War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
'It's all stupid. They've no idea what they're doing,' said the officer, and he galloped away. Then a general came trotting up and yelled at them furiously in a foreign language.
'Oo, oo, parlyvoo, it's all double Dutch to me,' said a soldier, mimicking the retreating general. 'Shoot the lot of 'em, lousy scum!'
'Supposed to get there by nine, and we're not half-way there yet. Wonderful management!' was repeated on all sides, and the feeling of energy that the troops had started out with began to turn to resentment and anger against the ridiculous arrangements and the Germans.
The muddle stemmed from a redirection of the Austrian cavalry; when they were well under way moving towards the left flank, the top brass had come to the conclusion that our centre was too far away from the right flank, so all the cavalry were ordered to cross over to the right. Thousands of mounted troops had to cross in front of the infantry, and the infantry had to wait for them to pass.
Ahead of the troops a row had broken out between an Austrian column leader and a Russian general. The Russian general shouted for the cavalry to stop. The Austrian tried to explain that it wasn't his fault - the top brass were to blame. Meanwhile the troops stood there, getting more and more bored and dispirited. After an hour's delay they moved on at last, and began to march downhill. The fog that had thinned out on the hilltop lay thicker than ever down below where the troops were going. Ahead in the fog they heard a shot, then another, random firing at first, at irregular intervals; rat-a-tat-tat, then growing more regular and frequent. The battle of Holdbach (only a little stream) had begun.
Not expecting to confront the enemy down there at the stream, stumbling across them unexpectedly in the fog and hearing no word of encouragement from their commanding officers, frustrated to the last man by arriving too late, and with nothing visible ahead of them or on either side in the fog, the Russians loosed off a few desultory shots at the enemy, moved forward a little and then stopped again in the absence of any orders from the officers or adjutants, who were themselves blundering about in the fog on unfamiliar territory not knowing where their own divisions were. This was how the battle began for columns one, two and three, which had marched down together. Column four, with Kutuzov in it, had stayed behind on the Pratzen heights.
Down below where the action had started thick fog still obscured everything. Higher up it was getting clearer, but still nothing could be seen of the action ahead. Whether the full enemy strength was more than five miles away, as we had been assuming, or whether they were here in that patch of fog, no one knew until after eight o'clock.
Nine o'clock came. The low ground was engulfed in a sea of fog, but high up in the village of Schlapanitz, where Napoleon stood surrounded by his marshals, it was now completely clear. The sky overhead was bright blue, and the vast orb of the sun shimmered like a huge, hollow crimson float bobbing on the surface of the milky sea of fog. The French troops with Napoleon himself and all his staff were not on the other side of the streams and gullies near to the villages of Sokolnitz and Schlapanitz, which we had intended to pass before forming up ready for attack, they were on this side, so close to us that Napoleon could tell a cavalryman from a foot-soldier in our army with the naked eye. Napoleon was positioned just ahead of his marshals, mounted on a little grey Arab horse, wearing the same blue overcoat he had worn through the Italian campaign. He was staring in silence at the hills which seemed to stride up out of the sea of mist, watching the Russian troops as they moved across them in the distance, and he was listening to the sound of gunfire in the valley. Not a muscle twitched on his face, which in those days was still rather thin; his eyes glinted as he stared at one spot. His predictions had come true. Part of the Russian army was going down towards the ponds and lakes in the valley; the other part was abandoning the heights of Pratzen, which he had planned to attack, since it was the crucial position. Through the fog he scanned the hollow between two hills near the village of Pratzen and watched as the Russian columns with bayonets gleaming moved as one man down into the valleys and disappeared one by one into the mist. Intelligence received overnight, the sounds of wheels and footsteps heard during the night at the outposts and all the confusion in the marching Russian columns, everything told him that the allies thought he was a long way away, that the columns on the move near Pratzen constituted the centre of the Russian army and that the centre itself was now too weak to mount a successful attack. But still he held back; the battle did not yet begin.
