When Heroes Clash Over Honour — War and Peace

Dolokhov's arrival diverted Petya from the drummer boy, to whom Denisov had given mutton and vodka and a Russian coat so that he might be kept with the band and not sent away with the other prisoners. Petya had heard in the army many stories of Dolokhov's extraordinary bravery and of his cruelty to the French, so from the moment the man entered the hut Petya did not take his eyes off him, bracing himself that he might not be unworthy of such company. Dolokhov's appearance amazed him by its simplicity. Denisov wore a Cossack coat, a beard, an icon of Nicholas the Wonder-Worker on his breast; everything indicated an unusual position. Dolokhov, who in Moscow had worn Persian costume, now looked a most correct officer of the Guards: clean-shaven, padded coat, Order of St George at the buttonhole, plain forage cap set straight. He took off his wet felt cloak, went up to Denisov without greeting anyone, and began questioning him about the matter in hand. Denisov told of the large detachments' designs on the transport, of Petya's message, of his own replies to both generals, and of all he knew of the French.

That's so, said Dolokhov. But we must know what troops they are and their numbers. It will be necessary to go there. I like to work accurately. Wouldn't one of these gentlemen like to ride over to the French camp? I have brought a spare uniform. I, I, I'll go with you, cried Petya. Denisov told Dolokhov there was no need, and as for the boy he would not let him go on any account. Petya said he should go, and that's all. Dolokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the drummer. Have you had that youngster long? Taken today, knows nothing, I'm keeping him. And where do you put the others? Denisov suddenly flushed: he sent them away and took a receipt, and said boldly he had not a single man's life on his conscience. Would it be difficult to send thirty or three hundred to town under escort, instead of staining the honour of a soldier? That kind of amiable talk would be suitable from this young count of sixteen, Dolokhov said with cold irony, but it's time for you to drop it.

Petya, shy, only repeated that he would certainly go. Dolokhov found particular pleasure in the subject that irritated Denisov. Why keep this lad? Because you are sorry for him. Don't we know those receipts? You send a hundred, and thirty get there. The rest starve or get killed. So isn't it all the same not to send them? The esaul, screwing up his light-coloured eyes, nodded. Denisov would not take it on his conscience. You say they'll die. All right. Only not by my fault. Dolokhov laughed. Who has told them not to capture me these twenty times over? If they did they'd string me up to an aspen tree, and with all your chivalry just the same. However, they must get to work. Two French uniforms were in his kit. Well, are you coming? Petya cried yes, blushing almost to tears. While they disputed he had felt awkward, but had no time to grasp it fully. If grown-up distinguished men think so, it must be necessary and right. Above all Denisov must not dare to imagine that I'll obey him. I will certainly go. To all persuasions he replied that he too was accustomed to do everything accurately, that hundreds of lives might depend on knowing the numbers, that there were only two of them, and that he never considered personal danger.