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Volume I, Part Two, Chapter XX

The wind had fallen, black clouds, gathered low, hung over the field of battle, mingling on the horizon with the powder smoke. It was growing dark, and the glow of two burning villages showed the more clearly. The cannonade had died down, but the rattle of musketry in the rear and to the right was heard still more often and nearer at hand. As soon as Tushin, with his guns, continually driving round or over the wounded, got out of the line of fire and descended into the ravine, he was met by the staff and the adjutants, among whom were the staff officer and Zherkov, who had been sent twice and had not once reached Tushin's battery. Interrupting one another, they all gave and transmitted orders as to how and where to go, and made remarks and criticisms. Tushin gave no orders, and silently — fearing to speak because at every word he felt ready to weep without knowing why — rode behind on his artillery nag. Though the orders were to abandon the wounded, many of them dragged themselves after the troops and begged for seats on the gun carriages. The jaunty infantry officer who just before the battle had jumped out of Tushin's wattle-shed was laid, with a bullet in his stomach, on Matvévna's carriage. At the foot of the hill, a pale hussar cadet, supporting one hand with the other, came up to Tushin and asked for a seat.

— Captain, for God's sake! I've had my arm crushed, — he said timidly. — For God's sake... I can't walk. For God's sake!

It was plain that this cadet had already repeatedly asked for a lift and been refused everywhere. He asked in a hesitating and piteous voice.

— Tell them to give me a seat, for God's sake.

— Give him a seat, give him a seat, — said Tushin. — Lay a cloak for him, lad, — he said, turning to his favorite soldier. — And where is the wounded officer?

— He has been taken off, he died, — replied someone.

— Help him up. Sit down, dear fellow, sit down. Spread the cloak, Antonov.

The cadet was Rostov. He held one hand with the other and was pale, and his lower jaw trembled with feverish shivering. He was placed on Matvévna, the gun from which they had removed the dead officer. The cloak spread under him was wet with blood which stained his breeches and arm.

— What, are you wounded, my boy? — said Tushin, approaching the gun on which Rostov sat.

— No, crushed.

— Then why is there blood on the carriage? — asked Tushin.

— That was the officer, your honor, stained it, — answered the artilleryman, wiping away the blood with his coat sleeve, as if apologizing for the dirty state of the gun.

It was with difficulty that they got the guns up the rise with the aid of the infantry, and having reached the village of Gunthersdorf they halted. It had grown so dark that one could not distinguish the uniforms at ten paces off, and the musketry fire began to subside. Suddenly, shouts and the rattle of musketry were heard quite close, on the right. Bright flashes of fire could be seen in the darkness. This was the last French attack, and was met by soldiers who had ensconced themselves in the village houses. All rushed out of the village again, but Tushin's guns could not move, and the artillerymen, Tushin, and the cadet looked at one another in silence as they awaited their fate. The firing died down, and soldiers, talking animatedly, streamed out of a side street.

— Not hurt, Petrov? — asked one.

— We've given it 'em hot, mate! They won't make another push now, — said another.

— You couldn't see a thing. How they shot at their own fellows! Not a thing could you see; dark, mates! Isn't there anything to drink?

The French had been repulsed for the last time. And again and again in the complete darkness Tushin's guns moved forward, surrounded by the humming infantry as by a frame.

In the darkness, it seemed as though a gloomy unseen river was flowing always in one direction, humming with whispers and voices and the sound of hoofs and wheels. Amid the general rumble, the groans and voices of the wounded were more distinctly heard than any other sound in the darkness of the night. Their groans seemed to fill the whole of that darkness surrounding the troops. Their groans and the darkness of the night were one and the same thing. A little later, a stir arose in the moving crowd. Someone rode past on a white horse with his suite, and said something as he passed.

— What did he say? Where are we to go now? Halt, is it? Did he thank us? — came eager questions from all sides. The whole moving mass began pressing back on itself (evidently the vanguard had halted), and the rumor spread that they had been ordered to halt. All halted in the middle of the muddy road, just where they were.

Fires were lighted and the talk became more audible. Captain Tushin, having given orders to his company, sent a soldier to find a dressing station or a doctor for the cadet, and sat down by a bonfire the soldiers had kindled on the road. Rostov, too, dragged himself to the fire. From pain, cold, and damp, a feverish shivering shook his whole body. Sleep was irresistibly weighing him down, but he was kept awake by an excruciating pain in his arm, for which he could find no resting place. He kept closing his eyes, then looking at the fire, which seemed to him dazzlingly red, and at the feeble, round-shouldered figure of Tushin who was sitting cross-legged like a Turk beside him. Tushin's large, kind, intelligent eyes were fixed with sympathy and commiseration on Rostov, who saw that Tushin with his whole soul wished to help him but could not.

