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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."

Chapter Text

It will come [1] big as a sip,

A sip of water during the summer heat.

But in general, you just have to remember your duty.

From the first moment to the last...

R. Rozhdestvensky

That same night, after only a short rest, the first Russian army moved further east on Barclay's orders. The commander-in-chief chose night crossings and country roads in order to hide the movement of his troops from the enemy. He knew that he was being chased: according to the cossacks, the French were no more than one march away from him. Therefore, as if he did not want to give the soldiers a rest (as Napoleon, according to Russian spies, stopped most of his forces in Smolensk, however, sending Marshal Ney to intercept him), he was forced to immediately continue his retreat.

Bagration's second army went ahead, was on the left bank of the Dnieper and had already reached the Moscow Road, while Barclay's army was on the other side of the river. Instead of the Smolensk Road, the army moved along the potholes and dust of country roads that lay a little further from the coast in the forests. Marshal Ney and his corps were to advance along the Smolensk Road, which was tasked with cutting off Barclay's army from the crossing and the opportunity to connect with Bagration. 

Bagration's rearguard, commanded by General Gorchakov, was supposed to guard an important fork connecting the Smolensk and Moscow Roads. If Ney had managed to reach this fork before Barclay, the fate of the entire first army and the campaign as a whole would have been decided.

Early on the morning of August 7, after spending almost the entire night on the march, moving along a marshy country road, repairing bridges and pulling guns and horses out of the mud, a 3,000-strong detachment of General Pavel Alekseevich Tuchkov the 3rd came to the village of Valutina Gora. 

"Your Excellency! The rearguard of the second army is not on the road!" A cossack [2] galloped up from reconnaissance and reported to the general.

Tuchkov realized that for some unknown reason his squad had missed Bagration's squad, and now the path to the first and second armies was virtually unguarded. 

"Your Excellency! The French!" said another cossack, who was on a reconnaissance trip back along the Smolensk Road.

The cossack did not have time to finish, as a ball whistled somewhere very close and bit into the ground with a crash. The general hastily snatched out his telescope and looked at the horizon. Clouds of dust were rising on the Smolensk Road, and clouds of smoke were billowing from the heights - these were enemy guns that opened fire. The French were no more than two miles away.

"Therefore, we will become the rearguard from the vanguard," flashed through Tuchkov's mind, who immediately made a decision. He ordered his adjutant to ride to the commander-in-chief and report the clash, and he commanded "To fight!" and drew his sword from its scabbard.

The infantrymen, who had recently been on the march, began to form up hastily, and the gunners began to remove guns from the front and deploy them along the road. Tuchkov's squad managed to take an advantageous position on a hill near the village. His left flank was covered by a swampy forest, while his right flank was more open, so the general expected that he would have to send patrols there. By this time, the enemy, which was almost three times superior, – it was the advanced units of Marshal Junot's corps, – had already concentrated against his brigade, but the protection of the road had to be maintained at all costs. Cannon and rifle fire poured on the French who attacked. 

Barclay de Tolly, accompanied by his retinue, arrived at the battlefield almost at the very beginning of the case and watched the course of the battle. It was obvious that Tuchkov was in a strong minority, and three hours later he reported to the commander-in-chief that it was impossible to hold the position. Tuchkov asked for permission to withdraw, to which Barclay, with his usual sharpness, which manifested itself during the battle, replied:

"Return to your post, let them kill you, but if you return alive, I will order you to be shot myself," however, he sent the corps of Tuchkov the 1st, Uvarov, and Count Osterman to his aid.

Pavel Alekseevich was a very brave man, and he went to his regiments and did not return. Valiantly repelling the attacks of Junot's infantry and Marshal Ney, who came to his aid, the Russian soldiers retreated across the Strogan River to the village of Lubino, but the battle did not stop for a minute. Meanwhile, the first army, which heard a continuous cannonade on its right, reached the crossing and was able to escape from the pursuit of the French again. Thus, Barclay's goal of crossing over and connecting with Bagration was fulfilled.

Tuchkov galloped to his regiments, took his place in front of them and led the remnants of his squad into a counterattack. With each new rifle salvo, more and more soldiers fell out of line, the dead were dragged away and the wounded were carried away, but the soldiers closed ranks more tightly, and the general stubbornly led them forward. 

The chains came within sixty paces of each other and opened fire on each other at the same time. The horse under Tuchkov was killed by a bullet, and the general, getting up from the ground after falling, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and, amid shouts of "hurrey!" led the infantrymen to bayonets.

He was the first to rush into the enemy's line, and a melee ensued. General Tuchkov personally stabbed a French soldier with a sword, but the second managed to stab him in the side with a bayonet. Grabbing the barrel of the gun, Tuchkov pushed the soldier away, and suddenly a shot rang out from behind him, and the attacker fell backwards. It was a Russian infantryman who shot at a Frenchman, who wounded the general with a bayonet, and now he was covering his commander's back with his bayonet. Encouraged by the support, without paying attention to the wound, Tuchkov attacked another soldier, pierced him with a sword, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the soldier who defended him fall dead. The next moment, the general himself fell on his back. Stunned by the shot, he felt something hot on his head and unconsciously ran a white-gloved hand across his cheek – there was blood there. 

He could still hear a multitude of voices, screams, and gunshots surrounding him, merging, but everything was fading, and only one voice suddenly excitedly shouted in French:

"Stand down! Don't shoot! This is not a soldier, this is a general!"

Tuchkov no longer saw or felt how they lifted him up and put him on a stretcher, as they carried him to the French rear.

***

Pavel Alekseevich came to his senses on the fifth or sixth day after his injury in a room of a house in Smolensk. A young man in a French uniform entered, introduced himself as Colonel Flago, and informed him that he had been sent by Napoleon to find out if the Russian general's health would allow him to meet the emperor. Pavel Alekseevich replied that although he was weak, his strength allowed him to be introduced to Napoleon. 

The next day, Tuchkov was taken to the house of the former military governor of Smolensk, which was now occupied by Napoleon, and, passing by the guards, generals, officials and retinue crowded there, he was led into the office of the French emperor, in which there was no one but Napoleon and Marshal Berthier, his chief of staff.

The office was exactly the same as it undoubtedly was under the Russian military governor. On the table there was only an open map of Russia, on which, as Tuchkov noticed, Russian and French troops were marked with different pins. Next to her, near the candlestick, there were silver dishes with early apples.

Napoleon, seeing the Russian general, greeted him very courteously and good-naturedly. Tuchkov bowed at the entrance, and the emperor returned his bow with a very polite bow and asked the prisoner to introduce himself. Tuchkov identified himself.

"What corps you were in?" Napoleon asked.

"The second one," Tuchkov replied.

"Ah, this is General Baggovut's corps!" Napoleon exclaimed with a smile of recognition.

"That's right," Tuchkov inclined his head.

"Are you related to General Tuchkov, the commander of the first corps?" The French emperor suddenly asked.

"He's my brother," Pavel Alekseevich replied, realizing that they were talking about his older brother Nikolai, who was the commander of that corps.

A sympathetic and condescending expression suddenly appeared on Napoleon's face, meaning that he understood well what it was like to have relatives in the war. However, after that he began to brag that he knew the number, composition, and position of the Russian troops. Tuchkov, bowing to him and smiling a little, praised Napoleon's awareness, which further emboldened the emperor's talkativeness. He began to declare that they were taking prisoners every day, and that there was not yet a corps or battalion from which they did not have prisoners, and that these prisoners were telling the French everything, hence such awareness. Then he asked Tuchkov about his past service, about his latest case, and Tuchkov answered his questions.

Then Napoleon was silent for a while, and, turning to the Russian general, began to convince him that he had not started the war. He claimed that the Russians themselves wanted war, were preparing for it, had brought their armies to the western border, that they had not fulfilled the conditions of the Peace of Tilsit, that his envoy had not been allowed to see the emperor, that he, for his part, was only defending himself, and much more. In the heat of the conversation, which eventually became a monologue, Napoleon paced the room, raised and lowered his voice, turned to Berthier to continue the conversation when he ran out of arguments, but as soon as the marshal wanted to say something, he interrupted him and continued his tirade. 

Tuchkov did not utter a word during this time, carefully observing the mood and words of the Emperor of the French. The general believed in only one thing. The French were on Russian land, encroaching on the peace and life of his fatherland, ravaging towns and villages, and killing Russian people. For him personally, as for any soldier in the Russian army, they were enemies. No words of Bonaparte, allegedly justifying his invasion of Russian land, could convince him otherwise. He was courteous to Napoleon because of his upbringing and position (just like Napoleon), but he would never do anything that could disgrace the honor of him, a Russian officer, his family and the fatherland.

Napoleon, having failed to get any reaction to his provocative speeches from the Russian general, was silent again, looking out the window. He no longer had the bravado with which he had talked to Balashov, who had been sent by Alexander to negotiate with Napoleon in the early days of the war [3]. Napoleon felt that he was not in Germany, not in Poland, not in Lithuania, but in native Russia, and that in this strange wild country the war would go (or was already going) not according to his, but according to the enemy's rules. He needed to change that.

"What do you think, will your troops give another battle or will they continue to retreat?" Napoleon asked, coming up close to Tuchkov.

"The commander–in–chief's intention is unknown to me, Your Majesty," Tuchkov replied calmly, firmly holding Napoleon's searching gaze. 

And then the Emperor of the French burst out with all sorts of accusations and unflattering statements towards the commander-in-chief of the Russian troops. Russians would not benefit from the tactics chosen by the Germans, he shouted, that the Russians were a glorious, brave, proud nation, zealous to the emperor, that they needed to wage an offensive war, and not follow stupid German tactics. He recalled the example of Prussia, how it ended with its retreat in three days, and believed that the Russians should have conquered Poland and taken the war beyond their borders. And finally, almost stooping to personal insults, he did not understand how the commander-in-chief could leave Smolensk, this beautiful city, and bring it to ruin.

Tuchkov also listened to this tirade in silence and analyzed the situation. He, along with his brother Nikolai, was a member of Barclay's team, and even, following his brother's example, did not approve of the actions of the commander-in-chief, just like his German origin. He hadn't forgotten what Barclay had told him in the last battle at Valutina Gora. But now, seeing how Napoleon spoke unfavorably of the Russian commander-in-chief, Tuchkov realized that the enemy was suffering decidedly great inconvenience caused by the tactics chosen by the German. Until now, no one had fought against Napoleon in the way Barclay did, and it became obvious that in this campaign, if Napoleon did not suffer defeat, then victory would come at a very high price. Tuchkov did not say all this, but he felt how gloating towards the enemy was growing in his soul and his prejudice towards the commander-in-chief was decreasing. 

Meanwhile, Napoleon in his speech had already switched to the personality of Emperor Alexander himself, wondering how the Russian tsar could surround himself with foreigners and indulge them in every possible way. He asked Tuchkov for his opinion on this matter.

"Your Majesty, I am a subject of my emperor, and I will never dare to judge his actions, much less condemn his behavior," Tuchkov answered him rather dryly. "I am a soldier, and besides blind obedience to authority, I know nothing else."

Napoleon answered him with the same condescending and understanding expression on his face, apparently not expecting any other response from the prisoner. Exhausted from his next emotional monologue, he stopped in the middle of the room and, in a calmer voice, slightly imperious tone (which did not please Tuchkov very much), asked the Russian general if he could write a letter to Emperor Alexander on his behalf.

"No way," Tuchkov replied politely but very firmly. "I would never dare to trouble the emperor with letters, especially in my present position. 

To Tuchkov's surprise (and Berthier, who had been standing quietly in the corner of the room all this time), Napoleon accepted this refusal with a light, understanding smile.

"But can't you write to your brother what I say?"

"It's another matter for my brother, I can write to him everything," Tuchkov did not consider it necessary to refuse.

After keeping Tuchkov in his house for more than an hour, Napoleon thanked the Russian general for his assistance and for a very pleasant conversation, informed him that his captivity could not dishonor him, and that he would be sent to Paris. Tuchkov, in turn, politely took his leave and left the office. Marshal Berthier followed him, who gave him the emperor's instructions to set out in a letter his proposals for peace and the unsatisfactory leadership of the troops by the Russian commander-in-chief, and also informed him that his sword was being returned to him (which Tuchkov kindly refused, saying that he could only get his sword back from his emperor).

Returning to his room, Tuchkov began to write a letter to his brother. He reported that he had been captured wounded, was currently in Smolensk and had an audience with Napoleon. He outlined the peace proposals voiced by Napoleon, however, he did not write about the actions of the commander-in-chief, and also asked to forward his letter through the orderlies or the commander-in-chief, as it would be more convenient for him, to His Majesty. At the end of the letter, he asked his brother to take care of his family during his absence, and ended by saying that he thought only of saving the fatherland, that he had fulfilled his duty to the end, that while in captivity he would not change his oath to his emperor and would not do anything to defame him. 

After completing the letter, he translated it into French and the next day handed it to Marshal Berthier, saying that he had stated everything that the emperor had asked, but did not dare to give an assessment to the commander-in-chief (in which Berthier agreed with him). Tuchkov's letter was sent to the Russian army, and he himself was sent to Paris a few days later.

***

Meanwhile, both Russian armies approached Dorogobuzh. Under general pressure from both the generals and the army, Barclay decided to give battle here. Battles were required literally every day; every day, generals appeared to the commander-in-chief, either singly or in groups, either those who enjoyed the respect and love of the minister, or those who aroused his dislike. And although Barclay answered everyone in the same evasive way – that everyone should do what they were supposed to do – he could not help but admit at least to himself that the battle was simply necessary. That's why he gave the go-ahead for this venture. 

The position near Dorogobuzh was chosen by Quartermaster General Toll. After the selection of the position was reported, Barclay, Bagration and Grand Duke Konstantin examined it.

Coming out onto the hill, blown by a warm, dry wind, Barclay surveyed the proposed position with the naked eye and immediately realized that it was completely unsuitable for combat. He did not like the fact that he had to hold the defense on both sides of the Dnieper: to resist General Beauharnais, it was necessary to use an entire corps on the left bank. The rest of the army had to be stretched along the right bank at extremely unfavorable heights. The enemy, standing at excellent heights within cannon range, could easily reconnoiter the location of the Russian troops and destroy them with artillery. In addition, there was a wooden city too close to the positions behind. To top it all off, it was behind this city, about eight versts from the first, that the second army was located, which, if attacked by the enemy, would not be able to assist the first army.

Bagration and the Grand Duke put spyglasses to their faces and silently surveyed the surroundings. They had the same expression of displeasure and disappointment on their faces. Only Toll looked very pleased with himself. Barclay, as commander-in-chief, gave him a full dressing down because of the unsuitability of his chosen position for battle.

"This position cannot have the flaws you find in it," Toll replied very arrogantly, saying that he, the quartermaster, knew better. 

Barclay frowned and looked around the landscape in front of him again. He knew that he would not give battle to the French here, and therefore did not consider it necessary to waste his energy and time arguing with the general. He turned around without a word and walked away from the hill. Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovich followed him without saying a word.

Bagration, as usual, reacted more violently to Toll's insolence. With a gloomy look, he folded the pipe and stood facing the general.

"How dare you talking like this?" he asked loudly. "You're in front of the emperor's brother and commander–in-chief! You're a milksop! Do you know the potential implications?" And after a threatening pause, he finished: "It's a prison."

And, no longer looking at the quartermaster, Bagration, allegedly accidentally brushing his shoulder, followed the tsarevich [4] and the minister, followed by Toll's offended gaze. As an experienced combat general, it was also obvious to him that it was impossible to give battle in the local position. Whatever the relationship between Bagration and Barclay, they acted together at the crucial hour, primarily thinking about the fate of the army and Russia.