Today was a day of celebration for him - the anniversary of his coronation. He had slept for a few hours before dawn and woken up feeling fresh, in good health and high spirits. Enjoying that happy frame of mind when nothing seems impossible and everything succeeds, he had mounted his horse and ridden out. He sat there now without moving, looking at the heights rising from the fog, and his cold face wore the odd look of well-earned but over-confident pleasure that you might see on the face of a lucky young man in love. Behind him stood the marshals, not daring to distract him. He stared at the heights of Pratzen, and then at the sun floating up out of the mist.
When the sun had completely emerged from the fog, and the fields and the mist were ablaze with its brilliance (as if this was what he had been waiting for to begin the battle), he slid the glove from one of his fine white hands and signalled with it to his marshals, thus ordering battle to commence. The marshals, accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in every direction, and a few minutes later the main force of the French army began to move towards the heights of Pratzen, which were being steadily abandoned by the Russian troops as they moved down left into the valley.
CHAPTER 15
At eight o'clock Kutuzov set off for Pratzen at the head of Miloradovich's fourth column, the one which was to replace the columns of Przebyszewski and Langeron, who had by this time gone down into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave the order to march, a clear indication that he had every intention of leading that column himself. Just outside the village of Pratzen he halted. Prince Andrey was close behind, one among many in the commander-in-chief's entourage. He was experiencing that mixture of nervous irritation and controlled calm that often besets a man whose long-awaited moment has come, and was totally convinced that today would be the making of him, something like Napoleon's key victories at Toulon or Arcola. He had no idea how things would work out, but he was totally convinced that it was going to happen. He had made himself as familiar with the locality and the position of our troops as anyone in our army could have done. It was now inconceivable that his own strategy could be implemented, so he forgot all about it. Throwing all his weight behind Weierother's plan, Prince Andrey was busy going over every last contingency that might arise, and imagining all sorts of new circumstances which could call for his quick thinking and determination.
Down below in the fog, on the left-hand side, invisible enemies could be heard firing at each other. That's where the action would be, Prince Andrey decided; that's where there would be trouble. 'That's where I'll be sent,' he thought, 'with a brigade or a division, and that's where I'll grab the colours, march forward and smash everything before me.'
Prince Andrey could not look unmoved at the colours of other battalions as they went past. Looking at a flag he kept thinking to himself, 'Perhaps that's the very flag I shall hold when I'm leading my men.' By morning the fog had gone from the heights, leaving behind nothing but hoar-frost rapidly melting into dew, but the valleys still swam in a milky-white sea. Nothing at all could be seen in the valley down to the left where our troops had vanished, now ringing with gunfire. Over the hilltops the clear sky shone dark blue, and on the right was the vast orb of the sun. On the far-distant shore wooded hills rose from that sea of mist; that was where the enemy's army ought to be, and something could be seen moving about over there. From the right came the sound of hoofbeats, the rumble of wheels and the odd flash of a bayonet, as the guards descended into the realm of mist, and on the left, beyond the village, the same massed cavalry w
'Do tell the men to form battalion columns and march around the village!' an angry Kutuzov snapped at a general who had ridden up. 'Isn't it obvious to you, my dear sir, that we can't have them stretched out along a narrow village street when we are marching on the enemy?'
'I was intending to re-form outside the village, sir,' replied the general.
Kutuzov gave a sardonic laugh.
'A nice position to be in, deploying your front right in sight of the enemy - very nice!'
'The enemy's a long way away, sir. According to the disposition . . .'
'The disposition!' Kutuzov roared out venomously. 'Who told you that? . . . Kindly do as you are commanded.'
'Yes, sir.'
'My dear fellow,' Nesvitsky whispered to Prince Andrey, 'the old man's in a foul temper.'
