When the sun had completely emerged from the fog, and the fields and the mist were ablaze with its brilliance (as if this was what he had been waiting for to begin the battle), he slid the glove from one of his fine white hands and signalled with it to his marshals, thus ordering battle to commence. The marshals, accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in every direction, and a few minutes later the main force of the French army began to move towards the heights of Pratzen, which were being steadily abandoned by the Russian troops as they moved down left into the valley.
CHAPTER 15
At eight o’clock Kutuzov set off for Pratzen at the head of Miloradovich’s fourth column, the one which was to replace the columns of Przebyszewski and Langeron, who had by this time gone down into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave the order to march, a clear indication that he had every intention of leading that column himself. Just outside the village of Pratzen he halted. Prince Andrey was close behind, one among many in the commander-in-chief’s entourage. He was experiencing that mixture of nervous irritation and controlled calm that often besets a man whose long-awaited moment has come, and was totally convinced that today would be the making of him, something like Napoleon’s key victories at Toulon or Arcola. He had no idea how things would work out, but he was totally convinced that it was going to happen. He had made himself as familiar with the locality and the position of our troops as anyone in our army could have done. It was now inconceivable that his own strategy could be implemented, so he forgot all about it. Throwing all his weight behind Weierother’s plan, Prince Andrey was busy going over every last contingency that might arise, and imagining all sorts of new circumstances which could call for his quick thinking and determination.
Down below in the fog, on the left-hand side, invisible enemies could be heard firing at each other. That’s where the action would be, Prince Andrey decided; that’s where there would be trouble. ‘That’s where I’ll be sent,’ he thought, ‘with a brigade or a division, and that’s where I’ll grab the colours, march forward and smash everything before me.’
Prince Andrey could not look unmoved at the colours of other battalions as they went past. Looking at a flag he kept thinking to himself, ‘Perhaps that’s the very flag I shall hold when I’m leading my men.’ By morning the fog had gone from the heights, leaving behind nothing but hoar-frost rapidly melting into dew, but the valleys still swam in a milky-white sea. Nothing at all could be seen in the valley down to the left where our troops had vanished, now ringing with gunfire. Over the hill-tops the clear sky shone dark blue, and on the right was the vast orb of the sun. On the far-distant shore wooded hills rose from that sea of mist; that was where the enemy’s army ought to be, and something could be seen moving about over there. From the right came the sound of hoofbeats, the rumble of wheels and the odd flash of a bayonet, as the guards descended into the realm of mist, and on the left, beyond the village, the same massed cavalry was moving down to be swallowed up in the sea of fog. Ahead of them and to the rear marched the infantry. The commander-in-chief was standing by the road leading out of the village, watching the march-past. Kutuzov seemed exhausted and edgy that morning. Then the men came to a sudden halt, not because they had been ordered to do so, but apparently because of some blockage up ahead.
‘Do tell the men to form battalion columns and march around the village!’ an angry Kutuzov snapped at a general who had ridden up. ‘Isn’t it obvious to you, my dear sir, that we can’t have them stretched out along a narrow village street when we are marching on the enemy?’
‘I was intending to re-form outside the village, sir,’ replied the general.
Kutuzov gave a sardonic laugh.
‘A nice position to be in, deploying your front right in sight of the enemy – very nice!’
‘The enemy’s a long way away, sir. According to the disposition . . .’
‘The disposition!’ Kutuzov roared out venomously. ‘Who told you that? . . . Kindly do as you are commanded.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘My dear fellow,’ Nesvitsky whispered to Prince Andrey, ‘the old man’s in a foul temper.’
An Austrian officer in a white uniform and with green plumes in his hat galloped up to Kutuzov and asked him in the Emperor’s name whether the fourth column had started yet.
Kutuzov turned away without answering and his glance happened to light on Prince Andrey, who was standing near by. Seeing Bolkonsky, Kutuzov relaxed his bitter scowl, as though to acknowledge that his adjutant wasn’t to blame for what was being done. Still ignoring the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkonsky.
‘My dear fellow, go and see whether the third division has gone past the village. Tell them to stop and wait for my orders.’
Prince Andrey had scarcely started when he was stopped again.
