War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
'Get into the thick of things,' said Denisov with a smile.
'Oh, please, put me in charge of something. I do want to be in charge,' Petya went on. 'It wouldn't be much trouble to you. Would you like to borrow my knife?' he said to an officer, who was trying to cut himself a piece of mutton. And he gave him his folding pocket-knife.
The officer admired the knife.
'Oh, please keep it. I've got several like that . . .' said Petya, colouring up. 'Gosh! I nearly forgot,' he cried suddenly. 'I've got some lovely raisins. You know, the ones without stones. We have a new canteen-man, and he does get hold of some smashing things. I bought ten pounds of them. I've got a sweet tooth! Would you like some?' And Petya ran out to his Cossack in the entrance, and came back with baskets containing five pounds of raisins. 'Help yourselves, gentlemen. Do help yourselves.'
'Do you happen to need a coffee-pot?' he said to the hetman. 'I bought a beauty from our canteen-man! He has such smashing things. And he's very honest. That's the main thing. I'll make sure I send it. Or perhaps your flints have nearly had it - these things do happen. I brought some with me. Look, I've got them here . . .' - he pointed to the baskets - 'A hundred flints. I got them cheap. Please, take as many as you like. Take them all . . .' And suddenly, dismayed at the thought that he might have let his tongue run away with him, Petya stopped short and coloured up.
He began to think back, wondering whether he might have committed any other faux pas. And as he ran through his recollections of the day gone by, a memory of the French drummer-boy popped up in his mind.
'We're having a wonderful time, but how is he getting on? What have they done with him? Has he been fed? Have they been nasty to him?' he wondered.
But, remembering how he had gabbled on about the flints, he was too scared to ask.
'I suppose I could ask,' he thought. 'But they'd only say, "It's one young boy worrying about another." I'll show them what kind of boy I am tomorrow! Would it be too embarrassing to ask?' Petya wondered. 'Oh, well! I don't care.' And without further ado, blushing and watching the officers' faces warily for any signs of amusement, he said, 'Do you think we might call that boy in, the one who was taken prisoner, and give him something to eat . . . er, perhaps . . .'
'Yes, poor little devil,' said Denisov, who clearly saw nothing embarrassing in the suggestion. 'Bring him in. His name is Vincent Bosse. Go and fetch him.'
'I'll get him,' said Petya.
'Yes, do. Poor little devil,' repeated Denisov.
Petya was standing near the door as Denisov said this. He wriggled between the officers and went up to Denisov.
'I must embrace you, my dear fellow,' he said. 'Oh, how splendid! How marvellous!' He embraced Denisov, and ran outside.
'Bosse! Vincent!' Petya called out, standing by the door.
'Yes, sir. Who do you want?' said a voice through the darkness. Petya said they wanted the French boy who had been taken prisoner that day.
'Oh, you mean Vesenny?' said the Cossack.
His name, Vincent, had already undergone a transformation: the Cossacks called him Vesenny, and the peasants Visenya. In both new versions the touch of spring - vesna in Russian - went well with the figure of the young boy.
'He's having a warm by the fire. Hey, Visenya! Visenya!' Voices and laughter echoed through the darkness.
'He's a bright boy,' said a hussar standing next to Petya. 'We've just given him a meal. Was he hungry!'
Bare feet splashed through the mud in the darkness, and the drummer-boy appeared by the door.
'Oh, there you are,' said Petya. 'Do you want something to eat? Don't be afraid. Nobody's going to hurt you,' he added shyly, touching his hand warmly. 'Come in, come in.'
'Thank you, sir,' answered the drummer, in a quavering voice, almost that of a child, and he began wiping his dirty feet. There was a lot that Petya wanted to say to the drummer-boy, but he didn't dare. He stood next to him in the entry, shifting from one foot to the other. Then he took hold of his hand in the darkness and gave it a squeeze. 'Come in, come in,' he repeated, this time in a gentle whisper.
'Oh, I wish I could do something for him!' Petya said to himself as he opened the door and ushered the boy in ahead of him.
When the drummer-boy had come inside Petya sat down some way away, feeling that it would be lowering his dignity to take much notice of him. He sat there fingering the money in his pocket and wondering whether it would be too embarrassing to give some to the drummer-boy.
