ON THE NIGHT of the 6th of October, the march of the retreating French army began: kitchens and shanties were broken up, waggons were packed, and troops and trains of baggage began moving.
At seven o'clock in the morning an escort of French soldiers in marching order, in shakoes, with guns, knapsacks, and huge sacks, stood before the sheds and a running fire of eager French talk, interspersed with oaths, was kept up all along the line.
In the shed they were ready, dressed and belted and shod, only waiting for the word of command to come out. The sick soldier, Sokolov, pale and thin, with blue rings round his eyes, sat alone in his place, without boots or out-of-door clothes on. His eyes, that looked prominent from the thinness of his face, gazed inquiringly at his companions, who took no notice of him, and he uttered low groans at regular intervals. It was evidently not so much his sufferings—he was ill with dysentery—as the dread and grief of being left alone that made him groan.
Pierre was shod with a pair of slippers that Karataev had made for him out of the leather cover of a tea-chest, brought him by a Frenchman for soling his boots. With a cord tied round for a belt, he went up to the sick man, and squatted on his heels beside him.
“Come, Sokolov, they are not going away altogether, you know. They have a hospital here. Very likely you will be better off than we others,” said Pierre.
“O Lord! it will be the death of me! O Lord!” the soldier groaned more loudly.
“Well, I will ask them again in a minute,” said Pierre, and getting up, he went to the door of the shed. While Pierre was going to the door, the same corporal, who had on the previous day offered Pierre a pipe, came in from outside, accompanied by two soldiers. Both the corporal and the soldiers were in marching order, with knapsacks on and shakoes, with straps buttoned, that changed their familiar faces.
The corporal had come to the door so as to shut it in accordance with the orders given him. Before getting them out, he had to count over the prisoners.
“Corporal, what is to be done with the sick man?” Pierre was beginning, but at the very moment that he spoke the words he doubted whether it were the corporal he knew or some stranger—the corporal was so unlike himself at that moment. Moreover, at the moment Pierre was speaking, the roll of drums was suddenly heard on both sides. The corporal scowled at Pierre's words, and uttering a meaningless oath, he slammed the door. It was half-dark now in the shed; the drums beat a sharp tattoo on both sides, drowning the sick man's groans.
“Here it is!…Here it is again!” Pierre said to himself, and an involuntary shudder ran down his back. In the changed face of the corporal, in the sound of his voice, in the stimulating and deafening din of the drums, Pierre recognised that mysterious, unsympathetic force which drove men, against their will, to do their fellow-creatures to death; that force, the effect of which he had seen at the execution. To be afraid, to try and avoid that force, to appeal with entreaties or with exhortations to the men who were serving as its instruments, was useless. That Pierre knew now. One could but wait and be patient. Pierre did not go near the sick man again, and did not look round at him. He stood at the door of the shed in silence, scowling.
When the doors of the shed were opened, and the prisoners, huddling against one another like a flock of sheep, crowded in the entry, Pierre pushed in front of them, and went up to the very captain who was, so the corporal had declared, ready to do anything for him. The captain was in marching trim, and from his face, too, there looked out the same “it” Pierre had recognised in the corporal's words and in the roll of the drums.
“Filez, filez!” the captain was saying, frowning sternly, and looking at the prisoners crowding by him.
Pierre knew his effort would be in vain, yet he went up to him.
“Well, what is it?” said the officer, scanning him coldly, as though he did not recognise him. Pierre spoke of the sick prisoner.
“He can walk, damn him!” said the captain.
“Filez, filez!” he went on, without looking at Pierre.
“Well, no, he is in agony…!” Pierre was beginning.
“Voulez-vous bien?”…shouted the captain, scowling malignantly.
“Dram-da-da-dam, dam-dam,” rattled the drums, and Pierre knew that the mysterious force had already complete possession of those men, and that to say anything more now was useless.
The officers among the prisoners were separated from the soldiers and ordered to march in front.
The officers, among whom was Pierre, were thirty in number; the soldiers three hundred.
These officers, who had come out of other sheds, were all strangers to Pierre, and much better dressed than he was. They looked at him in his queer foot-gear with aloof and mistrustful eyes. Not far from Pierre walked a stout major, with a fat, sallow, irascible countenance. He was dressed in a Kazan gown, girt with a linen band, and obviously enjoyed the general respect of his companion prisoners. He held his tobacco-pouch in one hand thrust into his bosom; with the other he pressed the stem of his pipe. This major, panting and puffing, grumbled angrily at every one for pushing against him, as he fancied, and for hurrying when there was no need of hurry, and for wondering when there was nothing to wonder at. Another, a thin, little officer, addressed remarks to every one, making conjectures where they were being taken now, and how far they would go that day. An official, in felt high boots and a commissariat uniform, ran from side to side to get a good view of the results of the fire in Moscow, making loud observations on what was burnt, and saying what this or that district of the town was as it came into view. A third officer, of Polish extraction by his accent, was arguing with the commissariat official, trying to prove to him that he was mistaken in his identification of the various quarters of Moscow.
