War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [128]
“Unhurt, Petrov?” asked one.
“We roasted ’em, brother. They won’t try that again,” said another.
“Couldn’t see a thing. What a roasting they gave their own! Couldn’t see, it’s so dark, brother. Got anything to drink?”
The French had been beaten off for the last time. And again, in total darkness, Tushin’s guns, as if framed by the humming infantry, moved on somewhere.
It was as if an invisible, gloomy river were flowing in the darkness, all in one direction, with a hum of whispers, talk, and the sounds of hooves and wheels. In the general hum, the groans and voices of the wounded sounded most clearly of all in the gloom of the night. Their groans seemed to fill all the gloom surrounding the troops. Their groans and the gloom of that night were one and the same. After some time there was a stir in the moving crowd. Someone with a suite rode by on a white horse and said something as he rode by.
“What did he say? Where to now? A halt, or what? Did he thank us, or what?” eager questions came from all sides, and the entire moving mass began to push upon itself (evidently those in front had stopped), and a rumor spread that there was an order to halt. They all halted where they were, in the middle of the muddy road.
Fires were lit and the talk became more audible. Captain Tushin, having given orders to his company, sent one of the soldiers to look for a dressing station or a doctor for the junker and sat down by the fire the soldiers had started on the road. Rostov also dragged himself to the fire. A feverish trembling from pain, cold, and dampness shook his whole body. Sleep was coming over him irresistibly, yet he could not fall asleep from the tormenting pain in his arm, which ached and found no comfortable position. Now he closed his eyes, then he gazed at the fire, which seemed a hot red to him, then at the stooping, weak little figure of Tushin, who was sitting next to him Turkish fashion. Tushin’s large, kind, and intelligent eyes were directed at him with compassion and commiseration. He saw that Tushin wanted with all his heart to help him in some way and could not.
On all sides one could hear the footsteps and talk of the infantry walking, driving, and settling themselves around. The sounds of voices, footsteps, and horses’ hooves treading in the mud, the crackling of firewood far and near merged into one rippling hum.
Now it was not, as before, an invisible river flowing in the darkness, but like a gloomy sea subsiding and quivering after a storm. Rostov mindlessly watched and listened to what was happening before him and around him. An infantryman came up to the fire, squatted down, put his hands to the fire, and turned his face away.
“You don’t mind, Your Honor?” he said, turning questioningly to Tushin. “I’ve strayed from my company, Your Honor; I don’t know where myself. Worse luck!”
Along with the soldier, an infantry officer with a bound cheek came up to the campfire and addressed Tushin, asking him to move the guns a little bit to let his wagon pass. After the company commander, two soldiers ran to the campfire. They fought and cursed terribly, pulling some boot from each other.
“Sure you picked it up! What a quick-fingers!” one cried in a hoarse voice.
Then came a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloody footcloth, and in an angry voice demanded water from the artillerists.