THE INFANTRY, who had been caught unawares in the copse, had run away, and the different companies all confused together had retreated in disorderly crowds. One soldier in a panic had uttered those words—terrible in war and meaningless: “Cut off!” and those words had infected the whole mass with panic.

“Outflanked! Cut off! Lost!” they shouted as they ran.

When their general heard the firing and the shouts in the rear he had grasped at the instant that something awful was happening to his regiment; and the thought that he, an exemplary officer, who had served so many years without ever having been guilty of the slightest shortcoming, might be held responsible by his superiors for negligence or lack of discipline, so affected him that, instantly oblivious of the insubordinate cavalry colonel and his dignity as a general, utterly oblivious even of danger and of the instinct of self-preservation, he clutched at the crupper of his saddle, and spurring his horse, galloped off to the regiment under a perfect hail of bullets that luckily missed him. He was possessed by the one desire to find out what was wrong, and to help and correct the mistake whatever it might be, if it were a mistake on his part, so that after twenty-two years of exemplary service, without incurring a reprimand for anything, he might avoid being responsible for this blunder.

Galloping successfully between the French forces, he reached the field behind the copse across which our men were running downhill, not heeding the word of command. That moment had come of moral vacillation which decides the fate of battles. Would these disorderly crowds of soldiers hear the voice of their commander, or, looking back at him, run on further? In spite of the despairing yell of the commander, who had once been so awe-inspiring to his soldiers, in spite of his infuriated, purple face, distorted out of all likeness to itself, in spite of his brandished sword, the soldiers still ran and talked together, shooting into the air and not listening to the word of command. The moral balance which decides the fate of battle was unmistakably falling on the side of panic.

The general was choked with screaming and gunpowder-smoke, and he stood still in despair. All seemed lost; but at that moment the French, who had been advancing against our men, suddenly, for no apparent reason, ran back, vanished from the edge of the copse, and Russian sharp-shooters appeared in the copse. This was Timohin's division, the only one that had retained its good order in the copse, and hiding in ambush in the ditch behind the copse, had suddenly attacked the French. Timohin had rushed with such a desperate yell upon the French, and with such desperate and drunken energy had he dashed at the enemy with only a sword in his hand, that the French flung down their weapons and fled without pausing to recover themselves. Dolohov, running beside Timohin, killed one French soldier at close quarters, and was the first to seize by the collar an officer who surrendered. The fleeing Russians came back; the battalions were brought together; and the French, who had been on the point of splitting the forces of the left flank into two parts, were for the moment held in check. The reserves had time to join the main forces, and the runaways were stopped. The general stood with Major Ekonomov at the bridge, watching the retreating companies go by, when a soldier ran up to him, caught hold of his stirrup, and almost clung on to it. The soldier was wearing a coat of blue fine cloth, he had no knapsack nor shako, his head was bound up, and across his shoulders was slung a French cartridge case. In his hand he held an officer's sword. The soldier was pale, his blue eyes looked impudently into the general's face, but his mouth was smiling. Although the general was engaged in giving instructions to Major Ekonomov, he could not help noticing this soldier.

“Your excellency, here are two trophies,” said Dolohov, pointing to the French sword and cartridge case. “An officer was taken prisoner by me. I stopped the company.” Dolohov breathed hard from weariness; he spoke in jerks. “The whole company can bear me witness. I beg you to remember me, your excellency!”

“Very good, very good,” said the general, and he turned to Major Ekonomov. But Dolohov did not leave him; he undid the bandage, and showed the blood congealed on his head.

“A bayonet wound; I kept my place in the front. Remember me, your excellency.”

