r we can fire,' said the general, turning to the artillery officer. 'A bit of fun to relieve the boredom.'
'Man the guns!' At this command the gunners instantly left the shelter of their camp fires and came running up, keen to start loading.
'Number one!' came the order. Number one cannon recoiled smartly with a deafening metallic boom. The ball whistled out over the heads of our men down below and flew across, but fell a long way short of the enemy. A puff of rising smoke showed where it had landed and exploded.
The faces of the soldiers and officers lit up at the sound. They all got to their feet and went to watch the movements of our troops down below, looking for all the world like tiny creatures in the palm of your hand, and the movements of the advancing enemy up ahead. At that moment the sun came fully out from behind the clouds and the wonderful bang of that single shot, melting into blazing sunlight, gave them all a feeling of fun and high spirits.
CHAPTER 7
Down on the bridge two enemy cannonballs had whistled over them, and the bridge itself was crammed with people. Half-way across stood Prince Nesvitsky, who had dismounted and was now leaning with his portly figure squashed heavily into the railings. He kept glancing back in amusement at his Cossack, who was standing a few paces behind him holding both horses by their bridles. Every time Nesvitsky tried to walk on, the crush of soldiers and wagons forced him to stop and squeezed him back against the railings. He simply had to smile.
'Hey, you, my boy,' said the Cossack to a driver who was forcing his wagon through the mass of walking soldiers flattened against his wheels and horses, 'what do you think you're doing? You'll have to wait. Look, the general wants to get through.'
But the convoy driver, unimpressed by the mention of a general, just yelled at the soldiers who were blocking his way, 'Come on, boys, get over to the left! Hang on a minute!' But the boys themselves, shoulder to shoulder, bayonets clinking together, were surging across the bridge in one great mass. Looking down over the railing, Prince Nesvitsky could see the splashing low waves of the fast-moving Enns as they rippled and swirled, chasing each other and crashing against the bridge-supports. Then looking back along the bridge he saw the same kind of formless living tidal wave of soldiers, with their covered shakos,7 knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and beneath the shakos the broad faces and sunken cheeks of men reduced to an apathetic weariness, their legs tramping across the boards of the bridge through a thick layer of sticky mud. Sometimes amid the featureless waves of soldiers, like a fleck of white foam on the waves of the Enns, an officer in his cloak would wriggle through, his face looking quite different from those of the soldiers around him. Sometimes, like a splinter of wood borne on the current, an individual would be swirled across the bridge amid the waves of infantrymen - a hussar walking without his horse, an orderly or a civilian. Sometimes a baggage-wagon belonging to a company commander or some other officer would struggle across like a floating log, hemmed in on all sides, piled up high and draped with leather covers.
'It's like a dam-burst!' said the Cossack, stopping helplessly. 'Are there many more after you?'
'Oh, must be a million!' said a soldier in a torn coat, winking cheerfully as he disappeared from sight. Just behind him strode an old soldier.
'If he' (the enemy) 'has a go at the bridge now,' said the old soldier gloomily, turning to a comrade, 'you'll forget about scratching yourself.' And he too passed out of sight. Then came another soldier riding on a wagon.
'Where the hell did you put the leg-rags?' said an orderly, scrambling after the wagon and rummaging in the back. He and the wagon passed by.
Next came some high-spirited soldiers who had obviously been at the bottle.
'Yes, up with the butt he went, and give him a smack in the teeth,' said one soldier in a tucked-up greatcoat, gleefully punching upwards with his arm.
'Nice bit of ham,' laughed another one. And on they went. Nesvitsky never did find out who got smashed in the teeth and where the ham came into it.
'Look at 'em running! He lets one go, and you'd think they were all getting killed,' said an infuriated NCO, full of scorn.
'It went right over my 'ead, Sarge, that cannonball did,' said a young soldier with a huge mouth, hardly able to stop himself laughing. 'Nearly fainted, didn't I? Put the fear of God in me, that did!' said the soldier, making a kind of boast out of being scared.
