Book Thirteen: 1812 - Chapter XIII

by Leo Tolstoy

　　The French evacuation began on the night between the sixth andseventh of October: kitchens and sheds were dismantled, cartsloaded, and troops and baggage trains started.

　　At seven in the morning a French convoy in marching trim, wearingshakos and carrying muskets, knapsacks, and enormous sacks, stood infront of the sheds, and animated French talk mingled with cursessounded all along the lines.

　　In the shed everyone was ready, dressed, belted, shod, and onlyawaited the order to start. The sick soldier, Sokolov, pale and thinwith dark shadows round his eyes, alone sat in his place barefootand not dressed. His eyes, prominent from the emaciation of hisface, gazed inquiringly at his comrades who were paying no attentionto him, and he moaned regularly and quietly. It was evidently not somuch his sufferings that caused him to moan (he had dysentery) ashis fear and grief at being left alone.

　　Pierre, girt with a rope round his waist and wearing shoesKarataev had made for him from some leather a French soldier hadtorn off a tea chest and brought to have his boots mended with, wentup to the sick man and squatted down beside him.

　　"You know, Sokolov, they are not all going away! They have ahospital here. You may be better off than we others," said Pierre.

　　"O Lord! Oh, it will be the death of me! O Lord!" moaned the manin a louder voice.

　　"I'll go and ask them again directly," said Pierre, rising and goingto the door of the shed.

　　Just as Pierre reached the door, the corporal who had offered hima pipe the day before came up to it with two soldiers. The corporaland soldiers were in marching kit with knapsacks and shakos that hadmetal straps, and these changed their familiar faces.

　　The corporal came, according to orders, to shut the door. Theprisoners had to be counted before being let out.

　　"Corporal, what will they do with the sick man?..." Pierre began.

　　But even as he spoke he began to doubt whether this was the corporalhe knew or a stranger, so unlike himself did the corporal seem at thatmoment. Moreover, just as Pierre was speaking a sharp rattle ofdrums was suddenly heard from both sides. The corporal frowned atPierre's words and, uttering some meaningless oaths, slammed the door.The shed became semidark, and the sharp rattle of the drums on twosides drowned the sick man's groans.

　　"There it is!... It again!..." said Pierre to himself, and aninvoluntary shudder ran down his spine. In the corporal's changedface, in the sound of his voice, in the stirring and deafening noiseof the drums, he recognized that mysterious, callous force whichcompelled people against their will to kill their fellow men- thatforce the effect of which he had witnessed during the executions. Tofear or to try to escape that force, to address entreaties orexhortations to those who served as its tools, was useless. Pierreknew this now. One had to wait and endure. He did not again go tothe sick man, nor turn to look at him, but stood frowning by thedoor of the hut.

　　When that door was opened and the prisoners, crowding against oneanother like a flock of sheep, squeezed into the exit, Pierre pushedhis way forward and approached that very captain who as the corporalhad assured him was ready to do anything for him. The captain was alsoin marching kit, and on his cold face appeared that same it whichPierre had recognized in the corporal's words and in the roll of thedrums.

　　"Pass on, pass on!" the captain reiterated, frowning sternly, andlooking at the prisoners who thronged past him.

　　Pierre went up to him, though he knew his attempt would be vain.

　　"What now?" the officer asked with a cold look as if not recognizingPierre.

　　Pierre told him about the sick man.

　　"He'll manage to walk, devil take him!" said the captain. "Passon, pass on!" he continued without looking at Pierre.

　　"But he is dying," Pierre again began.

　　"Be so good..." shouted the captain, frowning angrily.

　　"Dram-da-da-dam, dam-dam..." rattled the drums, and Pierreunderstood that this mysterious force completely controlled thesemen and that it was now useless to say any more.

　　The officer prisoners were separated from the soldiers and told tomarch in front. There were about thirty officers, with Pierre amongthem, and about three hundred men.

　　The officers, who had come from the other sheds, were allstrangers to Pierre and much better dressed than he. They looked athim and at his shoes mistrustfully, as at an alien. Not far from himwalked a fat major with a sallow, bloated, angry face, who was wearinga Kazan dressing grown tied round with a towel, and who evidentlyenjoyed the respect of his fellow prisoners. He kept one hand, inwhich he clasped his tobacco pouch, inside the bosom of his dressinggown and held the stem of his pipe firmly with the other. Pantingand puffing, the major grumbled and growled at everybody because hethought he was being pushed and that they were all hurrying whenthey had nowhere to hurry to and were all surprised at somethingwhen there was nothing to be surprised at. Another, a thin littleofficer, was speaking to everyone, conjecturing where they were nowbeing taken and how far they would get that day. An official in feltboots and wearing a commissariat uniform ran round from side to sideand gazed at the ruins of Moscow, loudly announcing his observationsas to what had been burned down and what this or that part of the citywas that they could see. A third officer, who by his accent was aPole, disputed with the commissariat officer, arguing that he wasmistaken in his identification of the different wards of Moscow.

　　"What are you disputing about?" said the major angrily. "What doesit matter whether it is St. Nicholas or St. Blasius? You see it'sburned down, and there's an end of it.... What are you pushing for?Isn't the road wide enough?" said he, turning to a man behind himwho was not pushing him at all.

　　"Oh, oh, oh! What have they done?" the prisoners on one side andanother were heard saying as they gazed on the charred ruins. "Allbeyond the river, and Zubova, and in the Kremlin.... Just look!There's not half of it left. Yes, I told you- the whole quarter beyondthe river, and so it is."

　　"Well, you know it's burned, so what's the use of talking?" said themajor.

　　As they passed near a church in the Khamovniki (one of the fewunburned quarters of Moscow) the whole mass of prisoners suddenlystarted to one side and exclamations of horror and disgust were heard.

　　"Ah, the villains! What heathens! Yes; dead, dead, so he is... Andsmeared with something!"

　　Pierre too drew near the church where the thing was that evokedthese exclamations, and dimly made out something leaning against thepalings surrounding the church. From the words of his comrades who sawbetter than he did, he found that this was the body of a man, setupright against the palings with its face smeared with soot.

　　"Go on! What the devil... Go on! Thirty thousand devils!..." theconvoy guards began cursing and the French soldiers, with freshvirulence, drove away with their swords the crowd of prisoners whowere gazing at the dead man.