Chapter Text
The thunderstorm of the twelfth year
It's time — who helped us here?
Frenzy of the people,
Barclay, winter or the Russian god?
A.S. Pushkin
On the night of August 5 to 6 [1], 1812, Russian troops left Smolensk. The previous two days, on the fourth and fifth of this month, had been spent in fierce fighting, which had been started by fifteen thousand soldiers of General Rajewski, who had held the fortress defenses until the main forces arrived against almost the entire Napoleonic army. When the two Russian armies did return in a hurry [2], the defenders of Smolensk hoped that they would be able to hold the city. And yet the commander-in-chief of the Russian army decided to leave him alone. Together with the troops, most of its inhabitants left the city, destroying everything they could not carry, setting fire to their barns and houses so that the goods stored in them would not get to the French. Together with the troops, they managed to remove the image of the Smolensk Mother of God, the patroness and intercessor of Russian soldiers, from the burning Assumption Cathedral. The last to leave the city was the corps of General Dokhturov with the commander-in-chief who was with him. He burned the bridge across the Dnieper.
Smolensk, once a beautiful ancient city, the last major city on Napoleon's road to Moscow, now burned like a huge bonfire. The glow of the fire in the surrounding area was as bright as day at night, and smoke from the towers, churches and houses turning to ashes rose high into the August night sky, creating a terrifying picture of a volcanic eruption.
Napoleon and his numerous retinue were standing on one of the hills commanding Smolensk. The famous double-cornered hat, the blue uniform, the right hand hidden behind his lapel, and the eyes that reflected the fire. The emperor watched this "performance without an audience" [3].
"It's the eruption of Mount Vesuvius," he said, a little matter-of-factly, his eyes fixed on the city in flames. "Isn't it a beautiful sight?"
His generals and marshals huddled behind him, making polite replies, but all were equally horrified and awed by the terrible sight of the burned city. And all of them had a silent question in their eyes: "What are we doing here?", but none of them dared to ask their emperor.
It was they who tried to dissuade Napoleon from further marching to the east, when in an empty Vitebsk he was waiting for peace proposals from the Russian Emperor Alexander. The first Russian army that had previously been stationed there, preparing to give battle to the French, disappeared without a trace overnight, leaving the city without a fight. It certainly smacked of devilry, because it was becoming clear that the Russians were luring Napoleon's army deeper into the country, where it would be more convenient for them to fight. However, the French emperor was not at all embarrassed by this, and he rushed in pursuit of the retreating enemy. He knew that the two Russian armies were in a hurry to unite in order to give him a joint battle, and he tried with all his might to prevent this, tried to divide the enemy's armies and destroy them one by one. However, his plan was clearly bursting at the seams, because both the first and second armies still managed to evade his pursuit and unite under the walls of Smolensk.
However, even this failure did not shake the confidence in the victory of the French emperor. Now he intended to finish off both enemy armies at once, rightly believing that the Russians would not dare to retreat any further, because Moscow was behind them, and they would defend Smolensk fruitlessly until the end of the war. But even then, he miscalculated. The one who led the Russian troops again disrupted his plans, leading his army away from the disastrous battle. The commander of the Russian army had not been known to Napoleon before, but every day he became more and more convinced that this nut was too big for him, and this could not but anger the emperor of the French.
Napoleon ordered the troops to enter the city immediately, despite the fires, and continue the pursuit of the retreating Russian armies.
***
At this time, the first Russian army, making one dangerous crossing after another, by the evening of the sixth of August was stationed in an unnamed farm on the right bank of the Dnieper. The oppressive mood was widespread. No more trumpets, drums, or the enthusiastic chatter of the soldiers with whom the army entered Smolensk could be heard, but only the crying of children and the lamentations of mothers and old men, and the murmur of the people. Every soldier saw a sad picture of the dying Fatherland. It was hard for the Russian people to realize that their lands were now under the enemy, and their bitterness grew in their hearts, not only towards the enemy, but also towards orders coming from above. But an order is an order, and the soldiers obeyed it, helping the locals as much as they could. Villagers and townspeople were allowed to go with them in wagons, and sometimes artillery and infantry columns even gave way to peasant carts. The peasants shared food, clothes and other necessary things with the soldiers. So the Russian people lived in sorrow, but united in sorrow.
In one of the peasant huts, surrounded by soldiers' bivouacs and bonfires, a dim light burned in a room from a single candle lit in a candelabrum, and from a tiny lamp in a red corner. At a simple rustic table and on a simple bench, an elderly man was sitting with his arms folded and staring continuously at the barely flickering candle flame. He was wearing a white shirt at home, but a military-style uniform draped over his shoulders. His epaulettes identified him as a general of infantry.
He was the commander of the First Western Army, and concurrently the commander-in-chief of the Russian armies and the Minister of War of the Russian Empire, Michael Andreas Barclay de Tolly [4]. It was he who led his troops from the Neman to the Dnieper so that the French did not manage to capture a single wounded man or a single straggling wagon during the entire Russian retreat. Thanks to him, two Russian armies did not disappear into the cauldron near Smolensk, causing serious damage to the enemy. And now, immersed in another difficult thought about what to do next, he was alone, almost mesmerized by the candle flame.
