‘So the question really is,’ Kutuzov went on importantly, ‘should we wait for the enemy’s attack in this disadvantageous position, or should we abandon Moscow to the enemy?’ Bennigsen looked taken aback, and opened and shut his mouth a few times, trying to discover the difference between his question and Kutuzov’s. Tolly took advantage of his silence to say, ‘The position here is so bad that any attempt to give battle would result in complete annihilation of the army. Painful though it must be to any of us to abandon Moscow, it might in the end prove to hasten the enemy’s downfall. If we retain our ability to manoeuvre by retiring to a place where we can keep in contact with Petersburg, and with our grainstore in Kiev and our munitions factories in Tula–’
Bennigsen jumped to his feet. ‘Out of the question! The loss to the Crown of the surrender of Moscow would be inconceivable! To say nothing of the loss of morale in the army and the nation as a whole! The French have been seriously weakened by Borodino, and they’re spread out at this moment over a wide front. If we move three corps over to our left wing during the course of the night, and mount a surprise attack at dawn–’
‘It’s too late for that kind of thing,’ Tolly snapped, exasperated. ‘If we tried to move a large body of men over this terrain in the dark, it would lead to nothing but hopeless confusion! Tomorrow morning would find us at the mercy of the French!’
‘I must say, that does seem likely,’ Kutuzov said, nodding slowly.
Several people began talking at once. The argument became general, and then heated, some advocating retreat, some stubbornly supporting Bennigsen for making a stand. Yermolov tacked off in a completely different direction by suddenly suggesting turning in their tracks and attacking the French immediately and all-out. Tolly had a fit of coughing in the middle of one tirade, and turned on Konovnitsyn, who was on his side, and offended him by abusing his execrable pipe. Toll and Rayevsky, who agreed on retreat, were engaged in a side argument about which route to take. Ostermann-Tolstoy challenged Bennigsen to guarantee that his suggested attack at dawn would be successful, and Bennigsen bristled and told him to try not to be as much of a fool as he looked.
After listening to a great deal of this, his face utterly impassive, Prince Kutuzov hoisted himself to his feet and rapped the table for silence. It fell gradually and piecemeal. The one eye roved round the table, gathering up everyone’s attention.
‘Gentlemen, I have listened to all your opinions. I am aware of the responsibility I am assuming, but I must sacrifice myself for the welfare of my country. I hereby order the retreat.’
His words were met with silence. Even Bennigsen had nothing to say. Kirov looked at Toll and Tolly and read in their eyes the same conviction, that Kutuzov had meant to do it all along; that he had long ago seen the sense of Tolly’s policy of withdrawal before the French, but had continued to espouse the belligerent posture in order to placate public opinion.
All the same, it was one thing to talk about abandoning Moscow, and quite another to contemplate the reality of it. Moscow was the true, the beating heart of Russia, the old capital, the place where nationhood had first begun five hundred years ago in defiance of the Mongol overlords. It was the holy city. The thought of the French marching in there unopposed struck at something deep in all of them. Kirov found himself, a little unwillingly, admiring Kutuzov. There was no doubt it was an awesome responsibility, one from which he might never recover. Even if there were no other choice, the country might not forgive the man in who gave Moscow to the Antichrist.
‘Very well, gentlemen. The field commanders had better go back to their corps immediately and make the announcement; put your men on immediate alert for departure, and await further instructions. I shall need the staff colonels and the supply officer in here in ten minutes. Kirov! I want you at once.’
Everyone began filing out, and Kirov stood aside and waited until a space had cleared round the prince. Then he obeyed the beckoning finger and stepped across to him.
‘I want you to go at once into Moscow, to Rostopchin, tell him that the enemy’s outflanking columns are forcing me to abandon Moscow. Say “with grief’ or “with great sorrow” – I leave the wording to you, but be tactful.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell him we’ll be coming through tonight, under cover of darkness. Tell him I want as many police officers as he can provide to help guide us through the city and to stop deserters slipping away.’
‘Yes sir. Which road will we be taking?’
‘The Ryazan road.’
Kirov, startled, met the general’s one eye. ‘Ryazan, sir? But–’
The Kaluga road was the obvious choice, to the southwest: there were military depots and plentiful supplies; and it linked them up with Tula and the munitions factories, kept them in touch with the enemy, and gave them the opportunity to work round and sever the French supply lines. Ryazan, to the east, offered nothing.
Kutuzov gave a small, foxy smile. ‘That’s what I said. Listen, Kirov, you’re no talking fooclass="underline" 1 want Napoleon to think we’re heading for Ryazan and Vladimir to make sure we lure him into the city. He’s the raging torrent, don’t you see, and Moscow is the sponge that will soak him up!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kirov said doubtfully.
‘Once he’s got Moscow, he won’t want to give it up again – then we’ll have him! Bit by bit we’ll surround him, isolate him, cut off his supplies, starve him and strangle him. And then winter will come.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘It’s September now,’ he said in a soft and deadly voice. ‘In a month’s time, six weeks at the most, the snows will begin. He has no idea, no idea at all! It’s the beginning of the end for the Grande Armée.’
His face contracted with some emotion – a mixture of anger and grief, which made Kirov realise that whatever he had thought before about the old man’s sybaritic indolence, he did not take this business lightly. He knew very clearly what it was he was doing. ‘I’m going to see them rot!’ he said fiercely. ‘I’m going to see Napoleon eat horse flesh before I’m done!’
It was about half past eight in the evening of Sunday, September the 13th when Kirov came face to face with Rostopchin in the Governor’s mansion on the Lubyanka, and delivered Kutuzov’s message to him.
Rostopchin paled, his eyes bulged. ‘But he told me only this morning, he told be there was going to be a battle! Naturally I thought we would lose, and there’d be a retreat, but I thought we’d have several days. When does the retreat begin?’
‘At any moment. The men are on immediate alert. There was no possibility of offering battle on that ground. The army would have been annihilated.’
‘God damn and blast him! The treacherous, pusillanimous–’ Rostopchin raved. ‘There are twenty-two thousand wounded in my hospitals! How in God’s name am I supposed to move them at a moment’s notice? How am I supposed to prevent looting? Your men will come through like locusts! I haven’t got enough police officers to line the route! I need days, not hours!’
‘Hours is all you have,’ Kirov said, eyeing the little man with interest. He had always thought Rostopchin stupid and self-seeking, but he really did seem to care about the fate of his city. ‘I’m sorry. It is necessary for the greater good of the country. The army must be preserved. Napoleon must be lured into the city.’
‘Yes, yes, I see that. But it’s the time I need to complete my plans.. How can I get everything ready before tomorrow morning?’
‘Plans? What do you mean? Get what ready?’
Rostopchin looked sly. ‘I have my own ideas about a reception for Napoleon. He’s going to be sorry he ever came this far, I can tell you! He’s going to find out–’ He stopped dead, as if he thought he had said too much, and drew himself up in gubernatorial dignity. ‘I’m grateful to you, Count Kirov, for bringing me this information. And I must now beg you to excuse me: I have a great many orders to give.’