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“There he’s puffing away again；” Tushin murmured to himself as a cloud of smoke rolled downhill； and was borne off by the wind in a wreath to the left。 “Now； your ball—throw it back。”
“What is it； your honour？” asked a gunner who stood near him； and heard him muttering something。
“Nothing； a grenade…” he answered。 “Now for it； our Matvyevna；” he said to himself。 Matvyevna was the name his fancy gave to the big cannon； cast in an old…fashioned mould； that stood at the end。 The French seemed to be ants swarming about their cannons。 The handsome； drunken soldier； number one gunner of the second cannon； was in his dreamworld “uncle”； Tushin looked at him more often than at any of the rest； and took delight in every gesture of the man。 The sound— dying away； then quickening again—of the musketry fire below the hill seemed to him like the heaving of some creature’s breathing。 He listened to the ebb and flow of these sounds。
“Ah； she’s taking another breath again；” he was saying to himself。 He himself figured in his imagination as a mighty man of immense stature； who was flinging cannon balls at the French with both hands。
“Come； Matvyevna； old lady； stick by us！” he was saying； moving back from the cannon； when a strange； unfamiliar voice called over his head。 “Captain Tushin！ Captain！”
Tushin looked round in dismay。 It was the same staff…officer who had turned him out of the booth at Grunte。 He was shouting to him in a breathless voice：
“I say； are you mad？ You’ve been commanded twice to retreat； and you…”
“Now； what are they pitching into me for？” … Tushin wondered； looking in alarm at the superior officer。
“I…don’t…” he began； putting two fingers to the peak of his cap。 “I…”
But the staff…officer did not say all he had meant to。 A cannon ball flying near him made him duck down on his horse。 He paused； and was just going to say something more； when another ball stopped him。 He turned his horse’s head and galloped away。
“Retreat！ All to retreat！” he shouted from a distance。
The soldiers laughed。 A minute later an adjutant arrived with the same message。 This was Prince Andrey。 The first thing he saw； on reaching the place where Tushin’s cannons were stationed； was an unharnessed horse with a broken leg； which was neighing beside the harnessed horses。 The blood was flowing in a perfect stream from its leg。 Among the platforms lay several dead men。 One cannon ball after another flew over him as he rode up； and he felt a nervous shudder running down his spine。 But the very idea that he was afraid was enough to rouse him again。 “I can’t be frightened；” he thought； and he deliberately dismounted from his horse between the cannons。 He gave his message； but he did not leave the battery。 He decided to stay and assist in removing the cannons from the position and getting them away。 Stepping over the corpses； under the fearful fire from the French； he helped Tushin in getting the cannons ready。
“The officer that came just now ran off quicker than he came；” said a gunner to Prince Andrey； “not like your honour。”
Prince Andrey had no conversation with Tushin。 They were both so busy that they hardly seemed to see each other。 When they had got the two out of the four cannons that were uninjured on to the platforms and were moving downhill （one cannon that had been smashed and a howitzer were left behind）； Prince Andrey went up to Tushin。
“Well； good…bye till we meet again；” said Prince Andrey； holding out his hand to Tushin。
“Good…bye； my dear fellow；” said Tushin； “dear soul！ good…bye； my dear fellow；” he said with tears； which for some unknown reason started suddenly into his eyes。
Chapter 21
THE WIND had sunk； black storm…clouds hung low over the battlefield； melting on the horizon into the clouds of smoke from the powder。 Darkness had come； and the glow of conflagrations showed all the more distinctly in two places。 The cannonade had grown feebler； but the snapping of musketry…fire in the rear and on the right was heard nearer and more often。 As soon as Tushin with his cannons； continually driving round the wounded and coming upon them； had got out of fire and were descending the ravine； he was met by the staff； among whom was the staff…officer and Zherkov； who had twice been sent to Tushin’s battery； but had not once reached it。 They all vied with one another in giving him orders； telling him how and where to go； finding fault and making criticisms。 Tushin gave no orders； and in silence； afraid to speak because at every word he felt； he could not have said why； ready to burst into tears； he rode behind on his artillery nag。 Though orders were given to abandon the wounded； many of them dragged themselves after the troops and begged for a seat on the cannons。 The jaunty infantry…officer—the one who had run out of Tushin’s shanty just before the battle—was laid on Matvyevna’s carriage with a bullet in his stomach。 At the bottom of the hill a pale ensign of hussars； holding one arm in the other hand； came up to Tushin and begged for a seat。
“Captain； for God’s sake。 I’ve hurt my arm；” he said timidly。 “For God’s sake。 I can’t walk。 For God’s sake！” It was evident that this was not the first time the ensign had asked for a lift； and that he had been everywhere refused。 He asked in a hesitating and piteous voice； “Tell them to let me get on； for God’s sake！”
“Let him get on； let him get on；” said Tushin。 “Put a coat under him； you； uncle。” He turned to his favourite soldier。 “But where’s the wounded officer？”
“We took him off； he was dead；” answered some one。
“Help him on。 Sit down； my dear fellow； sit down。 Lay the coat there； Antonov。”
The ensign was Rostov。 He was holding one hand in the other。 He was pale and his lower jaw was trembling as though in a fever。 They put him on Matvyevna； the cannon from which they had just removed the dead officer。 There was blood on the coat that was laid under him； and Rostov’s riding…breeches and arm were smeared with it。
“What； are you wounded； my dear？” said Tushin； going up to the cannon on which Rostov was sitting。
“No； it’s a sprain。”
“How is it there’s blood on the frame？” asked Tushin。
“That was the officer； your honour； stained it；” answered an artillery…man； wiping the blood off with the sleeve of his coat； and as it were apologising for the dirty state of the cannon。
With difficulty； aided by the infantry； they dragged the cannon uphill； and halted on reaching the village of Guntersdorf。 It was by now so dark that one could not distinguish the soldiers’ uniforms ten paces away； and the firing had begun to subside。 All of a sudden there came the sound of firing and shouts again close by on the right side。 The flash of the shots could be seen in the darkness。 This was the last attack of the French。 It was met by the soldiers in ambush in the houses of the village。 All rushed out of the village again； but Tushin’s cannons could not move and the artillerymen； Tushin； and the ensign looked at one another in anticipation of their fate。 The firing on both sides began to subside； and some soldiers in lively conversation streamed out of a side street。
“Not hurt； Petrov？” inquired one