However, not everyone in the Russian headquarters had a noble heart like Bagration's to put aside personal grudges for the benefit of the common good. These were Grand Duke Konstantin, the commander of the Guard, General Bennigsen, and several other people. From them, the court orderlies and their sympathizers, a certain conspiracy was formed against the commander-in-chief [5]. They did not dare to speak openly, because such attempts would be perceived as a rebellion against the will of the emperor, however, they had the power from within the army to shake the already shaky authority of the commander-in-chief, which they did with enviable zeal. 

And it was in Dorogobuzh that these generals decided to openly express their thoughts to the commander-in-chief and encourage him to give battle anyway. Tsarevich Konstantin, who was informed of this intention, volunteered to speak on behalf of everyone as the emperor's brother and heir to the throne. Having gathered a whole delegation, they went to the minister.

Barclay was in his office, sorting through papers and reports that needed to be sent to the emperor. His adjutant Levenstern stood behind his shoulder and helped the general, handing him papers one at a time from the stack he held in his hand. There was a knock on the door, and Levenstern went to the door to find out who had arrived. Later, he informed the minister about the arrival of General Nikolai Alekseevich Tuchkov the 1st.

"Let him come in," Barclay said, without looking up from reading and sorting through papers. 

Tuchkov strode into the office with long, hurried steps and, saluting the commander-in-chief according to the regulations, handed him a folded envelope and informed him that it needed to be forwarded to the emperor. It was a letter from his brother Pavel.

After the battle of Valutina Gora and Lubino, in which Russian troops detained the French for several hours and defeated Marshal Junot's corps, nothing was known about the fate of Tuchkov the 3rd and his detachment. Several people returned from his squad, and the general himself was declared dead. It was a heavy blow for Nikolai Alekseevich, and he hadn't been himself for the last few days. But when the envelope was brought to him and he recognized his brother's handwriting on it, he couldn't believe his eyes. Reading the letter over and over again, he did not believe in the reality that his brother could meet with Napoleon and agree to convey his peace proposals. However, obeying his brother's request to forward his letter to the emperor, Tuchkov, believing that this would be the right thing to do, brought it to the commander-in-chief.

Barclay accepted the letter and ran his eyes over it. Then, with his characteristic German pedantry, he folded the letter back into an envelope and sealed it, putting it in a pile designated for himself as "extremely important, send it immediately." 

"I'm sorry about your brother, Nikolai Alekseevich," he said. "I will send his letter to the emperor immediately.

Tuchkov met his words rather coldly. Not a single emotion showed on his manly face. He asked permission to leave, and after receiving it, saluted and was about to leave when the door to the study opened and several people entered, led by the Tsarevich.

"Ah, Nikolai Alekseevich!" Grand Duke Konstantin exclaimed, approaching the general and somewhat familiarly placing his hands on his forearms. "What a misfortune! I sympathize with you (by this time, many already knew what had happened to Tuchkov). But he's alive, thank God! Faithful son of the Fatherland!"

Tuchkov very obviously tensed up, thanked the Grand Duke dryly and left the room (the tsarevich asked him to stay, but he refused). Konstantin, still feeling inspired, went to the middle of the room and stood in front of Barclay.

Barclay silently watched this scene with disgust poorly hidden on his face. Levenstern, his adjutant, who had fallen silent behind his back, knew that the commander-in-chief did not like it when people came to him without asking, especially people whom he did not like, and even a whole delegation. Levenstern looked around the room. Besides the Grand Duke, there were Generals Bennigsen, Yermolov, the Duke of Württemberg, and several others. However, if the tsarevich, Bennigsen and the duke clearly intended to make many accusations to the minister, then Yermolov, like a couple of people, did not look so decisive. Levenshtern, who knew the attitude of some generals towards Barclay, noticed to his surprise that Bagration was not there.

Tsarevich Konstantin waited for a tense pause, without greeting or saluting the commander-in-chief, putting on a flatteringly friendly smile (which was nothing compared to his brother's disarming smile), and began to speak:

"Mikhail Bogdanovich, I have the honor to speak on behalf of all those gathered here and the army."

Barclay's face assumed an emotionless and indifferent expression, and he, without looking at the speaker, lowered his eyes to the papers lying on his desk. Taking the Commander–in-chief's silence as permission to continue, the Grand Duke blurted out,

"The army wants to fight. The emperor is waiting for the battle," Barclay replied with small nods, making it clear that he was listening. "Why leave the position? If I were you..."

"But you're not me, and I don't need the advice of my juniors," Barclay replied coldly, no longer enduring the Tsarevich's insolence. It was in vain that these conspirators chose as speakers the one who enjoyed the greatest disfavor of the one with whom they were to negotiate. Barclay refused even Kutaisov, a universal favorite known for his rare eloquence, so the chances that they would be able to persuade him to change his decision were now zero.

Barclay looked up at the generals with a tired look and looked into their faces. Some involuntarily lowered their eyes to the floor, others looked away, just to avoid meeting the minister's cold gaze. Konstantin and Bennigsen, who came up to him, looked at the commander-in-chief with a challenge.

"You probably didn't inform the generals that this position was unsuitable for combat?" Barclay asked the Grand Duke reasonably.

The Grand Duke, clearly not expecting such a response from the minister, hesitated for a second. He noticed that one of the generals gave him a questioning look (it was Yermolov) and began to realize that their support was weakening. Visibly nervous, he tried to justify himself:

 "I am only expressing the will of the army and the emperor!"

Barclay turned his gaze to the heir to the throne and, in the silence that reigned for a few moments, looked at him with coldness and a hint of contempt.

"I'm the commander–in–chief here, not you, and I don't intend to ruin the army in an unsuitable position," he snapped and went back to sorting through the papers.

Grand Duke Konstantin realized that their plan had not been crowned with success, and from this all his indignation at the minister, which he had tried to restrain until now, he could no longer restrain. Having inherited the difficult character of his father, Emperor Paul, Konstantine could not put aside hatred and pride and submit, considering it beneath his dignity. His mood changed dramatically.

"Only a coward and a traitor can retreat from a position without a fight!" he shouted sharply, thereby wanting to prove to the audience that, despite his obvious defeat, he is able to put even the commander-in-chief in his place.

However, his words had the opposite effect. A deathly, almost physically felt silence reigned in the office. The rebel generals, realizing that the accusations of cowardice and treason were so serious and low (especially for the heir to the throne) that they could be challenged to a duel, looked with bated breath from the tsarevich to the commander-in-chief and back again, waiting for Barclay's reaction.

Barclay, though he heard every last word of the Grand Duke, did not outwardly react in any way. He didn't even stop sorting through the papers. Only after arranging the stack of "extremely important" the way he needed it, he picked it up and got up from the table, looked at the audience. Not a single muscle moved on his face.

"The reference to the will of the emperor, which you have made, is, of course, of the most important importance," he said, also completely emotionless. "And therefore, in order to better clarify the monarch's will, I ask Your Highness to leave for St. Petersburg immediately with the dispatches.

He handed the papers to the Grand Duke. Konstantin, realizing that the commander-in-chief was about to throw him out of the army, flared up:

"I'm not some kind of courier!"

"I insist. These are extremely important dispatches, and I can entrust them to no one but you," Barclay replied evenly and coldly.

Barclay's complete lack of reaction drove the Grand Duke into a state of burning anger and hatred. In this state, he, like his late father, was very prone to such statements, which would later cause anyone with a conscience to be painfully ashamed.

"If I wasn't the heir to the throne, I would have challenged you to a duel, you scoundrel!" Konstantin shouted into the minister's eyes, no longer paying attention to the other generals.

"If I was not the commander–in–chief, I would accept your challenge, but this is forbidden by my position," Barclay replied dryly and coldly, without changing his face at all. "And it is precisely because you are under my command by the will of your august brother that you are obligated, General, to do what you are ordered to do.''

He purposely, Konstantin realized, did not use his title, referring to him by his military rank. The tsarevich's face turned deathly pale at first, and then became covered with red spots. His eyes lit up with fierce hatred and resentment even more, and he became strikingly similar to his father, which happened to him in moments of anger. Roughly snatching the dispatches from the minister's outstretched hand, Konstantin tore open his shirt collar and stormed out of the office, slamming the door loudly. The ringing silence returned.

The generals awkwardly looked back at the commander-in-chief and exchanged glances with each other. Barclay stared at the door through which the tsarevich had disappeared for a while, and also coldly and emotionlessly addressed the generals:

"If you have no questions or suggestions, then you are dismissed, gentlemen."

One by one, the generals, some saluting according to the regulations, some not, began to leave the room under the minister's heavy gaze. General Yermolov was the last to leave and, hesitating a little, involuntarily stole a glance at the commander-in-chief. With a sigh, Barclay sank into a chair and pressed his forehead against his clasped hands. It took a lot of self-control from him not to break down in front of the Grand Duke and the others, but now it was obvious that his strength had left him. Unexpectedly, Yermolov saw tears in his eyes, which he was obviously trying to hide. The commander must have been very upset: the unfair accusations of cowardice and treason thrown in his face by the tsarevich were the last drop in the overflowing glass of all the blasphemy that had been pouring towards him all this time, and could not help but unsettle even such a patient man, which he was.

Chapter Text

Eternal peace is unlikely to please the heart,

Eternal peace is for the gray pyramids,

But for the star that has fallen and is falling,

There is only a moment, a dazzling moment!

L. Derbenev

Night was falling on the Borodino field. The stars shone in the warm August sky and the famous comet [1], which has been watching the inhabitants of the Earth for many days, and does not seem to understand how thousands of people can take up arms and kill their own kind. Very soon she will have to witness a particularly bloody spectacle – and, glowing with a cold white light, pure as tears, she seems to be already mourning those who will not be destined to leave this field tomorrow.

"And you could hear the Frenchman rejoicing until dawn," the poet Lermontov would write a quarter of a century later [2]. The starlight from a clear sky illuminated the French camp. It seemed to the soldiers that these were the stars of their future glory, which they were destined to gain for themselves in tomorrow's great battle. They believed that tomorrow would definitely be a victory–their emperor had told them so. They were proud that they had conquered so many provinces that the power of the French emperor had now definitely spread to all parts of Europe. They believed that tomorrow they would definitely put an end to the last resistance of the Russians and enter the mysterious and alluring Moscow victoriously. And they were already celebrating their victory.

Through the silence of the night, their jubilant cries reached the location of the Russian armies. The Russian camp was in a solemn and sad mood. The soldiers checked their weapons for the last time, brought ammunition, built fortifications, cleaned horses, sharpened bayonets and sabers. Someone lay down to take a nap, and someone with anxious enthusiasm could not close his eyes. According to tradition, the soldiers put on clean white shirts, preparing to go into their last battle, and, contrary to her, refused the vodka glass they were supposed to have. The premonition of a great battle gripped the entire Russian army. Everyone, from the general to the private, understood that tomorrow's battle would decide the fate of Moscow and all of Russia. 

A figure of a cloaked horseman appeared on a hill, of which there were many on the Borodino field. The starlight dimly illuminated the man and the white horse beneath him. They were completely alone and moved almost noiselessly, except for the soft footsteps of the horse on the damp grass. A fresh night breeze blew over them, ruffled the well-groomed mane and tail of the horse and the gray sideburns of the rider.

In the dark of the night, Barclay drove away from the location of his apartment without telling anyone about it. They must have been looking for him somewhere, but that didn't bother the general at all. Riding up this hill, he dismounted, took his trusty horse by the bridle and just stood there, looking into the darkness to the west. The village of Borodino sprawled under his feet, dimly flickering in the darkness with its white church and the rare bonfires of the huntsmen standing there. Beyond Borodino, the Koloch River and a field covered with streams and ravines, near the Kolotsky Monastery in the village of Shevardino, where the fighting for the redoubt had been raging a day ago, the French were standing.

Not so far from the hill where the commander of the First Army stood, fortifications for a large battery were being built on a nearby hill, not far from the commander-in-chief's apartment. The distant sounds of the militia working and the construction site reached Barclay, but he ignored them, remaining unnoticed by anyone in the dark. The August nights were already cold in autumn, and clouds of steam appeared in the air from the breath of Barclay and his horse. 

He looked around the Borodino field with a longing look, and, raising his eyes to the starry sky, he began to recall everything that had happened to him over the past few days. It would seem that not much time has passed, only twelve days, but so much water has flowed away... Until today, he had no opportunity to think about his life and feelings – all his thoughts and feelings were absorbed by worries about the army and the fatherland. But now, on the last night, he wanted to understand, sum up, and maybe forgive all the insults. But will it work?

***

After the departure of Tsarevich Konstantin from the army, Barclay's situation, predictably, did not improve. The remaining henchmen of the Grand Duke, who were most intrigued against the commander-in-chief, continued their intrigues. After several more scandals, the commander-in-chief found excuses to remove General Bennigsen and several court adjutants from the army.

The abandonment of Dorogobuzh without a fight and the withdrawal to Vyazma caused an extreme degree of displeasure in the army. The soldiers no longer believed that their commander-in-chief would fight, and yet their hearts burned with the desire to avenge the enemy for his insolence against the fatherland. 

At one of the crossings in the Dorogobuzh area, Barclay rode from the edge of the road along which the troops were marching, accompanied only by his adjutant Rostopchin [3]. Passing the Semenovsky regiment [4], whose chief until recently was the tsarevich, he suddenly heard:

"Look, look, the traitor is coming!"

Barclay did not see the face of the soldier who shouted this, but noticed how the other soldiers who were walking in front of him began to turn around and invariably looked at him. Barclay pulled back on the reins for a second, his horse slowed down, but the next moment he spurred his horse and at the same pace moved forward along the columns, overtaking the regiment. The soldiers continuously followed him with an unkind look.

Behind him, he heard the sound of hooves speeding up. Young Rostopchin caught up with him.

"Your Excellency, I saw who said that! Let me punish him!" he asked softly, casting an angry glance at the column. Rostopchin, like all of Barclay's other aides, was personally devoted to him, and he took the attacks on his commander personally, too.

"No need, Captain," Barclay replied calmly and smiled at him a little sadly.

Rostopchin wilted, and, noticing that the general was in no mood to continue this conversation, rode on a little behind him.

"The traitor"... here it is, a reward for long and faithful service to the fatherland! Bitterness and annoyance began to squeeze his heart in a vice, but, as usual, Barclay remained outwardly unperturbed. The same immaculate cavalry bearing, calm, bright, serene face. But his eyes, incredibly sad, fell thoughtfully on the back of the horse's head, which was walking steadily, and its ears were wagging in different directions with curiosity, and his hands lay limply on the pommel of the saddle, lowering the reins.

From Dorogobuzh to Vyazma (through which Barclay ordered to take everything with them, and what could not be taken away – to destroy) and Tsarev-Zaimishche, Russian troops marched, continuously waging rearguard battles. General Konovnitsyn, who was appointed commander of the rearguard in place of the suspended Platov, courageously delayed the enemy at every step, allowing the army to march calmly to the place where the general battle was to take place.

And this place was found at Tsarev-Zaimishche and Gzhatsk. Barclay, tired of the annoyance and resentment to which he was subjected hourly, firmly decided to give battle here. He found the position very convenient, however, many generals, in particular Toll, found the position disastrous. Toll even threw himself at Barclay's feet once, begging him not to give battle here, but the commander-in-chief remained adamant.

And one day, the news spread throughout the army about the appointment of a new, unified commander-in-chief, to whom His Serene Highness, Field Marshal Kutuzov, was appointed [5]. The renowned commander was already in a hurry to take command of the Russian troops. Everyone was waiting for him with great impatience and enthusiasm. In honor of this, a saying immediately developed: "Kutuzov is going to beat the French!"

For Barclay, the news of the appointment of a single commander-in-chief was at first like a breath of fresh air. The shoulders that had borne the heavy burden of responsibility for two armies and the entire state for so long could now straighten. Barclay did not hide his joy, with which he wrote to both the emperor and Kutuzov that he was ready to serve the fatherland faithfully in any position.

