The regimental commander turned to Prince Bagration, entreating him to ride back, because here it was too dangerous. “Please, Your Excellency, for God’s sake!” he repeated, glancing for confirmation at the officer of the suite, who turned away from him. “There, kindly see!” He drew attention to the bullets that constantly shrieked, sang, and whistled around them. He spoke in the same tone of entreaty and reproach in which a carpenter speaks to a gentleman who has picked up an ax: “We’re used to it, but you’ll get blisters on your hands.” He spoke as if he himself could not be killed by these bullets, and his half-closed eyes gave his words a still more persuasive expression. The staff officer joined in the regimental commander’s admonitions; but Prince Bagration did not respond to them and merely ordered the men to stop shooting and line up so as to make room for the two expected battalions. While he was speaking, the rising wind, as with an invisible hand, drew from right to left the curtain of smoke that had concealed the hollow, and the hill opposite, with the French moving over it, opened out before them. All eyes were involuntarily turned to this French column that was moving towards them, winding down the terraces of the slope. The soldiers’ shaggy hats were already visible; one could already distinguish the officers from the men; one could see their standard fluttering against its staff.
“Nice marching,” said someone in Bagration’s suite.
The head of the column was already down in the hollow. The confrontation was to take place on this side of the slope…
The remnants of our regiment which had been in action, lining up hastily, moved to the right; from behind them, scattering the stragglers, came the two battalions of the sixth chasseurs in good order. They had not yet reached Bagration, but one could already hear the heavy, weighty tread of a whole mass of men marching in step. On the left flank, closest of all to Bagration, marched a company commander, a round-faced, stately man with a stupid, happy expression on his face, the same one who had come running from the lean-to. He was obviously thinking of nothing at that moment but the fine figure he would cut as he marched past his superior.
With a parade-like self-satisfaction, he marched lightly on his muscular legs, as if floating, holding himself straight without the least effort, and distinguishing himself by this lightness from the heavy tread of the soldiers who marched in step with him. He carried by his leg an unsheathed, thin, and narrow sword (a curved little sword, not resembling a weapon), and he lithely turned his whole strong body, looking now at his superior, now behind him, without losing step. It seemed that all the forces of his soul were aimed at marching past his superior in the best possible way, and, feeling that he was doing it well, he was happy. “Left…left…left…” he seemed to be saying to himself at every other step, and the wall of soldiers’ figures, burdened by packs and muskets, with variously stern faces, moved to this rhythm, as if each of those hundreds of soldiers was mentally saying: “Left…left…left…” at every other step. A fat major, puffing and breaking the step, turned around a bush that was in his way; a lagging soldier, breathless, with a frightened face because of his negligence, trotted to catch up with his company; a cannonball, pushing through the air, flew over the heads of Prince Bagration and his suite, and to the rhythm of “Left…left…left!” struck the column. “Close ranks!” came the dashing voice of the company commander. The soldiers curved around something at the spot where the cannonball had landed, and a decorated old soldier, a sergeant on the flank, after lingering by the dead men, caught up with his line, skipped to change feet, fell into step, and looked back angrily. “Left…left…left…” seemed to be heard through the ominous silence and the monotonous sound of feet simultaneously tramping the ground.
“Bravo, lads!” said Prince Bagration.
“Glad to be of…Your Ex-ex-ex-ex-ex!…” rolled through the ranks. A sullen soldier, marching on the left, turned his eyes to Bagration as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: “We know it ourselves” another, without looking and as if fearing to be distracted, opened his mouth wide, shouted, and passed by.
They were ordered to stop and remove their packs.
Bagration rode around the ranks that had gone past him and dismounted. He handed the reins to a Cossack, removed and handed over his felt cloak, stretched his legs, and straightened his peaked cap. The head of the French column, with officers in the fore, appeared from the bottom of the hill.
“God be with us!” Bagration said in a firm, audible voice, turned for a moment to the front line, and, swinging his arms slightly, with the awkward gait of a cavalryman, as if working at it, he went forward over the uneven field. Prince Andrei felt that some invincible force was drawing him forward, and he experienced great happiness.*223
The French were already close; walking beside Bagration, Prince Andrei could already make out clearly the bandoliers, the red epaulettes, even the faces of the French. (He clearly saw one old French officer walking uphill with difficulty on splayed feet in gaiters, holding on to bushes.) Prince Bagration gave no new order and went on walking silently in front of the ranks. Suddenly from among the French came the crack of a shot, a second, a third…and all across the disordered enemy ranks spread smoke and the crackle of gunfire. Several of our men fell, among them the round-faced officer who had marched so cheerfully and diligently. But just as the first shot rang out, Bagration turned around and shouted, “Hurrah!”
“Hurra-a-ah!” the prolonged cry spread throughout our line, and, outstripping Prince Bagration and each other, in a disorderly but cheerful and lively crowd, our men ran down the hill after the disordered French.
XIX
The attack of the sixth chasseurs secured the retreat of the right flank. In the center, the action of Tushin’s forgotten battery, which managed to set fire to Schöngraben, stayed the movement of the French. The French were putting out the fire, which was spread by the wind, and allowing time for retreat. The retreat of the center across the ravine was hasty and noisy; however, the troops, in retreating, did not mix up their detachments. But the left flank, which was simultaneously being attacked and encircled by the superior forces of the French under Lannes, and which consisted of the Azovsky and Podolsky infantry regiments and the Pavlogradsky hussar regiment, was in disorder. Bagration sent Zherkov to the general of the left flank with an order to retreat immediately.
Zherkov, not taking his hand from his cap, briskly started his horse and galloped off. But as soon as he left Bagration, his strength failed him. An insurmountable fear came over him, and he was unable to go where there was danger.
Having reached the troops of the left flank, he did not ride forward, where the shooting was, but went looking for the general and the officers where they could not be, and therefore did not deliver the order.
The command of the left flank belonged, in order of superiority, to the commander of the same regiment that had been presented to Kutuzov at Braunau and in which Dolokhov served as a private. But the command of the extreme left flank was given to the commander of the Pavlogradsky regiment, in which Rostov served, owing to which a misunderstanding arose. The two officers were greatly vexed with each other, and at a time when action had long since started on the right flank, and the French had already begun their offensive, the two officers were taken up with an exchange which had the aim of insulting each other. The regiments, cavalry as well as infantry, were very little prepared for the forthcoming action. The men of the regiments, from private to general, were not expecting a battle and were calmly occupied with peaceful matters: feeding horses in the cavalry, gathering firewood in the infantry.