Blood of Tyrants (53 page)

But Laurence was well aware of the dangerous falseness of their position: if the French surged forth from their defenses, and flung all their strength upon the Russian ground troops, success might well be theirs: a quick shattering blow could give them the complete mastery in artillery which should make them impervious even to the continuing disadvantage in the air.

He half-waited for Bonaparte to act, to move; waited at every moment for the French to come pouring forward over their fences; but the moment did not come, and then the ground had opened wide between the armies, and at last the guns fell silent.

The army was yet moving, all that night. Laurence came to ground with Temeraire in Mozhaisk. “Remain here,” he said quietly, laying a hand on Temeraire’s muzzle. Temeraire had been aloft, flying and maneuvering vigorously, without a halt for seven hours; they had come fifty miles. Temeraire did not answer aloud, but let his eyelids sink shut; Forthing slid down from his back and said, “I’ll see about his dinner, sir; will we encamp here?”

“Assume a short halt only, for the moment,” Laurence said.
“Roland,” he added, beckoning to her; her command of Chinese, having unwillingly suffered Temeraire’s tutelage in that language for several years, was by far superior to Forthing’s. “Have a word with the supply-officers, and see what they can tell you about our circumstances.”

Tharkay fell in with him, as they walked towards the headquarters established in a large farmhouse, some half-a-mile distant; the night was still hot, and the air thick with dust. All around, Laurence heard soldiers coughing, heavily, and long lines stood at all the wells, of men desperately thirsty from dust and gunpowder in their mouths. But the lines were patient, well-ordered; the ranks had not disintegrated, though the circumstances might have been discouraging enough to depress the spirits and morale of any army.

“I can only wonder,” Laurence said, “why Bonaparte did not come forth. Even if he were ever to have another chance at smashing their army, he could scarcely hope to find himself at better relative strength. Can he be seriously ill, perhaps?”

“As pleasant a possibility as that might be to contemplate,” Tharkay said, “I hope you will forgive me for discouraging it. A man who has seen three hundred enemy dragons appear without warning does not need to be on his death-bed to discover a little caution, even if he is a Napoleon.”

The farmhouse was the scene of enormous activity: officers rushing in with reports on the number of troops, the losses; the activity observed among the French by the Cossacks on their light dragons and horses. Bonaparte’s army had certainly been reinforced by more than twenty thousand men: now identified as the Sixth Corps, which had last been sighted in Petersburg not a week before. General Saint-Cyr had managed to bring them south so quickly they had outdistanced even the reports of their travel, which uselessly had trickled in that very day. Three separate witnesses had glimpsed him upon the field, that evening, as Napoleon had embraced him and bestowed on him a Marshal’s baton, which he had won by the enterprise.

The initial goal of those troops had likely been Moscow itself: a neat pincer-trap for the Russian Army, which would have cut off their supply and likely secured for the French the great magazines of the city, full of food and munitions, which they themselves so desperately required. Napoleon had sacrificed that ambition for the rescue of his army.

In the dining chamber of the house, Kutuzov and his senior generals had gathered about the table; Barclay was speaking impassionedly of the necessity of retreating, and therefore of sacrificing Moscow. “We cannot take the wholly unjustified risk of the destruction of the army—the only way in which this war can now be lost. We know Bonaparte’s numbers have already been diminished by half during this campaign; he has lost more cavalry even than that. He can take Moscow, but he cannot hold it; he cannot hold St. Petersburg. He has overreached—”

“Overreached!” Another general, Bennigsen, was already roaring at him, before he had finished. “You would let him walk through the gates of Moscow without giving battle, without challenge—” He broke here into a torrent of Russian, savage, which made Barclay’s cheeks flush hot with color, before he returned to French. “Listen to me, General,” Bennigsen said, turning towards Kutuzov, “it will not be so simple a matter to get Bonaparte out again, once we have let him in. He may be diminished in numbers, but those who remain to him are the best of his army, seasoned men. If we give him so splendid a resting place as Moscow, his stragglers will gather in to him, he will secure his supply with all the stores laid up for the use of our own army—dear God! If any of us had ever thought there should be danger of them falling into the enemy’s hands!”

