War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [520]
Pierre looked over the rampart. One face especially struck his eyes. It was the pale young face of an officer, who was marching backwards, carrying a lowered sword, and glancing uneasily over his shoulder.
The ranks of infantrymen disappeared into the smoke; their drawn-out cry was heard and then rapid musket fire. A few moments later, crowds of wounded and stretchers came back from there. Projectiles began falling still more frequently on the battery. Several men lay there and were not carried away. The soldiers bustled more animatedly around the cannon. No one paid any further attention to Pierre. He was shouted at a couple of times for being in the way. The senior officer, frowning, moved from one gun to another with big, quick strides. The young little officer, still more flushed, commanded the soldiers still more diligently. The soldiers handed on charges, turned, loaded, and did their work with tense jauntiness. They bobbed as if on springs as they walked.
The storm cloud came near, and the fire whose flaring up Pierre had been watching now burned brightly on all faces. He stood beside the senior officer. The young little officer, his hand to his shako, came running up to the older one.
“I have the honor to report, Colonel, that there are only eight charges left. Do you order us to continue firing?” he asked.
“Canister shot!” the senior officer cried without answering, looking over the rampart.
Suddenly something happened; the little officer said “Ah” and, curling up, sat on the ground like a bird shot down in flight. Everything became strange, vague, and bleak in Pierre’s eyes.
One after another, cannonballs came whistling and struck the breastwork, the soldiers, the cannon. Pierre, who previously had not heard these sounds, now heard nothing else. To the right side of the battery, soldiers with cries of “Hurrah!” were running not forward, but back, as it seemed to Pierre.
A cannonball struck the very edge of the rampart before which Pierre was standing, scattering dirt, and in his eyes a black ball flashed and in that same instant smacked into something. The militiamen who were just coming into the battery ran back again.
“All canister shot!” cried the officer.
The sergeant ran up to the senior officer and in a frightened whisper (the way a butler reports to his master at dinner that they have run out of the wine he requested) said that they had run out of charges.
“The brigands, what are they doing!” shouted the officer, turning to Pierre. The senior officer’s face was red and sweaty, his frowning eyes flashed. “Run to the reserves, bring the caissons!” he cried, angrily avoiding Pierre with his glance and turning to his soldier.
“I’ll go,” said Pierre. The officer, without answering him, walked off in the other direction with big strides.
“Hold your fire…Wait!” he cried.
The soldier who had been ordered to go for the charges collided with Pierre.
“Eh, master, this is no place for you,” he said and ran down. Pierre ran after the soldier, avoiding the place where the young little officer sat.
One cannonball, a second, a third flew over him, landing in front, on the sides, behind. Pierre went running down. “Where am I going?” he suddenly tried to recall, already running up to the green caissons. He stopped, undecided whether to go back or go on. Suddenly a terrible shock threw him backwards onto the ground. At the same instant the flash of a big fire lit him up, and at the same instant a deafening roar, crash, and whistling rang in his ears.
When he came to, Pierre was sitting on his behind, his hands propped on the ground; the caisson he had been closest to was not there; only charred green boards and rags lay about on the scorched grass, and