The silence of the night in the Russian camp was broken by the sound of horse hooves. The soldiers who had settled down for the night raised their heads to see what was happening, and saw a horseman rushing past them at full speed on a white horse. Recognizing his general's uniform and his aquiline profile, the soldiers greeted him with cheers. "It's him! – it was heard between their ranks. "He's going to give the German a beating!"
This could only be said about Prince Pyotr Ivanovich Bagration, commander of the Second Western Army. The Second Army left Smolensk earlier than the First and had to retreat to Dorogobuzh. Bagration, who expected Barclay to defend the city to the end, was furious when he received this order. His ardent desire to immediately defeat the French was well known and was ardently supported in the army not only by soldiers, but also by generals. Barclay's constant retreat caused only annoyance and anger. Therefore, upon learning that the first army had also left Smolensk, Bagration, before reaching Dorogobuzh, immediately turned his horse around and, without waiting for the adjutants, rode to Barclay's camp.
Upon arrival, the prince ran into his old friend, Chief of Staff of the first Army Alexey Petrovich Yermolov, in the staff hut.
"Is the commander-in-Chief here?" Bagration asked sharply and, as if he didn't need an answer, went straight to the door to his room.
"Your Excellency...." Yermolov began, clearly intending to warn Pyotr Ivanovich that the minister was not receiving anyone, but the prince did not deign to pay any attention to him.
General Yermolov was an intelligent and educated man, a brave military commander, "with dignity, but a false schemer," as Barclay de Tolly described him. And these intrigues on his part were manifested in smoothing out conflicts between the two army commanders. Being the subordinate of one and the dear friend of the other, he was forced, like water that sharpens the sharp edges of stones, to maneuver between ice and fire. Yermolov, listening to Barclay's orders, realizing that the truth was not on Bagration's side, conveyed them to him in such a tone that the hot-hearted prince would not cause trouble, and after conversations with Bagration, who spoke more and more often and less flatteringly about the commander-in-chief, he conveyed to Barclay's eyes from the commander of the second army respect from him. But now, as an enraged Bagration pushed him and the aide-de-camp on duty away from the entrance to the minister's room and stormed in, slamming the door loudly, he realized that all his efforts to maintain a fragile peace between the two leaders of the Russian army were going to hell.
Barclay, hearing loud footsteps outside the door, realized that he would soon be honored with a visit.
"Why was Smolensk abandoned?" Bagration asked instead of greeting, bursting into the room. "I was ready to give you strength! Do you really think I'm a coward?"
Barclay did not even deign to look at the unexpected night guest.
"Suvorov and Kutuzov never doubted Prince Bagration's bravery," he replied coldly.
"Then allow me, my dear sir," the prince's tone indicated that he was barely restraining himself from using stronger words. "Why retreat? I demand an explanation!"
Saying this, Bagration came close to the table where the minister was sitting, and his hot breath extinguished the candle in the candelabra. Unperturbed, Barclay took another candle, lit it on top of the lamp, and then used it to light all the candles in the holder. The room brightened a little. Only now did the commander-in-chief continue the conversation, still not looking at the other person.
"If Prince Bagration cannot keep himself within the bounds of propriety," Barclay said just as coldly, "then I will ask General Bagration to remember about subordination," he loved order and demanded strict observance from his subordinates. "The withdrawal order has been given, and it must be carried out, not discussed. Do your duty as I do mine."
Barclay's icy and even tone could not cool Bagration's ardor, and he asked with even increasing anger and bitterness:
"It's a complete retreat! What kind of debt is this?"
Barclay finally looked at the prince's face. His hawk-like eyebrows were outlined with implacable determination, and his black eyes glowed with annoyance and righteous anger. Everything about Bagration's appearance and behavior confirmed in him the title of the Suvorov eagle, which he was dubbed in the army, because the prince was not afraid to challenge not only a superior opponent, but also Barclay himself. This could not help but unsettle the commander-in-chief, who was always very patient with criticism but very jealous of following the rules, and quarrels often broke out between the two generals. In Smolensk, especially, their relations were strained to the limit, but each time Barclay tried to find the strength to restrain himself from counter-accusations.
And now Barclay allowed himself to exhale in order to moderate his own boiling feelings, got up, and began as openly as possible:
– Saying goodbye to me in Polotsk, His Majesty said: "I entrust my army to you. Please note that I don't have another one."
These words of the Russian tsar hung like a sword of Damocles over Barclay's head all the time of his retreat. The Minister of War understood very well that a weakened or destroyed army is Russia on its knees before Bonaparte. There was no way he could let that happen. Therefore, he saw the preservation of his troops and the maximum depletion of the enemy's forces as his primary task.
"Does Russia have another Moscow?" Bagration replied implacably. "The key to Moscow is Smolensk, you gave it to the enemy!"