“Why dispute?” said the major angrily. “Whether it's St. Nikola or St. Vlas, it's no matter. You see that it's all burnt, and that's all about it. …Why are you pushing, isn't the road wide enough?” he said, angrily addressing a man who had passed behind him and had not pushed against him at all.
“Aie, aie, aie, what have they been doing?” the voices of the prisoners could be heard crying on one side and on another as they looked at the burnt districts. “Zamoskvoryetche, too, and Zubovo, and in the Kremlin.…Look, there's not half left. Why, didn't I tell you all Zamoskvoryetche was gone, and so it is.”
“Well, you know it is burnt, well, why argue about it?” said the major.
Passing through Hamovniky (one of the few quarters of Moscow that had not been burnt) by the church, the whole crowd of prisoners huddled suddenly on one side, and exclamations of horror and aversion were heard.
“The wretches! The heathens! Yes; a dead man; a dead man; it is…They have smeared it with something.”
Pierre, too, drew near the church, where was the object that had called forth these exclamations, and he dimly discerned something leaning against the fence of the church enclosure. From the words of his companions, who saw better than he did, he learnt that it was the dead body of a man, propped up in a standing posture by the fence, with the face smeared with soot.
“Move on, damn you! Go on, thirty thousand devils!”…They heard the escort swearing, and the French soldiers, with fresh vindictiveness, used the flat sides of their swords to drive on the prisoners, who had lingered to look at the dead man.
从十月六日晚到七日晨，一夜之间法国人开始撤退行动：
拆掉棚子和厨房，装好车子，部队和辎重队先行出发了。
七日晨七时，在棚屋前面站着一列全副行军装束、头戴高筒军帽、荷枪实弹、身背背包和大口袋的押送队伍，整个队伍喧闹着，可以听到从各排中发出的法国式的咒骂声。
在棚子里大家全都作好了准备，穿好了衣服，扎上腰带，穿好靴子，只等候着出发的命令。那个生病的士兵索科洛夫，面色苍白、瘦削、眼睛周围乌黑发青，只有他一个人，既没有穿衣服，也没有穿靴子，仍坐在原来的地方，两只瘦得鼓突出来的眼球疑问地凝望着此刻不注意他的伙伴们，并发出均匀的低声呻吟。显然，使他呻吟的与其是痛苦（他得的是严重的痢疾病），不如说是他对于独自一人被留下来的恐惧和悲伤。
皮埃尔腰间扎着一条绳子，穿的是卡拉塔耶夫用从茶叶箱上撕下来的皮子做成的鞋（这是一个法国士兵拿来为自己补靴底的），走到病人身旁，蹲下身子。
“怎么样，索科洛夫，他们并非全都走光！他们在这里还有个医院，你可能比我们这些人会更好些，”皮埃尔说。
“上帝啊！我都快死了！上帝啊！”那个士兵发出更大的呻吟声。
