War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
ice. 'Say you can manage to avoid getting wounded, killed or cheated a dozen times or more? What happens next?' 'Well, er . . .' Prince Andrey answered himself, 'I don't know what happens next, I can't possibly know, I don't wish to know, but if that's what I want, if I want glory, if I want to be famous and loved by everyone, it's not my fault that I want this, that this is all I care for, the only thing I live for. Yes, only this! I won't breathe a word of it to anyone, but, my God!, what can I do, if I care for nothing but glory and the love of men? Death, wounds, the loss of my family - nothing can frighten me. I know many people are dear and precious to me, my father, my sister, my wife - my nearest and dearest, yet, however terrible and unnatural it may seem, I would give them all up for one moment of glory, triumph over men, to be loved by men I don't even know, and never shall know, to be loved by these people there,' he thought, listening to men talking in the courtyard of Kutuzov's castle. They were the voices of the officers' servants doing the packing. Someone, probably one of the drivers, was teasing Kutuzov's old cook, well known to Prince Andrey, about his name - Titus.
'Hey, Tighty Titus!' he said.
'What d'you want?' answered the old man.
'Titus a drum!' said the funny man.
'Garn!' said the cook's voice, but it was swamped by the laughter of valets and servants.
'And to think the only thing I love and treasure is triumphing over all these people. All the magical power and glory hanging over me up there in this mist!'
CHAPTER 13
That same night Nikolay Rostov was out with a platoon of pickets along the outposts ahead of Bagration's detachment. His hussars were paired off down the line and he was patrolling it, struggling against overwhelming drowsiness. Behind him our soldiers' campfires could be seen flickering over a huge area; misty darkness lay ahead. Peer as he may into this misty distance, Rostov could see nothing, as grey blurred into black, and what might have been the flicker of an enemy campfire suddenly seemed more like a trick of the light. His eyes were closing, and he kept imagining he could see first the Emperor, then Denisov, then the Moscow of old, and whenever he opened his eyes again with a start, it was only the head and ears of his horse or maybe the odd black shape of a hussar six yards away, and in the distance still the same misty darkness. 'Why not? It could easily happen,' mused Rostov. 'The Emperor might meet me and give me an order, as if I was any old officer, and he'd say, "Go and find out about that over there." I've heard so many stories about him getting to know an officer just like that and taking him on. Oh, if only he would take me on! Oh, how closely I would guard him, and I'd tell him the truth, I'd expose anybody who tried to deceive him!' And by way of imagining his love and devotion to the Tsar more vividly, Rostov dreamt of some enemy or a treacherous German that he was about to enjoy dispatching and he would slap him across the face right in front of the Tsar. Then suddenly a distant shout brought him to his senses. He opened his eyes with a start.
'Where am I? Oh yes, out on the line. The password's "shaft" and "Olmutz" is the watchword. It's awful to think that our squadron will be held in reserve tomorrow . . .' he thought. 'I'm going to ask if I can go forward. It may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor. It'll soon be the end of my watch. I'll go round once more and when I get back I'll go and ask the general.' He sat up in the saddle and set off to make one last check on his men. It seemed to be getting lighter. To the left he could see a moonlit hillside and a black slope opposite that looked as steep as a wall. On this slope there was a white patch which Rostov couldn't make out at all - was it a clearing in the wood catching the moonlight, some snow that hadn't melted or white houses? He could have sworn there was something moving across the white patch. 'It must be snow, or could it be white ash? . . . Why tash . . . ?' Rostov mused dreamily. 'Not white ash . . . Tash . . . Na - tasha . . . sister . . . black eyes. Na - tasha. (Imagine her surprise when I tell her I've seen the Emperor!) Natasha . . . tasha . . . This is my sabre - tache.'