CHAPTER 8
Denisov had told them to give the drummer-boy some vodka and mutton and dress him in a long Russian coat so he could stay with their unit rather than being sent off with the other prisoners. Petya's attention was distracted from him by the arrival of Dolokhov. He had heard lots of army stories about Dolokhov's outstanding bravery and his callous attitude to the French, so from the moment Dolokhov set foot inside the hut Petya couldn't take his eyes off him; he looked more and more sure of himself and tossed his head back to show himself not unworthy of the company of someone like Dolokhov.
Petya was taken aback by the ordinariness of Dolokhov's appearance.
Denisov was dressed in a Cossack coat, he had grown a beard and he wore an icon of St Nikolay the Miracle-worker on his chest; there was something about his way of speaking and his overall bearing that bore witness to his special position. By contrast, Dolokhov, who had sported a Persian costume in Moscow, now looked like a well-turned-out guards officer. He was clean-shaven, and he wore the usual guardsman's padded coat with a St George ribbon in his button-hole and an ordinary forage-cap set straight on his head. Now he took his wet cloak off in the corner, walked over to Denisov without greeting anybody and got straight down to business by asking how things were going. Denisov told him all about the designs the larger units had on the French convoy, the message Petya had brought and his response to both generals. Then he went through everything he knew about the present disposition of the French.
'That's fine. But we've got to find out what kind of troops they are, and how many they've got,' said Dolokhov. 'We must go and have a look. We can't just rush in without knowing for certain how many there are. I like to do things by the book. Come on, I'm sure one of you gentlemen wouldn't mind coming with me to pay them a little call. I've got a spare uniform with me.'
'I, er . . . I'll come!' cried Petya.
'There's absolutely no need for you to go,' said Denisov to Dolokhov, 'and I wouldn't let him go for all the tea in China.'
'I like that!' cried Petya. 'Why shouldn't I go?'
'Because there's no need for it.'
'Excuse me . . . I'm sorry . . . I . . . I am going, and that's it. You will take me, won't you?' he cried, turning to Dolokhov.
'Don't see why not . . .' Dolokhov answered rather vaguely as he took a good look at the French drummer-boy.
'How long have you had this youngster?' he asked Denisov.
'We caught him today, but he doesn't know anything. I've kept him with us.'
'Oh yes? What do you do with the rest of them?' said Dolokhov.
'What do I do with them? I send them in and get a witten weceipt!' cried Denisov, suddenly flushing. 'I tell you stwaight - I haven't got a single man's life on my conscience. Couldn't you manage to send thirty, or even thwee hundwed, men into town under guard wather than, to put it bluntly, stain your honour as a soldier?'
'Niceties like that are all very well for this little sixteen-year-old count,' Dolokhov said with a cold sneer, 'but it's time you said goodbye to that sort of stuff.'
'Well, I'm not saying anything. All I'm saying is - I'm definitely going with you,' said Petya diffidently.
'Yes, as far as we're concerned, my friend, we need to get rid of niceties like that,' Dolokhov persisted, apparently deriving much pleasure from going on about a subject that Denisov found so irritating. 'Now, why have you kept this lad?' he said. 'I suppose you're sorry for him. Anyway, we all know what your receipts are worth. You send off a hundred men and thirty get to tow
The hetman screwed up his light-coloured eyes, and gave a nod of approval.
'Nothing to do with me. Enough said. I just don't want their lives on my conscience. You tell me they die. That's all wight by me, as long as it's not my fault.'
Dolokhov laughed.
'They want to get me. The order's gone out twenty times over. And if they do, if they catch me - and you too with all your chivalry - they'll string us up on the nearest tree.' He paused. 'Anyway, we'd better get down to some work. Send my Cossack in with that pack. I've got two French uniforms. Well, are you coming with me?' he asked Petya.
'Me? Oh yes, yes, of course I am,' cried Petya, blushing almost to tears, with a sidelong glance at Denisov.