The argument could not fail but be impassioned, in such circumstances as these: the Chinese legions were still enough advantage to make the Russian Army seem the superior, though on the ground they were as yet perilously outnumbered, and the losses on the previous day had been immense. The French had known they
fought a holding action; Bonaparte at every turn had conserved his men, and yielded ground judiciously to preserve them: ground which the Russians had bought dearly in blood while exposing themselves to the withering French artillery.

But no man could easily have borne sacrificing, even in worse circumstances, the very heart of the nation; though the government had been seated in St. Petersburg some years now, Moscow remained to nearly all of them its foremost city. “To have lost Petersburg was bad enough; if we lose Moscow as well, without a shot fired, you may as well send a courier to ask Napoleon which of his brothers we shall see upon the throne, by the New Year!” General Docturov said bitterly: his infantry had borne the brunt of the day’s hot work; his own arm was bandaged, and his face spattered with powder-burns.

Another officer, a younger man named Raevsky who had led the assault upon the French fences, said quietly to Kutuzov directly, “We must cover the southern provinces to permit General Chichagov and General Tormassov to unite their forces. Without Saint-Cyr’s forces at Petersburg, Wittgenstein has sufficient numbers to drive back the French there—”

“Before we are subjected to more of these counsels of—let us say retreat, instead of surrender,” Bennigsen said to him, with acid bite, “perhaps we might first ascertain if the retreat can be accomplished. If Bonaparte were to overwhelm the rear-guard—”

Kutuzov sat impassively while they argued it out, his heavy-lidded bad eye giving him an appearance almost half-slumbering and his face resting upon his fist, elbow propped against the arm of his chair; the fingers of his other hand touched gently the many reports which had gathered up before him, and now and again he lifted one of these to his eyes. But Laurence did not think he read them; and when at last the voices fell silent, he did not answer them, but looked to Laurence. “What is the state of your legions?” he said.

“Sir,” Laurence said, “we remain at your service, constrained
only by supply. General Chu’s injuries are grievous, but I have every confidence in Colonel Zhao Lien, and our losses otherwise were slight: ten fighting-beasts and seven supply wounded past flying.”

“Will they carry infantry?” Kutuzov asked; Bennigsen made a small jerk, a half-abortive movement.

“Certainly, for a short distance,” Laurence said. “For any longer march, sir, that may materially alter the requirements of supply.”

Kutuzov nodded, a little. “We must be in Moscow by tomorrow,” he said, “and we will take the road to Riazan,” he held up a hand, to forestall argument, “and then cross to the Old Kaluga Road, and make for Tarutino.”

Bennigsen checked his first reply without speaking; Raevsky nodded. Laurence looking at the map upon the table picked out the roads, the cities, and understood: Kutuzov would make it seem as though he were retreating eastward, deeper into the Russian steppes, the safest course; and then would turn south again sharply while the French were busy with their occupation of Moscow—and surely its looting as well—and seize a strong position to the south, protecting the supply of food and munitions coming to his army from the rich southern provinces, and ensuring his communications with the large portion of the Russian Army which yet remained in the Empire’s south.

There was much to like, in the strategy, and nothing better recommended itself; only sentiment stood in its way—only sentiment. Barclay’s own expression was of relief and weariness combined; the other officers remained silent, giving a dull and unhappy consent.

Kutuzov looked around at them and nodded. “To yield Moscow is not to lose Russia,” he said. “And if Bonaparte should think otherwise, so much the better.”

But if Bonaparte did, he was not alone: so, too, plainly did the soldiers as they marched through the streets of Moscow, sharing the
roads at every turn with a terrified and appalled peasantry and merchants all desperately trying to evacuate themselves and their goods before the French arrival. The great square before the red walls of the Kremlin was a solid mass of people, the glorious twisting domes of the splendid cathedral rising like an island out from among lowing cattle, struggling horses, waggon-carts loaded with goods.

