'Order? Who to?' asked the colonel grimly.
'Well, Colonel, I don't know, who to,' answered the cornet gravely. 'All I know is the prince gave me a command. "Ride down," he said, "and tell the colonel the hussars are to double back and burn the bridge down." '
Zherkov was followed by an officer of the commander's entourage, who rode up with exactly the same order. And after him came the stout figure of Nesvitsky on a Cossack horse, which could hardly manage a gallop with him on board.
'Colonel,' he shouted, still galloping, 'I told you to burn the bridge, and someone's messed things up. It's a madhouse over there, everything's all over the place.'
The colonel stopped the regiment, unhurried, and turned to Nesvitsky.
'You haff tell me about ze kindling,' he said, 'but not about ze burning - you never said a word.'
'My good man,' said Nesvitsky, as he came to a halt, removed his cap and passed a podgy hand over his sweaty hair, 'was it really necessary to say "burn the bridge" when you were packing it with kindling materials?'
'Don't you "gut man" me, Mr Staff Officer,' said Schubert, his marked German accent worsening. 'You deed not tell me to set fire to ze brich! I know my serfice, and ees my habit to carry out strictly mine orders. You said ze bridge vill be burnt, but who iss going to burn it I by Holy Spirit couldn't tell.'
'Well, that's always the way,' said Nesvitsky with a wave of his arm. 'What are you doing here?' he added, turning to Zherkov.
'Same as you. Look, you're all wet through. Let me help . . .'
'But Mr Staff Officer, vat you say vas . . .' the colonel was insisting in an aggrieved tone.
'Colonel,' interrupted the first officer, 'we must hurry, or the enemy will have moved up their guns and started using grapeshot.'
The colonel looked dumbly from him to the stout staff officer, then to Zherkov, and he scowled.
'I vill ze brich fire,' he said with great solemnity and the air of a man determined to do his duty, however difficult they made things for him.
Spurring his horse with his long muscular legs, as though it were the guilty party, the colonel rode forward and ordered number two squadron, in which Rostov was serving under Denisov's command, to return to the bridge.
'I was right,' thought Rostov, 'he does want to test me!' His heart missed a beat and the blood rushed to his face. 'I'll show him whether I'm a coward or not!' he thought. That same grave look which had overtaken them under fire returned to every cheerful face in the squadron. Rostov stared closely at his adversary, the colonel, searching his face for confirmation of his suspicions. But the colonel never once glanced at Rostov; as always he was looking ahead sternly and solemnly. The word of command was given.
'Come on, let's get on with it!' said several voices around him. Sabres snagging in the reins and spurs jingling, the hussars dismounted at speed, without knowing what they were going to do. The soldiers crossed themselves. Rostov had stopped looking at the colonel; there was no time. His one great dread, which he felt with a sinking heart, was of falling behind the hussars. His hand shook as he gave his horse to an orderly, and he could feel his heart pumping blood. Denisov rode past, rearing back and calling out. Rostov could see nothing but hussars all round him, running everywhere with jingling spurs and clanking sabres.
'Stretcher here!' called a voice behind him. It never occurred to Rostov what stretcher meant. He just ran on, trying to keep to the front. But right by the bridge, running along without looking down, he slipped on the well-trodden mud, staggered and fell on his hands. The others ran round him.
'For boss ze zides, Captain,' he heard the shout from the colonel who must have galloped on ahead, and had now reined in his horse by the bridge, watching with triumph and delight written on his face.
Rostov wiped his muddy hands on his riding breeches and looked round at his adversary. He made as if to run on, with the idea that the further he could get the better it would be, but Bogdanych, without recognizing him or even looking at him, gave a shout.
'Who ees mittel of ze brich? On ze right! Ensign, get back!' he shouted furiously, rounding on Denisov, who had ridden with swaggering bravado on to the boards of the bridge.
'Why run the risk, Captain? You should dismount,' said the colonel.
'If the bullet has your number on it . . .' said Vaska Denisov, turning in the saddle.
