The Russians fall back through Moscow and end up eighty miles beyond the city; the French reach Moscow and come to a halt. Five weeks pass without so much as a skirmish. The French don't make a move. Like a wild beast mortally wounded, bleeding and licking its wounds, they stay there in Moscow for five weeks without actually doing anything, and then suddenly, with no new reason for leaving, they are up and off, scurrying down the Kaluga road, with a victory to their credit too, for they win the field after the battle of Maloyaro-slavets, after which they avoid all other confrontations and run off as fast as their legs will carry them, first to Smolensk, then Vilna, the Berezina and beyond.
On the evening of the 26th of August Kutuzov and the whole Russian army were convinced they had won the battle of Borodino. Kutuzov wrote as much to the Tsar. He ordered the troops to prepare for another battle to finish off the enemy, not because he was trying to fool people but because he knew the enemy was beaten, as did anyone who had been in the battle.
But that evening and all the next day one report after another came in, telling of unheard-of losses, the loss of half the army; another battle was a physical impossibility.
There could be no question of going into battle before all the information was in, before the wounded had been picked up, the ammunition stores replenished, the dead counted, new officers appointed to replace those who had been killed, and the men had been given food and time to sleep. Meanwhile, the very next morning after the battle, the French army moved against the Russians, carried along by its own impetus, now accelerating in inverse proportion to the square of the distance from its goal. Kutuzov had wanted to attack that next day, and the whole army wanted to as well. But in order to mount an attack it is not enough to want to do it; there must also be the possibility of doing it, and now there was no such possibility. It was impossible to do anything but fall back a day's march, after which it was as impossible to do anything but fall back a second and a third day's march, until finally, on the 1st of September, when the army got to Moscow, despite a growing strength of feeling in the troops, sheer force of circumstances compelled the troops to fall back beyond Moscow. And the troops fell back one last day's march, abandoning Moscow to the enemy.
Anyone disposed to imagine that campaign strategy and battle-plans are drawn up by the high command the way one of us might do it, sitting in his study poring over a map and working out what he would have done and how he would have done it under the various circumstances of war, must face some awkward questions. Why didn't Kutuzov do this or that when he was forced to retreat? Why didn't he dig in somewhere before Fili? Why didn't he miss out on Moscow and go straight down the Kaluga road? And so on . . . People who think like that forget - or maybe they never knew - the extent to which commanders-in-chief are constrained by circumstances. The circumstances encountered by a commander-in-chief in the field bear no resemblance to any circumstances we may dream up as we sit at home in a cosy study, going over a campaign on the map with a given number of soldiers on either side, in a known locality, and starting out at a specific moment in time. The general never experiences anything like the beginning of an event, which we are always privy to. The general always finds himself in the midst of events as they unfold, which means he is never at any moment in a position to contemplate the full significance of what is taking place. Each event carves out its own significance imperceptibly, moment by moment, and at any point in this gradual and uninterrupted carving-out of events the commander-in-chief finds himself in the very midst of a most complex interplay of intrigue and worry, dependence and authority, planning, advice, threats and trickery; he finds himself constantly called upon to respond to an endless flow of suggestions, all contradictory.
Academics specializing in military history tell us with a perfectly straight face that Kutuzov ought to have turned his army down the Kaluga road long before Fili, and that someone actually suggested such a plan. But an army commander has before him, especially in a crisis, not one plan, but dozens of them. And each of them, although well founded in terms of strategy and tactics, contradicts all the others. It seems simple enough: all the commander has to do is pick one of them, but even this is beyond him. Time and events will not wait. Imagine him receiving a suggestion on the 28th to cross over to the Kaluga road, but on the instant up gallops an adjutant from Miloradovich asking whether they should immediately engage with the French or fall back. An instant response and clear instructions are required. But an order to fall back would mean not turning off to the Kaluga road. After the adjutant comes the quartermaster asking where to take the stores, and the chief medical officer wants to know where to send the wounded, then a courier rides in from Petersburg with a letter from the Tsar ruling out any possibility of abandoning Moscow, and here is one of the commander's rivals, anxious to undermine his authority (there's never any shortage of people like that) with a new scheme diametrically opposed to the plan of cutting across to the Kaluga road. Besides which, the commander's own expenditure of energy demands sleep and sustenance. But a worthy general who has been bypassed when the medals were being given out has come to complain, and the local inhabitants are begging for protection. Meanwhile the officer sent out to inspect the locality comes back with a report totally different from the one just submitted by another officer, while a spy, a prisoner and a general who has been out on reconnaissance all give completely different descriptions of the enemy's position. People who forget, or who never understood, circumstances like these under which any commander is inevitably compelled to operate will bring up, say, the position of the troops at Fili and use it to assume that on the 1st of September the commander-in-chief was at liberty to decide whether or not to abandon Moscow, whereas, given the position of the Russian army only three or four miles from Moscow, there was no question to be decided. When was this question decided? In many places: at Drissa, and Smolensk, and most palpably on the 24th of August at Shevardino, then on the 26th at Borodino, and at every minute of every hour of every day during the retreat from Borodino to Fili.
