Meanwhile, following the disposition, ‘Column Number One marches here . . .’ and so on, the infantry regiments of the missing columns, under Bennigsen’s command and Toll’s direction, had set off in good order and, as always, arrived somewhere, but not where they were supposed to arrive. As always too, soldiers who had set off in high spirits began to drag their feet, there were murmurs of discontent, they knew they were in a mess, and they retraced some of their steps. Adjutants and generals galloped up and down, yelling furiously, arguing with each other, telling everybody they had come the wrong way and were going to be late, swearing at everybody, and so on, until eventually they gave up in despair, and marched on for the sake of it, just to get somewhere. ‘We’ve got to arrive somewhere or other!’ And yes, they did arrive somewhere, but it wasn’t where they were needed; just a few managed to arrive in the right place, but so late they were utterly useless except as cannon-fodder. In this battle Toll played the part of Weierother at Austerlitz, galloping indefatigably all over the place, and everywhere he went he found everything at sixes and sevens. For instance, he came across Bagovut’s corps in the forest in broad daylight when these men ought to have been miles away long ago, combining forces with Orlov-Denisov. Shocked and stung by this lapse, Toll could only think that somebody must be to blame, so he galloped over to the corps commander and tore strips off him, telling him he deserved to be shot. General Bagovut, a phlegmatic military man of the old school, had been just as worried by all the delays, chaos and contradictory orders. To everyone’s amazement, he flew into a towering rage, quite out of character for him, and said some very nasty things to Toll.
‘Nobody’s telling me how to go about my own business, but I’m as ready as the next man to lay down my life with my men,’ he said, and he marched ahead with one division. Emerging on to the battlefield under French fire, the valiant Bagovut was too worked up to wonder whether or not his sortie with a single division was likely to do any good at this point in the action. He marched his men straight ahead directly into the line of fire.
Danger, shells, bullets – this was what he was after in all his fury. One of the first bullets killed him; others followed, killing many of his men. And for quite some time his division stayed there under fire, serving no purpose.
CHAPTER 7
Meanwhile, another column was scheduled to mount a frontal attack on the French, but this column had Kutuzov in charge. He was only too aware that nothing but chaos would come out of this battle, which had been entered into without his approval, so he did all he could to hold his forces back. He made no move.
Kutuzov kept his own counsel, riding his little grey horse and giving leisurely responses to any proposals for the launching of an attack.
‘Say what you will about attacking. What you can’t see is that these complex manœuvres are beyond us,’ he said to Miloradovich, who was eager to advance.
‘We missed taking Murat alive this morning, and we didn’t get to our places in time, so now there’s nothing we can do!’ he said to somebody else.
When Kutuzov was informed there were now two battalions of Poles to the rear of the French, whereas earlier on the Cossacks had reported no one there, he glanced back over his shoulder at Yermolov (not having spoken to him since the previous day).
‘They’re dying to attack, they propose all sorts of ideas, but when you get down to it there’s nothing ready, the enemy’s had plenty of warning, and he knows what to do.’
Yermolov screwed up his eyes and gave a faint smile when he heard these words. He knew the storm had passed, and Kutuzov would be satisfied with that little hint.
‘He’s amusing himself at my expense,’ Yermolov said quietly to Rayevsky at his side, digging him in the knee.
Shortly afterwards, Yermolov moved forward to Kutuzov and put in a polite proposition.
‘There’s still time, your Highness. The enemy is still here. A word from you and we could mount an attack . . . If we don’t our guards won’t have seen any smoke.’
Kutuzov said nothing, but when he received a report that Murat’s troops were in retreat he gave the order to advance, but every hundred yards he halted for three-quarters of an hour.
The entire battle was limited to what had been achieved by Orlov-Denisov’s Cossacks; the rest of the troops simply lost a few hundred men for no good reason.
This battle resulted in Kutuzov receiving a diamond decoration, Bennigsen being rewarded also with diamonds plus a hundred thousand roubles, and many other people getting many nice things, according to rank. It also resulted in lots more changes on the staff.