Tushin's battery had been forgotten, and it was only at the very end of the action that Prince Bagration, still hearing the cannonade in the centre, sent the staff-officer on duty and then Prince Andrey to command the battery to retire as quickly as possible. The force which had been stationed near Tushin's cannons to protect them had by somebody's orders retreated in the middle of the battle. But the battery still kept up its fire, and was not taken by the French simply because the enemy could not conceive of the reckless daring of firing from four cannons that were quite unprotected. The French supposed, on the contrary, judging from the energetic action of the battery, that the chief forces of the Russians were concentrated here in the centre, and twice attempted to attack that point, and both times were driven back by the grapeshot fired on them from the four cannons which stood in solitude on the heights. Shortly after Prince Bagration's departure, Tushin had succeeded in setting fire to Sch?ngraben.

“Look, what a fuss they're in! It's flaming! What a smoke! Smartly done! First-rate! The smoke! the smoke!” cried the gunners, their spirits reviving.

All the guns were aimed without instructions in the direction of the conflagration. The soldiers, as though they were urging each other on, shouted at every volley: “Bravo! That's something like now! Go it!… First-rate!” The fire, fanned by the wind, soon spread. The French columns, who had marched out beyond the village, went back, but as though in revenge for this mischance, the enemy stationed ten cannons a little to the right of the village, and began firing from them on Tushin.

In their childlike glee at the conflagration of the village, and the excitement of their successful firing on the French, our artillerymen only noticed this battery when two cannon-balls and after them four more fell among their cannons, and one knocked over two horses and another tore off the foot of a gunner. Their spirits, however, once raised, did not flag; their excitement simply found another direction. The horses were replaced by others from the ammunition carriage; the wounded were removed, and the four cannons were turned facing the ten of the enemy's battery. The other officer, Tushin's comrade, was killed at the beginning of the action, and after an hour's time, of the forty gunners of the battery, seventeen were disabled, but they were still as merry and as eager as ever. Twice they noticed the French appearing below close to them, and they sent volleys of grapeshot at them.

The little man with his weak, clumsy movements, was continually asking his orderly for just one more pipe for that stroke, as he said, and scattering sparks from it, he kept running out in front and looking from under his little hand at the French.

“Smash away, lads!” he was continually saying, and he clutched at the cannon wheels himself and unscrewed the screws. In the smoke, deafened by the incessant booming of the cannons that made him shudder every time one was fired, Tushin ran from one cannon to the other, his short pipe never out of his mouth. At one moment he was taking aim, then reckoning the charges, then arranging for the changing and unharnessing of the killed and wounded horses, and all the time shouting in his weak, shrill, hesitating voice. His face grew more and more eager. Only when men were killed and wounded he knitted his brows, and turning away from the dead man, shouted angrily to the men, slow, as they always are, to pick up a wounded man or a dead body. The soldiers, for the most part fine, handsome fellows (a couple of heads taller than their officer and twice as broad in the chest, as they mostly are in the artillery), all looked to their commanding officer like children in a difficult position, and the expression they found on his face was invariably reflected at once on their own.

Owing to the fearful uproar and noise and the necessity of attention and activity, Tushin experienced not the slightest unpleasant sensation of fear; and the idea that he might be killed or badly wounded never entered his head. On the contrary, he felt more and more lively. It seemed to him that the moment in which he had first seen 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.

几个步兵团在森林中给弄得措手不及，于是从森林中跑出去；有几个连队与其他连队混合在一起，就像秩序混乱的人群似地逃出去了。有一名士兵在恐惧中说出了一个战时听来骇人的毫无意义的词：“截断联系，”这个词和恐惧心理感染了群众。

“迂回！截断联系！完蛋！”奔跑的人们喊道。

正当团长听到后面传来的枪声和呐喊声之际，他心里明白，他的兵团中发生了什么可怕的事情，他想道，他是一名供职多年、毫无过错的模范军官，他因工作疏忽或指挥不力，对不起列位首长，他这种想法使他大为惊讶，同时他已经忘却那个不驯服的骑兵上校和他这个将军应有的尊严，而重要的是，完全忘记了战争的危险和自我保全的本能。他用手抓住鞍桥，用马刺刺马，在他幸免于难的枪林弹雨下，向兵团疾驰而去。他只有一个意愿：要了解真相，假如错误是他所引起的，无论如何都要补救和纠正错误，他这个供职二十二载、从未受过任何指责的模范军官，决不应该犯有过失。

