War and Peace

At five in the morning it was still quite dark.  The troops of the center, the reserves, and Bagration’s right flank had not yet moved, but on the left flank the columns of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, which were to be the first to descend the heights to attack the French right flank and drive it into the Bohemian mountains according to plan, were already up and astir.  The smoke of the campfires, into which they were throwing everything superfluous, made the eyes smart.  It was cold and dark.  The officers were hurriedly drinking tea and breakfasting, the soldiers, munching biscuit and beating a tattoo with their feet to warm themselves, gathering round the fires throwing into the flames the remains of sheds, chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, and everything that they did not want or could not carry away with them.  Austrian column guides were moving in and out among the Russian troops and served as heralds of the advance.  As soon as an Austrian officer showed himself near a commanding officer’s quarters, the regiment began to move:  the soldiers ran from the fires, thrust their pipes into their boots, their bags into the carts, got their muskets ready, and formed rank.  The officers buttoned up their coats, buckled on their swords and pouches, and moved along the ranks shouting.  The train drivers and orderlies harnessed and packed the wagons and tied on the loads.  The adjutants and battalion and regimental commanders mounted, crossed themselves, gave final instructions, orders, and commissions to the baggage men who remained behind, and the monotonous tramp of thousands of feet resounded.  The column moved forward without knowing where and unable, from the masses around them, the smoke and the increasing fog, to see either the place they were leaving or that to which they were going.

A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his regiment as much as a sailor is by his ship.  However far he has walked, whatever strange, unknown, and dangerous places he reaches, just as a sailor is always surrounded by the same decks, masts, and rigging of his ship, so the soldier always has around him the same comrades, the same ranks, the same sergeant major Ivan Mitrich, the same company dog Jack, and the same commanders.  The sailor rarely cares to know the latitude in which his ship is sailing, but on the day of battle—­heaven knows how and whence—­a stern note of which all are conscious sounds in the moral atmosphere of an army, announcing the approach of something decisive and solemn, and awakening in the men an unusual curiosity.  On the day of battle the soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of their regiment, they listen intently, look about, and eagerly ask concerning what is going on around them.

The fog had grown so dense that though it was growing light they could not see ten paces ahead.  Bushes looked like gigantic trees and level ground like cliffs and slopes.  Anywhere, on any side, one might encounter an enemy invisible ten paces off.  But the columns advanced for a long time, always in the same fog, descending and ascending hills, avoiding gardens and enclosures, going over new and unknown ground, and nowhere encountering the enemy.  On the contrary, the soldiers became aware that in front, behind, and on all sides, other Russian columns were moving in the same direction.  Every soldier felt glad to know that to the unknown place where he was going, many more of our men were going too.

“There now, the Kurskies have also gone past,” was being said in the ranks.

“It’s wonderful what a lot of our troops have gathered, lads!  Last night I looked at the campfires and there was no end of them.  A regular Moscow!”

Though none of the column commanders rode up to the ranks or talked to the men (the commanders, as we saw at the council of war, were out of humor and dissatisfied with the affair, and so did not exert themselves to cheer the men but merely carried out the orders), yet the troops marched gaily, as they always do when going into action, especially to an attack.  But when they had marched for about an hour in the dense fog, the greater part of the men had to halt and an unpleasant consciousness of some dislocation and blunder spread through the ranks.  How such a consciousness is communicated is very difficult to define, but it certainly is communicated very surely, and flows rapidly, imperceptibly, and irrepressibly, as water does in a creek.  Had the Russian army been alone without any allies, it might perhaps have been a long time before this consciousness of mismanagement became a general conviction, but as it was, the disorder was readily and naturally attributed to the stupid Germans, and everyone was convinced that a dangerous muddle had been occasioned by the sausage eaters.

“Why have we stopped?  Is the way blocked?  Or have we already come up against the French?”

“No, one can’t hear them.  They’d be firing if we had.”

“They were in a hurry enough to start us, and now here we stand in the middle of a field without rhyme or reason.  It’s all those damned Germans’ muddling!  What stupid devils!”

“Yes, I’d send them on in front, but no fear, they’re crowding up behind.  And now here we stand hungry.”

“I say, shall we soon be clear?  They say the cavalry are blocking the way,” said an officer.

“Ah, those damned Germans!  They don’t know their own country!” said another.

“What division are you?” shouted an adjutant, riding up.

“The Eighteenth.”

“Then why are you here?  You should have gone on long ago, now you won’t get there till evening.”

