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All
were silent, and the only sound audible was the heavy breathing
of
the
panting old general.
"They
are repulsed everywhere, for which I thank God and our brave
army!
The
enemy is beaten, and tomorrow we shall drive him from the sacred
soil
of Russia," said Kutuzov crossing himself, and he suddenly sobbed
as
his eyes filled with tears.
Wolzogen,
shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips, stepped silently
aside,
marveling at "the old gentleman's" conceited stupidity.
"Ah,
here he is, my hero!" said Kutuzov to a portly, handsome, dark-
haired
general who was just ascending the knoll.
This
was Raevski, who had spent the whole day at the most important
part
of
the field of Borodino.
Raevski
reported that the troops were firmly holding their ground and
that
the French no longer ventured to attack.
After
hearing him, Kutuzov said in French:
"Then
you do not think, like some others, that we must retreat?"
"On
the contrary, your Highness, in indecisive actions it is always
the
most
stubborn who remain victors," replied Raevski, "and in my
opinion..."
"Kaysarov!"
Kutuzov called to his adjutant. "Sit down and write out the
order
of the day for tomorrow. And you," he continued, addressing
another,
"ride along the line and announce that tomorrow we attack."
While
Kutuzov was talking to Raevski and dictating the order of the
day,
Wolzogen
returned from Barclay and said that General Barclay wished to
have
written confirmation of the order the field marshal had given.
Kutuzov,
without looking at Wolzogen, gave directions for the order to
be
written out which the former commander-in-chief, to avoid
personal
responsibility,
very judiciously wished to receive.
And
by means of that mysterious indefinable bond which maintains
throughout
an army one and the same temper, known as "the spirit of the
army,"
and which constitutes the sinew of war, Kutuzov's words, his
order
for a battle next day, immediately became known from one end of
the
army to the other.
It
was far from being the same words or the same order that reached
the
farthest
links of that chain. The tales passing from mouth to mouth at
different
ends of the army did not even resemble what Kutuzov had said,
but
the sense of his words spread everywhere because what he said was
not
the outcome of cunning calculations, but of a feeling that lay in
the
commander-in-chief's soul as in that of every Russian.
And
on learning that tomorrow they were to attack the enemy, and
hearing
from
the highest quarters a confirmation of what they wanted to
believe,
the
exhausted, wavering men felt comforted and inspirited.
CHAPTER
XXXVI
Prince
Andrew's regiment was among the reserves which till after one
o'clock
were stationed inactive behind Semenovsk, under heavy artillery
fire.
Toward two o'clock the regiment, having already lost more than
two
hundred
men, was moved forward into a trampled oatfield in the gap
between
Semenovsk and the Knoll Battery, where thousands of men perished
that
day and on which an intense, concentrated fire from several
hundred
enemy
guns was directed between one and two o'clock.
Without
moving from that spot or firing a single shot the regiment here
lost
another third of its men. From in front and especially from the
right,
in the unlifting smoke the guns boomed, and out of the mysterious
domain
of smoke that overlay the whole space in front, quick hissing
cannon
balls and slow whistling shells flew unceasingly. At times, as if
to
allow them a respite, a quarter of an hour passed during which
the
cannon
balls and shells all flew overhead, but sometimes several men
were
torn from the regiment in a minute and the slain were continually
being
dragged away and the wounded carried off.
With
each fresh blow less and less chance of life remained for those
not
yet
killed. The regiment stood in columns of battalion, three hundred
paces
apart, but nevertheless the men were always in one and the same
mood.
All alike were taciturn and morose. Talk was rarely heard in the
ranks,
and it ceased altogether every time the thud of a successful shot
and
the cry of "stretchers!" was heard. Most of the time, by their
officers'
order, the men sat on the ground. One, having taken off his
shako,
carefully loosened the gathers of its lining and drew them tight
again;
another, rubbing some dry clay between his palms, polished his
bayonet;
another fingered the strap and pulled the buckle of his
bandolier,
while another smoothed and refolded his leg bands and put his
boots
on again. Some built little houses of the tufts in the plowed
ground,
or plaited baskets from the straw in the cornfield. All seemed
fully
absorbed in these pursuits. When men were killed or wounded, when
rows
of stretchers went past, when some troops retreated, and when
great
masses
of the enemy came into view through the smoke, no one paid any
attention
to these things. But when our artillery or cavalry advanced or
some
of our infantry were seen to move forward, words of approval were
heard
on all sides. But the liveliest attention was attracted by
occurrences
quite apart from, and unconnected with, the battle. It was
as
if the minds of these morally exhausted men found relief in
everyday,
commonplace
occurrences. A battery of artillery was passing in front of
the
regiment. The horse of an ammunition cart put its leg over a
trace.
