'Well I . . . Your name's Likhachov, isn't it? . . . I've only just got back. We've been over to see the French.' And Petya gave the Cossack a detailed account not only of his trip, but also his reasons for going, and why he thought it was better to put his life on the line rather than leave things to chance.
'Well, you ought to get a bit of sleep,' said the Cossack.
'No, I'm used to it,' answered Petya. 'By the way, how are the flints in your pistols? Are they worn out? I brought some with me. Do you want some? Help yourself.'
The Cossack popped out from under the wagon to take a closer look at Petya.
'I like to do things by the book, you see,' said Petya. 'Some men, you know, aren't very bothered and they don't make preparations, and they live to regret it. I don't like that.'
'No, I'm sure you're right,' said the Cossack.
'Oh, there's one other thing. My dear chap, would you mind sharpening my sabre for me? It's gone a bit bl . . .' (But Petya couldn't bring himself to tell a lie.) 'Well, actually it's never been sharpened. Could you manage that?'
'Yes. Sure I can.'
Likhachov stood up, rummaged in his pack, and soon Petya was standing there listening to the warlike sound of steel on stone. He clambered up on to the wagon, and sat on the side. The Cossack went on sharpening down below.
'All the other boys are asleep, aren't they?' said Petya.
'Some are. Some are awake like us.'
'What's happened to the boy?'
'Vesenny? He's burrowed down over yonder in the hay. He's having a good sleep after his scare. He was ready for it.'
For a long time Petya sat there saying nothing, just listening to the sounds. Then footsteps came towards them through the darkness, and a dark figure emerged.
'What's that you're sharpening?' asked the man as he came over to the wagon.
'A sabre for the gentleman here.'
'Fine job,' said the man. Petya assumed he was a hussar. 'Did that cup get left over here?'
'Yes, it's there, by that wheel.'
The hussar took the cup.
'Soon be daylight,' he added, yawning as he walked away.
Petya ought to have been fully aware that he was in a wood with Denisov's guerrillas, less than a mile from the road, perched on a wagon captured from the French with horses tethered to it, that down on the ground the Cossack Likhachov was sitting sharpening his sabre for him, that the big, black blur on the right was their hut, and the bright red glow down on the left was the dying camp-fire, and the man who had come for the cup was a thirsty hussar, but he wasn't aware of any of this, and he didn't want to know. He was far away in a land of magic where nothing bore any resemblance to real life. That big black patch of shadow might well be a hut, but it could also be a cave leading down to the centre of the earth. The red patch might be a fire, but it could also be the eye of a huge monster. Maybe he really was perched on a wagon, but it was just as likely he wasn't perched on a wagon, he was on the top of a fearfully high tower, and if he fell off it would take him a whole day, a whole month to reach the ground - or maybe he would fly on and on for ever and never reach the ground. Maybe it was only the Cossack Likhachov sitting down there under the wagon, but it was just as likely to be the kindest, bravest, most wonderful and marvellous man in the world, only nobody knew about him. Maybe it had been a hussar who had come for a drink of water and gone back down the hollow, but perhaps he was a man who had vanished, disappeared from the face of the earth, never to reappear.
Whatever Petya might have seen now, it wouldn't have come as a surprise. He was in a land of pure magic, where anything was possible.
He glanced up at the sky. That too was as magical as the earth. It was beginning to clear, and the clouds scudded across the tree-tops as if they wanted to uncover the stars. For a moment it seemed as if the heavens were clearing to open up a pure black sky. Then these black patches began to look like stormclouds. Then the sky seemed to soar away higher and higher; then it was falling back, falling down, and you could almost reach out and touch it.
Petya's eyes were closing and he was beginning to nod. Raindrops dripped. Low voices murmured. The horses neighed and shook themselves. Somebody snored.
'Swish, swish!' went the sabre on the stone, and all at once Petya seemed to hear the melodious strains of a lovely orchestra playing a sweet and solemn hymn he had never heard before. Petya's musical ear was as good as Natasha's, and much more acute than Nikolay's, but he had never studied music and never even thought about music, so the melodies that suddenly flooded into his mind had a special freshness and charm. The music swelled louder and clearer. A theme developed and passed from one instrument to another. They were playing a fugue, though Petya hadn't the slightest idea what a fugue was. Each instrument took up the theme, first the violins, then the horns, except they were brighter and purer than violins and horns, but half-way through each instrument blended into another one as it took over the theme almost exactly, then came a third and a fourth, until they all blended harmoniously together, then went off on their own, and blended once again in a splendid crescendo of holy music alternating with a brilliant and triumphant song of victory.