'A bit to the right, sir. Some bushes here,' a hussar's voice said to Rostov, who was nodding as he rode by. Rostov's head had flopped down almost on to his horse's mane; he wrenched it up and reined in beside the hussar, still unable to shake off the overpowering urge to sleep like a baby. 'Wait a minute, what was I thinking about? Mustn't forget. Oh yes, speaking to the Emperor! No, that's not it - that's tomorrow. I know! Na - tasha, mount an at - tasha. Hussars and moustaches . . . That hussar with a moustache dashing down the Tverskaya, I was just thinking about him . . . opposite Guryev's . . . Old Guryev . . . Ah, Denisov, he's a good fellow! Oh, this is all stupid. The main thing is - the Emperor's here. He looked at me and he was dying to say something, but he just didn't dare . . . Wait a minute . . . it was me . . . I didn't dare. Oh, it's all stupid . . . the thing is . . . not to forget . . . I was thinking about something important, yes, Natasha, mount an attasha, yes . . . yes . . . I've got it now.' And again he dropped his head down on his horse's neck. Then suddenly - what was this? - was he being fired at. 'Eh? What? . . . Cut them to pieces! What's that?' Rostov stammered out as he came round. The moment he opened his eyes, Rostov heard from the enemy territory ahead the great long roaring of a thousand voices. His own horse and the horse of the nearby hussar pricked up their ears at all this shouting. Over there where the shouts were coming from, a light flashed and went out, then another, and then all along the line of the French troops on the hillside fires were being lit and the shouts grew louder and louder. Rostov could hear the sounds of French words but he couldn't work out what they were. Too many booming voices. All he could hear was 'aaaa!' and the French 'rrrr!'
'What is it? What do you make of that?' Rostov said to the hussar next to him. 'It's the enemy, isn't it?'
The hussar said nothing.
'Well, can't you hear it?' Rostov asked again, after waiting some time for a reply.
'Don't know, sir,' the hussar managed reluctantly.
'Coming from there it must be the enemy,' Rostov said again.
'Maybe 'tis, maybe 'tisn't,' mumbled the hussar, ' 'tis too dark. Hey, steady!' he shouted to his fidgety horse. Rostov's horse was just as restive, pawing the frozen ground as it listened to the shouts and looked at the lights. The shouting grew louder still until it became one great sustained roar that could only have come from an army of thousands. The lights stretched further and further, probably marking the line of the French camp. Rostov wasn't sleepy any more - the happy roar of triumph from the enemy's army had shaken him into life. 'Long live the Emperor! The Emperor!' There was no mistaking the words now.
'Not too far away . . . They must be just across the stream,' he said to the hussar near him.
The hussar sighed, but didn't reply. He gave an angry grunt. Then they heard a horse trotting towards them down the line of their men, and suddenly the figure of a sergeant of hussars loomed up out of the dark mist like some enormous elephant.
'Sir, the generals are here!' said the sergeant, riding up to Rostov. Rostov, still looking over towards the lights and shouting, rode with the sergeant to meet several men on horseback coming down the line. One was on a white horse. It was Prince Bagration, who had ridden out with Prince Dolgorukov and some of his adjutants to watch the strange display of lights and listen to the shouting from the enemy ranks. Rostov rode up to Bagration, reported what he had heard and seen and joined the adjutants, listening to what the generals were saying.
'Take my word for it,' Prince Dolgorukov was saying to Bagration, 'this is just a trick. They've retreated and told the rearguard to light fires and make a racket to fool us.'
'I hardly think so,' said Bagration. 'I've been watching them on that rise all evening. If they'd retreated, they'd have gone from there. Officer,' Prince Bagration turned to Rostov, 'are the enemy pickets still there?'
'They were there this evening, but now I can't tell, sir. Shall I take some men and find out?' said Rostov.
Bagration stood still and before answering he tried to make out Rostov's face through the mist.
'Yes, you do that,' he said after a brief pause.
'Sir.'