He too went on his way. Along came a wagon different from all the previous ones, a German cart pulled by two horses, with what seemed like a houseful of stuff on top. The horses were led by a German, and a splendid brindle cow with an enormous udder was tied at the back. Sitting on feather mattresses were a woman with a tiny baby, an older woman and a young, rather pretty German girl with bright red cheeks. They must have been country people on the move, with a special permit to travel. All the soldiers' eyes turned to the women, and as the wagon trundled by at walking pace the two younger women were the only subject of conversation. Every face smiled virtually the same smile; every man thought his salacious thoughts about one of them.
'Hey, pumpernickel's on the road!'
'Sell us your missus,' said another soldier to the German, who was striding on, alarmed and angry but not looking up.
'Tarted herself up a bit, hasn't she? Trollops!'
'Wouldn't mind being billeted on them, Fedotov!'
'Seen worse, mate.'
'Where are you heading for?' asked the infantry officer, eating an apple and half-smiling as he stared at the pretty girl. The German father shut his eyes as if to say he didn't understand.
'Here you are,' said the officer, offering the apple to the girl. She smiled and took it. Nesvitsky was no different from the rest - he couldn't take his eyes off the women till they had passed by. When they had gone, they were followed by the same soldiers saying the same things, and then suddenly everything stopped. It was the usual thing - the horses in a company wagon had got themselves into a tangle at the end of the bridge, and the whole crowd had to stand and wait.
'Why are we waiting? Who's in charge?' said the soldiers. 'Who do you think you're shoving? Go to hell? Just hang on a minute. Damn sight worse if he sets fire to the bridge. Look, there's an officer got stuck too.' The voices came from the standing crowd, as men looked round at one another and everybody pressed forward to get off the bridge.
As he was looking down at the waters of the Enns flowing under the bridge, Nesvitsky suddenly heard a sound he had never heard before . . . something hurtling towards him . . . something big, and then a great splash in the water.
'They've got our range!' said a grim-faced soldier near by as he looked towards the sound.
'He's just telling us to get a move on,' said another uneasily. The crowd moved on. Nesvitsky realized it was a cannonball.
'Hey, Cossack, give me my horse!' he said. 'You there, stand aside! Stand aside! Get out of the way!'
With a great effort he managed to struggle to his horse. Shouting non-stop, he began to move forward. The soldiers pulled back to let him through, but soon squashed in on him again, crushing his leg, and those nearest him were not to blame, because they were being shoved even harder from behind.
'Nesvitsky! Nesvitsky! You, old wogue!' called a hoarse voice from behind him.
Nesvitsky looked round and there, fifteen paces away, separated by the seething mass of moving infantry, he saw the red-and-black shaggy figure of Vaska Denisov with his cap on the back of his head, and his cloak flung jauntily over one shoulder.
'Tell 'em to make way, the damned devils!' roared Denisov, who seemed to be wildly excited. His gleaming, coal-black eyes were rolling, their whites all bloodshot, and he was brandishing his sheathed sword, clasped in a small bare hand as red as his face.
'Hey! Vaska!' Nesvitsky called back with delight. 'What are you doing here?'
'The squadwon can't get thwough!' roared Vaska Denisov with a snarl that bared his white teeth, putting the spurs to his fine black thoroughbred Bedouin. The horse's ears kept twitching as it brushed up against the bayonets; it was snorting and spattering foam from the bit, its hooves clanging on the boards of the bridge, and it seemed all set to leap over the railings, if only its rider would let it.
'What's all this! A wight lot of sheep! . . . Out of the woad! . . . Let me fwough! . . . Stay where you are! You and your damned wagon! I'll cut you to pieces!' he roared, actually drawing his sword and beginning to brandish it.
The soldiers, looking quite terrified, squeezed closer together, and Denisov joined Nesvitsky.
'How come you aren't drunk today?' said Nesvitsky, as he rode up.
'No time to get dwunk!' answered Vaska Denisov. 'They've been dwagging the wegiment here, there and evwywhere all day. Fighting's all wight, but God knows what this is all about!'
'You're looking very smart today!' said Nesvitsky, looking at the new cloak and saddle cloth.
