When the Smoke Clears — War and Peace

Prince Bagratión rides downhill from the highest point of the right flank toward musketry he can hear but cannot see. The smoke thickens as they near the hollow. Wounded men meet them: one dragged under the arms, gurgling and spitting blood from a throat wound; another walking without his musket, blood streaming from his arm, his face showing fear more than pain. Soldiers climb the hill talking loudly despite the general's presence. An officer shouts retreating men back into the ranks. Faces are blackened; men ram, load, and fire at targets the windless smoke will not reveal. Prince Andrew cannot tell whether this is an attack or a square.

The old regimental commander welcomes Bagratión like a host and reports that French cavalry attacked and was repulsed, though more than half his men are gone. He uses the military term without knowing whether the regiment was broken or held. Someone had shouted "Cavalry!" and they had fired; they are still firing, now at French infantry in the hollow. Bagratión bows as if this were exactly what he expected and orders two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs brought down. His sleepy look is gone. Andrew sees concentrated, happy resolution, like a man taking a last run before plunging into water. The colonel and a staff officer beg him to leave; he does not answer, only orders a ceasefire and re-form so the fresh battalions can pass. Wind draws the smoke aside. A French column winds down the opposite hill, shaggy caps and a flapping standard now visible. Someone in the suite remarks that they march splendidly.

The shattered regiment moves right. The Sixth Chasseurs come on in step, a round-faced company commander sailing past as if on parade, thinking only of how dashing he looks. A cannon ball falls into the column to the beat of "Left... left!"; men close up around the dead. Bagratión praises them, they halt and drop knapsacks, and he dismounts, hands over his felt coat, and sets his cap straight. "Forward, with God!" he says, and walks toward the enemy with a cavalryman's awkward gait. Andrew, beside him, can see French bandoliers, red epaulets, even an old officer climbing with turned-out toes. The French fire; the round-faced officer falls. Bagratión shouts "Hurrah!" and the ranks race past him downhill in an irregular, eager crowd.