‘Hurrah!’ roared Prince Andrey, finding the heavy flag hard to hold but rushing forward quite sure that the whole battalion would run after him. And he wasn’t alone for more than a few steps. One soldier lunged, then another, and then the whole battalion was there, echoing his ‘hurrah!’, running on and racing past him. A battalion sergeant ran up and took the flag, which was too heavy for Prince Andrey and wobbled in his grip, but he was killed on the spot. Prince Andrey snatched the flag up again and dragged it by the staff as he ran on with the battalion. In front of him he could see our gunners, some still fighting, some running towards him with the cannons abandoned. He could see French infantrymen, too, taking hold of our artillery horses and heaving the cannons the other way round. Prince Andrey and the battalion were less than twenty yards from the big guns. He heard bullets whining incessantly overhead. Soldiers moaned and dropped right and left, but he didn’t stop to look; his eyes were fixed on what was happening over there at the battery. He could make out one figure clearly, a red-haired gunner, with his shako skewed to one side, heaving on a cleaning-rod while a French soldier heaved against him the other way. Now he had a clear view of the two men’s faces, distorted with anguish and fury even though they had no real idea of what they were doing.
‘What
‘What’s happening? . . . I think I’m falling . . . My legs are going,’ he thought, collapsing on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the fight between the French soldiers and our gunner ended. Was the gunner killed or not? Did they get the cannons or were they saved? But he saw none of that. Above him was nothing, nothing but the sky – the lofty sky, not a clear sky, but still infinitely lofty, with grey clouds creeping gently across. ‘It’s so quiet, peaceful and solemn, not like me rushing about,’ thought Prince Andrey, ‘not like us, all that yelling and scrapping, not like that Frenchman and our gunner pulling on that cleaning-rod, with their scared and bitter faces, those clouds are different, creeping across that lofty, infinite sky. How can it be that I’ve never seen that lofty sky before? Oh, how happy I am to have found it at last. Yes! It’s all vanity, it’s all an illusion, everything except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing – that’s all there is. But there isn’t even that. There’s nothing but stillness and peace. Thank God for that!’
CHAPTER 17
Over on the right flank, where Bagration was in command, it was nine o’clock and the battle had still not begun. Looking for an excuse not to accede to Dolgorukov’s request for them to get things started, and anxious in fact to offload all responsibility, Prince Bagration proposed to Dolgorukov that they should send a messenger to ask for instructions from the commander-in-chief. Given that the two flanks were well over five miles apart, Bagration knew full well that, even if the courier didn’t get himself killed (and he probably would), and if he eventually managed to find the commander-in-chief (a very difficult task), he would hardly be back before evening.
Bagration scanned the members of his entourage, his wide eyes devoid of all expression and still full of sleep, and the first thing that caught his eye was the boyish face of Nikolay Rostov, transfixed with excitement and hope. So he sent him.
‘Sir, what if I meet his Majesty before the commander-in-chief?’ said Rostov with a long salute.
‘You can give the same message to his Majesty,’ said Dolgorukov, quick to interrupt Bagration.
Once off duty Rostov had snatched a few hours’ sleep before morning and now he felt cheerful, bold and resolute. He moved with a spring in his step and he felt lucky, a frame of mind which made everything seem bright and easily achievable.
