .’
‘What are you doing here?’ Prince Andrey repeated.
The flames flared up and in the bright light Alpatych caught a momentary glimpse of his young master’s face, pale and worn. Alpatych told him the full story of how he had been sent to town and was now finding it hard to get away.