CHAPTER 3
The Russian army, pulling back from Borodino, halted at Fili. Yermolov, who had ridden out to take stock of the position, came over to the commander-in-chief.
'There is no possibility of fighting in this position,' he said. Kutuzov looked at him in some surprise, and got him to repeat what he had said. When he had done so, he offered his hand.
'Give me your hand, my dear fellow,' he said, and, turning it over to feel his pulse, he went on, 'You're not well, dear boy. Think what you are saying.'
On Poklonnaya hill, four miles short of the Dorogomilov gate, Kutuzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the side of the road. A great crowd of generals gathered around. Count Rostopchin, who had come out from Moscow, joined them. The brilliant company broke up into small groups, chatting among themselves about the pros and cons of the present position, the state of the army, the plans that had been submitted, the general situation in Moscow, and all things military. Everybody felt that, although they had not been summoned for this purpose, and nobody was prepared to call it by its proper name, this was a council of war. Conversation was restricted to topics of general interest. If anyone imparted or received any personal news it was communicated in a whisper, and the talk swiftly returned to general topics. Not a joke, laugh or smile passed between these people. They were all obviously struggling to keep on top of things. All the groups, as they chatted away, did their level best to stick close to the commander-in-chief, whose bench was the centre of interest, and they spoke out to make themselves heard. The commander-in-chief listened, and sometimes made an inquiry about something said near by, but he didn't enter into any conversation or express an opinion. More often than not he would listen to one group talking, only to turn away in disappointment as if they were saying things he had no desire to hear. Some of them were discussing the position, criticizing not so much the position itself as the intellectual calibre of those who had selected it. Others argued that the
real mistake had been made earlier on; they should have gone into battle two days before. A different set was going on about the battle of Salamanca, which was being described by a newly arrived Frenchman by the name of Crosart, dressed in a Spanish uniform. (This Frenchman, along with one of the German princes serving in the Russian army, was analysing the siege of Saragossa, in the belief that Moscow might have to be defended in the same way.) In the fourth group, Count Rostopchin was saying that he and the Moscow city guard were ready to die at the city walls, but he still felt it proper to complain that he had been kept in the dark, and if only he'd known earlier on everything would have been different . . . A fifth group was demonstrating a profound level of strategic awareness by discussing the right direction for the troops to go in. A sixth group was talking utter nonsense.
Kutuzov's face looked ever more worried and dejected. From all this talk Kutuzov drew a single conclusion: defending Moscow was a physical impossibility in the fullest sense of the phrase, so utterly impossible that even if some crazy commander gave the order to go into battle there would be nothing but chaos, and no battle would be fought. No battle would be fought because it wasn't just a question of all the commanding officers acknowledging the impossibility of their position; the only topic of conversation now in every group centred around what was going to happen after the position had been necessarily abandoned. How could commanding officers lead their men out to fight a battle that they believed couldn't be won? The junior officers, and even the soldiers (who were capable of thinking for themselves), knew the position couldn't be held, and they couldn't go into battle with any confidence of winning. Bennigsen could go on and on about defending the position, and others could discuss it till the cows came home, but this issue no longer mattered; it was nothing but a pretext for argument and intrigue. Kutuzov was aware of this.
Bennigsen, who had chosen the present position, was waxing eloquent in a great show of Russian patriotism - Kutuzov couldn't listen to him without wincing - and insisting on the defence of Moscow. His purpose was as clear as daylight to Kutuzov: if the defence failed it was Kutuzov's fault - he had brought the army all the way to the Sparrow hills without fighting the enemy - but if it was successful he wanted the credit, and if they opted out he washed his hands of the crime of abandoning Moscow.
But the old man had no time now for this kind of chicanery. There was only one terrible question on his mind, a question to which he heard no answer. The question was: 'How can I have let Napoleon get as far as Moscow, and when did I do it? When did it happen? Yesterday, when I sent word to Platov to fall back, or the evening before when I had a nap and let Bennigsen take over? Or was it before that? . . . When, oh when did this ghastly thing happen? Moscow has to be abandoned. The army must fall back. The order must be given.'
To issue such a dreadful order seemed like resigning his command of the army. And apart from the fact that he loved power and had got used to it (he had been galled by the honours lavished on Prince Prozorovsky, under whom he had served in Turkey), he was convinced that he was destined to be the saviour of Russia, and this was why he had been appointed commander-in-chief, against the Tsar's wishes but by the will of the people. He was convinced that in these difficult times he was the only man who could hold out as head of the army, and the only man in the world capable of taking on Napoleon without flinching. Now he dreaded having to give this order. But he had to do something; he had to stop this idle chatter that was getting out of hand.
He summoned his senior generals.
'For good or ill, it is in my head that the decision must be made,' he said in French, getting up from his bench, and he rode off to Fili, where his carriages were waiting.
