‘
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. Opinions 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 . . .’
A momentary silence that followed seemed to go on for ever.
The debate was resumed, but with more and more breaks in it, until finally they could all sense there was nothing more to be said.
During one of the breaks Kutuzov gave a deep sigh and seemed about to speak. Everybody turned in his direction.
‘Well, gentlemen, I can see I’m going to have to pay for the broken pots,’ he said. He got slowly to his feet and walked across to the table. ‘Gentlemen, I have heard your arguments. Some of you will not agree with me. But I . . .’ (he paused) ‘by the authority invested in me by my Tsar and country, I hereby order you to retreat.’
Whereupon the generals began to disperse with the solemn and silent wariness of people going their separate ways at the end of a funeral. One or two of the generals spoke to the commander-in-chief, pitching their comments in quite a different tone from the one they had used at the council table.
Malasha, who was late for supper, climbed down from the stove backwards, her bare toes clinging to the knobs and bumps, then she was off, wriggling her way between the generals’ legs and skipping out through the door.
Kutuzov dismissed the generals and sat there for some time with his elbows on the table, thinking over one or two dreadful questions. When did it happen? When was it certain that Moscow had to be abandoned? When did something happen that made it inevitable, and whose fault was it?
‘Well, I didn’t see it coming!’ he said to the adjutant, Schneider, who had come in to see him. It was now well into the night. ‘I never expected it! I never thought it would come to this!’
‘You must get some rest, your Highness,’ said Schneider.
‘But it’s not over yet. They’ll end up eating horse-meat like the Turks!’ Kutuzov shouted, ignoring Schneider and bringing his podgy fist crashing down on the table. ‘They will, you know . . . if only . . .’
