The Sky Above the Battle — War and Peace

Kutúzov, with his adjutants, rides at a walking pace behind the carabineers. Less than half a mile in the rear of the column he stops at a solitary deserted house, probably once an inn, where two roads part, both leading downhill with troops on each. The fog has begun to clear. Enemy troops are dimly visible about a mile and a half off on the opposite heights; firing on the left below grows more distinct. While Kutúzov speaks with an Austrian general, an adjutant, looking not at the distance but down the hill, cries that it is the French. Faces change to horror. The French were supposed to be a mile and a half away; they have appeared just in front. With the naked eye Prince Andrew sees, not more than five hundred paces to the right, a dense French column coming up to meet the Ápsherons. "Here it is! The decisive moment has arrived. My turn has come," he thinks, and rides up to say the Ápsherons must be stopped. At that instant smoke spreads, firing is close, and a voice of naïve terror two steps away shouts, "Brothers! All's lost!" As if at a command, everyone runs.

Crowds stream back toward where the Emperors passed five minutes before. It is impossible not to be carried with them. Nesvítski, red and unlike himself, shouts that if Kutúzov does not ride away he will be taken prisoner. Kutúzov stays, draws out a handkerchief; blood is flowing from his cheek. "The wound is not here, it is there!" he says, pointing to the fleeing soldiers. "Stop them!" Then, probably seeing it is impossible, he spurs to the right and is borne back by a fresh wave. Someone shouts to get on; another fires in the air; a third strikes the horse Kutúzov himself rides. With a great effort he and a suite diminished by more than half get leftward toward artillery fire. On the slope a Russian battery still fires; Frenchmen run at it; higher up infantry neither protect the guns nor join the flight. Bullets hiss across the regiment like a flock of little birds. The regimental commander clutches his leg; a second lieutenant lets the flag fall; it catches on muskets. Soldiers start firing without orders. Kutúzov groans and whispers "Bolkónski!", pointing at the disordered battalion and the enemy.

Before he has finished, Andrew, tears of shame and anger choking him, leaps from his horse and runs to the standard. "Forward, lads!" His voice is piercing as a child's. He seizes the staff, hears with pleasure bullets aimed at him, shouts "Hurrah!", and runs with full confidence that the battalion will follow. After a few steps alone, it does, and overtakes him. A sergeant takes the swaying flag and is immediately killed. Andrew drags the staff on. Ahead, some artillerymen fight while others abandon the guns; French infantry seize the horses and turn the cannon. Within twenty paces he sees a red-haired gunner, shako knocked awry, pulling one end of a mop while a French soldier tugs the other, both faces distraught and angry, neither seeming to know what he is doing. Another Frenchman trails a musket toward the unarmed gunner. Andrew does not see the end. It is as if a soldier near him hit him on the head with a bludgeon. He falls on his back, hoping to see whether the gun was saved. Above him there is now nothing but the sky, not clear yet immeasurably lofty, with grey clouds gliding slowly across it. How quiet, peaceful, and solemn; not at all as he ran. How was it he did not see that lofty sky before? All is vanity except that infinite sky. But even it does not exist; there is nothing but quiet and peace. Thank God.