Spurring his horse, Rostov called out to Sergeant Fedchenko and two other hussars, told them to follow him and trotted off downhill in the direction of the shouting, which showed no signs of dying down. Rostov felt scared and exhilarated to be riding alone with three hussars down into that mysterious and dangerous, misty distance, where no one had ridden before. Bagration had yelled at him from the hillside not to cross the stream, but Rostov had pretended not to hear, and he rode on and on without stopping, continually getting things wrong, mistaking bushes for trees and gullies for men, and continually discovering his mistakes. He trotted downhill and soon lost sight of our men and the enemy's fires, but the shouting of the Frenchmen was louder and clearer. At the bottom he saw just ahead something that looked like a river, but once he rode up to it he saw that it was a well-travelled road. As he got out on the road he reined in his horse and wondered whether to go along it or to cross over and ride uphill through a black field. Riding down the road where it was still misty but brighter would be less dangerous because you'd get a better sight of any figures. 'Follow me,' he said, then crossed the road and galloped off uphill heading for the area where the French pickets had been seen that evening.
'Sir, look!' cried one of the hussars from behind, and before Rostov could see what it was, something black loomed up in the mist, there was a blinding flash, the crack of a shot and the whine of a bullet which flew past and died away. Another gun misfired, but there was a flash in the pan. Rostov turned his horse and galloped back. He heard four more shots at varying intervals, and four more bullets sang their different tunes into the mist. Rostov reined in his horse, which seemed as excited as he was by all this shooting, and brought him to a walk. 'More, more, give me more!' cried an excited inner voice. But there were no more shots. Rostov waited until he was getting near to Bagration before galloping his horse again, and he rode up saluting.
Dolgorukov was still insisting that the French were in retreat, and the fires had been lit in order to fool them. 'What does this prove?' he was saying as Rostov rode up. 'They might have retreated and still left pickets.'
'It's clear they haven't all gone, Prince,' said Bagration. 'We must see what morning brings. In the morning we shall know all there is to know.'
'The picket's still there on the hill, your Excellency, where it was yesterday evening,' Rostov announced, still saluting and quite unable to resist a smile of delight after his sortie and especially the whine of bullets.
'Well done, well done,' said Bagration. 'My thanks to you, officer.'
'Your Excellency,' said Rostov, 'may I ask a favour?'
'What is it?'
'Tomorrow our squadron is held in reserve. Could I possibly be attached to the first squadron?'
'What's your name?'
'Count Rostov.'
'Splendid. You may stay with me as an orderly officer.'
'Ilya Andreich's son?' said Dolgorukov, but Rostov ignored him.
'May I count on it, sir?'
'I will give the order.'
'Tomorrow, it's more than possible - I might get sent to the Tsar with a message,' he thought. 'Glory be!'
All the shouting and lighting of fires in the enemy camp had come about because Napoleon himself had ridden among the bivouacs while his proclamation was being read out to the troops. When they saw him the soldiers set fire to armfuls of straw and ran after him chanting, 'Long live the Emperor!' Napoleon's proclamation ran as follows: Soldiers! The Russian army is marching against you in order to avenge the Austrian army, the army of Ulm. These are the same forces that you defeated at Hollabrunn and have been driving relentlessly towards this place. The positions that we occupy are strong ones, and should they march round me to the right, they will expose their flank to me! Soldiers! I shall myself be at the head of your battalions. I shall be out of the firing line as long as you display your habitual courage by carrying disorder and confusion into the ranks of the enemy. But if victory is for a single moment in doubt, you will see your Emperor facing the direct onslaught of the enemy, for there can be no vacillation on the verge of victory, especially on this day, when the honour of the French infantry is at stake, and with it the honour of our nation. Do not break ranks even for the purpose of removing the wounded! May every last man among you be imbued with the need to destroy these hirelings of England, who are inspired by such hatred of our country. With this victory our campaign will be concluded, and we can return to our winter quarters to be joined by new troops at present mobilizing in France. And then the peace which I shall conclude will be worthy of our people, worthy of you and of me.
