Friant's division vanished like the rest into the smoke of the battlefield. Adjutant after adjutant now came galloping in from every side, all with the same message, as if they were working in collusion. They all asked for reinforcements, and they all told the same story: the Russians were sticking to their posts and keeping up a hellish barrage of fire, so bad that the French troops were melting away.
Napoleon sat on a camp-stool, and thought things over.
M. de Bausset, the great traveller, hadn't had a bite to eat since early morning, so he now came over to the Emperor and ventured respectfully to propose a little lunch.
'I was hoping by now to be able to congratulate your Majesty on a victory,' he said.
Napoleon's only response was to shake his head. Taking the negative gesture as a reference to victory rather than lunch, M. de Bausset risked a respectful little joke: surely there was no reason in the world that ought to get in the way of lunch when lunch was at hand.
'Oh, go away,' snapped Napoleon with a dark glare, turning his back on the man. M. de Bausset's face positively glowed with a beatific smile that blended sympathy, regret and delight, as he glided back to the other generals.
Napoleon's heart was sinking, like that of a lucky gambler who has been throwing his money about senselessly and always won, only to find himself more and more certain to lose just at the point when he has carefully calculated all the possibilities and worked out his system.
His men were the same, the generals were the same, the same preparations had been made, the same dispositions, the same 'short and sweet' proclamation, and he was the same - he knew that, he knew he was even more experienced and skilful now than before - and even the enemy was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland. But the wave of a hand that had once inspired such dread seemed to have been magically deprived of its power.
All the old tactical ploys that always brought success - concentrating his batteries on a single point, use of reserves to break the line, cavalry attack by 'men of iron' - all these had been used, but they weren't bringing victory, and, worse still, the same reports came pouring in from all quarters: generals killed or wounded, the need for reinforcements, the Russians standing their ground and the French troops in disarray.
Hitherto, it had only taken a few words of command, just a sentence or two, for marshals and adjutants to come galloping back with congratulations, radiant faces and stories of trophies captured: entire divisions taken prisoner, sheaves of enemy colours and eagles, cannons and stores, and the only request from Murat was to let the cavalry go and get the baggage-trains. It had been like this at Lodi, Marengo, Arcola, Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram and everywhere else. But now something unusual was happening to his men.
Despite the reported capture of the fleches Napoleon could see that things were definitely not working out as they had done in previous battles. He could see that his own feelings were shared by all the men around him, battle-hardened as they were. Faces were gloomy; eyes were shifty. De Bausset was the only one with no grip on what was happening. With his long experience of war, of course, Napoleon knew full well what it meant for the attacking side not to smell victory after eight hours slogging it out on the field. He knew this was virtually a defeat, and the slightest mischance might now, with the outcome of the battle on a knife-edge, finish him off and his troops with him.
When he let his mind run over the whole of this strange Russian campaign, which hadn't seen a single victory, or a single flag, cannon or corps taken in two solid months, when he looked at the disguised misery on the faces around him, and listened to reports that the Russians were still standing their ground - a kind of nightmare feeling came over him, and his head was filled with all the nasty eventualities that might bring him down. The Russians might attack his left wing, or break through in the centre; he could be killed by a stray cannonball. Anything was possible. In previous battles he had only ever dwelt on successful eventualities; now a vast number of nasty eventualities loomed before him, and he expected them all to happen. Yes, it was just like a nightmare in which a man dreams he is being attacked and in his sleep he lashes out with one arm and hits his assailant with the kind of force he knows is bound to flatten him, only to feel his arm go dead and flop down as limp as a rag, leaving him helpless before the inexorable, horrible hand of death.
The news that the Russians were indeed attacking the left flank of the French army gave Napoleon a taste of that very horror. He sat there on his camp-stool at the bottom of the mound, elbows on knees, with his head in his hands, saying nothing. Berthier came over and proposed a ride down the line to take stock of the position.
'What's that? What did you say?' said Napoleon. 'Yes, tell them to bring my horse.' He mounted the horse and rode off in the direction of Semyonovsk.
In the slowly thinning powder-smoke which hung over all the terrain that Napoleon was now riding through, horses and men, singly and in heaps, were lying around in pools of blood. Neither Napoleon nor any of his generals had ever seen horror on this scale, so many men killed in such a small space. The roar of the big guns that had not stopped for ten hours was so excruciating it gave a new meaning to the whole spectacle (like the music that accompanies tableaux vivants). Napoleon rode up to the high ground at Semyonovsk, and through the smoke he could just make out ranks of soldiers in uniforms of colours he was not used to seeing. They were the Russians.
The Russians stood in serried ranks just beyond Semyonovsk village and the redoubt, and all down their lines their guns thundered and smoked without end. It was not a battle now; it was just a long-drawn-out massacre, of no conceivable benefit to either side. Napoleon reined in his horse, and sank back into the pensive mood that Berthier had just shaken him out of. He had no power to stop this thing that was being enacted before his eyes and on every side, even though he was supposed to be in charge of it and it was supposed to depend on him, and now for the first time, following the experience of failure, it all seemed so futile and horrible.