他很幸运地从法军中间疾驰而过，已经驰近森林之后的田野，我军官兵正穿过森林逃跑，他们不听口令，迳直往山下走去。决定战役命运的士气动摇的时刻已经来到了，这一群群溃乱的士兵或者听从指挥官的口令，或者向他回顾一下，继续往前逃跑。尽管原先在士兵心目中多么威严的团长怎样拼命叫喊，尽管团长的面孔显得多么激怒，涨得通红，与原形迥异，尽管他扬起一柄长剑，士兵们还在继续逃跑，大声地讲话，朝天放空枪，不听口令。决定战役命运的士气动摇，显然造成了极度恐怖的气氛。

将军因呐喊和硝烟呛得大声咳嗽起来，在绝望中停步了。似乎一切都已丧失殆尽了，而在这时，曾向我军进攻的法国官兵忽然间在无明显缘由的境况下向后方拔腿而逃，隐没在森林的边缘，俄国步兵于是在森林中出现了。这是季莫欣指挥的连队，惟有这个连队在森林中顺利地坚守阵地，埋伏在森林附近的沟渠，突然向法军官兵发动进攻。季莫欣大喝一声，冲向法国官兵，他怀有醉翁般的奋不顾身的勇敢精神，手持一柄军刀，向敌军横冲直撞，法国官兵还没有醒悟过来，就扔下武器，逃走了。多洛霍夫和季莫欣并排地跑着，抵近射击，击毙了一名法国人，并且头一个抓住投降的军官的衣领。逃跑者都回来了，几个兵营集合起来，法国人原来想把左翼部队分成两部分，瞬息间都被击退了。后备部队已经会师，逃跑的人们停步不前。团长和少校埃科诺莫夫都站在桥边，让那撤退的各个连队从身边过去，这时分一名士兵走到他跟前，抓住他的马镫，险些儿靠在他身上。士兵穿着一件浅蓝色的厂呢军大衣，没有背包和高筒军帽，裹着头，肩上斜挎着法国式的子弹袋。他手上拿着一柄军官的长枪。士兵的脸色苍白，一双蓝眼睛无耻地望着团长的面孔，嘴上露出一丝微笑。虽然团长正忙着没空，要给少校埃科诺莫夫作指示，但是不能不注意这个士兵。

“大人，这里是两件战利品，”多诺霍夫说道，指着法国的军刀和子弹袋。“这个军官是被我俘虏的。我把一连人拦住了，”多洛霍夫因为疲倦而觉得呼吸困难；他说话时不止一次地停顿，“整个连队都可以作证。大人，我请您记住！”

“好，好。”团长说道，向少校埃科诺莫夫转过脸来。

然而多洛霍夫并没有走开，他解开手巾，猛地一拉，让团长看看头发上凝结的一层血污。

“是刺刀戳的伤口，我在前线滞留下来了。大人，请牢记不忘。

图申主管的炮台已经被遗忘，巴格拉季翁公爵仍然听见中央阵地的炮声，只是在战事行将结束时，他才派一名值日校官到那里去，之后又派安德烈公爵去吩咐炮兵队尽快地撤退。在这次战役之中，不知是听从谁的命令，驻扎在图申主管的大炮附近的掩护部队离开了，但是炮台还继续开炮，它之所以未被法军占领，仅只因为敌军不能推测出这四门无人护卫的大炮具有勇猛射击的威力。相反地，敌军根据这个炮台的十分猛烈的射击来推测，认为俄军主力集中在这里的中央阵地，因此曾二度试图攻打这个据点，但二度均被孑然耸立于高地的四门大炮发射的霰弹所驱散。

