All his dreams had come true that morning: there was going to be a full battle and he was due to take part in it. More importantly, he was serving one of the bravest of generals, and, more importantly still, he was now responsible for taking a message to Kutuzov, perhaps even to the Tsar himself. It was a fine morning and he had a good horse under him. His spirits overflowed with joy and happiness. Fully briefed, he gave the horse his head and galloped off down the line. First he rode past Bagration’s stationary troops, as yet held back from the action, then he was soon into the territory of Uvarov’s cavalry, where at last he could see signs of movement and preparations for battle. Beyond them he began to hear the distinct sound of gunfire and the booming of cannons ahead. The firing got louder and louder.
The sounds were different now in the fresh morning air. Gone were the desultory shots loosed off two or three at a time and accompanied by the occasional bang from a cannon. Now, all down the sloping hillsides before Pratzen he could hear long volleys of gunfire, with intermittent booming from the big guns so sustained that sometimes it sounded not like individual shots but one great roaring cannonade.
He could see puffs of musket smoke chasing each other down the hillsides, while cannon smoke wreathed up in clouds that floated away and melted together. The glint of bayonets through the smoke told him that masses of infantry were on the move down there, and one or two narrow strips indicated artillery with green caissons.
Rostov stopped his horse on a little rise to watch for a moment and see what was happening. But however much he concentrated he couldn’t begin to sort out or understand what was going on. Some sort of men seemed to be moving about down there in the smoke, lines of troops were moving up from front and rear – but what for? Who were they? Where were they going? He just couldn’t tell. But he found this spectacle and all these sounds far from depressing or discouraging; they only added to his energy and determination.
‘Come on, come on, let’s have some more!’ was his mental response to the sounds he heard. He galloped off again down the line, farther and farther into territory where the troops had gone into action.
‘I don’t know what it’s like down there, but I’m sure it’ll be all right!’ thought Rostov.
After riding past some Austrian troops, Rostov noticed that the next section (the guards) had gone off to fight.
‘Good, that’s better! I’ll get a close look,’ he thought.
He was now riding almost along the front line itself. Several horsemen came galloping towards him – a troop of our Uhlans returning in disorder from an attack. As he passed, Rostov noticed one of them covered in blood, but he galloped on.
‘Nothing to do with me!’ he thought.
Only a few hundred yards further on he suddenly saw, coming from the left and spread out over the whole battlefield, an immense mass of cavalrymen on black horses, in dazzling white uniforms, cutting across and bearing down on him. Rostov rode flat out to avoid them all, and he would have managed it if they had moved at the same pace, but they kept coming faster and faster until several horses were galloping. Louder and louder came the hoofbeats and the rattling of their weapons; clearer and clearer were the horses, the figures, even the faces. They were our men, horse guards, charging against the advancing French cavalry.
They were now all at the gallop, though the horses were still being restrained. Rostov could see their faces as the commander shouted, ‘Charge!’ and let his thoroughbred go at full speed. Rostov was now in danger of being run down or swept into the attack against the French, so he galloped his horse flat out across their lines, but to no avail – he still couldn’t avoid them.
The last rider, a giant of a man with a pock-marked face, scowled viciously when Rostov suddenly appeared in front of him and a collision seemed inevitable. This man would certainly have brought Rostov and Bedouin down (Rostov felt so tiny and feeble alongside these gigantic men and horses), but he just managed to lash out with his riding-crop across the horse’s face. The massive black charger, sixteen hands if he was an inch, flattened his ears and reared back, but the pock-marked rider brought him down with a vicious thrust of his big spurs, and the horse responded by lashing its tail and stretching its neck before hurtling on faster than ever. The horse guards had barely gone past him when Rostov heard them roar their ‘Hurrah!’ and when he looked closer he saw their leading ranks getting tangled up with some other cavalrymen with red epaulettes, probably French. That was all he saw because at that moment cannons thundered somewhere near by and everything was blotted out in smoke.
