'I think it's called Burdino, isn't it?' said the officer, turning to ask his comrade.
'Borodino,' said the other man, putting him right.
The officer was obviously delighted at the chance to have a chat, and he came over to Pierre.
'Is that where our men are?' asked Pierre.
'Yes, and that's the French, a bit further away,' said the officer. 'There you are, you can see them, just over there.'
'And are our men over yonder?' asked Pierre.
'Yes, you can see them with the naked eye . . . Look, there they are!' The officer pointed to columns of smoke on the left rising up beyond the river, and his face had the same stern and serious expression that Pierre had noticed on many of the faces he had come across.
'Ah, that's the French! What about those over there?' Pierre was now pointing to a slight rise on the left with some troops moving round it.
'No, they're ours.'
'Oh, are they? What about there?' Pierre pointed to another mound in the distance, with a big tree on it, near to a village just visible in a hollow, where you could see the smoke from camp-fires and a black shape of some kind.
'It's him there too!' said the officer. (It was the Shevardino redoubt.) 'Yesterday it was ours, now it's his.'
'So where is our position, exactly?'
'Our position?' said the officer, with a grin of delight. 'I can give you every detail, because I've been involved in almost all our fortifications. That's our centre, down there in Borodino.' He was pointing to the village with the white church straight ahead. 'That's where we cross the Kolocha. There, where you can see those rows of hay down in that hollow, that's where the bridge is. And that's our centre. Our right flank is out over there.' He pointed sharply to the right, off into the broken country. 'That's the Moskva river, and we've built three redoubts there, good strong ones. Now, er, the left flank . . .' He faltered. 'Well, it's a bit difficult to explain . . . Yesterday our left flank was out there, over at Shevardino. See that oak-tree? Near there. But now we've pulled the left wing back a bit. Can you see over there? That village and all the smoke - that's Semyonovsk. That's where it is.' He pointed to Rayevsky's redoubt. 'But I don't think there's going to be a battle there. He's moved his troops in, but it's a blind; he'll probably come round from the right of the river. Anyway, wherever it happens, a lot of us will be missing at roll-call tomorrow!' said the officer.
A veteran sergeant had walked up during this conversation and stood there in silence waiting for the officer to finish speaking. But at this point he broke in, obviously resenting this last remark.
'We need to send for some gabions,' he said grimly.
The officer looked rather embarrassed, as if he knew full well that it might be all right to think how many men would be missing next day, but you ought not to talk about it.
'Yes, well, er, send the third company again,' he said hastily. 'And who might you be? Not one of the doctors, are you?'
'No, no, I just happen to be here,' answered Pierre. And he went back down the hill and walked past the working peasants again.
'Ugh, filthy swine!' said the officer from behind Pierre, holding his nose and hurrying past them.
'Look, they're coming! They're here! They've got her . . . They'll be here in a minute . . .'
The sudden calls soon had officers, soldiers and peasants scurrying down the road.
A church procession was winding its way up the hill from Borodino. It was headed by a regiment of infantry marching smartly along the dusty road, shakos off and trailing arms. From behind the infantry came the sound of chanting.
Bareheaded soldiers and peasants raced past Pierre in their rush to meet the processing people.
'They're bringing her! Our defender . . . the Holy Mother of Iversk!'
'Smolensk,' came the voice of correction.
Militiamen - those who had been in the village and those who had been working at the battery - had flung down their spades and run down towards the procession. The battalion marching along the dusty road was followed by priests in their church robes, a little old man in a hood with attendant clergy and choristers. Behind them came soldiers and officers carrying a huge holy icon with a black face in a setting of silver. This was the icon that had been brought away from Smolensk and taken around by the army ever since. Behind it, ahead of it and on all sides came crowds of soldiers with bared heads, walking, running or bowing down to the ground.