巴格拉季翁公爵离开后不久，图申得以烧毁申格拉本村。

“你看，乱成一团了！着火了！你看，一股浓烟啊！真妙！呱呱叫！一股浓烟，一股浓烟啊！”炮手兴奋地说起话来。

全部大炮在未接到命令的情况下朝着起火的方向放炮。好像是催促似的，士兵们每放一炮就大声喊叫：“真妙！对，就这么放！你看……呱呱叫！”大火被风卷起来，很快就蔓延开了。走到村庄外面的法军纵队已经回到原处了，但是敌人吃了败仗，仿佛是为报复起见，在村庄右面架起了十门大炮，开始向图申放炮。

因为村庄着火，我军的炮手都像儿童似地觉得快活，因为炮打法国人打得成功，他们都很激动；因此，当两颗炮弹、紧接着还有四颗炮弹在几门大炮中间落地，其中一颗掀倒两匹马，另一颗炸掉弹药车车夫的一条腿的时候，我军的炮手才发现敌军的这座炮台，然而兴奋的心情既已稳定，就不会冷淡，只是改变了意境而已。驮着备用炮架的其他几匹马取代了这两匹马，送走了伤员，四门大炮转过来瞄准那座十门炮的炮台。一名军官，图申的战友，在战役开始时就阵亡了，在一小时内，四十名炮手中就有十七名退下阵来，但是炮手们仍然觉得愉快，富有活力。他们曾两次发现，法国官兵在山下离他们很近的地方出现了，他们于是向法国佬发射霰弹。

一个身材矮小的军官动作很笨拙，软弱无力，不停地要求勤务兵为这次射击再装一袋烟，当他说话时，他磕出烟斗里的火星，向前跑去，用那只小手搭个凉棚注视着法国官兵。

“伙伴们，歼灭敌人！”他一面说话，一面托着大炮的轮子，旋动螺丝钉。

不断地隆隆作响的炮声震耳欲聋，每一次射击都使图申颤栗，在这一股硝烟中，他没有放下他的小烟斗，从一门炮跑到另一门炮，时而瞄准，时而数数发射药，时而吩咐换掉死马和负伤的战马，重新套上战马；用他那微弱而尖细、缺乏果断的嗓音不断地喊叫。他脸上流露着越来越兴奋的神色。只有当他们杀死或杀伤一些人的时候，他才皱起眉头，转过脸去，不看死者，气忿地吆喝那些老是磨磨蹭蹭，不肯抬起伤者或尸体的人。士兵们大部分都是长得漂亮的小伙子（正如炮兵连里常见的情形，小伙子都比军官高出两个头，身量比他宽两倍），都像处境尴尬的儿童似的，凝视着自己的连长。

连长的面部表情通常反映在他们的脸上。

由于图申听见这种可怖的轰鸣与喧嚣，并且需要关心弟兄、增强活动能力，所以他没有体会到一点不愉快的恐怖感，也没有想到，有人会把他杀掉或者使他身负重伤。相反，他变得越来越快活了。他仿佛觉得，他从看见敌军并放第一炮的那一瞬间到现在似乎已经隔了很久，几乎是昨日发生的事，他所站的一小块场地，也仿佛是他早就熟悉的亲如故土的地方。虽然他什么都记得，什么都考虑，一个处于他的地位的最优秀的军官能够做到的事。他都能做到，但是他却处于类似冷热病的谵妄状态中，或者处于醉汉的神魂颠倒的状态中。

因为从四面传来他的大炮发出的震耳欲聋的响声，因为敌军的炮弹发出呼啸声和射击声，因为看见炮手们汗水直流，满面通红，在大炮周围忙忙碌碌，因为看见人们和战马流淌着鲜血，因为看见敌人的那边阵地上冒出的硝烟（每次冒出硝烟之后跟着就飞来一颗炮弹，命中了土地、人、大炮或者是战马），——因为他看见这种种现象，所以他的脑海中形成了他自己的幻想世界，这个世界使他在这个时刻享受到一种喜悦。在他的想象之中，敌人的大炮不是大炮，而是烟斗，有一个望不见的吸烟者从烟斗中断断续续地吐出一串串烟圈。

