War And Peace

‘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 town. They drop dead on the way from starvation, or they get killed. Take no prisoners – doesn’t it come down to the same thing?’

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 Gérard 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.