Chương Chương 47 · 第47章

The attack of the Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right

flank. In the center Túshin’s forgotten battery, which had managed to

set fire to the Schön Grabern village, delayed the French advance. The

French were putting out the fire which the wind was spreading, and thus

gave us time to retreat. The retirement of the center to the other side

of the dip in the ground at the rear was hurried and noisy, but the

different companies did not get mixed. But our left—which consisted

of the Azóv and Podólsk infantry and the Pávlograd hussars—was

simultaneously attacked and outflanked by superior French forces under

Lannes and was thrown into confusion. Bagratión had sent Zherkóv

to the general commanding that left flank with orders to retreat

immediately.

Zherkóv, not removing his hand from his cap, turned his horse about

and galloped off. But no sooner had he left Bagratión than his courage

failed him. He was seized by panic and could not go where it was

dangerous.

Having reached the left flank, instead of going to the front where the

firing was, he began to look for the general and his staff where they

could not possibly be, and so did not deliver the order.

The command of the left flank belonged by seniority to the commander of

the regiment Kutúzov had reviewed at Braunau and in which Dólokhov was

serving as a private. But the command of the extreme left flank had been

assigned to the commander of the Pávlograd regiment in which Rostóv

was serving, and a misunderstanding arose. The two commanders were much

exasperated with one another and, long after the action had begun on

the right flank and the French were already advancing, were engaged

in discussion with the sole object of offending one another. But the

regiments, both cavalry and infantry, were by no means ready for the

impending action. From privates to general they were not expecting a

battle and were engaged in peaceful occupations, the cavalry feeding the

horses and the infantry collecting wood.

“He higher iss dan I in rank,” said the German colonel of the

hussars, flushing and addressing an adjutant who had ridden up, “so

let him do what he vill, but I cannot sacrifice my hussars... Bugler,

sount ze retreat!”

But haste was becoming imperative. Cannon and musketry, mingling

together, thundered on the right and in the center, while the capotes

of Lannes’ sharpshooters were already seen crossing the milldam and

forming up within twice the range of a musket shot. The general in

command of the infantry went toward his horse with jerky steps, and

having mounted drew himself up very straight and tall and rode to the

Pávlograd commander. The commanders met with polite bows but with

secret malevolence in their hearts.

“Once again, Colonel,” said the general, “I can’t leave half

my men in the wood. I beg of you, I beg of you,” he repeated, “to

occupy the position and prepare for an attack.”

“I peg of you yourself not to mix in vot is not your business!”

suddenly replied the irate colonel. “If you vere in the cavalry...”

“I am not in the cavalry, Colonel, but I am a Russian general and if

you are not aware of the fact...”

“Quite avare, your excellency,” suddenly shouted the colonel,

touching his horse and turning purple in the face. “Vill you be so

goot to come to ze front and see dat zis position iss no goot? I don’t

vish to destroy my men for your pleasure!”

“You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not considering my own pleasure

and I won’t allow it to be said!”

Taking the colonel’s outburst as a challenge to his courage, the

general expanded his chest and rode, frowning, beside him to the

front line, as if their differences would be settled there amongst the

bullets. They reached the front, several bullets sped over them, and

they halted in silence. There was nothing fresh to be seen from the

line, for from where they had been before it had been evident that it

was impossible for cavalry to act among the bushes and broken ground,

as well as that the French were outflanking our left. The general

and colonel looked sternly and significantly at one another like two

fighting cocks preparing for battle, each vainly trying to detect signs

of cowardice in the other. Both passed the examination successfully. As

there was nothing to be said, and neither wished to give occasion for

it to be alleged that he had been the first to leave the range of fire,

they would have remained there for a long time testing each other’s

courage had it not been that just then they heard the rattle of musketry

and a muffled shout almost behind them in the wood. The French had

attacked the men collecting wood in the copse. It was no longer possible

for the hussars to retreat with the infantry. They were cut off from

the line of retreat on the left by the French. However inconvenient the

position, it was now necessary to attack in order to cut a way through

for themselves.

The squadron in which Rostóv was serving had scarcely time to mount

before it was halted facing the enemy. Again, as at the Enns bridge,

there was nothing between the squadron and the enemy, and again that

terrible dividing line of uncertainty and fear—resembling the line

separating the living from the dead—lay between them. All were

conscious of this unseen line, and the question whether they would cross

it or not, and how they would cross it, agitated them all.

The colonel rode to the front, angrily gave some reply to questions put

to him by the officers, and, like a man desperately insisting on having

his own way, gave an order. No one said anything definite, but the rumor

of an attack spread through the squadron. The command to form up rang

out and the sabers whizzed as they were drawn from their scabbards.

Still no one moved. The troops of the left flank, infantry and hussars

alike, felt that the commander did not himself know what to do, and this

irresolution communicated itself to the men.

“If only they would be quick!” thought Rostóv, feeling that at last

the time had come to experience the joy of an attack of which he had so

often heard from his fellow hussars.

“Fo’ward, with God, lads!” rang out Denísov’s voice. “At a

twot fo’ward!”

The horses’ croups began to sway in the front line. Rook pulled at the

reins and started of his own accord.

Before him, on the right, Rostóv saw the front lines of his hussars and

still farther ahead a dark line which he could not see distinctly but

took to be the enemy. Shots could be heard, but some way off.

“Faster!” came the word of command, and Rostóv felt Rook’s flanks

drooping as he broke into a gallop.

Rostóv anticipated his horse’s movements and became more and more

elated. He had noticed a solitary tree ahead of him. This tree had been

in the middle of the line that had seemed so terrible—and now he

had crossed that line and not only was there nothing terrible, but

everything was becoming more and more happy and animated. “Oh, how I

will slash at him!” thought Rostóv, gripping the hilt of his saber.

“Hur-a-a-a-ah!” came a roar of voices. “Let anyone come my way

now,” thought Rostóv driving his spurs into Rook and letting him go

at a full gallop so that he outstripped the others. Ahead, the enemy was

already visible. Suddenly something like a birch broom seemed to sweep

over the squadron. Rostóv raised his saber, ready to strike, but at

that instant the trooper Nikítenko, who was galloping ahead, shot away

from him, and Rostóv felt as in a dream that he continued to be carried

forward with unnatural speed but yet stayed on the same spot. From

behind him Bondarchúk, an hussar he knew, jolted against him and looked

angrily at him. Bondarchúk’s horse swerved and galloped past.

“How is it I am not moving? I have fallen, I am killed!” Rostóv

asked and answered at the same instant. He was alone in the middle of a

field. Instead of the moving horses and hussars’ backs, he saw nothing

before him but the motionless earth and the stubble around him. There

was warm blood under his arm. “No, I am wounded and the horse is

killed.” Rook tried to rise on his forelegs but fell back, pinning his

rider’s leg. Blood was flowing from his head; he struggled but could

not rise. Rostóv also tried to rise but fell back, his sabretache

having become entangled in the saddle. Where our men were, and where the

French, he did not know. There was no one near.

Having disentangled his leg, he rose. “Where, on which 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 they will

take me too? Who are these men?” thought Rostóv, 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 Rostóv. 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 to a walk and, turning, shouted

something loudly to a comrade farther back. Rostóv 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. Rostóv 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.