However, the same poisonous sense of wounded dignity that had been born in him since the battles of Smolensk was now gradually turning into a feeling of deep insult. Barclay understood that he was objectionable to both the army and the St. Petersburg and Moscow societies, but he continued to bend his line, considering the path he had chosen to be the only true one. The salvation of the Fatherland could only be accomplished by exhausting Napoleon's army. Barclay would have proved this if he had remained in charge of the armies until the end of the war. But they found a replacement for him. Barclay felt that his hope to justify himself to the army, society and the people was inexorably melting away. All that remained was to hope that Prince Kutuzov, with his many years of military experience and true love for the fatherland, would multiply the Russian army, which he, Barclay, had managed to keep in good order and combat capability until now, that he would be able to deliver a fatal blow to Bonaparte, that Russia would be saved. That was all he could pray to God for now.

Nevertheless, Barclay ordered to meet the new commander-in-chief in the best possible way and personally supervised the preparations, and then accompanied him as part of the retinue.

Kutuzov arrived at Tsarevo-Zaimishche very solemnly: on horseback, with banners flying, to the beat of drums and the roar of jubilant "hurray!", which every soldier considered his duty to shout. Later, a legend was born in the army that when Kutuzov rode past the regiments, an eagle soared into the sky above him, blocking out the sun for a moment. Kutuzov, seeing the eagle, took off his white cap and crossed himself. 

He rode past the regiments on his little gray horse and surveyed the troops with a masterly air. Thousands of eyes stared at him, and thousands of voices joined in a thunderous "hurray!", almost deafening.

"Well, how to retreat with such fellows!" Kutuzov exclaimed, and all the soldiers who were near him and heard this cheered even more than before.

After such a triumphant meeting, Kutuzov gathered the generals to make sure of the position of the armies and the current position. Barclay, with his usual pedantry, like the former commander-in-chief handing over command to another, gave him a detailed report on the number and deployment of troops, their supplies, and the advantages and disadvantages of the position. His report was quite lengthy, but Kutuzov listened to him without interrupting. When Barclay finished speaking, he thanked him in front of everyone for the work he had done.

This gratitude meant nothing to Barclay if the actions of the commander-in-chief were contrary to the benefits of the army. However, despite the fact that Barclay's relationship with Kutuzov did not immediately go well, assessing the situation, Kutuzov ordered a retreat further to Mozhaisk. There was something comforting about this for Barclay, because any unbiased person would now be convinced that the retreat was not taking place from his command, but from the fact that other tactics against Napoleon were disastrous for the Russians. However, it was obvious to him that, although the army was perplexed and upset, Kutuzov's order did not arouse as much indignation as it undoubtedly would have if Barclay had given this order.

Barclay's situation had become completely hopeless. In addition to the insults that he had endured almost since the beginning of the campaign, a new order introduced by the commander-in-chief was now added to the shattering of his nerves. Or rather, the complete absence of it. Although Kutuzov left Barclay and Bagration in their positions (which both were no less accustomed to command and personally control everything), his headquarters completely replicated Barclay's headquarters, and the latter's headquarters became, in fact, useless. Among other things, along with Kutuzov, the people whom Barclay had sent a few days earlier returned to the army (namely Bennigsen, as well as Kutuzov's adjutants Kudashev and Kaisarov). These court shufflers, whom Barclay considered them, began their intrigues with renewed vigor. According to the minister, it was they who persuaded His Serene Highness to retreat from a good position near Tsarev-Zaimishche, because glory, they argued, would be awarded not to the one who won, but to the one who chose the position. And Kutuzov sent his officers to Mozhaysk to choose a new position.

The choice fell on a field near the small village of Borodino, and by August 22 both Russian armies had arrived there.

***

The horse, probably bored, jerked its head and impatiently thumped its hoof on the ground, bringing Barclay out of his thoughts. It began chewing iron in its mouth and shifting from one foot to the other, turning its body almost full-face to its master. Barclay smiled affectionately and patted the horse's neck (horses had always been his weakness), and, tightening his grip on the reins under the ropes, returned the horse to its original position. 

The night was still quiet, the stars were still shining and the breeze was still blowing. Barclay had been in a state of concentration all previous day, hardly spoke to anyone, and was completely immersed in army affairs. When he was surrounded by people, even against his will, he had no time to be sad. Now he felt that he was in deep sorrow. Mourning for the soldiers who died and will die again, for the towns and villages that were ravaged by the enemy, for the fatherland, whose fate hung in the balance, and for himself. Being at the head of the army, he did not allow himself for a moment to doubt the correctness of his actions, but now, being a simple soldier under the commander-in-chief, he himself criticized his past, and the question: did he do the right thing? was now in the back of his mind. 

Barclay looked up at the sky again and suddenly saw a star falling, streaking the black sky with a white line. They say that the end of August is the starfall season, and that when you see a shooting star, you have to make a wish, and it will certainly come true. What could a warrior wish for, standing on a field that would soon become a battlefield? Of course, victory over the enemy. Barclay wanted only one thing – to save Russia, and he swore to himself that he would not feel sorry for himself in this last battle, as he had not felt sorry for himself in any of his battles.

If Providence so wills, he will accept death on the battlefield without fear or hesitation, so long as Russia and his good name, which he has not tarnished before the fatherland, are alive.

A new gust of wind, rustling the crowns of a nearby grove, brought to Barclay the sounds from the battery and from Borodino. It seemed to Barclay that someone invisibly close whispered his name.

"Michael..."

His Helen... He vividly imagined an image that was not the most beautiful by the standards of beauty, but the sweetest to a loving heart. 

Barclay remembered his wife, who was his only hope and support during this difficult time. He wrote to her every day, and her letters in response were always full of tenderness and selfless love for her husband. She was the only one he could write everything that was in his heart, and she, as befits the most devoted wife, was always on her husband's side, all her thoughts and soul were with him, and in each of her letters she expressed her boundless faith in his strength. It's not for nothing that they say that a strong woman stands behind a great man. A strong, and most importantly, loving woman is like an indestructible stone wall that does not let her husband fall in a difficult moment – she stands behind and holds him; or she is like a spring, the spring water of which nourishes the vitality of the spouse.

Barclay smiled wistfully, remembering the firm general's character of his wife, before whom he always became meek as a lamb. Helen Augusta will not forgive him if he does not write to her today about his health and mood. She would not forgive him, especially if she found out about his plans to die in tomorrow's battle not from him, but from Kutuzov or, even worse, from the emperor.

He finally climbed into the saddle and started walking back to his apartment. The stalled horse impatiently wanted to break into a gallop, but Barclay held him back, moving at a leisurely trot. 

He drove past the soldiers' bivouacs located along the street leading to the hut occupied by his headquarters. The sentry, raising his gun in order, asked who was coming. As soon as he recognized the general's figure emerging from the darkness, he took guard duty and allowed him to pass. The rest of the soldiers, who were busy preparing for the upcoming battle, or resting, did not pay attention to the commander. Barclay calmly drove to his apartment.

Near the hut where his headquarters was located, he was met by a clearly worried Clausewitz. Of course, as the commander of the army, Barclay's presence in the apartment was vital, and his absence caused concern. Clausewitz reported to the general that Kutuzov's adjutant had arrived with a dispatch and had been waiting for some time.

Barclay ordered the adjutant to be called right here, into the courtyard, and a minute later the disheveled adjutant appeared in front of the commander, handed him a dispatch. Barclay discreetly thanked the adjutant and, having studied the disposition, sent him back to the commander-in-chief to report to His Excellency on the acceptance of the disposition. When the adjutant had left, Barclay finally entered the hut.

Inside, he found a gathering of almost all of his aides-de-camp (they were all unusually harmonious among themselves), who were sitting around a large table, listening to the stories of General Kutaisov. Kutaisov, a young artillery general who was supposed to turn 28 in four days, was having a lot of fun with adjutants. They sometimes listened to his stories with their mouths open. The mood in the hut was high. 

When they saw the commander enter, everyone started to jump up from their seats. Barclay motioned for them to continue and not worry. The young men wanted to invite their general to the table and gave him a seat. Barclay declined amiably, saying that they, the young people, would not be interested in the old man, and went to his office.

There he was alone again. He wasn't in the mood to have fun today. Youth is such a wonderful time when life is just beginning, when every event is of the most important importance for a young mind, when all challenges are perceived joyfully and with enthusiasm. And Barclay felt bitter from the realization that tomorrow, for some of the officers having fun in the next room, life would end forever as soon as it began, that there would be no more worries for their minds, that they would not joyfully accept new obstacles and overcome them with dignity. He didn't feel sorry for himself–he had seen a lot in his lifetime, but he felt sorry for these boys who hadn't really had time to understand and experience this life yet.

With these heavy thoughts, he did not notice how the door to his room opened, and how Konovnitsyn entered, holding a bottle of vodka and a couple of glasses in his hands. He offered Barclay his company, and Barclay did not object. 

General Konovnitsyn was one of the few generals with whom Barclay managed to get close. A man of great courage and extraordinary kindness, he diligently did what was required of him, was an excellent combat general, never entered into conflicts, did not plot against anyone, and seemed to be able to find a common language with everyone and never knew how to get angry. He was the only one who had never said a bad word to Barclay during his entire service with him, either to his face or even behind his back. For this, he earned Barclay's sympathy and power of attorney, and very few people received this from him. And he was the only one Barclay was glad to see right now.

After shaking hands and inquiring about each other's business, the generals sat down at a small table. Konovnitsyn, with his kind, radiant face, undoubtedly saw the commander's condition, and it could not but worry him. On the eve of the most important battle, the commander's despondency is a bad sign. 

"What do you think, Mikhail Bogdanovich, will we win the battle tomorrow?" Konovnitsyn asked.

Barclay shook his head sadly. He himself had asked himself this question more than once during the three days that the army was fortifying at Borodino, and he, the Minister of War, commander of the army, and an experienced general, did not know the answer to it himself.

"It's God's will, Pyotr Petrovich," he replied absently. "Our left flank worries me. Napoleon will mainly attack him, not us. Prince Bagration will have a difficult time tomorrow."

Konovnitsyn nodded in agreement. The left flank of the Russian army, on which the Second Army was located under the command of Bagration, was indeed smaller in number than the right, which was occupied by the First Army. This flank was located in an open area directly in front of the enemy and had at its disposal unfinished fortifications – a redoubt and three flushes. Both Barclay and Bagration understood the danger of this location equally well, and both appealed to the commander-in-chief with a proposal to reorganize Russian troops under cover of night to strengthen their positions. However, Kutuzov, as usual, nodded his head and left the same disposition.

"Everyone will have a difficult time tomorrow," Konovnitsyn sighed, opened a bottle and poured vodka into glasses. "But we shouldn't feel sorry for ourselves now. We will survive all the hardships, Mikhail Bogdanovich," with an encouraging smile, he handed the stack to the commander. He accepted it, and Konovnitsyn, according to Russian custom, rose before the toast and said: "May Russia be saved!"

"Amen." 

They clinked their glasses together and drained them in one gulp. 

Then they sat for some time, talked about various subjects, assessed the past two days, during which Konovnitsyn and the rearguard fought for Shevardino and the Shevardinsky redoubt, and discussed the actions and tactics of the upcoming battle. During the conversation, Konovnitsyn could not shake the feeling that the minister was planning something important, and this something important definitely could not bring happiness to either Barclay or his family. The general had long seen the commander's depressed state (but it was impossible to notice it in public), and, like an immensely kind man, he sympathized with him, but had no idea how to help him. Perhaps Barclay was fighting some kind of internal battle, and in order to get out of the state he was in, not to fall into even greater resentment, not to become a victim of ambition, he had to win this battle.

Shortly before dawn, the generals said goodbye, and Konovnitsyn, with a heavy heart, left Barclay's apartment and drove home.

Only Barclay, Zakrevsky, the head of his secret office, and Kutaisov remained in the hut. The last two had already fallen asleep, but Mikhail Bogdanovich was sitting in his office, writing diligently by the light of a single candle. He wrote farewell letters to his family and the few friends he had left, as well as a will. Then he put what he had written in his coat pocket, knowing that if he died tomorrow, his belongings would be searched, and the letters would certainly be found and sent to their addresses. 

Then he got up from the table and walked around the room, trying to remember if he had forgotten anything. When the first dawn birds began to sing, Barclay took out his dress uniform, all his awards and the red Alexander ribbon from the chest and stood up to dress in front of the mirror.

Putting on and buttoning his uniform, he picked up the first medals. The Ochakov Golden Cross and the Order of St. Vladimir, 4th degree. The assault and capture of Ochakov.

Order of St. George, 4th degree. The capture of the Vilna fortifications during the war with the rebels.

Order of St. George, 3rd degree. Pultusk.

The Order of St. Vladimir, 2nd degree, and the Prussian Order of the Red Eagle. Preussisch-Eylau, where he received his first serious injury.

The Order of St. Alexander Nevsky. Victory in the war with Sweden.

Order of St. Vladimir, 1st degree. An award for his work as Minister of War.

All these achievements of his were completely forgotten during this campaign. In this campaign, the only reward for his efforts from the army and the people were accusations of cowardice and treason. The only reward he wanted now was victory over the enemy and death in battle for himself.

After hanging the awards on his uniform, Barclay put the Alexander ribbon on top. After recovering in front of the mirror, he returned to the chest and took out a sword, the same one that his first general, under whom he began his service as an adjutant, had given him. The Prince of Anhalt-Berneburg, mortally wounded during the storming of Pardakoski, dying in the arms of young Barclay, handed him his sword, which Barclay has not parted with since. It was the most common simple steel sword, but it was the most faithful and dear to Barclay, having passed through Prussia, Poland, Finland, Sweden, and Russia with him. Now it had to serve him in the most important mortal battle. 

Fastening his sword to his belt, Barclay looked around his office once more, realizing that he might not return here. As soon as the sky lightened slightly, he crossed himself, put on his hat with a large black feather and walked out of the hut with a decisive step, gathering his adjutants around him and heading for combat positions.

Everyone who saw him in the battle of Borodino, which began about half an hour later, unanimously claimed that he wanted to die.

Chapter Text

Not in vain the banner reddening in our destiny,

Not in vain the country counts on us –

The sacred words "Moscow is behind us!"

We remember from the time of Borodino!

R. Rozhdestvensky

The sun was rising, the nightingales fell silent, and the larks gave their voice instead. Thick fog enveloped the lowlands of the Koloch River and the village of Borodino. Only occasionally did mounds rise above the fog that covered the Borodino field. Some of them were fortified with posts, and some with redoubts and batteries.

The first artillery shot pierced the predawn silence, and from then until sunset, no birds were heard. The great battle has begun.

Barclay de Tolly and his staff had barely reached the battery, where he had set up an observation post, when the cannonade began. Dashing to a halt by the horse's reins and without dismounting, he looked around through the telescope. The French began shelling his flank. Turning his gaze to Borodino, which was under his feet, he noticed the huntsmen in it, alarmed by the artillery preparation that had begun, but he did not find the enemy there.

And suddenly, French regiments emerged from the fog, which, under the cover of their guns, crept up unnoticed to the Russian positions and went to capture the village. The huntsmen were clearly outnumbered. Trying to hold Borodino and send help there is more expensive for yourself, since this, Barclay foresaw, was a distracting maneuver by Napoleon.

"Levenshtern!" Barclay shouted without turning around. There was no trace of his despondency from yesterday – only the cool composure and sharpness characteristic of him in battle. "Ride to the village and order Colonel Vuitch to leave it and burn the bridge behind him immediately!" 

The adjutant hurried to carry out the order. Soon Barclay saw how the huntsmen began to retreat, and how the French rushed after them, who did not let them go across the river and burn the bridge. Then Colonel Vuitch struck out with bayonets. The fierce rebuff was very unexpected for the French. Soon, the Russian huntsmen overturned the enemy's advanced detachments and went beyond the Moscow River, destroying the only bridge over it and gaining a foothold on its steep right bank. The French managed to capture Borodino, but they could not advance further here.