CHAPTER 4
A council of war had been convened for two o'clock in a spacious room at the best end of a wooden house belonging to a prosperous peasant by the name of Andrey Savostyanov. His large family, men, women and children, were all huddled together in a dark room across the passage. His Serene Highness had taken to Andrey's six-year-old granddaughter, Malasha, and given her a sugar-lump while he drank his tea; she alone was allowed to stay behind in the large room, tucked away on top of the big stove. Malasha was a picture of delight, peeping down timidly at all the faces and uniforms, and the decorations worn by the generals, as they strode in one after another and took their places on the broad benches in the special corner under the icons. Kutuzov ('Grandad' to Malasha in her mind) was sitting on his own in a dark corner just past the stove. He was slumped down in a folding armchair, constantly clearing his throat and pulling at his coat-collar, which seemed too tight for his neck, even though it was unbuttoned. The generals came in one after another and presented themselves to the field-marshal; he shook hands with some of them, and nodded to the others.
Adjutant Kaysarov made as if to open a curtain covering the window opposite Kutuzov, but his Highness waved him away angrily, and Kaysarov got the point: Kutuzov didn't want his face to be seen.
The peasant's deal table, covered with maps, plans, pencils and papers, was so crowded that the orderlies brought another bench in, and put it near the table for Yermolov, Kaysarov and Toll to come over and sit on. In the place of honour under the icons sat Barclay de Tolly, with the Order of St George round his neck; his high forehead merging into a bald pate crowned the pallid face of a sick man. He had been feverish for the last two days, and he was all aches and pains. Beside him sat Uvarov, talking in hushed tones like everyone else and making rapid gestures with his hands. Chubby little Dokhturov was listening intently with raised eyebrows, clasping his hands over his stomach. Sitting opposite was the clean-cut, bright-eyed Count Ostermann-Tolstoy, with his broad head propped up on one hand, keeping his thoughts to himself. Rayevsky sat there, as usual twisting the black hair at his temples into curls, and looking from Kutuzov to the door and back again. Konovnitsyn's strong, handsome face was shining warmly with a shrewd and kindly smile. He caught Malasha looking his way and made funny signals with his eyes, bringing a smile to the little girl's face.
They were waiting for Bennigsen, who was supposed to be out on a tour of inspection but was actually finishing a jolly good lunch. From four till six they waited, and in all that time they held back from serious deliberations, limiting themselves to side-issues discussed in hushed tones.
Only when Bennigsen came in at last did Kutuzov stir from his corner and move over to the table, taking good care to ensure that his face kept out of the candle-light thoughtfully provided.
Bennigsen opened the proceedings with a question: were they to abandon the holy and ancient capital of Russia without a struggle, or stand and defend it?
A long silence ensured. Brows were furrowed, and the only sounds that broke the stillness came from Kutuzov, who kept clearing his throat and coughing irritably. All eyes were on him. Even Malasha couldn't take her eyes off 'Grandad'. She was nearer than anyone, and she could see his face crumpling; he was on the verge of tears. But not for long.
'The holy and ancient capital of Russia!' he suddenly called out, with fury in his voice, parroting Bennigsen's words to bring out the false note in them. 'Allow me to inform your Excellency that this question has no meaning for a Russian.' (He lunged forward with his huge bulk.) 'You cannot put the question like that. There's no sense in it. The question I have brought these gentlemen together to discuss is a military question. It goes like this: the salvation of Russia rests with the army; which is better - to risk the loss of the army and Moscow by fighting, or to abandon Moscow without any fighting? This is the question on which I wish to hear your opinion.' He flopped back down into his low chair.
The debate began. As far as Bennigsen was concerned the game was not yet lost. He took the point made by Barclay and others that it would not now be possible to take a defensive stand at Fili, but went on to demonstrate the depth of his Russian patriotism and devotion to Moscow by proposing to switch the army during the night from right to left and attack the French the next day on their right flank. Opinio
ns were divided, with arguments for and against this proposal. Yermolov, Dokhturov and Rayevsky sided with Bennigsen. Whether they were guided by a feeling that some sacrifices ought to be made before the city was abandoned, or by other, personal, considerations, these generals seemed incapable of understanding that this session of the council could not turn back the inexorable tide of events, and Moscow was already an abandoned city. The other generals accepted this, put the question of Moscow to one side, and discussed the best direction for the retreating Russian army to take.
Malasha watched all that was going on with rapt attention, though she had her own version of events at the council. For her it came down to a straight fight between 'Grandad' and 'Longcoat', her name for Bennigsen. She could see them getting all animated when they spoke to each other, and she was on 'Grandad's' side. In the middle of the conversation she watched 'Grandad' fix Bennigsen with a sharp and clever stare, and straight after that she noted with glee that 'Grandad' had beaten 'Longcoat' by saying something special, and Bennigsen had gone red in the face and was now walking furiously up and down the room. The words that had made such an impact on Bennigsen were Kutuzov's carefully considered and softly delivered comments on the pros and cons of his proposal to move the troops from right to left during the night and attack the French on their right flank.
'Gentlemen,' said Kutuzov, 'I cannot endorse the count's plan. Troop movements close to the enemy are always a risky business, as military history shows. Take, for instance . . .' (Kutuzov seemed to pause for thought as he searched for an example, watching Bennigsen with a bland and innocent expression) '. . . well, take the battle of Friedland, which, I'm sure the count will remember, was not . . . entirely successful, and that was because the troops were redeployed too close to the enemy . . .'