'Oh yes, I know I'm only dreaming,' Petya said to himself as he lurched forward, nodding. 'It's just a sound in my ears. But wait - maybe this is my music. Let's hear it again. Give me my music! Yes!'
He closed his eyes. And from all sides, as if they were starting a long way away, the sounds rose from a low tremor, blending in harmony, going their own ways and then blending again, coming together in the same sweet and solemn hymn. 'Oh, what a lovely sound! All I want, and just as I want it!' Petya said to himself. He tried conducting this tremendous orchestra.
'Sh! Sh! Let it die away there!' And the sounds responded. 'Come on, give me a bit more. Make it sound happier! More joy, yes, more joy!' And from hidden depths rose a great crescendo of triumphant sound. 'Now, the voices, let me hear you!' Petya commanded. And far away he heard the men's voices followed by the women's. The voices swelled in another rhythmic, triumphant crescendo. Petya yielded to their extraordinary beauty with a mixture of awe and delight.
The singing blended with the victory march, the raindrops dripped and sabre swished on stone as the horses shook themselves again and neighed, though instead of disrupting the harmony they were drawn into it. Petya had no idea how long this lasted. He was revelling in it, wondering all the while at his own sense of pleasure and feeling sorry there was no one to share it with. He was woken up by the friendly voice of Likhachov.
'Everything's ready, sir. Time to cut them Froggies in two.'
Petya opened his eyes.
'Hey, it's getting light. It really is,' he cried. The unseen horses were now visible from head to tail, and a watery light filtered down through the leafless branches. Petya shook himself, jumped to his feet, searched his pocket for a rouble to give to Likhachov and took a few trial swipes with his sword before sheathing it. The Cossacks were untying the horses and tightening the saddle-girths.
'Here comes the commander,' said Likhachov.
Denisov came out of the hut, shouted to Petya and told him to get ready.
CHAPTER 11
Working at speed in the half-light they sorted out the horses, tightened the saddle-girths and got themselves into their various groupings. Denisov stood by the hut, giving out final instructions. Their infantry moved off down the road, a hundred feet splashing through the mud. They were soon lost among the trees in the early-morning mist. The hetman gave an order to the Cossacks. Petya held his horse by the bridle, eagerly waiting for the signal to mount. His face was glowing from a good splash with cold water, and his eyes were burning. A cold shiver ran down his back, and his whole body shook with a quick, rhythmic trembling.
'Wight. Is ev'wybody weady?' said Denisov. 'Bwing the horses.'
The horses were led forward. Denisov rounded on the Cossack for leaving the saddle-girths too loose, and he swore at him as he got on his horse. Petya put one foot in th
e stirrup. His horse made its usual show of nibbling him on the leg, but Petya leapt into the saddle, oblivious of his own weight, looked round at the hussars coming up behind them in the darkness and rode over to Denisov.
'Vasily Fyodorovich, you will give me a job to do, won't you? Please . . . For God's sake . . .' he said. Denisov seemed to have forgotten Petya's existence. He looked round at him.
'I've only one thing to ask you,' he said sternly. 'Do what I say, and don't go wushing off anywhere.'
As they rode along Denisov didn't say another word to Petya or anyone else. By the time they got to the edge of the wood it really was getting light in the open country. Denisov whispered something to the hetman, and the Cossacks began riding ahead past Petya and Denisov. When they had all gone by, Denisov urged his horse down the slope. Slipping and sinking back on their haunches, the horses slithered down into the hollow with their riders. Petya kept close to Denisov. He still had the shakes all over his body, worse than before. It was getting lighter by the minute, but distant objects were still hidden in the mist. When he got to the bottom Denisov looked back and nodded to the Cossack at his side.
'Signal,' he said.
The Cossack raised his arm, and a shot rang out. Instantly they heard sounds up ahead: horses galloping off, voices shouting on all sides, more shots.
