‘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 flèches they had taken, but Bagration had been wounded. Kutuzov gave a groan and shook his head.
‘Ride over to Prince Bagration and find out what’s what,’ he said to an adjutant, and then turned to the Prince of Württemberg, 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 flèches 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.