“What stupid orders!  They don’t themselves know what they are doing!” said the officer and rode off.

Then a general rode past shouting something angrily, not in Russian.

“Tafa-lafa!  But what he’s jabbering no one can make out,” said a soldier, mimicking the general who had ridden away.  “I’d shoot them, the scoundrels!”

“We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we haven’t got halfway.  Fine orders!” was being repeated on different sides.

And the feeling of energy with which the troops had started began to turn into vexation and anger at the stupid arrangements and at the Germans.

The cause of the confusion was that while the Austrian cavalry was moving toward our left flank, the higher command found that our center was too far separated from our right flank and the cavalry were all ordered to turn back to the right.  Several thousand cavalry crossed in front of the infantry, who had to wait.

At the front an altercation occurred between an Austrian guide and a Russian general.  The general shouted a demand that the cavalry should be halted, the Austrian argued that not he, but the higher command, was to blame.  The troops meanwhile stood growing listless and dispirited.  After an hour’s delay they at last moved on, descending the hill.  The fog that was dispersing on the hill lay still more densely below, where they were descending.  In front in the fog a shot was heard and then another, at first irregularly at varying intervals—­trata… tat—­and then more and more regularly and rapidly, and the action at the Goldbach Stream began.

Not expecting to come on the enemy down by the stream, and having stumbled on him in the fog, hearing no encouraging word from their commanders, and with a consciousness of being too late spreading through the ranks, and above all being unable to see anything in front or around them in the thick fog, the Russians exchanged shots with the enemy lazily and advanced and again halted, receiving no timely orders from the officers or adjutants who wandered about in the fog in those unknown surroundings unable to find their own regiments.  In this way the action began for the first, second, and third columns, which had gone down into the valley.  The fourth column, with which Kutuzov was, stood on the Pratzen Heights.

Below, where the fight was beginning, there was still thick fog; on the higher ground it was clearing, but nothing could be seen of what was going on in front.  Whether all the enemy forces were, as we supposed, six miles away, or whether they were near by in that sea of mist, no one knew till after eight o’clock.

It was nine o’clock in the morning.  The fog lay unbroken like a sea down below, but higher up at the village of Schlappanitz where Napoleon stood with his marshals around him, it was quite light.  Above him was a clear blue sky, and the sun’s vast orb quivered like a huge hollow, crimson float on the surface of that milky sea of mist.  The whole French army, and even Napoleon himself with his staff, were not on the far side of the streams and hollows of Sokolnitz and Schlappanitz beyond which we intended to take up our position and begin the action, but were on this side, so close to our own forces that Napoleon with the naked eye could distinguish a mounted man from one on foot.  Napoleon, in the blue cloak which he had worn on his Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab horse a little in front of his marshals.  He gazed silently at the hills which seemed to rise out of the sea of mist and on which the Russian troops were moving in the distance, and he listened to the sounds of firing in the valley.  Not a single muscle of his face—­which in those days was still thin—­moved.  His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on one spot.  His predictions were being justified.  Part of the Russian force had already descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes and part were leaving these Pratzen Heights which he intended to attack and regarded as the key to the position.  He saw over the mist that in a hollow between two hills near the village of Pratzen, the Russian columns, their bayonets glittering, were moving continuously in one direction toward the valley and disappearing one after another into the mist.  From information he had received the evening before, from the sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the outposts during the night, by the disorderly movement of the Russian columns, and from all indications, he saw clearly that the allies believed him to be far away in front of them, and that the columns moving near Pratzen constituted the center of the Russian army, and that that center was already sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked.  But still he did not begin the engagement.

Today was a great day for him—­the anniversary of his coronation.  Before dawn he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed, vigorous, and in good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field in that happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything succeeds.  He sat motionless, looking at the heights visible above the mist, and his cold face wore that special look of confident, self-complacent happiness that one sees on the face of a boy happily in love.  The marshals stood behind him not venturing to distract his attention.  He looked now at the Pratzen Heights, now at the sun floating up out of the mist.

When the sun had entirely emerged from the fog, and fields and mist were aglow with dazzling light—­as if he had only awaited this to begin the action—­he drew the glove from his shapely white hand, made a sign with it to the marshals, and ordered the action to begin.  The marshals, accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in different directions, and a few minutes later the chief forces of the French army moved rapidly toward those Pratzen Heights which were being more and more denuded by Russian troops moving down the valley to their left.