'Two points up. That'll do,' he shouted in a shrill voice, with attempted bravura which didn't quite square with his small figure. 'Fire number two!' he piped. 'Hammer them, Medvedev!'
Bagration called the officer over and Tushin went up to the general, raising three fingers to his cap with a timid and gawky movement, more like a priest blessing someone than a soldier saluting. Tushin's guns had originally been intended to bombard the valley, but he was now lobbing incendiary bombs straight over at Schongrabern village, where great masses of French soldiers could be seen advancing out and down.
Tushin had not been told what to fire at or what charges to use, so after consulting his sergeant, Zakharchenko, a man he greatly respected, he had decided it would be a good thing to set the village on fire. 'Carry on!' said Bagration when he heard what the officer had to say, and he began scrutinizing the entire battlefield that lay unfolded before him. He seemed to be working things out. The French had advanced furthest on the right side. From the hollow with the stream at the bottom, downhill from the Kiev regiment, came a continuous soul-stirring crackle of musket-fire. Much further away to the right, behind the dragoons, the officer of the suite showed Bagration where we were being outflanked by a French column. To the left the nearby woods rose to the skyline. Prince Bagration gave orders for two battalions from the centre to move to the right to reinforce that flank. The officer of the suite ventured to remark to the prince that the transfer of these battalions would leave the big guns without cover. Prince Bagration turned and stared at him with lacklustre eyes, saying nothing. Prince Andrey thought the officer had a good point, and really nothing could be said against it. But just then an adjutant galloped up with a message from the regimental colonel down in the hollow that the French were coming down on them in huge numbers, and his men were retreating in disorder uphill towards the Kiev Grenadiers. Prince Bagration gave a nod of acknowledgement and approval. He then rode off to the right at walking pace, and dispatched an aide to the dragoons with orders to attack the French. But this man returned half an hour later with the news that the colonel of the dragoons had already retreated beyond the ravine in the face of overwhelming fire to avoid unnecessary further losses, and now had his marksmen dismounted in the wood.
'Carry on!' said Bagration.
Just as he began to ride away from the battery, more shots rang out, this time in the wood on the left. Since it was too far to go himself, Prince Bagration dispatched Zherkov to tell the senior general - the one whose regiment had been inspected by Kutuzov at Braunau - to retreat with all speed beyond the ravine, because the right flank would probably not be able to hold the enemy much longer. Tushin and the battalion that was supposed to cover him were forgotten. Prince Andrey listened carefully to what was said between Prince Bagration and the commanding officers, and to any orders issued, and he was astounded to observe that no orders were really given; Prince Bagration was just trying to pretend that everything they were being forced to do, every accidental development or anything brought about by individual commanders, was happening, if not according to his orders, then at least as part of his plan. Prince Andrey noticed, on the other hand, that even though everything was happening by pure chance and had nothing to do with the commander's volition, the tact shown by Prince Bagration meant that his presence there was of enormous value. Commanding officers who rode up to Bagration looking desperately worried quickly regained their composure; soldiers and officers hailed him with good cheer, they found his presence reinvigorating and he put a swagger and new courage into their steps.
CHAPTER 18
After riding up to the highest point on our right flank, Prince Bagration started off downhill, where a continuous rattle of gunfire rang out and nothing could be seen for the smoke. The further they descended into the hollow the less they could see, but the more sharply they could sense the proximity of actual battle. They began to come across wounded men. Two soldiers were dragging a third along with his arms around their necks. His head was covered with blood; he had lost his cap. He was hawking and spitting blood, a bullet having evidently got him in the mouth or throat. Another man came towards them, walking sturdily on his own with no gun, moaning and groaning, and shaking his wounded arm as pain hit him, while the blood poured down his greatcoat like liquid from a bottle. To judge by his face he seemed more scared than hurt: he had been wounded only a moment before. They crossed the road and started down a steep incline, where they saw several men lying on the sloping ground. Then they were met by a crowd of soldiers, some of them not wounded. These soldiers, gasping for breath as they hurried uphill, took no notice of the general and went on shouting to each other with much waving of their arms. Ahead of them through the smoke they could now see whole ranks of grey coats, and once the commanding officer set eyes on Bagration he ran off after the retreating mass of soldiers, shouting for them to come back. Bagration rode up to the ranks, where noisy sporadic fire drowned all speech including the officers' shouted commands. The air was thick with gunsmoke. The soldiers' faces were all animated and smudged with gunpowder. Ramrods plunged in and out, powder was poured into pans, charges came out of pouches, guns fired. What they were firing at couldn't be seen for the smoke that hung undispersed by the wind. Much of the time the air was full of sweet sounds - the whine and whistle of bullets.