At this time, intense cannon and rifle fire was heard from the left – Napoleon began shelling the Russian left flank. After the artillery preparation, he ordered the storming of the Bagration flushes.

The corps of the four marshals of France advanced on the three "arrows", which were defended by only sixteen thousand soldiers of Bagration. The French were met with such heavy fire that they retreated, losing dozens of dead and wounded. The first attack was repulsed, but fresh enemy forces were already approaching the flushes.

Bagration sent to Barclay for reinforcements. He allocated the 2nd Infantry Corps to help him.

Soon, his adjutant rode up to Barclay's battery and informed him that the three Guard regiments that were in reserve had been sent to the left flank by order of the commander-in-chief. Barclay was very outraged by this.

"Therefore, Kutuzov and General Bennigsen believe that the battle is lost, and yet it is just beginning!" he said, uncharacteristically flashing his eyes with anger. "At nine o'clock in the morning, use up the reserves, which I expected to use no earlier than five or six o'clock in the evening!"

He spurred his horse and galloped towards Kutuzov.

It's unthinkable! It's just unthinkable! To bring reserves into battle at the very beginning of the battle, as well as the guard, while the entire first army stands firm! Victory is always on the side of the general who knows how to use the last reserve. Barclay understood this very well, and now, in the heat of battle, he was very angry with the commander-in-chief for such a rash order.

He took off like a whirlwind to a height near the village of Gorki, where Kutuzov's command post was located, and, without slowing down, rushed to the group of generals that was there. Kutuzov, seeing him, separated from his brilliant retinue and rode towards Barclay. 

Barclay roughly stopped his horse, so that the poor fellow wheezed and reared up on his hind legs, and began to express his indignation to His Serene Highness. He argued to him with fervor that it was not necessary to touch the reserves, that the armies would cope on their own, that he had everything under control, and what an inconvenience it was giving him orders over his head.

"I've given you complete freedom of action, General," Kutuzov replied peaceably, trying to calm Barclay down. "Use all your strength and abilities to defeat the enemy."

"Then by the right given to me by Your Excellency, I forbid you to touch the reserves!" Barclay snapped impudently. "And for the good of the army, I ask you to let me manage them."

Kutuzov raised his hands in defeat. He knew the value of Barclay and trusted him in battle, and therefore did not besiege him for his brusqueness and argue.

"Bagration probably already has the sent reserves, they cannot be returned," the commander–in–chief narrowed his eyes cunningly. "But I give you my word of honor not to touch the rest of the reserves. Go ahead, General."

Not entirely satisfied with Kutuzov's answer, Barclay turned around and rode back down the hill, telling the adjutant who had fallen behind on the way that he was following him:

"At least they won't disperse the rest of the reserve."

He was heading to the left flank, and during the battle he hardly left it anymore.

Barclay wanted to personally verify the condition of the second army and, if necessary, bring reinforcements to Prince Bagration. He rode so fast that his retinue could not keep up with him, and the horse, wheezing, began to sweat. 

Upon arrival at the village of Semenovskaya, near which the Flushes were located, Barclay found the second army in hot business. All of Bagration's reserves were put into action, but the enemy's superiority was obvious. By this time, the defenders of the flushes had already repelled five or six attacks, and now they were bayoneting Davout's infantry and other marshals out of position. However, the enemy relentlessly attacked the fortifications. The Russian soldiers, although they have held out for an unnaturally long time under such a strong onslaught, obviously will not last long. It was necessary to strengthen the left flank urgently.

Barclay turned his horse around and galloped back to the first army's positions. He intended to personally bring Bagration reinforcements. His already tired horse was wheezing and limping–it had apparently been shot in the leg–but it continued to gallop. However, her run inevitably slowed down, and despite all the attempts of the rider to make her go at a gallop, the animal refused.

Suddenly, Barclay noticed out of the corner of his eye that a group of Polish lancers was rushing towards him. He looked around: none of his entourage was in sight (they couldn't keep up with him). Meanwhile, the lancers, with their pikes thrust forward, were marching straight at him

Barclay tried to urge his horse on once more, but the lancers surrounded him in the blink of an eye, pinning him down with their long pikes. Barclay understood from the Poles' faces that they, seeing that in front of them was not just a general, but the commander of the enemy army, were clearly not going to kill him. It is much more honorable to capture such a bird. The lancers began to push Barclay towards the French positions, and he had already lost hope of salvation.

At that moment, he found himself in the field of view of his adjutants – Levenshtern, Zakrevsky and Seslavin. The young men, frozen for a second, looked at each other and tacitly agreed with each other that they had to save their general at all costs. After assessing the situation and realizing that the three of them could not cope with about a dozen lancers, they saw several Russian cavalrymen nearby and rushed towards them.

"Brothers! Brothers!" Seslavin shouted to the Hussars, and the Hussars stopped, paying attention to them.

"Help us!" Zakrevsky pointed in Barclay's direction.

The Hussars, realizing everything at once, together with the adjutants rushed straight at the Poles.

The Lancers were slowly but surely pushing Barclay towards the location of the French infantry. The general resisted, but the pikes pointed at him made it impossible for him to even draw his sword. The Poles, with cheerful and gloating faces, made fun of how simply they had caught the Russian commander (one of them knocked off his hat with a pike). Meanwhile, Barclay's face did not move a single muscle. He knew that he would rather die than surrender–not now, but later. And he looked at his captors with the greatest composure and contempt.

Then the hussars cut in behind the lancers, and a fight ensued. Barclay took advantage of the confusion of the Poles and pulled out his sword, took it in his left hand out of habit [1]. He struck out at the lancer closest to him, who, clearly not expecting his opponent to be a southpaw, missed a backhand. Another lancer, seeing this, shouted angrily and pointed a pike at Barclay. He thought he was already dead, but the pike plunged into the belly of his horse. Before the horse fell, Mikhail Bogdanovich managed to reach the enemy with his sword, and another lancer fell out of the saddle. 

Barclay followed him and found himself on the ground with a horse's foot pinned down, but unharmed. By this time, his aides-de-camp and the Hussars who came to their aid had cut down some of the lancers, and some of the lancers had disappeared in an unknown direction. 

Barclay was dragged off the horse's corpse and helped to get up.

"Are you all right, Your Excellency?"

Barclay nodded gratefully, dusted himself off from the dust and grass, sheathed his bloody sword, mounted the first horse he saw and rode to the location of the first army. Zakrevsky, Seslavin, and Levenstern, their hands scratched by the lancers, looked at each other, smiled joyfully at each other, happy that they had saved their general, thanked the Hussars for their help, and hurried after Barclay.

Faster! Make it! It is necessary to have time to bring reserves while the left flank holds! The blood throbbed in his ears, drowning out the roar of battle, the horse wheezed, did not want to obey, but a firm hand and spurs forced him to gallop forward. Barclay raced along, ignoring the balls that seemed to be flying after him, the bullets whistling over his head, and the grenades exploding a few meters away. He was on the very first line.

The soldiers saw a general flying in full dress on a white horse through the powder smoke that obscured the sun. He was like a shooting star in the black sky. The soldiers screamed, pointing at their venerable leader:

"He's looking for death!" 

And now, from every regiment he passed, "hurray!" thundered to him, but he did not hear this. 

At his disposal, Barclay found only the 4th corps, two infantry and one cavalry regiment. Without hesitation, he gathered them at the tip of the left flank with a hook and from there struck at the French.

By this time, the defenders of the flushes had already repelled the seventh attack.

Bagration was wounded during the eighth attack, when he led his regiments in a counterattack.

***

Having deployed the infantry corps, the Guards infantry and cuirassier regiments, as he needed, Barclay sent them to restrain Marshal Murat's offensive and, if possible, break through to Bagration. He was almost in the thick of the battle, standing and watching the progress of the battle, looking around. His attention was suddenly attracted by the white tents that were located a little way from the village of Semenovskaya in the birch grove.

Barclay saw from a distance a hussar regiment that was standing in reserve not far from the dressing station. Ambulances with two-wheeled wagons were constantly moving along the two-wheeled carriage leading to the checkpoint, taking the wounded from the battlefield. A hussar officer rode up to one of these wagons. Then he gave a command to the regiment, and the Hussars began to salute a passing carriage. Among other things, there were several adjutants riding behind the carriage, which only meant that the general was wounded. This alarmed Barclay. 

"Levenshtern!" He shouted, and his senior adjutant appeared in his field of vision. Only now Barclay noticed that he was pressing his right hand to his body, holding the reins in his left. "Are you hurt?" Barclay asked in surprise.

"A scratch, Your Excellency!" Levenstern grimaced. His sleeve was covered in blood.

"Go to the infirmary and find out what they have," Barclay ordered. "And show yourself to the doctor."

Levenshtern put his injured hand to the visor as best he could and drove to the dressing station.

A lot of people were crowding around the big white tents. There were wounded people, some standing, some lying down, and the militia who brought them and brought them, and paramedics. The doctors were all inside, continuously tending to the wounded, and only occasionally appeared from the depths of the tents to call the next patients. Levenshtern examined the area in front of the point and found that most of the people had gathered near the tent with the seriously wounded. The doctor who came out of the officers' tent, barely making his way through the crowd to the wounded man, began angrily dispersing the people. Levenstern finally saw who exactly had been brought here. 

Bagration was lying on the ground in front of him. His uniform had been unbuttoned by someone to facilitate the wounded man's breathing, and his shattered left leg in white leggings was covered in blood. The prince's face was very pale, cold sweat stood out on his forehead, but the general stubbornly kept his eyes open, did not stop watching the course of the battle from his position and demanded to be raised higher. Finally, he was brought into the tent, but Levenstern noticed his gaze on himself for a moment. A minute later, Bagration's adjutant ran up to him and informed him that the prince wanted to see him.

Perplexed, Levenstern entered the tent, and Bagration immediately glared at him. An anxious, almost pleading look, which was very uncharacteristic of the prince, so uncharacteristic that Levenstern froze at the entrance and felt his heart skip a beat. Bagration motioned for the adjutant to come closer, and when he approached, he grabbed his arm and asked in a weak voice:

"Tell me, is General Barclay alive?"

"He's alive, Your Excellency," Levenstern replied.

There were sparks of hope and joy in Bagration's eyes, dim and clouded with pain.

"Tell General Barclay that the fate and salvation of the army depend on him. So far, everything is going well, but let him keep an eye on my army..." He took a deep breath, as it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay conscious from the overwhelming feelings and pain. "Tell Barclay... Tell him "thank you" and... "I'm sorry"..."I'm sorry"...

The sight of Bagration's condition made Levenshtern feel a lump in his throat, and all he could say in a broken voice was,

"Yes, sir."

"May God preserve him..." Bagration muttered gratefully, and his eyes closed, and the hand holding the adjutant's arm fell limply onto the table on which the wounded man lay. The prince obviously lost a lot of blood, but how he had the strength not to lose consciousness from the pain will forever remain a mystery. 

The doctor examined the prince's wound and sighed sadly. A grenade fragment is fatal without amputation. That's what he announced [2].

Levenshtern was kicked out of the tent for the heavy ones and sent with his hand to the tent of the light ones. There, as an officer and adjutant who urgently needed to get back into action and report everything to the commander, he was accepted quickly. As soon as Levenstern had finished the simple dressing, he rushed to Barclay. 

Barclay was in the same place and, as usual, surveyed the surroundings through a telescope. Squadrons of Russian cuirassiers raced past him on the left, which he sent to repel the attack of Murat's cavalry. They encountered her in a field of ripe rye. Infantry columns were advancing from the right. But his attention was absorbed by the main fortifications of the left flank, and he did not like how close the French came to the flushes and how indecisive the Russians were. Something was wrong. At that moment, Levenstern galloped up to him on a sweating horse. Barclay understood from the pallor and hopeless expression on his adjutant's face that things were bad.

"Your... Your Excel..." Levenstern stammered, trying to catch his breath after a long and fast ride (he had to go around some places in order to appear safely in front of the general and report everything to him), and putting his hand to his visor. "Your Excellency..."

"Speak faster!" Barclay shouted at him irritably, wanting to hurry him up. The last thing he liked to do during a fight was waste valuable time.

"The Prince... Prince Bagration is wounded!"

"How?.. Seriously?"

"They say it's fatal, Your Excellency," Levenstern reported, pulling himself together. "He told me to tell you..." And he told his general everything that Bagration had asked him to tell him.

When the adjutant spoke, the indifference on Barclay's face, which usually did not pay attention to who was injured or killed next to him, was replaced by shock. It seemed to him that time had stopped, and the close, continuous roar of battle now reached him as if from afar. How is it that the eagle of Suvorov, the lion of the Russian army, the most worthy of the generals, is now lying and dying? What will happen to his army now? Barclay looked through the tube once more in the direction of the flushes, and saw how a fierce battle ensued there, after which the Russians began to retreat.

Without saying a word, Barclay rushed to the flushes, and his retinue followed him. The left flank, which had faltered after the death of the general beloved by the soldiers, had to be held at all costs. It was the duty of the surviving commander now to fulfill Bagration's will and save the second army from defeat.

Riding to the crest of the Semenovsky ravine, Barclay discovered that the central fleche was already occupied by the French, and the Russians were retreating in disorder. The chaos was complete. The situation was not much better on the two extreme flushes. The soldiers fled in fear, rushing across the ravine. Barclay should have stopped them.

"Stand still! Stop it!" he shouted, prancing in front of them on a dashing white horse, which was clearly visible even in the black powder smoke. "Where are you running to, you sons of bitches? Have you really forgotten that Moscow is behind us?"

The fact that there was a general in front of them, whose uniform, decorated with all the awards and a red ribbon and already splattered with blood, attracted everyone's attention, had its effect. The soldiers began to stop in indecision, looking at the general in confusion. Someone from the back began to return.

"Well, the prince is wounded, there is no one to command..." over the roar of the guns, an indecisive answer was heard from somewhere to the side.

Barclay understood unmistakably that at this critical moment, as the senior officer, he was obliged to take command and hold the position until a new commander of the orphaned army was appointed. 

"Listen to my command!" He shouted, looking over the heads of the soldiers. "Get in line!"

His voice, surprisingly powerful at this moment, could even be heard above the continuous cannonade. The soldiers, like moths in the night flying to the fire, gathered around their leader and formed into columns with more concentration. There were infantrymen, dragoons left without horses, and chasseurs from various regiments. All this motley mass was built on the crest of the ravine in three ranks under the command of Barclay.

"Charge up!" the general commanded.

The soldiers loaded and cocked their guns. The French, who had finally set up banners over the flushes, now began to approach in dense rows from the other side of the ravine.

"Aim!"

The Russian chain bristled with rifle barrels and fixed bayonets.

"Fire!"

The columns burst into flames, and several people fell out of the French ranks on the other side of the ravine. The return fire was not long in coming. The cannons of the French cannons that arrived began to mow down the Russian ranks, and bullets whistled famously over their heads. Sometimes they flew so close that Barclay thought – here it is, the fatal bullet! – but each time they passed him by, as if a guardian angel was protecting him in this battle. But they hit nearby adjutants and soldiers. Another of Barclay's aides-de-camp was wounded here, but the general, as usual, ignored this, continuing to command with his usual composure. 

The Russians fired back at the French with another volley, but there were so many of them that the infantry's guns definitely couldn't handle them. The French soldiers descended into the ravine and, under terrible crossfire, went to storm the new Russian position. 

The artillery bombardment did not stop. Suddenly, the horse under Barclay collapsed dead to the ground – a ball pierced its legs and chest, but the general himself remained unharmed. As a trained cavalryman, he managed to skillfully group himself during the fall. He stood up, shook himself off from the grass and demanded to bring him another horse, which was immediately brought. Jumping into the saddle, Barclay continued to observe the course of the battle. 

