War And Peace

The 5th of November was the first day of the skirmishing that has become known as the battle of Krasnoye. By late afternoon – after much arguing and blundering by generals who never arrived where they were sent, after a day when orders and counter-orders had been flying about everywhere, borne by the adjutants – it became clear that with the enemy in full flight there would not and could not be a battle, and only then did Kutuzov leave Krasnoye for Dobroye, where the new headquarters had been set up that very day.

It had been a clear, frosty day. Kutuzov was riding towards Dobroye on his tubby little white horse, with an enormous entourage of disgruntled generals murmuring behind his back. As they went along they kept coming across groups of French prisoners – seven thousand had been taken in a single day – crowding round camp-fires to get warm. Not far from Dobroye they heard the dull roar of a huge crowd of men talking, prisoners dressed in rags, bandaged and wrapped up in whatever had come to hand, standing on the road beside a long line of unharnessed French cannons. At the approach of the commander-in-chief the roar died down, and all eyes turned to Kutuzov, who was wending his way down the road, wearing his white cap with its red band, and a padded overcoat that sat awkwardly on his hunched shoulders. One of the generals was explaining where the guns and prisoners had been captured.

Kutuzov seemed too preoccupied to take in what the general was saying. He was wincing with displeasure as he stared very closely at the figures of the most wretched-looking prisoners. Most of them had cheeks and noses disfigured by frostbite, and almost all had red, swollen and festering eyes.

A group of Frenchmen standing at the roadside contained two soldiers, one with sores all over his face, who were tearing at a piece of raw meat with their bare hands. There was something brutal and horrible in the cursory glance they bestowed on the passing party, and the savage glare that the soldier with the sore face launched at Kutuzov before turning away and going on with what he was doing.

Kutuzov stared long and hard at these two soldiers. Frowning more than ever, he screwed up his eyes, and shook his head thoughtfully. Further on, he noticed a Russian soldier saying something friendly to a French prisoner, laughing and clapping him on the shoulder. Kutuzov shook his head again with the same expression on his face.

‘What’s that? What were you saying?’ he asked the general, who was still explaining away and trying to get the commander-in-chief to look at the French colours that had been set up in front of the Preobrazhensky regiment.

‘Oh yes, the flags!’ said Kutuzov, who was clearly having difficulty in dragging his mind back from what it was preoccupied with. He looked about vaguely.

Thousands of eyes were on him from all sides, waiting for him to pronounce.

He came to a standstill before the Preobrazhensky regiment, gave a deep sigh, and closed his eyes. At a signal from one member of the suite the soldiers holding the flags came forward and set them up round the commander-in-chief. Kutuzov said nothing for a second or two, then, with obvious reluctance, yielding to necessity, he looked up and spoke. Crowds of officers gathered round him. He scanned the circle of officers with a close eye, recognizing some of them.

‘Thank you one and all!’ he said, addressing the soldiers before turning back to the officers. Silence reigned, broken only by his words, carefully enunciated so as to be distinctly audible. ‘Thank you one and all for your hard and faithful service. Victory is assured, and Russia will not forget you. Your glory will live for ever!’

He paused and looked round.

‘Further down. Drop it further down,’ he said to a soldier holding the French eagle, who had inadvertently lowered it in front of the Preobrazhensky colours.

‘A bit further. Yes, that’s it. Hurrah, boys!’ he said, turning back to the soldiers with a flick of his chin.

‘Hurrah-ah-ah!’ came the roar from thousands of voices.

While the soldiers were cheering, Kutuzov leant forward in the saddle and bowed his head, his one good eye glinting with what looked like gentle humour.

‘Listen, men . . .’ he said, when the cheering had died away.

And then suddenly his face and expression looked different. It was not the commander-in-chief speaking now, it was a simple man, getting on in years, who evidently had something important to say to his comrades.

‘Listen, men . . . I know you’re having a rough time, but it can’t be helped! Please be patient. It won’t last much longer. Let’s see these visitors off – then we can have a rest. The Tsar won’t forget your services. You’re having a rough time, but you are on home ground. Look at them. See what they’ve been reduced to,’ he said, pointing to the prisoners. ‘Lower than the meanest beggars. When they were strong we didn’t spare ourselves, but now we can afford to spare them. They’re men like us, aren’t they, boys?’