'What's all this?' wondered Prince Andrey, as they rode up to the crowd of soldiers. 'It can't be the front line - they're all bunched up together. It can't be an assault group - nobody's moving. And they're certainly not forming a square.'
A skinny, frail-looking old colonel with a sweet smile and eyelids that drooped down, more than half-covering his weary old eyes, all of which made him look like a gentle sort of person, rode up to meet Prince Bagration and greet him like a host welcoming a favourite guest. He reported that his regiment had been attacked by the French cavalry, and that although the attack had been repulsed, the regiment had lost more than half its men. The colonel said that the attack had been repulsed because that seemed like a suitable military term for what had happened, but he had no real idea of anything that had taken place during that half-hour of skirmishes involving his troops, and couldn't have said with any certainty whether the attack had been repulsed or his regiment had been destroyed by the attack. All he knew was that the action had started with cannonballs and grenades raining down on his regiment and hitting his men, then someone had shouted 'Cavalry!' and our men had opened fire. And they were still at it, firing not now at the cavalry because they had disappeared, but at French infantrymen who had turned up in the hollow and started firing at us. Prince Bagration nodded his head as a sign that this was just what he had wanted and planned for. Turning to an aide, he ordered him to bring down from the hill the two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs they had ridden past. Prince Andrey was struck at that moment by a change that had come over Prince Bagration's face. It had assumed the concentration and wilful delight of a man who has decided to take a plunge on a hot day and is now on his run-up to a dive. Gone were the lacklustre, dozy eyes and that forced appearance of profound thought. His round, sharp, hawk-like eyes peered ahead with new exhilaration and some disdain without actually seeing anything, though he still moved with the same leisureliness and steady rhythm.
The colonel then urged Prince Bagration to go back since it was too dangerous where they were. 'Sir, I implore you in God's name!' he kept saying, glancing at the officer of the suite for support, but he was looking away.
'See what I mean, your Excellency!' he said, reminding him of the bullets which never stopped whining, singing and hissing all around them. He spoke like a carpenter remonstrating with his master who has just picked up an axe: 'We're hardened to it, sir, but you'll get blisters on your hands.' He talked as if he couldn't be killed by these bullets, and his half-closed eyes gave his words extra conviction. The staff officer added his protests to the colonel's, but Bagration made no reply. All he did was give the order for a ceasefire and re-formation to create space for the
two battalions of reinforcements. As he spoke a breeze lifted the pall of smoke covering the hollow like an unseen hand sweeping from right to left, giving them a view of the opposite hillside with all the French soldiers moving across it. Every eye turned instinctively to that French column bearing down on them, weaving in and out and up and down as it came. They could see the soldiers' shaggy caps, the differences between officers and men and their standard flapping on its staff.
'Nice bit of marching,' said someone in Bagration's suite.
The head of the column was well down into the hollow. Any fighting would now take place on this side . . .
The remnants of our regiment that had already been in action fell in as fast as they could and started to move off to the right; meanwhile, behind them the two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs were marching up in good order, scattering the stragglers. Well before they drew level with Bagration they heard the heavy tramp, tramp, tramp of massed men marching in step. On their left flank, nearest to Bagration, marched the captain, an imposing man with a round face which looked rather silly in its cheerfulness - the infantry officer who had followed Tushin out of the wattle hut. At that moment he was clearly oblivious to everything except the swaggering style of his march past in front of the commanding officer.
