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In the rearguard, Dokhturov and others rallying some battalions

kept up a musketry fire at the French cavalry that was pursuing

our troops. It was growing dusk. On the narrow Augesd Dam where

for so many years the old miller had been accustomed to sit in

his tasseled cap peacefully angling, while his grandson, with

shirt sleeves rolled up, handled the floundering silvery fish in

the watering can, on that dam over which for so many years

Moravians in shaggy caps and blue jackets had peacefully driven

their two-horse carts loaded with wheat and had returned dusty

with flour whitening their carts-on that narrow dam amid the

wagons and the cannon, under the horses' hoofs and between the

wagon wheels, men disfigured by fear of death now crowded

together, crushing one another, dying, stepping over the dying

and killing one another, only to move on a few steps and be

killed themselves in the same way.