‘I tell you what,’ said Boris. ‘I shall honour you with the freedom of the camp. You’ll get the best view from where Count Bennigsen is going to be. I’m in attendance on him. I’ll put him in the picture. And if you want to go round the position you’d better come along with us. We’re just off to the left flank. And when we get back you can stay the night with me, and we’ll have a game of cards. I’m sure you know Dmitriy Sergeich. He’s staying over there.’ He pointed to the third house in Gorki.
‘Oh, it’s the right flank I wanted to see. They say it’s very strong,’ said Pierre. ‘I wanted to start at the river Moskva and go round the whole position.’
‘Well, you can do that later on. It’s the left flank that matters . . .’
‘Yes, I see. And where’s Prince Bolkonsky’s regiment? Could you point it out to me?’ asked Pierre.
‘Prince Andrey’s regiment? We’re going right past it. I’ll take you to see him.’
‘What was that about the left flank?’ asked Pierre.
‘Well, to be quite candid, just between ourselves, the left flank’s in a bit of a spot,’ said Boris, lowering his voice confidingly. ‘Count Bennigsen had something quite different in mind. His idea was to fortify that mound over there, but certainly not, er . . .’ He gave a shrug. ‘His Serene Highness wouldn’t have it, or maybe they talked him out of it. Anyway . . .’ But Boris never finished what he was saying because at that moment one of Kutuzov’s adjutants came over to have a word with Pierre. ‘Ah, Kaysarov,’ Boris said to him with the broadest of smiles, ‘I was just trying to tell the count here about our position. It’s amazing how well his Serence Highness can read the enemy’s mind!’
‘Oh, you mean the left flank?’ said Kaysarov.
‘I do indeed. Our left flank is now very, very strong.’
Kutuzov had purged his staff of everyone surplus to requirements, yet Boris had wangled his way through the changes and stayed on at headquarters. He had made his mark with Count Bennigsen. Count Bennigsen was no different from everyone else served by Boris; he now looked upon young Prince Drubetskoy as indispensable.
Among the army chiefs there were two clearly delineated parties: Kutuzov’s party and the party of Bennigsen, chief of staff. Boris belonged to the latter, and there was no one more accomplished at sucking up to Kutuzov while managing to imply that the old fellow was no good, and Bennigsen was in charge. Now the chips were down, battle was on them, and there could only be one of two results: either Kutuzov would be annihilated and power transferred to Bennigsen, or if by any chance Kutuzov managed to win, the implication would be that it was all due to Bennigsen. Either way, major honours would be flying around for deeds done on the morrow and new men would see their careers advanced. So Boris felt excited and edgy all day.
After Kaysarov Pierre was joined by other people that he knew, and he was powerless to deal with all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon him, or listen to all the tales they had to tell. Every face was a picture of excitement and worry. But what struck Pierre was that the reason for all the excitement on some of the faces had to do with questions of personal success, and he could not get out of his mind a different kind of excitement seen on other faces that had to do with universal questions rather than personal ones, questions of life and death. Kutuzov noticed the figure of Pierre and the group gathered round him.
‘Call him over,’ said Kutuzov.
An adjutant passed on the message, and Pierre proceeded towards the bench. But someone else was there before him, a militiaman. It was Dolokhov.
‘How did that man get here?’ asked Pierre.
‘Little swine, he creeps in everywhere!’ came the answer. ‘He was reduced to the ranks, you know. Now he wants to bounce back. He comes up with all sorts of ideas, but he has been going over to the enemy lines at night . . . You’ve got to hand it to him . . .’ Pierre removed his hat and bowed politely to Kutuzov.
‘Sir, I decided that if I told you what I know you could send me away or tell me you knew it already, and I had nothing to lose . . .’ Dolokhov was saying.
‘Yes, quite.’
‘And if I’m right, I shall be helping my country, for which I am ready to die.’
‘Yes, quite. Quite.’
‘And, sir, if you happen to need a man who would not spare his own skin, be kind enough to remember me . . . Perhaps I could be of some service . . .’
‘Yes, yes. Quite,’ repeated Kutuzov, with an amused twinkle in the narrowing eye that now surveyed Pierre.
Meanwhile Boris, with all the deftness of a practised courtier, had moved in on the commander-in-chief along with Pierre, speaking to the count in the easiest manner and the softest voice, as though they were in mid-conversation.
‘Those peasant militiamen, they’ve put clean shirts on to die in,’ he was saying. ‘How’s that for heroism, Count?’