The French were never able to cross the deep ravine.

By this time, General Dokhturov, appointed the new commander of the second army, had arrived. Barclay handed over command to him with a clear conscience. A recognized master of defense, Dokhturov positioned guns on the crest of the ravine that came up with reserves, which immediately struck the advancing enemy. With the greatest composure and fatalism, the general put the drum on the ground and sat down on it, indicating that he did not intend to leave the place.

"Everyone die, but don't leave!" He ordered. "Moscow is behind us!"

Until the evening, Dokhturov did not retreat.

***

Meanwhile, the center of the battle shifted towards Kurgan hill, fortified by a large redoubt. This redoubt will remain in Russian history as the battery of General Rayevsky, and the French will call it the redoubt of death. Barclay de Tolly was rushing there. 

Kurgan hill was under heavy artillery fire from the very beginning of the battle. General Beauharnais fired guns at her for a long time. When it seemed to him that the resistance of the defenders of the redoubt had been broken, he launched an assault. French infantrymen and cavalrymen rushed to the heights, but the Russians responded with no less stubborn fire. The first attack on the redoubt was repulsed. However, new hordes of the enemy were still advancing on the battery.

Both the French and Russian guns were not silenced. All the approaches to the stronghold were littered with the bodies of the dead. The redoubt was firing back so desperately that it was completely covered in thick smoke, and from the outside it looked like just a huge cloud. 

The battery was running out of charges, and soon all the guns fell silent. Here, General Kutaisov, who the day before had given the order not to surrender to the enemy and, if necessary, to fire the last grapeshot shot at point-blank range, himself, true to his orders, having let the French cuirassiers on the minimum grapeshot shot, fired a shell at them. His horse later galloped into the Russian camp with a bloody saddle, and the general's body could not be found.

The 26th division, defeated by the French at Kurgan hill, began to withdraw in disarray. At this critical moment, General Yermolov, who unmistakably saw the threat of capturing the height, turned out to be at the battery. With his courage, he stopped the fleeing soldiers and took out the St. George crosses. With them in his hand, dragging him with him, he rushed to the battery. Many soldiers rushed after him and bravely marched on the enemy. It was not for nothing that Yermolov was called the guardian angel of the Russian troops: he flew in front of everyone with his arm outstretched holding medals, and behind him soldiers ran like an avalanche, like huge wings, rushing to help their brothers.

Barclay de Tolly, who was watching this, noticed that the French had sent reinforcements to the troops fighting at the height. He ordered his artillery and infantry to stop them. This measure has been a welcome success. Such heavy fire was opened on the French that the regiments were scattered and did not reach the redoubt to help.

The battery was hit. The French, who had not managed to escape, were completely exterminated. The French General Bon-Ami, whose brigade was the first to break into the battery, was captured. 

However, the Russian division suffered heavy losses and was withdrawn to the reserve. General Yermolov was wounded by buckshot. In his place, Barclay appointed General Likhachev and instructed his 24 division to continue the defense of Kurgan hill. 

A cavalry raid by Generals Uvarov and Platov from the right flank temporarily suspended the assault on the hill. The blow of the Russian cavalry in the rear of the French turned out to be unexpected, but not fatal for Napoleon. Uvarov and Platov returned with nothing, their attacks were repulsed, however, they won a couple of hours for the Russian army to strengthen the battery.

Gathering almost everything he had into one fist, Napoleon sent troops to storm Kurgan hill. Now regiments of cuirassiers and lancers were rushing at the Russian infantrymen, and hordes of infantry were advancing behind them. The shelling intensified – it seemed that Napoleon had decided to destroy the Russians with artillery. But the Russians stood to the death, withstanding the most terrible cannon fire.

The infantrymen, on whom the cuirassiers were rushing, courageously let the horsemen get within 60 paces and opened fire. Cuirassier armor did not save them from bullets, and the French cavalry had to retreat to their infantry. Russian hussar and dragoon regiments, on Barclay's orders, rushed after them, but the French infantry arrived in time and forced them to retreat in frustration.

Reinforced by reinforcements, the French cuirassiers, who had put the disordered regiments in order, rushed with renewed vigor to seize the height. Barclay de Tolly, who foresaw this attack, urgently sent for the cuirassier division, but his adjutant did not find it in its prescribed place, and therefore brought only two cuirassier regiments to his general.

French cuirassiers had already broken through the barrier of the Russian infantry, entered the rear of the battery defenders and surrounded as many as two Russian corps with the 24th division. The French infantry rushed after them. A desperate fight broke out at Kurgan hill – bloody and merciless hand-to-hand. The 24th division, as they will say later, disappeared not from the battlefield, but on the battlefield. General Likhachev, seriously wounded, was captured by the French. The remaining Russian soldiers began to retreat in frustration, and Barclay had to stop them. 

The French had managed to capture Kurgan hill, and now their countless hordes were gathering, preparing to deliver a decisive blow. Barclay gathered everything he could against them, but the sad fate of the 24 division was already presented to him. But he wasn't going to give up and walk away. 

Riding ahead of the regiments under construction (he had already changed his fourth horse), he gave orders in a sharp voice, showing his willingness to stand to the end. And the soldiers followed his example, following their leader with shining eyes. They knew that as long as their general was with them, they would stand no matter what.

"Hurray for Barclay!" Barclay heard as he passed the Semenovsky regiment, which was standing right there.

"Hu-urray!" it thundered from all sides. This has never happened before. 

Barclay even stopped in some confusion, looking at the soldiers. Outwardly, as before, he remained unperturbed, but something pinched in his soul. He saw the sincere desire of the soldiers to support him in this, perhaps, the last battle, felt their recognition and willingness to follow him through fire or water. However, this could not drive out from his heart the bitterness of the reproaches with which he had been covered all the time until now – it was too late, the resentment was too deep.

However, as a commander, he had no right to show this weakness at a crucial moment. Therefore, his face only hardened, and he himself saluted the soldiers standing in front of him (which caused even more jubilation), galloped along the ranks. 

And the French were already attacking. At this critical moment, two cuirassier Guards regiments hurried to Barclay at a trot. Barclay, having put the dragoons and hussars who had arrived with them in reserve, himself stood in front of the cuirassier regiments and pointed out the enemy to them. 

"Attack!" he shouted, and drew his sword himself.

Cuirassiers with a thunderous "hurray!" rushed at the French, followed by hussars and dragoons. Then a cavalry battle ensued, one of the most stubborn that has ever happened.

Barclay cut into the middle of the cavalry conning tower. Since he held a sword in his left hand, two of his aides-de-camp guarded him on the right: the brave men and the slashers von Klingfer and Count Leiming. The rest of Barclay's aides-de-camp were slaughtering along with their general. Some unknown force kept Barclay alive in this battle: around him, the most skilled officers fell from their saddles, but he himself did not receive a single wound. Soon, Count Laiming was shot at point-blank range, who shielded the general from a dragoon bullet with his body. After some time, von Klingfer was also killed, who was thrown from the saddle and trampled by hooves.

The enemy cavalry retreated, but, having formed up under the protection of their infantry and artillery, they again struck at the exhausted Russian cavalry. The Russians retreated to their infantry. Russian horse artillery soon arrived, and with its help, the French were finally put to flight.

However, Kurgan hill still remained behind the enemy and stubbornly defended itself. 

"This is sad," Barclay said when he was informed that the French were still holding their positions tightly and were unable to overturn them. "But if it doesn't work out today, we'll take it back tomorrow."

And in the manner of Beauharnais, he ordered the height to be bombarded with cannons. The cannonade did not subside until the evening.

Only in the late afternoon did Barclay go to Kutuzov's command post. For the first time that day, he dismounted from his horse, drank a glass of rum and ate a piece of bread offered to him, continuing to watch the course of the battle.

Soon the darkness of the night brought silence from the Russian side too.

***

Both armies faced each other where they had been standing since morning – the French retreated from the heights they occupied, while the Russians remained in their positions. Both armies were exhausted, drained of blood, thinned out, but still ready for further struggle.

Barclay ordered General Miloradovich and his corps to occupy the heights near the village of Gorki, and Dokhturov offered to take up positions defended by the second army the day before. Having built bonfires, the troops fortified their positions. Near the village of Gorki, the militia began to build a redoubt without the slightest rest. 

After conducting a recoccination, Barclay discovered that only scattered groups of the enemy remained on Kurgan hill, engaged in their retreat. He instructed Miloradovich to drive the French out of the battery. The general, smiling rakishly, unexpectedly attacked the enemy with several battalions, and the French left the redoubt in a panic. Kurgan hill was again in the hands of the Russians.

Barclay reported all this to Kutuzov, who approved of his every action, thanked him and informed him that at dawn he would personally arrive at the location of the first army to continue the battle. Everyone was comforted by the victory they had won today, and no one doubted that the battle would continue the next day.

It was almost midnight. After giving out the last orders, Barclay, completely exhausted, without undressing, collapsed on a bench in his office and immediately fell asleep.

Suddenly, he felt someone gently shaking his shoulder.

"Your Excellency!.. Your Excellency!"

He abruptly opened his eyes and, bleary from sleep, saw a familiar face above him. Grabbe, General Yermolov's adjutant, stood in front of him.

"His Serene Highness orders you to withdraw beyond Mozhaysk," the adjutant reported softly but clearly. 

Barclay did not understand what was said to him at first.

"What?"

"The order is to retreat," Grabbe repeated a little louder.

No one knew how Barclay would react to this, but no one expected that this always cool, restrained, polite, unflappable in any situation and seemingly incapable of any harsh word or the slightest increase in his voice, the German commander would start swearing the most selective Russian, the blackest soldier's foul language. There was no trace of drowsiness left. Barclay, who jumped up from his seat, began waving his arms and cursing at everyone who caught his eye (especially the unfortunate Grabbe), interspersing the abuse with screams:

"How to retreat?! Where to retreat to?! We're standing! There will be a fight tomorrow! I'm going to Kutuzov's right now! It's his staff sheep that messed up something! The field is behind us! The positions are behind us! And we will not leave them!"

Adjutants and other staff members, who had long been awakened by these screams, looked into the minister's office at their own risk and froze with sad and shocked faces. Barclay paced the room with long strides, rushing about like a wounded and cornered animal, without ceasing to scream and swear. Stretching his sleepy face with his hands, he ordered:

"My horse!"

One of the adjutants slipped out of the office, hurrying to carry out the order. Barclay took long, quick steps resolutely towards the exit, and the people in front of him respectfully and fearfully parted. In anger, the commander became truly terrifying.

Barclay had no time to leave when General Dokhturov's adjutant appeared on the threshold. With a calm face in contrast to the others present in the room, he put his hand to the visor and handed the commander a note. The minister froze in front of the officer, took the paper in his hands more calmly and began to read.

He read it once. It can't be! He read it a second time. He didn't believe it anyway.

Dokhturov wrote that the second army, by order of the commander-in-chief, had already withdrawn from its positions and was retreating to Mozhaysk. This was enough for the authenticity of His Serene Highness' order to be confirmed.

There was a deathly silence. Barclay, having once again scanned the note with his eyes, helplessly looked up at the mournful and confused faces of his adjutants. Then, clasping his hands helplessly, he dropped the piece of paper, which gently floated to the dusty floor, and with awkward steps went behind his desk. In absolute silence, he fell into a chair and dropped his head into his hands on the table.

Why does he need all this? Providence was definitely mocking him. At first, it had spared his painful life, and now it was taking away his last hope of fulfilling his innermost desire. And, ironically, another retreat, as it was near Smolensk.

Why is the commander-in-chief doing this to the army? After all, they repelled all the attacks, stayed where they were in the morning, and recaptured what they had captured from the French! After all, they swore to stand to the end, not to yield to the enemy of Moscow! And now they're running from the field like rabbits!

Why were there so many deaths today? Why did the merry Kutaisov die? Why did the brave Prince Bagration suffer? Why are so many of the same Bagrations, Kutaisovs, and Tuchkovs [3] left lying on this field? Someone will answer – for the fatherland. But the fatherland, with its bloodless army, which, in addition to everything else, was forced to retreat from the last frontier in view of the enemy, was now in much greater mortal danger. It was necessary to stand up to the end so that the Napoleonic hordes would smash against the wall of Russian bayonets! But once again – the hateful retreat!

Suddenly, Barclay remembered the very night after leaving Smolensk, when Bagration, enraged by his order to withdraw, burst into his room. He did not look at the prince's face then, considering him arrogant and uncivil. It was only now that he began to understand how Bagration might have felt back then. He could not see so much despair and pain that he was experiencing now in the prince because of the abyss of hostility and dislike that was between them. Fighting shoulder to shoulder on the Borodino field, they truly became comrades-in-arms, were able to reconcile and forgive each other's wrongs (although they did not see each other in person) and were spiritually with each other, and each had the same heartache for the other. And Barclay could feel it now.

He told the prince then that the retreat was a cold calculation aimed at destroying Napoleon. He still held the same opinion. But then why did his heart hurt so much? Was it really because, resisting the order to retreat with his soul now, he doubted the correctness of his actions earlier?

One way or another, the reasons that influenced the change in the commander-in-chief's decision about tomorrow's battle will forever remain a mystery to him. 

Meanwhile, these reasons are quite trivial. Huge irreparable losses were suffered on both sides. However, while the Russians today used all their resources, Napoleon did not risk his guard, although he could. He could have thrown his last, most reliable reserve into battle, and then the Russians would have no chance to resist. The withdrawal, while the army is combat-ready, gives hope for the continuation of the struggle.

Anyway, the withdrawal order has been given, and, as Barclay himself told Bagration at the time, it must be carried out, not discussed. And, having been brought up to obey the orders of his superiors, Barclay could not but reluctantly obey.

He finally got up, gathering his courage, looked at the adjutants, who stretched out in front of him with alacrity, and began to speak in a voice hoarse from recent screams:

"Levenshtern, ride to Ataman [4] Platov and order him to cross to our bank of the Moscow River," the adjutant stepped forward, listening to his general. "Let him take three chasseurs and one hussar regiment and form the rear guard of our army. All other troops, retreat."

Levenshtern took his leave and hurried to carry out the order. The other adjutants, dismissed by Barclay, saluted the general and began to disperse. Barclay sat down heavily in an armchair again and returned to the same position, dropping his head in his hands.

He spent the rest of the night like that, unable to sleep.

Chapter Text

– But tell me, uncle, why our men

Let Moscow burn, yet fought again

To drive the French away?

M.Y. Lermontov

It was dark on the Borodino field in the early morning of August 27. There was an unimaginable eerie silence. The battlefield was covered with morning mist, which seemed to bury the fallen warriors. Even the birds seemed to have decided to honor them with their silence. There was not a sound on the field: the beast, frightened by the battle, was hiding, and even the wind did not blow, as if it was afraid to disperse the veil of fog, so as not to reveal to the eye the terrible sight of the dead on the battlefield.

Barclay, who had not slept that night (which was very noticeable by his appearance), stood on the hill where the Russian battery was located the day before, and looked into the distance with a detached, thoughtful look. General Yermolov quietly approached him from behind and stood next to him. The chief of Staff of the first army, as well as its commander, always left with the last detachment, so both were somewhat delayed in their positions.

Yermolov, nodding his head to the commander, made the necessary report on which parts of the army had already withdrawn from their positions and which were just gathering, and Barclay accepted it with an absent-minded nod. 

"How is your wound?" he asked the general emotionlessly.

"God was merciful," Yermolov replied just as dryly.

"Your actions yesterday deserve the highest praise, Alexey Petrovich," Barclay said. 

Yermolov, who did not expect the commander's approval, was clearly embarrassed.

"I did only what was required of me to defend the fatherland," he replied like a soldier. " Your Excellency showed much more courage in yesterday's case."