A general rode up and took the liberty of making a suggestion: Napoleon should send in the old guard. Ney and Berthier were standing close by, and they looked at each other with withering smiles to hear such a reckless suggestion coming from a general.
Napoleon looked down, and sat there for some time without saying a word.
'Here we are eight hundred leagues from France, and I'm not having my guard torn to pieces,' he said at last, wheeling his horse round, and he set off back to Shevardino.
CHAPTER 35
Kutuzov sat on the same rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him that morning, with his grey head slumped on his chest and his big heavy body sprawling. He was not giving any orders; all he did was say yes or no to suggestions.
'Yes, yes, you do that,' he would say when various proposals were made. 'Yes, yes, dear boy, you go over there and have a look,' he would respond to one or other of the nearby adjutants, or, 'No, don't, we'd better wait.' He listened to reports as they came in and responded to any requests for instructions from his subordinates, but as he listened he didn't seem very committed to what was being said; he seemed more interested in some aspect of the speaker's facial expression or tone of voice. Long years of military experience, confirmed by the wisdom of old age, had told him that one person cannot control hundreds of thousands of men fighting to the death, and he knew that the fate of battles is not decided by orders from the commander-in-chief, nor by the stationing of troops, nor the number of cannons or enemies killed, it is decided by a mysterious force known as the 'spirit of the army', and his lot was to keep track of that force and direct it as best he could.
The general impression conveyed by Kutuzov's face was one of quiet but intense concentration, just strong enough to overcome the feebleness of his ageing body.
At eleven o'clock a report came in that the French had been driven back out of the fleches they had taken, but Bagration had been wounded. Kutuzov gave a groan and shook his head.
'Ride over to Prince Bagration and find o
ut what's what,' he said to an adjutant, and then turned to the Prince of Wurttemberg, who was standing behind him, and said, 'Would your Highness mind taking charge of the First Army?'
Very soon after the prince's departure - he could not have got as far as Semyonovsk - his adjutant came back to Kutuzov with a request for more troops.
Kutuzov frowned, and sent orders for Dokhturov to take the charge of the First Army, and for the prince to come back because he could not do without him when things were so fraught. News came in that Murat had been taken prisoner, and the staff-officers gathered round with congratulations, but Kutuzov merely smiled.
'Hold on, gentlemen,' he said. 'The battle is won, and taking Murat prisoner is nothing out of the ordinary. But we must delay our celebrations. ' Nevertheless he dispatched an adjutant to take the news round the troops.
When Shcherbinin galloped in from the left flank to report that the French had taken the fleches and Semyonovsk, Kutuzov could sense the bad news in advance from the sounds coming from the battlefield and the look on Shcherbinin's face, so he got to his feet as if he wanted to stretch his legs, took Shcherbinin by the arm and drew him to one side.
'Go on down, dear boy,' he said to Yermolov, 'and see whether anything can be done.'
Kutuzov was in Gorki, the centre of the Russian position. Napoleon's attack on our left flank had been beaten back several times. In the centre the French never advanced beyond Borodino. And on the left flank Uvarov's cavalry had put the French to flight.
Not long after two o'clock the French attacks ceased. As he read the faces of men who had ridden back from the battlefield, and those around him, Kutuzov could see nothing but the tense expressions of men strained to the limit. He was satisfied; the day had succeeded beyond his expectations. But the old man's physical strength was being sapped. His head was drooping; soon he was nodding and dropping off to sleep. They brought him some dinner.
Adjutant-General Wolzogen, the man whom Prince Andrey had overheard saying that the war ought to be 'conducted over a very wide area' and whom Bagration could not stand, rode up to Kutuzov while he was eating. Wolzogen had come from Barclay de Tolly to report recent developments on the left flank. Barclay was a sensible man, and when he saw hordes of men running back wounded and the Russian ranks in disarray he weighed things up and decided the battle was lost. He then sent his favourite adjutant to go and tell the commander-in-chief.
Kutuzov was having a bit of trouble with a mouthful of chicken, but his wincing eyes looked rather more cheerful now, as he glanced up at Wolzogen.
Wolzogen walked over to Kutuzov with an air of nonchalance and a slightly insolent smile on his face. His saluting hand barely touched his cap.
He treated his Serene Highness with an affected touch of offhandedness, intended to demonstrate that he, a highly trained military man, was prepared to let the Russians idolize a useless old codger like this, but he knew the measure of his man. 'The old gentleman' (as Wolzogen's German circle always called Kutuzov) 'is not doing too badly for himself,' he thought, and with a pointed glare at the dishes laid out before Kutuzov he launched into his report on the present situation along the left front, giving the old gentleman Barclay's version of events and also what he himself had seen and assimilated. 'Our position is in enemy hands at every point, and we cannot counterattack because there aren't enough troops to do it. The men are running away and there's no stopping them,' he submitted.
Kutuzov stopped chewing and stared at Wolzogen in amazement, as if he could not understand what he was saying. Wolzogen noticed the old gentleman's agitation and went on with a smile:
'I felt I had no right to conceal from your Highness what I have seen . . . The troops are all over the place . . .'