“那我现在再去求一下他们，”皮埃尔说，他站起身朝门口走去。皮埃尔刚走近门口时，正好昨天那个请皮埃尔抽烟的班长带领着两个士兵从外面走了进来。那个班长和两名士兵都是行军打扮，背着背包，头戴高筒军帽，帽带的金色饰条光闪闪的，一改了他们平时所熟悉的面貌。
那个班长走近大门，他是奉长官命令前来关门的。在放出俘虏之前，必须请点俘虏的人数。
“Caporal，quefera—t—ondumalade？…”①皮埃尔开始说；但是，他刚一说出口，他就怀疑，这个人是他认识的那个班长，还是另一个陌生的人呢：因为这个班长在这一瞬之间已经完全不像他原来的那个样子了。此外，正在皮埃尔说话的这一时刻，从两边响起了咚咚的鼓声。班长听了皮埃尔的话，皱起了眉头，说了一句荒谬的咒骂的话，砰的一声关上了门。棚子里变得昏暗；两边鼓声阵阵，震耳欲聋，淹没了那个病人发出的呻吟声。
“那个来了！……那个又来了！”皮埃尔自言自语道，他的背心不由得透过一股凉气。从那个班长已改变了态度的脸上，从他说话的声音上，从那越来越紧张的震耳欲聋的鼓点声上，皮埃尔已经感觉到，那种迫使人们违反自己的意志去屠杀自己的同类、在行刑时，他曾经见识过的那种神秘的，冷酷的力量又在发生作用了。害怕或设法躲避这种力量，向那些作为这种力量的工具的人们哀求或者进行劝告，都毫无用处。皮埃尔现在已经知道了这一点。应当等待和忍耐。皮埃尔不再到病人那儿去，也不再看他一眼。他默不作声，皱着
①法语：班长，病人怎么办？……
眉头，站立在棚门旁。
棚门打开了，俘虏们像一群羊似的争先恐后向门口挤去。皮埃尔挤到他们前面，走到那个上尉跟前（就是那个班长对他说过的，什么都愿为皮埃尔做的那个上尉）。上尉同样是行军打扮，他那张冷冰冰的脸上也显露出来皮埃尔从班长所说的话中和咚咚响的鼓声中已经明白了的“那个”。
“Filez，filez，”①上尉严厉地皱着眉头，看着从他面前挤成一团走过去的俘虏，反复地催促着。皮埃尔知道，他的尝试不会有什么结果，但是，他仍然向他面前走过去。
“Ehbien，qu'estcequ'ilya？”②这位军官冷冷地看了皮埃尔一眼，好像不认识的一样问道。皮埃尔把那个病人的情形告诉了他。
“Ilpourramarcher，quediable！”上尉说，“Filez，filez。”③他对皮埃尔连看都不看一眼，不停催促着。
“Maisnon，ilestàl'agonie…”④皮埃尔刚开始说。
“Voulezvousbien？！”⑤上尉皱着眉头，怒冲冲地大喝一声。
①法语：快走，快走。
②法语：喂，还有什么事？
③法语：他也得走，妈的，快走，快走。
④法语：可是不行啊，他快死啦……
⑤法语：去去去？！……
“得咚！咚咚！咚！”鼓擂得震天响。皮埃尔明白，这一神秘的力量已经完全控制住这些人了，现在随便你再说什么都没有一点用处。
把俘虏中的军官同士兵分开，叫他们在前面走。共有三十多个军官，其中有皮埃尔，士兵有三百多名。
从别的棚子里放出来的被俘的军官都是陌生人，他们的穿着较皮埃尔好多了，他们以一种怀疑和疏远的神情瞧着皮埃尔和他穿的鞋。离皮埃尔不远处走着一个身体肥胖的少校，他身穿喀山长袍，腰间系一条毛巾，面色焦黄、浮肿，怒容满面，看起来，此人受到被俘的同伴们的普遍尊敬。他一只胳膊夹着烟口袋，另一只手拄着长烟袋管。少校喘息着，嘴里喷出热气，嘟噜着，对谁都生气，他觉得人人都在挤他，而他们在不忙着要去什么地方的时候，都在急急忙忙的，在没有什么事值得大惊小怪的时候，都在大惊小怪。一个瘦小的军官对大家说话时都是在推测，他们现在被带往什么地方？以及今天要走多远的路。一个穿着毡靴子和兵站部制服的军官跑来跑去，观看被大火焚烧后的莫斯科，他大声讲述他所观察到的情况，什么给烧毁了，这一部分或者那一部分是莫斯科的什么地方。第三个军官，听口音是波兰人，他跟那个兵站部的军官争论起来，指出他认错了莫斯科的街区。
“你们吵什么？”少校怒冲冲地说，“尼古拉也好，弗拉斯也好，反正都一样；你们看，全烧光了，那就完了……你挤什么？路还不够宽。”他忿忿地转身对他身后面的人说，其实那个人并没有挤他。
“哎呀，哎呀，哎呀，他们都干了些什么呀！”俘虏们望着火灾遗址，你一言我一语地说。“还有莫斯科河南岸市区，还有祖博沃区，还有克里姆林宫那里……瞧，都剩下不到一半了。我给你们说过，莫斯科河南岸市区全完啦，就是这样。”
“你既然知道全烧掉了，还谈它干嘛！”少校说。
在经过哈莫夫尼克区（莫斯科少数未被烧毁的一个地区）的一所教堂时，全体俘虏突然闪到一旁，发出恐怖和憎恶的叫喊声。
“哎呀，这些坏蛋！真是些没心肝的东西！”那是个死人，是个死人……脸上还涂了一脸黑糊糊的。
皮埃尔听到惊叫声，向教堂走过去，模模糊糊地看见有个东西倚靠在教堂的墙上。从看得比他更清楚的同伴的口中知道，那是一具死尸，直立着靠在墙上，脸上涂满煤烟灰。
“Marchez，sacrènom…Filez…trentemillediables…”①响起押送士兵的咒骂声，法国士兵的态度又粗暴起来，挥舞短刀把看死尸的俘虏赶开。
①法语：走！走……你们这些魔鬼……
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