From all sides were heard the footsteps and talk of the infantry, who were walking, driving past, and settling down all around. The sound of voices, the tramping feet, the horses' hoofs splashing in the mud, the crackling of wood fires near and afar, merged into one tremulous rumble.

It was no longer, as before, a dark, unseen river flowing through the gloom, but a gloomy sea swelling and subsiding after a storm. Rostov looked at and listened listlessly to what passed before and around him. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted on his heels, held his hands to the blaze, and turned away his face.

— You don't mind, your honor? — he said, turning inquiringly to Tushin. — I've lost my company, your honor. I don't know where it is. Such bad luck!

With the soldier, an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came up to the fire, and addressing Tushin, asked him to have the guns moved a trifle to let a wagon go past. After him, two soldiers rushed to the fire. They were quarreling and fighting desperately, each trying to snatch from the other a boot they were both holding on to.

— You picked it up! Like hell you did! I'm the one who found it! — one of them shouted hoarsely.

Then a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloodstained leg-band, came up and in angry tones asked the artillerymen for water.

— Must one die like a dog? — he said.

Tushin told them to give the man some water. Then a cheerful soldier ran up, begging a little fire for the infantry.

— A nice little hot cinder for the infantry! Good luck to you, fellow countrymen. Thanks for the fire — we'll return it with interest, — he said, carrying away into the darkness a glowing brand.

Next came four soldiers, carrying something heavy on a cloak, and passed by the fire. One of them stumbled.

— Who the devil put the logs on the road? — muttered he.

— He's dead — why carry him? — said one of them.

— Shut up!

And they disappeared into the darkness with their burden.

— What? Does it ache? — Tushin asked Rostov in a whisper.

— Yes, it aches.

— Your honor, to the general. He is in a hut here, — said a gunner, coming up to Tushin.

— Coming, my boy.

Tushin rose and, buttoning his greatcoat and pulling it straight, stepped away from the fire.

Not far from the artillery camp, in a hut that had been prepared for him, Prince Bagration sat at dinner, talking with some chiefs of divisions who had gathered round him. There was the old general with the half-closed eyes, who had gnawed the mutton bone so eagerly, the twenty-two-year-old faultless general, flushed from a glass of vodka and the dinner, the staff officer with the signet ring, and Zherkov, uneasily glancing at them all, and Prince Andrei, pale, with compressed lips and feverishly glittering eyes.

In a corner of the hut stood a captured French flag, leaning against the wall, and the auditor with the naive face was feeling the fabric of the banner and shaking his head in perplexity — perhaps because he really was interested in the flag, or perhaps because it was hard for him, hungry as he was, to look on at a dinner where there were no places for him. In the next hut there was a French colonel, who had been taken prisoner by our dragoons. Our officers were flocking in to look at him. Prince Bagration was thanking the individual commanders and inquiring into details of the action and our losses. The regimental commander who had been introduced at Braunau was informing the prince that as soon as the action began he had withdrawn from the wood, gathered the men who were wood-cutting, and, letting them pass him, had charged with two battalions into the bayonets and had overthrown the French.

— When I saw, your excellency, that the first battalion was disordered, I stood in the road and thought: "I'll let these through and meet them with the fire of the whole battalion"— and that's what I did.

The regimental commander had so wished to do this and was so sorry he had not succeeded in doing it, that it seemed to him as if it had really happened. Perhaps it might really have been so? Could one possibly make out amid all that confusion what did or did not happen?

— By the way, I must note, your excellency, — he continued, remembering Dolokhov's conversation with Kutuzov and his last interview with the degraded officer, — that private Dolokhov, who was reduced to the ranks, took a French officer prisoner in my presence and particularly distinguished himself.

— I saw the Pavlograd hussars attack there, your excellency, — chimed in Zherkov, looking uneasily around. He had not seen the hussars all that day, but had only heard about them from an infantry officer. — They broke up two squares, your excellency.

Several of those present smiled at Zherkov's words, expecting one of his usual jokes, but noticing that what he was saying redounded to the glory of our arms and of the day's work, they assumed a serious expression, though many of them knew very well that what he was saying was a lie destitute of any foundation. Prince Bagration turned to the old colonel:

— I thank you all, gentlemen; all arms have behaved heroically: infantry, cavalry, and artillery. How was it that two guns were abandoned in the center? — he inquired, searching with his eyes for someone. (Prince Bagration did not ask about the guns on the left flank; he knew that all the guns there had been abandoned at the very beginning of the action.) — I think I sent you? — he added, turning to the staff officer on duty.