Meanwhile Nesvitsky, Zherkov and the officer from the commander's entourage were standing together out of range, watching the two groups of men, those in yellow shakos, gold-braided dark-green jackets and blue breeches swarming towards the bridge, and those on the other bank in the blue greatcoats and some with horses, easily recognizable as artillerymen approaching in the distance.
'Will they burn it down or not? Who'll get there first? Will they get through and set fire to it, or will the French get their grapeshot going and mow them down?' These were the questions that each man instinctively asked himself with a sinking heart, in the great mass of troops looking down on the bridge. In the bright evening sunlight they were staring down at the bridge and the hussars, and across at the blue greatcoats on the other side, advancing with guns and bayonets.
'Ugh! The hussars are in for it!' said Nesvitsky. 'They're within range of that grapeshot now.'
'He shouldn't have taken so many men,' said one of the officers of the suite.
'Quite right,' said Nesvitsky. 'Could've sent two brave boys. Wouldn't have made any difference.'
'Oh no, your Excellency,' put in Zherkov, his eyes fixed on the hussars, but still with that innocent manner which made it difficult to tell whether he was serious or not. 'Oh no, sir. The very idea! Send two men? He wouldn't get the Vladimir medal and ribbon for that, would he? As things stand, if we get wiped out he'll still be able to recommend the squadron for honours and go and collect a personal ribbon. Our good friend Bogdanych knows how things get done.'
'Hey!' exclaimed the first officer, 'here comes the grapeshot.'
He pointed to the French guns, which had been taken down from the carriages and were being swiftly trundled into position.
On the French side, smoke rose in puffs from the groups with cannons - one, two, three almost simultaneously, and just as the sound of the first shot reached them a fourth puff rose up. Two more bangs, one right after the other, then the fourth.
'Oh no!' moaned Nesvitsky, clutching at the officer's arm as though in intense pain. 'Look, there's a man down! He's down!'
'Two, I think.'
'If I were the Tsar, I'd never go to war,' said Nesvitsky, recoiling.
The French cannons were swiftly reloaded. The blue-coated infantry were sprinting towards the bridge. More puffs of smoke rose at scattered intervals, and the grapeshot sizzled, rattling down on the bridge. But this time Nesvitsky couldn't see what was happening at the bridge. Dense smoke rose from it. The hussars had done it, they had set fire to the bridge, and the French batteries were firing now not to stop them but just because the guns were there and they had someone to fire at.
The French had managed three rounds of grapeshot before the hussars got back to the men holding their horses. Two were badly directed, and the shot flew over them high and wide, but the last volley fell right in the middle of the group of hussars and three men were felled.
Rostov, preoccupied by his relations with Bogdanych, had stepped on to the bridge without knowing what to do. There was no one to slash at with his sword, which was how he had always imagined a battle would go, and he couldn't contribute to the bridge-burning because, unlike the other soldiers, he had forgotten to bring any straw. He was just standing there looking around when suddenly there was a great rattling sound on the bridge, like a scattering of nuts, and one of the hussars standing right next to him fell with a groan against the railing. Rostov ran to him along with the others. Again a voice called out, 'Stretcher here!' Four men took hold of the hussar and started to lift him. 'Ooooh! . . . Jesus Christ, leave me alone!' screamed the wounded man, but they went ahead, lifted him and laid him on a stretcher. Nikolay Rostov turned away and began staring into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, at the sun, as if he were looking for something. How lovely that sky looked, how blue and calm and deep! Oh, the brightness and magnificence of that setting sun! The warm glow of the water on the far Danube! Even lovelier were the distant hills that shone so blue beyond the Danube, the convent, the mysterious gorges, the pine woods misted over to their tops . . . everything so calm and happy . . . 'I would ask for nothing, nothing in the world if only I could be there,' thought Rostov. 'In me, only in me and that sunshine, there is so much happiness, and here . . . all this groaning and agony, this feeling of dread, all the uncertainty, this rushing about . . . There they are, shouting again, everybody's running back somewhere, and I'm running too, and here is death - hanging over me, all around me . . . One flash, and I'll never see that sunshine, that water, that mountain gorge ever again . . .'
