side, was now the line that had so sharply divided the two
armies?’ he asked himself and could not answer. ‘Can something bad have happened to me?’ he wondered as he got up:
and at that moment he felt that something superfluous was
hanging on his benumbed left arm. The wrist felt as if it
were not his. He examined his hand carefully, vainly trying
to find blood on it. ‘Ah, here are people coming,’ he thought
joyfully, seeing some men running toward him. ‘They will
help me!’ In front came a man wearing a strange shako and
a blue cloak, swarthy, sunburned, and with a hooked nose.
Then came two more, and many more running behind. One
of them said something strange, not in Russian. In among
the hindmost of these men wearing similar shakos was
a Russian hussar. He was being held by the arms and his
horse was being led behind him.
‘It must be one of ours, a prisoner. Yes. Can it be that
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they will take me too? Who are these men?’ thought Rostov,
scarcely believing his eyes. ‘Can they be French?’ He looked
at the approaching Frenchmen, and though but a moment
before he had been galloping to get at them and hack them
to pieces, their proximity now seemed so awful that he could
not believe his eyes. ‘Who are they? Why are they running?
Can they be coming at me? And why? To kill me? Me whom
everyone is so fond of?’ He remembered his mother’s love
for him, and his family’s, and his friends’, and the enemy’s
intention to kill him seemed impossible. ‘But perhaps they
may do it!’ For more than ten seconds he stood not moving from the spot or realizing the situation. The foremost
Frenchman, the one with the hooked nose, was already so
close that the expression of his face could be seen. And the
excited, alien face of that man, his bayonet hanging down,
holding his breath, and running so lightly, frightened Rostov. He seized his pistol and, instead of firing it, flung it at
the Frenchman and ran with all his might toward the bushes. He did not now run with the feeling of doubt and conflict
with which he had trodden the Enns bridge, but with the
feeling of a hare fleeing from the hounds. One single sentiment, that of fear for his young and happy life, possessed
his whole being. Rapidly leaping the furrows, he fled across
the field with the impetuosity he used to show at catchplay,
now and then turning his good-natured, pale, young face to
look back. A shudder of terror went through him: ‘No, better not look,’ he thought, but having reached the bushes he
glanced round once more. The French had fallen behind,
and just as he looked round the first man changed his run
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to a walk and, turning, shouted something loudly to a comrade farther back. Rostov paused. ‘No, there’s some mistake,’
thought he. ‘They can’t have wanted to kill me.’ But at the
same time, his left arm felt as heavy as if a seventy-pound
weight were tied to it. He could run no more. The Frenchman also stopped and took aim. Rostov closed his eyes and
stooped down. One bullet and then another whistled past
him. He mustered his last remaining strength, took hold of
his left hand with his right, and reached the bushes. Behind
these were some Russian sharpshooters.
CHAPTER XX
The infantry regiments that had been caught unawares
in the outskirts of the wood ran out of it, the different companies getting mixed, and retreated as a disorderly crowd.
One soldier, in his fear, uttered the senseless cry, ‘Cut off!’
that is so terrible in battle, and that word infected the whole
crowd with a feeling of panic.
‘Surrounded! Cut off? We’re lost!’ shouted the fugitives.
The moment he heard the firing and the cry from behind, the general realized that something dreadful had
happened to his regiment, and the thought that he, an exemplary officer of many years’ service who had never been
to blame, might be held responsible at headquarters for negligence or inefficiency so staggered him that, forgetting the
recalcitrant cavalry colonel, his own dignity as a general,
and above all quite forgetting the danger and all regard for
self-preservation, he clutched the crupper of his saddle and,
spurring his horse, galloped to the regiment under a hail of
bullets which fell around, but fortunately missed him. His
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one desire was to know what was happening and at any cost
correct, or remedy, the mistake if he had made one, so that
he, an exemplary officer of twenty-two years’ service, who
had never been censured, should not be held to blame.
Having galloped safely through the French, he reached a
field behind the copse across which our men, regardless of
orders, were running and descending the valley. That moment of moral hesitation which decides the fate of battles
had arrived. Would this disorderly crowd of soldiers attend
to the voice of their commander, or would they, disregarding him, continue their flight? Despite his desperate shouts
that used to seem so terrible to the soldiers, despite his furious purple countenance distorted out of all likeness to his
former self, and the flourishing of his saber, the soldiers all
continued to run, talking, firing into the air, and disobeying orders. The moral hesitation which decided the fate of
battles was evidently culminating in a panic.
