War And Peace полностью

‘Oh, are they? What about there?’ Pierre pointed to another mound in the distance, with a big tree on it, near to a village just visible in a hollow, where you could see the smoke from camp-fires and a black shape of some kind.

‘It’s him there too!’ said the officer. (It was the Shevardino redoubt.) ‘Yesterday it was ours, now it’s his.’

‘So where is our position, exactly?’

‘Our position?’ said the officer, with a grin of delight. ‘I can give you every detail, because I’ve been involved in almost all our fortifications. That’s our centre, down there in Borodino.’ He was pointing to the village with the white church straight ahead. ‘That’s where we cross the Kolocha. There, where you can see those rows of hay down in that hollow, that’s where the bridge is. And that’s our centre. Our right flank is out over there.’ He pointed sharply to the right, off into the broken country. ‘That’s the Moskva river, and we’ve built three redoubts there, good strong ones. Now, er, the left flank . . .’ He faltered. ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult to explain . . . Yesterday our left flank was out there, over at Shevardino. See that oak-tree? Near there. But now we’ve pulled the left wing back a bit. Can you see over there? That village and all the smoke – that’s Semyonovsk. That’s where it is.’ He pointed to Rayevsky’s redoubt. ‘But I don’t think there’s going to be a battle there. He’s moved his troops in, but it’s a blind; he’ll probably come round from the right of the river. Anyway, wherever it happens, a lot of us will be missing at roll-call tomorrow!’ said the officer.

A veteran sergeant had walked up during this conversation and stood there in silence waiting for the officer to finish speaking. But at this point he broke in, obviously resenting this last remark.

‘We need to send for some gabions,’ he said grimly.

The officer looked rather embarrassed, as if he knew full well that it might be all right to think how many men would be missing next day, but you ought not to talk about it.

‘Yes, well, er, send the third company again,’ he said hastily. ‘And who might you be? Not one of the doctors, are you?’

‘No, no, I just happen to be here,’ answered Pierre. And he went back down the hill and walked past the working peasants again.

‘Ugh, filthy swine!’ said the officer from behind Pierre, holding his nose and hurrying past them.

‘Look, they’re coming! They’re here! They’ve got her . . . They’ll be here in a minute . . .’

The sudden calls soon had officers, soldiers and peasants scurrying down the road.

A church procession was winding its way up the hill from Borodino. It was headed by a regiment of infantry marching smartly along the dusty road, shakos off and trailing arms. From behind the infantry came the sound of chanting.

Bareheaded soldiers and peasants raced past Pierre in their rush to meet the processing people.

‘They’re bringing her! Our defender . . . the Holy Mother of Iversk!’

‘Smolensk,’ came the voice of correction.

Militiamen – those who had been in the village and those who had been working at the battery – had flung down their spades and run down towards the procession. The battalion marching along the dusty road was followed by priests in their church robes, a little old man in a hood with attendant clergy and choristers. Behind them came soldiers and officers carrying a huge holy icon with a black face in a setting of silver. This was the icon that had been brought away from Smolensk and taken around by the army ever since. Behind it, ahead of it and on all sides came crowds of soldiers with bared heads, walking, running or bowing down to the ground.