战争与和平(上)-第63章

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en　the　enemy　and　had　fired　the　first　shot　was　long；　long　ago；　yesterday　perhaps；　and　that　the　spot　of　earth　on　which　he　stood　was　a　place　long　familiar　to　him；　in　which　he　was　quite　at　home。　Although　he　thought　of　everything；　considered　everything；　did　everything　the　very　best　officer　could　have　done　in　his　position；　he　was　in　a　state　of　mind　akin　to　the　delirium　of　fever　or　the　intoxication　of　a　drunken　man。
The　deafening　sound　of　his　own　guns　on　all　sides；　the　hiss　and　thud　of　the　enemy’s　shells；　the　sight　of　the　perspiring；　flushed　gunners　hurrying　about　the　cannons；　the　sight　of　the　blood　of　men　and　horses；　and　of　the　puffs　of　smoke　from　the　enemy　on　the　opposite　side　（always　followed　by　a　cannon…ball　that　flew　across　and　hit　the　earth；　a　man；　a　horse；　or　a　cannon）—all　these　images　made　up　for　him　a　fantastic　world　of　his　own；　in　which　he　found　enjoyment　at　the　moment。　The　enemy’s　cannons　in　his　fancy　were　not　cannons；　but　pipes　from　which　an　invisible　smoker　blew　puffs　of　smoke　at　intervals。
“There　he’s　puffing　away　again；”　Tushin　murmured　to　himself　as　a　cloud　of　smoke　rolled　downhill；　and　was　borne　off　by　the　wind　in　a　wreath　to　the　left。　“Now；　your　ball—throw　it　back。”
“What　is　it；　your　honour？”　asked　a　gunner　who　stood　near　him；　and　heard　him　muttering　something。
“Nothing；　a　grenade…”　he　answered。　“Now　for　it；　our　Matvyevna；”　he　said　to　himself。　Matvyevna　was　the　name　his　fancy　gave　to　the　big　cannon；　cast　in　an　old…fashioned　mould；　that　stood　at　the　end。　The　French　seemed　to　be　ants　swarming　about　their　cannons。　The　handsome；　drunken　soldier；　number　one　gunner　of　the　second　cannon；　was　in　his　dreamworld　“uncle”；　Tushin　looked　at　him　more　often　than　at　any　of　the　rest；　and　took　delight　in　every　gesture　of　the　man。　The　sound—　dying　away；　then　quickening　again—of　the　musketry　fire　below　the　hill　seemed　to　him　like　the　heaving　of　some　creature’s　breathing。　He　listened　to　the　ebb　and　flow　of　these　sounds。
“Ah；　she’s　taking　another　breath　again；”　he　was　saying　to　himself。　He　himself　figured　in　his　imagination　as　a　mighty　man　of　immense　stature；　who　was　flinging　cannon　balls　at　the　French　with　both　hands。
“Come；　Matvyevna；　old　lady；　stick　by　us！”　he　was　saying；　moving　back　from　the　cannon；　when　a　strange；　unfamiliar　voice　called　over　his　head。　“Captain　Tushin！　Captain！”
Tushin　looked　round　in　dismay。　It　was　the　same　staff…officer　who　had　turned　him　out　of　the　booth　at　Grunte。　He　was　shouting　to　him　in　a　breathless　voice：
“I　say；　are　you　mad？　You’ve　been　commanded　twice　to　retreat；　and　you…”
“Now；　what　are　they　pitching　into　me　for？”　…　Tushin　wondered；　looking　in　alarm　at　the　superior　officer。
“I…don’t…”　he　began；　putting　two　fingers　to　the　peak　of　his　cap。　“I…”
But　the　staff…officer　did　not　say　all　he　had　meant　to。　A　cannon　ball　flying　near　him　made　him　duck　down　on　his　horse。　He　paused；　and　was　just　going　to　say　something　more；　when　another　ball　stopped　him。　He　turned　his　horse’s　head　and　galloped　away。
“Retreat！　All　to　retreat！”　he　shouted　from　a　distance。
The　soldiers　laughed。　A　minute　later　an　adjutant　arrived　with　the　same　message。　This　was　Prince　Andrey。　The　first　thing　he　saw；　on　reaching　the　place　where　Tushin’s　cannons　were　stationed；　was　an　unharnessed　horse　with　a　broken　leg；　which　was　neighing　beside　the　harnessed　horses。　The　blood　was　flowing　in　a　perfect　stream　from　its　leg。　Among　the　platforms　lay　several　dead　men。　One　cannon　ball　after　another　flew　over　him　as　he　rode　up；　and　he　felt　a　nervous　shudder　running　down　his　spine。　But　the　very　idea　that　he　was　afraid　was　enough　to　rouse　him　again。　“I　can’t　be　frightened；”　he　thought；　and　he　deliberately　dismounted　from　his　horse　between　the　cannons。　He　gave　his　message；　but　he　did　not　leave　the　battery。　He　decided　to　stay　and　assist　in　removing　the　cannons　from　the　position　and　getting　them　away。　Stepping　over　the　corpses；　under　the　fearful　fire　from　the　French；　he　helped　Tushin　in　getting　the　cannons　ready。
“The　officer　that　came　just　now　ran　off　quicker　than　he　came；”　said　a　gunner　to　Prince　Andrey；　“not　like　your　honour。”