Just then the sun disappeared behind the clouds, and more stretcher-bearers came into view ahead of Rostov. And the dread of death and of the stretchers, and the loss of all sunshine and life, everything fused into a single sensation of sickening horror.
'Dear God, who art in heaven, save, forgive and deliver me,' Rostov whispered to himself.
The hussars ran back to their waiting horses; their voices grew louder and more settled; the stretchers disappeared from sight.
'Well, my boy, you've had a weal sniff of powder!' Vaska Denisov shouted in his ear.
'It's all over, but I'm a coward. I really am,' thought Rostov, and with a heavy sigh he received Little Rook, who was resting one of his legs, from the orderly and prepared to mount.
'What was that - grapeshot?' he asked Denisov.
'Too damn twue!' cried Denisov. 'Hewoes, all of us, but wotten work! A cavalwy charge is fine - chop the dogs down - but for God's sake - that was pwoviding target pwactice!'
And Denisov rode away to join the group that had stopped close to Rostov: the colonel, Nesvitsky, Zherkov and the officer of the suite.
'Anyway, nobody seems to have noticed,' Rostov thought to himself. And nobody had. All of them knew the feeling that this ensign, never before under fire, was now experiencing for the first time.
'This'll look good when they write it up,' said Zherkov. 'I'll get my promotion to second lieutenant before the day's out, eh?'
'Please to inform ze prince I have ze brich burnt,' said the colonel, a picture of bonhomie and triumph.
'And what if he wants to know about losses?'
'Nossing vors mentioning,' boomed the colonel. 'Two hussars vounded, one dead in his tracks,' he said with a delight that was obvious to all. He could not resist a smile of smug contentment as he relished the splendid sound of that phrase, 'dead in his tracks'.
CHAPTER 9
General Kutuzov's Russian army of thirty-five thousand men was retreating along the Danube, pursued by a hundred thousand Frenchmen under Napoleon. They were getting a hostile reception from the local populations, and had lost all confidence in their allies; they were running out of supplies, and were forced to operate in ways that no one could ever have foreseen. They halted whenever they were overtaken by the enemy and defended themselves in rearguard action, but only long enough to secure further retreat without losing their heavy equipment. They had fought at Lambach, Amstetten and Melk, but, for all their courage and tenacity - acknowledged even by the enemy - the only consequence was an even faster retreat by the Russians. The Austrian troops that had escaped capture at Ulm and joined Kutuzov at Braunau had now separated from the Russian army, and all Kutuzov had at his disposal were his own weak and exhausted forces. There could be no question now of defending Vienna. Gone was the elaborate plan of attack handed to Kutuzov in Vienna by the Austrian Hofkriegsrath, based on the latest scientific laws of field strategy; now Kutuzov's sole aim - and even this was almost impossible - was to survive with his army, unlike Mack at Ulm, and somehow join up with the fresh troops marching from Russia.
On the 28th of October Kutuzov took his troops across to the left bank of the Danube and halted for the first time, with the river separating his army from the bulk of the enemy. On the 30th he attacked Mortier's division, which was still on the left bank, and defeated it. In this action for the first time they captured some trophies - a flag, several cannons and two enemy generals. For the first time in a fortnight of retreating the Russian troops had halted, fought, won the field and driven the French back. The troops were without clothing and exhausted, they had lost a third of their strength wounded, killed or missing; many of the sick and wounded had been abandoned on the other side of the Danube with a letter from Kutuzov commending them to the humanity of the enemy; and they still had casualties beyond the capacity of the local infirmaries and makeshift hospitals - but none of this could prevent a great surge in the troops' morale following the halt at Krems and the victory over Mortier. Wildly optimistic rumours (without any foundation) ran through the whole army and even through headquarters: that the columns from Russia were almost here, that the Austrians had won a battle and that Napoleon was on the run with his tail between his legs.