"You and I are professional soldiers, Prince," the commander–in–chief patiently explained. "Can't we see that Napoleon, having entered Russia, seeks only one thing: to lead us to a general battle!"
"It's not only Napoleon who wants a general battle," Bagration interrupted him. "The whole army is waiting for a victorious general battle, His Majesty, the whole of Russia!"
"Victorious," Barclay hung on the word. "Here you are, Prince, Dokhturov, Rayevsky, which of your generals can vouch for it?"
Such a question knocked the arrogance off Bagration. The prince thought for a moment. Indeed, not a single general on his staff offered significant solutions on how to defeat the French once and for all. And Bagration himself, with his "By God, we'll throw hats at them!" knew in the depths of his soul that the enemy was too superior in both numbers and skill, and therefore he was subordinate to Barclay. However, the resentment for the burned Smolensk and other Russian towns and villages, for every inch of land that had to be given to the enemy, was so great that it unbearably tormented the heart.
"And you?" The prince asked, not so confidently.
"I can't vouch for myself," Barclay replied bluntly and guilelessly, as always.
He turned away from the general and looked out the window, under which one of the soldiers' campfires was located. And above him, the dark sky in the west was tinged with a terrible red glow. The long-suffering Smolensk was burning, and it could not be said that the death of this city did not painfully hurt the soul of the commander-in-chief. The two armies retreated from the Neman to Smolensk, hoping to give battle to Napoleon at his fortress walls with combined efforts. Until now, the retreat had been justified, but now, when the enemy was almost at the gates of the capital, Barclay's retreat, he knew it, would have no excuse: neither in front of the soldiers, nor in front of the people, nor even in front of his closest brother–in-arms, Bagration.
The idol of the soldiers, Bagration could have given great support to Barclay, but instead, every day more and more generals in the headquarters of both armies took his side against the minister. Barclay, on the other hand, tried not to attach importance to these short-sighted actions and adhered to his long-thought-out and painstakingly implemented plan, however, a poisonous sense of wounded dignity still managed to plant its seed in the depths of his soul.
But do personal grudges really matter in the hour of mortal danger for the fatherland? As a Russian general, Barclay put the salvation of Russia above all else. Whether the surroundings are on fire, whether towns and villages fall into the hands of the enemy, one of the soldiers begins to grumble - nothing could shake his icy calm. People looked at him with malice and even hatred, believing that he, a German, was giving Russian land to the French in vain and that it was all his fault, but he alone foresaw that everything was being done for the benefit of Russia. And people saw his face as unshakeable and serene, because he knew the only important thing he had to do was to bring his plan to a victorious end.
Bagration saw the situation differently and returned to the reproaches:
"You can't control the Russian army with such a mood."
Barclay turned and approached the prince.
"We know that about half a million soldiers of Napoleon crossed the Neman," the minister continued his explanation just as smoothly, as if there had never been a remark from Bagration. "However, not even two hundred thousand reached Smolensk. The enemy, going deep into Russia, is forced to set up garrisons and stretch communications, losing its numbers. Our army is withdrawing in good order, and its numbers are increasing every day," Barclay noticed how Bagration became subdued again, listening to him attentively. "Now the forces turned out to be unequal, and I retreated. But the day will come when our forces will be equal," he smiled slightly, as if he already had a premonition: "Then, Prince, the day of the victorious general battle will come!"
"What if Napoleon doesn't want to extend his communications any further?" The prince remarked calmly and fairly.
"What do you mean?"
"He will remain in Smolensk, which was given to him, and will winter there."
"It can't be," Barclay replied confidently, as if he had expected this question. "His rear will be constantly under threat from our partisans, and a ruined city is not a good place to winter." If he knew Napoleon well, then he did not seek to conquer cities, but to defeat his army, thereby conquering Russia. "Even so, Prince, we'll be able to get stronger during his winter quarters."
It now became clear to Bagration that Napoleon would continue to advance one way or another. This made his heart ache even more, because Moscow was a little more than two hundred miles away. The prince also realized that the minister, who clearly did not believe in the success of Russian weapons, still intended to retreat.
"How can you give Russian land and Russian people to the enemy for desecration," Bagration said in his oriental accent, and the anger at the commander-in-chief, despite the explanation given to him, returned to him. "Although, however, Russian is still alien to you."
Barclay understood perfectly well that the general was hinting at his non-Russian origin, but he did not even raise an eyebrow at the accusations against him. He only turned away from the prince to the window again, and his German accent became more distinct:
"Descendant of the Georgian tsars, who told you that you are Russian?"
"We have the same faith with them," Bagration replied without thinking about a counterargument. When Barclay remained impassively silent, he continued: " I demand that you tell me your plan and not to deal with the Russian armies in this way in the future. So what are we going to do?"
It was not easy for Barclay to say this, knowing how the prince would react to it, but having already firmly made up his mind, he could not change it. He turned to the general and, looking into his black eyes, somewhat with an emphasis that brooked no objections, replied:
"We will retreat, Prince Bagration."