Prince　Andrey　had　no　conversation　with　Tushin。　They　were　both　so　busy　that　they　hardly　seemed　to　see　each　other。　When　they　had　got　the　two　out　of　the　four　cannons　that　were　uninjured　on　to　the　platforms　and　were　moving　downhill　（one　cannon　that　had　been　smashed　and　a　howitzer　were　left　behind）；　Prince　Andrey　went　up　to　Tushin。
“Well；　good…bye　till　we　meet　again；”　said　Prince　Andrey；　holding　out　his　hand　to　Tushin。
“Good…bye；　my　dear　fellow；”　said　Tushin；　“dear　soul！　good…bye；　my　dear　fellow；”　he　said　with　tears；　which　for　some　unknown　reason　started　suddenly　into　his　eyes。


Chapter　21
THE　WIND　had　sunk；　black　storm…clouds　hung　low　over　the　battlefield；　melting　on　the　horizon　into　the　clouds　of　smoke　from　the　powder。　Darkness　had　come；　and　the　glow　of　conflagrations　showed　all　the　more　distinctly　in　two　places。　The　cannonade　had　grown　feebler；　but　the　snapping　of　musketry…fire　in　the　rear　and　on　the　right　was　heard　nearer　and　more　often。　As　soon　as　Tushin　with　his　cannons；　continually　driving　round　the　wounded　and　coming　upon　them；　had　got　out　of　fire　and　were　descending　the　ravine；　he　was　met　by　the　staff；　among　whom　was　the　staff…officer　and　Zherkov；　who　had　twice　been　sent　to　Tushin’s　battery；　but　had　not　once　reached　it。　They　all　vied　with　one　another　in　giving　him　orders；　telling　him　how　and　where　to　go；　finding　fault　and　making　criticisms。　Tushin　gave　no　orders；　and　in　silence；　afraid　to　speak　because　at　every　word　he　felt；　he　could　not　have　said　why；　ready　to　burst　into　tears；　he　rode　behind　on　his　artillery　nag。　Though　orders　were　given　to　abandon　the　wounded；　many　of　them　dragged　themselves　after　the　troops　and　begged　for　a　seat　on　the　cannons。　The　jaunty　infantry…officer—the　one　who　had　run　out　of　Tushin’s　shanty　just　before　the　battle—was　laid　on　Matvyevna’s　carriage　with　a　bullet　in　his　stomach。　At　the　bottom　of　the　hill　a　pale　ensign　of　hussars；　holding　one　arm　in　the　other　hand；　came　up　to　Tushin　and　begged　for　a　seat。
“Captain；　for　God’s　sake。　I’ve　hurt　my　arm；”　he　said　timidly。　“For　God’s　sake。　I　can’t　walk。　For　God’s　sake！”　It　was　evident　that　this　was　not　the　first　time　the　ensign　had　asked　for　a　lift；　and　that　he　had　been　everywhere　refused。　He　asked　in　a　hesitating　and　piteous　voice；　“Tell　them　to　let　me　get　on；　for　God’s　sake！”
“Let　him　get　on；　let　him　get　on；”　said　Tushin。　“Put　a　coat　under　him；　you；　uncle。”　He　turned　to　his　favourite　soldier。　“But　where’s　the　wounded　officer？”
“We　took　him　off；　he　was　dead；”　answered　some　one。
“Help　him　on。　Sit　down；　my　dear　fellow；　sit　down。　Lay　the　coat　there；　Antonov。”
The　ensign　was　Rostov。　He　was　holding　one　hand　in　the　other。　He　was　pale　and　his　lower　jaw　was　trembling　as　though　in　a　fever。　They　put　him　on　Matvyevna；　the　cannon　from　which　they　had　just　removed　the　dead　officer。　There　was　blood　on　the　coat　that　was　laid　under　him；　and　Rostov’s　riding…breeches　and　arm　were　smeared　with　it。
“What；　are　you　wounded；　my　dear？”　said　Tushin；　going　up　to　the　cannon　on　which　Rostov　was　sitting。
“No；　it’s　a　sprain。”
“How　is　it　there’s　blood　on　the　frame？”　asked　Tushin。
“That　was　the　officer；　your　honour；　stained　it；”　answered　an　artillery…man；　wiping　the　blood　off　with　the　sleeve　of　his　coat；　and　as　it　were　apologising　for　the　dirty　state　of　the　cannon。
With　difficulty；　aided　by　the　infantry；　they　dragged　the　cannon　uphill；　and　halted　on　reaching　the　village　of　Guntersdorf。　It　was　by　now　so　dark　that　one　could　not　distinguish　the　soldiers’　uniforms　ten　paces　away；　and　the　firing　had　begun　to　subside。　All　of　a　sudden　there　came　the　sound　of　firing　and　shouts　again　close　by　on　the　right　side。　The　flash　of　the　shots　could　be　seen　in　the　darkness。　This　was　the　last　attack　of　the　French。　It　was　met　by　the　soldiers　in　ambush　in　the　houses　of　the　village。　All　rushed　out　of　the　village　again；　but　Tushin’s　cannons　could　not　move　and　the　artillerymen；　Tushin；　and　the　ensign　looked　at　one　another　in　anticipation　of　their　fate。　The　firing　on　both　sides　began　to　subside；　and　some　soldiers　in　lively　conversation　streamed　out　of　a　side　street。
“Not　hurt；　Petrov？”　inquired　one。
“We