Denisov smiled, reached into his sabretache8 and pulled out a handkerchief reeking of scent, which he shoved under Nesvitsky's nose.
'Mustn't get things wong, I'm going into battle! Shaved, cleaned my teeth and put on a bit of scent!'
Nesvitsky's imposing figure, the presence alongside him of his Cossack and Denisov's determination based on much sword-waving and lusty shouting - all of this produced so great an effect that they did manage to get through to the other end of the bridge and halt the infantry. There Nesvitsky found the colonel to whom he was to deliver the command. Mission completed, he set off to ride back.
Having cleared the route, Denisov stopped at the bridge. Casually reining in his mount, which was neighing to the other horses and stamping its hoof, he watched as his squadron came towards him. The hollow clang of hooves on the boards of the bridge sounded like lots of horses galloping, and the squadron rode four abreast, officers leading, across the bridge and on to the far bank.
The halted infantrymen, crowded together in the trampled mud near the bridge, looked on as the clean, smart hussars rode past them so stylishly, with that special feeling of unfriendly rivalry and derision which different branches of the service usually show to each other when they meet.
'Pretty boys, aren't they? Do well in the circus!'
'Useless lot. Showmen and showhorses!' said another voice.
'Infantrymen, no dust please!' joked a hussar, as his horse pranced up and splattered an infantry soldier with mud.
'I'd like to see you marching two days with a pack on your back. Bit of muck on your tassels,' said the infantryman, wiping the mud off his face with his sleeve, 'More like a bird than a man up there!'
'Zikin, we should get you on a horse. What a rider!' joked a corporal to a skinny soldier, stooping under the weight of his pack.
'Put a stick between your legs - that's your kind of horse,' the hussar called back.
CHAPTER 8
The rest of the infantrymen funnelled on to the bridge and hurried across. Eventually all the baggage-wagons were over, there was less of a crush and the last battalion strode on to the bridge. Only the hussars of Denisov's squadron were left on the far side of the river facing the enemy. The enemy, visible at a distance from the opposite hillside, could not yet be seen from the bridge below, because the river valley created a horizon not more than half a mile away at the top of the rising ground. Ahead lay an open space where the only movement came from the odd little group of our patrolling Cossacks. Suddenly along the road on the opposite slope some troops and artillery appeared; the men were wearing blue greatcoats. It was the French. A Cossack patrol trotted back downhill. The officers and men of Denisov's squadron chatted on, trying to ignore all this and look elsewhere, but every last one of them had his mind on what was up there on the hillside and nothing else; they kept glancing at dark patches appearing on the skyline, which they knew to be enemy forces. The weather had cleared during the afternoon, and the sun shone brightly as it began to go down over the Danube and the dark surrounding hills. It was quiet. Except that now and then the far hillside rang with sounds: a bugle call or the enemy shouting. No one but a few patrolling men stood now between the squadron and the enemy. A mere half-mile of empty space separated the two sides. The enemy held their fire, increasing the sense of that dark, menacing, mysterious and intangible dividing line that exists between two warring armies.
'One step across that dividing line, so like the one between the living and the dead, and you enter an unknown world of suffering and death. What will you find there? Who will be there? There, just beyond that field, that tree, that sunlit roof? No one knows, and yet you want to know. You dread crossing that line, and yet you still want to cross it. You know sooner or later you will have to go across and find out what is there beyond it, just as you must inevitably find out what lies beyond death. Yet here you are, fit and strong, carefree and excited, with men all around you just the same - strong, excited and full of life.' This is what all men think when they get a sight of the enemy, or they feel it if they do not think it, and it is this feeling that gives a special lustre and a delicious edge to the awareness of everything that is now happening.
