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Chapter 18

           OnthenarrowAugesdDamwhereforsomanyyearstheoldmillerhadbeenaccustomedtositinhistasseledcappeacefullyangling,whilehisgrandson,withshirtsleevesrolledup,handledtheflounderingsilveryfishinthewateringcan,onthatdamoverwhichforsomanyyearsMoraviansinshaggycapsandbluejacketshadpeacefullydriventheirtwo-horsecartsloadedwithwheatandhadreturneddustywithflourwhiteningtheircarts—onthatnarrowdamamidthewagonsandthecannon,underthehorses’hoofsandbetweenthewagonwheels,mendisfiguredbyfearofdeathnowcrowdedtogether,crushingoneanother,dying,steppingoverthedyingandkillingoneanother,onlytomoveonafewstepsandbekilledthemselvesinthesameway.

           Everytensecondsacannonballflewcompressingtheairaround,orashellburstinthemidstofthatdensethrong,killingsomeandsplashingwithbloodthosenearthem.

           Dólokhov—nowanofficer—woundedinthearm,andonfoot,withtheregimentalcommanderonhorsebackandsometenmenofhiscompany,representedallthatwasleftofthatwholeregiment.Impelledbythecrowd,theyhadgotwedgedinattheapproachtothedamand,jammedinonallsides,hadstoppedbecauseahorseinfronthadfallenunderacannonandthecrowdweredraggingitout.Acannonballkilledsomeonebehindthem,anotherfellinfrontandsplashedDólokhovwithblood.Thecrowd,pushingforwarddesperately,squeezedtogether,movedafewsteps,andagainstopped.

           “Moveonahundredyardsandwearecertainlysaved,remainhereanothertwominutesanditiscertaindeath,”thoughteachone.

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