Chapter 19 Chapter Nineteen

The attack of the 6th Chasseurs ensured the retreat of the right wing.The batteries of the forgotten Tushin (who set fire to the village of Schöngraben) took military action in the central position and stopped the advance of the French army.The French extinguished the windswept fire, giving the Russians time to retreat.The army in the central position retreated hastily and hurriedly, but the various units retreated without confusion.The left wing was composed of the two infantry regiments of Azov and Podolsk and the Paulograd Hussars, but it was in a state of disarray due to the attack and outflanking of the superior forces led by the French army Lannes.Bagration sent Zherkov to the general of the left wing with orders for a hasty retreat.

Zherkov, without letting go of the hand that had been raised to the brim of his hat in the salute, galloped away with swift movements, but as soon as he left Bagration he was powerless, and an insurmountable fear seized him. , he can't go to that dangerous place.As he galloped towards the troops on the left, he did not go to the front of the barrage of bullets, but sought out generals and chiefs where they would not be seen, so he did not communicate his orders. The left wing was commanded by the senior commander of the regiment under which Dolokhov had served Kutuzov before Braunau.Rostov served in the Paulgrad Corps, the commander of which was given command of the outlying left wing, so there was a misunderstanding in this matter.The two chiefs had turned against each other, and their hatred was deep. When the left wing was already at war and the French army began to attack, the two chiefs were busy with negotiations aimed at insulting each other.Neither regiments of cavalry nor regiments of infantry made much preparation for the impending battle.The men of the two regiments, from the soldiers to the generals, did not expect a battle, but went about their peaceful labors with aplomb: the cavalry fed the horses, the infantry gathered the firewood.

"He's a higher rank than me, after all," said the German, the captain of the hussars, blushing, to the adjutant coming forward, "and let him do whatever he wants. I can't Sacrifice your own hussars. Trumpeter, blow the retreat!" However, the war is like sparks.A mingling of volleys and musketry rang through the left and center positions, and the French infantry in jackets led by Lannes crossed the embankment of the mill and lined up at two ranges on the other side of the embankment.The infantry colonel walked up to the horse with trembling steps, got on the horse, and when he was on the horse, he looked straight and tall. He walked up to the commander of the Paulograd regiment. The two commanders met, and they nodded respectfully. , But there is hatred hidden in my heart.

"Once again, Colonel," said the general, "but I cannot leave half my men in the forest. I beg you, I beg you," he repeated, "take the position and prepare to attack." "I beg you not to meddle in other people's affairs," replied the colonel hastily, "since you are a cavalryman..." "Colonel, I am not a cavalryman, but a Russian general, since you don't know..." "My lord, I know very well," cried the colonel suddenly, turning his horse, blushing, "will you visit the skirmish line, will you? Then you will see that this position is useless. I don't want to spend I have come to win your favor with my own regiment."

"Colonel, you're getting carried away. I don't care about my own pleasure, and I won't allow that." The general accepted the colonel's invitation to a contest of valor, straightened his chest, frowned, and walked with him to the skirmish line, as if all their differences should be resolved there, under the hail of bullets.They reached the skirmish line, a few bullets flew over their heads, and they stopped in silence, but the skirmish line had nothing to see, for it was clearly visible from where they had stood, and the cavalry could not stand in the bushes. Fighting in woods and ravines, the French were rounding to the left.Like two roosters preparing to fight, the general and the colonel glared at each other solemnly and meaningfully, waiting in vain for each other to show timidity.Two people withstood the test.As there was nothing to say, neither was willing to give the other an excuse that he was the first to go out of range of the bullets, had it not been for the crackling of gunfire almost behind them in the forest. And the deep shouts that merged into one, they will stand there for a long time to compete for courage.The French attack a soldier collecting firewood in the forest.The hussars could no longer retreat with the infantry.Their retreat to the left was cut off by French skirmishers.No matter how inconvenient the terrain is now, in order to carve out a path for yourself, you must attack.

The officers and soldiers of the cavalry company in which Rostov was serving had just mounted their horses when they met the enemy head-on and stopped.Again, as on the bridge over the Enns, there was no one between the cavalry company and the enemy; between them lay a dangerous, unknown, terrible line, which seemed to separate the living from the dead.All are aware of this boundary.The question of whether and how they can cross this line disturbs them. The colonel had galloped to the front of the line, angrily answered some questions from the officers, and, like a desperately obstinate man, issued an order.No one said anything definite, but word of the attack spread throughout the cavalry company.The order to line up was given, and the clang of unsheathed sabers could be heard afterwards.But no one moved forward.The troops on the left, whether infantry or hussars, felt that the commanders themselves did not know what to do, and the hesitation of the commanders infected the whole army.

