The next morning Kutuzov, decrepit old man that he was, rose early, said his prayers, got dressed and, with a sinking feeling that he had to go out and take command of a battle he didn’t approve of, he got into his carriage and drove out from Letashovko, a village two or three miles from Tarutino, to the place where the attacking columns were supposed to have been drawn up. Kutuzov trundled along, nodding off, waking up again, and cocking an ear. Wasn’t that the sound of shots over on the right? Could this be the start of the action? But no, everything was still quiet. A damp and overcast autumn day was just dawning. As he got near to Tarutino Kutuzov spotted some cavalrymen leading their horses to water down the road he was driving along. Kutuzov had a good look at them, then he stopped his carriage and asked what regiment they came from. They came from a column which ought to have been a long way ahead, setting up an ambush.
‘Must be a mistake,’ thought the old commander-in-chief. But as he drove on, Kutuzov saw infantry regiments with their arms stacked, and the soldiers standing around in their underclothes, busy cooking porridge and fetching wood. He sent for their commanding officer. The officer contended that no order to advance had been received.
‘I don’t see . . .’ Kutuzov began, but he checked himself at once, and sent for the senior officer. He got out of his carriage, hung his head and paced up and down in silence, breathing heavily. He had sent for Eykhen, an officer on the General Staff, and when he arrived Kutuzov turned purple with rage, not because this officer was to blame for the mistake, but because he was an object worthy of his fury. The old man staggered and spluttered as he fell into the kind of rage that would sometimes have him rolling about on the ground in a frenzy, and he fell upon Eykhen, shaking his fists at him, yelling and shouting abuse in the language of the gutter. Another officer, Captain Brozin, also quite blameless, happened to turn up, and he suffered the same fate.
‘Here’s another filthy swine! I’ll shoot the lot of you! Vermin!’ he shouted hoarsely, waving his arms and reeling about. His pain was actually physical. There he was, his Serene Highness, the commander-in-chief, constantly assured that no one in Russia had ever had his kind of power, put in a position like this – reduced to a laughing-stock throughout the whole army! ‘All that worry, all my prayers for today, a night without sleep, thinking things over. Why do I bother?’ he thought to himself. ‘When I was a young officer wet behind the ears nobody would have dared make a fool of me like this . . . And now look!’ He was actually suffering physical pain, as if he had been subjected to corporal punishment, and the only way for him to express it was in fulminating cries of agonized rage. But soon his strength ebbed away. He took a look round, conscious that he had rather overdone the bad language, got into his carriage and drove back in silence.
His fury was spent, and it did not return. Kutuzov blinked feebly as he listened to the excuses and explanations (Yermolov kept out of sight till next day), and the assurances from Bennigsen, Konovnitsyn and Toll that the movement that had miscarried would take place the following day. Once again all Kutuzov could do was give his consent.
CHAPTER 6
Next day the massed troops were in position by evening, and they marched off during the night. It was an autumn night with a purple tinge to the black clouds, but there was no rain. The ground was damp without being muddy, and the troops made no noise as they advanced, apart from the odd clank of artillery. No talking above a whisper was allowed, no smoking of pipes or striking of lights; they had to keep the horses from neighing. Secrecy added to the fun of it all. The men marched on in high spirits. Several columns halted, stacked their guns and lay down on the chilly ground, assuming they had got to where they should be. Other columns (most of them) marched all night and got to places where they clearly shouldn’t have been.
Count Orlov-Denisov with his Cossacks (the least important detachment of them all) was the only one that fetched up in the right place at the right time. They halted at the edge of a forest, on a path that led from the village of Stromilova to Dmitrovsk.