Barclay, at these words of the general, lowered his eyes to the floor and, sighing and not looking at the interlocutor, began to peer into the distance again. There was a tense, sad pause.

The relationship between Yermolov and Barclay de Tolly was very difficult. They both disliked each other, but they both respected each other's abilities equally. Sometimes, like now, they didn't mind each other's silent company at all. Yermolov, as a military man, could not help but pay tribute to the minister as a commander. He, like thousands of other Russian soldiers, saw yesterday how the commander, specially dressed to be a bright, visible target for an enemy bullet, and not hiding at all, was personally present in all dangerous places, as everything was arranged by him and around him. Yermolov couldn't help but notice this for himself. Barclay, on the other hand, trusted his chief of staff with important assignments and his own considerations, knowing full well that Yermolov, as an educated and intelligent man, would understand everything and carry it out without question.

"Yesterday I was looking for death, and I did not find it."

This revelation, uttered in an incredibly mournful voice, surprised Yermolov very much. The general looked at the minister and noticed how his shoulders slumped and how his eyes sparkled. Having had many opportunities to learn about Barclay's firm character, Yermolov suddenly realized that this undoubtedly strong man, who had suffered so much grief and upheaval lately, was only one step away from breaking down. But it's hard to break strong people, but if they break, they break forever. 

This realization struck Yermolov so much that, usually witty and eloquent, he could not find what to answer. Was there any need to answer? 

They stood there in silence until they were informed that the last detachment, except for the rearguard, was ready to move.

The exhausted French began to show activity only closer to nine o'clock in the morning. By this time, the thinned Russian armies, with heavy hearts, but not broken, were already halfway to Mozhaysk.

***

This momentous retreat was difficult for both the army and Barclay. The commander, driving past the columns, observed continuous riots on the roads: the troops, who did not have guides, often stopped when even the simplest obstacles appeared, the slightest breakdowns of bridges, while passing villages. Often, those units that were supposed to clear the way for the columns themselves cluttered the roads with pontoons, tool carts, and militia carts that meshed with each other. Finally, after a difficult march, the very tired soldiers arrived at their campsite outside Mozhaysk, but they wandered for a long time, not knowing where to stop, and eventually spent the night right on the side of the road. Chief of Staff Bennigsen could not be found. It seemed that in this retreat, only God was the guide of the Russian army.

The next day, the Russian troops, who heard gunfire behind them (Platov's rearguard in Mozhaysk collided with the French vanguard), continued their retreat to Moscow. On this second crossing, Barclay already felt feverish seizures, but despite his weakness, he spent the whole day in the saddle, tirelessly coordinating the retreat.

The next day, however, the fever became so severe that Barclay was forced to go to bed, unable to ride anymore. This was the result not so much of the real campaign and the efforts made by Barclay in the Borodino case, as of the chagrin and resentment that he experienced hourly. He could no longer bear to be treated with disdain by everyone: from the private to Kutuzov, because he served honestly, he could not let go of his grievances while fighting on the Borodino field, and sincerely regretted that he had come out of the battle unscathed.

However, the awareness of the need to participate in the affairs of the army, no matter what, for the sake of the fatherland, still gave him strength. Upon the arrival of the armies to Moscow, Barclay strengthened, but his painful condition would torment him for several months to come.

By the first of September, the armies had reached the Fili tract right under the walls of Moscow. Kutuzov decided to give battle here. He ordered the construction of a battery on Poklonnaya Gora and swore by his gray hair that Napoleon would be able to enter the capital [1] only over his dead body. However, the generals (especially those who knew the prince well) had a premonition that the cunning old man would not fight here, only pretending to be ready for battle and looking for a plausible excuse for further retreat. Nevertheless, there were clashes between the Commander-in-chief and his subordinates.

In order to resolve the accumulated differences, Kutuzov called Barclay, who was still ill, to him and instructed him to go around the positions and report on the situation.

Barclay, to put it mildly, was surprised at the sight of the position. He immediately realized that it was weak. Many divisions were separated from each other by insurmountable potholes, in one of which a river flowed, interrupting all communication. The right flank rested on a vast forest, and it cost the enemy's excellent marksmen nothing to occupy it and shoot the right flank. At the same time, the left flank, completely unable to come to his aid, was forced to calmly watch his destruction. In addition, there was a ditch so long and deep behind the positions of the first army that it was hardly possible for one person to cross it. The reserves on the right flank were so poorly placed that the French cannonballs would have penetrated all four lines. The cavalry no longer had that advantage, and if it had not been immediately put to flight, it would also have been quietly awaiting its destruction. In general, all positions were stretched over a space of more than four miles, on which the army, weakened by the Battle of Borodino, was located like a spider's web. Behind the Russian troops was the vast city of Moscow and the river of this name. Eight floating bridges were built on this river, both above and below the city, but some of them were built on banks so steep that only infantry could cross in case of retreat. The rest of the army, if defeated, would have been destroyed to the last man, since retreating through such a large city with tangled streets while the enemy was pursuing is an impossible thing.

Barclay immediately went to the Commander-in-Chief's apartment, and on the way he ran into Chief of the General Staff Bennigsen. He revealed to the general all the disadvantages of the position and then asked:

"Has it been decided to bury the entire army in this place?"

Bennigsen seemed surprised, and stated that he would personally check the left flank, however, instead of the location of the army, he went to his apartment.

Barclay returned to Kutuzov and described the position to him with the help of a sketch he had sketched. After listening to the general, Kutuzov was horrified and asked for Colonel Toll's opinion. Toll acknowledged all of Barclay's remarks as fair, adding that he himself would never have chosen this position and was forced to admit that the armies were in great danger in this position. 

It was from this moment on that Kutuzov seriously thought about leaving Moscow without a fight, and this thought quickly swept everyone.

On this day, the Governor-General of Moscow, Count Rostopchin, arrived in Fili at the location of the Russian army. Being a military man who controlled the whole of Moscow and the Moscow province, he wanted to know first-hand information about the Russian army. The first thing he did was visit Barclay. This was explained by their long-standing friendly attachments: both were simple and straightforward, they did not bend their hat to anyone, they were known as ardent anti-Bonapartists and extreme patriots. Besides, Rostopchin's son served as Barclay's aide-de-camp, and it was convenient for the count to see him as well.

Barclay was glad to meet with an old friend, but the circumstances of their meeting turned out to be completely bleak. They started the conversation with a topical issue for everyone.

"Is Moscow really going to be surrendered, Mikhail Bogdanovich?" Rostopchin asked, coming into the minister's room and shaking his hand.

Barclay shook his head, unsure of what answer to give. He motioned for the governor to sit down, and when he was seated at the table, he sat down opposite him.

"I am in favor of leaving the capital without a fight," he answered the count frankly. "And I intend to firmly adhere to this opinion."

"But why?" The governor asked uncomprehendingly. 

"The emperor values the army above all else, and he is ready to do anything to save it," Barclay began to explain calmly. "In the triad that is at stake today: the army, Moscow or Russia, we must reluctantly choose Russia, no matter how hot it may be, with a cold head. But by itself, it will not fend off the usurper," he paused for a moment. "Russia is now like a widow on the road who can be offended by any villain, and therefore, loving her and cherishing her, we must choose the most important element of the triad – the army that will save Russia."

Rostopchin seemed to be beginning to understand the minister, silently nodding his head. His face was gloomy, but he listened attentively without interrupting. 

"As for Moscow," Barclay continued after another short pause, "there is no doubt that Moscow is a great city, even the first, but nevertheless one of many. Therefore, having lost it, but having withdrawn the army from it, the struggle still continues and there is still hope for the salvation of Russia and the liberation of Moscow."

"And what does His Serene Highness think?" Rostopchin asked gloomily, unable to challenge his interlocutor's point of view, as he fully understood him. However, it was not an easy decision to accept.

"He thinks the same way," Barclay replied. "And, to be honest, it's impossible to think otherwise: otherwise everything will end in utter collapse – we won't save the army and will lose Moscow."

Rostopchin spread his hands angrily.

"So what now?" he asked. "You'll leave, and what if the enemy gets everything? So that he could bask on our feather beds, drink and eat with three throats, hide from the cold in our houses, feed the horses from our supplies and rob the valuables himself?" the governor sprayed. 

"How much can he take from us?" Barclay asked, and after a pause, he suddenly added: "We have three tens of thousands of wounded in the wagons."

Rostopchin nodded his head, somewhat upset, but in the affirmative.

"Then we shouldn't sit idly by," the governor clapped his hands with angry enthusiasm. "I evacuated important institutions from the city a long time ago, the treasury and valuable archives have been saved, many residents have been leaving the city for several days, and soon there will be no more than fifty thousand of the poorest people who have no other shelter."

"You can't take everything out..." the minister remarked.

"If we don't take everything out, the fire will destroy it," Rostopchin said firmly, flashing his eyes, in which a flame seemed to flash. "Bonaparte will get only ashes on the place where the capital stood, you'll see, Mikhail Bogdanovich! I'm Count Rostopchin, Governor-General of Moscow, and I'm telling you so."

Barclay rose respectfully and extended his hand to Rostopchin, who warmly shook it with equal alacrity.

"In less than a couple of months, Napoleon will flee from Russia," Barclay assured the count. "This is what I, the Minister of War, General Barclay de Tolly, am telling you."

After saying goodbye to each other, the generals went about their business. Rostopchin went to Kutuzov, and Barclay called Yermolov to him. 

When the chief of Staff of the first army appeared to him, Barclay, as frankly as he had to the Moscow governor, interpreted to him with excellent prudence and thoroughness the need for retreat and invited him with him to His Serene Highness. Yermolov, who had been listening to him thoughtfully and silently all this time, followed him to the commander-in-chief and realized that no one better than the Minister of War could have known ways to continue the war, and which of them was currently possible to use. In order to use the most reliable of them, it was necessary to gain time, so a retreat from Moscow was necessary.

They found Rostopchin at Kutuzov's. The prince and the count had apparently been talking for a long time, and now the governor was about to leave. As he left the commander-in-Chief's office, he turned to look at the prince and those who had entered and said:

"If you leave Moscow without a fight, you will see it burning after you!"

And Rostopchin, without receiving a significant response from Kutuzov, disappeared out the door. Puzzled, Barclay and Yermolov turned questioning glances at the commander-in-chief, who began to seem very pleased with himself. 

Barclay greeted His Serene Highness and told him their thoughts about leaving Moscow, and the Commander-in-chief's face became quite pleased. Apparently, Kutuzov's thoughts were similar to Barclay's, and now he seemed glad that he was not the first to voice the idea of leaving Moscow, and, therefore, it would not be assigned to him.

"I confess, until this day I could not even imagine that the enemy would not find any advantages in acquiring Moscow," Kutuzov groaned admiringly. "So there's no reason to keep her with a sensitive loss."

However, it was difficult for the commander-in-chief to make such a decision alone, and in order to deflect all possible reproaches from himself, he ordered the generals to convene a council.

***

The military council, which will go down in history as the Fili Council, was attended by: Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Army Kutuzov, Chief of the General Staff Bennigsen, Minister of War Barclay de Tolly, Chief of Staff of the first Army Yermolov, corps commanders: Rayevsky, Konovnitsyn, Uvarov, Dokhturov (previously commander of the second army), Osterman-Tolstoy, as well as Quartermaster General Colonel Toll. Of the senior officers, only the head of the rearguard, Miloradovich, was not present. He was tasked with negotiating with Marshal Murat, commander of the French vanguard, not to enter Moscow on the shoulders of the Russians, or Miloradovich would start fighting for every street and every house and leave the capital in ruins.

When everyone was assembled (the council was called at four o'clock in the afternoon, Bennigsen was expected until six o'clock), Kutuzov rose from his seat and outlined in detail the situation in which the Russian troops found themselves. The main question is: what to do – to surrender Moscow without a fight or to fight? He invited all the generals to speak out.

He gave Barclay the first word, and Barclay got up and, without a shadow of doubt, began to say what he had personally said to the commander-in-chief earlier:

"I believe, gentlemen, that the main issue for saving the fatherland is the preservation of the army. I am a military man. Moscow is, first of all, a position for me, a position unsuitable for defense. In the position in which the army is now, we will probably be defeated, and everything that does not fall into the hands of the enemy on the battlefield will be destroyed during the retreat of the army through Moscow."

These words caused outrage among some generals, especially Bennigsen.

"Leave our ancient, sacred Moscow?!" he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. "It is better to die under its walls than to give it to Napoleon to be mocked!"

"We have to retreat," Barclay replied in a firm tone. "It is true, it is sad to leave the capital to the enemies, but if we do not lose our courage and become active, then the capture of Moscow will prepare for the complete overthrow of the enemy."

"But the emperor is unlikely to approve of your insistence on retreat!" Bennigsen wagged a finger at him.

"The loss of Moscow will be sensitive for the emperor, but it will not be a sudden incident for him, and he will not be inclined or shaken by his determination to continue the war with firmness by the end," Barclay replied quite calmly. "By saving Moscow, Russia is not saved from a cruel and ruinous war; but by saving the army, the hopes of the fatherland are not yet destroyed, and the war, the only means of salvation, can continue with convenience."

Bennigsen didn't say anything against it.

"I suggest we attack anyway!" he declared. "I propose to put the corps on the right flank, withdraw the army behind the moat to the left flank and attack the enemy's right wing!"

"We should have thought of that earlier and positioned the army accordingly," Barclay coldly remarked to him. "It's too late now."

And he explained to Bennigsen once again that the army was in an extremely uncomfortable position, that many units were led by people who were not qualified for this [2] and that in the darkness of the night, even the bravest army, which was Russian, was unable to make a dangerous crossing in front of the enemy with such commanders. Kutuzov not only approved of Barclay's opinion and sympathized with his speech, but also supported it. At a critical moment in the war, the opinions of the two commanders completely coincided.

"At Friedland," Kutuzov said, gloatingly squinting at Bennigsen with his sighted eye, "it seems there was a similar position, eh?"

Perhaps there was no more painful reminder for Bennigsen than the reminder of his Friedland disaster, when, due to a similar position and refusal to retreat, he was completely defeated by Napoleon. The general, deathly pale with anger, sank back into his seat and fell silent. 

Kutuzov gave the floor to General Yermolov. Yermolov, very unreasonably, offered to attack (he understood this himself, but because he was still young and little known, he was afraid to agree to leave Moscow because of possible reproaches in his direction).

"You say that, my dear fellow," Kutuzov replied with displeasure, "because you will not be responsible."

The next speakers were Dokhturov and Uvarov, who also spoke in favor of fighting.

Konovnitsyn, with his characteristic desire for compromise, admitted that in honor of the ancient capital, it would be appropriate for the rearguard to give the last battle, while the rest of the army should retreat.

Colonel Toll, like no one else, who perfectly understood all the disadvantages of the position, called for a retreat.

Rayevsky spoke next.

"Russia," he said, "is not in Moscow, but among its sons. Most of all, the army must be protected. My opinion is to leave Moscow without a battle."

His words were met with some reverent silence. Kutuzov nodded approvingly to the general and gave the floor to Count Osterman.

"I agree with Nikolai Nikolaevich," Osterman-Tolstoy said, standing up. "Moscow does not constitute Russia, and saving Russia is the only important goal for us. In order to save the army, I suggest retreating."

Bennigsen, noticing that the votes were roughly evenly divided, made another attempt to turn the situation around in favor of his opinion, insisting on a battle. Then Osterman-Tolstoy, who was still standing, turned to him:

"Is Your Excellency responsible for the success of the proposed enterprise?"

It was a somewhat unreasonable question, but Bennigsen could not find an answer to it. He paused again.

It's time for the Commander-in-Chief to make his decision. Kutuzov heaved a sigh and rose from his seat.