"Hey,
look at the trace horse!... Get her leg out! She'll fall.... Ah,
they
don't see it!" came identical shouts from the ranks all along the
regiment.
Another time, general attention was attracted by a small brown
dog,
coming heaven knows whence, which trotted in a preoccupied manner
in
front of the ranks with tail stiffly erect till suddenly a shell
fell
close
by, when it yelped, tucked its tail between its legs, and darted
aside.
Yells and shrieks of laughter rose from the whole regiment. But
such
distractions lasted only a moment, and for eight hours the men
had
been
inactive, without food, in constant fear of death, and their pale
and
gloomy faces grew ever paler and gloomier.
Prince
Andrew, pale and gloomy like everyone in the regiment, paced up
and
down from the border of one patch to another, at the edge of the
meadow
beside an oatfield, with head bowed and arms behind his back.
There
was nothing for him to do and no orders to be given. Everything
went
on of itself. The killed were dragged from the front, the wounded
carried
away, and the ranks closed up. If any soldiers ran to the rear
they
returned immediately and hastily. At first Prince Andrew,
considering
it his duty to rouse the courage of the men and to set them
an
example, walked about among the ranks, but he soon became
convinced
that
this was unnecessary and that there was nothing he could teach
them.
All the powers of his soul, as of every soldier there, were
unconsciously
bent on avoiding the contemplation of the horrors of their
situation.
He walked along the meadow, dragging his feet, rustling the
grass,
and gazing at the dust that covered his boots; now he took big
strides
trying to keep to the footprints left on the meadow by the
mowers,
then he counted his steps, calculating how often he must walk
from
one strip to another to walk a mile, then he stripped the flowers
from
the wormwood that grew along a boundary rut, rubbed them in his
palms,
and smelled their pungent, sweetly bitter scent. Nothing remained
of
the previous day's thoughts. He thought of nothing. He listened
with
weary
ears to the ever-recurring sounds, distinguishing the whistle of
flying
projectiles from the booming of the reports, glanced at the
tiresomely
familiar faces of the men of the first battalion, and waited.
"Here
it comes... this one is coming our way again!" he thought,
listening
to an approaching whistle in the hidden region of smoke. "One,
another!
Again! It has hit...." He stopped and looked at the ranks. "No,
it
has gone over. But this one has hit!" And again he started trying
to
reach
the boundary strip in sixteen paces. A whizz and a thud! Five
paces
from him, a cannon ball tore up the dry earth and disappeared. A
chill
ran down his back. Again he glanced at the ranks. Probably many
had
been hit--a large crowd had gathered near the second battalion.
"Adjutant!"
he shouted. "Order them not to crowd together."
The
adjutant, having obeyed this instruction, approached Prince
Andrew.
From
the other side a battalion commander rode up.
"Look
out!" came a frightened cry from a soldier and, like a bird
whirring
in rapid flight and alighting on the ground, a shell dropped
with
little noise within two steps of Prince Andrew and close to the
battalion
commander's horse. The horse first, regardless of whether it
was
right or wrong to show fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the
major,
and galloped aside. The horse's terror infected the men.
"Lie
down!" cried the adjutant, throwing himself flat on the ground.
Prince
Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top between him
and
the prostrate adjutant, near a wormwood plant between the field
and
the
meadow.
"Can
this be death?" thought Prince Andrew, looking with a quite new,
envious
glance at the grass, the wormwood, and the streamlet of smoke
that
curled up from the rotating black ball. "I cannot, I do not wish
to
die.
I love life--I love this grass, this earth, this air...." He
thought
this, and at the same time remembered that people were looking
at
him.
"It's
shameful, sir!" he said to the adjutant. "What..."
He
did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came the sound
of
an
explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking window frame,
a
suffocating
smell of powder, and Prince Andrew started to one side,
raising
his arm, and fell on his chest. Several officers ran up to him.
From
the right side of his abdomen, blood was welling out making a
large
stain
on the grass.
The
militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the
officers.
Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in the grass,
breathing
heavily and noisily.
"What
are you waiting for? Come along!"
The
peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he
moaned
piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again.
"Pick
him up, lift him, it's all the same!" cried someone.
They
again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher.
"Ah,
God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death! My
God!"--
voices
among the officers were heard saying.
"It
flew a hair's breadth past my ear," said the adjutant.
The
peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started
hurriedly
along the path they had trodden down, to the dressing station.
"Keep
in step! Ah... those peasants!" shouted an officer, seizing by
their
shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly
and
jolting
the stretcher.
"Get
into step, Fedor... I say, Fedor!" said the foremost peasant.
"Now
that's right!" said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into
step.
"Your
excellency! Eh, Prince!" said the trembling voice of Timokhin,
who
had
run up and was looking down on the stretcher.
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