While Dolokhov had been arguing with Denisov about the treatment of prisoners Petya had begun to feel all awkward and anxious again, but as before he couldn't quite grasp what they were on about. 'If that's the way these famous grown-up men think, it must be good, it must be all right,' he thought. 'Anyway the main thing is to stop Denisov even thinking I've got to obey him, and he can order me about. I'm definitely going to the French camp with Dolokhov. If he can go, I can!'
Petya's response to all Denisov's attempts at persuading him not to go was to say that he too liked doing things by the book and not just any old how, and he never thought about danger to himself.
'It's like this. If we don't know exactly how many men there are, you must admit it could cost hundreds of lives, and only two of us are involved, and I really want to go, and I am going, I am, you know, and you can't stop me,' he said. 'It'll only make things worse . . .'
CHAPTER 9
Petya and Dolokhov changed into French uniforms and shakos, rode out to the clearing where Denisov had looked across at the French camp, emerged from the wood and plunged down into the hollow through the pitch darkness. When they got to the bottom Dolokhov told the Cossacks accompanying him to wait there, and set off at a smart trot down the road that led to the bridge. Petya rode at his side, sick with excitement.
'If we get caught, they won't take me alive. I've got my pistol,' whispered Petya.
'Don't speak Russian,' said Dolokhov in a hurried whisper, and at that moment a challenging 'Who goes there?' rang out through the darkness accompanied by the clatter of a musket.
The blood rushed to Petya's face, and he clutched at his pistol.
'Lancers of the Sixth Regiment,' said Dolokhov, neither hastening nor slackening his horse's pace.
The black figure of a sentry stood on the bridge.
'Password?'
Dolokhov reined in his horse and slowed to a walking pace.
'I want to know if Colonel Gerard is here,' he said.
'Password?' repeated the sentry, making no reply and barring their way.
'When an officer makes his round sentries don't ask for passwords!' shouted Dolokhov, suddenly losing his temper as he bore down on the sentry. 'I'll ask you again. Is the colonel here?'
And without waiting for an answer from the sentry, who stepped aside, Dolokhov rode up the slope at walking pace.
Noticing the black shadow of a man crossing the road, Dolokhov stopped him and asked where the colonel and officers were to be found. The man, a soldier carrying a sack over his shoulder, stopped, came up close to Dolokhov's horse, patted it with one hand and told them in a simple, friendly way that the colonel and the officers were just up the hill on the right-hand side, in the courtyard of the farm, as he called the little manor house.
They kept on up the road, hearing French voices from the camp-fires on both sides, and then Dolokhov turned into the yard of the manor house. When he got to the gate, he dismounted and walked over to a big, blazing fire with several men sitting round it, engaged in loud conversation. There was something boiling in a pot over to one side, and a soldier in a peaked cap and a blue coat was down on his knees in the bright glow, stirring away with his ramrod.
'He's as tough as old boots, you know,' said one of the officers, sitting in the shadows on the other side of the fire.
'He'll get them off their backsides,' said another with a laugh.
They stopped talking and peered into the darkness when they heard Petya and Dolokhov approaching with their horses.
'Good evening, gentlemen!' Dolokhov called out clearly in a loud voice.
There was a stir among the officers in the shadows beyond the fire, and one of them, a tall man with a long neck, walked round the fire and came over to Dolokhov.
'Is that you, Clement?' said he. 'Where the devil . . . ?' but he broke off when he saw his mistake, and frowned slightly, greeting Dolokhov as a stranger, and asking whether he could be of any assistance. Dolokhov told him he and his comrade were trying to catch up with their regiment, and asked the whole company whether they knew anything about the Sixth Regiment. Nobody did, and Petya thought the officers were beginning to look at him and Dolokhov with hostility and suspicion. For several seconds nobody spoke.
'If you were hoping for some supper you've come too late,' said a voice from across the fire, with a scarcely concealed laugh.
Dolokhov said they weren't hungry, and they had to push on during the night.
He gave their horses to the soldier who was stirring the pot and squatted down on his heels next to the officer with the long neck. This man couldn't take his eyes off Dolokhov, and he asked again what regiment he belonged to. Dolokhov appeared not to hear the question. Instead of answering he took out a short French pipe, lit it and asked the officers whether the road ahead was safe from Cossacks.