"Quicker, quicker," thought Rostov, feeling that the time had finally come to enjoy the attack, about which he had heard so much from his fellow hussars. "God bless my friends," came Denisov's voice, "run!" The hips of one of the horses in the front row swayed slightly. "Rook" tugged on the rein and started on his own way. From the right Rostov saw his own first ranks of hussars, and a little farther ahead he could see a dark field which he had not been able to see clearly, but he thought it was the enemy, and he could hear the sound of gunfire. , but from afar.

"Quicken the horse's pace!" Commanded Rostov, and Rostov noticed that his rook kicked his horse and galloped away. He guessed its movements in advance, and he became all the happier.He spotted a solitary tree ahead.The tree was always in the middle of that frontal line that seemed so dreadful.But when they crossed the line, instead of being scary, they became more cheerful and more active. "Oh, I'm going to cut it off," thought Rostov, holding the hilt of his saber in his hand. "U-la-la-la!" There was a shout. "Hey, whoever it is, let it fall into my hands now." Rostov thought while stabbing the "rook" with his spurs, and let it gallop to catch up with the others.The enemy was already visible ahead.Suddenly the cavalry company was whipped with a broad broom.Rostov raised his saber and was about to strike, but at this moment the soldier Nikitchenko who was galloping ahead walked away from him; Rostov fell asleep, and he felt in his heart that he was still galloping forward , and at the same time feel stagnant.A familiar hussar, Bondarchuk, galloping up from behind, glanced annoyed.Bondarchuk's horse jerked aside and went around.

"What's the matter? I'm not moving forward?—I've fallen, I've been killed..." Rostov asked himself for a moment.He was alone in the field of battle.All around him he saw not galloping horses and the backs of passing hussars, but motionless fields and harvested fields.Hot blood flowed through his body. "No, I was wounded, the horse was killed." The Rook was about to stretch out its front legs to get up, but it fell down and crushed one of the rider's legs.The horse's head was bleeding.The horse is struggling and cannot stand up.Rostov tried to get up, but also fell down, his leather bag caught on the saddle.Where are our people, where are the French—he doesn't know.There was no one around.

He freed one leg and stood up. "Where is the line that clearly divides the two armies now?!" he asked himself, without answering. "Has something bad happened to me? Does it happen often? What should be done in such a situation?" he asked himself, as he stood up.Then he felt that there was something superfluous hanging from his unconscious left hand.The wrist was numb, as if it wasn't his own.He looked at his arm, searching in vain for blood on it. "Look, these people are finally here." He saw several people running towards him, and he thought happily, "They're here to help me!" Running ahead of these people, he wore a strange headgear. A tall military cap, a blue overcoat, an aquiline nose, black hair, tanned.There were two more people, and many others running from behind.One of them said something that wasn't the usual Russian thing to say.Among those running after them in tall caps was a Russian hussar.Someone was holding his hands, and someone behind him was holding his horse.

"It must be our people who were taken as prisoners of war... By the way. Are they going to arrest me too? Who are they?" Rostov couldn't believe his eyes, and he kept thinking like this, " Are they French?" He looked at the Frenchman who was approaching him.Though for a moment all he had said was to catch up with the French and chop them up to a pulp, now it seemed to him that their approach was so terrible that he could not believe his eyes. "Who are they? Why are they running? Are they coming to me? Are they coming to me? Why? Are they going to kill me? Kill me who everyone loves so much?" He Considering how much he was loved by his mother, family, and friends, the enemy's intention to kill him was unimaginable. "Maybe—it will kill me!" Because he didn't understand his situation, he stood still for more than ten seconds.The lead Frenchman with the hooked nose ran so close that he could already see the expression on his face.The man with the bayonet in his hand, holding his breath a little, ran briskly towards him, and Rostov, terrified by his impatient, unfamiliar face, seized his pistol, and without firing at the Frenchman, threw it at him. body, ran to the edge of the bush with all his might.He ran, he no longer had the feeling of indecision and inner struggle he had felt when he walked on the Enns bridge, but he felt the feeling of the hare running from the pack of wolves.An inescapable anxiety for the happiness of his youth ruled his whole being.He leaped over the field and ran across the field with such agility as if he were running quickly in a game of catch.Sometimes he turned the pale, good-natured young man's face, and a shudder ran down his spine. "No, it's best not to look at it," he thought for a moment, but turned around again as he ran to the bushes.Some French officers and soldiers fell behind.Even at the moment he looked back, the Frenchman in the lead had just changed his trot to a full one, and turned his head to shout something to his companion walking behind.Rostov stood still. "It's a little bit wrong," he thought for a while, "They want to kill me, it's impossible." At the same time, his left hand felt heavy, as if there were two heavy dumbbells hanging from his hand of.He could no longer run, and the French stopped and aimed at him.Rostov narrowed his eyes and bent down.Bullet after bullet hissed past him.Gathering his last strength, he grabbed his left hand with his right hand and ran quickly towards the bushes.The Russian infantry stayed in the bushes.