A skinny, frail-looking old colonel with a sweet smile and eyelids that drooped down, more than half-covering his weary old eyes, all of which made him look like a gentle sort of person, rode up to meet Prince Bagration and greet him like a host welcoming a favourite guest. He reported that his regiment had been attacked by the French cavalry, and that although the attack had been repulsed, the regiment had lost more than half its men. The colonel said that the attack had been repulsed because that seemed like a suitable military term for what had happened, but he had no real idea of anything that had taken place during that half-hour of skirmishes involving his troops, and couldn’t have said with any certainty whether the attack had been repulsed or his regiment had been destroyed by the attack. All he knew was that the action had started with cannonballs and grenades raining down on his regiment and hitting his men, then someone had shouted ‘Cavalry!’ and our men had opened fire. And they were still at it, firing not now at the cavalry because they had disappeared, but at French infantrymen who had turned up in the hollow and started firing at us. Prince Bagration nodded his head as a sign that this was just what he had wanted and planned for. Turning to an aide, he ordered him to bring down from the hill the two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs they had ridden past. Prince Andrey was struck at that moment by a change that had come over Prince Bagration’s face. It had assumed the concentration and wilful delight of a man who has decided to take a plunge on a hot day and is now on his run-up to a dive. Gone were the lacklustre, dozy eyes and that forced appearance of profound thought. His round, sharp, hawk-like eyes peered ahead with new exhilaration and some disdain without actually seeing anything, though he still moved with the same leisureliness and steady rhythm.
The colonel then urged Prince Bagration to go back since it was too dangerous where they were. ‘Sir, I implore you in God’s name!’ he kept saying, glancing at the officer of the suite for support, but he was looking away.
‘See what I mean, your Excellency!’ he said, reminding him of the bullets which never stopped whining, singing and hissing all around them. He spoke like a carpenter remonstrating with his master who has just picked up an axe: ‘We’re hardened to it, sir, but you’ll get blisters on your hands.’ He talked as if he couldn’t be killed by these bullets, and his half-closed eyes gave his words extra conviction. The staff officer added his protests to the colonel’s, but Bagration made no reply. All he did was give the order for a ceasefire and re-formation to create space for the two battalions of reinforcements. As he spoke a breeze lifted the pall of smoke covering the hollow like an unseen hand sweeping from right to left, giving them a view of the opposite hillside with all the French soldiers moving across it. Every eye turned instinctively to that French column bearing down on them, weaving in and out and up and down as it came. They could see the soldiers’ shaggy caps, the differences between officers and men and their standard flapping on its staff.
‘Nice bit of marching,’ said someone in Bagration’s suite.
The head of the column was well down into the hollow. Any fighting would now take place on this side . . .
The remnants of our regiment that had already been in action fell in as fast as they could and started to move off to the right; meanwhile, behind them the two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs were marching up in good order, scattering the stragglers. Well before they drew level with Bagration they heard the heavy tramp, tramp, tramp of massed men marching in step. On their left flank, nearest to Bagration, marched the captain, an imposing man with a round face which looked rather silly in its cheerfulness – the infantry officer who had followed Tushin out of the wattle hut. At that moment he was clearly oblivious to everything except the swaggering style of his march past in front of the commanding officer.
