Chương Chương 46 · 第46章

Prince Bagratión, 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 Bagratión rushed shouting after

the crowd of retreating soldiers, ordering them back. Bagratión rode up

to the ranks along which shots crackled now here 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 square—for they are not drawn up for that.”

The commander of the regiment, a thin, feeble-looking old man with a

pleasant smile—his eyelids drooping more than half over his old eyes,

giving him a mild expression, rode up to Bagratión 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

hollow and were firing at our men. Prince Bagratión 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 Bagratión’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 Bagratión, 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 Bagratión 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, began

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 Bagratión’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 Bagratión, the weighty tread of the mass of men marching in

step could be heard. On their left flank, nearest to Bagratión, marched

a company commander, a fine round-faced man, with a stupid and happy

expression—the 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 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 Bagratión 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 Bagratión.

“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

Bagratión as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: “We

know that ourselves!” Another, without looking round, as though

fearing to relax, shouted with his mouth wide open and passed on.

The order was given to halt and down knapsacks.

Bagratión rode round the ranks that had marched past him and

dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off and handed over his

felt coat, stretched his legs, and set his cap straight. The head of the

French column, with its officers leading, appeared from below the hill.

“Forward, with God!” said Bagratión, in a resolute, sonorous voice,

turning for a moment to the front line, and slightly swinging his arms,

he went forward uneasily over the rough field with the awkward gait of

a cavalryman. Prince Andrew felt that an invisible power was leading him

forward, and experienced great happiness.

The French were already near. Prince Andrew, walking beside Bagratión,

could clearly distinguish their bandoliers, red epaulets, and even their

faces. (He distinctly saw an old French officer who, with gaitered

legs and turned-out toes, climbed the hill with difficulty.) Prince

Bagratión gave no further orders and silently continued to walk on in

front of the ranks. Suddenly one shot after another rang out from the

French, smoke appeared all along their uneven ranks, and musket shots

sounded. Several of our men fell, among them the round-faced officer

who had marched so gaily and complacently. But at the moment the first

report was heard, Bagratión looked round and shouted, “Hurrah!”

“Hurrah—ah!—ah!” rang a long-drawn shout from our ranks, and

passing Bagratión and racing one another they rushed in an irregular

but joyous and eager crowd down the hill at their disordered foe.