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.”