“瞧，又喷烟了，”图申轻声地自言自语，这时分，山上已经冒出了一团硝烟，大风把一条带状的烟幡吹到左边去了，“现在请等着射出的小球——给他送回去。”

“大人，有何吩咐？”站在他近旁的炮兵士官听见他喃喃地说话，便问道。

“没有什么，要一颗榴弹……”他答道。

“我们的马特维夫娜，喂，露一手。”他自言自语。在他想象中，那门紧靠边上的旧式大炮仿佛是马特维夫娜。他觉得栖在大炮周围的法国官兵他一群蚂蚁。古他的幻想世界里，那个美男子，醉汉，第二门大炮的第一号炮手就是大叔，图申对他另眼相看，他的每一个动作都使他觉得高兴。山下传来的步枪的互相射击声，时而停息，时而剧烈，他觉得这好像是某人在那里呼吸。他倾听着时而停息时而激烈的互相射击声。

“听，又喘气了，喘气了。”他自言自语。

他觉得自己像个身材高大、强而有力，能用一双手捧着炮弹向法国官兵扔去的男子汉。

“喂，马特维夫娜，亲爱的，不要出卖我们吧！”当他头顶上传来一个陌生的不熟悉的嗓音的时候，他说道，并且走到大炮旁边去。

“图申上尉！上尉！”

图申惊恐地回头望了一眼。这就是那个从格伦特随军商贩帐篷中把他撵出来的校官。他用气喘吁吁的嗓音对他喊道：

“您怎么啦，发疯了吗？两次命令您撤退，而您……”

“得啦吧，他们干嘛对我这样？……”图申惊恐地望着首长，暗自想道。

“我……没什么……”他把两个指头伸到帽檐边，说道，“……”

但是上校没有说完他要说的话。从近旁飞过的一颗炮弹迫使他在马背上潜避之后弯下腰来。他沉默不言，刚刚想说些什么，又有一颗炮弹制止了他。他拨转马头飞也似地跑开了。

“撤退！统统撤退！”他从远处大声地喊道。

士兵们笑起来了。过了一分钟，副官捎着同样的命令走来了。

他是安德烈公爵。当他走到图申的大炮驻守的那片空地的时候，他首先看见的便是已被打断一条腿的卸了套的马，它在那些上了套的马旁边不断地嘶叫，鲜血像喷泉似地从它的腿上流出来了。数名阵亡者横卧在前车之间。炮弹一颗接着一颗在他头顶上飞过，当他驰近的时候，他觉得，他的脊梁上掠过一阵神经质的冷战。但是一想到他胆怯，他又振作起来。“我不能害怕。”他想到，在几门大炮之间慢慢地下马。他传达了命令，还没有离开炮台。他决定，在他监督下从阵地上卸下几门大炮，然后把大炮运走。他和图申一起，跨过了多具尸体，在法军的可怖的火力下撤走大炮。

“首长刚才来过一趟了，可是很快就跑了，”炮兵士官对安德烈公爵说道，“不像您大人这样。”

安德烈公爵没有和图申说什么话。他们两个都很忙，好像没有会过面似的。当他们把四门大炮中没有损坏的两门装进前车后，便向山下走去了（一门业已损坏的大炮和独角兽大炮留在原地），安德烈公爵走到了图申跟前。

“喂，再见吧。”安德烈公爵把手伸向图申时说道。

“亲爱的，再见，”图申说道，“亲爱的心肝！”再见，亲爱的。”图申的眼泪不知怎的忽然夺眶而出，他眼中含着泪水说。

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