War And Peace

‘I’m not waiting . . . Hurrah!’ shouted Petya, and without pausing for a second he galloped towards the spot where the shots had been coming from and where the gunsmoke was thickest. A volley of shots rang out. Some bullets whistled past; others thudded home. The Cossacks and Dolokhov were galloping in through the gate after Petya. In the thick, swirling smoke the French were throwing their weapons down and rushing out of the bushes towards the oncoming Cossacks, or running away downhill towards the pond. Petya was galloping through the courtyard. Instead of holding on to the reins he was cleaving the air with weird and wonderful movements of his arms and slithering sideways out of his saddle. His horse stepped on the ashes of a camp-fire still smouldering in the early-morning light and reared back. Petya fell heavily to the wet ground. The Cossacks could see his arms and legs twitching, but his head didn’t move. A bullet had gone right through his head.

After some negotiations with the senior French officer, who came out of the house with a handkerchief tied to his sword and said they were ready to surrender, Dolokhov got down from his horse and went over to Petya, who was lying there motionless with his arms outstretched.

‘He’s had it,’ he said with a scowl, and walked back to the gate to meet Denisov, who was riding in.

‘Is he dead?’ yelled Denisov, who could see unmistakably even at a distance that Petya’s all too familiar body, in its awkward sprawl, had no life in it.

‘He’s had it.’ Dolokhov repeated the words, apparently with relish, and then walked over to the prisoners, who were being rapidly surrounded by the scurrying Cossacks. ‘We’re not taking any prisoners!’ he shouted to Denisov. Denisov didn’t reply. He went over to Petya, got down from his horse and with shaking hands he turned up the bloodstained face, spattered with mud and already drained of its colour.

‘I’ve got a sweet tooth! Smashing raisins. Take the lot.’ The words came back to him. And the Cossacks looked round in surprise at the sudden sound, like a dog howling, that came from Denisov as he turned away, walked over to the fence and clutched at it.

Pierre Bezukhov was one of the Russian prisoners rescued by Denisov and Dolokhov.

CHAPTER 12

The party of prisoners that Pierre belonged to was given no further instructions by the French authorities during its long trek from Moscow. But by the 22nd of October this party was no longer being escorted by the same troops and transport that had been with them when they left the city. Half the wagons carrying the dry biscuit rations that had accompanied them during the first stages of the journey had been seized by the Cossacks, and the other half had driven on ahead. Of the dismounted cavalrymen who had been marching in front of the prisoners not a man was left; every last one had disappeared. The artillery that the prisoners had seen ahead of them in the early stages had been replaced by Marshal Junot’s enormous baggage-train with its escort of Westphalians. Behind the prisoners came more wagons carrying cavalry equipment.

After Vyazma the marching French, who had started out in three columns, had come together into a single mass. By now the breakdown of good order that Pierre had witnessed at the first halt outside Moscow had gone as far as it could.

The road they were marching along was strewn on both sides with the carcasses of dead horses. There was a continual succession of scruffy soldiers, stragglers from various regiments, some joining the column on the march, others dropping back. Several times there had been false alarms, and the convoy soldiers had raised their muskets, fired and rushed on headlong, trampling each other underfoot. Then they had rallied, come together again and cursed each other for their needless panic.

These three bodies travelling the road together – the cavalry wagons, the convoy of prisoners and Junot’s baggage-train – still made up a complete and separate entity, though each of its parts was rapidly melting away.

One hundred and twenty cavalry wagons had set out, but only sixty were left, the others having been stolen or abandoned. A number of wagons from Junot’s train had also been stolen or abandoned. Three wagons had been attacked and looted by stragglers from Davout’s regiment. Listening to the Germans, Pierre had found out that this baggage-train had been more closely guarded than the prisoners, and one of their comrades, a German, had been shot by order of the marshal himself because a silver spoon belonging to him had been found among the soldier’s possessions.