"I order you to retreat, according to the will given to me by the emperor and the fatherland," he said with difficulty but firmly. "With the loss of Moscow, Russia is not lost yet. If we keep the army, but lose Moscow, there is hope to save Russia. If we don't save the army, we won't save either Moscow or Russia," Kutuzov once again looked at all the generals. "I accept responsibility for this before the emperor and the fatherland. I order you to retreat."

The decision to leave Moscow was not easy for everyone who participated in the Fili council.

When the question of retreat was resolved, the question arose about the direction of the army's movement. Barclay proposed to withdraw along the Vladimir Road to the north in order to block the way for the French to St. Petersburg, where the royal family was located. Toll objected to him, arguing that it was necessary to move to Kaluga, closer to the southern provinces rich in provisions (in Kaluga, among other things, huge food supplies were being harvested). Kutuzov also decided to withdraw to Ryazan.

After giving out the last instructions, Kutuzov dismissed the generals, and he sank into his chair and propped his head on his hand, closing his eyes with a tired look. The generals began to leave the room one by one, saluting the commander-in-chief in turn. Barclay was the last to follow Bennigsen.

Bennigsen stopped abruptly right in front of Barclay and turned on him, glaring angrily.

"You have achieved your goal, Mikhail Bogdanovich!" he said with hatred. "The fate of Moscow was determined by you back in Smolensk!"

And, turning away from him, he left the office, slamming the door right in Barclay's face. Bennigsen's remark unexpectedly stirred up memories of leaving Smolensk and awakened the question that Barclay had been asking himself since His Serene Highness joined the army and retreated to Borodino. A pang of injustice appeared in his chest, constricting his heart, and Barclay realized that he could no longer endure it. The general turned around and walked to the center of the room, standing tall in front of Kutuzov. 

"Wasn't my plan of retreat right?"

Kutuzov removed his hand from his face and stared thoughtfully at Barclay for a long time with his only sighted eye. Then the field marshal got up and approached the general.

"If I had not recognized the correctness of your plan," he said, raising his index finger to the top, "I would have given battle to Napoleon immediately upon my arrival in the army, and not retreated to Borodino."

"Then why do you allow them to insult me in your presence when I do not deserve it?"

Barclay asked this question from somewhere in the depths of his wounded soul, and he wanted Kutuzov, the commander-in-chief, Field Marshal, and His Serene Highness the Prince, to answer it in a purely human way. But the prince still remained cold in his relations with Barclay, and he was not concerned about the mental state of his subordinates, but about army affairs. 

"Isn't Bennigsen right when he says that the fate of Moscow was determined back in Smolensk?" Kutuzov answered the question coldly, as was his custom.

It was true, and Barclay knew it. He remembered perfectly well how one day near Smolensk he had allowed himself the imprudence to speak of Moscow as a point on a geographical map, how he had thought of retreating to the Volga, just to avoid giving Napoleon the battle he so wanted, and which the Russians might not win. But wasn't all this done for the benefit of the fatherland? Wouldn't that have brought defeat to the French? The fact that Kutuzov recognized the correctness of Barclay's actions was somewhat comforting, but all the more misunderstanding grew in his soul: why was Kutuzov's retreat forgiven, but Barclay was not, if everything was done correctly?

Kutuzov, who was staring intently at Barclay, perfectly understood the meaning of the pause and shrewdly shook his head. 

"But wasn't what I did done in anticipation of the common good?" Barclay asked.

Kutuzov sighed sadly and understandingly, looking away from him with a softened gaze.

"From the day when you comprehend the truth yourself, to the day when the truth triumphs, sometimes human life is not enough," he turned his gaze to the general and somehow put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "Accept it, Barclay," he said in a sad and calm voice. "In such a difficult hour for the whole fatherland, is it conceivable to remember grievances that are grievous to oneself?"

And this was what Kutuzov told him – a man whom the entire Russian army and the whole of Russia loved and believed in, a man who did not know what sidelong contemptuous glances were, what reproaches behind his back were, what accusations of cowardice and treason were thrown in his face, what joking verses composed about his person were, what is distrust and hatred towards him just because he is not Russian!

Barclay realized with bitterness that he had tried in vain to seek support from the commander-in-chief. An experienced courtier, Kutuzov suffered no less from the machinations of intriguers (such as Bennigsen), but he was masterfully able to cope with them, often personally becoming the leader of conspiracies. And now, in connection with the abandonment of Moscow, the field marshal will definitely try to deflect any dissatisfaction from himself as much as possible (which was quite natural). Barclay already sensed from the mood of Bennigsen and the other generals that most of the blame, as always, would fall on his head.

He did not answer Kutuzov, looking away from him. Throughout the campaign, he thought only of the good of Russia (and today was no exception), swallowed all the hurtful accusations that were thrown in his face, continued to follow his plan. He resigned himself to his fate when he returned from the Borodino field without a scratch, at a time when he was looking for death there. He obeyed the retreat order, which in his opinion was wrong. He now endured the commander-in-chief's contemptuous attitude. He understood that he was not the only one who was having a hard time these days, and now he mentally reproached himself for having dared to show this weakness. But all this time, the barrel of his patience was full, and today it suddenly began to spill. Kutuzov with his words forcibly patched it so that it would not leak at an inconvenient moment and continued to absorb water instead of letting the accumulated flow out. But sooner or later, it will all burst with greater force, tear apart from the pressure of the water, spill, and then it will be too late to plug the leaks and collect the spilled.

Barclay nodded to the commander-in-chief and, with an incredibly sad look, straightened the overcoat draped over his shoulders, hung his head, and headed for the exit. Kutuzov watched the tall, haggard figure of the general disappear quietly through the door.

"Oh, Barclay, Barclay," the field marshal thought in frustration. "Is Moscow just a position? Moscow is... is... " He felt a lump rise in his throat and his eyes sting. "Moscow!.."

"Moscow" – how much is in this word for a Russian person! Moscow is not only a point on a geographical map, not only a large, beautiful, lively city, not only an ancient sacred capital. She is like the mother of Russian cities, history, and Russian identity. She is like the heart of the country, of the whole people, and not only because there are many roads leading to it, as to Rome. Going into battle, her defenders pronounce "Moscow!" as a child pronounces "mom!". And, like a mother that immediately rushes to this call, she supports her sons, not letting them break down in battle. 

For Kutuzov, despite the admiration with which he accepted the offer to leave Moscow, making this decision was akin to having his heart torn out. He understood intellectually that it was impossible otherwise, but his soul ached from the fact that the sons were unable to protect the mother of Russian cities from the enemy's abuse.

Kutuzov slowly sank to the floor, kneeling in front of the images. Several times during the night, someone heard the commander-in-chief crying in his room.

Chapter Text

O unhappy leader! Your lot was harsh, –

You sacrificed everything to a foreign land.

Impenetrable to the gaze of the wild rabble, 

You walked alone in silence with a great thought...

A.S. Pushkin

Since Barclay was the first to voice the idea of leaving Moscow without a fight, Kutuzov instructed him to conduct reconnaissance and further coordinate the retreat of Russian troops. Barclay, who was very happy for the fate of the army, despite his painful condition, had no choice but to obey. He, along with his adjutants Sanglen and Rostopchin, went to Moscow immediately after the council. The young Rostopchin, as the son of the Moscow governor, grew up in the capital and as a boy explored it inside and out, so he knew the city like the back of his hand. 

Upon entering the city, they were barely able to push through the crowd and drive to the Kremlin to explore the surroundings from the bell tower of Ivan the Great. The streets were packed with carts of refugees and the wounded, all heading east. Residents left the city, trying to take with them as much as possible, evacuate as many wounded soldiers as possible. In such circumstances, the army's retreat was very difficult. Barclay decided that the army would pass through the capital at night. Closer to nine o'clock in the evening, when it was already dark, the Russian armies were divided into two columns and moved through Moscow. 

The council's decision was already known to the troops, but the Russian soldier marched through the capital unbroken. Because of Kutuzov's orders to bring the wounded from everywhere to Moscow, there were more of them in the city than she had ever seen before. The soldiers even looked at it with indignation. Their souls were torn apart by the groans of their comrades, who were forced to remain at the mercy of the enemy. The insulting indifference of the capital to the plight of the soldiers, however, did not dampen their zeal, and everyone was ready to rise to its defense.

There were almost no residents left, houses were closed and boarded up, vast areas resembled steppes. The shops with the goods that had not been taken out were barely covered, but the soldiers did not rush to rob them. Due to the fact that the governor evacuated all institutions from Moscow (including the police and fire brigades), the troops did not have guides, and the officers had to make remarkable efforts to maintain discipline in the units and not delay the retreat. Barclay, who personally spent more than eighteen hours continuously in the saddle and was present everywhere, consoled himself with the thought that if he had not made these efforts, the troops would have had difficulty leaving Moscow, since the retreat was still not carried out in the greatest order.

Anyway, by about the evening of the second of September, Moscow was almost completely empty. General Miloradovich, the commander of the rearguard, was able to negotiate with the King of Neopolitan, and he agreed to wait until the last Russian soldier left the capital. Thanks to this arrangement, the Russian troops and most of the residents were able to leave the city. 

Napoleon and his army approached Moscow.

The Emperor and his retinue stood on Poklonnaya Gora. The view of the ancient Russian capital delighted him, took his breath away – here it is, Moscow! The captured capital is like a defamed virgin – so Napoleon believed – no matter how much you justify yourself, you will not return purity. So many capitals have already fallen before him! Now Moscow, illuminated by the bright sun, white-stone, with golden domes of churches, still so innocent, sprawled at his feet, as if waiting for the victor to enter it. Left behind were endless marches in the heat without a drop of water, half-starved overnight stays in the pouring rain. There is fire, blood and thousands of dead behind. Ahead is the peace that Napoleon hoped to get here. 

He was waiting for a deputation of officials with the keys to the city. Time passed. There was no one there. Napoleon was getting impatient.

French soldiers entered Moscow, but instead of enthusiastic citizens and music, as was the case in other capitals they conquered, they were greeted by deathly deserted streets and squares, boarded-up empty houses staring at them with cold dark windows, and deathly silence, broken only by the ominous cawing of crows. 

On the same evening, fires started in Moscow. The wooden city, dried by the September sun, burst into flames like gunpowder. It was blazing in Zaryadye, followed by Kitay-Gorod [1], which soon spread to two more districts. There was nothing to extinguish the flames with – all the fire-fighting equipment (by any chance?) is disappeared, and the soldiers who looted the shops didn't really want to fight the fire. Strong winds drove the fire to the center of Moscow. By nightfall, the glow, which made it as bright as day, was already visible over the entire city. The fire came close to the Kremlin.

The next day, Napoleon entered Moscow, over which clouds of smoke hung. 

"So, finally, I'm in Moscow!" he thought with his usual enthusiasm, entering the chambers where the Russian Emperor Alexander had been located not so long ago. "In the ancient palace of the Tsars–the Kremlin!"

He looked around the ancient hall with admiring eyes, like a child who has finally received a cherished toy, and his attention was attracted by the view from the small windows in the thick brick walls. A terrible fire was raging outside the windows, and the fire was already beginning to consume one of the Kremlin towers. The marshals, fearing for their emperor, asked him to leave the Kremlin immediately, but Napoleon did not move, staring wide-eyed out the window. 

Why is Moscow on fire? How did it happen that this beautiful, sunlit city with golden domes turned into one big bonfire? These questions tormented the emperor, and, looking at the fire, he suddenly discovered a terrible truth.

"They're setting it on fire themselves!" Napoleon exclaimed in horror, choking on the smoke that was already beginning to enter the wards. "What kind of people! It's the Scythians! What ferocious determination! The barbarians! What a terrifying sight!"

He refused to believe it. He didn't believe that his song was sung, he didn't believe that he had already lost. But he lost – the fire that was coming at the Kremlin from all sides was proof of that. Napoleon found himself in a mousetrap, which he climbed into of his own free will. But he hesitated: to enter the Kremlin victorious and escape without spending even a day in it?

"This surpasses everything possible – to burn down their own cities!"  The emperor continued to be horrified. "What a people! What a people!"

Making his way with great difficulty along the Moscow River through the fire to a safe place, coughing from the smoke, covering his face with his hands from the heat of the flame and the red-hot sparks flying into his eyes, that day Napoleon realized that the Russian people would rather die than kneel before him, and that he would not see peace now. Venice and Milan, Alexandria and Lisbon, Vienna, Berlin and Rome submitted to the Emperor of France. Everywhere he was greeted with delight, as a true winner. Wasn't this the kind of reception he expected here in Moscow? But Moscow met its conqueror with fire. Demonstrating the indomitable will of the Russian people to resist the invaders, she hid the shame of her abuse in ruins and ashes. None of the nations that had been subjugating Napoleon for fifteen years had set such an example! For fifteen years, defeating all the opposing nations, Napoleon passed through their capitals in triumph. The path to the fall of his glory and power is set through Moscow! 

Since the time of the Troubles [2], there has not been an enemy army entering holy Moscow. But just as Russia, wounded and impatient, under the leadership of Princes Minin and Pozharsky, drove the rampaging Poles from the capital, so now the French had nothing in store for them but conflagration and cold and starvation death in the city they so longed for victory. Moscow, which has witnessed many dramatic events over its centuries-old history, has never hidden its worries, but all trials and tribulations have always receded before its steadfastness and greatness. Without bowing her head to the enemy, she always demonstrated inflexibility and fortitude. And now, having destroyed the invaders, like a phoenix bird, she will be reborn from the ashes and gain even greater beauty.

That's what the Russian soldiers thought, as they retreated east, they heard explosions behind them and saw a red glow illuminating the black sky. Moscow continued to burn – the fire raged for four days.

***

After leaving Moscow, the Russian troops entered the Ryazan Road, dragging Murat's vanguard with them, and then suddenly turned sharply onto the Old Kaluga Road. The French, deceived by several Cossack hundreds, who at first pretended to retreat along the previous route, and then just as suddenly disappeared into the forests, frantically began to search for the Russian armies on Vladimir, Ryazan and other roads, being completely unaware of the enemy's condition for several days. Meanwhile, the Russian soldiers were calmly marching towards Podolsk and Krasnaya Pakhra.

Barclay appreciated this move very highly, realizing the wrongness of his proposal to retreat to Vladimir. He understood now that this movement would be the most important circumstance that would undoubtedly help end the war in the happiest way for the Russians. This thought was so soothing that it somewhat relieved Barclay's painful condition.

Unfortunately, the heroism and dedication that Barclay showed in the Battle of Borodino did not change the attitude towards him in the army [3]. He was also treated with disdain, was not informed of various orders, and, moreover, as it seemed to Barclay, they no longer trusted him and hid a lot from him. Barclay could not be blamed for inaction and indifference in business, but Kutuzov seemed to deliberately either ignore or reject all his proposals. It was eating away at him from the inside out.

His situation was further aggravated by the fact that after the Battle of Borodino, the remnants of Bagration's army were attached to the first army, and instead of two armies, there was now just an Army. Thus, Barclay's position became purely nominal – he was the commander of the army, but above him was the commander–in-chief, above his headquarters was the general staff. Barclay would have been happy to continue serving until the end of the war, at least as commander of his Jaeger regiment, but His Serene Highness kept him in his former insulting, completely meaningless post. Any influence that Barclay had as Minister of War and commander was suppressed, and over time he became completely convinced that the commander-in-chief was trying to gradually get rid of him. There was simply no place for him in Kutuzov's army anymore. As he approached Krasnaya Pakhra, Barclay was already beginning to think about resigning, but the fate of the army was still troubling and uncertain for him, so he could not afford to leave without making sure that the troops would be in order. Only thoughts of the inevitable defeat of the enemy sustained him these days. 