The procession came to a halt at the top of the hill. The men who had kept the icon aloft by its linen holdings were relieved by others, the deacons relit their censers and the service began. The scorching sunshine beat straight down on them, a cool and gentle breeze toyed with the hair on many a bared head, and stirred the ribbons that decked the holy icon, and the singing had a subdued sound under the open sky. The icon was surrounded by a huge crowd of people - officers, soldiers and men of the militia, all with bared heads. An open space had been reserved for the top brass to the rear of priest and deacon. A bald-headed general wearing the order of St George round his neck stood immediately behind the priest, and he never crossed himself during the service - he was obviously a German - but nevertheless, listened carefully through to the end, knowing it was necessary to arouse the patriotism in the Russian peasant. Another general stood there in a martial pose and as he made the sign of the cross he flapped a hand in front of his chest and looked round on all sides. Pierre was standing among the peasants, and he recognized in this group of officials several persons he knew. But he didn't look at them; he was fascinated by the grave expressions on the faces in the crowd of soldiers and peasant militiamen, all gazing with equal intensity at the holy icon. As soon as the weary choristers, singing out now for the twentieth time, launched into their leisurely, mechanical rendition of, 'O Mother of God, save Thy servants from all adversities', and priest and deacon chimed in with, 'For to Thee under God every man doth flee as to a steadfast bulwark and defence', every face was lit up with a special awareness of the solemnity of the coming moment, the same expression he had seen on the hill at Mozhaysk and then flickering again on so many, many faces that he had come across that morning. Ever more urgently came the bowing of heads, the tossing back of hair, the sounds of deep sighing and the beating of breasts as the soldiers crossed themselves.
The crowd round the icon suddenly parted and Pierre was squashed back. Someone was walking over to the holy icon, probably someone of real consequence, to judge by the alacrity with which people made way for him.
It was Kutuzov, on his way back to Tatarinova after a tour of our position, and he had come to take part in the service. Pierre knew him at once by his peculiar figure, which marked him out from everyone else.
With a long overcoat draped over his enormous bulk and his slightly stooping back, with his white head bared and his blind white eye all too noticeable in a puffy face, Kutuzov lurched and staggered his way out into the ring and stood behind the priest. He crossed himself in a practised way, bent down to touch the earth, gave a deep sigh and bowed his grey head. Kutuzov was followed by Bennigsen and his entourage. Although the commander-in-chief attracted the attention of all the top brass, the militiamen and soldiers ignored him and went on with their prayers.
When the service was over Kutuzov went up to the holy icon, flopped down heavily on his knees, bowed down to the ground, and then found he could not get up, despite several attempts to do so, because of his great bulk and general feebleness. His grey head quivered with the effort. At last he managed it, and thrusting out his lips like a simple child he kissed the icon, and gave another bow with one hand touching the ground. The other generals duly followed, then the officers, and after them came the soldiers and militiamen, breathless with excitement, pushing and shoving, falling over each other in one mad scramble.
CHAPTER 22
Caught in the crush and reeling back off balance, Pierre looked about him.
'Count! Count Bezukhov! What are you doing here?' said a voice. Pierre looked roun
d.
Boris Drubetskoy, wiping his knees with one hand (he must have dirtied them going down before the icon), was walking over to Pierre with a smile on his face. Boris was immaculately turned out, with the slightest hint of the battle-ready soldier about him. He wore a long military coat with a riding-crop slung across one shoulder a la Kutuzov.
Meanwhile Kutuzov had reached the village, and he now sat down in the shade of the nearest house on a bench swiftly provided by one Cossack and covered with a rug by another. He was immediately surrounded by a vast and glittering entourage.
The icon moved on, and the crowd with it. Pierre stood there talking to Boris no more than thirty paces from Kutuzov. He explained his determination to take part in the battle and inspect the position.
'I tell you what,' said Boris. 'I shall honour you with the freedom of the camp. You'll get the best view from where Count Bennigsen is going to be. I'm in attendance on him. I'll put him in the picture. And if you want to go round the position you'd better come along with us. We're just off to the left flank. And when we get back you can stay the night with me, and we'll have a game of cards. I'm sure you know Dmitriy Sergeich. He's staying over there.' He pointed to the third house in Gorki.
'Oh, it's the right flank I wanted to see. They say it's very strong,' said Pierre. 'I wanted to start at the river Moskva and go round the whole position.'
