Napoleon's generals, Davout, Ney, and Murat, who were near that region of fire and sometimes even entered it, repeatedly led into it huge masses of well-ordered troops. But contrary to what had always happened in their former battles, instead of the news they expected of the enemy's flight, these orderly masses returned thence as disorganized and terrified mobs. The generals re-formed them, but their numbers constantly decreased. In the middle of the day Murat sent his adjutant to Napoleon to demand reinforcements. Napoleon sat at the foot of the knoll, drinking punch, when Murat's adjutant galloped up with an assurance that the Russians would be routed if His Majesty would let him have another division. Reinforcements? said Napoleon in a tone of stern surprise, looking at the adjutant, a handsome lad with long black curls arranged like Murat's own, as though he did not understand his words. How can they need reinforcements when they already have half the army directed against a weak, unentrenched Russian wing? Tell the King of Naples that it is not noon yet, and I don't yet see my chessboard clearly. Go! The handsome boy adjutant sighed deeply without removing his hand from his hat and galloped back to where men were being slaughtered.
Napoleon rose and, having summoned Caulaincourt and Berthier, began talking of matters unconnected with the battle. In the midst of this conversation Berthier's eyes turned to a general with a suite galloping toward the knoll on a lathering horse. It was Belliard. Having dismounted he went up to the Emperor with rapid strides and in a loud voice began boldly demonstrating the necessity of sending reinforcements. He swore on his honour that the Russians were lost if the Emperor would give another division. Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and continued to pace up and down without replying. You are very fiery, Belliard. In the heat of a battle it is easy to make a mistake. Go and have another look and then come back to me. Before Belliard was out of sight, a messenger from another part of the field galloped up. Now then, what do you want? asked Napoleon in the tone of a man irritated at being continually disturbed. Sire, the prince... Asks for reinforcements? The adjutant bent his head affirmatively. Napoleon turned, stopped, came back, and called Berthier. We must give reserves. Who do you think should be sent there? Send Claparede's division, sire, replied Berthier, who knew all the division's regiments and battalions by heart. Napoleon nodded. The Young Guards stationed behind the knoll moved forward. No! he suddenly said. I can't send Claparede. Send Friant's division. Though there was no advantage in sending Friant instead of Claparede, and even an obvious inconvenience and delay in stopping Claparede, the order was carried out exactly. Napoleon did not notice that in regard to his army he was playing the part of a doctor who hinders by his medicines, a role he so justly understood and condemned.
Friant's division disappeared as the others had done into the smoke. From all sides adjutants continued to arrive at a gallop and as if by agreement all said the same thing: reinforcements, the Russians holding their positions, a hellish fire under which the French army was melting away. Napoleon sat on a campstool, wrapped in thought. M. de Beausset, having fasted since morning, ventured respectfully to suggest lunch. I hope I may now congratulate Your Majesty on a victory? Napoleon silently shook his head. Assuming the negation referred only to the victory and not to the lunch, de Beausset remarked that there is no reason for not having lunch when one can get it. Go away, exclaimed Napoleon suddenly and morosely. A beatific smile of regret, repentance, and ecstasy beamed on de Beausset's face and he glided away. Napoleon was experiencing a feeling of depression like that of an ever-lucky gambler who, after recklessly flinging money about and always winning, suddenly, just when he has calculated all the chances, finds that the more he considers his play the more surely he loses. His troops were the same, his generals the same, the same preparations, the same dispositions, the same proclamation courte et energique, he himself still the same, even more experienced. Even the enemy was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland. Yet the terrible stroke of his arm had supernaturally become impotent. All the old methods unfailingly crowned with success, concentration of batteries, an attack by reserves, a cavalry attack by the men of iron, had already been employed, yet from all sides came the same news of generals killed and wounded, of reinforcements needed, of the impossibility of driving back the Russians, and of disorganization among his own troops.
Formerly, after two or three orders and a few phrases, marshals had come galloping with congratulations, trophies, prisoners, eagles, cannon, and Murat had only begged leave to loose the cavalry to gather in the baggage wagons. So it had been at Lodi, Marengo, Arcola, Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram. Now something strange was happening. Despite news of the capture of the fleches, Napoleon saw that this was not the same, not at all the same. All the faces about him looked dejected, and they all shunned one another's eyes. Only a de Beausset could fail to grasp the meaning. Napoleon well knew the meaning of a battle not gained by the attacking side in eight hours, after all efforts had been expended. He knew that it was a lost battle and that the least accident might now, with the fight balanced on such a strained centre, destroy him and his army. When he ran his mind over this strange Russian campaign in which not one battle had been won, and in which not a flag, or cannon, or army corps had been captured in two months, a terrible feeling like a nightmare took possession of him. The Russians might fall on his left wing, might break through his centre, he himself might be killed by a stray cannon ball. In former battles he had only considered the possibilities of success; now innumerable unlucky chances presented themselves, and he expected them all. It was like a dream in which a man fancies a ruffian is coming to attack him, raises his arm to strike a blow he knows should annihilate him, then feels his arm drop powerless and limp like a rag. The news that the Russians were attacking the left flank aroused that horror. He sat silently, head bowed, elbows on his knees. Berthier suggested they ride along the line. What? What do you say? Yes, tell them to bring me my horse. He mounted and rode toward Semenovsk. Amid slowly dispersing powder smoke, horses and men were lying in pools of blood, singly or in heaps. Neither Napoleon nor any of his generals had ever before seen such horrors or so many slain in such a small area. The roar of guns, that had not ceased for ten hours, wearied the ear and gave a peculiar significance to the spectacle, as music does to tableaux vivants. On the high ground at Semenovsk, through the smoke, he saw ranks in uniforms of a colour unfamiliar to him. They were Russians, standing in serried ranks behind the village and its knoll, their guns booming incessantly. It was no longer a battle: it was a continuous slaughter which could be of no avail either to the French or the Russians. He stopped his horse and again fell into the reverie from which Berthier had aroused him. He could not stop what was going on before him and around him and was supposed to be directed by him, and from its lack of success this affair, for the first time, seemed to him unnecessary and horrible. One of the generals ventured to offer to lead the Old Guard into action. Ney and Berthier exchanged looks and smiled contemptuously at this general's senseless offer. Napoleon bowed his head and remained silent a long time. At eight hundred leagues from France, I will not have my Guard destroyed. He turned his horse and rode back to Shevardino.