An Austrian officer in a white uniform and with green plumes in his hat galloped up to Kutuzov and asked him in the Emperor's name whether the fourth column had started yet.
Kutuzov turned away without answering and his glance happened to light on Prince Andrey, who was standing near by. Seeing Bolkonsky, Kutuzov relaxed his bitter scowl, as though to acknowledge that his adjutant wasn't to blame for what was being done. Still ignoring the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkonsky.
'My dear fellow, go and see whether the third division has gone past the village. Tell them to stop and wait for my orders.'
Prince Andrey had scarcely started when he was stopped again.
'And ask whether the marksmen have been deployed,' he added. 'What they are doing? What they are doing?' he murmured to himself, still not responding to the Austrian.
Prince Andrey galloped off to carry out the order. Overtaking all the battalions ahead of them, he stopped the third division and soon found out that there really was no line of marksmen in advance of our columns. The commander of the leading regiment was greatly shocked to receive an order from the commander-in-chief to deploy his marksmen. There he stood, sure in the knowledge that there were other troops ahead of him, and the enemy had to be at least six or seven miles away. And in fact there was nothing visible in front of him but an empty downhill slope blanketed with fog. Having passed on the commander-in-chief's order to put things right, Prince Andrey galloped back. Kutuzov was still in the same place, his portly figure slumped in the saddle with the lassitude of age, and he was yawning wearily with his good eye closed. Instead of moving on, the troops had been told to order arms.
'Good, good,' he said to Prince Andrey before turning to the general, who was saying, watch in hand, that it must be time for them to get going because all the columns of the left flank had gone down already.
'There's plenty of time, your Excellency,' Kutuzov got out between yawns. 'Plenty of time!' he repeated.
At that moment from a long way behind Kutuzov came the sound of regiments cheering, and the noise of it began to sweep towards them down the long, strung-out line of advancing Russian columns. Whoever was the cause of it must have been riding quickly. When the soldiers in the regiment near to Kutuzov started cheering he rode off to one side and looked around with a scowl. Towards them down the road from Pratzen galloped what seemed like an entire squadron of multicoloured horsemen. Two of them were riding side by side ahead of the rest at full gallop, one dressed in a black uniform with white plumes, on a bobtailed chestnut thoroughbred, the other dressed in white and riding a black horse. It was the two Emperors and their entourage. With all the panache expected from a veteran of the line, Kutuzov brought the men to attention and rode at the salute towards the Emperors. His whole body and manner had been suddenly transformed. He had adopted the air of an unquestioning subordinate. With an exaggerated display of respect which was clearly not to Alexander's taste he rode up and saluted the Tsar.
A look of displeasure, no more than a wisp of mist in a clear blue sky, flashed across the Emperor's young and happy face and vanished. That day, following his indisposition, he looked rather thinner than at Olmutz, where Bolkonsky had seen him for the first time abroad. But his fine grey eyes shone with the same captivating mixture of majesty and gentleness, and his delicate mouth, with its expressive versatility, showed most of all his noble spirit and young innocence.
If at Olmutz he had been more majestic, here he was brighter and more energetic. Slightly red in the face from a quick two-mile gallop, he reined in his horse, drew a long deep breath and looked round at his entourage, faces as young and eager as his own. Behind the Tsar, chatting and smiling, stood Czartoryski and Novosiltsev, Prince Volkonsky and Stroganov, and all the other high-spirited young men in opulent uniforms astride their splendid horses, which looked well groomed, still fresh and only slightly heated from the gallop. Emperor Francis, a long-faced young man with a ruddy complexion, sat bolt upright on his handsome black stallion and glanced around slowly with a rather worried look. He called one of his white adjutants over and asked him something. 'Probably wants to know what time they started,' thought Prince Andrey, watching his old acquaintance with an irrepressible smile as he recalled his audience with him in Brno. The imperial entourage included a number of elite young orderly officers - Russians and Austrians - from the guards and regiments of the line. Among them were grooms with spare horses, splendid animals from the royal stables, covered with embroidered saddle-cloths.
