The Sound Behind Us — War and Peace

A vos places, a voice suddenly cried. A pleasant feeling of excitement and an expectation of something joyful and solemn arose among the soldiers of the convoy and the prisoners. From all sides came shouts of command, and from the left smartly dressed cavalrymen on good horses passed the prisoners at a trot. The expression on all faces showed the tension people feel at the approach of those in authority. The prisoners thronged together and were pushed off the road. The convoy formed up. The Emperor, the Marshal, the Duke: hardly had the sleek cavalry passed before a carriage drawn by six grey horses rattled by. Pierre caught a glimpse of a man in a three-cornered hat with a tranquil look on his handsome, plump, white face. It was one of the marshals. His eye fell on Pierre's large and striking figure, and in the expression with which he frowned and looked away Pierre thought he detected sympathy and a desire to conceal that sympathy. The general in charge of the stores galloped after the carriage with a red and frightened face, whipping up his skinny horse. Officers formed a group; soldiers crowded round. What did he say? Pierre heard them ask.

While the marshal was passing, the prisoners had huddled together, and Pierre saw Karataev, whom he had not yet seen that morning. He sat in his short overcoat leaning against a birch tree. On his face, besides the look of joyful emotion it had worn yesterday while telling the tale of the merchant who suffered innocently, there was now an expression of quiet solemnity. Karataev looked at Pierre with his kindly round eyes now filled with tears, evidently wishing him to come near that he might say something. But Pierre was not sufficiently sure of himself. He made as if he did not notice that look and moved hastily away.

When the prisoners again went forward Pierre looked round. Karataev was still sitting at the side of the road under the birch, and two Frenchmen were talking over his head. Pierre did not look round again but went limping up the hill. From behind, where Karataev had been sitting, came the sound of a shot. Pierre heard it plainly, but at that moment he remembered that he had not yet finished reckoning how many stages still remained to Smolensk, a calculation he had begun before the marshal went by. He again started reckoning. Two French soldiers ran past, one carrying a lowered and smoking gun. Both looked pale, and in their faces, one of them glanced timidly at Pierre, there was something resembling what he had seen on the face of the young soldier at the execution. Pierre looked at the soldier and remembered that, two days before, that man had burned his shirt while drying it at the fire and how they had laughed at him. Behind him, where Karataev had been sitting, the dog began to howl. What a stupid beast, why is it howling, thought Pierre. His comrades, the prisoner soldiers walking beside him, avoided looking back at the place where the shot had been fired and the dog was howling, just as Pierre did, but there was a set look on all their faces.