The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [74]
When the sun came up we saw the first traces of the enemy along the highway: remains of straw, stamped-out campfires, buildings that had been demolished for fuel. Then we began to meet more and more refugees: a gentleman with his family, priests of various denominations, finally peasants and gipsies. Fear was evident on all their faces: nearly all shouted in Hungarian, pointing in the direction from which they came.
It was close on seven when cannon shots were heard to the south-west. A murmur flew along our ranks: ‘Oho, it is beginning…’
‘No, that was a signal…’
Two more shots were fired, then two more. The squadron riding ahead of us stopped, two cannons and two tumbrils galloped past, several riders spurred their horses up the hill. We stopped and for some time there was a silence in which we could hear the hoofs of the adjutant’s mare catching up with us. Then she flew by, panting hard, her belly almost scraping the earth. This time a dozen or more cannons were to be heard, some closer, others further away; each shot could be distinguished from the others. ‘They’re feeling their distance,’ the old major exclaimed. ‘There must be about fifteen cannons,’ Katz muttered, becoming as always more talkative at such moments, ‘and as we have twelve, there will be some fun!’
The major turned to us on his horse and smiled under his grizzled whiskers. I understood what this meant when I heard a whole arpeggio of shots, as if someone were playing on an organ. ‘There are more than twenty…’ I said to Katz.
‘You asses…’ the captain laughed, and spurred on his horse.
We were on a hill where we could see the brigade coming up behind. A red cloud of dust marked them as they moved along the highway for two or three kilometres. ‘What a huge crowd!’ I whispered, ‘where will they find room for them all?’
Trumpets sounded and our battalion broke up into four companies, flank to flank. The first platoons moved ahead, we remained in the rear. I looked back and saw that two more battalions had moved away from headquarters; they had left the highroad and were running across the fields, one to our right, the other to our left. Within fifteen minutes they drew level with us, halted for another fifteen minutes, then all three battalions moved on, in step.
Meanwhile the cannonade had intensified so that two or even three shells could be heard exploding simultaneously. To make things worse, a sort of stifled voice rose with them, like continuous thunder. ‘How many cannons are there, comrade?’ I asked a non-commissioned officer, in German, as he came up behind me.
‘Must be a hundred, nearly,’ he replied, shaking his head, then added, ‘but they’re doing good business, for they all fired off together.’
We were pushed off the highroad along which two squadrons of hussars and four cannons then passed at a canter; a few minutes later, the tumbrils followed. Then some of the men in my column began crossing themselves: ‘In the name of the Father…’ Here and there others drank from water-bottles.
To our left the noise grew louder: single shots could no longer be distinguished. Suddenly there was shouting in the forward ranks: ‘Infantry!…Infantry!…’ I automatically seized my rifle, thinking the Austrians had appeared. But there was nothing ahead except a hillock and some sparse undergrowth. However, against the background of the cannon shots which had almost stopped worrying me, I now caught the sound of a crash like a heavy downpour of rain, only much more powerful. ‘The battle!…’ someone in front shouted out, in a wailing voice. I felt my heart stop beating for a moment, not from terror, but as though in response to those two words which had made such a strange impression on me ever since my childhood.
Although we were still marching, the ranks grew restless. Wine went from hand to hand, rifles were cleaned, someone said that in half an hour at most we