At the first sound of galloping hooves and men calling out Petya slackened the reins, lashed his horse and leapt forward, ignoring Denisov, who was shouting at him. A great glare of noonday light seemed to flash before Petya's eyes the moment he heard the shot. He galloped to the bridge. The Cossacks were moving on ahead of him. At the bridge he brushed up against a Cossack who was lagging behind and overtook him. Just in front Petya could see some men, presumably the French, running across the road from right to left. One slipped in the mud right under his horse's legs.
Cossacks were crowding round one of the peasant houses, doing something. A terrible scream came from the middle of the crowd. Petya galloped over to this crowd, and the first thing he saw was the white face and trembling jaw of a Frenchman, who had grabbed hold of a lance aimed at his chest.
'Hurrah! . . . Come on, boys . . . Our boys are here!' shouted Petya. He gave rein to his excited horse and galloped on down the village street.
He could hear shots being fired up ahead. Cossacks, hussars and scruffy Russian prisoners were running up from both sides of the road, yelling and shouting without making any sense. A plucky Frenchman in a blue coat, with a scowling red face and no cap, was defending himself with a bayonet against the hussars. By the time Petya got there the Frenchman was down. 'Too late. Again!' flashed through Petya's mind, and he galloped off towards the place where he could hear the most shooting. There was a lot of gunfire coming from the manor-house yard where he had been the night before with Dolokhov. The French had gone to ground behind a wattle-fence in among the bushes of the overgrown garden, and they were firing at the Cossacks as they poured in through the gate. As he rode up to the gate, through the gunsmoke Petya caught a glimpse of Dolokhov's pale, greenish face as he shouted to the men. 'Go on round. Wait for the infantry!' he was yelling just as Petya got there.
'I'm not waiting . . . Hurrah!' shouted Petya, and without pausing for a second he galloped towards the spot where the shots had been coming from and where the gunsmoke was thickest. A volley of shots rang out. Some bullets whistled past; others thudded home. The Cossacks and Dolokhov were galloping in through the gate after Petya. In the thick, swirling smoke the French were throwing their weapons down and rushing out of the bushes towards the oncoming Cossacks, or running away downhill towards the pond. Petya was galloping through the courtyard. Instead of holding on to the reins he was cleaving the air with weird and wonderful movements of his arms and slithering sideways out of his saddle. His horse stepped on the ashes of a camp-fire still smouldering in the early-morning light and reared back. Petya fell heavily to the wet ground. The Cossacks could see his arms and legs twitching, but his head didn't move. A bullet had gone right through his head.
After some negotiations with the senior French officer, who came out of the house with a handkerchief tied to his sword and said they were ready to surrender, Dolokhov got down from his horse and went over to Petya, who was lying there motionless with his arms outstretched.
'He's had it,' he said with a scowl, and walked back to the gate to meet Denisov, who was riding in.
'Is he dead?' yelled Denisov, who could see unmistakably even at a distance that Petya's all too familiar body, in its awkward sprawl, had no life in it.
'He's had it.' Dolokhov repeated the words, apparently with relish, and then walked over to the prisoners, who were being rapidly surrounded by the scurrying Cossacks. 'We're not taking any prisoners!' he shouted to Denisov. Denisov didn't reply. He went over to Petya, got down from his horse and with shaking hands he turned up the bloodstained face, spattered with mud and already drained of its colour.
'I've got a sweet tooth! Smashing raisins. Take the lot.' The words came back to him. And the Cossacks looked round in surprise at the sudden sound, like a dog howling, that came from Denisov as he turned away, walked over to the fence and clutched at it.
Pierre Bezukhov was one of the Russian prisoners rescued by Denisov and Dolokhov.
CHAPTER 12
The party of prisoners that Pierre belonged to was given no further instructions by the French authorities during its long trek from Moscow. But by the 22nd of October this party was no longer being escorted by the same troops and transport that had been with them when they left the city. Half the wagons carrying the dry biscuit rations that had accompanied them during the first stages of the journey had been seized by the Cossacks, and the other half had driven on ahead. Of the dismounted cavalrymen who had been marching in front of the prisoners not a man was left; every last one had disappeared. The artillery that the prisoners had seen ahead of them in the early stages had been replaced by Marshal Junot's enormous baggage-train with its escort of Westphalians. Behind the prisoners came more wagons carrying cavalry equipment.