'The brigands are everywhere,' answered an officer from across the fire.
Dolokhov said that the Cossacks were only a danger to stragglers like him and his comrade; they wouldn't dare to attack the big units. 'Would they?' he added inquiringly. There was no answer.
'He's bound to come away now, surely,' Petya kept thinking as he stood by the fire listening to the conversation.
But Dolokhov struck up again, and proceeded to ask direct questions. How many men did they have in their battalion? How many battalions were there? How many prisoners?
Inquiring about the Russian prisoners, Dolokhov went on to say, 'Nasty business this, dragging these corpses after you. Better to shoot vermin like that,' and he broke into such a strange, loud laugh that Petya thought the French were bound to see through their disguise, and his instinctive reaction was to take a step back from the fire.
Dolokhov's comment and laughter elicited no response, and a French officer, someone they hadn't seen because he was lying there wrapped up in a greatcoat, sat up and whispered something to his neighbour. Dolokhov got to his feet and shouted to the man holding their horses.
'Are they going to let us have our horses?' Petya wondered, instinctively edging closer to Dolokhov.
They did.
'Good evening, gentlemen,' said Dolokhov.
Petya tried to say 'Good evening', but the words stuck in his throat. The officers were whispering. Dolokhov's horse wouldn't stand still and it took him a long time to mount; then at last they were going out through the gate at a gentle walking pace. Petya rode at his side, not daring to look back, though he was dying to see whether or not the French were running after them.
Once out on the road, instead of turning back towards the open country Dolokhov rode along further into the village. At one point he stopped and listened.
'Can you hear that?' he said.
Petya recognized the sound of voices speaking Russian, and he could see camp-fires with the dark shapes of Russian prisoners all round them. When they finally got back to the bridge Petya and Dolokhov rode past the sentry, who continued to pace gloomily up and down and never said a word. They came to the hollow where the Cossacks were waiting.
'Goodbye, then. Tell Denisov. Sunrise. We'll wait for the first shot,' said Dolokhov, and he was about to ride away, but Petya snatched at his arm.<
'No, wait!' he cried. 'You're such a hero! Oh! How marvellous! How splendid! I like you so much!'
'That's all right, then,' answered Dolokhov, but Petya wouldn't let go, and in the darkness Dolokhov could see him leaning across so they could embrace. Dolokhov kissed him, gave a laugh, turned his horse and vanished into the darkness.
CHAPTER 10
When he got back to the hut Petya found Denisov standing at the door. He had been waiting for Petya to come back, and he was feeling restless, anxious and annoyed with himself for letting him go.
'Oh, thank God!' he cried. 'Thank God for that!' he kept on saying as he listened to Petya's breathless account. 'You damned wascal, I haven't been able to sleep for wowwying about you!' he added. 'Anyway, thank God you're back. Now go and have a west. There's just time for some shut-eye before morning.'
'Yes, all right . . . Oh, no,' said Petya. 'I just don't feel sleepy. Besides, I know what I'm like. Once I drop off that's me finished. Anyway, I don't usually get much sleep before a battle.'
Petya sat there for a while in the hut, going over the juicy details of his adventure and vividly imagining what was going to happen tomorrow. Then he noticed Denisov had fallen asleep, so he got up and went outside.
It was still pitch black. It had stopped raining, but the trees were still dripping. Close by the hut he could just make out the black shapes of the Cossacks' shanties and the horses tethered together. Back behind the hut he could see the dark blur of two wagons and a few horses, and down in the hollow a red glow came from a dying fire. Not all of the Cossacks and hussars were asleep; the murmur of whispering voices mingled with the sound of raindrops dripping and horses champing.
Petya walked out, glanced round through the darkness and went over to the wagons. A snoring sound was coming from under one of them, and saddled horses stood around munching oats. In the dark Petya saw his own horse and went over to see him. He called him Karabakh, a name that suggested the Caucasus, though in fact he came from Ukraine.
'Hey, Karabakh, we've got a job to do tomorrow,' he said, nuzzling at his nostrils and giving him a kiss.
'Can't you get to sleep sir?' said a Cossack voice from under the wagon.