Then the colonel was approached by a familiar figure in the Pavlograd hussars, that of the stiff-shouldered Zherkov, who had recently left the regiment. After his dismissal from the staff of the commander-in-chief, he had not remained with them because, as he put it, he was not fool enough to slog on at the front when he could get more pay for doing nothing on the staff, and he had wangled an appointment as orderly to Prince Bagration. Now he rode over to his old colonel with an order from the rearguard commander.
‘Colonel,’ he said, with his usual moroseness, addressing Rostov’s adversary, and looking round at his former comrades, ‘the order is to halt, go back and burn the bridge down.’
‘Order?
‘Well, Colonel, I don’t know,
Zherkov was followed by an officer of the commander’s entourage, who rode up with exactly the same order. And after him came the stout figure of Nesvitsky on a Cossack horse, which could hardly manage a gallop with him on board.
‘Colonel,’ he shouted, still galloping, ‘I told you to burn the bridge, and someone’s messed things up. It’s a madhouse over there, everything’s all over the place.’
The colonel stopped the regiment, unhurried, and turned to Nesvitsky.
‘You haff tell me about ze kindling,’ he said, ‘but not about ze burning – you never said a word.’
‘My good man,’ said Nesvitsky, as he came to a halt, removed his cap and passed a podgy hand over his sweaty hair, ‘was it really necessary to say “burn the bridge” when you were packing it with kindling materials?’
‘Don’t you “gut man” me, Mr Staff Officer,’ said Schubert, his marked German accent worsening. ‘You deed not tell me to set fire to ze brich! I know my serfice, and ees my habit to carry out strictly mine orders. You said ze bridge vill be burnt, but who iss going to burn it I by Holy Spirit couldn’t tell.’
‘Well, that’s always the way,’ said Nesvitsky with a wave of his arm. ‘What are you doing here?’ he added, turning to Zherkov.
‘Same as you. Look, you’re all wet through. Let me help . . .’
‘But Mr Staff Officer, vat you say vas . . .’ the colonel was insisting in an aggrieved tone.
‘Colonel,’ interrupted the first officer, ‘we must hurry, or the enemy will have moved up their guns and started using grapeshot.’
The colonel looked dumbly from him to the stout staff officer, then to Zherkov, and he scowled.
‘I vill ze brich fire,’ he said with great solemnity and the air of a man determined to do his duty, however difficult they made things for him.
Spurring his horse with his long muscular legs, as though it were the guilty party, the colonel rode forward and ordered number two squadron, in which Rostov was serving under Denisov’s command, to return to the bridge.
‘I was right,’ thought Rostov, ‘he does want to test me!’ His heart missed a beat and the blood rushed to his face. ‘I’ll show him whether I’m a coward or not!’ he thought. That same grave look which had overtaken them under fire returned to every cheerful face in the squadron. Rostov stared closely at his adversary, the colonel, searching his face for confirmation of his suspicions. But the colonel never once glanced at Rostov; as always he was looking ahead sternly and solemnly. The word of command was given.
‘Come on, let’s get on with it!’ said several voices around him. Sabres snagging in the reins and spurs jingling, the hussars dismounted at speed, without knowing what they were going to do. The soldiers crossed themselves. Rostov had stopped looking at the colonel; there was no time. His one great dread, which he felt with a sinking heart, was of falling behind the hussars. His hand shook as he gave his horse to an orderly, and he could feel his heart pumping blood. Denisov rode past, rearing back and calling out. Rostov could see nothing but hussars all round him, running everywhere with jingling spurs and clanking sabres.
‘Stretcher here!’ called a voice behind him. It never occurred to Rostov what stretcher meant. He just ran on, trying to keep to the front. But right by the bridge, running along without looking down, he slipped on the well-trodden mud, staggered and fell on his hands. The others ran round him.
‘For boss ze zides, Captain,’ he heard the shout from the colonel who must have galloped on ahead, and had now reined in his horse by the bridge, watching with triumph and delight written on his face.
Rostov wiped his muddy hands on his riding breeches and looked round at his adversary. He made as if to run on, with the idea that the further he could get the better it would be, but Bogdanych, without recognizing him or even looking at him, gave a shout.
‘Who ees mittel of ze brich? On ze right! Ensign, get back!’ he shouted furiously, rounding on Denisov, who had ridden with swaggering bravado on to the boards of the bridge.