In Krasnaya Pakhra, the troops stopped for a rest, which lasted for five whole days. The position at this village did not seem very strong to Barclay, and he suggested that Kutuzov strengthen it. He proposed to transfer troops to the right bank of the Pakhra, so that the river would be in front of the army's front, and not in the rear. However, Kutuzov did not accept Barclay's advice and ordered a retreat further south along the Old Kaluga Road. He explained this by the fact that Murat had finally discovered our army (Miloradovich and Rayevsky's rearguards had been fighting against him all this time), and he did not rule out that Napoleon himself and his main forces might soon arrive here.

The night before the army left Krasnaya Pakhra, Barclay had a strange dream.

He saw an unfamiliar manor house surrounded by a quiet garden. His front doors were open. Barclay decided to go inside. It was dark inside, and there wasn't a soul around. His heart, for some reason, began to pound. Barclay walked forward along a dark corridor and came out into an empty hall, in the center of which stood something that looked like a coffin, which was open. With a sinking heart, he decided to come closer, but halfway through, the situation around him dramatically changed, and the incredibly bright sun blinded him.

An eagle flew over his head from nowhere and flew straight towards the hot, scorching sun. Barclay, despite the fact that it is very difficult to look at such a bright light source without eye protection, squinted in horror as the feathers on the eagle's wings first singed and then caught fire. In an instant, the whole bird was engulfed in flames, but in agony it continued to fly towards its doom until it completely disappeared.

He suddenly woke up and saw the log ceiling of a hastily occupied hut above him. But there was still a dazzlingly bright sun in front of my eyes, and the image of an eagle burning on it was still fresh in my memory.

"What can not be imagined in a sick head," Barclay thought grumpily. His fever worsened, and he was not surprised that he saw all sorts of strange things in his delirium. He rolled over on his side, wrapped himself in his greatcoat and tried to fall asleep again, but he spent the rest of the night before dawn staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

The next day, the army learned of the death of the unforgettable Prince Bagration. 

In the morning, Barclay, coming out on the porch of the house where he was staying for a rest, found the soldiers in a strange sad mood. Straightening his greatcoat over his shoulders and inhaling the cold air, he looked around the courtyard and noticed his adjutant hurrying towards him. The adjutant's face was overcast, and Barclay did not like it (as well as the general situation in the courtyard). He asked the adjutant what had happened, and he first told him the news of the previous night (the French were steadily approaching, and the rearguards were still fighting them off), and then told his general that the former commander of the second army, Prince Bagration, had died the other day.

Barclay himself did not know how he would react to such news, but the shock he experienced on the Borodino field flashed back into his memory. His heart started pounding painfully (it had never happened before), his chest felt tight, and it became difficult to breathe. Barclay unconsciously first reached for the collar of his uniform, trying to unbutton it, and then, clutching his chest, leaned his shoulder against the door jamb. His vision went dark for a moment, his breathing stopped, and the general felt like he was suffocating. This state lasted only a short time, a few moments, but it made it palpably clear the inevitable approach of death. Images of a recent dream flashed through his mind, giving him an awareness of its significance. 

He came to his senses when he felt someone rushing towards him, grabbing his shoulder and calling him.

"Your Excellency! Your Excellency! What's the matter with you?" The adjutant was worried. 

His vision finally cleared, and Barclay saw his surroundings. The adjutant's loud voice had alarmed the entire courtyard, and now the soldiers looked at their sick commander with concern and pity. 

"It's all right," Barclay waved the young man off. He refused the adjutant's offer to call a doctor, but although the spasm in his chest began to ease a little, he still felt unwell.

He stood up straight, straightened his greatcoat that had slipped off his shoulders and, without saying a word, disappeared into the house, leaving the alarmed adjutant in front of the closed door. The commander was not seen during the day before the last detachment's performance.

The further withdrawal of the army to Mochinsky and Chirikov brought a severe shock to Barclay's health, and he was again unable to ride. 

At Mochinsky, the French vanguard strongly pressed the Russian rearguard, and Barclay, through Konovnitsyn, asked Kutuzov for permission to attack him. Kutuzov approved of this idea, and Bennigsen personally handled the preparations (detaching the 2nd Corps and the 1st Cavalry Division, as always, without Barclay's knowledge). However, the attack never took place: three times the orders were given, and three times they were canceled. Finally, Miloradovich, apparently tired of waiting for any clear orders, drove the enemy vanguard out of Krasnaya Pakhra, which was occupied, but was forced to retreat after dark.

The troops moved on, marching to Tarutino on the night of September 18-19, and on the third day arrived at the site of the fortified camp. Barclay has been through a few more troubles over the past few days. 

In addition to the exasperating disorder that had prevailed in the army since the arrival of His Serene Highness, and the depressing inactivity and disorganization in recent days, he was struck by another piece of news. Izvestia spread in the Russian camp, where Kutuzov's recent report to the emperor was published. This report stated that the abandonment of Moscow was a consequence of the abandonment of Smolensk. It was becoming obvious that the commander-in-chief was trying to cast a shadow on Barclay.

And then, as if out of spite and very inopportunely, the army received an order to remove Barclay from the post of Minister of War, signed by the tsar on the eve of the Battle of Borodino.

But the last straw in the overflowing cup of patience of the always calm and reasonable Barclay was Kutuzov's order to transfer almost thirty thousand people from his army to Miloradovich's rearguard. On the one hand, the commander-in-chief had every right to do so. The rearguard was heavily pressed by the enemy, and it needed to be reinforced. But it was not the very fact of the order that exasperated Barclay, but the fact that this order was given without any knowledge of his, over his head. Barclay took it personally as a public insult.

He immediately went to Kutuzov and, practically no longer restraining himself in expressions, expressed all his complaints to the commander-in-chief. Kutuzov tried to justify himself, saying that it was General Konovnitsyn on duty, who must have been too tired to notify him. However, Barclay didn't believe his words one bit. Turning around in silence, he left the prince and, heading for his room, was finally convinced that under Kutuzov he had become superfluous in the army.

Returning to his room, Barclay felt once again that spasm in his chest that had almost suffocated him a few days ago. He almost fell right on his porch, fortunately, his attending physician Batalin was now inseparably with the general and managed to help him.

"Yes, my dear, it's hardly possible," Batalin grumbled, leading the general into the room and carefully seating him on a bench. He conducted a cursory examination of the patient, found his condition as satisfactory as possible at the moment, and handed him a glass of water. "Don't spare yourself at all, Your Excellency. The second attack, it's not good," the doctor shook his head, looking at the silent general. "Your condition is quite exhausted," he stated. "I recommend that you go for treatment, and the sooner the better."

Barclay half listened to him, thoughtfully shifting his gaze to the window, which overlooked the camp. He watched as the soldiers built bivouacs, built bonfires, repaired shoes and clothes, and generally went about their military business. It seems that here, in Tarutino, the Russian troops will really get the respite they need, which will have a beneficial effect on offensive actions in the future.

"You know, Alexander Vasilyevich," Barclay suddenly said to the doctor, "you're right. I think the commander–in–chief did an excellent job with this maneuver, and the location of the camp is satisfactory," he smiled a little sadly and finished in a tone with which one usually waves one's hand at a hopeless cause: "And, frankly, I'm not good for anything else, except to lie down and die."

The decision to submit a resignation letter was finally confirmed in Barclay. On the same day, he sat down to write a letter to Kutuzov, in which he expressed to the prince all that had accumulated in him during this time, all the complaints, explained his situation and asked for permission to go on vacation to improve his health. For some reason, he had no doubt that His Serene Highness would grant his request, because he objectively did not want to share the glory of expelling the enemy from the sacred land of the fatherland with anyone.

Barclay explained this to his adjutants, whom he gathered at his place in the evening to say goodbye to them in a human way.

"How so, Your Excellency?" Levenstern, the general's senior aide and one of his most trusted men, asked sadly. 

"The present is against me, and I have to submit," Barclay replied. "I have to leave because the field marshal does not give me the opportunity to do what I consider useful."

"But what about the army without you, Your Excellency?" His aides–de-camp asked him in confusion, knowing full well that if anything came into their general's head, they would not be able to dissuade him from it.

"I would have stayed if I hadn't foreseen that it would bring more harm to the army," Barclay tried to reassure the young men. "At the same time, the main thing has been done, it remains only to reap the benefits. I love the fatherland and the emperor too much not to rejoice in advance of the successes that can be expected in the future."

There was a sad pause in the room where they were sitting. The devastation captured everyone's hearts – it was hard for everyone to say goodbye like that.

"The only thing I regret, gentlemen," Barclay took the floor again, so that the silence would not be prolonged and unnecessary sentiments would not be inflamed, "is that I will no longer be able to be useful to you and walk this path side by side with you to the end. But you are all brave soldiers and loyal sons of our fatherland, and I believe that you will continue what you started with dignity and bring liberation to our land," he stood up, and the adjutants instantly stretched out in front of him. "Thank you for your service!" the general finished, and the adjutants simultaneously saluted him.

The next day, early in the morning, Barclay went to Kutuzov.

***

It was late afternoon, and the weather was surprisingly warm and clear. The sun gave the last warmth of its autumn rays to all who were under its gaze. The Russian army camp in Tarutino has finally settled down to a calm, measured life. The soldiers, exhausted by the hardships they had endured, received rest and new winter uniforms. Reinforcements were arriving at the camp. It seemed that nature itself, with its sunny days and quiet evenings, represented a new and better stage in the life of the Russian troops, promising an indispensable victory over the enemy and peace in their native land. This stage promised a bright future for everyone, but not for Barclay.

After receiving permission from the commander-in-chief to retire from the army, Barclay did not feel relieved, contrary to his expectations. His heart was oppressed by unbearable bitterness that he could not now be with the army with which he wanted to live and die. The army really was his whole life for him – and for her he did not spare himself a single day of his service. But he no longer saw any other way out of the current situation, except for resignation. 

His only consolation was the realization that he had done everything in his power for the army and the fatherland. For the rest of his life, he will be reassured by the fact that the army gave the Battle of Borodino fully armed, that it was not defeated, and that now it is by no means demoralized, but faced with a frustrated, discouraged opponent. He carried this unaffordable cart, called the Scythian plan, up the mountain on his shoulders, and it would roll down the mountain itself with the slightest steering. The fact that the Frenchman would certainly be expelled from Russia was as natural and consistent as these simple laws of mechanics about motion along an inclined plane of a solid body. Barclay considered Napoleon's cause lost ever since Napoleon moved from Smolensk to Moscow – and this confidence did not let his spirit sink.

Under the shade of a lime tree that grew near the village house, there was a carriage with the top thrown back, pulled by a piebald couple. A coachman and the head of Barclay's secret office, Zakrevsky, were on duty near her. Later, Batalin joined them. The few things were packed, and everyone was waiting only for the general. In front of the house where the commander–in-chief's apartment was located, people gradually began to gather around the carriage - both soldiers and villagers, curious to find out what was going on with the generals. 

After a while, several generals began to leave the house, accompanied by Kutuzov. 

"Well, with God, Mikhail Bogdanovich!" Kutuzov grunted good–naturedly. "God willing, see you later!"

Barclay, who was walking in front of everyone, approached the carriage, turned to face the generals and the commander-in-chief who accompanied him and nodded dryly. Apart from Kutuzov, only Yermolov, Konovnitsyn and Toll, the most frequent regulars of the main headquarters, came out to see him off. 

Konovnitsyn's kind, radiant face was haggard with sadness and sympathy. He and Barclay had talked the day before, but apparently the general could not accept his comrade's departure.

General Yermolov looked really sad. With parting words, he came close to Barclay and, kissing him on the shoulder, leaned his forehead against him for a few moments. Barclay awkwardly patted him on the back with his free hand. It was difficult to call them bosom friends, but comrades, closest associates, who went through the most difficult period of the war side by side and shared all its hardships with each other, of course. Yermolov had long known Barclay's intention to retire from the army, and therefore he even petitioned Kutuzov to transfer him from headquarters to the active forces (since he saw no need for further such service), but the report remained unanswered.

Toll limited himself to wishing the general an easy road.

"I have the honor," Barclay saluted the commander–in-chief, not wanting to prolong the farewell, and finally approached his carriage.

Quite a few people had already gathered around the carriage, all of them whispering to each other and casting sidelong, uncomprehending glances at the former commander. Barclay climbed up one step on the carriage and looked around the crowd with his eyes.

There was something in the general's gaze, something so unknown, inexplicably powerful, that it silenced the murmur and made people obey. Such a person, no matter how they speak about him, is unconditionally followed by the masses. The soldiers saw Barclay's hated face so many times during the campaign, but each time they measured his calm, icy, sometimes even contemptuous gaze, they involuntarily fell silent and caught every emotion on his face with bated breath. Even now, guessing that their general was leaving them, they did not take their eyes off him and could hardly believe that they might be seeing him for the last time.

Saying goodbye to the soldiers in this way, Barclay took off his general's hat from his head, revealing a bald spot that glittered in the sun, immortalized by Doe's brush and Pushkin's pen [4]. Immediately, everyone began to take off their hats, caps, and shakos, exposing their heads. 

Barclay finally settled into the carriage, his doctor sat next to him, and Zakrevsky, the only adjutant whom the general had taken with him, lifted the top of the carriage and climbed in after him. The coachman started the horses, and the carriage rolled down the road in ringing silence, kicking up clouds of dust.

For a long time, the soldiers did not dare to disperse, silently looking in the direction in which their last leader had disappeared in the dust of the road. They felt that they, like borzoi puppies that had been taken from their mother dog and given into the hands of an equally caring, but still different owner, first Bagration, and now Barclay had been left in Kutuzov's care. Now, after the loss of the first and the departure of the second, the army felt orphaned.

Barclay felt no less devastation and sorrow as he drove further and further away from Tarutino. He was frowning away at the woods and fields rushing past. Dark thoughts filled his head. Yes, it was sad for him to leave the army, but sometimes things happen in life that cannot be influenced. Providence has decreed this, which means it must be so, and nothing else.

Driving past another clearing, Barclay suddenly saw a beautiful white crane on the ground. What was this bird doing here at such a late hour, shouldn't it have already flown away with its relatives to warmer climes? As if hearing Barclay's thoughts, the crane soared into the sky, in which a wedge of the same white cranes was drawn, and took up an empty space, as if specially left for him. 

Barclay did not know exactly where these cranes were flying, moving parallel to him on a course to the south, but for some reason, looking at their flock, he felt sad, but still wanted to believe that all this was for the best. Everything is happening as it should be. Barclay hoped that just as the cranes would surely return to their native lands in the spring, so everything would get better in his life.

He looked at the crane's wedge, and hope for the best began to melt his heart, bound by bitterness. Yes, he had an ungrateful part of the campaign – Kutuzov got a more pleasant part, which, undoubtedly, will cover him with unfading glory. But the time will come for a calm discussion of what happened, and then justice will be done to him. He, who carried the fate of Russia on his shoulders, deserves the gratitude of the people.

Gratitude of the people... If only he knew what Providence had in store for him in the near future!

He had many months ahead of him in unsuccessful attempts to justify his honest name and restore his tarnished reputation. Ahead lies the unjust persecution and disgrace from the people, in which he will have to show no less courage than in battles. Ahead are vain hopes for a quiet life of a farmer and a well–deserved rest in honor.

But in less than six months, the call of the fatherland will force him to return to the army again, and he will plunge back into his usual element, and later the fortresses of Thorn and Konigswart will fall before him. In less than nine months, he would once again be at the head of the Russian forces and would win resounding victories on the fields of Europe. The burned Moscow will not remain unavenged, and on March 19, 1814, the one whom the people persecuted as a coward and traitor a year and a half ago, will triumphantly lead his troops into Paris, which he defeated.

At that time, he did not know that Russia still needed him.

O people! a pitiful race, worthy of tears and laughter!

Priests of the moment, fans of success!

How often does a person walk past you,

Who is the blind and violent age swearing at,

But whose lofty face is in the coming generation

The poet will be delighted and touched!

A.S. Pushkin