'Seen? What you have seen? . . .' said Kutuzov with a scowl, getting rapidly to his feet and marching up close to Wolzogen. 'How . . . how dare you! . . .' he fulminated, choking with emotion and making threatening gestures with his trembling hands. 'How dare you, sir, say that to me? You know nothing. Tell General Barclay from me that his information is wrong, and that I as commander-in-chief know more about the real course of the battle than he does.'
Wolzogen made as if to protest, but Kutuzov cut him short.
'The enemy has been halted on the left flank and defeated on the right. If you have been looking in the wrong place, sir, do not allow yourself to talk about things you do not understand. Kindly return to General Barclay and inform him of my utter determination to attack the French tomorrow,' said Kutuzov sternly.
There was complete silence, broken only by the heavy wheezing and gasping of the old general. 'They have been repulsed at all points, for which I thank God and our brave men. The enemy is defeated, and tomorrow we shall drive him from the sacred soil of Russia!' said Kutuzov, crossing himself, and he gave a sudden shuddering sob through rising tears.
Wolzogen gave a shrug, pursed his lips and walked away in silence, marvelling at the old gentleman's stubbornness.
'Ah, here he is. This is my hero!' said Kutuzov as a rather corpulent, handsome, black-haired general came walking up the hillside. It was Rayevsky, who had spent the whole day in the key position during the battle.
Rayevsky reported that the men were staunchly standing their ground, and the French dared not mount another attack.
Kutuzov listened to what he had to say and then asked him in French, 'So, unlike the others, you do not think we are now obliged to retreat?'
'On the contrary, your Highness, when matters are undecided it is always the most determined who come through to victory,' answered Rayevsky; 'and it is my belief . . .' 'Kaysarov!' Kutuzov called to his adjutant. 'Sit down and write tomorrow's order for the day. And you,' he said, turning to another, 'ride down the line and tell them tomorrow we attack.'
While Kutuzov was talking to Rayevsky and dictating the order Wolzogen came back from Barclay and announced that General Barclay de Tolly would like to have written confirmation of the order issued by the field-marshal.
Without looking at Wolzogen, Kutuzov ordered an adjutant to write down the order, which the former commander-in-chief was justified in asking for in order to avoid all personal responsibility.
And through that mysterious, indefinable bond that maintains morale across an entire army, the very 'spirit of the army' and its nerve-centre in time of war, Kutuzov's words, his order for them to go into battle again next day, were instantly flashed from one end of the army to the other.
The words themselves, the phrasing of the order, were by no means the same when they got out to the last links in the chain. The stories that went from mouth to mouth in the outer reaches of the army bore no resemblance to what Kutuzov had actually said, but the sense of his words penetrated everywhere, because what Kutuzov had said was not the result of subtle thought and long consideration, but a surge of emotion that lay deep in the heart of the commander-in-chief, and deep in the heart of every Russian.
And hearing the word - tomorrow we attack the enemy - together with confirmation from the highest spheres of the army of what they most wanted to believe, exhausted men whose courage had been faltering felt a sense of relief and new inspiration.
CHAPTER 36
Prince Andrey's regiment was among the reserves, which were kept back behind Semyonovsk completely inactive and under heavy artillery fire until going on for two o'clock. Then the regiment, which had already lost more than two hundred men, was moved forward into a trampled field of oats in the area between Semyonovsk and the Rayevsky redoubt, where thousands of men were to fall during the day. At that very time, just before two, the concentrated fire from hundreds of enemy guns was actually being intensified in this area.
Without moving an inch or firing a shot the regiment lost another third of its men on this spot. Ahead of them, especially over to the right, the cannons boomed away through the never-thinning smoke, and from the mysterious pall that blanketed all the countryside up front came an unending stream of hurtling, hissing cannonballs, and grenades, wh
ich whizzed across more slowly. Sometimes there was a kind of breathing space for a quarter of an hour when all the cannonballs and grenades overshot them, but sometimes it took less than a minute for several men to be torn down, and we were for ever dragging away the dead and carrying off the wounded.
With every new hit the chances of staying alive grew less and less for anyone not yet killed. The regiment was split into battalion columns three hundred paces apart. It made no difference; morale was the same all over the regiment. All the men were the same: miserable and silent. There wasn't much talking in the ranks, and what talking there was soon stopped when the next big bang came and the call of 'Stretcher!' Most of the time the men followed their orders and just sat there on the ground. One man would take off his shako, loosen the gathers and tie them up again; another would crumble up some dry clay to clean his bayonet; another would adjust a buckle or tighten a strap on his shoulder-belt; someone else would re-roll his leg bandages with infinite care and pull his boots back on again. Some men built tiny houses out of clods of earth, or plaited together stubble straw. They all seemed thoroughly engrossed in what they were doing. When men got killed or wounded, when stretchers were dragged past, when our troops started coming back, when massed ranks of the enemy suddenly appeared through the smoke, all these developments were completely ignored. Whenever our artillery or cavalry moved forward or the infantry was on the move, encouraging noises came from all sides. But quite the most interesting things were incidental events that had nothing to do with the battle. It was as if these morally exhausted men could find some relief in the ordinary events of everyday life. An artillery battery trundled across in front of their line. A horse pulling an ammunition cart had got one leg outside the traces.