During this engagement Prince Andrey had been in attendance on the Austrian General Schmidt, who had been killed in the field. His own horse had been wounded, and he had received a slight bullet wound to the arm. As a mark of special favour on the part of the commander-in-chief, he was dispatched with news of this victory to the Austrian court, now at Brno rather than Vienna, which was under French threat. On the night of the battle, still excited but not weary (despite Prince Andrey's apparently slender build he could bear fatigue better than the strongest of men), he had ridden into Krems with a report from Dokhturov to Kutuzov and was then sent straight on with a special dispatch to Brno. This commission, apart from the decoration it would bring, meant an important step towards promotion.
It was a dark but starry night and the road shone black against the white snow that had fallen on the day of the battle. Prince Andrey bowled along in his post-chaise, his mind filled with images of battle, pleasantly anticipating the effect that his news of victory would create, and still enjoying the memory of his commander-in-chief and his comrades sending him on his way. His feelings were those of a man who has found the beginnings of a long-sought happiness. The moment he closed his eyelids, his ears rang with the rattle of muskets and the boom of cannon-fire, sounds that blended with the rumble of the wheels and the sensation of victory. First he began to dream that the Russians were on the run and he had been killed, then he would wake up with a start and realize with great relief that none of this had happened - it was the French who were running away. Once more he savoured the details of their victory, including his own courage and steadiness under fire; then, fully reassured, he began to doze off . . . The dark, starry night was followed by a bright and sunny morning. The snow was thawing in the sunshine, the horses were running well and on either side of the road new and different kinds of forest, fields and trees flew by.
At one posting-station he caught up with a convoy of Russian wounded. The Russian officer in charge of the transport sprawled back in the leading wagon, swearing volubly at a soldier. In each of the long German carts half a dozen pale-faced, bandaged and filthy casualties were being jolted along the stony road. Some of them were talking (he could hear Russian being spoken), others were munching bread, but the worst of the wounded gazed out impassively as the courier's carriage went trotting by, showing no more concern than the feeblest of sick children.
Prince Andrey told the driver to stop, and asked a soldier what battle they had been in when they were wounded.
'Day before yesterday on the Danube,' answered the soldier. Prince Andrey took out his purse and gave the soldier three gold pieces.
'For all of you,' he added, addressing an officer who now came up. 'Let's see you get better, boys,' he said to the soldiers. 'There's a lot more work to be done.'
'Any news, sir?' asked the officer, eager for conversation.
'Yes, good news! . . . Drive on!' he called out, and off they went.
It was quite dark when Prince Andrey drove into Brno, and found himself surrounded by tall mansions, well-lit shops, houses with bright windows, street lamps, fine carriages rattling down the streets and the whole atmosphere of a great living town which is so appealing to a soldier back from camp. Prince Andrey had lost a night's sleep on the hurried journey, but now, as he drove up to the palace, he felt even more alert than he had on the previous evening. His eyes had a feverish glint in them, and all manner of thoughts raced through his mind with remarkable clarity. As he ran over every last detail of the battle, his ideas were not now blurred but sharp and concise, just as he could see himself presenting them to Emperor Francis. He also ran over all the casual questions that might be put to him, and the answers he would provide. He assumed he would be taken straight to the Emperor, but no, at the main entrance to the palace an official ran out to meet him, saw that he was a special messenger and took him round to another entrance.
'Down the corridor on your right you will find the duty adjutant, your Excellency,' said the official. 'He will take you to the minister of war.'
On receiving Prince Andrey, the duty adjutant asked him to wait and went in to see the war minister. Five minutes later he returned, bowing low with great courtesy and, ushering Prince Andrey ahead of him, led him across the corridor and into a private room where the war minister was at work. The adjutant seemed to be using this exaggerated courtesy to protect himself from any attempt at familiarity on the part of the Russian aide. Prince Andrey's joyful enthusiasm was considerably dampened as he walked to the door of the minister's room. He felt humiliated, and the sense of humiliation soon transformed itself imperceptibly into a quite unjustified belief that they were treating him with contempt. His fertile mind immediately hit on the right attitude for him to adopt to be able to treat them, the adjutant and the minister of war, with equal contempt. 'They've never smelled powder. I'm sure they think winning victories is the easiest thing in the world!' he thought. His eyes narrowed with sco