With the smugness of an end man on parade, he bounced along on his sinewy legs, effortlessly marching to attention, floating with a lightness of step remarkably different from the heavy tread of the soldiers keeping time with him. Down by his thigh he carried, unsheathed, a thin little sword - it was a small curved sabre, for ceremonial use only - and he looked and turned sideways to the commander and back to the men behind, without straining his big powerful frame or getting out of step. He seemed to strive with every fibre of his soul to march past his commander with maximum style, and his strong sense of doing this well made him a happy man. 'Left . . . left . . . left . . .' he seemed to be mouthing to himself at each alternate step, and that was the rhythm to which the solid wall of military men, weighed down by packs and guns, advanced; each face was different in its stern concentration, and each one of these hundreds of soldiers seemed to mouth his own 'Left . . . left . . . left . . .' at each alternate step. A stout major skipped around a bush on the road, puffing and panting, and losing step. A soldier who had fallen behind trotted along in an effort to catch up with the company, panic at his offence written over his face. And then a cannonball whooshed over the heads of Prince Bagration and his suite - they could feel its pressure through the air - and, exactly in step with the 'Left . . . left . . . left . . .', it crashed into the column.
'Close ranks!' the captain sang out in a chirpy voice well suited to his swaggering step. The soldiers circled around something at the spot where the ball had landed, and an old cavalryman NCO, who had fallen behind near the dead bodies, now caught up with his line, fell into step with the march and strode on, glaring angrily about him. 'Left . . . left . . . left . . .' seemed to echo through the ominous silence and the tedious tramp, tramp, tramp of synchronized feet.
'Well done, men!' said Prince Bagration.
'Thank you, sir . . . sir . . . sir!' echoed down the ranks. One surly-looking soldier marching on the left stared straight at Bagration as he shouted, as if to say, 'We don't need you to tell us!' Another looked rigidly ahead as he marched past, opened his mouth wide and bawled out, as if he daren't risk any lapse of concentration.
Then they were brought to a halt and allowed to take off their packs.
Bagration rode around the ranks of men that had marched past and then dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off his cloak and handed that over too, stretched his legs and set his cap straight. And there, suddenly, was the French column, officers in front, coming into sight as they climbed the hill.
'God be with us!' cried Bagration in a clear strong voice. He turned for a moment to the front line, and then marched forward over the rough terrain, swinging his arms a little and lumbering along awkwardly like a man more used to riding. Prince Andrey felt himself drawn forward by an irresistible force, and he had a sensation of supreme happiness.a
The French were getting nearer, and now Prince Andrey, walking beside Bagration, could clearly make out their bandoliers and red epaulettes, even their faces. (He had a clear view of one bandy-legged old French officer wearing gaiters, who had to grab hold of bushes because climbing uphill was so hard for him.) Prince Bagration gave no further orders; he just marched on silently ahead of the ranks. Suddenly the crack of a shot came from the French side, then another, and a third . . . smoke rose and gunfire rang out down the ragged ranks of the enemy. Some of our men fell, one of them the round-faced officer who had been putting so much effort and pleasure into his marching. But when the very first shot rang out, Bagration had looked round and roared, 'Hurrah!' A great sustained 'Hurra . . . a . . . a . . . ah!' went echoing down our lines, and our men raced past Prince Bagration and overtook one another, hurtling chaotically downhill in one inspired and jubilant mob to get at the scattering Frenchmen.
CHAPTER 19
The attack of the Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right flank. In the centre Tushin's forgotten battery had succeeded in setting fire to Schongrabern and was thus delaying the advance of the French. They were so busy putting out fires fanned by the breeze that the Russians had plenty of time to retreat. The retreat of the centre across the ravine was carried out at speed amid the din although the different units managed to keep themselves apart. But the Azovsky and Podolsky infantry and the Pavlograd hussars on the left were simultaneously attacked and outflanked by the pick of the French troops under Lannes and torn apart. Bagration dispatched Zherkov to the general in command there with orders for an immediate retreat.