NAPOLEON
CHAPTER 14
At five in the morning it was still quite dark. There was no movement among the troops in the centre, nor in the reserves, nor on Bagration's right flank. But on the left flank the infantry, cavalry and artillery columns who would be the first to plunge down and attack the French on their right flank, driving them off into the Bohemian mountains - according to Weierother's battle plan - were already up and about. They had been throwing all the leftovers into the campfires, and the smoke now stung the eyes. It was cold and dark. The officers were gulping down tea and snatching breakfast, while the men munched their dry biscuits and stamped their feet against the cold, gathering around the fires for some warmth and throwing all the unwanted bits and pieces into the flames - wood from their temporary huts, chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, anything that couldn't go with them. Austrian column leaders were moving in and out among the Russian troops, their presence heralding imminent advance. As soon as an Austrian officer arrived at a commander's quarters, the regiment stirred itself into action: the soldiers hurried away from the fires, stuffing their pipes down the tops of their boots and their bags into wagons, quick to sort out their muskets and fall in. The officers buttoned up their uniforms, buckled on their sabres and pouches, and paced up and down the ranks shouting. The baggage handlers and officers' orderlies harnessed the horses, packed the wagons and lashed them up. The adjutants and the officers commanding regiments and battalions got on their horses, crossed themselves, issued final orders, exhortations and instructions to the men who were staying behind with the baggage, and then the steady tramp of a thousand feet began. The columns moved off with no idea where they were going, blinded by the surrounding hordes, the smoke and the gathering mist so that they couldn't see what they were leaving behind or what they were marching into.
A soldier on the march is enclosed, boxed in and carried along by his regiment as tightly as any sailor in a ship. However far he goes, however alien, mysterious and perilous the latitudes into which he advances, he always has around him, like the sailor with his deck, masts and rigging, the same comrades, the same marching ranks, the same sergeant Ivan Mitrich, the same regimental dog Zhuchka, the same officers. A soldier rarely wants to know what latitude his ship has ended up in, but come the day of battle - God knows how or where it comes from - the moral consciouness of warriors one and all rings with a new harsh note announcing the approach of something solemn and serious, and raising them to unknown heights of curiosity. Come the days of battle, soldiers strive to look beyond the interests of their regiment; they are all eyes and ears, anxious to know what is going on around them.
The fog had come down so thickly that although it was getting light they couldn't see ten paces ahead. Bushes looked like huge trees, flat stretches looked like soaring cliffs and slopes. At any point and from any direction they might come across an invisible enemy ten paces away. But the columns marched doggedly on through the fog, up hill and down dale, past gardens and fences, over countryside new and unknown, with no sign of the enemy. Quite the reverse, there was a growing consciousness of our own Russian columns up ahead, to the rear and on every side, all of them moving in the same direction. Every last soldier felt buoyed up by knowing that wherever he was going - not that anyone knew where that was - so were all the other Russians in their vast numbers.
'Hey, the Kurskies have gone on,' went the word in the ranks.
'Damn good force we've got together! Did you see them fires burning last night? Went on for ever. Like looking at Moscow!'
Although the column commanders were not riding over to the ranks or talking to the soldiers (the commanding officers, as we saw at the council of war, were not in the mood because they didn't like what they were having to do, so they carried out their orders without any effort to inspire the men), the soldiers still marched on in high spirits, as they always do when they are going into action, especially attacking.
But after marching for an hour or so through the thick fog, most of the troops were brought to a halt, and a nasty sense of confusion and mismanagement spread through the ranks. It is very difficult to tell how this kind of awareness spreads. But spread it does, with amazing accuracy and speed, slowly but surely, like water flooding a valley. Had the Russian army been acting alone, with no allies, it might have taken a lot longer for this awareness of mismanagement to become common knowledge. As things stood, there was much pleasure to be had, naturally enough, from attributing this shambles to the senseless Germans, and soon everybody believed they were in a dangerous mess because of the bungling sausage-makers.
'Why have we stopped? Road blocked ahead? Or have we got to the French?'
