“It has been frequently asserted,” says Count Mathieu Dumas, intendant general of the army, “that Napoleon did not display his customary activity on this day.
“His apparent indifference has excited astonishment; it has been intimated that he labored under bodily exhaustion; that he was not able to call into action all the resources of his genius; in short, that his star began to grow dim, even in the midst of victory. Napoleon certainly appeared to be indisposed; he had undergone excessive fatigue during the two preceding nights, which he had employed in person in reconnoitering the positions of the enemy, in placing the corps of the army, and in determining the point of attack. Having formed his plans to compel the enemy to abandon their strong position, he would not consent to make any change in the arrangements which he had resolved upon after profound consideration. He placed himself at a short distance from his right wing, against which it was probable that the Russian general would direct his principal effort, in order to take the attacking columns in the rear, while they should be stopped by the fire of the redoubts. The station which Napoleon had chosen, was, in fact, the best point of observation. It commanded a view of the whole field of battle, and if any manœuvre, any partial success of the enemy, had required new measures, the vigilance of Napoleon would not have failed to meet the urgency of the case. He would have gone to the spot in person, as he did at the battle of Wagram.
“About nine o’clock in the evening, Count Daru and myself were summoned to the Emperor. His bivouac was in the middle of the square battalion of his guard, a little behind the redoubt. His supper had just been served; he was alone, and made us sit down on his right and left hand. After having heard the account of the measures taken for the relief of the wounded, &c., he spoke to us of the issue of the battle; a moment afterwards he fell asleep for about twenty minutes; then, suddenly waking, he continued thus: ‘People will be astonished that I did not bring up my reserves to obtain more decisive results; but it was necessary to keep them, in order to strike a decisive blow in the great battle which the enemy will offer us before Moscow: the success of the day was secured; I had to think of the success of the campaign, and it is for that I keep my reserves.’”
The Emperor was mistaken in supposing that there would be another great battle before Moscow; but in all other particulars, his sagacity was admirably displayed. Still, Borodino was far from decisive. Before daybreak the next morning, there was an alarm among the French, which penetrated even to the tent of the Emperor, and the old guard was called to arms. This was mortifying after a victory, and carried with it an air of insult. As soon as morning dawned, the losses of the armies were ascertained by Napoleon.
Ten thousand men had been killed, and the wounded amounted to no less than twenty thousand. Forty-three generals had been killed or wounded. Among the Russians, there had been fifteen thousand killed, including the gallant Prince Bagration, and thirty thousand wounded. The French carried their wounded two leagues in the rear, to the large monastery of Kolotskoi. The chief surgeon, Larrey, had taken assistants from all the other regiments, and the hospital wagons had arrived—but all that could be done for the conveyance was insufficient. Larrey subsequently complained that not sufficient troops had been left to enable him to obtain the necessary articles from the surrounding villages.
When the Emperor inspected the field of battle, every thing concurred to increase its horrors. A gloomy sky, a cold rain, a violent wind, habitations in ashes, a plain absolutely torn up and covered with fragments and ruins, rendered the scene of carnage yet more appalling. The dark and funereal verdure of the north was seen all round the horizon. Soldiers were roaming like wild beasts among the bodies of their dead comrades, and emptying their knapsacks to procure subsistence for themselves. The wounds of the slain were of the most hideous description, occasioned by the large bullets used by the Russians. The bivouacs were mournful; no songs of triumph, no lively narrations,—all dreary and silent. Around the eagles were the rest of the officers and subalterns, and a few soldiers,—barely sufficient to guard the colours. Their uniforms were torn by the violence of the conflict, blackened with powder, and stained with blood; yet even amidst their rags, their misery, and destitution, they displayed a lofty bearing, and on the appearance of Napoleon welcomed him with acclamations.
Many wounded men were found in the bottom of ravines, where the French troops had been precipitated, or where they had dragged themselves for shelter from the enemy or the storm. Some of the younger soldiers in sighs and groans were calling upon the name of their country, or of their mother; but most of the veterans awaited death either with an impassive or a sardonic air, neither imploring or complaining. The anguish of some of the wounded made them beg of their comrades, as a mercy, to kill them instantly. Among the Russians, the enormous number of wounded presented on every side a spectacle of moving horrors. Many of these mutilated objects were seen dragging themselves with bloody trails along the ground, towards places where they might find shelter among a heap of dead bodies. Napoleon’s horse chancing to tread upon the body of one apparently dead, a cry of anguish startled him, and excited his compassion. Somebody remarked that “it was only a Russian;”—upon which Napoleon angrily reproved the speaker, and observed that, “after a battle, none were enemies,—but all were men.” The Emperor ordered the prisoners that had been taken, to be again numbered, and a few dismounted cannon to be collected. Between seven and eight hundred prisoners, and a score of unserviceable cannon, were the sole trophies of this most sanguinary and imperfect victory.
