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The last of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, squeezing
together as they approached it as if passing through a funnel.
At last the baggage wagons had all crossed, the crush was less,
and the last battalion came onto the bridge. Only Denisov's squadron
of hussars remained on the farther side of the bridge facing the
enemy, who could be seen from the hill on the opposite bank but
was not yet visible from the bridge, for the horizon as seen from
the valley through which the river flowed was formed by the rising
ground only half a mile away. At the foot of the hill lay wasteland
over which a few groups of our Cossack scouts were moving. Suddenly
on the road at the top of the high ground, artillery and troops
in blue uniform were seen. These were the French. A group of Cossack
scouts retired down the hill at a trot. All the officers and men
of Denisov's squadron, though they tried to talk of other things
and to look in other directions, thought only of what was there
on the hilltop, and kept constantly looking at the patches appearing
on the skyline, which they knew to be the enemy's troops. The
weather had cleared again since noon and the sun was descending
brightly upon the Danube and the dark hills around it. It was
calm, and at intervals the bugle calls and the shouts of the enemy
could be heard from the hill. There was no one now between the
squadron and the enemy except a few scattered skirmishers. An
empty space of some seven hundred yards was all that separated
them. The enemy ceased firing, and that stern, threatening, inaccessible,
and intangible line which separates two hostile armies was all
the more clearly felt.
"One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the
line dividing the living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffering,
and death. And what is there? Who is there?- there beyond that
field, that tree, that roof lit up by the sun? No one knows, but
one wants to know. You fear and yet long to cross that line, and
know that sooner or later it must be crossed and you will have
to find out what is there, just as you will inevitably have to
learn what lies the other side of death. But you are strong, healthy,
cheerful, and excited, and are surrounded by other such excitedly
animated and healthy men." So thinks, or at any rate feels,
anyone who comes in sight of the enemy, and that feeling gives
a particular glamour and glad keenness of impression to everything
that takes place at such moments.
On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon
rose, and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron.
The officers who had been standing together rode off to their
places. The hussars began carefully aligning their horses. Silence
fell on the whole squadron. All were looking at the enemy in front
and at the squadron commander, awaiting the word of command. A
second and a third cannon ball flew past. Evidently they were
firing at the hussars, but the balls with rapid rhythmic whistle
flew over the heads of the horsemen and fell somewhere beyond
them. The hussars did not look round, but at the sound of each
shot, as at the word of command, the whole squadron with its rows
of faces so alike yet so different, holding its breath while the
ball flew past, rose in the stirrups and sank back again. The
soldiers without turning their heads glanced at one another, curious
to see their comrades' impression. Every face, from Denisov's
to that of the bugler, showed one common expression of conflict,
irritation, and excitement, around chin and mouth. The quartermaster
frowned, looking at the soldiers as if threatening to punish them.
Cadet Mironov ducked every time a ball flew past. Rostov on the
left flank, mounted on his Rook- a handsome horse despite its
game leg- had the happy air of a schoolboy called up before a
large audience for an examination in which he feels sure he will
distinguish himself. He was glancing at everyone with a clear,
bright expression, as if asking them to notice how calmly he sat
under fire. But despite himself, on his face too that same indication
of something new and stern showed round the mouth.
"Who's that curtseying there? Cadet Miwonov! That's not
wight! Look at me," cried Denisov who, unable to keep still
on one spot, kept turning his horse in front of the squadron.
The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Vaska Denisov, and his
whole short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy
fingers in which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just
as it usually did, especially toward evening when he had emptied
his second bottle; he was only redder than usual. With his shaggy
head thrown back like birds when they drink, pressing his spurs
mercilessly into the sides of his good horse, Bedouin, and sitting
as though falling backwards in the saddle, he galloped to the
other flank of the squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice to the
men to look to their pistols. He rode up to Kirsten. The staff
captain on his broad-backed, steady mare came at a walk to meet
him. His face with its long mustache was serious as always, only
his eyes were brighter than usual.
"Well, what about it?" said he to Denisov. "It
won't come to a fight. You'll see- we shall retire."
"The devil only knows what they're about!" muttered
Denisov. "Ah, Wostov," he cried noticing the cadet's
bright face, "you've got it at last."
And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet.
Rostov felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared
on the bridge. Denisov galloped up to him.
"Your excellency! Let us attack them! I'll dwive them
off."
"Attack indeed!" said the colonel in a bored voice,
puckering up his face as if driving off a troublesome fly. "And
why are you stopping here? Don't you see the skirmishers are retreating?
Lead the squadron back."
The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out of range of fire
without having lost a single man. The second squadron that had
been in the front line followed them across and the last Cossacks
quitted the farther side of the river.
The two Pavlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge, retired
up the hill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl Bogdanich
Schubert, came up to Denisov's squadron and rode at a footpace
not far from Rostov, without taking any notice of him although
they were now meeting for the first time since their encounter
concerning Telyanin. Rostov, feeling that he was at the front
and in the power of a man toward whom he now admitted that he
had been to blame, did not lift his eyes from the colonel's athletic
back, his nape covered with light hair, and his red neck. It seemed
to Rostov that Bogdanich was only pretending not to notice him,
and that his whole aim now was to test the cadet's courage, so
he drew himself up and looked around him merrily; then it seemed
to him that Bogdanich rode so near in order to show him his courage.