'No, can't hear anything. They'd have been firing. Told us to get going quick, and we did, and now look at us, stuck in the middle of a field, God knows why . . . Blasted krauts, mucking things up! Damned idiots!'
'I'd have sent them out first. No fear, crowds of 'em at the back . . . Got to stand here now with nothing to eat.'
'Get a move on!'
'I've heard that the cavalry's blocking the road,' said an officer.
'Damned Germans, don't even know their own country,' said another.
'Which division are you?' shouted an adjutant, riding up.
'Eighteenth.'
'What are you doing here? You should have been up at the front ages ago. Yo
'Hey, Tighty Titus!' he said.
'What d'you want?' answered the old man.
'Titus a drum!' said the funny man.
'Garn!' said the cook's voice, but it was swamped by the laughter of valets and servants.
'And to think the only thing I love and treasure is triumphing over all these people. All the magical power and glory hanging over me up there in this mist!'
CHAPTER 13
That same night Nikolay Rostov was out with a platoon of pickets along the outposts ahead of Bagration's detachment. His hussars were paired off down the line and he was patrolling it, struggling against overwhelming drowsiness. Behind him our soldiers' campfires could be seen flickering over a huge area; misty darkness lay ahead. Peer as he may into this misty distance, Rostov could see nothing, as grey blurred into black, and what might have been the flicker of an enemy campfire suddenly seemed more like a trick of the light. His eyes were closing, and he kept imagining he could see first the Emperor, then Denisov, then the Moscow of old, and whenever he opened his eyes again with a start, it was only the head and ears of his horse or maybe the odd black shape of a hussar six yards away, and in the distance still the same misty darkness. 'Why not? It could easily happen,' mused Rostov. 'The Emperor might meet me and give me an order, as if I was any old officer, and he'd say, "Go and find out about that over there." I've heard so many stories about him getting to know an officer just like that and taking him on. Oh, if only he would take me on! Oh, how closely I would guard him, and I'd tell him the truth, I'd expose anybody who tried to deceive him!' And by way of imagining his love and devotion to the Tsar more vividly, Rostov dreamt of some enemy or a treacherous German that he was about to enjoy dispatching and he would slap him across the face right in front of the Tsar. Then suddenly a distant shout brought him to his senses. He opened his eyes with a start.
'Where am I? Oh yes, out on the line. The password's "shaft" and "Olmutz" is the watchword. It's awful to think that our squadron will be held in reserve tomorrow . . .' he thought. 'I'm going to ask if I can go forward. It may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor. It'll soon be the end of my watch. I'll go round once more and when I get back I'll go and ask the general.' He sat up in the saddle and set off to make one last check on his men. It seemed to be getting lighter. To the left he could see a moonlit hillside and a black slope opposite that looked as steep as a wall. On this slope there was a white patch which Rostov couldn't make out at all - was it a clearing in the wood catching the moonlight, some snow that hadn't melted or white houses? He could have sworn there was something moving across the white patch. 'It must be snow, or could it be white ash? . . . Why tash . . . ?' Rostov mused dreamily. 'Not white ash . . . Tash . . . Na - tasha . . . sister . . . black eyes. Na - tasha. (Imagine her surprise when I tell her I've seen the Emperor!) Natasha . . . tasha . . . This is my sabre - tache.'
