He was suspicious of those around him. He kept a sharp ear open for mockery. He was indecisive, a waverer, in all his military plans; his gestures were briefer and more imperious than need be, and he bullied his subordinates more harshly than necessary for a man of authority. His indecisiveness corroded his military knowledge and experience, and even when he had periods of good luck, he was afraid of future failure. He forgot how he used to rebel against excessive military deportment and now cast critical glances at the ranks and demanded immaculate deportment, because finding fault with others made him feel that others would turn a blind eye to his own faults.
He ousted from the army the scoffers from the Ermolov time and replaced them with a motley bunch of foreign predators. The influential persons who surrounded him were Cornet Abramovich, either a Pole or a Jew or a Tatar, who was in charge of his stables; an old Italian doctor Martinengo, a charlatan with a fake medical diploma; Colonel Espejo, a Spaniard who for some unknown reason was addressed as “Ekim Mikhailovich”; and Vano Karganov, implicated in the case of forging documents attesting to his princely title—an Armenian, also known as “Vanka Cain.”12
How did he win his victories?
11
Quite possibly he was a poor strategist.
He vacillated so much; he was so indecisive, and then suddenly so desperately daring; he changed tactics so often that he confounded all the enemy’s calculations. Charles of Austria wrote to Paskevich after the completion of the campaign that he had confused the principles of strategy with great skill. There might have been precious little skill involved. The indecisiveness and irregularities were real enough, but they had proved fortunate and had ensured success.
Paskevich won by necessity.
He had few troops and a great deal of money. The current war had been declared on the heels of the Persian campaign, with no respite, and it was all but impossible to get sufficient transportation arranged. And so, instead of heavy carts, light, bullock-drawn ones were requisitioned from the local population, and they were capable of negotiating the steepest possible slopes.
The native tribes of the Caucasus had been waiting for an opportunity to rebel. The rear of the army hadn’t been secured. That was why, for the first time in Russian military history, money was more important than bullets.
Every requisition was paid for (with the exception of goods from the Kurds, which were taken free of charge).
And for the first time—because of the scarcity of troops and an abundance of money and artillery—the Turkish cavalry was counteracted by the column, while the square formation was abandoned.
In the time of Empress Anne, Münnich drew up his troops in a square formation, with the cavalry in the center and along the sides, artillery at the corners, and infantry with bayonets on all sides.
This made defense easy and attack difficult.
That was the reason why Rumyantsev removed the horses from the border and divided the army into several squares: during the Battle of Larga,13 there were five squares and, most important, no main formation; at Kagul, there were five squares in one line, with cavalry at intervals between them.
Suvorov found such a formation incapable of maneuvering. At Rymnik,14 there were six squares, two battalions each, with the cavalry in the third line.
In his Conversations with Soldiers, Kutuzov wrote:
“Deploy a square against Muslims, not a single column. But when the enemy numbers are greater, the square must be joined into columns.”
Such an order was more flexible, but everything in it depended on the courage of the infantry.
Artillery dispersed about the corners lost three-quarters of its firepower.
Paskevich did not trust the courage of the infantry; he relied on money and on cannonballs.
That was why he divided the troops into columns along three lines: in the first two, infantry columns with artillery in the center; in the third the cavalry, also with artillery in the center.
The frenzied attacks of the Turks were met by those solid columns; while they hacked into them, the artillery pounded them at will.
This was never planned; it was born by necessity. And it was not even Paskevich who recognized the necessity.
It was recognized by the man whom Paskevich preferred not to mention: Colonel Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov, from the “inglorious flock.”
Chance and necessity had given rise to a new type of warfare. Paskevich’s very deficiencies had made him a new type of military leader.
Burtsov was his chief gunner, and as siege engineer had been instrumental in the seizure of Kars. He had been assisted by a military engineer, Private Mikhail Pushchin. Miklashevsky commanded the rear guard. The victory was finally secured by Colonel Lehman. Konovnitsyn was quartermaster. The ober-quartermaster of the entire Caucasian corps was Volkhovsky. The illiterate count’s entire correspondence was conducted by Lieutenant Sukhorukov. All of them were exiles.
Paskevich was therefore a commander led by political offenders.
His great military asset was his ability to make use of their talents. He threw out all of Ermolov’s men, surrounded himself with a bunch of international mercenaries, and took advantage of the political offenders. His favorite, Colonel Espejo, demanded one hundred thousand rubles for rerouting the road leading to Kars through the Wet Mountain. Paskevich trusted neither soldiers nor his colonels, nor even Eliza. He feared everyone and everything.
He sent the demoted Pushchin to check on Colonel Espejo. Within three days, Private Pushchin had found a suitable potential route. For that, Paskevich reprimanded him in front of Colonel Espejo and threatened him with court-martial.
He entrusted them with his military affairs and denounced them to the authorities in St. Petersburg.
The Journal des débats, which Sipiagin had sent to the count, was correct: it was the men of December who were to “blame” for Paskevich’s success.
This is how the Count of Erivan achieved his victories.
12
A tall white tent loomed over the smaller gray ones like a bull above a flock of sheep.
“My patron, my precious patron,” said Griboedov, and bowed his head.
