With the smugness of an end man on parade, he bounced along on his sinewy legs, effortlessly marching to attention, floating with a lightness of step remarkably different from the heavy tread of the soldiers keeping time with him. Down by his thigh he carried, unsheathed, a thin little sword – it was a small curved sabre, for ceremonial use only – and he looked and turned sideways to the commander and back to the men behind, without straining his big powerful frame or getting out of step. He seemed to strive with every fibre of his soul to march past his commander with maximum style, and his strong sense of doing this well made him a happy man. ‘Left . . . left . . . left . . .’ he seemed to be mouthing to himself at each alternate step, and that was the rhythm to which the solid wall of military men, weighed down by packs and guns, advanced; each face was different in its stern concentration, and each one of these hundreds of soldiers seemed to mouth his own ‘Left . . . left . . . left . . .’ at each alternate step. A stout major skipped around a bush on the road, puffing and panting, and losing step. A soldier who had fallen behind trotted along in an effort to catch up with the company, panic at his offence written over his face. And then a cannonball whooshed over the heads of Prince Bagration and his suite – they could feel its pressure through the air – and, exactly in step with the ‘Left . . . left . . . left . . .’, it crashed into the column.
‘Close ranks!’ the captain sang out in a chirpy voice well suited to his swaggering step. The soldiers circled around something at the spot where the ball had landed, and an old cavalryman NCO, who had fallen behind near the dead bodies, now caught up with his line, fell into step with the march and strode on, glaring angrily about him. ‘Left . . . left . . . left . . .’ seemed to echo through the ominous silence and the tedious tramp, tramp, tramp of synchronized feet.
‘Well done, men!’ said Prince Bagration.
‘Thank you, sir . . . sir . . . sir!’ echoed down the ranks. One surly-looking soldier marching on the left stared straight at Bagration as he shouted, as if to say, ‘We don’t need you to tell us!’ Another looked rigidly ahead as he marched past, opened his mouth wide and bawled out, as if he daren’t risk any lapse of concentration.
Then they were brought to a halt and allowed to take off their packs.
Bagration rode around the ranks of men that had marched past and then dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off his cloak and handed that over too, stretched his legs and set his cap straight. And there, suddenly, was the French column, officers in front, coming into sight as they climbed the hill.
‘God be with us!’ cried Bagration in a clear strong voice. He turned for a moment to the front line, and then marched forward over the rough terrain, swinging his arms a little and lumbering along awkwardly like a man more used to riding. Prince Andrey felt himself drawn forward by an irresistible force, and he had a sensation of supreme happiness.a
The French were getting nearer, and now Prince Andrey, walking beside Bagration, could clearly make out their bandoliers and red epaulettes, even their faces. (He had a clear view of one bandy-legged old French officer wearing gaiters, who had to grab hold of bushes because climbing uphill was so hard for him.) Prince Bagration gave no further orders; he just marched on silently ahead of the ranks. Suddenly the crack of a shot came from the French side, then another, and a third . . . smoke rose and gunfire rang out down the ragged ranks of the enemy. Some of our men fell, one of them the round-faced officer who had been putting so much effort and pleasure into his marching. But when the very first shot rang out, Bagration had looked round and roared, ‘Hurrah!’ A great sustained ‘Hurra . . . a . . . a . . . ah!’ went echoing down our lines, and our men raced past Prince Bagration and overtook one another, hurtling chaotically downhill in one inspired and jubilant mob to get at the scattering Frenchmen.
CHAPTER 19
The attack of the Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right flank. In the centre Tushin’s forgotten battery had succeeded in setting fire to Schöngrabern and was thus delaying the advance of the French. They were so busy putting out fires fanned by the breeze that the Russians had plenty of time to retreat. The retreat of the centre across the ravine was carried out at speed amid the din although the different units managed to keep themselves apart. But the Azovsky and Podolsky infantry and the Pavlograd hussars on the left were simultaneously attacked and outflanked by the pick of the French troops under Lannes and torn apart. Bagration dispatched Zherkov to the general in command there with orders for an immediate retreat.