After Vyazma the marching French, who had started out in three columns, had come together into a single mass. By now the breakdown of good order that Pierre had witnessed at the first halt outside Moscow had gone as far as it could.
The road they were marching along was strewn on both sides with the carcasses of dead horses. There was a continual succession of scruffy soldiers, stragglers from various regiments, some joining the column on the march, others dropping back. Several times there had been false alarms, and the convoy soldiers had raised their muskets, fired and rushed on headlong, trampling each other underfoot. Then they had rallied, come together again and cursed each other for their needless panic.
These three bodies travelling the road together - the cavalry wagons, the convoy of prisoners and Junot's baggage-train - still made up a complete and separate entity, though each of its parts was rapidly melting away.
One hundred and twenty cavalry wagons had set out, but only sixty were left, the others having been stolen or abandoned. A number of wagons from Junot's train had also been stolen or abandoned. Three wagons had been attacked and looted by stragglers from Davout's regiment. Listening to the Germans, Pierre had found out that this baggage-train had been more closely guarded than the prisoners, and one of their comrades, a German, had been shot by order of the marshal himself because a silver spoon belonging to him had been found among the soldier's possessions.
The convoy of prisoners was melting away faster than the other two. Three hundred and thirty men had started from Moscow, and less than a hundred were left. The prisoners were an even more irksome burden to the escorting soldiers than the cavalry equipment and Junot's baggage. They could see that saddles for the cavalry and Junot's spoons might conceivably be of some use, but why cold and starving soldiers should have to serve as sentries, guarding cold and starving Russians who were continually freezing to death or falling by the wayside, in which case they were suppos
ed to be shot - all this was beyond them and quite disgusting. And the escorting soldiers in their miserable plight seemed to be scared of giving way to the pity they felt for the prisoners and thus worsening their own situation, so they were particularly nasty and brutal towards them.
At Dorogobuzh the escorting soldiers had gone off to loot their own stores, leaving the prisoners locked in a stable, and several prisoners had escaped by tunnelling under the wall, only to be caught by the French and shot.
The arrangement made when they were leaving Moscow, whereby any officers among the prisoners were to march apart from the men, had long since been abandoned. All who could walk marched together, and at the third stage Pierre had rejoined Karatayev and the bandy-legged, lavender-grey dog that had chosen Karatayev as her master.
On the third day after leaving Moscow Karatayev had had another bout of the fever that had kept him in the Moscow hospital, and as Karatayev became weaker and weaker Pierre had kept further and further away from him. From the time Karatayev fell ill Pierre, without knowing why, had had to force himself to go anywhere near him. And when he did go near and listened to the subdued moans coming from Karatayev as he lay down to sleep at the halting-places, and noticed the smell given off by the sick man getting worse, Pierre distanced himself and stopped thinking about him.
In his prison shed Pierre had learnt, through his whole being rather than his intellect, through the process of living itself, that man was created for happiness, and happiness lies within, in the satisfaction of natural human needs, and any unhappiness arises from excess rather than deficiency. But now, during the last three weeks of the march, he had learnt another new truth that brought great consolation - he had learnt that there is nothing in the world to be frightened of. He had learnt that just as there is no situation in the world in which a man can be happy and perfectly free, neither is there any situation in which he should be unhappy and not free. He had learnt that there is a limit to suffering and a limit to freedom, and those limits are never far away; that a man who has felt discomfort from a crumpled petal in his bed of roses has suffered just as much as he was suffering now, sleeping on the bare, damp earth, with one side freezing while the other side warmed up; that when in former days he had squeezed into a pair of tight dancing-shoes he had suffered just as much as he was suffering now, walking barefoot, his footwear having disintegrated long ago, with his feet covered with sores. He learnt that when he had married his wife by his own free will (so he had thought), he had been no freer than he was now when they locked him up in a stable for the night. Of all the things he later identified as painful, though at the time he was hardly conscious of them, the worst thing was the state of his bare feet, which were blistered and scabby. (Horse-meat had a nice taste and did you good, the flavour of saltpetre from the gun-powder used as a salt-substitute was really rather nice, the weather was never very cold, it was always warm when they were marching during the daytime, and at night they had camp-fires, and the lice that made a meal of him gave him a pleasant feeling of being kept warm.) His feet were the only things that hurt during those early days.