Passing through the field dressing-station late in the morning on his way back to Tolly, Kirov found Bagration, his face drawn with pain, submitting to the attentions of the surgeon, who was trying to extract a shell fragment which had pierced his shinbone.
‘Kirov!’ the Prince shouted through clenched teeth; his face was cheesey with sweat. ‘What the devil’s going on? What’s Tolly doing? Tell him the fate of the army is in his hands. My men are too hard pressed. I’ve already lost three of my division commanders. For God’s sake, get me some reinforcements!’
Kirov reported back to General Tolly, who had already had two horses shot from under him that morning. He was as calm as ever, tall and thin and erect in the saddle like a monolith, riding here and there, always on hand where he was needed. His men adored him, as much as Bennigsen and his circle hated him.
‘Bagration’s off the field, wounded,’ Kirov reported. ‘I’ve just seen him in the dressing-station. He’s asking again for reinforcements.’
Tolly nodded grimly. ‘Yes, you can see for yourself from up here that the left wing’s going to collapse if nothing’s done. Go to Kutuzov, with my compliments, and tell him that the left wing must be relieved at once, or the day is lost. Try to stir him up, Kirov. God knows what he’s doing up there.’
It was eleven in the morning when Kirov entered headquarters, which had been moved back to safety, to a small house behind Gorky. When he was admitted to the Commander-in-Chiefs presence, he found him engaged with a leg of cold chicken in one hand, and a large piece of bread in the other. There were dirty dishes and several empty champagne bottles on the table. He and his aides had evidently been assuaging their mid-morning appetite.
Kutuzov listened impassively as Kirov delivered the message and added a few words of his own as to what he had seen of the situation on the left wing. The meaty red face, the blind white eye, were not designed for showing emotion; the portly, elderly figure was not designed for swift action. When Kirov stopped speaking, Kutuzov said nothing, and the Count wondered desperately if he had even been listening. He glanced at Colonel Toll, who was positioned, as usual, behind the Prince’s chair, and raised his eyebrows in despair.
‘Something must be done, Excellency,’ Colonel Toll prompted. ‘Yes,’ Kutuzov said thoughtfully. ‘What do you suggest, Toll? Send over some reinforcements? Who have we got?’
‘Why not stage a diversionary attack on our right, Excellency?’ Toll said eagerly. ‘We’ve got Ouvarov’s cavalry, and Ataman Platov’s Cossacks up in the hills doing nothing. If they attack the French left wing and make plenty of noise about it, Napoleon will have to move some of his troops over. He’s only got the Bavarians down there, in front of Borodino.’
‘Good. Good.’ Kutuzov waved the chicken bone in the air with brief enthusiasm. ‘Excellent idea. See to it, will you, Toll? And Kirov. Right away. Let me know how it goes.’
Outside, Toll grinned and stretched with pleasure. ‘A bit of action at last!’ he said. ‘I’ll go and find Ouvarov. You ride over to the Cossack lines, will you, and tell Platov to liaise with Ouvarov right away. I shouldn’t like to be those Bavarians when that little lot bears down on ’em.’
It was typical of Toll, Kirov thought, that he should think of a diversionary action, rather than simply sending reserves over to the left wing; but if it were properly carried out, it might well tie up valuable French forces on the right, and certainly relieve the pressure elsewhere. He mounted his horse and trotted off to find the Cossacks.
Fiery little Platov, who had left the army in a fit of pique during the long march from Vilna, and had only rejoined it when Kutuzov had replaced Tolly and promised a pell-mell battle, greeted the news enthusiastically.
‘Orders are to make as much noise as possible – draw the French away from the centre. It’s got to look like a major manoeuvre.’
‘Don’t worry, my friend – we’ll make all the noise you want. Ha! Action at last!’ Platov nibbed his hands together, controlling his fretting horse with his knees alone. ‘I’ve got your son with me now, you know! Joined my command with his irregulars, now that scouting duties are over. Longing for a little action himself, I understand. Quite a fire-breather, that son of yours! You must be proud of him.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Kirov said automatically, but wondered at this description of Sergei. A fire-breather? Stern, grim – he would have expected those epithets. But probably Platov’s judgements were very subjective – he would tend to attribute his own feelings to others.
As he was leaving the lines, Kirov came face to face with Sergei, who was leading his troop down from the higher hills. Sergei halted Nabat and waved his men past him, and for a moment father and son regarded each other gravely.
‘I’ve just brought orders for action – the Cossacks are joining the first cavalry in an attack on Borodino. You’ll be going with them, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ Sergei said. He frowned. ‘What’s the purpose? We were told this morning we weren’t to try to hold Borodino.’
‘It’s a diversion, to draw the French and relieve our left wing. The slaughter there is terrible.’
‘I see. I’d better go and get my orders.’ He was about to ride on, when Kirov held out his hand.
‘Sergei – Seryosha!’ It was a direct appeal to their former, warm relationship. Sergei paused, but his face was unyielding. ‘For God’s sake, let’s put the past behind us. Let’s be friends, this day of all others.’
‘Friends, sir?’
‘You’re my son,’ the Count said painfully. ‘How have I offended you?’ Sergei’s eyes were flinty; he didn’t answer. ‘If I have offended you, forgive me,’ Kirov said, opening one hand in an instinctive gesture of both offering and asking.
Something flickered in Sergei’s face; for an instant, there was the shine of something warm and human and lost and afraid in his eyes; for an instant his son looked back at him, and not the stranger he had become.
But the last of his troop had passed, and Sergei visibly pulled himself back from whatever brink he had teetered on. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I must be with my men.’ He saluted, and Kirov responded automatically, staring dazedly ahead of him as Sergei tapped Nabat’s sides and trotted past.
From their vantage point, high up the hill, Anne and her servants watched in silence the struggle going on down below. Men within a battle have no perspective on it, see only the few feet around them, the danger immediately before them. When a man lunges at you with a bayonet, you have no alternative but to try to kill him before he kills you. The internal logic of a battle ensures that, once begun, it goes on, grips the combatants in the movements of a deadly dance from which they cannot escape.
But to Anne, looking down from far above it, it suddenly seemed like insanity. She saw the coloured ant-groups surge, come together like waves of water, and mingle. For a while they seemed to struggle breast to breast, and then break apart, only to reform and clash again. She saw positions stormed and taken, restormed and retaken. Why should men die for the possession of a small hill-top, or a mud embankment? Why didn’t they just lay down their muskets and walk away? There was no sense in the battle down below. It was a slow, grinding struggle over a piece of ground unimportant in every way, save to the poor people who had once lived there, and grazed their animals on the grass which was now beaten under foot and soaked in blood.
It was hard to identify one side from the other. There was smoke not only from the cannon-fire, but from the little hamlets scattered about the battlefield, which had been set on fire and burned briskly. Dust also helped to obscure the view. The noise of the battle was like the roar of a huge crowd, muted by distance: no individual, distinguishable sounds, just a mingling of shouts and screams, battle cries, the shrieking of horses, the whine of bullets and the crash of guns and the rumbling of wheels.