The general had a fit of coughing as a result of shouting
and of the powder smoke and stopped in despair. Everything seemed lost. But at that moment the French who
were attacking, suddenly and without any apparent reason, ran back and disappeared from the outskirts, and
Russian sharpshooters showed themselves in the copse. It
was Timokhin’s company, which alone had maintained its
order in the wood and, having lain in ambush in a ditch,
now attacked the French unexpectedly. Timokhin, armed
only with a sword, had rushed at the enemy with such a
desperate cry and such mad, drunken determination that,
taken by surprise, the French had thrown down their mus
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kets and run. Dolokhov, running beside Timokhin, killed
a Frenchman at close quarters and was the first to seize
the surrendering French officer by his collar. Our fugitives returned, the battalions re-formed, and the French
who had nearly cut our left flank in half were for the moment repulsed. Our reserve units were able to join up, and
the fight was at an end. The regimental commander and
Major Ekonomov had stopped beside a bridge, letting the
retreating companies pass by them, when a soldier came up
and took hold of the commander’s stirrup, almost leaning
against him. The man was wearing a bluish coat of broadcloth, he had no knapsack or cap, his head was bandaged,
and over his shoulder a French munition pouch was slung.
He had an officer’s sword in his hand. The soldier was pale,
his blue eyes looked impudently into the commander’s face,
and his lips were smiling. Though the commander was occupied in giving instructions to Major Ekonomov, he could
not help taking notice of the soldier.
‘Your excellency, here are two trophies,’ said Dolokhov,
pointing to the French sword and pouch. ‘I have taken an
officer prisoner. I stopped the company.’ Dolokhov breathed
heavily from weariness and spoke in abrupt sentences. ‘The
whole company can bear witness. I beg you will remember
this, your excellency!’
‘All right, all right,’ replied the commander, and turned
to Major Ekonomov.
But Dolokhov did not go away; he untied the handkerchief around his head, pulled it off, and showed the blood
congealed on his hair.
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‘A bayonet wound. I remained at the front. Remember,
your excellency!’
Tushin’s battery had been forgotten and only at the very
end of the action did Prince Bagration, still hearing the cannonade in the center, send his orderly staff officer, and later
Prince Andrew also, to order the battery to retire as quickly
as possible. When the supports attached to Tushin’s battery
had been moved away in the middle of the action by someone’s order, the battery had continued firing and was only
not captured by the French because the enemy could not
surmise that anyone could have the effrontery to continue
firing from four quite undefended guns. On the contrary,
the energetic action of that battery led the French to suppose
that herein the centerthe main Russian forces were concentrated. Twice they had attempted to attack this point, but on
each occasion had been driven back by grapeshot from the
four isolated guns on the hillock.
Soon after Prince Bagration had left him, Tushin had
succeeded in setting fire to Schon Grabern.
‘Look at them scurrying! It’s burning! Just see the smoke!
Fine! Grand! Look at the smoke, the smoke!’ exclaimed the
artillerymen, brightening up.
All the guns, without waiting for orders, were being fired
in the direction of the conflagration. As if urging each other
on, the soldiers cried at each shot: ‘Fine! That’s good! Look
at it… Grand!’ The fire, fanned by the breeze, was rapidly
spreading. The French columns that had advanced beyond
the village went back; but as though in revenge for this failure, the enemy placed ten guns to the right of the village
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and began firing them at Tushin’s battery.
In their childlike glee, aroused by the fire and their luck
in successfully cannonading the French, our artillerymen
only noticed this battery when two balls, and then four
more, fell among our guns, one knocking over two horses
and another tearing off a munition-wagon driver’s leg. Their
spirits once roused were, however, not diminished, but
only changed character. The horses were replaced by others from a reserve gun carriage, the wounded were carried
away, and the four guns were turned against the ten-gun
battery. Tushin’s companion officer had been killed at the
beginning of the engagement and within an hour seventeen
of the forty men of the guns’ crews had been disabled, but
the artillerymen were still as merry and lively as ever. Twice
they noticed the French appearing below them, and then
they fired grapeshot at them.
Little Tushin, moving feebly and awkwardly, kept telling
his orderly to ‘refill my pipe for that one!’ and then, scattering sparks from it, ran forward shading his eyes with his
small hand to look at the French.
‘Smack at ‘em,