High on the enemy slope a puff of smoke indicated a shot, and a cannonball whistled over the heads of the hussar squadron. The officers, who had been standing together, scattered to their various posts. The hussars began to ease their horses back into line. The whole squadron was silent. All the men were watching the enemy ahead and waiting for an order from the squadron commander. Another cannonball flew over, then a third. They were definitely firing at the hussars, but the cannonballs soared with their steady whine right over their heads and landed somewhere behind them. The hussars didn't look back, but at the sound of each flying ball, as if responding to an order, the entire squadron, a sea of faces so alike yet so different, rose in the stirrups, each man holding his breath as the ball whizzed by, then sank down again. The soldiers didn't turn their heads, but they angled glances at each other, curious to note the effect on their comrades. Every face from Denisov's down to the bugler's showed about the lips and chin the same suggestion of a struggle between anxiety and excitement. The sergeant surveyed the men with a scowl, as though threatening punishment. Officer-cadet Mironov ducked every time a cannonball flew over. Out on the left flank, Rostov on his Little Rook - a handsome mount despite the weakness in his legs - looked rather like a cheerful schoolboy appearing at a public examination which he knows he is going to pass with flying colours. He looked at them all coolly and closely, as though inviting them to notice how calm he was under fire. But despite his best efforts even his face showed about the mouth that same suggestion of living through something new and dangerous.
'Who's that bobbing up and down? Officer-cadet Miwonov! That's not wight! Watch me!' roared Denisov, unable to settle in one place and galloping up and down in front of the squadron.
Vaska Denisov, with his snub-nosed face, black hair, his small stocky figure and the sinewy hand with its hairy little fingers clasping the hilt of his naked sword, looked exactly his normal self, as he did in the evening with a couple of bottles inside him, only a bit redder still in the face. Tossing back his mane of hair like a bird drinking, he ruthlessly drove the spurs on his little feet into his good horse Bedouin, reared right back in the saddle and galloped across to the far flank of the squadron, where he roared at the men in a hoarse voice, telling them to look to their pistols. Then he rode over to Kirsten. The staff captain on his rather plump, staid old mare jogged towards him at a gentle walking pace. The staff captain's face with its long whiskers was as stern as ever, but his eyes gleamed brighter than usual.
'Well,' he said to Denisov, 'there won't be any fighting. You watch, we shall pull back.'
'It's widiculous! What the hell are we doing?' growled Denisov. 'Ah, Wostov!' he called to the ensign, noticing his beaming face. 'This is it!' And he smiled approval, visibly pleased at the sight of the ensign. Rostov had now achieved perfect happiness. Just then the commanding officer appeared on the bridge. Denisov galloped over to him.
'Sir, let's wide into the attack! I'll wun 'em back!'
'What do you mean, attack?' said the colonel languidly, scowling as if annoyed by a passing fly. 'Why are you hanging about here? You can see the flanks are retreating. Lead the squadron back.'
The squadron crossed the bridge and passed unscathed out of the enemy's range. Number two squadron followed on behind, and the Cossacks brought up the rear, leaving the far bank deserted.
Once over the bridge, the two squadrons of the Pavlograd regiment retired uphill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl Schubert (known to all by his patronymic, Bogdanych), had come over to join Denisov's squadron, and was now riding at walking pace not far from Rostov, ignoring him even though this was the first time they had met since the Telyanin affair. Rostov, conscious of being at the front in the hands of a man that he had wronged, couldn't take his eyes off the colonel's athletic back, fair hair and red neck. One moment, Rostov imagined that Bogdanych was only pretending to ignore him, and that his main purpose was now to test the ensign's courage, so he kept drawing himself up and looking around cheerfully. The next, he fancied that Bogdanych was riding close to him because he wanted to show off his own valour. Then the thought struck him that his adversary was about to launch the squadron into a hopeless attack simply in order to punish him, Rostov. This led to another idea - when the attack was over the colonel would come to him as he lay there wounded and magnanimously extend the hand of reconciliation.
Then the colonel was approached by a familiar figure in the Pavlograd hussars, that of the stiff-shouldered Zherkov, who had recently left the regiment. After his dismissal from the staff of the commander-in-chief, he had not remained with them because, as he put it, he was not fool enough to slog on at the front when he could get more pay for doing nothing on the staff, and he had wangled an appointment as orderly to Prince Bagration. Now he rode over to his old colonel with an order from the rearguard commander.
'Colonel,' he said, with his usual moroseness, addressing Rostov's adversary, and looking round at his former comrades, 'the order is to halt, go back and burn the bridge down.'