'Well, you can do that later on. It's the left flank that matters . . .'
'Yes, I see. And where's Prince Bolkonsky's regiment? Could you point it out to me?' asked Pierre.
'Prince Andrey's regiment? We're going right past it. I'll take you to see him.'
'What was that about the left flank?' asked Pierre.
'Well, to be quite candid, just between ourselves, the left flank's in a bit of a spot,' said Boris, lowering his voice confidingly. 'Count Bennigsen had something quite different in mind. His idea was to fortify that mound over there, but certainly not, er . . .' He gave a shrug. 'His Serene Highness wouldn't have it, or maybe they talked him out of it. Anyway . . .' But Boris never finished what he was saying because at that moment one of Kutuzov's adjutants came over to have a word with Pierre. 'Ah, Kaysarov,' Boris said to him with the broadest of smiles, 'I was just trying to tell the count here about our position. It's amazing how well his Serence Highness can read the enemy's mind!'
'Oh, you mean the left flank?' said Kaysarov.
'I do indeed. Our left flank is now very, very strong.'
Kutuzov had purged his staff of everyone surplus to requirements, yet Boris had wangled his way through the changes and stayed on at headquarters. He had made his mark with Count Bennigsen. Count Bennigsen was no different from everyone else served by Boris; he now looked upon young Prince Drubetskoy as indispensable.
Among the army chiefs there were two clearly delineated parties: Kutuzov's party and the party of Bennigsen, chief of staff. Boris belonged to the latter, and there was no one more accomplished at sucking up to Kutuzov while managing to imply that the old fellow was no good, and Bennigsen was in charge. Now the chips were down, battle was on them, and there could only be one of two results: either Kutuzov would be annihilated and power transferred to Bennigsen, or if by any chance Kutuzov managed to win, the implication would be that it was all due to Bennigsen. Either way, major honours would be flying around for deeds done on the morrow and new men would see their careers advanced. So Boris felt excited and edgy all day.
After Kaysarov Pierre was joined by other people that he knew, and he was powerless to deal with all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon him, or listen to all the tales they had to tell. Every face was a picture of excitement and worry. But what struck Pierre was that the reason for all the excitement on some of the faces had to do with questions of personal success, and he could not get out of his mind a different kind of excitement seen on other faces that had to do with universal questions rather than personal ones, questions of life and death. Kutuzov noticed the figure of Pierre and the group gathered round him.
'Call him over,' said Kutuzov.
An adjutant passed on the message, and Pierre proceeded towards the bench. But someone else was there before him, a militiaman. It was Dolokhov.
'How did that man get here?' asked Pierre.
'Little swine, he creeps in everywhere!' came the answer. 'He was reduced to the ranks, you know. Now he wants to bounce back. He comes up with all sorts of ideas, but he has been going over to the enemy lines at night . . . You've got to hand it to him . . .' Pierre removed his hat and bowed politely to Kutuzov.
'Sir, I decided that if I told you what I know you could send me away or tell me you knew it already, and I had nothing to lose . . .' Dolokhov was saying.
'Yes, quite.'
'And if I'm right, I shall be helping my country, for which I am ready to die.'
'Yes, quite. Quite.'
'And, sir, if you happen to need a man who would not spare his own skin, be kind enough to remember me . . . Perhaps I could be of some service . . .'
'Yes, yes. Quite,' repeated Kutuzov, with an amused twinkle in the narrowing eye that now surveyed Pierre.
Meanwhile Boris, with all the deftness of a practised courtier, had moved in on the commander-in-chief along with Pierre, speaking to the count in the easiest manner and the softest voice, as though they were in mid-conversation.
'Those peasant militiamen, they've put clean shirts on to die in,' he was saying. 'How's that for heroism, Count?'
This was said with the obvious intention of being overheard by his Serene Highness. Boris knew Kutuzov would prick up his ears at these words, and sure enough, his Highness did speak to him.
'What was that about the militia?' he said to Boris.
'They have put clean shirts on, sir, for tomorrow, ready for death.'
