War And Peace

‘Hey, it’s getting light. It really is,’ he cried. The unseen horses were now visible from head to tail, and a watery light filtered down through the leafless branches. Petya shook himself, jumped to his feet, searched his pocket for a rouble to give to Likhachov and took a few trial swipes with his sword before sheathing it. The Cossacks were untying the horses and tightening the saddle-girths.

‘Here comes the commander,’ said Likhachov.

Denisov came out of the hut, shouted to Petya and told him to get ready.

CHAPTER 11

Working at speed in the half-light they sorted out the horses, tightened the saddle-girths and got themselves into their various groupings. Denisov stood by the hut, giving out final instructions. Their infantry moved off down the road, a hundred feet splashing through the mud. They were soon lost among the trees in the early-morning mist. The hetman gave an order to the Cossacks. Petya held his horse by the bridle, eagerly waiting for the signal to mount. His face was glowing from a good splash with cold water, and his eyes were burning. A cold shiver ran down his back, and his whole body shook with a quick, rhythmic trembling.

‘Wight. Is ev’wybody weady?’ said Denisov. ‘Bwing the horses.’

The horses were led forward. Denisov rounded on the Cossack for leaving the saddle-girths too loose, and he swore at him as he got on his horse. Petya put one foot in the stirrup. His horse made its usual show of nibbling him on the leg, but Petya leapt into the saddle, oblivious of his own weight, looked round at the hussars coming up behind them in the darkness and rode over to Denisov.

‘Vasily Fyodorovich, you will give me a job to do, won’t you? Please . . . For God’s sake . . .’ he said. Denisov seemed to have forgotten Petya’s existence. He looked round at him.

‘I’ve only one thing to ask you,’ he said sternly. ‘Do what I say, and don’t go wushing off anywhere.’

As they rode along Denisov didn’t say another word to Petya or anyone else. By the time they got to the edge of the wood it really was getting light in the open country. Denisov whispered something to the hetman, and the Cossacks began riding ahead past Petya and Denisov. When they had all gone by, Denisov urged his horse down the slope. Slipping and sinking back on their haunches, the horses slithered down into the hollow with their riders. Petya kept close to Denisov. He still had the shakes all over his body, worse than before. It was getting lighter by the minute, but distant objects were still hidden in the mist. When he got to the bottom Denisov looked back and nodded to the Cossack at his side.

‘Signal,’ he said.

The Cossack raised his arm, and a shot rang out. Instantly they heard sounds up ahead: horses galloping off, voices shouting on all sides, more shots.

At the first sound of galloping hooves and men calling out Petya slackened the reins, lashed his horse and leapt forward, ignoring Denisov, who was shouting at him. A great glare of noonday light seemed to flash before Petya’s eyes the moment he heard the shot. He galloped to the bridge. The Cossacks were moving on ahead of him. At the bridge he brushed up against a Cossack who was lagging behind and overtook him. Just in front Petya could see some men, presumably the French, running across the road from right to left. One slipped in the mud right under his horse’s legs.

Cossacks were crowding round one of the peasant houses, doing something. A terrible scream came from the middle of the crowd. Petya galloped over to this crowd, and the first thing he saw was the white face and trembling jaw of a Frenchman, who had grabbed hold of a lance aimed at his chest.

‘Hurrah! . . . Come on, boys . . . Our boys are here!’ shouted Petya. He gave rein to his excited horse and galloped on down the village street.

He could hear shots being fired up ahead. Cossacks, hussars and scruffy Russian prisoners were running up from both sides of the road, yelling and shouting without making any sense. A plucky Frenchman in a blue coat, with a scowling red face and no cap, was defending himself with a bayonet against the hussars. By the time Petya got there the Frenchman was down. ‘Too late. Again!’ flashed through Petya’s mind, and he galloped off towards the place where he could hear the most shooting. There was a lot of gunfire coming from the manor-house yard where he had been the night before with Dolokhov. The French had gone to ground behind a wattle-fence in among the bushes of the overgrown garden, and they were firing at the Cossacks as they poured in through the gate. As he rode up to the gate, through the gunsmoke Petya caught a glimpse of Dolokhov’s pale, greenish face as he shouted to the men. ‘Go on round. Wait for the infantry!’ he was yelling just as Petya got there.