Little Paskevich kissed him on the brow and invited him to sit down.
“How are you? Are you well? How’s Eliza?”
The tent was spacious and tidy. A few documents lay on the desk.
Griboedov pulled out the packages.
“From Zavileisky …”
“From Sipiagin …”
Paskevich frowned, broke the seals, threw the papers on the desk, and shoved them aside without reading them.
“How was your journey?”
“Thanks to you, my patron, not too bad at all. I’ve brought some troops I came across on the way here.”
Paskevich raised his eyebrows.
“A detachment had got lost. I took it under my command and brought it here.”
“I see,” said Paskevich, and a moment later cracked a smile. He was distracted and displeased.
“How’s Petersburg?”
“They speak of nothing else but you, Count.”
Paskevich’s leg stopped jerking.
“The emperor is so fond of you; he remembered how His Majesty and you had lain on your bellies over the maps, cursing.”
Paskevich gave a genuine smile. His face became almost handsome.
“Is that so?” he said in a thin voice. “He still remembers me, then.”
“They are full of you. They sing you hallelujahs.”
Paskevich stopped smiling.
“Now they all call themselves your friends. Even Benckendorff.”
“Aha!” smirked Paskevich.
“How are things over here, Ivan Fyodorovich? Pushkin is going mad about it; he is eager to join you.”
“That’s fine. He can come over,” said Paskevich hesitantly. “Um … yes,” he stretched his legs, “we plod on: not enough troops; the commanders are spoiled. I am starting all over again. We’ll muddle thr
ough. And you are now a minister?”
“By your graces, Count.”
“Did you have a good time?”
Griboedov barely smiled, and Paskevich suddenly began to bustle.
Griboedov reminded him of Eliza.
“You need to go to Persia now. A tough nut.”
“Could hardly be worse.”
“Yes,” agreed Paskevich hastily, interrupting, as if stepping on somebody’s toes, “so I’d like to ask you to report to me directly about everything that is happening over there. In Petersburg, they have little understanding of the situation.”
“Nesselrode regrets the slow pace of progress.”
Paskevich turned purple.
“He can come over here and give me a hand then. Slow! What we have to deal with here is the fact that some regiments don’t even know how to move. What does this Petersburg pig know about tactics? Please report to me first, and let me have their messages too.”
He was quietly rapping the desk with his little red fist.
“Regarding Persia: I am in dire need of money. I am not God; I cannot fight without money. You must go there at once.”
“I’d think that from here, in Tiflis, I’d squeeze more money out of them. Once I am there, things will be different: they’d be in no hurry, and I might find myself their hostage.”
Paskevich thought a little and wagged his finger, giving him a patronizing smile:
“Come off it! Things are better seen on the ground. And another matter: make sure that you smash these scoundrels, the deserters. They disgrace us in front of all Europe. At Ganja, the Persians’ right flank was made up entirely of Russian deserters. They must be extradited and flayed alive without mercy—pas de quartier.”
“Nesselrode considers it more important to pay the ransom in order to free up Pankratev’s troops from Urmia and Khoi so that they can bolster your troops.”
“Never mind Nesselrode. I am in charge of this war, not Nesselrode. As far as I am concerned, Pankratev can stay on in Khoi. I don’t need his soldiers. They’re out of hand and almost as bad as the deserters. They’d infect the entire army.”
He rapped his finger on the desk, looked distractedly at Griboedov and then at the package containing the newspapers.
Abramovich, the aide-de-camp, came in, pink and tanned, with a little black mustache.
“We don’t stand on ceremony over here,” said Paskevich, still cross, but a second later he smiled reluctantly. “Relax. Have they pitched your tent yet? Oh, well. We’ll have a chance to talk later. Watch your step; there’s still the occasional bullet coming over.”
Here it was—power—in this short, fat, red-haired man, with sausage fingers and with sausages for sideburns that were no longer the butt of jokes. In those stubby fingers, he held the fate of Russia. How simple it was. How terrifying. And how entrancing.
13
In the evening, the black skies fell and embraced the flock of the tents, and the lights of the sentries came on dismally. Griboedov was again at Paskevich’s.
Paskevich was disheveled and blinking in the light.
Nevertheless, through force of habit, he listened attentively to Griboedov talking about his project.
“This scoundrel,” he said abruptly. “Look what he has outlined in here.”
He showed to Griboedov the Journal des débats and an English newspaper.
Griboedov read: “A commander without courage or plan.”
“The emperor knows me and I don’t give a damn about messieurs Sipiagins. I know everything that’s going on. I’ve ordered an audit—the rogue has embezzled eight hundred thousand rubles. Another hero … of painted bridges.15 Please convey my gratitude to Zavileisky for his report.”
“… I have long been preoccupied with what you say, Alexander Sergeyevich,” he said in the same tetchy and wretched tone of voice. “It’s high time to call the rascals to account. I am the right person for that. Life’s not all about fighting. I’ll show this scum how the Caucasus ought to be run. As soon as I have concluded the campaign, I’ll recall you from Persia. Spend a month there, will you, while I write to Nesselrode. We’ll find a substitute for you. I’ll make you my aide.”
