coming down upon them and that his regiment was in disorder and was retreating upon the Kiev grenadiers. Prince
Bagration bowed his head in sign of assent and approval.
He rode off at a walk to the right and sent an adjutant to
the dragoons with orders to attack the French. But this adjutant returned half an hour later with the news that the
commander of the dragoons had already retreated beyond
the dip in the ground, as a heavy fire had been opened on
him and he was losing men uselessly, and so had hastened
to throw some sharpshooters into the wood.
‘Very good!’ said Bagration.
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As he was leaving the battery, firing was heard on the left
also, and as it was too far to the left flank for him to have
time to go there himself, Prince Bagration sent Zherkov to
tell the general in command (the one who had paraded his
regiment before Kutuzov at Braunau) that he must retreat as
quickly as possible behind the hollow in the rear, as the right
flank would probably not be able to withstand the enemy’s
attack very long. About Tushin and the battalion that had
been in support of his battery all was forgotten. Prince Andrew listened attentively to Bagration’s colloquies with the
commanding officers and the orders he gave them and, to
his surprise, found that no orders were really given, but that
Prince Bagration tried to make it appear that everything
done by necessity, by accident, or by the will of subordinate
commanders was done, if not by his direct command, at
least in accord with his intentions. Prince Andrew noticed,
however, that though what happened was due to chance and
was independent of the commander’s will, owing to the tact
Bagration showed, his presence was very valuable. Officers
who approached him with disturbed countenances became
calm; soldiers and officers greeted him gaily, grew more
cheerful in his presence, and were evidently anxious to display their courage before him.
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Chapter XVIII
Prince Bagration, having reached the highest point of
our right flank, began riding downhill to where the roll of
musketry was heard but where on account of the smoke
nothing could be seen. The nearer they got to the hollow the
less they could see but the more they felt the nearness of the
actual battlefield. They began to meet wounded men. One
with a bleeding head and no cap was being dragged along
by two soldiers who supported him under the arms. There
was a gurgle in his throat and he was spitting blood. A bullet had evidently hit him in the throat or mouth. Another
was walking sturdily by himself but without his musket,
groaning aloud and swinging his arm which had just been
hurt, while blood from it was streaming over his greatcoat
as from a bottle. He had that moment been wounded and
his face showed fear rather than suffering. Crossing a road
they descended a steep incline and saw several men lying on
the ground; they also met a crowd of soldiers some of whom
were unwounded. The soldiers were ascending the hill
breathing heavily, and despite the general’s presence were
talking loudly and gesticulating. In front of them rows of
gray cloaks were already visible through the smoke, and an
officer catching sight of Bagration rushed shouting after the
crowd of retreating soldiers, ordering them back. Bagration
rode up to the ranks along which shots crackled now here
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and now there, drowning the sound of voices and the shouts
of command. The whole air reeked with smoke. The excited
faces of the soldiers were blackened with it. Some were using their ramrods, others putting powder on the touchpans
or taking charges from their pouches, while others were firing, though who they were firing at could not be seen for the
smoke which there was no wind to carry away. A pleasant
humming and whistling of bullets were often heard. ‘What
is this?’ thought Prince Andrew approaching the crowd of
soldiers. ‘It can’t be an attack, for they are not moving; it
can’t be a squarefor they are not drawn up for that.’
The commander of the regiment, a thin, feeble-looking
old man with a pleasant smilehis eyelids drooping more
than half over his old eyes, giving him a mild expression,
rode up to Bagration and welcomed him as a host welcomes
an honored guest. He reported that his regiment had been
attacked by French cavalry and that, though the attack had
been repulsed, he had lost more than half his men. He said
the attack had been repulsed, employing this military term
to describe what had occurred to his regiment, but in reality he did not himself know what had happened during that
half-hour to the troops entrusted to him, and could not say
with certainty whether the attack had been repulsed or his
regiment had been broken up. All he knew was that at the
commencement of the action balls and shells began flying
all over his regiment and hitting men and that afterwards
someone had shouted ‘Cavalry!’ and our men had begun
firing. They were still firing, not at the cavalry which had
disappeared, but at French infantry who had come into the
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hollow and were firing at our men. Prince Bagration bowed
his head as a sign that this was exactly what he had desired
and expected. Turning to his adjutant he ordered him to
bring down the two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs whom
they had just passed. Prince Andrew was struck by the
changed expression on Prince Bagration’s face at this moment. It expressed the concentrated and happy resolution
you see on the face of a man who on a hot day takes a final
run before plunging into the water. The dull, sleepy expression was no longer there, nor the affectation of profound
thought. The round, steady, hawk’s eyes looked before him
eagerly and rather disdainfully, not resting on anything although his movements were still slow and measured.
