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psacks on and shakoes； with straps buttoned； that changed their familiar faces。
The corporal had come to the door so as to shut it in accordance with the orders given him。 Before getting them out； he had to count over the prisoners。
“Corporal； what is to be done with the sick man？” Pierre was beginning； but at the very moment that he spoke the words he doubted whether it were the corporal he knew or some stranger—the corporal was so unlike himself at that moment。 Moreover； at the moment Pierre was speaking； the roll of drums was suddenly heard on both sides。 The corporal scowled at Pierre’s words； and uttering a meaningless oath； he slammed the door。 It was half…dark now in the shed； the drums beat a sharp tattoo on both sides； drowning the sick man’s groans。
“Here it is！…Here it is again！” Pierre said to himself； and an involuntary shudder ran down his back。 In the changed face of the corporal； in the sound of his voice； in the stimulating and deafening din of the drums； Pierre recognised that mysterious； unsympathetic force which drove men； against their will； to do their fellow…creatures to death； that force； the effect of which he had seen at the execution。 To be afraid； to try and avoid that force； to appeal with entreaties or with exhortations to the men who were serving as its instruments； was useless。 That Pierre knew now。 One could but wait and be patient。 Pierre did not go near the sick man again； and did not look round at him。 He stood at the door of the shed in silence； scowling。
When the doors of the shed were opened； and the prisoners； huddling against one another like a flock of sheep； crowded in the entry； Pierre pushed in front of them； and went up to the very captain who was； so the corporal had declared； ready to do anything for him。 The captain was in marching trim； and from his face； too； there looked out the same “it” Pierre had recognised in the corporal’s words and in the roll of the drums。
“Filez； filez！” the captain was saying； frowning sternly； and looking at the prisoners crowding by him。
Pierre knew his effort would be in vain； yet he went up to him。
“Well； what is it？” said the officer； scanning him coldly； as though he did not recognise him。 Pierre spoke of the sick prisoner。
“He can walk； damn him！” said the captain。
“Filez； filez！” he went on； without looking at Pierre。
“Well； no； he is in agony…！” Pierre was beginning。
“Voulez…vous bien？”…shouted the captain； scowling malignantly。
“Dram…da…da…dam； dam…dam；” rattled the drums； and Pierre knew that the mysterious force had already complete possession of those men； and that to say anything more now was useless。
The officers among the prisoners were separated from the soldiers and ordered to march in front。
The officers； among whom was Pierre； were thirty in number； the soldiers three hundred。
These officers； who had come out of other sheds； were all strangers to Pierre； and much better dressed than he was。 They looked at him in his queer foot…gear with aloof and mistrustful eyes。 Not far from Pierre walked a stout major； with a fat； sallow； irascible countenance。 He was dressed in a Kazan gown； girt with a linen band； and obviously enjoyed the general respect of his companion prisoners。 He held his tobacco…pouch in one hand thrust into his bosom； with the other he pressed the stem of his pipe。 This major； panting and puffing； grumbled angrily at every one for pushing against him； as he fancied； and for hurrying when there was no need of hurry； and for wondering when there was nothing to wonder at。 Another； a thin； little officer； addressed remarks to every one； making conjectures where they were being taken now； and how far they would go that day。 An official； in felt high boots and a commissariat uniform； ran from side to side to get a good view of the results of the fire in Moscow； making loud observations on what was burnt； and saying what this or that district of the town was as it came into view。 A third officer； of Polish extraction by his accent； was arguing with the commissariat official； trying to prove to him that he was mistaken in his identification of the various quarters of Moscow。
“Why dispute？” said the major angrily。 “Whether it’s St。 Nikola or St。 Vlas； it’s no matter。 You see that it’s all burnt； and that’s all about it。 …Why are you pushing； isn’t the road wide enough？” he said； angrily addressing a man who had passed behind him and had not pushed against him at all。
“Aie； aie； aie； what have they been doing？” the voices of the prisoners could be heard crying on one side and on another as they looked at the burnt districts。 “Zamoskvoryetche； too； and Zubovo； and in the Kremlin。…Look； there’s not half left。 Why； didn’t I tell you all Zamoskvoryetche was gone； and so it is。”
“Well； you know it is burnt； well； why argue about it？” said the major。
Passing through Hamovniky （one of the few quarters of Moscow that had not been burnt） by the church； the whole crowd of prisoners huddled suddenly on one side； and exclamations of horror and aversion were heard。
“The wretches！ The heathens！ Yes； a dead man； a dead man； it is…They have smeared it with something。”
Pierre； too； drew near the church； where was the object that had called forth these exclamations； and he dimly discerned something leaning against the fence of the church enclosure。 From the words of his companions； who saw better than he did； he learnt that it was the dead body of a man； propped up in a standing posture by the fence； with the face smeared with soot。
“Move on； damn you！ Go on； thirty thousand devils！”…They heard the escort swearing； and the French soldiers； with fresh vindictiveness； used the flat sides of their swords to drive on the prisoners； who had lingered to look at the dead man。
Chapter 14
THROUGH THE LANES of Hamovniky； the prisoners marched alone with their escort； a train of carts and waggons； belonging to the soldiers of the escort； following behind them。 But as they came out to the provision shops they found themselves in the middle of a huge train of artillery； moving with difficulty； and mixed up with private baggage…waggons。
At the bridge itself the whole mass halted； waiting for the foremost to get across。 From the bridge the prisoners got a view of endless trains of baggage…waggons in front and behind。 On the right； where the Kaluga road turns by Neskutchny Gardens； endless files of troops and waggons stretched away into the distance。 These were the troops of Beauharnais’s corps； which had set off before all the rest。 Behind； along the riverside； and across Kamenny bridge； stretched the troops and transport of Ney’s corps。
Davoust’s troops； to which the prisoners belonged； were crossing by the Crimean Ford； and part had already entered Kaluga Street。 But the baggage…trains were so long that the last waggons of Beauharnais’s corps had not yet got out of Moscow into Kaluga Street； while the vanguard of Ney’s troops had already emerged from Bolshaya Ordynka。
After crossing the Crimean Ford； the prisoners moved a few steps at a time and then halted； and again moved forward； and the crowd of vehicles and people grew greater and greater on all sides。 After taking over