Temeraire had insisted on taking a carrying-harness himself with all the rest of the dragons; he bore nearly two hundred Russian soldiers over the city, and Laurence saw many of the young officers openly weeping with rage as they looked down and saw the thronged streets, the masses of men and horses and carts pouring out of the city, the River Moskva crammed with barges and smaller boats. To the west behind them, guns yet spoke sporadically, all the day, and the French advance guard under Murat continued harassing the rear.

They left their load of soldiers on the far side of the city, the
niru
behind them descending each in turn and practicing a maneuver Laurence had never before seen. As they came close to the ground, the dragons’ crews went below and detached the lower straps of the carrying-harness; much to the alarm of the soldiers craning their heads to look. Each dragon then made a quick expert hop just before landing, flinging the sides wide—the soldiers shouting wildly as they swung out—then immediately flattening themselves low upon the ground, so the startled men at the ends found themselves already down, and even the soldiers higher up on the dragons’ backs might the more easily clamber off.

“How clumsy they are,” Laurence overheard one of the dragons murmuring to another, not unjustly: the Russian infantry were not even skillful at mounting their own dragons, plainly as yet uneasy with the entire business, and often tripped over one another in their haste to disembark even without the addition of acrobatics.

The morale of the Chinese forces was as yet untarnished: they did not suffer those same pangs as did the Russians, on seeing the
city fall, and they had come off the better in their skirmishing against the French dragons. They plainly were confident in Zhao Lien, although Laurence overheard a little soft grumbling by the first
jalan
that their own commander Shao Ri ought have been the choice: there was a little rivalry, it seemed, between the scarlet dragons who made the bulk of the southern troops, and the green ones who preferred the northern climes.

The attack upon their rear had not disheartened but inspired all the legions with the desire for revenge. General Chu had been gently and tenderly borne to the new camp on a litter by four dragons: he had not yet roused, save to ask for a little water, now and again, and his body was hot with fever; his loud labored breathing was a constant reminder to them all of the treachery which had struck them. But for all that, when they encamped at last for the night, Laurence heard many of the dragons and their crewmen murmuring softly, doubtfully, about the retreat and their allies.

“I cannot like it at all,” Temeraire said, unhappily. “It seems to me nearly wicked, Laurence: do you know, Grig has told me his captain was saying the French will take
a hundred million
rubles in treasure out of the city—which I suppose are like pounds—”

“Nothing like,” Laurence said, “—not in the least; five in one, my dear.”

“Well, I am very glad to hear it,” Temeraire said, only a little mollified, “but even so that is more money than I have ever heard of, and they can settle in very comfortably, and eat well there all winter if they like as well: it certainly looked a very splendid city, from above.”

The retreat continued, the next day, although a temporary armistice held off the French advance behind them. It was tiring work, and sorrowful; as the day went on the dragons began to be loaded with the wounded, and had to witness their agony at being put aboard. And yet they were the fortunate, not to be dragged over the dreadful roads in horse-carts. Temeraire was drooping before the last flight, as the bloodied and weary men dragged themselves
aboard, or were heaved up by their few able-bodied comrades; night was coming on, and the sun had sunk low. He gathered himself and heaved aloft, wings beating, and slowly began to fly. A deep red-orange glow rose against the sky ahead of them; the wind had grown stronger yet again. The riot of color did not diminish as they went, though the sky was sweeping to black above, the stars emerging, and as they drew near the city they heard a great crackling noise, punctuated by sharp explosions like shattering glass.

“
Boze Moje
,” one of the men said, low. “
Onii goryat Moskvye
.”

Laurence put the glass to his eye as they came overhead, a rolling wave of baking heat rising, lifting Temeraire soaring high: a handful of Russian soldiers were dashing through the city streets ahead of the line of leaping, hungry flames, carrying torches; there were heaped piles of hay and tinder at corners, and they were firing them as they went. They were burning their own city. Napoleon would find no shelter in Moscow, after all.