— One was smashed, — answered the staff officer, — and the other I cannot understand; I was there all the time myself and gave orders, and had only just left... It is true that it was hot there, — he added modestly.

Someone mentioned that Captain Tushin was standing close by, in the village, and had already been sent for.

— Oh, but you were there, — said Prince Bagration, addressing Prince Andrei.

— Of course, we only just missed one another, — said the staff officer, with a pleasant smile to Bolkonsky.

— I had not the pleasure of seeing you, — said Prince Andrei, coldly and abruptly. All were silent.

Tushin appeared at the threshold and made his way timidly from behind the backs of the generals. As he stepped past the generals in the crowded hut, feeling embarrassed as he always did by the sight of his superiors, he did not notice the staff of the banner and stumbled over it. Several of those present laughed.

— How was it a gun was abandoned? — asked Bagration, frowning, not so much at the captain as at those who were laughing, among whom Zherkov's voice was the loudest.

Only now, when he was confronted by the stern authorities, did his guilt and the disgrace of having lost two guns and yet remaining alive present themselves to Tushin in all their horror. He had been so excited that he had not thought of it till that moment. The officers' laughter confused him still more. He stood before Bagration with his lower jaw trembling, and was hardly able to mutter:

— I don't know... your excellency... I had no men, your excellency.

— You might have taken some from the covering troops.

That there were no covering troops, Tushin did not say, though it was the perfectly plain truth. He was afraid of getting some other officer into trouble, and silently fixed his eyes on Bagration as a schoolboy who has blundered looks at an examiner.

The silence lasted some time. Prince Bagration, apparently not wishing to be severe, found nothing to say; the others did not venture to intervene. Prince Andrei looked at Tushin from under his brows and his fingers twitched nervously.

— Your excellency! — Prince Andrei broke the silence with his abrupt voice, — you were pleased to send me to Captain Tushin's battery. I went there and found two thirds of the men and horses knocked out, two guns smashed, and no supports at all.

Prince Bagration and Tushin both looked now with equal intensity at Bolkonsky, who spoke with suppressed agitation.

— And if your excellency will allow me to express my opinion, — he continued, — we owe today's success more to the action of that battery and the heroic endurance of Captain Tushin and his company than to anything else, — said Prince Andrei, and without awaiting a reply he instantly rose and left the table.

Prince Bagration looked at Tushin, evidently reluctant to show distrust in Bolkonsky's pointed opinion yet not feeling able to fully credit it, bent his head, and told Tushin that he could go. Prince Andrei went out after him.

— Thank you, you saved me, my dear fellow, — said Tushin to him.

Prince Andrei gave him a look, but said nothing and went away. He felt sad and depressed. It was all so strange, so unlike what he had hoped.

— — — —

"Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will all this end?" thought Rostov, looking at the changing shadows before him. The pain in his arm became more and more agonizing. Irresistible sleep weighed him down, red rings danced before his eyes, and the impression of those voices and faces and a sense of loneliness merged with the physical pain. It was they, these soldiers — wounded and unwounded — it was they who were crushing, weighing down, and twisting the sinews and scorching the flesh in his broken arm and shoulder. To rid himself of them he closed his eyes.

For a moment he dozed, but in that short interval he saw in a dream innumerable things: he saw his mother and her large white hand, he saw Sonya's thin little shoulders, Natasha's eyes and laughter, Denisov with his voice and mustache, and Telyanin, and all that affair with Telyanin and Bogdanych. That affair was the same thing as this soldier with the harsh voice, and it was that affair and this soldier that were so agonizingly, incessantly pulling and pressing his arm and always dragging it in one direction. He tried to get away from them, but they would not for an instant let his shoulder go. It would not have ached — it would have been well — if only they had not pulled it, but it was impossible to get rid of them.

He opened his eyes and looked up. The black canopy of night hung less than a yard above the glow of the coals. Flakes of falling snow were fluttering in that light. Tushin had not returned, the doctor had not come. He was alone, except for a soldier who was sitting naked on the other side of the fire, warming his thin yellow body.

"Nobody wants me!" thought Rostov. "There is no one to help me or pity me. Yet I was once at home, strong, happy, and loved." He sighed and involuntarily groaned with the sigh.

— Does it hurt? — asked the soldier, shaking his shirt over the fire, and not waiting for an answer he gave a grunt and added: — What a lot of men have been laid out today — frightful!

Rostov did not listen to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes fluttering above the fire, and remembered a Russian winter at his warm, bright home, his fluffy fur coat, his quickly gliding sleigh, his healthy body, and all the affection and care of his family. "And why did I come here?" he thought.

Next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant of Bagration's detachment gathered itself together and joined Kutuzov's army. — — — —