Kabanata Kabanata 324 · 第324章

When the troops reached their night’s halting place on the eighth of

November, the last day of the Krásnoe battles, it was already growing

dusk. All day it had been calm and frosty with occasional lightly

falling snow and toward evening it began to clear. Through the falling

snow a purple-black and starry sky showed itself and the frost grew

keener.

An infantry regiment which had left Tarútino three thousand strong but

now numbered only nine hundred was one of the first to arrive that night

at its halting place—a village on the highroad. The quartermasters who

met the regiment announced that all the huts were full of sick and dead

Frenchmen, cavalrymen, and members of the staff. There was only one hut

available for the regimental commander.

The commander rode up to his hut. The regiment passed through the

village and stacked its arms in front of the last huts.

Like some huge many-limbed animal, the regiment began to prepare its

lair and its food. One part of it dispersed and waded knee-deep

through the snow into a birch forest to the right of the village, and

immediately the sound of axes and swords, the crashing of branches,

and merry voices could be heard from there. Another section amid the

regimental wagons and horses which were standing in a group was busy

getting out caldrons and rye biscuit, and feeding the horses. A third

section scattered through the village arranging quarters for the staff

officers, carrying out the French corpses that were in the huts, and

dragging away boards, dry wood, and thatch from the roofs, for the

campfires, or wattle fences to serve for shelter.

Some fifteen men with merry shouts were shaking down the high wattle

wall of a shed, the roof of which had already been removed.

“Now then, all together—shove!” cried the voices, and the huge surface

of the wall, sprinkled with snow and creaking with frost, was seen

swaying in the gloom of the night. The lower stakes cracked more and

more and at last the wall fell, and with it the men who had been pushing

it. Loud, coarse laughter and joyous shouts ensued.

“Now then, catch hold in twos! Hand up the lever! That’s it.... Where

are you shoving to?”

“Now, all together! But wait a moment, boys... With a song!”

All stood silent, and a soft, pleasant velvety voice began to sing. At

the end of the third verse as the last note died away, twenty voices

roared out at once: “Oo-oo-oo-oo! That’s it. All together! Heave away,

boys!...” but despite their united efforts the wattle hardly moved, and

in the silence that followed the heavy breathing of the men was audible.

“Here, you of the Sixth Company! Devils that you are! Lend a hand...

will you? You may want us one of these days.”

Some twenty men of the Sixth Company who were on their way into the

village joined the haulers, and the wattle wall, which was about

thirty-five feet long and seven feet high, moved forward along the

village street, swaying, pressing upon and cutting the shoulders of the

gasping men.

“Get along... Falling? What are you stopping for? There now....”

Merry senseless words of abuse flowed freely.

“What are you up to?” suddenly came the authoritative voice of a

sergeant major who came upon the men who were hauling their burden.

“There are gentry here; the general himself is in that hut, and you

foul-mouthed devils, you brutes, I’ll give it to you!” shouted he,

hitting the first man who came in his way a swinging blow on the back.

“Can’t you make less noise?”

The men became silent. The soldier who had been struck groaned and wiped

his face, which had been scratched till it bled by his falling against

the wattle.

“There, how that devil hits out! He’s made my face all bloody,” said he

in a frightened whisper when the sergeant major had passed on.

“Don’t you like it?” said a laughing voice, and moderating their tones

the men moved forward.

When they were out of the village they began talking again as loud as

before, interlarding their talk with the same aimless expletives.

In the hut which the men had passed, the chief officers had gathered and

were in animated talk over their tea about the events of the day and the

maneuvers suggested for tomorrow. It was proposed to make a flank march

to the left, cut off the Vice-King (Murat) and capture him.

By the time the soldiers had dragged the wattle fence to its place

the campfires were blazing on all sides ready for cooking, the wood

crackled, the snow was melting, and black shadows of soldiers flitted

to and fro all over the occupied space where the snow had been trodden

down.

Axes and choppers were plied all around. Everything was done without any

orders being given. Stores of wood were brought for the night, shelters

were rigged up for the officers, caldrons were being boiled, and muskets

and accouterments put in order.

The wattle wall the men had brought was set up in a semicircle by the

Eighth Company as a shelter from the north, propped up by musket rests,

and a campfire was built before it. They beat the tattoo, called the

roll, had supper, and settled down round the fires for the night—some

repairing their footgear, some smoking pipes, and some stripping

themselves naked to steam the lice out of their shirts.