Rostov waited no longer for his response; he spurred his horse and galloped off in front of his squadron. He hardly had time to give the command – the whole squadron, feeling as he did, dashed after him. Rostov couldn’t have said how or why he did it. It was like hunting; he did what he did without thinking or weighing things up. He could see the dragoons were getting close and galloping all over the place, he knew they couldn’t withstand a charge, and he also knew that this was their moment, and it wouldn’t come again if he missed it. He felt exhilarated by the sound of bullets whistling and whining on all sides, and his horse was straining forward so strongly he couldn’t hold him back. He spurred him on, gave the command and instantly set off downhill at a half-gallop heading towards the dragoons, hearing the thudding hooves of his squadron coming on behind, properly deployed. They flew downhill, went into a full gallop, faster and faster, getting nearer and nearer to their uhlans and the pursuing French. The dragoons were not far away now. Those in front took one look at the hussars and turned back; the ones behind came juddering to a halt. It was just like diving across to cut off a wolf – Rostov urged his Don horse forward, giving him his head, and shot across to intercept the dragoons in their tattered ranks. One uhlan stopped in his tracks, another one, on foot, flung himself to the ground to avoid being ridden down, and a riderless horse joined in with the charging hussars. Almost all the dragoons were now riding away. Rostov picked out one of them on a grey and flew after him. There was a bush in the way, but his gallant horse took it in his stride, and Nikolay was hardly straight in the saddle again when he saw that it would take him only a second or two to catch up with his chosen enemy. The Frenchman, an officer to judge by his uniform, sat hunched up on his grey horse, urging it on with his sword. The next moment Rostov’s horse ran straight into the grey’s hindquarters and nearly brought it down while Rostov surprised himself by raising his sword and aiming a blow at the Frenchman.
But then, in an instant, Rostov’s enthusiasm suddenly drained away. The officer fell to the ground, not really from the sword cut, which gave him no more than a scratch above the elbow, but from the bump between horses and sheer terror. As Rostov reined in, his eyes were searching for his foe to see whom he had brought down. There was the French officer, hopping along with one foot caught in his stirrup. He was terrified, wincing from immediate expectation of another blow, and he looked up at Rostov, recoiling in horror. This pale, mud-stained face of a fair-haired young man with a dimple on his chin and bright blue eyes had no business with battlefields; it was not the face of an enemy; it was a domestic, indoor face. Before Rostov could make up his mind what to do with him, the officer called out in French, ‘I surrender!’ He was still in a panic, vainly struggling to extricate his foot from the stirrup and still staring up at Rostov with fear in his eyes of blue. Then some hussars galloped over, freed his foot and got him up into the saddle again. The hussars had their hands full on all sides dealing with the dragoons: here was a wounded man with blood streaming down his face who wouldn’t let go of his horse; there was another man who had scrambled up on to a colleague’s horse and was clasping him round the waist; a third was helping another hussar up on to his own horse. The French infantry were just ahead, loosing off shots as they ran. The hussars hurried away with their prisoners. Rostov galloped along with the rest, conscious of a nasty feeling inside, an aching round his heart. It was as if he had suddenly seen something, something vague and confused that he couldn’t account for, in capturing that French officer and hitting him with his sword.
Count Ostermann-Tolstoy was there to welcome them back. He sent for Rostov, thanked him and told him he would report his gallant action to the Tsar and recommend him for a St George’s Cross. When the summons had come for him to appear before Count Ostermann, Rostov could only recall that he had gone on the attack without any orders to do so, and he was certain his commanding officer had sent for him to discipline him for being out of order. Ostermann’s honeyed words and the prospect of getting a medal should, therefore, have come as a pleasant surprise to Rostov, but he still felt sick at heart, troubled by the same vague but nasty feeling. ‘What is it? What’s worrying me?’ he wondered as he rode away from seeing the general. ‘Ilyin? No, he’s all right. Did I do anything I should be ashamed of? No, that’s not it!’ Something else was worrying him, a kind of remorse. ‘Yes, I know, it’s that French officer with the dimple. I can remember holding back just when I’d lifted my arm.’