Next he thought that his enemy would send the squadron on a desperate
attack just to punish him- Rostov. Then he imagined how, after
the attack, Bogdanich would come up to him as he lay wounded and
would magnanimously extend the hand of reconciliation.
The high-shouldered figure of Zherkov, familiar to the Pavlograds
as he had but recently left their regiment, rode up to the colonel.
After his dismissal from headquarters Zherkov had not remained
in the regiment, saying he was not such a fool as to slave at
the front when he could get more rewards by doing nothing on the
staff, and had succeeded in attaching himself as an orderly officer
to Prince Bagration. He now came to his former chief with an order
from the commander of the rear guard.
"Colonel," he said, addressing Rostov's enemy with
an air of gloomy gravity and glancing round at his comrades, "there
is an order to stop and fire the bridge."
"An order to who?" asked the colonel morosely.
"I don't myself know 'to who,'" replied the cornet
in a serious tone, "but the prince told me to 'go and tell
the colonel that the hussars must return quickly and fire the
bridge.'"
Zherkov was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up
to the colonel of hussars with the same order. After him the stout
Nesvitski came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely
carry his weight.
"How's this, Colonel?" he shouted as he approached.
"I told you to fire the bridge, and now someone has gone
and blundered; they are all beside themselves over there and one
can't make anything out."
The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to
Nesvitski.
"You spoke to me of inflammable material," said
he, "but you said nothing about firing it."
"But, my dear sir," said Nesvitski as he drew up,
taking off his cap and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration
with his plump hand, "wasn't I telling you to fire the bridge,
when inflammable material had been put in position?"
"I am not your 'dear sir,' Mr. Staff Officer, and you
did not tell me to burn the bridge! I know the service, and it
is my habit orders strictly to obey. You said the bridge would
be burned, but who would it burn, I could not know by the holy
spirit!"
"Ah, that's always the way!" said Nesvitski with
a wave of the hand. "How did you get here?" said he,
turning to Zherkov.
"On the same business. But you are damp! Let me wring
you out!"
"You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer..." continued
the colonel in an offended tone.
"Colonel," interrupted the officer of the suite,
"You must be quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to
use grapeshot."
The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at
the stout staff officer, and at Zherkov, and he frowned.
"I will the bridge fire," he said in a solemn tone
as if to announce that in spite of all the unpleasantness he had
to endure he would still do the right thing.
Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were
to blame for everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered
the second squadron, that in which Rostov was serving under Denisov,
to return to the bridge.
"There, it's just as I thought," said Rostov to
himself. "He wishes to test me!" His heart contracted
and the blood rushed to his face. "Let him see whether I
am a coward!" he thought.
Again on all the bright faces of the squadron the serious
expression appeared that they had worn when under fire. Rostov
watched his enemy, the colonel, closely- to find in his face confirmation
of his own conjecture, but the colonel did not once glance at
Rostov, and looked as he always did when at the front, solemn
and stern. Then came the word of command.
"Look sharp! Look sharp!" several voices repeated
around him.
Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs jingling,
the hussars hastily dismounted, not knowing what they were to
do. The men were crossing themselves. Rostov no longer looked
at the colonel, he had no time. He was afraid of falling behind
the hussars, so much afraid that his heart stood still. His hand
trembled as he gave his horse into an orderly's charge, and he
felt the blood rush to his heart with a thud. Denisov rode past
him, leaning back and shouting something. Rostov saw nothing but
the hussars running all around him, their spurs catching and their
sabers clattering.
"Stretchers!" shouted someone behind him.
Rostov did not think what this call for stretchers meant;
he ran on, trying only to be ahead of the others; but just at
the bridge, not looking at the ground, he came on some sticky,
trodden mud, stumbled, and fell on his hands. The others outstripped
him.
"At boss zides, Captain," he heard the voice of
the colonel, who, having ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse
near the bridge, with a triumphant, cheerful face.
Rostov wiping his muddy hands on his breeches looked at his
enemy and was about to run on, thinking that the farther he went
to the front the better. But Bogdanich, without looking at or
recognizing Rostov, shouted to him:
"Who's that running on the middle of the bridge? To the
right! Come back, Cadet!" he cried angrily; and turning to
Denisov, who, showing off his courage, had ridden on to the planks
of the bridge:
"Why run risks, Captain? You should dismount," he
said.
"Oh, every bullet has its billet," answered Vaska
Denisov, turning in his saddle.
Meanwhile Nesvitski, Zherkov, and the officer of the suite
were standing together out of range of the shots, watching, now
the small group of men with yellow shakos, dark-green jackets
braided with cord, and blue riding breeches, who were swarming
near the bridge, and then at what was approaching in the distance
from the opposite side- the blue uniforms and groups with horses,
easily recognizable as artillery.
"Will they burn the bridge or not? Who'll get there first?
