After Paul I came to power, the quality of life for Russian nobles began to plummet. Officers were hit especially hard: on one hand, they had to pay more taxes; on the other, their incomes had shrunk drastically.
Take the army on this expedition to India. Since the officers could no longer skim military pay, they could only cut back on purchases of logistical supplies, with the biggest reduction being oats for the military horses.
After all, horses did not have guns. No matter how hungry they were, they would not mutiny.
And this shortage of supplies caused the already frail horses to begin dying in large numbers.
The Bakhov Corps was still more than forty kilometers from the Afghan border, yet nearly nine thousand of its over fifteen thousand horses had already died.
The next morning, good news finally rode into General Bakhov's tent on the desert's freezing wind.
A Major whose hair and face were covered in sand reported to him, "Commander, we brought water and flatbread."
Bakhov rushed to the tent entrance in a few strides, kicked him to the ground, and roared, "Bastard! This stuff should have arrived four days ago! I'll have the Gendarmerie investigate how much alcohol you drank in Bukhara!"
The officer struggled to his feet, spat out the sand in his mouth, and loudly protested, "You've got it wrong! We came from Guryev!"
He pulled out his officer's identification and shook it hard. "Guryev Infantry Battalion! We encountered your messenger and learned that supplies here had been cut off. We detoured to Mashhad and only then managed to get this food."
Guryev was one of Russia's southernmost cities. By the Tsar's order, one thousand Infantry had been dispatched to join the Bakhov Corps.
"Major Michikov?" Bakhov looked at the name on the