The commander of the regiment turned to Prince Bagration, entreating him to go back as it was too dangerous to
remain where they were. ‘Please, your excellency, for God’s
sake!’ he kept saying, glancing for support at an officer of the
suite who turned away from him. ‘There, you see!’ and he
drew attention to the bullets whistling, singing, and hissing
continually around them. He spoke in the tone of entreaty
and reproach that a carpenter uses to a gentleman who has
picked up an ax: ‘We are used to it, but you, sir, will blister
your hands.’ He spoke as if those bullets could not kill him,
and his half-closed eyes gave still more persuasiveness to
his words. The staff officer joined in the colonel’s appeals,
but Bagration did not reply; he only gave an order to cease
firing and re-form, so as to give room for the two approaching battalions. While he was speaking, the curtain of smoke
that had concealed the hollow, driven by a rising wind, be
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gan to move from right to left as if drawn by an invisible
hand, and the hill opposite, with the French moving about
on it, opened out before them. All eyes fastened involuntarily on this French column advancing against them and
winding down over the uneven ground. One could already
see the soldiers’ shaggy caps, distinguish the officers from
the men, and see the standard flapping against its staff.
‘They march splendidly,’ remarked someone in Bagration’s suite.
The head of the column had already descended into the
hollow. The clash would take place on this side of it…
The remains of our regiment which had been in action
rapidly formed up and moved to the right; from behind it,
dispersing the laggards, came two battalions of the Sixth
Chasseurs in fine order. Before they had reached Bagration,
the weighty tread of the mass of men marching in step could
be heard. On their left flank, nearest to Bagration, marched
a company commander, a fine round-faced man, with a stupid and happy expressionthe same man who had rushed out
of the wattle shed. At that moment he was clearly thinking
of nothing but how dashing a fellow he would appear as he
passed the commander.
With the self-satisfaction of a man on parade, he stepped
lightly with his muscular legs as if sailing along, stretching himself to his full height without the smallest effort, his
ease contrasting with the heavy tread of the soldiers who
were keeping step with him. He carried close to his leg a
narrow unsheathed sword (small, curved, and not like a real
weapon) and looked now at the superior officers and now
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back at the men without losing step, his whole powerful
body turning flexibly. It was as if all the powers of his soul
were concentrated on passing the commander in the best
possible manner, and feeling that he was doing it well he
was happy. ‘Left… left… left…’ he seemed to repeat to himself
at each alternate step; and in time to this, with stern but varied faces, the wall of soldiers burdened with knapsacks and
muskets marched in step, and each one of these hundreds of
soldiers seemed to be repeating to himself at each alternate
step, ‘Left… left… left…’ A fat major skirted a bush, puffing
and falling out of step; a soldier who had fallen behind, his
face showing alarm at his defection, ran at a trot, panting
to catch up with his company. A cannon ball, cleaving the
air, flew over the heads of Bagration and his suite, and fell
into the column to the measure of ‘Left… left!’ ‘Close up!’
came the company commander’s voice in jaunty tones. The
soldiers passed in a semicircle round something where the
ball had fallen, and an old trooper on the flank, a noncommissioned officer who had stopped beside the dead men, ran
to catch up his line and, falling into step with a hop, looked
back angrily, and through the ominous silence and the regular tramp of feet beating the ground in unison, one seemed
to hear left… left… left.
‘Well done, lads!’ said Prince Bagration.
‘Glad to do our best, your ex’len-lency!’ came a confused
shout from the ranks. A morose soldier marching on the left
turned his eyes on Bagration as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: ‘We know that ourselves!’ Another,
without looking round, as