Will they get there and fire the bridge or will the French get
within grapeshot range and wipe them out?" These were the
questions each man of the troops on the high ground above the
bridge involuntarily asked himself with a sinking heart- watching
the bridge and the hussars in the bright evening light and the
blue tunics advancing from the other side with their bayonets
and guns.
"Ugh. The hussars will get it hot!" said Nesvitski;
"they are within grapeshot range now."
"He shouldn't have taken so many men," said the
officer of the suite.
"True enough," answered Nesvitski; "two smart
fellows could have done the job just as well."
"Ah, your excellency," put in Zherkov, his eyes
fixed on the hussars, but still with that naive air that made
it impossible to know whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest.
"Ah, your excellency! How you look at things! Send two men?
And who then would give us the Vladimir medal and ribbon? But
now, even if they do get peppered, the squadron may be recommended
for honors and he may get a ribbon. Our Bogdanich knows how things
are done."
"There now!" said the officer of the suite, "that's
grapeshot."
He pointed to the French guns, the limbers of which were being
detached and hurriedly removed.
On the French side, amid the groups with cannon, a cloud of
smoke appeared, then a second and a third almost simultaneously,
and at the moment when the first report was heard a fourth was
seen. Then two reports one after another, and a third.
"Oh! Oh!" groaned Nesvitski as if in fierce pain,
seizing the officer of the suite by the arm. "Look! A man
has fallen! Fallen, fallen!"
"Two, I think."
"If I were Tsar I would never go to war," said Nesvitski,
turning away.
The French guns were hastily reloaded. The infantry in their
blue uniforms advanced toward the bridge at a run. Smoke appeared
again but at irregular intervals, and grapeshot cracked and rattled
onto the bridge. But this time Nesvitski could not see what was
happening there, as a dense cloud of smoke arose from it. The
hussars had succeeded in setting it on fire and the French batteries
were now firing at them, no longer to hinder them but because
the guns were trained and there was someone to fire at.
The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before
the hussars got back to their horses. Two were misdirected and
the shot went too high, but the last round fell in the midst of
a group of hussars and knocked three of them over.
Rostov, absorbed by his relations with Bogdanich, had paused
on the bridge not knowing what to do. There was no one to hew
down (as he had always imagined battles to himself), nor could
he help to fire the bridge because he had not brought any burning
straw with him like the other soldiers. He stood looking about
him, when suddenly he heard a rattle on the bridge as if nuts
were being spilt, and the hussar nearest to him fell against the
rails with a groan. Rostov ran up to him with the others. Again
someone shouted, "Stretchers!" Four men seized the hussar
and began lifting him.
"Oooh! For Christ's sake let me alone!" cried the
wounded man, but still he was lifted and laid on the stretcher.
Nicholas Rostov turned away and, as if searching for something,
gazed into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky,
and at the sun. How beautiful the sky looked; how blue, how calm,
and how deep! How bright and glorious was the setting sun! With
what soft glitter the waters of the distant Danube shone. And
fairer still were the faraway blue mountains beyond the river,
the nunnery, the mysterious gorges, and the pine forests veiled
in the mist of their summits... There was peace and happiness...
"I should wishing for nothing else, nothing, if only I were
there," thought Rostov. "In myself alone and in that
sunshine there is so much happiness; but here... groans, suffering,
fear, and this uncertainty and hurry... There- they are shouting
again, and again are all running back somewhere, and I shall run
with them, and it, death, is here above me and around... Another
instant and I shall never again see the sun, this water, that
gorge!..."
At that instant the sun began to hide behind the clouds, and
other stretchers came into view before Rostov. And the fear of
death and of the stretchers, and love of the sun and of life,
all merged into one feeling of sickening agitation.
"O Lord God! Thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive,
and protect me!" Rostov whispered.
The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their
voices sounded louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from
sight.
"Well, fwiend? So you've smelt powdah!" shouted
Vaska Denisov just above his ear.
"It's all over; but I am a coward- yes, a coward!"
thought Rostov, and sighing deeply he took Rook, his horse, which
stood resting one foot, from the orderly and began to mount.
"Was that grapeshot?" he asked Denisov.
"Yes and no mistake!" cried Denisov. "You worked
like wegular bwicks and it's nasty work! An attack's pleasant
work! Hacking away at the dogs! But this sort of thing is the
very devil, with them shooting at you like a target."
And Denisov rode up to a group that had stopped near Rostov,
composed of the colonel, Nesvitski, Zherkov, and the officer from
the suite.
"Well, it seems that no one has noticed," thought
Rostov. And this was true. No one had taken any notice, for everyone
knew the sensation which the cadet under fire for the first time
had experienced.
"Here's something for you to report," said Zherkov.
"See if I don't get promoted to a sublieutenancy."
"Inform the prince that I the bridge fired!" said
the colonel triumphantly and gaily.
"And if he asks about the losses?"
"A trifle," said the colonel in his bass voice:
"two hussars wounded, and one knocked out," he added,
unable to restrain a happy smile, and pronouncing the phrase "knocked
out" with ringing distinctness.
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