The colonel rode up to the front, gave some testy answers to questions posed by the officers and, like a man desperate to have his own way, rapped out an order. There had been no definite word, but a rumour had swept the squadron that they were going to attack. Now the order to fall in was followed by the slash of sabres coming out of scabbards. Still no one moved. The left-flank infantry and hussars sensed that their commanders had no idea what to do, and their uncertainty was soon transmitted to the soldiers.
‘Come on, come on!’ thought Rostov, feeling that at long last the moment had come to enjoy the thrill of a charge, which his regimental comrades had so often told him about.
‘God be with you, men,’ rang out Denisov’s voice. ‘Fow-ward! Quick-twot!’
In the front line the horses stirred their haunches. Little Rook pulled on the reins and set off on his own.
To his right Rostov could see the leading ranks of his own hussars. Up ahead he could make out a dark strip, not very clear but presumably the enemy. Shots could be heard, but they were some way off.
‘Faster now!’ came the word of command, and Rostov felt Little Rook’s hindquarters dip as he surged into a gallop. Rostov knew the horse’s every movement in advance, and he was getting more and more excited. He noticed a solitary tree just ahead. That tree had once been in front of him, right in the middle of the dividing line that had seemed so terrible. But now they had crossed that line and nothing terrible had happened – except that he felt even more elated and excited. ‘God how I’ll slash him!’ thought Rostov, squeezing down on his sabre-hilt.
All voices roared a huge
‘Let ’em all come!’ he thought, spurring Little Rook to go even faster, sweeping past the others and moving into a full gallop. Now the enemy could be seen ahead. And then suddenly something happened: it came like a great lash across the whole squadron as if it had been slapped by a big broom. Rostov had his sabre raised, ready to slash with it, but at that moment Nikitenko, who had just galloped past, suddenly disappeared and Rostov felt himself flying through the air at an amazing speed and yet at the same time not moving. Was he dreaming? One of his comrades, Bandarchuk, almost crashed into him and flashed him a furious glare. Bandarchuk’s horse veered away and galloped on.
‘What’s happened? Why can’t I move? I’m down. I’m dead.’ For a moment Rostov questioned and answered himself. There he was on his own in the middle of a field. Instead of the galloping horses and the hussars’ backs, all he could see around him was the earth and stubble, and no movement of any kind. There was warm blood under him.
‘No, I’m only wounded. It’s my horse that’s dead.’ Little Rook struggled to get up on to his forelegs, but sank back, pinning his rider’s leg. Blood was flowing from the horse’s head. He was thrashing about; he couldn’t get up. Rostov tried to get up too, and fell back down. His sabretache had snagged in the saddle. Where were our men? Where were the French? He had no idea. There was no one in sight.
He managed to free his leg and stood up. ‘Which way now? Where’s that dividing line that separated us off so neatly?’ he wondered, but this time there was no answer. ‘Something’s gone terribly wrong. Do things like this really happen? What do you do?’ he kept wondering as he got to his feet. Then he suddenly felt there was something dangling on his numb left arm that shouldn’t be there. The wrist seemed not to belong to his arm. He stared down at his hand, looking for blood. ‘Oh, look, someone’s coming,’ he thought with great delight, seeing some men running towards him. ‘They’ll help me!’ The first wore a strange shako and a blue coat; he had a swarthy sunburnt face and a hooked nose. He was followed by two others, and there were a lot more just behind him. One of them said something funny, not in Russian. Rostov could see a Russian hussar standing among the same sort of men wearing the same sort of hat. They were pinning him by the arms and holding his horse too, a bit further back.