'A bit to the right, sir. Some bushes here,' a hussar's voice said to Rostov, who was nodding as he rode by. Rostov's head had flopped down almost on to his horse's mane; he wrenched it up and reined in beside the hussar, still unable to shake off the overpowering urge to sleep like a baby. 'Wait a minute, what was I thinking about? Mustn't forget. Oh yes, speaking to the Emperor! No, that's not it - that's tomorrow. I know! Na - tasha, mount an at - tasha. Hussars and moustaches . . . That hussar with a moustache dashing down the Tverskaya, I was just thinking about him . . . opposite Guryev's . . . Old Guryev . . . Ah, Denisov, he's a good fellow! Oh, this is all stupid. The main thing is - the Emperor's here. He looked at me and he was dying to say something, but he just didn't dare . . . Wait a minute . . . it was me . . . I didn't dare. Oh, it's all stupid . . . the thing is . . . not to forget . . . I was thinking about something important, yes, Natasha, mount an attasha, yes . . . yes . . . I've got it now.' And again he dropped his head down on his horse's neck. Then suddenly - what was this? - was he being fired at. 'Eh? What? . . . Cut them to pieces! What's that?' Rostov stammered out as he came round. The moment he opened his eyes, Rostov heard from the enemy territory ahead the great long roaring of a thousand voices. His own horse and the horse of the nearby hussar pricked up their ears at all this shouting. Over there where the shouts were coming from, a light flashed and went out, then another, and then all along the line of the French troops on the hillside fires were being lit and the shouts grew louder and louder. Rostov could hear the sounds of French words but he couldn't work out what they were. Too many booming voices. All he could hear was 'aaaa!' and the French 'rrrr!'
'What is it? What do you make of that?' Rostov said to the hussar next to him. 'It's the enemy, isn't it?'
The hussar said nothing.
'Well, can't you hear it?' Rostov asked again, after waiting some time for a reply.
'Don't know, sir,' the hussar managed reluctantly.
'Coming from there it must be the enemy,' Rostov said again.
'Maybe 'tis, maybe 'tisn't,' mumbled the hussar, ' 'tis too dark. Hey, steady!' he shouted to his fidgety horse. Rostov's horse was just as restive, pawing the frozen ground as it listened to the shouts and looked at the lights. The shouting grew louder still until it became one great sustained roar that could only have come from an army of thousands. The lights stretched further and further, probably marking the line of the French camp. Rostov wasn't sleepy any more - the happy roar of triumph from the enemy's army had shaken him into life. 'Long live the Emperor! The Emperor!' There was no mistaking the words now.
'Not too far away . . . They must be just across the stream,' he said to the hussar near him.
The hussar sighed, but didn't reply. He gave an angry grunt. Then they heard a horse trotting towards them down the line of their men, and suddenly the figure of a sergeant of hussars loomed up out of the dark mist like some enormous elephant.
'Sir, the generals are here!' said the sergeant, riding up to Rostov. Rostov, still looking over towards the lights and shouting, rode with the sergeant to meet several men on horseback coming down the line. One was on a white horse. It was Prince Bagration, who had ridden out with Prince Dolgorukov and some of his adjutants to watch the strange display of lights and listen to the shouting from the enemy ranks. Rostov rode up to Bagration, reported what he had heard and seen and joined the adjutants, listening to what the generals were saying.
'Take my word for it,' Prince Dolgorukov was saying to Bagration, 'this is just a trick. They've retreated and told the rearguard to light fires and make a racket to fool us.'
'I hardly think so,' said Bagration. 'I've been watching them on that rise all evening. If they'd retreated, they'd have gone from there. Officer,' Prince Bagration turned to Rostov, 'are the enemy pickets still there?'
'They were there this evening, but now I can't tell, sir. Shall I take some men and find out?' said Rostov.
Bagration stood still and before answering he tried to make out Rostov's face through the mist.
'Yes, you do that,' he said after a brief pause.
'Sir.'
Spurring his horse, Rostov called out to Sergeant Fedchenko and two other hussars, told them to follow him and trotted off downhill in the direction of the shouting, which showed no signs of dying down. Rostov felt scared and exhilarated to be riding alone with three hussars down into that mysterious and dangerous, misty distance, where no one had ridden before. Bagration had yelled at him from the hillside not to cross the stream, but Rostov had pretended not to hear, and he rode on and on without stopping, continually getting things wrong, mistaking bushes for trees and gullies for men, and continually discovering his mistakes. He trotted downhill and soon lost sight of our men and the enemy's fires, but the shouting of the Frenchmen was louder and clearer. At the bottom he saw just ahead something that looked like a river, but once he rode up to it he saw that it was a well-travelled road. As he got out on the road he reined in his horse and wondered whether to go along it or to cross over and ride uphill through a black field. Riding down the road where it was still misty but brighter would be less dangerous because you'd get a better sight of any figures. 'Follow me,' he said, then crossed the road and galloped off uphill heading for the area where the French pickets had been seen that evening.