“… yes, these wretches—what did you call them?—‘the little Frenchmen from Bordeaux.’ I don’t care about their croaking and their lies. All this is Nesselrode’s trickery and … Ermolov’s too,” he added suddenly. “They can certainly have no understanding of my plans.”
He scoffed bitterly and suddenly looked mistrustfully at Griboedov.
“I have a huge favor to ask, my dear patron,” said Griboedov, glancing at the red sideburns and the bulging eyes, which looked like a battlefield.
“What is it?” asked Paskevich, on his guard.
“I wish to get married before my departure but have no opportunity to obtain His Majesty’s permission in such a short time. Would you act as my father?”
“And who is the bride?” asked Paskevich, raising his eyebrows and smiling.
He gave Griboedov a worldly bow, avoiding his glance:
“Congratulations.”
Griboedov left. It was pitch dark, the skies were black, and the camp was stirring in that darkness; the torches flickered, the evening chatter embered down to a whisper, tobacco smoke lingered in the air … There was some movement along the adjacent hills, as if the sparse woods were shaken by the wind. Trees? Horsemen?
A grenade dispelled any doubts. It was cavalry—and the grenade scattered them.
And the simplicity and randomness of it unnerved Griboedov.
Maltsov was asleep in the tent. The doctor was busy packing his suitcase. He asked Griboedov for permission to leave at once: an epidemic of the plague had broken out ten miles away, and doctors were in short supply. Dr. Martinengo had just received a dispatch.
14
The quartermaster of the Kherson Regiment, which was under the command of the man in charge of the trenches, Colonel Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov, was a good soul.
He loved his Arab stallion more than he had ever loved any amenable girl.
His coachman and stableman was a young Gypsy who understood the language of horses better than he understood Russian. The stallion neighed, the Gypsy heehawed, and looking at them, the quartermaster breathed in and out contentedly through his dove-gray nose.
The Gypsy bathed the stallion, and their bodies in the water did not much differ from each other in color: both glistened in the sun as if oiled.
The horse snorted softly and musically, lifting its blue nostrils upward when swimming; the Gypsy yodeled with his nose and throat.
The quartermaster’s belly heaved with laughter when he looked at them.
The regiment was encamped near the village of Jala. The officers stayed in the houses, and the tents were set up outside the settlement.
When a tattered, garish, and sparklingly guttural Gypsy tribe showed up two miles from the camp, beyond the river, and the Gypsy women with their swaying hips and the ragged charm of a thousand years started to pay visits to the regiment, the Gypsy began to leave without permission. He would go to bathe the horse, swim across the river, and disappear onto the other bank.
The quartermaster would say:
“Gone to graze on the fresh grass.”
The Gypsy man would go grazing between the thrusting thighs, of that harsh color that belongs to Gypsies. One morning, the quartermaster shouted for him, but the man failed to show up.
“Still on a bender, the swine,” he said, and went to check on his stallion.
The Gypsy lay in the stables, blue in color, his eyes bulging. He moved his hand and gave a groan. The stallion quietly stamped its hoof and slowly chewed on his oats. The quartermaster was out like a shot and for some reason locked the stable door.
He was suddenly drenched in sweat.
Then, stepping gingerly, he found the batman, ordered him to bring a rope, unlocked the stables, and told the batman to get the Gypsy on the horse. The Gypsy was swaying and mumbli
ng incoherently.
The batman tied him to the horse with the rope. The quartermaster took the horse out of the stables and led him to the river. He stepped carefully, directing him to the water.
The horse swam, snorting; the Gypsy’s head rolled about. The quartermaster stood there, stooped, looking at them with empty eyes. The horse swam across the river, grazed on the grass, quietly moving toward the Gypsy camps. The Gypsy appeared to be dancing on it, his limbs flopping about.
When he disappeared from sight, the quartermaster burst into sudden tears and said quietly:
“What a horse I’ve lost. We need to drive the plague away.”
He went back to his place, locked himself up, and began to drink vodka.
The next morning, the quartermaster came out of the house and saw the batman lying with arms and legs outspread, his eyes bulging and totally oblivious.
He sent him to quarantine.
He waited for night. Then he stuck a bottle of vodka in each of his pockets, came out, locked the door behind him, and left.
He wandered about, then stood for a while, pushed open a door, and went in. An officer he did not recognize was asleep in the bed. He did not wake up. The quartermaster took off his jacket and shirt, lay down on the floor in the middle of the room, pulled out the quart bottle of vodka, and began to drink it silently. In between drinks, he smoked his pipe.
Soon the officer woke up. He saw an unfamiliar, half-naked officer lying on his floor drinking vodka straight out of the bottle, and thought that it was a dream. He turned on his other side and started to snore.
The quartermaster finished the quart bottle and left at dawn, still unrecognized by the officer as a living being. He put his jacket on but forgot his shirt on the floor.
He left, and no one ever saw him again in any shape or form.
The officer woke up and saw an empty bottle and a shirt lying on the floor and could make no sense of it.
He was well and stayed well.
The washerwoman, the regiment musician’s wife, who did the laundry in order to feed her three small children, lived in a hovel in the same settlement.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 31