After daybreak, Wittgenstein's Chief of Staff looked over the figures compiled by the various corps, his face dark.
Over the previous night, more than thirty soldiers had frozen to death, while over 220 others had developed fevers.
After hesitating, he slipped the report into his pocket instead of reporting it to Wittgenstein, ordering the sick to be gathered and sent to Vyazma.
But in the current weather, it would be difficult for those men to survive the full 120 versts on foot.
Outside Muregino Village, thirty-five kilometers south of Smolensk.
Kościuszko glanced irritably at his pocket watch, then turned to a staff officer. "Still nothing?"
He had not truly expected an answer. If the Russian Army appeared, the scouting cavalry would certainly report to him at once.
"Not yet, Marshal."
Kościuszko glanced at Saint-Cyr and finally held back the words on his tongue.
They had already waited here for two days and a night. With supplies lacking, this was little different from draining away their lives.
Saint-Cyr saw his anxiety and reassured him, "The Russian Soldiers are poorly trained. In weather like this, it is normal for them to stop and start along the way, but they will come sooner or later."
"In Kutuzov's eyes, we could only retreat westward to Minsk or strike north at Saint Petersburg. So he will certainly move the Russian Army in the south to pursue us."
Kościuszko nodded without a word.
A few days earlier, they had launched a large-scale feint against the Russian Army on the north side of Smolensk. They later learned that it had been the Bagrationi Legion. Just as the Regent had said, the Russian Army had no intention of fighting them to the death. Instead, they had withdrawn to reinforce their defensive line—waiting for the Polish Army to exhaust