With much effort and some assistance from the infantry, they hauled the cannon uphill and stopped when they got to the village of Guntersdorf. By now it was so dark you couldn’t see the soldiers’ uniforms ten paces away, and the firing was beginning to die down. All of a sudden shouts rang out not far away to the right followed by some shooting. Gunshots flashed through the darkness. It was a last attack by the French, and an immediate response came from our men who had taken refuge in the village houses. They rushed out from the village, but Tushin’s big guns couldn’t move; the gunners, Tushin and the cadet looked at each other in silence, wondering what might happen to them. But then the firing on both sides began to subside, and some soldiers streamed out of a side street, talking excitedly to one another.
‘You all right, Petrov?’ inquired one.
‘We gave it to ’em hot, men. That’ll keep ’em quiet,’ another said.
‘Couldn’t see nothing. They were hitting their own men! Couldn’t see nothing for the dark, mates. Anything to drink?’
The French had been driven back for the last time. Once again Tushin’s big guns, shielded by the noisy infantry, trundled forward, moving on in pitch darkness.
Through the darkness streamed a kind of invisible black river, always flowing in one direction, abuzz with whispers, words, clopping hooves and rumbling wheels. Amid the dull murmur, only the sounds of wounded men moaning and calling out rang through the dark night with any clarity. Their moans seemed to swell and fill the surrounding darkness. Moaning and darkness melted into one. After a while, a wave of excitement swept through the moving crowd. Someone with an entourage had ridden past on a white horse and said something as he went by.
‘What’d he say? Where are we goin’ now? Are we goin’ to halt? Thanked us, did he?’
Eager voices called out on all sides, and the whole surging mass began to squeeze together – the men at the front must have stopped, and a rumour swept back that the order had been given to halt. Everybody came to a stop on the muddy road, just where they were.
Fires were lit and there was a lot more talking. Captain Tushin gave some instructions to his battery, then sent some soldiers to find a dressing station or a doctor for the cadet and finally sat down by a fire lit by his soldiers at the roadside. Rostov struggled to the fire. His whole body was trembling feverishly from the pain, the cold and the damp. He was utterly weary, but he couldn’t get to sleep because of the agonizing pain in his aching, dislocated arm. His eyes would close, and then open again, to stare into the fire, a blazing red blur, or at the feeble, hunched figure of Tushin squatting at his side. Tushin’s wide, bright, kindly eyes were fixed on him with sympathy and commiseration. He could see that Tushin wanted to help him with all his heart, but there was nothing he could do.
From all sides they could hear the footsteps and chatter of infantrymen as they walked past, drove by or settled down not far away. The sounds of those voices, and footsteps and horses’ hooves squelching through the mud, and firewood crackling near by and far away, blended together into a dull throbbing murmur.
The invisible black river flowing through the darkness had turned into a dismal sea, subsiding but still agitated after a storm. Rostov’s uncomprehending eyes and ears followed what was going on in front of and around him. An infantry soldier came to the fire, squatted on his heels, held his hands to the heat and turned towards Tushin.
‘Is this all right, sir?’ he asked. ‘You see, sir, I’ve lost my company. I’ve no idea where I am. It’s terrible!’
With him an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came to the fire to ask for the cannon to be shifted over a little so that a wagon could get through. Then two soldiers ran up; they were swearing fearfully, struggling and fighting over a boot.
‘Oh no you don’t! Picked it up, did you? That’s a good ’un!’ shouted one in a hoarse voice.
Then a thin, pale soldier with a bloodstained rag bandage on his neck came over, furiously demanding water from the gunners.
‘Expect me to die like a dog?’ he said.
Tushin told them to give him some water. After that a good-humoured soldier ran up to ask for some burning embers for the infantry.
‘A bit of fire and heat for the infantry! Bless you, men. Thanks for the loan. We’ll pay it back with interest,’ he said, carrying some glowing pieces of wood off into the darkness.
He was followed by four soldiers who walked past carrying something heavy in an overcoat. One of them stumbled.
‘Dammit, they’ve dropped firewood all over the road,’ he grumbled.
‘He’s dead. Not worth carrying him now,’ said another voice.
‘You shut up!’ And they vanished into the darkness with their heavy load.
‘Bit painful, eh?’ Tushin asked Rostov in a whisper.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Sir, the general wants to see you. He’s just over there in a hut,’ said a gunner, coming up to Tushin.