'Sir, look!' cried one of the hussars from behind, and before Rostov could see what it was, something black loomed up in the mist, there was a blinding flash, the crack of a shot and the whine of a bullet which flew past and died away. Another gun misfired, but there was a flash in the pan. Rostov turned his horse and galloped back. He heard four more shots at varying intervals, and four more bullets sang their different tunes into the mist. Rostov reined in his horse, which seemed as excited as he was by all this shooting, and brought him to a walk. 'More, more, give me more!' cried an excited inner voice. But there were no more shots. Rostov waited until he was getting near to Bagration before galloping his horse again, and he rode up saluting.
Dolgorukov was still insisting that the French were in retreat, and the fires had been lit in order to fool them. 'What does this prove?' he was saying as Rostov rode up. 'They might have retreated and still left pickets.'
'It's clear they haven't all gone, Prince,' said Bagration. 'We must see what morning brings. In the morning we shall know all there is to know.'
'The picket's still there on the hill, your Excellency, where it was yesterday evening,' Rostov announced, still saluting and quite unable to resist a smile of delight after his sortie and especially the whine of bullets.
'Well done, well done,' said Bagration. 'My thanks to you, officer.'
'Your Excellency,' said Rostov, 'may I ask a favour?'
'What is it?'
'Tomorrow our squadron is held in reserve. Could I possibly be attached to the first squadron?'
'What's your name?'
'Count Rostov.'
'Splendid. You may stay with me as an orderly officer.'
'Ilya Andreich's son?' said Dolgorukov, but Rostov ignored him.
'May I count on it, sir?'
'I will give the order.'
'Tomorrow, it's more than possible - I might get sent to the Tsar with a message,' he thought. 'Glory be!'
All the shouting and lighting of fires in the enemy camp had come about because Napoleon himself had ridden among the bivouacs while his proclamation was being read out to the troops. When they saw him the soldiers set fire to armfuls of straw and ran after him chanting, 'Long live the Emperor!' Napoleon's proclamation ran as follows: Soldiers! The Russian army is marching against you in order to avenge the Austrian army, the army of Ulm. These are the same forces that you defeated at Hollabrunn and have been driving relentlessly towards this place. The positions that we occupy are strong ones, and should they march round me to the right, they will expose their flank to me! Soldiers! I shall myself be at the head of your battalions. I shall be out of the firing line as long as you display your habitual courage by carrying disorder and confusion into the ranks of the enemy. But if victory is for a single moment in doubt, you will see your Emperor facing the direct onslaught of the enemy, for there can be no vacillation on the verge of victory, especially on this day, when the honour of the French infantry is at stake, and with it the honour of our nation. Do not break ranks even for the purpose of removing the wounded! May every last man among you be imbued with the need to destroy these hirelings of England, who are inspired by such hatred of our country. With this victory our campaign will be concluded, and we can return to our winter quarters to be joined by new troops at present mobilizing in France. And then the peace which I shall conclude will be worthy of our people, worthy of you and of me.