'Ah . . . Wonderful people . . . Nobody like them,' said Kutuzov, eyes closed, shaking his head. 'Nobody like them!' he said again with a sigh.
'So, you want a whiff of gunpowder?' he said to Pierre. 'Yes, it's a nice smell . . . I have the honour of being a great admirer of your wife. I do hope she's well. My quarters are at your service.' And then Kutuzov began behaving as old people often do, gazing around vacantly as if he could not remember what to say or do next. But suddenly he seemed to remember what he was after, and he beckoned to Andrey Kaysarov, the brother of his adjutant.
'What was that thing? How does it go? You know, that bit of poetry by Marin. How does it go? He was on about Gerakov7 . . . "You'll stay a teacher in the corps . . ." Go on, you remember,' said Kutuzov, his face ready for a good laugh. Kaysarov recited the poem; a beaming Kutuzov nodded in time to the rhythm.
When Pierre walked away from Kutuzov, Dolokhov came over and took him by the arm.
'I'm so pleased to meet you here, Count,' he said in a loud voice, ignoring all bystanders and speaking with assertiveness and the utmost gravity. 'On the eve of a day which, God knows, not all of us will be destined to survive, I'm glad of an opportunity to tell you that I regret any past misunderstandings between us, and I would like to think you hold nothing against me. Will you please forgive me?'
Pierre looked at Dolokhov with a smile, not knowing what to say. Dolokhov's eyes were watering with tears as he embraced Pierre and kissed him.
Boris put a word in with his general, and Count Bennigsen spoke to Pierre, offering to take him along on their tour of the lines.
'You'll find it interesting,' he said.
'I'm sure I shall,' said Pierre.
Half an hour later Kutuzov had set off back to Tatarinova, while Bennigsen and his entourage, now including Pierre, went off to look at the lines.
CHAPTER 23
Bennigsen went down the high road from Gorki and made for the bridge which the officer on the mound had pointed out to Pierre as being the centre of the position, where rows of new-mown grass were turning into sweet-smelling hay down by the riverside. They crossed the bridge and went on to the village of Borodino, where they turned left, r
ode past vast numbers of men and cannons, and climbed up to the high mound where militiamen were digging earthworks. This was the redoubt, so far without a name, that would come to be called Rayevsky's redoubt, or 'the battery on the mound'.
Pierre took no special notice of this redoubt. He wasn't to know that for him this spot would turn out to be more unforgettable than any other part of the Borodino plain. Then they rode down through a ravine to Semyonovsk, where the soldiers were hauling the last logs away from shacks and barns. On they went, first downhill then up again across a field of rye, all trampled and flattened as if a hail-storm had passed over it, along a track recently laid down across the ploughed furrows by the artillery, until they got to some more earthworks, pointed ones known as fleches, which were also still under construction.
Bennigsen stopped at the fleches and peered across at the Shevardino redoubt, which had been ours only yesterday, where you could see several men on horseback. The officers told him Napoleon and Murat were over there. Everybody gazed intently at the little group of horsemen. Pierre stared with the rest, trying to work out which one of the barely discernible figures was Napoleon. Eventually the group of horsemen went off down the hill and rode away.
Bennigsen turned to a general who had just ridden up and launched into a description of our entire troop disposition. Pierre listened to what he was saying, straining every nerve to grasp the essential features of the impending battle, but he was forced to the disappointing conclusion that his brain was not up to it. He could not understand a word. Bennigsen stopped speaking, and noticing that Pierre was all ears he spoke to him rather curtly.
'Not very interesting, I imagine.'
'Oh, it is. It's really interesting.' Pierre echoed his word at some cost to the truth.
From the fleches they rode off further to the left down a road that wound its way through a thick copse of small birch-trees. In the middle of the wood a brown hare with white paws hopped out on to the road just in front of them, startled by the sound of so many hoofbeats. Panicking, it skipped along the road for quite some time to general amusement and much laughter, and it was only when several voices shouted at it that it darted off to one side and disappeared into a thicket. After a mile and a half of woodland they emerged into a clearing, where Tuchkov's corps had been stationed to defend the left flank.