This glittering cavalcade of young people galloping up with so much youthful energy and assurance acted on Kutuzov's demoralized staff like a breath of fresh country air blowing through an open window into a stuffy room.
'Why aren't you moving forward, Mikhail Larionovich?' Emperor Alexander asked Kutuzov rather abruptly, stealing a respectful glance towards Emperor Francis.
'I am waiting to see, your Majesty,' Kutuzov answered with a polite bow.
The Emperor cupped an ear with a slight frown, as if he hadn't quite heard.
'I'm waiting to see, your Majesty,' repeated Kutuzov. (Prince Andrey noticed that Kutuzov's upper lip had a strange twitch as he announced that he was waiting.) 'Not all the columns are in place yet, your Majesty.' The Tsar heard what he said but didn't seem to like the answer. He shrugged his hunched shoulders and glanced across at Novosiltsev, who was not far away, with a look that seemed to censure Kutuzov.
'You do realize this is not the Tsaritsyn Parade Ground, Mikhail Larionovich? We can begin without the last regiment,' said the Tsar, glancing round again at the Emperor Francis as though inviting him to listen to what he was saying even if he didn't want to get involved. But Emperor Francis, whose eyes were elsewhere, was not listening.
'That's why I'm holding back, sire,' said Kutuzov, raising his voice as if speaking to someone who might not be able to hear properly, and again his face was twitching. 'I'm holding back, sire, precisely because we are not on parade and this is not the Tsaritsyn Ground,' he spelled out most distinctly.
All the members of the entourage exchanged rapid glances, every face dark with accusation and reproach. 'It doesn't matter how old he is, he ought not to speak like that, ever,' the faces seemed to say.
The Tsar continued to look steadily at Kutuzov, wondering whether he had anything more to say. But all Kutuzov did was to bow his head respectfully, as if he was waiting too. The silence lasted almost a minute.
'However, if that's an order, your Majesty . . .' said Kutuzov, looking up again and resuming his earlier way of speaking like an obtuse, unquestioning and thoroughly obedient general. He moved his horse away, beckoned to Miloradovich, the column commander, and ordered him to advance.
The ranks stirred into movement, and two battalions of the Novgorod regiment and a battalion of the Apsheron marched past the Tsar.
'God be with you, General,' said the Tsar.
'I give you my word, sire, whatever it is in our power to do, we shall do it,' he answered brightly in bad French, much to the amusement of the gentlemen in the Tsar's entourage.
Miloradovich wheeled his horse round sharply and took up a position just behind the Tsar. The Apsheron infantrymen, much inspired by the presence of the Sovereign, stepped out in grand style as they marched past the Emperors and their suites.
'Listen, men!' shouted Miloradovich in his loud, cheery, confident voice, so worked up by the gunfire, the smell of battle and the sight of Apsheron comrades known to him since Suvorov's day that he seemed to have forgotten the Tsar was there. 'Go on men! You've taken villages before today!' he roared.
'We're ready!' the soldiers roared back. The Tsar's horse was startled by the sudden shout. This horse, who had carried the Tsar at reviews in Russia, now bore her rider on the field of Austerlitz, putting up with thoughtless spurring from the royal left boot, pricking up her ears at real gunfire as she used to do on the Field of Mars parade ground, and making nothing of it all - the gunshots, the proximity of Emperor Francis's black stallion, and all that was being said or experienced by the man on her back, or what was passing through his mind.
The Tsar turned to one member of his entourage, pointed with a smile to the gallant boys of the Apsheron regiment and said something to him.
CHAPTER 16
Kutuzov, accompanied by his adjutants, rode on at walking pace following the carabineers.
After covering half a mile or so at the rear of the column, he stopped at a solitary, deserted house (probably once an inn), by a fork in the road. Two ways led downhill and the troops were marching down both of them.