‘Don’t know, sir,’ the hussar managed reluctantly.
‘Coming from there it must be the enemy,’ Rostov said again.
‘Maybe ’tis, maybe ’tisn’t,’ mumbled the hussar, ‘ ’tis too dark. Hey, steady!’ he shouted to his fidgety horse. Rostov’s horse was just as restive, pawing the frozen ground as it listened to the shouts and looked at the lights. The shouting grew louder still until it became one great sustained roar that could only have come from an army of thousands. The lights stretched further and further, probably marking the line of the French camp. Rostov wasn’t sleepy any more – the happy roar of triumph from the enemy’s army had shaken him into life. ‘Long live the Emperor! The Emperor!’ There was no mistaking the words now.
‘Not too far away . . . They must be just across the stream,’ he said to the hussar near him.
The hussar sighed, but didn’t reply. He gave an angry grunt. Then they heard a horse trotting towards them down the line of their men, and suddenly the figure of a sergeant of hussars loomed up out of the dark mist like some enormous elephant.
‘Sir, the generals are here!’ said the sergeant, riding up to Rostov. Rostov, still looking over towards the lights and shouting, rode with the sergeant to meet several men on horseback coming down the line. One was on a white horse. It was Prince Bagration, who had ridden out with Prince Dolgorukov and some of his adjutants to watch the strange display of lights and listen to the shouting from the enemy ranks. Rostov rode up to Bagration, reported what he had heard and seen and joined the adjutants, listening to what the generals were saying.
‘Take my word for it,’ Prince Dolgorukov was saying to Bagration, ‘this is just a trick. They’ve retreated and told the rearguard to light fires and make a racket to fool us.’
‘I hardly think so,’ said Bagration. ‘I’ve been watching them on that rise all evening. If they’d retreated, they’d have gone from there. Officer,’ Prince Bagration turned to Rostov, ‘are the enemy pickets still there?’
‘They were there this evening, but now I can’t tell, sir. Shall I take some men and find out?’ said Rostov.
Bagration stood still and before answering he tried to make out Rostov’s face through the mist.
‘Yes, you do that,’ he said after a brief pause.
‘Sir.’
Spurring his horse, Rostov called out to Sergeant Fedchenko and two other hussars, told them to follow him and trotted off downhill in the direction of the shouting, which showed no signs of dying down. Rostov felt scared and exhilarated to be riding alone with three hussars down into that mysterious and dangerous, misty distance, where no one had ridden before. Bagration had yelled at him from the hillside not to cross the stream, but Rostov had pretended not to hear, and he rode on and on without stopping, continually getting things wrong, mistaking bushes for trees and gullies for men, and continually discovering his mistakes. He trotted downhill and soon lost sight of our men and the enemy’s fires, but the shouting of the Frenchmen was louder and clearer. At the bottom he saw just ahead something that looked like a river, but once he rode up to it he saw that it was a well-travelled road. As he got out on the road he reined in his horse and wondered whether to go along it or to cross over and ride uphill through a black field. Riding down the road where it was still misty but brighter would be less dangerous because you’d get a better sight of any figures. ‘Follow me,’ he said, then crossed the road and galloped off uphill heading for the area where the French pickets had been seen that evening.
‘Sir, look!’ cried one of the hussars from behind, and before Rostov could see what it was, something black loomed up in the mist, there was a blinding flash, the crack of a shot and the whine of a bullet which flew past and died away. Another gun misfired, but there was a flash in the pan. Rostov turned his horse and galloped back. He heard four more shots at varying intervals, and four more bullets sang their different tunes into the mist. Rostov reined in his horse, which seemed as excited as he was by all this shooting, and brought him to a walk. ‘More, more, give me more!’ cried an excited inner voice. But there were no more shots. Rostov waited until he was getting near to Bagration before galloping his horse again, and he rode up saluting.
Dolgorukov was still insisting that the French were in retreat, and the fires had been lit in order to fool them. ‘What does this prove?’ he was saying as Rostov rode up. ‘They might have retreated and still left pickets.’
‘It’s clear they haven’t all gone, Prince,’ said Bagration. ‘We must see what morning brings. In the morning we shall know all there is to know.’
‘The picket’s still there on the hill, your Excellency, where it was yesterday evening,’ Rostov announced, still saluting and quite unable to resist a smile of delight after his sortie and especially the whine of bullets.