Zherkov responded smartly; still saluting, he spurred his horse and galloped off. But the moment he was out of Bagration's sight his courage failed him. He panicked uncontrollably and could not bring himself to ride into the danger area. Approaching the left-flank troops, instead of riding straight ahead into the gunfire, he veered off to look for the general and his officers in places where they couldn't possibly be. So the order was not passed on.
The left flank was commanded by the senior general of Dolokhov's regiment, the one that Kutuzov had inspected before Braunau. But the extreme left flank was commanded by the colonel of the Pavlograd hussars, Nikolay Rostov's regiment. The two commanders were at cross purposes. There was a feud between them, and while battle was raging on the right flank and the French had already begun to advance, these two officers were still in discussions devoted to mutual abuse. The two regiments, cavalry and infantry, were anything but ready for the action to come. Not a man among them, soldier or general, was expecting a battle. All were going about their peaceful occupations; cavalrymen feeding horses and footsoldiers cutting wood.
'Yes, I know he outrankink me,' said the German colonel of the hussars, growing very red and addressing an adjutant who had just ridden over. 'So let him to do how he likes. Mine hussars I not zacrifice. Bugler! Sound ze retreat!'
But things were getting urgent. On the right and in the centre cannon and musket now thundered in concert, and the French greatcoats of Lannes's sharpshooters had crossed the dam by the millpond and were re-forming on this side a couple of musket shots away.
The infantry general walked over to his horse, quivering as always, mounted, sat up very straight and tall, and rode off to see the Pavlograd colonel. The two commanders met with polite bows and secret venom in their hearts.
'Now look here, Colonel,' said the general, 'I cannot leave half my men in the wood. I beg you. I beg you,' he repeated. 'Get into position, and prepare to attack.'
'And I am peggink you not meddlink in ozzer pipple's business,' answered the colonel, roused to fury. 'If you voz cavalry officer . . .'
'I am not a cavalry officer, Colonel, but I am a Russian general, and if you are unaware . . .'
'Avare of zis I am. Sir.' Suddenly the colonel, purple with rage, put spurs to
his horse and yelled at the general, 'Kindly pliss to come to ze front viz me, you vill see zis position no goot! I vill not testroy my regiment chest to pliss you.'
'You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not thinking of my own pleasure, and I cannot allow such a thing to be said.'
The general saw the colonel's proposition as a challenge to his courage, so he squared his chest and rode off with him, scowling, towards the front line, as if the whole argument between them would be settled once and for all when they were there under fire. When they arrived at the front several bullets flew by, and they just halted in silence. There was nothing new to be seen - it was obvious from where they had been standing before that the cavalry couldn't operate here because of bushes and gullies, and also that the French were outflanking them to the left. The general and the colonel glared at each other with sour determination on both sides, like two cocks strutting around ready for a fight, vainly searching for the slightest sign of cowardice. Both passed the test. There was nothing more to be said, and neither was willing to give the other any grounds for claiming that he had been the first to withdraw from under fire, and they might have stayed there for ever locked in this trial of strength, but for a burst of musket-fire and several voices shouting just behind them in the wood. The French had attacked some of our soldiers collecting wood in the copse. No one could retreat now, neither the hussars nor the infantry. They were cut off from retreat on the left by the French line. Now, never mind the rough terrain, they were going to have to fight their way through.
The hussars of Nikolay Rostov's squadron had scarcely had time to mount their horses when suddenly there they were, confronting the enemy. Once again, as on the Enns bridge, there was no one between the squadron and the enemy, but there was that dreadful dividing line of uncertainty and fear, so similar to the line between the living and the dead. All of them sensed this, and one question worried them all: would they cross it or not, and if yes, how they would cross it?