The officers gathered in the headquarters early in the morning.
The room was spacious, but most of it was occupied by a long table. A large map of the terrain where yesterday's maneuvers had taken place lay across it.
The map was covered with markings.
In pencil the officers had marked:
the positions of the squadrons,
their movement routes,
points of formation changes,
and areas where the squadrons had accelerated or turned.
Several officers were already standing around the table.
Some held pencils.
Others checked the notes they had made during the exercises.
When Skoropadsky entered, the discussion had already begun.
The senior officer stood beside the map and traced one of the lines with his finger.
—"The first squadron moved from here."
His finger stopped near a small hill.
—"This is where they were supposed to deploy into line."
He paused briefly.
—"But the formation broke."
One of the officers said:
—"The speed was too high."
Another shook his head.
—"No. The commander gave the order too late."
The senior officer studied the map.
—"Or the signal was delivered too late."
Skoropadsky stepped closer.
For several seconds he silently examined the map.
He saw more than lines on paper.
He remembered the maneuver itself.
The open plain.
The dust rising from the hooves.
The movement of the squadrons.
And the moment when the formation began to fall apart.
Then he spoke calmly.
—"The order arrived late."
Several officers turned toward him.
The senior officer asked:
—"Why do you think so?"
Skoropadsky pointed to the movement line of the second squadron.
—"They began their maneuver earlier."
He paused slightly.
—"That means the order reached them faster."
The room fell silent.
The officers looked again at the map.
The senior officer nodded slowly.
—"Possible."
He wrote a note with his pencil.
—"Communication between squadrons needs improvement."
Another officer said:
—"Messengers cannot keep up at such speed."
—"Sometimes the signal is simply missed," another added.
The review continued.
They discussed:
the speed of the maneuver,
the distance between squadrons,
the accuracy of signals.
Occasionally small disagreements appeared.
But they ended quickly.
Everyone understood that maneuvers existed precisely to reveal mistakes.
Skoropadsky spoke little.
Sometimes he simply listened.
Sometimes he added a short remark.
Yet his words always attracted attention.
He was known as a careful observer.
After some time the discussion came to an end.
The senior officer closed his notebook.
—"That will be all for today."
The officers began to leave.
Some remained near the map, continuing to discuss the details.
Skoropadsky was about to go when he heard a voice behind him.
—"Interesting remark about communication."
He turned.
The officer he had noticed during the maneuvers stood before him.
Yakov Handziuk.
—"It is a common problem," Skoropadsky said.
Handziuk nodded.
—"Especially when squadrons move quickly."
He looked at the map.
—"Messengers sometimes simply cannot keep up."
Skoropadsky smiled slightly.
—"That is why cavalry must be able to act without constant orders."
Handziuk studied him carefully.
—"The initiative of junior officers?"
—"Exactly."
For a few seconds they remained silent.
Then Handziuk said:
—"Not every commander likes that."
—"Not every commander," Skoropadsky agreed.
They left the headquarters together.
The courtyard of the barracks was lively.
Soldiers were cleaning their equipment.
Grooms led horses toward the watering troughs.
Someone was repairing a saddle.
Handziuk said:
—"You served in the Guards?"
—"Yes."
—"Discipline there is stricter."
—"That is true."
Skoropadsky paused for a moment.
Then he said:
—"But in war excessive order can sometimes become a problem."
Handziuk looked at him with interest.
—"You believe that is possible?"
Skoropadsky answered calmly:
—"Every army faces it sooner or later."
—"When regulations become more important than common sense."
Handziuk smiled slightly.
—"That does happen."
They stopped near the stables.
Several soldiers were leading horses outside.
—"Good horses," Handziuk said.
—"Yes," Skoropadsky replied. —"But in battle the horse is not the only thing that matters."
—"The officer?"
—"The officer."
After that they parted.
Later in the evening the officers gathered in the officers' room.
It was a large room with several tables and a long sofa near the wall.
Newspapers lay scattered across the table.
One officer was already reading aloud.
—"They are writing about the Far East again."
—"Diplomats have been arguing for months."
—"Nothing new."
One officer said:
—"The Japanese are very persistent."
Another shrugged.
—"Politicians enjoy creating tension."
Someone added:
—"The fleet there is being reinforced."
The officers exchanged glances.
The conversation became more serious.
—"If war begins, everything will be decided at sea."
—"And on land," another officer said.
—"But the fleet will still decide the outcome."
Skoropadsky listened silently.
He knew more than they did.
But there was no reason to speak yet.
Handziuk sat opposite him.
He had also been listening.
Then he quietly said:
—"The Japanese army is changing quickly."
Several officers turned toward him.
—"You are serious?" one asked.
—"After the war with China they began reforms."
—"I read about that," another officer said.
—"New regulations."
—"New officer schools."
A short pause followed.
Skoropadsky spoke calmly.
—"Any army becomes dangerous when its officers know how to learn."
No one argued.
After some time the conversation gradually moved to other topics.
Late that evening Skoropadsky returned to his room.
A fresh newspaper lay on the table.
He sat down and opened it.
Several articles were devoted to events in the Far East.
Negotiations.
Naval deployments.
Political statements.
He slowly folded the newspaper.
Outside the city was already falling into silence.
Night settled over Saint Petersburg.
Skoropadsky remained motionless.
He understood:
if war began, everything would change.
The army.
The Russian Empire.
And his own fate.