NAPOLEON
CHAPTER 14
At five in the morning it was still quite dark. There was no movement among the troops in the centre, nor in the reserves, nor on Bagration's right flank. But on the left flank the infantry, cavalry and artillery columns who would be the first to plunge down and attack the French on their right flank, driving them off into the Bohemian mountains - according to Weierother's battle plan - were already up and about. They had been throwing all the leftovers into the campfires, and the smoke now stung the eyes. It was cold and dark. The officers were gulping down tea and snatching breakfast, while the men munched their dry biscuits and stamped their feet against the cold, gathering around the fires for some warmth and throwing all the unwanted bits and pieces into the flames - wood from their temporary huts, chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, anything that couldn't go with them. Austrian column leaders were moving in and out among the Russian troops, their presence heralding imminent advance. As soon as an Austrian officer arrived at a commander's quarters, the regiment stirred itself into action: the soldiers hurried away from the fires, stuffing their pipes down the tops of their boots and their bags into wagons, quick to sort out their muskets and fall in. The officers buttoned up their uniforms, buckled on their sabres and pouches, and paced up and down the ranks shouting. The baggage handlers and officers' orderlies harnessed the horses, packed the wagons and lashed them up. The adjutants and the officers commanding regiments and battalions got on their horses, crossed themselves, issued final orders, exhortations and instructions to the men who were staying behind with the baggage, and then the steady tramp of a thousand feet began. The columns moved off with no idea where they were going, blinded by the surrounding hordes, the smoke and the gathering mist so that they couldn't see what they were leaving behind or what they were marching into.
A soldier on the march is enclosed, boxed in and carried along by his regiment as tightly as any sailor in a ship. However far he goes, however alien, mysterious and perilous the latitudes into which he advances, he always has around him, like the sailor with his deck, masts and rigging, the same comrades, the same marching ranks, the same sergeant Ivan Mitrich, the same regimental dog Zhuchka, the same officers. A soldier rarely wants to know what latitude his ship has ended up in, but come the day of battle - God knows how or where it comes from - the moral consciouness of warriors one and all rings with a new harsh note announcing the approach of something solemn and serious, and raising them to unknown heights of curiosity. Come the days of battle, soldiers strive to look beyond the interests of their regiment; they are all eyes and ears, anxious to know what is going on around them.
The fog had come down so thickly that although it was getting light they couldn't see ten paces ahead. Bushes looked like huge trees, flat stretches looked like soaring cliffs and slopes. At any point and from any direction they might come across an invisible enemy ten paces away. But the columns marched doggedly on through the fog, up hill and down dale, past gardens and fences, over countryside new and unknown, with no sign of the enemy. Quite the reverse, there was a growing consciousness of our own Russian columns up ahead, to the rear and on every side, all of them moving in the same direction. Every last soldier felt buoyed up by knowing that wherever he was going - not that anyone knew where that was - so were all the other Russians in their vast numbers.
'Hey, the Kurskies have gone on,' went the word in the ranks.
'Damn good force we've got together! Did you see them fires burning last night? Went on for ever. Like looking at Moscow!'
Although the column commanders were not riding over to the ranks or talking to the soldiers (the commanding officers, as we saw at the council of war, were not in the mood because they didn't like what they were having to do, so they carried out their orders without any effort to inspire the men), the soldiers still marched on in high spirits, as they always do when they are going into action, especially attacking.
But after marching for an hour or so through the thick fog, most of the troops were brought to a halt, and a nasty sense of confusion and mismanagement spread through the ranks. It is very difficult to tell how this kind of awareness spreads. But spread it does, with amazing accuracy and speed, slowly but surely, like water flooding a valley. Had the Russian army been acting alone, with no allies, it might have taken a lot longer for this awareness of mismanagement to become common knowledge. As things stood, there was much pleasure to be had, naturally enough, from attributing this shambles to the senseless Germans, and soon everybody believed they were in a dangerous mess because of the bungling sausage-makers.
'Why have we stopped? Road blocked ahead? Or have we got to the French?'
'No, can't hear anything. They'd have been firing. Told us to get going quick, and we did, and now look at us, stuck in the middle of a field, God knows why . . . Blasted krauts, mucking things up! Damned idiots!'
'I'd have sent them out first. No fear, crowds of 'em at the back . . . Got to stand here now with nothing to eat.'
'Get a move on!'
'I've heard that the cavalry's blocking the road,' said an officer.
'Damned Germans, don't even know their own country,' said another.
'Which division are you?' shouted an adjutant, riding up.
'Eighteenth.'
'What are you doing here? You should have been up at the front ages ago. Yo